The Great Game Trilogy

by O. J. Lowe

  Just for a few seconds, the stadium fell into silence as the crowd tried to work out what had happened. And then the applause started slowly, breaking out into the rapturous as the announcer went along with it, screaming out how Theobald Jameson had become the first spirit caller to make the final of this year’s Competitive Centenary Calling Challenge Cup and Theo was there looking a little sheepish with the attention.

  Somehow Anne Sullivan had found her way onto the field and there she was embracing him amidst all the attention. Scott pulled his gaze away, looked at Snooze. He’d seen more devastating injuries but there was something about the great furless face with melted shut eyelids that filled him with sorrow. Despite himself, he walked out and gave the sloth-bear a pat on his mangled head. The skin was hot beneath his touch, singed his fingertips

  “Sorry dude,” he said. “Better luck next time.”

  “Told ya bagmeat,” Permear said from his shadow. “Should have used me.”

  He really didn’t like a told you so. Especially not from Permear, not right now.

  It was perhaps the most uncomfortable moment of the entire tournament for him so far, Theo reflected as he found himself facing the cameras, all the journalists determined to get him for the first quotes following his triumph. It should have been the most satisfying but… Natch. He grimaced, adjusted his jacket and tried his best to plaster a smile across his face. He was aware it made him look a disturbed but to hells with them. He was doing them a favour by talking to them. Anne had already slipped away, nice of her not to stick around for this, but it had been nice of her to show up. Really nice. She’d been warm as she’d hugged him, and he’d noticed she smelled nice. Like some sort of flower, he guessed. Don’t ask him what sort. They’d hugged close and he’d enjoyed it, enjoyed the closeness and he’d looked down at her to see her smiling.

  “I like it too,” she’d said the way she sometimes did, that all too creepy manner before fading into the background, leaving him to face the vultures.

  “Before you all start,” he said to the media. There had been something preying on his mind for a while now and he wanted to get it away from his chest. Something he needed to say. “I just want to make a statement.” He cleared his throat, waited for their chatter to die down and then he spoke. “I’m glad I get the chance to say this as finalist and at this point, the favourite.”

  It might have sounded arrogant, he meant it to in its truth. He was the favourite as the only qualifier so far. He hoped that Taylor kid made it through to the final, he’d be a lot easier to beat than Sommer. “Everything I’ve gone through in my life so far has got me here, I wouldn’t have done anything differently. I just want to thank some people. Anne Sullivan for one, just for…”

  He almost tripped over the words, such was their unfamiliarity in his mouth. “Just for being one of the most wonderful women I’ve ever had the fortune to meet. I’d like to thank my opponents for granting me some semblance of a challenge on the way here. And I’d like to acknowledge my father for it. Because we might not always have agreed on things, well anything really. But in a way, he shaped who I became more than anyone else, I suppose the message I want to pass to him, wherever he might be, look at me now you bastard!” Gloating felt good. Especially at that fucker’s expense. To say their family reunions, when they happened, would be terse affairs would be putting it mildly. “I don’t care what you think or what you care because I did it! Suck on that!”

  He grinned at the cameras. This time it felt more natural, genuine. He was enjoying the moment, even despite knowing the ICCC would be sending a fine his way. “Sorry about that. But it needed to be said. I’ve looked forward to that for the whole tournament. Any further questions?”

  Now Scott was pissed as he paced his changing room. Just a few more minutes and he’d be making his way out there to decide his future, whether he went home or not. Then again, even if he lost, he’d probably stick around for the final. It had to be done, he supposed. How many other chances would he get to attend a Quin-C final, even if it was one he could have competed for rather than watching?

  Still he had to concede Theo’s words were funny, even if he’d heard the venom in them. Some people really had issues. It made him think of his own dad. Scott had never met him; his mom had never told him anything about him other than his name had been Ronald and he’d been from Vazara. That second part he’d probably have been able to guess at, given the colour of his skin. He wondered if he was still out there and watching. If he’d know it was his son. If he’d care. Whether he did or didn’t, it wouldn’t matter. He still intended to win, no matter what.

