Authors: Scott Sigler
Quentin waited for the locker room to empty, then stood in front of her. Becca saw his armored feet. She looked up; he saw fear in her eyes.
“Hey, Q. Come to give me a pep talk?”
He shook his head. “Too late for that. At this point in the season, you’re either ready or you’re not — you’re ready.”
She extended her fingers, stared at them. Her hands were shaking.
“Becca, I don’t know what you’re worried about. You
are
undefeated as a starter, after all.”
He’d hoped she might laugh, but she didn’t.
“This isn’t the regular season,” she said. “This isn’t a game that doesn’t really matter because we’ve already qualified for the playoffs. This is the
Galaxy Bowl
. This is
it
. Everyone on the team is counting on me. What if I can’t handle the pressure? What if I screw up?”
Quentin thought about telling her what she wanted to hear, that she would excel, that everything would come natural. He wanted to tell her that after the first hit, it would be just another game. He wanted to tell her that she was a Valkyrie, that she had been born for this moment. He wanted to tell her a hundred other things that would have sounded nice and showed his confidence in her.
Instead, he told her the truth.
“You
will
screw up,” he said. “You’re starting at quarterback on only one day’s practice before the biggest game of the year, before the game that makes
legends
. You’ll screw up, and when you do, we’ll correct it on the sidelines, just like Hokor used to do with me.”
She hadn’t expected him to be blunt. She’d expected sugar, but Quentin was all out.
“What if I can’t correct it?”
Quentin shrugged. “Then I sit your ass down and I put Haney in. Someone is going to win me that Galaxy Bowl, Becca.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Remember when you told me I suck at pep talks? Well, you’re worse.”
“This is reality,” he said. “You want to hear more of it? You’re slow. You don’t have the strongest arm. Your accuracy isn’t what it needs to be to cut it in Tier One. On paper, Becca, you’re a
terrible
quarterback. But we don’t play on paper. You are one of the nicest people I have ever met in my life, and you are
so
good to me, but when you step on that field, you know what you are?”
She shook her head.
“You’re
mean
” Quentin said. “You are a nasty, dirty, brutal,
mean
player. Just like me. That’s what matters tonight. History doesn’t remember that you won ugly — history only remembers that you
won
. If I didn’t think you could do this, you’d be lining up at fullback. Go out there and shock the galaxy. Tonight, this is
your
team.”
The last of the fear faded from her eyes. If he had told her she would play a flawless game, she wouldn’t have believed him.
“
Mean
” she said. She stood up. That killer look was back in her eyes. “You know what? I don’t care how we got here. Tonight, I couldn’t give a damn why I’m starting in the Galaxy Bowl. I want that ring. And if anyone gets in my way, I’m going to make them
hurt
.”
Quentin’s heart hammered, his pulse raced. Was this what it felt like when
he
swaggered his way in front of the team and told them they would find a way to win? If so, he now understood why people followed him, because as surprising as it was, he wanted to follow the Wrecka.
“For Coach,” she said.
Quentin nodded. “For Coach. John held everyone at the tunnel for you. Go lead your team onto the field.”
JUST INSIDE THE MOUTH
of the tunnel, Quentin Barnes stood alone. He heard the crowd burbling, waiting for the game to begin. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply through his nose, taking in the scents of the night.
He wore his helmet, knowing it might be the final time he did that, the final time he wore the Orange and the Black of his beloved Krakens.
Not just his Krakens ...
any
football uniform.
This was his last game.
On Saturday, the day before the game, he’d spoken with the league docs. Doctor Ganagati had reinforced Patah’s diagnosis: Quentin was done as a quarterback. Maybe he could prove them wrong, maybe not, but if they were right, it meant he had one chance — one chance
only
— to help his team to another league tide.
But if the docs were wrong, if there was any opportunity of beating the odds and lining up at quarterback again, going out on that field tonight, taking
damage
tonight, would probably end that chance forever. So, he faced a truly impossible choice: protect himself or do what was best for the team.
