The Quillan Games (29 page)

I turned my attention to the guy on the platform. He looked nervous as he spoke to the trustees. He kept shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“I need to point out how difficult it has been for the last three quads,” he said. “The weather has been unusually warm, so the demand for thermal outerwear has dropped considerably. Combine that with the fact that the last shipment of product we received was far more than we requested—our profit margin has suffered. Now if—”

One of the trustees, a man, interrupted him and said gruffly, “And why exactly did you receive more goods than you knew you could sell?”

The guy on the platform was sweating. I could tell that from as far back as I was sitting. When he spoke, his voice cracked. “Well,” he began nervously. “I was told that the manufacturing facility hadn't met its quota and they were, uh, requested to increase their production.”

Several of the trustees shared glances. One of the women
said, “And this is what you are blaming your failure on? The fact that a manufacturer was able to step up and fulfill their quota? Is that what you're saying?”

“Uh, no, um,” the guy stammered. “I'm very proud of how they were able to meet their requirements. It's just that the need for the product wasn't calculated accurately—”

The first trustee guy said, “You understand that the trustees set the quotas for manufacturing?”

The guy stiffened. It was like a full-body wince. “I do,” he said softly.

“Excuse me?” the trustee said, more forcefully. “I didn't hear you.”

“Yes, I do,” the guy answered. “But—”

“So you're saying that the trustees aren't capable of making a sound decision as to what is best for Blok?”

Oh man, the guy was caught in the middle. It looked like he was supposed to sell a certain amount of jackets or something, but couldn't do it because the trustees told the manufacturer to make too many. It wasn't his fault; it was the fault of the people who told the manufacturer to make too many. The trustees. But they were double-talking the blame back onto him.

“No, I would never question the wisdom of the trustees,” the guy said. He was really sweating now. “Of course you know exactly what is best for Blok. All I'm saying is that even in your absolute, unquestionable wisdom, there was no way for anyone to predict the weather and—”

A third member of the trustees said, “The terms of your employment are simple. You are expected to increase sales by 20 percent each quad. You have failed. You are relieved and reassigned to the lower sector.”

“No!” the guy shouted in horror. “That isn't fair! It was out of my control!”

The trustees didn't look at him. They were too busy shuffling papers on their big desk. One of them said casually, “Security, please.”

The guy lost it. “Listen to me! I have successfully run Blok's outerwear business for thirty quads!” he cried. “I can make up the difference, I know I can!” Two security dados marched up to the platform, grabbed the guy, and dragged him away. It was like he had just been convicted of some horrible crime, and all because he didn't sell enough jackets.

“I worked too hard,” the guy shouted as the dados pulled him across the room toward a side door. He now sounded angry. “I've done everything you've asked. More so! I will not go back to the lower sector! I refuse!”

The dados were about to pull the guy out of the room when the first trustee raised his hand and said, “Stop!”

They stopped. Nobody in the room said a word.

“Are you refusing reassignment to the lower sector?” the trustee asked.

The guy's eyes darted back and forth in panic. “No, I didn't mean that,” he said, desperately backpedaling. “I'll do whatever I have to. My family needs me. I'll gladly go wherever—”

“Send him to the tarz,” the trustee said flatly.

“No!” the guy screamed. “This isn't fair! I have a family!”

For the first time I heard sound coming from the audience. Several people exchanged surprised looks. Some even gasped softly.

I whispered to Veego, “Tarz?”

Veego put a finger to her lips to shush me. Whatever the tarz was, it wasn't good. Looking at Veego gave me another surprise. The woman was normally ice, but at that moment she looked nervous. It wasn't obvious, but I saw it in her eyes. Having that poor guy sent to the tarz, whatever it was, frightened her. Note to self: Avoid the Tarz.

