THE RIDER (Galactic Football League Novellas Book 4)

  “Enough of this,” Guestford said. “The attack is over. Salton and I will discuss security policy after the game. Pete, get your team into that stadium. We’ve lost at least a quarter of the crowd, I want you out there before we lose any more. With the growing Sklorno marketshare, this match will have the biggest ratings we’ve ever had, even higher than last year’s championship.”

  Clark punched a locker so hard it sounded like a gunshot, so much so that the cop’s hand darted to the pistol holstered under his left arm.

  “None of you are listening,” Clark said. “We’re not riding goddamn giant predators into combat against giant freaking aliens in front of fifty thousand spectators until we know what happened, and we know it’s not going to happen again.”

  Pete said nothing. He usually did the talking, but Clark had expressed the team’s sentiment perfectly — the fact that Clark actually rode an omnivore didn’t need to be pointed out.

  Guestford nodded toward Lieutenant Marchand. “Go ahead, tell them.”

  Marchand took his hand off the pistol.

  “We questioned the woman,” he said. “Me and a pair of Creterakians. She broke almost immediately. She and the man are from the Purist Nation. They think that bringing back animals that ... ” he lifted his hand and tapped his wrist. His notes from the interrogation floated above his upturned palm. “They think bringing back extinct animals is an affront to the High One’s plan.”

  He lowered his hands to his side; the image blinked out.

  “She said a lot of other gibberish, but the basics are they paid their own way out here and appear to have acted alone. They had no explosives residue, but we scanned the stadium anyway, and things seem fine.”

  “The meat,” Ian said. “Poisoned, right?”

  Marchand nodded. “Cyanide. Loaded with the stuff. Look, I’ve got to get back out there and make sure things are running smooth. It’s my belief that the stadium is now secure. Spectators are coming in now. The bats will be on-station for the duration of the match. All right?”

  Pete glanced at Clark, who shrugged.

  “All right,” Pete said. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  The cop left.

  Was it safe? Pete had no way of knowing if the cop was in Salton’s pocket, or Guestford’s, for that matter, and would say anything to make sure the show went on.

  Guestford spread her hands. “Well? Are you going to get the hell on that pitch for the biggest game in league history, or are you going to sit in here and whine about how dangerous it all is?”

  Her sarcastic tone didn’t do anything to soothe Pete’s nerves, but Rachel Guestford wasn’t about making people feel better. Her sole reason for being was growing the league, and a big match like this — a regular-season match, not a championship or a playoff — showcased Dinolition’s growing popularity. Canceling this match would set the league back.

  “We’ll play,” Pete said.

  Guestford nodded. “Goddam right you will.”

  She turned sharply, blue dress flaring behind her, then strode out, heels clicking on the hard floor.

  That left only Salton and Miller.

  “We’ll be on the pitch shortly,” Pete said. “Both of you ... get out of my locker room before I throw your asses out.”

  Miller bristled, the HeavyG rising up to his full height, puffing his chest out to remind everyone of what they were dealing with.

  Clark stepped away from the locker, his armored hands flexing into fists. Ian pulled on his helmet and locked it in place. Even Dar stood, moved to stand side-by-side with Pete.

  Miller had looked like he could kick the world’s ass with one hand tied behind his back, but now his gaze flicked nervously from armored rider to armored rider.

  Salton held up a pedipalp hand. “Miller, let us go. Pete, good luck today. Perhaps I made poor choices, but you know that once the match starts, I am behind all of you one hundred percent.”

  The Leader’s sincerity blasted a chunk out of Pete’s anger. Was Salton being cheap? Yes. Did he want the Ridgebacks to succeed? Absolutely.

  The Leader and his bodyguard left, shutting the locker-room door behind them.

  Pete faced his team.

  “All right, Ridgebacks, let’s put all of this behind us for now. We have a job to do against the best team in the league. Let’s review our game plan.”

  • • •

  Out past the closed dugout doors, Pete heard the chant of the home crowd. He couldn’t worry about the attack, or anything else that went on beyond the arena walls — battle time had come. Focus, total focus, nothing in the universe but his team, his mount, and the enemy that wanted him dead.

  Not today, you scumbags ... not today.

  The sound of Rachel Guestford’s voice echoed through the arena.

