by Scott Sigler
“A word, boss?”
Salton was still freaked out. Traces of pink and curls of black twisted and writhed on his cornea. He wasn’t even bothering to hide his emotions anymore.
“I want to go to my hotel,” the Leader said. “If you have something to say, make it fast.”
Pete nodded. He didn’t know when he might get Salton alone again.
“Tell me what’s going on,” Pete said. “I want the truth, all of it, and I want it now.”
The Quyth leader smoothed his fur. “I don’t appreciate your tone.”
“I don’t care. How much do you owe Gredok?”
The pink and black gave way to dark red, the color of surprise.
“I don’t owe Gredok anything.”
“Stop lying,” Pete said. “Gredok spoke to me — directly.”
Salton’s eye turned pink. “What?”
“His thug linebacker came to me,” Pete said. “I was told to throw tomorrow’s match.”
“You can’t do that,” Salton said, his words rushed, urgent. “If we win we get into the post-season tournament and get the league bonus. That will be enough to pay the interest on the ...”
Salton’s voice trailed off. He finally got control of himself. He straightened. His cornea went clear.
Pete had spent enough time with the Leader over the last few years to know something about his demeanor. Salton wanted to confide in Pete ... wanted to, but could not.
“The Ridgebacks are financially sound,” he said. “That is all you need to know. Whatever Gredok told you is a lie. This was just a random act of violence.”
“That hitter wasn’t here to kill you,” Pete said. “He was here to kill Miller, to send you a message that next time, you would be the target unless you pay what you owe. I can’t help you if you don’t—”
“You are just a rider, Pete,” Salton said. “You may be the league’s superstar, but you are only a rider. You can’t help anyone, least of all me. I will tell you this. If you win tomorrow, I have enough cashflow to get us through to the advance from the upcoming network deal. When that comes in, everything will be fine.”
Clear cornea, no ruffled fur, but Pete knew the Leader was lying.
“Gredok wouldn’t send a message like that unless you owed a lot,” Pete said. “To pay the off the loan, you’re going to need more than that bonus, aren’t you.”
A statement, not a question.
Salton started for the door. “Enough of this. You are an employee, you will—“
Pete grabbed the Leader, threw him into the still-closed door.
“The bonus is only part of what you need,” Pete said, leaning in close. “Are you going to sell Bess to Anna Villani?”
Salton’s cornea flooded dark red. The shootout and the death of his bodyguard had shaken him, obliterated his ability to control his emotions.
“Let me go,” the Leader said. “Please.”
His voice sounded weak. He was broken. A sentient who had failed at every level, who was willing to do anything and everything to hold onto his team until the big network money came in. And that was the problem: Salton was the owner, and it was his prerogative to sell Bess, to do whatever it took to keep his franchise.
Pete was powerless to stop any of it.
He let go.
Salton quickly opened the door and scurried away.
• • •
Pete had yet to submit his mount weight-sheet. He had to do so two hours before the match. An hour still to go before he had to turn it in, and he’d be damned if he would tip his hand a moment before he had to.
Normally, he picked his mounts based on the opposition’s various phenotypes, then paired his riders with those mounts. Today, however, he didn’t have that luxury. Tony was gone. Clark was still in the hospital. Jared wasn’t close to being ready for a real match. Stikz had spent the day either sleeping or throwing up, courtesy of a concussion. Pete told the kid to get over it and suit the hell up, but when he did Baiman had overheard, and she’d all but dropped-kicked Pete even harder than he’d drop-kicked that Ki assassin.
Other than himself, Pete was down to just two riders.
Those riders stood with him in the otherwise empty locker room, armor chipped and battered from a season’s worth of abuse but freshly cleaned and strapped on tight.
“Dar, this is your moment,” Pete said. “I need you to excel today. You will excel today.”
She nodded. If that teenage girl was still hiding in there, she was nowhere to be seen. Pete had given Dar an impossible task, a staggering opportunity, and she had embraced it heart and soul.
“I won’t fail you, Cap,” she said. Her jaw muscles twitched. She had the hard eyes of a seasoned veteran, a rider with no false pretenses. “I’m ready.”
Pete nodded. He hoped Dar was right.
