by Scott Sigler
The Warrior bristled at this, flexed his muscular, chitin-covered middle arms. Whether it was for show or a natural reaction, Pete didn’t know, but the effect was the same either way. The Warrior’s middle hand moved to the waistband of his simple gray pants, landed on the handle of a semi-automatic pistol and stayed there.
“I find your local customs rather prudent,” the Warrior said. “One can never be too careful.”
Pete sighed. He’d chosen wrong. The blackjack in his back pocket now made him feel stupid.
“Come on in,” he said, and stood aside.
Tee-Ah-Nok scuttled through the door, surprising Pete by taking the time to wipe each of his six shoes on the welcome mat.
The Warrior started to follow him in, but Pete stepped in front to block the Quyth’s path.
“Not you,” Pete said. “No guns in my house.”
The Warrior looked down at him, then over him to the weapons case.
“And that pistol I see, is that a Smith and Wesson?”
Pete smiled. “It is.”
“But no guns in your house?”
“I know the owner,” Pete said. “I got a special exemption.”
He slammed the door in the Warrior’s face.
“House, deadbolt,” Pete said. The internal bar slid home with and click.
The Warrior started hammering on the door, hard enough to rattle it in the frame. Pete turned his back to the door and attended to his guests.
He pulled the blackjack out of his back pocket and lightly slapped it against an open palm, tapping out an imposing rhythm.
“So, what’s so important it couldn’t wait until business hours?”
The Ki hadn’t batted an eye at three compys, but perhaps it understood that Pete — while also small — was not some mischievous reptile. Pete fought dinosaurs for a living. Fans of the sport knew how dangerous he could be, which, he assumed, was why Tee-Ah-Nok had brought Warrior muscle. But that Warrior muscle was now safely locked outside.
Tee-Ah-Nok mumbled something.
“The most-polite Tee-Ah-Nok would like to get down to business,” Kewellen said. “He requests that you put away the weapon.”
Well, if they were going to ask so nicely ...
Pete walked back to the weapons case and hung the blackjack in its slot.
He returned, held up his hands, showing both palms and the backs as if he’d just performed a magic trick.
“Nothing up my sleeves,” he said. “Now, I’m tired, so say what you’ve got to say.”
“Tee-Ah-Nok’s employer is looking to purchase a league franchise,” the Creterakian said.
“I see. That’s sort of being an investor, I guess. Although sort of not.”
“Money is money,” Kewellen said. “And there is a substantial amount in it for you.”
“Me? I have influence on the league, but franchises aren’t mine to sell.”
“Tee-Ah-Nok doesn’t want to buy a franchise from you,” the Creterakian said. “His employer will buy from the league — he wants you to lead the new team. We would like to terminate your agreement with Salton the Grimy so you can come work for us. Get the franchise off the ground, recruit riders, select mounts, oversee our creation and breeding processes. You lead the franchise until you retire, at which time you will have created an organization designed for long-term success.”
Pete stared. They were trying to poach him from the Ridgebacks? No one had tried to do that before.
“I’m flattered,” he said. “But I’ve already built a franchise from the ground up. And besides, I’m under contract.”
“The contract has several clauses that would allow you to leave the team,” Kewellen said. “Primarily, one concerning the Ridgebacks’ financial stability. If the team is not profitable by year five — this is year five, and the team is not profitable — you can become a free agent.”
Pete sighed. First Davenport, now this joker? Thanks to the damn League of Planets tax code, his contract details were, apparently, available to anyone.
Truth was, though, Pete had forgotten about that particular clause. He’d had it put in because he hadn’t fully trusted Salton’s business acumen. He hadn’t wanted to spend his brief career locked into a franchise that couldn’t win.
“And there are two other clauses that make you a free agent,” the Creterakian said. “One is if the team changes ownership.”
Would Salton sell? Was that what this was about? Pete’s instincts still said no way, the Leader loved the Ridgebacks as much as Pete did.
“Where did you get your four hands on my contract, Tee-Ah-Nok?”
“That does not matter,” Kewellen said. “What does matter is the final clause that would let you out of your contract.”
