THE RIDER (Galactic Football League Novellas Book 4)

by Scott Sigler

  In that moment, Pete felt his size, felt it all too deeply. If Bushy’s progenitors ever got out and wanted to hurt him? Even with a war hammer, he stood almost no chance.

  Hell, against one of them, he stood almost no chance with anything short of an entropic pistol.

  Many species had turned out to be amazing mounts: loyal, obedient, even loving — but not the austroraptors. Pete had tried to train them and had the scars to show it, as did Clark. Even Ian had tried his hand. Ian, who seem to have a different kind of affinity with the dinos, had come out with fifteen stitches on his left hand. The Ridgebacks had used Foster in one match, and it hadn’t gone well; the smarter the animal, the less they wanted to take orders, it seemed. Foster had refused to heel, had damn near killed a rider from the New Tokyo Zillas. Match monitors had had to come in and tranq Foster. The Ridgebacks had to forfeit that game because they couldn’t control their mount. Pete had led his team to wins in the next two games and taken the match 2-1, but it had been a close thing, a disturbing thing, because Foster just wouldn’t obey.

  Bess swallowed riders, sure, but Foster? Pete had a nagging feeling that Foster had been trying to figure out how to take off the rider’s armor, so the dino could use those wicked sickle-claws on its feet to disembowel the rider. Foster was mean like that. Mean and smart.

  Sydney, on the other hand, had never been in a match. Mostly because she was meaner — and even smarter — than Foster.

  Pete wanted to put them down, all three of them, but he’d been overruled by Salton. The three raptors represented a huge investment. Doc was constantly tweaking their genome, looking for a way to bring in some of Bess’s obedience and reduce the killer instinct. If that happened, Pete knew, the raptors would be unstoppable mounts: fast, aggressive, and with a leaping ability that would completely change the nature of games like Dismount.

  Pete pointed to the pen.

  “Bushy, get back in there.”

  He had no idea how she’d gotten out. Hopefully she’d obey enough to show him by going back in.

  The raptor did just that. Pete watched, dumbfounded, as the juvenile got a running start at the fence and sprang at it — one clawed foot locked on a bar and pushed down while the next clawed foot reached up and grabbed a higher bar. Feathered arms flapping, Bushy climbed the fence like it was a ladder. The wings were far too small to allow flight, but they still caught enough air for the dino to keep balance.

  “Damn,” Pete said. “Damn damn, and damn.”

  Bushy hopped over the top rail — some ten meters above the ground — then reversed her facing. Wings flapping, she scaled her way down the fence. Three meters from the ground, she hopped off and dropped to the dirt beyond.

  Foster and Sydney watched her. Then, they turned again to stare at Pete, who suddenly felt very alone and exposed in the night.

  “Note to self,” he said. “Get Salton to bring an engineer in here, first thing tomorrow.”

  From out of the darkness, across the wide training ground, Pete heard a low, long growl. The sound carried on the night air, and brought with it the promise of violence.

  Bess, staking her claim.

  Foster and Sydney stared at Pete for another few seconds, then turned away and slunk into the darkness. The message was clear — Bess had somehow sensed the two adult raptors were watching, and she was letting them know that Pete was off-limits.

  “I love you, too, girl.”

  Bushy stared at him through the fence, her eyes wide and still innocent. This was a game to her. Would she turn out like Foster and Sydney? Pete didn’t know. If she was over-aggressive, she’d start displaying that behavior soon. And if she did, Pete knew it was bad sign for the team’s lone infant raptor, Boomerang, who was still so small she had to be kept in Baiman’s bioengineering compound.

  Bushy finally squeaked, turned away and ran after her older gene-mates.

  Pete quickly walked back to the main building. He relaxed only when the door clicked shut behind him.

  Hopefully, the compys wouldn’t just open it up again.

  EXCERPT HEADER:

  A transcript from the Galaxy Sports Live interview of Poughkeepsie Pete, by guest host Yolanda Davenport.

