The Great Game Trilogy

by O. J. Lowe

  “I’m getting a track… Box Four,” Okocha said. He sounded like he was suppressing a yawn as he spoke. “Sorry. 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, sounding like he was smiling. “Consider this impromptu little trip a means of motivating you for the future, David.”

  He found the door easy enough, saw it ajar. Just to make it that little bit easier for him. It was Wilsin’s turn to smile as he leaned in against the nearby wall, eye pressed up against the crack.

  Wilsin assumed that McKenna was the bigger guy stood across the room. He didn’t know why. All gut feeling told him there was no way someone like him wasn’t on the system, yet Okocha had been quite clear one of these two wasn’t. He might have mentioned the sheer physical presence of the bigger man beforehand. He looked like a fighter, a criminal. Compared to him, the other man 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 muscles on his upper body. Tattoos adorned his neck and knuckles, various insignias he didn’t recognise. Maybe, just maybe, he was carrying a weapon. David Wilsin wouldn’t have bet against it. He carried himself like a man who didn’t have a care who got in his way; he’d walk all over them, break them rather than stop.

  The guy in the suit had a leather case in his hand, couldn’t stop fiddling with it, his eyes furtive, he hopped from one foot to the other. Nerves, Wilsin thought. 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 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, anything to keep his hands busy. Finding nothing, he desisted, turned his attention back to his companion.

  “Who’s going to see us, Mr McKenna?” the bigger man smiled.

  Huh, Wilsin thought.

  It wasn’t a pleasant smile, reminiscent of a shark chewing its food thoroughly. “Nobody who cares. They’re all about the action.” He made a dismissive wave towards the arena windows at the back. 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, said nothing.

  “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, thrusting him against the wall, feet flailing uselessly against empty air.

  “Don’t even think about what I might or might not have done,” he said, pleasant smile lost in the haze. “That’s none of your business!”

  McKenna was squealing silently, mouth forced shut by the giant hand holding his head back. He kicked inefficiently at the big man, feet slapping weakly against the wall. His eyes bulged out, he scratched at the big man’s hand.

  “Now listen to me and listen well,” he said. Wilsin was surprised, had expected him to be a lot angrier and… well dumber than what he’d seen. He knew the follies of forming prejudices while on the job. What was it his boss always said? Expect nothing. 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 darkened, 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 yet to realise 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, collapsed in his own waste. Wilsin had never seen such fear, suddenly glad for the weapon at his back. Just in case. A man like that, sometimes shooting first and asking questions after was a 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? If you fear me when I’m bored, you won’t want to see me angry.” He turned tail, made towards the door, briefcase swinging loose in his hand.

  Instinctively, Wilsin ducked out of sight, hand moving to his X7. Just in case. Starting a firefight wasn’t the best option, nor did he want to die. And for what? Some vague, probably useless intel? No thank you. 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 bout 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 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 Salawia a few months back? He cut up Monty bad. This guy makes him look soft.”

  Okocha said nothing. Wilsin felt bad for bringing it up suddenly. That had hurt them all, a solemn reminder there was always someone out there to end you if you lacked care.

  Being in Unisco was a dangerous job. There might be perks, being fully trained as a spirit caller on someone else’s credit for one, but always there was the chance they wouldn’t get to finish their mission. Every so often, one of them didn’t make it. Sooner or later, someone didn’t go home. Danger was ever-present, a companion they had to face sooner or later. Montgomery had been the most recent to be hurt badly. At least that 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, saw they were alone. “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. 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 prefe
rred 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 the big man had had left his mark. Bruises and cuts, he looked scared out of his mind. His eyes, one closed shut with a giant purple lump and the other bloodshot, were 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 entered, 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 never knew who was watching. It was unprofessional more than anything. Last thing he wanted was the inquisitors having a word with him.

  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, best open your mouth and acknowledge me, you Cyrian bastard.”

  A blink, slight but there regardless.

  “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, his body contorted with pain.

  “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, the answer slipping in his ears.

  “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. Only the purple hue of his bruises remained colourful in his face.

  “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, scarlet weaving down to his lips.

  “What was in the case, Eli?” he asked. “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 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.” He was doing his best to sound sincere now. “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 what’d 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 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, 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 gear back in the false bottom of his bag. Best not to take chances. 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. Thankfully they were few and far between. Still they were handy to have with you when things went sour.

  Time.

  When it’s your time, you know it. He’d walked a walk like this before, 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, the list was endless. This one was simple. All he had to do was walk out the tunnel and into the wall of sound around him. He tried not to think about the people, thousands watching and waiting for the main event Even above it all, he could hear the commentator loud above the crowd, powerful microphones at work.

  “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-final 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 all about 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’ll want 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 of the lot? Wilsin will. Hopper will. Hey, everyone who entered 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, it had boiled down to this. Privately Wilsin kicke
d 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. A scrawny kid with a wisp of beard and an uncomfortable look.

  Of course, the tools made no difference. What would decide the bout would be what he or Hopper did. Better equipment meant nothing.

  Maybe right there and then, he made the choice he was going to school him completely. No more slip ups. Enough failure. Hopper could hurt him. He was going to hurt him worse.

  No excuses. He folded his arms, found his summoner. The referee was coming out, going over the rules just for their benefit. Bigger tournaments didn’t bother with human referees, too prone to error according to the sporting bigwigs. It wasn’t like anyone in the crowd could hear it, even with their momentary silence. They were too engrossed to cheer; their earlier welcome had died down for the early seconds of the pre-bout rituals. The commentators were doing their own rundown for those that hadn’t gone for extra food and drink. The referee was a Burykian, Wilsin smiled politely and nodded at him as he shook his hand, did the same with Hopper and retreated to his own technical area.

  “And with that out of the way, we are minutes away from probably the most exciting competition you’ll have seen this year, we are going to see action, we’ll see drama and violence and ultimately one man will leave this arena as a victor. We may see tears, but at the same time something hopefully very special.”

  “That’s right, John, something special indeed. These two are going to serve us something which might be quite remarkable. Hopper, the up and comer with a point to make on a kingdom unsure what to make of his talent versus Wilsin, the old hand with a point to prove, out of form and ready to strike back with a vengeance…”

  I’m not that old, Wilsin thought wistfully. Cheeky bastard.

  “… But a man who, when on his game, can be deadly. A man with seventeen competitive wins this season. Will he make it eighteen here? All experts think he should. And with that in mind, the first call is about to be made. The first call that should set the tone of the fight ahead.”