The Great Game

by O. J. Lowe

  The explosion punctuated his train of thought as fire met the fuel line and he fought the urge to smash his fist against something. Two, Three and Six, all gone.

  He swore angrily, let his head sag back against his seat and just for a moment, he felt that sense of failure threatening to overcome him. Just for a moment. Amidst that hail of darkness, he found the small island of composure again very quickly. He hadn’t failed. Wolf Squadron hadn’t failed. They could still complete the mission. They would complete the mission or die trying. Either way Jiro, Ellen and Beck would not have died in vain. With renewed vigour fresh in his system, he gunned his thrusters and went after the two enemy ships with a new sense of purpose. Nothing less than their destruction would satisfy him. And then came the bastard on the back of the vos lak. He’d be the last and the most satisfying of the lot of them.

  Gunning the HAX into position, he sent a barrage of fire in on the direction of the first of the ships, he saw both pilots peel off out of his line of sight and he spun in after one, finding their vector and following it. He didn’t let up, peppering shots in on the shields of the Eli Sandoval model that was doing its best to fail. Its best wasn’t good enough, he didn’t rate Sandovals at the best of times, they were little more than airborne buckets with an engine attached, and his shots found their mark repeatedly. He didn’t feel any sense of elation as the shields collapsed and the body of the Sandoval was penetrated repeatedly. In seconds, it had gone down. A beeping alerted him to the presence of the other ship in his slipstream, another Ikari.

  Unlike the Sandoval, he did rate the Ikari and he didn’t appreciate one trying to get a lock on him. Their forward rotary cannons would make minced meat of him given the chance. Hence, he wasn’t about to give them one. He punched a button, dropped his rear cannons again and sent the blasts in on the onrushing Ikari, anything to distract the pilot. The Ikari fired, his shots coming in but wild and Wolfmeyer pulled his HAX into a dive, the blue floor that was the surface of the ocean suddenly onrushing up at him, closer and closer and he let that feeling of falling fill him through, moments of elation and giddy fear coming back to him, memories of the first time he’d done this in a cockpit. Deep breath, the Ikari had followed him into the same dive, at least the pilot wouldn’t be able to get a lock like this, and he exhaled and pulled up in a neat loop, rising sharply.

  The Ikari did the same, a split second slower than him before the HAX dipped down again and suddenly Wolfmeyer was in behind him. They’d swapped positions and suddenly he was lining up his own sights at the Ikari.

  “Good night,” he said, his missile lock beeping into confirmation. Without a trace of satisfaction inside him, Wolfmeyer fired, saw the missile burst from his HAX and home in on the Ikari, the pilot pulling out all the evasive manoeuvres that one might expect from a skilled opponent but ultimately it just wasn’t enough. A small explosion in the distance confirmed the kill and Wolfmeyer swung his HAX around to focus in on the vos lak. He blinked, not quite sure if he was seeing things right. And yet, he was.

  Up ahead, the great serpent had wrapped around Box like a constrictor, not stopping it from moving but hindering any attempt it might have to escape. Not quite sure what it had planned, but sure it wasn’t anything good, Wolfmeyer accelerated after the trapped Box, vaguely aware that Wings Four and Five had formed up on him. Amidst everything, they’d managed to deal with the rest of the Dark Wind fleet. Neither of them sounded overjoyed by their victory. He didn’t blame them, it had pyrrhic at best. Not worth it. Losing the rest of the squadron was a price he wasn’t sure he’d be willing to pay again. Sure, it was what they were trained for. It was a sacrifice they might be expected to be made. But that didn’t make it any easier.

  “Oh shit!”

  He heard Nkolou’s shout, glanced up to see the source of her worry. His eyes widened, he glanced back down to his sensors. Nothing. Not yet anyway. “Shit indeed,” he said, trying to sound calm. This day just wasn’t getting any easier. “Okay Wings Four and Five, assume it’s hostile…”

  “You know what that is, Commander?” Wing Five asked. “It’s a jack-ship.”

  Wolfmeyer blinked. “It’s a what?” More of it was coming into view now, a great black shape that dwarfed any of the other craft on show. It even dwarfed the vos lak, maybe twice the length of it, easily. It might even have been as much as three times.

