INCOMPLETE—2
Selexin looked up and spoke to no-one in particular: ‘Well, since there is still time, I will tell you.’
Holly stepped forward, pointed to the grey wristwatch. ‘What is that?’
Selexin gave her a sharp look. ‘Please, I will come to that. Just listen for a moment.’
Holly backed away immediately, reaching for Swain’s hand.
Selexin was taking short, quick breaths, showing his irritation. As Swain watched him, it seemed increasingly obvious that the little man in white simply did not want to be here.
‘The Presidian,’ Selexin began, ‘has been held on six previous occasions. And this,’ he said, looking at the study hall around him, ‘Is the seventh. It is held approximately once every thousand Earth years, each time on a different world, and in every system, except Earth, it is held in only the highest esteem.’
‘Systems?’ Swain asked.
‘Yes, Contestant, systems.’ Selexin’s tone was now that of a weary adult addressing a five-year-old. ‘Other worlds. Other intelligent life. There are seven in total.’
Selexin paused for a moment, lifted a hand to massage his brow. He looked as if he was trying very hard to keep himself calm.
Finally, he looked up at Swain. ‘You didn’t know that, did you?’
‘The part about other worlds and other intelligent life? Ah, no.’
‘I am dead,’ Selexin whispered, presumably to himself. Swain heard him clearly.
‘Why?’ he asked innocently. ‘Why are you dead? What is this Presidian?’
Selexin sighed in exasperation. He held his hands out, palms up.
‘What do you think it is?’ he said sharply, barely concealing the condescension in his voice. ‘It is a competition. A battle. A contest. Seven contestants enter the labyrinth and only one leaves. It is a fight to the death.’
He could see the disbelief spread across Swain’s face. Selexin threw up his hands. ‘By the Gods, you do not even understand what you are here for! Do you not see?’
Selexin slowed down for a moment, lowering his voice, trying desperately to control himself.
‘Let me begin again. You have been chosen to represent your species in the ultimate contest in the universe. A contest that dates back over six millennia, that bases itself on a principle that goes light years beyond any notion of “sport” that you could possibly imagine. That is the Presidian.
‘It is a battle. A battle between hunters, athletes, warriors; creatures coming from every corner of the universe, possessed of skill, courage and intelligence, prepared to stake their very lives on their extraordinary talents—talents at hunting, stalking and killing.’
Selexin shook his head.
‘There is no coming back from defeat in the Presidian. There is no return match. Defeat in the Presidian is no loss of pride, it is loss of life. Every contestant who enters the labyrinth accepts that in this contest the only alternative to ultimate victory is certain death.
‘It is quite simple. Seven will enter. The best will win, the lesser will die. Until only one remains.’ The little man paused. ‘If, of course, one does remain.
‘There is no place for the ordinary man in the Presidian. It is a contest for the extraordinary—for those prepared to risk the ultimate to attain the ultimate. On Earth you play games where you lose nothing in defeat. “Winning isn’t everything,” you say. “It doesn’t matter if you win or lose, but how you played the game.”’ Selexin grunted disdainfully. ‘If that is the case, why should anyone even try to win?
‘Winning is devalued where defeat involves no loss, and humans are quite simply unable to comprehend that idea. Just as they are unable to comprehend a contest like the Presidian, where defeat means exactly that—losing everything.’
The little man looked Swain squarely in the eye. ‘Winning is everything when you have everything to lose.’
The little man laughed weakly. ‘But your kind will never understand that . . .’
Selexin paused, dropping his head, withdrawing into himself. Swain just stood there, entranced, staring in amazement at the little man before him.
‘And that is why I am dead,’ Selexin looked up. ‘Because my survival depends on your survival. It is a highly prized honour to guide a contestant through the Presidian—an honour bestowed upon my people since we are prevented by our size from competing in the contest—but when one accepts that honour, one also accepts the fate of his contestant.
‘So when you die, I die. And as I see it now,’ he raised his voice, ‘since you appear to know absolutely nothing about the Presidian or anything it entails, I would say quite confidently that at the moment our collective chances of survival are approximately zero!’
Selexin looked Swain up and down. Sneakers, jeans, a loose-fitting shirt with the sleeves rolled up, hair still slightly wet. He shook his head.
‘Look at you, you haven’t even come prepared to fight!’
He began to pace, gesturing with his arms, despairing for his situation, until finally he was totally indifferent to Swain and Holly’s presence: ‘Why me? Why this? Why the human? Keeping in mind the distinguished history human participation has had in the Presidian . . .’
Swain watched the little man pace back and forth in front of him. Holly just stared at him.
‘Hey,’ Swain said, stepping forward. Selexin continued to mutter to himself.
‘Hey!’
Selexin stopped. He turned and stared at Swain.
‘What?’ he said angrily. In his anger, the little man possessed a ferocity that belied his size.
Swain cocked his head. ‘Are you saying that humans have been in this thing before? In this contest?’
Selexin sighed. ‘Yes. Twice. In the last two Presidia, humans have participated.’
‘And what happened to them?’
