THE RIDER (Galactic Football League Novellas Book 4)

by Scott Sigler

  Baiman’s arm was as long as Pete’s whole body. And thick, too, the size of a Human bodybuilder’s but without the hard definition. Baiman was strong, yet soft, curved in all the right places.

  “I’m not going to piss off and die,” she said. “And here’s my advice. Do you think you could step into that pen, right now, while Sydney is eating raw meat, and control her?”

  “That’s a question, not advice.”

  “Just answer the question.”

  Pete watched Sydney shake her head again, a vicious, violent motion that broke bone and shredded flesh. He knew what Baiman was going to say. He didn’t want to answer. He answered anyway.

  “No, I couldn’t control her right now.”

  He felt Baiman nod.

  “And you’re smart enough to know that,” she said. “So why aren’t you smart enough to know when you can and can’t control Ian?”

  Oh, for crying out loud, was Doc Baiman the team mother all of a sudden? Was she going to lecture him on letting Little Ian grow up when she had no idea the kid was preparing to stab the entire team in the collective back? Pete stepped to the side, shrugged off Baiman’s arm.

  “This is my team, Doc. I built it, from the ground-up. I sacrificed, I bled, I put my life on the line, I’ve spent years doing a song and dance to entertain the masses, like a circus monkey begging for a few coins. Now that that sprinkling of change has turned into a tidal wave of money, you expect me to just step aside and let that punk kid do whatever he wants with my team? With my league?”

  Baiman sighed.

  “Part of your little diatribe was right,” she said. “Know which part?”

  “The part about me being sexy and debonair?”

  “I must have missed that. I’m talking about the use of one particular word. You’ve spent years building this, Pete. The more years you spend, the less you have. I hate to break it to you, little man, but you’re old. Ian isn’t.”

  “He’s a spoiled little brat.”

  “He’s not and you know it.” She thought for a second, then shrugged. “Okay, he is a spoiled little brat, but he’s also the second-best rider I’ve ever seen. Hundreds of people helped make this league, Pete, including me, but for the sake of argument, let’s say you are exactly the bad-ass empire-builder you make yourself out to be. You built this league, but when you’re gone, it will keep going without you. Know who will keep it going?”

  “If you say someone like Ian, I’m going to punch you in the mouth.”

  “Someone like Ian,” Baiman said instantly. She smiled, half-joking, half-daring Pete to try it. Pete decided not to — he would have had to go fetch a step stool to reach her mouth, anyway.

  “Doc, there’s more going on with Ian than you know.”

  She shrugged. “He’s a kid. Kids do dumb things.”

  Ian’s actions went way beyond dumb things ... didn’t they? Or could this just be a mistake of youth — and massive ego — but done on a grand scale because that’s the stage Ian was on?

  Baiman poked Pete in the shoulder.

  “How about you, Pete? Did you do dumb things as a kid?”

  “No, I was too busy volunteering for the church, campaigning for galactic peace and building orphanages with my bare hands.”

  Baiman’s smile widened.

  “Maybe you’re operating at Ian’s level,” she said. “You’re operating like a kid yourself, all tit-for-tat, all ego. Maybe instead of berating him and holding his feet to the fire, you could try some patience and help him understand what it means to be a man, not a boy. I’ve watched you for years, Pete. I’ve watched you build all of this. What you’ve done for Dar, for Stikz, for Tony ... you’re special. If you write someone off for making a mistake, well, then maybe you’re not the man I thought you were.”

  Pete wondered if she would be so magnanimous and forgiving if she knew the actual “mistake” that Ian had made. Would she have nice things to say when Bess was carted away to a new team?

  “Know what, Doc? I like you better when you shut the hell up and do your job.”

  She nodded. “I know. You run this team, but you don’t run me. I’ve said my piece. You’ll either listen or you won’t. But before you give me a typical myopic smart-ass answer, let me offer you a tiny bit of incentive. If you talk to Ian, sentient to sentient, and I can see that there is a good man hiding inside that I’m the tough loner black heart of yours, then maybe—“ she held up a finger “—maybe I might finally get that drink with you.”

  For once, Pete didn’t have an insult at the ready. Hundreds of men and women had thrown themselves at him, because of his fame, but never Baiman.

