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  Welcome.

  You are hereby invited to compete in a tournament of LifeGame™ Bridge (“LiGa™ Bridge”).

  LiGa™ Bridge is a tournament of duplicate individual bridge in which eight players gamble with, and for, a portion of their lives.

  Yes, it is possible to gamble with life! We have the technology. Life-gambling is enabled by a process we call “hand imprinting”. The physical manifestation of this is a network of cranberry-hued lines on the palms of the players’ left hands. These lines track the natural print of the palm and the effect is akin to a fortune-teller’s hand map. For further information on LiGa™ technology, please review Appendix I.

  You will be gambling with a portion of your remaining life to win a portion of the other players’ lives. To be precise, each player will wager one third of his/her remaining life per game, as measured by Life Points, to win one quarter of the total Life Points deposited by the losing four players. The losers’ remaining lives will be shortened by one third.

  The tournament ends when one – or more – of the players reaches 100 Life Points. This is the point at which the age-related degeneration of the human body ceases completely, irreversibly, and indefinitely. A somewhat misleading term that is applied to this state is ‘immortality’. Reaching 100 Life Points does not mean you cannot be killed, only that you will not age. In other words, immortal does not mean invincible.

  During the tournament – after the first transfer of Life Points has taken place – your body will be in a constant state of flux as it adjusts to markedly increased or decreased rates of degeneration on a weekly basis. For detailed information on the impact of life-absorption on your body, please see Appendix II.

  If you wish to enter the tournament you must submit a non-refundable entrance fee of $10,000,000.00.

  Xavier Redd (Imm.)

  LiGaTM.org

  LiGa™

  Sanem Ozdural

  Elsewhen Press

  LiGa™

  First published in Great Britain by Elsewhen Press, 2012

  An imprint of Alnpete Limited

  Copyright © Sanem Ozdural, 2012. All rights reserved

  The right of Sanem Ozdural to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, telepathic, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner. Scripture quotations from The Authorized (King James) Version. Rights in the Authorized Version in the United Kingdom are vested in the Crown. Reproduced by permission of the Crown’s patentee, Cambridge University Press. Quotation from Pied Beauty by Gerard Manley Hopkins, first published 1918. All rights reserved.

  Elsewhen Press, PO Box 757, Dartford, Kent DA2 7TQ

  www.elsewhen.co.uk

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978-1-90816806-1 Print edition

  ISBN 978-1-90816816-0 eBook edition

  Condition of Sale

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

  Elsewhen Press & Planet-Clock Design are trademarks of Alnpete Limited

  Converted to eBook formats by Elsewhen Press

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, flora, goods, services and events are either a product of the author’s fertile imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, services, goods, flora, places or people (living, dead or immortal) is purely coincidental.

  Bentley is a trademark of Bentley Motors Limited; Borgata is a trademark of Marina District Development Company, LLC; Chanel is a trademark of Chanel Limited; Dom Pérignon is a trademark of MHCS; Ferrari is a trademark of Ferrari S.p.A.; Formula One is a trademark of Formula One Licensing B.V.; Galatoire’s is a trademark of Galatoire’s Restaurant, LLC; Grey Goose is a trademark of Bacardi & Company Limited; Gucci is a trademark of Guccio Gucci S.p.A.; Harley Buell is a trademark of H-D Michigan, LLC; Honda Accord is a trademark of Honda Motor Europe Ltd.; Lanvin is a trademark of JLSA; Lexus is a trademark of Toyota Motor Corporation; Louboutin is a trademark of Christian Louboutin SA; Maker’s Mark is a trademark of Maker’s Mark Distillery, Inc.; Maserati is a trademark of Maserati S.p.A.; McLaren is a trademark of McLaren Automotive Limited ; Mercedes is a trademark of Daimler AG; NASCAR is a trademark of National Association for Stock Car Auto Racing, Inc.; Picholine is a trademark of Brennan Restaurant Group. Inc.; Porsche Cayenne is a trademark of Dr. Ing. H.c. F. Porsche AG; Renault is a trademark of Renault s.a.s.; Silverstone is a trademark of Silverstone Circuits Limited; Vera Wang is a trademark of V.E.W., Ltd.; Winberie’s is a trademark of Select Management Holdings, Inc.; Xanax is a trademark of Pharmacia & Upjohn Company; Yves Saint Laurent is a trademark of Luxury Goods International (L.G.I.) S.A. Use of trademarks has not been authorised, sponsored, or otherwise approved by the trademark owners.

