A Game of Universe (4 page)

My eyes peered directly into Erybus’s eyes, two holes in space that seemed to contain the stars themselves. I had to look away and sit down.

Master? Was that you? Can you help me?

Find the Grail,
said a faint voice.
Do not allow …

Yes? Do not allow what?

No one answered.

Why, my Master, have you returned after twenty years of silence? To satisfy your curiosity? Forgive me. Speak to me, please.

Erybus relaxed his gaze. He did not call for his bouncers and have me removed.

Instead, he continued, “Whatever the
reason
for my escape clause, I have one. And while I have not been allowed to actively seek the Grail, I have compiled every legend and fact pertaining to it. An army of historians and theologians toiled for two hundred years to complete this work, and their efforts I shall give to you to aid you. Yet, even with this collection of lore, the location of the relic remains a mystery. You will be taking a grave risk, speculating on your abilities to interpret this data, and testing your luck.”

“And our souls will be lost if we fail?” Omar asked.

“Precisely,” Erybus answered. “If you fail to satisfy the terms of the contract within the standard year, a devil called Nefarious will collect your soul and it will burn forever in Hell.”

Why not do it?
urged the gambler.
What is the risk? Your soul? Call a spade a spade—we all know where yours is going anyway. There is nothing to lose.

Only thirteen champions allowed, remember? I’d be the fourteenth.

Still, it was the only way I’d be walking out of here alive. I had to eliminate one of the people here—and quickly. How?

Gilish. His greed was the key. I silently recited a mantra to calm my fear, gathered my nerve, and again spoke: “Thirteen to take the risk. But only one can be rewarded. The rest die. Is that correct?”

Before Erybus replied, Gilish stood and cried, “What?”

The hero Gustave cleared his throat, and announced, “I shall partake of your challenge, sir. But I request a binding agreement of my own to insure full payment when I return with the Grail.”

Gilish shouted, “No young punk’ll take what’s my treasure.” He held a plasma tube in his hand. It was aimed at Gustave’s chest. The weapon expelled a cone of xenon dimers that instantly decayed, incinerating anything that got in their way. I had used one before—flashy, and a trifle messy, but highly effective at close range. Pirates and pilots liked them because they worked well in vacuum. It would probably kill everyone on that side of the room.

E’kerta’s body scattered, and the others leapt out of their seats.

Gilish fired. Nothing happened.

“You will find that your equipment has been rendered temporarily inoperative,” Erybus said.

“Perhaps this will work then,” Gustave said and pulled a knife free from his belt. The blade was slim and slightly curved, a half meter in length, and had a golden mirror shine.

Gilish unsheathed his saber, a sword with twice the reach of his opponent’s, the metal dull, nicked, and covered with old blood.

Gustave moved to the center of the room, onto the projection pad, causing the image of Erybus to distort.

The pirate kicked over a chair and joined him.

This is wrong,
Fifty-five said.
Erybus neutralized his plasma tube, but let him keep the saber. Why? And why haven’t those bouncers come in here to break it up? He could stop this if he wanted to.

The image of Erybus’s face blurred and smeared above the two champions like a ghost, watching but not interfering.

Maybe,
I replied,
he wants to weed out the weaklings before he commits to picking his thirteen champions. So much the better for us.

Gustave slashed at Gilish, scoring the pirate’s forearm with a deep cut (and destroying the tattoo of a starship in flames). The young hero was fast.

The pirate growled and took a pace back, bringing his own blade in line with his opponent’s breastbone. He lunged at Gustave, but his blow was parried by the smaller blade with a motion so swift it was only a blur of gold. Then a quick riposte nicked the pirate’s hand and scarred a leering skull of green ink.

Gilish stepped back to reassess his opponent.

A traditional opening sequence to test one another,
Medea commented. My persona of Medea knew more about blades and combat than I could learn in a lifetime.
The younger one is more proficient than the pirate.

Unlikely,
I told her.
Gilish has twice his years and twice the skill. He’s toying with him.

Gilish cut at Gustave’s head.

Instead of ducking out of the way, the hero stepped
into
the cut, and reversed his grip on the blade so it lay braced along his left forearm. With his metal-reinforced arm, he parried the saber with a simple sweep. He then brought up his right fist and punched the pirate’s ugly face, busting Gilish’s lip and three intertwined emerald snakes.

A snarl spread across Gilish’s features. Rather than stepping back and using his sword properly, he grabbed Gustave’s wrist, twisting his thumb and index finger into a painful lock.

