Dream Park [2] The Barsoom Project

by Larry Niven;Steven Barnes

  Vail thought about it for a long moment. “If you put it like that . . . ”

  “I do.”

  “Then it seems there is very little to lose, and much to gain.”

  “Don’t get cute—I know we’re risking what’s left of her sanity. I think Eviane and Michelle would both agree with me, and approve of the cause.”

  Vail tapped his fingers. He touched a few more buttons on his computer, then crooned to it softly.

  “All right. I think that I may have an answer. When I was in medical school, we performed a rather interesting experiment. If modified, it may suggest a solution. The key to it is her susceptibility to hypnosis.” He looked at Griffin, face showing the traces of surprise. “By the way—how did you figure that? It’s not in her dossier.”

  “She’s a Dream Park junkie,” Griffin said. “This whole place is an altered state of consciousness.” Alex paused. “You mentioned her father. What about her mother?”

  “Dead. And I think you guessed it—her mother’s maiden name was Eviane Rivers.”

  Michelle Sturgeon floated in a tank of water a few degrees cooler than skin temperature. Hundreds of pounds of Epsom salts were dissolved in the water. She was as buoyant as a balloon. There was no light. There was no sound. 100 mg of synthetic tranquilizer/hypnotic had left her without the urge to do anything but lie here and relax.

  Without light, without sound, without a reference of physical sensation, her mind drifted in its cocoon of warmth, and her recent troubled sensations died away.

  Who was she? Eviane? Yes. Eviane. Strong. Powerful.

  Who else? Some part of her was far, far away, alone and miserable. As she should be. Michelle was bad. Had done something terrible. Eviane didn’t want to think about that part.

  Wait, now. There were lights in the darkness!

  They sparkled, and moved in rhythm across her line of sight. They were differing colors, jewel-like. She liked them.

  There was sound. A heartbeat sound, one that she felt in the water, in her body, in her chest. She was getting . . . not sleepy. She was beyond sleepy somehow, but still awake. Her body was sleepy, her mind alert . . . at least, part of her mind.

  It was confusing. Everything seemed to be happening so slowly. So much had happened in the past hours. It seemed like a dream.

  Everything was slowing, slowing . . .

  Eviane fought to hold on, but felt herself swirling down and down into the void, into an infinitely deep black hole rimmed with red, following the steady pulse of the light, the rhythmic beat of the sound, the gentle lapping of the warm water. Down and down and down and dark.

  Out of the dark came light. She was in a place she knew, a beach, a place from her past.

  The surf rolled in, and she sat in the warm sand, watching passively. She was warmed and comforted by the touch of the sun, and utterly content.

  A man came out of the surf, dripping water and foam, smiling at her. He was a tall man with light red hair. His smile made her feel warm.

  He reached out his hands to her. They were large and broad. Had she seen him before? Could she trust him? She wasn’t sure, but she liked him.

  Where was Mommy? Michelle looked for her mother, Eviane, the stern one, the protecting one, and didn’t see her. Her hand stole nervously into the hand of the stranger, and he held it warmly.

  They smiled at each other for a time, shared the sun and the warm, hissing surf. “Michelle,” he said, “you’re a very good girl. I’ve heard that from everyone. You’re a wonderful girl.”

  Michelle liked hearing that. Her heart opened to the stranger.

  “Can you remember all of the times you knew that you were good, had done something good, were told that you were good?”

  She nodded her head.

  “Good. Remember those times.” He paused, and a deep wave of warmth and positive feelings swept her. He nodded. “That’s right. Now. Do you know that sometimes good people can be tricked into doing bad things?”

  The beach suddenly wavered. The water crashing against the sand became icy, and something rose thrashing from the foam.

  “Look at me!” he commanded. “Look at me.”

  She did as he said, breathing steadily, slowly. The thing in the surf began to dissolve.

  “Good. Good.”

  She liked the feel of his arms around her, and pressed close. Their heartbeats seemed to merge.

  “Sometimes, good people can be tricked into doing bad things, by bad people. They try to hurt little girls. And then the little girls need their mommies. They need Eviane. And Eviane is here to help you whenever you need her. But right now I need to talk to Michelle.”

  She trembled, and clung to him, and examined his words. He held her without judging. His arms were strong, and his voice soft. And he promised that Mommy could come back.

  Frightened, but relaxing into trust, she pulled back and gazed into his face.

  “Yes,” she said. “I know.”

  “Will Michelle help me?”

  “Yes, Michelle will help you.”

  “Good. Thank you.” The big man with the rough face smiled and touched her nose softly. “I want you to tell Eviane that she is going back to her friends. Magic will take her back. Her friends need her. They will find her in the land of the dead, and then everything will be as it was. She will remember nothing once her friends find her.”

  Michelle nodded, without comprehending.

  “But listen,” he added, urgently. “All the time that Eviane is with her friends, fighting and helping them, Michelle will hide behind her mommy and watch. Michelle will learn. And when Michelle learns what she came here to learn, she will find a way to let us know. In her own way, in her own time. But she will let us know. Will you help us?”

  “Mommy doesn’t have to go away?”

  “No,” and the big man’s arms were warm around her. “Mommy doesn’t have to go away.” He stopped, and added, “But neither does Michelle.”

  Griffin watched as a heavy-lidded Michelle Sturgeon was led from the executive Total Environment room. He wiped his brow with a moist, shaking hand. He hadn’t realized what a drain it would be playing out that role.

  Vail opened the door and peered at Griffin with amusement.

  “That was rather well done, Alex. Maybe you went into the wrong career?”

  “I just figured that Dream Park has something that none of the doctors have.”

  “What was that?”

  “We have what she wants: a shot at the son of a bitch who screwed her up. I’d say we can ride that rascal all the way home.”

  A video window opened in the wall, and Alex watched Michelle Sturgeon enter the frame. Numbly, without protest or eagerness, Michelle slipped back into the isolation tank for additional work.

  “Say another two hours prep and she should be ready. Alex, have you looked into the Game? Do you know what a tornrait is?”

  “A ghost. A helpful ghost. Why?”

  “We’re going to give Michelle—excuse me, we can give Eviane an excuse for remembering the future.” Vail glanced at his watch. “You know, I could be making more money in private practice, Alex, but goddamn, where would I find cases like this?”

  “Write it up,” