by Scott Sigler
Her pen was specially equipped with sensors that measured her weight, skin atrophy, and heart-rate. Five different IV tubes fed her nutrients, water, and a special cocktail of electrolytes. The T-Rex’s left side had also been sprayed with a special coating. The spray was another of Doc’s inventions. It protected the skin by introducing engineered microbes that ate dead flesh and only dead flesh. The coating prevented sores from sprouting on the skin, which could lead to harmful bacterial infections. Bess probably wouldn’t get sores on a twenty-four hour trip, but some trips took two or three days. It was best to make sure her travel routine stayed consistent no matter how long — or short — the distance.
Bess snorted in her sleep. Her muscles began twitching as the electrostim program started up. Her mouth opened and closed. The stim program started at her head and moved downward. Pete watched the muscles ripple. On the smaller dinos, it was noticeable, but less spectacular. Due to Bess’s enlarged musculature, it was a horror show, like there were huge maggots crawling beneath her skin.
A strong smell of methane burst from the pen. A gout of black sludge shot from Bess’s anus. Pete coughed and turned away. He’d make Jared clean that up.
Pete headed to the last pen and slid open the opaque door. Inside slept Jerry. It was funny that Pete didn’t really see Jerry as big when they were training, or when Jerry was standing in his pen. Something about the trike lying on his side, though, brought home the sheer size. Now 3,300 kilos, 7 meters long and still growing. Lying on his side, the top of Jerry’s ribs was taller than Pete’s head. Just a massive, massive creature. A test trip, sure, but soon Jerry would be in the lineup, and the Ridgebacks would be even more effective than they already were.
There was a trade-off, though, considering Jerry’s weight. With Bess and Jerry on the pitch, there would only be enough weight allocation left for one speedster, not two. Still, having the trike available for matches would give opposing teams nightmares trying to figure out which mounts of their own to field.
He checked the rest of the cargo hold, making sure everything was ship shape (a phrase that always made him laugh, and he didn’t know why). Pete walked the length of the ship to the pilot’s cabin.
The pilot cabin smelled of cigars, sweat, and bourbon. Captain Yetri puffed on a long, green cylinder. She blew out a cloud of brown smoke. The air purifier sucked it into the vent.
“Scores?” Pete said as he adjusted the height of the empty navigator chair.
“Yes, Pete, I’m fine,” Yetri said. “Thanks for asking. And the ship? Running like a charm. So thrilled you’re concerned.”
“If I wanted to spend time worrying about a ship and the captain’s abilities, I wouldn’t have told Salton to hire you,” Pete said.
Yetri grinned. “Damn, you are a silver-tongued devil, you know that?”
“I do.”
“Half of one, anyway,” she said.
“That’s funny, coming from a prom queen like you. Scores?”
“Stompers and Gargantuans both won,” she said. “Sorry.”
Pete climbed into the chair, a feeling of unease settling in his belly. Those results meant the Gargantuans were 8-4 and had sealed their place in the post-season tournament along with the Resurrected and the Devastators. The Stompers win moved that franchise’s final record to 7-5.
Which meant the 7-4 Ridgebacks’ only way into the four-team post-season tourney was to beat the Ogres in the upcoming match.
He looked out the crysteel window.
“Sure is an ugly planet,” he said.
Yetri nodded, chewed on her cigar. “Sure is.”
He stared out at Loppu, a mostly dead planet big enough to provide a gravitational well that allowed punch-in and punch-out. Its placement in the galaxy provided a waypoint between the planets Home, Earth, Wilson 4 and Wilson 6. Loppu — an acronym for League of Planets / Planetary Union — had been on the border between the two governments, so they collaborated on turning the hunk of rock into a functional spaceport that could refuel and resupply ships, as well as provide a safe place for punch drives to recharge.
