THE RIDER (Galactic Football League Novellas Book 4)

by Scott Sigler

  He slid the muzzle onto Sydney’s long mouth. Slowly, confidently, cooing softly the whole time, Ian fastened it tight — that removed one of Sydney’s weapons, at least.

  “Good girl,” Ian said, patting her feathered neck. “Keep behaving, and I’ll find you a nice stray cat to eat.”

  He led her out of the pen and down the ramp. Sydney now seemed as docile as Yar and Missy had been.

  Pete stepped out of the pen and watched. Clark stood on his right, Baiman on his left.

  “Did you see that?” Clark asked.

  Pete nodded.

  “I can’t believe it,” Doc said. “Either that boy has balls of steel, or he’s dumber than two broken rocks.”

  Pete wanted to believe her. That would make his own damaged ego feel better, but he’d learned long ago not to ignore what his eyes showed him.

  “He’s not stupid,” Pete said. “He’s just that good.”

  Any one of the dinos could easily kill a rider any time they liked. It was the risk of doing business. Patience, skill, understanding and — above all, confidence — were the keys to controlling the animals. Ian wasn’t just a rider, though; he was what Pete thought of as a “wrangler,” a person who could handle even the most dangerous mounts.

  One half of Pete was proud. Damn proud. The other half was bitter, even jealous. He was the wrangler on this team, not some snot-nosed rich kid half his age.

  Turning from Sydney’s pen, Pete walked to the port side and looked in at Bess. She was motionless except for the constant rise and fall of her chest. The stim program had ended. Her limbs were still.

  When it came to waking up, Bess wasn’t quite as bad as her smaller relative but she was still dangerous. One swipe with her mouth or taloned hands could cut a sentient to pieces. No matter the precautions they took, if Bess really wanted to, she could almost certainly destroy the entire cargo hold, her rider included.

  “Doc, let’s get her going.”

  “You want to muzzle her first?” Baiman said.

  Pete glanced at Bess’s huge muzzle hanging on the outside of the pen, so large it would take him, Critter and Doc to put it on. Then he thought of the way Ian had fearlessly controlled a dangerous situation with an animal almost thirty times smaller than Bess.

  “No, she’ll be fine,” Pete said. “She’s used to it.”

  Baiman sighed in annoyance. “Goddamn arrogant riders, you’re all the same.”

  “Hey,” Critter said. “I’ll have you know I’m not like those two. I’m all sensitive and stuff. You should come to my room tonight so I can read you some of my poetry.”

  Baiman shook her head as she worked the control panel on the stall door.

  “Yeah, right. You and Pete together still wouldn’t weigh as much as my last date. Keep trying, Romeo.”

  “Oh, I will,” Critter said.

  It only took a few seconds for Bess to wake. She blinked sleepily. When she did that, Pete couldn’t help but think of her as the world’s biggest puppy. The massive animal slowly rose to her feet, shaking off the sleep.

  Pete stepped into the pen.

  “You ready, girl?”

  She lowered her head and grazed his shoulder. Maybe Ian could manage dangerous mounts, sure, but this connection with Bess ... that was Pete’s alone. It went a long way to making him feel better about being shown up by someone he’d considered kicking off the squad not all that long ago.

  Pete had always respected the raptor’s danger, sure, but that flash of pure fear? That was new. Five years ago, he wouldn’t have felt that. The strange thing about getting older was that the less life he had in front of him, the more he appreciated what was left, the more he dreaded the moment when the sand ran out.

  Pete had always been good with animals. In the Galactic Circus, the pygmies made extra money by helping muck out the animals’ stalls. During that time, Pete had watched how trainers bonded with their animals. When Salton had started Dinolition, Pete had spent months studying old documentaries and texts about animal training and bonding. As far as he was concerned, knowing how to make friends with the animals was as important to the sport as riding them.

  Maybe Ian had finally figured out the same thing.

  “Snuggly time is over,” Doc said. “Stikz and Jared just messaged. The feed checks out, as does the water supply. They boys say you won’t believe the facility. Sounds like they have everything you could possibly want.”

