The Great Game

by O. J. Lowe

  “Damn you, Roper,” he said, looking at the sun going down. “I really hope you know what you’re doing here.”

  He turned back to the holo-projector on his desk and cleared his throat. This would be an interesting conversation as he reached over to it and made the call, punching the numbers into it and waiting.

  It took minutes rather than seconds and all throughout, he could imagine the wheels within wheels turning, the conversations over whether to accept it, whether to put him through and who’d get the blame if it didn’t go as well as the recipient thought it might. Vazaran political households were notoriously treacherous. At least he didn’t have to talk to Mazoud.

  Rather, it was the holographic image of Leonard Nwakili that flashed into being across from him, the eyes tired but alert. He looked as bad as Arnholt himself felt. Probably worse.

  “Good evening, Premier,” he said pleasantly. “I trust I didn’t disturb you from something important.”

  “Well actually…” Nwakili started to say before Arnholt cut him off and took great pleasure in doing so. It was perverse, he couldn’t help it. He rested his elbows on the desk in front of him and gave him a big grin.

  “Good, good,” he said. “I got in touch because there’s ever such a sensitive matter I need to talk to you about. Dae’sutaka.” Wrapping his tongue around the Vazaran language had never come easily to him, the best thing he could do was try not to sound completely inept when he spoke it. He’d like Crumley or Okocha here for that, they both spoke it better than him, Crumley with her gift for languages, Okocha being native to the kingdom.

  Nwakili blinked. For him, it was the equivalent of being an admission of guilt and Arnholt felt a flood of satisfaction rush through him. “Dae’sutaka?” He couldn’t pull off the sound of innocence entirely as well as he thought he could.

  “Yes,” Arnholt said. “You know them, I assume. We both know what that translates as.” Death squad, basically, he thought to himself. Not a lot of people knew about that, he’d chosen to keep it that way. He knew Nwakili better than he wanted to and him not knowing that you knew what cards he had was preferable to him knowing you didn’t know what he had. All for a moment like this.

  “Director Arnholt, I’m not sure…”

  “Don’t play dumb with me, Leonard, it doesn’t suit you. Besides, I’ve played Ruin with you, I know all your tells. You know exactly what I’m talking about. Yohan Isiah. Fabrice Townsend. Didier Kondogbia. Solomon Bennet… You want me to keep naming your operatives in there? I have the names of them all. How many of them are still alive by the way?”

  He gave Nwakili a cold smile, not giving anything away. All those names had been members of Dae’sutaka who were confirmed dead at the scene of the Cubla Cezri mission. Another little gift from Okocha’s marvellous hacking skills.

  “Of course, not many people know about them. And what they don’t know is that your own private death squad wears a uniform very similar to the Vazaran Sun basic one. Easy mistake to make that, I imagine. I mean there can only be so many uniforms in the world, some are bound to have similarities. Vazaran Sun grunt uniforms are black with a red stripe across the shoulders. Dae’sutaka have a red stripe across the shoulder dark and grey under the arms. An easy mistake to make but I imagine that it’d be a costly one if it came to light.”

  “What’s your point, Terrence?” Apparently, they’d abandoned formalities now, another sign that he might have Nwakili on the ropes. The man never broke protocol unless he was seriously struggling.

  “Because someone wearing those very uniforms just tried to kill four of my agents and I take that sort of thing very personally. More than that, they were responsible for the death a man in the custody of those agents, someone with vital information regarding blowing open this whole case. That sort of thing I take even more personally.”

  “Well my condolences. Was anyone hurt? Beyond the guy who died?”

  “They’ll live,” Arnholt said coldly. “I also had one of my guys examine some things and he discovered that an unidentified hoverjet departed for Cubla Cezri the moment my guys announced it to air traffic control as their destination. Vazaran Sun craft are still required to identify themselves, are they not?”

  “I believe so,” Nwakili said, still a great deal of even control in his voice.

