The Great Game Trilogy

by O. J. Lowe

  Acutely aware he was sweating, Scott ran an arm across his brow, saw it had plastered his arm hair flat. It was warm in the room, but he didn’t think that had much to do with it.

  “Is that the most drastic bed wetting example ever?” Permear continued. “Or is she part mermaid? No wait, she wouldn’t drown, would she?”

  Scott looked up at him, raised an eyebrow. “You saw that?” He didn’t know why he even made the effort to sound surprised.

  “Yeah,” the ghost said. “Was tasty shit that dream. Little dreary.”

  “Wait, what?” He’d heard rumours of that but never actually met anyone who’d been able to lay proof to it one way or another. “You ate that dream right out of my head?”

  “Well duh, bagmeat. Can’t live off what you don’t feed me.” Manic laughter broke through the room, somehow still not waking Mia up. Scott glanced down at her, shifted his hand under her nose just to feel her breath on his fingers. He wanted to check she was still breathing. It was there, no mistaking it. He wasn’t ashamed to admit he let out a brief sound of relief.

  “The more messed up the dream is, the tastier it is. Angst? It’s pretty good shit seasoning, yeah?” Permear said, carrying chattering on as if Scott’s actions were of no interest to him. “Not quite as good as fear. That’s a good one. I don’t like lusty dreams though. They leave a sour taste. That’s why I stay out her head.” He pointed at Mia. “She got some freaky shit in her head. Ask her about leather. That’s all I say. I a traditionalist. I believe it look better on the animal. Which I not that far removed from. Six degrees of evolution. And life.”

  “Fascinating,” Scott said, though he didn’t mean it as Permear burst out into raucous laughter at his own joke. Just because the ghost could talk, didn’t mean he was always worth listening to. And yet at the same time, sometimes there was gold amidst the shit. He glanced once again at the time, still too early. His head hit the pillow, he wondered if there was anywhere still open on the island he could get a drink.

  It wasn’t so much the dream itself that bothered him. Everyone had nightmares every now and then. No changing that. And he’d had some truly freaky ones in the past. No, there was something different about this one. The fact that he’d suffered through it every night for the past week didn’t help settle his mood where it was concerned. Though it was the only time Permear knew he’d had it, there were six he wasn’t aware about. Maybe. More than that, Scott was worried.

  The second the bout was over, they were out of here, already making plans to leave, no matter the result. He wasn’t staying on this island longer than he had to. It felt like he’d outstayed it. Given everything that had happened and looked like it was about to happen, he wanted to be as far away as possible. All he knew was what he’d seen, some crazy woman had declared war on the five kingdoms. It had been all over the media the previous days, shouts of outrage and fearmongering, how they were all going to be murdered in a bloody tide of retribution for some imagined slight. It brought about a troublesome problem. Where would be safe? Nobody knew where she was so therefore how did you get as far away from someone as possible without knowing where they were to start. It felt a little difficult.

  These were problems still troubling him hours later when Mia let out a small grunt, a result of her having twisted her face into his chest and bolted awake with a start. Her eyes were red and fogged, her hair stuck to the side of her face. Not an attractive look by any prospect of the imagination, yet he guessed she pulled it off in a messed-up way. “Morning,” she muttered. “What time is it?”

  “Too bloody early,” Scott said. At least she hadn’t started leaking salt water out of her mouth, he knew he was awake that way. He couldn’t even grin at that, was just too bloody weary. A good start to the most important day of his life, to be sure. “Wake me up ten minutes before I’m due on the field, yeah?”

  She playfully hit his chest with her fingers. “I’m sure you’re not… Bad dreams again?”

  That got his attention, he hadn’t… “What makes you think I’ve been having bad dreams?”

  “A little ghost told me.”

  “Sorry bagmeat,” Permear said from somewhere in the room. His guess, the ghost was under the bed. The sun was up, he didn’t like that, as much as Scott had been able to infer from conversation. “But it slipped out.”

  “How?!”