  Pete doubted that, because what he wanted — suddenly, pettily, and intensely — was to be ten years younger, to be free of the aches and pains, the lagging injuries, and, most of all, to be fearless again.

  • • •

  “High One,” Pete said. “If this is the visitor’s locker room, I can only imagine what the home lockers are like.”

  Everywhere he and the Ridgebacks looked, the room sparkled with finery and newness: brushed-steel lockers painted in light blue and silver, the Ogres team colors; benches of real wood, gleaming with thick lacquer free of cracks or chips; holotanks in every corner, and up high as well, above the lockers, to make sure you were never far from the latest highlights; signs above each locker that showed each rider’s publicity image and name.

  For a moment, Pete felt lost. Where was the peeling paint? The rust? The broken bits and pieces he’d seen in every stadium he’d visited, the most beat-up of which was his own home field?

  “Money,” Critter said. “It’s a wonderful thing, ain’t it?”

  Pete nodded. “That it is.”

  He’d taken Bess to the visitor stables, and been shocked to see that everything was new and of the highest quality. Doc Baiman was still there, delighted at equipment much newer than anything she possessed back on Rodina. Pete had been impressed, sure, but had assumed that Loppu put their money where it mattered: on the mounts, on the focal point of what made Dinolition so special. But to spend just as much — if not more — on the visitor’s locker room?

  Standing at his locker, Ian laughed at Pete and Critter.

  “You bumpkins,” he said. “What, you’ve never been in a place that doesn’t have dirt floors and outhouses?”

  Clark flipped him off. “Up yours, rich boy.”

  Ian shook his head, went back to stowing his gear.

  Dar walked around the locker room, gawking at everything, once again the wide-eyed teenager instead of a starting rider.

  “Never seen anything like it,” she said. “And this place was built just for the Ogres? Not for Loppu’s cricket team, or football or something?”

  Stikz was walking around, too, but using a handheld gadget to sweep for listening devices. He’d already done that once, but it never hurt to be sure.

  “Loppu doesn’t have a cricket team,” he said. “This place was built for Dinolition. That and concerts. I heard Trench Warfare was the first band to play here. Seventy-five thousand, sold out.”

  “Love that band,” Dar said.

  Ian huffed. “Pedestrian garbage. Try some classical, Dar, expand your mind a bit.”

  She flipped him off just as Critter had, but Ian had his back turned.

  Pete walked to his locker. Commissioner Guestford had praised Waypoint Stadium as a symbol for Dinolition’s growing success. Pete had been encouraged to hear such things, but he hadn’t really believed it. Until now. He’d spent his career as a rider playing in a stadium that was decades old, built for another sport entirely, and sometimes looked like it might collapse at any moment. He’d been there for the inaugural season — back then, to think the sport might grow to the point where entire stadiums were built specifically for Dinolition teams? Unthinkable.

  It was a testament to both Loppu’s growing power as a shipping center, and to the increasing marketability of the sport. Money was coming, no question about that anymore. The salaries were going to go up, and go up fast. Role players like Dar might soon make as much as today’s team leaders, like Pete. In ten years, what would riders make? In twenty? It was impossible to know. It made him feel bad for
guys like Critter. Critter’s career wouldn’t last into the big-money days. With the exception of Pete and maybe one or two other standouts, the riders who sacrificed to start the league would never see the financial benefit of their effort.

  Pete tossed his gear into his locker, where it thumped on the carpeted floor.

  “Jared, stow my stuff then come out to the stables,” Pete said. “Everyone else, let’s go get a warm up and see what the pitch is like. Stikz, I want the stables swept again, got it?”

  Stikz nodded. Pete headed for the door, but not before he caught Jared’s heavy sigh and eye roll. What did the kid think, that Dar was going to put Pete’s stuff away? Dar was a starter.

  “Let’s go,” Pete said. His team followed.

  • • •

  Bess’s big claws scraped at the hay covering the steel floor. She wanted to dig up packed dirt, as she had in every other stadium she’d visited. No dirt here though: every part of the stables gleamed with class and newness.

  Dusty and Bucky chirped while Clark sprayed them down with clean water. The grates built into the floor gurgled as dino guano, dead skin, and muck washed off them. Dar cooed to the pair, a smile on her face.

