The Great Game

by O. J. Lowe

  Normally he worked on the fourth floor of the building, not too high as to have a long walk to the canteen, not too low as to feel unimportant. Yet today on meeting day, he was going all the way to the top and the ride up in the elevator always felt special. Maybe it was the chance to do something completely different with the week. His favourite time of the week, engage with different people to normal. Plus, it was where the real work got done. He had his disc drives in an open box in his hands, ready to make his reports.

  He wasn’t to be alone as he walked into the waiting room, Noorland already there sat down with a box on the seat next to him. Alvin Noorland was a tech guy, he built stuff and he was damn good at it. He didn’t look like a guy who built stuff for a living. He always joked he had pianist fingers and an artist’s brain to go with an engineer’s soul. He looked more like a man who spent his time out of work doing all sorts of extreme things. He had spiked blond hair and a soul patch of beard beneath his lip, a tiny triangle of neat blond hair. Will quietly wished he could spend all day in the lab and look like him. He was built like one of those sculptures of masculine perfection. Unlike Okocha, Noorland was fully signed off on field operations. He’d been out in the field, he’d drawn blood for the agency and only his admitted genius in making the technology working for him had kept him out of it. As the building director had said at the time, ‘I got a hundred guys who can shoot someone, but nobody like Al Noorland who can build stuff blindfolded and make it dance for you.’

  “Will,” Noorland said. “How’s it going?”

  “Good, Al, good,” he said. “Can’t complain. You?”

  “Same. Working. Travelling. Sleeping. All that stuff. Keeps me busy. Keeps the home going.”

  “True that,” Okocha said. “Does your wife get on at you over the hours?”

  “Nah, not at all. She knows, man. Doesn’t forgive me sometimes, but I keep on going.” Noorland didn’t look too upset by the whole thing.

  “Have to, don’t you?”

  “Just a bit,” Noorland agreed. “Tough at this level. Bet the director don’t have to put up with this stuff.”

  “Never know,” Okocha said. “Ha, alright for some isn’t it? Heard he was going out to the Quin-C to cheer on his kid. There’s a man not burdened with overworking.”

  “Yeah, I’d love to get out there,” Noorland said, unconsciously reaching a hand up to stroke the caller around his neck. “Get out there and fight. All that prize money would go some ways. Plus, I think my home is lacking for a big honking trophy to gaze at. Ah well… Know the rules. No city standing champs allowed.” He looked disgusted at that.

  The idea behind each city having a standing champion for every tournament staged there had been an initially unpopular one at first but it had soon gathered its supporters. Since very few competitors stuck around for more than one consecutive competition, it was unlikely they’d defend their title. And it was just as unlikely that ultimately the best possible candidate would lose too many of their bouts anyway. That was their job. Keep in tip top condition and be the best that they could be.

  It had even worked out advantageous for Unisco in the long term. Because of the way they put their agents through to be both deadly with conventional weapons and highly trained in the combat of spirits through their own, several did ultimately become champions. Keeping them in one place meant them easy to locate and assign. Noorland did hold a champion position up north of Premesoir, the city of Tervento. He commuted to Blasington for the meetings, preferring to either work at home or the local offices.

  “I’m sure the hefty yearly salary from the ICCC will soften the blow a bit,” Okocha said dryly.

  “Not as hefty as you think,” Noorland said. “This job pays better standard rate. I’d jack the championing in like a shot if they changed the rules to mean I couldn’t claim the prize. That’s the only reason I keep going on at it.”

  “Least you’re doing it for the right reasons,” Okocha said. He couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “You motivated entirely by the money, Al?”

  Noorland grinned. “Well a conscience is nice sometimes. Duty is nice. But it doesn’t put food on the table. Got to make it where I can, right?”

  Okocha liked Noorland well enough. He respected what he’d done for Unisco massively. Did he trust him? He wasn’t sure he’d like to be asked that question. Still the two of them had become close friends over the months and he couldn’t say too many bad words about him for definite.

  “For the purposes of this meeting, this is the log of Unisco Director Terrence Arnholt in regards of the weekly briefing updates.” Okocha couldn’t believe it. The director himself was down here for the meeting. This was a break in regular procedure, he’d never seen anything like it. He doubted he was the only one who felt uneasy about this. Normally the Premesoir section chief took this time when he was available. Barthomew, the normal incumbent of that position, wasn’t about, he’d been on leave for a while. In any other circumstance, it would have been Leon Barker, the building director and probably Okocha’s least favourite person in the building.

  Arnholt continued as if he hadn’t seen the various looks of shock about his face. Barker, normally a man with a look of vague surprise on his face as if the world was turning too fast for him, looked ready to kill. “Present are myself, Building Director Barker for Premesoir, Section Chief Aluka for Vazara…”

  Now, Okocha found that interesting. There was no reason for Karim Aluka to be there. Not unless there was something big about to be revealed. He knew him only by reputation but he was a fearsome looking man, big and muscular with a layer of blond stubble covering his head clashing violently with his ebony coloured skin.