  “And given what you tried to talk two of my agents into relaying back to me not so long since,” Arnholt continued. “I have reason to believe you manipulated this whole thing to make it look like the Suns attacked my agents and executed our suspect. All so we’d retaliate and wipe out Mazoud for you in revenge.” He clucked his tongue. “That’s a rather desperate gambit for you, Leonard. It truly is.”

  “Prove it!” Nwakili suddenly snarled, true venom in his voice. “Go on! If you can…”

  “Oh, I can’t,” Arnholt said. “I can’t beyond any reasonable doubt, not right now. Even if I could, I probably would let it go. For old times’ sake, this once. But I will give you fair warning. If you try anything like this again, I won’t be so restrained. If you do it again, I will speak to Mazoud anonymously and inform him what you’re doing. Because I think he’d be interested, even if nobody else would without proof. Having your people put on V.S uniforms to execute those undesirables… That sort of thing tends to piss off people in high places. I dread to think what would follow such an act.”

  Nwakili had a sneer in his voice as he spoke again. “And you the great champion of law and order.”

  “I get the job done,” Arnholt said. “Sometimes a compromise is needed. You’re the politician, you should know that.” He smiled politely at the seething Premier. “Very nice talking to you again, Leonard. We must have a catch up at some point. Old friends and all that.” He paused a moment, toyed with the idea of hurling something else in front of him. Just in case it got a reaction. Arnholt’s grin grew even wider. He shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as he was under the circumstances. “By the way, you ever hear of Ai-Yal’Sanhim?”

  “Stop wasting my time, Director Arnholt,” Nwakili said. “If you don’t desist, I’ll see that the Senate hears of your false allegations towards a duly elected head of state. Without proof, I’m afraid they’re just that. False.”

  He had, Arnholt mused as the connection died away, truly enjoyed that. Rattling Nwakili wasn’t easily done, he felt he’d handled it in the right way. At the very least, it might have convinced him to change his ways in regards of using an incognito death squad. He wasn’t worried about that final threat.

  Now he just needed several more pieces to fall into place.

  The twenty-eighth day of Summerpeak.

  At least it wasn’t one of the worse cells in the jail. Nick was pleased that had been the case. Not that he couldn’t have dealt but still. Given a choice, shouldn’t have to. He’d seen some of the cells in this place and quite honestly, he wouldn’t have minded. It would have been nice to suffer in a squalid little windowless hole that matched the way he felt inside right now. There hadn’t been much need for the policing of this island by the local force, meaning that the cells were empty.

  He’d slipped one of the guards a hundred credits to ensure that he didn’t get visitors unless they were a magistrate. He didn’t want to see anyone right now, just be alone for the time being. Not his friends, not his enemies, not Ritellia come to gloat. That sort of petty small-mindedness was just the sort of thing he’d do. They’d kept a stoic face on, but the two officers who’d arrested him had both been laughing about it afterwards. Maybe they’d read his statement.

  He perched down on the bunk, rested back on it and closed his eyes. It didn’t help. Every time he did, he saw her blank eyes staring back at him. He saw it all, the scenes he’d seen when he’d entered the room, the chaos and the destruction and at the centre of it all, the death of the woman he’d loved. Nothing would ever scrub that sight from his mind.

  Nor, he reflected, should it be able to. He didn’t want to forget. Nick wanted to remember that pain, u
se it to forge himself and grow strong off it. He couldn’t let it conquer him for if he curled up into a ball and reflected on his misery, he’d never get back up. He couldn’t do that. He wouldn’t.

  He remembered how Ritellia had tried to barge his way up to speak at the funeral, aware that he wasn’t welcome there and he remembered how the anger had rushed through him, the desire to do exactly what he’d wanted to do for a very long time. Of course, it had been live. Thousands, if not millions of people had probably seen it by now. They’d seen what he’d wanted them to see. A high-profile spirit caller disgruntled enough with the establishment to strike the public face of it.