  Ian kept Sydney calm in the corner, awaiting her turn. His small hands stroked her neck and he whispered into her ear. Pete saw that Ian had put a stun collar on her, and reins as well, in addition to the muzzle. Just in case. Ian was clearly in control of the mount, but had taken extra precautions anyway. Smart.

  Pete filled the herbivore trough with feed. Jared had already checked the food, scanning for harmful bacteria, unexpected additives, and poisons.

  For the carnivores, it was a different story.

  In years’ past, Salton had shipped live prey animals — usually Rodina cattle — on a separate transport. This year, he’d informed Pete that such a practice was too expensive. Pete had been livid but couldn’t argue with him.

  Instead of living animals, Bess and Sydney would have to dine on whatever meat the Ogres saw fit to provide them with. Had the Ridgebacks been up against another dino-based team, Bess and company would have eaten from that teams feed herd. On Loppu was that wasn’t an option. When the meat came in, Jared would have to inspect every last bit of it.

  Clark and Dar finished with their mounts. They walked the dripping dinosaurs to the herbivore trough, where they joined Jerry in wolfing down the protein-enriched pellets.

  Ian led Sydney into the washing station.

  “Okay, girl,” he whispered. “You ready?”

  Sydney chirped, a surprisingly happy noise from an austroraptor. Pete felt another pang of envy: a raptor had never made that sound for him.

  Ian held up the spray gun and slowly pressed down the trigger. A wide jet of water flowed from the end of the metal tube and across Sydney’s flank. Her claws sprang out from her forelimbs and feet. She twisted away from the stream of water. With his free hand, Ian reached out and grabbed the reins. He tugged on them once, trying to pull Sydney’s head down, but the raptor planted and spun, yanking Ian off balance.

  Sydney saw him stumbling, wheeled on him.

  Pete sprinted in, halfway there before anyone else could even shout an alarm, positioning himself between Sydney and Ian before the raptor could close the distance.

  “Sydney, stay!”

  The raptor paused. Her leg muscles twitched, fluttered, as if she were preparing to leap high and come down with an arcing sickle-claw kick.

  Ian shouldered past Pete. He had the shock-collar controller in one hand, but instead of hitting the button, he reached out with his other hand and firmly grasped Sydney’s reins. Before she could pull, he looped the reins around his wrist and yanked down, hard, pulling her head lower. She planted her big feet and tried pull him off balance again, but this time he was ready for her, snapping the reins taught just as she started to lurch away. The motion threw her off, ruined her leverage. She tried the move a second time: Ian expertly ruined it again.

  Sydney squawked, confused.

  “Knock it off,” Ian said. He held up the controller. “Do you want me to use this?”

  The raptor’s eyes locked on the device. Instant recognition. Sydney’s head reared back one more time: Ian countered, snapping down on the reins. The raptor stilled, let out a heavy sigh that sounded all too human.

  “Good job,” Pete said. “You’ve got her now.”

  Ian wheeled, just as fast as the raptor had moments earlier.

  “I know I’ve got her. I didn’t need your help.”

  Pete leaned back, surprised. He’d thought they’d just showed good teamwork, but the selfish part of Ian lived on.

  “You were off-balance,” Pete said. “You couldn’t see it, but she—”

  “In the Ball & Chain, your fear almost got us killed,” Ian snapped. “You couldn’t control Sydney enough to make her part of the lineup, but I can, so how about you stay the hell out of my way?”

  Pete felt his face flush red. Yes, he’d been scared. He’d known it, Ian had known it, obviously, but the rest of the team hadn’t. Until now. Now they looked at him: Clark, Dar, Stikz, Baiman, even Jared, who had apparently finished stowing Pete’s gear.

  Pete held out a hand.

  “Give me the reins,” he said.

  Ian sneered, spoke quietly. “You’re just jealous that I could ride her in a match and you can’t.”

  “No one can ride Sydney.”

  “I can,” Ian said. “I can ride anything, and don’t you forget it.”

