The MVP

17





Week Five: Orbiting Death at Ionath Krakens



PLANET DIVISION

SOLAR DIVISION



3-0 Yall Criminals

4-0 Bartel Water Bugs



3-1 OS1 Orbiting Death

4-0 Jupiter Jacks



3-1 Wabash Wolfpack

2-1 Neptune Scarlet Fliers



2-1 Alimum Armada

2-1 Texas Earthlings (bye)



2-1 To Pirates

2-2 Bord Brigands



2-2 Buddha City Elite

2-2 Jang Atom Smashers



2-2 Isis Ice Storm

2-2 Vik Vanguard



1-2 Themala Dreadnaughts (bye)

1-2 D’Kow War Dogs



1-3 Coranadillana Cloud Killers

1-3 New Rodina Astronauts



0-3 Ionath Krakens

1-3 Sheb Stalkers



0-4 Hittoni Hullwalkers

0-4 Shorah Warlords





THE NIGHT AFTER the Criminals game, Quentin and John sat in Coach Hokor’s Ionath Stadium office. Hokor sat behind his desk, of course. In a corner chair sat the team owner, his pedipalp fingers casually touching a new bracelet that probably contained more mineral wealth than some small planets.

Just like for the last injury report, Doc Patah floated above Hokor’s left shoulder. Once again, a medical holo of a Sklorno hovered above Coach Hokor’s desk. This time, an ankle.

Hawick’s ankle.

“She’s out for the season,” Doc Patah said. “She has a torn pedal flexor retinaculum ligament. I’ve repaired it and embedded it with dissolving carbon fibers to speed up healing, but if she tries to play this year, she will permanently destroy the ligament.”

Quentin leaned forward. He rested his face in his hands. When would the bad news stop coming? Milford and Halawa were having great seasons, but that was in no small part due to the fact that Hawick always drew the opposition’s number-one cornerback and was usually double-covered as well. That left Milford and Halawa in one-on-one coverage. They were very good players, but they were both young — neither of them had Hawick’s star power.

“Wonderful,” Gredok said. “Another enormous salary I will be paying a player to sit on the bench.”

John poked his finger through the holographic image. “It’s not all bad, your blackness. Once you sign off on that Don Pine trade, we get Xuchang and you lose Pine’s obnoxious contract. This is like the best trade ever — we’ll have Xuchang at one corner and Wahiawa at the other. Our defense will be instantly better, you’ll see.”

“It had better be,” Gredok said. “I grow weary of your excuses, Tweedy. And yours, Hokor.”

Threads of green swirled across Hokor’s eye. If the Krakens dropped to Tier Two, Gredok would fire him. At least fire him; it wasn’t a stretch to imagine that Hokor the Hookchest might pay for his failure with his life.

Quentin again stared at the image of Hawick’s injury. She’d been on her way to an All-Pro season. No one he’d ever played with had her speed. No one, except …

He suddenly sat up straight.

“We don’t need Xuchang.”

John groaned. “Oh for crying out loud, here we go again. Q, you need to let go of this thing with Pine. He needs to move on, and we need a cornerback to replace Vacaville.”


“We have a replacement for Vacaville,” Quentin said. “We have Bumberpuff.”

John threw up his hands. “Have you been hitting the Kermiac extract or something? Are you high?”

JUST SAY NO! flashed across his forehead.

Gredok stood up, his jewelry clinking together like chimes when he did. “I find myself quite surprised to agree with John Tweedy, Barnes, but if you again let your personal feelings about Don Pine get in the way of this trade, John’s theory would seem to be quite accurate.”

“It’s a hypothesis, not a theory,” Quentin said. “And no, I’m not on drugs, and yes, I do want to trade Pine to Jupiter — just not for Xuchang.”

Hokor’s black-striped fur fluffed up in annoyance. “Then who do you expect in return?”

“We need to replace Hawick,” Quentin said. “I want Denver to come home.”

Everyone just stared at him.

John leaned back in his chair and crossed his muscular arms. “Of course. You and your damn precious offense. Are you really that selfish?”

“I’m not being selfish! I throw against the Prawatt every day in practice. I am telling you, they will develop. We don’t need Xuchang, but we do need a number-one receiver.”

Hokor waved away the holo of Hawick’s leg. “Denver has played poorly in Jupiter,” the coach said. “And you want to give up Donald Pine for her?”

“Ridiculous,” Gredok said. “We will trade Don Pine for Xuchang.”

Quentin felt the panic starting to build. Bumberpuff was going to be great, he could feel that in his bones. He knew Denver would rebound, knew she was one of the best receivers in the league even if her current stats didn’t show it. If Quentin could convince Gredok, within a week or two he’d have a top-flight receiver and a shut-down corner to bolster the defense. To win a championship, he needed both things.

But Gredok had made his decision. He would never back down. Quentin had to sweeten the pot.

