The Great Game Trilogy

by O. J. Lowe

  It might have been argued only an idiot would fight gunships on the back of a spirit, but in return he could point out that all their armour and weapons had done the pilots very little good. Four of them had died. That final pilot had died moving too close to the mouth of his vos lak, a suicide run to drive him away. Domis smiled. He’d seen the look on his face as dragon fire overwhelmed his shields and melted through his hull, roasting him alive where he sat. Only a charred lump of meat had managed to eject from the ship, flames lapping at his remains. Even now, his remains were probably already being torn apart by sharks fifty thousand feet below.

  The other two ships had been sucked inside with the transport, a pair of HAX’s rendered useless by the pulse technology employed upon them the second they’d been yanked through the doors. The transport itself sat there motionless, three squads of armed guards pointing weapons at the new arrivals. Already mechanics were seeking to cut their way into the cockpits of the HAX’s, a Premesoiran and a pretty Vazaran inside them, both looking shell-shocked by what had gone down around them. Domis hadn’t decided what he was going to do with them yet, they weren’t his problem. The transport was. He strode over to it, past the armed guards and rapped a massive hand on one of the doors.

  “Attention Unisco,” he said. “You’ve got one chance to surrender yourselves and the prisoner here. Give yourselves up and we’ll treat you right. Resist and you’ll die It’s your choice but we’re coming through that door in a minute either way.”

  They probably figured they were okay, he thought as he studied the door. It was thick, doubtless sealed tight. If he was in their position, he’d imagine he had more than a minute to stay safe.

  How wrong they would be. A grin broke across his face as he took a step back, drew a deep breath and stepped forward smashing the sole of his boot into the door with a deafening clang. He could see the hull vibrate, he’d felt it give under the force of his blow.

  Repeatedly, he kicked it, each blow getting results. Under the first few, it held but gradually more quickly his superior strength told, each blow warping the door until finally he felt it pop with the tenth blow, slamming it inwards and Domis was through the door, going low immediately as shots from Featherstone blaster rifles streamed over his head.

  He was at the first agent quickly, caught him with a backhand that threw him into a bulkhead, neck bent back at an awkward angle, the second and third he grabbed in each hand by the necks and squeezed until he felt vertebrae crumble into dust beneath his clutch. They hit the ground hard and he turned his attention to the last. A burning sensation kicked him in the chest and he doubled over in pain, fire rushing through his body, burning away his shirt but he gritted his teeth together and stood up slowly. He saw eyes widen as the Unisco agent fired again and again, more and more fire raking across him step by step as he closed the distance and took the rifle from him, twisting it into useless wreckage.

  Only then did he hear the laugh of the restrained Rocastle, arms and legs chained, caged like an animal towards the back of the transport. Domis took the Unisco agent by the throat, twisted one handed and absentmindedly dropped him to the floor as he took in the prisoner. The one they’d gone to so much trouble to get back.

  “What took you so long?” Rocastle asked cheerfully. “You stop for a tea break? You want to let me out? Because as much as I enjoy the idea of prison hijinks, I think there’s better things we could all be doing.”

  In that moment, Domis considered killing him and telling the Mistress that there was nothing else that could have been done. He sighed. As enjoyable as that might be, he couldn’t. He couldn’t lie to her face like that. She’d wanted him alive. And alive was how she was going to get him.

  As much as it might kill him personally to keep this stain breathing, he had his orders and he could no more disobey her than he could fly under his own volition. It was with great reluctance that he reached for the lock of the cage and broke it in his bare hands.

  “Come on,” he said. “She’s waiting for you.”

  Chapter Three. What Price Paradise?

  “Sometimes, to act is the easiest bit. I’ve always found living with yourself afterwards that becomes tricky.”

  Alana Fuller in her private diary.

  The eighth day of Summerpeak.

  She hated this. Looking at herself in the mirror became little more than an unwilling chore, she hated what she’d become and yet she still endured. And why? Alana Fuller thought savagely as she rolled over to look at the great balding head on the pillow next to her, the taste still foul in her mouth. All because she wanted a place in her Mistress’ great new world. She supposed, in the end, it all boiled down to the price you were willing to pay. What price paradise?

