Dream Park [2] The Barsoom Project

by Larry Niven;Steven Barnes

  He was laughing now, and red-faced. She had seen him this way a hundred times. The rubbery red face and hiccoughing bray were as much a trademark as the famous profile. He was surrounded by a circle of admiring faces. “And if they wanted me to lose weight, then they should have stopped serving pasta in the commissary. Hey! If I look at one, it just cries out to me.” He crouched down and squinted up at them, rubber face suddenly, absurdly reminiscent of a lonesome lasagna. “It says: ‘Johnny! We’re here! Don’cha love us anymore?” Lasagna had an Italian accent.

  Music blared in the opposite corner, and several couples were on the dance floor, moving languorously to the latest fusion of Indonesian and Latin music.

  Eviane stood on the outskirts and tapped her toes to it, and felt a flutter of pleasure. Such a nice group of people. This is going to be fun! . . .

  Unless something goes wrong.

  Her breathing was going haywire, and she craved magic, magic in the form of a black pill rimmed in white. There’s no point to this. Let the past stay dead. What is there to gain?

  But I have to know. I have to know.

  There were security cameras in every corner of the room. Information on eating habits, conversational patterns, and preferential interactions were being recorded on all Game participants. The data was carefully filed, collated, and processed in a hundred different ways. Computer programs weighed words and patterns of words. One special technician per participant annotated and corrected, planned and theorized as Game time drew near.

  The information went out to nutritionists, psychotherapists, experts in aversive-conditioning behavioral modification, neurolinguistic programmers, and the computer experts coordinating the effort.

  And it went to one other desk.

  At that desk a man watched, brooding. He frowned every time the camera crossed the features of the woman who called herself “Eviane.” Her stringy red hair had once been well groomed. The padded body had been svelte, the confused, frightened eyes filled with purpose.

  Dream Park accepted Gaming names, but demanded a real one as well: this woman had written “Michelle Rivers” in her file.

  Lies within lies.

  He held in his hand the picture of a younger, more slender, prettier woman, a picture summoned from a file eight years old. The label read “Michelle Sturgeon.” There were differences, but the similarities were undeniable.

  Beneath the picture of Michelle Sturgeon was a short psychological evaluation concocted by the Dream Park psych division. He traced it with a finger that shook.

  Eight years before, Michelle Sturgeon had murdered one Dream Park Actor and severely wounded another. Her alter ego, the persona of “Eviane,” however, was an Adventuress who had defended herself against evil magicians. It seemed that “Eviane” had become the dominant identity.

  How had she gotten past Dream Park Security? The “Rivers” name shouldn’t have fooled anyone.

  “Came in with Charlene Dula. Okay, they wouldn’t want Charlene irritated, they need her uncle’s money in Barsoom. So no heavy security check?” He couldn’t convince himself. “No, dammit. You couldn’t stop The Griffin with politics. So what happened? Fekesh could have changed her records.” The man’s voice trembled. “But if he did, why? Because if Harmony and The Griffin saw the flag . . . hmm. He was afraid they’d use her. Somehow. So why the hell didn’t Fekesh tell me? Damn, damn, damn.” He opened a bottle of headache tablets and swallowed two of them without water. “Why now? I’ll never get any sleep. What kind of game . . .”

  He caught himself, forced the panic into remission. The office was empty, dark except for the light of the holoscreen. “Calm down,” he muttered. “I can handle it. So she’s back. It’s not a trap. It’s an accident. She doesn’t know anything. I can get her out.”

  He scrolled Eviane’s chart. He read slowly; he wasn’t used to reading charts. “He’s got to help. Fekesh. He’s got as much to lose—” Finally he let out a sigh. “All right. It started in the Fimbulwinter Game. It can end there too. Kill her out.”

  He punched another button, and the screen went dead.

  Chapter Four

  THE PSYCHOLOGY OF

  ENGAGEMENT

  An aroma of fresh-ground coffee wafted in the air. Alex averted his eyes from the urn as he stormed into his office.

  The west wall blinked through the spectrum in its “alert” mode. The hubbub beyond quieted as the door closed. He circled his desk. When his weight hit the chair, the screen triggered.

