The Great Game Trilogy

by O. J. Lowe

  “Guess they found me,” Itandje said with resignation in his voice. “Don’t let them take me!” Resignation quickly became overcome by terror. “Don’t let them take me!”

  “We made you a promise,” Leclerc said. “We get you out, you talk, we make you safe.”

  “Wish we could skip straight to step three,” Fagan muttered, pointing his weapon over the table and firing blind. He doubted he’d hit anything, but it made a point they were armed and anyone approaching would be shot. The table was thick and heavy, he’d nearly wrenched his arm out of his socket overturning it but at least they were protected. Maybe they were only trying to stun them. The force behind a stun shot might be greater but the actual penetration was virtually non-existent. “There a back door to this place?”

  “The fuck you think?” Itandje said. He pointed his Rellman over the top of the table and squeezed off a few blasts, before jerking his head over towards the counter. Fagan could see a door behind it, he hadn’t noticed it earlier amidst all the chaos. “There. Through the kitchen. This is all your fault, y’know.”

  Neither Leclerc nor Fagan deigned to respond. They looked at each other, heard the shots crashing against the table. So far, they’d been unscathed, but they’d been lucky. If Fagan hadn’t seen them when he had… “Okay, on three,” Fagan said. “Two of us lay down covering fire, the other moves. Joe, work with us here. Jacques, move! One, two… Three!”

  Fair to Itandje, he did join in as they fired over the makeshift barricade, the flurry of shots silencing the ones coming their way for a moment. Leclerc moved, out of cover and towards the counter, his X7 reporting twice as he caught beads on foes who had ventured into his view. Fagan could see them properly now, they looked like Vazaran Suns operatives, right down to the uniform and the weapons. Thankfully none of them were packing shields. He said as much to Itandje who laughed derisively.

  “You think they give their ops teams shields? The whole fucking point is they get encouraged not to be shot.” He broke into a bray of laughter. “Numbers and firepower. Their two main tactics in pacification.”

  “Sometimes that’s what you need,” Fagan said grimly. If there were a lot of them right now, he’d fancy their chances against the three of them. Leclerc fired his X7 again, emptying the power pack in the direction of the door, the wild shots sending the enemy scattering. “Go!”

  Itandje didn’t hesitate, jumped up and sprinted the short distance across the floor as Fagan gave him the cover he needed, adding his few remaining shots to those Leclerc had spray fired into the crowd. At least three had gone down, still too many more for the odds to be good. He ejected his spent pack and fixed a new one in.

  “Will,” he said into his ear comm. “What’s happening outside.”

  “Derenko and Aldiss are pinned down. You need to get out there, maybe find another way out. Withdraw to the air station on your own.”

  He almost swore. “You’re kidding?”

  “They’re having to pull out, they’re taking heavy fire. You’re on your own for the moment.” This time, he did swear. Twin pistols continued to fire over by the bar, he added a few of his own to the flurry, just enough to keep the Suns at bay before making his move. It wasn’t a comfortable crouching run, but he kept his head down, hissed as one of their shots grazed his shoulder and soon flopped next to them. His shoulder was on fire, even with the shield and the armour.

  “You hear that?” he gasped to Leclerc who nodded.

  “Ah yes,” he replied. “Only too well. Shall we?”

  Through the kitchen door they went and just for a moment, Fagan thought they might make it as he spotted the back door. It was a dangerous light of hope, he tried to push it out of his mind. They couldn’t afford to be distracted now. Leclerc went first, crashing through the door and pulled up short outside, Fagan and Itandje coming up behind him. Itandje cursed violently as the five men took aim at them. Same uniforms, same weapons, they’d walked out of the lion’s den into the bear pit. Their faces were uncovered, all Vazarans of differently intensifying darkness to their skin.

  “Shit!” Fagan said. It was no use trying to fight back, they had them outnumbered, outgunned and dead to rights. They’d made to flush them out and they’d succeeded. Split the team up, make them weaker, cut them off from backup.

  “Could really use a miracle right now,” Leclerc muttered. He sounded like he agreed with his teammate’s sentiment. Between them, Itandje began to speak rapidly in Vazaran to the men, Fagan couldn’t work out if he was begging for mercy or trying to feign innocence. He saw Leclerc roll his eyes. By the looks of that, he might be trying both.

