The Tournament Trilogy

by B. B. Griffith

  The twelve at the table silently observed as the three men aligned themselves. At the clipped order of the man in the middle, the two at his sides assumed a resting stance as he stepped forward. He was slightly taller that the others and his gaze more probing.

  “I am Captain Qui,” he said, speaking in clipped English. “This is Xiang, my striker, and Guo, my sweeper,” he gestured with a flat hand to his left and right. “We are Jade. We are here for the diode system and to formally join the Tournament. If this means an alliance with the Black House we are willing to align ourselves with you. For a time.”

  In the silence that followed, Goran Brander turned to his captain and popped an eyebrow the size of a pinkie finger. At the far end of the table another man laughed softly before standing. This man was Alex Auldborne, the captain of England’s Team Grey. He was tall and thin with the puckish features of the landed gentry of old, handsome and severe.

  “Captain Qui ...” Auldborne began thoughtfully, testing the words on his tongue. “No. No, that won’t do at all. The alliteration alone makes it awkward.”

  “We come on behalf of the Chinese government,” Qui said. “The people have chosen us.”

  “I doubt that seriously,” said Auldborne, smiling deeply. “Your people haven’t chosen anything in a good long while.” At this Xiang stepped forward, squaring himself. He was stilled by a look from his captain.

  “Three soldiers ...” Mazaryk said softly, ruminating aloud as he ran his hand over a grain in the wood of the round table. Then he looked up at Qui. “Your government misunderstands this organization. The Tournament is the purest form of competition. It is not a war.”

  “War is the purest form of competition,” Qui countered.

  “The Tournament was created to put an end to war. The players are of the people, not a branch of the military.”

  “China will field whomever they choose,” Qui said.

  Mazaryk sat back in his chair and his dark brown eyes flashed briefly in a ray of light, like the silver of a fish flitting in the depths of a lake.

  “China may indeed choose whomever they want,” Mazaryk allowed, gesturing at the three men. “Whether they take the field is up to me. Your country was given a chance to join us, once. They spurned the offer.”

  The silence grew palpable. Neither man looked away from the other, although Mazaryk watched Qui like he might follow the lazy flight of a bumblebee. “You will not turn your back on the Chinese,” Qui said. “That is not wise.”

  “China turned its back on the Tournament. You had your opportunity.”

  “You are making a mistake.”

  “When the Chinese truly field a team of the people and prove that they understand the spirit of this organization, you may come to this table again. Perhaps I will have changed my mind.”

  “There are other ways to get the diode system,” Qui noted darkly.

  “Your audience is at an end.”

  At this Auldborne stood and walked slowly around the table towards the three men, trailing his finger along the edge, stopping and starting as he moved behind each player who sat there. “Don’t feel bad, my Chinese friends,” he said, smiling as he approached them. “You wouldn’t last anyway. Look at you. The three of you are cut from the same dull block of wood.” He flicked one of Qui’s epaulets, but Qui snatched his hand mid-air and held it fast. In a flash Draden Tate stood, his chair tumbling backward and his gun out. He let out a low, rumbling growl. Auldborne’s striker was as corded and powerful as a big, black jaguar.

  The others watched with growing interest. Ignazio Andizzi, the Italian striker, stretched back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head, smirking. He loved a show.

  Auldborne’s smile widened and he looked expectantly at his own hand, as if unsure what it might do to Qui. Qui looked from Auldborne to the table and it seemed to him that it was slowly spinning, as if the table itself was a clock spring mere turns from snapping. He slowly released his grip on Auldborne. Auldborne brushed his sleeve and popped his cuff in place again.

  “All I’m saying is that if you take an honest look at yourselves, you’ll realize you haven’t the flair,” Auldborne said simply. “There’s the door,” he added, with a tick of his head.

  Qui looked at the ground, then turned on his heel. The three swept out of the room.

  “Aww,” Ignazio said, disappointed.