The guy was now in hysterical tears. The trustees didn't care. Nor did the dados. They dragged him out a side door that slammed shut after them. I could hear the guy whimpering for a few seconds until they got him farther away. In moments all was silent again. My mouth was dry. What had just happened? I stole looks at people and saw the same fear in their eyes that I saw in Veego's. How twisted was this? Nevva Winter said that Blok was a store. What kind of store sentenced their people to some horrible fate if they didn't meet a quota? For that matter, what kind of store was run by a group of cold-looking judges who terrified everyone, right down to the people on the street?

As I sat there, trying to make sense of what I had seen, Nevva entered from a door behind the trustees and silently placed papers in front of each. She looked very efficient as she quickly went about her business. She said she was a special assistant . . . whatever that meant. It seemed kind of dull to me. The other Travelers all led interesting lives, beyond the fact that they were Travelers, I mean. Loor was a warrior, Alder a knight. Gunny was the bell captain at a swanky hotel; Spader was an aquaneer; Aja Killian controlled an incredible virtual reality generator. Patrick from Third Earth was a teacher and a librarian at the most incredible library ever. Kasha had battled dinosaurs in the jungle as she foraged for food to feed her city. Each and every Traveler seemed to have an interesting, unique life, except for Nevva.

And I guess me. I was just a regular kid. I went to school; I played sports. End of story. I was thinking that I was the loser of the bunch, until I met Nevva. She was like a slave to these scary people. I could see by the way the trustees ordered her around, barely looking at her, that they had no respect for her. She ran around filling up their glasses with
water and taking notes and basically doing simple tasks that these guys couldn't do for themselves. Or wouldn't do. It looked like a thankless job. But then again, she was close to a group that held a lot of power here on Quillan. I couldn't help but think that as bad as the job was, she was in the right place for when Saint Dane made his move.

While Nevva scurried around, attending to the trustees, nobody in the audience said a word. I didn't blame them. If the trustees had the power to banish them to some horrible fate on a whim, their guts must have been twisted with fear. Looking to Veego and LaBerge, I saw that they weren't any different. I already told you how Veego looked scared. Well, if she looked scared, LaBerge looked absolutely nauseous. For a change he wasn't smiling. I saw his lips tremble as if he were going to cry.

“Miss Winter!” one of the trustees barked. “We're behind schedule.”

“Forgive me,” Nevva said, bowing her head. “It is entirely my fault. We are ready for the next presentation.”

Wow, Nevva treated them like royalty. Obnoxious royalty.

“Then why are we still waiting?” a woman trustee barked.

Nevva cleared her throat and announced to the group, “We will now hear the report from the gaming group.”

A murmur went through the crowd. I wasn't sure if it was because they were excited about hearing from the gaming group, or just relieved that they weren't the next victims. Veego cleared her throat and stood. LaBerge stood too, but Veego shot him a look and he quickly sat back down. If she was going to make a report to these creeps, she didn't want LaBerge saying something stupid that would get them shipped off to the tarz. Smart move. Veego brushed off the front of her jacket and walked to the podium. She stood
straight, like a soldier, but kept her head bowed. It felt like she didn't want to look cocky in front of the trustees. I'm sure that was tough for her because, well, she was cocky. She took her place at the podium and stood with her hands behind her back, waiting for the go-ahead.

“We're waiting,” one of the trustees said with an obnoxious growl.

“Thank you,” Veego said promptly. “Ladies and Gentlemen, I am proud to be here today and thrilled to present to you a report that I'm sure you will—”

One of the trustees interrupted, “Spare us the theatrics that you are so well known for. What is your response to our request?”

It looked to me like Veego had to stop herself from snapping back at the guy. I didn't think she was used to being treated like a turd, but she was smart enough not to complain. As much as I detested Veego and her gruesome little operation, I felt sorry for her then. Not a lot, but still. Nobody should be treated like that.

“I understand,” she said in total control of her emotions. “My partner and I are very aware of and respect the trustees mandate to increase profits by 20 percent each quad. A challenge, I must point out, that we have never missed since taking over the gaming operation.”

“Yes, we're all satisfied with your history,” one of the woman trustees said. “But it
is
history. With the resources we have provided, we feel as if you should be doing better.”

