The Galaxy Game

by Karen Lord

  I dragged him away from practice early and took him the only place I knew we would not be overheard, up in an aerolight over the Metropolis. It was a double pleasure to discover that flying made Rafi uncomfortable.

  ‘You see, this proves you should be working on your three-dimensional sense,’ I said, happily taking a sharp bank around an Academe tower. At the edge of my vision, I saw him go taupe with fear and nausea, and I levelled off quickly so that any gastric ejecta would fall on his side of the aerolight, preferably in his lap and not on the windscreen.

  ‘Do you know what you gave to Feidris?’ I asked him when I was sure he could safely open his mouth.

  He grimaced. He didn’t want to talk but he knew he would have to or never walk the ground again. ‘Payment.’

  I froze. I didn’t expect that. ‘What?’

  ‘Payment. Feidris did three full runs in a turn.’

  I hit him across the head. ‘That was an etched fullerite diamond! That’s not bonus pay for a pretty bit of Wallrunning, that’s speculation pay. Betting. Illegal. Who gave it to you? Who are you running for?’

  Rafi winced, but there was no space to cringe away in the tiny cockpit. ‘It goes to his coach and the whole team. Not just Feidris.’

  ‘That’s still not bonus-level pay. Answer me!’

  He folded his mouth and I lost my temper. I let the aerolight stall, fall and spin, recovered with ease and waited patiently for him to stop screaming.

  ‘You’re going to kill us both over something like this?’ he managed finally, his voice still in the upper register.

  ‘The Galactic League doesn’t like speculation, Moo.’

  ‘The Galactic League is running the speculation, Tinman! How are you so stupid?’

  I went silent and sullen for a couple of minutes, then my curiosity overruled my irritation. ‘Keep talking.’

  He explained it all. I could not believe I had been wasting my time feeling sorry for this boy. He was using the Wallrunning training and his connection to Syanrimwenil to let rival coaches (by which I mean coaches other than Baranngaithe) know who to check out, who could consistently deliver fast, full runs, eye-catching acrobatics and spectacular falls. They recruited accordingly, even drafting up short-term contracts, and came up with bet scenarios. Rafi took the information back to Ixiaral, who let Varyai spread the word to her shadow network. When the speculators got the result they wanted, they paid a cut of their winnings to Varyai, and thus to Ixiaral, to Rafi, the coaches, the players and everyone involved in the whole mess. I suspected that Ixiaral got the largest portion and I told Rafi so with great cynicism.

  ‘Yes, because she needs it,’ Rafi said. ‘They all need it. And before you ask me what it’s needed for, you speak to Ixiaral. And you’re no better than us, with your below-ground shadow-market dealing, so don’t pretend to lecture me on what’s illegal.’

  After indulging in a quick roll to take the edge off his insolence, I relented and flew us home, giving him a gentle landing in semi-apology. He was right, after all. I had my own back-door doings, and although I wasn’t hurting anyone, it could look suspicious if certain facts were presented in a particular way to the authorities. We held the power of disclosure over each other; it made no sense to quarrel. Even my leverage over Rafi as his essential could be weakening if Ixiaral was paying him under the blanket for little errands run and other favours. I had to be careful. I could already feel a shift in the balance of credit between us, and that shift was not in my favour.

  *

  Rafi told Ntenman, swearing on his word and his credit, that he would take him to see Ixiaral within two Standard days, then made himself scarce for several hours, privately furious at his friend’s aerial antics. He sent a message to Second Lieutenant Lian, who kept to roughly the same sleep-wake cycle as he did, and the reply made him smile and relax slightly. A quick journey on the Slowline and he was in the courtyard of Academe Bhumniastraya. There, the staff relied on the indigenous succulents, scrub and rock-based fungus to decorate their exterior gardens. The inner pathways were crafted in patterns of rock, sand and firm-packed earth, and the walls of the tower were the same material as the outer shell – grey and fully opaque at first glance, layered like shingles or armour on closer inspection.