  Contents

  Game 1

  Game 2

  Game 3

  Game 4

  Epilogues

  To Pera

  GAME 1

  1

  On a sparkling afternoon in early June a middle-aged, dark blue Honda Accord drove deep into the bucolic heart of Princeton, New Jersey.

  Passing the Princeton Battlefield at a steady pace, Father Roland Griffith, S.J., in the passenger seat, considered the manicured, gently rolling greens of the serene, natural monument to a long-ago battle in which many had perished and where, now, a few people wandered companionably.

  Mother Nature cares not for the dead or the living, Father Griffith thought. Her beauty is bestowed carelessly. Without care.

  “We are almost there, Roland.” Father Thomas Morton broke the silence that had reigned virtually uninterrupted throughout their journey from the Church of St. Francis Xavier in Manhattan – an unusual occurrence given Father Tom’s normally voluble and vivacious outlook on life. But even Father Tom could not bear to treat this journey with casual frivolity.

  The car drew to a slow stop at a crossroads.

  “Yes,” Father Griffith nodded slowly, as Father Tom checked for passing traffic on the empty road and sighted the path to the left. He softly cocked the gear into place.

  The car shifted from neutral to drive.

  Pressure on the accelerator propelled them towards their destination…

  Out of the comforting arms of a narrow, meandering country-road, we are thrust, without ceremony, onto a long stretch of smooth, liquid-black asphalt, thought Father Griffith.

  On this road, under an infinite patch of stark azure sky, there are no potholes.

  There are no blemishes on this road.

  There are no turns.

  An insistent sense of discomfort jolted him away from his thoughts. What is it? he wondered, looking out into a world of soft summer greenery framed by the brightest blue. What is it that vibrates in synch with my darkest emotions? Perhaps these are my thoughts of impending doom…

  He glanced into the sideview mirror, and suddenly he could name it, this thing that was causing his bones to rattle.

  “Storm Drake,” Father Griffith said matter-of-factly, keeping his eyes deliberately focused on the road ahead – away from the mirror.

  “Good God!” exclaimed Father Tom. “Is that him? I couldn’t figure out what all those vibrations and noises
were. I thought: is it thunder? No. It’s a nice day. Roadwork? I couldn’t see any. That’s making all this commotion?” Father Tom jerked a thumb behind him.

  Father Griffith nodded. “It’s a Harley Buell. Custom built for him, I understand. I’m sure they custom-designed the noise accessories too.”

  “Good Lord! How can he hear himself think?”

  Father Griffith smiled. “It is aptly named ‘Californian Thunder.’”

  “But of course,” Father Tom chuckled, “Californian Lightning rides Californian Thunder–”

  In the rearview mirror, the black dot had grown to the shape of a man in black riding a black motorcycle.

  You look like a giant black wasp, Mr. Drake, thought Father Griffith.

  As the roar drew closer, Father Tom pulled the car to the right.

  And then, with a curving movement that was unexpectedly lithe for such a creature, the black motorbike slid past them and with it the roar rapidly receded to a hum.

  Storm Drake, on his way to the LiGa Bridge tournament, Father Griffith thought. The sense of nameless doom he had felt as the motorcycle approached remained intact although its perpetrator was no more than a dark, shimmering speck atop the impeccable asphalt.

  “Well… Roland, so that’s the racecar driver?” Father Tom ventured.

  “Yes…” Father Griffith hesitated, “Well, strictly-speaking, no. He retired from Formula One last season.” But yes, he thought, Storm Drake is a racecar driver in his soul, and he is one of my opponents. Storm Drake: four-time world champion. Also known as ‘Californian Lightning’.

  On this road, Mr. Drake, we pass each other unmolested, but this road will end. It will end soon. Soon, we will arrive at our destination. You are in a hurry to get there. You are quick. You are always quick. And this road is too straight and smooth to suffer any delay.

  Soon, my opponent, we will face each other, and when we do, it will be for nothing less than a chance at life everlasting…or a quick death.

  Death is our companion on this road, and I am as powerless to stop its inexorable ride as … a feather in the path of a speeding bullet.

  They drove in silence towards the headquarters of LiGa Bridge USA

  In front of them lay tall, black gates that slid aside noiselessly upon their approach. The road led them to a parking lot ripped with jarring precision out of a haphazard leafy glade.

  “Good luck, Roland,” Father Tom said as the car sat idling. “May the Lord be with you–”

  “Thank you, Tom,” Father Griffith smiled, opening the passenger door.

  “I’ll be back around 6:30 pm. Is that all right?” Father Tom asked anxiously.

  “Yes, Tom. Go and enjoy yourself.” Father Griffith tried to sound reassuring.

  Father Griffith stepped out into the balmy air, like a shadow. A slim, tall, black-clad figure, he was as a burn-mark on this vista of effervescent life. His pale complexion contrasted with the glossy dark of his hair and matte black of his cassock – a simple ankle-length black robe.

  What a delicious day, he thought, taking a deep breath as Father Tom drove away. A bright, perfect day of sunshine and birdsong. How careless of Mother Nature … How callous.

  He noted the black motorcycle glinting menacingly – as it seemed to him – under the sun.

  Before him lay a gravel path. On either side of the path, bathed in leafy sunlight, lay two buildings. They were similar in tone, having been built to blend into the surrounding flora. Built mostly out of wood in tones of mossy green and smoky-blond, interspersed with the glint of glass.

  He checked his watch: almost 1:30 in the afternoon. Half an hour to game-time…

  “Good afternoon,” said a man in a subdued dark gray suit approaching from centre-left. He was tall and stocky, with unremarkable features. “Please follow the gravel path to the glass cube.”

  “Thank you,” Father Griffith inclined his head. I will go to the glass cube…

  He could see it from where he stood, at the top of the path. No more than a hundred yards away.

  He walked towards it…

  … And the city lieth foursquare, and the length is as large as the breadth: and he measured the city with the reed, twelve thousand furlongs. The length and the breadth and the height of it are equal …

  From the Book of Revelation.

  And there was this structure before him: a cube of twenty-five hundred square feet of glass. Enclosed in glass. Nothing but shimmering, gleaming glass.

  …the city was pure gold, like unto clear glass…

  In the Book of Revelation.

  Under a canopy of green and gold…

  LiGa’s glass cube had been designed by the world-renowned architect, Diarmid Tanner (Imm.), who was also the director of LiGa Bridge tournaments held in the U.S.

  A clean, clear, meticulously-laid, dazzling cube built out of a single piece of glass.

  Sitting atop a slab of cool, milk-white marble.

  LiGa’s glass cube is revered as the seat of immortality, thought Father Griffith. But what of the other side? Each person who has walked through these glass walls has placed his or her life on the line, and most have not prevailed. There is a jagged edge to this glass, and it is crimson with blood. This is a fearsome place.

  LiGa chose to place the glass cube in the midst of nature’s harmony. Father Griffith looked around. But the joyous and fruitful earth around me is also a coverlet for death.

  As he stood lost in contemplation, a portion of the glass slid away in silence, revealing a man in a dark, mercury-gray suit, with a head of fine dirty-blond hair, wearing wire-rimmed glasses. He wore a pleasant, impersonal smile on his wide, Slavic face.