Gustave smiled. He was now inside the reach of Gilish’s saber with a proper close fighting weapon. With a twist of his free hand, he reversed the blade that lay against his forearm and skewered the pirate’s throat, impaling a lovely tattoo of a slave girl bound in chains.

The green pirate turned white, dropped his saber, and fell to the floor.

We should kill this hero Gustave from a distance,
Medea whispered.

Gustave’s smile vanished. He took two steps back and allowed the virtual Erybus to resolve on the projection pad (now tinged red with spilled blood).

“Well fought, Mister Barbaroux,” Erybus said, “but that shall be enough violence for one evening. I suggest the remainder of you direct your energies to finding the Grail.” He stared directly at the hero, who bowed his head and retreated to his seat.

“There is one last condition to this transaction. When you find the Grail, you must not drink from it. Doing so will ruin its pristine state. The wording of my release clause specifies that this incarnation of the Grail must remain untainted. Drink from it and there shall be no reward—and a most unpleasant penalty.

“Now, if you have questions of a legal nature, feel free to consult with my solicitor.” He pointed to the back of the room. A middle-aged man with a pointed beard stood there, holding an alligator skin briefcase. The solicitor gave a nod, then opened the case and removed an armful of scrolls. Each one was tied with a black ribbon. He handed one to me.

Omar whispered, “Listen, my friend. I offer you the opportunity to join me and others here. We have agreed to unite our efforts and increase our prospects to find this relic. We can cover more territory in less time. And should any of the others cross our path, they could be taken care of.”

“Including me?”

He shrugged.

“What of the tiny matter of your immortal soul?”

“You surprise me, Germain, being deluded by such superstitious nonsense.”

“I shall consider, my colleague.”

I untied the scroll, and inspected the screen of the disposable computer. It was a replication of parchment, yellowed, and the calligraphy characters were familiar to me, blood, dried to a crimson dark sheen. The index tab along the side listed thirteen sections, containing over a thousand pages of legal-speak. I thumbed to the escape clause, a blur of words and riders and paragraphs.

Wait,
the psychologist whispered.
Go back, page five hundred three, please.

I did.

There,
he said.

“The party of the first part has the option to release the party of the second part from all obligations herewith, provided the mortgage on the party of the second part’s soul is negotiated in good faith.”

This is highly unusual,
the psychologist said.
Usually, two contractually joined parties can agree to waive the contract if they so desire. Placing this in writing indicates an erroneous motive, I believe.

So the devil is sitting in on this hand,
the gambler said.
That doesn’t alter the odds.

It made a difference. Taking on a freelance assignment for a wealthy eccentric man was one thing; taking on an assignment for a liar was another. Omar might not take his immortal soul seriously. I did.

I scrolled to the escape clause. In plain words it explained that in one Earth year hence, if the undersigned returned with the Grail (subject to tests of authenticity and its untainted state), he shall be rewarded with the title to the Erato system, and—there followed a long list of documents verifying the quality of gems, the deeds to hundreds of slaves, and thirty escrow accounts scattered on a dozen worlds in triple-A rated banks. But if the undersigned failed, his soul became the property of the first party. Simple. Erybus Alexander’s signature was scrawled in blood at the bottom of the page; the capital “A” of his last name stood tall and pointed above the others. Three runes of
Absoluteness
glowed brilliant white at the very bottom of the contract. They made it unbreakable. In the lower right-hand corner was a blank line for my mark.

A year. That worried me. I had never been comfortable with time limits. My assignments rarely had them. I preferred to oversee every detail, study my subjects, and get it right the first time. But a single year? It grated against my better judgment and professional training.

Omar’s alliance had appeal. He was correct that we would cover more territory. But he was wrong: there could be only one winner. The contract indicated that clearly enough. In the end, we would have to kill one another. And I had already killed him once.

Erybus’s solicitor distributed quills, albino peacock feathers with their tips sharpened. The ink we’d have to provide ourselves. Omar wasted no time. He impaled the tip of his finger, drew his blood into the quill’s tip, and made his mark. Goose flesh crawled across the arm that was next to him.

I glanced up and saw the solicitor speaking to Erybus. I read his lips. He said: “Sir, we must find another champion to replace the pirate. His death was poorly timed.”

“Yes,” Erybus replied and looked among us, “possibly … wait.”

I lowered my head and pretended to examine the contract.

Sign,
insisted the gambler.
Do it before we lose out!

I held the quill firmly in my right hand, poised over the meaty pad of my left hand, and I faltered. The door the solicitor came through was wide open. I had a chance to escape. Did I need Erybus’s money? No. With my casino winnings I could live an extravagant life for a decade, or, if properly invested, I could retire and live comfortably for the rest of my days. I wasn’t greedy.

