by Scott Sigler
Pete looked at her, then at the holo. Awareness dawned on him, spreading a cool tingle of anxiety through his chest.
“Wait a minute,” he said. “Dusty is a beishanlong, Tumult was a killey, and they have the same problem?”
“Similar body structure,” Baiman said. “And, frankly, some identical DNA. When we generated their embryos, there was only so much to work with. Here and there, the bird-like dinos have common genetics.”
Pete’s heart sank down to his stomach, which seemed to be rising up at the same time to meet it.
“Genetics,” he said, and then understood why Jared wanted to be the hell out of the bioengineering compound. “Bucky, Birdy and Bandit?”
Doc Baiman sighed. “Same bit of troublesome DNA, I’m afraid. As soon as they get into combat, expect to see the same problems develop.”
“Dammit.”
Baiman shut off the holo. She leaned forward in her chair until her face was at Pete’s level.
“Pete, the bird-likes were an early generation. The computer simulations couldn’t possibly have predicted how the morphology would stand up to the high stresses of combat. This is bad news, sure, but it’s great feedback data. I can work on the genetics for the next clutch, maybe solve this issue.”
“But that means you’re going to have to bring several new zygotes to maturity. Salton’s going to throw a fit when he sees the cost.”
Baiman sat back. “I already asked him, and he said no. He said we can’t afford it. Maybe you could talk to him for me?”
Maybe Pete would. Salton had to be smart with the team’s money, but if there weren’t new mounts coming up, there wouldn’t be a team. It was rather short-sighted of Salton to not invest in the raptors. Fans were waiting for the trike, for sure, but after that, they wanted raptors. Raptors would put butts in the seats and move merchandise.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Pete said.
A high-pitched chirp broke the silence. Pete turned toward the large pen on the lab’s far side. He walked from Doc’s workstation and toward the polycarbonite holding area. A pair of tiny yellow eyes stared at him from the darkness.
“That’s a good girl, Boomerang” Pete said. He touched a pad on the side of the large crate. The area illuminated slowly. The tiny austroraptor sat on her haunches, head cocked. Fluffy, downy orange feathers made the infant look more like an oversized chicken than a deadly predator. She chirped again, her mouth snapping and shutting with a click.
“Good girl.” Pete touched another pad on the crate and the top lifted up. The infant dino leaped into the air. Pete caught her by the base of the tail and just behind the forelimbs. The dino chirped repeatedly and nipped at his sleeves.
“Now, now,” he whispered. “Be nice.”
He cradled her and then lifted. Her long neck landed atop his shoulder. She uttered a high-pitched growl and then lay still and silent.
Baiman stared with an expression that was half bemusement, half disbelief.
“Not sure why you do that, Pete.”
“Do what?”
“Treat them like a feline or a canine. They’re not, you know.”
He nodded. “They are to me. Aren’t you, Boomerang?”
The dinosaur squeaked.
“She’s heavier,” Pete said.
Doc Baiman nodded. “She’s adding mass faster than any of the other austros. She’s third-gen. I told you, Pete, the more zygotes I bring to term, the better I get at this.”
Pete cuddled the fluffy, twenty-kilo raptor. Only two weeks out of the simulated egg, growing like a weed. She rubbed the side of her long face against his chest, leaving bits of orange down behind with every stroke.
“She certainly seems to like sentients more than her sisters did at this age,” Pete said.
“Perhaps I finally managed to correct that particular defect.”
Pete could only hope. Boomerang was at least two years away from being able to compete, but if there was hope the austroraptor line could be a steady part of the roster, Salton would be less hesitant to spend more money — the Leader hated risk.
“Pete, you’re going to leave her here with me, right? We don’t want another Dingo incident.”
Pete shivered. Dingo hadn’t much larger than Boomerang when they introduced her to the other austroraptors. Dingo hadn’t survived five minutes. Foster and Sydney had sniffed at her, circled her, and then — before anyone could react, or even realized a reaction was necessary — Sydney had eaten her. Pete still heard the tiny thing’s screams in his nightmares.
