by Scott Sigler
Ian stared at Pete, eye to eye, still smiling, but then that smile slowly faded. A little fear in those eyes, a little doubt. Those were good things to see in a kid his age.
“Ian, Stikz, finish your workout,” Pete said. “Clark, come jog with me. I want to talk to you about our roster.”
Clark feigned annoyance. “Aw, Cap, come on! I don’t want to run.”
“You’ll run and you’ll like it,” Pete said, pretending himself to sound mean — they both knew that a “run” together really meant they were going to Pete’s office for a drink. They were in good enough shape, and they’d run enough in their lifetimes.
Pete and Clark jogged out to do what old men do, leaving the young men to do what young men do.
• • •
Pete felt so damn tired. And yet, he knew sleep would evade him that night, as it had the night before. Sometimes the pressure got to him and kept him up no matter what he tried. Short of knock-out drugs, of course, but he’d promised himself decades ago to avoid that stuff. Sometimes he had a little booze, sometimes a little beer, and that was it.
Back in the sideshow, they’d used drugs to help control him. Painkillers, mostly — those circus stunts that performers make look effortless are definitely not effortless, and come with falls and spills in practice that beat a body to hell. But there were other drugs they used on him, too. Sometimes pills that dulled his sense of self-preservation, letting him step into the ring against an animal or another sentient for the blood sport the fans loved so much. And, sometimes, narcotics, mood enhancers, things that helped Pete deal with the desperation of his situation. Sometimes he took those on his own, but most times, they were laced in his food and drink. Luha and Kilu believed that the show must go on, even if the performers sometimes had to be drugged into doing so.
Funny thing was, back then, Pete had never had a problem falling asleep. He’d been a slave in all but name and he’d been able to drop off anywhere, at any time. Now he was his own boss, mostly, and well-off if not borderline rich, and there were days on end where the sleep just wouldn’t come. His head was too full of worries. Were the mounts okay? Was the league making enough money? Were his players up to the challenges? Was the opposing team planning a new strategy that Pete had to prepare for? Et cetera, et cetera. All of it burrowed around in his mind like a pack of hungry worms, eating at his brain, keeping him from relaxing, ever. And tonight the main thought-worm had a name — Tony Koester.
Since Pete knew he wasn’t going to sleep anyway, he took the tube into Roughland. The other late-night passengers recognized him in the car, of course, and he pressed a half-dozen thumb-prints, but once in the city proper, Pete faded into the shadows.
The sun had long-since set behind the Ridgeback Mountains. Street lamps lit up the sidewalks, played off the few hover cars that passed by. It wasn’t a match-night, and the people of this frontier city tended to hit the hay before midnight. That was good, as it made it easier for Pete to walk from the tube stop to the squat apartment blocks where most of the team lived.
Pete had a house on the outskirts of town, a place all to himself. So did Clark, although his was much smaller, and so did Ian, whose parents had paid for it (and it was bigger than Pete’s and Clark’s combined). The rest of the team lived in the apartment blocks. They didn’t make enough to buy a home. Salton covered their lodging, and run-down apartments were all he was willing to pay for.
It was time to talk to Tony. Poor match performance, lackluster mount practice, and skipping lifting and combat training ... it was too much. Dar was ready to step into Tony’s spot, but Pete wasn’t going to do that just yet. Dar had overcome a lot, but so had Tony. Pete needed to talk to the kid.
Pete crossed the street and into the complex where Tony, Dar, Stikz and Jared lived. The entryway was unguarded and unlocked. There were bits of paper stuck in the unkempt shrubbery that was meant to be landscaping. A few empty mag cans were scattered here and there, although the sidewalk itself was mostly clear.
He walked up three steps to the apartment building’s front door. A cracked holotank sparked to life and a wave of static rolled from one end to the other. A smiling, sexless avatar appeared.
“Hello, visitor,” it said. “How may I help you?”
“I’m here to see Tony Koester.”
“One moment.” The face continued its creepy, unblinking stare.