He turned to the second rider. Pete didn’t want to use him, but Pete had no choice.
“Dar has a hard job, Ian, but not as hard as yours,” Pete said. “Are you in it to win it? Are you going to be there for your team and your teammates?”
The implied question: will you play to win, or are you going to backstab me for Villani so we don’t make the tournament, so you can steal my Bess and go start a new team?
Ian had the same hard eyes as Dar, but where she was a mask of seriousness, he grinned.
“I am, Cap,” he said. He banged an armored fist against his armored chest. “You should know by now that when I suit up in crimson, I play for keeps.”
Ian’s implied answer: if you open up your damn eyes and judge me by what I’ve done on the pitch, you wouldn’t have any doubts.
“Balls to the wall,” Pete said.
Ian nodded. “Balls to the wall.”
“I’m offended,” Dar said. “Please forgive me if I play hard despite not being cursed with testicles.”
Ian laughed. Pete tried not to do the same, but Dar’s overly serious face while cracking a joke was too much for him.
And just like that, the tension broke. Pete had cast his lot. All that remained was to play the game.
He knew the cards were stacked against the Ridgebacks. To get what he wanted, what he deserved, he needed to do two things. The first? He wanted the Dinolition championship, and to do that, he had to beat the Ogres and make the tournament. The second? That was even more dangerous, but it would have to wait until this match was over.
“Let’s go,” he said. “Time to show those Ogres what we’re made of.”
Together, they headed for the stables.
• • •
The cavernous tunnel to the pitch gave Bess plenty of head room. Unlike Smithwick’s Stadium, Bess was able to turn herself around if needed. At the Ridgebacks’ home field, once Bess was in the tunnel, the idea of her turning around was a joke. Again, it was clear Loppu Stadium had been designed specifically for the sport. Perhaps in a decade, all Dinolition stadiums would be like this one. New stadiums, new cities, new teams ... once the network deal came through, so much was possible.
But for now, that didn’t matter.
Out in the stadium, the crowd roared for blood. Sixty-eight thousand. A sell-out. It didn’t matter that the Ogres were 5-6, completely out of the playoff tournament picture — the locals adored their team. That, and Loppu bent over backwards to bring in tourist dollars. Cheap flights, cheap food, cheap lodging and legal gambling made it easy for thousands of sentients to come and see an actual Tyrannosaurus Rex do battle on the pitch.
Pete took a moment to collect himself. He adjusted his balance in the saddle. If he screwed this up, it would be the last time he rode Bess. The last time he went into battle with his friend. People could say whatever the hell they wanted about dinosaur intelligence, what the dinos could and could not process, whether Humans thinking an animal loved them back were deluded ... all of those people could burn in hell as far as Pete was concerned. Because Bess wasn’t just his mount.
She wasn’t just his friend.
She was his best
friend.
Pete’s parents: a mystery. The people who’d raised him, who had turned him into a circus freak, who had made him fight to the death just to stay alive: they had seen him as nothing more than a paycheck. His friends: he loved them, but you couldn’t trust sentient beings — Tony had shown that.
But Bess? She’d never let him down. She loved him as much as he loved her.
Pete disconnected an armored glove, pulled his hand free. He leaned forward in the saddle, reached through the eyehole in Bess’s helmet. His fingertips stroked the feathers above her eye.
Her eyelids narrowed in pleasure. She purred, a sound most people would think of as a deep growl, but he knew better. He’d once cradled a much younger bess in his arms. He’d fed her, kept her warm, sat up with her when she’d gotten sick and not even Baiman had known if the dino would live through the night.
Pete switched off his comm: he didn’t need his teammates to hear what was for Bess’s ears alone.
“I don’t know if you can really understand what I say, old girl, but I need you to get me. If we lose today, they’ll take you away from me. I can’t stop them. I need you to be the best. You and I, we step out there, and together, we go to war. You get me, girl?”
The eyes shifted. They narrowed further. This time, Pete sensed that wasn’t because of the petting.
Bess turned her massive head to the left. One eye glared out from the armor, locked on Pete.
In that heavy, frozen moment, Pete knew — he knew — that she had understood him.
Bess let out a snort.
Pete nodded. “Hell yes, girl,” he said. “Hell yes.”