  “He’s right.” This from the soft spoken, hard eyed captain of Japan’s Team Red, a deceptively older looking man by the name of Takuro Obata. “There are other ways to get the diode system. If those three are the product of their government, they will be relentless.” His sweeper, who went by Fuse, spoken like a sigh, nodded sagely and stroked his thin beard. His striker, Jinbo, pushed his thick glasses back upon the bridge of his nose and coldly watched the door close.

  “Why not bring them on board?” asked Tessa Crocifissa, captain of the Italians, an imperious young woman with hungry eyes and big hands and shimmering black hair that met the table. “If they want the true Tournament, no rules, pure and beautiful in chaos, then they should have a seat at this table. Or are you afraid the Jade soldiers will beat Black?” Her eyes narrowed nearly to a wink.

  Mazaryk stood and turned away from her and towards the fire where he watched the white of the coals flicker and dance. He breathed in the heat.

  “If a team of soldiers were to take the field in Tournament play, they would be the first to go down. Before any other team in this organization, sitting around this table or not. They would be lifeless within moments. Do you know why?”

  Tessa didn’t answer. Mazaryk didn’t care.

  “Because soldiers are trained to kill, not to think.”

  “We kill,” Tessa said. “In a way.”

  “Do you know why your team lost in the last cycle, and Black won? Do you know why your team was gunned down in the first round and I was never even shot?”

  Tessa darkened. Lorenzo Aldobrandi, her sweeper, grimaced before he settled himself once more into his watchful state. Ignazio creaked back to sitting, unsure if he should take offense.

  “It’s because I win the game before I ever even see the field,” Mazaryk said, his voice soft but his dark eyes hard. “I won it before the Draw. I won it before the pagers lit up. As soon as I know your name I’ve beaten you. I see what makes you do what you do. What makes you strong, and what makes you weak.”

  Mazaryk took a clipped breath and gathered himself. He returned to his seat and sat back gently. All eyes followed him.

  “Soldiers ...” he said with sad dismissal. “What bothers me more is when a country spits in your face one day and expects a hand the next.”

  “When did China do this thing? This offense?” Obata asked.

  “Does it matter?”

  Obata sat back and held his tongue. He had already spoken more than he was accustomed to, but questions remained. Four teams were still unaccounted for. Four who looked to have refused Mazaryk’s offer to join the Black House. Obata was of two minds about these holdouts. He did not envy them, to be sure. To run up against the Black House, the combined skill of the men and women around that table, meant certain failure. Or worse. And yet, he felt an odd respect. They had their principles.

  Mazaryk regarded Obata as if he was watching the workings of his mind.

  “My invitation to this table still stands for the absent teams. Despite everything. I want eight teams united under one banner, championing the new era of the Tournament. I’ve always said that.”

  “They will not come,” Obata said.

  “Good,” Auldborne chimed. “Good! We don’t need them, we don’t need anyone. I think this room is a tad stuffy as it stands.”

  Mazaryk’s face fell as he eyed Auldborne askance. The look was not lost on the English captain, who rolled his eyes.

  “But if you’re going to insist upon a full drum circle, Eddie, then perhaps a little prodding is in order.”

  Mazaryk pursed his lips. He nodded. “Perhaps
...”

  “And here we are on the one hand with a very eager German team. A German team that fought their way to us and knocked on our gates. Not a bunch of jackbooted robots, these, oh no. These are the real deal. They want nothing more than to prove themselves. And on the other hand we have a terrified Mexican team that hasn’t paid us allegiance, nor have they even been seen since my team last trounced them. They’ll become sad hermits if we let them. Why not use the one to flush the other out?”

  Mazaryk smiled. It was a cold smile. Calculated. The smile of a man who finds himself halfway through his voyage across the desert with twice the water and supplies that he needs.

  “The pieces are always there,” he muttered. He looked up at Auldborne. “Do it.”