  “Welcome to Die ... nooooo ... litionnnnnn!”

  The crowd ate it up. Not as loud as normal — Pete could tell the pre-game incident had hurt attendance — but it wasn’t every game that Rachel Guestford was there for introductions, even though this was her second game in a row at Smithwick Arena. Many of the fans in the stands had watched her movies for the past two decades: she was as much a part of the spectacle as the mounts themselves.

  “I’m league Commissioner, Rachel Guestford. Welcome to this afternoon’s contest, a three-round affair with a ten-thousand total kilo weight limit. No replacement mounts allowed. And now, introducing the home team, with a record of six wins and four losses, I give you, the Roughland Ridgebacks!”

  The huge doors rattled, then swung outward with the grind of old metal and the squeal of rust. Sunlight poured in, a thin rectangle at first, then a wide swath that brought the crimson armor to life.

  Pete tapped his helmet’s comm-link.

  “All right, Ridgebacks. It’s showtime. Make ‘em think their ticket was a bargain at any price. Remember, the league changed the home team entrance to individual intros, Dar’s up first.”

  Guestford’s voice blared over the shouts of the crowd.

  “A pair of rookies making their first appearance in Dinolition, with the bleach-white skin of Tower descent but born on Satirli 6 in our very own League of Planets, riding a xiongguanlong baimoensis, please welcome Dar and Yaaaaarrrrrr!”

  Dar sprinted Yar onto the pitch. The pair gleamed like heroes. If there was any doubt left in that girl, she didn’t show it. Dar stood in the stirrups, both hands holding the base of a battle axe that she whirled over her head.

  “Also a first-year rider, on a brand-new mount,” Guestford called out. “From the Jupiter Net Colony in the Planetary Union, riding an archillobator gigantus, please welcome Ian Bahas and Bucky!”

  Bucky rushed out. Pete smiled when he saw that Ian wasn’t sitting in the saddle — he was standing on it, legs straight, arms spread out, palms upturned, his helmet held in his left hand. Rushing air pushed his perfect hair back, made it bounce like it was just as alive as Ian and Bucky. The crowd went wild, cheering twice as loud for the showboating Ian as they had for Dar.

  “Look at that ham,” Pete said.

  “Ham? Oh, right,” Clark answered. “I have no idea where the kid would learn that kind of behavior.”

  “Shuck you, Critter.”

  Clark laughed, but cut it short when he heard his own name being called.

  “And now,” Guestford said, “a five-year veteran of Dinolotion, riding a gallimimus bullatus, let’s hear it for Critter Clark and the fastest mount in Roughland, Missy!”

  The crowd let out a long, unified “Claaaaaaaark” as if they were welcoming a regular into a bar. The old-timer walked Missy out at an easy trot. Clark waved to the crowd. He didn’t need to showboat; he let his gametime performance speak for itself.

  Clark joined Dar and Ian at midfield.

  Pete unclipped his feet from the stirrups. So, Ian thought he could make an entrance?

  “Finally, ladies and gentlemen, fans of all species, it’s time to give it up for your team captain and the biggest star in all of p
rofessional sports,” Guestford said. “From parts unknown, last year’s league MVP, Poughkeepsie Pete, and the spectacular Bess!”

  Bess rushed out of the entrance. As always, the crowd roared in delight, a roar that doubled when they saw Pete wasn’t in the saddle, or even on it: he was standing on top of Bess’s head. She advanced at a full sprint, but with such balance that her head might have been resting on a ten-tonne block of granite.

  Pete bent his knees, timed Bess’s pace, then sprang high, tucking into a tight ball and spinning in a backward somersault. As he rotated, he saw the overhead holoscreen change from a picture of Pete and Bess and a list of Bess’s stats to a live image of Pete’s acrobatics. He finished the flip, and once again stood on the T-Rex’s armored head.

  The crowd lost its collective mind.

  But Pete’s show wasn’t finished, not quite yet.

  Bess slowed near the draped platform at midfield upon which Guestford stood with trumpeters and the game-wheel. Pete hopped from Bess’s head to the saddle, hands landing on the pommel and holding him up as he spread his legs and spun, dropping his armored butt into the well-worn leather.