Selexin laughed sadly. ‘Both were the first to be eliminated. Neither one ever stood a chance.’ He cocked an eyebrow. ‘Now I know why.’
He looked down at the wristwatch. It now read:
INCOMPLETE—3
Swain said, ‘And how exactly were they selected for this thing?’
As Selexin explained, but for one crucial modification, the process for human selection for the Seventh Presidian was largely unchanged from that which had operated for the two Presidia before it. Beings unable to accept the fact that other lifeforms existed in the universe could hardly be expected to choose a contestant of their own accord, let alone appreciate the concept of the Presidian.
After all, humans had not even been considered for inclusion in any Presidian until two thousand years ago—human development having been disappointingly slow.
All six of the other systems chose their own representatives for the millennial Presidian either by holding a competition of their own or by choosing their greatest sportsman, huntsman or warrior. Earth, on the other hand, would be surveyed for some time, and from that surveillance, a worthy contestant would be chosen.
‘Well, they didn’t look too hard this time,’ Swain said. ‘I’ve never picked a fight in my life.’
‘Oh, but—’
‘I’m a doctor,’ Swain said. ‘Do you know what a doctor is? I don’t kill people. I—’
‘I know what a doctor is, and I know precisely what they do,’ Selexin shot back. ‘But you have forgotten what I said earlier—one crucial modification was made to the selection criteria this time.
‘You see, for the last two Presidia the choice of the human contestant was based largely on combat skills, and combat skills alone. This was obviously a mistake. After the dismal performance of those two human contestants, it was decided that other, less obvious skills should be taken into account in the selection process for this Presidian.
‘Of course, fighting skills would be necessary, but this time they would not be conclusive. Now, from our observations of your planet, we could see that human warriors were adept at using artificially propelled weapons—firearms, missiles and the like. But such
weapons are forbidden in the Presidian. Only self-propelled weapons are allowed—throwing knives, bladed weapons. So, first of all, we needed a human proven in hand-to-hand combat. Naturally, several warriors of your race fulfilled this requirement.
‘But other skills were also deemed necessary, skills which are not often found in your warrior types. High mental aptitude levels were a primary consideration—in particular, the ability to respond to a crisis, objective rational thinking in the face of the potentially bizarre, and most importantly, adaptive intelligence.’
‘Adaptive intelligence?’
‘Yes. The ability to evaluate a scenario in an instant, take in all the immediately available solutions, and then act. We often call this reactive thinking—the ability to think clearly under pressure and use any available means to solve one’s problem. Based on our prior experience with humans, it was anticipated that the human contestant would probably not be an offensive, proactive contestant. Rather, he or she would be more defensive, reactive to a situation of someone else’s making. So a quick-thinking, adaptive personality was required. You.’
Swain shook his head. He hardly thought of himself as a quick-thinking, adaptive personality. He saw himself as a good doctor, but not brilliant. He knew of countless other surgeons and physicians who were miles ahead of him in both knowledge and ability. He was just good at what he did, but quick-thinking or adaptive?
‘Make no mistake, Contestant, your skills as a physician have been under scrutiny for some time now. Clear, reactive thought, under intense pressure—have you ever experienced that before?’
‘Well, yes, lots of times, but still . . . I mean, God, I’ve never been in combat—’
‘Oh, but you have,’ Selexin said. ‘Your selection was based on your response to a life-threatening combat situation not so long ago, a situation that involved multiple enemies.’
Swain thought about it. A life-threatening combat situation involving multiple enemies. He wondered if college football counted as life-threatening. Christ, it sounded like something that would be better suited to somebody in the army or the police force.
The police force . . .
That night . . .
Swain thought about that night one month ago in October, when the five heavily armed gang members had stormed the ER at St Luke’s. He remembered his fight with the two pistol-toting youths—remembered tackling the first one, then punching the second one in his wrist, dislodging his gun—and then struggling with the first one again—and falling to the floor in a heap—and then hearing the gun discharge that final fatal shot.
Life-threatening? Definitely.
Swain suddenly realised that he was rubbing the cut on his lower lip.
“There is another thing,’ Selexin said, interrupting his thoughts. The little man lifted his small white hand, offering the grey wristband to Swain.
‘Take it, put it on. You will need it. Especially if we are separated.’
Swain took the wristband but did not put it on. ‘Now, wait just a minute. I haven’t agreed to be a part of this little show of yours yet—’
Selexin shook his head. ‘You have not understood what I have been telling you. Your selection for the Presidian has been finalised. You no longer have any choice in the matter.’
‘It doesn’t seem like I ever did.’
‘Please, just look at your wristband.’
Swain looked at the watch, at the display beneath the glowing green light. It read:
INCOMPLETE—3
Selexin said, ‘See that number—three. Soon that number will reach seven. When it does, we will know that all seven contestants have been teleported into the labyrinth. Then the Presidian will begin.’ He looked seriously at Swain. ‘You are here now, and whether you like it or not, you have become an integral part of this contest.’
