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"Hi Khim," said the figure in the doorway, "how's it going?"
Sitting alone in the Starblaydi Under-21s changing room, the dejected Dwarven Manager looked up.
"Ceri?" He asked the figure. "Ceri Salisbury? What tae hell are ye doing here?"
"Just thought I'd stop by for old times' sake," Ceri replied, stepping into the changing room, "sorry about the result."
"Aye," Khim nodded his thanks, "I bet t'Beast ain't happy either."
Ceri chuckled and patted his old Dwarven friend on the shoulder. A loss in the Under-21 World Cup is always hard for Starblaydia's team to bear, especially during the Group Stage of the tournament. Khim spoke up to break the moment.
"You know the last time we lost in the Group Stage of this damn thing?"
"Twenty-three years ago," Ceri replied with a smile, "Your first starting Under-21 Cap, if I remember correctly. A three-two loss to Kylaai, of all places."
"How d'yae remember all that information of the top a yer head?" Khim asked his old friend. A Dwarf would naturally remember all those sorts of facts, particularly as they would write them down in a Book of Grudges. A Human, however, certainly wouldn't. Ceri, however, just smiled under that age-old blond mop of a haircut and tapped his nose. Khim frowned. "Excelsior?"
"I'm not at liberty to tell you that you've just correctly guessed my current employer," Ceri said, quickly adding, "or you may not have, of course."
Khim frowned again, though as a Dwarf it looked like he was almost always frowning behind those thick red-brown eyebrows. The secret 'Excelsior' society didn't let many into its ranks and the former Right-Back, who - uncannily - had won the same number of International Caps (58) and Goals (6) for Starblaydia as Khim himself, was one of them.
"This is only a flying visit, shortarse," Ceri said, "just try not to lose one-nil to anyone other than Oglethorpia in this group."
Khim frowned - again - Crystilakere and Sonaron were up next, games which Starblaydia now needed to win.
"Aye, laddie," Khim replied, "see you later. I got a team-talk-and-a-half to give now, ye ken?"
"Aye, laddie," Ceri said, turning to leave. |
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Jhanna, Starblaydia. One year later.
<Delta-five-five, respond.>
Officer Nathanael West didn't make any kind of response as his partner, Officer Katarina Di Lorenzi, grabbed the police car's radio mic and took the call. West merely took note of the oncoming traffic just in case he needed to make a U-turn.
"Delta-five-five," Katarina responded, "go ahead control."
<Delta-five-five: One-Eight-Seven reported at sixty-five - six, five - Alfreton Heights, please respond.>
"Delta-five-five, responding." Katarina replaced the mic, "Murder in that part of town is pretty rare."
"Rich bastards probably had it coming." West replied, flipping on the car's sound-and-light show and accelerating.
"I just love how you never discriminate against anyone, Nate," Katarina said, "such a tender disposition you have."
Nate merely grinned as he floored the accelerator and sped through ever-more expensive areas of Jhanna, Starblaydia's captial city. The buildings and cars flashing by were steadily becoming more expensive. A murder, code 187, was nothing new in Starblaydia, of course, though in the parts of town where people could afford enough security to fend off a small army, murders were usually simple crimes of passion. Especially at 3:14 am.
After pulling up in the grand, gravelled front grounds outside the huge wooden double-doors of 65 Alfreton Heights, Katarina radioed in their arrival while Nate stepped out with a torch in one hand with the other resting on his holster. It was a reported murder scene, after all. This was an old house built almost like a castle, probably one with a library to rival most national institutions, Nate thought, though he was closer to the truth than he could have realised.
Pushing open the heavy solid oak doors, Nate flashed his torch around inside. Down the chessboard-pattern hallway there was a light on in a far room, illuminating an obvious path into the building. That would be the crime scene, Nate knew. With Kat covering him, Nate popped his head round the door to see a large room with walls full to the brim of - you guessed it - books. A body lay on the floor; quite obviously dead, judging by the amount of blood around it.
"Control," Kat said, "Delta-five-five, body discovered at 65 Alfreton Heights, forensics require, along with the usual."
<Roger, Delta-five-five, dispatching.>
"ID on the body?" Kat asked.
Nate, after applying a thin rubber glove to one of his hands, carefully fished around in the pocket of the obviously-shot man, and pulled out a wallet.
"Salisbury, Ciaran," he said, "Wait a minute, this is Ceri--explicitive removed-ing-Salisbury!"
"Who?" Kat asked again.
"The old footballer," Nate explained, "must have been nearly in his fifties. Played for Iskara Daii, too, who the hell would want him dead?"