  “I’ll consider it,” he said.

  Her smile widened. “See? Even an old fart like yourself can become more mature. Do what you have to do, Pete. I’ll send Stikz out.”

  She patted him on the shoulder, turned and walked off.

  Pete watched Sydney stalk through her pen, gobbling up the last bits of scattered meat and bone.

  Stikz joined him moments later.

  “Bad news, Cap.”

  “I assumed as much,” Pete said. “Considering that no one ever brings me good news.”

  “The stables are bugged.”

  “Bugged?”

  Stikz nodded.

  “Tack room too?”

  He nodded again.

  “I’ve got them blocked with a scrambler. But they’re too far into the walls to get at them without me tearing things apart. I can head into the city, see if I can find better gear to fry the bugs, but it will take time.”

  Pete thought on it. From a match standpoint, Stikz wasn’t riding, so not having him with the team wasn’t a huge factor. But, Stikz’s real value was on the tech side. If he was out looking for gear, he wouldn’t be around to find any additional bugs.

  “Take out what you can,” Pete said. “Leave the rest. Whoever it is, let them hear.”

  Stikz grinned. “You have a plan?”

  “I always have a plan,” Pete said. “The only question is if it will work.”

  • • •

  Critter Clark slammed an empty mag-can of Guinness on the table.

  “You lad, and you, lass—” he pointed to Ian, then Dar “—just don’t get it. Barnes is going to be a great quarterback. He’s going to lead the Krakens to a Galaxy Bowl. Maybe even two!”

  Ian rolled his eyes, gave his most-arrogant expression. “Keep talking. It’s all you old farts are good for.” He downed another shot of Junkie Gin. “Shiraz Zia is the best there is and the Krakens are just another paper tiger. Zia will lead the Jacks to the championship game this year, no question. Barnes is just a racist backwater rube.”

  Pete had started the argument, told the team to overact a bit. While they babbled on about the 2684 season, still four standard months away, Pete did something he hadn’t done in years — he drew.

  Salton sat at a table a few meters away. Miller, his HeavyG bodyguard, stood behind him. The Ogres’ Human owner, Jofri Wyndham, sat across from the Leader. Rumors of piracy and corporate espionage surrounded the shipping magnate. As far as Pete was concerned, he was just as dirty as Salton. The two spoke in hushed voices, although Jofri’s obnoxious laugh was easily heard over the din.

  The “Way Station” was a Loppu dive bar. For a growing city only a few decades old, the word “dive” was relative. It was newer and nicer than any place Pete frequented in Roughland. But at almost — gasp! — four years old, the place was quite dated by Loppu standards. The bar was half-full of Human and Quyth Worker patrons that no one would ever mistake as “the upper crust,” patrons who were shocked and delighted to see riders in their midst, throwing back drinks and arguing at the top of their lungs. Add in two owners? It was Celebrity Night at the Way Station. In a place like Ionath City, everyone knew football — in Loppu, everyone knew Dinolition.

  As his teammates babbled on about Barnes, Condor Adrienne, Frank Zimmer and Don Pine, Pete leaned over a stack of bar napkins. He’d borrowe
d a pencil from Captain Yetri. Spacers always had a few lying around, an important piece of gear to have in case the computers took a crap and palm-ups also stopped working. The Void was a horrible place to be if you had trouble and couldn’t make calculations.

  Pete put down the pencil. He kept one hand over the napkins.

  “All right, shut up,” he said to his teammates. “Lean in.”

  They did.

  Pete and the Ridgebacks had talked one set of strategies in the locker room, run a different set out on the pitch for that day’s practice. He hoped the listening devices were feeding that information to the Ogres. Maybe they would fall for it, maybe not. Regardless, once the Ridgebacks unleashed their real strategy — which Pete had sketched out on the napkins — they would definitely be surprised.

  So, too, would the rest of the Ridgebacks themselves.

  Pete uncovered the stack, showing the first napkin: the starting lineup. The riders stared at it.

  “Funny joke,” Stikz said.

  Ian looked up. “It is a joke ... right?”

  All eyes turned to Pete. He shook his head.

  “That’s the lineup we’re going with.”

  He’d expected Ian to shout, to yell, to put on that fierce face of his, but the kid just stared back, dumbfounded and hurt.

