The Great Game Trilogy

by O. J. Lowe

  “You might as well give in,” he said softly. Last thing he wanted was to draw it out unnecessarily. “You’re trapped. There’s nowhere to go from here.”

  The other caller shook his head, a scowl on his face. “If you think I’m going to let this stop me…”

  Put it out of its misery!

  Carcer’s mouth split into a grin as he rose into the air, much like the crimson chimp had done earlier. Crossing the tips of his wings in front of him, he fell into a dive like a cannonball, homing in on the stricken anklo. Nick put a hand in front of his mouth. The black smog from the flames was slowly increasing and he could feel the unpleasant tickle in the back of his throat. Just a few seconds more…

  “… then you’ve got another thought coming!” the youth started to say before he realised what was happening. Carcer was fast and he had been distracted. It took a split second, but the realisation was starting to dawn. “Atlas, income…”

  Just too late to do anything about it. The anklo never saw it through other distractions, Carcer’s blow had been true and Atlas toppled down to the ground with a ferocious smash, still amidst the flames.

  “… ing!” the other caller finished, too stunned to realise what had happened. The moment the final blow landed, the barrier went down, and the sprinklers kicked into life, extinguishing the flames within moments. Soon only a fallen anklo lay amidst the wreckage of the battlefield. It’d take some repairing. It was unlikely there’d be any more fights in here on this trip. That wasn’t his concern. He’d proved his point.

  “And that’s how you do that,” Nick said, folding his arms. “Maybe you should have just apologised. Remember that, next time!”

  He turned on his heel and walked away, Carcer already returning to the container crystal. All while feeling the burn of the other caller’s furious gaze burning into his back, the knowledge alone enough to make him smile. Maybe he’d gone over the top. It didn’t matter.

  Never hold back.

  Three simple words but they made a good motto.

  Chapter Nine. Opportunist.

  “A polite notice to all travellers aboard our Wave Crest vessel, please keep an eye on your belongings and personal possessions at all times. Wave Crest United does not take any responsibility for lost or stolen items.”

  Disclaimer shown immediately before boarding any Wave Crest United Vessel.

  The fourteenth day of Summerdawn.

  A bunch of macho posturing jackasses!

  The thought was enough to bring a smile to Maxwell Brudel’s face as he watched the scuffle between the two men. Not at all a surprise. It was a long trip from Canterage to Vazara, plenty of time to cut into with the travelling. It was only natural someone would find a way to get into a fight. It was like they came looking for them. The nature of the competitive, no matter how much he might consider it beneath him to get into a clash like these two, he was an anomaly among the certainty of violence. They were like bulls, force fed growth supplements and ready to clash heads in anger. But all that said and done…

  He grinned, slipped his way through the crowd. So many easy targets. So easy for a man in his line of work. The scarlet uniform opened many doors for him. The key card he’d stolen opened the rest. He might have dressed like a steward. Or a security guard. Or a waiter. So many options and yet so little time.

  It helped he looked like he might work here. This Wave Crest was run out of Yletizi in Vazara, it employed mostly Vazarans and thus, he fit in. A different coloured face might arouse suspicion, would undoubtedly draw attention. More than height, weight, distinguishing facial marks… Maybe if he had a face full of scars shaping out some sort of crude shape it might have been different, should a situation ever arise where he was called to be identified. Yet he didn’t. Average height, average weight, grey eyed and dark skinned like all the Vazaran staff on board. Yet behind those alert grey eyes lurked the mind of a thief. And like most thieves, he was an opportunist.

  This place was candy land. So much stuff he could sneak out with him, sell it all on; he’d be rolling in the credits. Brudel knew he could make a lot off this trip. It was in his best interests to keep all the distractions going ongoing. If people were fighting, then other people were watching. If those other people were watching the fights, they weren’t watching their pockets. If they weren’t watching their pockets, then they deserved to be robbed. It was the way of the streets he’d grown up on. And it was a tough job, but he was willing to go through with it. It’d be a tragedy not to do so.