“Better?” shouted LaBerge, jumping to his feet. “How can we do better than perfect?”

The crowd gasped. LaBerge felt the hot eyes of everyone in the room on him, including those of the trustees. He flinched and smiled. “Forgive me,” he said meekly. “Pay no attention. I'm a fool.”

He sat back down and put his head in his hands. “I'm doomed,” he said to himself.

“Please forgive my overzealous partner,” Veego said, doing damage control. “It is that very passion that is necessary for the inspiration to create such interesting and successful games.”

LaBerge looked up, hopeful. Did the trustees buy that?

“Continue,” the woman trustee said.

I could feel LaBerge's relief. He had dodged a bullet that he fired himself.

“Thank you,” Veego said. She turned and shot a quick glare at LaBerge that said, “Shut up, idiot.” She then continued, “As you know, the success of our games depends on many things: New and provocative contests that will generate excitement for those who wager; a tightly run organization that keeps expenses down; and perhaps most importantly, talented and athletic challengers who will provide us with well-fought games. It truly does not matter who wins, so long as the competitions are close. That is the only way to maximize wagering on both sides, since Blok benefits either way.”

However the games worked, Blok profited no matter who won. And from what I saw, lots of people bet on the games. Blok must have been making a small fortune by putting on these games. Or maybe a huge fortune.

The woman trustee said, “Challenger Yellow did not live up to expectations.”

She was talking about Remudi. The Traveler. I looked to Nevva, who stood behind the trustees. She looked to the ground.

“We blame ourselves,” Veego said. “He was not adequately prepared and should never have been matched with Challenger Green. Perhaps he should have first battled a
dado. That was our mistake. You provided us with superior talent, and we failed.”

That's not what she said a few days before. She was all sorts of ticked that the trustees told her to put Remudi in the games. I guess she was being politically correct . . . or a weenie. Maybe that's the same thing.

“But I am pleased to announce that we have learned from our mistakes,” Veego declared.

She made a motion to Nevva. Nevva pointed a small black remote control at the ceiling. Instantly two big screens lowered on either side of the room. The lights dimmed. Moments later both screens came to life. One showed a challenger running the gauntlet they called “Hook.” The challenger was me. It was a replay of my battle with the dado as I ran through the piston-thumping death chamber. While the crowd watched one screen, the other screen flashed numbers.

Veego announced, “As we speak, this game of Hook is being transmitted throughout Quillan. Look at the numbers. After his incredible triumph at Tock, Challenger Red is already a favorite. Citizens are now wagering on him to win.”

The trustees weren't watching me run around on screen; their eyes were on the numbers. They looked at one another, nodding. I had no idea what the numbers meant or how the betting was going, but judging from their reactions, they were impressed. I kept my eyes on the numbers too. I didn't feel like reliving that game, even though I knew how it came out. A minute later it was over. I had survived Hook, again. Both screens flashed
WINNER—CHALLENGER RED!
There was an excited buzz. I guessed the numbers were good.

The lights came back on and the screens retracted into the ceiling. LaBerge was absolutely giddy. He clapped his hands together like an excited little girl.

“Ladies and Gentlemen of Blok,” Veego announced with
fanfare. This time the trustees didn't cut her off. “I present to you the challenger who will make the next Grand X the greatest, the most exciting, and the most profitable in the history of Quillan. The new Challenger Red!”

Everyone applauded. LaBerge grabbed my arm and forced me to stand up. Reluctantly I stood, but it was totally awkward. What did they want me to do? Throw my fists in the air and shout, “I am the greatest! Bring on Green!” No way. I felt more like hiding under a chair. I looked around at the audience. They cheered, but not because they were fans. To them I meant money. If I gave them a great Grand X, it would be good for Blok and probably for everybody who worked there. It didn't matter if I won, or died. Veego stood on the platform with her hands on her hips. She had a satisfied look on her face, as if showing off her prized possession. Nevva Winter stood behind the trustees, looking uncomfortable. She gave me a small, nervous smile.