The Great Game Trilogy

by O. J. Lowe

  “Man, this looks rough as a bear’s arse,” Noorland said, shaking his head. “If this place was hit with an airstrike, it’d cause millions of credits worth of improvement.”

  “Don’t let Okocha hear you say that,” Derenko remarked. “He’d agree with you, but he’d still be annoyed. You know how people get. They can insult their homes and their family but if you get involved, they take offence. Especially round here.”

  “I don’t think that’s a solely Vazaran thing, you get that everywhere,” Leclerc said, moving to activate the comm system. “Ah, Cezri Air Traffic Control, this is Unisco Aitch-Jay-One-One-Eight-Nine, requesting permission to land immediately, over.”

  “Never said it was,” Derenko muttered in the background.

  The voice that came back through was heavily accented with thick Vazaran overtones, the language broken but understandable. “Permission granted, keep in mind you not be too welcome here if you want reception, over.”

  “No reception is necessary, over,” Leclerc said. “Just a place to refuel and restock supplies, as well as check some minor errors in our system. We’ll be gone ASAP, over.”

  “Understood, Unisco Aitch-Jay-One-One-Eight-Nine, enjoy your brief stay, over.”

  “Well that was more civilised than I thought it’d be,” Fagan commented.

  “They don’t all scream about the pale infidel,” Aldiss said wryly. “Not while there’s credits to be had. Be glad we do carry official ID, they’d be asking us for bribes otherwise.”

  The larger a settlement tended to be, the more docking stations it usually had. Regulations said any place over a certain number of people had to have at least one, by order of the Five Kingdoms Senate, not just individual kingdom law. Apparently Cubla Cezri met that standard. It rose high into the air, almost touching the sky, easily the tallest building in the town, Leclerc deftly guided it into one of the allocated landing slots, bringing the hoverjet to a gentle halt. They were the only one there, not another airship in sight. That, Fagan thought, truly was a depressing insight into the town if nothing else.

  “Easy,” he said. “Okay, shall we get this show on the road, I think.”

  They took the speeder in the back of the ship, Derenko behind the controls with Aldiss riding shotgun, Fagan and Leclerc in the back. All had outfitted themselves with body armour under their shirts, as well as carrying both their mufflers and personal shields for protection. Fagan and Leclerc had their X7’s hidden about their person, Derenko and Aldiss had a Featherstone each, a contingency plan.

  They left Noorland in the docking station to oversee the supposed maintenance on the hoverjet, soon speeding out of sight and over the sandy road. The roads were narrow and unmaintained, filled with carts and old speeders that couldn’t have matched their own in speed or durability. Still, Noorland and Pree Khan had taken some special measures to ensure it didn’t stand out in the crowd, scuffing the paintwork and spreading liberal measures of dirt and grime and spray-on rust across sections to ensure it didn’t look like a Unisco speeder.

  They aimed to get in and out as quickly as possible, no lingering to fight. They needed to talk to Itandje, get him into custody for his own protection if need be and survive the trip. The air was hot and stifling, the people looked beaten and sorrowful. Fagan lost track of the number he saw begging at the side of the road. More than once he saw men armed with assault weapons trying to move them on. One woman refused to go, she took the butt of a Vazaran Hornet to the side of her face and went down bleeding, her shattered teeth exposed as she screamed.

  More than once, Derenko had to nudge it around debris threatening to block their path. Halfway into their journey, they saw someone being speeder-jacked, the driver yanked out at blaster point and tossed into the overflowing gutter, getting up, covered in filth and yelling as his speeder vanished into the distance under new ownership. At that point, Fagan slipped his X7 from his holster and let it rest on his knees. Another contingency plan. Hope for the best. Prepare for the worst.

  “Okay, Control,” Derenko said into his earpiece. “Where are we going here? Do you have us?”

  “Yeah, I see you,” Okocha’s voice came out over the connection, Fagan heard it loud and clear. “Man, I’m glad I’m not with you. That place makes my hometown growing up look like a reward.”

