The Great Game

If you’re new to the Great Game, please have a quick look at the blurb to your left, where you’ll find a short catch-up introduction!

The open entrance to the tomb is an invitation, as plain as the nose on my face. I’d have to get down on my hands and knees to squeeze in there, and I’d barely be able to crouch inside, but it is possible. I look over at Alice, who is pale and unhappy, and smile at her encouragingly.

“It’s OK,” I say. “I’ll go and knock, see if anyone’s home.”

“Wait.”

I look back at Alice. She seems nervous. I guess she’s got a thing about bugs, but I’ve gone through a lot to get this far, and it’s on her behalf too, so I’m not backing down. That’s no reason to give her a hard time, of course. “Yeah?”

“What are we going to ask?”

“Who it is who is after you, I thought.”

“Well yeah, but what if we only get one question? How about where they are? Or how to stop them? Or how to get out of this…” she looks around, a bit wildly, “… hotel, and make it back home?”

“Yeah, and whose home, come to that.”

She nods, glumly. “New York, 1993. I can tell you’re from later, and no, for God’s sake don’t tell me anything about the future. How many years further on are you?”

1993? Jesus. “It was 2009 when I came here.”

“Fuck,” says Alice. “I’d be 45. If I made it that far.”

“Is that a question?” The speaker is behind us, and it nearly makes me jump out of my skin. Alice goes white as I whirl around to put a face to the rich, buttery voice.

Fortunately, he does actually have a face, and he’s not some horrendous ant monster. He’s in his fifties, grey hair, the kind of clothes you’d spot on an expensive golf course. In fact, he looks like the kind of guy you’d see at an expensive golf course. In the bar. With a glass of French brandy in one hand, and an elegant Thai hooker in the other.

“So much curiosity,” he says. “Would you like the answers to that tasty little bundle?”

I shake my head. “Not immediately. David Sinclair, I assume.”

He smirks at that. “That’s still an implicit question, you know.”

“Just a statement of my beliefs.”

“Oh, really? I could have sworn you were fishing. But I’m not unreasonable, so I’ll give you the five-cent tour for free. You ask questions. Any questions. I answer them honestly, and as fully as I am able. You pay me with information, harmlessly and painlessly. You then go on about your business, no different save for being better informed.”

“That sounds suspiciously easy,” I say.

Sinclair grins. “Thank you.”

It takes a moment to avoid asking a question by mistake, but I think a bit and say, “Of course, it’s difficult to take what you’re telling us on trust.”

“Come now,” he says. “Use those marvellous, shiny new eyes of yours. If you look closely, you’ll see that I’m being truthful.”

“How…” I stop myself. “Uh, how nice that would be, if I had any idea of doing so.” Bleh.

“Why not just try?” Sinclair is trying to look reasonable, but there’s something else going on there too. Still. What the hell.

I concentrate on looking at him, really looking, trying to see beneath the skin to his honesty. It feels like trying to make out a face in a dark room — my eyes ache, and feel oddly warm at the same time. Alice gasps. Suddenly, for a flash, I can see it. There’s a thick bar of bright golden truthfulness hammered right through him, like a spike through someone’s palm. All sorts of darker stuff churns around it, seething and roiling. Then, just as suddenly, it’s gone again.

I feel sick, my eyes hurt, and Alice is staring at me. Everything looks slightly wrong, but for no reason, like it was all replaced by an identical model the last time I blinked.

“He’s telling the truth,” I say to Alice. “He couldn’t lie if he wanted to.”

“Oh, I want to,” Sinclair says, eyes glittering. “But, as you say, I cannot.”

She grabs my arm. “Your eyes. They lit up, really clearly.” She shakes her head. “What do you think?”

 Loading ...

Today’s photo: Ray Wise at Comic Con ‘07 by and (c) eujean