This Bloody Game

by Dan Schiro

  “My best customer,” said the lockhovven behind the counter, his many ropy tentacles dancing with delight. “How are ya, Orion?”

  “Hungry, Bog.” Orion smiled at the large face in the center of the mass of tentacles. “S’zone food is fine, but it’s missing an element of… personality.”

  Bog Gu’labinate’s brown-green tentacles swayed with a kind of collective nod. “Your usual?”

  Orion feigned a nonchalant shrug. “Why not make it double my usual?”

  Bog laughed in his hearty, garbled way and went to work. Snatching up cuts of seafood, Bog’s many tentacles sliced, diced, and chopped all at once. In a matter of minutes, Orion had a cup of piping-hot liquor in his hand and colorful platter of sushi in front of him. His mouth watered at the sight of rich food pulled from the frothing seas of Gromea — rolls stuffed with exotic fish, fried seacow veal, thin slices of fire eel topped with small black blossoms and glistening aqua eggs worth 10 times their weight in precious metals. Bog also provided a vial of gritty pink fluid along with the kingly feast, the antidote humans needed to enjoy real lockhovven fire eel.

  When his belly was full and his exorbitant bill was paid, Orion took the executive tube to the 98th floor. He walked the chrome-accented, well-lit hallway past the advertising agency, cosmetic surgery office and agri-stimulant firm that shared his tiny corner of floor 98, and finally he came to the entrance of AlphaOmega Security. Though he knew the mark of the Blade of the Word had nothing in common with old symbols from Earth, it had still inspired the red A-within-O logo on his frosted-glass doors. Smiling, he stepped through onto his fine Martian-marble floor, the squares of pale red stone streaked with white.

  “Home again, home again,” he said, opening his arms and taking a deep breath. A cluster of glowglobes with the modern minimum of artifice cast bright light on the glossy, spotlessly clean space. The limestone waterfall fixture gurgled softly on the left side of the lobby, and a few large shift-skin paintings brought an unending carousel of colorful abstract art to the warm-gray walls. A single stoic occupant sat at the grand desk in front of the doors that led to individual offices, and a large, wrinkly creature stirred on the leather couch in the lounge area. “Hey, boy,” Orion said with a sharp clap of his hands.

  The 200-pound, genetically engineered Cane Corso leaped up, wagging his short tail. With a few bounding steps, the black dog was upon Orion, his wide paws up on Orion’s shoulders and his dark, jowly face sniffing happily just inches from Orion’s. “Okay boy, okay.” Orion slapped the dog’s shadowy belly and pushed him back down. “How you doin’, Bully boy, how you doin’?” he muttered as he rubbed the dog’s copious jowls and smoothed his silky ears. Standing with his thick neck stretched out, the blue-eyed dog’s muzzle rose nearly to Orion’s chin.

  Orion looked up at the stern old durok woman behind the half-circle of polished wood. “He good?”

  “A pain in my red ass.” She had a thick build, wide across the shoulders and hips, and a very old scar marring the rusty hide of her neck. “Between his farts and his drool? I’m going to need a pay bump if you expect me to take care of him on a regular basis.”

  “Really, Koreen?” Orion said, still nuzzling the animal’s fleshy head between his hands. “What kind of tone is that for your boss, really?”

  Koreen Dur Kordak looked at him for a moment, her brow cross and her short crown of horns turned down at him, a common durok show of agitation. “Maybe if you said hello to me before that floppy mutt,” she said, a wry smile curving her thin lips, “my tone would improve.”

  “Hey,” Orion laughed, “Bully is a highly intelligent animal and thus an emotional creature. Technically, he’s a therapy dog, did you know that?” Orion smirked at her. “And he’s no mutt. Bully boy is designer genetic engineering, capable of understanding over 100 commands. Which is more than you.”

  Koreen offered a scathing hiss through her dull durok fangs. “Enough with the pleasantries, pale face. Would you like to get down to business?”

  “Again, what kind of way is that to talk to your boss?” Orion patted Bully on his flank, and the dog lumbered back toward his couch. “And yes.”