  “Sorry,” Wing Five sounded a little abashed. “That’s what we called them back home. It’s an interceptor. A trap ship for snatching other ships out of the air.”

  “I thought they weren’t allowed to make those any more under Five Kingdom Regulations,” Wing Four said with surprise in her voice. “Didn’t the Senate outlaw them?”

  “You’re welcome to hail them and tell them they shouldn’t have it, Wing Four,” Wing Five said dryly. “I’m sure they’ll appreciate your outrage. The point is, what are we going to do about it?”

  His first impressions of the interceptor, and though he had seen them before now he thought on, it hadn’t been for a very long time. And Nkolou was right, they didn’t make them anymore. Even owning them was illegal unless you could prove that all the necessary weapons systems had been irrevocably deactivated. This one clearly hadn’t, the stealth systems were still active at the very least given its lack of appearance on the sensors. It was a ship that gave the impression of being pregnant, a great bulging dome sweeping down out of an otherwise slender taping body, a long grey V-shape that cut through the sky with almost lazy ease as it came out of the cloud cover.

  “Only thing we can do,” he said. “Try and stop it taking Box. That’s what it’s after, by the looks of it. By any means necessary. You have your orders. Get to it!”

  The doors slammed shut below him and he dropped down from the neck of the vos lak with a less than graceful leap. His legs ached from the constant holding on through the flight, he’d made the decision he was never going to do that again unless he had to. Unless the Mistress ordered him to. Chances were that he’d need to. But until then, he relished the idea that he wouldn’t ever need to. Realism and desire were two different things. And for the Mistress there was nothing he would not do.

  The battle outside had been short and sweet following the appearance of the Viceroy, the Interceptor-class ship that the Mistress had moved out here at incredibly short notice. Credits made the kingdoms keep running and they’d certainly done a job here. Those last three ships had tried to swarm him, keep him from getting up here with the prisoner transport but they’d failed miserably. He’d strapped heavy shielding to his spirit before leaving, keeping him relatively well protected.

  It might have been argued that only an idiot would fight gunships on the back of a spirit, but in return he could point out that all their armour and weapons had done the pilots very little good. Four of them had died. That final pilot had died when moving too close to the mouth of his vos lak, a final suicide run to drive him away. Domis smiled at that. He’d seen the look on his face as dragon fire overwhelmed his shields and melted through his hull, roasting him alive where he sat. Only a charred lump of meat had managed to eject from the ship, flames lapping at his remains. Even now, his remains were probably already being torn apart by sharks fifty thousand feet below.

  The other two ships had been sucked inside with the transport, a pair of HAX’s rendered useless by the pulse technology that had been employed upon them the second they’d been yanked through the doors. The transport itself just sat there motionless, three squads of armed guards pointing weapons at the new arrivals. Already mechanics were seeking to cut their way into the cockpits of the HAX’s, a Premesoiran and a pretty Vazaran inside them, both looking shell-shocked by what had gone down around them. Domis hadn’t decided what he was going to do with them yet, they weren’t his problem. The transport was. He strode over to it, past the armed guards and rapped a massive hand on one of the doors.

  “Attention Unisco,” he said. “You’ve got one chance to surrender yourselves and the priso
ner here. Give yourselves up and we’ll treat you right. Resist and you’ll die here. It’s your choice but we’re coming through that door in a minute either way.”

  They probably figured they were okay, he thought as he studied the door. It was thick, doubtless sealed tight. If he was in their position, he’d imagine he’d have more than a minute to stay safe.

  How wrong they would be. A grin broke across his face as he took a step back, drew a deep breath and stepped forward smashing the sole of his boot into the door with a deafening clang. He could see the hull vibrate, he’d felt it give slightly under the force of his blow.

  Again and again, he kicked it, each blow getting results. Under the first few, it held but at first slowly but gradually more quickly his superior strength told, each blow warping the door more and more until finally he felt it pop with the tenth blow, slamming it inwards and with a smash and Domis was through the door, going low immediately as shots from Featherstone assault rifles streamed over his head.

