Solarversia: The Year Long Game (32 page)

“Yeah, it looks incredible. Except that stupid bit in the March portrait,” she added, nodding to the scene that depicted the drama of Bouncy Baltimore. Spee-Akka Dey Bollarkoo had completed seven monthly portraits — each painted in a different style — and the room was starting to take shape. The eastern wall housed the March, April and May portraits, the western wall June through August. The southern wall behind them was furnished with the September portrait, awaiting the inclusion of October and November. The northern wall had contained a piece of art right from the start — the Player’s Grid — which meant that the final three portraits, the ones that would illustrate the climax to the year, were to adorn the ceiling instead.

“What are you doing, you weirdo?” Nova asked as Burner looked at the ceiling through a shape made by his conjoined hands.

“I’m wondering what the ceiling will look like when my beautiful face is up there, following my glorious victory. I doubt most women would be able to take a tour like this once it’s finished. They’d look up, see me, and get all distracted. Hey, there’s an idea. Do you reckon I should speak to old Flower Face and tell her to include my grid number somewhere? That way, the girls who are interested could dial the Burner hotline. I’d select the fittest ones to join my harem. I’d be like Kiki La Roux. Except way less gay.”

“You do talk some utter bollocks sometimes, did you know that? The only thing you’ve got in common with Kiki is that you’re a massive Space Dick.”

“What we have in common is that we both
have
massive Space Dicks.”

Nova looked at the grid again. The death counter revealed that a staggering two hundred and thirty-one million lives had been lost in total, and that fifty-five million players had gone out. Profile squares like hers that had green borders to indicate two lives left were rare; those coloured violet, rarer still. More than half of the grid had turned dark already, and from everything they’d heard in the great Solarversia rumour mill, the weeks leading up to New Year’s Eve were supposed to be utter carnage and would leave only one million people in play.

The
Amritsar
approached the northwest corner of the room, where Banjax usually resided. The fish tank was gone. In its place was a small island that had been excavated, leaving nothing but a shallow pit and a bunch of discarded spades. The arkwinis battled with the ship’s wheel to steer the boat alongside the island's tiny shore.

“We’ve arrived at our destination, ladies and gentlemen,” the captain called through cupped hands from his new location on the bow of the ship. “Please unbuckle your belts and make your way over to the starboard side.”

Nova peered over the side of the boat into the pit. Its floor was covered with burning hot coals. All of a sudden the wind became more ferocious. The sails of the ship billowed above their heads, and water crashed against the port side, pouring into the boat. She clung to Burner’s arm and watched as the coals burned hotter and brighter, emitting clouds of dark smoke that filled the pit. Burner pointed at a wisp of smoke as it started to take the form of a fisherman holding a sharp curved sword. He appeared in the air before them and began to speak.

“Once upon a time, in the oceans of Nakk-oo, there lived a twelve-armed sea creature. The dodectopi were difficult to catch, for they were slippery and shrewd, but they were highly prized, for their meat was tastier and more nutritious than any creature that dwelled on land. We, the Unglai, hunted them all year round, for even a calf could feed an entire village for a week. Whenever a dodectopus was caught, word on land would spread faster than a zapier can zap. Villagers would dig a fresh hangi pit in which to cook the beast, and then line the streets, drumming their plates with knives and forks to welcome the fishermen home. Those beasts we didn’t eat were sold at market inland, and we became rich on the profits.

“One day, some fishermen caught a dodectopus and dragged it aboard. ‘Please,’ it said to the men, ‘I know that I will feed many mouths, but there aren’t many dodectopi left. If you keep hunting us like this, we’ll die out. I ask that you return me to the ocean and change your ways.’ But the men didn't listen, for how could a stupid beast know better than they? The captain of the ship drew his sabre and slit the monster’s throat, for a dodectopus that has been bled out tastes freshest of all.

“After that day, dodectopi were harder to find and the fishermen of Nakk-oo went weeks and months without seeing one. The months turned into years and rumours of their extinction began to spread. One evening at a tavern, many moons since anyone had savoured a succulent tentacle, an old fisherman named Ishmael got up onto his stool and addressed the crowd. ‘A true fisherman, as strong and brave as I, could catch a dodectopus any time he wanted. Tomorrow is the longest day of the year, and before the day is out, I will have caught one. I set sail at dawn. Who’s with me?’

