The Great Game Trilogy

by O. J. Lowe

  “Stop wasting my time, Director Arnholt,” Nwakili said. “If you don’t desist, I’ll see that the Senate hears of your false allegations towards a duly elected head of state. Without validation, I’m afraid they’re just that. False.”

  He had, Arnholt mused as the connection died away, truly enjoyed that. Rattling Nwakili wasn’t easily done, he felt he’d handled it in the right way. At the very least, it might have convinced him to change his ways in regards of using an incognito death squad. He wasn’t worried about that final threat. Nobody made threats from a position of strength.

  Now he just needed several more pieces to fall into place.

  The twenty-eighth day of Summerpeak.

  At least it wasn’t one of the worse cells in the jail. Not that he couldn’t have dealt but given a choice, he shouldn’t have to. He’d seen some of the cells in this place and honestly wouldn’t have minded. It would have been nice to suffer in a squalid little windowless hole that matched the way he felt inside right now. There hadn’t been much need for policing this island by the local force, meaning the cells were empty.

  He’d slipped one of the guards a hundred credits to ensure he didn’t get visitors unless they were a magistrate. He didn’t want to see anyone right now, just be alone for the time being. Not his friends, not his enemies, not Ritellia come to gloat. That sort of petty small-mindedness was just the sort of thing he’d do. They’d kept a stoic face on, but the two officers who’d arrested him had both been laughing about it. Maybe they’d read his statement.

  He perched on the bunk, rested back on it and closed his eyes. It didn’t help. Every time he did, he saw her blank eyes staring at him. He saw it all, the scenes when he’d entered the room, the chaos and the destruction and at the centre of it all, the death of the woman he’d loved. Nothing would ever scrub that sight from his mind. Nor, he reflected, should it be able to. He didn’t want to forget. Nick wanted to remember that pain, use it to forge himself and grow strong off it. He couldn’t let it conquer him for if he curled up into a ball and reflected on his misery, he’d never get back up. He couldn’t do that. He wouldn’t.

  He remembered how Ritellia had tried to barge his way to speak at the funeral, aware he wasn’t welcome there and he remembered how the anger had rushed through him, the desire to do exactly what he’d wanted for a very long time. Of course, it had been live. Thousands, if not millions of people had seen it by now. They’d seen what he’d wanted them to see. A high-profile spirit caller disgruntled enough with the establishment to strike the public face of it.

  He heard the door at the end of the corridor scraping open and he opened one of his eyes a fraction wide enough to see what was going on. One of the uniformed guards was already moving away, a short Serranian stood across from him, dark hair greased back and his suit likely expensive. He was chewing on an edible tooth cleaner, Nick could smell the bitter mint on his breath from across the room.

  “Mister Nicholas Roper?” the man asked. “I’m your magistrate.”

  “I was expecting a Vazaran,” Nick said dryly. He hadn’t but that was neither here nor there right now.

  “I’m a better one,” the man said. “Here to get you out.”

  Got you, you bastards!

  “Okay, I’m listening.”

  Chapter Eight. Face of the Enemy.

  “Those two won’t tell me anything. Carson chooses not to; I think Rocastle is too scared of Carson to tell the truth. That unnerves me. Because it means Carson is getting stronger. And what happens when he grows too strong to control?”

  Private musings of Claudia Coppinger.

  The twenty-eighth day of Summerpeak.

  Jake Costa, he’d said his name was, and he’d proved to be as good as his word. Nick had been out of the holding cell within fifteen minutes, he’d been out of the building inside half an hour, he’d even gotten an apology from the guards holding him. Nothing personal, they’d said. He believed them, they were only doing their duty. Ritellia had probably been kicking up an unholy shit storm to try and keep him here for the time being. Hence the reason it had likely taken days to get out. He’d lost track of the time; he’d had to admit. Locked in that room, he’d been pretty funked out, alone with his thoughts which hadn’t been pleasant. A couple of times he’d thought he’d heard her voice and it had slowly been driving him crazy. Getting out was good, he hadn’t realised how good fresh air on his lungs would be. He didn’t want to think too hard about what had happened, instead preferring to focus on what was to come. That was the important part.

