by OJ Lowe
“And you let him back out onto the streets?”
“Only when he finished his sentence. Felt like a dead cert he’d try something again with someone else. It paid off, didn’t it?”
“I guess.”
“Hey, it was Arnholt and the Senate’s idea to use this system. Not mine. They thought it was necessary. Nothing to do with me. I only made the arrangements to have the trackers developed. Think Noorland’s team outdid themselves with it.”
“I just can’t believe nobody found them yet,” Wilsin muttered.
“Well they are undetectable. They’re basically the size of pinheads and attached to a four-millimetre section of the nervous system inside the neck. Emits a signal capable of tracking them wherever they will go.”
“Yeah? Don’t bore me with the specifics.” He really meant it.
“There’s talk we’re going to implant our agents with the same stuff soon,” Okocha said. “Just in case you get taken alive.”
“Nice. You know which box they’re in?” Another cheer rose to a crescendo, screams and roars rising from the battlefield. It couldn’t have much longer to go, surely. Mind on the mission, Wilsin, he chided himself.
“I’m getting a track… Box four,” Okocha said. He sounded like he was suppressing a yawn as he spoke. “Sorry. Should have told you that sooner. Long day. I’m tracing out a path for you. Let’s see… Take the next staircase. Head left at the top and follow the corridor. They’re behind a red door.”
“Guess it’s time to see how the upper half live, right?”
“Always gives you something to shoot for,” Okocha said. It sounded like he was smiling. “Consider this impromptu little trip a means of motivating you for the future, David.”
He found the door easy enough. Thing was even ajar. Just to make it that little bit easier for him. It was Wilsin’s turn to smile as he leaned in against the wall next to it, trying to glance through the crack.
Wilsin assumed that McKenna was the bigger guy stood across the room. He didn’t know why. All gut feelings told him there was no way that someone like him wasn’t on the system, and yet Okocha had been quite clear that one of these two men wasn’t. He might have mentioned the sheer physical presence of the big man. He looked like a fighter, a criminal. Compared to him, the other guy who he guessed was non-descript in a suit and tie with a shaven head. He’d have laid down credits he was the guy who didn’t exist.
The big guy wore leather, his jacket filled tight by the muscles on his upper body. Tattoos adorned his neck and knuckles. Maybe, just maybe, he was carrying a weapon. David Wilsin wouldn’t have bet against it right now. Something in the way he held himself brought about that thought. He looked like a man who didn’t have a care who got in his way; he’d walk all over them. More than that, he’d break them rather than stop.
The guy in the suit also had a leather case in his hand, he couldn’t stop fiddling with it. That was suggestive to Wilsin, it hinted at nerves. Why would someone who didn’t exist be nervous. Maybe they wanted to stay hidden. Maybe he’d gotten the wrong end. Maybe that guy was McKenna and he didn’t want to go back to jail.
“You see this?” he whispered. “There’s a briefcase on show. Some sort of meet.”
“What’s McKenna doing?” Okocha asked. Wilsin ignored him, straining to hear over the distant sounds of the crowd.
“… Good taste in meeting places,” the smaller man said. “Could get used to this.” He patted his front down as if looking for a smoke. Finding nothing immediately, he desisted and turned his attention back to his companion.
“Who’s going to see us, Mr McKenna?” the bigger man smiled.
Huh, Wilsin thought, rubbing his stomach under his t-shirt. It wasn’t often these days he found himself genuinely surprised.
It was not a pleasant smile. He looked like a shark chewing its food thoroughly. “Nobody who cares. They’re all about the action.” He made a dismissive wave towards the arena. Wilsin heard a crash and a roar of bloodlust and anticipation. “Good place to meet.”
“You certainly thought of it all,” McKenna said. “I hope this helps you. I mean it,
anything I can ever do again, I’ll be there.”
The big man gave nonchalant grunt. He didn’t say anything else.
“I mean; I need the work. You know how hard it is for…”
McKenna was coming off a little chatty. Too chatty. Wilsin could see the vein throbbing in the big man’s neck. He could smell the desperation and it stunk horribly.