  Davenport: Do you prefer midget, pygmy, little person, or dwarf?

  Pete: I prefer “Pete.”

  Davenport: But you grew up in the pygmy sideshow?

  Pete: Yes. There is a certain ... demand for people my size in the circus circuit. It’s not just Human strains that want to see smaller versions of themselves, the other races — Quyth and Sklorno in particular — are fascinated with us. And considering the more unseemly possibilities facing little people, the sideshow was the best possible place for me to land.

  Davenport: How did you end up there?

  Pete: Like most of the other dwarfs — I was sold into it. My mother and father were very poor. They already had five children and when I came along, it was the last straw. Or at least that’s what I was told. The truth might be a little more hard to take, that they didn’t want me because of my dwarfism.

  Davenport: You don’t remember your parents?

  Pete: Parents? My parents were Luha and Kilu, the sideshow owners. They’re the ones that raised me. The other dwarfs I grew up with are as close to family as I get.

  Davenport: Do you stay in touch with the others?

  Pete: There are no others. Not any more.

  Davenport: Care to elaborate?

  Pete: No.

  Davenport: What was the sideshow like?

  Pete: The pygmy sideshow was based on some group of books from the ancient earth. Pygmies were a tribe in a place called Africa. They were dwarfen-sized, dark-skinned, painted themselves in strange inks, and hunted with poisoned spears and other crude, bloody weapons.

  Kilu and Luha had worked the Galactic Circus circuit as acrobats for many years, but when they got too old to pull of the stunts, they decided to try something else. Kilu said he came across the idea from an ancient book by some earthling named Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. He wrote Sherlock Holmes, you heard of him?

  Davenport: No, I haven’t.

  Pete: Well. Doyle wrote a book called The Sign of Four and pygmies are mentioned in it. After some research, it didn’t take Kilu long to figure out he could make money from a sideshow based on the ancient Humans. All he had to do was manufacture the proper clothes, weapons, jewelry, then invest in some body mods, and that’s it. And dwarfs? Hell we were the cheapest part of that enterprise.

  Davenport: What do you mean?

  Pete: Well, who wants a dwarf for a child? I mean, if you’re wealthy and in League of Planets space, it’s simple to correct before birth. Just a few gene mods and your kid will be as normal as anyone else’s.

  But if you’re poor and you bear a freak? Of if you live in the Net Colonies or the Purist Nation, where that level of body-mod tech isn’t available at any price? Then it’s either another mouth to feed or a commodity that can help feed the rest of the family. And considering the underground trade for little people, you’d be foolish not to at least entertain the offers. You’d be morally corrupt and a total loser, but foolish.

  Davenport: You’ve been a great advocate for getting the Creterakian Empire to declare any kind of Human trafficking for little people — be it honor contracts, debt service or outright slavery — as a capital offense. Do you think endeavors such as the pygmy sideshow should also be terminated?

  Pete: It’s a slippery slope. In any situation where sentients don’t have the ability to choose employment for themselves, then yes, that should be terminated. However, most of the circus circuit involves people who choose to live that life. They make a living, they’re often quite good at their jobs. If they choose to get paid because aliens think they are funny or freakish, that’s their choice. Dinolition doesn’t purchase riders. It’s a dangerous job, but people choose to ride. It’s the one sport where normal-sized people can’t cut it — they’re just too big and their weight counts against the total
roster. Things like the pygmy sideshow succeed because people want to see the little people do interesting things, Dinolition succeeds because we’re the best athletes for the job. If the league keeps growing, we might give hope to parents who might otherwise sell their children into slavery.

  Davenport: What did you learn in the sideshow?

