The Great Game

by O. J. Lowe

  In front of the assorted media of the five kingdoms, Ronald Ritellia gripped the sides of his podium for a moment of reassurance, his gnarled knuckles going white under the exertion. He didn’t look well, the colouring in his face had faded and despite the best efforts of his makeup team, the fatigue looked like it threatened to overcome. There and then, he looked every one of his seventy plus years of age.

  Thomas Jerome stood by his side, the Falcon with him but with the look of one ready to plunge the knife in at any given moment. In the crowd, he saw dearest Alana, the sole bright light in a dimming sea of sharks. Still he straightened himself up and adjusted his tie.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, his voice dull and almost lifeless. The stories of how he had reacted upon hearing of yet another setback already were slowly becoming legend, the rumours let slip allegedly by an onlooker who’d sought some quick credits. Cynics had said he had wept for the increasing untenability of his own position rather than for the lives that had been lost. His most vociferous supporters had said that his tears were ones of sorrow that such a tragic loss of life should have occurred under his watch. “Over the last few days, there have been plenty of discussions, rumours, debates not just about the future of this tournament but also my future as the head of the International Competitive Calling Committee. And today I have come before you to make an announcement that will greatly affect the way we view our great sport.”

  He felt the collective assortment of press draw a breath of surprise as one. They thought they knew what was coming. He could sense that sudden outburst of hope that he’d finally be out the door. That made him want to scoff. It made him want to curse each one of them. How little they truly knew.

  “What happened with Ms Arventino was a tragedy among tragedies. There have been fewer callers of her generation more loved and respected and a beautiful life was cut short. We can’t change that. Nothing will bring her back.” His voice took on a note of derision, losing its humility just for a moment. “My resignation will not bring her back, nor will it change anything that has happened. Therefore, I do not offer it. It would be pandering symbolism of the lowest possible order and I will not give you the disrespect of doing it. Instead, what I will do is continue to embody the qualities that has made both this organisation and this sport the finest example of competition that the five kingdoms has ever known…”

  He tailed off, suddenly aware that the mood had turned ugly. Some of the press had started to mutter amongst themselves, the cameramen recording him looked like they were about to go into a frenzy. They might not have heard anything after his refusal to leave. He spoke louder, not quite shouting but determined to get his point across.

  “We do not forget those that have gone. As of the culmination of this tournament’s final, the trophy will be renamed the Sharon Arventino trophy as a reminder of what it took to lift it. It will not be cancelled. To do so would be to allow these cowards who would slaughter an innocent woman to win and I refuse to do that. My administration in this office will not bow to glorified terrorism. I can assure you that I have been in contact with Unisco and they’ve put their best people on the investigation. Somebody will be found. Somebody will be brought to justice.”

  Behind him, the Falcon crossed his arms with an exasperated look on his face. “That is all that remains. The hearts and minds go out to those who she left behind.” He regretted asking it the moment the question left his lips. “Any questions?”

  He tried to ignore Kate Kinsella. He wasn’t about to dignify any poisonous bile that woman might spew at him with an answer. Instead he gestured to a clean cut Burykian gesturing impatiently for his attention.

  “Yes, you.”

  “President Ritellia, do you personally accept any of the blame directed at you by some sections of both the government and the media?”

  He shook his head. “No. None of this is my responsibility. There was nothing I could have done to prevent it; I don’t lose sleep over it. Granted I feel sorrow for the loved ones of not just Sharon Arventino but also Darren Maddley and anyone else caught up in the events transpiring here, but some people want to blame me for everything and that I find unacceptable.” He tried to avoid looking at Kinsella as he said it.

  He gestured for another. “Go on?”

  “Have you spoken to any of Ms Arventino’s close family since the death?”

  “Mr Roper does not desire to speak to me, I’ve been told. Nor does her brother or her mother nor her step-father. I have made efforts but they have been shot down. What more can a man do?”

  “Why would Mr Roper not wish to speak to you?”