  The lineup: Dar/Yar, Pete/Bess, Clark/Missy, and Stikz/Dusty.

  Ian looked confused. So, too, did the rest of the team, Critter included.

  “But that leaves our second-best rider on the bench,” the dwarf said quietly.

  The team had been instructed not to say names, of riders or mounts: some listening devices were mobile.

  “This gives us the best chance,” Pete said, just loud enough for the others to hear. “They won’t be expecting it.”

  While it was true that the Ogres wouldn’t be expecting Stikz — a backup who had seen little playing time during the year — that wasn’t the real reason. The real reason was that Ian had been talking to Anna Villani’s people. He’d welcomed them into his house, for crying out loud. Villani had wanted Pete. She’d switched gears. If she could get Salton to sell Bess, it would be Ian — not Pete — who rode her.

  I can ride anything, and don’t you forget it, Ian had said at the stables. Pete wondered if Ian had realized he’d said those words, realized that, in his anger, he’d revealed too much.

  Pete crumpled the napkin and put it in his pocket. He started going through the stack, outlining strategy for the most-common games. Napkin after napkin showing Xs and Os. It was a sad comparison to a holoboard, but unless the spies had the foresight to put cameras in every dive bar in Loppu, at least it remained private. And doing it almost under the nose of Ogre’s owner Jofri Wyndham? Pete hated to compliment himself, but in this case, he had to make an exception.

  Even though they were still in shock at the starting lineup, the Ridgebacks paid close attention. Except for Ian. He stared off, looking anywhere but at the table. Pete glanced at him every now and then. The kid should have known he was caught out — the kid should have looked guilty. But he didn’t. He looked crushed.

  Pete focused his attention on the napkins. He used the pencil as a pointer, looking at the riders in turn to make sure they understood their individual roles.

  A nudge on his shoulder: Ian.

  Pete glared at him. “The decision is made, so don’t even bother.”

  But Ian wasn’t looking at Pete: he was looking toward the door. Pete followed his gaze. A Ki — a big one, almost big enough to play in the GFL — was moving toward the table. He brushed past the other patrons, not caring who he bumped. He wore a black leather jacket with big pockets.

  Pockets that hid his lower-left hand.

  No, the Ki wasn’t moving toward Pete’s table ... he was moving toward Salton’s.

  The Ki’s hand came out of the pocket.

  Pete turned and dove at his team owner.

  “Salton, get down!”

  Pete leveled the Quyth Leader, knocking him to the bar’s beer-sticky floor. Pete landed on his feet, turned in time to see Salton’s bodyguard, Miller, draw a small automatic from a shoulder holster.

  He didn’t draw fast enough.

  The Ki fired. Miller went down.

  Patrons screamed. Ian and Critter flipped over their table, splashing beer, sending chips and napkins flying. Pete did the same with Salton’s table, in the same motion dragging Salton behind it. The Ki’s gun fired again, punching a hole in the tabletop just above the cowering Quyth Leader’s head.

  Pete glanced around the table, saw the Ki scurrying closer, only a few meters away — the big creature would simply aim the gun over the table and fire down. It scuttled past the riders’ table.

  When it did, Ian and Clark hopped over the table and rushed the Ki. It saw them coming — the species’ five eyes let them see everything — and turned to fire. Pete followed his teammates’ lead, springing over the table and rushing in. Three small Humans darting in from two different directions made the Ki hesitate for an instant. Against elite athletes, that instant was the attacker’s downfall.

  Ian slammed his compact body into the Ki’s torso. Clark grabbed for the gun: it fired again, and Clark screamed in pain, but his strong arms locked on the Ki’s wrist, drove it upward until the barrel pointed to the ceiling.

  The Ki wrapped two arms around Ian, lifted him up, wrapped its last free hand around Clark’s neck — which left it totally exposed and unable to defend itself. Pete leapt high, curled, then drove both feet heels-first into the Ki’s mouth, snapping the head back, sending a piece of black tooth flying.

  The Ki’s six legs wobbled, weakened. Dar rushed out and grabbed one, holding on tight. Stikz tried to do the same: a reactive snap-kick by the stumbling Ki sent him flying into a table.

