The Only Game in the Galaxy

by Paul Collins

  He imagined the expression on Anneke’s face when she materialised on the death-world of Arachnor, knowing she would be dead within minutes, by animal, virus or outraged Sentinels, who had centuries ago placed their world under a no-exceptions interdiction. He could have just killed her, of course, but that somehow lacked imagination, and if nothing else, he prided himself on being innovative.

  Why was it then, he pondered, that he still pictured her as being alive and hunting him?

  His intercom buzzed. It was the Commander. ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Black,’ said the tired voice on the line, ‘I want you to collect a package being delivered to the high security desk in the lobby – say, in twenty minutes. Security will run the usual checks, but I want them to be more thorough. Have it delivered to me when you’ve personally cleared it.’

  ‘No problem, Commander.’

  The line went dead.

  It was also amazing that the commander considered him worthy of fast tracking, despite his association with his predecessor. Of course, it was said that one kept one’s friends close, and enemies even closer. Or something like that.

  It was ironic, too, mused Maximus, that he had come back here to RIM, the very organisation he had tried to destroy. Of course, it was good insurance, in case anything went wrong. Here, he was plain old Maximus Black, boy wonder, chosen as ‘most likely to’. Aside from a few jealous contemporaries, no one wanted him dead, maimed or flat on a slab spilling his guts.

  It was almost, he conceded with sudden insight, like home. As if RIM was family – the only family he had known, at least since he was six years old, ripped from his family by slavers.

  An unwelcome memory hit. He was on the Orbital Engineering Platform, in the Hub with the mercurial mainframe AI, watching a scene from his own childhood:

  A poor family in a crude hut. Outside their window, snow fell, and a timid fire guttered in a grate. The woman, weary and thin, was breastfeeding a toddler as a six-year-old boy looked on. The man, emaciated and grey-haired, climbed slowly to his feet, pulling on a light coat. He gave his wife a resigned look, ruffled the boy’s hair affectionately, and then went out into the cold night. Maximus knew he had gone to find food and wood to keep his family safe. In his absence, the mother finished breastfeeding the little girl then huddled closer to the fire, sitting both children in her lap. When the girl started to cry she sang songs to soothe her. Then the boy asked for his favourite story, the one about the poor boy who became a prince. As the mother told the story for the hundredth time, a great and abiding love filled the little room with light and warmth. The toddler giggled, tugging at her brother’s tunic. Outside the window of the hut a great roaring could be heard. Flashes of light filled the sky and screaming commenced.

  Maximus lunged to his feet, white-faced, shaking.

  Straightening his tunic, he hurried from the office and took the drop tube to the lobby. Calming his breathing and slowing his racing pulse, he waited for the package to arrive.

  He wished the Envoy were there so he could discuss this with him. But the alien was – unavailable. At least for now.

  Maximus had sealed off his life from the interest of the universe with breathtaking success. Sealed it off from emotional ties and loyalties, from the possibility of trust itself. And why not? Everyone he had trusted had betrayed him. His father, his mother, his friends in the squalid slave pens. Everyone.

  No one had protected him. No one had cared enough.

  A lump formed in his throat and his eyes itched. Suddenly, he despised himself. Self-pitying fool, he grunted inwardly. You are weak. Sentimental!

  He clenched his jaw, in his mind reviewing all the horrors and betrayals he had lived through (ignoring those he had perpetrated), and the old armour returned to cloak him in its protective folds, along with the icy calm of hatred.

  Everyone has bad days, he consoled himself. Okay, bad weeks.

  As he waited for the package, he stood before the ancient memorial in the centre of the lobby. A small statue of heroic Herik of Vane with blaster drawn, gazing at the skies. A plaque explained how Herik had brought the evil Old Empire to its knees a thousand years ago then promptly vanished, along with the rest of the famous Lost Legion.

  A hero, mused Maximus, his dark eyes flashing scorn. Somebody in the right place at the right time. If the cowardly and disloyal Commander Quizko had not handed over the great Fortress of Kestre on Se’atma Minor, betraying the empire at its darkest hour, then history would have been different.

