Chapter 1: CHAPTER ONE

“Damn it, not again.”

The last thing David Gilbert needed today, the last thing he wanted, was the return of his former trainer. Paul Brenner had deserted him five years ago to join Equine Electronics, Inc. Several times since then he had come back to the farm, driving a pickup hauling a trailer. Gilbert knew what the trailer contained, had no intention of looking inside. Brenner had talked about it often enough even before he ventured over to Equine Electronics.

He watched with detached amusement through one of the stall windows. Behind him, Dawny Lee, his two-year-old filly, the only occupant of the stable, nickered. Brenner had pulled up in front of a building that had once served as the breeding shed. Another man climbed out on the passenger side, looked around, hands buried in the pockets of a gray windbreaker. Gilbert didn’t move from his spot at the window when Brenner called his name. He clenched, unclenched his right hand, wished Brenner would get back in the pickup, and drive up the lane. The man just didn’t know when to quit.

The Honda Civic and Ford F150 pickup parked in front of the shed didn’t help matters.

Brenner called again, louder this time. Gilbert decided if he had to talk with the man he’d do it on his own time, his terms. Brenner would have to wait. If he grew tired of waiting he could just turn around and leave.

The man didn’t leave. Wishful thinking, Gilbert thought.

He wasn’t interested in what the man had to sell. Had told him every time he showed up here with that pickup and trailer. Could have told the stubborn fool again and again, and he still wouldn’t have listened. Brenner had this idea, this belief, he all but owned the thoroughbreds that had once upon a time lived on Gilbert’s farm. No matter what Gilbert had told him Brenner had other ideas. The feud came to a head when Brenner announced he wouldn’t run Bright Angel in the International Derby at Westover. She’s out of her league, he had said, but Gilbert knew damn well she was ready. Had been preparing her for this race most of the season.

A week later Brenner walked into his office and told him he had found employment elsewhere. Look, Paul, Gilbert had said, I know we don’t always agree on everything, but there’s no reason to quit. Brenner told him the International Derby was the last straw. I train your horses, Dave, he said, bitterness clouding his voice. I should know what’s best for them.

The worst thing Brenner had down was to accept a position at Equine Electronics. Gilbert could never forgive him for that.

The stable door creaked open. A moment later his unwanted guest peered into Dawny Lee’s stall. The chestnut filly nickered a greeting but Gilbert shushed her as he stroked her neck.

“What do you want?” he grumbled. Stupid question. Had no idea why he asked.

“You’re not hard to find,” Brenner said.

“Whatever you’re selling,” he said, “I’m not interested. How many times do I have to tell you? Why don’t you and your friend from Equine Electronics get back in that pickup and get the hell off this farm?”

He resented Brenner’s appearance in the stable. The man was no longer welcome on the farm, and any business he thought he had here would be finished shortly.

Brenner reached out to touch the filly. She tossed her head as she backed up. That didn’t surprise Gilbert. Something about Brenner didn’t sit right with her.

He patted her neck. “Easy, girl. The bad man is leaving right now.”

“You’re wasting your time with that horse,” Brenner said. “You know they won’t allow her to run.”

He picked up Dawny Lee’s near foreleg, checked the hoof. “I know all about your new rules.” He didn’t bother looking up. “Equine Electronics. Join us, and everything will be fine. Racing will carry on just like nothing ever happened. I’m not ignorant about that, if that’s what you think.” He pushed past his former trainer, walked into the tack room near the end of the stable, returned with a hoof pick clutched in his right hand.

“You’re living in the past,” Brenner said, stepping aside so Gilbert could get back into the stall. “How many thoroughbreds are still alive in North America? Not enough to make a decent race, let alone fill a race card. And the rest of the world? Their tracks aren’t in much better shape. Most of them are closed... torn down, changed to houses, condominiums, apartments, offices. Europe, Asia, North America... That’s why they’ve switched to horses made by Equine Electronics. The successful tracks in the States, in Canada, other countries, they’re staying open to accommodate horses built by our company. Besides, there’ll be fewer complaints by people who think every type of racing involving animals should be banned. Your horse will never set foot on a racetrack because there aren’t enough real horses for her to run against.”