  He was at the first agent quickly enough, caught him with a backhand that threw him into a bulkhead, his neck bent back at an awkward angle, the second and third he grabbed in each hand by the necks and squeezed tight until he felt vertebrae crumble into dust beneath his clutch. They hit the ground hard and he turned his attention to the last. A burning sensation kicked him in the chest and he doubled over in pain, the fire rushing through his body, burning away his shirt but he gritted his teeth together and stood up slowly. He saw eyes widen as the Unisco agent fired again and again, more and more fire raking across him step by step as he closed the distance and took the rifle from him, twisting it into useless wreckage.

  Only then did he hear the laugh of the restrained Rocastle, arms and legs chained up, caged like an animal towards the back of the transport. Domis took the Unisco agent by the throat, twisted one handed and absentmindedly dropped him to the floor as he took in the prisoner. The one they’d gone to so much trouble to get back.

  “What took you so long?” Rocastle asked cheerfully. “You stop for a tea break? You want to let me out? Because as much as I enjoy the idea of prison hijinks, I think there’s better things we could all be doing.”

  In that moment, Domis considered killing him and telling the Mistress that there was nothing else that could have been done. He sighed. As enjoyable as that might be, he couldn’t. He couldn’t lie to her face like that. She’d wanted him alive. And alive was how she was going to get him.

  As much as it might kill him personally to keep this stain breathing, he had his orders and he could no more disobey her than he could fly under his own volition. It was with great reluctance that he reached for the lock of the cage and broke it in his bare hands.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine. What Price Paradise?

  “Sometimes, to act is the easiest bit. I’ve always found it’s the living with yourself afterwards that becomes tricky.”

  Alana Fuller in her private diary.

  The eighth day of Summerpeak.

  She hated this. Looking at herself in the mirror became little more than an unwilling chore, she hated what she’d become and yet she still put herself through it. And why? Alana Fuller thought savagely as she rolled over to look at the great balding head nestled on a pillow next to her, the taste still foul in her mouth. All because she wanted a place in her Mistress’ great new world. She supposed, in the end, it all boiled down to the price you were willing to pay for it. What price paradise?

  She was paying for it with her body, keeping this loathsome little man distracted. Two words that described him aptly. His decadence was so gross she’d wanted to hurl her expensive glass of wine into his face but calm had stayed her hands. Her vision of the future in which she’d rule under the Mistress’ divine word burned heavily in her mind, the hunger for the power and glory satisfying her in a way that Ronald Ritellia hadn’t been able to. Their liaison had been brief and unsatisfying for her, he’d kissed her hungrily enough with a mouth that tasted heavily of ash and smoke. She remembered wrinkling her nose at the odour of those vile cigars he’d smoked.

  They’d returned to her room, away from the prying eyes of the media and away from any thought of Ritellia’s wife and she’d played her part, eagerly undoing his belt and dropping to her knees, pulling his boxer shorts down with her teeth. He stank down there, a stale odour of sweat and stress but still she’d kept her smile plastered on, took him in her mouth and hands to get him going, a task that had busied her for longer than was good for her confidence. As she’d run her mouth over his cock, back and forth while he’d made satisfied little sounds, she’d told herself it was down to his age not her looks. What she might have had in the past had faded a little with age but not so much that she still couldn’t have had eighty percent of whoever she desired. Unfortunately, she’d gotten someone here she didn’t.

  Still she was nothing, if not willing as finally she’d gotten him approaching some semblance of hard, guided him to the bed and he’d ripped away her clothes leaving her exposed and naked beneath his beady bloodshot eyes. She didn’t care that he looked at her like a piece of meat, so much worse for him if he underestimated her in the long run. When it came, he wouldn’t see the knife that slipped between his ribs. His rough hands had outlined her entire body, making her shudder in ways that she hoped he mistook for pleasure before finally she’d spread her legs and felt him enter her with a surprising sudden vigour that made her want to retch.

  She’d kept her brave face on, thought of the rewards and had been pleasantly surprised to feel the smile passing across her face, an approximation of dopey looking glee that had completely fooled Ritellia by the looks of things. He looked like he knew he still had it, like he could still bring her to climax with very little effort. She couldn’t quite keep that little laugh out, she hoped he mistook it for delight at his performance.

