Just past the black end zone, the three men stepped aboard a lift. Pine pressed a button, and the lift rose swiftly to deck eighteen.
Quentin followed Pine down the hall. The orange walls complimented the white and black carpet. Most of the diverse furnishings — two seats each for the varying body styles of Quyth, Ki, Sklorno and Human — were also done in orange-and-black. The high ceiling allowed Human and Sklorno alike to pass in comfort. Holoframes covered the walls, showing great players from the 23-year history of the Ionath Krakens. Most holoframes, of course, depicted players or scenes from the Krakens’ Tier One Championship of 2665.
That had been the franchise’s heyday, back when quarterback Bobby “Orbital Assault” Adrojnik put together three fantastic seasons, culminating in the ‘65 title, a 23–21 thriller over the Wabash Wall. After that game, Adrojnik died in a bar fight under conditions most called “suspicious.” Krakens fans blamed Wabash supporters, or possibly even the Wabash owner herself. Gloria Ogawa, who had founded the Wall in the GFL’s inaugural season of 2659, was a known gangland figure in the Tower Republic and had not taken the loss well.
“This deck holds the Krakens’ corporate offices,” Pine said. “Communications with the league, archiving, marketing, network relations, stuff like that.” Pine looked at the famous holoframe of the smiling Adrojnik, held aloft by two Ki linemen, raising the Championship trophy high in one hand.
“Is that what you’re going to be kid?” Pine said quietly. “The next Adrojnik? The future of this franchise?”
Quentin shrugged. He’d never seen Adrojnik play. Sometimes you could score pirated games on Micovi, or on Buddha City, but for the most part the old historical GFL stuff just wasn’t available.
Pine grinned, looked at Quentin, and continued down the hall. “Yep, you could be the savior. What are you kid, twenty-one? twenty-two?”
“Nineteen,” Quentin said.
Pine’s eyebrows rose up. He looked at Yitzhak, who let out a low whistle and shook his head.
“Nineteen,” Pine said. “Kid, you play your cards right you could have a great career ahead of you.”
“Of course, that’s what the press said about Timmy Hammersmith in 2678,” Yitzhak said. “And Crane McSweeney in 2680, after Hammersmith washed out in just two seasons.”
Pine smiled and nodded, looking at Quentin the whole time. “Yeah, that’s right! But McSweeney didn’t last much longer. He might have developed into something big if he hadn’t died in the season opener against the Wallcrawlers in 2680. Rookie QBs just don’t seem to fare too well around here.”
“It seems veterans don’t fare too well, either,” Quentin said. He wasn’t going to put up with this rookie bull — he was no normal rookie, something they’d all find out soon enough. “They brought you in to finish the 2680 season, didn’t they, Pine? Two seasons at the helm, and the Krakens are still Tier Two.”
Yitzhak stopped and turned to face Quentin. “Hey, now you’d better watch yourself, rookie, you don’t — ”
Pine held up his left hand to stop Yitzhak, cutting the shorter man off in mid-sentence. Pine’s smile was no longer friendly, but that of someone who looks down on another.
“That’s a good point, Quentin,” Pine said. He held up his right hand. On his ring and index finger were two thick, golden rings, each set with dozens of sparkling rubies. Championship rings from 2675 and 2676. At the sight of the rings, Quentin felt his soul roil with pure envy, greed, and flat-out desire.
“You can have all the good points you want, rookie,” Pine said. “But until you prove it out on the field, it’s all talk. Until you’ve got one of these — ” Pine wiggled his fingers, letting the rubies catch the hall’s light — “I suggest you keep those good points to yourself.”
Quentin smiled graciously, flourished, and gave a half-bow. “Whatever you say, pops.”
Pine’s smile briefly faded to a glare, then he continued down the hall. Quentin felt the competitive fire building inside his brain. He couldn’t wait to get out on the field. He was the future of the Krakens, not this washed-up has-been. He’d learn what he could from this old man in the next week, before the old man got used to his new position: benchwarmer.
They turned into a large room, about fifty yards in diameter, with a clear dome open to the star-speckled blackness of space. The floor consisted of a silvery grid of small hexes, each only a centimeter or so wide. Just inside the door sat a long rack of footballs, built on a tilt so the balls would roll down and stop at a catch at the end.
“What is this?” Quentin bounced on his toes, feeling the hexes give slightly under his feet.
“This is the sim-room,” Pine said. “State-of-the-art in football technology.” He walked to the end of the rack and picked up a football. The other footballs rolled down the rack to fill the space.
“The Kriegs-Ballok Virtual Practice System,” Yitzhak said. “Gredok had it installed during the off-season.”
“Ship,” Pine called. “Grontak Stadium, night game.”
The clear dome shimmered with flashes of blue and silver, then it was gone, instantly replaced by a bright purple sky arching over a massive stadium. The room’s sound went from echoing silence to the sudden cacophony of 165,000 fans, mostly Quyth, screeching in their spine-rippling equivalent of a Human cheer.
Quentin spun around, suddenly disoriented by the purple sky, the thousands of fans swinging black, teal and white banners and flags, the steady, subdued roar of a crowd waiting between plays. A blazing sun hung almost directly over head, and a blue moon ringed with light red hung suspended in the southern sky. It was all so real. The floor shimmered as well, and then the hexes were gone, replaced with millions of the flat blue plants that made up a Quyth playing field, complete with white yard markers.
“Krakens, first-and-ten,” Pine said. “Boss-right set, split left, double-hook and post.”
More blue and silver shimmers flashed in the air, this time only ten feet from where the three men stood. Ten players dressed in Krakens’ uniforms materialized and moved to the line of scrimmage: the scurrying waddle of huge Ki linemen, the loping, graceful strides of three Sklorno receivers, the natural gait of the Human tailback and right end. The players moved like the real thing, although they were all slightly translucent. Their uniform colors seemed blurred by a slight blue haze.
A computer voice echoed through the chamber.
[DEFENSIVE SELECTION, PLEASE]
“Random,” Pine said as he walked up to the line, crouched, and held the ball in front of him as though he were ready to take a snap.
Another flash preceded the sudden appearance of players clad in the black, teal and blue colors of the Glory Warpigs. Quentin’s awe over the technology faded away. His strategic mind took over as he watched the holographic Warpigs players line up in a 3–4 with man-to-man coverage.
“Red fifteen, red fifteen,” Pine called out, barking out the signals so he could be heard over the crowd. Quentin felt his heart rate increase and the rush of adrenaline pump into his veins — he’d never seen anything like this. He could feel the stadium shake as the crowd’s intensity increased.
“Hut…. HUT!”
Pine dropped back five steps, then planted and bounced a half-step forward. He stood tall, looking downfield as his Sklorno receivers darted out, tightly covered by the Warpigs defensive backs. Pine threw the ball a split second before the right wide receiver suddenly cut back towards the line — a timing pattern. The receiver raised her long arms to catch the ball — it went right through the hologram, skipping and rolling down the field. The players vanished, although the crowd and the crowd noise remained.