by Larry Niven
He’d done a bit of Internet research on the republic before boarding the plane. The country had been carved out of the Republic of the Congo in 2034 by a bloody coup. Kikaya I had been a Congolese general with ties to royalty, the family connections sufficiently impressive to entice allies at home and investors abroad. Seizing power had been the easy part. Crafting the RK into a prosperous and healthy country was another matter. He’d look more deeply into that later, but now, at least he had a basic idea what he was dealing with.
With a barely perceptible shush, the shuttle landed. The hostess smiled. “We are home.”
The grit of fatigue and irritation still grinding under his eyelids, Scotty grabbed his hastily packed overnight bag and followed the lady. If this turned into an actual assignment, he would call the hotel in Geneva and have them send the rest of his luggage, including his equipment. For right now, this was enough.
As he ducked his head and stepped down from the sleek shuttle, he wondered if a band was going to play the local version of “Hail to the Guest,” and was slightly disappointed when it didn’t happen.
There was, however, a spiffy officer whose blue-black skin gleamed brightly as the gold braid on his shoulders. His spine was so erect he might have been smuggling bamboo.
“Mr. Griffin,” he said in perfect English. “I trust your flight was pleasant?”
“Fine, thank you,” repeating his automatic reply.
“I am Mboui Otama. At your service, sir. May I take your luggage?”
Scotty offered the bag, but held on to one of the straps, so that both of them were holding it at the same time. “My understanding was that if I didn’t like the proposition, this shuttle will take me wherever I want to go. Does that offer still hold?”
“Of course.”
“Then let’s just leave my things here on the shuttle, and if I need them, I’ll send for them.” A symbolic gesture. He was watching carefully gauging the reaction.
Otama didn’t flinch. “Fine. This way, please.”
He hated to admit it, but he enjoyed this to an absurd degree. It seemed a throwback to some older, more elegant time. “Does everyone get this treatment?”
Otama’s lips turned up in a slight grin. “Almost everyone.”
Ah. Deflate the American. Scotty squashed a flash of disappointment. “Oh,” was all he said.
Otama grinned now, a mouth filled with gold teeth. “I joke. Only guests of the royal house are treated in such a manner.”
Scotty grinned. He doubted that Otama joked like that with everyone. Was he being tested because of his own dark skin? “And that’s me?”
“That, I believe, is you.”
The airpad was at the center of a young hedge maze, and the honor guard followed at a walk as Scotty and Otama were shuttled through it, to the steps of a three-story, white colonial mansion with eight porch columns and at least a hundred windows. The filigree looked handwrought, knobs and handrails inset with ivory and gold.
Again, Scotty was impressed. “This is … amazing.”
Otama nodded. “Built for King Leopold in 1879. At one time, it was thought that the King himself might come to visit his rubber-tree holdings.”
“It never happened?”
A warm, friendly smile. “A good thing for him. His plantation workers were sharpening their knives.”
Scotty had been many places in his career and travels, but never in a palace. Its high, arching ceilings and ornately carved abstracts were almost overwhelming. Striding toward them was an imposing white-haired black man in regal dress, effusively extending his hand. Scotty recognized him from the computer images. This would be Kikaya II, the son of the country’s first leader. Scotty didn’t know whether to kiss the hand or bow, and settled for a warm, dry shake. Calluses crusted that broad flat hand like barnacles on an old battleship. “Mr. Griffin. So kind of you to come.”
He nodded. Kikaya clasped his hand affectionately. Scotty sensed that he was being thoroughly measured. What was this man looking for? In all likelihood men of this nature were used to indirect approaches by petitioners currying favor. Scotty was in the odd position of being the one sought, and decided to use that. “Your highness,” he said. “It’s been a long trip. I’d appreciate knowing what this is about.”
Kikaya tilted his round head. One of his eyes, Scotty noticed, was slightly offset. “Ah. You have no idea at all?”
“None,” he admitted, “but the retainer was large enough to catch my interest.”
“Take my arm, please.”
Scotty did, and as if they were old friends, they began to walk now, toward an unspecified destination. Probably a tea or meeting room of some kind, but first a stroll past paintings and statues and images of the ancestors.
“Is money all that motivates you?”
Scotty shrugged. “I like to travel.”
The Kikayan monarch brightened. “Do you indeed? In my younger days, I enjoyed travel as well. My responsibilities currently prevent me from enjoying such freedoms.”
Scotty decided to head off the slight sense of irritation he was beginning to feel. “Mr. President, I don’t mean to be rude, but I haven’t slept in twenty hours, and I’d love to find out what it is that seems so urgent. And … ah … there was mention of ten thousand New dollars?”
Kikaya II grinned. Money, it seemed, was a universal language. He touched his thumb to a bracelet on his left wrist, and a computer screen hovered in the air before them. “Your bank account. Please note the recent deposit.”
Very nice. Efficient. Even better, his request had triggered no offense or indignation. These were all good signs. “Cool. All right, what can I do for you, sir?”
“What do you know about me?” President Kikaya asked.
There is simply no substitute for research. “I know that you ascended to the throne at the age of seventeen—your bloodline was the only one that all factions could agree upon after the Independence War in 2034. For the first thirteen years some called you a bloody tyrant, but you are currently thought a progressive leader.”
