THE RIDER (Galactic Football League Novellas Book 4)

by Scott Sigler

  He set the glasses on the desktop, but before he could pour, Guestford put her manicured hand on top of them.

  “I told you I’m in charge of suspensions and fines,” she said. “No suspensions for Bess, but there are repercussions. Ten million of them, in fact.”

  The light orange faded from Salton’s eye.

  “Ten million,” he said. “You are fining me ten million credits?”

  Guestford removed her hand from the glasses. She gently took the bottle and poured three drinks.

  “That’s right,” she said. “How else do you think I can get the Resurrected’s ownership to go along with no suspension? You have to pay for their next mount.”

  Salton pointed a pedipalp finger at Pete.

  “He’s the one who killed the mount. Fine him.”

  Guestford set the bottle on the table. She pushed a glass across the desk to Salton, then handed one to Pete, and took the third for herself.

  “Salton,” she said, “if you want Bess to play next week in Loppu, then you need to pay that fine.”

  “I do not have that kind of money,” Salton said, and for the first time, Pete wondered if he saw a trace of pink swirl across the Leader’s cornea. Pink, the color of fear.

  Guestford smoothed a hand over her skirt.

  “Honestly, Salton, you’re not thinking ahead. If you make the tournament, your franchise gets the tourney bonus, which just so happens to be ten million credits. All you have to do next week is beat Loppu, and the ten mil is a wash. Pay the damn fine, win, finish the season, and your problems are over.”

  She raised her glass. “To the future of Dinolition.” She knocked back the entire glass of gin like it was a shot of some candy-flavored liquor. If that was how things were done at the top, Pete didn’t mind; he knocked his back as well, felt the burn of it going down — Junkie Gin was absolute swill. He thumped the glass on Salton’s desk.

  “I need time,” Salton said. “Ten million ... too much, too soon.”

  Guestford gently set her glass on the desktop.

  “Come on, Salton, it’s only cash flow,” she said. “Three more weeks and that ten million will be a drop in the bucket, right?”

  She walked past Pete, letting her fingertips trail up his shoulder as she headed for the door.

  “Make it happen, Salton,” Guestford said. “The deal is ours to dictate if all the teams are happy, and right now the Resurrected are not happy. They get that money, it will be enough to make this blow over. Everyone wins.”

  She held her hand near her nose, rubbed her thumb against the tip of her pointer and ring fingers. Pete saw a gleam of wetness reflect the lights above — her fingertips were wet with his sweat.

  “I’ll be seeing you, Pete,” she said. She turned and walked out of the office.

  Pete had thought Guestford didn’t want him because he was small. That wasn’t it at all: she hadn’t wanted him because he wasn’t her kind, wasn’t the famous kind. The funny thing was, if that was what it took for her to want him, he wasn’t sure that he wanted her anymore.

  “Ten million,” Salton said. “Ten million.”

  Something told Pete this was the wrong time to ask for new armor. He thought of trying to console the Leader, but the fact was that Pete didn’t like him at all, and consoling was something you only did for friends.

  Then, something on the desk caught Pete’s eye.

  Not the time to ask for new armor, no, but Salton should have provided for his mounts and riders long ago.

  Pete handed the still-full glass of gin to the Leader.

  “Take a drink, boss,” Pete said. “In fact, maybe you should take several.

  A trembling pedipalp hand took the glass, raised it to the Leader’s vertical mouth. Salton took a sip.

  “Oh, come on, boss,” Pete said. “Toss that back like a man ... I mean, like a Leader.”

  Salton was so overwhelmed he didn’t bother to argue. He drank the glass. Pete poured him another. Then another.

  Five glasses and thirty minutes later, Salton slumped back in his office chair. His big eyelid closed over his big eye. And when it did, Pete did what he had to do.

  “Get some rest, Boss,” he said. “It will all be better tomorrow.”

  With that, Pete walked out of the office.

  “Maybe not better for you,” he mumbled as he headed for the stadium exit. “But definitely for Ol’ Bess.”