“Gredok, I guarantee this will work,” Quentin said. “If you trade for Denver, and we don’t make the playoffs? I’ll take a fifty-percent pay cut next year.”

Gredok’s black fur fluffed once, then lay flat. “I believe John’s theory has become a hypothesis,” he said. “Four weeks in and we are winless, and you bargain such a sum on the playoffs — clearly you are using controlled substances.”

“I’ll put it in writing,” Quentin said. “I’ll have Danny draw up the deal right now.”

Gredok’s pedipalps quivered — this would give him an opportunity to get another dig in on Quentin’s Dolphin agent. “If you have a contract box to me within the hour, then I accept your terms.”

John stood up so suddenly his chair flew back into the wall. “This is crap! What about my defense? Pretty boy gets what he wants again?”

“John, calm down,” Quentin said. “It’s not like that!”

“Whatever, Q. What you want is always more important than what anyone else needs.”

John stormed out of the office. Quentin wanted to go after him, calm him down, but he’d have to do that later.

For now, he had a trade to make.

? ? ?



THE GOLD-, SILVER-AND COPPER-PAINTED shuttle door started to open, but it hadn’t even hit the deck before Denver leapt out into the landing bay. Milford rushed in and tackled her. The two Sklorno fell, a squealing, wiggling pile of happiness. Mezquitic jumped on the pile. She had been on the team during Milford’s rookie season. So had Hawick, but with the cast on her leg, she couldn’t join in the horseplay. She stood with the other Sklorno, all of them fidgeting and getting spun up from the excitement.

Quentin smiled as he watched. It was impossible not to feel joy at the friends reuniting.

Then, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned, knowing he would see the blue face of Don Pine. Don had dressed in one of his best suits. He still looked the very picture of the quarterback/ coverboy.

“Kid,” Don said, “it’s been an experience.”

“You can say that again, Old Man.”

They shook hands.

Don Pine was leaving. There was no question that the Krakens were Quentin’s team, but Don had always been there in some capacity — as a security blanket, as a threat for the starting position, as a friend, then an enemy, then as a friend again. Don had answered questions, provided guidance and offered unsolicited advice when he thought it was needed. With him gone, Quentin lost his final crutch. No matter what happened from here on out, Quentin would be the one to decide the course of the franchise.

“A part of me is sad to see you go,” Quentin said. “But it’s a very small part.”

Don nodded. “So, we’re not even then?”

The man still hadn’t owned up to the fact that he’d shaved points and even fixed games. Quentin was no angel, either; he had blocked efforts to trade Pine — not for the good of the franchise, but to punish the man. Quentin knew he had no right to do that. And then there was the simple truth that, were it not for Don’s patience and guidance, Quentin might very well have washed out in his rookie season.

Were they even? After what Quentin had done for Don and what Don had not done for Quentin — no, not even close. But did balancing the scales really matter? Don was moving on. The Ionath Krakens belonged to Quentin.

Quentin offered his hand. “Let’s just say I hope you have a great season.”

Don shook it. “That’s how it is, huh? Fair enough. Well, no hard feelings on my part. Take care of my team for me.”

The veteran QB gave Quentin one final slap on the shoulder, then walked to the silver-, gold-and copper-painted shuttle.

Something hit Quentin hard, lifting him up and driving him to the deck. Quentin groaned, first at the pain, then at the disgusting sensation of drool landing on his face and neck.

“Quentinbarnesquentinbarnesquentinbarnes! I am home-home-home!”

Quentin laughed and pushed away three hundred pounds of Sklorno receiver. “Take it easy, Denver! We’re happy to have you back.”

“Home-home-home. LoveloveloveLOVELOVE!” The Sklorno jumped off of him and — for no apparent reason — sprinted out of the landing bay. Milford and Mezquitic followed, as did the rest of the Sklorno who could no longer contain the contagious excitement. Hawick hobbled along after them.

[PLEASE CLEAR THE LANDING BAY, IMMEDIATELY. SHUTTLE PREPARING TO DEPART.]

A thick, scarred hand reached down. Quentin took it and was pulled to his feet.

“Thanks, Ju,” he said.

“Sure,” Ju said. “You might want to get a towel or something. You’ve been boogered.”

Quentin could feel the drool sliding down his face. “Speaking of getting boogered, where’s your brother?”

Ju looked around, then shrugged. “I think he wanted to skip it this time. He’s pretty mad we got Denver instead of a corner-back, Q. But don’t worry, once we start putting up wins, he’ll get over it.”

Ju walked off.

John had never missed an event like this before. He was madder than Quentin thought. But yeah, he’d get over it once the wins started coming.

And those wins had to start this week, against the Orbiting Death. Three straight losses made it almost impossible to reach the playoffs. Four straight losses? There was no coming back from that.

? ? ?