  But Maximus should thank Quizko. Without him, there would be no empire to resurrect from the ashes, no fat galactic society to plunder and dominate.

  Although no revenge to exact, perhaps. Would slavers have operated under the iron grip of the old empire? Probably not.

  That would have changed Maximus Black’s life in ways he could barely imagine. Nor wanted to. He was happy the way he was. The Envoy said he was the Instrument of Kadros. Of destiny. But what he actually was, was far more interesting. He was, Maximus reflected, an instrument of revenge.

  With this thought in mind, he turned towards the package counter and came face to face with Anneke Longshadow.

  ANNEKE Longshadow paced as people stared at her from across the chain-link fence. She was in a small dirt-floored compound to the side of a bustling marketplace. Dressed in a ragged tunic and with a fresh wound on her exposed thigh, haphazardly heat-sealed, Anneke observed the small crowd of traders.

  Her expression was stark, her emerald eyes bleak. She did not know where she was or how she had gotten there. She had woken in a city park, been rounded up by the local cops and tossed into a holding pen along with a throng of street urchins, riff-raff, and a few ‘cruise girls’. All clamorously demanding to be released, professing their innocence.

  Only Anneke did not cry out. The truth was, she did not know if she was innocent. The painful truth was, she did not know who she was.

  A quick assessment told her she was healthy, strong, well-developed and looked after; she had a tan, the collagen-fullness of youth, and her teeth were in good order, even if her attire wasn’t.

  She smelled distinct chemicals on her clothes and in her hair; chemicals she knew (how did she know?) were used in explosive devices. Hence, the state of her clothes and – she surmised – the flash welding of her gouged thigh.

  She was not street trash, a term she’d already been on the receiving end of a dozen times, and she’d only been wherever she was for a few hours.

  What did she remember? A bright flash of light, an explosion of noise. Then chaotic images of jungle and sky, intense heat, and a sensation of choking, followed by another flash of light and a sense of being wrenched away.

  Then coolness, grass under her cheek. The park on the outskirts of this city and, not long after, the city proctors, rounding up transients.

  ‘Get out of my way,’ said a powerfully built man the other ‘inmates’ shied away from. He was easily one-hundred and eighty-five centimetres and one-hundred and fifteen kilograms, all of it muscle. He reached out a fist the size of a ham, grabbed Anneke by the shoulder, and shoved her aside.

  In a blur of movement, Anneke seized his wrist, twisted, spun under his arm – forcing him to bend backwards – before lashing out with her foot, connecting with his groin, and following it through with two powerful swift jabs to the solar plexus and throat. The man went down, gurgling, gasping for breath.

  Anneke stood back, mouth open.

  How in the universe had she done that? Feeling bad, she took a step towards the man. He scrabbled away in fear. Anneke realised the other inmates were staring at her, as surprised as herself.

  ‘I’m sorry. You … ah … startled me.’

  She found a quiet corner with a host of silent dark eyes following her. But when she did nothing spectacular, the inmates lost interest, except for one girl, who sidled over and squatted a metre from her. The girl pretended to be preoccupied with grooming her hair, though her rat’s nest was a lost cause.


  She glanced over at some traders. ‘You lucky dey didn’t see you. Put him down real good,’ she said. ‘Where you learn dat?’

  Anneke shrugged. She didn’t know and didn’t feel inclined to explain.

  ‘Wha’s yer name?’ the girl suddenly asked.

  Anneke opened her mouth to answer but stopped. It hit her like a punch in the gut that she didn’t have a name. At least she didn’t know it. This bothered her more than the rest of her amnesia.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she admitted.

  ‘You dun know yer own name?’

  Anneke shook her head. ‘I was in an accident. Must have hit my head. I don’t remember much.’

  ‘Yer talkin’, aincha?’

  ‘Good point. But what language am I speaking?’

  ‘Loquatch.’

  ‘Like a native?’

  ‘Nah. Like a fancy-born client.’

  Anneke filed that away. ‘You get a lot of fancy-born clients here on –?’

  ‘Tormat. Diz be Tormat. Oh, my, you dun even know what sod you’s on! And yah, we gets lotsa clients here. This whole sod is for dem rich buggers.’

