THE RIDER (Galactic Football League Novellas Book 4)

by Scott Sigler

  “I risk my life every match,” he said. He would resist Guestford’s request, even though he already knew he’d lose. “I work my ass off for this league. It’s all that I am. My past is mine.”

  She shook her head. “Not anymore, Pete. Welcome to the big-time. Privacy is a thing for little people.”

  “I am a little person.”

  “The other kind of little person,” Guestford said. “The non-famous people. You wanted to be a star and you got it. That comes with a cost.”

  There was no sympathy in her voice. Once upon a time, sentients had paid millions just to get a shot of Guestford without makeup, or perhaps naked in the comfort and privacy of her own home. Reporters had dug into her past, a past that was less than wholesome, and had talked to everyone she’d ever known, had bought information from those people — whether that information was true or not never seemed to matter, as long as it would attract viewers.

  “You’ll do the interview,” she said. “You’ll answer everything she asks. You blow this interview, or you clam up, and you can bet the media will continue to treat us like a gimmick for years. The tournament is coming up ... it could be our time to step out of the shadow of the GFL and other leagues.”

  Pete looked at his water bunny/Bess. The wet lines made no sense. He rubbed them out with his palm.

  “Fine,” he said. “I’ll do it.”

  Guestford nodded again. There was a solemnity to that nod, a bit of shared understanding: Pete was about to become part of her club, and she knew how hard that would be.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Now, let’s talk about your little temper tantrum after tonight’s match.”

  Pete closed his eyes. He’d forgotten about his initial dread over this meeting.

  “Things got out of hand,” he said. “That’s sports.”

  Guestford took a sip of her champagne, perfectly lipsticked lips delicately pressing the glass.

  “We’re building something classy here, Pete — you’re supposed to act like a knight of old, not some punk in a drunken bar fight.”

  Pete shrugged. “It was good theater. Like you always say, Commish ... the fans want a show.”

  “There are little people riding armored dinosaurs,” she said, the gravel in her voice revealing her anger. “That’s already a good show. Add in some gallantry and we’ve got a combination no other sport has — a visual spectacle that can’t be matched, and sentients with personalities that everyone can look up to. I won’t let this league become just another group of spoiled brats.”

  Pete controlled his reaction, made himself remember that Guestford wanted the same thing he did: for Dinolition to become as big as the GFL. He wasn’t sure why she wanted that, but he knew why he did — there were no real athletic opportunities for people his size, no way to be looked at as elite athletes and not as stunted curiosities. Dinolition changed that, and Guestford was the driving force making that happen.

  “Yopat killed Tumult,” Pete said. “Where I come from you don’t let something like that just slide. And that little Quyth Leader dingleberry went for Bess’s eyes. Someone had to teach him a lesson.”

  Her hand curled tight around the champagne flute’s thin stem.

  “In this league, I am the one that teaches lessons,” she said. “That’s my job. Your job is to make a great team and be the image of this league, an image I created for you and that you will follow.”

  “That’s not who I am.”

  “I don’t care.” She took and angry sip, this time not so delicate, leaving a lipstick smear on the glass. “You are who I say you are, Pete. We’re too close to success for your gutter-punk antics to turn the next big thing into a damn novelty act.”

  He’d had about enough of her attitude.

  “It’s too late to boss me around,” he said. “Like you said, I’m the face of this league, lady. I have to be myself, and if that means I’m the bad boy, so be it.”

  She set the flute down, stared at it, seemed to speak to it rather than him but there was no question as to the target of her calm, measured words.

  “I made you the face of the league,” she said. “I can make someone else the face just as easy. I don’t want to, because that will take time, something we don’t have a lot of right now. And you’ve got it — you’ve got that thing that can’t be taught. I believe that if you pull your head out of your ass, you are an intergalactic star waiting to explode. But you’re not the only one with it in this league, Pete. There are others — younger than you and on your own team, even — that I can turn into a star. Play the role you’ve been given and you’ll retire a rich man. Don’t play the role? Then I’ll teach you a lesson. Make your choice, Pete, but if you choose poorly, I hope you’ve still got your contacts in the Galactic Circus.”

  She stood and walked out of the bar, leaving Pete to stare at his drink.