QUENTIN, CHOTO THE BRIGHT AND MICHAEL Kimberlin sat in the back of a limousine looking out the tinted windows. Quentin didn’t like riding in limos — that’s what the upper-class rode back on Micovi — but Kimberlin had insisted the anonymity was important for this short trip.


The car slid slowly past Ionath Stadium’s main entrance, a hundred-foot-wide, fifty-foot-high brick arch. Banners representing the Tier One teams hung from the inside of the arch, but none as big as the Krakens banner dangling from the apex. A fence of ornate black bars ran from one side of the arch to the other, interspersed with closed gates. On game days those gates opened, allowing thousands of fans into the stadium.

Thirty or so sentients were walking back and forth in front of the black fence. They carried holosigns, cloth flags and even painted cardboard, all of these things sending a clear message of hatred and intolerance.

KILLERS GO HOME!

NEVER AGAIN! PRAWATT ARE EVIL!

NOT HERE, NOT NOW, NOT EVER!

Most of the protesters were female Sklorno, dressed head to toe in black, but there were also Humans — Quentin recognized some of them as regulars from the Blessed Lamb bar, the home of Purist Nation ex-pats who had migrated to Ionath.

“This is awful,” Quentin said. “I can’t believe this is happening here.”

Choto’s eye swirled with purple and green — purple for a pained sense of confusion, green for anxiety. “Ignorance knows no borders. The Purist Nation did not invent hatred, Quentin.”

This made no sense. For centuries the Prawatt had been the galaxy’s boogeymen. Not just in the Purist Nation, where any non Human was automatically “evil,” but in all systems. The Krakens were bringing Prawatt into the galaxy as equals. Football gave five races a common goal, brought them together — now Quentin wanted to add a sixth race, and these sentients protested?

“I want to go talk to them.”

He reached for the door handle, but Choto grabbed his forearm.

“I do not recommend that, Quentin,” the Quyth Warrior said. “The protesters might not appreciate a sudden appearance by the sentient that brought the Prawatt to Ionath. And talking to them would be a waste of words. Sentients like these … they do not think with logic.”

Choto made sense. Quentin nodded and let go of the handle. Maybe it was best to stay in the car.

“It doesn’t look all that bad,” Quentin said. “It’s just a handful of sentients.”

Michael nodded. “That’s because we’re on Ionath. The Sklorno population here isn’t that high, and citizens of Quyth cities are used to species integration. There are protests at GFL headquarters on Earth. There have already been small riots on Alimum, where we travel in Week Eight. And one can only imagine what it will be like when we travel to Buddha City Station next week.”

Quentin hadn’t thought of that. Maybe the Purist Nation hadn’t invented hatred, but certainly they had perfected it.

He stared out at the protesters, his heart heavy with the thought that he could work his whole life to make things better and nothing would ever really change.

“There’s got to be something I can do,” he said.

Kimberlin shook his big head. “You can’t cure centuries of hatred in a single game, nor in a single season. We are doing the right thing, but oftentimes the right thing comes with a steep price.”

What would that price be? More violence?

“I’ve seen enough,” Quentin said. “Let’s go. It’s almost time for practice.”

The limo slid away, leaving the protesters behind.

? ? ?



QUENTIN DROPPED BACK five steps and planted. He had no pressure, as there was no defensive or offensive line, but the clock inside his head ticked down regardless.

Denver shot downfield. Captain Bumberpuff ran with her, step for step. At 20 yards, Denver cut right at a 45-degree angle — a flag route. Bumberpuff matched the cut but lost a step in the process. Quentin’s mental clock ticked down to zero, and he launched a deep pass.

Denver and Bumberpuff ran for the corner, both watching the ball descend, both leaping high at the last second. Such a sight: an orange-clad Sklorno launching off her long, folded rear legs, all four eyestalks locked on the ball’s path, tentacles reaching high to pluck the ball out of the air, and a black-clad X-Walker leaping just as high off of springy legs, curved arms stretching up toward the ball.

The step Bumberpuff had lost cost him: the ball sailed past his outstretched hand and into Denver’s tentacles. She started to descend, but Bumberpuff wasn’t finished — as they fell, he wrapped Denver up with one arm and started savagely beating at the ball with the other. Just before they hit the turf, the ball popped out.

Incomplete pass.

Quentin’s left hand curled into a fist. “Yes,” he hissed. That was the kind of go-for-broke defensive play they had been missing. Bumberpuff had been beaten deep — which was bad — but he’d stayed with the play right to the last moment and broken up the pass.

Bumberpuff and Denver both stood, then they smashed together, tentacles and arms ripping at each other.

“Knock it off!” Quentin shouted as he sprinted for the end zone along with his teammates. The Prawatt and Sklorno players got there first, of course, and in seconds a two-player scuffle turned into a species-on-species gang fight.

Hokor’s enraged voice echoed through the stadium: “You players quit this grab-assing, right now!”