“Boomer will stay here,” Pete said. “At least until she’s bigger than Bushy was when we introduced her.”
Baiman seemed to relax. “That’s good to hear. I’m surprised Boomer is so calm, what with all the attention she’s already had today.”
Pete looked up. “What attention?”
“Ian and Salton,” Doc Baiman said.
Something about that made Pete nervous, suspicious.
“They came together?”
She shook her head. “No. Ian was here early this morning. He examined her. Asked a lot of questions.”
“Like what?”
“Like how long it would take for her to get to full maturity.”
Pete wasn’t sure if that was a good sign, or a bad one. Ian knew full well it would be years before he could ride Boomer, if Ian was even allowed to make that decision. Did that mean the moody kid thought the team would be his in a couple of years?
“What about Salton?”
Doc started to talk, then stopped. She activated her holo again, started playing with the mock-up of Dusty’s skeleton.
“You’ll have to ask him that,” she said. “He’s my boss, Pete, you’re not.”
Pete nodded, kissed Boomerang on the neck, and placed her back in the pen. She squeaked at him. He hit the pad and the pen closed. Another hit, and the light went down as well.
“Sleep, little one,” he whispered.
He thanked Baiman, then they went through the usual dance — Pete asked if she’d come by his place after hours for a drink, Baiman politely said no, asked him why he didn’t offer Dar the same, and Pete reminded Baiman that he was old enough to be Dar’s father. Same thing every time, but someday, maybe, Pete hoped Baiman would dispense with the script and just say yes. She was a serious woman, and three times Pete’s size, but so smart.
Once he left the compound, he couldn’t avoid the thought that lurked at the back of his mind. Salton never came to the bioengineering compound. Why had he this time?
What did the team owner want with the cuddly little austroraptor?
• • •
They had finished riding practice for the afternoon. That meant the dinos were finished, but not their riders.
Despite the strange day and the shifty attitudes of Ian and Salton, Pete was feeling much more optimistic than he had when he’d seen Baiman’s scans. Maybe Yar was untested, but the Xiongguanlong was fast, agile and ferocious — and seemed to have an instant connection with Dar.
Pete had tried Tony and Jared on Yar as well, but the male riders couldn’t make Yar react with enough speed. Every command they gave, Yar seemed to think it over before acting. With Dar, on the other hand, the tyrannosauroid reacted instantly. They might really be a pair to be reckoned with. Pete didn’t know if it was Dar’s attitude, something about her female voice, hell, even something unique in the way she smelled. Whatever the reason, the duo had quickly overcome their earlier difficulties and were starting to gel as a single unit.
Plus, Pete could already see the T-shirts, posters, and toys, some kind of crafty word play on the names. Yar & Dar. That would set visions of merch dollars to dancing in Salton’s head. Was it time to give Dar her chance?
Maybe, but not before Pete tried Ian with Yar. If Ian managed the mount well, that was the combo to use against the Resurrected. Dar would be crushed, but Ian was the better rider. Then again, Dar was a better listener — Ian’s ego caused problems, even got mounts killed, while Dar did
as she was told and stuck to the plan. In this situation, both riders had pros, both had cons. Pete would have to make a decision, though, and fast.
Pete walked through the Ranch’s main complex until he reached the gym. He entered, the smell of sweat vibrant and unmistakable.
Bright white light shined down on tension machines, free weights, and the spongy mat covering the back third of the floor. Ian was on a tensioner. The machine looked like a squat dragonfly. Lying prone on the bench, his legs pistoned forward and back while his arms swung from parallel to perpendicular. Sweat dripped off him in rivulets.
Clark was doing pull-ups from a high bar. There was no stool to get to the top — you had to leap for it. The team’s oldest member was shirtless; streams of sweat poured down his back. The pink and white scars crisscrossing his ebony body looked like tattoos.
Dar was spotting Jared’s pathetic attempts to deadlift 90 kilos.
“Stop being a whiny wuss and lift,” she yelled at the tech. The insult seemed to help — Jared’s lips pulled back from his teeth, and he screamed as veins and tendons bulged out from his neck. His arms shook as he slowly stood, little legs vibrating from effort. He lifted the barbell, stuck out his chest, then dropped it down.
