by O. J. Lowe
Especially as the hand clamped down on his shoulder. He turned, brought back his fist and prepped to throw a punch. He wasn’t going to get caught, he couldn’t, not like this…
The man didn’t have a face. Except he must have, everyone had a face. Yet when he looked at it, it was like staring into a puddle of flesh coloured water, the more you tried to make sense of the ripples, the more you realised they lacked any sort of cohesion. Eyes, ears, nose, mouth, the figure didn’t have any of it. He’d heard of the tech that they had. Never quite seen it in action before. Not like this. He gulped, dropped the badge and turned to run, the sudden movement jerking the hand off his shoulder.
Shit, shit, shit, shit, need to get away. Worse, the man without a face had seen his. He’d caught him in the act. He was in it deep. Maybe he should leap overboard. He’d have more of a chance with the ocean. Unisco were the best. They were elite and he was out of his depths, a goldfish to their shark. He slipped a little as he ran down the corridor, righted himself on a table which he pulled down behind him. Glancing back, he saw the faceless agent was running after him, hurdled the table like it wasn’t there, bouncing off the wall to leap over it and he was running again.
Shit! Shit! Shit!
He took a hard left, barrelled through the door into one of the kitchens, the rooms still in the aftermath of the food preparation. There was still plenty of people in here, all of them suddenly complaining angrily as he shoved past them, one going to the ground along with several dishes of what looked like spaghetti. Dishes hit the ground with a clatter and cursing followed him through the room. One more push and he was out of there, out of the steam and the shouts and into another corridor, up the stairs onto the next floor. His chest was pounding but he didn’t dare stop. How far could he run? Would it be enough? Somehow, he didn’t think so. He didn’t want to know. All he could do was…
BANG!
… Through another door and into a gym. It looked like it hadn’t been out of use long, various equipment remained left scattered about the place. Weights, mats, dumbbells, all sorts of stuff that fitness buffs probably would find more interesting than him, even if he wasn’t about to lose.
Unless…
He’d barely had chance to pick up one of the dumbbells when the door to the gym crashed open and the faceless man came ripping in. If he was breathing hard from his exertions, Max couldn’t hear any evidence of it. Still, he had a slim chance and he didn’t quite know what he’d do next if it failed.
The swing with the weight felt clumsy and ungainly, all he needed to do was catch a glancing blow and it’d do some damage, give him some chance of a follow up. He put all his weight behind it, panting as he did.
All his weight was too much, the faceless man twisted out the way neatly, he swung past him and the dumbbell grazed the floor with a scrape. He tried to raise it again, felt a sharp blow in his kidneys for the trouble. Max let out a yell of pain, dropped it on his foot and staggered back, almost falling on his ass. He scrambled away, acutely aware there was nowhere to go.
“Do I have to tell you how under arrest you actually are?” the man asked, though there was no trace of humour in his voice. More exasperation. “I was having a nice time in there, instead I’m chasing you.”
Funny. It appeared the muffler he wore to disguise his features also did a fair job of masking his voice. It sounded harsh, fake and way too deep. No way of telling who it was beneath that. He didn’t care, he just wanted an out.
“Would it help if I said I was sorry?” he asked, tensing his muscles beneath him. Half a chance. It was better than nothing. If he could get past him, if he could get through the door, he might be able to get away. If he could get through it, he could blockade it, leave him trapped and…
And then what?
Still, better a chance of freedom. Hide! It’d be his only chance. Deep breath, he tried to rise to his feet…
… only for the faceless man to react faster and plant his shoe into his chest with a sudden violent motion, pushing him back to the ground and several feet back across the floor to an untidy halt in front of a rowing machine. Pain shot up through him in a dozen different places, he was certain nothing was broken but it was hard to be sure.
“It wouldn’t. You’re trapped. There’s nowhere to go.”
Not true. There’s always a way out. And with each chance losing weight quicker than the last, Max took a deep breath and yanked his summoner out of his pocket, suddenly desperate.
