Conclave

by Murray, Lee

  “You’re not allowed to carry weapons into the amphitheatre,’ Ari says, his eyes still on the centipede.

  “Oh my God, run,” Mathilde breathes. “Run!”

  Two team members do just that. But the centipede exits its hole, two-paired legs at a time, in a rain of sand. In moments, its upper body hovers above them, its legs oscillating like a frilled tablecloth in the wind. Then, in an unhurried movement, as if it knows it has all the time in the world, the arthropod lowers its jaws, crunching up first one boy, and then the other, their bones cracking. The two team members consumed, the centipede sinks back into its lair, the sand slipping back into the hole as it disappears. The endless dunes stretch into nothingness.

  Tonya says: “But there’s one team member left.”

  “Where is she?”

  “There.”

  “What’s she doing?”

  “I don’t know.”

  They stare at the projection as it pans over the girl on her hands and knees in the middle of the desert, a tiny speck on a sea of dunes.

  “Why isn’t she moving?” Mathilde is distraught.

  “Maybe her heart has given out,” says Tonya.

  The iSplay zooms in for another close-up.

  “No, she’s not dead. I can see her trembling,” Rowan insists.

  “The centipedes!” Mathilde warns. “They could come back at any time. She needs to run.”

  “I don’t think so,” says Ari, through gritted teeth. “I think she’s worked it out.”

  “What? What’s she worked out?” Tonya demands.

  Ari exhales slowly. “Centipedes are blind. Most underground creatures are. They detect their prey by listening for footsteps vibrating through the sand. She’s worked out that if she stays still, there’s a chance the centipedes won’t be able to find her.”

  “But if she stays there, she’ll die.”

  “Yes,” says Galileo, matter-of-factly. “It took her two days, but she did eventually die. I have another clip that the Council would like me to show you...”

  But Tonya puts her hand over his, preventing the guide from placing his finger on the control. “That’ll do, Galileo,” she says. “We don’t need to see any more.”

  3

  The teams are assembled in the Conclave for the Opening Ceremony, the Terreans at the epicentre. Rowan holds himself back from the grip of claustrophobia. It feels as if the stadium is closing in on him. The air is thick and hot and pungent. There isn’t a smudge of spare space, no pocket of breeze. Spectators are iSplayed above and around them, in the air, on the sky, while their competitors are crammed in at their sides: Sceets zipping about overhead, Vauxhons and Crons to their left, a team of vaguely humanoid Taikarion females in front, and to Rowan’s right, an amorphous Fhage hovers. The Fhage is too close, its musky aroma making Rowan nervous and, although he’s known it from the outset, the helplessness of their situation hits him again. He may be a descendant of the immortal Spartacus, but here at Conclave, he’s small and insignificant. Nevertheless, his spirits lift a little when Ari points out the tiny section of Terreans in the crowd, their supporters wearing the traditional green and blue jerseys symbolic of their planet. Rowan lifts his arm in salute and the supporters return his greeting, waving their pennants enthusiastically, happily gunning for the underdog. Turning away, Rowan wishes they could just get on with it. Start already. The constant flashes of the advertising slogans create domes of colour behind his eyes, and the noise is infernal, the thrum making his head ache. Or perhaps it’s the tension that’s causing it. The anticipation.

  Fear.

  Inside the stadium, the stench of it is everywhere. Just as soon as the ceremonies are complete, the competitors will be flung into the first of the challenges. Already Mathilde is biting at her thumbnail. Can she really have Spartan blood? Rowan reckons she’d make a better poet than warrior. He clenches his hands. This whole thing pisses him off. He shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t be here. None of them should. Yet by some stupid accident of birth, a tiny genetic sequence has marked them as better suited than their fellow Terreans.

  Better suited for what? An early death?

  Rowan leans over and, cupping his hands together, shouts in Mathilde’s ear.

  “Mathilde?”

  He sees her mouth move. “Yes?”

  Cups his hands to her ear again. “About what you asked me earlier…I think that the Silicess made it,” he says kindly. “At least… I saw it shuffle off.”

  He steps back and Mathilde smiles.

  “Thanks.”

