The Rookie Page 12

  The dome flickered briefly, then Quentin found himself in a dead-on simulacrum of the practice field.

  “Ship, give me first-string defense for the Grontak Hydras.”

  The semi translucent players appeared out of nowhere, a combination of Human and other species, all dressed in the red-and-yellow checkerboard Hydra jerseys.

  “Ship, call out the names of each defensive player before each play. Give me X-right formation, double-streak left, Y-right.”

  Krakens players materialized. The Ki linemen scurried up to the line and lowered themselves for the snap. The computer started calling out the names of the defense as Quentin approached the line. He’d practice and study at the same time, and would show them all what the Purist Nation had to offer.

  • • •

  THE 7 A.M. POSITION MEETING didn’t take more than ten minutes, just enough time for Hokor to outline the day’s practice. They would focus on route passing: no offensive line and no defense. The three quarterbacks walked to the lift.

  In the center of the field stood seven Sklorno receivers dressed in orange practice jerseys. Sklorno’s orange leg armor was thin and light so as not to hamper their speed. For the upper body, they wore a black, metal-mesh armor that protected but also allowed for the full range of motion needed by boneless tentacles and the flexible eyestalks. The black helmet with the orange patch and the white stripes looked like a small bowling ball, with four finger-holes on top, one for each armored eyestalk, and a gap in front that let their raspers hang free.

  Even before the lift reached the field, the Sklorno looked up at the oncoming Humans and began to visibly tremble.

  Their raspers rolled out, almost to the ground, and each of them began to shout various Sklorno words, all of which sounded like gibberish.

  “What’s their problem?” Quentin asked. “They afraid of Coach or something?”

  Pine shook his head, and Yitzhak laughed.

  “Not exactly,” Yitzhak said. “The Righteous Brother Pine here is somewhat of a religious figure in the Sklorno culture.”

  “Religious? What, like he’s a preacher or something?”

  Yitzhak laughed louder. “No, not exactly.”

  “Oh give it a rest,” Pine said, his blue-skinned face turning a strange shade of purple.

  Yitzhak put his hand to his chest, his expression that of mock pain. “Oh, forgive me, Great One. Don’t strike me down with your Godly quarterback powers.”

  Quentin looked back to the Sklorno receivers — the closer the Humans got, the more the Sklorno shook. It reminded him of the truly devout back home during noonday prayers, how they would shudder and shake, their blue robes rustling with sudden movements, often times speaking in tongues, their eyes rolling back into their heads. As a child, such behavior had scared the crap out of him. When he grew older, he learned that those people were supposedly in deep communion with the High One.

  The similarities clicked home.

  “They worship Pine? You mean like a god or something?”

  Yitzhak nodded. “Something like that. As a Human it’s kind of difficult to understand, but from what we hear there are at least thirty-two confirmed houses of worship dedicated to The Great Pine spread throughout Sklorno space.”

  “Cut it out,” Pine said. “It’s not like I encourage this.”

  “There’s actually a statue of The Great and Glorious Pine on the Sklorno’s capitol planet. How tall is it again, Pine, 100 feet or so?”

  “Get lost, Yitzhak.”

  “Why do they worship him?” Quentin asked.

  Yitzhak shrugged. “Something about the quarterback position, that and great coaches, strikes a chord with their culture. Sklorno aren’t as independent as Humans, they tend to blindly follow their leaders. Coaches and quarterbacks get the most media attention in football, and the Sklorno are insane football fans. The nature of the game and their culture just kind of combine. Who knows, Quentin — you put together a couple of good seasons, and there might be a church or two in your name.”

  Quentin felt his own face turning red. The idea of someone worshiping him, not as a fan-to-player, but as a subject-to-God, made him deeply uncomfortable. He felt sacrilegious just thinking about it.

  They reached midfield. Quentin heard the burble of a small anti-grav engine, and he looked up to see Hokor flying towards them in a hovercart, the kind people used to move around on a golf course.

  “What the hell is that? Coach can’t walk all of a sudden?”

  Pine laughed. “Hokor likes to watch from above, get a full view of the field, but he wants to come down to offer his own special brand of encouragement.”

  The hovercart slowed and floated about ten feet off the field.