"Not just who would want it," Kat said, "but who would get it done?" |
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"Nice victory," came the voice behind him. Khim recognised it as Ceri Salisbury's, "always good to beat Crystilakere."
Khim turned from watching the Under-21 side warm-down and eyed Ceri, in his expensive suit.
"Ye boogers are always around when the records and statistical landmarks happen, aren't ya?"
"How do you mean?" Ceri's eyes glinted as he professed a lack of knowledge he most certainly had hidden away somewhere.
"Well," Khim said, leaving the warm-down session to an assistant and stepping off the grass towards his friend, "this Four-One victory over the Crystils was our sixty-fifth win in our long and prestigious Under-21 history. It was also our one-hundredth conceeded goal, which is more of a landmark than most."
Ceri considered this for a moment, the laughter of victorious young players echoing in the now-empty stadium.
"Let me tell you a little story about patterns and landmarks, Khim," he said, taking his hands out of his pockets and mildly gesticulating, "we all know Simeone Di Bradini. You know his favourite number?"
"Ten?" Khim guessed.
"A common misconception," Ceri said, "as that's the number he's most famous for, wearing it for the Daii and Starblaydia. He also wore number Nine for Alan City and currently Eight for Kiiarana, don't forget. His actual favourite number is Four. Now, apply that to his footballing career: Four Under-21 Caps, Eighty-four Senior caps with Forty-four Senior goals. All divisible by four, of course. His name has sixteen letters in it, four squared. His first Managerial title was in the Four Nations Invitational. He cost Forty Million Credits when Alan City bought him god-knows-how-many years ago and went to the World Cup Finals four times."
"That's a lot of fours," Khim noted.
"It is when you look for that particular number, yes." Ceri raised his eyebrows. "But you could easily take numbers such as One, Two, Three, Five or Ten and apply them to his career too, then you'd find something significant in those. If you look for a pattern you will find one, real or imagined."
"That still does'nae explain why your people only appear when landmarks happen."
"Do we?" Ceri paced along the side of the pitch slowly. "Isn't everything we do part of some landmark? Playing matches, scoring and letting in goals, wins, draws, losses, titles, wooden spoons, caps, corners, free-kicks, cards. How about the number of steps each player takes whilst on the pitch? Perhaps there's something significant in that. If it's all a pattern, Khim, as everyone seems to think, we're going to find that pattern one day and then the world will be our lobster."
"Oyster." Khim corrected.
"Does it matter?" Ceri's tone was serious. "Win, loss. Goal kick, corner kick. Lobster, oyster. Purple, teal, orange, red, blue, green? If you can figure out precisely why one matters and the other doesnt, or even the relationship between them, then you're a better analyst than me."
"So, what is your point?" Ceri chuckled softly at Khim's question.
"My point is," Ceri said as he halted his pacing back and forth, "that we're always here. You can't figure out the overriding plan if you don't have all the information to look-"
Ceri broke off as a ball rolled towards his feet. The lads -and ladies, now - had been holding an inpromptu penalty-taking practice session. With a single step, Ceri stepped into the path of the ball and whacked it with his right foot, making an unseemly scuff mark on his excellently-polished shoe. The ball flew in a high arc towards the goal. Julio Kyrile, the man with the gloves, realised where it was going but was too late to do anything about it. The ball snuck in under the bar and nestled in the bottom corner at the back of the net. The Under-21s applauded.
"But can ye, though?" Khim asked.
"Now you're getting the hang of it." Ceri smiled and spun on his heels, before walking out of the stadium. |
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The taxi driver had no choice but to pull up outside the police cordon at number 65 Alfreton Heights. Roberto Di Bradini threw the man a handful of Credits and got out into the mid-morning air. Police cars were littered about the large driveway, and a tired-looking officer crossed the gravel drive towards him.
"I'm sorry, Sir," the Officer said, Robb noticed he had 'West' on his nametag, "there's been a murder here, we can't let you in."
"Who?" Robb demanded.
"Ceri Salisbury, Sir, the footb-" Officer West suddenly realised who he was looking at, "Mr Di Bradini! I'm sorry, sir, it's been a long night, I didn't recognise you."
"Never mind that, Officer," Robb said, "what the hell happened to Ceri?"
"I shouldn't really..." the Officer hesitated, "but what the hell, you and he were mates, right?"
"You're damn right," Robb said. Somehow he had always known that Ceri would get himself mixed up in this kind of thing. Always one for the Conspiracy Theory, was our Ceri. When he'd retired from football, everything had pointed to Excelsior coming in for him. And when Excelsior came calling, you didn't often say 'no'. Robb had never been approached, but then again he was too high in the public eye to work for them, his older brother even more so. What he hadn't expected, however, was to turn up at Ceri's invitation and find him dead, murdered by some unknown assailant.
