The Great Game

by O. J. Lowe

Bright blue electricity crackled across Curzon’s fur, momentarily bringing it erect across his body before the current rose up into the air, an arc streaking out towards Gamorra and hitting her with the full force of a hundred thousand volts. Acquiring the means for those mods hadn’t been cheap, Pete had intended that for that price it be as potent as possible. He could see it run across Gamorra’s scales, could see her pull up and her muscles spasm mid-flight. She was going to fall, going down and…

  Now!

  Curzon lunged as Gamorra hit the ground, claws outstretched and raking across the body, jaws closed around the neck and tore into the scales there. Gamorra was bigger, just. Yet he’d have put any credits down that Curzon was heavier, stronger and infinitely deadlier at close range. Gamorra struggled for a moment against the jaws at her throat before, at Pete’s command, Curzon shocked her again and halted any motion just enough to tear her throat out. Yes!

  He jumped up and punched the air, unable to quite help himself. He knew the bout wasn’t over yet, still had to compete against the last spirit Sharon had to throw against him but he was in a better position than he was five minutes ago. Curzon was relatively unhurt and Gamorra was down. Now what did she have in reserve.

  The shark lizard vanished back into Sharon’s crystal, she gave him a smile. “I’ve enjoyed this bout, little brother.”

  “It’s not over yet.”

  “Indeed, it isn’t,” she said. “It still has to be decided. Let us make this a truly memorable occasion.”

  “Hey, I’m this close to beating you,” Pete grinned. “It’s already pretty memorable. Come on, Sharon. Less talky more fighty.”

  Even before he’d finished speaking, she brought out her last spirit and he grimaced. Oh great, exactly what he wanted to fight in a situation like this. A bloody ghost. Unlike some, this one could take noticeable shape, a gaseous blue and green ball hovering several feet above the grass. The face it formed was an ugly grimace, the mouth little more than a colourless void slashed into the middle of it with several ugly broken teeth sticking out of sorts all over the place. The eyes were white and beady, prominent brows protruding out of the smoke above.

  He tried not to let it put him off, Pete only grinned at his sister again. “Come on then. Let’s do it.”

  He didn’t know what was coming until the video referee announced for them to begin, then the ghost shone horribly with a brilliant black sheen that set his teeth on edge before the effect spread out like a saucer erupting in all directions. It killed the grass beneath it, tore up the earth and even despite his frantic urges for Curzon to evade it, there was nothing the tiger could do as the blackness raced over his body and Pete heard a strangled little yell emerge from him. It passed within seconds but something had changed about his spirit. Curzon looked worried, terrified even. As he watched, small clumps of his fur started to fall from his body leaving bald patches prominently pale in the sunlight.

  How the hells did you even counter something like that? He’d not seen it before, he didn’t have the answers. Pete just hoped beyond all doubt that there was a limit to it. If it could fire off those sorts of attacks at impunity then he was screwed. There was no standing up to that. He sucked in a deep breath, even the air tasted a little fouler after the attack and gave Curzon the order to zap it. It might not do any good but it was about the only way to deal with ghosts. Curzon was looking worse by the second, more fur was falling away before his eyes and the tiger leaned forward and hacked out a great glob of blood that was already blackening even as it hit the grass. Steam rose up from the dirt, the blood already corroding through the earth with an ugly hiss.

  Shit! What was that?

  He genuinely didn’t know and that worried him that after all this time and all his experiences, his sister could still throw something at him he genuinely had no idea how to counter.

  Still, it didn’t affect Curzon’s ability to attack, the charge ran through his body and erupted towards the ghost. He saw the current pass through it, saw the face contort as it felt the electricity and it fell to the ground, the smoke around it suddenly thicker. More like smog pollution than it had been before.

  Huh?

  Curzon dropped down to three legs, one of his front legs no longer able to hold his weight. Sharon’s ghost was flickering out of existence, he let himself believe for a moment. At the exact same moment, it vanished away, Curzon lost balance completely and with one final harsh expulsion of breath, he crashed out and didn’t move.