  She was paying for it with her body, keeping this loathsome little man distracted, two words that described him aptly. She’d found his decadence so excessive she’d wanted to hurl her expensive glass of wine into his face, yet calm had stayed her hands. Her vision of the future in which she’d rule under the Mistress’ divine word burned in her mind, the hunger for the power and glory satisfying her in a way Ronald Ritellia hadn’t been able to. Their liaison had been briefly unsatisfying for her, he’d kissed her hungrily enough with a mouth tasting of ash and smoke, she found her nose wrinkling at the memory of those vile cigars he’d smoked.

  They’d returned to her room, away from the prying eyes of the media and away from any thought of Ritellia’s wife and she’d played her part, eagerly undoing his belt and dropping to her knees, pulling his boxer shorts down with her teeth. He stank down there, a stale odour of sweat and stress but still she’d kept her smile plastered on, took him in her mouth and hands to get him going, a task keeping her busy for longer than was good for her confidence. As she’d run her mouth over his cock, back and forth while he’d made satisfied little sounds, she’d told herself it was down to his age not her looks. What she might have had in the past had faded a little with time but not so much she couldn’t still have had seventy percent of whomever she desired. Unfortunately, this one, she didn’t desire.

  Still she was nothing, if not willing as finally she’d gotten him approaching some semblance of hard, guided him to the bed and he’d ripped away her clothes leaving her exposed and naked beneath his beady bloodshot eyes. She didn’t care that he looked at her like a piece of meat, so much worse for him if he underestimated her in the long run. When it came, he wouldn’t see the knife that slipped between his ribs. His rough hands had brushed her entire body, making her shudder in ways she hoped he mistook for pleasure before finally she’d spread her legs and felt him enter her with a surprising sudden vigour that made her want to retch.

  She’d kept her brave face on, thought of the rewards and had been surprised at the smile passing across her face, an approximation of dopey glee that had completely fooled Ritellia by the looks of things. He looked like he knew he still had it, like he could still bring her to climax with very little effort. She couldn’t quite keep that little laugh out, hoped he mistook it for delight.

  “You’re getting better at this,” she gasped quietly, privately pleased at her own acting skills. She could fake it with the best of them. Of course, it wasn’t entirely devoid of pleasure, but it wasn’t anything she’d write home about. Exaggerated was probably a better word than faked.

  Still she could be doing worse. She could be doing a Rocastle. Fuller had to admit it had been satisfying, she’d been in the crowd watching as he’d been dragged towards a prisoner transport, his nose bandaged and wrist in a sling. She could only assume he’d been arrested hard and someone had decided to give him a few ‘accidental’ knocks. She really couldn’t blame them; she and he were supposed to be allies and yet she’d frequently fought the urge to stab him in the kidneys. Kill him in as painful a manner as possible, but for the sake of the Mistress, she had held back.

  Now, though, she wondered as to his future. If he went down, a likely outcome given the rumours about his actions, then he could
ruin everything. If he decided to talk… She put that thought out of her mind. He might not. The Mistress might get him out. How she planned to do that from a secure Unisco transport that would undoubtedly have an escort, she hadn’t been able to work it out at the time.

  Now though, she still didn’t know as her attention was dragged from her thoughts by the vibrations of her summoner. Padding out of the bed naked, she picked it up and set it to personal mode, she didn’t want Ritellia overhearing anything.

  “Fuller,” she said quietly, looking around for her robe. She’d take the call out onto the balcony, enjoy some privacy. Her robe had been thrown aside, a sheen of pink silk cast into the corner.

  “Hello Alana.” She stiffened at the sound of the Mistress’ voice, standing a little straighter without thinking.

  “Mistress,” she said, bending down to scoop her robe up one handed and clumsily she fumbled it over one arm. “Good morning. How may I serve you today?”

