THE DAMN WING-T was like watching a living puzzle box. It was a magician’s offense, sleight-of-hand and loathsome chicanery. Who had the ball? Pookie Chang? Peter Lowachee? Case Johanson? Was it a run? Was it a pass?
The Earthlings marched downfield again, chewing up five and six yards a pop. The Krakens started to adjust, but the vanishing-ball-trick had them tackling the wrong player more often than not. Chang for six. Lowachee for ten. Pass for fifteen. Chang for another four.
Twelve plays and seven minutes after the Krakens’ post-fight punt, Pookie Chang carried it in from four yards out to give the Earthlings the lead. Without missing a beat, they again lined up in the Wing-T for the two-point conversion. The Krakens’ defense still didn’t know how to stop that offense — Pookie Chang slipped through a trap-block and walked into the end zone standing up.
Earthlings 17, Krakens 14.
QUENTIN FOLLOWED Tom Pareless into the hole. Pareless nailed a stumbling Alonzo, putting the linebacker into the ground. Quentin hurdled them both and tried to cut outside. Kipir the Assassin, the outside linebacker, dove for him and grabbed his jersey, standing Quentin almost straight up as he tried to move forward. Jurong, the free safety, came in untouched like an armor-piercing bullet. She smashed into Quentin’s ribs. He heard a crack from his pads and another snap from inside his body.
He’d never been stabbed in the ribs, but he knew it had to feel just like this.
Quentin lay on the ground, big hands clutched tightly around the football. They could kill him, but they couldn’t make him fumble. His eyes scrunched tight with the agony in his side, and he waited for the medsled to cart him off the field.
Someone kicked his leg.
Quentin opened his eyes, squinting through the pain, to look up at Donald Pine.
“Get up, loser.”
Pine still had a blue bandage on his cheek. The cut had been deep, and despite constant application of nanocytes it had opened up two more times. The front of his orange jersey was a sheet of red.
“I said get up, you pansy.”
Quentin tried to blink away the pain. He had broken ribs. Broken ribs.
“I’ve got broken ribs,” Quentin said.
“And I care,” Pine said. “Now get up, rookie, and back in the huddle or I will kick you in those same ribs until you do.”
Quentin stared at Pine. He hated Pine. He had thought Pine was his friend, but he’d been crazy to think that. He’d always hated Don Pine. Don Pine was a loser.
Quentin slowly hauled himself back to a standing position, and followed Pine to the Krakens huddle.
THE FOURTH QUARTER started just as the Earthlings took over. They kept moving the ball, seemingly at will. Chang for five. Lowachee for seven. Chang for another four.
Then it happened.
Johanson put the ball in Chang’s belly as the thick running back slammed into the line. He then put it Lowachee’s arms, and rode the fleet-footed running back through the hole. Quentin had adjusted to the offense, and now saw the pulling guard running past the off-tackle hole, towards the outside — that mean Johanson had the ball.
And Quentin wasn’t the only one to see it.
Virak the Mean saw it, too.
The Earthlings’ pulling guard moved forward to block Virak, but the Quyth Warrior dropped to all-fours and stutter-stepped left, then right, then left again, using his low center of gravity to create the impossible lateral motion of a truly talented Quyth Warrior. The guard matched the first two moves, but stumbled off-balance and Virak shot past. He came free with a good five yards to pick up speed. Johanson tried to cut inside to avoid the reaching arms of Mum-O-Killowe — he didn’t see Virak until it was too late.
Virak threw himself forward like a flying switchblade, his helmet smashing into Johanson’s stomach. The quarterback went down hard. The ball popped free, but Pookie Chang hopped on it.
Whistles blew. Johanson got up… slowly. He limped back to the huddle, barely able to walk on his right leg.
THE EARTHLINGS TRIED running the Wing-T a few more times, but everyone knew the limping Johanson wasn’t going to carry the ball. With him removed as a threat, the Krakens defense concentrated on Chang and Lowachee. As the clock ticked past 8:00, the Earthlings punted the ball away. They wouldn’t run the Wing-T again for the rest of the game.
PINE GOT UP slowly after his fifth sack. He was bleeding again, this time from a cut on his arm. At least he got up — Aka-Na-Tak still lay on the ground, a limp tubular body with limp multi-jointed arms. A thin, recurring squirt of black blood jetted up from his back, like a little on-off geyser of oil. Chok-Oh-Thilit had destroyed his second right tackle of the game.
After starting on their own 15 the Krakens had put together a 30-yard drive, but on third-and-long Chok-Oh-Thilit smashed through Aka-Na-Tak and dragged Pine down. The Krakens offense ran off the field to be replaced by the punt team as Doc’s medsled floated Aka-Na-Tak off the field. There was only five minutes left to play. The defense had to come up with one more stop.
THE DEFENSE HELD. The Krakens got the ball back with 2:12 to play in the game, ball on their own 35.
Quentin sat at the bottom of the pile, face-down, the football pressing into his diaphragm, so much weight on top of him that he couldn’t draw in a full breath. Not that that was necessarily a bad thing — when he took a full breath, his ribs screamed and his chest ached with the effort. Another assassination attempt by Chok-Oh-Thilit had torn away Quentin’s second set of rib armor, along with more of his skin, and blood — Doc said not to worry, though… he’d be fine after an hour in the rejuv tank. The injury wouldn’t stop Quentin from finishing the game. Gosh. Thanks, Doc.
Cay-Oh-Kiware was the third Krakens guard to face Chok-Oh-Thilit, and he wasn’t doing much better than had Wen-E-Deret or Aka-Na-Tak.
The weight lifted from Quentin’s back one chunk at a time, until the last player rolled off. Quentin pushed his way up. He didn’t want to get up, he wanted to lay there, maybe take a nice nap. But he’d be damned before he’d show those Earthlings one more ounce of weakness or pain.
“How you holding up, champ?” Alonzo asked. “It’s not going to stop, you know. Maybe you should just stay down.”
“Then you better quit fooling around and dig out your A-game,” Quentin said as he stood tall and walked back to the huddle, ignoring the invisible knife buried deep in his ribs. “‘Cause what you got ain’t bothering me all that much.”
He was the last one back to the huddle. Pine stood there, hands on his hips, glaring at him as he walked around to the back of the huddle and took his place.
“Finished catching up on old times?” Pine asked him.
“Hey, he started talking crap, I just — ”
“Just nothing,” Pine snapped. “Shut your mouth and get back to the huddle, got it?”
“Hey! I’m not going to take this, he — ”
“Quentin! Shut up! Jesus, you Purist Nation guys don’t ever stop running at the mouth. Next play you get your butt back to the huddle and don’t say a word, you got it?”
Quentin started to protest one more time, then closed his mouth. He was furious that Pine was talking to him this way, but it was Pine’s huddle. Pine looked at the sidelines, then shook his head.
“No,” he said. “Let’s keep it on the ground.”