The Galaxy Game

by Karen Lord

  Several months later, Rafi and Ntenman arrived. Rafi was the smaller and younger of the two students of the famous Lyceum. The community was abuzz once more, all intrigued by the concept of a school devoted to parapsychology, but at first she was unmoved. His mind’s voice was untutored, barely a child’s whisper, and she only became interested in him when she found out he was the nephew of that woman. She watched him closely and was rewarded when in an unguarded moment he laughed, and whatever restraints he had placed on himself unknotted and let slip a great wave of warmth and vibrant otherness that was and was not like the strange fizzing connection she had witnessed between his aunt and her companion.

  To her shame and dismay, her attachment transferred smoothly from the middle-aged couple to the teenage boy.

  This time, when a group of her peers were given the chance to visit the Lyceum, she went out of sheer contrariness, angry with herself and her secret, uncontrollable obsession. It was only fitting that her punishment should be Ntenman’s intense crush and Rafi’s complete obliviousness.

  *

  She stood before the closed door of the master’s office, hesitated and then knocked.

  ‘Enter, Serendipity.’

  She stepped in quietly and shut the door behind her but came no further. Silyan did not raise his head from his work. He waited, a faint smile on his face, but the silence dragged too long and he succumbed. He glanced up with a sly expression.

  ‘It’s been hours since Abowen left this office. I’m surprised it took you so long to come to me.’

  ‘You are discourteous.’ She conveyed so much scorn without raising her voice that he was impressed.

  ‘I do not read your mind, Serendipity, not when your motives are so clear and open. How did you learn to lock your mind so securely but leave all else for thieves like me to pick through?’ He watched her face go from angry to sullen, like a child reminded of her childishness. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Tell me why you’re putting the cap on Rafi.’

  Silyan’s humour faded. ‘We need to know what he’s capable of. If you knew, you could tell us and there’d be no need for a cap, would there?’

  She exhaled a breath sharply through clenched teeth, a noise that was part bitterness and part disbelief.

  ‘It’s a pity that the Lyceum has not lived up to your expectations, nor the world for that matter, but no matter how you feel about it, we are doing this for Abowen’s own good. But you, your term with us will soon be over. Where will you go after you leave us? You are a very restless person, Serendipity. I’m afraid you will always be disappointed.’

  Her cool expression cracked for a moment and it was fear, not anger, that showed through. It almost made him feel sorry for her, but before the moment could produce any mellowing in either of them, a knock on the door startled her. She half-turned and instinctively set her hand on the door.

  ‘My three o’clock appointment,’ said Silyan, his voice steady though he too had flinched. ‘We can talk some other time . . . if you wish to talk, that is.’

  He settled back comfortably in his chair and watched intently as she whipped open the door with anger now unveiled and waited with perverse pleasure for her reaction. Abowen stood there, one hand raised and about to rap again, the other gripping the new cap that was the source of so much debate. She almost ran into him. The boy fended her off gently with the cap-free hand and smiled shyly, spontaneously, at her, as if he could not help himself. For a moment he looked much younger than his fourteen years.

  ‘Hello, Serendipity,’ he said. ‘What are you doing here?’

  She bit her lip, regarding him with an odd kind of regret. Silyan leaned forward, put his elbows on his desk, propped his chin on his hands and observed them. Serendipity glared briefly at him over her shoulder.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you later, in the refectory.’

  Abowen watched her walk away, and Silyan, continuing to observe, sighed dramatically. Abowen heard the sigh, recognised the sarcasm and quickly brought his attention front and centre. The schoolmaster straightened and spoke seriously.

  ‘That thing’s no good in your hand. You might as well get used to it. Cap on.’