  Hers is an easy face to look at: pretty, but in a friendly, familiar way. In fact, she reminds him a little of Lisa, the way she smiles: happy, yet sad at the same time. Not like Tonya, who is in-your-face and intimidating. Rowan considers the new girl, standing beside Ari. She looks his way and Rowan averts his eyes. With brown eyes that are dark and intense, a glance from her is like a caffeine hit from a double shot espresso…

  A blast of hot air and a cacophony of trumpets herald the entry of the judges and the start of the opening ceremony. There are five judges. Representatives of the highest seed teams, they are responsible for the design of the amphitheatre challenges and for adjudicating any disputes. At Conclave Seven, they’re like gods. They enter the judges’ box in a ceremonial parade of pomp and colour. Rowan searches their faces for a clue to what might await them, but they’re impassive as the Vauxhon dignitaries sweep low to kiss the hems of their cloaks.

  He lip-reads Tonya’s comment. “Suck-ups,” she growls.

  “You’ve got to admit, it’s worth a go, though,” Rowan murmurs, the words stifled in the stuffy air of the stadium.

  Then comes the opening address, presented by the hosts and simultaneously translated and diffused via iSplay in 35 major languages and 245 dialects, and to homes and workplaces throughout the systems.

  “Welcome, Competitors and Citizens, to the Seventh Conclave Games of the New Laitier Sentient Systems. We hope you are enjoying the festivities offered by our Vauxhon hosts. We’re expecting a phenomenal event this year, with new and unique challenges to test your champions. May they fight valiantly and should they die, may they do so with honour. The rules are as follows:

  “No more than four team members per species.

  “No Conclave Six losers allowed.

  “No weapons to be brought into the amphitheatres.

  “No gratuitous killing.

  “No outside support or interference.

  “Conclave’s outcome is definitive. The judges’ decision is final…”

  As the announcements boom through the stadium, Rowan wonders what the Fhageans are hearing, or if they hear at all. Looks like the one alongside is getting antsy. It’s jiggling its jelly-like form in a wave of tiny tremors. Perhaps it’s nervous, too. But in a sudden surge, the amoeboid lunges forward, enveloping one of the Taikarions in a single fluid gulp. There’s a horrified hush. The announcer’s voice trails away. Rowan moves fast, spreading his arms wide and keeping his teammates behind him. He takes a step back, out of the path of the Fhage. The remaining Taikarions gesture in protest, but the Fhage exudes a gaseous plume as it digests its meal.

  The organisers are quick to react. Music blares. On the surrounding iSplay, a smokescreen presentation appears—a documentary on the building of the team lodgings—sparing citizens any unpleasantness. Meanwhile, a storm of Vauxhons have descended on the spot, some pulling hosepipes, others ushering competitors away. For the second time today, Rowan finds himself carried along by the crowd. He chances a look back over his shoulder. Directing the hosepipes at the offending Fhage, the Vauxhons spray it with a foamy chemical. The creature shrivels back, but the foam solidifies on contact, turning the Fhage into a grotesque statue. Then, Rowan doesn’t see anymore because the Terreans are circling the stadium’s outer ring, part of the final procession… A black wind sweeps across the stadium, blinding Rowan and throwing him to the ground. The first change! In the following instant, the black swirls f
ade and are replaced with brilliant light. Rowan blinks as he hears the distant voice of the announcer say, ‘Let the Games begin’, and the far-off applause of the crowd.

  4

  Still on the ground, Tonya pats herself down. All there. So far, so good: they’ve made it to the first amphitheatre, minutes have passed, and she’s still alive. Good. She’s going to do whatever necessary to make sure it stays that way. She takes a look about. They’ve landed on some sort of plateau. Tonya picks herself up off the ground with care, testing her limbs.

  “It’s okay: the gravity’s the same as Terra’s,” says Ari, who is already up and surveying the scene. While Rowan helps Mathilde to her feet, Tonya steps to the edge of the plateau, her eyes following Ari’s gaze. The amphitheatre is an arid landscape of undulating cone-shaped hills that dip into darkened valleys under a smoky horizon. Over the snowy crests of each of the four highest cones, a virtual marker hangs. But Tonya turns her attention to the Crons, who are racing down the hill toward the challenge, the remaining Taikarions in pursuit.

