The Great Game

by O. J. Lowe

  “Yeah, I got that,” Noorland said. “Seriously. Clear your head, clear your mind. I’ll stay here. You know I’m trained to do your job.”

  “Not as well as me.” Okocha’s voice was stubborn, angry. It was the tone of voice that said, ‘aha but you aren’t me so stop trying to be.’

  “I can match you right now,” Noorland replied. “Because you’re that out of it. When was the last time you got a full night’s sleep?”

  “When was Arventino’s fight with that freaky he-she?”

  “Wow…” Noorland sounded like he was straddling the lines between impressed and disgusted. “That long?”

  “Aye… Next tournament, we should bring more people…” Okocha cut off with another yawn.

  “I agree with Agent Noorland.”

  Both looked up, saw Brendan stood staring into the room, a patient look across his craggy features.

  “Will, go get some sleep. Think we got some sleep tablets in storage. Take a couple. You’ll feel better in the morning. I’m ordering you to do it. Agent Noorland, I need you to do something for me. My biometrics are fritzing out again. See if you can fix it for me.”

  “And therefore, you need me,” Okocha piped up. “If he’s fixing that, then who’s going to be watching this.” He gestured at his screen. “Who’s going to…”

  “Get out!” Brendan jerked his thumb towards the door. “Don’t make me…” He was cut off as his caller buzzed. So did Okocha’s. So did Noorland’s.

  The same screen next to Okocha was suddenly alight with activity and the three men looked at each other, a sudden collective of heavy hearts present in the room. Eyes went to display screens and all messages read the same. It was a picture of someone they knew of very well, a perky blond figure and the heart-breaking message beneath it. All three of them felt it and they suddenly found themselves worried for what would come next.

  Sharon Arventino found dead in hotel room at Quin-C.

  Chapter Fifty-Three. The Day I Die.

  “Everyone dies. Some deaths are just more pointless than others. I can’t think of anything I’d want more than my death to matter.”

  Alison Teserine, former highest of the Vedo.

  The twenty-second day of Summerpeak.

  He waited patiently while the two of them spoke, the traitorous Silas and the self-styled Mistress. Wim Carson chose to ignore that moniker she’d bestowed upon herself. If he chose to address her, it was either with her name or with an absence of it. He could have overheard them if he chose, yet he didn’t. The less he knew of this scheme, the more comfortable he felt he’d be somehow. If only for his conscience. What he knew, he didn’t like. Besides, he had something he needed to do. He knew he’d need her leave to do it and therefore no point in antagonising her unnecessarily. If she chose to engage in discussion with a man like Silas, then that was up to her.

  He could feel the duplicity radiating from him. From her, Wim just got the same feelings as he usually did. Deep calm, smug authority, an unshaking sense of belief in her own justification. Nothing more dangerous than someone who truly believed what they were saying to be the truth. Therein lay the musings of a dangerous lunatic.

  Still he’d rather be here than prowling the rest of the Eye for the missing Cavanda. That girl had to be here somewhere, but she’d proven evasive. That the ship was large and therefore an easy place to find somewhere to hide lay in her favour and she’d taken advantage of it. It felt like a fool’s errand to seek her out, if she was still here then she’d show herself sooner or later. The only question remained how many she’d kill when she did show back up. They’d discovered the hole she’d cut through the hull; they’d been at work patching it up ever since. No sign of her, no trace of her in the Kjarn. She was chameleoning herself, he’d guess, making herself impossible to find through mystical means. Not a hard technique but an infinitely useful one.

  He felt a tinge of disgust, saw Silas rise to his feet and make for the door. Though his face was neutral, there was no hiding his feelings from him.

  “I loathe that man,” the Mistress said as the door closed behind him. “I truly do.”

  “And yet, you’re willing to work with him.” There was no amusement in Wim’s voice, just a cold statement of fact.

  “Well yes.” She sounded by surprised by what he’d said.

  “And the fact that he’s proving himself to be a traitor doesn’t worry you?”