  “Well I sort of told her to stop having mushy dreams, they were giving me cramps and…”

  “Why do I ask him,” Scott muttered under his breath as Mia giggled quietly. “Why don’t I just let it be? Thumbs up and smile, that’s all it takes, and we need say no more.”

  “And well she got all pissy, women eh and…”

  “Perm!” Mia said loudly. Scott winced at that. How and why Mia had suddenly developed the ability to understand Perm, he didn’t know. Or perhaps it had been Permear who had found a way to make himself understood. Either way, it had been causing no end of trouble so far. Two ways of looking at it, one, it was good she knew he wasn’t imagining it. Two, it was a little more awkward when the ghost went off on a tangent. “Who taught you to say stuff like that?”

  “Your mother!”

  “See, I think it’s a lesson you need to learn as well,” Scott said, twisting around to look her in the eyes. “Just let it go.”

  “Anyway, when you two are done bitching, I sort of let it slip you were having these bad dreams like a scared little bitch and she got all worried. Surprised she couldn’t keep her mouth shut about it.”

  “He’s definitely getting more eloquent,” Scott said, ignoring the look Mia was giving him. Passive-aggressive curiosity really didn’t suit her. “I’ll give him that. Not exactly sure that’s a good thing.”

  “You look terrible,” she said. “I mean it.”

  “Bit candid, aren’t you?” Scott said. “I mean I know honesty is supposed to be good for a relationship…”

  “No, it isn’t!” Permear said loudly. “Lie! Keep lying!”

  “But that was a bit brutal for my liking. I can’t help what keeps rattling around my head.”

  “What do you dream of?”

  “Believe me, you don’t want to know.”

  “Well it’s obviously distressing you. They’re just dreams, Scott. Nothing special, nothing ominous, just your own subconscious telling you something.”

  “That really doesn’t help me with the problem, you know.” He held his breath for a moment and then sighed. “It’s about you. Every night this week, I’ll get to sleep, and I’ll still be in bed, or on a boat, in a restaurant, even on the battlefield once and you’ll be there. And you’ll look damn fine and all that because hey, I’m not aware it’s about to all go south.” Deep breath, he saw her look more than a little mollified by what he’d just said. That look wouldn’t last. “And then you drown. I’m not joking. Not a drop of water in sight and you’re suddenly choking it up. It’s horrible.”

  Theo had already been awake for an hour and in cooler morning temperatures, he’d taken his early jog around the resort, keeping a steady pace and focusing on his breathing as he went around his second lap. Anne had been right, he hadn’t believed her at first when she’d told him it was surprisingly therapeutic, good for focusing the mind. He’d slept well, he was just building up his appetite before breakfast. A good few hours before it was all due to start yet and while he wasn’t looking forward to the various bits of window-dressing they insisted on at the start and the finish of these events, ones he’d no doubt be close to, he was looking forward to the battle itself. What wasn’t to look forward to? He’d beaten his opponent once, not that that had a bearing on anything. He wasn’t about to take him lightly, but if he performed to his maximum then there wouldn’t be anything he could do.

  Already he was running through various tactical outlines in his head, possible combinations to lead off with, anything to confound his opponent. Doubtless he’d have done his research; Theo had done the same. To fail to prepare was to invite failure u
pon you. No more distractions. It had been bad enough having his father appear again, the first time he’d seen him in many moons. Not that he could really describe him as a father. John Cyris had many qualities and none of them were applicable for a good stab at parenthood. He’d made Theo’s childhood miserable, an absolute horror to recall and yet at the same time, he had a point. Those trials had hardened him to the point he was ready to drive home to victory today. He could win.

  More than that, he was going to go tooth and nail to ensure he absolutely did win and nothing would stop him from claiming that title. He had his coach in his corner, he wouldn’t have done it without her, a realisation that gave him mixed feelings. He’d wanted to do it under his own steam, not ask for help. To the best of his knowledge, his opponent hadn’t sought out any help. He’d done it all by himself, and Theo found it a little galling. Because he, Theobald Jameson, wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t lucked into getting some help he’d never asked for and yet wound up with anyway. It was a strange feeling, a maelstrom of conflict inside him, the knowledge that what he’d done had turned out to be right, or it would be if he won, and the feeling he should have been able to do it under his own steam.