  Pete: When Luha and Kilu started it, it was focused on acrobatics and mock fighting. They taught us how to roll, jump, and use our body size to our advantage. For the first few years, the sideshow didn’t do too well. Kilu and Luha, with eight small mouths to feed, had to retool the show. They focused on strength training and even actual fighting. People didn’t want to just see a bunch of pigment-altered dwarfs pretending to speak some dead language and looking all grim as they jumped and rolled across the stage. People wanted something more. When Kilu and Luha relaunched it on the Galactic Barnum Circus tour, it was a huge success. Spectators got to see mostly naked dwarfs with bones through their noses, ears, and even through their cheeks, watch them throw deadly spears at one another, wrestle crocodiles, and even eat live animals.

  Davenport: Live animals?

  Pete: Very Ki, eh? They’re still called geeks in the biz and all the original members of the sideshow were forced to do it. The old timers told me the worst part was when Luha and Kilu allowed spectators, for a fee, to bring the animal that had to be eaten. I can’t imagine the sorts of things they had to do.

  Davenport: They taught you to fight. Tell me about that.

  Pete: In addition to expertise in the spear, blowgun, bow, and the war hammer, Kilu and Luha brought in an MMA trainer to teach me to fight without weapons. In some ways, I think that made for my favorite part of the Sideshow — when some jackass spectator put down his money to come fight me in the ring.

  Davenport: Did you ever kill anyone?

  Pete: Let’s just say one or more sentients were taken to hospitals. I didn’t follow up to see if they lived.

  Davenport: So the sideshow was a pretty violent place?

  Pete: Depended on what system we were in. If we were in a Ki system, they paid good money to watch dwarves partake in blood sports. The Quyth Concordia, on the other hand, wanted mainly to watch our acrobatics, although sometimes Leaders would pay big money to see us fight Workers hand-to-hand. Workers aren’t that aggressive, but they’re strong as hell. Those were tough fights.

  Davenport: Did any of the sideshow members die? Any of your friends?

  Pete: Of course. At least once a year, there would be a training accident. Someone got complacent, didn’t properly secure a post for our aerial acrobatics, and someone would break their neck. There were more than a few deaths from fighting animals, especially alien animals. It wasn’t an easy way of life, but the more dangerous the work, the more we got paid. And if you didn’t fight, you didn’t work, you didn’t get paid and you didn’t eat. So, you took what work there was.

  Davenport: How did you get out?

  Pete: Kilu and Luha had a very simple system — if you made enough money, you could buy your way out. We were paid for the work we did, but as you might imagine, payment is relative. Kilu and Luha weren’t exactly generous benefactors. Most people can’t buy their way out, but I started taking what money I’d made and betting on myself every time I entered the pit or octagon. I poured everything I had into those bets.

  Davenport: But what if you lost?

  Pete: Lost? If I lost, I’d either be maimed or dead. It wouldn’t have mattered.

  Davenport: How long did it take you to buy your way out?

  Pete: A decade. Ten years of scrapping and saving. And as you can see from my face, I’ve got plenty of scars for my trouble.

  Davenport: You no longer have the pigment.

  Pete: No. After I purchased my freedom, that was one of the first things I took care of. You know, I couldn’t even remember what my birth color was? So I paid to have that analyzed, and had my DNA corrected for it. If there’s one thing the League of Planets is good at, it’s changing skin color.

  Davenport: And you had all the pygmy modifications removed?

  Pete: Yes. Fixed my teeth so they were no longer filed down to fangs. Got flesh grown to cover all the holes in my nose, brow, cheeks, ears, and chest.

  Davenport: That must have cost a bit.

  Pete: A bit, yes. But those were the only remaining signs I’d been in the troupe and I wanted to be done with that. Maybe I came out of there with some skills, but I was a thing, I was property to be turned into a character. I wanted nothing to do with what they’d done to me.

  Davenport: You’re the best known athlete in Dinolition. You were also the team captain of one of the first four teams that founded the league. Tell me how that came about.

