The Great Game

by O. J. Lowe

  Life fire… He’d heard of it. Never quite seen it employed like this. Nick gulped, urged Carcer to break free. Hoped. Prayed. As the fires died away, Carcer fell to the ice, Nick heard it melting with a disgusted hiss as the still smouldering body landed on it. Within moments, Carcer was laid in a pool of steaming water and Aroon landed on the ice with an intensely proud look about the pointed features.

  Ah…

  Just briefly, Carcer managed to raise his head an inch or two out of the water, struggled to hold it there for a moment before it sank back in with a dejected splash. If the burns didn’t defeat him, the drowning would.

  It was over. He saw the timer counting down on the video referee, allowing Carcer twenty seconds to get back up. Twenty seconds that lasted a lifetime. There wasn’t even any hint of resistance from the pool of water. The steam had died down; mild frosting was already starting to settle on the water.

  Undoubtedly over. The buzz of the video referee confirmation only settled it and he let out a dejected sigh, fought the urge to kick at the ground in front of him. Instead he brought back Carcer, heard the applause from all four corners of the stadium and realised that it could have been worse. He’d done all right, not terrific, not as much as he’d hoped. But he’d competed. He’d made it this far. And with all that in mind, he couldn’t help but find himself smiling with relief that it was over as he walked into the middle of the field and embraced David Wilsin.

  “Congratulations my friend,” he said, surprised to find he meant it as well. He gritted his teeth together. “If it was going to anyone who beat me…”

  “You glad it was me?”

  Nick stared at him like he was simple. “Hells no. I didn’t want to lose at all.”

  One part of defeat he’d never enjoyed was having to face the media afterwards, sometimes it wasn’t quite as necessary as it was here, but with the bigger prizes came the potential for a bigger fall. And with the bigger fall came the bitterest pills. They were all out in force, ten, twelve, fifteen journalists all jockeying for their quote. Anyone who thought they’d seen chaos before had yet to experience the press pen on Carcaradis Island. It had been bad in previous rounds, it felt like they’d reached a boiling frenzy now.

  Still Nick plastered the grin on his face and made the decision to keep his answers brief. Sometimes callers came out shouting the odds after a bout, it didn’t do them any favours. The articles that followed were usually mockingly cruel, sadistically so even.

  “You’re out. Do you think you fought to the best of your abilities?”

  First inane question of the day. He fought the urge to roll his eyes. “I think my opponent did very well.”

  “Does that mean you think you didn’t fight as well as you could have?” This one came from a particularly loathsome looking character and Nick swallowed down a retort.

  “Well, all things considered, I don’t think it was that bad a performance. I can’t blame my spirits. They fought to their maximum, sometimes you face someone who outperforms you on the day. Nothing to do with complacency. Nobody wins every time.”

  “You were one of the favourites. Does this feel like an underachievement to go out at this point?”

  “Nope. I didn’t name myself one of the favourites, everyone else did. I would have liked to have gone further but it wasn’t to be. Stuff happens. No point getting upset about it.”

  “Where do you go from here? Do you continue to fight? What now for Nicholas Roper?”

  Not that it’s any of your business, he wanted to say. Instead he smiled. “Well, next order of business is getting married. Beyond that, it’s hard to say. I don’t want to walk away from the sport. Far from it. I’m not a fortune teller, I can’t say what the future holds. I can’t wait to find out, your guess is as good as mine.”

  That was six questions, if he’d had it right. ICCC rules said that the contestants were obliged to answer at least seven, one of the pointless rules and fines they’d brought in with intent to line their pockets with credits if the competitor stepped out of line. He had a strange feeling that annoyed spirit callers were paying for local ICCC branch staff to come to this tournament in the first place.

  “One more question,” he said. “Make it a good one.”

  “How do you feel about defeat here?” Kate Kinsella. No failing to recognise her, not since that infamous article that could well have gotten her banned from the competition media circle in another time. He’d heard Ritellia had been furious with what she’d written about him and his running of the tournament to the point that he’d tried it. She’d cited the freedom of the press and it being in the public interest. Good on her for beating it. Anyone who managed to fight off Ritellia’s influence was okay by him.