  “Everyone’s a potential traitor. The known ones aren’t a problem. It’s the unknown ones I find you worry about the most. You know what they say about keeping your friends close?”

  “Enemies closer?”

  “Absolutely. I need the assistance of everyone here for the time being. I know some of them are already plotting how to stab me in the back. If the others want to stab others in the back, then at least the knives aren’t pointed at me. It buys me time.”

  “It’s a dangerous scheme that you have embarked upon. I see that at least you are prepared for the realities of the path you have chosen to walk.”

  She gave him a smug look. More than that he could feel it radiating from her. Like poison. “I’ve spent years planning for this. I have foreseen every detail in as much as I can. I have my confidants, they’ve thought of things I haven’t and we’ve accounted for as many variables as we can. When all the pieces are in play, we will be victorious.” She didn’t mention his own part in proceedings but he could tell she was fighting the urge.

  “I have a request,” he said. There was a viewing screen in his quarters and he’d spent a lot of time watching the Quin-C tournament, not normally something he’d done throughout his life but with all the time in the world on his hands now, he had the opportunity. And thus, the purpose of his visit to her had come into existence.

  “Really?”

  “I need to go to Carcaradis Island. I need help in regards of the problem, some brains that need to be picked for extra information. There is someone there who can help me with that. I require transportation. Are you willing to provide me with it?”

  He left no room for interpretation in his voice, resisted enhancing it with the Kjarn to power his suggestion. He had the impression she’d be resistant to it, would have the willpower to see through it. If she was feeble minded, she wouldn’t have gone ahead with this entire scheme. It wasn’t a theory he was curious to test.

  “Who?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Who do you need to see? I’ll have them brought here.”

  He shook his head. “They are like me. Or they were. You would struggle to restrain them. And it is one thing doing it in a remote area like you did with the girl. In the middle of a public place, someone would spot it. Secrecy would be lost. I imagine you don’t want a scene. It undermines everything you’ve done to this point.”

  He trailed a finger across the table top. “No, I must see her in private. It is the best way to engage cooperation. I hope we have enough remaining history to ensure that it can be done amicably.”

  “You speak wisely,” she admitted. She didn’t look happy about it. She didn’t feel happy about it. “I want you to take someone with you. A witness. I don’t entirely trust you. You might run.”

  He almost laughed out loud at her words. “Where am I going to run to? It’s an island and I have no credits to get off it. As much as you might have faith in my abilities, I’m not in the habit of abusing them just to get out a deal I made willingly. If I were, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. When are you going to work out that my word is my bond? This trip is in your interest. There is no need for a witness.”

  “I think there is. It’s not that I don’t trust you…” He could tell immediately that those words were a lie and he fought the urge to give her a sarcastic smile. “… It’s not. I don’t trust those who you might talk to. You’ve shown your own opposition to my undertaking and I do not wish to have it undermined by anyone whom you might contact. Some people have stronger consciences than you.”

 
; “No.” Wim sounded strangely defiant as he said it. “They really don’t.”

  “Regardless,” she said, insistent in her words. “A witness is what you need and a witness is what you shall have. Of my choosing and of my command.”

  “I do not think…”

  “That it is a good idea? But I do, my dear Wim. It’s with a witness or without.”

  He felt a stab of annoyance. “You’d really sabotage your own efforts?”

  “What I need from you is a part of my plan. It is not the be all and end all. If needs must, I would do without it. But should I not need it, then I wouldn’t need you. And do you really think you’d be able to make it off this ship alive?”

  Anger rushed through him as he stood up straight, his hand twitching to go for his weapon. He held away from it, took several deep breaths and tried to push them down inside him. That wasn’t right. He shouldn’t have risen like that. “Do you?” he asked quietly.

  “You have so much you want to live for,” she said. “I’m prepared to die in the pursuit of my undertaking. I’ve made my peace with that.” She sounded like she spoke the truth; he could feel the steel in her words. “Can you say the same?”

  He glared at her. “Talk to me of witnesses. I want someone reliable.”