  “Miracles don’t come cheap,” Fagan muttered. Why hadn’t they killed them yet? They honestly couldn’t be that interested in what Itandje had to say, could they? He glanced around, they’d found themselves in a back alley. The street was only a dozen or so metres away, so close to freedom. But that aside, there was nowhere else to go. Overflowing dumpsters hemmed them in either side, thick and heavy and good cover but the moment they made for it, they’d be blasted.

  Itandje finished speaking, a pleading expression on his face as he tilted his head to the side. The lead guy shook his head, squeezed the trigger and Fagan yelled in frustration as the trio of blasts hit Itandje in the chest, hurling him back towards the exit of the café. Both he and Leclerc dived towards the dumpsters, taking advantage of the confusion. Blaster fire followed them, some came close to landing, concrete chips tore into his hands and face as he hit the ground. All until he heard the most beautiful sound he’d ever know, the familiar roar of the Unisco speeder’s engines, followed by the even more familiar sound of Featherstone fire roaring through the alley. He peeked out, saw Aldiss spraying them with his weapon, Derenko quickly joining in. Within seconds, they’d taken all five out and Fagan felt a sudden sense of elation. They were getting out of here.

  Itandje wasn’t. He could see that; the wounds were fatal and there was no changing that. They were under fire in a hostile environment, they wouldn’t be able to get him to a hospital. He slid over to him, saw the last breath had already left his body. Angrily he hit the ground with the flat of his hand before making to get out. The speeder had seen better days, nicks and burns covered the sides and half the windshield had been melted by blaster fire. But the engines still worked, and they soon quickly picked up speed, covering the distance between them and the crime scene in little time. The sooner they were in the air, Fagan thought, the better. This whole mission had been a bust from start to finish.

  They’d failed, and badly.

  Chapter Seven. The Sliding Scales.

  “You must be joking if you think I enjoyed any part of that.”

  Nick Roper in his statement to the Carcaradis Island authorities following his arrest.

  The twenty-seventh day of Summerpeak.

  Obsolete?

  Special Correspondent Kate Kinsella writes from the Competitive Centenary Calling Challenge Cup.

  To say the enthusiasm for the tournament has been kicked out of a shell-shocked crowd is an understatement. Although the quarter finals did culminate last night, few of the victorious callers did celebrate as they might under less stressful circumstances. To make the semi-final of this tournament is a grandiose occasion but looking at the faces of Theobald Jameson, Katherine Sommer and Scott Taylor, you wouldn’t have guessed it. To describe celebrations as muted is an understatement. Even Taylor, perhaps shown as the most passionate of the three over the course of the tournament didn’t seem as overjoyed as he might have.

  The feeling of uncertainty hovering over the competitors following the vicious murder of one of their own has failed to disperse and even Ronald Ritellia having his nose broken hasn’t cheered most of them up although it has spared us from listening to his delusions of everything being okay over the last few days. In this case, the evidence to the contrary sits right in front of his eyes, even if his nose no longer does the same. With this sort of apathy settling over the tournament,
after all there are only four bouts left before a winner is declared, and at the point when the excitement should be reaching a fever pitch, this correspondent asks if it is perhaps time to abandon the whole format in favour of something new. Something fresh and inspiring, untainted by the scandals plaguing it for years, mostly brought in part by ICCC members and their desire for recognition most of them do not deserve.

  Five years ago, there was the Pro-Spirit-Plus scandal which was very quickly outlawed when discovered, younger readers might not remember ICCC member at the time Werner Jackson was also a part owner of a company that produced the spirit enhancing drugs, providing an effect not unlike banned steroids. The lengthy court case that followed did nobody any favours. With everyone and anyone at the ICCC being implicated and only Jackson being convicted and later banned from involvement with the sport, the results were underwhelming to say the least.