  ‘A pleasure world.’ Anneke remembered hearing of such planets. Dedicated to supplying the needs of the sector’s elites, and highly valued for doing so. Of course, it was worrying not to know how she knew this. It was as if she had a computer in her head, supplying information upon request. If so, it had lost her name along the way.

  As if reading her thoughts, the ragged street urchin said, ‘Gotta have a name. Might as well pick one. Mine’s Selude.’

  Anneke fished a burnt fragment of plastic from her tunic pocket, the only thing she’d found on herself besides a few currency notes. The notes, of small denomination, had been issued on Lykis Integer, which Anneke vaguely recognised as a prime world, the capital of a galactic sector. That didn’t help much since she could have obtained the money anywhere in that sector and several others as well.

  The plastic fragment was different. It had contained a holographic picture and a code number, four digits in all, plus some letters. All but one line began with lowercase letters. The exceptions were three letters: A–n–n … What the rest of the letters were, Anneke did not know. She showed it to Selude.

  The girl licked her finger and rubbed at the smoke-blackened fragment, trying to expose more letters, but gave up after a few minutes, having revealed three new ones, all in uppercase: R – I – M …

  Anneke did not recognise them, but maybe she was called Rim.

  ‘I’m gonna call you Ann,’ Selude said finally. ‘That all right wid yah?’

  Anneke shrugged. ‘I guess.’

  ‘Uh-oh, Ann,’ Selude said suddenly. ‘Here dey come.’

  ‘Who’s “dey”?’

  Selude rolled her eyes and wiped her face, trying to remove years of grime. ‘Go on,’ she said, ‘make yahself pretty, else yah’ll get sold to a slavvy bugger!’

  Anneke tensed. Sold? Sold? ‘Selude. Is this a slave market?’

  ‘Wha’ you think it be, a beaudy parlour?’

  If Anneke had thought it was a ‘beaudy’ parlour, she was quickly disabused of the notion. The trade master’s factors, a squad of burly rough-looking men with long beards and balding heads, piled into the compound and grabbed several ‘items of property’, dragging them to an adjacent slave block where the trade master stood at a wooden rostrum with a well-worn gavel.

  ‘Choice lots, gentlefolk,’ said the trade master, his voice amplified in a fashion Anneke couldn’t see. It drifted across the market square, pulling looks from adjacent streets and shops. The crowd in front of him was well dressed and no doubt well heeled. They sparkled with jewellery and their pale complexions spoke of their leisurely lifestyles. These were the well-to-do, the ‘pleasure classes’.

  ‘What happens now?’ Anneke whispered to Selude, though she hardly needed it explained.

  Selude said, ‘Well, dey caught us, right? So we get six months, indentured.’

  ‘Six months? For being in the wrong place?’

  Selude shrugged. ‘Be a whole lot worse widdout papers.’

  Anneke stared at the girl, her heart sinking. ‘And what papers would they be?’

  Selude squinted. ‘Oh, my. Yah fer the big drop.’ She sounded sorry for Anneke.

  ‘How long?’

  Selude dug away at her filthy nails, vainly trying to make herself decent. She avoided Anneke’s eyes.

  ‘Selude, how long?’

  ‘Look, I ain’t da factor, hokay? Maybe yah get ten years, I dunno. Maybe dey see you punch’em dat guy and dey slot yah for da games and yah out in a year quick-quick. If yah live, dat is …’

  Anneke forced a laugh. ‘If I live,’ she repeated shakily. ‘Well, welcome to Tormat.’

  It was Selude’s turn next. A factor grabbed her by the hair and dragged her out to the block. Anneke forced herself to not intervene. This wasn’t the time or the place. Indeed, she had a belated feeling she should keep a low profile and give nothing away; escape, she knew, would be a waiting game.

  The trade master quickly listed Selude’s attributes, affirmed that there were six months owing on her contract, and that here was a bargain to be had.

  Two women, identical twins, bought her. As they led her away on the end of a silver chain, which fitted a collar around her neck, Selude gave Anneke a quick wave.

  Then it was Anneke’s turn.

