The Great Game

by O. J. Lowe

  “What can you do for me?” she asked.

  “I’ve reprogrammed some of your automated guns to cover you as you leave, see if they can keep the fleet off your back. The rest of it’s up to you. I’m sorry I can’t do more but I don’t want to arouse suspicion.”

  “You’ve done enough,” she said flatly. Granted she was still irritated he hadn’t told her earlier but better to know later than to have him blow his cover unnecessarily. The past couldn’t be changed now. “You’ve earned your bonus today. Proceed as you would normally from now on. I need you to remain in place. You’re too valuable to be thrown away. Thank you.”

  “Oh, it was my pleasure, Mistress,” they replied. Wim thought they might have had a smirk in their voice by the sounds of it. It was hard to tell. Really hard to tell but they did sound smug.

  Wilsin pushed himself up, his entire body aching. He looked down at the front of his armour, blanching as he did. The punch from the blank slate had shattered it completely, torn a great rend into the material. He could feel shards of it sticking back into his ribs and he let out a groan. If it hadn’t been so good at absorbing blows, he’d be dead. He saw the grinning figure stood watching him, take one ponderous step towards him. And suddenly he had the Featherstone in his hands again, raising the weapon and squeezing the trigger. He kept it steady despite it threatening to leap out of his hands numerous occasions, didn’t let up until the power cells ran dry and the sound of the blaster fire died away. The hulking man stopped, reeled under the blast and he felt a momentary surge of triumph flush through him.

  Their eyes met and the man winked at him. That triumph slowly bled out of him as the smoke cleared, he saw the holes in the man’s body where weapon fire had torn out great chunks of flesh knit back together and reform, no apparent permanent damage left behind by the shots. David Wilsin stiffened at that sight. That was impossible! He’d just emptied enough firepower into him to kill an elephant but he’d shrugged it off.

  “That was your free shot,” the man growled. “Now it’s mine!”

  He started to move and suddenly he looked a lot less ponderous than he had before, thundering across the floor with rapid steps, moving like a locomotive. Wilsin readied himself, swung out with the useless blaster rifle like a club, aiming for the face. He ducked around it, took it off him with ease, tearing it from his grip. Any attempt he made to hold it was useless, it was ripped from him despite best efforts, the weapon hitting the floor with a clunk somewhere in the distance.

  And suddenly he was on the defensive, ducking away under hammer blows that belied the apparent languidness of the man, all previous visages of clumsiness forgotten. Wilsin struck back, hit him hard in the side and he just shrugged it off, laughing with manic glee. He didn’t even try to counter back, just let Wilsin hit him three, four, five more times to little effect. It was like hitting a side of meat, he’d struck with fist and elbow alike and he thought he’d done more damage to himself than to his opponent so far. He even smashed a kick out into the big man’s knee, fought the urge to cry out in pain as his foot met hard bone. It was like kicking a metal post. He looked up, scowled and suddenly had to jump back to evade a punch thrown at him. Somehow, he had the feeling that if he was tagged by one of those blows he wouldn’t be looking too clever afterwards.

  It wasn’t a punch that caught him, rather an outstretched flailing palm that sent blinding pain through his system, a flat hit that pushed him back onto the ground, his ribs on fire again. He’d felt something snap and now it hurt to move.

  That was when he heard weapons fire, he allowed himself to sneak a look past and saw Harper on her feet, her own Featherstone in hand and doing as he’d done before, emptying the power pack into the big man. Unfortunately, it looked to be having about as much of the same effect as it had when he’d done it. Wounds were already healing up, skin and flesh and bone all knitting back together. About the only sign that remained of the damage was the stink of burnt flesh and muscle heavy in the air, mixed with the exhaust odours of the Featherstone.

  This wasn’t good.

  Alex Nkolou had been having that sort of day as she and Navarro bounded into the hangar, immediately finding a pair of Featherstone rifles and a laser dot trained on them from somewhere high above them. She didn’t dare move, she’d spent weeks expecting to be shot by the enemy. She wasn’t going to be killed by friends.

  “Don’t shoot!” she yelled. “Friendly, friendly!”