Officer West led him through the grand double-doors and down the hallway to the library. Robb stepped uneasily through the door, the sheet on the floor covered most of Ceri's body, save for the extruding limbs.
"Remember that free-kick he scored against Liverpool England?" The cop smiled as he stood over the corpse, something to break the silence. "World Cup 18 Qualifiers, I think"
"Oh yeah," Robb replied with gusto, grateful for the oppurtunity to say something, "I was standing just behind him, hoping to confuse the 'keeper as to which one of us would take it. Beautiful shot, just beautiful. His best goal, I think."
Robb squatted down beside Ceri's out-stretched hand, seeing the effects of death take hold. He had extended all four of his fingers, tucking his thumb in underneath the hidden palm of his hand. That's odd, Robb thought, staring in between the fingers, looks like scratches.
"Can you hand me your torch, please, Officer West?"
"Nate," the cop said as he produced the torch. Robb swtiched it on and lit up the area underneath Ceri's hand.
"There," Robb said, "scratches on the floorboards."
Nate West moved the cold, dead hand of Ceri Salisbury slightly. Underneath it, scratched into the old, polished wooden floor were three characters.
"Almost looks like 'SDB'," Nate said, "but not quite."
"No, I think I know what it is," Robb replied, "and who it refers to. 58 and 6. Ceri's total of International Caps and Goals. Precisely the same as Khim Azanulbizarn."
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"Police today stepped up their investigations to find the killer of former Starblaydi International Footballer Ceri Salisbury. Salisbury, found dead three days ago in his Alfreton mansion, was shot by an unknown assailant. Police confirm they are speaking to former teammates at both club and international level.
"The Starblaydi Football Association have confirmed that the national team will be wearing black away kits as 'a mark of respect to Ceri's contribution to the national game'."
*****
"Why did the clue Ceri left scratched into the floor point to you, Khim?"
This was supposed to be a 'friendly chat', Khim thought, a recorded conversation with a pair of detectives playing 'good cop-bad cop'.
"I donnae bloody know, do I?" Khim protested, I 'aven't seen 'im since last year."
"And precisely when was this?" the 'bad cop' asked, jumping on this new piece of information that Khim had dropped for them.
"In Total n Utter Insanity," Khim said, "the Under-21 World Cup, ye ken?"
"So what happened," Bad Cop said again, "you got into an arguement because your team were so crap, then you decided to get him good and proper when you got back home?"
"Don't be a kruti," Khim was obviously disgusted by the idea, especially as Dwarves weren't known for their acting ablities. Well, they were, but they were just known for not having any, "I wouldnae wish any harm on Ceri, he was my mate!"
*****
"You know you were the last one of 'us' he spoke to," Robb said, "right, Khim?"
"Ah was?" Khim was surprised.
"Yup," Robb confirmed, "he had locked himself away, by all accounts, over the last twelve months. Which makes anything he said to you doubly-important. Do you remember what he said?"
Khim thought back to their last meeting. It hadn't made much sense at the time - and still didn't, even if he really thought about it - but where in their conversations was there a clue to what was going on?
"Patterns," Khim said after a moment, "and randomness, and information and stuff. Landmarks, I think."
"You think we should look for patterns in places?" Robb was forming an idea.
"Aye," said Khim, forming an idea of his own, "I'll get me trike. Next stop, Alfreton Heights." |
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"Tabeck hold 'em, laddies?" Khim said, shuffling his ornate deck of cards as his companions took their seats around the green felt table.
"Your call, Khim," Simeone Di Bradini said, motioning for his notoriously quick-fingered brother to roll up his shirt sleeves - a long-standing joke between the group, "where'd you get this new deck?"
"Karak D'Ragh," Khim said after a moment's pause in his shuffle, "Forger's Guild, Third Deep, Second Dungeon, Fourth room on the right-hand side, opposite the dragon-skull." Karak D'Ragh - the City of Quiet Fire - had been home to the Starblaydi Dwarves for unnumerable years, not even their records went that far back. Khim turned his attentions to Nikola, their host for the evening. "Got your chips matey?"
As was their customary rule, the host for the evening was the bank. Their house, they're the House. As it was, their latest location for the bi-monthly poker night was national football manager Nikola "Laser" Lazerevski's hotel room in Tallionis, ready for Matchday Eight. Sure enough it was Nikola's very own "Laser" brand of chips with the laser beam design on one side. There are benefits to being Starblaydia's first sporting legend, of which this was just one.