  *

  Galia kept an antigrav pallet for occasional sleeping in the study. In spite of the pallet’s comfort and stability, she had one foot hanging over the edge and touching the floor as a reassurance and reminder. The study was quieter in a way that only large, high-ceilinged rooms could be quiet. The shelves baffled the echoes and furthered the illusion of cosy immensity. Silyan had tried it himself once or twice, but his habit was to work at his desk and nod off in his chair until some numbness of limb or creak of joint recalled him to the sensible joys of a proper bed. He usually went to his bed before Galia, so it was with a shock that he woke, still at his desk, to find her staring down at him in disgruntlement, a hand stretched out towards his desk lamp.

  ‘It’s reflecting into the study,’ she explained, pushing the shade to point in another direction. ‘Why are you still here?’

  Silyan yawned, frowned and tried to remember. ‘Abowen’s cap. I’m looking at the initial diagnostics.’ He fumbled with the handheld before him and revived the statistical data that had so quickly put him to sleep.

  She grimaced. ‘Leave that to the experts. You mustn’t get too attached.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Silyan replied, a meaningless noise.

  ‘What is he?’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Is he dangerous?’ she clarified. ‘Is he viciously dangerous, unconsciously dangerous, ignorantly and carelessly dangerous?’

  Silyan huffed humourlessly. ‘I’ll let the experts say. For now, all I can see is that he’s an utter sloth during his waking hours, almost anti-psi if such a thing can be imagined. But when he dreams . . . that’s when it gets interesting.’

  ‘Do schoolboys dream of anything else but sex?’ Galia said, still grumpy from being disturbed.

  Silyan took the question seriously. ‘According to these indicators, there is indeed some sex, overshadowed by a remarkable amount of psi activity and a truly astonishing amount of fear.’

  She yawned, unimpressed. ‘Sounds like rape fantasies.’

  Silyan flashed her a look of censure. While he recognised that she could be right, he did not appreciate the flippant tone. ‘If they are, he’s not enjoying them. He doesn’t sleep afterwards, and there are little spikes of psi activity, as if he’s trying and failing to control himself. We want to assess him, not cause a breakdown.’

  ‘Breakdown may lead to breakthrough,’ she stated pragmatically.

  Again he bristled at her apparent lack of empathy. ‘I’m going to bed,’ he said abruptly, ‘and I suggest you do the same. I’ll turn off the lights.’

  Chapter Two

  ‘You might as well get used to it,’ I said, pushing the bands over his hands. ‘You’re a booby.’

  Rafi was upset, so upset he didn’t even ask what a booby was, which was too bad because I was about to enlighten him.

  ‘You’re the team’s moujin. They need to practise what happens when a teammate falls wrong or an opponent puts himself in the way of a strategy. Your bumbling around is just what they need to learn to be sharp.’

  ‘I don’t see you playing,’ he sniped.

  I showed him my teeth, both humour and bite. ‘Regional standard, Moo. I don’t play school teams because I’m too good to play in a team of boobies. Fortunately for you, I am good and I can coach you not to injure yourself or someone else. Listen and grow wise and you too may one day be able to train your own booby.’

  ‘Stop saying “booby”.’

  ‘Booby. Booby. Boobyboobybooby . . .’ He should have known me better than that. I got in fifteen boobies before he tried to hit me, and that, my friends, is a bad thing to do with semi-functional grav-bands on. I laughed as he overbalanced and almost fell. He got me in a headlock and I let him choke me for a bit, just to relieve his feelings, before I threw him off and pinn
ed him down. That should have cheered him up, but he still looked fretful.

  ‘You’re in a bad mood. What’s got you?’ I said, letting him sit up.

  ‘Nightmares. I didn’t really sleep last night. Nor the night before.’

  I frowned. We didn’t talk about the cap, but the cap was there, like a terminal disease or a convicted criminal in the family, the cause of occasional bouts of vague sympathy but never, ever the topic of any discussion.

  Rafi shifted restlessly. He was trying to find a way to laugh it off and I knew it wasn’t going happen. I went serious for a moment. ‘Moo, don’t let them use you like a specimen in a lab. If you can’t bear it, you refuse the cap, simple.’

  He curled over in a defeated ball, knees to chest and forehead on knees. ‘But if I refuse . . . I don’t . . . I don’t know what they’ve done to my father.’

  I exhaled a long, slow breath. Disease and convict, all in one conversation. This was hard. ‘You could ask?’ I suggested.

  ‘I’m afraid to ask.’

  He was afraid to ask. I would be afraid to believe their answer. The Lyceum is all kindness and prestige to the established families like mine with generations of culture and training around psi ability; but the rogue ones, the unexpected sports, they were trouble and they were treated like trouble. Poor Rafi. I thought about patting his shoulder, decided this was too grim a matter and went for distraction instead.

  ‘If you get really really tired playing Messenger, maybe you’ll sleep too soundly for nightmares.’

  He raised his face from his knees. ‘Finally you’re being helpful.’

  I took that in the spirit in which it was intended, which is to say I sat on him until he howled pax, and then I let him breathe and curse me to his heart’s content.

  ‘Come,’ I told him when he ran out of steam. ‘Let me introduce you to the coach.’

  We walked across the north field to the Wall. He was nervous, so I tried to reassure him. ‘Good thing for you that I’m known to the Dailies. No offence to Master Silyan, but sticking in a new player at this time of the season makes no sense. I wonder what hold he has over the coach. Anyway, I think I can persuade them not to murder you.’

  ‘Tinman, you’re pure nonsense,’ said Rafi, his nervousness forgotten under the burden of my exaggerations. I smiled at a job well done.

  ‘Well, I can at least make you a little more welcome, how’s that?’

  ‘That sounds possible,’ he admitted.

  Don’t mistake me. I like Rafi. He’s a quiet little schemer. For someone who grew up in the backwoods he has an uncanny grasp of social networks. I’ve never seen him waste time cultivating anyone who couldn’t do something for him – a bit cold now that I mention it, but he does it for survival, pure and simple, nothing more. He doesn’t get into the more elaborate games, but he’s subtle in a way that only an Ntshune could appreciate. Inviting me to trek with him was kind and calculated. It increased his credit immensely and presented me with both gift and debt. Gift because the trip cost me nothing, but debt because he did me a favour before he ever asked me for anything. And then afterwards, he never asked. Never once did he ask me for anything. So I remained in his debt and this was my way to pay it and maintain my own credit.

  We stood in front of the Wall and watched the plays for a while until the coach called halt. Some of the players waved to me and I gave a slight nod – they knew my name and face, of course, but I couldn’t remember which ones I’d actually met. The coach noticed and looked over his shoulder at us. Even though he eyed us with a question, I waited until he’d taken a drink with his team before approaching him – Rafi trailing behind me trying to look at ease in my second-hand grav-bands and new loincloth with full shear protection. I stood before the coach, glanced at his feet and back up at his face and waited for him to speak.

  He almost smiled but turned it into a slight twitch at the right corner of his mouth. ‘You bring a message?’

  ‘I am a message,’ I responded.

  ‘From whom and to whom?’ he queried.

  ‘From death to life to death,’ I said.

  ‘The old must die,’ he mused.

  ‘The young may die,’ I declared with a grin. These were only preliminary statements, but he would never have gone so far in front of Rafi if he meant to reject him.

  He looked at Rafi then. ‘Who’s your apprentice?’

  I sighed. ‘Not really my apprentice. More like my booby.’

  Rafi glared at me.

  ‘But I think you can keep him busy,’ I continued brightly. ‘He might even learn something along the way. I think he could be a strategist when he gets older, but that’s for wiser heads than mine to say.’

  ‘This is Master Silyan’s student,’ the coach said, finally making the connection.

  ‘Yes, and also my friend,’ I stressed.

  Rafi looked between us uncertainly, as if wondering when he would be allowed to speak about himself.

  ‘Do you know the game, Abowen?’ asked the coach. Got the name right. Good sign.

  ‘I’ve watched it, read about it. Tried some amateur games on the homestead, but I’ve never been on a proper grav-equipped Wall,’ Rafi told him.

