The Great Game Trilogy

by O. J. Lowe

  She’d made up her bunk hole carefully, avoiding the barracks they had down here. Staying there would offer up more questions than she’d be able to answer. She’d seen regulators moving around down here, checking cards and asking questions. She wanted to avoid answering them, just in case. It’d be easier this way. She’d managed to steal a blanket and had cut a hole in the wall behind one of the boilers where it was warm. Squeezing between the pipes, she’d made herself comfortable for sleeping purposes before replacing the section of wall. Probably not the best place to bring Quinn back to. If it came to carnal experiments, they’d go to his bunk not hers. She wasn’t going to let it go that far though. Last thing she wanted was him writhing on top of her unless there was no other choice.

  Still Kyra felt like she’d made good progress today and tomorrow might be the day she got out of here. Settling in her section of cut out wall, she took out her kjarnblade and twisted the casing open to remove the k-crystal. The small lump of rock held all the energies of the Kjarn and worked as a conduit to power the fearsome blade capable of cutting through metal and flesh alike with ease. She held it in the palm of her hand, closed her eyes and opened her mind. Like any power source, it could be depleted over time and she’d neglected it for too long, largely due to other circumstances. Still it flickered hard with power in her presence and she felt relief, letting some of her own latent Kjarn presence flow into it. Just a touch. She didn’t want to attract the wrong sort of attention.

  The third day of Summerfall.

  She didn’t entirely know how much time had passed when she saw Quinn again, hands in the pockets of his jumpsuit and a nervous look on his face. She could sense he was really struggling with something as he approached.

  “Morning,” he said. He didn’t move to kiss her, she sensed he wanted to, but something held him back. He jerked his head towards a side room. “Can I have a word? In private?”

  Her senses were warning her now, but she kept her face calm. Forewarned was forearmed after all. With people all around them, it wasn’t the best place to cause a scene. Not her, not him. Kyra cocked her head towards the room, extending out her senses. There were people in there already.

  What the hells? She could decline but that’d look suspicious. Really suspicious. She still needed Quinn to get out of here. Or she could accept and go in forearmed. A hand dropped to her pocket and her fingers rested around the hilt of her blade.

  “Ooh someone looks serious this morning,” she said in a teasing voice. She put her other hand on his and smiled at him. “Not about to tell me about your wife, are you?”

  “Just… Just come on inside, will you?”

  He looked like he was going to be sick as they stepped into the room, she paused and took in the uniforms of the regulators. Neither of them was a dupe, she realised immediately. They both gave her the sort of look a hungry cat gives a canary and now the Kjarn was screaming for her attention, doing its best to warn her to their intentions.

  “Hey what gives?” she asked, doing her best to sound surprised. “What’s going on here?”

  “Ma’am, we’re going to need to see your ID card,” the regulator on the left said. He was tall and sandy haired, the other smaller and balder. Both were armed but not with anything heavier than hand blasters. In other words, about as much threat as toothpicks to her.

  “I…” She almost said don’t have one. “I… haven’t been issued one yet.” They scoffed at that. She tried to keep her face neutral, but she knew the ruse was up.

  “I wanted to find you, surprise you,” Quinn said monotonously. “Went and looked to see what barracks you were in. No record of you on the manifestos anywhere. No last-minute replacements or anything. So, I asked the regulators. Had to be some sort of error, right?”

  Her heart fell. Oh Thomas, you soft fucking idiot.

  “No card, no right to be here,” the bald regulator said, his voice high but menacing. She almost laughed at hearing it. “You’re going to have to come with us, right now Miss!”

  “I said!” she snapped, putting the persuasive force of the Kjarn into her voice. A tricky gambit but a desperate one. “I haven’t! Been! Issued! One yet!”