  “I hate that damn golf cart,” Yitzhak said quietly. “Just wait, you’ll see — he’s got a loudspeaker in it and everything.”

  As if on cue, Hokor’s amplified voice bellowed across the field.

  “Okay, that’s enough of that crap,” the yellow-furred coach said. “You will cease this shivering thing immediately!”

  As a unit, the Sklorno instantly stopped shaking, raspers quickly rolling back up under their chin plates. They stood as still as they could, but kept twitching, little chirps escaping them every few seconds.

  “That’s better,” Hokor said. “Pine, line them up and run hook routes.”

  They all stood on the 50-yard line, the eight Sklorno fifteen yards to the right of the Human quarterbacks. It surprised Quentin that he immediately recognized Denver and Milford — he’d always thought all Sklorno looked alike, but Denver had more red in her eyestalks, and Milford’s oily head of hair seemed to be thicker and longer than any of the others. If it weren’t for jersey names and numbers, however, he wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference between Scarborough, Hawick, Richfield, Mezquitic and the other Kraken receivers.

  Pine grabbed a ball from the rack and squatted, just as he’d done in the VR practice field. The first Sklorno bent down into their strange starting stance — legs folded up like a grasshopper, tail sticking straight back to balance the forward-leaning body. The back of her jersey read “Hawick.”

  “Hut-hut!”

  Pine took a three-step drop, planted, and fired — far too high. In the millisecond after the ball left Pine’s hand, Quentin figured it would sail forty yards downfield. But Hawick was already fifteen yards down field and turning. She didn’t just stop and turn, like a Human receiver would do on a hook route, she stopped, turned and jumped. Quentin’s jaw dropped as Hawick sprang ten feet into the air, like a 280-pound flea — the ball hit her square in the numbers. She landed and turned in the same motion, sprinting all the way to the end zone before stopping.

  Quentin stared, barely able to believe what he’d seen. Such speed. Pine and Yitzhak hadn’t been screwing with him in the VR room, Sklorno really were that fast. And that leap. It was one thing to see it on the net, quite another to see it in person.

  Yitzhak took the next ball. The next Sklorno’s jersey read “Mezquitic.”

  “Hut-hut!” Yitzhak dropped back three steps and fired — again seemingly far too high. Mezquitic sprang high, caught the ball, landed, and streaked down the field. Quentin was still staring at the streaking Sklorno receiver when Pine poked him in the rib pads.

  “You’re up, boy.”

  Quentin grabbed the next ball from the rack and squatted down just behind the fifty. He looked to his right — “Scarborough” looked back at him, awaiting his signal.

  “Hut-hut!” Quentin drove backwards three steps and planted. He started to throw, but hesitated a half second because Scarborough was still a good eight yards from hooking up the route. In less time than it took to blink, Scarborough was there, turning, leaping and looking for the ball. Quentin threw as quickly as he could, but it was too late. Scarborough had hit the ground by the time the throw reached her — it sailed far over her head.

  “Barnes!” Hokor barked. “What the hell was that?”

  Quen
tin blushed.

  “Get used to the timing, Barnes. With Sklorno receivers, passing is a three-dimensional game. You’re not in the bush leagues anymore.”

  Practice continued for another hour. Quentin struggled with the Sklornos’ blinding speed and leaping ability, but made significant progress pass after pass. He had some trouble with Mezquitic, who dropped two of his passes, but he clicked well with the other receivers, particularly Denver. Only in the final five minutes did Hokor open it up for long patterns. Pine dropped back seven steps and fired a 55-yard strike to Hawick. The Sklorno receivers let out a series of rapid clicking noises.

  “What is that sound they’re making?” Quentin asked Yitzhak.

  “Sklorno equivalent to ooh and ahh,” Yitzhak said. “The ladies love the long ball.”

  Yitzhak threw next, hitting a 45-yard streak to Mezquitic. The receivers let out clicks, but they weren’t as loud as they had been for Pine’s pass.