Quentin chose team.
He’d joined the Micovi Raiders at the age of fifteen. Four seasons there, during which Quentin won twenty-three games, lost four, and brought home two PNFL titles. He remembered each and every contest. He remembered every play, the smell of the grass on every field.
Then the glory of going to Tier Two, of being signed to the Ionath Krakens. That amazing rookie season when he’d helped his team earn promotion.
His second year with Ionath, when he became a starter — a
starter —
in
Tier One
. His childhood dream writ large: seeing the galaxy, being paid to play football, building a team that could someday compete for a title.
His third year, coming to accept just how good he was, how good his team could be. The late-season run that put the Krakens in the playoffs. A first-round loss, sure, but he’d learned much from it, as had his teammates; they grew closer, a band of soldiers melding together in the heat of battle.
Then last season, when all his fantasies came true and they were all beyond his wildest expectations. Another late-season run, but this time a first-round playoff win, a
second-
round playoff win. Facing Don Pine and the Jacks in the Galaxy Bowl.
And winning it.
Four seasons for the Raiders.
Five in the Orange and the Black.
The wins, the losses, the injuries, the deaths. Good friends gone forever. That sense of
team
, that knowledge that when you stepped on that field, you were not alone.
All of that... about to end.
But not yet.
One more game.
One
last
game.
He couldn’t throw. He couldn’t carry the ball, couldn’t catch it, either. But he knew the offense better than anyone, knew the duties of every player at every position on every play.
He was big.
He was strong.
And, he could
hit
.
The rage he’d carried through his life, born of oppressive conditions and a daily fight to survive, that hadn’t gone away. He’d pushed it down, locked it up, forced it into submission.
Not anymore.
Tonight, he would unleash every last shred of it, and High One help whoever stood in his way.
Quentin Barnes looked out onto the field: green with white lines. How fitting that his final game would be on the same color field as used by the ancients.
He closed his eyes. He put his hand on the tunnel wall, felt the vibrations of the stadium, felt the energy of the spectators gathered for the spectacle.
They wanted carnage?
Carnage they would get.
He opened his eyes and ran onto the field.
EVERYONE WAS WAITING
for him on the sidelines.
He saw by the looks in their eyes — a combination of pride, admiration, solidarity and sadness — that some of them knew this was probably his last game. He, John, Ju and Becca had kept things quiet, so as not to let anything potentially slip to the Jacks, but even so, word had obviously gotten out.
The team formed a semicircle for him, then he understood — he had told Becca to lead the Krakens in the pregame chant, so the team would feel her leadership, but she had ignored that command.
She, John and Ju had made sure he would get to do it one last time.
A pinch formed in his throat, grew larger, both down to his heart and up to his eyes. He used the skills he’d learned from Gredok and shut those emotions down; this was the Galaxy Bowl, and his team needed
strength
, not tears.
He walked into the semicircle. It closed around him, his friends and teammates pressing in, an endless wall of orange and black.
Quentin Barnes raised his right fist.
Everyone reached out and up, becoming one massive sentient rather than fifty-three individuals. He breathed deeply, then screamed louder than he ever had before, only to be answered by his championship-hungry family.
“Whose house?”
“
Our house!
”
“
Whose
house?”
“
Our house!
”
“What law?”
“
Our law!
”
“Who wins?”
“
Krakens!
”
“Who wins?”
“
Krakens!
”
Quentin nodded, his smile wide and full of confidence, full of the swagger that had carried him through nine seasons of professional football.
“Be excellent as individuals, and we’ll be unstoppable as a team. Let’s bring that trophy back home where it belongs, to
Ionath
!”
A final single roar sounded from the six species wearing the Orange and the Black, then the circle broke up.
Quentin heard the whistle from midfield: it was time for the coin toss.
THE GAME HADN’T EVEN STARTED,
yet the Stadium
shook
. Since the last time the Krakens had played here three seasons ago, an entire deck had been added. Old seats had been narrowed to fit more of them into existing rows, and every remaining available open space with a view of the green field had been turned into standing-room spectator areas. Rolling Rock Stadium had a maximum capacity of 62,500: the announcer had just declared today’s attendance at 64,213.
