The MVP

12





Preseason Week Four: January 22 to January 31


AT LEAST THEY STILL HAVE five days before the first game.

That was the only thing Quentin could think of to put a positive spin on the situation. The team was on the Touchback, practicing twice a day with position meetings at lunch and also after dinner. No families, no distractions — all day, every day, nothing but football.

Was it helping the defense? Yes, but not fast enough. Ionath’s defensive line and linebacker corps had what it took to earn a Galaxy Bowl, no question. The defensive backfield, however, just wasn’t cutting it.

Two of the DBs looked solid. Wahiawa was in her second year at starting cornerback. She was talented, a possible future All-Pro, but at just ten years old she was young and developing. Davenport was back for her fifth straight year as the Krakens’ starting strong safety. Her abilities were already starting to fade due to hundreds of hard hits, but she made up for that by playing smart and capitalizing on tons of experience with Hokor’s defensive schemes.

If the other two DBs had been as good as Wahiawa and Davenport, Quentin wouldn’t have been as worried. Trouble was, Vacaville and Sandpoint weren’t even close.

Quentin took the snap, dropped back five steps and planted. His internal clock was already ticking, measuring the position of his orange-clad offensive linemen and the angles of attack taken by the black-clad Krakens defense. He looked downfield, tracking his receivers on their patterns.

Wahiawa had excellent pass coverage on Hawick, his number-one receiver. Milford — his number-two receiver — drew coverage from Vacaville. Quentin watched Milford streak down the right sideline. She cut in to the left. Quentin pump-faked, whipping the ball forward but not letting it out of his hand. Vacaville bought the fake, turning to intercept a pass that didn’t come. Milford kept going, leaving Vacaville behind. Quentin lofted a soft, 60-yard pass to the back corner of the end zone. Wide open, Milford didn’t even have to jump to catch it.

Coach Hokor’s little golf cart floated down near field level. “Vacaville, you idiot!” The practice field’s sound system amplified his words. “That’s the fourth time today you have bit on the pump-fake! Is something wrong with your brain?”

Vacaville looked up to the floating golf cart as if Hokor were a God. Well, in fact, to her Hokor was a God, an angry God that she had failed yet again. She trembled, then fell to the ground, shaking with terror.


“Pleaseplease do not smush me Hokorthehookchest I have failed you I havefailedhavefailed!”

Quentin sighed and jogged toward her. While it was easy to motivate the Sklorno, disciplining them was tricky. He tried to imagine what it would be like for the High One to suddenly materialize out of thin air, then scream at him for throwing a bad pass.

“Take it easy,” Quentin said when he reached the trembling cornerback. “It’ll be okay.” He picked her up and set her on her feet. The other Sklorno twittered and jumped because His Holiness the Godling Quentin Barnes had just laid hands on a disciple. Something like that, anyway. Actually, he wasn’t sure if he was a godling or now he was officially a god.

Vacaville stared at Quentin, then started to tremble anew.

“Oh, knock it off,” Quentin said. “Stop that crap right now.”

The cornerback’s trembling faded, but not all the way.

“Listen to me,” Quentin said. “In five days we take the field against the Isis Ice Storm. What do you know about their quarterback Paul Infante?”

“He is great-great-great!” Vacaville said. “I pray that I will catch his blessings for a holy pick-six!”

The cornerback dreamed of intercepting Infante and taking it back for a touchdown.

“That’s good,” Quentin said. “That’s a good thing to pray for. But you’re too eager. Infante will use the same pump-fakes I’m using. If you’re trying to get the interception and a holy pick-six, you’ll bite on that pump-fake every time. You play your receiver, not the ball, okay?”

“Yes, oh holy Quentinbarnes!”

She sprinted off to join the other defensive backs, who had gathered at a respectful distance. They all twittered and jumped up and down, as if Vacaville had just single-handedly won the Galaxy Bowl.

Five days until the Ice Storm. Quentin, John and Hokor had to find a way to get Vacaville to play at a higher level. If she didn’t, Infante and his talented receivers — Angoon and Füssen — would tear the Krakens apart.

Quentin tried to chase away his doubts, but if Vacaville didn’t step up, and if Sandpoint’s play at free safety didn’t improve, then the Krakens could very well open the ’85 season with a loss.

? ? ?



HOKOR’S OFFICE AT IONATH STADIUM reflected his career and his personality. His office on the Touchback, on the other hand, had no art at all — just a glass wall that overlooked the practice field eighteen decks below, and several holotanks that always seemed to be playing highlights of players from across the league.

