City of Games

by Jeff Deck

  “Ought to get a med chopper out here,” Jeong says without much enthusiasm as we tie the boat to a dock post.

  “Hold that thought,” I say. Three people approach us from the house. The old man (in his bathrobe still!), along with Attorney Grieg and Patricia. The latter two wear strangely slack expressions that don’t change as I meet their eyes.

  Right. Bad intel from Patricia, because she was already under his control when she called…

  “You should never have come back to my island,” says Scott Shaughnessy.

  He holds up a small metal rod and jabs it in our direction. I feel an unwelcome presence enter my mind. *Come. Come quietly.*

  I’m powerless to speak. My eyes flick to Agent Jeong, whose startled expression tells me he’s in a similar state. Both of us walk with mechanical steps toward Shaughnessy, who leads the way back into the house. Grieg and Patricia also fall in without comment or resistance.

  Probably had the gunman on the dock too, poor bastard.

  “Welcome, once again,” Shaughnessy says as we step into the foyer. “I will consider you four my guests. These others, though, were not invited. Federal agents, on my island, in my home? You’re lucky I’m making an exception for you, Agent Jeong.”

  I manage to glance at the far wall, which Shaughnessy indicated when he said “these others.” A body slumps against the base of the wall. Agent Mike McGuinness has his service weapon pointed at his own head. The shot likely entered under his chin and blew out the back of his skull.

  I’m furious for both of us, but for Jeong in particular, to be prevented from grieving at the sight of poor Mike artificially driven to suicide. All we’re permitted to do is stew on the inside.

  “Might be I have the same idea for you, Agent Jeong,” Shaughnessy remarks. “Or might be I have more elaborate plans. I do have trouble thinking in too much detail these days, though. Especially since Detective Allard here was unkind enough to rob me of my borrowed brainpower.”

  By which he is referring to a human being. Ilana. So, as I thought, the dementia story isn’t all bullshit. He wasn’t just controlling her, though—he was stealing her grey matter for his own use, as a temporary substitute for the diseased organ in his own head. Shaughnessy must now be in dire, immediate need of a new slave. A new thrall, as Patricia termed it.

  “Speaking of which, Detective, would you mind returning what you’ve stolen from me?” the old man says.

  Like an asshole, I’ve brought along the trephine. I wasn’t prepared to use it myself, so what I was thinking? I suppose I wanted to keep it out of the hands of bad guys, but now look where we are. My hand plunges into my pocket of its own accord. I produce the little bronze instrument.

  No. NO!

  My arm jerks as it attempts to deliver Shaughnessy’s prize to him. I’ve blocked the command. I’ve stopped it!

  Shaughnessy sighs. “This is why taking your blood is more effective. Less possibility for rebellion. Well, let’s try the tide again.” He waves his little rod once more.

  This time I can’t fight him. I hand the trephine over. Shaughnessy takes a leather kit from his pocket. Three differently shaped depressions adorn the felt interior; one holds a bronze hexagonal object with tiny slits on its surface. Another is an empty space shaped like the rod Shaughnessy is holding. The third is half-occupied by a metal lid or cap. Shaughnessy removes this last piece and fits it onto the top of the trephine, and then puts the completed object into its space.

  *You may talk now,* says the commanding voice indulgently. I note Shaughnessy’s own lips don’t move while this is happening. Does the rod enable a mind-to-mind communication? And what did he mean by tide?

  “The Mesmerist’s toolset,” I say.

  Shaughnessy nods. “Perhaps you think you understand now. But you don’t. You never will, or at least not until the day your own mind begins to betray you. I have a feeling you won’t make it to such a day.”

  “Where’s Barnes?” Jeong barks at him. He’s apparently been regifted his speech as well.

  “The black one? You’ll see her soon enough.” Shaughnessy dismisses this concern with a finger flick. “To clarify, I’ve loosened your tongues so I can ask you some questions. I am… curious about how some elements of my charade managed to escape me. Perhaps you can humor me, as we all head upstairs.”

  *Head upstairs,* the commanding voice echoes in my head. The four of us mental captives follow the old man as he shuffles up three flights of stairs with minor difficulty.

  “First, is Officer Fragonard still alive?” Shaughnessy asks. “It would be a shame if your interference in the City of Games caused her to die.”