Selexin pointed at the wristband. ‘And when that number hits “7” you will become fair game for six other contestants who all have the same goal that you have. To get out.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Remember what I told you,’ Selexin said. ‘Seven enter, but only one leaves. The labyrinth is completely electrified. There is absolutely no way out. Except by teleport. And that is initialised only when one contestant remains in the labyrinth. That is the exit from the labyrinth—and only the winner leaves. If, of course, there is a winner.’
Selexin slowed down. ‘Mr Swain, the other contestants, they don’t care whether or not you decide to accept your status as a contestant. They will kill you anyway. Because they are all well aware that unless every contestant bar one is dead, no-one leaves the labyrinth. The ultimate contest, Mr Swain.’
Swain looked at the little man in disbelief. He let out a slow breath through his nose. ‘So you’re telling me that not only are we stuck in here, but that soon there will be six other guys in here too, whose only way out is to make sure that I’m dead.’
‘Yes. That is right.’
‘Holy shit.’
Swain stood in the stairwell, by the fire door leading to the study hall. Holly stood behind him, holding onto his shirt tail.
He looked at the thick grey wristband now clasped firmly around his left wrist. It looked like a manacle from the arm of an electric chair—thick and solid, and heavy too. The little green light glowed while the display still read:
INCOMPLETE—3
Swain turned to Selexin, ‘So there are only three of us in here now. Is that right?’
‘Yes. That is right.’
‘Does that mean that we can walk around safely now?’
‘I do not understand.’
‘Well, not everyone is in the labyrinth yet,’ Swain said. ‘So say I want to wander around and have a look at this place—what happens if I bump into another contestant? He can’t kill me, can he? Not yet.’
Selexin said, ‘No, he cannot. Combat of any kind between contestants is strictly prohibited until all seven have entered the labyrinth. In any case, I would advise you against “wandering about”.’
‘Why not, if they can’t hurt us, we can safely have a look around the library.’
‘That is true, but if you decide to wander, you do hazard the risk of being sequenced.’
‘Sequenced?’
‘Yes. If you do happen to meet another contestant before all seven have been teleported into the labyrinth, you can be assured that he—or she—cannot hurt you in any way. You may converse with other contestants if you want to, or you may ignore them completely,’ Selexin spread his palms. ‘Very simple.’
Then he held up a finger.
‘However. If you do meet another contestant, there is nothing to stop that contestant following you until the remaining contestants have been teleported into the labyrinth, and the Presidian has commenced. That is sequencing, and it has proved to be a common tactic in previous Presidia.
‘Another contestant can quite rightfully walk two feet behind you for the whole time until the Presidian commences and you cannot touch him—for just as he cannot hurt you, you cannot hurt him either. And once the last contestant has been teleported into the labyrinth and your wristband reads “7”, well . . .’ Selexin shrugged. ‘You had better be ready to fight.’
‘Great,’ Swain said, frowning at the thick grey wristband clamped to his wrist.
At that moment, the display flickered.
Swain was momentarily startled. ‘What’s this?’
Selexin looked at the wristband. The display read:
INCOMPLETE—3
Then it vanished and the screen came up again, reading:
INCOMPLETE—4
‘What’s that mean?’ Swain asked.
It means,’ Selexin said, ‘that another contestant has arrived in the labyrinth.’
In the atrium of the library, Officer Christine Parker sat behind the Information Desk with her mouth agape and her eyes wide.
She was staring at the hulking seven-foot figure standing before her, in front of the massive glass doors
of the library.
Parker remembered how Hawkins had wandered off twenty minutes ago, looking for some damned white light that he thought he had seen. She also remembered laughing loudly when he’d told her about it.
Now she didn’t feel like laughing.
Moments ago, she had seen a perfect sphere of brilliant white light appear in front of her. It was fully ten feet in diameter and it lit up the whole cavernous space of the atrium like an enormous light bulb.
And then it had vanished.
Extinguished in an instant.
Gone.
And now in its place stood a figure that looked something like a man. A seven-foot-tall, perfectly proportioned man—with broad muscular shoulders narrowing to an equally muscular waist.
A man clad entirely in black.
Parker stared at him in awe.
The streams of soft blue light that filtered in through the great glass doors of the library surrounded the tall black figure before her, creating a spectacular silhouette, while at the same time highlighting one particularly distinguishing feature of the man.
The ‘man’ had horns.
Two long beautifully tapered horns that protruded from both sides of his head, and then stretched upwards so that they almost touched two feet above his head.
He stood absolutely still.
Parker thought he might have been a statue, but for the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of his powerfully built chest. Parker’s eyes searched the head for a face, but with the light source behind him, all she could see beneath the two sharp rising horns was an empty space of ominous black.
But there was something wrong with the silhouette.
Something on the man’s shoulder that was not black, something that broke the perfect symmetry of his body. It was a lump. A small white lump that seemed to slump over his left shoulder.
Parker squinted in the darkness, tried to determine what the small lump was.
She leaned back in her seat, her eyes wide.
It looked like another man . . .
A very small man. Dressed completely in white—