THE RIDER (Galactic Football League Novellas Book 4)

by Scott Sigler

  The loss at four laps tied the match at one game apiece. Fortunately, the wheel-spin for game three had ended on Capture the Flag. For that game — and for Dismount as well — no one in the sport could match Pete and Bess. When it came to the combination of size and strength and speed, Bess was untouchable. Pete had taken Bess wide left to draw the Nightmare Beast, dismounted Yopat, then rushed to the Stomper’s zone for the easy win. End result: 2-1, Ridgebacks.

  Pete knelt and ran a hand through the feathers covering Tumult’s cold corpse. “I’ll miss you, girl.”

  “Sucks, boss.”

  Pete turned.

  Ian was standing behind him. The young rider rubbed his bald pate. His mouth was in constant motion as he chewed on a wad of mint-grass.

  Pete thought about punching Ian in the mouth. A single bad decision, a mount dead, millions of credits of team investment lost forever. But the look on the kid’s face ... Ian was hurting enough as it was. Still, Pete had to say something, had to make sure Ian knew why Tumult was gone.

  “It’s your fault Tumult is dead.”

  Pete waited for Ian’s usual back-talk, the I’m never wrong mentality the kid applied to everything. This time, however — perhaps for the first time — Ian didn’t duck the blame. His eyes cast downward.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I pooched it.”

  Pete stood. “Ian, look at me.”

  Ian raised his eyes.

  Pete leaned forward until his nose practically touched Ian’s.

  “We don’t get second chances,” Pete said. “Not in this sport. Not ever. We screw up and mounts die. Or a teammate dies.”

  Ian said nothing, but Pete saw the shine of tears in the young rider’s eyes.

  “Ian, tell me what you did wrong.”

  The younger rider took a step backwards and spat green spit on the ground. “I should have stayed even with Clark. We’ve practiced that side-by-side attack a hundred times, at least. I ... I broke formation.”

  Pete nodded. “Against a beast that weighs ten times what Tumult weighed.”

  Ian stared, miserable, then shrugged.

  “Yopat was the backup rider,” he said. “I didn’t think he had that kind of skill. I thought I could ride circles around him.”

  “Because you wanted to show off, right? Because you want to be the star of the show?”

  Ian said nothing. The rise of color to his cheeks was confirmation enough.

  “I’ve told you over and over, your time is coming,” Pete said. “But you’re not ready yet. Today proves that. You underestimated Yopat. Worse, you underestimated his mount.”

  Ian closed his eyes. He nodded.

  Pete gripped the younger rider’s shoulder. “Think you’ll make that mistake again?”

  Ian knelt next to Tumult. He lifted one blue feather, ran his fingers to the end of it, then let it fall back.

  “No,” he said. “No way I’ll ever do that again.”

  Maybe he would, maybe he wouldn’t. Only time would tell. There were bigger issues coming up, though. Ian had had a deep connection with Tumult, one of the smartest dinos on the roster. Tumult had understood everything Ian wanted. Tumult had made it easy. Now Ian would wind up with a new mount, or mounts — the kid didn’t have the experience needed to be adept at riding other animals. And with his personality? There were problems coming, Pete knew it.

  “Say your goodbyes, kid,” Pete said. “Come with me to the other killeys, let’s see which of the three reacts best to you, then I gotta go see Salton.”

  Ian nodded. “I heard Quentin Barnes and John Tweedy was here for the match. You hanging out with them after?”

  “Maybe,” Pete said. “Depends on if Tweedy’s been arrested by then, I guess.”

  Ian sniffed, shrugged, then flipped the tarp back over his dead mount. “Get me his thumb-print?”

  “Sure, kid,” Pete said. “No problem.”

  They walked out of the bioengineering area toward the killeys pen. Bucky, Birdy and Bandit must have smelled Tumult on Ian’s hands, because they started to moan and whistle.

  Pete thought it sounded like a funeral dirge.

  • • •

  Salton the Grimy’s normally flat fur stood on end. Slate in color, the speckles of black and brown strands made him look as though he needed a good cleaning. Sitting in his tall, jeweled throne, the Quyth Leader looked down at Pete. Not for the first time, Pete wondered how the dwarf-sized sentient managed to climb up into the thing.