  He went through unchallenged; he was known and he knew where to go. The Academe had felt familiar from his first visit, entirely Cygnian/Terran in design. Their work section was divided into communal spaces and closed-room offices with actual desks, shelves and cabinets, plus screens that hung from the ceiling and displayed flat images on their surfaces or holos in the space between two screens. There were fewer chairs than he expected – desk height varied to suit those who would stand and those who preferred to sit on the floor. Lian was a floor-sitter and had a dedicated spot in Dr Daniyel’s office. Rafi stood before the office door and lingered for a while reading the notices and news on its screen, some of them referencing Cygnus Beta.

  Lian put a stop to it by opening the door. ‘Why didn’t you speak to the door so it would let you in?’

  ‘Sorry, I got distracted,’ Rafi said, crossing the threshold and unconsciously looking around for something else to read as Lian got resettled behind the desk.

  ‘I’ve offered to lend you a handheld,’ Lian reminded him, sliding one across the desk.

  Rafi sat down and took up the handheld, considered for a moment, but finally shook his head. With so many screens and surfaces available to plug into, he had grown accustomed to travelling light. His datacharm now held everything from Cygnus Beta, his audioplug channel gave him access to all he needed for Punartam and the still-useless comm on his wrist remained for purely sentimental reasons.

  ‘Well, before you leave, write something to your aunt,’ Lian said sternly.

  Rafi composed his message and Lian returned to work. Several minutes passed quietly.

  ‘Finished,’ Rafi said. ‘How soon can you get it to her?’

  Lian took the handheld from him and tapped the screen with a stylus, both avoiding Rafi’s eyes and failing to suppress a smirk of secret knowledge. ‘I can’t say exactly. It depends on the route. She’s probably got your first and third messages by now. Not the second, not yet.’

  Rafi pretended to be unconcerned. ‘I’m not going to beg you to tell me.’ He had a fair idea; Lian’s connections with Academe Maenevastraya pilots meant unorthodox ways to send messages but also unreliable timing. He had a vague idea that some of them were involved in the same kind of experimental travel that Naraldi had pioneered, in which case he could only hope that his messages were reaching the Aunt Grace who actually shared a timeline with him.

  He changed the subject slightly, looking for an opportunity to put Lian on the defensive. ‘What do you do exactly when Doctor Daniyel is away?’

  Lian gave a strangled laugh and cast a weary eye over the several text displays attached to the desk and a handful of planetary holos hovering in mobile suspension between the desk and the ceiling. ‘Organise her messy notes. Prepare background briefs so she’ll know what she’s doing. It keeps me busy enough to get Maenevastraya off my back.’

  Rafi forgot he was pretending not to care. ‘The pilots at Maenevastraya want you to travel with them?’

  Lian looked startled, as if the idea had never come up, then thoughtful, as if unexpectedly interested by the possibility. ‘No, they want my help with some of the New Sadiri refugees. I used to be a trained medic and war trauma counsellor back on Cygnus Beta. Not the highest level – I didn’t have Galactic Patrol experience then . . .’ The words trailed off as Lian’s face grew even more thoughtful.

  ‘But now you do, so . . .?’ Rafi prompted.

  Lian grimaced. ‘I said used to be. I’m not one now and I’ll never be one again, Maenevastraya pressure or no.’

  ‘I’m sure you have your reasons,’ Rafi murmured placatingly. Once more he found himself revising his opinion of Lian. The symptoms were the same: forced sociability, secrets half-hinted, abrupt lapses i
nto silence and long periods of no contact counterposed by sessions of almost desperate amiability. Now, however, instead of blaming introversion and mild xenophobia, or clumsy Punarthai networking, Rafi wondered if the answer was the pure, simple, chronic stress of keeping too many secrets for and from too many people.

  He changed the subject, relating a carefully edited version of his falling-out with Ntenman, not wanting to burden Lian with more secrets but so vexed that he needed to tell someone. Lian watched him speak with a quizzical frown.

  ‘Your friend is angry at you because you have friends that aren’t his friends?’

  ‘More or less,’ Rafi hedged, squirming slightly at the missing facts.