Dar clapped him on the back. “Nice work!”
Pete said nothing. Everyone worked out with at least 110 kilos, didn’t just go for one rep. Jared’s strength, or lack thereof, had always been an issue.
Ian walked past Jared, looked at the bar, laughed and shook his head.
Pete saw the smile fade from both Jared and Dar. Sometimes, Ian could be a real ass.
Pete made his way to the mat. He reached its center, and stood straight. Eyes closed, he raised his arms over his head and arched his back. He held the pose for five seconds before slowly leaning down to touch his hands to the spongy surface. After a few beats he squatted and then raised himself, arms falling to his sides.
He repeated the pose. After five repetitions, he opened his eyes and ran forward. He threw his arms outward and cartwheeled across the mat toward the wall that held racks of practice weapons. With a few meters of space to spare, he leaped into the air, twisted, and then landed on his feet.
Clark hung from the pull-up bar, shaking his head.
“You’re a rotten bastard for being able to still do that, Pete!”
Pete ignored him. He raised his arms up and ran forward again. He flipped in the air, landed, continued his sprint. He repeated the move three times before stopping.
He dropped prone to the floor, placed his hands on the mat, then slowly, so slowly, raised his legs up into a hand-stand. Pete then lifted his right hand, his slightly trembling left arm the only thing keeping him up.
Someone dropped next to him. Pete looked, slowly, so as not to lose his balance — Ian, attempting the same one-armed handstand. The kid’s arm shook more than Pete’s, but to Pete’s amazement, Ian successfully copied the move.
“Nice,” Pete said, trying and failing to make his voice sound like something other than a grunty man doing a one-armed handstand. “Now let’s ... up the difficulty.”
Pete bent his arm, then thrust his body upward, kicking his legs to help get some lift. He didn’t go that far up, just enough to move his left arm to the side and drop his right hand onto the mat. He wobbled for a moment, but didn’t fall.
Ian’s eyes widened in frustration and amazement.
“Impressive,” he said in his own grunty voice. “Not bad for ... for an old man.”
Pete’s right arm screamed at him to stop. The muscles burned. He almost lost his balance — his quick adjustment made something pop in his back. Pete grunted, now dealing with a new kind of pain, a sharper, insistent pain, but he kept his one-armed balance. He had to: he couldn’t let Ian win.
Sweat poured down the kid’s neck, onto his face, into his hair and onto the mat. He bent his elbow, preparing to copy Pete’s arm-switch. Before Ian could launch himself up, his arm started shaking, and in seconds it gave out completely. He dropped in an awkward heap.
Pete let his body fall forward into a neat roll that brought him to his feet, his back reminding him what a dumb-ass — what an old and beat-up dumb-ass — he was, but he kept his face expressionless.
A single person clapped. Clark, who had dropped down from the pull-up bar. Dar joined in, then Jared, then even Stikz, who had just entered.
Sadly, applause wasn’t a cure for a screaming back.
Ian looked at them all with hateful eyes, but that glare didn’t last — he realized, as did Pete, that the team was clapping for both of them.
Breathing hard, still sweating (the sweat flowing down, now, not up), Ian took a theatrical bow.
Pete was torn: half of him wanted to punch the young little bastard right in the nose, and the other part was impressed Ian could do something — almost do something — that only Pete could do.
“All right, enough of this love-fest,” Pete said. “Time for combat training. Hey, where the hell is Tony?”
The others looked at one another, but said nothing. Pete shook his head.
“All right, fine,” he said. “I’ll deal with Tony later. Right now, Dar and Clark, pugil sticks, let’s go.”
Clark groaned. Clark groaned at everything. Pete didn’t yell at him: groaning was what men their age usually did. Still, Clark walked to a rack and grabbed a pugil — a round stick as long as he was tall, with red padding on the ends and the middle, leaving space only for his hands to grip. Dar sprinted to the rack. She grabbed a blue-padded pugil and stood there, her whole body shaking, her eyes wide with excitement.