  “Who are you?!” Everyone knew Alvin Noorland at Unisco, he was one of the ones giving them the look. The weapon wasn’t lowered though.

  “Sergeant Navarro and Lieutenant Nkolou,” Navarro offered quickly. “Unisco. Last remnants of Wolf Squadron.”

  Leclerc… Jacques Leclerc, possibly one of the few agents around who might recognise them both nodded in agreement. “Is true. I remember them. Him not so much. Her, she’s hard to forget.”

  She felt a stab of amusement in her gut. “What do you mean by that, Jacques?”

  Leclerc said nothing, Noorland instead took over briskly.

  “Where the hells have you two been?” he demanded. “Wolf Squadron was last heard from weeks ago…”

  “They’re all dead,” Navarro said. “Wolfmeyer, Hasigawa, everyone. They were killed by a big guy riding a vos lak and the Black Wind. Ambushed when we were delivering Harvey Rocastle to containment.”

  “How did you survive?” Leclerc asked. There wasn’t quite suspicion in his voice, but there was something there that suggested he thought things didn’t ring true.

  “Not sure why they didn’t kill us,” Alex said. “They sucked our ships into theirs along with Box and we were locked up.”

  “Good break for you then,” a third voice said as a petite woman appeared out of nowhere, a huge sniper rifle strapped to her back. “I think they’re telling the truth, Alvin.”

  “Nice of you to join in, Agent Sullivan,” Noorland said waspishly. “How come you got let out now then?”

  “Nick Roper let us out,” Navarro said. Both Leclerc and Noorland looked at each other at that. “Killed a couple of Taxeen in the process.”

  Alex tried to hide how impressed she still was by that small fact. Weapon or not, Taxeen were not easy opponents to disable. She’d seen the bodies of a few more on the way here. He’d undoubtedly employed the element of surprise but that was something he’d done well.

  “Oh, he’s running around loose, is he?” Leclerc asked, sounding annoyed. “That’s not good. We’ve got a team looking for him. He came here undercover to find out what was going on. I think that’s probably gone to hells then.”

  An explosion rocked the airbase and Alex looked around in bemusement. “Take it the battle’s going well then?”

  “Not from what I hear,” Noorland said. “I think they could use reinforcements but they’ll not get here in time. The ships are getting pounded by this place’s laser grid. I’ve tried hacking into them but Will’s better at this stuff than I am. So far no luck.”

  Alex glanced around, hoping to see any trace of something she could take into battle. It was a frustrating feeling, she’d been out of the cockpit for far too long and she needed to be back in one. Sitting in a cell had left her almost going crazy for it, she knew it was like a bad addiction but she didn’t care.

  And then she saw it in the far corner of the hangar, something that made her heart leap.

  “What the hells is that?!” she asked, trying to sound nonchalant. Her stomach was doing somersaults with glee at what she saw.

  Hello baby.

  Into a hangar, Nick noticed, still clutching the blaster rifle close to him as he ran through the doors and there they were. He saw them immediately, Claudia Coppinger and Wim Carson preparing to board a Hope-Standard shuttle, a pointed nose two-person vehicle with a narrow wing span. It was probably the ideal vehicle to leave here, it gave the impression of being something that was ideal for falling but also it packed a surprising range of manoeuvrability. They’d just finished lo
ading some stuff up, he didn’t see what and he didn’t care. He brought the rifle up, sighted the two of them and squeezed the trigger, two, three, four, five times, single shots driven straight at the two of them.

  Wim Carson reacted superhumanly fast, spun on the spot and suddenly a stream of light shot from his clenched fist, sword-like. He… No way! Nick couldn’t quite believe it, he fucking parried the blasts down into the ground and swept the blade up and across in a challenge.

  “Mister Roper,” he said cheerfully. “It’s so nice of you to join us.”

  Claudia stiffened at the sight of him but said nothing. Maybe she’d been lost for words. That’d be nice.