Around they sat: Nikola Lazerevski, Khim Azanulbizarn, Simeone and Roberto Di Bradini looking at their hole cards and throwing in a few chips - or not, but then that's the whole point of poker.
"Are ye gonna overhaul t'Viking, Nik?" Khim asked over the top of his Ace-Three. The intricate anvil design on the face of his Ace card was no help to him here.
"C'mon, Khim," Simeone said, "easy on the shop talk, besides, it's your bet."
"Mmm-hmmm," the Dwarf acknowledged, tapping the table, "Check."
Simeone quickly followed Khim's lack of a bet by raising a small ammount, the turn passing now to Nikola.
"I'd say," he said, seeing Simeone's bet, "that it didn't look good after those three one-all draws, but being unbeaten with a goal difference of plus-eleven is good enough at this stage. Your bet, stunty, Robb here is too chicken."
"Hey!" Roberto interjected, "I play the cards i get, I can't help it if the best of D'Ragh comes up empty, now can I? Besides, I'd be bluffing too if I were going to take control of the Vilitan team for two matches."
"Ye might think he's bluffin'" Khim said, narrowing his eyes at Simeone's unreadable poker-smirk, "but I don't I'll fold, ye bastid."
"Elrich followed by Liamopolis-Liamthingamy," Simeone said, "coupled with two-pair, cowboys over fours."
"-explicitive removed-." Nikola cursed, throwing down his cards and watching his self-branded chips slide across the table to the older of the Di Bradini brothers. "You two are in this together, aren't you?"
"You mean it's not a game of bridge?" Simeone laughed. Nikola simply swore again.
"Ye wearing those lucky gold boots of Tumunzahar?" Khim asked. Zhorin had scored four goals in the last three qualifiers and was looking like he was on his way to challenging Simeone for the place as Starblaydia's highest-ever scorer. His tally of 23 goals was just over half of Simeone's, but with a Dwarven lifespan and Tumunzahar's talent, anything was possible.
"I never needed lucky-coloured boots," Simeone said, "If white really was my lucky colour I'd be winning by a lot less here," he chuckled, referring to the value of the white chips as the lowest in the game. Zhorin, however, whas the second-highest goal-scorer in the history of the Starblaydi national team. Coupled with his position as record Under-21 goal-scorer, he was perhaps the Dwarf to bet on to beat Simeone's total of forty-four.
"Ah'll wager," Khim said as he shuffled the deck again, "that Zhorin'll break t'record for goals scored in a campaign. Ah reckon he'll get twelve."
Nikola and Simeone had both managed 11 goals in a World Cup campaign - Qualifiers and Finals included - way back in World Cups 15 and 17 respectively. There was a tally that many thought to be one of the hardest to break for Starblaydi strikers.
"You're on." they both said at once. |
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"Tabeck hold 'em, laddies?" Khim said, shuffling his ornate deck of cards as his companions took their seats around the green felt table.
"Again?" Nikola sighed, distributing his own-brand chips as per usual around the Fmjphoenician hotel room. "How about Five-card stud, nothing wild?"
"Alreet," Khim said, "that were Ceri's favourite game."
That silenced the group of four men for a moment, reminding them of his murder. Ceri Salisbury, former Starblaydi international and Iskara Daii right-back, had been slain in his own lavish home by an unknown assailant. Ceri's final dying act had been to scratch the numbers 58 and 6 on the floor, a pointer to Khim himself.
"So what did you two find out," Nikola asked, "when you searched Ceri's Alfreton place?"
"Nowt." Khim said flatly.
Khim and Robb had travelled to Ceri's up-town Alfreton Heights mansion to search for any clues they might be able to find - either television had lied to them or crimes were actually often solved by random interfering passers-by -
but had come up with absolutely nothing.
"Nothing at all?" Simeone asked.
"Abso--explicitive removed-ing-lutely, brother," Robb replied, "We tried searching for every conceiveable clue that Ceri might have left us: absolutely nothing."
"You're forgetting one thing," Simeone said, examining his face-up cards and deciding not to bother with them, "Ceri was always searching for the patterns and groupings and all sorts - it's why we stopped inviting him to these little get togethers. I thought he was going to hit the bottle to try and cope with it, but Excelsior got a hold of him before that happened." His three opponents digested this information for a moment before Simeone continued. "What if there isn't a pattern or a clue or something to look for? If it's all random, just search his place randomly, you never know what might turn up?"
"That bloody dwarf has done it again." Nikola said, not paying attention, "two-pair, aces over eights."