  The reaction was immediate and noticeable, both recoiled like she’d slapped them. Doing two at once was tricky, the effect was diluted. As far as she knew, she’d done it perfectly. But would perfection be enough? “I’m sorry…” One of them started to say before hands dropped to blasters. Shit! Something had gone wrong! The confusion was clear on their faces, they didn’t know who or where they were, she could sense their fear. Behind fear, she could sense violence wasn’t far. Kyra couldn’t hesitate, her blade came out and suddenly the shorter one was even shorter, minus a head. The taller one lost a hand first, then stared down in shock at the blade protruding from his chest. Quinn screamed, and she span, gesturing with her fist to grasp him about the throat with the telekinetic force of the Kjarn.

  Before she could crush his windpipe, the alarms went off all around her, a sudden harsh burst of klaxon horns and wailing sirens and inwardly Kyra swore. Oh fuck!

  Chapter Thirteen. This Is How It Starts.

  “Some people are natural born liars. It comes to them as easy as breathing. If you believe even a single word they say, then you’ve already lost. Of course, what happens when you don’t have a choice?”

  Brendan King summing up Unisco’s policy on making deals with known criminals.

  The second day of Summerfall.

  “Incoming!”

  Okocha’s shout rang through the offices, Arnholt on his feet in an instant and out to see him. He never belayed that much emergency in his voice unless things were serious. He left a surprised Brendan King and Allison Crumley in his wake, moving straight to Okocha’s workstation.

  “What is it?!” he demanded, urgency overriding his patience. He’d been on edge for days now, not since the reports of Nick Roper being bailed out of the Carcaradis Island jail and vanishing. That was good, it meant there’d been something to the plan, Roper had guessed right. That there had been no sign of contact since then was more concerning. It meant he could be anywhere. His instructions had been clear, find out what was going on, report back and get out. Don’t be a damn hero! Contrary to popular belief, he’d always found the role of the hero was to get others killed. Arnholt didn’t hold much stock by the one-man hero belief. He’d seen too many dead men to go along with it. Heroics and the job often went hand in hand, or so the new recruits seemed to believe. Too much time with the organisation and you started to think otherwise.

  “We have an incoming Reims ship,” Okocha said. “Same energy output, same contact codes as before. After our discovery, I set up an algorithm to alert us when they came back and they’re here! They’re here!” He was excitable now, Arnholt could see, it was almost infectious. “It’s coming into land and we know they’re here.” He was chattering excitedly now, almost jumping with glee. “We’ve got them!”

  “It could be nothing,” Arnholt said in a tone of voice that suggested he truly didn’t believe the words that had left his mouth. “Get me footage of who gets off that aeroship. I want to see who it is. And if we have another camera skip, I want everyone tooling up and we go wait for them in that hangar. Give them a nasty surprise when they return.”

  Of course, this job took incredible balls. The mortality rate amongst agents and operatives had dropped since he’d taken the top job and he was personally proud of that. Men and women weren’t dying as often because of the way he’d done things as director. There’d been those who weren’t as impressed by the statistic, of course. One of his bosses… He grimaced like a foul taste had entered his mouth… had asked if his agents were doing their jobs as thoroughly now they looked as if they were afraid of getting shot. Fair enough, he’d stunk like he’d been imbibing all day and he was a lunatic at the best of times, but it had been unfair criticism. Their mission success rate hadn’t dropped or risen, rather it had stayed about the same level of consisten
cy. Analysts reckoned somewhere about the seventy to eighty percent success rate. Given the number of potential interferences in some of their missions, Arnholt didn’t think that was too bad. If someone failed, they inserted another agent as rapidly as possible. Or a team of them. You couldn’t win every time.

  “Just coming in for landing now,” Okocha said, watching every moment of the landing on the screen with almost wistful envy. “That’s a beautiful craft. I guess the wealthy can afford whatever they like, huh?”

  “It would seem to be one of the perks,” Arnholt said absentmindedly. In his head, he was already putting together a team to hit the hangar. Derenko would lead it, taking Montgomery, Aldiss, Wilsin and maybe Sullivan. Her talents would come in handy. He’d seen aeroships like it before, looking through the press releases of the Reims corporation. They had plenty of them but what nobody had ever looked to have brought up was the way they looked curiously like oversized Premesoiran Tu Lar bombers. Uncannily so, really.