  The coach looked worried and I couldn’t blame him. I caught his eye and tried to convey with something less than a nod and a wink that I would help Rafi through the time of baby steps so that he would not be burdened with that duty.

  ‘Why not try a few runs with your friend? I can see what your skill is like.’

  Rafi swallowed. It wasn’t obvious, but yes, he swallowed. ‘Yes, Coach.’

  We walked to the Wall.

  ‘Don’t you need grav-bands?’ Rafi asked.

  ‘Not for this. It’ll keep me at your speed.’ I stopped to shuck off my mantle and tunic and unstrap my sandals. ‘Don’t worry, Moo. He’s not really looking for skill. He’s looking for potential. Do what you can.’

  I ran up the Wall to the first level, testing its responsiveness with an exaggerated bounce of my toes. ‘Come on, Moo! Don’t be timid!’

  He leapt up, using his banded hands to pull himself into the first level. He stood there for a while, perpendicular to the horizon, and raised his hands tentatively, feeling the varying drag of the new gravity.

  ‘Level two!’ I urged him.

  I turned and dived over and upwards to the next level, landing in a practised roll. He tried to follow but balked instinctively and fell hard on his neck and shoulders. He and I spent a few seconds cursing and laughing, respectively.

  I stopped laughing. ‘Level three.’ I kicked out, twisted sideways and landed in a careful crouch. Rafi gave me a pained look.

  ‘Think of it as spinning through a ninety-arc,’ I encouraged him.

  He tried and fell. Scrabbling for level two on his way down meant that he fell again, upwards, and smacked his nose and chin painfully.

  ‘Moo, if you’re falling, let yourself fall. Trying to hook on to another level at this stage will only bring pain. You let the bodycatcher take you, sit out your penalty behind the Wall and start again.’

  He rubbed his face, nodded and looked to level three with determination. This time he managed it, though his landing was beyond clumsy.

  ‘Level four is a one-eighty. Pay no attention to the horizon. Simply dive.’ I showed him. He took it with fair ease and I smiled, hoping the coach had seen that if nothing else.

  ‘Five is a two-seventy. If you try to do it as a ninety, you’re guaranteed a fall. Watch closely.’ Wallrunning means knowing which approaches will work and which ones will dump you in the bodycatcher. It’s not just surfaces and angles.

  Rafi did it, but it was a struggle. Was he tired already? ‘Only two more levels. You could do them later.’

  ‘No,’ he panted. ‘Might as well try to finish.’

  The last two were another two-seventy and a tricky one that could be a ninety or a two-seventy, depending on your orientation. Rafi fell trying to reach the last level, which I thought was
a very good effort. I told him so as he writhed feebly in the grip of the bodycatcher below. He was too worn out to curse me, which I appreciated, especially since the coach was walking towards the Wall again and might have heard it.

  ‘Not bad,’ said he, offering a hand to pull Rafi vertical.

  I bounced down the Wall, graceful as a mountain goat, in the time it took the coach to get Rafi’s limbs untangled and his brain to understand which way was up.

  ‘When do you want him ready?’ I asked.

  ‘No more than a day or two. Make sure he can handle each level, then turn him over to us.’ His grin went wicked. ‘I can use a booby. These boys are getting complacent.’

  *

  Weekdays were exhausting, with the full crush of resident and daily students passing through the corridors. Serendipity did not join them. Most of the older children came to the Lyceum already registered in a standard curriculum administered via slate or handheld. Students learned as they pleased, at their own pace and in their own environment. The Lyceum staff did not have classes; some teachers sent their lessons directly to slates, others occasionally held demonstrations for the finer points of practical work, and for the subjects which required hands-on experience they took apprentices and assigned them to their workshops.

  Serendipity went to a few of the demonstrations. She would often slip in quietly after the start of the session, take a seat at the back and avoid contact that way. Fortunately, the others from her country were better at mingling, which meant that her antisocial leanings were taken as a personal quirk rather than typical Uplander behaviour.

  In spite of her irregular schedule, Ntenman always knew where to find her.