by Neal Asher
He turned away, and while doing so saw that the colour on his wristband had changed and that the number had disappeared. He held his wrist up to Ellery and the GI glanced at his own.
‘Only you,’ he said, ‘and if you don't move you end up feeling like the Thanksgiving turkey.’ Carroll nodded, smiled grimly, and then he stepped to the only blue hexagon that butted against his own.
‘Hey, Carroll, what do you reckon the range is of that thing Rommel here got zapped with?’ Ellery asked.
‘You're assuming it is a single weapon?’
‘What else?’
‘Perhaps our bodies have some kind of explosive device fitted, radio activated. I don't suppose these are our original bodies, and Rommel's certainly isn't.’
‘The name is Kruger,’ said the SS officer.
‘Kruger,’ repeated Carroll. ‘What was it like, Kruger?’
‘To be burnt to death?’ said Kruger with a faint sneer.
‘No, to be resurrected,’ said Carroll.
Kruger grinned nastily. ‘Perhaps you will be finding out soon,’ he said.
Carroll glanced towards Ellery with his expression grim.
Ellery pursed his lips then shrugged, after a moment he too inspected his wristband.
‘My turn,’ he said with forced levity.
‘Join the charge,’ said Carroll with bitter irony, then he checked from side to side and saw that others were advancing also. Soon he was moved forwards again, then again, the delays between each move getting shorter and shorter as the pace of the game picked up. In very little time his starting hexagon was out of sight. Ellery had moved some way in front of him and to the right, and Kruger behind him and to the left. They were closer to each other than to anyone else in the team, and as they advanced across the surreal plain they made a very odd trio indeed: the American GI, lauded as a hero by his friends, the SS officer, and the hit man. Carroll managed to dismiss the oddity of the situation and focus on immediate reality of killing and dying, no matter how temporary that death might be. After a time he saw the first of the opposition. The man was quite obviously and ancient Egyptian and he was drawing closer and closer to Ellery.
‘What the Hell are we doing here?!’ shouted Ellery from his hexagon. Good question, one that it seemed pointless to ask at this point.
Carroll shouted, ‘Playing games!’ His heart began to thump heavily, and he began to feel a deep fear of imminent physical pain laced with a numbing confusion. What the Hell was going on? Stay cool. Stay cool. What is this? Delayed reaction? He scanned his surroundings as if for the first time. Suddenly he needed a cigarette and wondered crazily how this body could be addicted to nicotine
‘Go to it, Ellery!’ Carroll shouted across at the GI as the Egyptian moved in.
Ellery saluted to him then stepped into a green hexagon at the same time as the Egyptian. There was a scramble for something in the middle of the hexagon, then Ellery and his opponent stepped away from each other. Each of them held a long handled mace. They circled. Ellery feinted to the left then pulled back to swing from the right, and it was all over. Ellery stumbled. The Egyptian moved in close and brought his mace down on Ellery's head. Even Carroll heard the crunch, and in a moment, saw the red liquid pooling round the GI's prostrate form. It seemed to Carroll as if it must be paint, then the pragmatic side of his nature asserted itself and he knew that it was not. The Egyptian dropped his club and moved to the next hexagon, and behind him Ellery's corpse became a sudden bonfire.
Carroll felt sick and angry. He turned away, and in doing so, noted that there were other fires burning across the plain. Mechanically he moved to the next hexagon indicated, noting it started him on a path towards the Egyptian.
They met on a green hexagon. As soon as they stepped onto it candent flash ignited at the centre and, then faded to reveal two poniards. So this is the way, thought Carroll. He stepped forwards and snatched up the poniard nearest him then leapt back. He bowed mockingly towards the Egyptian.
‘My name is Jason Carroll,’ he said.
The Egyptian stared at him blankly for a moment then saluted.
‘I am Ramses, the second of that name,’ he said, and threw his poniard.
For a moment there was no pain, just blank shock at what had happened; such an easy and deadly trick. Carroll peered down at the handle of the poniard where it protruded from his chest. Distractedly he observed the frothy arterial blood pulsing out around it.