  Given what they were starting to suspect about Reims, he found himself wondering if there was something intentional there. The craft had a noticeable curve at the nose of the ship, almost like a hawk’s beak, the wings broad and impressive, protruding at acute angles, all with intent of cutting through anything before them. They weren’t the fastest or the most manoeuvrable, but they packed heavy firepower and armour, were the match of a HAX in the air one on one, in theory yet their cumbersomeness left them unsuitable for protracted dogfights.

  All this information passed through Arnholt’s head as he studied the video images. They even moved like the Tu Lar, descending in a fashion best described as like a flailing duck. Still the pilot had some skill about him, no small measure by the looks as he guided it gently to the ground until bringing it to a gradual halt.

  “Here we go,” Okocha said. “Moment of truth.” He was shivering with excitement. Maybe, Arnholt thought, he was expecting Nick Roper to leave the ship, anticipating the all clear, that they’d been right, and it was time to go to war.

  If he was expecting Nick Roper, he was to be disappointed. But neither of them could contain their surprise as they saw the tall figure with the aristocratic face. Okocha very nearly almost spat out the sip of water he’d been taking. “Now that just adds more questions!” he complained. Neither of them was going to fail to recognise the man walking towards the exit. Arnholt had to admit, he’d been taken aback himself by his presence. Unlike Okocha, he’d fought to retain his professional demeanour. Even if he very much would like to know what John Cyris was doing stepping off a Reims aeroship. And there was only one way to find out.

  Theo had looked in a decent mood since his victory in the semi-finals, Anne thought. A lot more cheerful these days. Out of his shell might be the better term. He still didn’t like people, still found them annoying overall. And sometimes she thought he had a point. Some people could be jerks, she knew that better than anyone. She’d known someone once who’d told her that in battle, all illusions were cut away and you saw someone for who they truly were. Either they lived or died by it, you saw them rise to the challenge, you saw some part of them you hadn’t before and sometimes you might not like it.

  She’d engaged in so many practice bouts with him by now, she could read him. Of course, practice bouts weren’t quite the same, she didn’t even like calling them that for the same reason. The truth was she practiced the way she battled, full force and Theo did the same. No stepping back from that. If either of them gave an inch in their contentions, it would have been the end. And he was getting a lot better thanks to her training, she wanted to add with a flourish of pride. More so than him getting better, it had forced her to look at some of her own techniques and tweak them.

  If she was honest, she couldn’t see a world where he lost in the final in a few days. It sounded way too overconfident, but she had a feeling he’d have more than Scott Taylor could deal with. He’d be able to stroll over the line and shock the crowd. He didn’t look to be struggling with nerves, she just caught the wave of quiet confidence and smugness radiating from him. That and the urge to gasp for breath. He was in ridiculously good shape and sometimes it felt like he could run all day given the chance. They’d started running together in the mornings and the evenings when it was cooler underneath the Vazaran sun. If he’d suggested it midday, she’d think he’d lost his mind. Today, the evening was warmer than normal but still tolerable. Even so sweat caked her entire body, dust clinging to her legs. Only another few miles and she’d be able to climb into the shower…

  She didn’t know which halted her first, the sight or the sensation. The tall man up ahead in their path, immaculate suit, resting on a cane or the sudden deluge of revulsion that tore through Theo like a monsoon of distressed anger. He skidded to a halt, hands already skittering about like nervous pale spiders as he sought something from his pockets. Already the man stepped forwards, hands held up in a gesture of supplication, but it didn’t stop him. It went on a few seconds more and then his smile vanished from his sharp features. She didn’t catch much from him but what she did sense made her feel dirty. Unclean even. Here was not a nice man, she could tell immediately.

  “Calm yourself Theobald,” he said derisorily. “You’re making a fool out of yourself in front of your friend.”