  Besides, these people could afford to replace it. They wouldn’t miss a wallet full of credits. It wasn’t like he’d be taking the bread out of the mouths of starving babes. He’d have felt worse about that. Not a lot worse, because hey, he had to eat as well. And as his mentor had once told him, something is better than nothing. The joke had been on him there; he’d died of heart failure. He’d probably rather that had been nothing rather than something, had he not been too dead to care.

  Into the crowd then, his fingers flexing in their gloves. They hungered for action and he was going to give them some.

  “You know that guy?”

  Matthew Arnholt jumped at the sound of the voice behind him, not expecting it. He’d been engrossed on the bout between the two men, the sudden and violent conclusion leaving him wanting more. He hadn’t seen it coming. There’d been so much to do and yet he’d just ripped it all up with little more than a quick strategy change. That Roper guy… Yikes, he looked tough in person. The guy he’d been fighting with didn’t look impressed. He looked furious, like he was willing to go again. He’d never seen him before, but he looked like bad news. He was clenching his fists, a muscle taut in his jaw that looked hard as stone. The veins were going in his neck and just for a moment, Matt had thought he was going to see some violence.

  Even if tempers did go, it was unlikely he was going to see it. It wasn’t uncommon for callers to have disagreements after bouts, especially when the losing party was pissed off at the manner of defeat.

  The speaker was a couple of years older than him, a girl he’d been told was pretty on more than one occasion, usually by her, more often by various guys she’d surrounded herself with from time to time. Her hair was the same shade of black-blue as his, it wasn’t the only thing they shared. Observing parties might notice the similarity in the smile as they gazed at each other. He had more of a tan than her, remarkable given the weather in Canterage in the past several months, she towered maybe an inch above him though he put that down to the height of her boots. Barefoot, he’d have been taller. Easily. And of course, she wore makeup. Possibly bordering on a little too much of it. Their dad would probably have had something to say. Other than those subtle differences, he guessed it was easy to tell they were related.

  For a moment he hesitated, two pairs of brown eyes met and then the two of them embraced.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked as they broke apart. “You’re not a caller. You’re a dancer. So how did you…?”

  People had alleged that they got the way they both smiled from their mother. He couldn’t say, he’d never really gotten the chance to know her. Neither of them had, not really.

  “You think I can’t get on a boat?” she asked. “Hey, it’s easy to get a ticket. I’m the guest of a competitor, aren’t I?”

  “Oh yeah?” He rolled his eyes. Had a feeling he knew where this was going. “Who’s that then?”

  “You, bro. Thought I’d surprise you here. You surprised?”

  He nodded as she slipped down into the seat next to him, already getting herself comfortable. She had that annoying ability to settle in anyway and wholly look like she belonged there. Be it here amongst those she had very little in common with, back home with the family or on the international spirit dancing circuits.

  He had to amend that in hindsight. Just because she was a spirit dancer didn’t mean she wasn’t tough. It was a different discipline, but the two arts weren’t worlds apart. A good dancer could give a str
ong caller a tough clash on any given day. In calling, winning was enough. In spirit dancing, winning with style mattered more. His sister had an unfettered creative streak, an air of unpredictability he’d never quite been able to better. He’d tried it once, for a bet when they were a lot younger. He hadn’t been able to cope. And she’d revelled in it.

  “I’m really surprised,” he said. “It’s been too long. You miss me?”

  She laughed. “Yeah, always. All those years we spent living together at home, I don’t miss those.”

  That brought a grin to his face. Back when they were kids, they’d been at each other’s throats all the time, hadn’t been able to help it. Their dad had done his best but there’d been times when he hadn’t been at home much. Times that had gotten more and more frequent the older they’d gotten. He’d gotten on with it, realised that it was what it was, and he couldn’t do anything about it.

  Mia though, sometimes he got the impression it bothered her more than it did him. Just little subtle hints. Sometimes she’d seem distant with their dad when all three of them were together. But back then, they’d had an antagonistic relationship with each other when they were kids. Their grandmother had done her best to see it didn’t continue but it hadn’t been that easy. He hadn’t made it easy. Mia certainly hadn’t.