“Early the next morning, Ishmael and his crew set out. The seas were calm, and they sailed far out into the ocean. The crew sang as they sailed, but Ishmael kept his eyes trained on the water, and sure enough, despite the years of scarcity, and his short, drunken sleep, that day his luck was in. Before noon he caught sight of a huge dodectopus, and though it struggled fiercely for freedom, by evening time the thirteen men had pulled and heaved and had dragged it aboard. What a catch! It was the largest, most magnificent specimen any of them had ever laid eyes on, large enough to feed three hungry villages for a month. Ishmael stood before it triumphantly.

“‘What did I tell you? I was fated to catch it.’

“‘You’re right, Ishmael, it
was
fate that brought us together.’

“‘It speaks,’ cried the fishermen. ‘Kill it,’ they begged.

“‘Just you dare,’ the creature bellowed. With one whip-like tentacle he pulled Ishmael close. ‘I’m Banjax, the last of the dodectopi. Your ignorance and greed have conspired to wipe out my kind. Now leave me be, or suffer your fate.’ Ishmael, who had heard enough, drew his sabre, ready to cut the monster’s throat. But Banjax raised another of his mighty tentacles and swiped the sword into the ocean.

“The frightened fishermen drew their knives and advanced on the creature, but they were no match for his might or grace. As quick and agile as the wind, he released Ishmael and swirled his twelve tentacles this way and that until each one was wrapped around the neck of one of the crew. They looked at each other in alarm, each secured in place by a slimy scarf as strong as steel.

“Then, before their struggles had really begun, Banjax placed the tips of his tentacles over the head of each man. Ishmael watched in horror as all twelve crew members were blindfolded and gagged at once, their entire heads enveloped down to their necks in the fleshy suckers. Banjax fixed Ishmael with a stare, then siphoning vigorously with all twelve arms, he sucked every head clean off.

“With his decapitated crew in a heap at his feet, Ishmael dropped to his knees and beseeched the beast not to kill him.

“‘I won’t kill you,’ the monster declared. ‘Or at least, not today. I need you to spread the word of what happened here today. Go back to your people and tell them their time as masters of the ocean has come to an end. Tell them I have ingested the living brains of twelve Unglai and I will utilise these brains more powerfully and efficiently than these dumb corpses ever could.’

“Ishmael gasped at the beast’s disrespect.

‘“Yes, dumb. You’re all so stupid. Did you think you just
happened
to find me today? I called you out here, Ishmael, just as I now send you back again. But I will come for you in good time. I’m looking forward to it. First I’m going to hunt the rest of your kind for sport and I won’t stop until they’re all dead. We’ll see how
you
like being the last of
your
species.’

“‘You’ll never do it!’ Ishmael cried.

“‘Don’t underestimate my power or my wisdom. Not now I’ve increased my brainpower thirteenfold. I’ll hide and I’ll wait, and I’ll attack when you’re least expecting it. The ocean is mine, and some day, the Nakk-oo lands will be mine too. For I am the master of fate, Ishmael. Yours included.’

“He slipped off the boat and swam away, far into the ocean and deep beneath its surface. Ishmael sailed home alone, the blood of his men swishing around his ankles. From that day forward, Banjax has risen up from the oceans on the longest day of the year to seek revenge on the Unglai for their crimes. On Nakk-oo, that day became known as ‘Fisherman’s Day’, a public holiday when it is illegal to go out onto the open sea or even to fish on the rock pools on the beach. Although, however they try to defend themselves from Banjax, bad things always befall the Unglai on Fisherman’s Day. On Nakk-oo, the dodectopi have come to symbolise the ‘Messenger of Fate’, especially of bad events to come.”

“
I
was once that boastful fisherman Ishmael. Still I await my death all these years later, ever fearful that the beast will keep his promise. I have been reduced to living next to my hangi pit, stoking it daily, keeping the coals burning hot and telling my tale to all who stop by.”

The old fisherman looked nervously over his shoulder and clutched the curved sword tight in his grip. He glared at the tourists on the
Amritsar
with a forlorn expression and then became harder and harder to discern, until he was once again just a wisp of smoke rising from the hangi pit.