“Which is?”
“If the T-Rex is sold, you are allowed to negotiate a contract with her new owner.”
Anger flared up, made Pete’s eyes narrow, made his face feel hot. That was another part of his deal he’d forgotten. He shouldn’t be angry at Tee-Ah-Nok for citing what was in a contract Pete had negotiated seven years earlier, and yet that’s exactly what Pete was.
“Salton won’t sell the team,” Pete said. “And no way he’d sell Bess, especially if he’d lose me in the process.”
The Creterakian sprang off the Ki’s shoulder, flapped around the living room and settled on top of Pete’s holotank.
“Salton the Grimy is in deep financial trouble,” Kewellen said. “Didn’t he tell you that?”
Salton hadn’t, not in words, but the pieces had been there and Pete should have seen them. Docking Ian’s pay to save a few credits. Denying Baiman the money to start new raptor zygotes. The obsessive fixation on maintaining equipment, because there wasn’t a budget for new gear.
And, of course, the fact that Salton had been showing these two scumbags the complex, the lab. Was Salton offering to sell Ridgeback genetic codes? Tech? And — the thought made Pete simultaneously furious and sick to his stomach — was he offering to sell Bess?
“So many questions you must have,” Kewellen said. “What the benevolent and also handsome Tee-Ah-Nok wants you to think about, Pete, is if your loyalty is to the Ridgebacks or to your mount. The new owner will double your salary. You are quite famous for being the only T-Rex rider in the league. There is no reason that can’t continue.”
Double his salary? While still riding Bess? That was a hell of an offer, true, but there were proper ways to conduct such negotiations. Coming in the wee hours wasn’t one of them.
“Enough of this,” Pete said. “I have one question that matters, and you’re going to answer it, right now. Who does Tee-Ah-Nok represent?”
“Not your concern,” the Creterakian said.
Pete had assumed that would be the answer. Even before Kewellen said the word your, Pete had already turned toward the weapons case. His visitors fell silent as he removed the war hammer.
Pete stared at Tee-Ah-Nok, patting the hammer’s business end repeatedly into his left palm, the same pattern he’d tapped with the blackjack. The only sound in the room came from the Warrior’s continued banging on the door.
“Tee-Ah-Nok, you’re horrible at hiring bodyguards,” Pete said. “He’s out there, and you’re in here. With me.”
The Creterakian flapped back to the Ki’s shoulder.
“Don’t be stupid, Pete,” Kewellen said. “Who are you to threaten violence? We came to talk business.”
Pete shrugged. “Just so you know, Kewellen, I’ll start with you. One shot ought to do it. Knock you out of the air, at least, so I can put another one on you to shut you the hell up. Then I’ll go to town on Tee-Ah-Piece-Ah-Garbage, here. So if you want to talk business, then talk business, before I change the subject to my other favorite topic — pain.”
He took a step forward.
A gunshot made everyone flinch. Thin smoke rose up from a hole the front door, a hole right about where the deadbolt went. Another gunshot, another hole.
Pete sprinted for the
weapons case as a third shot rang out. He grabbed his chrome revolver, knelt and aimed it at the door just as that door was kicked, hard. The door swung inward and slammed against the wall, a piece of the ruined deadbolt hitting the floor and ringing like a cracked, skidding bell. The Warrior rushed in, gun in his pedipalp hand, aiming into the room.
Unfortunately for him, aiming high.
“Drop it,” Pete said.
Horribly exposed, gun pointing at nothing but his bosses, the Warrior froze. The only thing that moved was his baseball-sized eye, which looked down at Pete.
Pete thumbed back the hammer, hoping the loud click would shake away any thoughts the Warrior had of seeing who was faster.
The Warrior complied nicely, stooping slowly to set his weapon on the floor.
Pete stood.
“All of you, get the hell out of my house. I see any of you here again, I shoot first, listen to your jibber-jab later.”
Tee-Ah-Nok scurried out the door, Kewellen flapping along with him.
The Warrior pointed to his weapon. “Can I pick that up now?”