  The T-Rex rose to her full height, head nearly ten meters in the air. She opened her massive mouth and roared. When she did, the crowd’s scream changed, from the bellows and shouts of Humans, HeavyG and Quyth to a 25,000-strong echo of Bess’s battle cry. It never ceased to send a shiver up Pete’s spine and make his skin ripple with goosebumps.

  The trumpeters blared loudly, demanding the crowd’s attention.

  Guestford strode across the platform, hands gesturing, turning sharply as the seasoned actress gave every ounce of energy to the arena crowd. An armored thirteen-meter T-Rex was a sight to behold, but so, too, was a former movie star that had clocked countless hours on the red carpet, smiling at paparazzi, charming the pants off of critics and manipulating the media into giving her endless free coverage because of a well-timed quote, dating the right star or starlet, a wardrobe malfunction or any other tool that the A-Listers had in their bottomless bag of tricks.

  Pete leaned closer to Bess’s ear.

  “Bess, dugout, trot.”

  The T-Rex turned and trotted back to the dugout. The other three Ridgeback mounts followed while Guestford’s show continued.

  “And now, ladies and gentlemen, the Ridgebacks’ opponent for this afternoon. They hail from the Sklorno Dynasty, but currently play their home games on Baker 6 in the League of Planets. Please welcome, the Chachannaaaaaaa ... Resurrected!”

  At the other end of the pitch, wide doors swung open with a screech and a grind.

  The mimtai came out first, three tails curving high over its back, six tonnes of blue and green armored nightmare. Its four eyestalks moved like independent armored snakes, taking in Guestford, the pitch, the fans, the far dugout ... anything and everything, all at once in a wild twitch-fest. The two back-folded legs were each bigger than Missy and Clark combined. Stubby forearms pressed against the pitch dirt. Its long, armor-covered neck ended in a thick head with eyestalks on top and the disgusting chelicerae below.

  It had been one thing to see it on the holo, damn-near lifelike, but another now that it was real, sitting right there waiting for the games to begin.

  And at the base of that neck, small but resplendent in matching blue and green plate, the male Sklorno rider. It held reins that didn’t lead to the mimtai’s head, but rather to a knob of bone midway down the neck sticking up through the armor.

  “Get a good look, team,” Pete said. “That’s one bad momma right there, but we’re going to beat it. Right, Dar?”

  “Right, Cap,” she said. “We’ll get them.”

  She sounded somewhat confident, but Pete couldn’t miss the tremor of fear lacing her words. That didn’t worry him, though — he was afraid himself. Any rider that looked out at the mimtai and wasn’t at least a little afraid? Well, that rider would have to be insane, and wouldn’t be part of any team Pete captained.

  From behind the mimtai, two apioms scurried out of the tunnel to stand by the huge creature’s sides. The lean, long, six-legged apioms just screamed speed. Ian and Clark would have their hands full keeping up with those things. Their little riders looked like shiny, compact, colored insects holding long lances.

  The beetle-like femora with its two riders was the last one out. The front rider, the one that did the fighting, apparently, waved its lance in the air. At least one of the bed bugs had the decency to try and put on a show. The Resurrected might be the best team in the league, but damn did they make for a boring entrance.

  Pete glanced up at the overhead holoscreen, showing the Resurrected logo and the team stats.

  KIBATAN / MIMTAI / 6,536 KILOS

  PERTANDA / FEMORA / 593 KILOS

  WOROTON / APIOM / 780 KILOS

  JHAGUS / APIOM / 823 KILOS

  As a group, the Resurrected mounts returned to their backline.

  Guestford played to the crowd once again.

  “And now, we spin the wheel!”

  The vertical wheel had twenty evenly-sized slices, each done in a slightly different color, representing the fourteen possible games. Most games only had one slice, although a few had two to increase their chances of coming up, and a pair — Joust and Dismount — had three slices.

  Guestford smiled wide. She reached up to the knobs that stuck out from the wheel and gave it a solid spin. The stadium sound system amplified the wheel’s rattling as the knobs clicked past a spring-loaded pointer. That rattling sounded like a buzz, then slowed to fast clicks, then a rat-tat-tat until the wheel stopped, with the pointer above Goal Line.