***

That was strange. His old laptop was on the coffee table next to a pile of magazines. Casey could have sworn that he’d sold it on Craigslist. How odd. Mary-Ann called to him from the open partition that led through to the kitchen. Dinner was almost ready — meatballs, his favourite. He didn’t feel hungry, but according to the grandfather clock in the corner it was dinner time.
Where had that come from
, he wondered. That was so like her, buying something from the market and sneaking it back home.

The rain intensified its patter against the window. He knew that was a bad thing but couldn’t remember why. Mary-Ann would know. She always did. But when he called to her, she was no longer there. The kitchen had disappeared into a hazy fog. And his laptop, and the magazines and the clock he couldn’t remember buying, all of it, gone. The rain drummed against the window of his mind. Rain meant thunder, and thunder meant lightning. That’s right, rain meant lightning, and lightning was bad.

The bolt struck his left arm, tearing him from the haze of his dream to the nightmare of his reality. It was like he’d been tied to the spire of an old church, rigged up as a makeshift lightning conductor. Bolts travelled from the tips of his fingers up to his elbow, an excruciating pain, fresh in its unbearable intensity each and every time. Where was Mother Frances with his meds? A pathetic whimper escaped his mouth. For a limb that was no longer there, it sure as hell hurt. The medical profession might have referred to the pain as ‘phantom’, but it was agonising all the same. He caught his breath and gritted his teeth.
Warriors win, Case, warriors win
.

When the storm of pain eventually subsided he could smell meatballs again, simmering in tomato sauce. That was right, Mary-Ann had been making his favourite dinner. She was in the kitchen, stirring the pan.

“Smells good, honey. How long will it be?” he called, but when she turned, it wasn’t Mary-Ann. It was Frances, dressed in her scrubs. “Don’t worry, dear, I know where Mary-Ann is, follow me.” That was strange. Perhaps Mary-Ann had taught her the recipe. It was a relief to know that Frances would take him to her, anyway. But as she led him down the hallway of his house, his stomach lurched.

He rounded the corner into the garage, flinched, and tried to look away. Frances stopped him in his tracks and forced him to look. Mary-Ann was on the floor, meatball sauce spouting from her nasal cavity. He slumped to her side, grabbed her hand in his, saw the same desperate look in her eyes. Why was he always too late? “The window,” she said, half-gargling, half-choking on a bloodstained meatball. It was raining again.

Another bolt of lightning, this one less severe, thrust him back to wakefulness, to the feeling of sick dread in his stomach. He felt awful, the worst he’d ever felt, would end it all in a second given the choice. He reminded himself that Mary-Ann was gone, unable to experience any more pain. But the terrible darkness was too much to bear. For the thousandth time, he tried to open his eyes. It was impossible to learn that this would have no effect: his head was swaddled in bandages, which rendered him blind and almost mute. He couldn’t tell anymore whether his eyes were open or not. He was so alone, he had lost so much. The fear took hold in his stomach.

It was OK, there was someone there with him, someone he could hear pottering around in the room, opening and closing drawers and cupboards. It was Mother Frances; he recognized the shush of her moccasins on the floor as she walked. It was too painful to move his new lips so he tried grunting. He sounded like a pig. That’s what he’d been reduced to, he realised, a grunting pig. The type of animal that rooted around in its own shit.
A disabled grunter
, he thought, conscious of how pathetic that sounded. Crying hurt. Laughing would too, in the unlikely event that anything would ever be funny again. Laughing and crying. They were bad, like the rain. He tried another grunt, louder this time,
bring me the fucking meds.
The pottering stopped, and the slippers shushed along the floor towards him.

“Casey, was that you? It’s Frances, can you hear me?”

He raised his right arm a little and grabbed the bar at the side of the gurney. Such a lot of energy for such a small movement. Two taps of his fingers against the bar: ‘yes’.

“Are you alright? Are you in pain?”

He went to move his fingers, to make his taps, and then paused. She’d asked a pair of questions that had different answers. Did he tap once to answer the first, or twice to answer the second?

“Are you in pain?” she repeated.

Thank Christ for that. Two taps, as firm as he could manage without exacerbating the pain in his stomach. It was incredibly frustrating, this one-way, binary communication, the inability to ask questions himself.
A disabled grunter
. Yes, he wanted to say, yes he was in pain, he was drowning in it, you stupid tricksy-question-asking bitch.