Then came the pain.
Every muscle in his body seemed to lock up, and he did not want to move because of the possibility of increasing this agony. He felt sick, dizzy, and fast approached that drunken state before blackout. Once, he had taken a bullet in the leg, but there had been drugs almost immediately. The pain did not compare. His surroundings seemed to dilate, blackness filled the edges of his vision. He fell. The last stutterings of his heart were a drumbeat in his head and again he tasted that salty warm gush in his mouth.
Then he died. Again.
Chapter Two
Walking across the steel plain the Clown drew closer and closer to Carroll. When the clown-face finally loomed over him, it was so much sadder than a clown-face should be, and also more menacing. Frozen, a cold pain in his chest locking him to the spot, Carroll felt an awareness of geologic time... The clown-face tilted, as if preparing to speak. Carroll knew something was wanted of him but felt only terror. Then a gong sounded, and the clown-face shimmered, cracked, fragmented.
♠♠♠
A machine-oil smell filled his nostrils, and the taste in his mouth was of a rusty blade wiped across his tongue. Behind his eyes points of light danced like the sun-caught extremities of some deep-sea polyp. Slowly he became aware that he was enclosed. He opened his eyes to darkness and the lights behind his eyes faded to nonexistence. Where am I? He wondered. With a thump a line of light appeared to one side of him, then the door to the resurrection machine opened. Belatedly, memory returned as he stumbled out onto the steel plain.
‘Ain't that Egyptian somethin',’ remarked Ellery. Carroll did not reply as he inspected his naked body. There were no wounds. There were no scars.
‘You want clothes? There's another machine in there,’ said Ellery, a note of desperation in his voice. Carroll looked up and saw that Eller was clad in the same kind of clothing as previously. He even had another half-smoked cigar jammed in the corner of his mouth. He was attempting to appear nonchalant, but without much success.
‘Show me,’ Carroll said.
Ellery led him from the resurrection machine across to the mirror-glass building. As he followed, with his bare feet slapping against the metal, Carroll glanced across and saw that the General and the Reaper were motionless, at the edge of the game-board, like toy sentinels. Could I escape? He wondered. Then he gazed around at the steel plain stretching to infinity in every direction and wondered where he would escape to. Shaking his head he followed Ellery through the silently opening doors of the mirrored building. As he stepped through the disturbing image of a clown came to the forefront of his mind. He shook, irritated by the image. It was a recurring dream he had suffered after a visit to the circus with his father – a dream that seemed to typify all lost innocence.
Beyond the doors lay a plain boxlike room from which corridors led into the rest of the building. From these Carroll could hear anxious talk, the mournful wail of some musical instrument, and smell food and aromatic or narcotic smokes. The room was cluttered with tables and chairs of light almost cheapish manufacture. Ellery led him to one side where one wall was taken up by pedestal mounted foot-high metal cylinders before which, at waist height, protruded keyboards.
‘Over here,’ said Ellery, pointing to one cylinder with Carroll's name printed across it in silvered letters. ‘This is your one. You just type in what you want and it appears in the booth.’
Carroll reached forwards and typed in 'combat clothing'. On one side of the cylinder a red light flashed a couple of times then went off. The door on the fron
t of the cylinder swung open to reveal neatly folded SAS battledress and a pair of well-polished boots. He dropped the boots on the floor and wondered what he would get if he asked for ruby slippers, but after taking out the clothing instead selected ‘underwear’ then he began to dress. As he did so he tried to ignore the phantom pain in his chest. It had been the same with the bullet in his leg for many years after.
‘How did you learn about this?’ he asked Ellery.
‘The General,’ Ellery replied. ‘He told us casualties are always pretty rapid with new recruits. I was the first in. He told me to show the set-up here to everyone who comes in.’ He finished with a cracked laugh.
‘I see,’ said Carroll, then glanced in annoyance across at one of the room's grey walls where for a moment he thought he had seen the painted face of a clown. Ellery was not the only one cracking under the pressure, he decided, and sat down on one of the chairs to tie his boots.