  As it happened, she had just the person in mind, someone she wanted out of her hair for the time being. Someone who was useless here for the time being. Someone who had experience of Carcaradis Island. Someone who Wim would be able to intimidate into good behaviour. She smiled at him coolly. He undoubtedly wouldn’t like it. What he did or didn’t like wasn’t her concern.

  They’d arrived on Carcaradis Island shortly after mid-morning and Wim was already regretting the fact that she’d made him bring Rocastle along. The man had proven himself to be a truly disgusting individual and already he was looking for an excuse to either cut him loose or cut him down. Either would suit nicely. Until then, he’d play nice.

  A pair of pilots sat up front, guiding the craft down to the aeroport, him and the fat man stuck in the back. Rocastle dug under his nails with a flint of metal as they sat in silence, neither of them quite willing to speak to the other just yet. He’d grown a beard to help disguise his identity, wispy and dyed black, contacts in his eyes to give them a watery brown tint, his long hair cut short. And then there was his prosthetics, the new fingers he’d been granted following his aborted attempt to keep the girl prisoner.

  Wim had no sympathy for him in that regard, nor for his bloody Mistress. They should have informed him that they had a prisoner with such abilities, he would have been able to assist in keeping her contained, rather than have her screw things up the way she had. The fingers hadn’t been covered with synthetic skin yet, they were a dull blue colour, every joint exposed across the metallic surface. Every time he moved them, Wim saw the flinch pass across Rocastle’s face, starting from where the clasps dug deep into his knuckles. Due to the cauterising nature of the kjarnblade, they’d been unable to reattach the original digits.

  He might learn a lesson from this. Mainly about going up against an opponent with a kjarnblade with a blaster. That wasn’t a fair contest, not even for a skilled combatant against a novice bladesman. And nothing about Rocastle spoke to him of skill. He was a bully and a coward, those were his impressions and he’d seen nothing to tell him otherwise.

  Granted he did have a weapon in the interests of protection, be it from Wim himself or from the target ahead but somehow Wim didn’t find that too worrying. How accurate he was with it would be open to debate. A skilled combatant was something he didn’t think Rocastle was. He could sense the unease in the man, buried beneath pain and resentment. And maybe a little worry. He wasn’t happy to be back on the island. There’d been some sort of trouble some weeks earlier, Wim wasn’t clear on the details.

  He’d asked as much and Rocastle had refused to answer, giving him that sarcastic sneer that told him it was none of his business. Wim had probed deeper across the surface of his temporary partner’s being, an act that disgusted him but he sensed no regret to balance out that fear. All Rocastle had said was that he didn’t want to be recognised or there’d be trouble afoot. Trouble that would make the two of them targets.

  With that in mind, it had made Wim wonder why she’d picked the fat man to go with him in the first place. Surely there’d be someone less likely to bring trouble down on them. Or maybe she’d just decided to cut them both loose and to hells with the consequences if they didn’t come back. Either way, it meant he’d need to ensure that Rocastle wasn’t recognised. Some sort of abject lesson in teamwork he really didn’t need? If that was the case, he could do with teaching that bloody woman a lesson. Who the hells did she think she was interfering with him like this. He clenched his fists, ground his teeth together and felt himself shaking under the righteous indignity of it all.

  Something wasn’t right with him. He knew that and it worried him. He’d always been tightly restrained with his emotions before this. He’d needed to be. Vedo didn’t react like this to adversity. They faced it steadfast and ready to do the right thing. They didn’t fall into their anger. That was a Cavanda trait. Wim knew he needed to be more careful, especially when the entire future of the Vedo was at stake. He needed to restore them, but not at any cost and not by building on such a tenuous base.

  It was an old trick but one that he relished being able to employ again as he strode through the hallway like he owned it, secure in the knowledge that neither he nor his blaster rifle toting companion would be picked up by security footage. Maybe he could own it all. One day, he might be wealthy, he might have the financial influence to back up his power. Having gone from having it all to having nothing, Wim didn’t intend to reach the point where it was all scooped away from him in one vigorous swoop again. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. Vedo of the past would never have aligned themselves with someone like her. That was why they were gone and despite everything, he was still here. He would be triumphant. The last of the old Vedo, the first of the new.

