THE RIDER (Galactic Football League Novellas Book 4)

by Scott Sigler

Clark shouted up from just outside the dugout doors: “Cap, come on!”

  Pete put his helmet on and clicked the housing into place. He tapped the side twice.

  “On my way,” he said.

  He stepped off the scaffold platform and into the saddle, tugging the reins to lead Bess out the doors. She still limped, but not nearly as bad; Jared might have given her an injection of some kind, something to reduce her pain.

  Bess took her place on the starting line. Above her, a long pole extended from the wall, dangling a red flag four meters off the ground. On the far end of the pitch, an identical blue flag hung from an identical long pole.

  In concept, Capture the Flag was a simple game: get the other team’s flag. In practice, though, it involved the tricky strategy of who to send out and who to leave home, who to run interference, et cetera. Sometimes it was a game of finesse and planning, almost a really big version of chess, and other times, it was a basic brawl with the last team standing taking the flag for the win.

  The wheel platform rolled into its garage, and the side walls started to close. They were seconds from the start of the game.

  “I’ll take Bess out twenty meters and guard,” Pete said. “The three of you work as a pack, stick to the outer wall. See who they send out before you commit. They’ll probably leave the mimtai to guard, so two of you will have to distract while—“

  The trumpets sounded: bah-bah-bah-bah, BAHHHH!

  Pete started to finish his sentence, give final commands, but before he could say a word Bess shot forward with so much force Pete almost fell backward out of the saddle. He held on tight, pulling himself back into position as Bess picked up speed with each long, powerful step.

  “Bess, halt!”

  Bess did not halt. Pete suddenly realized that her normal, smooth, balanced gait was for him — when she flat-out sprinted, he bounced around like he was in the back of an off-road wheeltruck with a bad suspension. Each step was a hammer blow, jostling him in the saddle. It took him a moment to match the rhythm, to stand in the stirrups with knees bent; and when he was able to look forward again, Bess was already past midfield and closing in — alone — on the entire Resurrected team.

  “Cap, wait up,” crackled Clark’s voice in Pete’s helmet. “Get her under control!”

  “Bess, no,” Pete said. “Bess, dugout! Bess, stop!”

  Nothing worked.

  Up ahead, Pete saw the apioms advancing, side by side, the femora right behind them. The mimtai stayed close to the flag; the Resurrected had lost one game, if they lost another they lost the match, so they had to play cautious.

  Fifteen meters out, the apioms rushed forward as the femora went airborne, again aiming for Bess’s head.

  This time, Bess ducked.

  She didn’t just duck, she violently threw her head down to ground level, maw of broken and missing teeth crushing down on the right-side apiom as the femora flew overhead. Bess raised her head up high. The apiom’s legs — only a few meters from Pete — kicked at the air as it threw its head in all directions. Only the rider’s top half showed, tentacle arms flailing, its bottom half lost somewhere in Bess’s mouth.

  The T-Rex then whipped her head down and to the left, flinging one apiom into the other in a horrid collision of armor, monster and rider.

  Bess planted her left foot, turned sharply to her right even as the apioms tumbled away. Pete held on for dear life.

  The femora had landed, was still skidding to a stop. Twenty meters beyond it, the rest of the Ridgebacks were barreling in. They were coming quick, but Bess was closer.

  She reached out her head even as long steps brought her to the beetle-like femora. The creature started to turn toward the oncoming threat, but it was too late for that — Bess’s head shot down hard, powered by her neck, her back, her legs. The T. Rex’s broken, bleeding mouth clamped hard on the femora’s left rear leg.

  Pete heard the creak and crunch of composite armor, and something else, a crack from beneath that armor, from inside the alien beast’s leg.

  Bess rose up high once again, lifting the femora fifteen meters into the air, but this time she didn’t let go, this time she didn’t throw the beast as she’d done with the apioms. Bess flung her head to the left, then ripped it right, then left again. The 600-kilo femora flopped like a rag doll. Its rider sailed out into the air. Pete was distantly aware of a deafening roar from the crowd, but only distantly, because even in the saddle with his feet locked in the stirrups and his armored hands clutched on the pommel, Bess’s shaking motion slammed him left and right.