  He looked at Sharon in bemusement, as if to say, ‘what the hells just happened to us here?’

  A draw? Had he just gotten away with it to a certain point? Both the announcer and the video referee announced the same conclusion, he felt a quick flash of relief amidst the shock. Pete blinked several times. Couldn’t quite believe what he’d just seen. He’d need to win his last bout and hope results went his way. But he was still alive for the time being.

  He could have gone back into the stadium to see the last moments of the fight. But somehow, he couldn’t bring himself to. Scott sat there on the bench, not aware of anything beyond a dull thump at the base of his brain that it was all over.

  It was all over.

  Chapter Twenty-Two. Fallout.

  “I never found making decisions to be hard. Living with the consequences though, sometimes that can be a bitch. I cope by trying not to dwell on them too much. Consequences are for lesser men. After all, in a position like mine, I intend to try and affect as many people’s lives as I can. For better or worse. Always aim for better but sometimes things happen that we can never foresee or control. I would say unfortunately but if I couldn’t predict it, I can’t really be held responsible, I feel.”

  Ronald Ritellia in his autobiography, Journeys to the Top and Beyond.

  The twenty ninth day of Summerdawn.

  “You want to explain to me exactly what happened there, Terry? Because I for one am unsure. It looked like some sort of death rattle.”

  Terrence Arnholt leaned forward in his seat on the punditry couch and smiled at Carlton Bond with an easy grin. “Well what Ms Arventino has clearly done is employ the natural abilities of her ghost to an absolutely devastating effect. I’ve never seen it done quite that way before. Basically, you can see the effect of her attack in the damage it’s done to both the battlefield and her opponent. All that natural energy that holds ghosts together, she’s expelled it, absolutely everything and it’s defeated her opponent. At the same time though, it has cost her, it’s left her own defences reduced to the point that that one single attack from her opponent was powerful enough to put her on the ground. A risky strategy to be sure.”

  “All I’d say,” Prideaux Khan added. “Is that I don’t think either of them deserved to be on the losing side here. They both fought hard, they both gave it everything and we saw probably one of the best battles of the tournament so far. They both really wanted to beat each other. It might be because of their relationship. When family gets involved, it becomes personal. That’s always been my opinion. I always wanted to beat my brother. Terrence, you’ve got kids in the industry, you ever see them fight each other?”

  “Well it’s not quite the same thing,” Arnholt said. “They’re not of the same discipline so… But yeah when I know what you mean. It always gets personal when there’s family involved.”

  “I suppose the thing with that last attack and the outcome, the question going to be at least partly in some people’s minds is if Sharon was holding something back. It was a risky move, just as you said,” Bond said. “You see any evidence of her throwing it to let her brother stay in the tournament?”

  Arnholt considered it. “Not really, no. Look everyone is here because they want to win. You can’t have any loyalty to anyone while it’s ongoing. You say her last attack was risky, using it to give her brother the chance of a draw is even riskier because there was no guarantee that things would work out the way they did. He might have been able to overcome her before his spirit collapsed. Sh
aron Arventino is a highly skilled caller, let’s not get anything wrong about that. We’ve seen her beat strong opponents before. She’s undoubtedly one of the favourites here. I haven’t seen anyone here who I’d back more yet after two matches apiece.”

  “Maybe Wallerington,” Pree offered. “I know it’s a cliché but…”

  “Yeah everyone says Wade,” Arnholt smiled. “Everyone’s favourite. Wade Wallerington, Nick Roper, Sharon Arventino. But you know what everyone always forgets about spirit calling, Carlton?”

  “What’s that?” Bond looked genuinely interested at the question.

  “The favourite doesn’t always win. It’d be a lot less interesting if they did. I wouldn’t be surprised if it wasn’t one of those three who took home the title. There’s ninety-seven other callers in competition who only need to fight out of their skin once to beat them. And winning breeds winning. The confidence from that one victory could push someone over the line for the rest of the tournament.”