Being the main hub between the five billion citizens of the Wilson system and the fifty-six billion citizens of the Planetary Union worlds — and also the sixteen trillion sentients of the Harrah Tribal Accord — had its privileges. Loppu had become more than just a dusty watering hole; some five million sentients had made it their home, most of them gainfully employed in starship repair, support and construction, logistics, shipping management and more. There were also plenty of sentients who were not gainfully employed, unless one counted smuggling, thievery, drug running and organized crime as actual “professions.” In the past ten standard years, every government had built embassies on Loppu. Even the Purist Nation had a presence, on account of the fact that Loppu allowed the Nation to bypass Earth — that hotbed of sin and blasphemy — and conduct trade with the League of Planets and the Tribal Accord.
Loppu had no atmosphere of its own. It was black, so black it would look like a hole in the surrounding stars were it not for the dozens of white domes that dotted its surface, and the large docking station hovering in low orbit. The oddest thing about the place, though, was that it wasn’t round. Loppu was egg-shaped, but only slightly — you really had to look at it from the right angle to see it, but it lacked the perfectly spherical nature of every other populated world. The orbital station’s miles-long piers looked packed: ships of a half-dozen nations were docked there for any number of reasons.
Pete noticed a few glowing orbital specs he hadn’t seen the last time he’d been here.
“Are those new stations?”
The captain nodded. “Yeah, they’ve started to specialize for certain types of high-demand cargo, so they can concentrate customs officials who are knowledgeable in that field.” She pointed starboard to a glowing, yellow sphere. “That’s livestock and agriculture. We’ve been ordered to dock there.”
“Contraband check?”
“You got it,” she said. “The League of Planets owns half of Loppu, but we’re still in Planetary Union space, so we get a Planetary Union inspection.”
“Wonderful.” Pete said.
“Just be glad it’s not Creterakians,” the captain said. “If you were GFL instead of Dinolition, they’d be giving you and yours the once over for every match.”
Pete didn’t want that. Although, if it meant getting diplomatic immunity like the GFL players got, it might be worth it.
“Commissioner Guestford warned us about Loppu,” Pete said. “I haven’t been here in two years. Things a little tense down there?”
“What do you expect? Place is growing like mad, faster than Union authorities can keep under control. Loppu is organized crime’s newest playground.”
Bad news. If Union authorities couldn’t stop the syndicates from setting up shop, could they stop the Purist Nation crazies from obtaining and using weapons? Bess might be able to handle poisoned meat, but she was made of flesh just like any other animal: hit her with a bullet or an entropic rifle, and she’d bleed.
Captain Yetri seemed to sense Pete’s mood.
“Don’t worry, Pete. Dinolition is a protected corporate enterprise. They don’t dare mess with you here.” She grinned. “At least that’s what they say.”
“Right. Sure. I feel so much better.”
“Go wake up your team. We’ll dock in less than an hour.”
• • •
The riders stood in a line against the wall just outside of the dock connected to the Ball & Chain. Their personal rucksacks were laid out before them. A Planetary Union System Police lieutenant stood by silently as a corporal, bent at the waist, scanned bags with some kind of thick wand. Hunched over, he was still taller than the dwarves.
The wand glowed yellow as he passed it over Pete’s rucksack. The corporal clucked his tongue and then pressed a button on the wand’s shaft. It turned green. He rose to his full height and stared down at Pete.
“Poughkeepsie?”
“That’s me,” Pete said.
The man’s expressionless face broke into a grin. “Always rooted for you. Before Loppu got its own team, that is.”
Pete said nothing.
The corporal then stared at Clark. “Do you have any contraband, sir? Anything to declare?”
“Nope.” Clark rubbed his bald head. “Don’t believe in declarations.”
“As you say.” The soldier repeated the scan. The wand was green again.
He walked down the line, asking each rider the same question. The answer was always no. When he reached Stikz’ bag, the wand remained yellow.
“Sir, would you please unpack your belongings?”
Stikz glared. “Why?”
“Unpack your bag, sir.”
Stikz turned his head to look down the line at Pete. Pete nodded to him.
The dwarf shrugged, dropped to his knees and opened the rucksack. He pulled out a disheveled pile of laundry and threw it to the deck.