  Koreen rolled her eyes. “Wonderful. We have vis—”

  “Any messages?” Orion asked.

  “Yes,” Koreen said, “but you—”

  “From who?” Orion snapped.

  Koreen sighed. “Three creditors. Your lawyer. Your accountant. Seven from what I affectionately refer to as your ‘bimbo file.’ And your father. Still begging for a holochat, a message, anything.”

  “Great,” Orion said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Anything important?”

  “I would tell you, if you would let me.” Koreen folded her arms across her chest. “Two men are waiting in your office. They want to talk about a job.”

  Orion threw his hands in the air. “Way to bury the lede, Koreen! Who are they?”

  “Wouldn’t say, exactly.” Koreen shrugged. “But definitely big fish. They showed me platinum-level Union diplomat badges when they walked in.”

  Orion’s stomach felt like it flipped. Had his plan had worked, or they were here to arrest him? Either way, everything would be different after he walked through that door. “Come on, Bully,” he said to the dog as he fixed a smile to his face. “Let’s go negotiate our future.”

  They swept past the old durok woman and her fine wooden desk and slipped through the red door to Orion’s personal office. The spacious rectangular room had a wall of windows providing a breathtaking view of the Hub skyline. Three other walls offered plenty of space for a recessed hologram stage and several framed photographs marking the small triumphs of AlphaOmega Security — pirate take-downs, exterminating runaway geneforms, subduing bio-modified gangs and other two-bit jobs. Tucked in the corner was the single framed photo that seemed out of place, a print of an unsmiling woman with startling green eyes and long blonde hair. The neat office also served as Orion’s bedroom, but the bed folded up in the wall, so potential clients were none the wiser.

  “Hello, gentlemen,” Orion swept in and rounded his glass desk to stand in front of the windows. Of the two men waiting in the leather armchairs, the older was a hulking great ape, silver-pelted with a few streaks of coal. The younger man had inky blue skin, four-fingered hands and a bulbous head with three eyes, the hallmarks of a lesser-known race called the trislavs. Both of them wore crisply tailored new suits without any glitter of jewelry or the bulge of a weapon. “Can I get you a drink?” Orion shot a nod at the three-tier glass bar stocked with colorful bottles of expensive alcohol.

  “None for me, thank you,” said the younger man with three eyes.

  The great ape shrugged his broad shoulders, a slight smile on his thin lips. “Perhaps just a few sips, if that’s Rumble Horse Whiskey I see.”

  “Indeed it is; good eye.” Orion fetched the bottle with the eight-legged horse on its label and poured two snifters of the rare caramel-brown liquor. Smiling, he handed over one glass and took a seat in his swiveling chair with the other. Bully sat with a heavy thump at his side, his pale blue eyes peering over the desk. “I’m Orion Grimslade III, owner and president of AlphaOmega Security. Tell me — what kind of problem can I solve for you?”

  The great ape took a small sip of his drink and nodded approvingly. “Greetings, Mr. Grimslade,” he said with a soft but deep voice. Orion noticed that his left hand rested atop a thick wooden cane propped between his legs. “Do you know who we are?”

  “Of course,” Orion said, though at a glance, he had no idea. Kicking his mind into motion, he took a sip of the biting liquor in his glass and gave his blue-and-green eyes a moment to absorb their faces. If they were truly important, he would have heard of them, seen them on the news, and locked their faces into Memory’s Prism for future use. He just needed to find the mnemonic device that opened it all, so he unclasped his smartcloak and hung it over the bac
k of his chair to buy a second to think. Then he found the word, and the information came flooding back.

  “You’re Zovaco Ralli,” he said to the younger trislav man, the bio-mold chair conforming to Orion’s frame as he leaned back. “Law, commerce and philosophy degrees from Galactic Core University, graduating with all the honors, of course. First elected to the Trizuni Council of Three — youngest ever, I believe? — before earning a seat in the Grand Chambers as a galactic rep. From there, you quickly won chairmanship of the Golden Bowl star cluster. Cleaned up the corrupt public works programs, locked in some healthcare reform that pissed off a lot of people, and mediated a colonization dispute between the temba nubu and the freyans before the Union had to put boots on the ground. Nice job on that one.” Orion shrugged and offered an easy smile. “Now… now, well, you aspire to be one of the 12 most powerful people in the Galactic Union. You’re running for one of the big chairs in Parliament on a platform of tax reform, education and planetary conservation.”