Nothing justified this level of risk. Failure equaled death and eternal damnation in a year. I wasn’t willing to chance that.

E’kerta disassembled his collective self. Each of the ten-legged scarab beetles in his body-hive made their mark upon the pact, a character and identifying scent that spelled his full name. Even Sister Olivia had signed and gently blew the ink dry on her contract.

So why was I stalling? I should sneak out.

You’re stalling because it’s a trap,
Fifty-five said.
That open door is Erybus’s way to see who’s going to chicken out. He’d be a fool to let anyone go who wasn’t under his thumb.

He won’t kill you if you’re legitimately one of his thirteen,
the gambler whispered.

You were smart enough to take a second look at that contract, junior,
Fifty-five continued,
but not smart enough to know that the instant you stepped inside this room, you signed up.

I felt like a tourist in the casino, out of my element in a rigged game, hoping to get lucky and hit the big jackpot. They were right. The only way I’d walk out of here alive was as one of Erybus’s champions.

Looking over the contract one last time and finding no hidden or misleading clauses, I drove the quill’s point into my hand, and released my well-guarded life fluid.

The quill’s reservoir filled and I signed.

My stomach twisted into a knot, and a fever flashed across my skin, then a chill turned it cold and clammy—dead man’s flesh. The ink congealed in an instant. My name froze upon the contract, permanently proclaiming my foolishness, and it was a done deal.

3

I
had not been challenged when I turned in the contract. Erybus had to know I was not invited, not one of his thirteen chosen. Why had he let me sign?

I regretted it. I should have snuck out. All night I studied his Grail database. Jam-packed on a disposable computer was more information than I could read in a year.

My spray-on timepiece was in countdown mode, flashing the deadline into my eyes whenever I looked at it. Three hundred sixty-four days and four hours remained. And after twenty hours and scanning ten thousand alphabetized entries in the database, I had no clue where the Grail was. There had to be a better way, some way to cheat.

Omar had tried to contact me three times, twice by messenger and once personally at my door. I ignored him and I had seen to it that Umbra Corp was brought up to date on his freelancing activities, and E’kerta’s, too. Maybe they would eliminate them for me. I had also informed the Corporation of my plans to pursue them. That gave me a cover for my own ventures.

My venture—where to start? A random investigation of the legends in the database was useless. There was a common theme in the stories: a Grail quest and a Grail King. The King was a symbol of the land, and if he was healthy, then the land was, too. All standard stuff. But how did Erybus fit in? The Grail King? And what was I? A knight in shining armor? Or a court jester?

I shifted the suite’s display to scenic, and gazed at the Melbourne cluster. It looked like so many pearls scattered upon black silk. There were several hundred thousand million stars in the Milky Way, and basking in their light are millions of democracies, corporations, monarchies, dictatorships, bureaucracies, colonies, and free trade ports where the Grail could be. So many diverse societies trading, making alliances and war. They evolved with exponential ferocity.

Change fluxed through the galaxy: technological and psychological advancements, revolutions, nanoplagues, wars, corporate takeovers, natural disasters, and the fall of empires. It made the galaxy nothing less than enigmatic. Irreparably fragmented.

The alien civilizations were no less ferocious. We were xenophobes all, and those that were not conquered were enslaved or eradicated.

The psychologist interrupted my thoughts.
I believe I know why your former Master possessed you last evening.

The psychologist always had a theory for everything.
OK, let’s hear it.

He was a subconscious representation of your guilt. Identification of the Grail triggered a cascade emotional response: your Master, his murder, your guilt. Your feelings remain unresolved. Until you face them and
—

—Thanks for the free analysis. Why don’t you get lost?

The psychologist sighed, then said,
If you are unable to take my expert advice, then listen to a suggestion to enhance your search. Necatane.

Out of the question.

The man who trained me is a master-psychologist. He can see into the future or the past as easily as you see across this room. If anyone can divine the location of the Grail, it is he.

I know who he is, and I know what he can do, but there are two minor snags. First, he lives on his own world. Getting there may prove difficult. And second, he vowed if our paths ever crossed, he’d kill me. I’ll stick with Erybus’s data and blind luck.

Your mind was blank when you came to kill me,
the psychologist said.
Can you not repeat this?

The device I used burned out,
I replied,
and the man who made it is probably dead. Besides, I was after you that time, not Necatane. I doubt any psychic shield will screen me from him.

With my skills, I can hide your intentions, and make your thoughts transparent.