At least seventy-five percent of those fans wore the silver, gold and copper of the Jupiter Jacks. Black jerseys didn’t matter: the championship was truly an away game.
Quentin, John and Becca walked to the blue, white and purple Galaxy Bowl XXVIII logo painted at midfield. There waited Jacks cornerback Morelia, running back CJ Wellman and — of course — quarterback Don Pine.
Copper helmets with gold facemasks, the Jacks logo on the sides. Gold jerseys with silver sleeves and black-trimmed copper numbers. Copper leg armor and shoes, the team logo gleaming on the upper thighs. The Alimum Armada might boast the league’s ugliest uniforms, but the Jacks definitely had the
loudest
.
Don smiled wide.
“Hey, kid,” he said. “So glad we could meet like this again.”
“Thrilled,” Quentin said. He wanted to blast Don with his best glare, but the man’s smile was infectious. For all the bad blood between them, there was deep respect as well, and — Quentin had to admit — at least some degree of friendship. They were quarterbacks who had won a Galaxy Bowl: part of a very small, very select group.
John pointed at Pine. “I never liked you, Donny. You have an ugly potato nose.”
Wellman laughed. “Like you’re a pretty boy, Tweedy?”
John moved his pointing finger to Wellman. “When I get done with you, even a blind man could tell which of us is better looking.”
Wellman nodded an exaggerated nod. “That’s right, keep talking. I’ll see you in a few minutes, boy.”
The floating zebe gave a short blast on her whistle, telling the players to calm down. Quentin glanced at Becca. She looked calm, cool and collected. She gave no indication of the role she would soon play.
The zebe floated between the two lines of players, reached a mouth-flap into her black- and white-striped backpack and retrieved a coin.
“We are here for the championship of the Galactic Football League,” the zebe said, her voice echoing from the stadium’s massive sound system.
“To celebrate the heritage of football, this coin is a relic from ancient Earth. It was used seven centuries ago for the coin toss of Super Bowl Twenty in the year 1986. This is heads.”
She held out the mouth-flap. The coin showed two helmets facing each other, one from the ancient Chicago Bears and one from a team Quentin didn’t recognize.
The zebe flipped the coin. “And this is tails.”
It showed a stylized “XX” in the middle, with the words “New Orleans, LA, January 26, 1986” curving across the top.
John nudged Quentin. “That thing is
mega-old
.”
“Jupiter is the visiting team,” the zebe said. “Who will call it for Jupiter?”
Don raised his hand. “I will.”
“Call it in the air.” The Harrah tossed the coin high. It spun, strobe-flashing in the stadium lights.
“Tails,” Don said.
The coin landed on the white of the Galaxy Bowl XXVIII logo: heads up.
“Ionath, you have won the toss. Do you want the ball, do you want to kick, or do you want to defer until the second half?”
“The ball,” Quentin said. “We want the ball.”
The Jacks elected to defend the south end zone. The north was packed with Jupiter fans: bottom to top, left to right. If Ionath was in position to score at the end of the first half, or at the end of the game, they would be heading into that end zone. A minor advantage for Pine’s team, but at this level, every advantage mattered.
Quentin, John and Becca jogged back to the sidelines. Since the Krakens got the ball first, Quentin would get one last snap under center.
Hopefully, he and Becca could catch the Jacks sleeping.
THE JACKS LINED UP
for the opening kick.
Quentin stood on the sidelines, unable to stop himself from looking up at the crowd. His home field at Ionath Stadium sat 180,000, more than twice as many as Rolling Rock Stadium, but when engineers had updated this place, they had built it for noise. If sound could be a living thing, Jupiter’s home field would be a planet-eating dragon, a living devourer of worlds and destroyer of reality. The air seemed to blur from the concussive effect of tens of thousands of screaming Jupiter fans.