  The Leader’s three sets of antennae shook with anger. His whole body did for that matter, making the gold and platinum bracelets on his pedipalp wrists and his thick, diamond-studded silver necklace jingle in time.

  “No excuses,” he said. “There are no excuses for losing a mount.”

  Pete stared up into Salton’s single, softball sized eye, an eye swirling with ink-splotches of black. The owner was angrier than Pete had ever seen him.

  “Maybe if you’d stop being such a tight-ass and buy new armor, the mount would have lived,” Pete said.

  “Do not blame this on armor that is only two seasons old.”

  “Three,” Pete said. “And it’s not just the mount armor, Salton — your riders are going to get hurt out there. The gear is beat-up and it was crappy to begin with.”

  Salton’s eye swirled with black. “Crappy? Yet another euphemism from you fecal-obsessed Humans. It cost a substantial amount, Pete. You are going to finish the season with the armor you have. After the season, I will consider new gear.”

  Pete had heard the same things said last season. And the season before that. There was no point in having this conversation now; the Leader wasn’t going to loosen the purse strings with just two matches left in the season.

  “Now, about Ian,” Salton said. “I want answers. And don’t blame the armor a second time, Pete. You saw that careless riding. The best armor in the universe wouldn’t have saved our mount.”

  Salton was cheap, but he wasn’t stupid. He was right about the kick.

  “All right,” Pete said. “I’ll review the holos tomorrow, but I think I know what happened.”

  “I already know what happened,” Salton downed a shot of Junkie Gin. “Ian was careless. A half-million credit investment, gone.”

  Pete reached a hand to his head, tousled his long red hair so it would stand up more. When dealing with Salton, he always let his hair hang free rather than tie it back in a tight ponytail. The Quyth Leader considered it an insult to be unkempt in his presence. Which, of course, was why Pete did it.

  “It’s a violent game, Salton. Mounts die.”

  Salton slammed a middle hand onto the throne’s arm. “But not my mounts! You’re going to fire Ian and you’re going to do it right now.”

  Pete shook his head. “No.”

  The Quyth stood on his throne. With the added height, he towered over Pete.

  “What did you say?”

  “You heard me.”

  “You don’t tell me no, Pete.”

  A grin crossed the rider’s face. “No, sir?”

  The leader cocked his head, his eye clearing. “That’s better.”

  “Look, Salton, the kid is my protégé. Yes, he’s a pain in the ass. Yes, he’s not as good as he thinks he is. And yes, he’s arrogant. But he’s mine. My choice, not yours.”

  The Leader’s fur settled flat. That made Pete nervous. Salton liked to yell and scream, bang his fist, let his eye colors run wild, and when that was happening, Pete knew how to manage him. But when Salton got calm? Pete never knew what would happen next.

  “I told you to fire him,” Salton said. “If you won’t do it, then I will.”

  Pete crossed his arms. “Do I need to pull out my contract and show you where it says you don’t have the right to do that?”

  The Quyth Leader’s eye darkened. “Look at my contract, the Human says. You think I can’t get a lawyer to find holes in that contract?”

  “I know I can find a lawyer to nuke mine. Is that what you wan
t?”

  The Leader said nothing. His pedipalps smoothed the fur on his head.

  “Salton, come on, we built this together,” Pete said. “This sport, this team. And I’m telling you Ian is a great asset, one you’d be a fool to waste.”

  Salton’s pedipalp fingers absently drummed a beat on his head, an oddly Human gesture. Pete waited, looked around as he did. The walls of Salton’s large office were covered in Ridgeback memorabilia, a shelf of Dinolition trophies and holo-pics of Bess. An entire rack contained Ridgeback shirts, mugs, ball caps, all kind of merchandise with the Ridgeback logo and — especially — toys. Of Bess, mostly. Stuffed T. Rex plush dolls, in both her feathered youth and her almost-grown current state. Detail-perfect plastic replicas with and without armor. Hologames, towels, jerseys ... all of the merch that was gobbled up by adults and youth alike. As coverage of the league expanded, merchandise sales had grown from a minor bit of income to a steady source of revenue. If the league survived long enough, kept expanding, Pete knew merchandise might soon bring in more than the gate receipts of the live matches themselves.