  If Ritellia was awake, she noted, it’d probably sound strange. It’d probably bring all manner of question into existence about her and yet she couldn’t bring herself to care as she switched hands with the summoner and pulled her robe over her, cradling it into her neck and tying it up around her. She needed a shower, she felt disgusting after the bedroom aerobics.

  Stepping out into the hot afternoon air didn’t help, the sounds of a crowd in the distance. It sounded like a second-round bout was either underway or about to get started. They’d started the previous day, but she hadn’t kept track of what was going on. Right now, she couldn’t care less, had bigger things on her mind.

  “Talk to me. Are you aware of what happened with Rocastle?”

  So, the Mistress had heard about that. Somehow, she was less than surprised as she nodded to herself. “Yes, I saw him being escorted off the island.”

  “Then you know at this moment in time you are my only remaining asset?”

  Again, she bobbed her head, as she’d suspected to be the case. She said as much, and the Mistress chuckled.

  “That mind remains sharp as ever, I see. Nice to know engaging with President Ritellia hasn’t dulled it. How goes that by the way?”

  “I assume you got the videos,” Fuller said dully. This wasn’t their first liaison, the previous ones all recorded for posterity. If ever they needed to politically destroy the President of the ICCC, this was the ammunition they’d start with. She wasn’t keen on her upcoming fifteen minutes of fame but what the Mistress demanded, the Mistress usually got.

  “You’re doing well, my dear. I could tell you weren’t enjoying it, despite your brave face. A woman knows. Ritellia looked satisfied enough. I can’t thank you enough, not until our work comes to fruition. All will be rewarded.”

  It might have sounded vague and unsatisfying. Fuller didn’t care. She’d been sold a story and she intended to see that the Mistress kept that word, no matter what. She might have been reduced to whoring herself out for some greater goal, but she’d still hold everyone else to their word. If they didn’t do so, she didn’t know what she’d do. It wouldn’t be pleasant, for sure. She knew the endgame, if not all the pieces in play. It held her respect for the Mistress, she knew that much. To keep everything running smoothly was an impressive fete she didn’t know if she could even start to plan, never mind complete.

  “Tell me, my dear. What do you really think of the good Mister Ritellia and don’t mince your words.”

  She smiled slowly, aware the Mistress couldn’t see her. “I think he’s a complete shit. I’ve fantasised about killing him. I’d rather walk naked through a scorpion pit than let him touch me again. How he got to be president of anything is beyond me. I’d say he’s a buffoon but that’s giving him too much credit.”

  The Mistress sounded like she was smiling. Fuller would have paid to see that. “You really don’t mince them, do you Alana?”

  “But,” she said quickly, just in case. “And please take this compliment the way I intend it, it’s a sign of how much I trust I have in you that I let him. I wouldn’t do this for just anyone.”

  In the Mistress’ voice, she was sure she could hear the smile growing larger. “I thank you for your candid honesty. Although not as much as I thank you for your faith. It’s ultimately the efforts of people like you which shall see our goals to fruition. You haven’t failed me, unlike some who shall remain nameless.”

  Alana smirked at the lack of mention regarding Rocastle. Doubtless that was who she meant, a shame she hadn’t derided him further. That would have just about made her day.

  “Tell me something else. What do you really imagine I have you doing out there? I’ve purposely left you out of the loop but now I think I owe you the whole story of your mission. You’ve sacrificed your dignity; it feels only right I reward you in some small way.”

  “You’ve got me sleeping with the head of possibly the largest independent political organisation in the five kingdoms,” Alana said. “You had me discuss with him the nature of the future. I assume you’re looking to replace him in some way…” She paused, remembered something Ritellia had said previously. “But you might not have too much of a say in things.”

  “Oh really?” The Mistress sounded politely amused and just for a moment, she found herself hoping horribly she hadn’t overstretched herself. “Do carry on.”

  “Thomas Jerome. He’s…” Alana paused, searching for the right words. “It feels like he’s trying to make a name for himself out here. Here, there and everywhere, always shooting his mouth off to the media, he did the draw for the second round. There’s something going on there. I’m surprised Ritellia hasn’t slapped him down yet.”

  The Mistress laughed. “I’m waiting for him to try.”

