by Scott Sigler
“Jerry, return!”
The trike spun in place, then jabbed its two long horns into a third rubber leg and ripped them sideways. Big chunks of rubber tore free and scattered across the ground. Jerry spun again and ran hard, stubby legs reaching out and pushing back as it built up full speed toward Pete.
Another shower of grass and dirt rained down upon Pete and Clark as Jerry roared past. The trike reached the bare ground where it had started its run. Jerry came to an abrupt halt.
Clark clicked the stopwatch, smiled, held it up for Pete to see.
Pete laughed and shook his head.
“Thirty-one seconds,” he said. “To go a hundred meters, knock the bejeezus out of that target, come a hundred meters back.”
“Fourteen-point-five miles-per-hour,” Clark said.
Pete shook his head. “Earthlings and your crazy systems. What’s that in a real measurement?”
“About ... twenty-three kilometers an hour.”
Three tonnes at that speed? Hard to stop. And the horn-stabbing? Jerry had improvised that, and Pete couldn’t have been prouder.
“Come here, boy.”
The trike plodded to him, its legs thudding the ground with each step. When the mount reached him, Pete stretched up his hand and patted the leathery frills. Jerry snorted.
Pete pulled out a veggie brick from his pocket and held it toward the young trike. A red and black tongue slithered out between Jerry’s narrow mouth, wrapped around the treat, and then retracted. His mouth moved up and down as he crunched and then swallowed the high-nutrient brick.
“Good boy, Jerry, good boy.”
Bossie trumpeted from the other side of the field. Both Jerry and Pete turned toward the large female trike. She raised her head and chirped. Jerry looked at Pete.
“Go see Momma,” Pete said. Jerry turned and ran to his mother, more grass kicking up behind his heavy steps.
Clark rubbed his short, gray hair. “You see what he did to that target?”
“Oh yeah,” Pete said. “Ripped it up good.”
“You think he’s ready for a match?”
Pete considered, shrugged. “I don’t know. He needs more practice. We need to get Dar on him and see how she handles him.”
“Think she’s the right rider?”
“I do,” Pete said. “Jerry’s not quite as aggressive as the other mounts. Dar’s very aggressive — I think they might balance each other out.”
Pete looked across the training ground. Dar was mounted on the Xiongguanlong, guiding him at an easy trot along the fence line. Yar swung wide of the fence when he came near the raptor pen — Pete couldn’t blame him, but Dar was yelling at Yar, ordering her mount to follow the path she gave him.
“Maybe we use Yar,” Pete said. “Maybe Dar rides him instead of Jerry.”
Clark shook his head.
“I agree Yar’s ready,” Clark said. “But we need to pair him with Ian. We have to replace Tumult’s speed, and Ian’s the best fast-mount rider we have.”
Pete grunted. Maybe Clark was right. But watching Dar and Yar ... perhaps there was an intangible there. Sometimes the whole was greater than the sum of the parts. Maybe ...
He looked back toward the trikes. Bossie was licking grass off her son.
“Salton’s riding me about Jerry,” Pete said. “Wants to make an official announcement to the league that we have a trike ready for combat.”
Clark spat a wad of phlegm on the turf. “Think that’s going to make a difference? To the sport, I mean?”
Pete shrugged. “Every time we bring in a new dino, the news coverage increases. Guestford certainly thinks so, anyway. If we bring Jerry into the championship tournament, we might even get Chick McGee and Masara the Observant to cover us.”
“Now that would be a win.”
“Come on,” Pete said. Let’s go check on Ian.”
The two men walked out of the field in silence and toward the main building. They stepped past mounds of dino stool. Bossie and Jerry easily produced more waste than any of the other mounts. Pete wondered if Salton’s scheme to sell it as fertilizer would ever come to fruition.
Before they reached the tack room, they both heard squealing.
“Dammit,” Pete said and started to jog, Clark following close behind.
Inside the tack room, Ian — in full armor — stood on a step stool next to Bucky. He had his saddle and harness in his hands. The dinosaur was shaking its head from side to side and jumping in place. The young achillobator’s blue and green feathers were fluffed out like the fur of an angry house cat.