“… I mean you know right. You look like you’ve been down the road at some point.”
Wilsin inhaled sharply, he hadn’t seen the hand move but the big man had gone deceptively quickly, plucking him up like an apple and holding him against the wall, his feet dangling from the ground, flailing uselessly against empty air. The tips of his hairs almost touched the ceiling.
“Don’t even think about what I might or might not have done,” he said. His pleasant smile had been lost in the haze. “That’s none of your business!”
McKenna was squealing silently, his mouth forced shut by the giant hand forcing his head back. He kicked inefficiently at the big man, his feet slapping the wall weakly. His eyes bulged out, he scratched at the big man’s hand.
“Now listen to me and listen well,” he said. Wilsin was surprised. He’d expected him to be a lot angrier and… well dumber than what he’d seen. Sure, you shouldn’t form prejudices while on the job. What was it his boss always said? Expect nothing. Took all sorts to make a world. “I don’t want to see you again, you follow me. I don’t want to hear your voice on the caller. I don’t want to even smell you.”
He paused, sniffed the air. The front of McKenna’s trousers was suddenly dark, an acrid smell lingering in the air. His face contorted in disgust and McKenna yelped as the fingers dug tighter into him.
“You make me sick. You’re nothing but a parasite that hasn’t realised the fish doesn’t want it yet. We don’t want you. We aren’t going to take you. Fall down in the gutter and die.”
He let him go, McKenna hit the ground and went limp like a sack, laid in his own waste. Wilsin had never seen such fear as that on the face of Eli McKenna right there and then. Suddenly he was glad for the weapon he had about him. Just in case. A man like that, it felt sometimes shooting first and asking questions after was the more sensible choice. It wasn’t often he had that feeling.
“That’s the best you’ll get from me. Consider it your severance. You are no longer required.” That savage grin reappeared. “I’d help you up, but well, I’m not going to. Clean yourself up and leave the kingdom. This is your only warning. Do you really want to make me angry? Because if you fear me when I’m bored, you won’t want to see me angry.” He turned tail, making towards the door, his briefcase swinging loose in his hand.
Instinctively, Wilsin ducked out of sight, hand going towards his X7. Starting a firefight wasn’t the best option. He didn’t want to die either. And for what? Some vague probably useless intel? No thank you. He was out of sight when he heard the big man emerge from the box, thankfully heading the other way. He let loose a deep sigh of relief. Okocha did the same.
“Close enough for you?” he asked. “I managed to delay your match by five minutes. Problem with the viewing networks. Temperamental system and all that. You’re welcome. A lot. The tragedy of the world we live in. Technology can just be so fickle sometimes.” He sounded mock-sorrowful. You’re fighting Jay Hopper, if that means anything to you. Now that’s out of the way, you want to talk about what we just saw?”
“What did I just see?” Wilsin asked. “You getting anywhere with the big man? Want me to chase him? Bring him in?”
“Nah, nah and just for the third time, nah. As interesting as all this is, we have no reasonable cause to detain him. As funny as it might be seeing you try to arrest him.”
He audibly sighed with relief. “Well thanks for that. It wouldn’t have been pretty.”
“Maybe he�
��s all bark. Some of these guys look tougher than they actually are.”
“And some of them are every bit as dangerous as they look. Remember that smuggler in Delhoig a few months back? He cut up Monty bad. This guy makes him look soft.”
Okocha said nothing. Wilsin felt bad for bringing up suddenly. Like a punch to the gut. That had hurt them all, a solemn reminder that there was always someone out there.
Being in Unisco was a dangerous job. There might be perks, being fully trained as a spirit caller on someone else’s credit being just one, but always there was the chance that one of them wouldn’t get to finish their mission. Every so often one of them didn’t make it. Sooner or later, some of them never went home. Danger was present, forever a companion they had to face sooner or later. Montgomery had been the most recent to be hurt. But at least being hurt was as far as it had gone.
“Wonder what was in the briefcase,” Okocha said. “Is McKenna still in there?”
“Haven’t seen him come out,” Wilsin replied, glancing around the corner. The big guy had gone. “Didn’t hear him come out. Want me to have a word?”