  “… Technological Research and Development Head Noorland, OSDC Okocha, Analysis and Records Chief Longden…” If Okocha was ever going to have an affair with someone from the office, he’d like it to be Dawn Longden. She had it going on, an angelic face beneath a mane of blue black hair. An angelic face that hinted at a mischievous personality, she looked like she knew how to have a good time. And yet, she was smart. She didn’t get to where she had without having something about her. He gave her a smile; she either didn’t see it or didn’t acknowledge it. All his efforts every time to sit across from her met with the same result. Nothing.

  “… And Field Operations Chief King.” Brendan King looked ill at ease in his suit, a bulky looking man with greyed out hair. He had the faintest smell of earth and clay over him, testament to his hobby in the field of archaeology. Nobody cared about the smell, for here was a man who had become a legend at both Unisco and in the public world of spirit calling, a legend that had been built on the foundation of his one special skill, a skill that very few individuals around the world had been able to replicate. He didn’t usually claim his spirits in the conventional way. He had a way with raw minerals, he built golems and had a way of animating them for battle. For years, he’d held academic positions across several universities since giving up spirit calling as a profession, a font of knowledge and dignity.

  He was easily the oldest figure there, looking maybe ten years older than Arnholt who looked to be in his forties at the most but had recently passed fifty. He’d ascended to the top role in the organisation early, recommended for the position by his predecessor. So far, he’d kept the ship steady rather than spectacular. Efficiently excellent rather than radically supreme. Nobody could criticise him too much. He was a cautious man, Arnholt, he chose to be that way. Because he had that power didn’t mean he had to use it. Sometimes Okocha got the impression upon seeing him that he’d never wanted the job. It had been thrust upon him and he’d had no way out.

  “First of all,” Arnholt said. He had the voice of authority, strong, clear and it caught your attention. Everyone listened when he spoke. “Section Chief Raphael Barthomew is not present once again. We’re going to go around the table, bring up any issues that require dealing with. Go counter clockwise today. Brendan?”

  Brendan cleared
his throat. He carried no files but stood up and glanced around the room. “Nothing much to report. No active field operations pending, bar the upcoming operational setup on Carcaradis Island. Details of the operation will be sent out imminently, our agents will be informed, travel documents have been arranged.”

  Noorland spoke up. “I heard a rumour…”

  “That is correct,” Arnholt said. “An operational outpost is being set up on Carcaradis Island due to the nature of the upcoming Quin-C tournament. Already we have Agent Derenko in place to oversee that things are put into effect.”

  Interesting. Standard procedure of practice, but still interesting. It was the first time Okocha had been in this position and he was relishing it.

  “I’ve put together a roster of the best people I want out there in addition to the agents attending the tournament,” King said. He dug his summoner out and rattled off a list of some twenty odd names, some of whom Okocha was familiar with. One of whom was Noorland who smiled at that.

  “I graciously accept,” he said. “What are the beaches like out there?”

  “Sandy,” Longden said with a grin. “Take your shorts, Alvin.”

  “I’ll send you a photo,” he winked at her. Her grin could have melted butter, she nibbled at her lower lip and Okocha did his best not to look at her.

  “Settle down, you two,” King said. “These are my recommendations. It might be hard to get all of them but I’d rather be safe than sorry.”

  “We can arrange for it,” Arnholt said. “Caution never hurt anyone. Following this tournament, it might be prudent to arrange to recruit more agents again. The next months will be tight.”

  “Sir?” Okocha said. “Why actually does there need to be an operational unit being set up on Carcaradis Island? Is it necessary?”

  “Always,” Arnholt said. “An event like this attracts all sorts of types. All those spirits and all those callers on show. Thieves are going to be trying their hand, terrorists might want to make a name for themselves.” It did sound convincing enough, but somehow Okocha felt dissatisfied with the answer. He’d been expecting something different. It made sense, of course. “We have a responsibility to help ensure this goes down as smooth as possible and to ensure that should anything untoward be engaged in, we are in position to assist local law enforcement.”

  “Seems like overkill,” Noorland said. “But I think you know what you’re doing. I’ll pack my bags when I get home.”

  Arnholt’s next statement put any thoughts out of his head for the moment. “We’ll cover this later. I want to hear what you all have first. Brendan? Anything else?”

  “I sent a team of agents to smash a smuggling ring out in Salawia recently,” Brendan said. “They retrieved thousands of illegal spirits. Had to send more agents out to catalogue the evidence. Thank you, Ms Longden for your quick response there.”

  Longden smiled at him. Okocha felt a faint stab of jealousy. He had to be fifteen years older than her. Easy. He could smell the man from here. There was more than just a hint of clay about his odour. Clay and earth, all the scents of a man who spent too much time in the great outdoors. He was an explorer at heart. Incredibly, sometimes he wouldn’t be seen for weeks on end, off on some jaunt or another. King always had the air of a man for whom some great misfortune was about to fall. Maybe he’d be happier when he stepped down and he could focus on his hobby and his other occupation full time.

  “Impressive,” Arnholt said.