  “Impressive,” Zovaco said with a nod, his flat trislav face expressionless.

  “And I know you, too.” Orion turned his gaze to the great ape. “Mervyn of Claddaghsplough, legendary political strategist and campaign manager.” Orion smirked. “I could list your accomplishments, but it would probably suffice to say that most people simply call you ‘the Kingmaker.’” Orion swirled his whiskey and threw his strong drink with a flourish. “Impressive.”

  “An absurd nickname,” Mervyn scoffed. “I’ve simply had the good fortune of working with talented candidates.” He scowled and adjusted his gnarled hand over the knob atop his cane. “We’ve done our looking into you too, you know. I read all about your family’s war profiteering, your inflated test scores, your petty criminal record and your two-year disappearance. I could recite your outstanding debts to the credit. But perhaps I don’t feel the need to waste time grandstanding.” Mervyn finished his drink, matching Orion’s manly slug without a grimace.

  Bully growled, but Orion only laughed. “Very well, then,” Orion said. Putting his empty dram on his desk, he leaned back and scratched his dog’s head. “No more grandstanding. How can I help you?”

  “As you said,” Zovaco Ralli began, “I am running for Union Parliament. And I am going to win.” He had a thoughtful cadence to his speech, slow for the first few words, then quick to the punch at the end of the sentence. “But someone is trying to kill me before that happens, Mr. Grimslade. I want you to keep me alive until Election Day.”

  Chapter 6

  Orion unzipped the high collar of his gray kinetic bodysuit and scratched his Adam’s apple. “Someone is trying to kill you,” he repeated as he rested his hand on Bully’s great head. “You’re sure?”

  Zovaco Ralli nodded, but it was Mervyn of Claddaghsplough who answered. “More sure than we’d like to be,” he said, flexing his left leg slowly. “The pulse bolt meant for Zovaco’s head found my leg.”

  “Really?” Orion narrowed his eyes and petted his great mountain of dog. “When was this?”

  “Just two days ago,” Zovaco said, his two bilateral eyes and the third on his forehead blinking as one. “The story became a bit lost amid all the frenzy of you rescuing the royal starlet,” he added dryly. “We also did our best to suppress the news. The threat of an attack wouldn’t do much for attendance at my rallies.” He smiled, seemingly unperturbed.

  Mervyn pulled a black-and-white datacube out of his suit coat. “If I may?”

  “Be my guest,” Orion said with a nod.

  The silver-pelted great ape tossed the datacube into the air. “Play Corvis Stoat fundraising event security recording, mark 7.2.”

  A hologram fizzed to life over Orion’s desk, showing Zovaco Ralli on stage in an understated brown suit. Mervyn stood stoically at his left elbow, and a few Corvis Stoat dignitaries stood behind them. Zovaco was mid-speech, eloquently extolling the responsibility of industry to protect the worker and gesturing powerfully to a roaring crowd. Then a bright bolt of energy flashed across the recording. Zovaco stumbled back, Mervyn crumpled with a pained look on his simian face, and the dignitaries behind them scattered for cover. Poxgane security guards rushed in to drag Zovaco to safety, and Orion heard the hiss of pulse bolts fired off-camera. Then the recording came to an end and the hologram faded.

  Orion found himself drawn forward, his hands fisted atop his glass desk. “I see why you need to take steps to protect yourself.” He took a deep breath, leaned back and crossed his legs, the coarse surface of his kinetic bodysuit rasping. “And let me say, I am very interested.” He stroked Bully’s jowls, thinking for a moment, and the huge dog nuzzled into his hand. “Could I ask a few questions to define the parameters of the job?”