  A tricky question, one he was prepared for with a quick deflection. “You’d have to ask him that. I imagine that he’s going through some tough times and the shock of losing someone can be quite overwhelming. Doubtless he wishes to assign blame and instead of putting it where it is due, he apportions it to me. It’s a tactic that is slowly becoming more and more common in damaged societies as the days of our lives go by. Sad but the only thing we can do is give him time and let him heal.” He could have gone on about the injustices of it all but chose not to. Better to keep it succinct, more quotable rather than airing his true grievances. Whine too much to these people and they’d go for the kill.

  “When do you see the tournament resuming?”

  “As you all know, the service for Ms Arventino is this afternoon, we hope to resume in the morning of the day after tomorrow. A period of respect has been given, we can do no more. She’d want the show to go on and therefore that is what it will do.” If it was questions about the tournament, he’d field them all day. He preferred it to talking about the emotional stuff. Ritellia felt uncomfortable with the whole thing.

  He was a little irked that Arventino had had the temerity to be killed while the tournament was ongoing. It brought up all sorts of questions about the whole damned mess that he’d rather not answer. Given another choice, he’d tell Reims and their bloody Coppinger woman to go take a hike. They’d been nothing but trouble since it had gotten underway.

  Of course, if he’d done that, he wouldn’t have met the charming Ms Fuller. She smiled at him, her eyes neutral but her mouth warm and welcoming. She ran her tongue over the outline of her lips, he smiled back. Still Kate Kinsella tried to get his attention and just as pointedly he ignored her.

  “Yes?” He gestured for another question, saw Kinsella leaning forward to talk to the journalist in front of her, a younger redhead with nervous eyes. A protégé perhaps? Both irrelevant. The question came from a tall Vazaran, his hair in those ridiculous dreadlocks. No wonder people didn’t take his kingdom at all seriously with hairstyles like that. It was either those or those big bloody beards that spoke of a serious lack of personal hygiene.

  “Mr President, is there going to be any extra security put on with the continuation of the tournament to ensure the safety of the competitors and the spectators? And the press?”

  Ritellia wasn’t alone in laughing at that last comment, it brought many cackling brays from the press pack as well. Privately he wouldn’t have been bothered if some lunatic chose to open fire in this room in front of the main hacks of the five kingdoms. If he had the chance to get down behind his podium first, he’d be fine with that all the way.

  Still, he had an answer for this, a solution he was particularly proud of. “Yes. Yes, I have arranged for an extra security presence on the streets for the remaining weeks of the tournament. Thanks to a productive discussion with Mr Mazoud of the Vazaran Suns, there will be twenty of his best keeping an eye out on safety concerns for the…”

  “You’re joking!” Kinsella said loudly. More laughter from the crowd, Ritellia frowned in her direction.

  “If that’s your question, Ms Kinsella, I’ll be happy to answer it when it’s your turn to ask one.” You know, first stop after never, he wanted to add but chose not to. He hoped she was suitably chastened by the causticness of his reply. “But no, I’m not joking. As shown in events
a week ago during the hostage event, our island policing force is greatly inadequate for situations of that measure. With the support of the Vazaran Suns, plus the vaguely defined help from our friends at Unisco, I feel certain that we can get through the rest of it without any more trouble.”

  In the cabin, Okocha and Noorland looked at each other, hearing the smug condescension in Ritellia’s voice at the mention of their organisation.

  Across the room, Fagan let out a snort of derision. “Typical. I hate that fucking guy so much. Vague help… There’d have been way more people killed if it wasn’t for us.” Both he and Leclerc were getting ready to travel, Aldiss and Derenko elsewhere doing the same. It had taken a few days longer than Okocha would have liked it to, but he’d gotten a hit on the location of Joseph Itandje and they were getting ready to move on it.

  “Can’t do much about the politicians,” Leclerc said. “I’ve see things under stones were preferable to Ritellia. But he’ll do anything to avoid taking the blame. Technically, none of this is his fault…”

  “Well it is,” Noorland said. “He saw that the tournament was arranged to be here. Sure, they say it’s an impartial vote but you really think he doesn’t tell them where he would prefer it to be. And I’d imagine there’s a few lives that have been made into an unmitigated disaster because they didn’t comply with him.”