The coach’s words did nothing to stop the fight. Humans, Quyth Warriors, Ki and HeavyG players arrived, grabbed the combatants and pulled them apart. Quentin dove into the fray, gripping Denver by the back of her skinny neck and Bumberpuff by the base of one arm.

“I said, knock it off!”

A rasper snaked out, wrapped around his arm and ripped away a long strip of skin. At the same time, a Prawatt arm whip-snapped him in the throat.

Quentin dropped to his knees, coughing, suddenly unable to draw in a breath. His right hand clutched at the blood pouring off his left forearm. The sounds of scuffling slowed, then stopped, leaving only the high-pitched chittering of the Sklorno and Bumberpuff’s bellowing, Human-sounding voice.

“Don’t blame me if you can’t hang onto the rock, scrub,” he shouted.

Quentin looked up. Michael Kimberlin had the Prawatt locked up in his gigantic arms — Bumberpuff wasn’t going anywhere.

Both Ju and John held Denver, who fought like mad to break free. “Scrub? Stupid demon, I am the number-one target of his holiness Quentinbarnes! I will catch holy passes in your face and make you embarrassed!”

Hokor’s floating golf cart dropped down to the field. The diminutive coach hopped out; then he just stood there, staring first at Bumberpuff, then at Denver. His eye flooded a pure black. His fur fluffed all the way out.

Everyone took a step back. Even Quentin.

Hokor pointed a pedipalp at Bumberpuff. “You, come here,” He then pointed at Denver. “And you. Now.”

Arms released the players. They walked to Hokor like they were walking to an execution. The righteous anger of a coach seemed to be a universal concept that cut across all species and cultures.

Denver and Bumberpuff stood side by side, both looking down at Hokor. He stared up at them, his eye so black it could have been onyx.

When Hokor spoke, it was with a quiet voice — the voice of a sentient working hard to control himself. “You two grab-assers hurt my quarterback.”

Both players looked at Quentin. He held up his bloody left arm to emphasize Hokor’s comments.

“It’s bad,” Quentin said. “I might never throw the ball again.”

Bumberpuff let out a very Human sigh of annoyance, but Denver instantly started to tremble.

Hokor glared at both players, then pointed to the stands. “Start running,” he said. “Up the stairs to the top of the lower bowl, turn left, come to the next set of stairs, come down, turn right, run up the next set, and keep repeating.”

Denver took off like a shot, obeying the order.

Bumberpuff rattled in disgust. He still wasn’t used to taking orders. “How long do you expect me to do this ridiculous task?”

Hokor grabbed his little hat and threw it to the blue field. “You run until I get tired! There is no fighting on my field. Now go!”

Bumberpuff took a step back, then sprinted after Denver.

Quentin felt a nudge on his right side. He looked to see Mum-O-Killowe.

“Gris hacha danad,” Mum-O said quietly.

Quentin didn’t understand the words, but he got the meaning. Mum-O was laughing, was saying remember when that was us? Quentin laughed, too. He did remember. It had been just three seasons ago when he and Mum-O had been forced to run as a punishment for fighting each other.

Quentin reached up and gave Mum-O’s helmet a friendly slap. “They’ll figure it out,” he said. “Let’s get back to it.” Quentin cupped his hands to his mouth. “Krakens! Get with your groups, this is practice, not happy-happy break time!”

The players jogged to their spots. Doc Patah would have to fix his arm, and the fight was a bad sign for team cooperation, but he couldn’t control the fire of excitement that burned in his chest — Bumberpuff had made a play. He was coming along fast, as were the other Prawatt.

And on top of that, Denver was looking good. She wanted to be here. Whatever happened to drag down her game, she’d left that baggage on Jupiter.

Maybe, just maybe, Quentin had been right. Right to risk everything to bring the Prawatt here, right to trade for Denver instead of Xuchang.

He took a football off the rack, then looked right. Milford stood on the line, ready to run her route. Cretzlefinger stood opposite her, ready to stop it.

“Blue, forty-four! Hut-hut!”

? ? ?



“CHICK, WE ARE WITNESSING HISTORY here today, but it’s not a history lesson that the Ionath Krakens are going to want to remember. Last week was the first time a member of the Prawatt race played in a GFL game. This week is the first time that race has ever started a game, which Cormorant Bumberpuff did at corner-back, and the way he is playing, it might be the last.”

“Masara, I couldn’t have said it better myself. Well, I could have, and probably will, so let me go ahead and do just that. Ionath fought to bring the Prawatt players in as a way to save the season, but with Condor Adrienne victimizing the Krakens with four first-half touchdowns, the experiment could be over almost as soon as it began. Bumberpuff started, as you said, and three other Prawatt have rotated in at various times. All of them seem lost out there. They aren’t changing direction fast enough to cover the hook patterns or out-cuts, they don’t seem to know how to position themselves to cover the slant, and they couldn’t cover a deep pass if they were made of pebble-skin leather and processed in the Rawlings football factory. Condor Adrienne has three hundred and twenty yards, Masara. Some quarterbacks would kill to have that many yards in a full game, and Condor has it in the first half alone.”

