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HOKOR THE HOOKCHEST sat in the control room mounted a hundred feet up from the practice field end zone. A dozen small holotanks lined the big window that looked out onto the field. The holotanks let him watch any of his players at any time, wherever they were in the ship.
The Ki slept together, as was their custom. They looked like a pile of legs and long bodies. The Ki section of the ship consisted of four large rooms — the communal room, the feeding room, and sleeping rooms for offense and defense, respectively. He visited their communal room at least four or five times a season. It was decorated with multi-colored mosses and various slimes he was told were plants. He’d entered the defensive room once, and only once, because the place stank like a combination of rancid meat and animal offal. Ki family units slept together. It wasn’t sexual — he’d heard stories about the Ki mating season, and had no intention of ever witnessing such a brutal display.
He made the offense and defense sleep separately — they had to face off against each other in practice every day, and when they all slept as one big family unit, they were far too civil to each other. He needed violence and aggression on the practice field. It was the only way to prepare the team for the weekly war against the other GFL squads.
The Sklorno were deep into their morning worship. There were thirteen of the beings on the team, seven receivers and eight defensive backs. Even after ten seasons of coaching, the Sklorno still seemed so bizarre to him. They worshipped strange things, like trees, the clouds on certain planets, works of literature, and — strangest of all — quarterbacks and coaches. Three of the veteran receivers were high-ranking members of the Donald Pine church. Another two, both defensive backs, worshipped Frank Zimmer of the To Pirates. He didn’t know what the rest worshipped, and didn’t care, as long as it didn’t complicate football.
He rarely checked up on the Quyth Warriors. He saved his spying for the sub-races. Warriors deserved the right to come and go as they pleased.
Eleven of his thirteen Humans were in bed, sleeping away. Ibrahim Khomeni, the 525-pounder from Vosor-3 was, of course, eating again. Hokor wondered how those heavy-G Human worlds maintained any economy at all, considering how much their subjects ate. Between Khomeni and Aleksandar Michnik, also from Vosor-3, they daily consumed enough food for ten normal-G Humans.
But while Hokor kept tabs on all of his players, he was really only concerned with one — Quentin Barnes. The Human rookie was in the virtual practice room, working away on the timing that had given him so much trouble in the first three days of practice.
The door to his control room hissed open. Hokor’s antennae went up, briefly, long enough to sense the presence of Gredok. He stood, turned and brushed back his antennae.
“Don’t bother old friend,” Gredok said. “Sit down, continue what you were doing.”
Hokor sat and again turned his attention to Quentin. The Human surveyed his holographic players and the holographic team, then dropped back as the line erupted into holographic chaos. He took a strong five-step drop, set up, and rifled the ball downfield. It fell short of the holographic Scarborough — a defender dove to intercept the ball.
“He’s up early for a Human, isn’t he?” Gredok asked.
“Just him and Ibrahim.”
Gredok looked at the monitor that showed Ibrahim, sitting alone at a table with four heaping trays of food spread out before him.
“Females be saved,” Gredok said with disgust. “Do these high-G Humans ever stop eating? I swear his salary is nothing compared to his food bill.”
“If you could locate a 525-pound Quyth Warrior who can bench-press a thousand pounds, I’d be happy to trade for him.”
Gredok watched Quentin run the same play. This time, he threw ahead of Scarborough for an incompletion.
“Does Barnes do this a lot?”
“He doesn’t socialize with the other players,” Hokor said. “He spends most of his time in the VR room, repeatedly running plays.”
Gredok said nothing. Quentin lined up again, dropped back, and ran the same play. This time the ball sailed over the leaping defender and hit the holographic Scarborough in full stride.
“Nice pass,” Gredok said. “How long has he been at it?”
“Two hours.”
“How’s he doing?”
“Horrible,” Hokor said. “But he’s improving fast.”
“Horrible? I watched him in practice yesterday. He threw 75-yard strikes like they were nothing.”
Hokor turned to look at his Shamakath. “He has only been playing the game for four years, and in a very low-quality league. He’s never thrown to Sklorno receivers before, and he’s not used to passing being a three-dimensional game instead of two-dimensional. Throwing routes is one thing, but he’s not ready for the speed of real defensive backs.”
“He’d better get ready for it. I went through a lot of trouble to obtain him.”
“We had to get him now,” Hokor said. “One more season, and every team in the GFL would have been after him. I just don’t know how long he will take to develop.”
“Need I remind you that this is your third season?” Gredok said coldly. “I don’t care about development time, I care about winning. I want this team in Tier One next season. All the good trade routes require Tier One immunity. You know that.”
Hokor did know that. Trade routes was a nice way of saying smuggling routes. Hokor didn’t care for that part of the business at all, but that was the way the league worked.
“I’m sure that in two seasons, maybe three, Quentin will be the best player in the league.”
“You don’t have two seasons,” Gredok said. “You wanted Donald Pine, I got you Donald Pine. You wanted Choto the Bright, I got him for you. You found out one of my lieutenants had Tier Three experience, so Virak the Mean is playing football instead of acting as my bodyguard and enforcer. I spent a fortune on Mum-O-Killowe, I gave up my drug distribution in Egypt City for him because you said we had to have him. I upgraded this ship because you said it would help us win games… do you think that was cheap?”
“No, Shamakath.” Hokor knew the ship’s retrofit had been horribly expensive, but he was a firm believer that if you wanted to play like a Tier One team, you had to practice like a Tier One team.
“I want Tier One and am willing to spend the money to get it,” Gredok said. “But the time for investing is over, the time for profit is near. You will win the Quyth Irradiated Conference, get us into the Tier Two tournament, and qualify us for Tier One next season or someone else will be around to watch Quentin Barnes turn into the best player in the league.”
Gredok stood and walked out of the control room. Hokor slowly turned back to the holotank, just in time to see Quentin throw another interception. His pedipalps quivered in frustration.
6. ARRIVAL ON IONATH
HE WAS GLAD it was late, because he could be alone in his room and no one would see his sweat, look at his wide eyes, or hear his ragged breathing. The Touchback was about to punch-out.
Just relax just relax everything is fine…
Quentin had often heard that if things were to go wrong with punch drive travel, it would happen either on the punch-in or the punch-out of the space/time hole. Punching out always made him think of that ages-old Purist folk-saying: “It’s not the fall that kills you, it’s the landing.”