Ted Kosmatka - The Games

“Why?”

“Why?” Silas struggled to keep his tone civil. “A person has died.”

Baskov nodded. “Because of inadequate planning. We can’t just withdraw from the event. There is a lot riding on this. Had there been more effort put into securing the observation loft, then this unfortunate tragedy never would have happened. I’ve read the report. It was a preventable accident.”

“It was more than that. I saw it.”

“Which is why you feel so strongly. Seeing something like that would traumatize anyone.”

“I’m not traumatized,” Silas said, being careful to keep his voice low and steady. He felt his patience slipping away, but getting angry wouldn’t help the situation. “I can separate my emotions from my professional obligations. As head of Helix, I’m telling you that I’ve got a very bad feeling about this.”

“As head of Helix, a bad feeling?” Baskov gave an indulgent smile. “Are you listening to yourself?”

“What about public sentiment?” Silas asked. “Have you read what the papers are saying about this?”

“Oh, yes. Have you?” Baskov countered. “This is front-page news. Below the fold, but still, it’s the front page. There is no such thing as bad publicity in this business.”

“I’m not worried about publicity.”

“Well, perhaps you should be. This is the gladiator event, after all. The thing is supposed to be a killer.”

“It’s not supposed to kill its handlers.”

“Then its handlers should have taken better precautions.”

Silas glanced away, making a final effort to keep his temper in check. The crowd had begun to disperse now. Tay’s family would be going home. That empty house, he knew, would be one of the hardest parts for them.

“Look,” Baskov said. “This isn’t as bad as it seems. Things are under control.”

“We never had control!” Silas slammed his fist against the window.

The limo pulled to a stop, and the driver turned around, elbowing an enormous arm up across the top of the seat. “I think it would be best,” Baskov said, “if you stepped out of the car now, Silas. Before this conversation takes a turn that both you and I might regret.”

Silas considered the old man. The blue eyes bore into him, a challenge. The head of the commission had grown too comfortable with his power. He was drunk with it; he’d allowed it to change him, to make him irresponsible. Baskov no longer cared what enemies he made. Silas decided to choose his battles. He reached for the handle.

“Mind you,” Baskov said softly, “we will be competing in three months. With you, or without. I’d hate to have to shift gears in management this late in the game; but if you force me, I will.”

Silas slammed the door behind him, and the limo pulled away.

The last of the crowd was draining into cars and trams, but Silas found Benjamin and Vidonia waiting for him.

They walked, side by side.

Placing a hand on each of their shoulders, Silas said, “Let’s get drunk.”

Vidonia had never been to the Stratus, but after shooting down Ben’s initial suggestion of a place called Scantily’s, she knew she could do much worse for a night out with the boys. Besides, after a quick look around, she decided the place had atmosphere. It was dark where it was supposed to be dark, and bright where it was supposed to be bright, and the smell of food was almost intoxicating in and of itself. Alcohol was good for many things; the first of these was forgetting. They could all do with a bit of that.

They were shown to a table on the central level, well above the gyrating throngs of twentysomethings in the dance pits below. From where she sat, Vidonia could feel the subtle thrum of techno-bump in her stool but couldn’t make out the words. Perfect.

When the waiter came, they were each required to hand in their credit cards for attachment authorization. Any lawsuits rendered against the bar for their behavior after being served alcohol could now be directly attached to their personal lines of credit. The policy tended to keep the number of drunken shenanigans to a minimum. Nothing helped people second-guess their behavior like the cold hand of the establishment in their back pocket.

Silas ordered the first round. Vidonia took a sip. The drink was sweet and syrupy, and laced with enough alcohol to stagger a horse. She tipped it back, feeling the beat of the music coming off her chair, watching the people laughing at the next table. Waiters and waitresses in bright suspenders and ever-changing flat-screen buttons snaked sideways down the narrow aisles between the tables, carrying round trays of drinks above their heads. Somewhere in the distance, “Happy Birthday” was being sung, while across from her, Ben had already half killed his drink. Despite his earlier enthusiasm, like her, Silas seemed to be taking it a little slower.

“You want to eat?” Silas asked.

She shook her head.

“Yeah, me, either.” Silas turned his attention to Ben. “You really look like shit.”

“Thanks.”

“No, I mean the burn. You’re peeling,” Silas said.

Ben nodded with the music. He’d been out in the sun again earlier this week, and now the alcohol had brightened his red skin another shade. He smiled. “The Karmic result of the sins of colonialism,” he said, in his best English accent. “What can you do?” He held his arms up in mock resignation. “My ancestors should have paid closer attention to local lighting conditions before disseminating themselves throughout the world. I hear it’s cloudy in northwestern Europe today. Oh, wait, that’s every day.”

“Ever hear of sunscreen?” Vidonia offered.

“What kind of a man wears sunscreen?”

“Pale men,” she said.

“Would Eric the Red have worn sunscreen?”

“Why do you think they called him Eric the Red? And he never ventured farther south than Greenland. Imagine how he would have handled a Southern Cali summer? They may have called him Eric the Peeler.”

“Good point,” Ben said.

“Or Eric the Melanoma,” Silas added.

Another round of drinks came, and this time Ben paid. “To SPF three-fifty,” he said, offering a toast.

“Here, here,” Silas said.

Vidonia hadn’t yet finished her first drink, so she clinked glasses and took a long last swallow. The warmth spread outward from her stomach almost instantly, seeping along her arms to her fingertips. She wasn’t usually a drinker, but when she did, this was the tightrope she liked to walk, with the buzz knocking just at the edge of her perception. She smiled, and it must have been too large, because Silas smiled back, giving his head a little shake.

“Feeling okay?” he said.

“Great. It’s been a while.”

“Did you hear about the Brannin?” Ben asked Silas.

“What about it?”

“So then you didn’t hear.”

“Hear what?” Silas asked.

“It’s going back online again.”

“What? When?” Silas almost choked on his drink.

“Next week.”

“I just talked to Baskov today. He didn’t say anything about it.”

“I’m not surprised. He doesn’t have anything to do with it this time. From what I hear, he’s washed his hands of Chandler altogether. An economics group is funding the run.”

“Jesus, what the hell for?”

“Not sure exactly. Something about logarithms and stock-market research. They’re looking for an investment edge.”

“Well, the Brannin gave us an edge. A sharp one, right in the back,” Silas said.

“Here, here,” Ben offered another toast.

Vidonia clinked glasses again and started on her next drink, sipping deeply. Silas slew his in long gulps and didn’t place the glass back down on the table until it was empty. The glass looked like a thimble in his hand, and she was amazed again at the size of him. God, he was big—so different from John. Normal-size John. Familiar John. Back-home John.