“Ian, what the hell is going on?”
Ian glared. “Bucky lost her mind, boss. Just tried to put the harness on her and she freaked.”
Shaking his head, Clark approached the mount with slow steps.
“Hey, pretty girl,” he said in a sweet voice. “Pretty girl, what’s wrong with you?”
Bucky’s feathers flattened and she cocked her head. Clark petted her neck. She rubbed her head against his shoulder.
“Thaaaat’s my girl,” Clark crooned.
Ian shook his head. “How do you do that?”
Pete took a deep breath and hissed it out between his teeth. “He’s her friend. You should try it some time.”
“We’re not friends,” Ian said. “We’re comrades. We fight together.”
Pete shook his head. “You don’t get it, Ian. You’re not going to lead a team until you understand that every mount is different.”
“I bonded with Tumult just fine.”
Pete nodded. “Yeah, because Tumult had a bad attitude and couldn’t wait to hit something. Tumult chose you.”
Bucky swiveled her head, one of her large blue-grey eyes staring at Ian. She sniffed twice, audibly, then hid her head in Clark’s armpit.
Clark cleared his throat. “See that?”
Ian nodded.
“Bucky and the killeys lost Tumult,” Clark said, “and regardless of whose fault it is, they know you were riding her, and now the killeys don’t trust you. They may never fully trust you again.”
“Bollocks,” Ian said. “They’re not smart enough to make a connection like that. Keep her still, Clark.”
He threw the saddle blanket over Bucky’s back, then dropped the saddle into place. He bent down to hitch the belts together beneath her belly. He had to reach into Clark’s armpit to put the bridle tack on her. Ian pulled on the reins, gently but firmly, and urged Bucky out of the tack room.
“Come on, girl,” he said. “Time to do work.”
Bucky resisted, but Ian’s steady pulling showed the killey that there was no way out of it. Head down, she followed him out.
As Ian walked out, Tony Koester walked in, the three compys following behind, nipping playfully at his armor-clad boots. Tony had his helmet under one arm. His long, white mane hung down around his neck and shoulder plate.
Pete crossed his arms. “What are you doing in here? You’re supposed to be working with Foster.
Tony shuddered. “I tried. I don’t want to work with Foster.”
“Why?” Pete asked, but he already knew the reason — no one wanted to work with the austroraptor.
“She hates me,” Tony said.
“She hates everybody.” Pete clapped Tony on the shoulder. “Move it, soldier. We ain’t got all day. That raptor could mean the difference between a win and a loss come playoff time.”
Tony opened his mouth and then closed it.
“Something wrong?” Pete asked.
Tony glanced at Clark, stayed silent.
“Hey, Clark,” Pete said. “How about you take the compys out for a game of chase?”
Clark didn’t need to be told twice. He rushed the compys with his hands wide, making a fearsome roar. The compys squealed and scattered, eyes wide, so surprised that two of them fell on their sides. Clark then sprinted out of the tack room. The Sisters recovered quickly, barking in delight, and ran after him.
“So, Tony, what is it?”
The rider sighed. “I’m tired, Cap.”
“Tired of what?”
Tony shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
The white skinned dwarf looked down at the mud on his armored boots.
“Don’t really want to do this anymore.”
Fatigue from a long season and a ton of travel? Was Tony overworked from the daily grind of either practice or a match? He was a good rider, but far from the best — was it time to bring Dar up to replace him as a first-string rider?
“Look, Tony, let’s get through today’s practice and we’ll talk, okay? We have to keep rotating through Foster, find a rider he can tolerate.”
Tony sighed again. He nodded, pulled on his helmet, activated his suit, then walked out of the tack room.
Pete watched him go. Tony, the salvage experiment. Salton didn’t want him, didn’t like him, didn’t trust him. He was Pete’s responsibility and the man was still a wreck.