  “You’re getting better at this,” she gasped quietly, privately pleased at her own acting skills. She could fake it with the best of them. Of course, it wasn’t entirely devoid of pleasure but it wasn’t anything she’d write home about. Exaggerated was probably a better word than faked.

  Still she could be doing worse. She could be doing a Rocastle. Fuller had to admit that had been quite satisfying for her, she’d been in the crowd watching as he’d been dragged towards a prisoner transport, his nose bandaged, his wrist in a sling. She could only assume he’d been arrested hard and someone had decided to give him a few ‘accidental’ knocks. She really couldn’t blame them on that regard. She and he were supposed to be allies and yet she’d frequently fought the urge to stab him in the kidneys. Kill him in as painful a manner as possible and yet for the sake of the Mistress, she had held back.

  Now, though, she wondered as to his future. If he went down, a likely outcome she had to admit, given the rumours abounding about his actions then he could ruin everything. If he decided to talk… She put that thought out of her mind. He might not. The Mistress might get him out. How she planned to do that from a secure Unisco transport that would undoubtedly have an escort, she hadn’t been able to work it out at the time.

  Now though, she still didn’t know completely as her attention was dragged away from her thoughts by the quiet vibrations of her summoner. Padding out of the bed naked, she picked it up and set it to personal mode, she didn’t want Ritellia overhearing anything he didn’t have to.

  “Fuller,” she said quietly, looking around for her robe. She’d take the call out onto the balcony, enjoy some privacy. Her robe had been thrown aside, a sheen of pink silk cast down in the corner.

  “Hello Alana.” She stiffened at the sound of the Mistress’ voice, standing a little straighter unconsciously.

  “Mistress,” she said, bending down to scoop her robe up one handed and clumsily she fumbled it up over one arm. “Good morning. How may I serve you today?”

  If Ritellia was awake, she noted, it’d probably sound strange. It’d probably bring all manner of question into existence about her and yet she couldn’
t bring herself to care as she switched hands with the summoner and pulled her robe over her, cradling it into her neck and tying it up around her. She needed a shower, she felt disgusting.

  Stepping out into the hot afternoon air didn’t help either, the sounds of a crowd away in the distance. It sounded like a second-round bout was either underway or about to get started. They’d started the previous day but she hadn’t kept track of what was going on. Right now, she couldn’t care less. She had bigger things on her mind.

  “Talk to me. Are you aware of what happened with Rocastle?”

  So, the Mistress had heard about that. Somehow, she was less than surprised by it. Fuller nodded to herself. “Yes, I saw him being escorted off the island.”

  “Then you know at this moment in time you are my only remaining asset there?”

  Again, she nodded to herself. If she hadn’t known, she’d suspected. She said as much and the Mistress chuckled.

  “That mind remains sharp as ever, I see. Nice to know that engaging with President Ritellia hasn’t dulled it. How goes that by the way?”

  “I assume you got the videos,” Fuller said dully. This wasn’t their first liaison. This, and the previous ones had all been recorded for posterity. If ever they needed to politically destroy the President of the ICCC, this was the ammunition they’d start with. She wasn’t keen on her upcoming fifteen minutes of fame but those were the breaks. What the Mistress demanded, the Mistress usually got.

  “You’re doing well, my dear. I could tell you weren’t enjoying it, despite your brave face. A woman knows. Ritellia looked satisfied enough. I can’t thank you enough, not until our work comes to fruition. All will be rewarded.”

  It might have sounded vague and unsatisfying. Fuller didn’t care. She’d been sold a story and she intended to see that the Mistress kept that word, no matter what. She might have been reduced to whoring herself out for some greater goal but she’d still hold everyone else to their word. If they didn’t do that, then she didn’t know what she’d do. It wouldn’t be pleasant, that was for sure. She knew the endgame, she didn’t know all the pieces in play. It held her respect for the Mistress, she knew that much. To keep everything abreast, to keep it all in play, to manage it all, it was an impressive fete that she didn’t know if she could even start to plan never mind complete.