  The trade master’s voice took on a new oily tone when Anneke was brought to the slave block. Her statuesque figure, striking looks, and torn tunic and trousers were having an effect on the man. No doubt he hoped it would do the same for the buyers.

  ‘A rare lot,’ he said, purring. ‘Illegal alien. Ten years minimum, full contract. No reservations or defaults. Look at her, gentlefolk. A beauty from the outer worlds. Fit for the most demanding harem or boudoir, and an item that will furnish enormous pleasure for a long time to come. So what do you say, gentlefolk? May we start the bidding at one thousand stakas?’

  Anneke gasped.

  She wasn’t being sold as an ordinary slave item, but as a pleasure girl.

  The bidding, as the trade master guessed, was fierce. ‘Two thousand stakas!’

  ‘No, two and a half!’

  ‘Make it three!’

  The bids poured in, from pale-faced men with powdered hair and silk cravats with an army of hangers-on.

  She was purchased by a large fat man with a dozen rings on his fingers and a permanent veneer of sweat on his heavy jowls. His name was Roklegg and he owned the House of Stalh which, from the obsequious references made by the trade master, Anneke figured was royalty.

  A silver collar was fitted around her throat and a chain attached, the other end fixed to Roklegg’s palanquin, which six large hairless men bore through the pristine streets of Arsinor, the capital city of Tormat.

  That evening Anneke was the centre of attention in Roklegg’s harem. She was methodically undressed by female attendants, bathed in hot scented water and rubbed with aromatic oils, her hair washed and braided, her nails clipped and painted, her body dried and perfumed. More importantly to her, her leg wound was cleansed and plasi-sealed.

  In another situation she might have enjoyed the pampering. A middle-aged woman called Mirella ran the show. She had been with the House of Stalh for nearly ten earth years, though she had not been bought but had rather signed a work contract as a free woman.

  Later that night Anneke was given a small room to herself. She would not entertain Roklegg for several days, not until she had been instructed in the necessary arts and tutored in Roklegg’s personal tastes. She had, however, to maintain her personal hygiene and cleanliness at all times.

  At ten o’clock sharp the lights went out. Anneke waited an hour. Her sharp hearing picked up the regular sounds of sleep breathing. When she was sure those in adjacent rooms were comatose, she rose, prowling the room, checking every centimetre, every corner. The windows were set high, six metres off the ground. If she
could reach them she might get a better idea of how to escape.

  She looked around the room. There was nothing to stand on except the bed and that was very rickety. There was, however, a recessed groove running horizontally around the walls at four metres. Anneke guessed this was for the hanging of pictures, something the original inmates of these rooms might have indulged in. Then it hit again, how odd this amnesia thing was: how she could remember some things, like language and picture rails, but not others, like who she was. Were some memories more dangerous than others?

  She moved back to the far side of the room, measuring the height. She suspected that the gravity of Tormat was less than galactic standard. In that case, she might be able to leap high enough to hook her fingers in the groove.

  She took a deep breath, lunged across the room, and leapt.

  And startled herself badly. Instead of making the groove she shot up towards the ceiling and tumbled onto the wide ledge beneath the windows.

  For a long time she sat there, her brain processing this new information. Judging by her jump, she didn’t come from a normal G world. She was probably born and raised on a world with at least two gravities.

  Interesting. It narrowed down her possible origins.

  Right now, she needed to find a way out. She checked the windows. As she had thought, they were unsecured. Why would they not be? There was no way any ‘normal’ person could reach them.

  Outside the windows was a sloping roof of red tiles. From there she could easily make the wall. She was tempted to go right away and had to stop herself. She knew nothing of the world outside or how it could be negotiated. Nor did she know the main escape routes. She dropped back to the floor and climbed into bed, content for now.

  The next evening, after Anneke had been cooped up all day and was feeling sorely tempted to leave that night, Mirella visited her. She had come as Anneke’s tutor, preparing her for Roklegg’s interview.

  Mirella sat down on the edge of Anneke’s cot. She had sad eyes, which her bright smile did little to dispel.

  ‘You must be – bored,’ she said, patting Anneke’s arm. ‘It can be boring the first few days. And you, an offworlder …’