“Oh, now you’re just being ridiculous,” the faceless man said as the sandhound materialised in front of him. It was an impressive specimen; sandhounds were native to northern Vazara, great chubby dogs with loose skin flaps all over them, like they’d lost a lot of weight recently. Their faces had all been squashed in, bar their pointed noses which looked strangely awkward against the mess the rest of their visages offered. It stood on four giant spade-like paws, each tipped with ten stubby claws. This one was covered in a fine sand coloured down for fur, a giant purple tongue hanging out of its mouth. It didn’t look particularly dangerous.
At least, not in the way that the spirit summoned by the faceless man looked dangerous. This one looked like an unholy blend between cat and lizard, four sprawled legs sticking out the sides of a body sporadically splashed with grey scales and mottled black and white fur. Twenty large spines rose up from its back, while the face was hammerhead shaped, a giant mouth lined with inch-long teeth and filled with a forked tongue. The eyes were a jaundiced yellow, at the other end the tail was listlessly sweeping back and forth like a whip. Claws clicked across the lacquered floor as it paced back and forth, studying the sandhound.
Max hadn’t seen one in the flesh before, but he vaguely recalled it was called a veek. Now, what could they…
He gave the command and Uche charged across the floor, a full on frontal attack. The veek extended its claws and did the same, lunging viciously towards the sandhound with murder in its eyes. They collided, Uche’s bulk giving him the advantage in the smash. He had to weigh more, Max reckoned, he needed to use that to the best he could.
Because he’d need to be lucky. Veek were not a common sight. To trap one, the faceless man must have a fair degree of talent. He couldn’t hope to outfight him for long. Somehow, he needed to just create an opening. In front of him, the veek was starting to rake the claws through Uche’s skin, the sandhound howling in pain as the veek got out from in front of him, already scrabbling clumsily up onto his back and digging into his neck. He could see the veek was struggling to gain a purchase, the loose skin an apparent hindrance.
“Come on,” he muttered. Uche heard the command, started to shake about like he was wet. The veek, taken by surprise lost its footing and hit the floor hard. The claws hadn’t done too much damage despite Uche’s protests. Sandhound skin was slightly permeable at the best of times. Almost like individual particles rather than one great layer of skin and fur and muscle. It was where the name had come from. Uche lunged, try to take the veek while it was on its side, only to discover it was faster than he’d expected. The veek twisted in the air, raked the whip-like tail across Uche’s face. More specifically, the eyes. Max winced as he heard Uche’s horrified yelp, the paws came up and started to rub at the squashed face. Blood was running down the fur. It didn’t matter from a detached point of view. Any damage to spirits wasn’t permanent. They weren’t technically alive. They could fight until the damage was too great for them to continue and they entered a catatonic state which could have passed for death.
His wasn’t a detached point of view. He’d come to care for Uche very much and seeing the stricken sandhound pawing at his mangled eyes, sad little whimpers coming from him was heart-breaking. For a moment, Uche gave it up, sniffed the air and lunged at the direction where the veek had been. But for a sudden leap, it might have made contact. Even blinded, Uche wasn’t giving up on him. Still fighting.
Not for long. The veek came in from the side, raised a paw and struck Uche a vicious bl
ow on the neck, a terrific crack echoing around the gym. It was probably not a move any wild veek would ever have used. Where the claws had done only minimal damage, they’d been retracted this time. Instead the blow had been intended to incapacitate without the need for breaking the skin. Uche stumbled, suddenly woozy, his neck at an odd angle. He looked in awful pain. His legs could barely hold him up.
The second blow came on the other side, the veek darting in just too quick for the stumbling sandhound to react to. The sound of bone breaking this time trumped the previous crack and Uche went down in a broken heap.
Max couldn’t believe it. He didn’t want to believe it. Poor Uche. He brought the sandhound back to the container crystal, dropped down to the ground.