  • • •

  The bar rang with raucous noise. Sentients wearing Ridgebacks’ gear danced, drank, and shouted. Fortunately, most knew to leave Pete alone. Except for the occasional organized cheers for him and Bess, and a few thumbprint requests, he’d been able to drink in peace.

  He probably should have had some kind of security with him, but he just wanted a few minutes to himself. He believed the two terrorists had acted alone: one was dead, the other was in jail, so there was no more threat. At least for now ... if Dinolition continued to grow, there would be more attention, could be more danger. Combine that with Guestford’s claim that Pete’s celebrity status was about to blow up, and maybe nights like this — going to the bar, alone, having a bourbon or three — were numbered. He wanted to enjoy it while he still could.

  Pete had left the other riders to pack up the gear. He’d join them in an hour or so for the march back to Ranch Ridgeback. The local cops would escort them, making sure there was no trouble.

  Charlie the bartender came over, tapped the empty shot glass resting on the bar in front of Pete.

  “Can I get you another?”

  Charlie sounded funny. Pete looked up at him. Charlie didn’t look quite right. For a moment, Pete started counting the drinks he’d had, wondering if he’d had more than he realized. Then, he understood why Charlie didn’t look quite right.

  Because it wasn’t Charlie.

  Same long, red beard. Same portly stature. Same hair. But the eyes, the eyes were different.

  “Who the hell are you? Have you been waiting on me all this time?”

  Charlie-Not-Charlie smiled. “I have. Looks like you’ve got a lot on your mind. How about another shot? I think you’ll like this vintage.”

  Horribly confused, Pete simply nodded.

  The bartender produced a new shot glass from beneath the bar. He poured a finger’s worth, set the bottle down, then rested his elbows on the bar and leaned close.

  “The name is Frederico Esteban Giuseppe Gonzaga,” Charlie-Not-Charlie said. “But you can call me Fred.”

  John Tweedy’s guy.

  “You got the message?”

  Fred smiled. “Can’t put one past you, can we?”

  “Where’s Charlie?”

  “Taking a break,” Fred said. “A paid break. You paid for it, by the way. Did John mention my day-rate and that you pay all expenses?”

  Pete cringed inside. He should have asked about rates before sending that message. This guy had come all the way from Ionath?

  “Do I want to know what this is going to cost me?”

  Fred shrugged. “Depends on if you want to barf up your drinks all over this bar.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “Then you don’t want to know.”

  Pete sighed. He drained the shot.

  “What’s with the disguise?”

  “There’s a few people that aren’t too fond of me,” Fred said. “Which is weird, because even in this crazy beard I look damn good. Now, do we want to chat about my looks all day, or are you ready to hear what I found out about your little visitors?”

  Pete tapped his shot glass, nodded.

  Fred filled it.

  “The Warrior is a small-timer, nothing to worry about,” he said. “Just a thug for hire. The other two, though—” he pointed to the glass “—you might want to knock that one back as well.”

  Pete did as he was told. The liquor burned going down.

  “Kewellen, the Creterakian, he works for Tee-Ah-Nok, the Ki,” Fred said. “Tee-Ah-Nok represents one Anna Villani. Know who she
is?”

  Pete rested his face in his hands.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I’m a football fan. I know who she is.”

  Anna Villani. The fact that she was the hottest crime lord in the galaxy didn’t change the fact that she was a gangster. She owned the OS1 Orbiting Death. She probably owned most of OS1 itself, for that matter. The city of Madderch, at least, was firmly under her control.

  “Dinolition is small potatoes for her,” Pete said. “Why does she want in?”

  Fred shrugged. “Villani loves money and power. She must be bullish on Dinolition’s future. That’s my guess, and guesses are free. Do you want me to find out for sure?”

  “No,” Pete said. “Whatever this cost me right here? That’s enough.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Tee-Ah-Nok was Villani’s lackey. Salton had been talking to that lackey about selling Bess, maybe even selling the entire team. Villani had taken over the OS1 Orbiting Death when original owner Sikka the Death died courtesy of a shuttle flying into his office. That showed what Villani was capable of — if she wanted something, nothing was off-limits.

  “This is bad,” Pete said.

