The Great Game

by O. J. Lowe

  “Neither of you know what you speak of.” Itandje’s voice was little more than a growl. “How about you stop talking about what you know fuck all about.”

  “So, there’s no reason to be here,” Leclerc added as if he hadn’t said anything. “Right?”

  “Right,” Fagan agreed. “I mean unless you’d done something stupid like deserting? They shoot their deserters, right?”

  “If they’re lucky,” Leclerc said. “I heard they skin the real high-ranking ones who try it. An object lesson, I think is the phrase, am I right Commandant?”

  “How high were you?” Fagan asked. “Or maybe they just want you dead. You must have pissed someone badly off to get that reaction.”

  Somewhere amidst it all, Itandje had hesitated and now he slid back towards his seat. “Either of you have a point?”

  “Just that we’re not on bad enough terms with your former employers not to mention that we’ve seen you. I mean, it’d take a quick call and then they’d be here in force,” Fagan mused. “If they really wanted you, that is.”

  “Or we can offer you some protection,” Leclerc added. “We don’t have a gripe with you, Mister Itandje, we just want to know a few things and if you prove helpful, we’ll put you out of reach of Mazoud and the rest of them for the rest of your natural life.”

  “However long that is,” Itandje growled. “I won’t sell out Mazoud. Mainly because he’s done nothing wrong…”

  “I doubt that but go on,” Fagan said. Itandje did, carrying on as if he hadn’t been interrupted.

  “… but also, if I said a bad word about him to you, my life really wouldn’t be worth living. He’d find some way of finishing me off. And there’d be someone to sell me out. There’s always someone who needs credits.”

  “We’re not interested in Mazoud,” Leclerc insisted. “Rather some work your organisation might have been involved in. On Carcaradis Island.”

  Itandje sighed, let his head loll back and finally swallowed the rest of his drink. “That fucking place. Should have known.”

  “Should have known what?” That he remembered it was a promising sign. Maybe they’d get some answers, Fagan thought. This whole trip might have been worth it after all.

  “That island. Never going back there. Not for any credits, not for any offer… It’s not natural.” Itandje’s eyes widened as he spoke, almost theatrically but there was something behind them that spoke volumes about the fear in them. “Whole mission was a mess from the start. They tried building there, clearing it all out… They blasphemed. It wasn’t meant to be tamed.”

  “It’s turned out nice,” Fagan said. “They did a good job. I’d go there on a holiday, given the chance. And a decent wage.”

  Itandje gave him a dirty look. “You know nothing. Only those outside the kingdom call it by the name Carcaradis. Vazarans… Those who haven’t had their minds ruined and corrupted by excess… all know it by its true name. Ai-Yal’Sanhim. Those that lived there were blessed to survive it. To protect it. And we fucked that up royally by being brought in to pacify them. Some we wiped out. Some we captured. I don’t know what they did with the poor bastards but we heard them screaming. They died noisily.”

  Fagan held his breath as he spoke, letting it out in one soft exhalation. He recalled all the bodies of those natives just too well to ignore it. Any sort of flippant comment was lost as he tried to forget those rooms just a few dozen feet under the affluence of the island above.

  “I blame that woman. And that mad doctor. They were obsessed. They thought something was there and well, they turned out right. I lost my faith about the time they found it. Fucking proof right there and I didn’t want to accept it.”

  “Proof of what?” Leclerc asked.

  For a moment, Itandje didn’t answer and then he laughed bitterly. “Eternity. The answers to it all. The proof of the power is in the wielding of it. Just because she hasn’t set it all off yet, doesn’t mean she won’t. Mazoud is in thrall to her.” He stiffened. “Speaking of…”

  Across the room, the door to the bar had opened, Fagan glanced back and saw it out the corner of his eye. He relaxed only for a second, saw the glint of metal and the hint of black uniform and suddenly he was in motion, overturning the table and yanking Itandje down behind it. The sound of blaster fire tore through the bar as Leclerc joined him on the ground, X7 already out. Screams and shouts of terror broke through the bar as bodies hit the floor, people made runs for it and Fagan felt sick as he realised they’d run out of time.