“I give up,” he said simply. It was a little redundant. The faceless man had him bang to rights. There wasn’t any way out. He’d played the game and he’d been beaten hopelessly. Plus, by the sounds of it, those who should have been keeping an eye out for people like him were on their way. He held up his wrists, a show of surrender. Not much else he could do but go quietly now and hope they went easy on him.
As the on-boat security stormed in, David Wilsin raised his own hands in a sign of surrender. Especially when they were armed and he didn’t want to get accidentally shot. How good they were would be open to debate but he wasn’t about to trust that they were all calm and restrained like he’d been when deciding not to shoot the fleeing thief in the back.
He didn’t turn his muffler off, either. He wasn’t about to show his face to this lot. Not a chance. He saw at least one of them recoil as he turned towards them and hid a smirk. It didn’t take much hiding. He’d seen the pictures of what faces looked like under the effect of mufflers and he doubted they’d even be able to tell where his mouth was. It probably looked like a whirlwind about to vomit to them.
“Easy, guys,” he said, keeping his voice calm. Losing his temper here wouldn’t help things. His blood was up after the encounter and it’d be all too easy to lose his cool. “I’m with Unisco, I’ll show you my badge if you allow me. I’ve got your thief right here.”
The man in the lead glanced at him, then at the guy on the ground and then nodded curtly. Wilsin brought his badge up, glad he’d taken the chance to retrieve the piece of bait from the trap he’d laid and held it towards them. Their squad commander, a thickset dark-skinned man probably in his forties and wearing it badly lowered his weapon. Nobody else did. Wilsin couldn’t avoid staring at the moustache. Last time he’d seen that size and with that much hair, it had tried stealing food from him.
“Toss it over,” another of the guards said. Something tingled at the back of his neck, maybe a bug, maybe part of him complaining it was a bad idea.
“I’ll meet you half way,” he offered, making to toss it on the ground between them. He ignored the feeling at the back of his mind. Not every Vazaran he met was a criminal. Or a terrorist. Or a thief. Just some of them. The same as everywhere else you went. He’d met plenty who were good people. Well one or two. Okay, he liked Okocha back at headquarters. And that was about the length and breadth of his own personal encounters. “Biometric check?”
He slid open the case, pushed his thumb across the middle of the emblem and waited. He couldn’t see it but he knew the badge was lighting up, the circuits inside examining the print he’d just submitted to it. No better way to prove who he really was. Fool proof. Within seconds, it would…
“The bearer of this United International Spiritual Control Organisation official identification is authorised to carry out all duties considered part of the remit of the organisation under the Unifications Act. All assistance should be rendered wherever possible by the request and express approval of the Senate of the Five Kingdoms.”
And relax. He let his breath escape him in one long exhalation as they lowered their weapons. One potentially tricky obstacle dealt with. He put his badge away and tucked his fingers in the loops of his waistband.
“Sorry to crash in on your parade like this, boys,” he said to the leader of the patrol. He couldn’t help but notice the man looked a little disgruntled by the way the whole thing had gone down. Open hostility had been replaced by something a little harder to read but something in the way he stood… He could recognise disquiet whenever he saw it. “If you want, I was never here. All credit to you and your men for apprehending this man. I don’t want the publicity.” He applauded them, the sound a little hollow in the empty gym. “Bravo for our brave on-board ship security catching this guy. I feel safer travelling with this company.”
The leader of the security team broke into a grin suddenly, his teeth yellow and smoke stained beneath that giant amount of lip hair. He holstered his weapon and approached Wilsin. Close enough for him to read the name on his badge. Everardo Ekili. Chief.
“You’re good,” he said, his language better than broken but not quite as good as fixed. In the absence of Wilsin knowing fluent Vazaran, it’d have to do. Unisco agents were encouraged to be fluent in at least two of the native languages of the five kingdoms as well as the shared language but Vazaran wasn’t one of Wilsin’s. “You go to Quin-C, yes?”
“I may be. I may not be,” Wilsin said. “Maybe I was just in the right place. And I didn’t want to take any chances he’d get away.”