  Costa led him over to a speeder, an easy swagger to his walk, which Nick could hardly blame him for. The man was good, he radiated confidence and so far, he had every reason to believe things were going well for them both. They both thought they had their man. Nick had a strange feeling he wasn’t the first one to be approached like this.

  “Talk to me of the price,” he said thoughtfully. “What is this going to cost me?”

  “There is no cost,” Costa replied. “I was amused by the way you struck down that buffoon. Someone should have done it a long time ago. Anyway, there is no price, but just a simple request.”

  “Okay.” Nick nodded in agreement. “I see. What’s the request? I have to hide something for someone?”

  “No, you just need listen for a few moments of your time,” Costa replied. “You might do very well out of this, it’s a once in the lifetime opportunity. You know how rarely they come along, right?”

  “Well that sounds interesting. It from you? You want me to invest in something? Because I got credits to spare.” He shrugged. “Hey, you got me out of a spot. Right now, I’d probably consider doing anything to return the favour. Short of breaking the law again, I guess.” He shrugged again, spread his hands out in front of him. “Don’t want to end up back there, right? Not something I want to go through with.”

  “You seemed to cope okay,” Costa said, his accented voice faint with sarcasm.

  “All a brave face I’m afraid,” Nick replied, hesitating a little between the words to build on his point. “Okay, what’s this offer?”

  “My boss will tell you. In person.” Costa grinned, hands in his pockets. That grin sent a chill through Nick’s flesh, something about it he didn’t like. They approached the speeder, he saw two guys with it and narrowed his eyes at them as he took them in. Wait… He continued to study them, tried to work out what it was. They looked familiar, more than familiar. They had the same nose, but their eyes were different, the mouth smaller on the guy on the right, even the skin was a different colour. One Vazaran, one probably Premesoiran. But an identical nose?! His instincts were telling him something was wrong here. He stiffened up, the bad feelings pushing over him. Maybe this hadn’t been the best idea, but it was too late to back out now. He gulped, swallowed and managed a weak grin.

  In the hesitation, he took his eyes off Costa and suddenly he felt the prick in his arm, turned and fought the urge to react as he saw the fake magistrate pulling a needle out of him. Costa grinned lazily. “Apologies but necessary.” His voice took on an echoey tone, Nick’s vision swam, Costa’s face little more than a blur, Nick reached out to steady himself and suddenly his legs couldn’t hold him anymore. Strong arms caught him as he fell, the last sensation he remembered.

  The twenty-ninth day of Summerpeak.

  She looked across the desk, first at Wim Carson and then to a bemused Harvey Rocastle, something about the fat man unnerving her. Not that he was usually the most pleasant of company but today there was something not quite right. It was the eyes, she’d gazed into them and they were like cut glass. Very little feeling. Perhaps no emotion. None of it was there. He was humming just below his breath, perhaps the most irritating thing close at hand.

  This wasn’t the first meeting she’d had with them since they’d returned to the Eye following their disastrous trip. Every day she’d met with them, got them in front of her in attempt to convince them to reveal what exactly had happened. Seven
meetings. Seven wasted hours. Carson politely pushed aside any attempt to probe into what he knew, intimidation didn’t work on him. He was only growing stronger and it worried her, those powers of his. She’d seen what he could do, and it was necessary to ensure he didn’t turn against her. He said he wouldn’t, he’d made his promises, but she didn’t trust what came out of his mouth. Who knew how far the depths of his powers went. Plus, she was leery as the hells about him arming himself with one of those laser swords. But she couldn’t call him on it, not while she still needed him. When it came down to it, when his usefulness ended, she’d put him in front of a firing squad. Perhaps better to be safe than to be sorry where her own life was concerned.

