“Thanks,” Quentin said.
“How’d you know to throw it high and deep against Jacobina?”
“Well, I… she can’t do her maximum vertical when she’s running full…” Quentin’s voice trailed off, a recent practice memory jumping into his head.
“Who’s the starting cornerback for the Wallcrawlers?” Hokor had asked him.
“Jacobina. Great vertical leap, but not very strong and easily blocked. Two-year vet.”
“What’s her weakness?”
“Trouble reaching maximum vertical leap during a full sprint.”
“How do you beat her?”
“Throw deep and high, make the receiver have to really sprint and jump to make the catch. Jacobina usually can’t match the jump if the ball is thrown correctly.”
Pine’s grin widened, just a bit more, as recognition washed across Quentin’s face.
“Maybe Hokor’s instructions aren’t ‘busy work’ after all, eh rookie?”
Quentin looked away. Pine was right, and he didn’t want to deal with the veteran’s smugness.
A smiling Yitzhak came up and pounded Quentin on the shoulder pad. “Great throw! That’s showing them!”
Doc floated over, his vocal processor kicking out more volume than usual to compensate for the crowd’s incessant noise.
“That’s a nasty cut, Quentin,” Doc said. “Let’s get to work on it.”
Doc grabbed Quentin’s arm and pulled him into one of the med-bays behind the bench. Quentin’s cleats clacked as he moved from the soft field to the bay’s metal-grate floor. Doc reached into a drawer and pulled out a spray can and something wrapped in a sealed plastic wrap. “First let’s clean that up. Ki claws can produce a nasty infection in Humans. Now hold your breath. This will sting just a bit.”
Quentin took in a deep breath and held it as Doc sprayed the can’s contents on his cheek. The mist felt cool on his skin.
“That didn’t sting at all, Doc.”
“I wasn’t talking about the antiseptic,” Doc said, and with one smooth motion ripped open the plastic pouch and put a blue, wet, rectangular cloth on Quentin’s cheek. Pain leapt up immediately, as if someone had placed a branding iron on the cut. He stood up with a start and pushed Doc away.
“High One, what the hell is that?” Quentin reached up to tear off the cloth, but Doc’s ribbon-like tentacle slapped his hand.
“Don’t be a baby,” Doc said. “That’s nano-knit. It burns because nanocytes are ripping open a few cells to read your DNA.”
The burning intensified. Quentin felt tears welling up in his eyes. “Couldn’t you just stitch the damn thing?”
Doc shuddered, a ripple that coursed through his boneless body. “Don’t insult me, Quentin. You’re not in the barbarian lands anymore.”
Quentin danced in place, fighting to keep his hands off the cloth, but already the pain was subsiding.
“Has the burning ceased?”
Quentin nodded. A tingling sensation replaced the burning.
“The nanocytes have read your DNA to see exactly how your skin is supposed to be. They are rebuilding the cut right now.”
“How many of them are in there?”
“The patch contains roughly five hundred thousand.”
“A half-million?”
“A trivial amount, I assure you. You would need ten times that amount for muscle or ligament damage.”
Quentin had never heard of such medical technology. And he was receiving it on the sidelines of a football game. He could only wonder just how advanced things were in an actual hospital. The Holy Men preached about the Nation’s technical advancements, but most people knew the truth — that the Nation was decades behind rival systems like the Planetary Union and the League of Planets. Of course, he was in the GFL now, in the land of the big money, where no expense would be spared to keep oft-damaged players on the field. Still, he thought of the boy back on Micovi, the one he’d given his jersey to after the PNFL championship. Would this kind of treatment have helped that boy? Would it have saved his leg?
Doc reached out and removed the cloth. It was bloody and limp. He tossed it towards the bench, where it lay with other sideline debris like grass-stained tape, broken straps and broken buckles, torn jerseys and magni-cup rings.
“So what happens to the nanocytes now?”
“They’ll run around, looking for more damaged skin, until they run out of energy.”
“And then?”
“And then what? They stop working.”
“But when do you take them out?”
“We don’t do anything with them, Quentin. Your body will process them out like any other waste. Kidneys will filter them.”
“So I’ll pee them out?”
“That is correct. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must see what other injuries require my attention.”
The game finished with the Krakens defense on the field. Surprisingly, the crowd counted down the last ten seconds in English, and that grand football tradition sounded little different than it had back in the PNFL. Orange and black banners flew, colored streamers sailed, and fireworks blasted over the open stadium.
The Krakens, victorious, drifted in small groups off the field and into the tunnel. He saw Warburg and Seth Hanisek, the Wallcrawlers’ stocky fullback and another Nationalite, praying at the 50-yard line. Quentin ignored them — he had always felt the High One had more important things to do that concern himself with football, and probably didn’t listen to victory thanks.
He left the field, basking in the glow of his first GFL game. He hadn’t played much, but he’d made the most of it: 2-of-2 for 80 yards and a TD. Hokor really had no choice now but to give him more playing time. Pine was great, but Quentin was the future, and now everybody knew it — the Krakens, their fans, and especially Coach Hokor.
HE LOOKED AT his face in the mirror a dozen times in a dozen different ways, but he couldn’t find any sign of that nasty cut. There was redness, like mild sunburn on the area where the bandage had been, but nothing else. Quentin tilted his head this way and that, pulled at his skin, amazed at what he didn’t see.
John Tweedy walked by, dressed only in a towel. “Cut all gone, farm boy?”
Quentin looked at the bigger man, and just nodded. YOU’RE A DUMB BACKWOODS CRACKER scrolled across Tweedy’s forehead.
“You won’t find the cut, you stupid hick, it’s fixed,” Tweedy said. He then put on a sarcastic, wide-eyed expression of wonder. “Oh, this here some big magic, Quentin! Here in the big city we fix people right up, like by magic! Big magic here!”
Quentin stared for a moment before he spoke. “What’s your home planet, Tweedy?”
Tweedy pounded his chest three times. “Glory be to Thomas 3.”
“Well, at least the Nation has something in common with Thomas 3.”
“Oh? And what’s that, rookie?”
“Based on your intelligence level, I gather Thomas 3 also has a major inbreeding problem.”
Tweedy’s sarcastic expression evaporated, replaced by a tooth-bared sneer. “You better watch your tongue, boy, or your butt is mine.”
“Sorry, afraid I like women. I’m not your type.”
Tweedy’s right first reared back, his taut muscles rippling under his skin. Quentin watched the hand and simultaneously watched Tweedy’s eyes. The big man stepped forward and threw his ham-sized fist, but Quentin moved so fast the punch might as well have been in slow motion. He stepped to the side and the fist hit only empty air. Tweedy’s momentum carried him forward a few awkward steps. In one smooth motion, Quentin reached out and snatched the towel from Tweedy’s waist, holding one end in each hand: he pulled it tight then snapped his left hand forward. The towel shot out like a striking snake and snapped Tweedy’s rear end — all of this before the big linebacker could even recover from his missed punch.