by Brian Lumley
Eighty-seven creds! Kem’s mouth formed a silent “O.” He counted thirty-one out of his pocket, plus the twenty Aces was holding. “Fifty-one,” he said, biting his lip. “I’m looking for thirty-six more. Anyone want to double his money, fast?”
“I’m with you, Kem!” A shriveled kid with specs pushed his way forward. He counted out thirty-six into Kem’s sweaty paw.
Which was when Aces cut in. “You sure you want to do this?”
Kem grinned. “Are you kidding? This is candy!”
“I’d say it was hard shekel,” Aces retorted. “But—” and he shrugged, “—it’s your ass.”
Kem still couldn’t see it. “Hell, no! It’s his ass, Aces!”
The opponents handed over their cash to Fat Bill, who just happened to be standing there. And Pav told Kem: “Your turn in the hot seat, I believe?”
Kem clocked a million six hundred and forty-nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-one—and Pav took it exactly nine higher to a million six hundred and fifty thousand. This time Kem had sweated, but Pav wasn’t even mildly fazed.
As he got down from the bucket Kem looked at his score, shook his head, and staggered away through the crowd to throw up in a corner. Fat Bill stood them with his bottom jaw flapping and the money flapping in his hand—until Pavanaz snatched it from him. And: “That’s all, folks,” Pav grinned.
“Not so fast, hotshot,” said Aces, having moved in close. “You knew you could beat him. It was robbery.”
“Now you’re really joking,” Pav sneered. “Is it illegal to bet on a sure thing? Or are you saying he was the best you have to offer, and you don’t much cotton to a new champ? Sure it was robbery. Like he said: candy from a baby! So unless the rest of you kids have business with me, I’ll just—”
“My turn,” Aces cut in. “I can’t fly as high as you, Paraquat, but I’ve got fifty—if you’d care to go for it…?”
Pavanaz looking like he might accept, narrowed his eyes, then said: “Naw, who needs it?”
“You’re backing off? Backing down?” Aces’ face was blank.
Pavanaz shook his head. “Lessons from me are expensive,” he said. “Fifty—” he shrugged “who needs it?”
Aces nodded sourly. “You played Kem when all he had was five. What’s wrong, Paraquat? Nerve gone?”
“I’d seen Kem’s game.” Pav grinned. “He looked easy to me.” His words sounded loose but he’d chosen them with care.
“You only play the easy ones?” Aces spoke quietly but his words held a sneer. The sort that said: brother, you are real chickenshit! The crowd held its breath.
Pavanaz made himself go white. He’d had the practice; it wasn’t hard. “Find another twenty-five—make it seventy-five—” he snapped, “you’ve got yourself a game!”
The rest of the gang forked out and again the stake went to Fat Bill. And Bill was grinning now. He liked Pavanaz a lot.
Five minutes later it was all over; Pavanaz had a pocketful of creds; the kids followed him as he went back out through the humidity doors to his ’Vader. When they got there he turned and said: “Listen, chumps. This one is mine and it makes those antiques in back look like so much scrap. But this is a nasty big old planet for nice expensive metal like this, which is why the Fat Man is going to find me a nice dry room all my own to keep her in. If you guys are good, I might let you watch me practice with this baby. And if you’re especially good—you could even get to play a game or two yourselves! So tell me, am I good to you or am I good to you.”
“Shaganass,” said Aces, now recovered. “I just can’t hate someone who plays like you do. But I can’t admire you either. So let’s just say I’m coldly indifferent.”
“What you mean is,” said Pavanaz, “that you’d like to try out my ’Vader, right? Live and let live? Forgive and forget?”
“I didn’t say that,” said Aces. “In fact I’d like to see you get your ass best! But I’m not the one who can do it to you, so in fact I’m not going to have anything to do with you. ’Cos you just don’t smell right. Look after yourself, Parrotsquat.” And he turned on his heel and left.
But the rest of them were putty in Pav’s hands. He played for them; they oohed and aahed! He let them play, watched as they got blasted all over space. He was light-years ahead of them. Any fool could see that….
An hour later and it was time to close the place up. Pavanaz enlisted the aid of his worshippers to drag his ’Vader into a room Fat Bill was only too pleased to clear out for him, and before they left he said to them:
“Guys, I have an idea which I think you’ll like. Kem, you’ll like it best of all. A lot of you lost money tonight, creds you loaned to Aces and Kem here. Now I’m going to give you a chance to get those creds back.”