“Dar, you okay?” Pete said. “Need to go take a number-one first so you don’t pee yourself?”
Her face turned red, but she laughed. “I’m okay, Cap.”
“Good, get on the mat. Stikz? You and Jared continue to suck at hand-to-hand. You guys take the other end of the mat. First to three hits wins, Ian judges. The loser runs until I get tired of thinking about it.”
Jared made a whiney face. “Come on, Cap. I’m already tired of thinking about me running.”
“And I’m tired of thinking of you dying,” Pete said. “You know this improves your combat reactions. Don’t want to run? Then beat the crap out of Stikz.”
“That’ll be the day,” Stikz said as he twirled a green-padded pugil. Stikz wasn’t good at many things, but he was good at this.
Pete turned to Dar and Clark.
“Clark, you ready?”
“Ayuh,” Clark said.
“Dar, are you ready?”
She was suddenly so rigid he could barely detect her nod.
Pete made a fist and shook it. “Then let’s get it on!”
He knew Dar would lose this match. Clark was older, sure, but he was stronger and more experienced. The point wasn’t to see if Dar could beat him, it was to see how she handled the fight, to see if she showed improvement from last time. Pete wanted to win the match against the Resurrected, wanted it bad, but he wasn’t going to put Dar in the lineup unless she could defend herself.
Clark side-stepped in a slow semicircle, his left leg dragging a bit. Dar matched him. The older man shot with surprising speed, a straight thrust. Dar didn’t react fast enough, didn’t react at all, really, and Clark’s padded pugil slammed into her right shoulder.
“Point, Clark,” Pete said. “Come on, Dar, you’re not standing in molasses. Move your damn feet!”
“You watched my eyes,” Clark said. “I know I’m pretty, but watch my chest. Stare at my sternum, you’ll see the arms and legs move and know where I’m going.”
Pete shook his head. “Watching his eyes, Dar? Really? Bush-league. You’re better than that. Ready? Fight!”
Clark was kind to her: he tried the exact same move. This time, Dar turned her right shoulder away right before contact and was already bringing the end of her pugil up in a vicious left arc as she did — the padded end slammed into the side of Clark’s head, knocking the old man off his feet.
/> “Point, Dar,” Pete said.
Pete knew she was in trouble. She had just pissed off Clark, and that was a bad thing to do. But she had learned, and learned fast. Now it was Pete who had to control his excitement — after three years of training this girl, she was almost ready.
Clark stood up slowly. “That’s how it’s going to be? All right, then.”
Pete raised his fist. “Fight!”
Clark started to circle, but Dar didn’t wait — she shot in with a short lunge. Clark stepped back, surprised, batted it aside, but Dar was already swinging the other end. Instead of going high, she went low. Clark couldn’t bring his end down fast enough to stop her padded weapon from hitting him in the thigh.
“Point, Dar,” Pete said. “Two-one, Dar.”
Clark’s eyes narrowed. Pete tried not to laugh. Dar had surprised everyone, but now Clark was serious.
“Fight!”
Clark won the next two points convincingly, catching Dar in the stomach with one, and right in the mouth with the other, hitting her hard enough to split her lip. Pete watched her reaction. She wasn’t smiling and laughing, she was pissed as hell that she’d lost. Without the competitive fire, there was no point in armoring up in the first place — a real rider had to hate to lose, at anything.
“Winner, Clark,” Pete said.
He turned to see who’d won the other match, but Jared — bleeding from the nose and holding his ear — was already jogging to the door.
“Dar, go with him,” Pete said. “I’ll let you bleeders know when to stop.”
She cursed quietly and followed Jared out.
Pete heard a trio of squeaks, then heard Dar cursing at the compys.
“How about you and me, old man?”
Pete turned to see Ian, smiling, holding the green pugil in his hands. It was a warm smile, but one that didn’t reach his eyes. The kid wanted payback.
“Not today,” Pete said.
“Why not? Scared of the younger, faster opponent?”
“Sure,” Pete said. “But that’s not why we won’t spar today.”
“How come?”
“Because I need you against the Resurrected. And if we spar, you can’t ride for me if you’re in the hospital.”