  “She’s dead,” I say. “She chose to end her life rather than become your organ donor.”

  *Are you lying?*

  “Yes, I’m lying,” I follow up by saying. Then: “Dammit. You’re not playing fair, old man.”

  Shaughnessy chuckles. “I avoid leaving things up to chance, whenever possible. Accept the rules of the game, Detective Allard. Another question—how did you manage not to get killed by Ilana, when you came back?”

  “She was a bad shot.” *Are you sure?* says the voice, the voice of the rod. I revise myself: “She fired at me, but the Relic blocked the shot and it rebounded to her.”

  “Ah, the Relic,” Shaughnessy says, pleased. “Which you also have brought me. How very thoughtful of you.”

  “You’re not getting the Relic, you old shitstain,” I snap at him. “I’ll fight you with every last bit of willpower I have left.”

  He gives me a ghastly grin. His eyes are watering as he says, “I’ll be most amused to see that happen. Another question for you. Is Milly Fragonard still alive in Avariccia?”

  Now that’s surprising. Or maybe not, now that I think about it. “Your dementia’s showing, Shaughnessy. You already asked me that.”

  His eyes widen. “Oh.”

  Shaughnessy opens the attic door and then ushers us all forward, as if he’d rather not turn his back on any of us. He still looks rattled by his slip. I trudge up the attic stairs. Agent Lena Barnes, her wrists and ankles trussed together, is curled up approximately where the quintessence Port was. She’s still alive, because of course the blood will have to be fresh.

  “Goddamn, am I glad to see you g…” she says. “Oh. You too, huh.”

  “Yeah, sorry,” I say. Will Shaughnessy make Barnes shoot herself? Will he make Jeong do it? Yeah, the old psycho will probably go for the latter. If I could only get Jeong’s gun before Shaughnessy and his little rod issue the command… but no, my limbs steadfastly refuse to accept my commands.

  “Shaughnessy,” Jeong says—in the direction of Barnes, because he’s not allowed to turn his own head— “spare Barnes. She’s here on my orders. You gotta sacrifice someone, sacrifice me instead.”

  “Such a devoted boss,” Shaughnessy says. “But I don’t have to listen to your orders. You’ll be much more useful to me than one of your lackeys. Your brain, your quick wits, your experience and skills will be most appreciated by Chaum or one of his lieutenants. Draw your weapon, agent.”

  Jeong’s face looks anguished. I see him struggling to disobey. His arm trembles. His fingers hover over his gun, then they clench into a fist.

  “Too strongminded to not be an annoyance,” Shaughnessy grumbles. “I don’t have the energy to keep pulling at your tide for too much longer, so how about a more potent motivation.” He takes the little bronze hexagon out of his kit. Out of another bathrobe pocket, he retrives a small glass vial. Then he slaps the bronze instrument against Jeong’s neck and flicks a switch on the side.

  Jeong gasps as the tiny blades spring into his flesh. Shaughnessy collects the blood trickling forth in the vial. And Jeong’s features slacken in a way similar to Grieg’s.

  I feel Shaughnessy’s control over me thinning while the old man collects Ethan’s blood sample. My eyes flick to Grieg, who looks as out of it as ever. But Patricia looks considerably livelier. I see subtle motions
of her legs, her arms. She catches my eye and nods, again only in the subtlest manner.

  My own limbs feel like they’re moving through molasses… but they are responding to me, finally. Righteous rage surges into me. Let that be my fuel. I have no weapon, but I could grab Jeong’s if the old man keeps looking away at the exact angle he is now.

  I lurch for it.

  At the same time, Shaughnessy turns back toward me, as if in slow motion. He’ll catch me in the act of grabbing the gun. Patricia sees the same thing about to happen—because she screams then, to grab Shaughnessy’s attention.

  He whirls toward her, bewildered, and the gun slips into my grasp. I lift it to the old man’s head, only belatedly asking myself if I can bring myself to murder. Especially at close range. It will be colorful, it will be traumatic for all involved, but this is what I was trained for. Take a life if it means saving other, innocent lives.

  Take it.

  Take it, asshole! Do it!