"See," Simeone said, "Dead man's hand. That bit of randomness tell you anything?" |
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"So what do we do now?" Khim Azanulbizarn asked, hands on hips. Or, rather, on the side of his waist, as it's rather difficult to tell quite where a Dwarf's hips are due to their natural corpulence.
"Well," Roberto Di Bradini replied, "I guess we pick something random and start searching this place."
Khim and Robb had gone back to the late Ceri Salisbury's up-market Alrefton Heights home - more of a mansion, in fact - to re-search it for any clues they might find. A thorough, ponderous search his house had produced nothing for their themselves or the police, to sthey decided to pick something completely at random.
"Completely at random?" Khim was confused. "How do we make sure we pick the right bit of randomness - what if we guess and guess wrong?"
"That's the whole point, my vertically-challenged friend," Robb said, "A guess, assuming it is truly random, will surely be the right one."
"So what should we do? Roll a dice, deal a card, sacrifice a rubber chicken?"
Khim was missing the point, really. The method of number generation really didn't matter, it was how they perceived it and what they did with it that really mattered. Robb pointed to the silver chain-link bracelet wound around Khim's right wrist. Attached to the tiny silver links was a brilliantly-made mini Miner's pick-axe, denoting that Khim was a recognised paradigm of the Guild, if perhaps not for is mining skills.
"That Miner's Guild pendant, can I borrow it for a moment?"
Khim frowned for a moment, then shrugged. He undid the delicate clasp with a flick of a practised left wrist and handed it gingerly to Robb. The Guild pendant was something dear to a Dwarf's heart, part of his heritage and tradition. Khim, therefore, was not pleased when Robb threw it blindly past his shoulder.
"What are ye doing?!" he yelled.
Robb, however, still hadn't seen where he'd thrown it.
"Where does it lay, Khim?"
The Dwarf walked over to the bookcase behind them and inspected his pendant. The tip of the pick-axe had lodged itself into the spine of a book. Khim read the title and raised an eyebrow.
"'The Ash Tree - a botanical study.' Now what under earth does that mean, laddie?"
"Hold on," Robb said, already on his BlackBerry, looking up the Ash Tree. After a few moments, he smiled and put it away, "Pull that book out, will you?"
Khim did so, but was only able to slide the book out halfway before it got stuck. He was about to give it a little heave but was intterupted by the sound of machinery. With a soft rumbling sound, a great chunk of the wooden bookcase opened up like a door, showing a stone tunnel leading down some stairs, lit by electric lighting.
"That, my rubenesque left-back, is why blind guessing and mobile internet go well together." The pair then made their way cautiously down the stairs. Were you to look through the History on Robb's BlackBerry browser, you would find a page on The Ash Tree - Latin name, Fraxinus Excelsior. And Excelsior, for those of you who can't remember or haven't been bothered to check out, is the name of the secretive organisation that Ceri worked for. Cunning, eh? |
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Robb and Khim stepped carefully down the well-lit secret stone stairwell that led into the depths of Ceri's mansion. Soon the sound of computer fans could be heard and they came across a large room, filled with screens and computer whirring away happily to no-one but themselves. Robb stepped over to the closest one.
| CODE | ...
Lox Land Island 0 Taken Names 1
World Cup 24 Qualifying Results - Group 4
Harlesburg 1 Fmjphoenix 2
Finrods 2 Starblaydia 2
Geisenfried 0 Naleloospalakintula 2
Tallionis 2 Prince Aidan 2
World Cup 24 Qualifying Results - Group 5
Kipto-Mare 2 Five Civilized Nations 3
Sonaron 2 One Red Dot 0
Yafor 2 4 Nanakaland 0
... |
"World Cup Qualifying results?" Robb said, unnecessarily, to himself. "Ceri likes to keep up with football, at least."
"Check this screen out," Khim pointed to one across the room, "I thought he hated baseball."
| CODE | Baseball World Cup Results
Milchama @ Tonissia Game 1 Line Score
Starters: Philip Foster vs. Dean Wopham
0 2 0 2 1 0 0 0 2
0 0 0 0 0 1 2 0 0
Final Score - Milchama: 7 Tonissia: 3 |
On every screen was a different results feed. Rejistanian Divisions, VLeague updates, Liga Starblaydia, Nedalian Premier League; and that was just a small part of the feeds. Ice Hockey, Cricket, Baseball, Gridiron, Rugby; every conceivable sport that the world had to offer was feeding its results directly into this room. The computers whirred away twenty-four-seven, gathering and obviously collating the result of seemingly every sporting event in the world. From the lower reaches of the Fourth Division of the Bettian Apex League to the Vilitan Stellar Division, if there was a scoreline, there was a readout.