  That was all he’d ever wanted. To be able to say he’d done it by himself.

  “And we’re here outside Carcaradis Stadium, live above Yeboah Walk where the fans are streaming into the stadium. We’ve got people from all over the five kingdoms coming to see this event today, billions more watching from afar and it promises to be an absolute cracker of a final.”

  “Yeah, we’ve seen a lot of competitive spirit calling over these past few weeks, we’ve seen some absolute quality on show, we’ve had excitement, we’ve had brutality and it’s all about to come to a head today, Tom.”

  “You’re listening to the Tomani Lister and Mike Ellis show; we’re building up to the final of the Competitive Centenary Calling Challenge Cup where two relative unknowns before the start of the competition are about to face off against each other for the highest honour in the sport. Nobody would have predicted it before it all kicked off, Theobald Jameson and Scott Taylor have stuck their middle fingers up to the predictions and both are going to be remembered by the annals of history today. Come win or lose, each of them will probably go onto have a sterling career after this, it can only be the start of something incredible.”

  “And we’ve got a special guest just walked by us, we’ll pull him in…” A few moments of silence and then the speech returned. “None other than the former Quin-C defending champion, here to make the symbolic gesture of handing back the trophy, Ruud Baxter, how are you Ruud?”

  “I’m good, thanks, Tomani, Mike. Good to be on the show instead of just listening to it. Big fan.”

  “Ruud, you probably get asked this question a lot, why didn’t you defend your title this year instead of just showing up at the end to hand it over?”

  “Because I chose not to.” It was a tone of voice suggesting the speaker didn’t want to go into further detail. “I’m effectively retired as a competitive spirit caller these days. And today isn’t about me.”

  “Okay. Who do you think will win today?”

  “It’s too close to say but I think it’s going to be a memorable final, I think that there’s going to be a lot of drama and I genuinely can’t pick a winner. I think they both have their strengths, they both have their weaknesses, I think the one who capitalises on both his own strengths while undermining his opponents the best will be the one who takes home that trophy. I think… Jameson to shade it. Narrowly. I think the longer the battle goes on, the better he’ll cope. But I wouldn’t be surprised if it goes the other way. Taylor has some interesting qualities of his own and he’s the sort of caller who’ll never give up no matter how hopeless it looks. Never underestimate just how important that is. I saw that fight against Steven Silver earlier in the tournament, it was the single most impressive performance I’ve seen in a long time.”

  “Thanks Ruud. So, what does the future hold for you if spirit calling isn’t an option?”

  “Well I’ve not fought competitively for five years now so it’s a bit late to be asking me about my future…”

  Scott stood up and switched the radio off, he didn’t want to hear another person come on and say how he thought Theo was going to win. It seemed to be a recurring thing, it hurt a little bit and more than that, he didn’t know where it had come from. Neither of them had been favourites for the tournament before it had started, anyone who’d claimed they’d known the two of them would reach the final was a liar. If they’d known that, they’d known a lot more than he did. They’d also be a lot richer than him if they’d put their credits where their mouth was.

  He’d been in the locker room for half an hour now, just waiting for the signal to get out onto the field. Any sort of fatigue he’d felt was long gone now, he just felt wired, restless, he wanted to get out on the field and give it everything he’d got. And if it wasn’t good enough, well that radio presenter had been right. It was still just the start of his career really. Most callers never even got close to winning this tournament, he’d done well. Runner up at his age hadn’t really been done before. He could even be the youngest ever winner yet. He heard a sound at the door, looked up and saw them. Mia, Pete, Matt, even the crystal tech Sam N’Kong who’d done so much to help him with Permear. The friendship had stuck, surprisingly. He and Mia had already promised to go see him in Vazara at some point down the line, all four of them were wearing t-shirts with his face on them, a sign of showing their support for him which he appreciated. The vendors outside the stadium were doing a roaring trade in them, he’d heard. A few contestants had tried to get him to sign their shirts earlier, which he’d obliged with. He’d never been asked to sign merchandise before, it was a surprisingly good feeling.