“Big deal!” somebody groaned. “Pavanaz, we couldn’t beat you in a thousand years! Win our money back? That’s not the funniest thing you ever said.”
“I didn’t say ‘win’ it back,” Pav sighed. “Who mentioned miracles? So why don’t we talk about earning it back, eh?”
“Earn it back?” (This from Kem, who was learning caution.) “You mean we should work for you?”
Pavanaz shrugged. “You can call it that if you like. Me, I’d call it easy money. I mean, there are other arcades on this morass, right? Other ‘champions’? So go on out there and bring ’em back alive! Bring ’em here, to me. Guys long on creds and short on talent—by my standards. And that covers everybody, you dig?”
“This is easy money?” someone piped up. “You rip ’em off, and we get beaten up? Easy money for who—Grint Pavanaz?”
Again Pavanaz sighed. “All you got right was my name,” he said. “Look, why should they take it out on you? You think I want you to lie? Like you should tell them there’s this nut called Pavanaz who’s loaded and an easy mark for anyone with one good eye and a steady hand? Hell, no! Tell ’em the truth and nothing but—that I’m the best there is. That way, who could resist coming to see for himself? Could you? And for every hundred I take off one of these suckers, it’s ten creds to the guy who reeled him in. Now tell me, is that easy money or isn’t it?”
With which, no one could find anything to disagree.
III
It happened like Pavanaz figured: customers were shy; and business quiet—for forty-eight hours. Then word got out and the punters came in. At first from arcades on the spaceport perimeter, then from Guni, the supply town, eventually from halfway across Shankov’s as Pavanaz’s legend spread. By night five, his take was approaching four thousand credits and all debts paid, however grudgingly.
For this he’d had to lose the occasional game (the little ones, to give the punters heart) and the rest of the time he’d played as only Grint Pavanaz could, but not once extending himself too far. It was all good practice for the tournament.
Fat Bill was happy; Pav’s pals were happy, including Kem; happiest of all was Pavanaz himself. A packet for Earth was due in a fortnight, and he’d made the down payment on a ticket for himself and a crate for his ’Vader. He needed another grand to buy his passage outright and give him floating creds to spare.
But the next day takings were down, and the day after that they fell away entirely. By the next morning Pavanaz was back to playing two credit games with the local talent, and already he suspected he wasn’t going to make it. Only eleven days left and hopes rapidly fading, Pavanaz despaired. He’d been a shade too good, too greedy, too soon. That’s what was wrong.
Noon of that same day, after Fat Bill went out for lunch, who should walk in but Aces with…somebody. Pavanaz knew he was somebody as soon as he saw him.
He was cleaning his ’Vader when the two came over. He heard Aces’ sneakers on the tiled floor, but not the footsteps of the other. This one walked like a cat, looked like one, too. But an old cat, a mouser out of time. To Pav, anyone over thirty-five was ancient—history, almost—and this guy was ten plus beyond that. He looked like…a relic from the Khuum wars? In that last observation, Pavanaz couldn’t
be more accurate if he tried. Indeed Hal Gaddy was a relic from the Khuum wars.
“Aces,” Pavanaz nodded, casually. “And…friend?”
“Pavanaz,” said Aces, short on greetings, “this is Gaddy. He’d like to see you play. If he’s impressed, maybe he’ll let you try to take some money off him.”
“Gee, I’m honored!” said Pavanaz.
“You should be,” the newcomer growled, like gravel sliding down a chute. And Pavanaz looked at him more closely.
Hal Gaddy was five-seven in his high-heeled boots, weighed maybe a hundred and thirty-five pounds, and was tanned a permanent brown to match his trappings. While his jacket and trousers were of a fine, thin leather, his leather gloves looked almst painted on his hands. But inside those gloves Gaddy’s hands themselves were trembling where they hung loosely, yet awkwardly, at his sides.
Gaddy’s forearm under rolled-up sleeves were deeply scarred; likewise his face, which was equipped with eyes that were piercing blue and looked like cold moons rising behind the hollow crags of his weathered cheeks. His mouth was straight, but a small piece of his upper lip was missing on the left, letting an eye-tooth show through like naked bone. The many lines etched into his skin around his eyes and mouth could be from laughter or pain, Pav wasn’t sure. He suspected, though, that Gaddy hadn’t laughed in a long time.