  Then there was the bout fixing scandal of the previous tournament, allegations dredged back up during this very tournament in the Arventino versus Jacobs bout, allegations that bore very little fruit and were the purview of people either bad losers or who knew very little about spirit calling at this level in the first place, sneery armchair fans who contribute very little to the great game other than to indirectly swell the coffers of the people who take and take and give so very little back. No tournament has been free of scandal since Ronald Ritellia took over, but it is only in this one that the scandal has turned into death and murder rather than corruption and dishonesty. Not the sort of legacy anyone sane would wish to leave behind.

  It might be the time for these swollen egos to put aside thoughts of their own personal gain and for once in their careers, do something to benefit the sport in a positive way. This format has become unwieldy for years, a series of increasingly predictable rounds which threaten to dull the excitement the longer it progresses. Granted there have been some shocks this year perhaps more than the past three tournaments combined when this new format began, yet it becomes a predictable pandering towards those watching at home. More bouts equal more credits in the eyes of the powers sitting on their behinds. More bouts equal more chance for sponsorship, more money from the companies that want to screen it all. The ICCC boasted proudly before the tournament that every bout would be broadcast live, you could hear the back slapping and the self-congratulating braying from a mile away.

  But perhaps, for once, they should think of us. Granted, when you put it into perspective, Ritellia has done some good things but the negatives far outweigh the positives. For every free spirit summoner device given out in Vazara, there is the question of where the rest of the money to be spent on them went. For every free tutoring class in Burykia taught by retired spirit callers, there is a deep sense of foreboding that he’s about to release some bombshell brought about by the incompetence of his management.

  “Am I the only one wondering why Kinsella hates Ritellia so much?” Lysa Montgomery asked as she lifted her eyes from the article. “I mean every chance she gets; she goes to town on him. It’s sad and predictable but kinda funny. Every chance, boom, she hits him hard.”

  “I don’t think Ritellia cares,” Anne said. She, Lysa, Okocha and Tod Brumley had taken the chance to get out of headquarters and into one of the cafés on the island, indulging in a spot of lunch. “He’s got a thick skin. Like a rhino. It’s why he gets away with so many public appearances. If someone wanted to shoot him, knowing our luck he’d survive it unscathed.”

  Brumley laughed at that. “Yeah, he’s one of a kind. Unfortunately, not in a good way. I’m surprised at you, Anne. I thought you tried to see the best in everyone.”

  “Yeah, I tried,” she said. “You ever met Ritellia. He’s a strange one.”

  “Not like Nick met him,” Okocha said, that single comment bringing laughter from both Lysa and Brumley. Anne frowned at them in dismay.

  “You shouldn’t laugh at it you know. He’s in serious trouble.”

  “Yeah, Ritellia’s trying to press charges and sue him and get him banned from ICCC competition for life,” Okocha said. “All at the same time. He’s throwing enough shit at him hoping some of it sticks. All of which is going to be a pretty nice distraction until Arnholt gets hold of him.”

  “Was he annoyed?” Lysa asked. Okocha nodded and laughed.

  “Oh yeah. Absolutely furious. Never seen him so angry.”

  “It’s true,” Brumley offered. “I was there. Even I was scared. Thought he was going to start shooting.”

  “Any of you seen him?” Anne asked. “Because I heard Dave Wilsin tried to get in to do it…”

  “Yeah, I heard that,” Lysa said. “He’s not having any visitors. By choice.”

  “Maybe he’s ashamed.” That came from Okocha. “It’s possibly not something he’ll be proud of in the cold light of day.” He said it lightly but with a real sense of seriousness behind it. Anne narrowed her eyes at him, a look of bemusement across her pixie-like features. Lysa couldn’t work out what she was thinking. “I mean if I was him, I’d feel pretty stupid.”

  “It was funny though,” Brumley said. “Really funny. Just didn’t see it coming.”

  “And neither did Ritellia,” Lysa grinned. “Not even in the slightest. Bet he couldn’t believe it. Think the whole five kingdoms was surprised. Could hear the sound of high fives from all around them.”

  “Shame he managed to spoil such a beautiful occasion,” Anne mused. “I bet he regrets that?”

  “Who, Ritellia?”

  “No, Nick. I mean he loved Sharon, he was really hurting when I saw him. His brave face is just that. A face. He’s put on such a façade we’re missing how badly he’s suffering.”