  “Pleasure is all mine,” Nick said. He flipped the switch on the rifle to fully automatic fire and returned the grin. “All mine.” That was when he opened fire again, the rifle dancing in his arms as he started to strafe sideways, suddenly certain he didn’t want to be stood in the same spot all the time if Wim could turn aside laser blasts. Already he was running through the options in his mind, determined not to be caught out with it all. More shots he aimed in Claudia’s direction, if he could take her out then it’d be mission accomplished. But Wim blocked them all, deflecting them down into the ground or harmlessly wide. None came back his way, thankfully, he wasn’t sure if he could evade all of them forever. But he knew his power pack wouldn’t last forever and when it ran out, he knew he’d be in trouble. Wim’s face never lost its serenity as it was bathed in the glow of the weapon, dancing them back and forth in front of him.

  Finally, Nick’s weapon ran out of power and he saw the savage look of triumph on his opponent’s face. It was the expression of a man who knew victory was imminent and he was trying to savour it as much as possible before he applied the final cut. He couldn’t help it, Wim jerked a hand in his direction and the useless rifle flew from his grip. The surprise momentarily threatened to overtake everything else. He had no other weapon, bar his caller but he wasn’t about to send a spirit against that whipping energy blade. It’d cut them to pieces in no time at all.

  “I suppose that this is the way it would always have to end,” Wim said softly. “And for that, I am truly sorry. I wish there was another way.”

  Nick’s head jerked up, he heard something way off to the left, one of the hangar doors opening noisily. So did Wim and so did Claudia, all of them looked off towards it as something fizzed and burned angrily at the controls before the doors slid lazily open and a young girl, reaching the end of her teens with coffee-coloured skin and rusty red hair came running through. Wim’s face lit up, Nick was more preoccupied by noticing that she had the same sort of weapon as him, a bright energy blade clutched in her fist. She looked up, saw the three of them and blanched. Her lips moved in a silent curse and Wim threw both arms up in a mock sign of welcome.

  “I knew you hadn’t died,” he said warmly. “I knew you’d find your way back to me. Why chase something that will eventually return. I could feel you all this time.”

  She rolled her eyes, held her weapon out in front of her. “Lucky me,” she said sarcastically. Nick could detect more than that, there was a trace of bile in there. “Don’t suppose you’re going to step aside and let me leave, are you?”

  “Well I didn’t before now, did I?” Wim said. “That’s really up to the Mistress. I suppose if you swore loyalty to her, she might let you live.” His face hardened. “I wouldn’t though. Any word out of your mouth would be a poisonous lie. The only thing I’ll believe is your dying breath.” He swept his weapon up with a flurry, a battle stance Nick knew that much. He wasn’t entirely sure what was going on here but it looked like some sort of family tiff. Her own weapon hissed back and suddenly Wim had another weapon in his hand, a second one.

  Sharon!

  He'd never known that was what it did before but seeing the weapon erupt into life, it felt almost like a nail in Wim Carson’s coffin. It was a hard feeling to explain, like he could see so much of the previous owner within it. Everything about it screamed Sharon, too many memories suddenly threatened to overcome. He’d seen that thing so many times he’d almost taken it for granted. Now to see it in the hands of another…

  “You know I didn’t kill her,” Wim suddenly said, glancing over towards him. Nick reacted with a start, not expecting it. “I really didn’t, I’m sorry she died. That wasn’t my intention. I wasn’t the one who shot her.”

  What?! Nick didn’t know what to say to that. But at the same time, if he wasn’t involved then how did he know she’d been shot.

  Anything else he might have said was lost as the girl raced towards him and suddenly the two of them were engaged in combat, lightning fast and beautifully deadly, three blades hammering away at each other.

  The blank slate was tough, Wilsin had to begrudgingly concede that. There was no other way to go about it. He was fighting two highly trained Unisco operatives at the same time, taking blows that would have crippled any normal man. And yet he just shrugged them off, didn’t react beyond a few scant signs of discomfort that assailed his features momentarily. How do you beat someone who apparently can’t be harmed? It was the question that needed to be answered.