  She ripped her head right again, then left again, the motion savage, primitive ...

  “Bess, stop,” Pete said, but there was no breath behind the words, no energy, no sense of command — he had lost control.

  The T-Rex flung her head right one more time and the leg ripped free, pieces of armor arcing in both directions. Gray blood spraying from a hole where the leg had once been, the creature fell to the pitch, crashing limply against the packed dirt.

  Bess lifted her nose to the sky, opened her mouth, let the femora leg fall to the back of her throat. Armor and all, she swallowed.

  And she still wasn’t done.

  She lifted her wide right foot and drove it down on the crippled femora, smash, the sound of thunder and death rattling off the arena’s crysteel walls, raised it and smashed it down again. She straddled the creature, one foot on either side, lowered her open mouth and stared — the femora’s only movement was a series of sickening twitches, each remaining limb vibrating at a different rhythm. Grey blood oozed from not just the ripped-off leg, but other areas as well, leaking from the cracked, crumpled wreck that had once been beautiful, pristine blue and green armor.

  Bess put her nose close and gave two short, powerful sniffs. She nudged the femora, but it didn’t react.

  The T-Rex raised up high. She put her left foot on top of the crushed femora, opened her bloody mouth, and let out the loudest roar Pete had ever heard.

  The crowd matched it, not caring that Capture the Flag was still afoot. Tens of thousands of sentients pulled their hands close to their chests, flipped their hands about like little T-Rex arms, tilted their heads back and matched Bess’s call.

  Pete could do nothing. He held on, hands still in a death-grip on the pommel, too horrified to do anything but hold on.

  Bess hadn’t just disobeyed orders, hadn’t just ignored her rider ... she had taken revenge.

  She had shown the arena and everyone in it — and as the signals went out, the entire galaxy — that she would live up to her name: no matter the arena, the era or the epoch, the tyrant lizard was the master of the field.

  • • •

  The victory moved the Ridgebacks to seven wins, four losses, and carried them into third place ahead of the Vosor 3 Gargantuans. Both teams had the same record, but Vosor had been swept 3-nil by the Rodina Devastators, dropping the Gargantuan’s point differential to +5, while the Ridgebacks win against Chachanna had moved Roughland to +11. The Stompers had won as well, and were also 7-4. Their differential was also +5, but since they had lost to the Gargantuans earlier in the season and head-to-head play was the second tie-breaker, the Stompers remained in fifth place — one game out of tournament contention.

  Third place guaranteed nothing, though, because there were three teams jammed at 7-4. With the point differential, a win against the Loppu Ogres — the final game of the regular season — would put the Ridgebacks in the tournament. Done deal. The ’Backs could still make the tournament with a loss, but only if the Stompers or Gargantuans — or both — lost as well. Both of those teams’ games were scheduled before the Ridgebacks’ tilt against the Ogres, so come showtime, Pete and his teammates would know exactly what they had to do to qualify for the championship tournament.

  One more win, and they were in.

  It was hard to think about next week already. Hard to think about anything, really, but how much he hurt. Even the best suit of armor could only s
top so much, and Pete’s was far from the best. Bess’s armor was a joke, and a most unfunny one at that. Would she have avoided her injuries with better gear? Salton was going to have to pay for repairs to her armor, at least, or Bess wouldn’t be protected in the regular season’s final match.

  Pete hurt, but at least he wasn’t in the stadium’s infirmary, like Clark. Critter was being checked for concussion symptoms by a Harrah doctor. That left Pete in the locker room with Dar and Ian. The kids were giddy with the thrill of victory, still electrified by the crowd’s chants and roars. Pete didn’t feel “electrified.” More “electrocuted,” maybe.

  He slowly stripped off his armor, dropping the cracked and dented pieces on the floor, not even bothering to hang them in his locker. If this was what it felt like to win, he sure didn’t ever want to lose again. Every part of him ached, even the parts that might not be based in physical reality — his damn soul hurt. The whirlpool and the meds would ease the pain. The physical pain, anyway.

  His soul hurt because the worst of his aches and pains hadn’t come from the femora blast. Granted, those had rocked him like a Korak the Cutter right hook, but the real pounding came from staying in the saddle when Bess went rogue. No, his soul hurt because of what Ol’ Bess had done to the femora.

  The creature was dead. Bess killed it. She’d torn it apart. Pete was surprised she hadn’t urinated on the corpse, just in case the shaking and the leg-eating and the primal roar weren’t enough to establish her dominance and territory.

  After Bess had destroyed the femora and knocked one of the apioms out of the match, Pete’s teammates made short work of Capture the Flag. The mimtai had ferociously defended the Resurrected flag, even knocking Clark out of the game with a swinging tail. Ian had distracted the beast while Yar went airborne for the second time that afternoon, leaping up onto the mimtai’s back where Dar snagged the flag.

  The apiom couldn’t answer the call for the third game, which wound up being Tug of War. With Bess, Yar, Missy and Bucky pulling against the mimtai and one apiom, it was over quick. The Resurrected had come in undefeated, the team to beat, and the Ridgebacks had handed them a 3-0 ass-whipping.

  If only Pete could be happy about it. Someone was going to get chewed out for the femora’s death, and since Bess wasn’t the most talkative girl in the world, that someone would be him. It cost millions to raise and train a mount. While it was a dangerous sport, there were rules in place to limit severe injury to mounts. Bess ripping off the femora’s leg? Not really a part of the game, to put it lightly.

  The locker room door opened. Salton and his big HeavyG bodyguard came in. The Leader’s cornea swirled with light orange, an unmistakable sign of happiness. The HeavyG was all smiles, as if somehow his working for the team owner made him part of the victory.

  “Congratulations, riders,” Salton said. “A hard-fought win against the best team in the league.”

  “Second-best,” Ian shouted. “They were only undefeated because they hadn’t played us yet, boss!”

  “Quite true,” Salton said. “One more win and we are in the post-season tournament. We truly sent a signal to the rest of the league this afternoon.”

  Pete undid the clasps on his chest armor, let it tumble down to the floor. He loved how Salton used the word we. Salton wouldn’t be in a chiro-chair all evening, now would he?

  Salton’s eye fell on Pete.

  “Guestford wants to see us,” he said. “Right away.”

  Pete knew that was coming, yet that knowledge didn’t make hearing it any less exhausting.

  “After I shower, Stalton.”

  “Shower later,” the Leader said. “Guestford is waiting in my stadium office. She must be elated with that performance.”

  Pete though of making a stink about needing to clean up, but he was just too tired. Guestford was going to rip them: putting it off would only prolong the agony. Sooner started, sooner done.

  “Let’s go, Salton,” Pete said. “If Guestford wants to smell me as-is, that’s her business.”

  • • •

  Pete had expected Guestford to be sitting behind Salton’s desk, looking all important, a head game invalidating the Leader’s authority by occupying that small position of power. She wasn’t. Instead, she was sitting on the desk’s corner, legs crossed so that her skirt slipped up just over a bare knee, one hand on the flat desktop and her shoulders back. She looked so good Pete almost stumbled. She was playing head games, all right, but they weren’t aimed at Salton.

  “Pete, fantastic performance,” she said. “Come in, have a seat.”

  The commissioner was all smiles; smiles formed by those perfect, lipsticked lips.

  “Pete, darling, the early viewership reports are coming back,” Guestford said. “We’re trending for an all-time high in first viewings, almost forty percent higher than last year’s title match. But that’s not all.” She slid off the desk in a move designed to sway her hips. Subtle — as one would expect from a veteran actress who could make almost any prefabricated gesture look natural — but Pete had also spent enough time in theatrics to know a rehearsed move when he saw one. Knowing it was rehearsed, however, didn’t make it any less effective.

  “Second viewing numbers are through the roof,” Guestford said as she walked to Salton’s rack of merchandise. She picked up the plushy of Old Bess, cradled it in one arm and slowly petted the thing like it was a coddled cat. “Our analysts have never seen anything like it. It’s too early to tell, Pete, but the week-after-broadcast ratings are going to be five to six times higher than anything we’ve shown before.”