• • •
After Pete checked on Bess, he headed to the training ground. Ian and Bucky were moving through an obstacle course made up of inflatable cones.
It was not going well.
Ian was kicking Bucky’s flanks to steer her, but she was having none of it. Instead, she seemed to purposefully knock over the rubber pylons.
“Dammit!” Ian screamed at the mount. He kicked her hard in the flanks. The achillobator reared back and let out a screech. She was trying to buck him — hence the Bucky of her name — but Ian hung on effortlessly, a grim smile on his face.
“Ian!” Pete yelled.
Bucky swung her head from side to side, agitated and upset. Ian took off his helmet. His feet un-clicked from the stirrups and he somersaulted off the bucking mount.
It was an impressive dismount, one Ian clearly meant to be impressive, and it would have really been something if Pete hadn’t kicked the kid’s legs out from under him when he landed.
Ian fell to his back. He flipped over and started to get to his feet. Pete kicked him in the chest and he fell over once more.
Pete leaned over him. “You hurt another of my mounts, and I’ll have your guts for garters, understood?”
“Pete, calm the hell down! She just—“
“She’s an animal, Ian.” Pete pointed a finger at him. “And you’re supposed to be her partner. The two of you operate as a team. You’re not her master. Not her owner. Her partner.”
Pete reached down and grabbed the collar of Ian’s armor, hauled the younger rider to his feet.
Ian spat on the dirt and grass. “You act like this is all my fault, Pete! That damned thing has bitten me twice today and refuses to learn how to do anything!”
Pete looked up. Bucky stood a few meters away at the fence line. She lifted her head to its full height, cocked it, looked down at them from ten feet up.
Pete whistled. Bucky took three steps toward them and bobbed her head.
“Come here, girl,” Pete said.
He clucked his tongue. Bucky lowered herself prone on the ground. Pete climbed her side and pulled himself on to Ian’s saddle. He clicked his boots in the stirrups. Bucky stood.
Ian glared. “So you mounted her, big deal.”
“And what were you trying to teach her?”
“How to do a spin move,” Ian said. “Tumult could do those in his sleep.”
“Tumult is dead,” Pete said, barking out the last word hard, hard enough to hurt. He needed Ian to get it through his head sooner rather than later.
The younger rider’s eyes brimmed with tears. He looked off across the training ground.
“Tumult’s dead,” Pete said again. “She was a special mount. You connected with her. Now she’s gone, and your team needs you to work with other mounts. You say Bucky can’t learn? Want to bet next week’s paycheck that I can teach her in ten minutes or less? My check against yours, Ian.”
Ian glanced at him, but only briefly, then he again stared across the training ground.
Such arrogance on that boy’s face. Pete couldn’t decide if the spoiled brat needed a talking-to, or a talking-with.
“No bet, Ian?”
The kid said nothing.
It was Ian’s first season with the Ridgebacks and he already thought he knew everything. Ian was athletic, well-skilled in gymnastics and hand-to-hand combat, and flat-out one hell of a rider. He was a superstar in the making, someone who could be the league’s poster-boy after Pete retired. What Ian wasn’t was a team player.
Clark had come from the sideshow, same as Pete. Stikz and Jared found Dinolition through their technical jobs. Tony had been rescued from the drug trade, while Dar had run away from a foster mother. She’d had zero work skills or prospects. Legal prospects, anyway; the circus would have taken her, as would the brothels. Three years ago, at the age of sixteen, she’d responded to an open tryout and begged Pete for a shot. The soft spot in his heart he kept trying to kill had gotten the better of him, and he’d taken her on.
Every single rider on the team had escaped a miserable existence to join a family — every single one except Ian.
The dwarf and his parents had shown up to last season’s open tryouts. Most wealthy parents would have had dwarfism fixed in the womb. A few genetic tweaks and the kid would be born as normal as anyone. But not Ian’s parents. They clung to some strange religion. While they used medicine, modern technology, and even traded with alien races, they didn’t believe in interfering with god’s design. Ian’s birth defect was just that — god’s design.
