A Game of Universe (3 page)

For a moment, I almost played it safe and left, but the late Omar believed there was money in this, enough to risk the wrath of Umbra Corp by freelancing. How much could it hurt to hear the wealthy man out? I handed his invitation chip to the guard on the left and spoke the code phrase: “Life is precious.”

The cyborg scanned the chip with a reader in its thumb, then snapped it in half. With a voice that might have been female once, it replied, “Please go in, sir. You are expected.”

I entered an antechamber and a wall formed behind me. A faint hum emanated from all sides, a scan for weapons and offensive mental devices. I had nothing detectable on my person. The door facing me dissolved open, and I walked through.

The chamber had seven sides paved with turquoise squares set in silver. Arcane mnemonic runes of inlaid moonstones were set into every seventh stone. Some of them I understood—
Isolation
, the
Void, Stability
—but most were beyond my comprehension. Whatever the enchantment was, I sensed it. The hairs on my arms stood tall, and the back of my neck tingled.

Five rows of plush seats had been arranged in concentric circles around a central projection pad, maybe forty seats in all. Filling a third of them was an odd assemblage. Several I recognized as having outstanding reputations. Better than mine.

Standing in the corner was E’kerta, a collection of insects, a small self-contained hive that I knew well from my Corporation. Each of his ten arms, composed of hundreds of beetles, was equally deadly and silent. He was a strange creature to watch, for his shape shifted periodically, limbs that stretched too long and frail, or compressed to fat tentacles. He appeared fluid, but I had seen him kill, and when organized the overlapping carapaces of his hive were as strong as adamant steel.

In the second row, I spotted Gilish the Green. Our paths had crossed before and I was fortunate to have escaped with my life. My features were different now. He didn’t recognize me. The pirate covered his body with green animated tattoos, one for each of his legendary conquests. Tiny starships burned, women were ravaged, and men were slain across his flesh.

And there were heroes. Gustave Barbaroux, who single-handedly smashed the invasion plans of the Spartan Conglomerate, and saved countless lives on the world of Colonus, sat with his hands politely folded in his lap. He ignored the riffraff about him, brushed back his thick blond hair, and waited for the show to begin. He was young, perhaps twenty-two, skinny, and human. I judged him no threat to my abilities.

But there was an old woman who sat alone, far from the others, Sister Olivia of the Order of the Burning Cross. Give me a fire worshipper, a priest of Shiva the Destroyer, an acolyte of Bloody Elisa, the patron saint of vacuum, or even a scholar of Thoth, but not someone who believed they ate their own god’s flesh and drank his blood once a week. Barbarians. I wouldn’t have minded so much, but Sister Olivia was said to possess holy powers—exorcism, walking on water, pillars of fire—and
that
I did mind.

I counted twelve heads in all, thirteen including myself. What did we have in common? Why would the owner of Golden City bring cutthroats and saints, heroes and villains together?

The lights dimmed, and I took the closest empty chair, just making it before the center lit up with a virtual image. The waves of static solidified into an elderly man. His black eyes I noticed first, large, dilated, bottomless. His silver hair draped behind his shoulders, loose but still neat. He wore a smartly tailored suit and stood two meters tall. Although the image could have been programmed to look like anything, I perceived this man to be exactly as he showed himself. The way he stood and held his head high, he was absolute in his confidence. I appreciated that.

“I am Erybus Alexander,” he said. His voice was soft, but powerful, like the rumble after a crack of thunder. “My gratitude for responding to my summons.”

Someone came in late, passed in front of me, and took the seat on my left. “So, he invited you, too,” this person whispered from the dark. “Rumor has it your luck is as strong as ever, and the casino is poorer for it. That is a good omen.”

The voice was familiar, slick and deep, like a reptile in human form. I keyed the mnemonic constructs on my right hand and released the ocular enhancer. My vision pierced the shadows and showed me what I suspected. It was Omar—the man whose mind I had absorbed, and erased moments ago, the man I strangled seven days ago with my bare hands.

2

“I
have an offer I would like you to consider,” Omar whispered to me.

I nodded. “Later. I would hear our host first.”