  Salton’s eye swirled with dark red.

  “That is sensational,” he said. “I never expected numbers of that kind.”

  “No one did,” Guestford said. Her lovely smile turned into a malicious grin. “Including the networks. I can tell you one thing — they are all wishing they had made us a better offer last week. With these numbers, I’m pulling my previous demands off the table and submitting new ones. I’m doubling what we were asking before.”

  Salton’s eye flooded a light orange. The Leader wasn’t even trying to hide his emotions anymore.

  “Doubling?” he said. “The league will be instantly solvent, every team will be instantly profitable before we sell a single ticket or piece of merchandise!”

  Guestford nodded casually, as if such good news barely merited her attention.

  “Dinolition was on the edge of something big, a pile of explosives waiting for a match,” she said. “But today’s show? That wasn’t just a match, it was a dozen fuel tankers thrown onto the pile and lit with a tactical nuke. Next season we’ll all be a part of an entirely new league.”

  The two were already counting credits that had yet to come in. Pete liked money as much as the next guy, but he wasn’t in this for just a paycheck.

  “I’m more concerned with this season,“ he said. “We have a match next week and the tournament after that. I know the Resurrected are going to call for Bess’s suspension.”

  Guestford sniffed, shrugged.

  “They already have,” she said. “I told them I was evaluating the evidence. And I will, Peter darling, but I watched that game live and since I am the only authority when it comes to suspensions and fines, I can assure you there will be no suspension. I will issue a stern warning.”

  “A warning,” Pete said. “What will this warning say?”

  Guestford shrugged again. “I’ll come up with some wording that sounds severe but doesn’t mean all that much”

  Salton’s orange color brightened.

  “That is excellent news,” he said.

  Pete couldn’t believe it. How were they getting off so easy? It was like Guestford didn’t really understand the implications of what had happened.

  “Bess killed another mount,” Pete said, knowing he should shut up and be grateful but unable to stop himself. “Not in the act of play, but when the other mount was down. And Bess just gets to keep playing? No punishment?�
�

  Salton turned on Pete. “Do you want us to lose next week? Is that what you are trying to accomplish?”

  No, Pete didn’t want his team to lose. He wanted to win, more than anything, but still, after what Bess had done, the lack of control he’d had over a moving mountain of muscle and teeth...

  Guestford smiled, not just with her mouth but her eyes as well.

  “Pete, you know the phrase don’t kid a kidder?”

  Pete nodded.

  “There’s another version of it,” Guestford said. “Don’t try and act to an actor.”

  He had no idea what she was saying, so he kept still and held her gaze.

  “Pete, we’re about to land a five-season contract that will make every owner in this league rich, that will make you rich,” she said. “Teams will have more money, more resources, more endorsers. This is where it all begins, I mean really begins. Everything up until now has led to this moment. And who made that moment happen? You and Bess. A little well-timed ultra-violence, and the networks are eating out of my hands. Between your gallant run with the lance and your masterful control of your mount, Pete, all of our hard work finally pays off more than we could have ever hoped. Next season, Dinolition is in the black.”

  Her smile, it was genuine. She wasn’t acting. She thought Pete had made Bess kill the femora. She thought Pete had ... what was the right word for it ... she thought Pete had executed that mount, sacrificed it to the great Gods of Broadcasting so he could make more money?

  “You’re a star, Pete,” Guestford said. “Rules don’t apply to stars like they do to other people. You’ll find that more and more as your fame rises. And with this broadcast? Trust me, darling, it will rise and rise fast.”

  Pete loved being famous. At least, as famous as he was. That gleam in Guestford’s eye ... she was talking about fame on a completely different level, something she knew well and craved constantly. And now that Pete had it, or was about to have it, it changed the way she thought of him.

  Salton opened a desk drawer. He pulled out a bottle of gin and three glasses. “We won the match, we are going to be wealthy, and there are no repercussions for Pete’s brilliant bit of showmanship. As the Humans say, this calls for a drink.”