  “There’s also something in the works regarding a rebuilding of Cyria. John Cyris is out of jail, incredibly.” He scowled as he said it. Everyone knew Brendan King’s not-so-secret contempt for the justice system he worked so hard to help enforce. He was completely against jail for the worst of the worst. He preferred death as a punishment, he’d voiced that opinion when Cyris had been sentenced the last time. And yet everyone knew the paradox of Brendan King’s nature was that he still worked to enforce the law he despised in rigorous detail. “And there are certain hints of a rebuilding. He’s gone underground.”

  “We didn’t tag him?” Noorland asked. “What else are those things for?”

  “His magistrate wouldn’t let us,” Longden said. “See someone told Cyris that we do occasionally do that.”

  King growled angrily. “And he got away completely. He takes full bio scans every month, any hint of anything like that in his system and his magistrate tries to take us for everything we have on harassment charges. The nerve of that man!” He looked like he wanted to spit.

  “We do have some of his operatives tagged, if he knows that, he’s not going to let them anywhere near him.”

  “I know, I know,” Arnholt said. “Sometimes we don’t win. A lot of the time we’re lucky to get a result, remember that. It’s better to lose than not make the effort. Everything?”

  A frustrated looking King nodded and sat back down.

  “Thank you, Agent King,” he said. “Agent Noorland?”

  Alvin Noorland stood up and placed his box on the table, smiling as he did. He enjoyed the limelight and this was his stage. He straightened his jacket, adjusted his tie and flexed his fingers lazily. “Well, I have a few prototypes to demonstrate for you all here, all nearly ready for field testing. Prepare to be amazed.”

  Okocha had no doubt he was about to be. Every time he did this stuff, Noorland made it the highlight of the meeting. He had yet to top the occasion when he’d let loose his latest prototype distraction gadget, a full-on lights and sound disco effect in the room to the point that everyone had found themselves half-deaf come the end of it. The look on Barker’s face that day had been spectacular. He’d gone an incredible purple colour and taken a half day vacation. Behind his back there’d been some gentle mocking for weeks after that when the word got around.

  “In store, we currently have a whole bunch of exciting prospects ready to be field tested. Some of them I have on me here, some of them you’ll probably be getting memos about in the next few weeks. Don’t ignore them.” He gave a grin around the room. “They might save your life one day. That’s a guarantee.”

  “Even in the office huh?” Longden said.

  “Especially in the office,” Noorland replied. His grin grew, he tipped Longden the wink. “Ever want to hide from the bosses?”

  Some brief laughter followed his quip. Even from Arnholt, the calm, easy sound of mirth from a man who could appreciate a good thing. Only Barker and Aluka looked unimpressed.

  “I’m not sure you should be encouraging that sort of train of thought,” Barker said. “We’re not a school after all.”

  “Okay, chill,” Noorland said soothingly. A vein on Barker’s forehead stood up on its own and throbbed menacingly. “Sit back, relax and enjoy what I got to see.”

  The first thing he brought out, Okocha recognised it as a muffler. Everyone around the table surely knew what it was. Noorland threw out a hand to gesture at it like it was something completely precious.

  “Behold, the muffler MK II,” he said. “We decided that there were kinks in the original system that might mess us up one day soon. Best not to chance it. With equipment like this, it’s intended to minimise as much risk as possible, right? After all, we don’t want to unwittingly expose our people. These are the last line of defence between anonymity and every idiot on the street knowing who we are.”

  “Nobody wants that,” Arnholt said. “What’s the difference? Upgrade specs?”

  Noorland smiled. “It still confuses the naked eye, lets loose a signal that makes memory unreliable, faces forgettable, all that stuff. We tightened it up a bit, had someone run some experiments on getting an improved result. Nothing’s perfect, right? We can’t afford to be less than perfect. That’s still not ready for the field yet. Not widespread. Still needs some testing. However, with electrical security measures, that’s the real coup. We’re trying to work in full remote surveillance invisibility. As it stands, Will?”

  He looked at Okocha who jerked in surprise. At least he suppre
ssed the yelp.

  “Ah…”

  “As it stands,” Noorland said. He tipped him the nod.

  “Ah, right,” Okocha said. What is he doing? He swallowed, stood up. “Excuse me. As it stands, the subject is blurred on electronic surveillance. Obscured. However, in theory, it could be unblurred if the right person got hold of the footage. That’s why my department reviews all possible security footage of any operation, to remove it manually. Just in case.”

  “That’s right,” Noorland continued. “This renders the subject completely invisible to any sort of surveillance when it is active. No ghost left on the footage, no chance of some genius recovering and restoring.”

  “Impressive,” Barker said. “When’s it going to be ready?”

  “A while yet. We don’t believe in rushing these things through. One glitch and you have your pants down for the world to see. Basic terms, we’re turning the implant that lets us see through our own mufflers to turn into a two-way system, it’ll abet as well as aid.” He cleared his throat. “Just what we have. I’ll give you updates closer to the time.”

  Arnholt nodded, he looked impressed. “Not bad, Agent Noorland. Anything else before we move along?”

  “Just one or two more. We’re tightening up the weapons, we’re putting electronic weaponry dampening into agent callers and all issued weapons. This is a danger. There was an incident a while back on report; an electrically rich environment can screw with them in some circumstances. And these are circumstances we’d like to avoid.”