by O. J. Lowe
It felt like he’d earned a reward, time away from the grind, as much as doing something he loved well could be described as a grind, and so he and Mia had made their way across the island to find a secluded spot away from everyone else for a picnic, maybe other sort of fun times if he was lucky. Just the two of them, nobody else. He was hoping for a private beach. Granted there were some sands back at the resort but with the island holding as many people as it did now, privacy wasn’t quite a guarantee. And there was always some idiot with a picture box who thought they’d make quick credits by capturing a few images of callers engaged in personal time. As that idiot in the after-bout interview had proved, there’d always be someone to put them out there given the chance and the means.
Mia just looked stunning today, wearing nothing but a pair of shorts and a bikini top beneath a light flowing beach robe fashioned of cotton but resembling something more appropriate for the bedroom. It was see-through enough to leave little to the imagination, he could see the butterfly wings tattooed on her upper back, the yerley fairy she’d had inked on her side, to the Burykian woven rings inscribed on her ankles. He kinda liked that, it was cute without being over the top. More than once he’d linked his arm through hers and kissed her, still giddy with the good times. Right now, he felt like he’d fallen on his feet. So why did he have that niggling feeling that something wasn’t quite right with the world? He couldn’t say. Maybe he was feeling guilty about being here while Pete moped around the resort. He’d been spending a bit too much time in the bars since the funeral and it wasn’t like he was a fun drunk to start with. It wasn’t like he could even hang out with Nick Roper, going through the same thing, given he’d wound up locked up after Sharon’s funeral.
To say Pete had gone berserk been an understatement. If Scott was honest, he’d found it hilarious, he thought he’d done an admirable job to not laugh when Ritellia had hit the ground like a sack of shit. But it hadn’t been his sister whose death they were there to mourn, was it? Pete had spent the rest of that day stalking around like a tiger with a headache muttering about how they better never let Roper out on the grounds he’d kill him if they did.
Privately, Scott thought that was wishful thinking. He wouldn’t have picked a fight with Nick Roper. There was something about him Scott didn’t quite trust. Every time he saw him, he got the impression he was… Well, he might not be hiding something, but there was something going on there, even if nobody else saw it. He’d seen people hit out in anger and nearly break their own fists. None of that with Nick. There’d been something not right about it. He might have looked angry on the surface but… He didn’t know. Something was missing, something he couldn’t place.
Why was he thinking about this? He chided himself for it, rolling his eyes in bemusement. Here, alone with a beautiful girl, having the time of his life and he wanted to think about other stuff. Stuff that, grieving best friend aside, didn’t really matter to him in the long run. He pushed it aside, let out a laugh. Mia looked at him, a little bemused, one of her eyebrows raised in surprise.
“What?” he asked.
“You,” she said. “Something funny, flyboy?”
He shook his head. “Nah, just thinking about stuff. Just that it’s been a weird few weeks since I got here. I mean I spent most of my life thinking about getting here and now that I did, I got to say it’s not like I expected it.”
Mia said nothing, instead let him continue. “I mean I guess I just pictured it as chill out stress-free stuff between bouts. I figured it’d be the bouts that’d be full of drama, not the stuff in between. Not people getting killed and buildings getting blown up.”
He toyed whether to mention kidnapping effeminate lunatics but chose not to. He wasn’t entirely sure what sort of reaction it might get, he didn’t want to bring it up and upset her. She’d not spoken much about that night, at least not to him and if she was having trouble he didn’t want to dredge up bad memories.
“It’s never like you expect it,” she said eventually. “That’s why they call it expectation. You spend so much time building up to it, thinking about how it will be yet when it does come around, so much is different. Some find it underwhelming.”
“I wouldn’t say I found it underwhelming,” Scott said. “Just different. Different in a good way. Don’t get me wrong, it’s shaping up to be the best month of my entire life so far if things keep going as they are.”
“Glad it’s going well for you,” she said. “Hope you haven’t jinxed your tournament by saying that. You’ll look a fool if you crash and burn in the semis now.”
He managed a weak grin. “Hey, I made the semis at least on my first try. Not many say that. And hey, I got you, didn’t I? That’s better than any trophy and huge amount of credits. Y’know if you want to make comparisons.”
She went red at that, he didn’t think it was the sun bearing down on her skin either. She’d built up a bit of a tan since being here compared to how pale she’d been beforehand. Several times in the space of a few short seconds she made to open her mouth as if to say something and then words failed her. Privately he was pleased with that effect.
“That’s a really nice thing to say,” she eventually managed, her voice quiet and surprised. “Might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me. You know, who wasn’t family.”
“I mean it,” Scott said. “I really do.”
It was her turn to surprise him as she stopped and almost leaped on him, crushing her mouth against his, pushing him into a sitting position on an overturned rock with her legs almost wrapped around his waist. The sudden intensity of the surprise was almost as potent as the glee that rushed through him.
“Sorry,” she said as she broke away. “That was…”
“No need to apologise,” he replied. He could taste her lip gloss. Cinnamon. “You’re not going to hear me complain. Not about that, anyway. Might complain that you stopped.” He managed a weak grin.
“I’ve known a few spirit callers like you,” she said. “Not one of them ever said anything like that to me. Probably thought the reverse to be exact.”
Heh… His grin grew, her skin was warm and smooth, and she was close enough for him to feel her heartbeat. His own was thudding wildly in his chest. Good move, Scott, he congratulated himself silently. “Still, I meant it, you know. Always.” His stomach was twitching, like he’d swallowed a storm of millibugs and he suddenly felt the grin growing idiotically against burning cheeks. Oh Divines, he thought to himself, suppressing a wince. He very much got the impression he was falling for her completely. And right now, that suited him.
Terrence Arnholt and Brendan King looked at each other, neither feeling particularly cheerful at present. Neither felt like this whole mission to police the Quin-C was doing them many favours in front of their own people, nor in front of the people they answered to. It was slowly turning into the biggest farce either of them had ever known under tournament circumstances. They’d never experienced anything like it for the constant exacerbation of problems. Now Ritellia had announced he was bringing a Vazaran Sun presence in to see that things went smoothly for the last few days. Arnholt hadn’t been pleased to hear that, had retreated to his office and viciously described Ritellia in a number of anatomically improbable ways.
“Did you know this island was supposed to be some sort of sacred site?” he eventually asked, looking across at Brendan with quiet resignation in his eyes. “For the Vazarans anyway?”
“Ai-Yal’Sanhim,” Brendan said, deliberating on each section of the word thoughtfully, moving it over in his mouth. Both had read the reports from the failed mission into Vazara. They’d read about what little Itandje had had to say on the matter. “Ai-Yal’Sanhim. I didn’t know this was supposed to be it. I’ve heard of it, of course.”
“What’s the significance?”
Brendan considered the question for several moments, flexing his callused fingers in front of him absentmindedly. “Ai-Yal’Sanhim is first mentioned in tales of the Bel
leric Empire some couple of thousand years ago. The Bellericians, they inhabited what we now call Vazara, they believed originally the Divines were men and women. But at the same time, they knew how to manipulate the fervour of those around them into holding them above the crowd. They used all that strong feeling about them, the adulation of their supporters, the fear of their enemies to rise. To ascend from man to something more. Something eternal, if their names were remembered, their power would be absolute. Of course, when they did ascend to paradise, the first of the few, the first thing they did was wipe out what was there before so what we know now could come into existence. Their pantheon would become the forefront of their new world, they wiped out any other competitor for divine affection by killing their followers.”
“As fascinating as this might be,” Arnholt said icily. “What does this have to do with Ai-Yal’Sanhim and this island.”
