The Starter (37 page)
“No,” Don said. “Are you going to OS1 in the bye-week or something?”
“Yeah. I’m taking John to his Mom’s place.”
Don’s shoulders dropped and his eyes softened with an expression of longing. “Tuna noodle casserole?”
Quentin nodded.
“Oh, man, I would kill a million sentients to swap out Ma Tweedy’s TNC for
this
. Anyway, Sho-Do wants to know if he and Mum-O can ride along. They want to visit OS1.”
“Uh, sure, I guess.” He looked at Sho-Do. “Yeah, I’ll take you guys.”
The lineman grunted something Quentin could only assume was a thanks, then Cay-Oh-Kiware hefted his still-kicking bag.
“Here we go,” Don said quietly. “You’ll want to go to your happy place.”
“What’s a happy place?”
“A place you pretend to be so you don’t realize where you actually are. Just tell yourself you’re eating fish. Warm, salty, still-twitching fish.”
“Uh... is it fish?”
Don sighed and sadly shook his head.
Cay-Oh-Kiware upended the bag. A multi-legged creature dropped out and hit the table. The first thought Quentin had was
furry crab
. The second thing was more coherent —
maybe that’s what a small deer would look like if it had eight legs and lived on the seventh plane of hell
.
Ten quad sets of long Ki arms shot out, grabbing the creature’s legs, its body, holding it firm to the table. Despite their overwhelming iron grip, the animal twitched and twisted spasmodically — it seemed to know that if it didn’t break free, it was done for. The noise it let out, a cross between a siren and a bark, made Quentin want to turn and run.
Don took a deep breath. “I’m the elder, so I get to go first. You’re the guest, so you go second. You need to do
exactly
what I do, okay?”
Quentin nodded, speechless.
Don reached down and put his hands on the squirming monstrosity. Its stubby head tried to turn and bite, but it couldn’t bring its hexagonal mouth around. Three of its five eyes that could see behind it stared, wide and black, as Don bent his head toward the middle of its back.
A memory flashed through Quentin’s mind, a nursery rhyme he was forced to memorize in his earliest years of school:
What do I do if a Ki should attack?
I get behind him with my foot in his back
I bend him hard, his back gives a crack
Because the High One loves me, and I love Him back
The Ki’s spinal structure had a fatal flaw — if they were bent back too far, or struck in the middle of the back where their body bent, they could suffer paralysis or even die. Just as the throat was a weak spot in only Humans, but in the majority of mammals, that spinal flaw must have been prevalent in many species from the Ki’s home planet.
Pine grabbed the creature’s spinal ridge with his strong hands, then bit down in the center of the deer/crab’s back. The thing squealed louder. Don yanked his head backward once, twice, and on the third pull, a
kerrrrack
sound echoed through the clearing. Don stood, a chunk of the creature clenched in his teeth, black blood spilling down his chin and onto his chest. The deer/crab’s eight legs spasmed sickeningly, stuck out stiff and motionless for a second, then started spasming again, uncontrollably, limbs just moving without direction.
Don spit out the chunk of creature’s spine. It landed on the stone table, where it stuck with a wet
flop
.
The Ki linemen flipped the twitching creature on its back. Don reached down and sank his fingers into its abdominal area and pulled out a chunk of steaming, fur-covered meat. He gnawed at the exposed, black flesh, then nodded for Quentin to do the same.
“No shucking way,” Quentin said. “That thing is
still alive
.”
Quentin realized that the Ki linemen were staring at him, shiny black eyes locked on and waiting. The only sound came from the creature’s limbs scraping feebly against the stone table’s surface.
Don took another bite of the piece of creature held in his gooey left hand. He raised his right hand and wiggled his fingers. One of his Galaxy Bowl rings sparkled in the light. The other didn’t sparkle at all, because it was covered with a glob of black blood.
Quentin breathed in deeply through his nose, then sank his fingers into the bloody, still-twitching muscle. Despite the inhumane approach, he tried to tell himself that every steak, every piece of fish, every ounce of animal flesh he’d ever eaten had once been a living thing. Well, it was one thing to
know
that information as you bit into a hamburger. It was another thing entirely to watch the animal die, to actually help kill it yourself.