  “It is. Be careful in what choice you make from here on out. John says he likes you. If anything happens to you, John will be sad. You ever seen a sad John Tweedy?”

  Pete shook his head.

  “It’s awful,” Fred said. “There is a lot of crying. The kind that involves wailing and dripping snot. Best to avoid. I have a little more info if you want to hear it.”

  “Go ahead,” Pete said. “It can’t get any worse.”

  Fred laughed. “You’re cute. Two more things. First, I found out she’s looking to field a mixed-race, mixed-fauna team.”

  “No one has a mixed-fauna team.”

  “That’s probably why she wants to be the first,” Fred said. “More marketable to multiple systems, maybe. It’s worked well for the GFL. Villani knows the sports business better than I do.”

  It made sense to Pete. At least as much as anything could make sense: the liquor was starting to hit home.

  “You said you had two things. What was the other?”

  Fred tapped the empty shot glass. “There’s a little holocube in the bottom of this. Tap it three times on the bar, look inside. Watch closely, because it will erase after it plays.”

  “What are you, an intergalactic spy or something?”

  “Just someone who wants to stay off Villani’s radar,” Fred said. “The undying love and attention of one GFL owner is plenty for me.” He slid a data cube across the bar. “That has a movie of a horse in it. Boring as hell. If you ever need my services again, just watch it, and I’ll find you. Got it?”

  Pete nodded. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Fred said. “Now, for the movie that matters. Go ahead, watch.”

  Pete tapped the glass three times, set it flat, leaned close and peered inside with one eye. A low-res holo played: a nice house, one in the better part of Roughland. Did Pete recognize that house? Hard to tell with the image so small. Tee-Ah-Nok and Kewellen walked up to the door, the thuggish Quyth Warrior with them. Villani’s crew. Then, the door opened, and Pete knew why the house had seemed familiar: he’d been there before.

  “Ian. Goddamit.”

  The dwarf smiled and stood aside, letting the Ki, the Creterakian and the Warrior enter.

  The door shut. The image faded.

  “Can I get you another?”

  Pete looked up at Fred ... only it wasn’t Fred. It was Charlie again. The actual Charlie.

  “Where’s Fr ... where’s the other guy?”

  Charlie shrugged, spoke quietly as he toweled off the bar top. “Gone. You won’t be seeing him again. He said you’re going to get an invoice from a public relations firm. He suggests you pay it, promptly. Another shot?”

  Pete looked at the glass. Another would be nice; one more, though, and he’d be drunk. Villani, Salton’s dirty dealings, Purist Nation terrorists, Ian’s underhanded behavior ... maybe staying sober was the best choice.

  “I’ve had enough, thanks.”

  Charlie laughed. “Since when?”

  “Since tonight,” Pete said. “Give me a water.”

  Charlie did as he was asked, putting a mug of water in front of Pete.

  “I don’t normally bother you,” the bartender said, “but you okay? Our, uh ... our mutual friend, he seems like serious business. You okay with him? Or are those idiots with the poison meat getting to you?”

  Pete sipped the cold water. It cooled his throat and somewhat staunched the fire roiling in his belly. His small fingers thrummed on the wooden bar.

  “I’m fine. They’ve been dealt with.”

  “Bess survive all right?”

  She had. Her opponent had not. What would happen if Pete lost control of her, lost total control, and the T-Rex’s primitive instincts made her turn on the other Ridgeback mounts, maybe even the riders.

  “She did,” Pete said. “Doesn’t she always?”

  “Guess she does at that. I don’t know what you’re down about, then. You hung a trey on an undefeated team, and your new girl rode like a champ today.”

  Hung a trey, Dinolition slang for a three-to-nothing shutout.

  Pete nodded.

  “Yeah, Dar surprised me. She’s going to be one hell of a rider.”

  Charlie made a sound that was halfway between a mmm-hmm and a yummy noise.

  “She’s a hell of a looker, too,” he said.

  “Right.” Pete glared up at the large man. “I’m sure you’d have to find some interesting positions to make that work. And that’s the novelty of it, right?”