“Giving background, sir. To understand the story, you need the context,” Brendan sounded pissed at being interrupted. “Anyway, the story of this island is that before they departed their newly formed kingdoms, never to return, Gilgarus left this island as a gift for a worthy one. Something would be hidden here that only the worthy may find and use.”
“The worthy what?”
“The worthy heir,” Brendan said. “An heir to the mantle left behind by the Divines long ago. An heir to the kingdoms. Someone who would do what they did long ago and rise to join the Divines, sparking a new world order along the way. Whatever was hidden here would bring about change. That’s how the story goes anyway. How much you actually believe in it is…”
“Is it a weapon?” Arnholt interrupted.
Brendan frowned at him. “Not everything has to be a weapon to initiate change. Of course, in theory it could be used as one. There are those out there who always find a way.”
“Brendan,” Arnholt said, his voice soft and tired. He sounded exhausted, nobody knew when he’d last slept, least of all him. “Tell me you don’t believe in this.”
“Personally, I want to,” Brendan replied. “But whether you do or not, I think the main thing here might well be that our enemy believes in it and seeks to take action which could be catastrophic for the five kingdoms. I believe not believing could be a foolish mistake we’d do well to avoid.”
“You might be right there,” Arnholt said. “Do all the research you would for any other case, inform Okocha to do the same. I want you to try and narrow down an exact objective, a plan of action, a way to stop them. Maybe use this insane idea against them.” He sighed, managed a very weak grin to spread across his face. “Never thought I’d deal with something like this.”
“Sir, there’s also the question of Roper…”
Arnholt smashed his fist down onto the desk, his reaction sudden and unexpectedly violent. Breath exploded out of him in a sharp rupture, he took several long seconds to regain composure. “There’s no question about Roper,” he said simply. “He did what he did. He’s got to live with that. We can’t interfere.”
“Can’t or won’t?” Brendan asked.
“Both,” Arnholt said. “I’m aware of his circumstances, I’m aware of what he’s feeling, and I don’t care. I expect professionalism from my agents always and he’s violated that. We’re not lifting a finger to save him and if he’s got any gumption left about him, then he’s not going to expect us to.”
“I see,” Brendan said. “Very well sir, just making the inquiry.” He bowed his head slightly. “If there’s anything else, Director, then I’ll see myself out.”
“Yes, yes,” Arnholt said. “Thank you, Brendan. Take care of yourself.”
As the field chief left the room, he rose from his seat and made his way to the window, staring out the glass at the island beyond. All the regret and the pain caused by what was out there was starting to wear him down. So much that could have gone wrong with this tournament had. There was no winning in this situation, just making the defeats less severe. And there was still one more task ahead of him, one he’d known was coming when he’d seen the footage of the so-called Vazaran Sun attack on his agents.
“Damn you, Roper,” he said, looking at the sun going down. “I really hope you know what you’re doing here.”
He turned back to the holo-projector on his desk and cleared his throat. This would be an interesting conversation as he reached over to it and made the call, punching the numbers into it and waiting.
It took minutes rather than seconds and throughout, he could imagine the wheels within wheels turning, the conversations over whether to accept, whether to put him through and who’d get the blame if it didn’t go as well as the recipient hoped. Vazaran political households were notoriously treacherous. At least he didn’t have to talk to Mazoud, rather, it was the holographic image of Leonard Nwakili that emerged in front of him, the eyes tired but alert. He looked as bad as Arnholt himself felt. Probably worse.
“Good evening, Premier,” he said pleasantly. “I trust I didn’t disturb you from something important.”
“Well actually…” Nwakili started to say before Arnholt cut him off and took great pleasure in doing so. It was perverse, he couldn’t help it. He rested his elbows on the desk in front of him and gave him a big grin.
“Good, good,” he said. “I got in touch because there’s ever such a sensitive matter I need to talk to you about. Dae’sutaka.” Wrapping his tongue around the Vazaran language had never come easily to him, the best thing he could do was try not to sound inept when he spoke it. He’d like Crumley or Okocha here for that, both spoke it better than him, Crumley with her gift for languages, Okocha being native to the kingdom.
