“I have to,” Virak said. “He is my Shamakath, and I must tell him.”
“Virak, don’t,” Quentin said, a pleading tone tingeing his voice.
“Why not?” A shade of light purple colored Virak’s eye.
“You… you just can’t, okay?”
“That is not okay. It is my duty. Mopuk is in Gredok’s organization.”
Quentin groaned inside. “Mopuk works for Gredok? Oh this sucks.”
“If Mopuk is making a move, Gredok has to know about it.”
“He’s not making a move, it’s… something else.”
“I must tell Gredok, and you must tell him also, everything about this.”
Quentin stood and looked Virak in the eye. “You have to trust me. If you tell Gredok, it will destroy our season.”
“Why?” Fayed asked. “Why would it destroy our season?”
“It just will,” Quentin said. “Virak, please, you have to trust me on this. Do it for your team.”
“For… my team?”
Quentin nodded. “I’m telling you, we have to keep this quiet. I can’t tell you why. Just trust me.”
Virak stared for a long moment. “It is a sign of disrespect to not tell Gredok. He does not take disrespect lightly.”
Quentin stayed quiet. He’d said his piece.
“Virak,” Fayed said, “we can’t let anything ruin our season. Don’t tell Gredok.”
Virak looked at Fayed, then back to Quentin.
“I will not say anything,” Virak said. “I will… trust you, Quentin. But do not betray that trust.”
Quentin nodded, a grateful smile crossing his face.
“Thank you, Virak. And thanks yous guys for helpin’ me out. I would have got my face kicked in.”
“We will return to the rooms,” Fayed said. “Will you join us this time?”
Quentin nodded. The three teammates left the bar together.
THE BUG-SHIPS WERE nowhere to be seen. There wouldn’t have been any room for them anyway — the Ace Hole had been transformed into a living sea of flat-black clothing, flat-black banners and flat-back flags, surrounded by the shimmering beauty of ice-like blue crystal with a playing field of pitch-black grass.
The residents of Orbital Station Two didn’t call the stadium the Ace Hole — they called it the Black Hole. Four decks of seating provided a capacity of 132,000. Attendance for this game stood at 133,412.
The crowd roared and surged and whistled and chirped as the Krakens gathered in the tunnel. Battle scent rolled through the orange-and white-and black-clad warriors. Another week, another war. This war they would win, this war they had to win.
“This is our chance to make up for lost time,” Pine said in his ringing tone of command. “This is our chance to get back in the hunt.”
The team let out primitive barks of agreement, yet the veteran’s words held little sway over Quentin. Was the fix in for this game?
The loudspeaker called out a welcome to the visiting Ionath Krakens, and the team swarmed onto the field. Yet as soon as they did, a sound hit Quentin’s ears like a thunderbolt.
Or rather, a lack of sound.
The Black Hole instantly lived up to its name as over 133,412 fans fell stone silent. There were a few thin cheers from Krakens’ faithful, but even those sounds quickly ended, as if the fans felt suddenly self-conscious about making noise in the midst of funeral-like quiet. The transition from cacophony to total silence made Quentin stop in his tracks — the players behind him nearly ran him over. Regaining his wits, he jogged to the sidelines with his teammates.
Quentin looked across the silent fans, head whipping from one side then to the next. His brain could barely process the phenomenon. He walked to Yitzhak. “What the hell is this all about?”
“The silent treatment? That’s what the Death fans do for every home game. Kind of cool, isn’t it?”
Quentin nodded absently. “Yeah, kind of cool.”
“Well it doesn’t last long, so get ready — ”
Yitzhak’s words were cut off by an instant and all-encompassing roar from over 133,000 fans, a roar so abrupt and total it felt like a physical blow. The Orbiting Death players took the field, resplendent in their flat-black uniforms with metalflake-red numbers and blue trim. Stadium lights gleamed off their metalflake red helmets, each decorated with a flat black circle.
“Wow,” Quentin said. “That’s pretty impressive.”
Yitzhak nodded. “They really put on a show. It’s all a head game, and they’ve got over a hundred-thousand fans playing along perfectly with the script.”
“Yeah,” Quentin said. “Just a head game.” He hoped Yitzhak didn’t see that the “head game” had registered an impact. The roar-to-silence-to-roar definitely unnerved him. For a second, he was happy that Pine would be taking the first snap and not him.
But it was a brief second.
THE ORBITING DEATH wasted no time showing why they were tied for first place — that reason being running back Ju Tweedy. At 6-foot-9, 385 pounds and with a 40-yard dash time of 3.6, John Tweedy’s younger brother was a Human wrecking ball. Add to those stats a few more: he had a vertical leap of 64 inches, could squat 1,500 pounds and could knock out 47 reps on the standard 300-pound bench press test.
Virak the Mean, Choto the Bright and, of course, John Tweedy, had been waiting weeks for this moment, waiting to show the league their mettle, but Quentin wondered if they now wished they’d just stayed home. The three linebackers brought the house on every tackle, but through the first quarter he had yet to see Ju knocked backward. “The Mad Ju,” as he was called in the papers, rumbled into the hole, lowered his thick head like a medieval battering ram, and plowed forward with great pain and suffering to all those that stood in his way.
Death quarterback Ganesha Fritz wasn’t the greatest signal-caller in the galaxy, but he provided exactly what the Death needed — short, accurate passes to keep the linebackers from constantly keying on Ju. The Death utilized a simple strategy: hold onto the ball, pass when the linebackers cheated up, and keep giving the rock to Ju.
By the end of the first quarter, The Mad Ju had racked up 52 yards on 7 carries, with one phenomenal 12-yard TD run in which he broke tackle attempts by Mai-An-Ihkole at the line of scrimmage, John Tweedy at the 9, Choto at the 6 and Berea at the 1. Well, Quentin couldn’t exactly call that last one a “broken tackle,” because all Berea really did was get in front of Ju and then get run over. That last hit drew roars of approval from the crowd. It also broke Berea’s left leg. Tiburon filled the cornerback spot while Doc tended to the wounded Sklorno defender.
“They’ll keep pounding on him,” Yitzhak said, referring to the linebackers’ never-ending suicide assaults on Ju. “He’s got one weakness — he can’t hold onto the pellet.”
Quentin nodded at this wisdom, but wondered that if a fumble ever did occur, would there be anything left of Choto, Virak or John Tweedy to jump on it?
Ju’s performance seemed to inspire Mitchell Fayed, who ran like a man possessed. Fans of the running game were not disappointed by the Krakens vs. the Orbiting Death. And it was a good thing that Fayed ran so well, because Donald Pine was simply not his usual self. By the end of the first quarter, the two-time champ, the King of the Short Game, was 5-for-12 for 27 yards.
Quentin watched him. Watched him carefully.
Is he tanking, or just playing bad? Quentin found himself trying to give Pine the benefit of the doubt, but his eyes told him a different story. The Death’s defensive secondary just didn’t seem that impressive. Hawick and Scarborough looked open several times, but Pine’s passes either fell short, or were never thrown at all.