  Pete felt rage welling up inside of him. Had Ian just hinted that he could ride Bess? That he would ride Bess? Pete needed to end this, now, or Ian would wind up looking for his teeth in the wet straw.

  “The reins,” Pete said. “And the zapper. Get your ass to the locker room and stay there until I come get you.”

  Ian reared up to his full height: not much height at all, but just a touch taller than Pete.

  “What are you going to do, old man, send me to my room without supper?”

  “I’ll bench you,” Pete said. “How would that lie on your dinner plate?”

  Ian laughed. “Yeah, right. Bench me and we lose, we don’t make the tournament.”

  Pete glanced to his right. “Stikz, you ready to gear up?”

  Stikz’s eyes widened. He looked around, as if for help, shocked that he’d suddenly become part of this power struggle.

  “Uh, sure, cap ... I ... sure.”

  Ian looked at Stikz, then at Pete.

  “Last chance,” Pete said. “Do what I tell you, or you don’t ride.”

  A look of disbelief on Ian’s face, which morphed to barely contained frustration as he realized Pete wasn’t bluffing. He stepped close, whispered so low only Pete could hear.

  “You’d rather miss the tourney than admit I’m better than you? Really?”

  Pete leaned in even closer, until their foreheads touched.

  “My team,” he said. “You want to ride? You play by my rules. So what’s more important — your little ego, or your team?”

  Pete regretted the words as soon as they were out of his mouth. They were the right words, of course, only directed at the wrong person. He was the one protecting his ego. He knew it, but he’d drawn his line in the sand and — right or wrong — he would not back down.

  Ian’s rage faded into something even worse: disappointment.

  “Whatever you want, cap,” he said.

  He dropped the controller onto the deck, laid the reins across Pete’s outstretched hand, then stomped off toward the locker room.

  Pete stood there, mad at Ian for being Ian, mad at Sydney for being Sydney, and mad at himself for being himself.

  • • •

  The sounds of crunching and lip smacking filled the stables. Waypoint Stadium staff had unloaded a truckload of meat and piled the raw sides of cattle, sheep, and goat into a bin near Bess’s and Sydney’s pens. Jared scanned every last bit of it. The omnivores got a piece each, just to satisfy the craving they had at t
he smell of blood. Sydney got four pieces. Bess ate fifteen.

  Pete couldn’t shake his foul mood. He leaned against the pen wall, watching Sydney eat. When a carnivore dined, it was best to be as far away as possible. Doc may have engineered them and Pete may have trained them, but when it came to feeding time the raptors and the T-Rex still had instincts that were impossible to breed out.

  Giving Bess and other carnivores a wide berth when they fed was standard procedure. Pete had even made sure that the Dinolition League handbook contained the information. So far, no other team had had difficulties when feeding their mounts. At least none that had been reported.

  Sydney’s head was red with fresh blood. She dipped her head into the pile of meat, bit into a side of beef and shook. Ribs snapped. Meat flew. She readjusted what was left in her jaws, then gulped it down. Bits of flesh dangled from the sides of her mouth.

  Pete heard someone approach, stand next to him. He didn’t bother to look.

  “Such power,” Doc Baiman said. “And you still think of them as puppies.”

  “No I don’t,” Pete lied.

  “Sure you don’t, Pete. Sure you don’t.”

  They sat in silence for a moment, watching Sydney feed.

  “Stikz wants to see you,” Baiman said.

  “So why isn’t he here instead of you?”

  “Because he’s afraid of you. They all are. Everyone except Ian, it seems.”

  Pete shrugged. “Then maybe Ian needs to get with the program.”

  And maybe the reason Ian wasn’t afraid was because he had plans to ride for a new team next year. Maybe even plans to ride Bess for that new team. Pete would die before he’d let that happen.

  Then Baiman did something Pete would have relished at any other time, would have thought was an opening to get to know her better. But at that moment, it wasn’t about sex or even a hint of interest. It was about friendship.

  She put her arm around his shoulders.

  “Pete, can I give you some advice?”

  “Can you go piss off and die?”

  She hesitated. He wished he didn’t say things like that, but they just came out. The fact was he did want advice. He felt out of his element.