“Can’t hurt. Didn’t look friendly. Can play the concerned citizen card. I like that card, don’t you?”
“I prefer the don’t fight me because you’ll lose card,” Wilsin said. It was light bravado; he didn’t mean it. Some people did it so well. It sounded false when it came from his mouth. But sometimes you needed to make the effort. Look invincible, try and psych the opposition out. Even if you know you’re going to get beaten badly, make the effort. Some Unisco agents did it fantastically. Not him. He preferred to be underestimated. “Okay, okay. I’ll get on it.”
McKenna looked in a bad way. He’d probably never have been the prettiest, but what the big man had done had left its marks. Bruises and cuts, he looked scared out of his mind. His eyes, one closed shut with a giant purple lump and the other bloodshot, wide with terror as he stared emptily out of the window. Outside, the crowd were chanting the name of the victor, repeating Hopper, Hopper, Hopper over and over. Wilsin didn’t even hear it as he strode in, weapon in hand. He didn’t think he’d need it. Wouldn’t hurt to be sure. Did McKenna even see him as he stood over him? He didn’t know.
“Oi.”
Nothing. Wilsin debated kicking him in the ribs. It probably wasn’t a good idea. You just never knew who was watching. It was unprofessional more than anything. And he hated that. In addition to it not likely doing any good, he decided against it.
Instead, he spoke a little louder. “Oi!”
Still nothing. Kicking him in the ribs after he’d been beaten up like this, it’d be hard to prove. Still not a good idea.
“Eli McKenna, open your mouth and acknowledge me, you Cyrian bastard.”
A blink.
“Yeah, you know I’m here,” Wilsin said. “Talk. Who beat you up?”
His lips trembled. Wilsin didn’t hear the answer. He knelt closer. Worry never entered his mind. He could take McKenna in a fight here. Guy looked closer to death than anything. Maybe his injuries were worse than they looked.
“I didn’t hear that,” he said, leaning in. “What happened? Who attacked you? Come on, man, work with me. I’m trying to help.”
Those bloody lips moved again. This time he caught the answer.
“No-one.”
He rolled his eyes. Was it going to be one of those? Why couldn’t they ever just confess and reveal everything? It’d make the job that much easier if they weren’t so damn stubborn.
“Let me guess, you tripped and fell.” It came out a lot more sarcastic than he meant it to.
There was a nod to that. It was almost imperceptible but it was there.
“And that big ugly looking fella was just helping you up, right? Only you fell again. Clumsy huh?”
Visible reaction to that, he scrambled back against the wall trying to get away. His feet flailed against the carpet, like a mole tries to dig a hole. The only colour left in his face was the scarlet from the injuries.
“Let it go,” Okocha said. “He’s not going to talk. Tell someone, get him some medical attention, we’ll see if he’s a bit chattier when he feels better.”
“He’ll not talk,” Wilsin said. “He’s out of his mind with fear. Can’t cure that.”
He glanced down; saw McKenna had rested his head against the wall, not even facing the window now. His one good eye stared at the door. Blood ran down from his nose, a thin scarlet trail weaving down to his lips.
“What was in the case, Eli?” he asked. He felt like proving a point. “Going to talk to me?”
Nothing. The other eye was gently sliding shut. It was like watching a tired drunk. Wilsin shook his head, stood up.
“I’ll get a steward. You’ll have my report by tomorrow afternoon.”
“Wouldn’t waste your time if it was me,” Okocha yawned. “It looks pretty dead end. But you know how it goes. They’ll want it. Can’t fight the bureaucrats. Go on. Get out of there and fight. Beat that guy down. I want to go to the Quin-C and cheer you on. Well, as long as you’re not fighting someone I like more.” Polite laughter fell down the line.
“Funny. You’re wasted in this job. Who says comedy is dead?”
“Nobody.”
“Most of the time you just make us think that.”
“Ha. Good one David. Sorry about getting you up here for a whole lot of nothing. Sucks I know, right?”