He pulled his glove back on as Commissioner Guestford announced the riders.
“Normally, we announce her last, but today, we have a special surprise for you!”
The crowd roared back. They were worked up. Word had gotten out and they couldn’t wait.
Rachel Guestford stood on the hover platform at center-pitch. The largest holotank Pete had ever seen was directly above her, showing her iridescent-green, floor-length dress that she’d complemented with an armored chest plate of bright gold. Gold bracelets dangled, gold earrings swung, and a thin gold crown on her head caught the afternoon sun. She looked like a goddess of war. In truth, that’s exactly what she was.
“Beings of all ages, let me introduce your visiting team, the Roughland Ridgebacks. First up, the team captain, riding everyone’s favorite mount, I give you, Poughkeepsie Pete and Bess!”
Before Pete could urge her forward, Bess shot out of the gate and jogged to the quarter-line. She reared high, let out a roar that would have blown Pete’s ears if not for his helmet’s protection. Bess turned in a slow circle, seeming to soak up the crowd’s adoration.
“And now, the next Ridgebacks pair. He’s had an amazing season, and she makes her Dinolition debut. Sentients, give it up for Ian and Syyyyydneeeeeyyyyy!”
The difference in size between Bess and Sydney was downright comical. Bess weighed in at a 6,400 kilos and change: the ‘raptor at 226. Sydney wasn’t big, but she was long, she was lean, and she was lethal. Pete hated the idea of putting her into play, because she was just as likely to attack Ian as she was the opposition. But Ian swore he could ride her, and Sydney was the only one small enough to fill out the roster and keep the weight at under 10,000 kilos — because that day, Bess wasn’t the only biggun’ riding for Roughland.
Ian ran the raptor out, showing off Sydney’s speed. Then he steered her beneath Bess and did a pair of tight figure-8s around Bess’s legs.
“Ian, sit still,” Pete said.
“Jealous,” the younger rider called back, but he pulled on the reins and settled Sydney to a stop.
“And now, you lucky few get to be here for something that hasn’t happened in sixty-five million years!”
Guestford was fanning the flames, cranking the crowd into sheer madness. Yes, this was special. For the rest of their lives, every one of these sixty-eight thousand sentients could say they were there when it happened.
“For the first time since primordial Earth gave rise to a race of monsters, for the first time in sixty-five million years, and for the first time in the history of Dinolition, I present to you an actual living, breathing, fighting TRICERATOPS, ridden by the newest rising star in our sport — here comes Dar, riding Jerry!”
The trike rushed out of the tunnel’s darkness, and the crowd lost its mind. Despite the stakes of this match, Pete couldn’t help but be taken away by the spectacle. Dar, riding high and confident, lance pointed straight up. And Jerry, gleaming in brand-new, ad-free armor that had yet to suffer a single battle scratch.
Jerry was still young enough to pull this off. At a bit over 3,300 kilos, he and Bess could run together and stay under the 10,000-kilo limit. That was why Pete went with Sydney, the team’s smallest mount. This time Jerry made the limit, sure, but next season? He would weigh closer to 4,000 kilos, maybe 4,500. Baiman said he might top out at 5,250. At that time, Jerry and Bess couldn’t run together. For now, however, they could, and Pete prayed it would work out.
Two rookie mounts in the year’s biggest match? The desperate choice of a desperate man.
Dar guided the trike out. Jerry veered left; she brought him back inline. He did the same to the right. His big, armored head twitched from side to side.
Such a sight. If the triceratops lived through this day, he’d soon have his own sponsors.
“Dar, how’s he doing?”
“He’s fine.” Her words came out as a grunt. Pete watched her yank the reins hard, straightening Jerry out again and urging him to join his two dino teammates at the quarter-line.
“Get him under control,” Ian said. “Do I have to dismount and take care of it for you?”
“Screw you, Ian,” Pete and Dar said simultaneously.
Ian laughed. Riding a raptor that could turn on him at any moment, and he was laughing. Pete felt that twinge of jealously again: Ian Bahas was fearless. Just like Pete had once been.
Dar finally brought Jerry to the quarterline. Ian looked completely relaxed in Sydney’s saddle. He sat there, looking at Dar/Jerry and shaking his head.