  “We should go,” she says. “The other teams are already way ahead of us.”

  But Ari grabs her by the arm, holding her back. “Hang on. Let’s see what we have here, first,” he says calmly, as if suggesting they stop for a pizza on the way home from school.

  Tonya shrugs off Ari’s hand. What’s wrong with him? Can’t he see that they’re the only team left on the landing plateau? Still, if she’s going to survive the Games, she needs to stick with the others, at least for now. She squeezes her lips shut and battles her impatience.

  “I’ve been watching the other teams,” Ari says. “The Vauxhons and Phemeres got down there first. We better hope we don’t have to face them off in a footrace because both teams are super-fast. I saw them disappear into one of the valleys, but they haven’t come out on any of the hills yet. Which makes me think the challenge doesn’t involve going overland.”

  “Could it be a tunnel system under the hills?” Rowan says, stepping forward.

  Ari nods. “Seems logical. I reckon the objective is to get to an underground point indicated by the virtual markers. See there, that one on the right just flickered.”

  “And what about when we’ve collected the markers? Do you think the exit will be on the other side of those hills?” asks Mathilde.

  Tonya shrugs. “Who knows? We can’t tell from here.”

  They look a little longer, gazing out across the undulating hummocks.

  Rowan grimaces. “Something feels off.”

  Tonya rolls her eyes. Of course something is bloody off. They’re four teenagers thrown into a challenge that’s likely to result in their deaths. There’s nothing even remotely right about that. “Do you think you could maybe be a bit more specific?” she says.

  Rowan shades his eyes and stares into the distance, eventually shaking his head. “Nup, can’t put my finger on it.”

  “Right, let’s push off, then,” Ari says, and within minutes they’re running into the first valley, Ari in the lead and Rowan playing rear-guard. They’re approaching the first craggy foothills when Mathilde gestures off to their right.

  “Lookee,” she says.

  Who the hell says that anymore?

  Mathilde waves her hand again. “Over there by that tunnel. Those things can’t get in.”

  They crouch behind a clump of desert grass.

  “I don’t know that species,” says Ari of the creatures clustered around the tunnel entrance.

  Rowan replies, “Well, whatever they are, Mathilde’s right: they’re too big to get in.”

  From the safety of the grassy copse, they watch as the beasts skirt this way and that, searching for the largest point of entry, one that might allow them to get into the labyrinth. Their incomprehensible language of clicks becomes faster and louder as the creatures become more and more agitated. It looks like they’re screwed. And before they even get started.

  “If they can’t complete the challenge, they’ll be eliminated,” Mathilde says.

  “Good!” Tonya says. “I hope those Clickers never get in.” Mathilde pulls a face.

  Oh, for goodness sake, harden up.

  “Look, all I’m saying is, better them than us.”

  “Over this way,” calls Ari. “There’s another tunnel. We can get in through there.”

  Leaving the Clickers to their fate, they run under a rocky overhang into the stone-walled valley where Ari has spied the second tunnel. Tonya can see why the Clickers weren’t interested in this opening: it’s even smaller than the last one. One-by-one they peer into the darkened crevice. Tonya shudders at what unknown things might lurk in there. She’s always hated surprises. Ari scouts around the entrance of the cave. Finding a solid branch, he picks it up and hefts it in his hand, testing the weight of it.

  “No weapons,” says Mathilde.

  “It’s only a stick,” says Ari as he strips the little twigs protruding from the branch. “And anyway, the rules say you can’t bring weapons into the amphitheatre. They don’t say anything about using what we find.”

  “Well, see if you can find a torch too,” Tonya says. “I don’t like the idea of going in here blind.”

  “We just need to give it a bit of time for our eyes to adjust,” says Ari. “There’s some light up ahead.” Using the stick, he points deep into the tunnel, and Tonya detects the faint shaft of light that descends from the rocky ceiling and softens the darkness.

  “Come on.”