  Cary McGivvon, Griffin’s new assistant, appeared on line. Her egg-shaped face was drawn with panic. “Chief—we’ve got a problem—”

  “We’ve always got problems. If it isn’t an emergency, it’s a ‘B.’ Handle it yourself.”

  “It’s an emergency.”

  “Isn’t it always. Take a deep breath and talk to me.”

  Cary stopped and sucked air, flicking her head to get a few strands of brown hair out of her eyes. “Well, we had a punch-out. Delegates from Pan-African and the Libyan group. Everybody says the other guys started it. Chief, they’re talking about walking.”

  “What is Psych doing?” McGivvon was a terrific worker, but a little on the emotional side. Why dump this on him? He had no control, or anything even close to it, over the actions of those zanies.

  “Vail has already channeled them into the War-Bots scenario.”

  “Terrific. This is what he designed it for. I’ll bet his black heart is tickled pink for the chance to run it.” Alex’s nose twitched at the pungent coffee aroma from the outer office. He would not walk out there and get a cup, nor would he ask someone to fetch one. Time to put a fan in here!

  “What’s the situation? Have they agreed?”

  “More or less. Chala and Razul should be fighting it out now, but everyone else is twitchy too.” He saw her beginning to relax now that she’d passed the problem on. He turned her off.

  He still hadn’t settled back into real space/time yet. The sounds and sights of the shaping of Mars played against the back of his eyeballs. If he closed his eyes even for a moment, blackness exploded into light.

  Cary appeared in the doorway. He missed her mischievous expression, transfixed by the steaming mug in her hands. Was she going to drink that in front of him? Could she be so cruel?

  “Looked as if you needed this more than me, Chief.”

  He stifled a whimper of relief. “You are an angel of mercy. Ten dispensation points. Shoot your husband tonight and move in with me. You’ll still go to the front of the line on Judgment Day.”

  “Thanks—I’ll save it. I may need it the next time my boss disappears for three hours and turns off his pager.”

  Touché. He sipped from the mug, then made a face. “Half-full?”

  “Remember your ulcer.”

  He growled at her, and then drained the cup. Damn, that hit the spot. It was the taste he loved. Honest. The fact that decaffeinated coffee never tasted as good just meant that he loved the taste of caffeine. “Give me a minute to digest this. There wasn’t any actual violence, was there?”

  “You may want to look at the tapes yourself.”

  “Code them through, would you? And any updates on the Dula business.”

  Arrgh! There was just too much to do. The panoramic window behind his desk looked out onto the Little San Gabriel Mountains, but the touch of a switch could display any part of Dream Park that he chose. His fingers played on the keyboard, and the window divided into sections.

  From an overhead camera in one of the cafeterias he watched a replay of a pushing-and-shouting match. Six of one group and ten of another, all Africans . . . he recognized Razul, the Libyan Ambassador, so the other, bigger group must be Pan-Africa. They screamed in each other’s faces, mixing languages, pausing to find a word but never finding the chance to use it. The language barrier was driving them berserk. Their interpreters kept trying to interrupt. Now security men and women moved among them, drawing the screamers aside . . .

  The incid
ent had been neatly averted. Whoever was working security had done well, but could he have caught it quicker?

  “Zoom.” The screen zoomed up, and he had a clear view of Mitch Hasagawa. Good man on the floor, almost psychically sharp. Reminded Griffin a lot of Marty Bobbick, before Marty put in for desk operations. A good man in the field, a decent man in the office. Alex hoped that Mitch would stay in the field.

  He zoomed the second window. It cleared and fogged again. Close-up of the Arab, Razul. Griffin remembered Razul; he had briefed his officers on the man. Razul was Kareem Fekesh’s man. Despite Fekesh’s staggering financial empire, the industrialist was widely rumored to be a primary supporter of Holy Fire, the radical political sect which had grown out of the United Moslem Activist Front in the teens. Nothing had ever been proven, but . . .