“See,” said Pavanaz after a moment, “it’s a game of skill. Good eyes, hands, nerves, and an ability to anticipate bordering on the supernatural—that’s all it takes. Over twenty-two or three and you’re slowing down, twenty-five and you’re plodding, more than that and you’re in reverse. I see that back on Earth a sixteen-year-old black kid has run the first three-minutes-forty mile! Why don’t you go in for athletics, Mr. Gaddy? I mean, your chances would be a lot better.”
“Stow the mister,” said Gaddy. “Call me Gunner.”
Pavanaz knew what that meant and for a moment felt a genuine thrill. Gunner! If so, Gaddy was a fighter pilot from the Khuum wars. Or…he was a fake, a bum living someone else’s legend for whatever crumbs got thrown his way. But the Khuum had pulled out a quarter-century ago, so it was just possible. Just, because surviving Gunners from that mess were so few you could count them on one hand with several fingers missing. So Pav had always understood it.
“The real thing, eh?” he said, finally nodding, but knowingly, cynically. “Maybe. Or…just another stowaway?”
“Stowaway?” Gaddy lifted an eyebrow.
“Sure.” Pavanaz shrugged. “On Gizzich I knew a couple of ‘Gunners.’ One was a cook retired off cruisers, and the other was a colorblind son of a no-account prospector from Faggul V. But they’d read the manuals and you couldn’t fault ’em—until they climbed into a bucket. Gunners? Naw! Just stowaways hitching a ride on a legend.”
“Pavanaz, you’re a—” Aces started forward, his jaw jutting.
“It’s OK, son,” said Gaddy, his chipped lip lifting a little. And to Pav: “I’d heard you had lots of mouth, Pavanaz, so that kind of garbage doesn’t worry me. What? I should lose my cool just before a game?”
Pavanaz scowled. “Who said you were going to get one?”
Gaddy took out a five-credit note and waved it under Pav’s nose. “This says so,” he said. “Also the fact that you’re dying to know. ’Cos if I’m the real thing, you’re not going to meet another one in a long, long time.”
“Hah!” Pavanaz snorted. “I should play for fives? Against grandfathers? For the thrill of gutting a tired old Gunner? If you’re for real?”
“The word is,” Aces grated, still sizzling, “you’re down to playing for twos, hotshot.”
“Well—” Pavanaz started, paused, and eventually continued, “—see, it’s like this: the twos are for amusement. But five on a grudge is cheap and nasty. I mean, it would be a grudge game, right, Aces old buddy? You brought this guy in here to wipe the floor with me, to see me sweat for a miserable five, right? I’m not amused, and I’m not desperate either. But for fifty…?”
“Now that’s greedy,” said Gaddy, shaking his head. “That’s a lot of credits. You’re expensive, Pavanaz…but,” he sighed and shrugged, “I’ll go along with it—if you play first. See, it’s rumored your ’Vader has a couple of embellishments, stuff the other machines don’t have? And lord knows you’ve had plenty of practice, right? It seems only fair I should get to see what I’m up against.”
“Like in the Khuum wars?” Pav made a gawping, idiot face. “They’d show you their hardware before a dogfight, right?” He laughed at Aces’ raging expression, then sobered. “Fair enough. I go first and we play for fifty. And good ol’ Aces here can hold the pot.” He handed over his money and Gaddy matched it. And without more ado Pavanaz got aboard and opened her up.
He played hard but not too hard and clocked three million. But to do it he had to show almost everything the machine had. Gaddy knew what he was up against…from the machine if not from its owner. But Pav figured it like this: If Gaddy was the real thing and if he still had it, then maybe—just maybe—he could win. And of course he’d want to do it again. Except next time it would be for real money and Pavanaz would really play. And if Gaddy was a fraud…well maybe he’d come back for more anyway, especially if his score wasn’t too far behind.
But it seemed that Gaddy was indeed faking it: he scored close to three million but not close enough, and Pavanaz pocketed the kitty. Glancing at Gaddy out of the corner of his eye, he could see how choked he was. “If you can’t stand losing,” said Pavanaz, “then you really shouldn’t gamble.”