While many dwarves had to fight to become educated or find work as anything more than freaks, Ian’s parents had sent him to the best academies and the best trainers. Any wonder the kid was so arrogant?
Pete clucked. Bucky lowered again, and he hopped off. He waggled a finger in her face.
“Enough crap out of you, girl,” Pete said. “You obey your rider’s commands, you got me?”
Of course she didn’t understand the words, but she got the gist of Pete’s tone and his hard stare; like Ian, the dino had to look away.
Pete turned, held the reins out to Ian.
“Try again,” Pete said. “She’s not Tumult, so stop treating her like Tumult. Bucky is unique. Keep working and find out how to manage her, or you won’t have a killey to ride at all when we face the Resurrected this week.”
Ian sniffed, still trying to hold back tears. Of frustration or of mourning, Pete wasn’t sure which.
The kid took the reins. He glared at Pete — once more, for good measure, of course, so Pete knew full well Ian would do what Ian wanted to do — then he cupped Bucky’s head and spoke softly to her.
Bucky responded almost immediately, chirping and pushing her head into Ian.
Things could be so easy if Ian would just let them be easy. Pete hoped the kid would figure that out soon.
• • •
The bioengineering compound was nearly silent. Doc Baiman sat before her display and clucked her tongue, her left hand absently rotating a white china cup full of steaming tea. Jared Archer stood next to her, focusing a little too hard on the hologram so he wouldn’t have to meet Pete’s narrowed eyes.
“Bull crap,” Pete said.
“Dusty’s getting old, Pete,” Doc Baiman said. “I’m not making this up for my health.”
The HeavyG woman reached into the hologram of the beishanlong. She pinched the feathered skin, pulled it away, leaving muscle and bone, then pulled the muscle, nerves and internal organs away, leaving only the skeleton. She pointed a long finger.
“See the hip?”
Pete’s brow furrowed. “Yes, Doc. I see a hip.”
Baiman shook her head. “I wish you’d paid more attention in my physiology lecture.” She reached to the hip, her fingertips tapping out a pattern. Dusty’s ostrich-like skeleton lit up with shades of red. “See that area of discoloration? Right side?”
Bright crimson lines criss-crossed the large hip-plate near the le
g’s ball-joint.
Yeah, Pete did see it. He didn’t want to see it. With Tumult gone, Jerry not ready for prime time, and with Sydney too dangerous to ride, the Ridgeback’s roster was thin enough as it was. If they lost Dusty? They would have very few options when it came to filling out the weight requirement.
“Stress fractures,” Pete said. “That what it is?”
Doc nodded. “Dusty’s been in combat more than any other dino, including Bess.”
“You mean since Tumult died.”
“Right. And my necropsy of Tumult confirmed the same kinds of damage. Tumult hadn’t shown symptoms yet, but she would have soon.”
Jared pointed to the long femur. “Also, Dusty has chipping and pitting here.”
Pete blew a hiss of air through his teeth. “You both telling me Dusty’s days are numbered?”
Doc nodded. “As a mount? Yes.” She picked up her cup of tea and sipped. “I’ll clear her for the match against the Resurrected, but I can’t promise you beyond that.”
“The tournament is beyond that,” Pete said. “You know? Where we win the goddamn title?”
Baiman shrugged. “The animal is worth more to the organization — and the league, and science — if she’s healthy enough to live out her life and get old, Pete. She breaks that hip, or that femur, for that matter, and we have to put her down. The bottom line is that you need replacement speedsters. Even if Tumult hadn’t died, you’d be in the same position.”
Pete stared at the image, his mind poring over options.
“Jared, go do a spot-check on Yar,” Pete said. “Check her feet, joints, skin ... anything that might cause trouble when we really put her to work. I think we’re going to have to put her in the lineup this week, and I don’t want any surprises.”
Pete hadn’t even finished his sentence before Jared sprinted out of the bioengineering compound.
“Huh,” Pete said. “He’s usually not that obedient.”
“It’s because he doesn’t want to be here,” Baiman said. “There’s more bad news.”