  It was with that mantra echoing through him he strode back out onto the battlefield, swapping ends for this round, moving to the same one Theo had stood in for the previous bout. Callers could be a superstitious lot given the chance, Theo had picked that end undoubtedly because he’d not lost in there in the first bout. The way Scott looked at it, putting Sommer into the other caller area meant she was in one neither semi-finalist had won in so far. It might play some part in her mind, it might just give him an edge. He hoped, anyway. He’d take any slim advantage.

  Let’s play, Kitti. All the picture boxes around the stadium, one of them must have caught his grin. He wouldn’t have been surprised if it came across as a bit idiotic, he didn’t care. This was his chance and he needed to take it.

  Sommer was even more imposing in the flesh, arms folded in a position mirrored by the garj in front of her. Scott had studied her choice for a moment, seen those blades and considered going with Becko to fight it like for like, blades versus blades but he decided against it.

  Although the grassy backdrop in the stadium would benefit his leaf lizard, he didn’t want to turn it into a fight on her terms. Doubtless that thought was somewhere in her mind, she undoubtedly knew about Becko and maybe, that was what she was trying to do, subconsciously influence his choice. If you could make your opponent fight on your terms, you were halfway there. The stories about Sommer told how she was a meticulous study; she could guess at what you’d do before you’d even planned it. That unnerved him, hence he’d already made the choice to be as unpredictable as possible. He didn’t go with Palawi or Sangare or even Permear, despite the ghost’s angry mutterings.

  He went with Sludge, already bracing himself as the spirit materialised on the grassy battlefield and the stadium was filled with the stench of rotting filth. The garj, blessed with enhanced senses immediately recoiled, its caller wrinkling her nose. Some sections of the crowd started to mutter in the front row. He was sure he could hear someone upchucking their dinner. Already going for shock and awe tactics then, he smirked to himself. The video referee continued to rattle on the rules for the bout.

  Scott tried not to think about how he’d acquired Sludge, a beast that lurked in swamps and sewers, exceptionally predatorial and carnivorous. He resembled nothing so much as a pile of mud and dirty water, two great luminous eyes hovering above a cavernous mouth. Like a sand hound, a mud-stalker’s body was exceptionally hard to damage, its skin loose like liquid rubber, a semi-permeable membrane difficult to gain a purchase on. That they were poisonous as well made touching them difficult with anything less than a hazard suit. Browns and purples and ugly reds swirled across the grass as he hoisted himself up and turned to look at the caller. Scott had always had a theory there was hidden intelligence inside something that didn’t look like it had much of a mind.

  There had been occasions throughout this tournament he’d toyed with using Sludge but something in the deep recesses of his mind had told him that the moment would come. That time had come, it appeared. He grinned at Kitti Sommer who had at least looked to have regained some composure. She rolled her eyes in his direction. If she was bothered by the smell, she didn’t show it now.

  “Cheap trick?” she asked. There was amusement in her voice.

  “The cheapest,” Scott replied. “We’ll see. Good luck.”

  “Oh, I don’t need luck darling,�
�� she said as the signal to start the bout sounded. “I just need to be me.”

  She winked at him and suddenly her garj’s eyes began to glow with an eerie effervescent blue light. Parts of Sludge’s body started to ripple and shake as if a dozen invisible hands were crashing repeatedly into him. If he was bothered, he didn’t show it. Sludge made a bemused sound. Grass died as he moved across it, what was left behind rotted and wilting under his trail.

  At Scott’s command, the mud-stalker’s mouth ripped open and he let loose a huge belch in the direction of the garj. He could smell the gas from here, fought the urge to breathe. You didn’t want that in your system. Not even close. It hit the garj full on, didn’t appear to have any effect. Not until the beast doubled over and purged the contents of its stomach loud and violent. The calm smirk on Sommer’s face faded in an instant, replaced by concern as her spirit dropped, knees, paws and blades all hitting the dirt in the same instant. The garj’s bright red plumage started to droop, dripping with sweat and sickness. He’d seen spirits in terminal decline looking better than this one did.

