With the wounded player removed, the teams lined up once again.
The ‘Crawlers blitzed on the next play. Pine calmly delivered a seven-yard slant to Scarborough. He dropped back once more, standing tall and taking his time. His offensive line gave great protection, and after five full seconds Pine fired a tight spiral to Hawick for a touchdown.
The stadium shuddered from the crowd’s roar. Fireworks exploded overhead. The entire sky seemed to turn a deep orange. Quentin ducked involuntarily, as if from the shadow of some giant bird flying close overhead.
“Relax, that’s just the dome,” Yassoud said. “They turn the whole thing orange when we score a touchdown.”
The color blinked away, and the sky was once again clear and bright. Pine and the receivers ran off the field as the kicking team came on for the extra point.
“Oh yep,” Yassoud said. “He is an old fart. Five-for-five and a TD on the first drive. Man, we should get him a wheelchair and some oxygen before he collapses.”
“Screw you,” Quentin said. Yassoud just laughed.
The defense continued to pound the Wallcrawlers throughout the first half, shutting down Moussay-Ed. Michnik sacked him twice, and Tweedy got to him once with a devastating hit on a linebacker blitz.
Pine made good on his pre-game plans, guiding the Krakens to scores on their next two drives. At the half, the Krakens were up 24-7. Pine added one more touchdown for good measure in the third quarter, a 32-yard strike to Scarborough. With each completion, Quentin grew angrier. He’d settled into his new-found role as a sideline spectator when late in the fourth quarter he heard Hokor’s distinctive bark.
“Barnes!” the coach called. “Next series, you’re in!”
Quentin stared at his coach, then back at the field. He was going in before Yitzhak. Was he second-string, then? Quentin’s pulse beat double-time as he watched the Krakens defense working against the ‘Crawlers. Kelley hadn’t made it past the third quarter before the ‘Crawlers coach pulled him. His replacement, second-year player Aniruddha Smith, didn’t fare much better. Smith completed a short hook for a first down at the Krakens 32.
“Come on defense,” Quentin said through gritted teeth. He looked up at the clock — 1:12 left to play.
He should have been able to predict what happened next — Tweedy showed blitz, but slid into coverage as Smith dropped back. Mum-O-Killowe, who’d already notched one sack, furiously drove his opposing lineman back as he reached for Smith. Smith dodged to the right, feeling the pressure. He threw a quick crossing pattern to a seemingly open tight end. Tweedy was playing his lame-duck act — he broke on the ball with a speed he hadn’t shown the entire game and picked off the pass. The crowd roared in approval. As Tweedy & Co. came off the field, Quentin sprinted on, so excited he could barely think.
He stood in front of the huddle, a mix of first-string linemen and second-string skill players. Yassoud looked back at him, grinning. Denver and Milford were there, their armored eyestalks twitching in anticipation.
Quentin’s head-up display activated automatically. Hokor’s yellow and black, one-eyed face appeared, lifelike and right in front of Quentin’s facemask.
“Base-block dive right, Barnes,” Hokor said. “Keep it simple and hang onto the ball.”
Quentin relayed the play to the Krakens. He broke the huddle and walked to the line. That feeling was back in his stomach again, the queasy feeling, the one he’d never known before that first full-contact practice two days earlier. His five Ki linemen looked like a giant wall of muscle. Yet if they were a wall, a fortress, beyond them were three Ki battering rams in white jerseys, waiting to blast through the offensive line and tear into him. Outside of them, two gigantic Human defensive ends, obviously heavy-G natives, so big they dwarfed the PNFL’s biggest players. The first play, at least, he wouldn’t have to worry about the front five.
Quentin squatted, left foot forward, right foot back, as he reached his hands under Bud-O-Shwek. He pressed his left hand up, but Bud felt wet, Quentin pulled his hands back out — black wetness smeared the back of his left hand. Bud was bleeding. Should he call a time-out? He quickly looked at his linemen — black blood smeared the orange numbers on their black jerseys, most of which were ripped in one place or another. Some of their arms were up and ready to block, while a few arms hung limp and lifeless, broken. Yet none of the Ki had come out of the game.
“Quentin let’s go!” Yassoud shouted from behind him. Quentin flashed a glance at the play clock — seven seconds before they’d be flagged for delay of game. He quickly wiped his hands on his jersey, then squatted and thrust his hands under Bud-O-Shwek.
“Blue, thirty-two!” Quentin called. “Blue, thirty-two, HUT-HUT!”
Bud-O-Shwek snapped the ball. Quentin felt it slap into his hands. He pulled it to his stomach and turned as he stepped back. Yassoud surged forward, back of his right hand on his chest, elbow high, his left hand across his stomach. Quentin reached the ball out and Yassoud slammed his arms together, taking the hand-off and driving forward. He found no opening at the line, so he cut right. Vu-Ko-Will, the Krakens’ right tackle, drove his defender backwards. With nowhere else to go, Yassoud put his head down and followed Vu-Ko-Will. Defenders swarmed on him for a gain of only three.
The Krakens huddled. The clocked ticked past 1:00 and kept rolling.
“Screen pass,” Hokor said. “X–Left.”
Quentin looked to the sidelines and tapped the “transmit” button on his right wrist. “Come on, Coach. Their secondary is soft, let me go deep.”
Quentin saw the little holographic Hokor’s yellow fur suddenly stand on end.
“Barnes run the plays I call! Screen pass! X–Left.”
Quentin nodded, turned to the huddle and called the play. He lined up again, noticing suddenly that the butterflies were worse than before. His stomach seemed to shrink, reducing itself to half-size, then quarter-size. And now he had to pee. Quite badly.
“Red… sixteen! Red, sixteen! Hut-hut, HUT!”
The line clashed together once again. Quentin dropped back, holding the ball up by his ear, ready to pass. Suddenly the line parted, and the white-jersied battering rams surged forward, multi-jointed legs pumping and multi-jointed arms quivering. The monsters roared with unbridled fury as they charged towards him. He backpedaled as if he was avoiding the rush — just before the Ki defenders reached him, he turned and threw the ball to Yassoud in the flat. Kill-O-Yowet and Sho-Do-Thikit, the left tackle and left guard, respectively, had released their blocks and moved to the flat to block for Yassoud.
Yassoud caught the pass, but Quentin didn’t see the results of the play — three huge bodies bore down on him, driving him to the ground. Almost a ton of defensive lineman smashed into him as he hit the turf. His armor resisted most of the impact, but not all. His lungs felt compressed, like he couldn’t draw a full breath, and he couldn’t move a muscle.
Quentin heard a whistle, but the weight remained. He felt the Ki’s hot breath on his face, and looked up into the hexagonal mouth and sharp teeth. The mouth flexed as the Ki spoke in its guttural tongue.
“Grissach hadillit eo.”
“Heard it all before, loser,” Quentin grunted out.
The huge creature shifted its weight, and suddenly Quentin felt the tip of a chitinous arm reaching into his helmet. The arm moved quickly and he felt a searing pain across his cheek. More whistles sounded, and the lineman pushed off him.