  “And hitting Ritellia was supposed to be a soothing balm for that hurt?” Brumley couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “As much as any of us might have enjoyed it under other circumstance.”

  “Just saying. And hey, I don’t think Ritellia should have shoehorned his way into there like he did. It was asking for trouble. We went from brother to fiancé to someone who wanted to use the moment to grandstand.” Anne shook her head bitterly. “Well he got his moment in the sun and it bloody well burned him. That’s irony for you. If he didn’t try and stick his fat nose in where it didn’t belong, then it wouldn’t have been broken.”

  Lysa laughed suddenly aloud, not entirely solely just at Anne’s comment. “Anyone else think we were going to expect a tournament where the focus was just going to be what happened on the battlefield? Because this has been… different. Memorable. And not really in a good way.”

  Okocha said nothing. But everyone was thinking it, how the first tournament staged in Vazara had threatened to descend into farce. Beyond the murder, attempted kidnapping and the terrorism, there’d also been the first monsoon the kingdom had seen in years and it had nearly ended in tragedy. It didn’t do a kingdom with an already bad reputation any favours. He was as prideful as the next Vazaran, Lysa thought. Nobody wants to admit where they come from is a dive. Maybe a bit harsh on the kingdom overall. Plenty of the other four had bad parts in spades but they didn’t get anywhere near as much bad press as Vazara did.

  “You see the team since they got back from Cubla Cezri?” Brumley asked suddenly. She hid a roll of the eyes. Somehow it always had to boil back down to the job at hand no matter where they were. They all shared that bond between them, the five of them. Unisco. You couldn’t escape that bond it fostered.

  “They were down,” Anne said. “A failed mission can do that for you.”

  “I wouldn’t have said it was a complete failure,” Okocha mused. “Arnholt didn’t hold it against them. They couldn’t have accounted for a V.S strike team hitting them at the same time. They’re lucky to have gotten out of there alive.”

  “Still…” Brumley said thoughtfully. They were all thinking the same thing, Lysa would have wagered. Nobody liked to be tarred with the taint of failure, no matter the circumstances. Nothing less than coming back with the objectives comple
ted and everyone healthy would have been enough.

  “They’re still in debriefing,” Okocha said. “Having reports compiled together on the whole thing. They did get some information out of Joseph Itandje before he, ah, expired.” He said the word with a little twist in the corner of his mouth as if it made him physically uncomfortable. “Just not enough.”

  “It’s never enough,” Lysa said. “We’d all like to have all the facts in hand before we do anything. I guess sometimes it’s not happening.”

  “Try any time,” Anne muttered waspishly. She then perked up and gave them all a big grin. “So, who do we fancy to win the Quin-C then?”

  “Sommer,” Lysa and Brumley both said, with Okocha half a heartbeat behind.

  She smiled at them all, a smile hiding a hint of superiority behind it. She revelled in the mystique, bearing the impression she knew something they didn’t. “I don’t think so.”

  Granted, it had been a pretty sad time and he’d tried not to appear too overjoyed in front of Pete, but Scott was privately having an absolute blast. His best buddy was still grieving; he’d done his best for him but really, he was uncomfortable with it. Being consoling wasn’t really his thing, no matter how much he tried, the words always felt hollow and lacking. Pete hadn’t complained, he hadn’t done much of anything other than retreat into himself to the point Scott had troubled recognising him for who he was. It was not a nice feeling. Probably on a par to how he feels himself, he reminded himself.

  But Scott himself… Semi-finalist of the Quin-C tournament on his debut. He still couldn’t believe it. He really couldn’t. How’d he ended up here? He’d been asked the same thing in an interview after his last bout and he’d not been able to answer then either. He’d just grinned inanely and shrugged, the words about how he genuinely didn’t know spilling from him. He’d found some composure too little too late to stop cruel words in one of the less reputable media outlets. Describing him as slack jawed was a little harsh. He was even too overjoyed by his performance to fantasize about revenge, something he might have done in the past. Permear had wanted revenge, especially when the ghost had also been criticised for being ‘in high spirits’ and ‘disobedient’. Those were the polite ways it had been written.