  Lian did not press further but the frown became sceptical. ‘Include him if he’s feeling left out. Do you need more credit? Have you quarrelled to the point where you have to pay him back?’

  It was a practical question, but it only made Rafi feel more ashamed, as if he were slandering Ntenman with his half-truths, and uneasy, because he was not in a position to discuss certain other sources of income. ‘I’m fine.’

  The two stared at each other, almost friends, far from confidants.

  ‘I’ll let you get back to work,’ Rafi mumbled.

  ‘I’ll get the message to your aunt,’ Lian promised.

  *

  A combination of Ntenman’s insistence and Rafi’s own cowardice meant that it was only one Standard day later when the two went, with no prior warning, to visit Rafi’s nexus. Ixiaral was in one of the sun rooms below Academe Maenevastraya. Rafi had asked her once why she chose to visit the sun rooms during the long day when everyone preferred to go to the parks and woods above-ground. Her reply had been simple: less of a crowd, more staff attention and marvellous peace and quiet. She looked the embodiment of those three factors as she sat on a padded bench, eyes half-closed and hands upturned and empty on her knees, with two male servers standing quietly nearby, awaiting her signal for food, drink, a cold cloth . . . anything.

  With eyesight now more attuned to Punarthai ways, Rafi looked at her and was able to identify the concentration of a person who was listening to their channel – or, in Ixiaral’s case, three or more channels at the same time. The complexity of her tracings indicated as much, and he smiled at the memory of a time not so long ago, yet ages away in experience, when he had innocently admired the pretty art on her skin with only a vague thought that it might have utility. He sat beside her and waited to be noticed.

  She exhaled a long breath but did not move. ‘What is it, Rafi?’

  ‘Ntenman has questions about what I’m doing. He wants to talk to you.’

  Her eyes opened wide and she turned to him, irritation tensing her jaw and creasing her forehead. ‘You thought he wouldn’t notice you.’

  Rafi shrugged. ‘It was luck that he did at all. He’s waiting outside now. Do you want to speak to him?’

  Ixiaral’s posture sagged, now wearied instead of relaxed. ‘Yes,’ she said, but her hand swept out to stop him when he tried to get to his feet. ‘I’ll have him sent in.’ She beckoned to the nearest server with a tilt of her head. ‘Ytsani, take him up to the gardens.’

  Rafi questioned her with a look, but she turned away and half-closed her eyes again in dismissal. Ytsani approached and stood politely but implacably before him until he unwillingly got to his feet and allowed himself to be ushered out of the door and past a confused Ntenman who had been hovering close to try to eavesdrop. He gave Ntenman a semi-encouraging smile as he went by. The other server came to the entrance and escorted Ntenman in. Rafi slowed his steps and strained his ears to hear the opening greetings between them.

  ‘Esteemed Ixiaralhaneki . . .’ Ntenman began.

  Ixiaral spoke briskly over his words. ‘There is more at stake here than your good opinion and even if it were not so, I would not be inclined to explain myself to you. Let us instead discuss a more sensible topic – the price of your silence.’

  Ytsani’s hand rested on Rafi’s shoulder, steering him away from the door, his expression and attitude so obviously disdainful of Terran discourtesy that no Ntshune sensitivity was needed to discern it. Rafi shook him off with irritation. ‘I know how to get to the gardens from here.’

  Chapter Twelve

  I know how to bargain. I’m no off-kilter booby. I can hold my ground. When Ixiaralhaneki did her little bluster and bluff about the price of my silence I told her direct – knowledge is worth more than credit. Knowledge can create unlimited credit whereas credit can only buy limited knowledge. She gave me a hard stare for that, but I stayed smiling until I saw the smallest bit of a considering expression on her face, as if perhaps I might be worth dealing with.

  She began by undercutting me. ‘I see that your father uses the Haneki–Mwenil transit on occasion.’

  ‘He does, and I hope he may continue to do so,’ I replied, reproachful at the whiff of blackmail. ‘Your rates are high enough; there’s no need to put more obstacles in his way.’