“Nope,” Pete said. “You ruined my door lock, so I’ll keep it. But if I see you again, I’ll be happy to share a little piece of it with you. Namely, a bullet.”
The Warrior’s eye threaded with black, but also a few curls of pink. He believed Pete would put him down. And he was right to believe that.
Pete tilted his head toward the door. “Now get.”
The Warrior left.
Pete kept an eye on him as he kicked the door closed. The door slammed, then slowly opened again. The Warrior had blown the internal deadbolt.
“House, storm shields,” Pete said.
The house computer answered, a nice female voice filtering out from the speaker film that lined the ceiling.
“There is no foul weather in the forecast, Mister Poughkeepsie.”
“Different kind of foul. Do it.”
“Right away,” the computer said.
Out the front door, metal sheeting rose up from recessed slots. Out here in the Wastes, storms could get pretty bad. Most houses had some form of storm shield. Pete had spent a pretty penny on his. The fact that his house would be encased in steel was a benefit he never thought he’d have to use for anything other than a tornado. Just in case the Warrior wanted to come back later, though, it would keep him out as well. Pete would be able to sleep soundly.
Salton and money troubles. That was not good. Selling Bess? Unthinkable. And whoever this “investor” was, he or she didn’t play by the normal rules of business. That meant one thing: organized crime. Maybe Tony wasn’t the only one who would have to deal with crooks.
Pete had to find out who it was. But what did he know about gangsters and such? He didn’t know a damn thing about that.
But ... he knew someone who did.
Or, rather, he knew a guy who knew a guy ...
“House, compose a message to John Tweedy.”
“Yes, Mister Poughkeepsie. Ready when you are.”
Pete walked back into the living room. He set the pistol on a side table, then eased himself into the chiro-chair. It had heated up while he’d been playing the good host, and felt amazing. The articulated fingers immediately went to work adjusting his back, digging in so deep they made him wince.
There was a small pop; that screwdriver pain eased by half, and kept fading.
Finally able to relax, Pete started dictating his message to his “biggest” fan.
• • •
Two days’ worth of ruts and divots covered the practice field. Great clumps of dirt and shredded grass spread from one end to the other. Bess stood tall in the center of the pitch. Ian and Tony stood next to the tyrannosaur, their mounts — Ian’s achillobator, Bucky, and Tony’s beishanlong, Dusty — were resting, completely relaxed at the foot of a creature that would have, 65 million years earlier, instantly eaten them.
From his vantage point atop Bess, Pete watched as Yar, ridden by Dar, and Missy, ridden by Critter Clark, ran side-by-side along the fence line, the two bipeds moving counter-clockwise, Yar just off Missy’s right shoulder. Dar and Clark were smashing at each other with wooden clubs, their armor flashing with each impact.
Clark barked a command; Missy tucked her feathered right arm tight against her body and shouldered hard into Yar with an impact that made both bodies shudder. On contact, Clark landed an elbow on Dar’s head.
Dar leaned left and pulled on Yar’s reins, turning the shorter, denser xiongguanlong away into a wide circle.
Clark holstered his club and drew his two-meter practice lance from its saddle sheath. Dar finished her turn and did the same.
Both dinos stopped, their chests heaving from exertion. Pete would have to end practice after the next pass, for fear of overworking the animals, but Clark had followed Pete’s orders and forced a joust. Pete needed to see how Dar — now exhausted and beaten from the constant attacks of first Ian and then Tony — would hold up with the weapon that took the most concentration of all.
Maybe Pete had expected Dar to sit back and wait, but if he had, she proved him instantly wrong. She spurred her mount — the 450-kilo xiongguanlong opened its mouth and roared as Dar urged it forward. She held her lance in her right hand, her left clutching the reins.
Most of the Ridgeback mounts were bipeds. While all of those strode on two legs, there was a wide variety of body types: some skinny and long, some squat and thick, some with big heads that could handle collisions and some with heads that evoked the birds that had descended from creatures like these. Of all the mounts, Pete thought Yar’s body was the most like Bess’s — only quite a bit smaller. The head was thinner, and the arms were longer in proportion to the body, but other than that if the sun was in your eyes you might mistake a xiongguanlong for an adolescent T-Rex.