  Salton had the largest office in the stadium complex. It had once belonged to the owner of the cricket team, but when Salton bought the stadium he’d moved that owner down the hall to a smaller office.

  “Fine,” the Leader said finally. “But he’s not getting paid for today’s match.”

  “What?”

  “He lost a mount. Ian didn’t finish the match. Therefore, he doesn’t get paid.”

  “He gets paid,” Pete said. “Period. Last week he got eaten in the first round by that Sklorno skitch — damn, those are nasty creatures. He didn’t finish that match and he got paid. This is no different.”

  Salton shook his head. His eye swirled with dark red and black. “It’s very different. Ian was out of the game, but his mount wasn’t dead, Pete.”

  Pete sighed. “I don’t think you’re being logical.”

  “I’m being practical,” Salton said. “Achillobator embryos aren’t free, and I need to activate another one. Unless you want to use the three grown ones we have and then forget about that species?”

  Pete’s jaw clenched. No, he wasn’t done with that species. Speed kills and the killeys were fast as hell. They were also fragile: more would be lost down the road, and it took two years to grow one to competition size.

  Maybe Salton was right. Maybe getting docked a game’s pay would get Ian to pay attention. Lord knew little else did.

  “All right,” Pete said.

  The Quyth Leader shook the bracelets on his wrist in annoyance. “As if I need your acceptance before I make a decision. Now, how are you going to replace Tumult?”

  “Replace? There’s no replace.”

  Salton paused. His eye cleared.

  “Put aside your sentimentality, Pete,” the Leader said softly. “You know what I mean.”

  Salton was an ass. He shouted if he didn’t get what he wanted, he threatened, he bullied, and in most ways he acted more like a petulant Human child than a Quyth Leader, but sometimes, sometimes, he seemed capable of concern, even empathy.

  Pete shrugged. “Ian worked the other three killeys last night. He says they’re not quite at competition level. I think it’s time to put in Yar.”

  “The Xiongguanlong?” Salton’s one eye glanced at the rack of toys. “Not the triceratops?”

  The trike. It always comes back to the trike, because you know we’ll sell a butt-load of merch if that one is in the starting lineup.

  “Jerry isn’t ready,” Pete said.

  Salton leaned forward in his throne. “Are you going to let him follow his mother around forever? Just how long are you planning to keep the sport waiting?”

  “We lost half a million with Tumult, as you pointed out,” Pete said. “We’ve already got three times that into Jerry’s development, far more if you count what we spent on his mother. You run Jerry out early, before he’s combat-seasoned, and he could die in the first match. I’m telling you, Salton, he’s not ready.”

  “At some point in the very near future, he better be ready. I didn’t spend all those credits on Baiman’s experiment just for not one, but two triceratops to sit in a paddock.”

  Pete ran the team, but Salton bankrolled it, and if one thing held true throughout the galaxy and throughout history, it was that the sentient who paid the bills got to make the final decision.

  “Just a little more time, Salton, I promise.”

  The Leader’s eye darkened again. Seconds passed with neither sentient saying a word. Salton’s pedipalps crossed themselves.

  “Commissioner Guestford called me a few minutes ago,” he said. “She yelled at me for your post-match fight. Did you hear me, Pete? She yelled at me.”

  Pete nodded. “Sorry about that, chief.”

  “I swear, that woman does not know her place.”

  “Not at all,” Pete said. “But she’s doing her best, I think.”

  Salton waved a pedipalp hand in annoyance.

  “It is like she doesn’t understand where her salary comes from,” he said. “If it wasn’t for the owners, she’d still be making those awful movies.”

  Pete said nothing. Salton could posture all he wanted, but they both knew the truth — if it wasn’t for Guestford’s tireless work, the owners who paid her would have lost their investments long ago.

  “She’s waiting for you,” Salton said. “At the Roughland Hyatt.”

  Pete’s stomach pinched tight, and a coppery feeling flooded his chest. As if this day and night hadn’t been long enough already. Pete had hoped for a night of drinking with his favorite football player, maybe catch Guestford’s wrath a few days — or weeks — down the road.