Khim found a remote control on one of the desks, but with no obvious item for it to control. In a display of good-old Dwarven curiosity, he pressed the 'On' button. To his surprise, a projector and large screen slid out of the ceiling, the screen filling the whole far side of the room. As the projector warmed up, you could see the high-definition quality of it immediately against the material.
"By my Ancestors," Khim's equivalent to a 'Holy crap' was seconded by Robb's version.
"Holy crap."
Every result was broken down before their eyes. Currently - by sheer chance, where would we be without that? - Starblaydia's entire World Cup Qualifying record was there before them, placed next to their overall record.
"Four hundred and seventy-eight goals since World Cup 15 Qualifying began?" Khim said, "didn't know that."
"There's always someone who knows things like that in the world," Robb replied, "and I think we just found out who. The question is, though, obvious."
"How many have Audioslavia scored?"
"No, dickhead," Robb said, "the question is: Why?"
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Roberto Di Bradini and Khim Azanulbizarn stood in silence as they deliberated why the late Ceri Salisbury had a secret basement in his mansion-esque home, one in which all the results of every sporting event in the world were being fed into, collated and analysed. Their thoughts were broken, however, when the soft rumbling sound of machinery disturbed them. The door to the secret tunnel that led to the secret basement was opening!
"Quick," Robb said, "hide!"
Robb ducked behind a large server case while Khim rolled under a table. Two pairs of footsteps echoed down the hall, with two voices attached to them.
"Lucky nobody found this place yet," the first voice said, "then there'd be hell to cover up."
"The Minister will be pissed about this one, though," the second one said, "where are we gonna find another operative like Salisbury? He was excellent at this job."
"His Lordship won't be happy."
"His Lordship can stick it up his Dutch arse," the second one said bitterly, "lets switch these damn computers off."
As the two men stood at the computers, Khim was moving into action. Having slipped one of his iron-clad boots off, he silently rolled out from under the desk and crept up behind them. With a leap he smashed his boot over the back of the head of one of the men, knocking him out instantly. The second turned, but after a swift bite to the groin that made the human double over, the application of Khim's boot to the man's now-within-reach head sent him to the floor too.
"What the hell did you do that for?" Robb asked.
"I tell ye," Khim said, "the man behind all o' this is Lord Rikaard Van Honjiik, the tosser."
"Surely he's not intelligent enough for that," Robb replied.
"Ye never know, laddie," the Dwarf replied, "what ye might find when ye dig. Old Miners' saying."
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"...Lord Rikaard Van Honjiik, Minister for Sport, was announced today by the SFA as the manager for Starblaydia's AOCAF team. Lord Van Honjiik, who co-managed Starblaydia's World Cup 22 squad with Nikola "Laser" Lazerevski, was said to be 'very excited' by the prospect of managing the most successful current nation in the regional tournament's history..."
"That sneaky lil' bugger," Khim said, muting the TV, "e's tryin to make imself untouchable, like that Elliot Gould guy."
"Ness," Robb corrected, "Elliot Ness."
"Nah," Khim dismissed the correction, "he wasn't in 'A Bridge Too Far', ye wazzock."
Robb decided not to take the discussion any further and carried on writing his AOCAF10, Group 4 preview article for the Jhanna Chronicle. Even ex-footballers had to pay the bills for their fourth homes and private jets somehow. |
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It was, as per usual, a lavish and expensive party thrown by the Lord-Protector. Admittedly the turnout was marginally lower thanks to Starlbaydia having only taken a single point from the two Group games so far, but tonight should be fine. A victory over Nedalia and the appropriate loss by the Nova Britannicus side would see Starblaydia through to the next round.
The centerpiece of this little get-together was, for once, not the enormous super-high-definition-cinema-surround-ecetera system to watch the match from. This time the main focus of attention was the AOCAF Trophy, fresh from being lifted by Dimitri Steliopolous in Fmjpheonix, tough suitably polished of fingerprints and the lip-prints of jubilant players kissing the cup.
Most of the record-equalling AOCAF squad were there, the oppurtunities for photo-ops between the Lord-Protector and his victorious players just too good to miss. Several photos of Tiberius chatting to players - Cherry Garcia, in particular - would be in the papers the following morning. For this special occasion, however, two screens were provided - one to show the Starblaydia/Nedalia match where Starblaydia required three points, and another to show the Nova Britannicus/Audioslavia match.
Tiberius, of course, had the remote controls. His country, his TV, after all.