  “Welcome, Father Griffith,” Peter Krol (Imm.) said in a smooth, modulated voice, extending his hand in greeting. Behind the glasses, pale gray-green eyes remained impassive.

  As the priest shook the proffered hand, he was struck by the overpowering impression that this man possessed a vitality that extended far beyond the limits of his physical form.

  “Please follow me,” Peter said.

  Father Griffith stepped on to the slab of marble and inside the glass cube. Behind him, the glass slid effortlessly into place.

  Before him, lay more marble flooring and glass. To the left were two glass cubicles, one after the other, each containing a clear glass square table. Four brushed chrome chairs were arranged around the tables. Two tables and eight chairs: ready for a game of bridge.

  To the right lay a wall of opaque glass.

  Peter confirmed that the game would take place at the tables in the two small rooms to the left. He added that the glass walls would turn opaque when the rooms were occupied.

  “I will now take you to the LifeBank,” Peter said, “so you can deposit a third of your Life Points.”

  Father Griffith followed Peter to the room with the opaque walls to the right of the entrance.

  When Peter came within a foot of the clouded wall, a portion of the glass slid away, and the walls clarified. Through the walls of the now-transparent glass, directly before him, Father Griffith saw a white machine the size of an office-copier. This must be the LifeBank, he thought. As Peter stepped through the opening, Father Griffith glimpsed, out of the corner of his eye, to the left of the glass wall, a group of people. The priest paused just before the entrance to the LifeBank to look at the six people assembled without.

  “Come, Father. You will meet them shortly,” Peter beckoned.

  There are my opponents, thought Father Griffith, and that is what I am to them. He had noted that the group had directed its undivided attention towards him as the glass cleared. Father Griffith stepped through the opening. The glass grew opaque as he moved towards the LifeBank.

  Peter explained that the players had all arrived except for Senator Heath.

  “They are enjoying refreshments on the other side of the LifeBank,” Peter explained. “You will join them after your deposit. Now, please place your hand in the LifeBank …”

 
; It was a short and painless process. Father Griffith placed his left hand as directed in a slot on top of the machine.

  “You may remove your hand,” Peter said, after less than a minute.

  Father Griffith rubbed his palm – now crisscrossed with a network of fine, cherry-red lines. Peter explained that the life-transfer would take place through the palm imprint.

  “At the end of each game the four winners will place their hands in the LifeBank to receive their original deposit, plus a quarter of the losers’ total deposited Life Points. The life-transfer will become effective three hours after the end of the game.”

  “I see…” My life is in the palm of my hand, thought Father Griffith, and I have as much control over it as I do over a random hand of bridge. Exactly that much control. No more, no less.

  Such is Life.

  “The imprinting process ensures that your physiology will remain impervious to outside influences during the tournament,” Peter continued. “That means you cannot get sick, but also that no medical interference will be possible – medications and drugs won’t work on your body while your hand retains the imprint. Do you have any questions, Father?”

  Father Griffith shook his head.

  “As you know, the players are not permitted to bring anything except the clothes – and jewelry – they are wearing into the game rooms. I believe you are wearing a watch – you may keep the watch – but please give me any phones or any other items you may be carrying–” Peter held out his hand. “They will be returned to you at the end of the game.”

  Father Griffith shook his head. “I left everything else with my friend.”

  “Thank you.” Peter smiled. “And now I will take you to the other players. As soon as the senator arrives, Xavier Redd will make a few introductory remarks, and the game should begin promptly at 2:00 o’clock. If you would like something to eat or drink, refreshments are available next door.”

  Together, they walked towards the northern wall. As the glass cleared, Father Griffith saw six people gathered variously about a room containing five glass-topped circular tables and a longer table covered in white bearing three urns, a selection of soft drinks, and a light collation.