He hated these things. Every apartment complex had them. Even some of the commercial buildings did as well. The idea was to try and circumvent crime by forcing visitors to request entry to the building. But tenant complacency often made such systems useless in that effort.
“Your party isn’t at home,” the avatar said. “Would you like to leave a message?”
“Don’t bother.”
Pete turned his back and walked out of the complex. If Tony was at home, he’d seen Pete in front of that screen and chose to stay quiet. If he wasn’t at home, he was probably out for the night. Party all night, blow off practice all day, huh? Pete had saved Tony from the drug trade, given the kid a chance, training, given him a life. If Tony was going to piss all of that away, it would break Pete’s heart.
Pete sighed; he decided there was nothing he could do. He’d chased Tony out here, but he couldn’t live the kid’s life for him. Tony was a grownup, and grownups made decisions.
Down the street, a black limo eased to a stop. Pete watched as a door opened. Tony stepped out of the vehicle. The opaque door shut behind him and the vehicle silently drove down the street.
Pete walked into an alley and waited. Tony came closer, a small satchel hanging from his hands. His white hair was tied back in a complex braid. It bounced against his neck as he walked past.
Pete stepped back out of the alley and watched as Tony walked to his apartment block and went in.
Tony had complained he was sick of everything. The sport. The mounts. And here he was having some kind of midnight meeting with someone in a limo.
Pete thought about trying to talk to Tony again, but decided against it. Tony might be up to something or he might just be out partying with a rich fan. But if he was up to something that something might involve the team.
Yolanda Davenport’s voice spoke in Pete’s thoughts: So you don’t think there’s corruption in Dinolition?
If there wasn’t yet, there always could be.
If Pete tried to talk to Tony now, Tony would know Pete had been lurking about. That would make Tony suspicious and careful — if he was up to something, which Pete desperately hoped he wasn’t. But if something bad was going on? Then Pete needed to give Tony enough rope to hang himself.
Heart heavy, Pete headed back to the tube.
• • •
Three days until the trip to Baker 6 to play the Resurrected, and Pete hadn’t given up on using Jerry in that game.
He was the perfect foil for the mimtai’s tails. Jerry’s natural head armor could deflect the bony weapons, turn what would be a killing shot against a biped speedster into nothing more than a glancing blow. And Jerry’s horns — sharp, low to the ground, coming up from beneath — would keep the mimtai from rushing in at top speed. If they could use Jerry and Bess together, like a single giant wielding a shield in one hand and a hammer in the other, Pete knew the Ridgebacks could win.
The sun had almost set behind the far mountains. In the dying light, Pete guided Jerry through a lineup of inflatable obstacles. Jerry’s turning radius was far below where it needed to be. For an hour, Pete had run the trike through the obstacle course, nudging his flanks, cooing to him, even yelling when it seemed logical. The radius had slowly improved. With each successful run, Pete had tightened the cones.
As the sun finally vanished behind the snow-capped peaks, Pete ran the trike through the obstacle course one final time. Jerry was panting, his sides billowing with rushed breath. As he ran, his big head bobbed slightly and turf flew up behind his strong back legs. Jerry was slower than before. Tired. The trike ran through the course
’s finale, a tight S-curve of cones.
“Easy, boy,” Pete said, standing in the stirrups as a signal to Jerry to slow down, to walk.
Pete looked back at the course, and hissed between his teeth — Jerry had knocked over half the cones, including all of the cones in the S-curve.
Pete reached down and patted the six-tonne trike.
The trike came to a stop and craned his head around. His large blue eye stared at Pete.
“You’re getting better, young man,” Pete said. He sighed. “But not good enough. You aren’t ready yet.”
Pete pulled his feet from the stirrups, placed his palms on the saddle and raised himself to a handstand. With a grunt, he pushed off and cartwheeled to the left. Both feet hit the ground simultaneously. His back ached a little, but not as much as it could have considering the trike’s rough running.
Pete took off his helmet. He reached into a bag at his waist and pulled out a nutri-brick. He held it up near the massive head.
The trike’s eyes widened, and he let out a chirp that might have sounded more at home coming from a creature a quarter his size. Jerry’s black and red tongue flicked out, wrapped the brick and pulled it back in one smooth motion.