  Salton pressed a button on his throne’s armrest.

  A HeavyG male walked into the room. Pete didn’t recognized him — must be Salton’s latest goon.

  Unlike Doc Baiman, who looked like a muscular, oversized Human woman, the HeavyG males bore a striking resemblance to long-armed, hairless, muscle-bound gorillas. This man’s left thigh alone probably weighed more than Pete did. The man wore an expensive suit, courtesy of Salton’s deep pockets. He didn’t even bother to walk fully upright: scuffed, calloused knuckles pressed against the floor as he shuffled in.

  “Yes, Shamakath?” the HeavyG said.

  “Miller, Pete has a meeting in Roughland. See that he gets there and returns to the ranch in one piece.”

  “Yes, Shamakath,” Miller said, and bowed his head. He pointed to the door. “If you would, Pete?”

  The rider turned his back to the throne and left the office.

  • • •

  Pete stepped out of the cab. The streets of Roughland were still thick with people celebrating the Ridgeback’s win; most were long gone, but the last of them would be partying until well into the night. People walked down the sidewalks, laughing, drinking and heading to the various bars. Clothed in the orange and black Ionath Krakens football jersey, Pete was a sign-post for abnormal.

  A few people recognized him, started to point, to nudge their friends. Pete hurried to the Oasis; he didn’t mind being recognized, didn’t mind signing autographs, but this wasn’t the time for that.

  The Oasis’ facade was made of local timber and filigreed with the logos of the hometown teams. The Colonials’ sigil, a simple circle with a cowboy hat and ancient six-guns crossing one another, covered the left side of the facade. Until Dinolition set up shop in Rodina, it had covered the entire facade. After the first Dinolition match, the owner had torn the right side down and replaced it with Bess’s growling, predatory face. Pete looked up at the wood carving of his big friend, suddenly wishing he was back on the ranch with her.

  The Oasis was loud and crowded. Humans and HeavyG sentients wearing cowboy hats, boots and hemp jeans stood at the bar or crowded the small wooden tables. An overweight Human bartender with a long, red beard waved to get Pete’s attention, then pointed to the restaurant entrance.

  “Comp
any is waiting for you,” the bartender said. “You’re even fancier than I thought.”

  “Thanks, Charlie,” Pete said.

  Pete tipped an imaginary hat and headed toward the translucent divider between the two halves of the Oasis. He felt eyes following his move — a few tourists started forward like they wanted to come and talk, but the regulars knew not to bother him. When Pete came to the Oasis, he was treated like any other sentient. Except, of course, for the free drinks fans frequently bought for him.

  The cloud of nannites that made up the divider spread as he walked through them. As he came out on the other side, the noise of the bar was replaced by the sounds of quiet conversations, the occasional laugh, and the clinking of dinnerware. The scent of roasted meat made his stomach growl. He blinked his eyes and scanned the tables.

  Two huge sentients and a lithe, dark-haired woman sat in heavy wooden chairs around a red-checkered table. The three were engaged in conversation. The largest at the table was John Tweedy, linebacker for the Ionath Krakens. Six and a half feet tall, seemingly almost as wide, he threw back his head, laughed, and then slammed his huge meaty fist on the table. He wore a specially tailored Ridgebacks’ shirt, the kind patterned to resemble rider armor, complete with colors and Pete’s #5 on the left chest. His girlfriend, Kraken’s fullback Becca “the Wrecka” Montagne, sat next to him. She was a HeavyG woman, the same height as John and even outweighed him by ten kilos ... not that Pete had memorized the Krakens roster or anything like that. Rebecca wore a plain dress with an orange and black brooch in the shape of the Krakens logo.

  The smallest sentient at the table — a normal-sized Human woman who looked like a fragile doll next to the two football stars — was Rachel Guestford, Dinolition commissioner. She seemed to be the exact opposite of Montagne: slender and elegant to Montagne’s muscular and athletic, Guestford’s dress a spectacle of gold leaf and diamonds to Montagne’s simple outfit. There was another opposite comparison: Guestford’s heyday as an actress was well behind her, while Montagne — only twenty years old — was an All-Pro fullback just beginning what promised to be a long, dominant career.