  A blush rose to the red-bearded man’s cheeks. “Woah, Pete, I didn’t mean ... ”

  The look on Charlie’s face made Pete instantly regret his words. Part of Pete still lived in the past and would never escape it, a past where little people — especially women — were novelties for normal-sized adults with money and curiosity. Sometimes it was still strange to hear that someone was attracted to a little person not as a freak, but as one human being to another.

  Pete sighed. “I’m sorry, Charlie. I shouldn’t have said that. Just had a bad day, is all.”

  A pursed-lip nod told Pete that all was forgiven.

  “Screw the water,” Pete said. “Give me another bourbon. Leave the bottle.”

  The bartender refilled Pete’s shot glass, set the half-full bottle next to it.

  Pete picked up the glass and stared into the golden liquid. In the glass’s reflection he saw a Quyth Warrior standing behind him. Even from the tiny image, Pete recognized the sentient. Overwhelmed was no longer the word for how he felt. Drowning or suffocating might be better.

  This was most definitely not good.

  Pete slammed the drink and placed the shot glass upon the bar.

  “What do I owe you, Charlie?”

  Charlie’s face had gone pale. His eyes were fixed on a point over Pete’s head.

  “Uh ... that one’s on the house, Pete. Bottle, too. I gotta go wait on the other customers.”

  With that, Charlie scooted off to smile at other patrons.

  Pete spun in his chair to face the Warrior. The sentient was huge, as in, GFL-huge. Pete had watched enough Krakens broadcasts to know this one on sight.

  First the terrorists, then the news of Villani, and now this? Pete wondered if it was possible for his day to get any worse.

  “Virak the Mean,” Pete said. “Come for my thumbprint?”

  Pete made his words slur slightly. Better to let the Warrior think he was drunk, better to be underestimated. While John Tweedy might come to Roughland for a social visit, Pete doubted Virak was here to watch Dinolition matches. Virak was a star football player, true, but the GFL wasn’t in season and the Warrior’s main job was that of personal bodyguard to Gredok the Splithead — one of the galaxy’s most notorious and dangerous gangsters.

  “Your thumbprint,” Virak said. “I am not i
nterested in the thumbprint of someone from a fifth-tier sport. My shamakath would like a word with you.”

  Pete patted the empty bar stool next to him. “Well, tell him to come on in, sit down, and I will buy him all the gin he wants.”

  “Come with me, or I will drag you out of here,” the Warrior said.

  Pete smiled. “I’d kind of like to see you try.” He gestured to the rest of the bar. At least a dozen people were staring at him and Virak at that very moment. “I’m a bit of a celebrity here, big guy. You try anything and you’re in for a mob beating.”

  Virak’s eye swirled with thin threads of black.

  “You are making this difficult,” he said.

  Pete shrugged. “Then make it easy. Have your shamakath come on in and sit down.”

  “It involves Salton,” Virak said. “My shamakath thinks it is information that is in your best interest to know.”

  Pete felt a chill swirl through his chest. Salton and his money troubles ... was Gredok involved? Pete had never met Gredok, and as far as he knew hadn’t done anything to offend the gangster. It was dangerous to go with Virak, but Pete wanted to know Salton’s connection to Gredok.

  He grabbed the bottle and slid off the stool.

  “All right, big fella,” Pete said. “Take me to your Leader.”

  • • •

  Outside the bar, Roughland’s night crowd moved up and down the sidewalks, hopping from place to place. Cowboy hats and jeans were so prevalent they might as well have been a uniform. People saw Pete, recognized him. Some started toward him, probably seeking a thumbprint or a photo, but Virak’s practiced scowl kept everyone away.

  The Warrior led Pete down the street to a parked limo with a HeavyG driver waiting patiently by the vehicle’s back door.

  “In there,” Virak said.

  Pete recognized the limo — it was the same one he’d seen Tony get out of a few nights earlier.

  Things were going from bad to worse.

  Pete hesitated. Once inside that limo, out of sight of the crowd, anything could happen. It was stupid to go in there and talk to a gangster, but gangsters were all about money, and since Salton didn’t seem to have any, Pete had to know if Salton was in Gredok’s debt.