This was a tricky point. When I absorbed my extra personas, I had to choose which fragments to preserve, and which to discard. There was no room in my mind for all of them intact. This made their thoughts polarized, and their recollections partial. It made the psychologist interested only in analysis, and forgetful of his past loyalties. Still, I had no guarantee how he would react in the presence of his guru.

I’ll have to think about it,
I told him. I didn’t want to say it, but it
was
a better idea than just sitting here and reading the database.

Why are you wasting your time with that egghead?
the gambler asked.
There are places to go. Lost civilizations to sift through. Let the game begin.

I commanded the Grail database: “Reset to novice mode. Show me the legend of Parzival, verbosity level two, then the biography of Wolfram von Eschenbach.” The disposable computer complied, and as I read the first sentence, the door chimed.

With a flick of my eyes, I shifted the display to the hall. Standing there was the handsome dealer who saw me switch cards. A black metallic dress clung to the curves of her body, and revealed a figure that no dealer needed. She could have been a model, tall, lean, and muscular, but her face was a bit too angular, too serious. Her hair was different than when I last saw her, now curled in luxurious spirals and the color of honey. I knew her from somewhere, somewhere other than the Universe tables, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

Take a close look,
Fifty-five whispered,
just above her hip.

A slim chain and plastic souvenir four-leafed clover dangled there.

Not that,
he hissed.
Underneath.

A slight cylindrical bulge.
A weapon?

You better believe it, junior. Watch yourself.

I couldn’t ignore her. She had seen me exchange cards—and could make trouble if she wanted to. I got up and opened the door. At least it would be entertaining to see how she intended to blackmail me.

“Good evening,” I said and managed a warm smile.

“Technically it is morning,” she told me. “May I come in?” She wobbled slightly in her heels.

Walking in heels takes practice,
Celeste said.
She’s unskilled, but still attractive in an earthy sort of way. Why don’t we make love to her? Dally a while and enjoy yourself. Let me enjoy myself also.

Under normal circumstances, I’d agree. We could both use the diversion, but not now. I couldn’t afford to become distracted. Not with a dozen competitors close.

It’s unfair,
Celeste said, pouting.

I stepped aside, wary of that concealed weapon, and let her in.

She pointed a finger at me. “Let me be straight with you, Mister Germain. I know you performed an illegal action in that last hand of Universe—with the final card. I don’t know exactly what, but you can bet the management will freeze your account while they investigate the matter.”

She wasn’t bluffing. It was an approach I hadn’t encountered in years: honesty.

I sealed the door behind her and said, “I never caught your name.”

“Virginia, pilot second-class.”

“A pilot? Why would a pilot be working the tables?”

She crossed her arms. “Mister Germain, have you lost money at the Golden City? I mean lost more money than you had?” Her eyes darted around my opulent suite, landing on the thick hand-knotted rugs, the hammered gold trim of the furniture, and the dark Dutch landscapes adorning the walls. “No,” she said, “you probably haven’t. Well, they give you three options. They turn you over to their police so you can rot in jail, they let you work off your debt, or they make you disappear.”

I wandered into the living room and sat on one of the two divans there. “You’re a full-apprentice card plate dealer,” I said. “From what little I know of the game, that takes two years. You must have lost quite a sum.”

“Only two hundred,” she replied and followed me, wobbling, into the living room. Her dress made a crisp metal-on-metal tinkling with every step. I offered her a seat. She declined with a shake of her head.

“Two hundred thousand?”

“No, two hundred.”

I leaned forward, intrigued. “It shouldn’t have taken more than a week to work that off. Are you a compulsive gambler, Miss Virginia?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Living here costs money, eating in this dump costs money, they even charge you for the water flushed down your toilet.” She chewed her lower lip, then said, “After eighteen months of double shifts, I owe the casino two hundred and seventeen.”

I understood. This con had many names: debtor’s prison, indentured servitude, the democratic middle class. Whatever you called it, it had one thing in common, a poor worker forced to spend more than he had. I saluted Erybus’s business savvy.

“So what do you think I can do for you?”

“You can pay my debt and buy me passage off this rock. You won over four million, so it shouldn’t be too much to ask.”

“Only that? If what you claim is true, certainly your silence is worth more.”

“I’m a hard worker. I’m honest. I just want to get out of this snake pit, get back to my Guild, and do what I do best—pilot.”

Her hand drifted closer to that hidden weapon, and she added, “I know you’re some sort of sanctioned assassin. I don’t want trouble. I just want out of here. If I disappear, the casino will investigate. Probably not as thoroughly as if I told them about that card, but the way I see it, you’re better off paying me.”