  “Upset. Tired. Been a long few days. Been a long few weeks really. I’m sad it’s over but at the same time it means I’ll finally be able to relax, step away from the edge. Appreciate this place for what it has become. Reims did a good job fixing it all up. I’d come here again, if I came into a spare couple of hundred thousand credits.”

  That brought some laughter. “But on a more serious note, about my opponent.” He heard inhaling, breath being held in expectation that he might be about to insert his foot into his mouth. “David Wilsin… I didn’t know him much before the tournament. I knew of him but had never met him. Since it started, I’ve gotten quite good friends with him and if anyone left in here was going to beat me, well I hope he goes on to lift the trophy. Best of luck to him down the line.”

  That was it. All he would say on the matter as he inclined his head towards them, a respectful half-bow and he turned to walk away up out of the bowels of the stadium.

  Alone. But not for long. He already knew Sharon would be waiting for him upstairs. This defeat didn’t hurt anywhere near as much as he’d thought once it might have. It was only the start. They’d both gone out but things were looking up. After all, today was only the first day of the rest of their lives…

  Chapter Fifty-Two. Bad Feelings.

  “You know you’re in trouble when the spirits start calling the shots in battle. Personally, I believe the caller can’t always be in control. But there must always be control, if you understand me.”

  Professor David Fleck on when bouts get tense.

  The twenty-second day of Summerpeak.

  “So, what exactly is life fire?”

  The question came from Matt Arnholt as he leaned back in his seat, the very sign of relaxed as he drummed his fingers on the plastic rim. Mia didn’t have an answer, Scott made to open his mouth before realising he couldn’t explain it very well. Pete, on the other hand, did clear his throat to let loose with an explanation, beholding a smug look as he did. He gripped a glass of dry beer and took a swing from it before opening his mouth to speak.

  “Life fire is one of those techniques,” he said. “It’s a similar one to… Remember when I fought Sharon in the group stage?”

  “Yeah.” Matt was nonchalant. Around them, the bar was starting to fill up with people watching the ending highlights of Roper versus Wilsin and despite the early hour, the alcohol was already starting to flow. Only Scott chose not to drink, given his bout later. A glass of lemon sugarwater sat in front of him which he occasionally sipped with a bitter expression. “I do. Vaguely.”

  “Well remember that attack she used on me, that breath attack which drained her completely and made her susceptible to a knockout blow?”

  “Yeah. Still, yeah, I remember that.”

  “Okay so that’s known technically as a Burnout Technique. They’re advanced techniques, dangerous not just to the opponent but to the attacker if they’re not used properly. All the user’s strength is focused into that one powerful attack, it’s usually a fatal one under the right circumstances. But, there’s a downside in that with all that focus and energy, it leaves the user exhausted unable to defend itself following the stress of unleashing it. I managed to take out Sharon’s spirit before mine collapsed. It was a gambit on her part th
at failed. Here, you saw it work.”

  “I’m surprised though,” Scott said. “I mean Roper looked like he was on top. Guess you never can tell.”

  “Nope,” Pete said thoughtfully. “You never can. If it’s used right, Burnout Techniques can turn the tide of the battle. This might become the textbook example of how to use it in the right way.”

  “Think I’ve heard of them before,” Mia mused. “But never used them. They’re hard to teach, right?”

  “Yeah,” Pete said. “Hard but useful. There’s a few notable ones. Death breath and life fire for two. Think there’s an ice based one…”

  Matt burst out laughing. “Death breath? They really called it death breath?”

  “Oh yeah. You got a better name for it?”

  Scott rolled his eyes, settled back in his seat as Pete and Matt continued to debate it back and forth. Mia leaned her head over to rest on his shoulders. “You ready for later?”

  He nodded. “Always. Going to win it. I’m feeling lucky.”

  “I know you can do it,” she said. “You’re doing well. You’ve beaten better than her.”