  Of course, that wouldn’t quite be true. It was an idle thought but another disturbing one. Until he’d known true poverty and despair, he’d never thought of greed or desire in these ways before. They were something that had always been beyond him before, he’d never wanted for anything but nor had his life been awash with affluence. He’d been comfortable in it. That was the best way to see it. But to want it all… That was a new one.

  He couldn’t think like that. Of course, saying it was easier than doing it. Much. Then again, the path of a Vedo was never to be an easy one. He hadn’t been one for a long time before this. It was understandable he’d have trouble readjusting. Understandable but unacceptable. He wouldn’t allow himself to fall even further than he had. There was no path back from that. Wim had a task to do here and he couldn’t fail in it. There were still a few pieces yet to slip into place.

  One of them more pressing than anything else. He knew she was here. All that remained was getting her to talk to him.

  What sort of condition might she be in, he couldn’t say with any degree of confidence. Once the Kjarn had been corrupted, it had happened and it had sent the unprepared Vedo who touched it mad slowly but completely. Many of them had needed to be put down. He was lucky that he hadn’t been one of them. Instead it had manifested differently in him, he’d lost his ability to touch it. How and why, he didn’t know. Given what he’d suffered for all that time, he hadn’t been sure back then whether it had been a blessing or not.

  Losing it had undoubtedly been what had kept him sane. There’d been many times in the past, he’d rather have died than live in the squalor but something in him, some spark had kept him going. And now he knew why. It was better now. Once it had been filthy and malignant. Some of it still was. He could feel the remnants of it as he sent a lens flare across the recording image of the camera. It was better but still not perfect. Time was apparently a natural healer. Now he was better and he was rising again. He would do what he
needed to do. Including, apparently, making deals with someone he would have avoided doing so with in the past.

  It appeared you couldn’t escape the rot. Sometimes it was in your head, sometimes it was in the world outside. Here they stood, room three twenty-eight and he could sense the remnants of her presence. She’d spent time here. Enough to imprint a sense of feeling about herself on the room. Expanding his mind out into the area around him, that sense extended everyone, the presences of all those in their rooms minding their own business. It no longer exhausted him. He didn’t want to encounter them. If they interfered, Rocastle would put them down and he didn’t want that.

  With a wave of the hand, the lock on the door clicked open and he grinned at Rocastle, pushing it open. “Easy.”

  “You’re quite the little cat burglar, huh?” Rocastle said. “You fancy giving me a hand with something while you’re here? I’ve got some unfinished business with someone…”

  Wim shook his head. “I’ve been warned about you,” he said sternly. “Any of that business and you’ll lose a hand. The other one.” He nodded his head towards the prosthetic fingers his companion now wore, his own hand tapping the hilt of his kjarnblade.

  “The Mistress warned you about little old me? She tends to overreact.”

  Without bothering to correct him as to the impressions the Kjarn was giving him of Rocastle as an individual, Wim trailed into the room and took it in. He could smell the perfume, azelberry and jasmine. Some things never changed. Back in the day, she’d tried to keep a single azelberry flower in a jar in her quarters. It hadn’t survived. She’d gotten over it a lot faster than he thought she would. “Sit down,” he said, glancing back to Rocastle following him in. “We don’t know how long she’ll be but I don’t want to spook anyone before we’re ready. And I have work to do.”

  “Fine by me,” Rocastle said, dropping down on one of the plush chairs, the kinetic disperser resting across his knees. Wim had chosen the weapon out himself, had explained it as the best choice for the task at hand. They didn’t know what sort of reaction he was going to get; it was harder to defend against the wide spread hammer-like blasts than it was against a single narrow laser blast. When you didn’t quite know what to expect, it was better to be prepared. Even the few scant meditations he’d employed to try and scan out his path ahead had been clouded, too many variables to read what the future might hold for the outcome of this meeting. One could only plan so far ahead.