  And as for Rocastle, he’d been different since he’d returned. Maybe sending him had been a mistake. She was sure he had something to do with the death of Sharon Arventino. Nothing she could prove, but maybe, just maybe the time was coming to cut him loose. The man was a liability, but he had enough credit in his bank to think himself safe. It irked her, but she did try to reward loyalty. If you couldn’t inspire that or even move to show you valued it, then there was little point in expecting them to give it freely. Doubly so if she couldn’t inspire two men like this, then the whole undertaking was futile.

  “Are either of you ready to talk today?” she asked. She wasn’t expecting anything but still when she was obliged, she harshly exhaled her breath out between her teeth.

  “Talk about what?” Rocastle was being perhaps more vocal than normal with those three words, a tone that defined innocence. She didn’t buy it.

  “You know,” she answered quietly. “I still want answers about what happened with that trip to Carcaradis Island.”

  “Madam,” Carson replied. “I believe I am almost able to help you. Maybe a day or two and I will have everything I need.”

  Okay, that changed things. She sat bolt upright in her seat, allowed a smile to play across her lips. That changed things a lot. “I see,” she said. “Do you care to explain further?”

  He shook his head. “Not right now. I’ll tell you on the way. We need to travel; I trust this won’t be a problem.”

  “No. Not at all.” She smiled again, more elation spreading through her than she’d allowed herself to feel for a long time. Nearly. Oh, so very nearly. It was within her sight. She could already feel her fingers itching to reach out and touch it. “Very good, Master Carson. Very good indeed. Carry on.”

  “Oh, are we done for today?” There was just an inflection of sarcasm in his voice and it didn’t suit him. She chose not to dignify him with a response as he left the room, Rocastle trotting after him. Maybe she should have Domis kill him. There wasn’t too much more Rocastle could offer the project. Nothing she could see right now anyway. Down the line, maybe. Maybe she’d need someone killing or to make a scapegoat. He had some limited talent at murder and the five kingdoms already thought he was a psychopath who’d tried to kidnap a beloved spirit dancer. The latter appealed at some point. She could use that. If it was the last task he ever performed for her, she could live with that.

  He didn’t know how long he’d been out as he stirred awake, his head threatening to split as he rolled onto his back and tried to sit up. He ignored it as best he could and took in his surroundings. Not much to go on. Four walls. Grey. Metal. Bare floor. Sparse decoration. Just a cot in one corner and a closet. An empty closet. Not much indeed. The toilet and tiny sink made it even more depressing. He glanced down at himself. Still wearing the same clothes, albeit a little dishevelled. Nick patted himself down, found his pockets still contained everything they had before. Credit chips, spare crystals, old water tablets and gum. He still had his calling crystals, yet they’d taken the summoner. Probably didn’t want him making an outbound contact.

  Whatever else happened in the immediate future, he was suddenly glad he’d left his badge, muffler and X7 with Okocha. They would have given the game away. He’d been taken, he didn’t know where. Unless they had definitive proof, unlikely at best, his identity remained a mystery. For now, he was just Nick Roper, Spirit Caller. Nothing more. That was the way it needed to be. He’d put his neck out and now he was on the block, there couldn’t be any regrets. He had enough without adding to them. Fair enough most concerned what had happened to Sharon and the means he’d employed to get into this position. Sharon… Oh Gods, Sharon. He let his head fall back onto the bed, exhaling harshly as he stared at the ceiling. He didn’t want to think about her now. He needed to keep his head together, not let it all fall loose. This had been the very first thing he’d ever learned in the Unisco academy. Cool head under pressure, no matter the circumstances. Those who lost the plot invariably went on to lose their lives and he couldn’t afford that. Still he couldn’t deny the empty space inside him ripped into existence ever since he’d pushed that door open and woven his way into the chaos. She’d been there right at the epicentre of it, sprawled out and bloody… Her eyes… He gulped and tried to blank it out. He could do that. He didn’t have to dwell on it. Shouldn’t. But there it was.