Quentin, Don Pine and John Tweedy sat across from Hokor’s desk. They had come directly here at the close of practice and still wore their leg armor and Koolsuits. Hokor sat behind the desk, his pedipalp hands waving through the holograms of Krakens players that floated above his desktop.

They had just finished their last preseason practice. The Krakens had to submit a final, fifty-three-player regular-season roster to the league. Any player not good enough to make the roster had to be cut.

Hokor paused on a picture of Wan-A-Tagol, a Ki defensive end. The Leader’s black-striped yellow fur fluffed a little, then lay flat. Quentin had come to know his coach’s mannerisms — while he was all business and talked with a gruff, no-nonsense voice, he genuinely felt bad for the players who had to go.

“With the way Cliff Frost played last year, we don’t need a fifth defensive end,” the coach said. “Wan-A-Tagol’s services are no longer required.”

John nodded. “That makes sense, Coach. Cliffy is coming on strong.”

It didn’t seem to bother John at all that Wan-A was going to be cut. Quentin remembered the Ki’s hard-nosed play last season when Ibrahim Khomeni got hurt. Playing hard, though, wasn’t enough — in the GFL, if you didn’t have the skill, you were gone.

Hokor called up a list of twelve defensive backs.

“We only have room for ten,” Hokor said. “Two have to go. Barnes?”

It fell to him? But that, too, made sense — he was the one who threw against these players every day in practice, the one who knew which ones could cover and which ones posed no threat to his passes or his receivers.

Quentin reread the names, even though he already knew who wasn’t good enough.

“Millington,” he said. A free agent, Millington had lasted only two weeks. She didn’t have the skill, and those were the breaks.

“Agreed,” Hokor said. “And the other?”

Quentin sighed. “Saugatuck,” he said. She was twenty-two years old, a fourteen-year veteran, and her career was over. “She just doesn’t have the speed or the reaction time.”

Don nodded, as did John.

“Done,” Hokor said. “We’ll move Emmitsburgh from free safety to safety to replace Saugatuck as Davenport’s backup. Saugatuck spent her entire career with the organization. If she chooses to retire instead of trying to find another team, Gredok will give her the white jersey when we return to Ionath City.”

Quentin felt a little better about that. Saugatuck could retire as a Kraken. It was a token of respect and kindness — seemed hard to believe Gredok could be capable of such a thing, but clearly he was.

Coach Hokor called up a new list of names. Quentin’s heart sank further when he realized they were his receivers.

“We have seven wide receivers,” Hokor said. “Considering our problems with the defensive secondary, we need enough depth there to make it through the season. Mezquitic is already on the practice squad. It’s time to move Richfield there as well, as her abilities have faded with age.”

Of the fifty-three players on the final roster, forty-five were “active” and dressed for games. The “inactive” players could practice, but on Sundays they stayed in their street clothes. Richfield was also twenty-two and had joined the franchise the same year as Saugatuck.

“Richfield’s our kick returner,” Quentin said. “We need her for that.”

Hokor tapped at the floating icons above his desk. A gameholo flared to life, showing a Sklorno dressed in a yellow uniform with horizontal gray stripes. A gray magnifying glass decorated the side of the yellow helmet. He recognized the player — Niami, Ionath’s rookie cornerback. Niami stood in her own end zone, looking up to the sky, settling under a descending kick. She caught it, then took off with that mind-boggling speed only Sklorno possessed. She cut right, ducked under a purple-clad defender, spun around another, then cut left into the open field and was gone. Touchdown, a 102-yard return.

“Niami returned kicks for the Archaeologists,” Hokor said. “Richfield no longer possesses breakaway speed. Niami does.”

The holos and sprint times spoke for themselves, and there was no arguing Hokor’s logic. Still, Quentin’s heart broke for the two lifelong Krakens.

Hokor leaned back in his chair. “This is never an enjoyable event, but it needs to be done. I will call Saugatuck here right now and talk to her personally. You three get down to the locker room and gather the rest of the team. It’s time to finalize the roster and move on with the season.”

? ? ?



FIFTY-FIVE PLAYERS IN VARIOUS STAGES of undress waiting in the communal locker room. They all knew what was coming. The posting of the final roster marked the official end of the preseason. Quentin watched his teammates, knowing that the next few minutes would bring both unmatched joy and also heart-breaking loss.


Coach Hokor the Hookchest entered, Messal the Efficient at his side. The Quyth Leader stopped at the holoboard. He looked out at the team.

“Krakens, I will now post the final roster,” he said. “Those of you who made the team, I look forward to a successful season as we vie for the championship. If this is your first year with the organization, see Messal the Efficient about living arrangements. If your name is not on the board, come to my office immediately.”