  He heard the door at the end of the corridor scraping open and he opened one of his eyes just a fraction wide enough to see what was going on. One of the uniformed guards was already moving away, a short Serranian stood across from him, his dark hair greased back and his suit likely massively expensive. He was chewing on an edible tooth cleaner and Nick could smell the mint on his breath from across the room.

  “Mister Nicholas Roper?” the man asked. “I’m your magistrate.”

  “I was expecting a Vazaran,” Nick said dryly. He hadn’t but that was neither here nor there right now.

  “I’m a better one,” the man said. “Here to get you out.”

  Got you, you bastards!

  “Okay, I’m listening.”

  Chapter Fifty-Seven. Face of the Enemy.

  “Those two won’t tell me anything. Carson chooses not to; I think Rocastle is too scared of Carson to tell the truth. That unnerves me. Because it means Carson is getting stronger. And what happens when he grows too strong to control?”

  Private musings of Claudia Coppinger.

  The twenty-eighth day of Summerpeak.

  Jake Costa, his name was and he’d proved to be as good as his word. Nick had been out of the holding cell within fifteen minutes, he’d been out of the building inside half an hour, he’d even gotten an apology from the guards holding him. Nothing personal, they’d said. He could believe them. It wasn’t their fault they were doing their duty, Ritellia had probably been kicking up an unholy shit storm to try and keep him here for the time being. Hence the reason it had likely taken three to four days to get out here.

  He’d lost track of the time; he’d had to admit. Locked in that room, he’d been pretty funked out just kept alone with his thoughts which weren’t pleasant at the best of times. A couple of times he’d thought he’d heard her voice and it had slowly been driving him crazy. Getting out was good, he hadn’t realised how good some fresh air on his lungs would be. He didn’t want to think too hard about what had happened, instead preferring to focus on what was to come. That was the important price.

  Costa led him over to a speeder, an easy swagger to his walk, which Nick could hardly blame him for. The man was good, he radiated confidence and so far, he had every reason to believe that things were going well for them both. They both thought they had their man. Nick had a strange feeling he wasn’t the first one to be approached like this.

  “Talk to me of the price,” he said thoughtfully. “What is this going to cost me?”

  “There is no cost,” Costa replied. “I was amused by the way you struck down that buffoon. Someone should have done that a long time ago. Anyway, the price is no object for you but there is just a simple request.”

  “Okay.” Nick nodded in agreement. “I see. What’s the request? I have to hide something for someone?”

  “No, you just need listen for a few moments of your time,” Costa replied. “You might do very well out of this, it’s a once in the lifetime opportunity. You know how rarely they come along, right?”

  “Well that sounds interesting. It from you? You want me to invest in something? Because I got credits to spare.” He shrugged. “Hey, you got me out of a spot. Right now, I’d probably consider doing anything to return the favour. Short of breaking the law again, I guess.” He shrugged again, spread his hands out in front of him. “Don’t want to end up back there, right? Not something I want to go through with.”

  “You seemed to cope okay,” Costa said, his accented voice faint with sarcasm.

  “All a brave face I’m afraid,” Nick replied, hesitating a little between the words. “Okay, what’s this offer?”

  “My boss will tell you. In person.” Costa grinned, hands in his pockets. That grin sent a chill through Nick’s flesh, there was something about it he didn’t like. They approached the speeder, he saw two guys with it and narrowed his eyes at them as he took them in. Wait… He continued to study them and tried to work out what it was. They looked familiar, more than familiar. They had the same nose as each other, but the eyes were different, the mouth smaller on the guy on the right, even the skin was a different colour. One Vazaran, one probably Premesoiran… But an identical nose… His instincts were telling him that something was wrong here.

  Something wrong, but what? He stiffened up, the bad feelings pushing over him. Maybe this hadn’t been the best idea but it was too late to back out now. He gulped, swallowed and managed a weak grin.