“Chick, at this point, what kind of halftime adjustments do the Krakens need to make?”

“Well, Masara, the Krakens have put up fourteen points themselves. They have to kick the offense into high gear. As for their defense, they may have to sit Bumberpuff and bring Vacaville back in, but she’s had a terrible year and probably won’t do any better. The Krakens have also tried replacing rookie free safety Sandpoint with the Prawatt Katzembaum Weasley — and no, folks at home, I am neither drunk nor making that name up. Neither can stop Condor’s long pass — he’s dropping bombs with the regularity of me on an ultra-high-fiber diet.”

“Chick! Are you comparing touchdown passes to your —”

“Sorry about that, Masara, sorry, folks at home, but you do have to admit that both things are brown.”

“Chick! I can’t believe —”

“Time for a word from one of our sponsors! Let’s break for this message from Shi-Ki-Kill Shipping. Remember, if you want to protect your cargo against pirates, doesn’t it make sense to ship it via a company with lethality built right into their name?”

? ? ?



JOHN TWEEDY’SEYES had never been wider. I CAN EAT METAL AND POOP RIVETS scrolled in circles around his neck.

“Dammit, you stinking Prawatt! You have to cover!”

The locker room smelled of Iomatt, dirt, sweat, blood and the pungent body odors of the non-Human species. The Krakens wore their home jerseys, black with white-trimmed orange numbers and letters. The first half’s intensity showed in torn fabric, blue stains from the field and nicks in both arm and leg armor.

Quentin leaned against a wall, staring at the four Prawatt players sitting side by side on a bench in front of the holoboard. Normally Hokor would be in front of that board, but instead he stood next to Quentin — the need to make halftime adjustments had given way to a ranting, screaming, arm-waving John Tweedy.

The linebacker shook his fists at Bumberpuff and the others. “You call yourselves the scourge of the galaxy? You call yourselves monsters?”

Hokor beckoned for Quentin to kneel. Quentin did. Hokor leaned in.

“Barnes, I do not think the Prawatt call themselves monsters. Why is John saying that?”

Quentin shrugged. “Forget it, he’s rolling.”

I’LL SHOW YOU MONSTERS! scrolled across John’s forehead. He bent forward until his face was inches away from Bumberpuff.

“Muh-muh-muh-monsters?” John said. “How about puh-puh-puh-pansies?”

With each word, John’s spit splattered on Bumberpuff.

“Stop yelling at us,” the Prawatt said. “This is not the behavior of a sentient adult. We should be spending this time adjusting our defense, not yelling like children.”

John stood up straight. His lip curled into a sneer. “Halftime adjustments? We don’t need no stinking halftime adjustments. What we need to do is hit them so hard they disintegrate! You gotta get angry! You wanna know how I play defense? Every single time that ball snaps, I am trying to kill those guys. Kill ’em! Does that make me a nice guy? Does it? No, it makes me a bad man. I am a bad, bad man!” John suddenly sidestepped right to stand in front of Luciano Cretzlefinger. Cretzlefinger leaned back in fear — he didn’t have Bumberpuff’s quiet resolve.

John grabbed a black-metal arm and shook it. “I’m a bad man, Cretzlefish! I want to make the hurt! If eating puppies would help us win, then dammit, you could serve them in a big hot dog bun and I’d drown ’em in mustard!” John shook the Prawatt’s arm harder. “Do you like puppies? Do you?”

The Prawatt’s body rattled. “I have never seen a puppy!”

“Well, when you see ’em, I’ll eat ’em, and you’ll be very very sad! You hear me? Super-mega sad!”

John then shuffled to the left, past Bumberpuff, to stand in front of Katzembaum Weasley. “And you! You’re playing free safety. You should be nastier than a black hole! You should …”

John’s face suddenly relaxed. He turned to look at Michael Kimberlin. “Hey, Big Mike, black holes are nasty, right?”


Mike nodded. “One of the most terrifying forces in the galaxy, John.”

Rage again washed over John’s face. He turned so fast his forehead pressed against Weasley’s metallic skin. The Prawatt leaned away, lost balance and fell off the bench. John fell to his hands and knees, straddling the alien.

“A black hole! That’s you, Katzemkid! A black shucking hole! Light can’t escape you like footballs can’t escape you. Or something!”

Hokor tapped Quentin’s shoulder. “Barnes, halftime is almost over. We need to make adjustments. Why is Tweedy talking about astronomical phenomena?”

Quentin shook his head. “I don’t know, Coach — he lost me at eating household pets.”