  That was about the time he heard the door grinding open. He turned his head, watched as it swung slowly open. He’d already taken note of the weight of the door. Heavy enough to be automatic. Pushing it from either side would be a futile exercise. Probably operated with a card reader. It opened all the way and he saw he was right; one of the guards had a key card. The other held a big bag, plain black with no hint of a logo or anything fancy. He tossed it in. Both were Vazarans, he’d guess at them being the slow and simple type. Big but he’d seen bigger. The one holding the bag looked like he’d had his nose broken a bunch of times. That told Nick he was an inept fighter.

  “The Mistress requests you join her for dinner,” the first guard said. “Fresh clothes. We’ll collect you in twenty minutes.”

  “No shower?” Nick asked. “Could do with one.” He kicked the bag with the toe end of his shoe. It didn’t feel like there was much in there, the sound felt horribly hollow in the echoing room of the cell. Outside, the corridor didn’t look much better. Both had weapons but neither had them pointed, only holstered. UP40’s by the look of what little he could see. Interesting…

  Take them… Take them now before they can draw.

  He ignored the voice in his head begging him to act. It wasn’t an imperative at this moment. For the time being, it would appear he was being treated as an indentured guest rather than an outright prisoner. Go along with it for the moment. And if the Mistress… Several images rather a little more graphic than he wanted to think about bounced through his head… wanted to meet with him, then why not see what she wanted. The only answer to his question about the shower was the door swinging shut with a click.

  So… Twenty minutes then.

  He might not have been able to get a shower, but he’d gotten the next best thing. The bag contained fresh clothes, shoes, towel, toiletries and right at the bottom, clealine tablets. He’d not seen some of these since his early days on the road. But very handy indeed. He stripped off, broke two of the tablets against each other in his hands and felt the soapy lather start to form almost immediately. They weren’t a particularly good option, but it was better than nothing. And if nothing else, it took his mind off the other problems at hand as he scrubbed himself down, rinsing himself off at the sink, before towelling himself clean. He felt human again at least, refreshed. It would appear for the time being they were interested in his well-being. A chance to ensure things stayed that way would surely follow. If he was going to be trapped here, better to do it in comfort. His allegiance would always be to Unisco. Nothing they could do would change that. But what lay ahead, he couldn’t say, and it worried him as he started to dress.

  Okay, these were nice. The shirt was a cream coloured silk, the trousers and jacket an almost leather texture of black. He ran a hand over it, found himself wondering if it cost more credits than he’d ever seen at any one time. It was expensive, any fool could tell that. And he looked good in it. The sh
oes fit okay, a little tight on the left foot but he’d live with it. He’d just finished shaving when the two guards returned, the door giving that same creak as it swung open. He turned, gave them a grin. “Almost done, guys. I’d hate to keep your boss waiting, so…” Nick finished rubbing in the cologne and tossed the empty bottle back into the bag. “Shall we?”

  “Step outside, please,” one of them said. “And don’t try to run.”

  “Why would I run?” he asked, letting a note of puzzlement slip into his voice. “You’ve got me interested now. Besides I assume I’m meant to be here, right?”

  No reply. As he stepped out, he saw only the quickest glimpse of them, but he immediately blessed his decision not to try fleeing earlier. Both guards were missing their ring fingers on each hand. Some might have dismissed that as unlikely coincidence. Nick knew what it meant. He’d seen it before.

  Taxeens!

  He hated fighting guys with knives. Even with a clear shot, there was a chance an enemy could still miss with a blaster. It wasn’t in human nature to kill. Those who did had to overcome that block. Knives would still cut you though. And Taxeens were excellent knife fighters, especially when one considered the poisons coating their blades. That was why they’d kept their blasters holstered. They didn’t need them. Not against an unarmed man distracted by grief. Not with two of them. One, he might be able to take by surprise. To face two at the same time was an act of suicide. They cut away their ring fingers to let the weapons spring into their hands from special spring-loaded gauntlets strapped to their wrists. There’d been one or two in Unisco over the years he knew of, and he’d seen how impressive they could be. Not just with knives but in unarmed combat as well.