“All right, kiddies,” Pete said. “Keep your mounts under control, it’s time for the home team to show what they’re bringing to the table.”
Guestford called the Ogres to their quarterline. First came the team captain Shaban Mwinyi, his armor jet-black and glossy, riding his silver-and-blue-armored Andrewsarchus, Andy. Andy’s DNA roots came from the biggest mammalian predator to ev er walk the Earth. Just over 900 kilos, 3.6 meters long, 2 meters high at the shoulder — where its body was the thickest — Andy would easily dominate any re-created lions or tigers. And that head: squat and long, full of thick teeth. Shabanandy, as the rider/mount were known, were extremely popular in the sport. Not Pete-and-Bess popular, but Shabanandy sold plenty of shirts and stuffed toys.
Next came Ariel McCoy and her hovercar-sized mound of round, Crazy Jake. Ariel was the league’s smallest Human rider, and that was saying something. Her mount, a Glyptodon with a severe attitude problem, was armored enough to begin with before the plates of silver and blue were strapped on. Fully dressed for battle, Crazy Jake looked like a 2,000-kilo half-dome with legs. Ariel rode on his back curve, legs straight and feet planted, more strapped in than riding in a saddle. From back there she couldn’t work a lance or a club. Instead, she opted for a three-meter whip that ended in a stubby mace. Pete had scouted her extensively. She had a flair for the dramatic, sometimes coming out of her rig to climb up on the crest of Crazy Jake’s armor, riding the Glyptodon like a surfboard as she picked out targets with her whip. Jake was big and tough but not that mobile. He wasn’t much of a threat, but out of all the Ogres, Ariel was the most dangerous rider by far.
Guestford introduced the next two rider/mount combos. Brain, ridden by Hattie Halford, and Pinky, ridden by a boy barely out of his teens that simply went by the single name “Hermano.” Hattie and Hermano were
stark-raging bug-nuts crazy. They had to be to ride Rhumkorrf proactors, beasts that made raptors look damn near harmless by comparison. Rumor around the league was Pinky had attacked his first rider — the armor had turtled, but Pinky had used powerful arms and long claws and strong teeth to tear at the armor, pry it open enough for Brain to stick her thick head in and rip the rider apart. Since then, apparently, the Ogres owner — Jofri Wyndham — had invested in better armor. And in guards armed with high-powered stun guns.
Pete didn’t know much about proactors, other than that they were the first prehistoric creatures acquired by Wyndham. The technology used to create the R. proactors had been lost for centuries, apparently. Once rediscovered and modernized, that tech proved to be the cornerstone for developing the team’s other mammalian mounts.
Brain and Pinky weighed in at 405 kilos each, and almost all of that weight was up front in the arms, huge shoulders and triangular head. They had unique teardrop-shaped bodies, thick ribs angling in toward narrow hips that anchored powerful rear legs. Encased in silver and blue armor, the Proactors were the Ogre’s speedsters and yet their mouth was wide enough to bite Sydney clean in half. A strange shape, a strange animal, yet the strangest thing about them was the yellowish dorsal fin they could flip up or down at will. A big spine connected to the base of their skull ran the length of their body. A fold of skin ran from the bottom of that spine to the creatures’ backs. Their armor was specifically made to let the spine flip in and out. The creatures used it as a form of communication: out on the pitch, they worked as a disciplined pair. Hattie and Hermano rode side-saddle rigs — both on the left side — that didn’t encumber the proactor sail-fins.
Last but definitely not least came the Ogres’ big-hitter, the beast that would take Bess on head-to-head: Wee Bob. Standing 3.5 meters at the shoulder, 13 meters long, the mammoth weighed in at a staggering 6,213 kilos. Bob was a shambling mountain of armor-covered flesh and bone. If he got up a head of steam and hit Bess head-on, she would go down, without question. As big and strong as Bob was, though, his real threats came from his trunk and his tusks. Wee Bob’s rider — Bocephus Aslanov, had a knack for maneuvering in close to large mounts and guiding Bob to use that trunk to attack the opposing rider. Pete wasn’t that worried, though. As long as the game Dismount didn’t wheel-up, Bess was Wee Bob’s superior in size, speed and strength.