  Shaughnessy has turned back to me now. He’s raised his “tidal” rod, and now the voice of command barges back into my brain—

  *Shoot her. Now!*

  I robotically swing the gun toward Patricia and I shoot her in the face.

  NO!

  This is the stuff of nightmares for any officer of the law… which I no longer am, and will never be again. Not just a close-combat kill, but killing an innocent person, watching as her middle-aged features explode into red ruin. The blood is a wreath, framing the terrible artwork I have rendered, and what was once Patricia tumbles.

  I’m screaming. I am the only one screaming. Jeong and Grieg are upright potatoes, unmoved and unmoving. Barnes is stone-faced on the floor, staring at me and thinking MURDERER!

  “Well, we’ll use this one’s blood, then,” Shaughnessy says. “No point in making Jeong shoot his lackey if he won’t even remember it. Can save Agent Barnes for the return trip. Allard, help me drag Grieg’s woman into position, and be quick about it.”

  *Shut your mouth. Toss that gun away. Grab her. Move her.*

  My screaming cuts off as abruptly as if someone grasped my windpipe. I turn and awkwardly throw Jeong’s gun toward the attic stairs. Then I take Patricia’s shoulders and drag her into the dried blood patch, which she quickly rewets. I step back. Shaughnessy traces the five-petaled pattern around Patricia’s corpse while chanting, in the Avariccian language:

  O Master of Quintessence, we lay this sacrifice before you, open the gate and breach the skin between worlds, drink the blood and consume the flesh, May Your Hand Never Close…

  Once again, the quintessence Port is coaxed into being. It feeds on Patricia’s life force and grows to its full size, and the flowers dance as I shriek at myself in my own head.

  Murderer. Murderer. Murderer. If I’d only been strong enough to resist—Jeong was stronger, anyway, Shaughnessy had to step it up to bloodletting to control him—I am a murderer!

  I struggle to get Ethan Jeong’s attention with my eyes, the only movable part left to me. He stares straight ahead. Ethan’s blood seems to give Shaughnessy full control over him; I wonder if that’s what he did with Grieg, too. I wonder why he didn’t take Patricia’s blood… underestimated her, perhaps? Just another weak woman?

  I killed her.

  “Now,” says Shaughnessy. “Come with me, everyone. I have a few errands to run in Avariccia, and you have a few items to donate.” He nods at Barnes. “You, stay here.”

  “My pleasure,” the agent mutters, doing everything she can to avoid looking at me.

  14

  I enter the City of Games under duress for the second time. This was supposed to be a triumphant rescue. Now look at me—under the body and mind control of an old man determined to steal someone else’s brain, with my only allies a zombie and a murderous city councilor that I’m now, somehow, feeling bad for. I’ll be lucky to save myself, never mind Milly.

  This time I barely feel the sensation of crossing universes, because I can barely feel my own body. Arriving at the now-familiar hideous statue of the Hand, I see we’re not alone. A whole company of silver soldiers sits in the five sets of pews. They’ve been waiting for someone to come back through, whether it’s me or the “sorcerer” to whom Chaum owes his newfound independence.

  Soldier Lord Chaum itself is among its troops. It rises and stares at me with Milly’s eyes. “Welcome,” it says. “I expected you would return sooner or later—you seemed the type not to leave a hopeless task unfinished.”

  “Actually, she returned under my auspices,” says Scott Shaughnessy. He walks to my side, and Grieg and Jeong fall in line. “I bring her, and these intelligent and capable men, as offerings. Not to the Hand That Never Closes, but to you, a Lord mightier than the god you have worshiped for so long. You are the first of your people to seize destiny for your own.”

  Chaum nods along. Milly’s eyes are disturbingly avid, an expression I never witnessed while they belonged to their rightful owner. Then it occurs to me that Chaum has no problem hearing what Shaughnessy’s saying. Some unfortunate underling must have donated its hearing to it in a hasty Wager.

  “And, I bring you another Relic for your collection,” Shaughnessy proclaims. He waggles his little rod in my direction.

  *Show it, now.*

  I bring the Relic—the giant fingernail—out of my bag and hold it up with my wooden limbs. Milly’s—Chaum’s eyes widen. It strides down the center aisle and snatches the Relic from my grasp. I let it, of course. Just like that, I’ve lost my one weapon.