John picked Weasley up and set him back on the bench. John then ran away from the Prawatt and grabbed Arioch Morningstar. The surprised kicker tried to run away, but John grabbed a fistful of Arioch’s jersey, lifted him, then dangled the man in front of the Prawatt players.

“You guys see this jersey?”

Quentin noticed Ju slowly moving closer to the action, as if he thought his brother might start actually hurting sentients.

Arioch now seemed resigned to the situation — he just hung there, his feet dangling. If anything, the kicker looked bored. That was his personality, though: nothing seemed to phase the guy.

John raised Arioch higher.

“This is a Krakens jersey,” John said. “You miserable excuses for your miserable species get to wear one? Tribe! My tribe! You are embarrassing me in front of the lizards and the buzzards!”

Hokor leaned in again to ask another question, but Quentin just shook his head — he had no idea what John was talking about.

PUPPIES MUSTARD BLACK HOLES GO TEAM GO! scrolled vertically up John’s face.

John set Arioch down. The kicker ran for the Human locker room.

John stood straight, put his hands on his hips. He looked up to the locker room ceiling and sighed. “High One, I need guidance. Should I just take their jerseys away from them and send them home?”

High One?

Quentin looked at Ju. Ju held both hands out, palms down, a gesture that said let it ride.

Still looking to the ceiling, John’s face wrinkled in disappointment. “Really, High One? Do I really have to take their jerseys?”

Bumberpuff stood up and turned to Quentin. “Why is John Tweedy talking to an imaginary friend? John is not authorized to take our jerseys! He is not the owner of the team!”

Quentin looked at John, who was talking quietly to the ceiling, then back to Bumberpuff. Quentin finally understood — John had been searching for a hot button, something that would infuriate the Prawatt, and he seemed to have found it — the jerseys.

“John doesn’t need authorization,” Quentin said. “Not if he rips them off of you.”

Bumberpuff’s body turned from side to side, a perfect mimicry of a Human no even though the Prawatt didn’t have heads. “He cannot have them!”

John nodded to the ceiling one last time. “Okay, High One. I’ll strip the unworthy pretenders of their finery.”

He turned toward Bumberpuff and grabbed the Prawatt’s black jersey. Bumberpuff tried to pull John’s hands free. John stepped in and threw an elbow that smashed into the Prawatt body, knocking the former starship captain backward onto the locker room floor.

John stared down and shook his fist. “Gimme that jersey, or else!”

Bumberpuff snapped up on his flexible legs, then drove his body into John’s stomach, knocking the big linebacker on his ass.

Now Bumberpuff stood over John, “You will not take my colors!”

The captain dove on top of John. The two punched at each other, rolling across the locker room floor.

Ju ran up to the bench and grabbed the jerseys of both Katzembaum and Tommyboy Snuffalupagus.

“You heard the High One,” Ju said. “Give up these here jerseys, you pretenders — you don’t deserve them.”

Cretzlefinger stood and whipped his metallic arm into Ju’s face. Ju’s head rocked back. Katzembaum and Tommyboy came off the bench hard and tag-team-tackled Ju, sending them all to the ground.

Hokor had had enough. He grabbed his ball cap, threw it down, then stepped forward. “Stop this grab-assing! You stupid, stupid players have wasted my adjustment time! Now get onto the field before we are flagged for delay of game!”

The Prawatt raced for the locker room door as if delaying even a moment would cause Hokor to ask for their jerseys. The rest of the team, excited and pumped up by the halftime brawl, ran out of the room yelling, chirping, grunting and clacking.

Within seconds, only Quentin and the Tweedy brothers remained. John and Ju picked themselves up off the ground, both bleeding from multiple cuts on the face, both laughing.

Ju slapped his brother on the back. “Nice one, Big Brother! That’s like the most mega-awesome halftime speech ever!”

John nodded. “I think they’ll knock the crap out of the Orbiting Death in the second half.” John turned to Quentin. “Hey, Q! Don’t worry, I wasn’t really talking to the High One — I was faking it!”

Quentin couldn’t help but laugh at John’s reassurance. “Wow, John, are you sure you weren’t speaking with Him?”

I KNOW ACTING scrolled across John’s head.

Ju wiped blood off his face and flung it to the floor. “We’re only down fourteen points. Let’s go put a hurting on a those Orbiting Death shuckers.”

Ma Tweedy’s three boys jogged out of the locker room and headed for the field.

? ? ?



THE ORBITING DEATH WORE their away jerseys: light gray with blue numbers and letters trimmed in metalflake-red. Sunlight sparkled off of their metalflake-red helmets, which were dinged and scratched from the first-half action. Flat-black leg and arm armor absorbed that same light, as did the flat-black circles on either side of their helmets.