  ————

  Two kilometers south of the Black House, on a street called Puravatsin, there is a small bar and inn that takes its name from the street. It is an otherwise overlooked establishment that, like all of its kind in Moscow these days, was suddenly booked solid for the better part of six months, chock-full of reporters and tourists and those trying to profit from them. At the top of the Puravatsin one room in particular had become a source of concern for the haggard family that ran the inn. It was a modest, two bedroom that they had rented out months ago. They had not seen the tenants since the day they took the apartment. Inside, the three elusive Germans who called themselves Team Amber struggled to make sense of their situation. They were not accepted by the Black House as a legitimate team. They had one half of the diode system: the diode bullet itself. They didn’t have access to the other half—the inoculation—and so were not polarized, nor were they foolish enough to compete without it. They were running out of money and patience and time. Every second that they were left out of the fold was another second one of their countrymen could take their place.

  They had been advised by their own administrators to directly confront Black. At first they had balked; they heard stories of Black, the same as everyone else, and knew what an unforgiving trio the Russians made. But their sponsors reassured them: It was true, joining the Tournament wouldn’t be easy, but it was possible. There was history between their two countries that needed addressing, and then they would be welcomed. That was all they needed to know. So they had marched up to the gates of the Black House and demanded an audience.

  It didn’t go well.

  First off, Goran Brander, Black's striker, shot one of them in the chest outside of the gates just to prove a point. Felix recovered gamely, a feat that impressed Black enough that they opened the gates to Team Amber. Once inside, Astrid, the captain, thought she'd been respectful enough to gain an immediate interview, but in the end they'd simply been told to return to their lodging and await further instructions. They were still waiting.

  Falco Krueger, Felix’s brother and the Amber striker, was restless. They didn’t dare go out for fear of being recognized and causing even more of a scene than when they’d first arrived. They didn’t want to risk being permanently shunned from favor. But Astrid knew that the pressure, the claustrophobia, the boredom, everything was pulling at them.

  “We’ll take the inoculation from one of the other teams,” Falco said, his normally precise German strained. His fists were bone white, gripping the chair by their small window. His broad back blocked much of the light.

  “No,” Astrid replied. “I told you. We get it from Black or not at all. It closes one chapter of history and opens another.”

  “I don’t care about the history between Black and those that came before me! I want the glory of today!”

  Felix grunted from where he sat and nodded in agreement. He hadn’t yet recovered the bullish gusto of his brother or Astrid knew he would be pacing the room along with him. He’d been in lingering pain ever since he was shot. For a month he had to sleep on the floor, on his back, to keep from rolling over onto his sternum. She moved over to him and he allowed her to open his shirt. He had a big, leveled chest, broad and hairless. The bone bruise had faded but a small, dimpled scar remained. Astrid stroked it lightly and he sighed with pleasure. She kissed it, cooing to him as Falco watched. “My poor eagle. Both of my birds are ready to stretch their wings again.”

  “Will we know?” Falco began tentatively. “Will we know if we have failed?”

  Astrid rose with the squeaking of leather and the clink of metal zippers. She moved to Falco and caressed his rough cheek as he gazed down at her. She pulled his ear down to her lips and although he still frowned, he keened slightly into her.

  “My falcon,” she whispered, fingers tracing his collarbone, “patience has never been your virtue. Nor your brother’s.” She brought his head around and kissed him deeply. “Thankfully, it is one of mine.”

  There was a knock on the door. All three snapped to the sound. Felix stood and Falco moved next to him, wordlessly handing him a dull grey handgun while keeping another for himself. He pulled the slide back and chambered a diode. Astrid signaled at both of them, splitting them apart as she walked between them to the door. She pulled her long blonde braid behind her and opened it.

  Nobody was there. Only a small service tray with a serving platter under a burnished silver bell. She pulled it off and there, lying on the platter, was a note:

  In Mexico there is a reluctant team. Their captain is Diego Vega.

  He wears a cowboy hat and has a gold tooth.

  Either bring us the team, or bring us the tooth. Then the diode system is yours.

  Astrid spun around to face the two brothers. Her smile spoke for her, and spread to both men in turn.