  The game was similar to GFL football in the sense that the team with the ball had to cross their opponent’s goal line. However, the similarity ended there. The first team — home team always got the benefit and took the ball first — had to advance the ball across the goal line. If they scored, the visiting team had to advance it past the home team’s goal line to tie the game and force a second round, or the game was over. In each round, if the home team didn’t score, the visiting team won if they scored, or if the visitors also didn’t score, the game moved to another round. If the teams matched each other score for score (or not-score for not-score, or a combination thereof) through five rounds and were tied, the visiting team was awarded the game.

  As long as the “ball carrier” was moving, in any direction, the game continued, but teams only had thirty seconds to advance past the goal line or they ended that round without a score. That prevented speedsters from endlessly running all over the field. If the ball carrier fumbled, anyone could pick it up; if the defending team grabbed the ball, that also ended the round without a score, as did the ball carrier’s mount being tackled or held still for more than a couple of seconds.

  Goal Line could favor mass and strength, or pure speed, depending on how the team with the ball wanted to play it: smashmouth, or finesse. The Ridgebacks used a combination of the two.

  “All right, boys and girls, that’s going to be a tough one,” Pete said. “Their riders are smaller so we’re giving up some weight to the mounts. Ian and Bucky, on guard duty. Clark, you know what to do. Dar and Yar, you wreak havoc.”

  The trumpeters sounded a three-note trill. The platform — trumpeters, wheel, and Rachel Guestford still on top — rolled to the midfield wall where a wide door slid open to swallow it up, hide it beneath the stands until it was needed for the next round.

  From an open circle above the Ridgeback’s dugout, a round, orange ball dropped down to the pitch.

  “I’ve got the ball,” Clark called over the comm.

  Missy rushed forward, grabbed the ball in her mouth then turned her head back to Clark, giving it to him. The rider tucked the ball awkwardly under one arm; it might have been the perfect size for a full-grown HeavyG to hold in one hand, but for a dwarf a ball of that size was hard to manage. And that was the point, as bouncing fumbles made for great drama. Clark’s other hand held Missy’s reins.

/>   “Clark has the ball,” Pete echoed. “Everyone remember your assignments. Ian, that femora is going to try and take someone out right off the bat. Hassle it, but do not attack it head-on, and watch for a turn-and-jump, got it?”

  “Got it, Cap,” Ian called back.

  At the other end of the oval pitch, lasers painted a red line twenty meters out from the Ressurected’s dugout. That was the goal line.

  From under the stands, amplified by the arena sound system, the trumpeters let out their five-note game-on signal: bah-bah-bah-bah, BAHHHH!

  “Bess, rush!”

  The beautiful T-Rex roared and launched forward. Pete swayed in his saddle with each giant loping step.

  The mimtai also took off like a shot, six tonnes rushing out to meet Bess. Damn, that thing was fast.

  The apioms advanced, one behind the mimtai to the left, one behind to the right.

  “Apiom on the flanks,” Pete said. “Dar left, Ian right, handle them.”

  Some teams waited closer to the goal line, but the Resurrected were taking their chances by attacking. Pete briefly admired the aggressive tactic, then focused on the task at hand.

  The mimtai closed in. Pete kicked his right heel hard into Bess, two sharp hits — the mimtai wasn’t the only one with a tail, which it was about to find out.

  Bess planted and twisted to the right. Her massive feet skidded across the pitch as she turned, her heavy tail swinging out in a sharp arc that caught the incoming mimtai, sweeping the three-tailed monster’s legs out from under it. The huge body seemed to levitate for a moment, then it crashed hard on its left side, sending its rider tumbling across the packed dirt.

  With that deft strike, Clark and Missy shot past Bess, but had to turn sharply to the left to avoid a streaking apiom. The six-legged creature’s right side smashed into Missy’s left. The ball popped out of Clark’s grip, but he let go of the reins, reached up and caught it in both armored hands. The apiom’s Sklorno rider swung a war hammer that smashed against Clark’s rib armor, but Clark held onto the ball, barked out an order and Missy wheeled right in a long circle away from the opposition’s goal line, halfway back to the Ridgebacks’ dugout before she arced toward Bess. The second apiom gave chase, Yar biting at its rear legs: Dar had screwed up and let her apiom past.