  “Friends of yours?” he asked, drawing his own weapon out. Itandje had a Rellman in his hand, a stubby blaster pistol with an elongated barrel. Nothing fancy about it, a good weapon for circumstances like this, close-range combat. It did what it was intended to do.

  “Guess they found me,” Itandje said with resignation in his voice. “Don’t let them take me!” Resignation quickly became overcome by terror. “Don’t let them take me!”

  “We made you a promise,” Leclerc said. “We get you out, you talk, we make you safe.”

  “Wish we could skip straight to step three,” Fagan muttered, pointing his weapon over the table and blind firing out over it. He doubted he’d hit anything but it made a point. That they were armed and anyone approaching would be shot. The table was thick and heavy, he’d nearly wrenched his arm out of his socket as he’d overturned it but at least it was blocking any blasts coming their way. Maybe they were only trying to stun them. The force behind a stun shot might be greater but the actual penetration was virtually non-existent. “There a back door to this place?”

  “The fuck you think?” Itandje said. He pointed his Rellman over the top of the table and squeezed off a few blasts, before jerking his head over towards the counter. Fagan could see a door behind it, he hadn’t noticed it earlier amidst all the chaos. “There. Through the kitchen. This is all your fault, y’know.”

  Neither Leclerc nor Fagan deigned to respond to that. They looked at each other, heard the shots crashing in over them and against the table. So far, they’d been unscathed but they’d been lucky. If Fagan hadn’t seen them when he had…

  “Okay, on three,” Fagan said. “Two of us lay down covering fire, the other moves. Joe, work with us here. Jacques, move! One, two… Three!”

  Fair to Itandje, he did join in with him as they fired over the makeshift barricade, the flurry of shots silencing the ones coming their way for a moment. And Leclerc moved, out of cover and towards the counter, his X7 reporting twice as he caught beads on foes who had ventured dangerously into his view. Fagan could see them properly now, they looked like Vazaran Suns operatives, right down to the uniform and the weapons. Thankfully none of them were packing shields. He said as much to Itandje who laughed derisively.

  “You think they give their ops teams shields? The whole fucking point is they get encouraged not to be shot.” He broke into a bray of laughter. “Numbers and firepower. Their two main tactics in pacification.”

  “Sometimes that’s what you need,” Fagan said grimly. If there were a lot of them right now, he’d fancy their chances against the three of them. Leclerc fired his X7 again, emptying the power pack in the direction of the door, the wild shots sending the enemy scattering. “Go!”

  Itandje didn’t hesitate, jumped up and sprinted the short distance across the floor as Fagan gave him the cover he needed, adding his few remaining shots to those Leclerc had spray fired into the crowd. At least three had gone down, still too many more… He ejected his spent pack and fixed a new one in.

  “Will,” he said into his ear comm. “What’s happening outside.”

  “Derenko and Aldiss are pinned down. You need to get out there, maybe find another way out. Withdraw to the air station on your own.”

  He almost swore. “You’re kidding?”

  “They’re having to pull out, they’re taking heavy fire. You’re on your own for the moment.” This time, he did swear. Twin pistols continued to fire over by the counter, he added a few of his own
to the flurry, just enough to keep the Suns at bay before making his move. It wasn’t a comfortable crouching run but he kept his head down, hissed as one of their shots grazed his shoulder and soon flopped down next to them. His shoulder was on fire, even with the shield and the armour. Sometimes some latent heat got through. Nothing could be done about that.

  “You hear that?” he gasped to Leclerc who nodded.

  “Ah yes,” he replied. “Only too well. Shall we?”

  Through the kitchen door they went and just for a moment, Fagan thought they might make it as he spotted the back door. It was a dangerous light of hope, he tried to push it out of his mind. They couldn’t afford to be distracted now. Leclerc went first, crashing through the door and pulled up short outside, Fagan and Itandje coming up behind him. Itandje cursed violently as the five men took aim at them. Same uniforms, same weapons, they’d walked out of the lion’s den into the bear pit. Their faces were uncovered, all Vazarans of differently intensifying darkness to their skin.