  Holy Fire had openly threatened the life of Charlene Dula. Fekesh should never have been permitted within ten kilometers of the Park, but his influence had delivered most of the radical Arab sects, totaling billions of dollars of prospective investment capitol. Money talks, and loudly enough to drown out the voice of a security chief.

  “Don’t disturb me for five minutes, Cary. I need to breathe.”

  “Got it, boss.”

  Griffin looked out over the valley. He stood, twisted his back until his spine crackled. The sun sat low on the horizon, and the mountain shadows stretched slowly toward Dream Park. There was too damn much to do, and it was all too damned important, not just for Cowles Industries, but for the human race. Africa might be a lesson for them all. Perhaps the lines of nationalism and factionalism and every other goddamn “ism” in the world had reduced the chances for this weary planet. Or not. Nuclear devices had existed for over a century, and only four of them had ever been used in anger. This could be interpreted as proof of divine intervention, good luck, a sign that the human race was growing up, or ominous portent, depending upon one’s standing in the “half-empty, half-full” school of cocktail-party philosophy.

  For most of recorded history, military technology had been the cutting edge of human knowledge. Only the leap to space called forth more of man’s natural and intellectual resources. Project Barsoom was the most expansive dream in human history, big enough to create a world vision, to involve every world government. It would create millions of jobs and circulate hundreds of billions of dollars. It could be a rallying point, a place to start over.

  The door behind him swung open ahead of Marty, who bounced in talking around a mouthful of ham and cheese. “Quite a madhouse, Chief.”

  Can’t get five goddamn minutes— Alex squashed the flash of irritation. “Getting madder by the minute. What now?”

  “We’ve got the IFGS feed on line three. We need to take this one together.”

  “Why me, Lord?”

  The question surprised him. “You’ve actually been through one of the Games. Chief, I need the input.” Without waiting for Alex’s approval, Marty leaned over his desk and tapped the vidfeed through.

  The screen cleared; the pinched, aquiline features of Arlan Myers appeared. The man always looked like he had a wedge of lemon tucked in one bearded cheek. “Mr. Griffin,” Myers said, with just the slightest hint of what Alex assumed was resentment. Where was Myers? New York? And what time was it there . . . ?

  Oops.

  “Sorry for the hour, Arlan,” Griffin said solicitously. His imagination wandered, and he found himself wondering what Myers was wearing under the edge of the screen. Maybe the International Fantasy Gaming Society had summoned him out of bed. Better still, maybe Myers was the resident IFGS satyr, and something warm and pliant was waiting for him just off screen. Alex allowed a moment’s fantasy about the official IFGS Kama Sutra. “We’re going to be running that modified Fimbulwinter Game in a few hours. Have you had a chance to scan the Game tapes?”

  “Of course.” Arlan sniffed. “A basic modification of the Fimbulwinter scenario.” For the first time a touch of joy appeared on his face. “Rather clever, actually. I worked on that one a few years back, when the Lopezes designed the control sequences.” He shook his head reproachfully. “It’s really too difficult for novice Gamers. I have to admit that I don’t completely understand the method behind this particular madness.”

  The lower left screen cleared, and Dr. Vail appeared. He was sixty-four and looked thirty-eight, with that lean and leathery Californian healthier-than-thou look about him. His blue eyes always seemed feverishly bright and intense. “It looks like I timed this right. Mr. Myers, pleased to ‘meet’ you, finally. Your work on the Psychology of Engagement has been instrumental in developing our behavioral programs.”

  “Dr. Vail.” Arlan inclined his head slightly. “What does my little treatise on Gaming theory have to do with weight loss?”

  Vail smiled. “You expanded Gaming theory beyond the mathematics of penetration, envelopment, and confrontation to the patterns of attention which influence an encounter. ‘Rhythms of concentration,’ you called them.”

  Alex leaned back in his seat, fingers laced, fascinated and totally out of his depth.

  Arlan seemed pleased. “Yes, of course. Human existence is cyclical: circadian rhythms, Kreb cycles, the circular movements that the human eye makes even when trying to hold steady on a single point, these things are well documented. Mental focus exhibits similar cycles. Regardless of the level of intelligence or concentration, there are ‘down’ points in the cycles, perceptual blind spots, ‘floating holes’ where information simply slips through unnoticed. The more fatigued or single-minded we be-come, the larger the holes get.”