  Pete: Right place, right time, right set of skills. And the thing I have the hardest time accepting — the right past. Being sold into the damn circus wound up making all of this happen. Salton the Grimy, the Leader that owns the Ridgebacks, he was the main promoter that brought me and my kind into Quyth Concordia for circus tours. About two standard years after I started working with him, he joined an investment group that bought up a company making Dinosaurs, and the rest is history.

  Davenport: That’s the Buckland De-Extinction Group? The firm that initially employed Doctor Baiman and the other bioengineers who created the dinosaurs?

  Pete: Right, that’s them. Salton had already made a bunch of money promoting little people in the circus, especially the fights, which were very popular in the Concordia. He figured he could make a whole lot more if those fights took place while said little people rode dinosaurs.

  Davenport: So just another bloodsport, the same thing you’d done working for Kilu and Luha?

  Pete: Not just another bloodsport, a bloodsport with goddamn dinosaurs. You have to admit, that idea just sells itself.

  Davenport: But weren’t you the one to suggest teams? And the advanced armor for both riders and mounts?

  Pete: Yeah. It costs more, but otherwise you just have a lot of dead dwarfs. It’s a choice between the spectacle of one-time carnage, or a sustainable league with stars that people will pay to see over and over again.

  Davenport: So, armor was your idea, teams were your idea — doesn’t that mean you should get the credit for inventing Dinolition?

  Pete: Don’t be starting problems, Yolanda.

  Davenport: What do you mean?

  Pete: I know how you reporters work. No, I didn’t invent Dinolition all by myself. Salton and the other investors all had ideas that are key to what we do now. Even Commissioner Guestford was part of it. Rules committees, scientists on the animal testing boards, it goes on and on. People have sunk a lot of money into this league.

  Davenport: And from what I’ve found out, the league has yet to turn a profit, is that true?

  Pete: I wouldn’t know about that.

  Davenport: Your contract states that you get a permanent piece of the pie if the league makes it past ten years and becomes profitable, and you don’t know if its turning a profit?

  Pete: (pause) How do you know what’s in my contract?

  Davenport: League of Planets tax code. Since your contract states you potentially own a stake of the league, that contract is on file to those looking to invest in the league.

  Pete: Invest in Dinolition? I didn’t think reporters made that kind of money.

  Davenport: We don’t, but that doesn’t stop us from using legal means to get information for a story.

  Pete: (pause) Everyone says how good you are at your job, now I guess I can see that first-hand.

  Davenport: You’re avoiding the question.

  Pete: I already forgot the question.

  Davenport: You don’t know if the league is turning a profit?

  Pete: Oh, that question — no comment.

  Davenport: Well, then let me educate you. In five years of existence, Dinolition has grown from four teams to ten, with more to be added soon, yet the league is still in the red. What are your thoug
hts on that?

  Pete: Wasn’t this was supposed to be a puff piece?

  Davenport: I don’t do puff pieces.

  Pete: Apparently.

  Davenport: What about the underworld influence on the sport? With teams running in the red and sports betting starting to carry Dinolition matches, wouldn’t points shaving or throwing matches be a way for owners to make back their money?

  Pete: No comment.

  Davenport: So you don’t think there’s corruption in Dinolition?

  Pete: There’s corruption in Intergalactic Fighting Association. There’s corruption in the GFL. There’s corruption in that joke of a baseball league and the Sklorno-dominated soccer league. There’s corruption in every sport. Dinolition can’t possibly be immune to those influences, but we’re different in a lot of ways. We ride multi-tonne predators that don’t give a damn about money, the mounts are out there to fight and they like to win. If a rider is trying to sandbag, to cheat in any way, they’re making the mount behave in a way that’s not normal — that can confuse the mount, and that means screw-ups. In our sport, screw-ups get you killed. This isn’t some children’s game where you pretend to get tripped and then roll on the floor making a pathetic face like someone just stabbed you in the knee, so you can trick the ref into giving someone a red card, this is a sport where you bleed, you scream, and you fight for your life.