“Yeah?” Gaddy grunted. “Maybe. But for all your newfangled gewgaws, hell, I nearly had you!”
“Nearly doesn’t cut it,” said Pav.
At that Gaddy’s lips tightened. “We go again!” he snapped, and Pavanaz got the feeling that even though this was what he’d intended, still it was a rerun of something or other.
“Oh yeah?” he said, playing it like always yet feeling it was playing him. “You can afford three hundred, can you, Gaddy? ’Cos that’s what this one will cost you…three hundred minimum! Take it or leave it.”
Gaddy took out a tight little roll and opened it up. Just three notes in there, but they were all Big Ones. Bigger than hundreds, certainly. Three grand, which he handed to Aces for safekeeping. And as the notes passed before Pav’s eyes, Gaddy made sure he saw the zeroes. “Just to get the adrenalin flowing,” he growled. “Can you afford it, Pavanaz?”
Pav’s eyes bugged and he breathed a small sigh. It was all there: his ticket to Earth, his gateway to a pad on a beach on one of the resort worlds! Three thousand credits, the key to a million more! And this tired old man hadn’t even seen him play yet. Not really play!
He counted his cash into Aces’ hand, ventilated and hyperventilated his lungs, climbed yet again into the bucket. And as he switched her on, too late to stop and think again, suddenly he remembered something he’d said or thought: that Gaddy hadn’t seen him play yet. But the fact was that he hadn’t seen Gaddy play, either. The old guy had scored nearly three million, and never a drop of sweat. As for his shaky old hands: once they’d settled to the machine’s controls, there hadn’t been a single shake in ’em!
But too late because Pavanaz was into the game. And with three thousand credits and his entire future riding on it, he couldn’t worry about anything now except survival—his survival, out among the cold, impersonal stars. And Pav played like never before, played it for real and for true and for life and for death, and for all of his past and all of his future, the future he’d killed for and would kill for again if necessary. Except it wasn’t necessary, for he need only win this game.
And at seven million one thousand nine hundred and sixty, a shatter-beam found him and shivered his ship to shards. Pav, too, the way he slumped there in the bucket when it was over.
As they lifted him down, he groaned: “No need to play it off if you don’t want to, old-timer. Let’s face it, it would only be embarrassing. Aces, give me my money.”
But Gaddy only told him, “Son, that was a good game and twenty-seven years ago we might have had a use for someone like you. Except you wouldn’t have been interested because you’re only interested in you. As for giving you the money: the eggs aren’t hatched yet, Pavanaz.” And then he played.
But where Pavanaz had only played for real, Gunner Gaddy played for real.
27102 Gunner Gaddy H, he’d been, “Khuum-Killer” to his friends, the young men who joined up and went out into space, and often as not didn’t come back. Brief friends, anyway. But Gaddy had kept on coming back, so that he’d have been a legend if there’d been anyone keeping count of his missions. But when the going got rough even the Brass went out, and most of them didn’t come back either. And the new Brass didn’t know Gaddy at all: he was just another kid who killed Khuum and was destined to get killed himself, like all the rest.
Khuum-Killer Gaddy, he’d been then…and still was!
The patterns their ships made in space were familiar to Gaddy as the lines on his hands had…had used to be. That was before the aliens who saved his life gave him his gloves. Since then there’d been no lines on his hands at all, and when he took the gloves off….
But this wasn’t the time or place to let that surface again. This was Khuum-killing time, and they knew he was there and were taking up defensive positions as he swept in towards them. No game, this, not for Gaddy, just a replay from life, a rerun of the only thing that had ever brought his mind fully alive and set the adrenalin in his blood to full flow. And yet not really a replay, either, for now his ship was that much more sophisticated and his weaponry so much more devastating. While the Khuum…why, they were just the same old bad old Khuum as always!
In a move the ’Vader didn’t know it possessed, Gaddy spun his fighter end over end, howling through the Khuum ranks in a Catherine wheel of destruction, his fingers—no, his gloves—a blur of fluttering motion on the firing studs. Spinning like that, it appeared the Khuum were everywhere, and not a one of them who passed his crosshairs came out the other side! Then he was through them, killing his spin, sensing them reforming behind him, and tripping into hyperspace before they could fix their Warpers on him.