  Hours earlier, he’d been riding a damn Tyrannosaurus Rex in front of tens of thousands of fans screaming his name, he’d been leading the Ridgebacks to a win and imposing his will on the other team. He’d been the king of the world. Now? He’d just been dressed down by a washed-up actress who could take it all away.

  He’d thought he was Billy Bad-Ass? No, Billy Bad-Ass had just left lipstick on a champagne flute, then walked out the door.

  “Sooooo,” he said to his beer. “Looks like no more fighting, then.”

  He turned in his chair and watched John Tweedy and Becca Montagne spinning across the dance floor.

  • • •

  He left the bar when his palm-up buzzed with a message from Baiman — Bess had made number-two, and Sabat the Nifty was free. Bess was fine, apparently, but Pete was still keyed up from the match and thought a final check on Ranch Ridgeback might calm him down enough to sleep. He said his goodbyes to John and Becca, then hailed a cab.

  Pete didn’t worry about running into Sabat. Baiman’s message said the Leader’s teammates had already collected him, and the Stompers ship was heading to the team’s training facility in the Newton web colony. While the team hailed from the Reef, the Reef itself was almost twenty-five punches away, a trip of about three weeks. The Stompers spent the season in League of Planets space, played their home games at Newton, and then, at season’s end, returned to the Reef. Pete didn’t understand the economics of it, and he didn’t care to.

  When the cab dropped him off at the ranch, Pete decided to start at the tack room. The team had become very savvy when it came to protecting the equipment, but Tony was sometimes slip-shod. As expected, Tony’s saddle was out of shape and barely hanging from the low wall hook.

  With a sigh, Pete removed it, lay it on the ground, and carefully wrapped the straps over the top. He locked them together and ran his hands over the firm, cracked leather.

  He shook his head. “Lazy, lazy, lazy.”

  Pete walked to the tack wall and retrieved a saddle brush. He pushed the button on the tubular handle. Translucent foam rushed into the bristles. He sat on the floor and rubbed the brush over the leather.

  The foam coated the cracks. He smiled as the material drank in the moisture. The color began to turn from a dull gray to a rich brown. It shined in the glow of the overhead lights.

  Pete placed the saddle back on its hook. He wouldn’t bother bringing it up to Tony tomorrow. Tony never listened, anyway, and Pete was just too exhausted to start another dust-up.

  He walked down the hall to the locker room. He placed his palm against the red and black surface of his locker; the door slid aside. Sure enough, someone had cleaned his armor and hung it up, nice and proper.

  Pete pulled out his heavy muck boots. In the daytime, he could see enough to avoid mud and stray piles of dino-poop, but at night, it was harder to spot such surprises. He pulled off his street boots, placed them in the locker, and slid his feet into the muck boots’ high leather. He palmed the locker once more and it slid shut.

  From a distance, he heard the sound of snorting followed by a flutter of chirps. He smiled. Sometimes
the Sisters could be a pain in his ass. Right now, a little of their troublemaking goofiness was just what he needed.

  A waist-high dinosaur peered at him from around the corner of the tack room. Big, black eyes gleamed under the room’s lights. Black and grey feathers covered its body, some of them sticking out at odd angles — the result of constant rough-housing, no doubt.

  “Melly? Are you stalking me?”

  The dino’s head disappeared back into the hall. Pete walked to the locker room’s entrance. He stayed just inside and waited. After a moment, a chorus of quiet chirps broke the silence. Pete put his foot across the threshold, holding tight to the frame and keeping the rest of his body behind the wall.

  The chirping chorus turned into three separate shrieks. Three skinny, meter-long dinos attacked his boot, tiny mouths biting at it and tiny claws scratching at it like it was the greatest prey they could ever bring down.

  Pete laughed at their intensity. He shook the boot, hard; two of the feathered little dinos fell to the floor, landing lightly on their feet like two-legged cats. One stayed clamped to the boot, left rear claw sunk into the leather, right rear claw kicking at air to keep balance. The little head reared back and bit at the boot’s top edge.

  “Ahhhh, ya got me!” Pete said. He lifted his knee higher, turned his foot in and up until he was looking the little killer right in the eyes. “You got me, Snortle.”