  “That’s when you should worry though,” Scott said thoughtfully. “When you get complacent. When people think you’re better than you are, they put you on a pedestal and try to knock you off.” He grinned at her, rested a hand on her knee. Her skin felt silky smooth beneath his fingers. “Good thing I got good balance. And I got you at my back. That’s all I need.” He almost said want, rather than need, stopped himself in time. That’d have been weird.

  “How about gas blast?” Matt asked unexpectedly. Scott grinned at that question. Nothing like that to kill the mood a little. Mia furrowed her brow and glanced around at her brother, shaking her head.

  “Really?” she asked. “You want me to tell you all the things that’s wrong with that?”

  “Really? You have a list?” Matt’s words were just as sarcastic. “Because if you have, I’d love to hear it.”

  Scott wasn’t surprised to see that she wasn’t going to oblige him as she turned back to him, rolling her eyes. Her mouth curled up into a little twist of frustration, he fought the urge to laugh.

  “You’re cute when you’re annoyed,” he said, not quite able to stop himself.

  “Spend a lot of time with me when I’m around him and you’ll think I’m cute a lot,” she said dryly. Still, a grin broke out across her face as she said it. “I joke. I love my brother. Even if sometimes I’m sure he’s adopted.”

  “Low blow, sis.” Even Matt laughed as he said it. Scott laughed along before stopping suddenly, a whip-like shudder racing up his spine, cold and piercing. He sat up bolt straight, immediately on edge, his eyes whipping back and forth for whatever had caused it. Nothing. Strangely enough, Pete’s reaction was similar, he rubbed at his back and swore angrily. Gooseflesh rose up over his skin, despite the warmth, he felt suddenly cold and clammy.

  “S’up with you two?” Mia asked. “Someone walk over your graves?”

  “Don’t care if they did or not, I’m not dead yet,” Scott said. “Just… Weird that. Weird feeling in me.”

  Pete said nothing, just nodded. “Must be all this talk of burnout. Guess I’m just tired.”

  “It’s not even midday yet,” Matt pointed out.

  “And your point is?” Pete’s voice remained deadpan, emotionless as he said it but Scott could see it in his eyes. There was something troubling him.

  “You sure neither of you felt that?” he quickly asked, looking at the siblings. Mia shook her head. Matt replied in the negative. “Huh. Weird.”

  Sharon wasn’t there. Nick frowned as he studied the area, saw no sign of her, of anyone and then relaxed. Try not to read too much into it, he told himself. Maybe she’s waiting outside the stadium. She wouldn’t have forgotten. She’d been really into it that morning, running her hands over his body while they were in bed, playfully raking her nails over his hard muscles as she’d told him what she was going to do to him if he won. He loved it when she talked dirty. Nothing quite like hearing pure filth coming out of the mouth of an extraordinarily beautiful woman. Even with the aching in his heart, the pain of defeat lingering for a moment, he smiled. Or maybe she had some other plan. He frowned. Sharon’s ideas of planning often sometimes had an element of unpredictability about them, they were often exciting and potentially dangerous in equal measures.

  The ache grew, every heartbeat suddenly hurt and Nick couldn’t help himself, doubling over in agony. Breathing suddenly became a chore, he gasped for air and his eyes watered. Bursting fire broke through him and just for a moment, he thought he was having a heart attack. That really would ruin his day, the faintest bitter thought passed through him.

  Just as soon as it had started, the pain faded and he found himself not quite on the floor but his face close enough to kiss it. He soon remedied that, slowly standing up at first before straightening out. He adjusted the lapels of his coat. Breathing had never felt so good, he gratefully sucked in sweet air and allowed himself a moment to catch his composure.

  What the hells was that?

  The pain hadn’t completely gone, still lingered in him. His heart felt heavy, like a part of him had been burnt away. He wiped his eyes clean, shook his head. Maybe he’d get something to kill the pain before he went back to the hotel room. He’d see if he could spot Sharon on the way to the apothecary. Maybe she was having trouble getting down here.

  So many maybes and not enough answers.