  “The Priest Relic,” issues the voice from the suit. It’s practically drooling. Maybe the many mouths within that armor are drooling, a thought that makes my mind shudder. “Well done, sorcerer. I thought it lost to your world.”

  “How is your collection coming along?” Shaughnessy inquires.

  “Doxe Ungam is dead,” Chaum announces. “We pried it out and cut it to pieces in the Campo, and we ate it. Same with the Noble Sublord. Then I took the Noble Relic for my own. That makes my collection nearly complete, but for the coward Merchant Lord hiding in the Tower of the Glutton, and we’ll have it out soon enough.”

  “What’s the complication?” the old man asks.

  The Soldier Lord pauses. “The door to the stairwell is locked with a key phrase that only the Merchant Lord and Sublord know—well, and the late Doxe, but Ungam was not forthcoming with that information.”

  Shaughnessy scoffs. “Why not just topple the tower with the coward inside?”

  “We can’t risk damaging the Merchant Relic. If it breaks, none of the other Relics will be capable of a skill Wager either. I need your mind control to accomplish the task.”

  All that work to complete the collection. And for what? To assemble themselves into a shadow of humanity? Why can’t these disgusting creatures be happy for who they are? I’m itching to interrogate the Soldier Lord for the reasons behind all this slaughter and conquest.

  “Fine, then,” says Shaughnessy. “Will you take us to the Tower?”

  “I shall.”

  “And you remember your end of the bargain? After you obtain the last Relic, I wish to see your human prisoner immediately. I am eager to undergo the exchange, now that the meddlesome priest and the self-righteous Doxe are dead. By your grace, I will receive my new brain.”

  The Soldier Lord grunts. “First, let me take a closer look at these humans you’ve brought me. I know I want the ears from this insolent toad. But from whom should I claim my new nose? Who will yield me my human mouth?”

  Its gauntleted hand strokes Jeong’s face. Jeong doesn’t react. I struggle to regain control of myself. But, as the one thrall whose blood Shaughnessy doesn’t yet possess, I’m the most dangerous, so the old man keeps his little rod trained on me.

  “Yes,” Chaum murmurs, and then moves on to Grieg. Its eyes roll, looking at the man’s small facial features, but then it taps the lawyer’s skull. “Yes, perhaps the best organ is on the inside for this one…”

  With that
, we proceed to the Campo and enter the palace. The Feast hall is now the site of widespread carnage. I spot the ruined metal shell of the Doxe, who now looks much like the contents of the Feast itself. Three fingernails, Chaum’s and the two that recently belonged to Gluhnt and Ungam, are arrayed on the long Feast table. Seeing them lined up next to each other, I can distinguish differences in the shapes and sizes, depending on which finger each came from.

  I wonder if these soldiers are all dreaming of their own borrowed human parts. The three of us who are Shaughnessy’s “guests” can only offer so many. So what next, if everyone wants their own full set? Will Shaughnessy keep zombifying people from Portsmouth and bringing them through?

  I have to stop all of this. Even if it means throwing my life away like Patricia did with hers.

  No. I killed her. Another ghost for the entourage.

  Then the soldiers drag in an unexpected addition to the scene: an Avariccian in a battered gold suit, with two of its doors hanging open. They deposit the Avariccian in front of Shaughnessy.

  “The Merchant Sublord, I presume,” Shaughnessy says.

  “You will extract the key phrase for the door?” Chaum asks.

  The old man trains the rod on the Sublord for a moment, his lips moving silently, then says, “I have it.”

  “Aha!” Chaum roars. “Uench, your doom is at hand.”

  Shaughnessy’s control over my physical movements is still absolute, but his ban on my speech slipped during the instant he directed the tidal rod to the Sublord. I find I’m able to move my lips.

  “Wait,” I mumble.

  Shaughnessy says, “The detective is actually trying to speak.”

  “Not… a… detective,” I can’t help but say numbly.

  *You may speak.*

  “This should be amusing,” Shaughnessy says.

  “Oh, you’ll find it very much so,” I say, smacking my lips together to rid them of tingliness. “Especially when your Avariccian buddy turns on you once he has complete power with the fifth fingernail.”