  Jaws still clamped on the boot, the procompsognathus gave off a cheek-puffing bark of victory.

  Pete kicked out sharply, launching the compy free from his boot. It landed effortlessly on its hind legs, then chirped at him.

  Melly and Chippy — the third member of the Sisters — rushed in, but Pete was done playing.

  “Enough of that, girls.”

  Snortle shuffled forward. Pete held out his hand. The compy brushed its feathered head against his skin and then turned and put one of his fingers between her jaws. She gently lowered her teeth, stopping as soon as she encountered his flesh. He pet the ridge between her eyes. The compy made a noise that could only be described as a long, satisfied purrrrr.

  He opened the door to the training ground. The compys darted through, little feathered blurs racing out into the darkness.

  Pete stepped out as well. The boot game was Snortle’s favorite. Melly and Chippy preferred ambush or chase. Five years after meeting them, Pete wasn’t certain how their hierarchy worked.

  Of all the species on the ranch, the compys were the most unpredictable. At times, they would curl up around one another and ignore sentients and other dinosaurs as if they didn’t exist. Other times, they would pester and follow until finally commanded not to. But even then, they’d return to start the cycle over again.

  As Pete walked across the training circle on the dew-moist grass toward the trike paddock, the compys circled him while they appeared to play a complicated version of tag. The small dinos had long, graceful necks and moved with surprising agility. Grass flew as Snortle and Melly tackled Chippy. Chippy leaped up, smacked Melly with a forelimb, and then Melly was being chased.

  Pete continued walking. A low snort stopped the compys in their tracks. They turned toward the other paddock. Snortle chirped. The snort reply was louder. The compys chirp choir sounded again and then the three were off back toward the main building. Pete didn’t bother to watch them go, as he knew they were up to trouble — some years past, the Sisters had figured out how to open doors, and things had never been the same since.

  Pete reached his destination. Light from the orange moon high above filtered through the clear roof, casting a warm glow on the large triceratops horns wavering in the air.

  “Hey, Bossie,” Pete said. “How you doing, old girl?”

  The head turned to the left so a single eye stared at him. Bossie wasn’t the most expressive of the dinos at the ranch.

  Pete slipped under the fence and walked up to her. From snout to tail, she was eight meters of flesh and bone. He patted her leathery, pale-green hide. If he stood on his tip-toes, Pete was at the same height as her beak-like mouth.

  She lowered her head and stared at him. Even in the dim light, her green eyes glittered. The long horns jutting from her head were inches from his face. The trike bowed her head and snorted. Pete bowed in turn. Bossie’s long tongue slithered out and touched his arm.

  “Good girl,” Pete whispered.

  Bossie backed up. Pete felt the micro-tremors as the huge dinosaur moved. She wasn’t as heavy as Bess, but when Bossie ran full-out, she made the ground shake. Trouble was, Bossie’s knees were bad. She couldn’t turn with a damn. That made her worthless as a mount, but thanks to Baiman’s work, Bossie had proved her worth in one other key category — as a mother.

  A slightly smaller shape moved up beside her. Pete smiled. Jerry, the juvie trike, walked toward him. Bossie snorted again, but didn’t move.

  Pete reached out a hand and Jerry licked it.

  “That’s my boy,” Pete said.

  He patted the trike’s frill, a hard, dense mass of bone covered with skin. It always felt strange, but that big, natural head-shield was warm to the touch.

  “Better get some rest, little Jerry. We’re back to training tomorrow.”

  Jerry tapped a foot on the ground three times. Pete cocked an eyebrow. Jerry had started doing that a few days ago. Pete wasn’t yet sure what it meant and he kept forgetting to ask Doc Baiman if she had any ideas.

  “Good boy,” Pete said.

  Bossie snorted again, louder this time, and her son crept back behind her.

  Pete should have been in bed. He knew that. A full match, the fight after, defending Ian against Salton, drinking and eating with John and Becca, then the dressing down at the hands of Guestford — he was exhausted. The death of Tumult, however, made him want to stay up, stay up and check on the future of the Ridgebacks.