  “Yeah, it’s nice to get away. And I’m going to the Quin-C! I told you I’d make it one day,” he said, tailing off for a moment before holding out his hand.

  “What’s that for?” she asked playfully. “Just because you’re some big shot caller doesn’t mean I’m bowing and kissing your hand. I could kick your ass all over this boat anyway.”

  He laughed. “Yeah and then you’d wake up. I’m thinking more those hundred credits you bet me ages ago that I’d never make it here.”

  “Oh, you remember that?”

  “You kidding? I’m going to frame them. Going to split them into a hundred one credit

  pieces and frame them on the wall, going to label them as how they WERE Mia’s.”

  She rolled her eyes and pouted. It’d probably have had more effect on someone who hadn’t seen it a thousand times or more. “You know; everyone hates a bad winner.”

  “Yeah but I’m still a winner,” he said. “Better a bad winner than a good loser, right? Come on, pay up. I know you’re good for it, Miss I-Won-The-Dance-Off-Of-Turninghom-And-Took-The-Grand-Prize.”

  He didn’t have to worry; already she was digging out her purse and shaking her head with a rueful smile on her face. “My baby brother’s growing up.” Her purse was pink velvet with a heart shaped silver clasp, painfully at odds with her dark clothing. It might have been the most feminine-looking thing he’d ever seen in her possession. She popped it open, tossed him a hundred credits chip. “Don’t spend it all on sweets.”

  “What are you suddenly, my mother?” he grinned. “Because…”

  He paused as someone shoved past him, some Vazaran guy who he’d never seen before in a stewards’ uniform. “Watch it, guy,” he muttered, even watching him knock Mia out of the way to get through. She had to grab the table to avoid falling, the air turning blue at the curses coming from her mouth.

  Okay, it might have been a little immature, but it was funny hearing his sister swear like that. People never looked her and expected her to know words like she’d just uttered.

  “Some people,” he said, in effort to be placating. She glowered at him, an angry flush to her cheeks and he had to smile even further. “Come on sis, shake it off. I’m sure he didn’t do it…” He stood up straight, adjusted his jacket. He didn’t know what it was yet, just that something didn’t feel right, couldn’t work out what it was. “… deliberately…” What was it?

  He patted himself down. Glanced at Mia and saw her bag was hanging open where she’d replaced her purse earlier. A purse that no longer visible.

  Oh no!

  He felt his pockets, something still felt off and he had a horrible feeling he knew what it was now. A twist in his stomach, he made a grab for the other pocket, checked his jacket and swore loudly. He’d had a pack of empty container crystals in there, gone now.

  “Son of a bitch!” he exclaimed. It wasn’t language their mother would have approved of, had she been alive to hear them. “I’ve been robbed!”

  Mia studied him for a moment, her face flirting with comprehension, then glanced down at her bag. Her hands were suddenly in motion as she tore through the contents; the anger slowly growing on her face as the seconds ticked by and the horrible realisation dawned.

  “Me too!”

  Max Brudel grinned as he patted down his pockets. A decent haul to be sure. Maybe just one more pass across the floor for luck… Now to find the right sucker and he’d be home free. Hide his stash somewhere on the boat, he knew of a hidey-hole down in the lifeboat area, and then ride out the search for the thief with an innocent look on his face, maybe even abandon the red uniform that made him all but invisible. By the time the Wave Crest got to Carcaradis Island, he’d be able to leave and mingle with the crowd. He’d even catch the same boat home, under a different identity naturally, retrieve the stuff and then leave.

  Ah…

  The figure up ahead had his back to him, apparently busy talking into a holocom. It would be so easy. So easy to just dip into his pocket and take him for everything. He was even wearing a coat, something sticking out of the pockets, something leather and… Oh that was a big wallet. Think of the credits inside, he thought as he rubbed his hands together, ran his tongue over the edge of his lips. Someone up there liked him. And it just reinforced his view that some people deserved to be robbed.