I think I’m going to become a vegetarian. But first, I have to finish what I started.
Quentin curled his fingers and pulled back. The flesh resisted his pull. He had to re-grip, brace his free hand on the stone table, then
yank
a chunk out of the animal. He looked at it, looked at the dripping black blood, looked at the steam coming off the meat. Quentin met the eyes of each of the ten Ki linemen, then raised the mess to his mouth and sank his teeth into it.
It tasted warm and salty.
He closed his eyes, tried to think about it as “fish,” and made a mental note to create a happy place as soon as possible.
Excerpt from
“The GFL For Dummies”
by Robert Otto
One game, fifty planets — how the GFL standardized the playing field
Following the 2682 season, the Empire Bureau of Species Interaction (EBSI) approved the application of another eight Tier Three teams, bringing the T3 total to 288.
Add in 76 Tier Two teams and 22 T1 squads, and you have 386 professional franchises under GFL management. With five species playing for nearly four hundred teams across fifty planets, how does the GFL guarantee a consistent playing experience and a uniform on-field product?
The answer to that question is in the GFL rulebook, under the heading “Standards for Playing Fields & Stadiums.”
Just as the English language and the archaic Imperial Measurement System dominate football rules and culture, so, too, do the physical characteristics of the planet Earth dominate playing-field specifics.
For GFL measurement purposes, gravity is measured in units based on acceleration of 9.80665 meters per second squared, or the nominal acceleration at sea level on Earth. This constitutes one “G.”
The other factors are temperature, air pressure and atmospheric composition. Almost all GFL stadiums are self-contained so that these parameters can be tightly controlled.
Gravity Requirements
Playing field gravity is measured by official GFL scales and is based on a 350-pound weight, which is close to the average weight of a GFL player. Referees travel with their own 350-pound units, which are weighed before each game to ensure consistency.
Max weight:
1.06 standard gravity
(where 350 pounds on Earth would be 371 pounds)
Min weight:
0.94 standard gravity
(where 350 pounds on Earth would be 329 pounds)
Temperature
Due to the varying physiologies of GFL species, temperature must be closely monitored. Most GFL stadiums are indoors with artificial atmosphere management in addition to gravity modifiers. Earth has the most outdoor stadiums, but temperature conditions must be met for GFL play.
Max temp:
26 degree Celsius (78.8 degrees Fahrenheit)
Min temp:
14 degrees Celsius (57.2 degrees Fahrenheit)
Air Pressure
This is strictly regulated due to potential effects on the dynamics of throwing the football. The league understands that an active passing game is often preferred by the majority of fans. Therefore, rules are in place to make sure air pressure will not overtly affect the throwing game.
The air pressure on Earth, at sea level, is 14.7 pounds per square inch, or “psi”. This amount of 14.7 psi is known by the measurement term of “one atmosphere,” or “atm”. For GFL standards, stadium air pressures must fall within the range listed below:
Max pressure:
1.1 atm
Min pressure:
0.83 atm
Atmosphere Composition
All of the five races that play football have similar atmospheric requirements. While this is a primary reason for endless galactic war as these five races seek to expand their territories, it is also the very glue that holds the GFL together. Many hypothesize that oxygen-breathing biochemistry is evolution’s best choice for fast-moving, aggressive animal life. Sklorno, Ki, Quyth, Human and HeavyG are all oxygen breathing animals.
There are, however, variations in the optimal atmosphere for each race (the exception being Human and HeavyG, who both prefer standard Earth atmosphere). In the interest of both fairness and consistency, the air composition breakdown is as follows:
75 to 78 percent nitrogen
18 to 21 percent oxygen
1 to 3 percent other
Future Expansion And Races?
These strict parameters ensure that any team admitted to the GFL can play a fair competition against any other team of the Galactic Football League. But the standards will also impact the potential addition of future races to the league.