Little Dar’s saddle sat at the base of the Yar’s neck. In full armor she weighed only 60 kilos, a perfect fit with Yar to create a fast, strong, compact duo. Yar’s long legs and big feet kicked up clumps of torn grass and scattered back a rain of dirt as Dar leaned forward, lance parallel to the ground.
Clark launched Missy forward. Pete guessed Critter would would rely on greater speed, trying to juke Yar one way or another so he could get the advantage.
At Bess’s feet, Ian took off his helmet, swung it in a big circle as he whooped encouragement to them both — for all the games riders had to master, everyone loved a head-to-head showdown, a fascination, perhaps, that went back over a thousand years to when ancient Humans did the same thing on horseback.
Clark closed and Pete thought he might angle left or right, try to break Yar’s momentum, but to Pete’s surprise the older rider kept Missy moving forward in a straight line.
At the collision point, Missy moved right, turning her head far away from Yar’s open, gaping, tooth-filled maw. Clark expertly shifted his body weight to lean left, timing the tip of his lance to hit Dar just before he had to shift right again to stay on his mount. An excellent move, full of grace and balance that would seem more at home in a rider half Clark’s age — but Dar’s own move topped it.
She slid to the side, left knee bent deep, right foot out of the stirrup, spur dug into her own saddle. Clark’s lance hissed through empty air while her lance-tip — angled slightly up from her lowered position — shattered against Clark’s shoulder in a spray of wooden splinters and enamel paint.
Clark rocked backward, but stayed in his saddle. He ordered Missy to slow, and the mount obeyed.
Both riders guided their mounts to stop at Bess’s feet. Pete eased out of the saddle, slid on his armored butt along Bess’s back to her hip, then down her leg to the ground.
Ian laughed and clapped.
“Nicely done, Dar!”
She dismounted and took off her helmet. Her face was aglow with accomplishment and surprise.
“I got him! I can’t believe I got him!”
Clark tossed his helmet aside. He was trying to scowl, but failing miserably at
it, unable to keep a smile of pride off his wrinkled face.
“Yeah, you got me,” he said. “Where did you learn to drop side-saddle like that?”
She shrugged. “I have no idea. It just happened.”
Dar really was coming into her own, and she was a natural, doing things she didn’t know she was doing. Pete figured it wouldn’t be long until she was the number-three rider on the team.
“All right, that’s enough for today,” he said. “Everyone hit the showers.”
The riders led their mounts to their respective pens.
“Not you, Tony,” Pete said.
Tony stopped. His eyebrows raised.
“Ian,” Pete called, “would you mind taking Dusty to her pen for Tony?”
Ian looked at Pete, then at Tony, then Ian actually smirked. Pete wanted to punch him in the nose, but Ian took the reins from Tony and led two dinosaurs — snorting and twitching — away from the practice field.
Pete waited until the others were out of earshot.
“Tony, what’s going on with you?”
The white skinned man licked his lips. “Don’t know what you mean.”
“You’re riding like a rookie,” Pete said. “You’re skipping gym. You’re tired, unfocused and unmotivated.”
Tony shrugged. “I told you. I’m just tired of this.”
“Tired of what?”
Tony flung his helmet to the ground. It bounced and rolled near a mound of stool.
“This, Pete. I’m tired of this!” He turned around and gestured to the paddocks. “The constant smell of dino crap? The endless study? The broken ribs and dislocated shoulders? Goddamn alien creatures trying to kill me?” His silver colored eyes grew hazy. “And after all that, I go home every night to that crappy hovel Salton rents for me — which he lords over us, thinking he’s given us some kind of palace. I’m not making enough for this.”
“Yet you’re always well dressed, and always able to afford the nightlife.”
“Oh, screw you,” Tony said. “I barely make enough for some clothes and a couple of nights a week of real living. And you? You sit there and collect your checks for all those damned signs on your suit. You make more than the rest of the team combined. Maybe if you’d give up some of your salary, the rest of us wouldn’t live in a dump.”