  That had gone better than he’d expected as the garj slowly rose, still looking queasy. Then it sprang across the field, a lot more mobile than he’d expected after inhaling a lungful of toxic gases and swept its blades into an attacking stance. Within moments, it was dancing around Sludge, blades whipping through the soggy body, a squelching sound erupting every time a blade landed.

  Scott didn’t even try to counterattack, just ordered Sludge to defend for his life. He had his strategy and he needed to stick with it. The poison was slowly killing the garj, all he and Sludge needed to do was outlast it. The downside of poisoning it so early in the bout was the garj could now hit Sludge at will without the danger of being poisoned given that ship had sailed. He’d turned it into a timed bout essentially, thrown all cards off the table. Who’d fall first? Because despite being hard to damage, Sludge wasn’t even close to being invulnerable. Sooner or later those blades would catch something vital. Scott made his choice in a heartbeat, Sludge’s arms shot out in the direction of the garj, didn’t come close to landing but it made the opponent retreat.

  It was starting to look sick, any idiot could tell that. The garj’s eyes were starting to bleed even as they glowed once more, and this time Sludge was yanked from the ground before being forcibly slammed into it. Those, Scott reflected, might be a problem. A mud-stalker in the air was infinitely less dangerous than one on the ground. They weren’t intended to fly for that very reason. Nothing enjoyed being smacked into the ground with that sort of force. Righting himself, Sludge yanked a handful of mud away from his body and threw it in the garj’s direction. It managed to dance away, a lot less gracefully than moments earlier. One of its legs buckled beneath it, still it just about managed to remain upright, supporting its weight with a blade into the dirt.

  Scott hadn’t expected the attack to hit home, he just needed to keep it on the defensive a little longer, not give it chance to regroup. How long did that poison take? It was different for different species, the mud-stalker’s natural prey was birds, rodents and small amphibians, on those it took effect in seconds. On something larger, it’d take a lot longer. On the plus side, it was in its blood now, the more it exerted itself, the faster the poison would pump around its body. The garj coughed and blood dribbled down its chin, Sommer was starting to look worried and Scott took that as a good sign. It came again and this time he rolled the dice, ordering Sludge to move.

  The mud-stalker twisted away clumsily from the first blow, the garj overshooting itself and tripping, its legs no longer completely able to hold it up. One knee came down into Sludge’s body and came away bloody and raw, Scott caught the odour of something rotten and fought the urge to gag, the acidic poison already corroding through the fine fur covering the garj’s body. Sludge swung out, caught it a blow in the side and Scott could testify from experience those blows hurt when you didn’t expect them. It left a black handprint on the garj’s side and with a scream it went down flat on its face, Sludge immediately crawling all over it. If it were lucky, it’d suffocate quickly. If it wasn’t…

  It wouldn’t be a particularly pleasant way to die. First there were struggles, Scott could see the ripples through Sludge’s body but gradually they slowed until it moved no more

  As Sludge slithered away to reveal the defeated opponent, Scott didn’t know which came first, the sound of the referee confirming the bout was over, the roar of the crowd or his own sudden enthusiastic celebrations as he dropped to his knees and raised both arms to the sky, elation suddenly filling him.

  He'd done it. He’d only bloody done it!

  Chapter Eleven. The Burden of Parenthood.

  “Even the shallowest puddles can have hidden depths.”

  Old Canterage proverb.

  The second day of Summerfall.