  Quentin smiled as he grabbed the ball and squatted down for his rep. Neither of these guys could match his arm strength, not even the once-great Donald Pine. Scarborough lined up to his right. Quentin barked out a “hut-hut.” He dropped back the prescribed seven steps, and kept going, finally setting up a good fifteen yards from where he’d “snapped” the ball. He watched Scarborough the whole way, his mind now somewhat accustomed to the receiver’s 3.2 speed. Quentin unleashed the ball — the Sklorno’s clicks started immediately as the ball arced through the air like a laser-guided bomb. Scarborough angled under it, and caught it in stride at the back edge of the end zone.

  The Sklornos not only clicked and chirped louder than ever, they started jumping up-and-down and hugging each other. Raspers lolled and spit flew everywhere.

  “Damn,” Pine said, shaking his head.

  “That was seventy-five yards in the air,” Yitzhak said. “And right on the money.”

  Quentin smiled, his hands patting out a quick ba-da-bap on his stomach as he waited for accolades from his new coach.

  “Silence!” Hokor shouted at the Sklorno. The anger in his voice seemed to terrify them. They huddled together, shaking and twitching in a mass of fear.

  Hokor turned to Quentin. “What was that?”

  “A touchdown,” Quentin said.

  “I know that, what was that drop?”

  Quentin shrugged. “I just wanted to show you what I can do.”

  “And what you can do is drop back fifteen yards? What are you, a punter?”

  Quentin felt his face flushing red once again. “Well, no, Coach ... I just wanted to show you how deep I could throw it.”

  “Well if you like to show off so much, how about showing me how far you can run? Take ten laps around the field, we’ll finish up reps without you.”

  Quentin blinked, his mind suddenly registering the coach’s words. “Finish up ... without me?”

  “I said take ten laps!” Hokor said. “Now move!”

  Pine grabbed a ball and squatted down for the next rep while Denver crouched in readiness for her turn. Pine dropped back, Denver sprinted, and everyone seemed to ignore Quentin.

  Coach Graber had never singled him out like that. Quentin’s face felt hot. Anger swirled in his chest as he trotted to the edge of the field and started his first lap.

  • • •

  QUENTIN’S ROOM WAS EMPTY save for a bed, a table with two round stools, a large vertical equipment locker, and a wide couch that sat in front of the holotank. He sat on the couch, staring at the life-sized image projected by the holotank.

  The current image was a Human football player, his jersey a series of horizontal light blue and grey stripes. The computer droned away with stats.

  [KITIARA LOMAX. THIRD-YEAR LINEBACKER FOR THE BIGG DIGGERS, NAMED ALL-PRO LAST YEAR. SIX-FOOT-TEN, FOUR-HUNDRED TWENTY-THREE POUNDS. LAST YEAR ACCUMULATED FIFTY-TWO TACKLES AND TWELVE SACKS. LAST CLOCKED TIME IN THE FORTY-YARD-DASH, 4.1]

  Quentin clicked his remote, and the image shifted to a Sklorno player, also dressed in a light blue-and-grey striped jersey.

  [ARKHAM. FIFTH-YEAR CORNERBACK FOR THE BIGG DIGGERS ...]

  The computer continued to rattle off statistics, but Quentin looked away from the image and stared at his blank wall. His legs gave off a subdued but ever-present burning feeling, the result of one hundred laps ran for a variety of transgressions, each one as unexpected as the last. His face also burned, but that wasn’t from physical exertion. It was a new feeling, and he found it quite unacceptable.

  A buzzer sounded, signaling a visitor at his door. The computer stopped the statistical litany.

  [DONALD PINE AT YOUR DOOR]

  “Enter,” Quentin said in a toneless voice. He heard the swish of the door, but didn’t bother to get up. He hit the button on the remote. Arkham disappeared, replaced by a huge Ki lineman named Pret-Ah-Karat.

  “Better watch out for him,” Pine said quietly. “Last year he hit me so hard he knocked me out of the game.”

  Quentin said nothing.

  Pine crossed in front of Quentin and sat down on the couch. “We missed you at team dinner, kid. What’s up?”

  “Gotta study,” Quentin said sullenly. “Hokor wants me to know all these damn players.”

  Pine nodded. “Yeah, you’ve got to know this stuff. But hey, you’ve got to eat, right?”

  “Not hungry now, I’ll have something later.” The truth was he was famished, but he had no intention of hitting the mess hall when the rest of the team was present — they’d all watched him run the endless laps, heard Hokor scream at him for various mistakes.