“And if I was still thought a tyrant?”
The answer came to him at once, but he took his time speaking it. “We wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
Kikaya stared at him, and then roared with laughter. Scotty allowed himself a polite chuckle, but was careful to rein it back in before Kikaya’s explosion ceased.
“You speak your mind,” Kikaya said. “I like that. Next time, don’t wait so long after you have decided what to say.”
“Fair enough,” Scotty said. “So … why am I here, sir?”
Kikaya’s round face split with a quieter, more private amusement. “A moment ago I was ‘your highness.’ And now I am merely ‘sir’?”
Scotty shrugged and took a chance. Kikaya had invited a certain informality. All right, let’s see if he really wants it. “I’m not saying that familiarity breeds contempt, but it certainly encourages a certain informality.”
Kikaya’s smile seemed genuine. “Indeed it does.” He lowered his voice and arched his eyebrows, one man sharing delicious speculation with another. “In fact, without a certain amount of familiarity, it is almost impossible to breed anything at all.”
Apparently, Kikaya liked his guests to laugh with him, and Scotty obliged heartily as a four-man honor guard parted, and the door to a spacious office was opened. Kikaya saw him to his seat as a male assistant inquired into his desire for nutrition and fluids. After arrangements were made, Kikaya folded his hands and spoke as if they were old friends.
“You are the son of Alex Griffin, retired vice president of security for Cowles International. And your mother was a vice president of guest relations for Cowles Entertainment, which controls, among other things, the Dream Park franchise. Is that correct?”
“Yes…” Where was this going? He hoped to God Kikaya didn’t want him to squire some grandnephews around an amusement park.
“You served in the American Union’s National Corps at the
age of seventeen, and quite distinguished yourself. Your future wife Ms. Tuinukuafe won an academic work-study slot at Heinlein station when she was twenty-four, worked her way up to comanager in two years. She recruited you at that time. You spent four years at Heinlein base, and then for reasons unclear to my sources, you returned to Earth. Without, apparently, seeking a formal divorce.”
He arched an eyebrow at Scotty.
“Personal,” Scotty said. “Personal reasons.”
“I see. I hope that you can understand how a prospective employer might wish details. If you would be so kind…”
Scotty sighed. “There was an accident. I was trapped in a landslide in a leaking suit for an hour, and it … twisted my mind a bit. I thought it would be safest for me to return to Earth.”
“Because you were no longer suitable for advanced lunar maneuvers?”
“Yes.”
“And basic maneuvers?”
“For tourists. Boring.”
“I’d hoped you’d say that. Well. There is certainly no negative reflection in any of your personnel files … Although one suspects that a kindly ex-spouse might have had something to do with that.”
The skin on the back of his neck flamed. Why would this man say something like that? Another test? “If you brought me here to insult me, please keep your money, and have your shuttle take me home, your majesty.”
For another full minute the two men studied each other, then Kikaya nodded approval. “You are strong. Although your most recent assignment ended on a less than glorious note, you have an excellent reputation in the personal security community.”
Without allowing his ire to cool, Scotty answered: “Cowles has the best training simulators in the world.”
“I believe you. And I believe that your résumé and pedigree make you perfect for my purpose.”
Another long pause. This time, Scotty decided not to speak, to put the burden of communication on the man on the other side of the desk.
“My only son,” Kikaya said, “has been chosen to compete in the first lunar Dream Park game. There will be training and travel and risk. I wish Ali to have a professional companion, one knowledgeable in security matters. Such a man must pass muster with Cowles Industries, and is preferably a space hand. You, young Griffin, qualify with flying colors.”
The Moon? This man wanted him to return to the Moon. Dear God. A chance to get back on the horse. But … he hadn’t been to the Moon in three years. The accident had left him with a mix of phobic responses: claustrophobia, fear of asphyxiation and variations on astrophobia or kenophobia: a fear of stars and empty spaces that might create problems during space travel. And a broken marriage. Yes, let’s not forget that little thing.
Quotes from sessions with Dr. Brenner felt harmless enough, but the stars glared, baleful in his mind. Windows were scarce on the Moon. He was not used to staring at stars. The fear of death was overwhelming and humiliating. Anchored to his field of vision, it all created a powerful phobic response.
When he’d been a kid, some feared that moving an asteroid into lunar orbit could end the world. A mile-wide chunk of rock called Aeros ghosted across a remembered starfield. His fingers gripped at the seat of his chair. He didn’t want Kikaya to see his emotions, but didn’t the man have the right, in fact the responsibility to know everything about the man to whom he entrusted his son?
No. My shame is my own. If I turn this down, I’ll do it for my own reasons.
He felt the weight of Kikaya’s stare. He could say yes, dependent on research and discussion …
“What exactly is called for?” he asked.
“There is a period of training and evaluation. Follow this with travel time, and the game itself. We can provide you with what information we have, but I’ve little doubt that your own sources are better than mine.”