  “Any of you spoken to Nick since it happened?” Fagan asked, fastening a muffler to his belt.

  Okocha nodded sorrowfully. “I did.”

  “How’s he taking it?”

  “About as well as you’d expect him to be. Suffice to say not at all. Think he’s in denial.”

  “Got to feel sorry for the guy, no?” Leclerc mused. “He’d thought he’d got it all worked out and now this. One of those bad days I think. Out the tournament and out of love… No, that’s not right.”

  “He’ll still love her,” Noorland said. “It just... It’s never good when your loved ones die. You feel it, you know.”

  His voice took on a dull tone as he said it, as if remembering. “You’ll carry on living but it feels like a part of your heart has been ripped out your chest, like there’s a great hole where all the love and joy you once had should be. And everything you see, everything you do just makes it hurt more. Because there’s reminders everywhere.”

  “And it’s a bad way to die,” Okocha said. “I saw the autopsy reports. Massive trauma to the upper back, neck and head, they reckon it was a kinetic disperser… Those things are meant to be used against shields so have a guess what they did to her head… and then impaled on something that burned straight through her. They don’t know what did that. They’re genuinely stumped. Seen nothing like it. Wound instantly cauterized but there was no saving her.”

  “Poor bitch,” Fagan said. A sentiment that most of them echoed as Ritellia’s press conference slowly started to end on the viewing screen in front of them.

  “Funny though,” Okocha said. “I took Arnholt the report, was there when he had a glance through it. It… There’s something going on there. There was a look on his face.”

  “Like what?” Noorland asked.

  Okocha shook his head. “Not sure. Like he recognised something. Anyway, not that it matters. No idea who did it, there’s no evidence of anyone going in or out of that room bar Arventino herself. The footage is too badly messed up to tell us anything.”

  “Messed up?” Leclerc asked. “How?”

  “Keeps going into static,” Okocha said. “It’s actually pretty incredible, each recording camera along the path from the elevator to her room goes down one after the other and starts to work again a few seconds later after the next one fails. And then does it again in reverse.”

  “Well that just sounds deliberate,” Noorland said. “Nothing you can do to repair it?”

  Okocha shook his head. “Nope. I already tried, I already failed.” He let out a sigh. Admitting that you’d failed what should have been a simple task was never an easy thing to do. He’d found the whole thing to be completely frustrating if he was honest. “Seriously! This was supposed to be a relaxing trip.” He hit his desk with his clenched fist and bit back a yelp as pain shot through his hand.

  “Okay Will,” Noorland said. “Chill out. Told you before, it’s not your fault. If it’s beyond you, it’s beyond anyone.” He clapped Okocha on the shoulder. “And just for the record, ain’t no such thing as a relaxing trip. Not in this job. But I got to say, I thought it’d be more than it has been.”

  “At least you’re missing out on this trip,” Fagan said. “The armpit of Vazara. Cubla Cezri. Worst hive of snakes you’ll ever find.”

  “I thought Tatmanbi was the armpit of Vazara?” Noorland asked. “Remember that place where all those kids got shot?”

  “Nobody ever remembers the good stuff about Tatmanbi,” Okocha said. “I spent some summers there, it’s not that bad a place. It just has a bad rep.”

  “Yeah child murder will do that for you,” Leclerc said serenely. “Is Cubla Cezri really as bad as my belligerent friend makes out?”

  “Probably worse,” Okocha deadpanned. “It’s not the sort of place you go unless you’re either hiding or hunting. Place is a mess, a warren of streets and alleys, it’s so easy to get lost in there. And once you do, it’s hard to get out alive.”

  “Well, pack the Featherstones then?” Fagan grinned. “Hi-Ex’s?”

  “And don’t turn it into a war zone. Even the Sun’s don’t like going in there unless they’ve got to,” Okocha added. “There’s more illegal ordnance lingering about unchecked in there per head than the rest of the kingdom put together.”