  “Shit!” Fagan said. It was no use trying to fight back. They had them outnumbered, outgunned and dead to rights. They’d made to flush them out and they’d succeeded. Split the team up, make them weaker, cut them off from backup.

  “Could really use a miracle right now,” Leclerc muttered. He sounded like he agreed with his teammate’s sentiment. Between them, Itandje began to speak rapidly in Vazaran to the men, Fagan couldn’t work out if he was begging for mercy or trying to feign innocence. He saw Leclerc roll his eyes. By the looks of that, he might be trying both.

  “Miracles don’t come cheap,” Fagan muttered. Why hadn’t they killed them yet? They honestly couldn’t be that interested in what Itandje had to say, could they? He glanced around, they’d found themselves in a back alley. The street was only a dozen or so metres away, just that close to freedom. But that aside, there was nowhere else to go. Overflowing dumpsters hemmed them in either side, thick and heavy and good cover but the moment they made for it, they’d be blasted.

  Itandje finished speaking, a pleading expression on his face as he tilted his head to the side. The lead guy shook his head, squeezed the trigger and Fagan yelled in frustration as the trio of blasts hit Itandje in the chest, hurling him back towards the exit of the café. Both he and Leclerc dived towards the dumpsters, taking advantage of the momentary confusion. Blaster fire followed them, some came close to landing, concrete chips tore into his hands and face as he hit the ground behind cover.

  Then came the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard, the familiar roar of the Unisco speeder’s engines, followed by the even more familiar sound of Featherstone fire roaring through the alley. He peeked out, saw Aldiss spraying them with his weapon, Derenko quickly joining in. Within seconds, they’d taken all five out and Fagan felt a sudden sense of elation. They were getting out of here.

  But Itandje wasn’t. He could see that; the wounds would be fatal and there was no changing that. They were under fire in a hostile environment, they wouldn’t be able to get him to a hospital. He slid over to him, saw the last breath had already gone out of his body. Angrily he hit the ground with the flat of his hand before making to get out.

  The speeder had seen better days, nicks and burns covered the sides and half the windshield had been melted by blaster fire. But the engines still worked and they soon quickly picked up speed, covering the distance between them and the crime scene in little time at all. The sooner they were in the air, Fagan thought, the better. This whole mission had been a bust from start to finish.

  They’d failed. And failed badly as well.

  Chapter Fifty-Six. The Sliding Scales.

  “You must be joking if you think I enjoyed any part of doing that.”

  Nick Roper in his statement to the Carcaradis Island authorities following his arrest.

  The twenty-seventh day of Summerpeak.

  Obsolete?

  Special Correspondent Kate Kinsella writes from the Competitive Centenary Calling Challenge Cup.

  To say that the enthusiasm for the tournament has largely been kicked out of a shell-shocked crowd is an understatement. Although the quarter finals did culminate last night, few of the victorious callers did celebrate more than they might have done under less stressful circumstances. To make the semi-final of this tournament is a grandiose occasion but looking at the faces of Theobald Jameson, Katherine Sommer and Scott Taylor over the past few days, you wouldn’t have guessed it. To describe celebrations as muted might perhaps have been not giving them the right due. Even Taylor, perhaps shown as the most passionate of the three over the course of the tournament didn’t seem as overjoyed as perhaps he might have been.

  The feeling of uncertainty hovering over the competitors following the vicious murder of one of their own has failed to linger and even Ronald Ritellia having his nose broken hasn’t cheered most of them up although it has spared us from listening to his delusions of how everything is okay over the last few days. In this case, the evidence that it isn’t really does sit right in front of his eyes. With this sort of apathy slowly settling over the tournament, after all there are only four bouts left before a winner is declared, and at the point when the excitement should be reaching a fever pitch, this correspondent asks if it is perhaps time to abandon the whole format in favour of something new. Something fresh and inspiring, perhaps untainted by the repeated scandals that have plagued it over the years, mostly brought in part by ICCC members and their desire for a moment in the sun that most of them have not deserved.

  Five years ago, there was the Pro-Spirit-Plus scandal which was very quickly outlawed when discovered, younger readers might not remember that ICCC member at the time Werner Jackson was also a part owner of a company that produced the spirit enhancing drugs, providing an effect not unlike banned steroids. The lengthy court case that followed did absolutely nobody any favours. With everyone and anyone at the ICCC being implicated and only Jackson being convicted and later banned from having anything to do with the sport, the results were underwhelming to say the very least.

  Then there was the bout fixing scandal of the tournament before, allegations that were dredged back up during this very tournament in the Arventino versus Jacobs bout, allegations that bore very little fruit and were the purview of people who were either bad losers or who knew very little about spirit calling at this level in the first place, sneery armchair fans who contribute very little to the great game other than to indirectly swell the coffers of the very people who take and take and give so very little back. No tournament has been free of scandal since Ronald Ritellia took over but it is only in this one that the scandal has turned into death and murder rather than corruption and dishonesty. Not the sort of legacy that anyone sane would wish to leave behind.

  It might be the time for these swollen egos to put aside their thoughts of their own personal gain and for once in their careers, do something to benefit the sport in a positive way. This format has become unwieldy for years, a series of increasingly predictable rounds which threaten to dull the excitement the more that it progresses. Granted there have been some shocks this year but perhaps more than the past three tournaments combined when this new format began, a predictable pandering towards those watching at home on their viewing screens. More bouts equal more credits in the eyes of the powers that sit on their behinds. More bouts equal more chance for sponsorship, more money from the companies that want to screen it all. The ICCC boasted proudly before the tournament that every bout would be broadcast live, you could hear the back slapping and the self-congratulation from a mile away.

  But perhaps, for once, they should think of us. Granted, when you put it into perspective, Ritellia has done some good things but the negatives far outweigh the positives. For every free spirit summoner device given out in Vazara, there is the question of where the rest of the money to be spent on them went. For every free tutoring class in Burykia taught by retired spirit callers, there is a deep sense of foreboding that he’s about to release some bombshell brough
t about by the incompetence of his management.

  “Am I the only one wondering why Kinsella hates Ritellia so much?” Lysa Montgomery asked as she lifted her eyes away from the article. “I mean every chance she gets; she goes to town on him. It’s sad and predictable and kinda funny. Every chance, boom, she hits him hard.”

  “I don’t think Ritellia cares,” Anne said. She, Lysa, Okocha and Tod Brumley had made the occasion to get out of headquarters and into one of the cafés on the island, indulging in a spot of lunch. “He’s got a thick skin. Like a rhino. It’s why he gets away with so many public appearances. If someone wanted to shoot him, knowing our luck he’d survive it unscathed.”

  Brumley laughed at that. “Yeah, he’s one of a kind. Unfortunately, not in a good way. I’m surprised at you, Anne. I thought you tried to see the best in everyone.”

  “Yeah, I tried,” she said. “You ever met Ritellia. He’s a strange one.”

  “Not like Nick met him,” Okocha said, that single comment bringing laughter from both Lysa and Brumley. Anne frowned at them in dismay.

  “You shouldn’t laugh at it you know. He’s in serious trouble.”

  “Yeah, Ritellia’s trying to press charges and sue him and get him banned from ICCC competition for life,” Okocha said. “All at the same time. He’s throwing enough shit at him in hope that some of it sticks. All of which is going to be a pretty nice distraction until Arnholt gets hold of him.”

  “Was he annoyed?” Lysa asked. Okocha nodded and laughed.

  “Oh yeah. Absolutely furious. Never seen him so angry.”

  “It’s true,” Brumley offered. “I was there. Even I was scared. Thought he was going to start shooting.”

  “Any of you seen him?” Anne asked. “Because I heard Dave Wilsin tried to get in to do it…”