He felt as if he’d inhaled a gust of minty wind. You’d see her again. “I assume you understand that any connections I do or do not have with Cowles Industries, or Dream Park, cannot be used to your son’s advantage during the playing of a game. In fact, if I am to accompany him, I see no way to do that save by actually participating in the game. That further limits the information that I can ask from those contacts.”
Thoughts, images and impressions flew more rapidly. “In fact, seeing that that is the case, you might want me to accompany him, but not participate in the game itself.” He shook his head. “In fact, I’m not sure I understand. Your son earned his place in the game … but that’s not a double ticket. How would I get into the game?”
Kikaya smiled. “You have to understand that this is more than just another game. It is also an opportunity to promote lunar tourism to the entire world. I have substantial investments on the Moon, sir. If wealth did not encourage accommodation, men would not seek it. For the son of a national ruler to have legitimately earned his place in the competition is unprecedented. Because you have no gaming experience—”
“I wouldn’t exactly say that. I grew up around Dream Park.” That cool wind blew again, this time carrying memories before it like dried leaves. Not tourist memories: behind the scenes. In the caverns beneath the park, in the engineering alcoves, working the rides and refreshment stands to earn pocket money as a teenager. Good memories.
“But you have no standing within the IFGS. I’m told we can admit you; you would have no unfair advantage. You might even be seen as a handicap.”
“Now wait a minute…”
STOP.
Dammit! Kikaya had manipulated him, pinched his competitive nerve. Damn. He could get back to the moon, see if all the hours of therapy had made a difference. His problem wouldn’t be a hindrance to his performance, so there was little downside there. He could see Kendra again …
But could he work with Prince Ali? He noted that the young man was not in the room with them.
He’d done a bit of preliminary research. Prince Ali was a brat who had cowed his father’s subordinates and even the teachers at the Foxcrest Academy, the English military school he’d haphazardly attended.
A comment made by one of his comrades, very off the cuff: The Prince lived in a cocoon, a carefully maintained illusion of superior mental and physical skills. No one dared tell him no, or defeat him at anything. He could guess that Ali might have convinced his father to invest heavily in the Moon, perceived by many of his countrymen to be a waste of precious resources.
A spoiled brat. He’d danced that dance before, and too recently. “The numbers discussed for full participation. Is that amount still on the table?”
“Yes.”
“I would need an additional 20 percent applied to the principal, and the per diem. In essence, I’m off the market for almost a year.”
“That can be accommodated.”
Damn! Well …
“Sir, I would like to provisionally agree, depending on completion of research and interaction. But … I have to admit it sounds interesting.”
“I thought that you would.”
“And I would like to meet your son.”
7
The Prince
Most of the palace was a mixture of styles ranging from European colonial to traditional Congolese and Pan-African, celebrating the lives and accomplishments of Kikaya’s ancestors and people. The west wing was Kikaya III’s wing. It seemed to Scotty that the decor celebrated, more than anything, an exhaustive addiction to science fiction, fantasy and gaming. He noticed that Kikaya II, walking at his side, grew tight-lipped with disapproval as they moved deeper into the fannish abyss.
Complete sets of original Heinlein, Bradbury, Clarke, Le Guin, Butler, Kanazawa. Scotty recognized signatures on wall paintings from Kelly Freas, Frank Frazetta, Michael Whelan and Sue Tong.
Sculptures crowded every nook and cranny. “Your son is quite the collector.”
“Yes,” Kikaya said. “Some even have value. Purchased through agents, or by traveling to these science fiction conventions. Have you been to such a ‘convention’? The people seem
… quite strange.”
“One or two. And the fans are actually pretty normal people in outside life. They just like to cut loose from time to time.”
“He is actually an artist. He has had the best teachers. These drawings are his.” Framed images of mutant sea horses, tool-using insectile creatures and strange robotic devices graced the hall opposite the Prince’s door. The King sighed, and entered without knocking.
Every wall of the room was covered with video chips, capable of slicing the wall into a hundred separate screens, or submerging the occupants into a completely immersive environment. Right now, stepping into that room was like stepping onto an Antarctic plain, even down to the blast of cold wind blowing from the ventilation system. This was a full-service gaming room, custom built by Cowles Industries or a close competitor.
“Ali,” King Kikaya said.
There was no reply. His sole heir gazed intensely into the game room’s control field, using his eyes and hands and feet to manipulate the image of a sled-dog team apparently attempting to outrun a herd of ravenous Yetis. The boy was of moderate height, whip-slender, his hair braided into rows and nodes so tight his head resembled an ear of corn. His facial features were almost excessively fine, as if carved in chocolate by a woman’s hand.
Kikaya raised his voice. “Ali!”
“In a minute, Father.”
The Prince was given his sixty seconds, and when there was still no answer forthcoming, the King clicked a “kill” code with tongue and teeth. The images froze.
Ali rattled off a string of rapid-fire Congolese, and his father replied in the same language. Then, for the first time, the boy looked directly at Scotty. “My father considers it discourteous to speak in a language a guest does not understand. I do not wish to be rude.” He said this in a voice that implied You are not needed.
“Father,” Ali said. “I was approaching the seventh level!”
Kikaya seemed to struggle to control himself, perhaps not wishing to lose his temper in front of an outsider.