  She had a feeling this was going to be a long few hours as she strode out of the stadium, several members of the media already waiting for her to take photos and get quotes, anything to justify their continually pointless existence.

  Sharon sighed, put on her best face and let a smile play across her lips as she strode out into the middle of them. Best to face it head on. She’d never walked away from a challenge and the questions coming her way like a barrage of blaster fire certainly qualified as that. She sucked in a deep breath, quietened her mind to any stray thoughts and stepped forward. Here we go…

  “Ms Arventino! Are you still confident of winning the tournament?”

  “Does this draw impact the way you’ll go into your final bout?”

  “Are you worried you’re no longer one of the favourites following this?”

  “What do you think of comments you threw the bout because it was against your brother?”

  Okay, she had to admit that last question stung a little. “Yes, I’m confident, no, I’ll still plan the way I’ve always planned for my final bout, no because what the hells do odds compilers know, really? And who the hells said that?!”

  That final question held all the nastiness in her voice she’d hoped it would. She hadn’t held back. That they’d had the gall to ask her that question infuriated her. The journalist didn’t flinch, he just shrugged. “Hey, sorry you don’t like it but we got to ask. Reda Ulikku came out barely seconds after the bout and said you’d chosen that attack because it gave your brother a better than fighting chance of getting back into it. He said if you were serious about winning it, you’d have done something different.”

  “Well he’s entitled to his opinion,” she said. Some measure of control returned to her voice. “He’s wrong but he’s entitled. It’s a deadly combination.” She should have left it there but she couldn’t help it. “And leave it to a spirit dancer to try and make a point so vigorously they choke on their own arrogance.”

  “I’m sorry, are you saying that all spirit dancers are arrogant?” A flicker of glee swept through the crowd of reporters. They knew they’d just got quote gold and she cursed herself quietly for it. Smart thing to do would be to let it go and don’t dig the hole deeper…

  “No, I’m not because that would be offensive. I’m saying I don’t like the insinuation that I didn’t give everything to beat my brother. Because I find that incredibly offensive. I’ll fight Mr Ulikku in a few days, we’ll see what he has to say then.”

  She’d said too much, she knew she’d regret it sooner or later but for the time being, she couldn’t bring herself to care. Her blood was up and she wasn’t going to let someone get away with saying that.

  Did she mind that people thought that? Absolutely. Did she care that it had done her brother a favour? In her mind, she’d not done anything differently. If that last move had been against someone else entirely, nobody would be saying anything. She didn’t owe Peter anything. She loved him, sure, but everything was fair in this competition. He’d fought well on his own merit and that pleased her in a way. He was getting closer to her. With experience, he could be better.

  Nobody was excellent at that age, in their early twenties. Five years down the line, he might be brilliant. Except there were more and more young spirit callers coming into the sport every year. Some of them were going to be fantastic. At Peter’s age, she’d been nowhere near getting to this tournament. Maybe it was harder back then. Or maybe it was just of a higher quality now. Winners were getting younger. After all, the current champion of the Quin-C was the youngest on record. He’d won it at the age of thirty, some five years earlier.

  She rejected those thoughts violently. Thinking of him wasn’t going to do her any good. When she thought of her former mentor, things tended to go slowly downhill afterwards.

  She calmed herself, forced happy thoughts to the forefront of her mind and gave a smile to the journalists. Picture boxes flashed rapidly, she knew she was going to be the forefront of the news today.

  “I would like to say though, my opponent… And that’s what he was today, an opponent. Not my little brother but the enemy, he did well. He deserved everything he got. He’s better than I was at that age. And whatever happens, I publicly wish him the best through the rest of the tournament. Unless I have to face him again in the final.” That brought a few sprays of laughter from the hacks. “Then I probably won’t be so amicable following a result like this.”