“Don’t touch my undies,” Stikz said. “No matter how attracted to them you might be. I bet your little, um, sensor there, isn’t sophisticated enough for League of Planets tech.” He reached in and grabbed a small can, placed it to the side. He did the same with a number of other devices.
“What are those?” the corporal asked.
Stikz smiled, pointing to each item in turn as he answered. “Tricosa-block computer, portable holocase, vid-holo-audio nullifier, and a neural connection maintenance block.”
The corporal frowned. “I’ve never heard of any of them.”
“Considering Union tech is only a step up from the dark ages, I’m not surprised,” Stikz said.
The corporal straightened, started patting the wand into his open palm. Pete noticed that not only did the wand have pretty lights, it was solid enough to double as a skull-thumping club.
“Stikz, knock it off,” Pete said.
The dwarf shrugged.
“Oh, sorry, man,” he said to the corporal. “I confused the Union with the Purist Nation for a moment there. My bad.”
Stikz’s “apology” was worse than his original insult. Pete held his breath, waiting for the cops to get rough. If there was one consistent thing across all nations, planets, stations and races Pete had seen, it was that disrespecting a badge could land you in a whole heap of trouble.
The corporal stared down, patting the wand/club into his open palm.
Stikz seemed to get the hint.
“Try scanning them one at a time,” he said, his tone suddenly more friendly. “That will probably work better.”
The corporal waved the wand over each of the units. It glowed yellow, and then eventually turned green.
“One of these cause interference or something?”
Stikz nodded. “Yeah, when they’re together I have them set up to emit Bardon-band wave emanations. Sorry about that.”
The soldier glared at him. “Thank you for your cooperation, sir.” He turned to the lieutenant. “All clear.”
The lieutenant jutted out his chin, like this was the most important job in all the galaxy and he was the only sentient who could make it run like clockwork.
“Very well,” he said. “I’ll check in with the team sweeping the cargo area, and if everything checks out, you’re free to go.”
The lieutenant and the corporal strode down the corridor.
Pete shook his head. “Stikz, you need to learn when to keep your mouth shut.”
“Never was good in school,” Stikz said. “I got me a learning disability.”
“Maybe your teachers didn’t motivate you correctly,” Pete said. “I’m real good at motivation. Do you want me to show you?”
Stikz cleared his throat, shook his head.
“Uh, no need, Cap. I think my ability to take in new information just got a whole lot better.”
These damn kids: they’d be the death of Pete yet.
“All right, team,” he said. “Get your checklists together. I want a smooth load out, quick and easy. We need to get our mounts up and about asap. Loppu is supposed to have feed for us. Jared?” The dwarf raised his brows. “That means you and Stikz have to check everything, and I mean everything.”
“Aye, Pete.”
“All right. Any questions?”
The team said nothing.
“Good, lets get at it.”
• • •
The descent to Loppu went without a hitch. Landing lights clearly marked a zone just outside the shiny new stadium. As soon as the Ball & Chain’s ramp lowered, Salton was gone, Miller his constant shadow. Where they went, Pete didn’t know.
Stikz and Jared disembarked with a hover-sled of medical and electrical sniffing equipment. Their job was to sweep the stables for any monitoring devices, and check the mounts’ feed. There were three day’s worth of nutrient bricks onboard the transport, but that was the Ridgebacks’ emergency supply. Hosting teams were responsible for providing additional provisions, although Pete doubted the Ogres franchise would offer Bess’s favorite meal of Rodina cattle.
While the boys checked on food and lodging, Pete, Dar and Clark carefully followed Doc Baiman’s orders to wake the mounts one at a time. Bucky, Missy and Yar came first, as they were seasoned and handled the wake-up process without a problem. Jerry came next, precious cargo that required Doc’s full attention. Sydney would come after Jerry, as everyone needed to be on-point for that. Finally, Bess, the biggest saved for last — if she went rogue for any reason, an animal that size could damage other mounts either intentionally or accidentally. And tear the hell out of the ship itself, but such were the risks of transporting a 6,400-kilo primitive killer.