If additional sentient races are allowed to play, they will have to operate in the environment listed above. At this time, the GFL does not permit pressure suits, air tanks, air modifiers, or any other device that modifies the environment for a specific race or player. All players
must
compete without assistance of any kind, the only exceptions being armor that protects against the kinetic energy of other players, and skin-contact suits that regulate body temperature.
• • •
GAME TIED 10 TO 10
, halfway through the third quarter. Third down and 18 on the Warlords 45. The lights of Ionath Stadium blazed down on the blue field, illuminating the black jerseys, armor and helmets of the Krakens as well as the pink-and-black gear of the Shorah Warlords. The home crowd screamed before, during and after each play, just as loud between plays, hungry for that elusive first Tier One victory.
So much rode on this game. A loss would put the Krakens at 0-and-3. The Warlords were also facing the reality that they, too, were in a fight against relegation. A loss would put them at 1-and-2, near the bottom of the Solar Division. There weren’t many wins in their future, and they needed this cross-divisional game against one of the weakest teams they would face this season — the Krakens.
As such, both teams were down for all-out war. Quentin had nanocyte tape wrapped around his neck, which did little to stem the flow of blood running down the inside of his armor. The Warlords All-Pro safety Cairns had caught him on a blitz — she’d tackled him with her tentacles, her big body, and an illegal rasper wrap around his neck that the refs had conveniently missed. Her raspers had ripped off an inch-thick strip of skin all the way around, and a little muscle to go along with it. Doc Patah had said Quentin had come close to having his jugular ripped open, or some such garbage like that. Well, the jugular
hadn’t
been ripped open — Quentin could still draw breath, and that meant he could still play.
Quentin walked up to the line. Just like the last play and all the plays before it, he felt a brief sense of relief when his gaze passed over Aka-Na-Tak. Even though the right guard was rusty and out of shape, he was a drastic improvement over Shun-On-Won. Not just an improvement in protection, but an improvement in morale. The other linemen were playing harder now that their squad-mate was back from injury.
The lack of a pass rush and Aka-Na’s return was giving Quentin time to throw, and that was critical — once again, Yassoud Murphy’s running game was anemic at best. ’Soud had carried the ball fifteen times for just twenty-two yards.
Quentin looked over the defense. Shorah had come into the stadium looking all clean and new, dark-pink polka dots on bright pink jerseys, black letters spelling out warlords above block black numbers. Their right shoulder featured the team’s logo, a stylized Harrah done in — of course — pink and black. The same logo decorated either side of their hot pink helmets.
Their uniforms didn’t look clean and new anymore.
Just like the Krakens, the Warlords jerseys were ripped and torn, streaked with blue from the Iomatt plants, stained with three shades of blood. Pink polka-dot arm and leg armor looked chipped, scratched and dented.
Pink was a strange color for football, but that pattern apparently represented the Shorah tribe. Pink, it seemed, was the color of Harrah blood, something Quentin had not yet seen.
He bent behind center, eyes locking on each player, automatically hunting for Cairns. He saw her, cheating up to the line, threatening blitz again.
Then he saw what she was doing.
All four armored eyestalks aimed right at him. She pointed her two raspers at him, wringing them together clockwise, then counter clockwise, like a twisting rope made of tooth-studded snakes.
Quentin stood straight and stared at her. Cairn’s message was clear — Quentin’s blood tasted good, and she wanted more. Whatever behavioral controls he’d developed, all his newfound
culture
, it all vanished, blown apart by an instant rage that curled his upper lip and furrowed his brow.
He pointed right at her and screamed. “Is that right? You want a second helping?”
He vaguely noticed the play clock counting down, his teammates looking back at him, confused. He reached to his neck and ripped off the nanocyte patch. He tossed it behind him, then rubbed his hands on his bleeding neck. He slid his palms and fingers over his helmet, feeling the blood spread across the chipped, scratched surface. He finished by pointing a bloody finger at Cairns, then pointing at his helmet — a message of his own, one that said:
You want it? Well come and take it
.