Ekili nodded, before offering his hand. “Good luck in the future. We’ll not forget this. Hey, you got any jobs going at Unisco?”
At that, Wilsin had to grin. The muffler hid it though; he wasn’t worried about any trace of his reaction showing. Local law enforcement always wanted to know that. Everyone wanted the glamour of Unisco work. “Hey, we always need good people in tricky places. I could put in a good word for you, Chief Ekili.”
He glanced down at the thief, paused. That kid who’d put the shout up…
“I need a favour,” he said. “One of the victims. I know them a little. Mind if I give them their stolen stuff back?”
Ekili hesitated. Wilsin removed his hands from their position in his belt loops. “I’ll put in a really good word for you. It means something.”
It really meant nothing but that was the trick. Everyone on the outside thought that Unisco work was running around shooting bad guys and bedding beautiful women. The truth wasn’t quite as glamorous. The one lesson he’d learned a very long time ago… Never underestimate the power of negotiation. Give a little, get a little.
Matt was raging still at the theft, complaining to anyone who’d listen. Mia on the other hand was sitting tight lipped and silent next to him, both hands out on the table in front of her. All until a vaguely familiar face broke out of the crowd and stood across the table from them. Matt recognised him. After all, David Wilsin was one of those callers who was probably famous enough to be recognised, if not perhaps mobbed in the street.
“Should have just stayed where I was!” he said angrily. “I mean why do they have to transport us over there by ship anyway? I mean surely there’s enough aeroships in the kingdoms to take us there. All the credits they make off this thing and we’re being robbed on our ship! What the hells are they playing at?!”
He looked like he expected an answer from Wilsin who shrugged politely and dropped Mia’s purse on the table. Her eyes lit up at that.
“Found it outside,” he said. “Looks like he dropped it on the way out. Good fortune, huh?”
He got the impression she wasn’t usually shocked into speechlessness. He watched her go red and stammered out some thanks, the grateful surprise apparent in her face.
“And as for you,” he said, looking over at her brother. He held up the pack of empty container crystals that had been stolen from him. Not cheap enough to be written off, not expensive enough that they couldn’t be replaced; he saw the grin on his face.
Wilsin tossed the crystals back to the kid… He wasn’t a kid. Maybe ten or fifteen years younger than him. Probably going to be one of the youngest here. His sister was very cute. Old enough for him to envisage bad thoughts about, young
enough for him to feel guilty about it.
“You two…” he said. “You’re Terry Arnholt’s kids, aren’t you?” They wore matching looks of surprise at that.
“You know our dad?” Mia asked, surprised. She then blushed as if to say, duh. A lot of people knew who their dad was. But, Wilsin quickly asked himself, how many have ever seen that family photo he keeps in his office? Probably less.
“Yeah, in passing,” he admitted. “I try to get out and battle him once or twice a year. Skilled opponent. Glad they passed that ruling that standing champions weren’t eligible to enter here. He always gives me a fight.”
“He’s the toughest,” Matt said proudly. “The strongest there is. I’ve never seen him lose.”
Wilsin shrugged. “Hey, everyone loses. The trick is not to let it get you down. You don’t really lose until you start to doubt yourself.”
“Plus, he’s coming out here to cheer me on,” Matt continued, looking more than happy at that. At least for a movement before his smile dropped slightly. “I hope I don’t let him down.”
Mia snorted. “Yeah, like that’s going to happen.”
“Thanks sis,” Matt said, shooting her a grin. She squeezed his shoulder.
“At least, I hope you don’t,” she added. “It looks bad on our family name if you crash and burn here.”
“How reassuring you are.” Matt rolled his eyes at her. “Like you’ve never made an idiot out of yourself.”
“I haven’t. At least not in a way that I haven’t been able to fix.”
Despite it all, David Wilsin had to smile. Whatever happened at the Quin-C, however good or bad he did, at least he’d have this memory to fall back on. This one good deed to do. He’d brought the smiles back to the faces of his boss’ kids. That was worth quite a bit.