‘What is this, Carroll?’ Ellery asked, obviously still on edge.
Carroll glanced up to see that all Ellery's pretence at nonchalance had gone. He appeared ill. The cigar was out of his mouth and held tightly in his shaking hand.
‘Calm down,’ said Carroll, because he had no answers and wondering if there was any answer they could comprehend. Ellery stared at him blankly for a moment then shook his head as if coming out of a trance.
‘Yeah, what I need is a drink.’ He stepped to the booth with his name printed on it, tapped something out, and in a moment returned with a bottle of Jack Daniels and two glasses. He sat down on the other side of the table from Carroll and poured out whisky. Carroll took the glass proffered, but did not gulp the contents like Ellery.
‘I suppose,’ said Carroll, between careful sips of the spirit, ‘that what we have to do is simply consider ourselves in enemy territory. We're doing a recon.’ He carefully placed the glass down on the table between his elbows and interlaced his fingers before his face. ‘What we have to do is watch, listen, learn, then see what we can do about our situation. Let's collate the information we have so far... no matter how strange it might seem. Our situation could not be much stranger than it is.’
His approach had a calming effect on Ellery, or perhaps it was the drink, another glass of which the GI poured before replying.
‘We're in a game,’ he said.
‘Precisely,’ said Carroll, without a trace of mockery in his voice, then went on with, ‘There are four... creatures who are resurrecting fighters for some kind of board game. Our creature has the powers of life and death over us... and other powers.’
‘The power to give orders that have to be obeyed,’ began Ellery, ‘the General–’
‘Yes,’ interrupted Carroll, then took a sip of his whisky before going on, ‘his swagger stick.’
‘What?’ said Ellery, choking on his drink.’
‘Baton,’ Carroll translated.
Ellery went on, ‘Yeah, each time he gave an order he waved it about and made the order... stick.’
‘Precisely,’ said Carroll. ‘What else do we have?’
Ellery looked thoughtful for a moment then said, ‘The red disc–’ but Carroll interrupted again.
‘You saw, good. When Kruger burnt the Reaper was holding up a disc. Afterwards he dropped it into a box on the arm of his throne. It sounded as if there were more discs in that box.’
Ellery gazed at him with annoyance then asked, ‘You think there's a connection – one disc for each of us?’
‘Perceptive,’ Carroll nodded his head and smiled perfunctorily. Ellery appeared more annoyed than ever as Carroll went on, ‘The discs and the baton, they are the greatest danger to us.’ His tone was that of a school master lecturing a particularly thick child.
‘Smug bastard ain't you,’ said Ellery, obviously unable to stand Carroll's attitude any longer.
Carroll leant back in his chair, gulped down his drink, then propped his boots up on another chair.
‘Practical psychology old chap,’ he said with straight-faced precision. Ellery stared at him for a time, seeming at one point as if he was about to throw a punch. Then he turned away trying to hide a grin that had come unbidden to his face. When he finally got control of himself he turned back, straight-faced.
‘Limey turd,’ he said succinctly.
‘GI arsehole,’ Carroll replied, and simultaneously they burst out laughing. From then, until ten minutes later when the door of the resurrection machine thumped open, they forgot what lay beyond their laughter.
♠♠♠
Kruger was the next person from the resurrection machine, followed, even as Carroll and Ellery exited the building, by a tall kinky-haired African with skin as black as ebony. Ellery ignored Kruger and introduced himself to the African. Kruger tagged along behind when Ellery led the way back inside. Carroll just observed.
The African did not speak English, but with the translator device this was no hindrance to communication. It was his attitude that was a hindrance. Under Ellery's instruction he learnt how to operate his creation booth. All he gave in return was his name, or rather a translation of his name, Stridefar, and once dressed in his red robe, strode proudly to the door then outside.
Ellery shrugged then turned to Carroll, ‘What does he think he is?’