  Jerry was a big part of the future. Bess was already a legend and put thousands of butts in the seats. There was something about the triceratops, though, that would bring in even more. That combination of T. Rex and triceratops, usually depicted as mortal enemies, had captured the attention of child and adult alike for centuries. To think of those two species on the same team? All gussied up in sparkling red and black armor? It made Pete’s skin bubble up with goosebumps. The fans would go wild.

  And the trike wasn’t just for show. Hell no, Jerry was fast, much faster than Pete had thought a trike could be. A low center of gravity gave Jerry surprising maneuverability, too. But most of all, he was squat, accelerated quickly and had plain old mass: when Jerry built up a head of steam, anything that got in his way — including Bess, even — was going to get knocked the hell over.

  Instead of crawling under the fence, this time, Pete ran at it, hit a middle rung with his right foot and bounced lightly to the top rail. He balanced there, walking along the rail for a few meters, arms stretched out on either side. Pete bent at the waist and switched to his hands, moving down the rail one palm after another, feet in the air above him.

  Moving like that reminded him of a simpler time, with the circus. Simpler, and more horrible. The way they’d treated him, like property, like he didn’t matter if he couldn’t make the audience laugh, or ohhh and ahhh, or wince in disgust when he killed something with his bare hands, tore off raw flesh and ate it. It had been a horrible way to live. And yet, at the same time, all he had to do was what he’d been told to do. No decisions to be made, no people to manage, no evaluating the pros and the cons. Would he ever go back? Hell no, not unless they shipped him there in a pine box and made his corpse part of the sideshow.

  Pete rolled into slow cartwheels on the top rail, thinking through his difficulties. So many decisions to make, but they were his decisions. He’d come too far in life, waded through rivers of crap, to give up control now. He’d helped build this, all of it. Dinolition was his as much as it was the owners’, as Guestford’s.

  He stopped cartwheeling, flipped backwards instead. He bounced into a full revers
e flip, landing on his feet and launching again, landing on his feet and launching again, this time springing off into a double-tuck before landing on both hands, body straight as a rail.

  Maybe his past sucked, but he’d keep the skills he’d learned there, thank you very much.

  He heard solid footsteps, but too late — something small slammed into his torso. Pete stumbled and then turned. A young austroraptor stared at him with bright, yellow eyes that lit up like flashlights. Orange feathers, half fuzzy-down and half the sleek adult versions, caught the moon’s orange light and glowed like neon.

  Pete glared at the dino. “One of these days, Bushy.”

  Two and a half meters long and just over a hundred kilos, the young raptor was already strong enough to crush him if she wanted to. Fortunately, she didn’t want to ... yet.

  Some of the dinosaurs could be considered cute (if you squinted your eyes and looked at them a certain way), but not the raptors. Not even Bushy, who was still in adolescence.

  “Damn little maniac,” Pete said. “Figured out how to get out of your pen again, did you?”

  That meant bringing in a new engineer to improve the fence. Another expense: Salton would be thrilled.

  “Bushy, pen.”

  The orange and orange-white feathers on her head fluffed up as her triangular head opened in a crocodile grin, then the feathers settled back down — but the dino didn’t move.

  Pete stamped his foot twice. The young raptor chirped, but still didn’t move. Pete glared at her and stamped his foot again. Bushy slowly lowered her head.

  “You know what you did,” Pete said. “Just because you can get out doesn’t mean you should. Bushy ... pen!”

  The raptor held his eyes for another moment, a moment where Pete saw the primitive, ruthless predator her ancestors had been, then the raptor blinked and looked away. The juvenile dino trembled, as if suddenly remembering who was boss. She squawked, then turned and walked toward her pen.

  “Better,” Pete said, following her.

  The raptor’s powerful, young legs carried her across the training circle to a pen that looked perfectly secure — and had fences twice as high as the others, save for that of Bess. Behind the fence bars, Pete saw two pair of yellow eyes watching him, narrowed eyes, the eyes of predators tracking prey. Foster and Sydney, the two adult austros, stood stock still, each two hundred and twenty kilos, each five meters long from point of the nose to the feathered flare of their tail-tip. Small arms pressed up against their unmoving body, arms lined with long, black feathers. Bushy was all orange, but Foster and Sydney had that orange along with white on their underside and black stripes across their necks and back. They had a pattern like another extinct Earth species — the tiger — but these creatures would have eaten tigers for lunch.