  “It’s no big deal, Hokor rips on all the rookies,” Pine said, as if he read Quentin’s thoughts. “He’s got to shake out the weak ones. He’s going to spend most of his time busting on you, because you’re a quarterback. It’ll get worse before it gets better. Tomorrow we do route passing, but this time against the defensive backs. And the next day’s practice is full-contact. So watch out for the Ki defensive linemen.”

  Quentin shrugged. “I’m not worried about some damn salamander, I just have to get these stupid players memorized.”

  Pine’s eyebrows rose up in surprise. “Salamander, eh? Don’t let them hear you say that, they’ll tear your head off. Not worried about them? Our nose tackle, Mai-An-Ihkole, weighs 650 pounds and can bench-press 1,200 pounds, for crying out loud, and you’re not worried? I’ve been on this team for two years, they’re under strict orders not to hit me, and I’m worried.”

  Quentin turned and looked at Pine. He’d seen Pine run; the man had good reason to be worried. Quentin was faster, more agile, stronger and just plain tougher than Donald Pine.

  “Thanks for the advice. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got studying to do.”

  Pine shrugged. “Suit yourself. If you need any help, let me know. Hey, maybe I can talk to Scarborough, get you some after-practice reps to get used to the speed of the game.”

  “I don’t need help from a cricket.”

  Pine stared, then shook his head. “Yeah, you seem so normal on the outside, I forget where you come from. Just remember, kid, those salamanders and crickets are your teammates — you may have won games single-handedly back in the PNFL, but it doesn’t work that way here.”

  “Thanks, pops, I’ll remember that,” Quentin said as he clicked the remote control to bring up the next player.

  Pine stood, shook his head one more time, and walked to the door he stopped just as the door swished open, and looked back at Quentin.

  “Listen, kid, I’m not much for giving advice where it’s not asked, but I feel you deserve to hear something. To play this game, you’ve got to know your history. Until the Creterakians took over, all the races were more likely to slaughter each other than talk, let alone work together. There’s hatred here that goes way beyond anything related to sports. I’m not the greatest quarterback to ever play the game, but I figured out something a long time ago — for these warring races to play together as a team, someone has to step up and lead. Leading in the GF
L means you forget your bigotry and get along with everyone. And it’s a hard job. Damn near impossible. I expect everyone to get along and play as a unit. Warburg is one thing, but you’re a quarterback, and as such people tend to follow your lead. Your racism will cause problems, and I won’t tolerate that. When you play for my team, you will respect your teammates.”

  Quentin felt his anger rising. Who the hell did this guy think he was?

  “Your team?” Quentin said coldly. “Keep on living in that fantasy world, Pine, and you’ll be a happy man in the retirement home. It’s not going to be your team much longer.”

  Pine stared back hard, then sneered. “Whatever you say, rookie. It will be your team, all right. It will be your team when I decide to hang it up. Until then, you haven’t got what it takes to be a starter, and you certainly don’t have what it takes to beat me.”

  He walked out, the door swishing shut behind him.

  Quentin turned off the holotank and stared at the blank wall. He hated salamanders, he hated crickets, and he hated blue-boy Donald Pine. But they would all learn. The Krakens were Quentin Barnes’ team now, and sooner or later everyone would play by his rules.

  • • •

  THE SECOND DAY of practice saw Quentin, Pine and Yitzhak once again descend the lift into the orange end zone. The Sklorno receivers were there, this time in full pads, but so were Humans and Quyth Warriors — the linebackers — and eight new Sklorno — the defensive backs. All the defensive players wore black jerseys, while the offense wore orange.

  “Do they worship Pine, too?” Quentin asked Yitzhak while pointing to the Sklorno defensive backs.

  “They do, but in a different way. He leads the team, unifies us, and that makes him greater than a normal being. The receivers view catching a pass as a blessing, almost a gift from God. The defenders see a pass as a challenge given to them by God, a test of their will and physical abilities. To continuously fail to stop the passing game means they are unworthy, or something like that.”

  The three quarterbacks reached the end zone and started to warm up. Three orange-jerseyed Humans jogged from the center of the field to greet them. Warburg and the other two tight ends he had not yet met. Warburg gave Quentin a warm handshake.