  Ian reversed the Ki’s grip, grabbed its wrist. He turned sharply, the Ki’s elbow on his shoulder. Ian snapped down hard — there was a crack, then the sickening sight of the Ki’s arm bent the wrong way, bone making the black leather sleeve point up in a strange place, then an ear-piercing scream of pain.

  The Ki was besieged by small Humans, yet it wasn’t down. The gun fired again, sending a round into the ceiling.

  Pete hopped onto the Ki’s back. He wrapped his arms around the vertical trunk, just under the bleeding mouth, planted both feet at the point where the horizontal body bent upward, and yanked.

  The Ki’s vocal tubes trumpeted pure agony. It tried to reach back, but it was too burdened with Dar and Critter and Ian. Pete leaned back further, squeezed, stretched ... and felt a crack beneath his feet.

  The Ki went limp. It fell to its side like a dropped bag of meat, scattering little people in every direction.

  Ian was first to his feet. He snatched up the Ki’s gun from the floor, pointed it at the five-eyed head. The gun shook in Ian’s hand. For once, his perfectly-coiffed hair was askew, hanging down over his wide eyes.

  “It’s over, kid,” Pete said as he stood. “He’s dead.”

  Ian’s shaking aim stayed fixed on the Ki, but he looked at Pete, shocked by what he had just seen.

  “Pete ... how did you do that? How did you know how to do that?”

  Pete shook his head slightly. He knew how to do it because he’d been trained how to do it, as a kid in the circus fighting pits. They had drilled him in Purist Nation hand-to-hand techniques, made him repeat the mantra over and over:

  What do I do if a Ki should attack?

  I get behind him with my foot in his back.

  I bend him hard, his back gives a crack.

  Pete had used that training in the pits. Twice. Both times, he’d had to kill a Ki to stay alive. Was this instance really any different?

  Clark groaned. Dar was already there, applying pressure to Critter’s bloody shoulder.

  Pete ran to them. “Critter, you okay?”

  Clark glared at Pete like Pete was the dumbest sentient in the galaxy.

  “Yeah, I’m friggin’ fine,” he said, his voice tight
and terse. “Except for this bullet in my shoulder.”

  Stikz was still down.

  “Ian, check on Stikz,” Pete said, then moved a few meters to the overturned table that had protected his team owner. Salton was still down on the floor, tucked into a shaking, furry ball. Jofri Wyndham was kneeling close by, eyes darting everywhere, looking for other attackers.

  “Salton, are you hit?” Pete asked.

  The Leader’s one eye — flooded pink — glanced up.

  “Is it over? Is he gone?”

  Pete took that as a no. Good news. He moved to Miller.

  That news was the opposite of good.

  Miller lie still in a pool of his own blood. A couple of Xs and Os napkins sat at the pool’s edges, spreading red blurring the pencil lines. His gun was still in his hand. At the base of his throat, a neat, blood-filled circle. Pete knew if he flipped big Miller over, there would be an exit wound at the back of the neck.

  That shot ... a dead-on kill-shot. If the Ki could make a shot like that, why hadn’t he just whacked Salton from the door, then take off down the street?

  The answer came to Pete instantly: because the Ki hadn’t come to kill Salton.

  Instead, the Ki had come to deliver a message.

  “Sorry, Miller,” Pete said. “I think you were as good as gone no matter what you did.”

  • • •

  Loppu security sequestered the team in the Way Station’s private room. Wyndam had sworn up and down he would find those responsible and make them pay. Pete thought he sounded sincere. A little spying was one thing — hiring a hitter to take out a team’s owner was another. Besides, if Pete’s guess was right, it didn’t involve Wyndam at all.

  Miller’s death was the worst news, but there was more to the misery than just that. Clark was off to the hospital. No way he would be able to play tomorrow. And Stikz had been knocked out cold. Pete would have to wait until tomorrow to see if the kid could ride or not.

  Clark gone for sure, Stikz probably out — Pete would have to put Ian back in the lineup.

  The Loppu police took statements one at a time. Two dead bodies meant no one could just walk away. Wyndam — a local celebrity — got to give his statement first, and got to leave first. Dar and Ian came next. The cops finished with Pete and Salton. When the cops finally left, Pete stopped Salton from leaving.