  “Yes. And you timed the engagements in the original Fimbulwinter Game to ‘hide’ some of the clues in plain sight, as it were. You took advantage of temporary blackouts due to fatigue or attention engagement. This idea forms the foundation of the Fat Ripper Specials. We hit the Gamers on every level except conscious/analytical. They think that the point of the Game is the exercise. The exercise isn’t the medicine, it’s the spoon.”

  “Nothing up my sleeve . . .” Arlan chuckled. “If my little postulations have been useful on a more practical level, I’m glad. Tell me: you’ve run several of the Rippers; why is this one a special problem?”

  Now Alex spoke up. “Due to a security risk, it has become advisable for me to enter one of our people into the Game. This run consists of thirteen Gamers and up to forty-three Actors playing multiple roles. Most of the Gamers were on the waiting lists long before Dula was announced for the Game, so no problems there. Actors are all Dream Park personnel, and have been checked. The Park is closed to ordinary tourists, so we’ve minimized risks across the board.”

  “So what exactly is your problem?”

  “I wouldn’t want Mr. Bobbick killed out. I can’t bend the rules to help him.”

  Arlan nodded approval. “Even in the best of causes, cheating is still cheating.”

  Marty shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I’ve seen plenty of Games. Watched ‘em from the outside, I mean. It doesn’t look so hard..

  Asian Myers laughed heartily. “Oh, I can hardly wait to see your tapes. Appearances can be deceiving, Mr. Bobbick.”

  Griffin warmed, remembering his own Game. “I was wondering whether it might be permissible for Marty to take a look at the actual Game plans.”

  Myers reddened. “No, no, no! If he knows the answers, he will give them away.”

  “But if they aren’t playing for points . . .?”

  “No! The other players will notice who is lucky, or who is successful, and rally around him.”

  Dr. Vail’s blue eyes narrowed. “It throws the whole structure of the Game off. The Actors are highly trained to conceal their knowledge. You’d be surprised how much eye and body movement gives information away. In the last century a performer named Kreskin ran a mind-reading act you wouldn’t believe, basically by observing body language.”

  “I agree with Vail. You could destroy the balance of the whole Game.” Myers turned and looked at Marty. “Wha
t do you have, three hours until the Game begins?”

  “Seven hours. Time difference.”

  Myers’s lip curled. “Oh, yes. Well, that gives you enough time to read I Made the Pits Too Big: Confessions of a Retired Deity.”

  “The Lopez biography?”

  “Yes. That will give you an overview. I can give you a rundown of the Gaming rules.

  “One. The duration of the Game will be three days, that is to say seventy-two hours.

  “Two,” he ticked off on his fingers. “The number of participants, thirteen.

  “Three, the Wessler-Grahm auditing company has produced a variant on the standard Gaming tables for use in the Rippers. Even though they have no credit with the IFGS, they provide a means for Ripper participants to reference their efforts. This is new. In earlier Rippers there wasn’t enough feedback.”

  “Competition is often valuable,” Vail said. “Feedback always is.”

  “Four,” Myers continued, “there will be a penalty of fifty percent of accumulated points in the event of a player’s death, twenty-five percent of which will be rebated if the player returns to the Game as a tornrait, a helpful undead.

  “Five, the Game will be conducted for sixteen hours out of every twenty-four—”

  Dr. Vail interrupted. “Except that the programming will continue for twenty-four hours a day.”

  “Ah . . . yes. Six. Due to the nature of the Game, food and rest breaks will be subject to randomization and interruption.

  “Seven. The usual quarter-moon symbol will indicate the presence of rest room facilities. That’s all.”

  Dr. Vail smiled at Myers like a cat inspecting a bowl of cream. Griffin had the distinct impression that he was calculating Myers’s body fat content from the thickness of the bearded cheeks. “Thank you, Mr. Myers. I think you will find that the adjustments we’ve made in the Game actually make it more interesting. I can’t imagine any of our refinements—”