  ‘That wasn’t my intent,’ Ixiaralhaneki said. I had misjudged her – something I was far too apt to do in Punarthai society – and that little flicker of sympathy she’d shown for me was extinguished. ‘I was merely stating that we know what your father does and how he manages to do it. We are a private entity and we are under no obligation to offer services to someone who is acting against our interests.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ I said, and went on the attack. ‘Then tell me how illegal speculation on semi-pro Wallrunning game results is acting in your best interests.’

  She did not flinch. ‘The results are sacred. We do not permit anyone to speculate on wins and losses. We only entertain bets on individual skills and stylings. You should be pleased. Our main customer base is Zhinuvian. What we give up in transit and communication fees, we later collect in the name of entertainment. That’s balance and symmetry, don’t you agree?’

  ‘That depends on who’s drinking up the majority of the credit – galactic credit at that. Is it you, Ixiaralhaneki?’ I did not have to pretend to sound disgusted.

  ‘Not me, not personally. I really cannot tell you more, Ntenman. What will you do next? Denounce me to the Credit Exchange Bureau? Then you should really denounce yourself.’

  ‘I, at least, have the excuse of being an off-worlder with too much Terran in my line, and a juvenile as well,’ I snapped. Her coolness, her utter arrogance was waking up some old, untapped vein of idealism in my soul. She didn’t care about the Game, she didn’t respect our galaxy’s oldest and most reliable monetary system and she was still talking down to me as if I was complaining about shoddy umpiring at a junior league scramble.

  She lowered her eyes discreetly and said with effort, ‘If you’re looking for a cut—’

  ‘No!’ my voice shouted. Maybe, my mind whispered. ‘I’m looking for you to tell me that you haven’t involved my friend in something that could lead to his being wanted by the law on three planets instead of one. He’s running out of galaxy to run to, you know.’

  ‘Witnesses will attest that Rafidelarua merely runs personal errands for us, carrying our tokens of appreciation and esteem to prospective additions to our networks.’

  I sneered reflexively. She was not impressed. The situation was going down a bad road. I tried to salvage some pride for both of us. ‘Esteemed Ixiaralhaneki, look at me. Yes, I am a mere Cygnian, but I am bound by ties of love and heritage to both the world that birthed you and the world that provides you with credit, attachments and good business. Grant me a little credit in this! I have made promises to Rafi’s family; I have made promises to my padr. Help me keep my word!’

  The bare walls of the sun room rang with my last words and left behind a silence that was no less loud. The attendants, who were supposed to be invisible and unobtrusive, vibrated with the tension of pretending to have neither ears nor eyes in the midst of such excellent theatre. Ixiaral was the only one of us who looked at peace, her hands in the hollow of her lap, her eyes half-closed and her
breathing steady, steady as counting.

  ‘Come with me.’

  When the words came, I was bracing so hard to hear ‘no’ that I could barely understand them.

  She spoke again, gently. ‘Come with me. I have things to show you and discuss with you.’

  As soon as she heard my kitten-squeak of yes we made our way by fast chute from the depths of Academe Maenevastraya to its heights, only a few levels below the start of the orbital spire. I was deferent, quiet and obedient – in the right context, that can be a part of hard bargaining, too. I was also very, very excited and trying my best not to project that excitement like an incontinent child. There had been rumours (there are always rumours) about secret research at the Academes; not the ordinary, everyday secret research, but projects specifically geared to address the hole the Sadiri had left in galactic operations. Minor projects are easily funded with private credit from an individual or a small group, but that kind of undertaking would be massive. If such large-scale research did exist, it meant that Punartam – and possibly also Ntshune – was trying to make a move to tilt the field in their favour.

  To my surprise, Ixiaralhaneki did not take me to the work section but to a place in the recreation centre that I knew well, what we Cygnians might call a museum or showroom of transportation. It held everything from aerolights to orbital shuttles to interplanetary probes and exploratory skiffs. The largest display hall held a replica of a Sadiri passenger module – sans mindship of course – with its nautilus array of coffin-like dream chambers. Beauty, utility and awe-inspiring complexity . . . I wanted to spend a moment to admire it, but she hustled me through it to a door on the opposite side.