  “Hey,” Matt said with a grin. “Are you ready?”

  “Oh yeah,” Scott said, standing up. It was all he could do to stop himself jumping on the spot. Right now, he had so much energy it was spooky, he could feel it rushing through him, all thoughts of fatigue truly gone. “I woke up ready.”

  “It’s true, he did,” Mia said. “He was arguing with Permear at an undivine hour earlier. Really unsettling. Believe me on that.”

  “Good luck, Scott,” Sam said. “You’re going to beat this guy, I know it.”

  “Yeah,” Pete agreed, striding in to pump his hand. Scott took a deep breath then pulled him in and hugged him, much to Pete’s surprise. “Oh hey, what’s this! We hugging now? I don’t do that, bud!”

  “Told you I’d make it. Way back in Burykia right before it started, I said I’d make it, didn’t I?” Scott couldn’t hide his grin. “Only you seemed to think I’d be facing you in this match.”

  “Yeah well, I miscalculated with my guess, didn’t I?”

  “No, you were wrong,” Scott said, almost singing it. “I had a little dance and everything. Not going to do it though. Not unless I win.”

  “You’ve got to win,” Mia said. “If you don’t, I’m leaving you… Kidding! Kidding!” she finished, seeing the look on his face. “Nah, I’ll love you win or lose. And don’t worry,” she added with a wink. “I’m staying away from deep water.” Pete furrowed his brow, looking first at her, then at Scott as if the answer behind it was going to present itself. When none was forthcoming, he let it go.

  “Good luck, Scott,” Sam said, walking over to grasp his hand firmly and pump it twice before squeezing the fingers in a vaguely Vazaran style. He’d never gotten it, but he’d heard it symbolised affection or something. They had a whole range of gestures like it, you needed to have grown up with it or something to understand them all. If his dad hadn’t fucked off, he might have gotten it. That was weird. He hadn’t thought about his dad for a very long time. It was a difficult task given he knew very little about him in the first place being honest. His mom had never talked about him, even before she’d passed on.

  “Thanks, Sam,” he said. “Nice to see you
come out.”

  The tech laughed. “Seriously, as if I were going to miss premium seats for this on my own. Nice for you to invite me as your guest.”

  “Well you did a lot to help me when I needed it, you’re a good guy and I had a larger allocation than I needed,” Scott mused. It was true, he’d gotten a message from the ICCC telling him he was entitled to five free premium grade tickets for his entourage. He’d almost laughed at the idea he had an entourage, but he’d handed them out to those who’d been there for him when he’d needed help. Already the four of them were wearing their VIP passes, looking very smug about it in the process. He was keeping that last ticket, determined to hold onto it as a collectible in hopes its value would skyrocket in the years to come. Especially if, as rumoured, this was the last Quin-C for a while, what with all the stuff going on. It felt like only time would tell. “Wish me luck, guys,” he said, managing a grin. Ten more minutes until he had to be getting onto that field for the preliminary announcements and suddenly his stomach was starting to feel like the bottom had been yanked away. “I might just need a little bit extra to get me over the line.”

  Sam shook his hand again, a different style this time, five pumps and no squeeze but there was a wave in it, he hoped it was good luck or good fortune or something, Matt just gave him a normal high five. Pete hugged him again, the two of them embracing a few seconds before awkwardly splitting, their eyes not meeting. At least he’d avoided making a quip that’d have made them both uncomfortable.

  “Good luck, bud,” Pete said. “You’ll do it.”

  Mia kissed him, kept her lips locked against his to the point time seemed to have no meaning to him, everything else beyond little more than a blur. All he knew was her eyes as the two of them held each other.