There were two possibilities. Either it was not the real Omar I strangled and buried a week ago, or the man I sat next to was an impostor. Yet, he appeared as he always had, clean shaven, short gray hair, and an infectious smile. Even his cologne was the same clean citrus scent.

One more possibility, junior,
the persona I called Fifty-five said. Fifty-five was both his rank and his name. He was also an assassin, the one who led me to this career. He was paranoid in the extreme, but his advice had often saved my life. Dying tends to make one cautious.

Tell me.

Cloned. The practice is forbidden by Corporate law. It messes up our ranking system—not that any regulation would stop Omar. He’d kill, blackmail, and cheat to advance himself.

How did he get in? I have his coded invitation chip.

We’ve got bigger things to worry about,
Fifty-five said.
This is a secret meeting, invitation only, right? The man you’re supposed to be is sitting next to you. How long do you think it will take them to figure that out? You better leave.

He was correct. I could be silenced in a number of extremely unpleasant ways if caught. Looking for the door I came through, I saw only turquoise tiles and moonstones, and no exit.

The psychologist whispered,
No one has noticed. Remain calm. Do nothing to draw attention to yourself. Perhaps we may yet walk out unscathed.

If we’re lucky.

The virtual Erybus continued, “My time is limited, so I shall dispense with formalities. You are here because of your reputations, your resourcefulness, and because you exist outside the influential spheres of my corporations.

“First, your compensation.” He snapped his fingers and faded from view. “If you find it compelling, you may remain so we may discuss the assignment.”

A new image appeared on the projection pad, two balls of light, a binary star, shining in the center of the room. A golden orb cradled a smaller blue-white companion; fingers of plasma writhed between them. The inlaid moonstones on the walls glowed in this new sunlight like pale stars in the night sky.

“The binary system, Erato, contains seven planets,” Erybus’s disembodied voice explained, “two gas giants rich in industrial fluorocarbons, three are balls of ice, but two, the second and third worlds, are special.”

A sphere of cobalt replaced the blazing stars. It had a cap of ice on either pole, and pink clouds finger-painted its surface. One continent, a jigsaw of rivers and mountains, floated among a thousand islands in a mirror-dark sea. “This planet has been terraformed to a prime rating and is ready for immediate colonization.”

Another globe materialized. Streaks of black and orange, clouds from its active volcanoes smeared a third of the sky with veils of ash. “This planet possesses only a tertiary rating, but yields an annual treasure-trove of gems, heavy metals, and rare Philosopher Stones.”

The worlds winked out of existence, and Erybus reappeared center stage, his raven eyes inspecting the shadows we sat in. “In exchange for your cooperation, the title to the seven worlds and both stars is yours.”

“No man has such wealth to proffer,” Omar said to me.

“Indeed.” I grew up mining Philosopher Stones. A perfect specimen was worth a fortune. How much would a planetful be worth? A sum beyond my reckoning.

Not mine,
remarked the gambler.

Gilish the Green jumped to his feet and cried, “Rocks? What do I care for rocks? You own Morning Star. You offer me more or I leave. You offer me more or I order my ships to destroy Golden City!”

The tattooed pirate’s greed was legendary. I admired him for it because you always knew where you stood with Gilish—at the business end of his saber. He wore his sword openly. Curious that he had been allowed to keep it in this secure room; then again, I couldn’t imagine anyone foolhardy enough to take it from him.

A smile rippled across Erybus’s lips, then withered. “I value your bravado, Mister Gilish. Feel free to attack my Golden City. The diversion would prove amusing. You have, however, anticipated my generosity. My Morning Star Cartel has many facets, rewards to suit every appetite, even yours.”

His virtual image shattered: glittering bits upon the projection pad. Octahedral crystals of gold packed into ebony chests; coffers filled with Indigo-Fire diamonds and bipolar Star Emeralds and pink pearls the size of goose eggs; bolts of Iridescene silk, embroidered with roses, lilies, and chrysanthemums; cut crystal vials of bioluminescent life-extending elixir; idols of jade; a throne of lapis; and countless silver coins spilled across the stage, surged forward, then vanished before they touched the floor.