  They were tag teaming him, the other hitting him hard when he was focused on one of them. As tough as he might be, he couldn’t keep his focus on twin targets at the same time. He came after Wilsin, he made to evade every powerful blow thrown his way while at the same time Harper went at him from behind throwing in punches and kicks to every normally sensitive area, the knees, the solar plexus, the neck… None of it had any visible impact. Not until he rounded on her and threw a punch that might have taken her head from her shoulders had it landed. She ducked with a grunt, tried to tackle him to the ground with limited effectiveness, her shoulder bouncing off his stomach.

  Having been hit once, Wilsin had no desire for a repeat performance. With him turned, he took a run up and sprang onto the huge broad back and wrapped both arms around the powerful neck, bringing all his strength to bear on trying to twist it. He heard a deep chuckling laugh building up from deep down in the man’s body, all efforts to snap the neck coming to naught. It was like trying to snap a stone wall in two. Only his reactions saved him as the blank slate hurled himself back at the wall, hard. Wilsin flung himself free, heard the crack as the man hit the wall. He hoped it was his spine but somehow, he doubted they would be that lucky. There definitely was a twitch within those craggy features…

  Indeed, he was proved right as the man stepped away from the wall, he saw a huge dent left within the metal. If he held any discomforts from hitting it like that, he wasn’t showing them. At the same time, Wilsin mentally blanched about what might have happened had he been caught in the space between man and wall.

  Okay, so I don’t do that again.

  And suddenly the blank slate was on the attack again, this time facing them head on, he didn’t charge, didn’t run, just moved slowly and deliberately. Almost like he intended to intimidate the hells out of them. And that was just too bad, Wilsin thought. Unisco agents don’t intimidate.

  This time the two of them attacked from the front, ducking under the first blows thrown at them by the ham-sized fists and landed their punches simultaneously, the same locations. The blank slate stiffened, a sudden expression of pain shooting up into his eyes, just for a moment. And in that moment, David Wilsin dared to dream. Maybe, just maybe the two of them had managed to do together what on couldn’t alone.

  He’d underestimated the blank slate, the man recovered altogether too quickly, swept out a huge palm and shoved Wilsin back. Shoving wasn’t giving it enough credit, it was like being hit by a tractor, it drove the pieces of shattered armour back into his already hurt ribs and he hit the ground with a yelp of pain. All the breath was forced out of him as the blank slate rounded on Mel Harper, a Harper who suddenly looked so very tiny stood alone in the monolith of fury that was the huge man before her.

  Credit to her, she did fight, managed to land another three or four good p
unches until finally he tagged her with a brutal punch to the jaw. Wilsin heard something snap, saw her jaw bent at an awkward angle. Suddenly unsteady on her legs, he saw her wobbling, desperately tried to force himself to his feet. He needed to get back in there…

  Too late. Blood was running down her face; the blank slate was upon her. She tried one final time, threw an unsteady kick and almost toppled down off balance. She’d have hit the floor if the blank slate hadn’t caught her by the hair and snapped her back towards him, catching her a tremendous punch in the face as she flailed helplessly. No mistaking that crack, Wilsin realised as he watched her fall to the ground, her head bouncing off the hard floor with her neck at an awkward angle.

  Son of a bitch!

  Fresh fury filled him as he rose to his feet, all previous pain a distant memory to him. How he was going to put him down, he didn’t know. But put him down he was going to do. Not just for him, but for Harper. She’d deserved better than to die like this!

  “Get away from that ship!”

  The accent was broad Canterage, not altogether removed from Fagan’s, but the men coming into the hangar weren’t as friendly. Alex Nkolou turned, pointed her borrowed blaster at them and fired, getting one shot away before a flurry came back her way. She ducked down under the landing strut, heard the blasts shatter harmlessly against the ship above her.

  And what a ship it was. She’d never seen curves so sleek and streamlined, even if she wasn’t keen on the emerald piping that adorned an otherwise silver sheen. No time to admire it now, Navarro and Noorland were shooting back at the new arrivals, the previous owners unless she was mistaken. Leclerc spun out from cover, firing from the hip and scattering them into fractured groups while somewhere far above them, Anne Sullivan’s saga boomed three, four, five times. She heard yells, imagined them falling. The borrowed X7 felt heavy in her hands, she’d never much been one for shooting them outside her ship. It felt… wrong, for want of a better term.