And that was that. Hokor turned to the holoboard and tapped a few icons; the rosters appeared. Most of the starters knew their name was on the roster and didn’t bother to look. They already started filtering into their species-specific locker rooms, ready to clean up and head home for the night.

Four weeks of practice had made most of the second stringers almost sure of their roster spot, but they looked anyway, perhaps just to see that final confirmation. There were more than a few sighs of relief, then those players also headed for their locker rooms.

Some players saw that they’d been named to the practice squad. That meant they wouldn’t play on Sunday unless someone in front of them got hurt, opening up an active-roster spot. For the second year in a row, Quentin watched Gan-Ta-Kapil, the backup center. At sixty-one years old, the Ki had been playing GFL ball for twenty-two seasons — longer than Quentin had been alive. Quentin smiled when he saw Gan-Ta sag with relief; the Ki was on the practice squad, his job safe for at least one more season.

More players filtered away from the holoboard, leaving only two standing there, searching for their names: Ki defensive end Wan-A-Tagol and Millington, the Sklorno defensive back.

Wan-A was only twenty-five years old. After four seasons with the Krakens, the team had cut him loose. All five of his black, equidistant eyes closed. A soft, mournful sound came out of his vocal tubes, then he scuttled out of the locker room. Quentin knew something about Ki body language; Wan-A walked out with pride, the Ki equivalent of holding his head up high. He had given it everything he had and had nothing to be ashamed of.

Millington’s eyestalks sagged. She lifted them to read the holoboard one more time and — still not finding her name — weakly followed Wan-A out of the locker room.

Quentin heard commotion from the Human locker room. Screams of joy, players boasting, the sounds barely muffled by the closed door. They were happy. Of course they were — no Humans had been cut.

He stared at the holoboard for a few moments more. His name was there, of course. But someday, it would not be. The happy Humans in the locker room? They, too, would someday be on the outside looking in.

Someday, but not this day.

Life was short, careers were shorter — his Human teammates had earned the right to celebrate, and so had he. Ionath had chosen its warriors. Quentin Barnes smiled and walked into the locker room to join his teammates.

? ? ?



QUENTIN WALKED INTO HIS APARTMENT on the Touchback, his heart heavy, his mind on the ceremony he’d witnesses just a few minutes earlier. He slumped onto his couch and stared at the framed jersey of Mitchel Fayed that hung on his wall.

The preseason was over. Tomorrow, the Touchback would depart on a five-and-a-half-day trip to Tower for the season opener against the Isis Ice Storm. Most of the team had already headed down to Ionath City for a much-deserved day off. The team had spent a week in orbit and would spend another eleven days away from home for the round trip to and from Tower — one day off to see family and friends or take care of personal business wasn’t much to ask.

Quentin wasn’t going anywhere. Danny Lundy would take care of any personal business, all of his friends played for the Krakens, and until his sister wanted to see him, he had no family to speak of. He’d spend the day and night in his room, studying up on the Ice Storm defense.

Most of the players heading down would be right back here the following morning. Most, but not Saugatuck. This shuttle ride down was her last. Gredok had given her the white jersey, symbolic of a player who retired as a Kraken. Quentin had been stunned to hear Gredok deliver a heartfelt speech about Saugatuck, who the crime lord had signed fourteen years earlier.

Age is the thief that robs us of life, so slowly we don’t see it being taken from us, Gredok had said as the entire team listened. That horrid theft comes much faster in our chosen profession, where the longest of careers last but a handful of seasons.

Gredok had then talked of Saugatuck’s loyalty, recalled some of her highlights and accomplishments. He was a master manipulator, but the way he spoke revealed that he genuinely cared. As strange as it seemed, Gredok sounded sad, but also proud of his retiring player. And then, the gangster had leveled everyone with his final comment:

The thief may have stolen your years, but it can’t steal your memory. The Krakens will never forget.

A touching, beautiful send-off that wet the eyes of Humans and HeavyGs, made Warrior pedipalps tremble and left all of the Sklorno quivering on the shuttle bay deck.

Quentin didn’t know how Gredok could be such an evil, self-serving jackass to him and such an eloquent class act to Saugatuck. Maybe if Quentin lasted fourteen years, he’d get a similar speech.

That is, if Gredok was still around for Quentin’s fourteenth season, which wouldn’t happen if Quentin had anything to say about it.

He walked to the kitchen and grabbed a mag can of Miller. He popped the top, felt the can frost up in his hand, then raised it toward Mitchell’s jersey.

“To you, my friend. Tonight, you and I hang out.”

Quentin took a sip, then called up the Krakens playbook and got to work.



Ionath Krakens 2685 Roster