‘Masai,’ said Kruger from where he now stood by his own creation booth, struggling into his black uniform, ‘a south Kenyan race... mixed Hamitic stock.’
Ellery whirled on him, ‘Of course you'd know all about races wouldn't you?’
Kruger glared at him, hate evident in every nuance of his stance. Carroll turned away and sat down. Infighting like this did not interest him, and he wanted to make this obvious to Ellery. Ellery glanced round at him, back at Kruger, then after a moment re-joined him at the table.
‘I think there a plenty of enemies here for us already,’ Carroll said scathingly.
Ellery appeared sheepish. They both now turned to watch Kruger who was dressed now, and operating his creation machine. Shortly he took a piece of paper from the booth, screwed it up in disgust and threw it away. Then he typed in something else. This time he got what he had requested: a bottle of schnapps and a tumbler. These he took to the table furthest from Ellery and Carroll.
‘Probably asked for a Luger or a stick grenade,’ stated Ellery, then took out a piece of paper similar to the one Kruger had screwed up and handed it to Carroll. It had ‘request denied’ printed on it.
‘I tried for some grenades.’
‘You're aware of how effective they are then?’ asked Carroll with a grin.
‘Ain't it the truth,’ replied Ellery, grinning also.
♠♠♠
In the hours that followed more and more members of the Reaper's team came through the resurrection machine. Ellery, now becoming a little unsteady on his feet, delegated the task of demonstrating the creation booths to a Roman legionary. Together he and Carroll got steadily drunker. Sometime later, when the steadiness had gone out of their drinking and they were sharing the last dregs of the bottle, a gong sounded.
I know that sound, thought Carroll, and as he stared into his whisky glass he saw the sad sad face of a clown, broken up by the light reflecting ripples of the liquor.
‘That means somethin',’ slurred Ellery.
‘Sure does,’ Carroll slurred back, and carefully moved his glass to one side before allowing his head to thud down on the surface of the table.
‘By the soul-sound of the Clown, Anubis is declared the winner,’ announced the General from the door. There was more, but by then Carroll had slumped into whisky-sodden slumber.
Chapter Three
The Clown cried out for freedom, sandwiched between earth and low sky both the colour of dull rubies. He ran to the unseen horizon, white greasepaint melting from the anger and sorrow of his face.
Like a receding projectile the image shrank and grew distant, became a disc, falling, with other discs, from a skeletal hand. In the other discs, held in two-dimensional traps were
Ellery, Kruger, the legionary, the Masai. Even in sleep Carroll knew that someone, somewhere, was trying to tell him something. As he sank finally into sleep beyond dreams he had a momentary understanding of the perfection of certain shapes, and fleeting vision of an immense disc with a sun at its centre.
♠♠♠
There was a foul taste in his mouth and a blacksmith was making horseshoes in his head. He opened his eyes to find himself in a small white-walled room sprawled on an oval sleeping platform that had been folded down from the wall. The room reverberated with the sound of snoring and he glanced across it to see Ellery laid out on a similar platform. He ignored the GI and continued to study the room. For a moment he could not figure out what was wrong with it, then he realised that it was hexagonal. He sat upright and swung his legs off of the platform, the throbbing of his head growing worse. He needed a pint of water and aspirin he decided. He scanned around for the source of these essentials.
The walls of the room were scattered with hexagonal cupboard doors. He stood and walked unsteadily to one of these and opened it. Nothing but dusty shelves. He tried them all and all were empty but one. The one held a pair of petrified leather sandals. He wondered when the room had last been occupied and what had happened to those occupants.
On opposing sides of the room were doors shaped like squashed hexagons, which slid aside when he approached. The first one led out into a corridor lined with many more doors like it. The second opened into this place's equivalent of a bathroom. A circular indentation in the floor, three feet by three feet, sat below an oversized shower head. To one side stood something like a urinal you could sit on, and all around the edges of the room were deep troughs above which ran ribbed water pipes like metal vines. Carroll stepped inside and availed himself of the facilities, and when he returned to the bedroom he felt almost human.