  “Excuse me?!” Alana couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice. “Why do I get the feeling I just told you something you already know?”

  “Never underestimate the power of being able to manipulate that which you can control,” the Mistress replied softly. “If you intend to create a new world, the old one needs to be torn down. The ICCC does not work. It’s had its day, men like Ritellia and Jerome and their cronies need to be kicked out. I can’t just wave my hand and bring it into existence, would that I could. It takes effort from us all. The best reform always comes from reaction, I’ve always said that. The best way to get reform is to prove categorically things are going wrong is to lose the public’s faith in that which needs them more than they admit. Individually, the man in the street is powerless. Throw them all together and things may happen. You change it by force, they’ll protest it. You make them think it's their idea and they’ll wave it through happily.”

  She paused, Alana heard the breath of laughter in her voice. “I leaked the tapes of your nightly encounters with Ritellia to Jerome.”

  That hit her like a knife in her heart, Alana subconsciously stood up a little straighter and took great lengths to keep the composure in her voice. “I see.” She wanted to shout angrily, demand to know how the Mistress could do such a thing. “I assume you were going to tell me about this at some point.”

  “I am now. You know why they call him the Falcon, right? He knows when to strike at the best moment and with great haste. He has leverage over Ritellia. Ritellia can’t slap him down once he knows that. Jerome comes more into the public eye, he’s nothing if not a savvy operator. With public notoriety comes support, a man like Jerome can gather a lot of friends, a lot of support, he can make promises he wouldn’t have been able to keep before. Kwan-Sun and Klaus Zynski… Pfft, Jerome will make a much more appropriate head of the ICCC for our purposes. The man would stab his own mother for a sandwich.”

  Alana got it then, once more had to admire the brains and the sheer nerve of the Mistress. “Jerome challenging Ritellia for the leadership? I get the impression Tommy Jerome would be a terrible leader. What his supporters in the ICCC would ask of him wouldn’t endear him to the people in the street. There’d be public outcry.”

  “Exactly. Wor
st case scenario for us, Ritellia fights a long hard campaign, wins but everyone knows his fallibility, the chinks in his armour. He’s too busy keeping his enemies at arm’s length, he can’t do the job properly. Best case scenario for us, Jerome wins hardily, and things get progressively worse to the point the public lose faith in the ICCC. When that happens, we’ll hopefully be in position to see things get shaken up. The best way to fool the people is to make things so terrible that they’ll take any sort of alternative with willing arms. It’s quite a simple trick when you think about it.”

  Just for a moment, Alana found herself speechless. And worse, the Mistress seemed to know it as well.

  “That’s to be your initial monument in our new history. The woman who brought about the beginning of the end for the ICCC. It’s impressive considering where you were just a few years ago.” Alana had to admit she was right. “Although that’s for the future. For the moment, I have another mission for you. My brother is on the island, competing. I want you to reach out to him, he won’t talk to me, it’s something I very much wish for us to fix. I want him to be part of this. That is your new job for the time being. Rebuild what’s been broken between us.”

  In a way, Alana realised as she processed the order, it might be harder than some of the other assignments she’d been given. “I’ll make every effort, Mistress,” she said. “I wish I could guarantee it, but I think that would be unwise. All I can promise is I’ll give everything I have to make it happen and hope it’s enough.”

  She really did. It wasn’t wise to fail the Mistress. Too many had found that out.

  Across the street, she saw Fuller close her summoner and stretch her toned arms in the afternoon sun, a small smile playing across her lips as she watched the other woman go back into her room and Ritellia. Holding someone’s trust was a curious thing. To keep it, you had to give something back. You need them to know you trusted them, and they were wise to retain theirs. Her little reveals to the other woman might offer some succour following her shameful moments with Ritellia. She didn’t regret making her do it. Fuller had a job to do. She was doing it and would be rewarded. End of story. If she had regrets about what she’d done, that was her choice. She hadn’t had to do it. She’d had the outlines, the directives and the rewards laid out to her. And she’d made a choice nobody had forced her into making.