From the sidelines, Quentin watched Death quarterback Condor Adrienne take the snap and drop back to pass. Mum-O-Killowe bull-rushed, a roaring spectacle of driving legs and whipping arms. The Ki offensive guard tried to counter the assault but couldn’t stop the enraged Mum-O. Condor Adrienne saw the pressure coming. He stepped up into the pocket, just a fraction of an inch ahead of Mum-O’s swiping arm. Condor looked downfield but didn’t see an open receiver. Alexsandar Michnik drove in from Condor’s right, so Condor calmly turned and threw the ball to his fullback Mike Buckner in the left flat.

Buckner caught the pass and turned upfield, only to be leveled by an onrushing Cormorant Bumberpuff. The pinwheeling Prawatt came in fast, tucking into a ball for a hit so hard that the Human player came right off his feet and flew backward.

The football spun free. Luciano Cretzlefinger dove for it, his orange-and black-streamered arms wrapping it up just as several Death players landed on top of him. Whistles blew, but that didn’t stop more players from diving onto the pile. Quentin could see the players kicking and punching, fighting for the ball.

On the sidelines, Krakens players laughed with each other, caught up in astonishment at Bumberpuff’s devastating hit. Out on the field, Harrah refs slid into the tangle of players, wiggling between big bodies to get to the bottom. A black-and white-striped ref pushed his way out of the pile and signaled Krakens’ ball.

Quentin whooped and ran onto the field as the refs broke up the pile. Cretzlefinger finally stood up, the ball in his arms. Bits of metal flaked off his right arm, which looked bent and broken.


Quentin grabbed the Prawatt, pounded on his X-body back. “That’s the way to fight!”

“I punched him!” Cretzlefinger said. “He was biting me, and I punched him!”

Quentin laughed and pushed him toward the sidelines. “Don’t go broadcasting that.”

Bumberpuff ran by, also heading for the sidelines. Quentin grabbed his arm to stop him.

“Captain, great hit,” Quentin said.

Bumberpuff vibrated. “I now understand John Tweedy’s cryptic form of motivation,” he said. “I got mean”

Quentin slapped Bumberpuff on the back, then walked to the huddle. Thanks to the hit and the recovery, the Krakens had the ball on the Orbiting Death 22-yard line. It was time to get his team back into the game.

? ? ?



ON THE FIRST PLAY of the fourth quarter, Quentin took the snap and dropped back five steps, ball held at his left ear. He scanned through his first two receivers: Denver and Halawa were both covered.

Death linebacker Yalla the Biter — the deadliest sentient in football — came up the middle on a delayed blitz, all four hands reaching out for the sack.

Quentin instantly abandoned the pocket and ran left. Yalla cut right to match the move. Quentin suddenly stopped, tucked the ball in his left arm and lowered his right shoulder, driving that shoulder into the Quyth Warrior’s chest. The sudden, vicious move lifted Yalla off his feet and knocked the linebacker on his ass. Quentin hadn’t crossed the line of scrimmage — he stood, tall, saw Tara the Freak open down the middle of the field and gunned a pass.

The ball slapped into the receiver’s oversized pedipalp hands. Tara crossed the 20, the 10, then strode into the end zone as Death defensive backs arrived a step too late.

The home crowd went wild. The third quarter had been a shootout, both teams scoring almost at will, but that pass pulled Ionath to within a touchdown. With the extra point, the score would be 41-36 in favor of OS1.

Quentin knelt and picked up a few blades of Iomatt. Just as he did, something slammed into him, knocking him to his side. He slid across the blue turf. Head spinning from the blow, he came up on his feet — fists already clenched — and looked at the player who had landed the late hit: Yalla the Biter.

The Quyth Warrior linebacker stood there, his baseball-sized eye flooded black, his blood-splattered gray jersey ripped and torn. More whistles blew as refs called the late hit. The black-and white-striped Harrah flew in, but Yalla ignored them.

“Come on, Human,” he said. “Come on!”

Quentin felt his rage swell up … and then, he let it go. He just let it go. Last year Yalla had goaded him into a fight, a fight that got Quentin kicked out of the game. As a result, his team had lost. I won’t fall for that ever again. Instead of throwing a punch, Quentin smiled, turned and ran to the sidelines.

There, his teammates mobbed him, smacking his helmet, hitting his shoulder pads, pushing and pulling him in all directions. The extra point was good. Ionath had cut the lead to five points with just 6:23 to play.

Now, it was up to the defense.

? ? ?



CONDOR ADRIENNE ROLLED RIGHT, run-limping as he ran from a screaming John Tweedy. The quarterback looked for a receiver. He had thrown for over 425 yards on the night, but in the second half the Prawatt defensive backs had started hitting harder and playing better — they were still getting beat, but not as often, and they were closing on the ball much faster. That must have been what Condor saw as he looked downfield at his receiver Brazilia, covered by Bumberpuff; Condor started to throw, then pulled it back, waiting just a second longer for Brazilia to get open. In that brief second, John Tweedy caught up. The Human linebacker grabbed the Death quarterback, lifted him and slammed him into the ground to the elated sounds of a blood-lusting crowd.