  If he’d stopped to think, he might have put it together. If he’d not been so focused on the theft, he might have noticed the holocom projector was blank. The line was open but nobody on the other end of it.

  His eyes only fell for the leather pack hanging out of the pocket. Slowly, deftly, but not breaking his stride, he reached for it. His fingers met the edges of it, clamped down and tugged…

  Come on…

  Yes!

  It came free of the pocket, the arm at the side of the chatting mark even moving to accommodate him. In other circumstances, he might have suspected something wasn’t right about this scenario. All he could see was the prize, he knew he’d gotten tunnel vision, all he saw was the opportunity, was going to see it through as sure as the damn desert was hot.

  It was heavy, like something metal lay inside it. Max found himself intrigued. Maybe this’d be better than he’d guessed. He couldn’t help it, he slipped his fingers between the cracks and prised it open greedily, visions of gold pieces on his mind.

  SHIT!

  He’d seen a badge like the one inside the case before. Silver, an embossed unicorn upon it and the words United International Spiritual Control Organisation stamped beneath it. The thing was heavy in his hand, he had no doubt it was real and suddenly found himself terrified.

  Especially as the hand clamped down on his shoulder. He turned, brought back his fist and prepped to throw a punch. He wasn’t going to get caught, he couldn’t, not like this…

  The man didn’t have a face. Except he must have, everyone had a face. Yet it was like staring into a puddle of flesh coloured water, the more he tried to make sense of the ripples, the more he realised they lacked any sort of cohesion. Eyes, ears, nose, mouth, the figure didn’t have any of it. He’d heard of the tech that they had. Never seen it in action before, not like this. He gulped, dropped the badge and turned to run, the sudden movement jerking the hand off his shoulder.

  Shit, shit, shit, shit, need to get away. Worse, the man without a face had seen his. He’d caught him in the act. He was in it deep. Maybe he should leap overboard. He’d have more of a chance with the ocean. Unisco were the best. They were elite, and he was out of his depths, a goldfish to their shark. He slipped a little as he ran down the corridor, righted himself on a table which he pulled down behind him with a crash, scattering the contents over the gr
ound, a cacophony of breaking following him. Glancing back, he saw the faceless agent was running after him, hurdled the table like it wasn’t there, bouncing off the wall to leap it and he was running again.

  Shit! Shit! Shit!

  He took a hard left, barrelled through the door into one of the kitchens, the rooms still in the aftermath of the food preparation. There was still plenty of people in here, all of them complaining angrily as he shoved past them, one going to the ground along with several dishes of what looked like spaghetti. Dishes hit the floor with a clatter, cursing followed him through the room. One more push and he was out of there, out of the steam and the shouts and into another corridor, up the stairs onto the next floor. His chest was pounding, he didn’t dare stop. How far could he run? Would it be far enough? Somehow, he didn’t think so. He didn’t want to know. All he could do was keep going.

  He hit another door, barrelled through it and into a gym. It looked like it hadn’t been out of use long, various equipment left scattered about the place. Weights, mats, dumbbells, all sorts of stuff that fitness buffs probably would find more interesting than him, even if he wasn’t about to lose.

  Unless…

  He’d barely had chance to pick up one of the dumbbells when the door to the gym crashed open and the faceless man came charging in. If he was breathing hard from his exertions, Max couldn’t hear any evidence of it. Still, he had a slim chance and he didn’t know what he’d do next if it failed. The swing with the weight felt clumsy and ungainly, all he needed to do was catch a glancing blow and it’d do some damage, give him some chance of a follow up. He put all his weight behind it, gasping for breath with the effort of his swing.

  All his weight was too much, the faceless man twisted out the way neatly, he swung past him and the dumbbell grazed the floor with a scrape. He tried to raise it again, felt a sharp blow in his kidneys for the trouble. Max let out a yell of pain, dropped it and staggered back, almost falling on his ass. He scrambled away, acutely aware there was nowhere to go.