Nwakili blinked. For him, it was the equivalent of being an admission of guilt and Arnholt felt a flood of satisfaction rush him. “Dae’sutaka?” He couldn’t pull off the sound of innocence as well as he thought.
“Yes,” Arnholt said. “You know them, I assume. We both know what that translates as.” Death squad, basically, he thought to himself. Not a lot of people knew about that, he’d chosen to keep it that way. He knew Nwakili better than he wanted to and him not knowing you knew what cards he had was preferable to him knowing you didn’t know what he had.
“Director Arnholt, I’m not sure…”
“Don’t play dumb with me, Leonard, it doesn’t suit you. Besides, I’ve played Ruin with you, I know when you’re lying. You know exactly what I’m talking about. Yohan Isiah. Fabrice Townsend. Didier Kondogbia. Solomon Bennet… You want me to keep naming your operatives in there? I have them all. How many of them are still alive by the way?”
He gave Nwakili a cold smile, not giving anything away. All those names had been members of Dae’sutaka confirmed dead at the scene of the Cubla Cezri mission, a little gift from Okocha’s marvellous hacking skills.
“Of course, not many people know about them. And what they don’t know is that your own private death squad wears a uniform very similar to the Vazaran Sun basic one. Easy mistake to make, I imagine. I mean there can only be so many uniforms in the world, some are bound to have similarities. Vazaran Sun grunt uniforms are black with a red stripe across the shoulders. Dae’sutaka have a red stripe across the shoulder, dark and grey under the arms. An easy mistake to make but I imagine a costly one if it came to light.”
“What’s your point, Terrence?” Apparently, they’d abandoned formalities now, another sign he might have Nwakili on the ropes. The man never broke protocol unless he was seriously struggling.
“Someone wearing those very uniforms just tried to kill four of my agents and I take that sort of thing very personally. More than that, they were responsible for the death a man in custody of those agents, someone with vital information regarding blowing open this whole case. That sort of thing I take even more personally.”
“Well my condolences. Was anyone hurt? Beyond the guy who died?”
“They’ll live,” Arnholt said coldly. “I also had one of my guys examine some things and he discovered that an unidentified hoverjet
departed for Cubla Cezri the moment my guys announced to air traffic control their destination. Vazaran Sun craft are still required to identify themselves, are they not?”
“I believe so,” Nwakili said, still a great deal of even control in his voice.
“And given what you tried to talk two of my agents into relaying back to me not so long ago,” Arnholt continued. “I have reason to believe you manipulated this whole thing to make it look like the Suns attacked my agents and executed our suspect. All so we’d retaliate and wipe out Mazoud for you in revenge.” He clucked his tongue. “That’s a rather desperate gambit for you, Leonard. It truly is.”
“Prove it!” Nwakili suddenly snarled, true venom in his voice. “Go on! If you can…”
“Oh, I can’t,” Arnholt said. “Not beyond reasonable doubt right now. Even if I could, I’d probably let it go. For old times’ sake, this once. But I will give you fair warning. If you try anything like this again, I won’t be so restrained. If you do it again, I will speak to Mazoud anonymously and inform him what you’re doing. Because I think he’d be interested, even if nobody else would. Having your people put on V.S uniforms to execute undesirables… That sort of thing tends to piss off people in high places. I dread to think what would follow such an act.”
Nwakili had a sneer in his voice as he spoke again. “And you the great champion of law and order.”
“I get the job done,” Arnholt said. “Sometimes a compromise is needed. You’re the politician, you should know that.” He smiled politely at the seething Premier. “Very nice talking to you again, Leonard. We must have a catch up at some point. Old friends and all that.” He paused a moment, toyed with the idea of hurling something else in front of him. Just in case it got a reaction. Arnholt’s grin grew even wider. He shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as he was. “By the way, you ever hear of Ai-Yal’Sanhim?”