  How long had he been in this room now? He didn’t know, time had gradually been slipping by, devoid of a timepiece he had no way of counting the minutes. Of course, they didn’t want him wandering this place unescorted. If he were in her position, he would want to keep track of visitors until he knew where they stood. He had no right to be here until he committed to the cause one way or another and so he’d stay locked up. The only times he’d been allowed to leave were under the supervision of the two Taxeen guards for meals and they’d not been particularly chatty. Any attempt to make conversation with them had met stony faces and stern expressions. Maybe he wasn’t speaking their language. After all, she wouldn’t want guards who could be persuaded to deviate. It made things difficult as he pondered his options. This had started as a mission to go undercover, he’d volunteered for it and between himself, Arnholt and Okocha, they’d put it into place. The less people knew about it the better. It was always better that way. Protocol demanded that they keep it secret.

  Part of him wished he could have told Wade though. He’d been in touch since Sharon had… Nick swallowed hard. He didn’t want to think along those lines right now. Too many bad memories, painful to the touch, and he needed to keep a clear head. He could lock them down. He needed to. Couldn’t dwell on the past now, not with something this important. If he faltered, then he’d fall.

  On the other hand, he was entitled to grieve a little. And it might be what his captors were expecting. Seeing someone sat there stony faced for a long time when they’d just gone through a traumatic event. He could try and second guess all he wanted but the likelihood was sooner or later he’d have to face it. Ignoring it now was only going to make the pain worse. That much was undeniable. He couldn’t put it off for long. That he was doing as well as he was, he found nothing short of remarkable, if he did say so himself. The pain he was trying so hard to ignore was like a blazing ragged hole in his stomach, constantly screeching in agony and injustice. Why, Sharon? Why? Of all the beautiful radiant souls in the world, why did you have to be the one taken? What did you do to deserve it? His eyes felt wet, just for a second and he viciously clamped down on them, rubbing them more vigorously than necessary.

  His hand still ached where he’d landed the punch on Ritellia, something he might have enjoyed in more satisfying circumstances. Some people probably would never forgive him for wrecking a funeral like that. It was okay, he probably wouldn’t be able to forgive himself. On the one hand, it felt like he’d sullied Sharon’s memory because he’d had a part in making it memorable for all the wrong reasons. On the other, it felt like he’d done something necessary to ensure somebody got punished. He might be trying to delude himself, in fact he knew he was, but if it got someone caught then, it was worth it. There would be no greater tribute to her memory.

  He’d heard it said in the past that that would be what the dead wanted, to make sure their end was ultimately something that mattered. Everyone liked the idea of a last stand to save others, going out in a blaze of glory, but in the end, dead was dead. They were beyond caring. They were the lucky ones in a way. He knew how cheap life was, how easily it could b
e snuffed out and the dead had it easy. Their troubles were over. It was the ones left alive who had to keep on going. He didn’t want to think about how many lives he had prematurely snuffed out and while you could go on about the greater good, it didn’t change that they’d had families as well. Families who would feel like he did now. The irony was not lost on him.

  He needed to report in at some point, a task appearing to become harder with every passing hour. No way was he going to be able to slip his Taxeen escorts, no way Claudia Coppinger would even let him go if he said no to her. He’d be getting shot in the head, one flash of light and that’d be it. But what if he did say yes? All in the purposes of getting more information, of course. He genuinely got the impression she believed what she was saying and that was perhaps the scariest thing of them all. Nothing more dangerous than someone who genuinely believes in the words from their mouth. Belief was good, but he’d also seen first-hand it was one of the most dangerous things in existence, it created mania, desire, the urge to cause change no matter the cost.

  There was something untoward going on here, she’d kept most of the details secret, but he’d guess it’d be nothing good for anyone involved.

  Cyris looked shifty as he walked into the room, she could tell that much. Privately she despised the man as she despised all those whom she had entered alliance but there was something in Cyris’ swagger, that arrogant sense of self satisfaction that made her teeth itch.

  “Madam Coppinger,” he said, effecting a neat little bow he managed to pull off with hitherto unseen grace. “Thank you for granting me my audience. And for the aid in regards of Mister Lassiter.”