  “Should come on one of these missions sometime,” Aldiss said. “Remind you what you missed out on when you came to work for us.”

  “Yeah, I’ll pass,” Okocha replied. “Okay, you need to take the next left, look out for a café named R’achelle.”

  “Strange name for a café,” Fagan offered.

  “Yeah, don’t eat or drink anything from there. Not the smartest thing you could possibly ever do. It’s not the best.”

  “You ever eaten there?”

  “Yeah I’ve eaten somewhere a couple hundred miles away from the only place I ever lived while growing up and at the same time have no desire ever to visit.” The sarcasm was palpable. “Nah, I’ve got the reviews of it here. Even in a scumhole like that, someone still took the time to give it a one-star rating. Anywhere other than Cubla Cezri, it’d probably have been shut down years ago. Since their health system is on a par with the status quo seventy years ago, I’d say take care.”

  “Really?” It was Fagan’s turn to be sarcastic. “Looking at this place, I’d never have guessed to do that.” Leclerc laughed at the comment.

  “Think I’ve been here before,” Derenko said wistfully as he glanced around. “Long time ago. Back before it was this… does it sound harsh to compare it to a shit hole?”

  “Seems about apt for me,” Aldiss said. “Not one of the better places I’ve ever been.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure there’s some lovely places to bring the family,” Fagan remarked. “Just beyond that burnt out speeder and past the next heap of trash.” His voice tailed off as his gaze landed on the building in question, a shabby looking café with the name R’achelle painted above the door. Some of the letters were peeling away from the board, one of the windows boarded up, the other with chicken wire threaded through the glass. Underneath the sign, something had been scrawled in the local dialect that Fagan didn’t understand.

  He saw Leclerc glance at it and smirk. He’d forgotten he could speak a little Vazaran, enough to get by. That infamous Unisco policy. Have all agents fluent in at least two local kingdom languages as well as the united tongue.

  “Something funny?”

  “Says it all,” Leclerc said, jerking his head towards the sign. “Someone does have a sense of humour. Nice place for nice people. Come in and be proved wrong on both counts.”

  “Meaning it’s a dive for scum,” Aldiss said as Derenko brought the speeder to a halt. The two of them looked back, gave their comrades their full attention. “Right, you know the drill. We’ll be in touch all the time. You need any help, give the signal and we’ll be in there with you, weapons blazing.”

  “Keep it in mind there’s a large civilian population in there,” Okocha offered. “Some of them won’t be armed. A lot of them might be.”

  “Just to make it that little bit more bearable,” Derenko said. “You know the drill, you’ve done it before. We need to find out what Itandje knows. Might be nothing. Might be everything.”

  “You read the briefing on him,” Okocha added. “Remember, nobody leaves the Vazaran Suns unless dead. You’re in for life. Might want to remind him that if he’s being uncooperative.”

  “Will, we got this,” Fagan said as he rose to leave the speeder, sliding his weapon back into his holster. Both he and Leclerc wore loose fitting button up shirts beneath local tu-yak cloaks buttoned around the neck and covered their upper bodies. It did the job of hiding what they had on underneath. “See you on the flip, guys. We’ll be back.”

  “Until the end,” Leclerc added as the two of them sauntered towards the entrance of R’achelle, trying to look casual. It was late evening, not quite night yet and although it was still warm, the heat had di
ed down enough to avoid discomfort. Regardless, he felt a rivulet of sweat streaming down his forehead and Fagan hoped they weren’t here longer than they needed to. It probably wouldn’t be any hotter here come the peak temperatures than it would be on Carcaradis Island but at the same time, the island bore a much more hospitable surrounding. It was hard to feel at ease here.

  They entered the café to a raucous roar, most of the patrons stood circled around a table, a series of ferocious hisses and squawks erupting out from the midst of them all. Fagan and Leclerc looked at each other, shrugged and made to move past the crowd towards the counter. It wasn’t easy, the spectators had packed themselves tight, often the best way around them was to weave closer to the action and soon they were close enough for Fagan to spot the source of the amusement. Lizard fighting.