Darkness came on quick in the outskirts, where there was no city light reflected from the clouds that also blocked the orange moon. In the near black, Pete walked Jerry back to the trike pen. He heard Bossie braying out a welcome.
Pete removed the saddle and slung it over his shoulder. He opened the gate, thumped Jerry’s side one more time.
“Get in there, boy. We’ll try again next week.”
When Pete shut the gate, a flash from the main complex caught his eye — the lights were on in the tack room.
Who was in the complex this late?
Pete jogged toward the building, lightly, so as not to be heard. Lightly enough, it seemed, for him to hear something else ... several something elses. Three, to be precise.
“Oh, for crying out loud,” he said, and then the compys sprang at him from the darkness. One jumped on the saddle slung over his shoulder and bit at his hair. Another wrapped around an armored boot, and the third made a game of clinging to his chest plate and flicking him in the face with a long tail.
“Dammit, Sisters, not now!”
He reached to throw them off, then had an idea. Having any idea while a compy tail was whipping him in the face was an accomplishment, and he was rather proud of himself when he pulled a nutri-brick from his bag and held it up.
The attack stopped instantly. Three compys were suddenly sitting in front of his feet, little hands folded in front of their little chests, heads up, black eyes reflecting what light there was. Weren’t they the just most angelic things one could ever see?
Pete walked to the complex, the compys padding silently at his side, their stares never leaving the nutri-brick.
He entered the building, then quietly crossed the hallway and threw the tasty treat into the tack room. The Sisters stormed in after it.
Pete laughed at Doc’s scream and Salton’s shouting. Well, that was one way to find out who was here so late.
He walked into the tack room. Snortle was attacking Doc Baiman’s heavy boots. Melly and Chippy were circling Salton. By the mix of black and pink swirls on the Leader’s cornea, Pete guessed he had never been the target of “stalk” before, and didn’t much care for it.
And standing there, calm as you please, a surprise — a well-dressed Ki. Six legs on the ground, each wearing a black boot with a jewel-studded silver buckle. A shimmering, black jacket clothed the body that rose up, long sleeves on all four arms that ended in four-fingered hands. A heavy silver necklace hung around its neck. Unlike Salton and the Warrior, the Ki’s black eyes — all five of them — were a picture of relaxation. The vocal tubes on top of the head barely moved, showing that even the Ki’s breathing was normal.
On the Ki’s shoulder perched a Creterakian. Pete wasn’t fond of the creatures. Who would have thought the galaxy’s overlords would look like football-sized tadpoles with leathery wings and three sets of eyes? And the clothes those things wore ... hideous. At least, they were normally hideous — this one wore a white body suit that showed little images of Bess running at full speed.
For once, Pete found himself admiring a bat’s fashion sense.
Pete pulled another nutri-brick from his bag.
“Girls, look what I got.”
The compys’ little heads snapped his way. Tiny tongues licked tiny mouths. They creeped toward him, trying hard to look like well-behaved little creatures.
Pete stepped back into the hall, opened the door to the training ground and tossed the brick outside. The Sisters shrieked and ran after it.
“Good night, girls,” Pete said, then closed the door and walked back into the tack room.
“Sorry, Salton,” he said. “Why, I had no idea anyone was in here after hours, when I’d just finished working my ass off all day, like I do every day, and came in here to sling my gear.”
Salton’s eye cleared.
“No apology necessary,” he said. “Your work ethic is a key factor in our franchise.”
Salton turned toward the Ki and the Creterakian standing on its shoulder. “As you can see, Tee-Ah-Nok, Doctor Baiman’s experiments have been quite successful.”
The Ki said something in that species’ thick, ugly language. The Creterakian translated.
“The merciful and handsome Tee-Ah-Nok says he recognizes Poughkeepsie Pete and would like a proper introduction.”
Salton’s softball-sized eye darkened briefly, then cleared again. “Of course. Tee-Ah-Nok, this is Poughkeepsie Pete, the pride and joy of Dinolition. Pete, this is Tee-Ah-Nok.”