I looked appropriately shocked at her accusation. “What makes you think I’m an assassin?”

“I hear things,” she whispered. “Things like the owner hired a bunch of licensed killers. You said you were going to the Turquoise Room. I can put two and two together.”

She had made a shrewd guess or she knew more than she was telling. Either way I didn’t like it. “Yes, I heard that rumor too, but it was mercenaries and war heroes your owner hired, not assassins.”

She looked me over once, and remarked, “You’re no war hero Mister Germain.”

“No. I’m not.”

Maybe it would be better to pay her off, yet another option occurred to me. Nothing along the lines of what Celeste might enjoy. This girl had integrity. I knew how hard Golden City worked its dealers. With a body like hers, she must have been offered other ways to settle her debt. “You said you were a first-class pilot?”

“Second,” she corrected.

“I can settle your account, but if you’re interested I have a different proposition, one you might find more appealing.”

She sat on the divan opposite me and carefully crossed her legs. “If you’re thinking about sex, forget it.”

She doesn’t mean it,
Celeste whispered.

“My ego is bruised,” I said, “but that’s not what I had in mind. I have a better use for your talents. May I offer you a drink?”

She glanced to the well-stocked bar across the suite. “Quantum ice, please.”

I used the pad on the coffee table and watched her drink dissolve in reverse; a blue crane materialized, the ceramic cup upon which it was painted came next, then the steaming liquor within appeared.

Quantum ice was a mixture of solvents that boiled at room temperature. It got you very drunk, very quick. She tossed the cup back, blushed, and blew a smoke ring straight up. Her full lips made a perfect “O.” Very sexy.

“As I was saying, I am engaged in what you might call a scavenger hunt. I have a computer full of clues to search through, but that will take far too long for my purposes.” She summoned another drink and sipped it as I explained.

“There is one man however, who can help me find what I seek. He values his privacy, so normal means of communication are impossible. I must see him in person.”

“So take a commercial flight. Charter a private ship. You have the money.”

“This individual has his own planet, outside the normal commercial zones, and private charters have … disadvantages.” Disadvantages like Omar probably had all the available pilots staked out. He wasn’t a complete idiot, and neither were the other Grail champions.

She frowned at my less than informative reply. “I don’t see what good I can do you. I don’t own a ship.”

“Let
me
be straight with
you,”
I said. “I must find a particular item in less than a year and return with it to Golden City. To increase my flexibility, I intend to purchase my own ship. Therefore, I require a pilot, a pilot who won’t ask questions or make a fuss about flight plans and other legalities. In exchange for this pilot’s services, after the year, I will sign the ship over to her. Understand?”

She raised one eyebrow and the triangle-cut sapphire in the corner of her eye sparkled. “And if this pilot was in debt?”

“I’d pay that off, of course.”

“My own ship?” She considered, then asked, “Just how dangerous is this scavenger hunt of yours?”

“Extremely,” I answered.

I liked this Virginia, despite her compulsive honesty, but if she wouldn’t work with me, I’d have to eliminate her. She knew too much, too much about the card game, too much about my mission, and too much about me. Her hand rested on her lap, close to that weapon. I recalled how nimble her hands were in our card game, so I readied myself to move quickly if she declined.

She studied me for a moment. “I think I’m going to regret this,” she said, “but OK. You got yourself a deal.” She drained the cup, stood, and offered me her hand.

I shook it. It was warm and soft and strong. “Excellent. We should leave immediately.”

“There are a few things I’ll need from my room.”

“Very well, I’ll clear your debt and meet you in the lobby, in say, five minutes?” I kept her hand in mine, so she wouldn’t trip in her heels, and walked her to the door.

She lingered in the entry as if she had something else to say, then drew closer, and pressed her body against my chest. Her eyes sparkled brighter than the jewels framing them. She kissed me. It was warm, wet, lasting too long to be a polite good-bye, but not long enough to be an invitation. She withdrew, flashed me a quick smile, and jogged down the corridor. Her heels—she left those behind.

I had been with this woman before. One doesn’t forget a kiss like that. The smell of jasmine in her hair, and the way she yielded slightly in my arms, it was all familiar … and frustrating that I couldn’t recall where or when I had known her.

You should have killed her,
Fifty-five said.
Absorbed her personality if you needed a pilot. She knows our plans. And giving her a ship! Are you out of your mind?

It’s not as crazy as it sounds. If I am successful, then we’ll be rich enough to buy a fleet of ships, and if not, we won’t be around to worry about it.