Fourth down.

The OS1 punt team ran onto the field.

? ? ?



SEVEN SECONDS REMAINED in the game. The Krakens were still down 41-36. Third-and-seven on the Death’s 22-yard line, but it didn’t matter what down it was — this would be the last play of the game. A touchdown would win it.

The home fans screamed, banging on their seats and on each other. They stomped their feet and clacked their chests. They roared so loud Quentin could barely be heard as he called out the signals.

“Blue, twenty-two. Bluuuueeee, twenty-two!”

Quentin had a wall of ravaged black jerseys in front of him, and beyond those, a line of bloody light gray. The black-helmeted Death players wanted Quentin, wanted him bad, wanted to hurt him and stop him and preserve the win.

Two of those gray jerseys belonged to the outside linebackers, the Mad Macs: Matt McRoberts and James McPike. Quentin saw the linebackers were creeping up to the line. They were going to blitz as soon as Bud-O-Shwek snapped the ball, Quentin saw it in their eyes.

Quentin stood up. He scanned the defense again, then tapped a ba-da-bap on Bud-O-Shwek’s back. He cupped his hands to his mouth and called out a new signal.

“Green, sixteen! Green, sixteeeen.”

The word “green” meant he was calling an audible, changing the play from what he’d specified in the huddle. The “sixteen” told the team what that new play was — a boot-pass left, Quentin’s favorite play.

He bent behind center.

“Hut-hut!”

He took the snap, turned to his right and stuck the ball out for Ju. Ju snapped his arms down on empty air as Quentin pulled the ball away at the last moment. Ju slammed into the right side of the line, continuing the fake.

Quentin turned and ran left. McRoberts bought the fake completely and tackled Ju, taking both of them out of the play. McPike was not fooled — he slipped through the line and gave chase. Quentin’s mental timer started counting down how long he had until McPike caught up with him.

Running left, Quentin scanned through the receivers — his first option, Denver, cutting left on a flag pattern toward the front-left corner of the end zone, well covered by defensive back Karachi. Karachi had inside position — she was between Quentin and Denver. It was perfect coverage. Normally Quentin wouldn’t have thrown a pass, but a flash flood of confidence swept through his brain, an instinct that told him Denver would know exactly what to do.

Still running left, Quentin threw the ball as hard as he could, a laser-shot no more than six feet above the field.

Karachi’s tentacles reached for the ball. Denver suddenly jumped up and bent, her tentacles reaching over Karachi without touching the defensive back. Both sets of tentacles grabbed the ball simultaneously. The two Sklorno fell into the black end zone together — just before they hit the turf, Denver ripped the ball free.

Quentin held his breath as a zebe flew in, zoomed down on Denver and Karachi, then raised his mouth-flaps high.

Touchdown.

Quentin checked the clock — time had expired.

Final score: Ionath 42, Orbiting Death 41.



GFL WEEK FIVE ROUNDUP

Courtesy of Galaxy Sports Network



With the galaxy watching, the GFL’s newest species took center stage and came out on top.

The Ionath Krakens (1-3) notched their first win of the season with a 42-41 come-from-behind win over the Orbiting Death. Cormorant Bumberpuff started for the Krakens at cornerback, marking the first time in GFL history that a Prawatt player started at any position. Bumberpuff proved largely ineffective at stopping Death quarterback Condor Adrienne, who threw for five touchdown passes in the first three quarters, but forced Adrienne into mistakes in the fourth quarter that let Ionath grab the win. Krakens QB Quentin Barnes threw for three touchdown passes, including a last-second strike to wide receiver Denver. This was Denver’s first game for Ionath following a trade for quarterback Don Pine.


Yall (4-0) pounded New Rodina (1-4) to remain in first place in the Planet Division. The To Pirates (3-1) moved into a tie for second with a 7-3 defensive struggle victory over Coranadillana (1-4).

In the Solar Division, Neptune (3-1) handed Jupiter (4-1) the Jacks’ first loss of the season. In Pine’s first start of the season as the Jupiter QB, he threw for 212 yards and one TD. Pine was also intercepted three times, including one that was returned for the game-winning touchdown. Jupiter falls a half-game behind Solar Division leader Bartel (4-0), which was off on a bye week.

Hittoni (1-4) picked up its first win of the season, leaving Shorah (0-5) as the league’s only remaining winless team.

Deaths

No deaths reported this week.

Defensive Player of the Week

Ionath Krakens middle linebacker John Tweedy, who had seven solo tackles, two interceptions, two sacks and a forced fumble.

Offensive Player of the Week

For the second week in a row, Ionath quarterback Quentin Barnes earned POTW honors. Barnes threw for three touchdowns and ran for one more in the Krakens’ 42-41 win over the OS1 Orbiting Death.