The Ki growled a nonsensical string of syllables. Pete hated listening to that species talk — it made his skin crawl, made him feel like the Ki wanted to grab him with its four arms and take a big bite out of his face with the triangular, black teeth in that hexagonal mouth.
“The humble and splendid Tee-Ah-Nok says he has watched many of your matches,” the bat said. “He enjoys your skill and ferocity.”
Pete hung his saddle on the wall hook, then bowed. “I fear I cannot say I have heard of you, sir.”
The Creteriakan flapped his gray wings, keeping his balance. “You will in time. Tee-Ah-Nok represents a potential investor in Dinolition.”
The league needed money. Cash from any source — almost any source, that was — could be the difference between one more season and everyone being out of a job.
“Well, I consider myself an ambassador of the sport,” Pete said. “Can I accompany you on the rest of your tour? I’d love to show you the pens where we keep our mounts.”
“No need,” Salton said quickly. “We are finished here. Doctor Baiman, would you see Tee-Ah-Nok and Kewellen out to my car?”
Kewellen was the Creterakian’s name. Good to know.
“Of course,” Baiman said. “Tee-Ah-Nok, Kewellen, this way, please.”
Baiman walked out of the tack room, the Ki and the Creterakian following her. Salton started to leave as well, but Pete gently grabbed his furry middle arm.
“You didn’t tell me we would have visitors,” Pete said. “Let alone potential investors.”
The Quyth Leader pulled his arm away. “None of your concern. I somehow managed to create several successful businesses before I met you, Pete. It is possible I know what I’m doing.”
Salton left.
Pete stared after him. Salton was already finished with the tour. That and Doc Baiman’s presence meant Salton had probably taken Tee-Ah-Nok to the lab. The “investor” wanted to see the lab, but not the mounts? And the timing ...
Everyone knew Pete worked late. Everyone knew he’d still be out on the training ground at sundown. If Salton had wanted to show Tee-Ah-Nok around without Pete being there, that was the perfect time. Perhaps Salton had expected to be out of the complex before Pete came in, but the tour had run long.
Pete headed for the
locker room. He’d stow his armor and take a shower before heading back to his house, to sleep.
If, that was, he could sleep at all.
What are you up to, Salton? And why won’t you tell me?
• • •
Pete all but dragged himself into his house. His damn back — he’d come through a full day’s practice without any real trouble, yet the twenty-minute ride from the ranch to his house had somehow jammed it up. He never knew what was going to set it off. Felt like someone had stabbed him with a screwdriver between his spine and his right shoulder blade.
He shut the door, ordered the house to lock the thick deadbolt, then slowly walked to his special chiro-chair. He eased into it, activated the “realign” function. Heat poured into his back. A clamp gently affixed to his neck, to read the electrical impulses traveling up his spinal column. The chairs’ articulated claws started to dig in, to do their magic, when the door chimed.
“For crying out loud,” Pete hissed. It was an hour to midnight — who would bother him this late?
“Door, on-screen.”
The wall-sized holotank flared to life, showing his visitors: Tee-Ah-Nok, the Creterakian on his shoulder, and with them, a Quyth Warrior that Pete didn’t recognize.
“Investors my ass,” Pete said. He eased out of the chair — hating the fact that he had to — and walked toward his front door. He stopped at his weapon case. He didn’t know that Warrior, and that Warrior hadn’t been part of the “tour.” Better safe than sorry. He thought of grabbing the war hammer and making a real impression when he answered the door, or maybe showing up with the pistol handle visible in his waistband. Maybe that was overkill. Instead, he selected the blackjack and slipped the flat bit of metal into his back pocket.
Pete opened the door.
“It’s late,” he said. “And visiting uninvited when it’s late is considered rude here in Roughland.”
The Creterakian flapped in annoyance. “The forward-thinking Tee-Ah-Nok isn’t concerned with your local customs.”
“He should be,” Pete said. “This is frontier land. Even in the city proper, after nightfall plenty of people answer the door with a shotgun.”