Once Stikz and Jared gave the all clear, Dar and Clark haltered Yar and Missy and led them down the ramp. The girls were chirping and squeaking to one another as they left the Ball & Chain. Pete led Jerry down the ramp, handing him off to Clark to take the trike into the stadium’s dino pen.
With the omnivores and herbivore safely stowed, it was time for the predators.
Pete watched Ian approach Sydney’s pen. Doc Baiman stood at the ready. So did Clark, a tranq rifle in his fidgeting hands.
Sydney, now alert and observant, watched Ian’s every movement. Emotionless, those eyes, the blank stare of a born assassin.
“Careful now,” Pete said. “Sydney’s poker face never reveals a thing.”
Without looking away from the raptor, Ian waved a hand in annoyance. “I got it, old man.”
Ian opened the pen door. He stepped inside, hands up, a smile on his face.
“Hello there, Sydney old girl,” he said. “Let’s get you fixed up.”
Without a shred of fear, Ian stepped forward. Pete had to focus to stay still, to not walk into the pen and take over. The kid had potential to lead a team someday — managing dangerous mounts was a skill mandatory for that role.
Ian patted Sydney’s flank, gently pulled stim patches from the austroraptors’ skin.
Sydney trembled and then bucked. She snapped at Ian, who effortlessly leaned back: sharp teeth clacked where his face had just been.
Clark shouldered the rifle as Pete ran for the pen door.
Ian held up a single hand toward Pete.
“Stay back,” he hissed. His eyes never left Sydney’s.
Pete skidded to a stop.
Clark glanced at Pete, waiting for a command.
“Hold,” Pete said.
Sydney stared back at Ian, long neck reared, head ready to snap out again. Her tail twitched. She was five meters of murder, coiled and ready to strike.
Baiman’s eyes widened. “Are you insane? Clark, put her down, now.”
Clark aimed.
“Critter, hold,” Pete said.
Clark lowered the barrel slightly, raised it again, glanced from Baiman to Pete, torn between obeying his team leader and the dino expert who was telling him to shoot.
But it was Ian who settled that debate.
“Critter,” the young man said without
ever looking away from the ‘raptor, “if you shoot her, you better shoot me, too, because I’ll come out of this pen and beat you to death with that rifle.”
Clark hesitated, then lowered the weapon.
Pete’s stomach churned. His instincts told him to put Sydney out, but Ian was the one in danger and he wanted to handle it on his own.
“Critter, if she snaps again, shoot her,” Pete said. “Ian, your show.”
The kid nodded slowly. “God damn right it is.”
Hands up and wide, palms toward the raptor, Ian took a step forward.
“Sydney, girl, you’ve been bad,” he said. “You don’t snap at me, ever.”
The raptor’s dead eyes blinked twice. The sickle claw on her left foot tapped against the metal deck. That claw could open Ian up from throat to crotch in one powerful, downward kick.
“Not ever,” Ian said to her. “Now you get the muzzle. Pete, bring me the muzzle.”
Pete bristled at being told what to do, but this wasn’t the time for a pissing contest of who was in charge. Ian was the one facing down 225 kilos of walking death — he called the shots.
“Getting it,” Pete said. He lifted the long polycarb muzzle from its hook on the outside of the pen. Ian held out a hand toward him, his eyes still riveted on Sydney.
Pete slowly entered the pen. He had a moment of fear that overwhelmed his apprehension — if Sydney lost it, she could kill them both in seconds.
The raptor’s head turned: the eyes now looked at Pete.
Ian took another step forward.
“No you don’t, you little bitch, on me.”
Sydney faced Ian again. Her feathers ruffled. She stepped away from him, until her muscular body pressed against the pen’s clear walls.
Pete’s fear vanished, replaced by embarrassment. Sydney was an apex predator. Baiman had already proven that raptors smelled fear, and here Pete was getting scared like some rookie.
Ian’s hand snapped open and shut: give it to me.
Pete handed him the muzzle. He watched, shocked, as Ian took the muzzle and moved into killing range. He stared Sydney down until the animal looked away.
“Stay still now,” Ian said to her. “Don’t make me angry. You wouldn’t like me when I’m angry.”