  In the hesitation, he took his eyes off Costa and suddenly he felt the prick in his arm, turned and fought down the urge to react as he saw the fake magistrate withdrawing a needle out of him. Costa grinned lazily. “Apologies but necessary.” His voice took on a blurry, hazy tone, suddenly Nick’s legs felt wobbly and he reached out to steady himself. It was a battle he very swiftly found himself losing as he went down, Costa and one of the other guys catching him.

  The twenty-ninth day of Summerpeak.

  She looked across the desk, first at Wim Carson and then to a bemused looking Harvey Rocastle, something about the fat man unnerving her. Not that he was usually the most pleasant of company but today there was something not quite right. It was the eyes, she’d gazed into them and they were like cut glass. Very little feeling. Perhaps no emotion. None of it was there. He was humming just below his breath. It was perhaps the most irritating thing close at hand.

  This wasn’t the first meeting she’d had with them since they’d returned to the Eye following their disastrous trip to the island. Every day she’d met with them, got them both in front of her in attempt to convince them to reveal what exactly had happened.

  Seven meetings. Seven wasted hours. Carson politely pushed aside any attempt to probe into what he knew, intimidation didn’t work on him. He was only growing stronger and it worried her, those powers of his. She’d seen what he could do and it was necessary to ensure soon that he didn’t turn against her. He said he wouldn’t, he’d made his promises, but she didn’t trust what came out of his mouth. Who knew how far the depths of his powers went. Plus, she was leery as the hells about him arming himself with one of those laser swords. But she couldn’t call him on it, not while she still needed him. When it came down to it, when his usefulness ended, she’d put him in front of a firing squad. Perhaps better to be safe than to be sorry where her own life was concerned.

  And as for Rocastle, he’d been different since he’d come back. Maybe sending him had been a mistake. She was sure he had something to do with the death of Sharon Arventino. Nothing she could prove, but maybe, just maybe the time was coming to cut him loose with extreme prejudice. The man was a liability but he had enough credit in his bank to keep him safe for the time being. It irked her but she did try to reward loyalty. If you couldn’t inspire that or even move to show that you valued it, then there was little point in expecting them to give it away freely. Doubly so if she couldn’t inspire two men like this, then the whole undertaking was futile.

  “Are either of you ready to talk today?” she asked. She wasn’t expecting anything but still when she was obliged, she harshly exhaled her breath out between her teeth.

  “Talk about what?” Rocastle was being perhaps more vocal than normal with those three words, a tone that defined innocence. She didn’t buy it.

  “You know,” she answered quietly. “I still want answers about what happened with that tr
ip to Carcaradis Island.”

  “Madam,” Carson replied. “I believe I am almost able to help you. Maybe a day or two more and I will have everything I need.”

  Okay, that changed things. She sat bolt upright in her seat and allowed a smile to play out across her mouth. That changed things a lot. “I see,” she said. “Do you care to explain further?”

  He shook his head. “Not right now. I’ll tell you on the way. We need to travel; I trust this won’t be a problem.”

  “No. Not at all.” She smiled again, the sudden feeling of elation spreading through her more than she’d allowed herself to feel for quite a while. Nearly. Oh, so very nearly. It was within her sight. She could already feel her fingers itching to reach out and touch it. “Very good, Master Carson. Very good indeed. Carry on.”

  “Oh, are we done for today?” There was just an inflection of sarcasm in his voice and it truly didn’t suit him. She chose not to dignify him with a response as he got up and left the room, Rocastle trotting after him. Maybe she should have Domis kill him. There wasn’t too much more Rocastle could offer to the project.

  Nothing she could see right now anyway. Down the line, maybe. Maybe she’d need someone killing or someone to make a scapegoat. He had some limited talent at murder and the five kingdoms already thought he was a psychopath who’d tried to kidnap a beloved spirit dancer. The latter appealed at some point. She could use that. If it was the last task he ever performed for her, she could live with that.