  “Shut up!” Theo almost snarled. “You… You shouldn’t even be here.” She could hear the worry in his voice, she turned to the other man and tried to work out why he seemed so familiar. Not just to her but to Theo too. Maybe it was that they looked a little alike, the same scowl, the same way of walking… and the eyes. They were intensely cold and emotionless. Everything Theo once had tried to be, everything parts of him remained. He’d finally found his summoner, drawn it, even if he hadn’t moved to activate it. Anne glanced around their surroundings, not many people about. The fewer the better if it came down to a fight. This part of the parks on Carcaradis Island wasn’t busy this time of day and that was a blessing.

  “You don’t need that, boy.” There was a hint of amusement in his voice. “I’m not here to fight with you.”

  “Yeah sure!”

  His mouth curled up in the corner. “I’m not about to fight with one of the finalists of this fine competition.” Anne thought she heard some sarcasm there. “I doubt I’d win for a start. I know there’s a point where every son bests his father, but I’d prefer it not to be so devastatingly public.”

  This time he smiled at Anne. “The name is Cyris, my dear. John Cyris. Since you’re wondering where you’ve seen me before. Everyone does. I’m afraid I’m rather famous, you see.”

  John Cyris… JOHN FUCKING CYRIS! She reacted with a start, not quite able to stop herself. She knew that name of course. There’d been flyers with his picture on all over Unisco buildings at one point.

  “Despite whatever my son insists his name is, of course,” Cyris said acerbically. He glanced sideways at Theo who was still scowling. Okay, that was strangely uncanny now she saw it. The family resemblance was strong between them.

  “My name is Theobald Jameson,” Theo said, his voice surly. “I’m not having the Cyris part anymore. I don’t want people knowing I’m related to you!” He said the last word so harshly, Anne was surprised.

  “Okay, I deserve that,” Cyris said. “But I still think you’re overreacting, son.”

  “Don’t bloody call me that!” Theo snapped. “You’re not my dad. Not in any way that matters.”

  That scowl… she was trying to think of it as Theo’s but now she suspected he might not have been the progenitor, flashed back across his face before he pushed it back into the depths of his being. “You really shouldn’t lash out at the people who love you. You should know that by now!”

  “You don’t love me!” In a heartbeat, the old Theo filled with anger was back, rising from the depths of his seclusion. The Theo who’d been broken slowly shattering again b she worried for him. She honestly thought he might leap on his father for a moment. “You’re not fucking capabl
e of it!”

  “Don’t swear at me!”

  “You’re not bloody capable of love!” Theo insisted as if Cyris hadn’t spoken. “You only use those you need and throw them away if they don’t live up to your expectations.”

  “Your point is?” Cyris studied him with an impassive expression. “Everyone does that, my boy. Me, you, her, everyone. Don’t make me out to be the villain of this. It is a picture you cannot paint.”

  “Screw your damn picture you bastard!”

  No love lost between them, Anne thought dryly.

  Cyris nodded sagely, ending with a head bow, almost apologetic in its expression of supplication. On the surface, that’s how she interpreted it. Beneath the surface… She didn’t know. Below his mind felt murky, foggy, his intentions clouded. That was a surprise, she blinked several times. First time she’d experienced that phenomenon. Some people had that level of self-control. Everything she’d ever heard about Cyris, she’d have probably guessed he wasn’t a slave to wild emotions.

  “I probably deserve that. Theobald, you can’t keep staying wildly angry at me like this…”

  Theo cut him off with a bark of harsh laughter, his shoulders shaking with the efforts. “You want to bet that I can’t? You’re having a laugh, right? I intend to!”

  “I just wanted to offer you my congratulations,” Cyris said. She might not have been getting anything from him, but she did catch sudden surprise from Theo. He would have turned and walked away had those words not halted him mid-step.

  “What?” He couldn’t keep the bemusement from his voice.

  “I’m proud of you, son. I’ve probably never told you that enough, but you’ve done good with your life.” Cyris took a step forward towards them, hands outstretched in front of him. Still keen not to prove himself as any sort of threat, Anne guessed. “I know I’ve not been an ideal father. We never were a good family. When your mother went, we never really had much to keep us together. Blood only takes you so far, wouldn’t you say?”