  A tame sidebar, not really a comparison to spirit calling but given the place lacked a viewing screen they had to do what they could with the entertainment. Vazaran fighting iguanas, if he had it right. Long bodied, squat-built multi-coloured lizards scrapping with each other ferociously, each trying to overcome the other. Plenty of credits were being thrown around, punters determined to bet which would kill the other first. Maybe somebody would spirit claim the loser, Fagan thought. They didn’t look like spirits. They were too uncoordinated. It wasn’t uncommon in places like this, let wild animals go at each other for the sport of it.

  When they were through, he could hear himself think again, as well as the tinny voice of Okocha in his ear. “Target is situated towards the back of the room, one of the booths.” Fagan looked up instinctively, the back of the room only sparsely filled and running through the faces there didn’t take as long as it might have done if the target was amidst the action. Maybe ten people sat down, showing a morose lack of interest in the entertainment on show. They looked like they’d had enough of life. Living here, he couldn’t blame them. He spotted Itandje sat nursing a glass of something amber, the local brew most likely, a heavyset man with a scarred face. He carried himself awkwardly as he sat, favouring his left side. A cold pack rested against his shoulder, one large hand holding it there. If he was in pain, he was taking tremendous efforts not to show it.

  Leclerc took the lead; a situation he was only too happy to acquiesce to as they approached the table. “Mind if we sit here?” Leclerc said. The great dark face looked up at them, eyes narrowed with suspicion.

  “Fuck off,” he said simply. “Plenty of other tables.”

  “Regardless,” Leclerc said, pulling out a chair and dropping down. “Those lack something. Mainly you.”

  Suspicion turned to dislike in the brown coloured eyes that stared them down. Fagan had to admit, Leclerc’s sense of cool fearlessness did come in handy sometimes.

  “You got some place you want your remains posted?” Itandje demanded. “Because…”

  “Mr Itandje, my associate and I just wish to take up…”

  “How the fuck you know that name?” Itandje almost rose to his feet, would have done if Fagan hadn’t held out a placating hand.

  “We just want a quick chat,” he said, Unisco ID badge in the hand he’d offered out. Itandje’s eyes met it, he hesitated just for a moment before sitting back down. He clearly was bearing an injury on his left side, Fagan noticed. Something wasn’t right there. “Officially. Talk to us and we’ll let you get back to your drink.”

  Itandje laughed out loud, a sarcastically cruel bray that sounded like a buzz saw making an unfortunate union with something that was still alive. “And why the fuck would I talk to you? Piss off or you get hurt.”

  “Don’t worry, you’ve not done anything wrong,” Leclerc said. “We just want some information about some of your former employers…”

  That laugh again, this time even more derisory than it had been before. “Oh, now I know you joking. I’m not informing on the Suns. There’s not enough credits in the five kingdoms for that.”

  “Good thing we’re not trying to pay you to do it then,” Fagan said. “It’s not about the Suns. We already know they’re an inglorious bunch of bastards. It’s about a contract you might have been involved in.”

  “Nope, rings no bells,” Itandje said stubbornly. He drained the rest of his drink in one gulp and then stood. “Now if you’ll excuse me…”

  “What did you die of?” Leclerc asked.

  “What?!” There was more than a faint hint of outrage in his voice at being asked such an impertinent question.

  “What killed you?” Leclerc repeated, folding his hands over each other on the table in front of him. “I mean, I heard the Suns only let out those who died. The fact you’re here…” He let it hang airily, the corners of his mouth threatening to twitch.

  “It’s true,” Fagan added. “I mean, I heard the Suns don’t have much of an official presence here. They don’t like it. It’s a bit rough for them.” He managed to keep a mocking tone out of his voice. Technically it was true.

  “Neither of you know what you speak of.” Itandje’s voice was little more than a growl. “How about you stop talking about what you know fuck all about.”

  “So, there’s no reason to be here,” Leclerc added as if he hadn’t said anything. “Right?”

  “Right,” Fagan agreed. “I mean unless you’d done something stupid like deserting? They shoot their deserters, right?”