"'ello, dis is Sveb Bmottssonmsom, unfordunatley wib a colb, combendatinge on de Noba-Bwitannicus and Audioslabia matdtz..."
The bunged-up Motsonsson was quickly muted and the vague pre-match commentary on the Starblaydia match turned up. Lord Tiberius, however, was more interested in talking to his Minister for Sport and AOCAF-winning Manager.
"Rikaard," Tiberius said, "any news on Mercutio?" The 20 year-old had been stabbed by the referee, of all people, after coming on as a substitute in the Audioslavia match.
"His present condition lends not well to the playing of football, alas, the poor boy, he played so well, Tiberius."
"What?" The Lord-Protector was somewhat confused.
"Um," Lord Van Honjiik de-laborated, "can't play, is in hospital. Will get better soon though."
"Riiiight," Lord Tiberius said, moving closer to his Minister in a hopefully not-too-conspiratorially fashion, despite that being exactly what it was, "is everything arranged?"
"The Bluebirds will lose," Rikaard said in a low voice, "it is guaranteed. All appropriate bribes, threats, promises and deals have been made."
"And what of the Salisbury matter?"
"It was me or him," the Minister was suddenly on the defensive, "they warned me, he was getting too close to the answer."
"And what is the answer?"
"I don't bloody know!" Rikaard's harsh whisper was beginning to strain, "he was the one trying to find it out, not me. We impounded his computer equipment but there was a problem."
That was the last thing the Lord-Protector wanted: problems. He took a deep breath, silence from him usually meaning someone was in trouble. Eventually he found the words.
"Go on."
"Someone else was there before us," Rikaard said, "someone else probably knows."
"Another government?"
"We just don't know."
"I suggest," Tiberius said, flatly and with hidden malice, "that you go find out, my Lord. I also suggest thanking your lucky stars that your team won the AOCAF, with or without your much-maligned Managerial influence, because that is currently your only leg to stand on. Is that clear?"
"Yes, my Lord." |
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It was all going to plan, so far. Starblaydia were beating Nedalia in their match, while Nova Britannicus' valient Bluebirds were currently losing one-nil to the men in nauseating kits from Audioslavia.
For Charlie Worsley, of the Nova Britanncus Football Association, things were going just perfectly, though with his nation in a position to not-qualify from the Group Stage of the World Cup, you might have thought otherwise.
He was standing up in a corporate box, somewhere high above the pitch in a Druidan stadium - he never could remember the names of these things - champagne glass in hand. This way he would have his nation's football team go down fighting to the last in their last tournament, and soon he'd be 'promoted' to the Starblaydi FA as the NBFA would retreat into the purely-amateur and for-fun sections of competition. He - and a lot of other Britannicans - would soon be under the employment of one of the greatest Sports Ministy's in the world. Just a pity that awful Van Honjiik chap ran it.
He'd even done the maths himself, Starblaydia and Nova Britannicus would be level on Points and Goal Difference if it stayed like this, but the Bluebirds had a superior goal difference. That would need to change, and soon. Charlie quickly pulled out his mobile phone and dialled Jean-Paul Georges-Ringeaux's number.
Down on the Bluebird bench, the Manager's private phone began to ring.
"Yes?" Jean-Paul said, knowing who it would be.
"Starblaydia are only two-one up," Charlie said, "let them score a penalty."
"Gotcha." JP was a Starblaydi, after all.
As JP got up to give out his order to the team, something unexpected happened. Yevgeny Smashnov hacked down the Bluebirds' midfielder Valentin Scarsdale in the Audioslavian box. Penalty to Nova Britannicus.
Now, for anyone who's ever played 'Chinese Whispers' or an equivalent non-Oriental-themed message transfer game, the following sequence will be understandable.
Jean-Paul Georges-Ringeaux calls over Britannican Winger Eric Waterman, telling him to.
"Let them score a penalty."
Waterman then trots over to the Audioslavian penalty area and says.
"Gaffer says we've got let Hen score a penalty."
'Hen', of course, is the team nickname for Henry Maitland, the Bluebird Captain and number Seven. Why would the Gaffer want Audioslavia to score, after all? So, as is unsurprising for Nova Britannicus' best player, Henry Maitland scored his penalty kick past Gabriel Celta and the whole team ran off to celebrate, now they knew they were progressing to the Second Round of the World Cup for the second time ever. Only once before had the Bluebirds gone to the second round, at that was in World Cup 19 - their first Finals - where they had already played Starblaydia before losing on penalties in the Second Round to Audioslavia, of all places.
"Oh. -explicitive removed-." Said Charlie. And you didn't need to be good at non-Oriental-Specific Whispers to hear that properly.