  The irony of ironies, it often felt that way in his duties with Unisco. Now with it seeping into his personal life as well, he couldn’t help but feel like something bad was coming. He tried to ignore it, rubbed at his chest. The pain didn’t feel physical now he thought about it. He’d been shot and stabbed before in the line of duty, it wasn’t anything like either of those.

  He tried to put it out of his mind as he went for the exit, leaving the squalid little corridor behind him. It’d be nothing but a memory after now. Wasn’t ever going to be back here again any time soon. Nick decided he wouldn’t miss it.

  The silence between them was awkward, Anne had to admit as she looked across at Theo and he stared back impassively. She could feel his emotions and although he no longer quite had that bubbling cauldron of seething rage and resentment beneath the surface of his being, he still wasn’t quite as emotionally adjusted as most people.

  Still it was an improvement. She no longer had to fight the urge to hug herself when he was nearby. A strange enough reaction, one she really shouldn’t be having. If he had been fire before, he was threatening to turn to ice now, his emotions in check but still powerful. She’d studied him when battling and had concluded that his emotions weren’t an impediment but rather the opposite. He battled with passion, never hesitating or quitting. He had himself convinced that his own skill and power would drag him through. And he was powerful. Harry Devine had been the victim of that power the day previously. She had struggled with him in their practice bouts, even with her advantages of experience.

  “I have to admit,” she eventually said. “I’m proud of the way you’ve come on.”

  He gave her a grin, a stretched one that might have been forced, and she felt the ice in him thaw out a little. Pride shone through. “You had plenty to work with from the start though, didn’t you?”

  “I did,” she said. “I really did. Whoever taught you, they did well. And I was wrong about you. Maybe you didn’t need my help.”

  “I’m not as stubborn as to turn down good help,” Theo admitted. “Besides, it’s not like you don’t know what you’re talking about. If it was some rookie, I’d have probably thrown him in a lake.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “You’ve actually done that, haven’t you?”

  He nodded. “Yes. Part of their education. In hindsight, probably not the best, but at the time it felt like a good thing to do.”

  She kept her face neutral. “I see.” Her voice might have betrayed some of her disapproval for he shoo
k his head at her.

  “I was young. Stupid. Angry.”

  “You’re not angry anymore,” Anne said. “At least not permanently irritable. You never told me what made you so angry to start with. Not that I need to know,” she quickly added, as she felt his emotions flare up like a nova. “It’s just if you ever want to talk about it…”

  “It won’t be with you,” Theo said, not aggressively but with the definite hint he was holding back. “No offence, but you’re my teacher, you’re close to a friend but you’re not that close.”

  “Okay,” Anne started to say. “I’m…” She narrowed her eyes in bemusement. Something had changed, something she couldn’t explain. She darted her head back and forth, trying to see what it was. Whatever it was, it wasn’t here. Everything looked in order here, she could tell that without needing to dig deeper. No, it wasn’t here.

  She focused her mind, tried to think back on the brief sensation. It had been brief, no other word for it. Like a moment of pain, betrayal, despair, all snuffed out from existence in the space of a second. It left her feeling more sorrowful than she wanted to admit, she felt a tear run to her eye and she didn’t even know why.

  Then she felt concern flash through Theo, felt his surprise at the sudden emotion. “You okay?”

  How best to answer that? “Honestly?” she said. “Not even close.”

  “What, just because I said…”

  It was her turn for her voice to come out cold. “Not because of you. Never because of you.”

  He’d never seen a spirit like the puttlebut before and it was starting to unnerve him a little. Just a little. Permear had it. The ghost hovered out onto the field and gave an exaggerated little stretch, stubby arms tensing out to barely touch the giant ears. The spirit across the field, Martial’s last was little more than a big pink blob with arms and legs just as stubby as Permear’s if not more so. The stumpy legs were little more than oversized feet stuck out the bottom of the bulky bulbous body. The arms lacked for anything more than claws that Scott thought were almost cute in an ineffective kind of way. They reminded him of Palawi’s claws, canine in nature rather than made to be cutting.