  “If they’re lucky,” Leclerc said. “I heard they skin the real high-ranking ones who try it. An object lesson to the rank and file, I think is the phrase, am I right Commandant?”

  “How high were you?” Fagan asked. “Or maybe they just want you dead. You must have pissed someone badly off to get that reaction.”

  Somewhere amidst it all, Itandje had hesitated and now he slid back towards his seat. “Either of you have a point?”

  “Just that we’re not on bad enough terms with your former employers not to mention that we’ve seen you. I mean, it’d take a quick call and then they’d be here in force,” Fagan mused. “If they really wanted you, that is.”

  “Or we can offer you some protection,” Leclerc added. “We don’t have a gripe with you, Mister Itandje, we just want to know a few things and if you prove helpful, we’ll put you out of reach of Mazoud and the rest for the rest of your natural life.”

  “However long that is,” Itandje growled. “I won’t sell out Mazoud. Mainly because he’s done nothing wrong…”

  “I doubt that but go on,” Fagan said. Itandje did, carrying on as if he hadn’t been interrupted.

  “But also, if I said a bad word about him to you, my life really wouldn’t be worth living. He’d find some way of finishing me off. And there’d be someone to sell me out. There’s always someone who needs credits.”

  “We’re not interested in Mazoud,” Leclerc insisted. “Rather some work your organisation might have been involved in. On Carcaradis Island.”

  Itandje sighed, let his head loll back and finally swallowed the rest of his drink. “That fucking place. Should have known.”

  “Should have known what?” That he remembered it was a promising sign. Maybe they’d get some answers, Fagan thought. This whole trip might have been worth it after all. They were due a break, it would appear.

  “That island. Never going back there. Not for any credits, not for any offer… It’s not natural.” Itandje’s eyes widened as he spoke, almost theatrically but there was something behind them that spoke volumes. Fear. “Whole mission was a mess from the start. They tried building there, clearing it all out… They blasphemed. It wasn’t meant to be tamed.”

  “It’s turned out nice,” Fagan said. “They did a good job. I’d go there on a holiday, given the chance. And a decent wage.”

  Itandje gave him a dirty look. “You know nothing. Only those outside the kingdom call it by the name Carcaradis. Vazarans… Those who haven’t had their minds ruined and corrupted by excess… all know it by its true name. Ai-Yal’Sanhim. Those that lived there were blessed to survive it. To protect it. And we fucked up royally by
being brought in to pacify them. Some we wiped out. Some we captured. I don’t know what they did with the poor bastards, but we heard them screaming. They died noisily.”

  Fagan held his breath as he spoke, letting it out in one soft exhalation. He recalled the bodies of those natives too well to ignore it. Any sort of flippant comment was lost as he tried to forget those rooms just a few dozen feet under the affluence of the island above.

  “I blame that woman. And that mad doctor. They were obsessed. They thought something was there and well, they turned out right. I lost my faith about the time they found it. Fucking proof right there and I didn’t want to accept it.”

  “Proof of what?” Leclerc asked.

  For a moment, Itandje didn’t answer and then he laughed bitterly. “Eternity. The answers to it all. The proof of the power is in the wielding of it. Just because she hasn’t set it all off yet, doesn’t mean she won’t. Mazoud is in thrall to her.” He stiffened. “Speaking of…”

  Across the room, the door to the bar had opened, Fagan glanced back, saw it out the corner of his eye. He relaxed only for a second, saw the glint of metal and the hint of black uniform and suddenly he was in motion, overturning the table and yanking Itandje down behind it. The sound of blaster fire tore through the bar as Leclerc joined him on the ground, X7 already out. Screams and shouts of terror broke through the bar as bodies hit the floor, people made runs for it and Fagan felt sick as he realised they’d run out of time.

  “Friends of yours?” he asked, drawing his own weapon out. Itandje had a Rellman in his hand, a stubby blaster pistol with an elongated barrel. Nothing fancy about it, a good weapon for circumstances like this, close-range combat. It did what it was intended to do.