  Keeping to their earlier formation of Ari at the front and Rowan at the back, they follow the light beam. At one point, they pass by a tributary, and Tonya notices another similar shaft of milky light extending from an apex in the cave’s ceiling. It looks like they’re in a network of giant termite mounds linked by interconnecting tunnels. Remembering the centipede from Galileo’s iSplay presentation, Tonya prays there are no termites. She moves closer to Rowan. With a bit of luck, any monsters lurking in the darkness will decide to eat him first. They progress as quickly as they can in the half-light, each of them hugging the nubby rocks of the cave wall. They haven’t gone more than a few hundred metres when Ari stumbles. Mathilde gives an annoying little squeal that has Tonya jumping out of her skin.

  “Ari?”

  “I’m okay, I hit something…”

  Then silence.

  Seconds pass, and Tonya can’t bear it any longer. “What’s going on up there?” she whispers urgently.

  “I think it’s one of the humanoid species,” says Ari. “Still alive, too. Here, help me pull it under that opening in the rock, will you?” In the semi-darkness, the four of them grasp the creature, pulling it along the tunnel to where there is a semblance of light.

  It’s a Taikarion, bleeding from a gaping wound to her torso. She blinks, her diamond-shaped eyes full of pain and defeat. Opening her hand, a tuft of Cron fur drops to the ground, the silvery strands glinting in the pale light.

  “A Cron did this?” says Ari, puzzled. “But Crons don’t have claws. How did it give the Taikarion a wound like this?”

  “Maybe they got into a tussle and the Taikarion fell on a rock?”

  Ari’s forehead creases, his frown barely visible in the dim light. “This is a clean cut, Rowan. Deep, too. We’ve both felt the walls here: they’re made up of rubble. I don’t think this wound was made by a fall on a rock.” The Taikarion raises her hand again, but she doesn’t have the strength to hold it, and it drops back limply.

  Tonya jumps up and scans the tunnel, suddenly wary. “What’s that smell?”

  “It’s the Taikarion,” says Mathilde. “She’s trying to tell us something. They speak in chemical signals.”

  “Euuw,” Tonya says, wrinkling her nose at the smell of lime. “You mean like ants?”

  “Shhh,” Mathilde says softly. She takes Tonya by the arm and pulls her away. The diamond eyes of the Taikarion and another waft of her bitter scent follow them to the other side of the tunnel. Tonya could swear the odour has a plaintive note to it.
How is that even possible?

  “I think the Taikarion can understand some words,” Mathilde says. “Did you see how she reacted to your comment about ants? And I think she knows she’s dying.”

  “That’s really rough,” says Tonya. “I feel sorry for her. But really, guys, we need to go. If those Clickers find a way to get into the tunnel system, we’re stuffed.”

  “But we can’t just leave her,” Mathilde says. Honestly, Tonya could slap her, she’s that irritating.

  “But we have to go,” Tonya insists. “Remember what Galileo said. This is Conclave! It’s a competition.”

  “You do whatever you want, but I’m staying here with her until she’s… until it’s over. If I were dying, I’d want someone to stay with me!” Mathilde stalks back to the Taikarion and, crouching, takes the creature’s hand, stroking it gently like a child would caress a puppy. It seems to work, because the Taikarion seems pacified and the acrid scent begins to dissipate.

  Tonya feels her impatience rising. Mathilde can’t do this. They can’t just wait here for the Taikarion to die. Not while the Clickers are still outside the tunnel. “Yes, but Mathilde,” says Tonya, keeping her voice as soft as she can, “we don’t have the luxury of waiting. What you’re asking us to do—it could take hours.”

  Mathilde’s eyes fill with tears. She really is an infuriating cry-baby. “I hope not,” she says.

  “Tonya, Rowan, come on, we’re going.” Ari moves to go, striking his stick sharply on the wall to signal to them.

  Brilliant! At least Ari is showing some sense.

  “What? And leave Mathilde? Now hang on, Ari—” Rowan protests.

  But Ari says: “We’ll complete the challenge, and then come back for Mathilde.”

  “I don’t like it,” says Rowan.

  Yeah, well, you’re not the only one. We’re already dead last.

  “There could be other species still roaming the tunnel system, looking for the markers,” Rowan goes on. “And something attacked this Taikarion. You told me that yourself, Ari: she didn’t get this injury falling on a rock.”