And he was right. Sure, he knew he’d seen a crime committed but technically it was out of their jurisdiction. Anything spirit related, Unisco could get. Without knowing for sure what had been in that briefcase, it was something for the local constabulary. Common assault, as painful as it had looked for Eli McKenna, just wasn’t something that interested the largest law enforcement organisation to grace the five kingdoms.
His cover story had worked. The steward hadn’t questioned it. As far as anyone knew, he’d gone for a walk around the stadium to clear his head, get some air… (Wilsin had never suffered pre-bout nerves in his life but they weren’t to know that. And besides, a first time for everything. This was perhaps the most important bout he’d had for a while.) He’d heard a crash, stormed into the Reims box and found the poor guy clattered out. Keep his weapon hidden, turn his muffler off, nobody would ever know anything different. The perfect operation for all parties.
He’d worry about the report after the bout. Standard Unisco procedure. Record everything. He should be doing it now. On the way back to the changing room, he’d made notes on what he could remember of the big man. That was important. There were security images, but they could lie. It was more than just about his appearance; he’d noted stuff about the swagger and the voice, stuff you could only really get a read on in person.
He’d dumped the Unisco stuff back in the false bottom of his bag. Best not to take chances. Again, some Unisco agents carried their stuff around with them at all time. They’d been doing the job so long that they were getting paranoid. Half convinced everyone was out to get them; they were intolerable to work with sometimes. Thankfully they were few and far between. Still they were often handy to have with you when things went sour. Really handy.
Time.
When it’s your time, you know it. He’d walked a walk like this many times before, but each time it never ceased to amaze him. Every stadium was different. He’d been in stadiums where there’d been lifts to take him to the arena, where he’d gone down a few dozen steps to reach the battlefield… This one was simple. All he had to do was walk out the tunnel. A tunnel that felt more like a tube of sound all around him. He tried not to think of all those people above and around him. Thousands and thousands, all waiting, all watching. As he approached the entrance, he heard the commentators loud above the crowd. Some microphones there. Powerful, powerful technology. Clear as a bell.
“And here comes our other finalist, the favourite for the competition if the bookmakers can be believed. David Wilsin, the triumphant victor over Maxi Morandez in the semi-fi
nal of our tournament. His opponent, Jay Hopper has the tougher task here. He’s fought less than twenty minutes ago in his own semi and Wilsin is fresher. Hopper needs to be top of his game here.”
“Absolutely. Hopper is a competent fighter, he might be a serious competitor one day, no doubt, but this might be a bridge too far for him. Is he in Wilsin’s league? It’s tough to say. Wilsin is a skilled competitor, he has experience of this level. This is Hopper’s first final. Sometimes the occasion can get to them. It’s always those who can master these circumstances that go on to become the real top end of the spirit calling world. It is Wilsin’s to lose this, my opinion. But surprises do occur. The favourite doesn’t always win. It’s how Hopper handles the pressure right now.”
“And of course, there’s that little extra pressure here because the winner will definitely be guaranteed a place at the Competitive Centenary Calling Challenge Cup. It starts in just a few short weeks and those that haven’t already guaranteed their qualification are running out of chances to do so.”
“Real mouthful that, John. It’d be a real feather in Hopper’s cap to get there so relatively early in his competitive career. Wilsin could in theory make it with a narrow defeat, points wise. That is not a chance he really wants to take. He’ll want to win here. If he doesn’t end up at the tournament, he’s going to be disappointed with himself.”
“A trophy is a trophy. The Quin-C is a bonus on every level. Who wouldn’t want to compete at the most prestigious tournament ever conceived? Wilsin will. Hopper will. Hey, everyone who entered here aspired to get the points needed to go there. It’s down to these two to make that aspiration a reality.”
The most important bout of his year. A lean year by his standards. A lean year that had boiled down to this. Privately Wilsin kicked himself that he hadn’t already qualified. He knew quite a few Unisco agents who already had. He didn’t want to be watching it at home, and he had to get past Jay Hopper to get there. Hopper was nothing too unusual. Early twenties maybe. Not a seasoned caller. He hadn’t hit the big time yet. His equipment looked too standard. His summoner was a basic one. Not like his own. A scrawny kid with a few wisps of beard and an uncomfortable look.