  “Of course,” Zovaco said with a wave of his hand, three long fingers and a thick thumb. “I imagine you’re wondering who would want me dead.”

  Orion raised an eyebrow. “We’ll get to that. First, why me?” He hated to question the kind of big job that his stunt on Phantak Ro had been intended to reel in, but this didn’t add up. “I mean, you’re running for a big chair. Shouldn’t you have all the protection you need from SpaceCorps, elite Legionnaires and, frankly, larger, more expensive private security firms?”

  “You strike at the heart of it, human.” Mervyn nodded heavily. “We are hindered by the principles of our platform and petty grudges alike. Because Zovaco advocates sweeping campaign finance reform, our coffers are consequently thin.”

  “Oh,” Orion smirked, “so I’m the best you can afford? How fortunate.”

  Mervyn continued as if he had not heard him. “And since Zovaco also advocates deep cuts to the military budget, well…”

  Zovaco pursed his thin lips and gave Mervyn a sideways look. “What he’s trying to say, is that we can’t trust the military to provide us with the security we need, not completely.” He seemed to think for a moment, to carefully consider his next words. “But it’s more than that, of course. In my position as a star cluster chairman, I was able to requisition the footage from SpaceCorps’ mini-drones over Phantak Ro. I’ve heard of spellblades before, but I’ve never actually seen one in action.” Zovaco smiled, warm but unreadable. “Your performance beneath the Great Painted Dome was quite… impressive.”

  “Ah, thank you.” Orion offered a glowing grin. “But I had a lot of help.”

  “Indeed,” said Mervyn as he leaned forward in his chair, his wooden cane still firmly planted between his knees. “The Exile is a bit of a legend in her own right, and powerful with the Jade Way. She was the only one of the Green to go against her people and help the Union fight the Dark Spacers.” He nodded, his eyes narrowed solemnly as if he peered into the mists of time. “It might be some seven centuries past, but not all of us have forgotten her contribution.”

  Zovaco smiled mildly. “And to have a vycart warrior as an ally? How did he survive the plague?”

  Orion shrugged. “You might be able to find out, if he’d ever let a doctor stick him with a needle.”

  “Still,” Zovaco said with a nod, “a companion as formidable as he is rare.”

  They really had done their homework, Orion thought. “Well, AlphaOmega is nothing if not a jewel in the rough. Can I ask what kind of contract you gentlemen had in mind?”

  “Of course,” said Mervyn, his thick brow furrowed. “Your datasphere site listed AlphaOmega as a full-service agency — security, intelligence and counter-terrorism. We would consider it implicit that in addition to keeping Mr. Ralli’s person safe, you would also neutralize the source of the threat… permanently.”

  “Absolutely not a problem, Mr. Claddaghsplough.” Orion flashed a smile. “However, a job of this magnitude, lasting almost four standard months, will require certain resources. Security support staff to be hired at my discretion, for starters. Then transport, supplies and ready funds to follow any lead we find along the way.” He shrugged. “These expenses w
ill need to be paid up front.”

  “Outlandish.” Mervyn rose a few inches in his leather armchair, but a growl rattling deep in Bully’s throat cowed him back into his seat. “Any respectable organization would provide the necessities and settle up in the final billing,” he said, his voice softer. “When the work was done.”

  “Be cool, boy,” Orion said to Bully out of the side of his mouth before he looked at Zovaco. “Mr. Ralli—”

  “Please,” he said with a slow blink of his three eyes. “Call me Zo.”

  “Zo, just as you’re sure that you’ll win, I’m sure that I can take down whoever’s trying to kill you.” Orion played it bold, but the truth was that he didn’t have the reserve funds to pay mercenaries, fuel spacecraft or even afford the travel without money up front. “These are my terms.”

  Zovaco nodded slowly. “Not a problem, Mr. Grimslade. I’m thinking 200,000 Union credits should be a sufficient seed to set up your operation.” He said it with the easy manner of a man who moved sums of that sort all the time. “When I reach Election Day alive and well, perhaps a bonus of seven million UC would approach adequate payment?”