  “Maybe just the grenades then,” Fagan said. “Sounds like we don’t want to get made here too early.”

  Noorland shrugged. “Ah, maybe I’ll come along. Sounds like my sort of place. Besides, if it’s that dangerous, you might need someone to stick with the ship. Make a quick getaway. It’s not like we’re brimming with pilots qualified to handle that thing out here.”

  “I don’t have a problem,” Leclerc said. “Just approve it with someone first, yeah?”

  Noorland snorted. “Yeah, obviously.”

  Theo had mixed feelings about the whole thing as he stood there in the afternoon sun, watching the procession move down the street. On the one hand, he genuinely didn’t have a bad word to say about Sharon Arventino. On the few occasions he’d ever had any interaction with her, she’d always been nice to him, always courteous and never condescending. He’d found that rare from someone in her position. Pretty and powerful. In short, an absolute prize of a woman.

  On the other hand, she had been a powerful caller in her own right and there was a part of him that he had to admit was a little smug in knowing that he’d be the last person ever to have battled her competitively. And the last person to have beaten her. That sent a little warm feeling through his stomach. It’d do no end of wonders for his own legend. Of course, he would still have to do more.

  He felt uncomfortable in the formal wear, the stiff black tunic and pants but showing respect frequently meant doing things you didn’t like apparently. Beside him, Anne wore a simple black dress as they stood, a pair of faces amongst thousands as the coffin made its way down the streets of the resort, suspended on a quad of repulsorlifts.

  Black banners adorned the streets, hung from the awnings of shops and stalls and from the street lights. Just plain black, occasionally the picture of Sharon Arventino’s face transposed onto them in liquid silver, some bearing the message for her to rest in peace and how she’d never be forgotten.

  Six walked with the coffin, guiding it on its way, Nick Roper and Peter Jacobs at the head of them, the other four Theo didn’t know but given one looked like an older version of Jacobs, he’d have hazarded a guess at him being his father.

  The silence was everywhere, occasionally broken by the squawking of gulls and ocean birds as they made their way towards what was to be her final resting place. Next to him, Anne’s eyes were re
d and blotchy as she hugged herself, her skin a little cool despite the afternoon sun.

  “It’s not fair,” she muttered. “So many assholes in the world and only the good die young.”

  “Life’s a bastard sometimes,” Theo agreed. Feeling monumentally awkward, he reached up and put an arm around her. She was shaking slightly, he felt a faint twinge in his gut for her, an emotion he wasn’t entirely familiar with. It felt weird. Sorrow? Pity? Either of them could have felt like the right term but he wasn’t sure. “You just have to keep going despite it, I think.”

  She rested her head against his shoulder, he could smell the lilac from her shampoo. It was a clean, fresh scent that he found soothing. For a moment, he found it difficult to form the words. “Because… I don’t know. Something about taking a beating and then getting back up. Never going to stay down. She wouldn’t have wanted that. You get what I’m saying.”

  “Yeah.” Anne sounded better as the words left her mouth. More than that, they sounded amused. Just enough to avoid any hint of disrespect considering where they were. “You really suck at the consolation; you know that?”

  Theo said nothing. Privately he agreed. Outwardly, he kept his face stoic, ran the tip of his finger through the locks of her hair. She let out a little sound of contentment, it almost startled him into ceasing.

  “Don’t,” she said. “It’s nice.”

  “Okay,” he replied, a little bemused. “I’m sorry. I try to avoid funerals. First one I ever been to.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. Don’t like to think too much about the past. Or I didn’t used to. Too painful. I grieve in my own way.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Trying desperately not to,” he said, meaning every word. It was true. He’d never gone to his mother’s funeral, despite his father begging him to. In a way, he regretted it the more he tried to avoid thinking back to it. He’d loved his mother just as much as he hated his bastard of a father. He’d missed out on the chance to say goodbye all because he wanted to stick it to the old bastard… What the hells was wrong with him?