Erybus returned. No smile. “Sufficient?”

Gilish’s face split in two—a grin of crooked teeth the dividing line—and he sat down.

His wealth appealed to me, but more appealing was that Erybus owned the Morning Star Cartel. That was real power and wealth.

The cartel was on Earth before the First and Second Expansions. They were the first to get a firm financial hold on Mars, Alpha Centauri, and the rest of the colonies. When the Second Expansion hit, they were
everywhere
at once. Only a handful of corporations made the transition to a galactic market. Morning Star led them. Among the governments, cults, and corporate entities that swam the choppy sea of changing political boundaries and fiscal opportunity, Morning Star Cartel was a shark that went out of its way to gobble up the competition. If Erybus owned the cartel, then he could offer a reward to make my winnings in the casino seem like dropped change, too small to pick up.

“With extraordinary compensation,” Erybus continued, “comes an equally extraordinary task. Some have claimed it impossible.”

“Pardon me,” the young hero Gustave said and politely raised his hand. “If sir, you are wealthy as you claim, then why not undertake this task yourself? Surely you are better equipped and have more resources than any one of us.”

Watch this one
, Fifty-five said.
He doesn’t fit in with the rest of this bunch. Something stinks about him.

“If I could use my resources in this affair,” Erybus said, the rumble underlying his voice crackling like thunder, “I would. I am, however, bound by contractual obligations to follow an exact set of rules. These rules and the contract that binds me has insured my long life, my success in business, and my delight for centuries. But like all contracts of its type, it has a limited duration. When it expires, my life and my immortal soul are forfeit.”

Sister Olivia rose from her seat, her bones popping and crackling. She pointed a trembling finger at him, and hissed, “You sold your soul to the devil? How dare you beg for God’s mercy.”

Erybus’s dark eyes twinkled. “Sold my soul to the devil? That is a simplistic analysis of an intricate business transaction, but yes, technically, if you wish to describe it in such terms, I did precisely that.”

“And what makes you think I would help undo your folly?” she demanded.

“Daughter of God, I appreciate your apprehension.” His eyes found her in the shadows, and fixed upon her. They simultaneously sparkled and absorbed the light around them. “Seventeen hundred years ago I condemned my soul. Since then I have changed. The man who I was, the man who craved only power, is not the one who stands before you this evening. You know of my charitable record, the private trusts, my donations to worthy charities—as I recall, even to your own Order of the Burning Cross.”

Sister Olivia wavered under his stare. “Gold cannot purchase redemption from God,” she said, and sank back into her seat. She made the sign of the cross, prayed a moment, then added, “Nevertheless, if you have truly repented, the Lord may see fit to forgive you.”

Her Order of the Burning Cross was popular, perhaps because it offered its followers a rigid code of rules in an unruly universe. Some people needed rules. And no matter what Sister Olivia said about gold and God and redemption, she needed money. Her order had political muscle, but when things got nasty, she used armies, thugs, and inquisitions to force their enlightened ways upon others. That required cash.

“I am not ashamed of anything I have done,” Erybus said. “I did what I had to. Now, I seek a solution to my quandary. If any feel uneasy with the spiritual nature of this, you are free to go. I would not fault you.”

That was my cue to leave.

And what are the odds of staying alive
? the gambler asked.
You better stand pat. One word about his deal with the devil, and his stock loses half its value. Don’t think he won’t fold you if you walk out.

But how much longer could I stay and remain undiscovered? I was dead either way.

Aren’t you curious to see what his game is?

I’d rather be alive than curious.

A moment passed, and no one got up to leave, including me.

“Perfect,” Erybus said. “I shall divulge to you what this impossible task of mine is. Lights please.” Overhead illumination, amber in color, filled the turquoise room with a warm glow, making the blue stone darken and the moonstones blush.

“When I negotiated the contract to exchange my soul for power,” he explained, “I bartered for the inclusion of an escape clause. A standard year before my contract expires, I may summon thirteen champions to risk their lives and souls in place of mine. He or she,” Erybus paused while E’kerta stretched its collective body, “or it, must do so freely and with full knowledge of the consequences.”

