“He knows his players, Masara. He’s always known his players. Watch Hawick go up in the air. Check the live analysis, Masara — the computer says she jumped twenty-three feet in the air.”
“She jumped like her life depended on it.”
“Something like that, Masara. But Volgograd is known for her leaping ability, and she actually got a hand on the ball. But watch Hawick rip it away from her! She went after that ball like a hooker diving after a tight-wad trick!”
“Chick! for crying out loud—”
“Sorry, Masara, and sorry, folks at home, but watch her come down with it — she hit the ground upside down, and still held onto the ball.”
“And there you have it, the High Priestess of the Church of Donald Pine puts the Krakens up by two touchdowns, and we’re still in the first quarter.”
QUENTIN WOKE with a start, the smell of something acidic and horrible filling his nostrils. He twisted his face to avoid the stench, which seemed to follow his nose. He blinked a few times, and saw that Doc was waving something in his face.
“Knock it off!” Quentin said, pushing Doc’s tentacle away. He looked around. He was on the sidelines. “What happened?”
“You don’t remember?”
Quentin started to shake his head, and realized too late just how much that hurt. “No, I don’t.”
“You ran a sweep right and tried to cut back — Chok-Oh-Thilit beat his block and laid you out.”
“A sweep right?”
“Yes,” Doc said.
“When?”
“First drive of the second quarter.”
“Second… the first quarter is over?”
Doc floated up to look Quentin in the eye. “You don’t remember the first quarter?”
Quentin shrugged. “Some of it.”
“What’s the last thing you remember?”
“Hawick’s touchdown.”
“Quentin, you carried the ball five times for sixteen yards after that. You don’t remember?”
Quentin thought for a second, then shrugged. “Nope, not a thing.” His head throbbed as if a miniature Ki were in his brain, whipping jointed limbs to and fro in a dance of destructed grey matter. If felt like someone was jabbing a screwdriver into the right side of his jaw. He gingerly touched there — no screwdriver, at least, but he couldn’t be certain about the miniature Ki. The tip of his tongue played with the space where his missing right front tooth should have been.
“I don’t feel so good.”
“How many tentacle tips am I holding up?”
Quentin squinted. At first he saw four tentacle tips, then his vision cleared and the tentacle tips blended together into a solid shape.
“Two.”
“Good,” Doc said, patting Quentin on the shoulder pad. “You’re ready to go back in.” Doc floated away.
“That’s what you think,” Quentin muttered, looking at the ground. He definitely did not feel ready to go back in. He noticed the right side of his orange jersey was stained with blood. Only then did he notice a tingling along his ribs. Left hand told the story: right-side rib armor ripped half away, temporarily patched with bulkhead tape. He slid his fingers under the shoddy repair job and felt the familiar texture of a nanocyte bandage.
He saw a tiny pair of yellow-furred feet, and looked up into the eye of Hokor the Hookchest.
“Great job out there, Barnes,” Hokor said. “You ready for more?”
Quentin nodded. Just once, because nodding yes hurt as much as shaking no. “Just give me the ball Coach.”
“Good, good! Well, you’re going to get the ball now. We’re up 14-0 so we want to keep the ball on the ground as much as possible and chew up clock. You ready to take some hits?”
Quentin raised an eyebrow. “I haven’t taken some already?”
“Whatever you do, hold onto the ball.” Hokor walked back to the edge of the field. The Krakens defense was on the field, but Quentin didn’t have the energy to get up and watch. Quentin took a deep breath and let out a heavy sigh — he had at least one more half of this to go.
KRAKENS FANS were scattered around the stadium, with most sitting in the North end zone. The South end zone, however, was the sole domain of die-hard Texas Earthlings fans, dressed in a sea of red, blue and white. As the Krakens lined up at their own 3-yard-line, the fans roared as if a thousand mouths were pressed right up against Quentin’s ear.
Pine’s shoulders shook as he called out the signals, but Quentin couldn’t hear him. The Earthlings fans wanted a break, something good to happen for their team, which was down 14-0.
Quentin watched carefully — Pine’s head bobbed down when he said “Hut!” and the snap was on three. He had to time it right, there was no room for mistakes this close to your own goal line.
One bob.
Alonzo cheated up the line, his eyes locked on Quentin.
Bob-bob.
Even as Quentin ran right to take the handoff, he saw Chok-Oh-Thilit driving inwards, a Ki tank chewing up flesh. Wen-E-Deret tried to stop him, but suddenly bent backwards at a funny angle, multi-jointed limbs spamming in a symphony of pain. Chok-Oh-Thilit roared through the line, already a yard past the goal line. Quentin concentrated on taking the handoff. Once he felt the ball firmly in his arms, he put his head down and drove forward. It was like running into a swinging 600-pound wrecking ball. Every atom in his body jarred backwards. He couldn’t see. He felt arms wrapping around him. Quentin spun to the right, his free hand viciously punching away — it hit some armor and glanced off. Arms tried to drag him down, but he kept pumping his legs, running with a pure animal fury — like hell he’d be tackled for a safety. He felt the Ki arms slip away and he cut upfield — only to feel a shoulder pad drive deep into his stomach and short-but-powerful Human arms wrapping around his waist. Air shot out of his lungs. His body jarred backwards, every atom shaking from the impact. His feet came off the ground and he landed on his back, head snapping into the turf. Whistles blew. The crowd roared.
He gasped for air, but nothing came in or out. He opened his eyes and looked at the ground. It was painted in Earthlings’ red.
Safety.
Krakens 14, Earthlings 2.
Alonzo pushed off him, looked to the sky and screamed a primitive roar of triumph. He looked down at Quentin and smiled.
“Good thing I’m a little small for a linebacker, or that hit might have actually hurt you.”
Quentin sill couldn’t breathe. He weakly lifted his right hand and flipped Alonzo the bird. Alonzo laughed just before his defensive teammates swarmed over him, shouting excitedly in at least four different languages.
DESPITE DOC’S URGING, Quentin refused to lie down. He knew that if he did, he wouldn’t get up. Not ever again. He’d just sleep for a long, long time. But Doc wouldn’t put IVs in him if he stood, so he compromised and sat through Hokor’s halftime adjustments.
“This is the game we wanted to play,” Hokor said.
Quentin held out his right arm, allowing Doc to inject an IV needle. He watched the pointed needle slide into his skin, but didn’t feel a thing.
“Fluids,” Doc said quietly. “You’re dehydrated.”
“The defense has shut them down,” Hokor said. “No points, can we keep it up?”
“Yes!” shouted Tweedy. “Johanson talking garbage! I say the only way that loser gets off the field at the end of the game is on a stretcher!”