This post has been edited by Nova Britannicus on Sep 16 2005, 10:54 AM |
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"Oh -explicitive removed-."
The room suddenly fell silent. Unless Audioslavia scored against Nova Britannicus in the next few minutes, Starblaydia were out. Nobles and commoners alike sat in near-silence. Those with belief in a deity prayed to them, while the atheists and agnostics amongst the room could merely hope.
Lord Rikaard Van Honjiik stared at the screen as if his life would end if he took his eyes away from it. That wasn't too far from the truth. There were two people in the room, however, staring at the Minister for Sport. Lord-Protector Tiberius Starblayde was one of them. He was deciding what to do with his failed-Minister now that the plan was about to fail.
The other person staring at Lord Rikaard Van Honjiik was Roberto Di Bradini. Robb knew that Van Honjiik was related to the death of his friend Ceri Salisbury in some way. If looks could kill, Rikaard would have died a thousand deaths by now.
"...and there goes the final whistle, and Starblaydia are out of the World Cup at the first hurdle - denied by neighbours Nova Britannicus, who go through in their place. A Two-One win against Nedalia just wasn't a helpful-enough result after the loss to Audioslavia and the draw with Britannicus. Sixth-in-the-world Starblaydia are out at the Group Stage for the fourth time in eight attempts, and one can only imagine what the fallout from here will be..."
"Indeed, Rikaard," Tiberius said to his Minister as he stepped out of the room, "one can only imagine." |
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Tugging at his collar, and obviously sweating, Lord Van Honjiik made a hasty exit through the nearest door, into the corridor. He immediately turned right but came face to face with Roberto Di Bradini.
"Excuse me," he mumbled, attempting to sidestep the ex-international. His step, however, was blocked as robb placed his hand on the wall with some force.
"You're not going anywhere until you tell me what you did to Ceri." Robb's cold blue eyes told the Minister exactly what he would do to him if he didn't say.
"It wasn't my fault, he was getting too close!" Rikaard offered, not answering the question and covering his own back at the same time - typical politician.
"What did you do?" Robb moved closer, his presence dominating the weaker man, words coming through clenched teeth. "To Ceri. Tell me or I'll..."
Van Honjiik attempted to scoot past Robb but the former footballer was having none of it. He'd had some of the most skillful players in the world try to sidestep him with a football, so an out-of-shape politican in a corridor was going to be no contest. Robb seized the Minister by his shirt collar and spun him around, slamming his back into the wall.
"Tell me everything."
"Okay, okay," Van Honjiik obviously wasn't used to this kind of treatment and had folded almost immediately, "Salisbury was investigating The Question, you know, 'Why?'."
"That's gibberish!" Robb spat out the words and tightened his grip. "Quit your double-talk or else."
"I'm serious! He was looking into why sports results go the way they do," Rikaard wasn't making much sense to anyone but himself, "why these things happen, what they mean, whether there's a pattern or not."
"You mean like the DK/KD virus?"
"Exactly!" Rikaard was astonished at Robb's grasp of the situation, never mind the grasp he had on Rikaard's expensive shirt. "Does that predict the outcome of World Cup 24, or 25, or a specific match, or what? Or is it just random junk?"
"And what was he getting too close to?"
"The Answer."
"Now," Robb said, flexing his fingers, still with their firm grip on Van Honjiik's clothing "who would want him dead for getting too close to that answer?" Rikaard took a few moments to formulate and answer.
"Them." He didn't seem to point at anyone in particular, maybe straight at you, perhaps. "The ones who control it all."
"Nobody controls it all. Tell me the truth!"
"That is the truth!" Van Honjiik pleaded, holding up his hands. "I don't know who they are, but they control everything, them and their grand schemes. We're nothing..."
"What's going on here?"
Robb and Rikaard's little moment had been interrupted by a member of the security detail. One of the Lord-Protector's Venators, in suit and sunglasses. and come over to them. Behind him, however, was Lord-Protector Tiberius Starblayde himself.
"Oh nothing, boy," Robb said, "just his Lordship and myself having a little disagreement over Karela versus Takil, aren't we, Rik?"
"Um, yeah," Van Honjiik was relieved but managed a chuckle, "Karela sucks."
"See?" Robb said with a smile, "he just won't give in, Karela rocks! What do you think, Officer?"
The officer stood stoney-faced at the question.
"The Lord-Protector requests your presence, my Lord," was his only statement, "immediately."
"At once," Rikaard said, turning to Robb, as he followed the Venator down the hall, "I wasn't lying, you know." |
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