Pookie Chang lined up as a single back. The Earthlings lined up in a “big” set — single back, two tight ends, two wide receivers. John Tweedy moved up onto the line, immediately showing blitz. His right leg twitched with anticipation, each hand tightened into a flesh-and-bone mace.
Johanson dropped back five steps, limping slightly, then stood tall. Tweedy slipped between the linemen, but Chang picked him up and knocked him down with a perfect block. Johanson looked right, then turned left and delivered a tight crossing pass to Norfolk, who caught the ball and ran out of bounds just before Virak the Mean could tear off her head.
Twelve-yard gain. First and 10 at the Earthlings’ 32, 1:17 to play.
Mai-An-Ihkole and Choto the Bright ran off the field, Mum-O-Killowe and Tiburon ran on as Hokor switched to a nickel package.
The Earthlings again lined up in a big set. Johanson hobbled back in a five-step drop. Quentin looked downfield, his mind on offense, instinctively looking for the open routes. Mum-O-Killowe drove forward with his characteristic un-Ki-like agility, spinning and thrashing, trying to blast past the double-team that held him in check. Johanson felt the pressure, cocked his arm and delivered another short pass, this time to Bates McGee, the tight end. Complete for six yards, Virak the Mean on the tackle.
Second and 4.
Johanson signaled a timeout.
Clock at 1:09.
The Earthlings huddled up during the timeout, then hit the line in a three wide receiver shotgun. The defense settled in like an invading army awaiting the signal to attack. Mum-O-Killowe roared and came forward like a nightmare, two linemen punishing him all the way, yet he still drove towards Johanson.
Quentin looked downfield — Norfolk ran a post, and was pulling away from Berea.
“Oh crap,” Quentin whispered.
Johanson side-stepped Mum-O-Killowe’s madman rush, looked downfield and saw the same thing Quentin had seen. The undauntable quarterback stepped up, cocked his arm –
— and then there was Michnik. The massive heavy-G defensive end came from the blindside. He connected just before the Johanson’s arm started to come forward. Michnik hit him in the small of the back, 525 pounds moving at full speed — Johanson looked like a rag doll bent in half at the spine. The ball flopped away on a wobbly backwards arc. Johanson’s body just started to move back to normal alignment when Michnik drove him into the ground. They hit so hard, Quentin wondered if there would be an impact crater.
The ball descended, hit the ground and wobbled in a spinning dance to the right. It took almost a full second for the offensive and defensive linemen to see the ball on the ground. An offensive tackle lunged for it, but his jointed legs seemed to mis-judge the ball’s speed — he managed only to hit it, sending it farther into the backfield. The ball bounced back past the 25 yard line like a wildly spinning brown windmill. Time ceased to exist — 250,000 sets of eyes watched its unpredictable motion, 250,000 beings held their breath.
Three players dove for the ball simultaneously, and it squirted up into the air.
Where Mum-O-Killowe snatched it.
The rookie defensive tackle scuttled for the corner as the crowd’s roar erupted into a combination of excitement and anticipated doom. Pookie Chang ran after Mum-O-Killowe. The big Ki lineman scuttled across the 15 and headed for the end zone. Pookie’s speed closed the distance in less than five yards, and he latched onto Mum-O-Killowe’s torso. The Ki lineman sagged to the right under the extra 310 pounds, but he kept plodding forward. Pookie ripped at the ball, ripped at Mum-O-Killowe’s eyes, his mouth, at anything, desperate to save the touchdown that meant the end of the Earthlings’ chances.
The moving war passed the 10-yard line.
Mum-O-Killowe reached out his two right arms and lifted Pookie Chang right off the ground.
Stunned at such a display of power, Quentin watched Mum-O-Killowe cross the goal line, the ball tucked under his left arms, Pookie Chang tucked under his right.
The Krakens’ sidelines erupted into a shouting, screaming, clicking, clacking, jumping melee of exploding joy.
Krakens 27, Earthlings 17.
Fifty-two seconds to play.
Quentin found himself jumping up and down and hugging teammates just like everyone else. The joy seemed to gush out of him like a volcano, limitless and unstoppable. Tier One! Tier One!
The extra-point team ran onto the field. One more kick, and the Krakens were up by two scores with less than a minute to play.
The extra-point team stopped as whistles blew. Johanson hadn’t got up. The Earthlings’ docs flew onto the field, their medsled floating behind them. They took a quick look at Johanson, then put the medseld over him. The tiny cables shot out, simultaneously immobilizing and lifting Johanson’s prone body. The medsled and the docs headed for the tunnel. Normally, all the players would have silently watched the procession, but not this time — this time they could barely stop themselves from screaming at the docs to get Johanson’s weak butt off the field.
The extra point team lined up.
Quentin found himself standing next to Donald Pine.
“Nice touchdown run, Q,” Pine said, grinning. “Ever notice how you play better when you’re mad?”
Quentin stared at Pine for a second, then it sank in. His face turned red with embarrassment. Even in the biggest game of the year, Pine, the master manipulator, had goaded him into a rage. It hadn’t been personal, it had been calculated. Quentin realized that when the rage hit, he’d forgotten all about his battered body and just played.
Quentin smiled as Pine tousled his hair. Together, they turned to watch the extra point.
Morningstar knocked it through.
Krakens 28, Earthlings 17.
“WELL, CHICK, I think you can say this one is pretty much over. The Earthlings’ backup quarterback, Dan Erlewine, just isn’t the same caliber as Case Johanson.”
“I think the Earthlings are about as done as a three-day-old dog turd, Masara.”
“Chick… we’ve only got a few minutes left, can’t you just try to knock it off?”
“Masara, you’re as uptight as an anal-retentive accountant.”
“You know what? I give up.”
“Hey, Masara, you can’t leave the booth, the game is still on!… well, um, folks, Chick McGee here, now on play-by-play. Dan Erlewine is in the shotgun, and he looks nervous. He’s got to come up with two touchdowns in less than forty seconds. He drops back, looking, looking, he’s going deep to Norfolk! The pass looks short, and Berea’s got it! Interception! That’s the ballgame, folks, the Earthlings are headed to the showers, and the Ionath Krakens are headed to Tier One!”
AN HOUR AFTER the game, every player remained crammed into the communal center room. Mitchell Fayed’s jersey had been taped up to the holoboard. Grass stains darkened the orange jersey, as did Quentin’s red blood and several streaks of Ki black. It hung there, a memorial to their fallen comrade, as if Fayed watched over them, participating in their celebration.
Pine walked up to Quentin. They hugged like long-lost brothers. Quentin didn’t feel any pain this time — with the game over, Doc had injected several brands of rather efficient pain killers.
“You did it, old man!”
“No, you did it, Q!” Pine said, his blazing genuine smile as different from his arrogant grin as night was from day. “You’re a quarterback, and you rushed for 64 yards and caught for another 82. You’re the hero of the game.”