  Chapter Four

  TEAM BLUE LANDED AT Dublin Airport and disembarked from their private jet to find the tarmac in near chaos. Apologizing, the pilot ushered them down the steps and into the flashing lights. A mass of reporters, already screaming their names, pressed against the fence near the terminal. Cy Bell became a dark shadow, retreating deeper into the hood of his sweatshirt under a bulky jacket. He clomped quickly down the stairs in his heavy boots and never looked up. Tom Elrey tried to put a positive face forward and combed his sandy blonde hair quickly with his fingers, but he blinked in the dazzle and tripped, nearly falling from the final step. When the stewardess caught and righted him, the press laughed. Ellie stared down, watching her steps, placing one foot in front of the other until they were safely away in a dark sedan that Cy had rented. They were followed by a long train of vans and trucks and taxis and a small army of personal cars.

  “So much for low profile,” Ellie remarked, watching as the cars and trucks jockeyed for position around them, coming dangerously close time and again. In the side mirror she saw a cameraman propped out of the window, sitting on the passenger’s side door and filming. She closed her eyes and trusted the driving to Cy.

  ————

  The house of Daniel Hurley was in disarray. Outside and just across the street a contingent of press and fans posted up behind a barrier enforced by local police. Traffic on the block was at a standstill. The flashing lights were constant, as was the thrum of the crowd, which grew to a fever pitch any time anyone left the house. The wooden barriers of the cordon squeaked as they were tested. Inside, Bailey, Pyper’s little sister, ran wild on the emotion. Her father ambled about, always moving but unsure of what to do; from the kitchen to the dining room, from the dining room to his bedroom, up and down the halls he walked like a lost child in a department store. Pyper had had enough. She caught herself slouching. She had never slouched before. In the mirror she found her shimmering brown hair disheveled, her sharp collar frayed. She saw a small eddy of panic in the back of her normally calm, honey gaze.

  She was packing. The plan was to take her family to Belfast with Ian where he insisted they could stay out of the limelight with his mother.

  There was one room of the house that nobody went into, not even Bailey: the first bedroom on the right. Kayla’s bed was there, empty now, and cold. Stretched straight with fresh, unbroken sheets. Pyper often caught Bailey stari
ng into the dark room from an angle across the dining room table, her eyes wide with fear. She thought Kayla’s ghost might still be there. At only eight years of age Bailey still rebelled against the concept of death. Pyper didn’t believe in ghosts, but she often watched the room, searching for any part of Kayla left behind. Any whisper. Any scent. Any flicker at all of her old friend and teammate.

  Then she felt foolish and returned to her packing.

  “There’s more of them today,” said Daniel, peeking through the curtains in front of the house. In the low light the troubles of the past month were etched across his face. He looked ten years older than he did when Pyper first told him she was the captain of Team Green.

  “They caught wind of Kayla’s death. They want the story.”

  “Vultures,” he muttered, shuffling away. “Carrion birds, all of them. Hers isn’t a story. It’s a tragedy.”

  As Daniel stopped to look out of the back window at his garden, Pyper felt the old stab of guilt, as familiar now as the pain of her war wounds. Her father would have been happy to live out his life in his garden. Now was the time he should be turning the soil. Preparing for spring planting. Instead he’d been upended with the rest of them.

  “Dad, you should finish packing.”

  “What’s the use? They’ll follow us north. And then we’ll have pulled Ian’s mother into it.”

  “We need to get out of this house, and not just because of the reporters. There’s a heaviness here.”

  Daniel nodded, still staring out of the window.

  “I’m going to make this right,” Pyper said. “We may not live a normal life, but we can still live a good one. Together. All of us.”

  Daniel straightened his back and turned to look fondly over his shoulder at his eldest daughter. He was about to speak when the doorbell rang. Pyper snatched the gun she kept in a sleeve under her jacket. They weren’t expecting anyone. Daniel looked from the door to his daughter in equal measures of horror. Bailey eased her mousey head around the corner. Pyper gave them the signal to move to the back of the house and motioned both of them to be silent even as the crowd outside was whipped into a frenzy of noise and flashes. She waited until Daniel and Bailey were safe in their designated spaces. They’d planned what to do if someone came to the house and things turned for the worse.