  He felt strange. Like he should be happy but instead he felt like some great massive hole had been carved out in his chest where his heart had once been. It was not a feeling he was accustomed to experiencing and sat there in his room, Scott felt like shit. There was no other way to describe it. She was gone, he’d wanted that at some level but now that she was, he could feel the agony. He hadn’t known just how much it would hurt and he wanted it out of him.

  Scott hadn’t moved from the bed since he’d got back, hadn’t seen Pete, didn’t want to see Pete. He hadn’t even undressed, just lay there clothed on the bed, barely even able to think straight. She was gone. Jess was gone from his life and it was unlikely she was going to come back. Gone. How… Why did he miss her so much? He couldn’t explain it. At least he hadn’t cried. His eyes remained strangely dry in that regard. He still had his dignity in that respect, for whatever it was worth. Right now, it felt little more than worthless. What good was dignity when you were alone and suffering. The worst part was, somehow, he doubted she was feeling as crappy as he was. She was probably already out prowling the bars looking for some other hapless sucker to rope into her bed for the night.

  And that stung even more. In a way, the anger helped. If he was angry, he didn’t have to feel sad. He tried to remember all the bad things she’d ever done to him, how she’d always fly off the handle with outrage over the slightest of things, how she’d snore violently if she lay on her back, how she enjoyed the taste of garlic way too much… Ah, she’d loved that stuff. It was one of the first things he’d noticed on their first real date.

  It had been a few months after they’d met, him and Pete had gone their separate ways for a while and the two of them had been alone together. She’d popped a whole clove of the stuff in her mouth at once and crunched down on it. When he’d raised an eyebrow, she’d explained it had been a while since she’d had it. They’d banned it from the premises at her old job. And given the girls had been nigh on virtual prisoners, forbidden to do too much interacting with the outside world, it had been hard to get hold of.

  She’d still had the shakes then, too much of the bad stuff they’d gotten her addicted to. He’d hated them for that. He’d vowed she’d never have to go back to that if she was with him. Now she wasn’t with him then she could go back to it. She could go fucking rot in a strip house dancing with some oversized fucking centaur for all he cared. That was how he remembered her for the first time, worried that one of the great hooves might break her foot or worse. It was probably going to be an image that for better or worse he wasn�
�t going to be able to get rid of.

  No matter how much he might want to.

  Jess… He punched the pillow angrily, it had been the one she’d last rested her head on. If he closed his eyes tightly and clutched it to his face, maybe he could still smell her. He thought he could. Maybe it was his imagination but it was better than nothing. It smelled delightful, a stray shaft of sunlight through the dark clouds holding the recesses of his mind. And amidst that shaft, he could see her radiant like an angel. She was rising towards the sky, wings taking her up, halo across her head and her bare feet poking out the bottom of the clean white dress she wore. She looked happier like this, more at ease than she had in life.

  She turned back to him and waved, a smile breaking across her face and her lips formed words he couldn’t make out. He raised an eyebrow quizzically and beckoned her to come closer. He wanted to apologise, he’d fucked things up and maybe, just maybe there’d be a way for her to accept his apology. It wouldn’t make things better, it wouldn’t bring her back, hells there wasn’t even a guarantee she wouldn’t throw it back in his face but at least he wanted to say he’d made the effort.

  He tried to move closer, get to her, his eyes burned hot with unshed tears. Scott hoped she could see them. She was getting closer, still smiling. She held out both hands to him and he took them, or at least he wanted to. She looked so happy, at least he saw the red stain spreading out across her front, a dot at first at her heart and slowly it spread out into a great crimson rose from her breast to her thighs. She clutched at her chest, her smile vanishing to be replaced by pain as she fell and slowly faded. He couldn’t see her anymore, couldn’t sense her, couldn’t even remember that she’d been there. And slowly, the pain flooding through him subsided, abated by the sight that followed. Behind her, he saw Mia Arnholt, her hand dripping the same scarlet colour as had spread out across Jess’ dress. She reached up and rubbed it over her face, one great hand print covering most of her porcelain skin and smiled through bloody lips.