He said nothing, picked out Dawny Lee’s hoof.

“Why don’t you come and have a look at our newest model?”

“Are we talking about horses or cars?”

“We’ve had a bit of trouble with our earlier models,” Brenner continued, “but the EX-527’s are so much like the real thing it’s hard to tell the difference.”

“What next?” he muttered. “Android jockeys? Android trainers?”

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“We’re giving the people what they want.” Brenner rubbed the side of his nose, looked at his fingers. “Look, Dave, I know racing has been in a decline since the 1980’s and people have been saying we should just forget about it. Some people, mind you. There are still quite a few who bet on horses, and they don’t care if they’re real or artificial. And of course the operative word is ‘bet.’ ”

Gilbert opened the stall door. Enough of this. “Not interested. Get that through your thick head.”

Brenner stepped aside. “Why are you so stubborn? A lot of owners have come over to our side, and more are checking out Equine Electronics.”

Our side. The dark side called Equine Electronics. “Horses are flesh and blood, not wires and computer chips and synthetic skin.”

“Listen to me, I—”

His fist connected cleanly with Brenner’s jaw. Two months shy of his fiftieth, eight years older than Brenner, but he could still take care of himself. Not much muscle on the younger man.

Brenner sat on the ground, rubbed his jaw. His black hair hung like wet straw down his forehead. “You might as well shoot that horse, Gilbert. She’s as good as dead anyway.”

“She’s immune, the same as other horses. If they haven’t got it by this time they won’t get it. I checked with Doc Landon.”

“They still won’t allow her to run.”

He reached Brenner in two quick step, hauled him to his feet. “She’ll run. She’ll race against horses made by Equine Electronics if she has to.”

“We can’t permit that.”

“We’ll see.” He released Brenner. “Now get out of here.” Brenner stumbled past him, brushing hay from his pants. He walked to the pickup, said something to the other man. A heated discussion almost boiled over for a few minutes, but it calmed to a simmer as the other man glanced at Gilbert standing in the entrance to the stable.

“Mr. Gilbert?”

He headed into the stable.

“Mr. Gilbert, if you want to run your horse against our horses maybe you should see what you’re up against.”

He turned, held his anger in check. “Did Brenner send you?” “My name is Peterson, Dr. Richard Peterson. I’m in charge of thoroughbred production at Equine Electronics. We specialize in creating—”

“Spare me the sales talk, Peterson,” he interrupted. “I’m busy.” He took an immediate dislike to the small man with the close-cropped blond hair and the wire frame glasses. All he wanted was someone who could take ‘no’ for an answer.

Peterson dug into his breast pocket, brought out a card. “Call me when you change your mind.”

He ignored the offered card. “Hell will be mighty cold before I ever change my mind.”

“A lot of people have told us they won’t change their minds, a lot of owners, a lot of trainers, even jockeys. You know what happens? Curiosity is such a strong emotion, and they visit Equine Electronics. We show them around, we display the horses, and you know what? When they leave, they walk away with a whole new attitude, a more... positive attitude.” He offered the card again. “Please reconsider, Mr. Gilbert.”

Against his better judgment he took the card rather gingerly as if it were covered with poison. On it, Peterson’s name with the initial ‘G’ next to ‘Richard’ and beneath that Equine Electronics, Inc. In the lower right-hand corner, three telephone numbers, one business number, one home number, and one cell phone number. Below that, Peterson’s email address. He shoved it into his pants pocket, intended to tear it up later.

“I’ll be at Equine Electronics until six,” Peterson said. “After that, you can reach me at home. Try the cell phone number first.”

He had no intention of calling him.

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