“No task is impossible,” snorted Gilish. “Show me what you want. I get it.”

Erybus became shadows and faded. In his place appeared a bowl of gilt silver with eight panels, each engraved with a leering face. There were disjointed arms and legs carved upon it too, and on the inside rim, sculpted cavalry and armies marched.

“This is one incarnation of what I seek,” Erybus’s voice whispered.

A second vision appeared: A silver cup, polished to a mirror shine. It had a wide mouth, short stem, and fat base inscribed with crosses and angels and inlaid with a mosaic of garnet and ivory. Within was a stagnant liquor. Sister Olivia gasped. It too then vanished.

And a third image: a drinking horn of beaten gold. About the mouth was fastened a crown of five points, and along its length were fashioned the faces of a hundred kings.

“What I seek changes through myth and time and place, but the core of what it is remains constant. You will know it when you find it.”

He spoke of the Grail. When I was younger, much younger, and beginning my apprenticeship, my Master made me read Chrétien de Troyes’s
Le Conte de Graal,
and all the other Grail myths. Only one pure of heart could claim the relic. It almost made me laugh that Erybus thought anyone in this room had a chance.

“Almost,” because the laughter froze in my mouth. I tried to swallow, but my muscles would not respond. A smothering veil clouded my perceptions. I listened from the inside of a seashell, peered through a foggy lens, and only sensed my flesh through a dozen quilted blankets. I had lost control of my body.

Who possesses me?
I demanded.

Silence.

Then who’s not in control?

It’s not me, honey,
Celeste purred.
I’m right here next to you.
Her thoughts mingled with mine, erotic and tempting, but I gently pushed her away.

Perhaps you had a seizure,
offered the psychologist.

My personas of Aaron and Medea gave me a mental nod. Aaron was an alien king, a creature of stone, whose mind was indecipherable. Like an oyster coats an irritating grain of sand, so did I surround Aaron’s crystallized thoughts with a blanket of obliviousness.

Medea rarely had anything to say. She preferred action to words.

The gambler said:
I’m not even dealt in on this hand.

That only leaves one unaccounted for,
said Fifty-five.
Your Master.

That’s not possible,
I replied. There was too little left of my Master. The mnemonic lore I stole from his mind was intricate and huge; it left no room for his intellect. The power was there, a shred of his feelings, but no awareness. At least, that was what I had assumed. Could he have been there, mute, all these years?

Master? Are you the one who possesses me? I’m sorry for what happened. Believe me. I never meant you harm.

My body stood, moved without my permission, then I spoke: “You make reference to the Holy Grail. The first image was a pre-Christian Celtic artifact, the Gundestrop Cauldron. The second is a classical reconstruction from the early French legends of the cup of Christ. And the last is the vessel of the Celestial Dragons’ Blood, discovered in deep space, and according to myth, containing the souls of the hundred wisest kings yet to be born.”

Thirteen heads turned toward me.

Get control back,
Fifty-five hissed.
The last thing we want is attention.

Stop!
I screamed at whomever directed my body.
You are going to get us killed.
I wrestled with the mind dominating my body, but it was titanic, alien, a blank black wall that I could not see through, a will so powerful it couldn’t be human.

“We have an educated man among us,” Erybus said and fixed his somber gaze upon me. He studied me, perplexed.

He had to realize I was not on his guest list, not one of his thirteen handpicked champions. I wanted to shrink back into my chair, slither under it to avoid his gaze, but whoever controlled my body stood tall and stared back without so much as a blink.

“Yes,” Erybus answered, “it is the Holy Grail I seek. If found and submitted to me, then and only then shall I be spared, and my rewards disbursed.”

With more words that were not mine I said: “Why would the issuers of your contract, apparently agents of evil, wish to possess a relic that has traditionally been associated with virtue? It puzzles me.”

“My underwriters knew how well the Grail is hidden,” Erybus said, his gaze hardening. “They knew only one hero in a million has the qualities necessary to find it. It makes my escape clause, at best, improbable. Does that answer your question?”

“Yes, quite. Thank you.” The mysterious persona who controlled my body rippled with satisfaction. Without warning the presence vanished.

I possessed myself again.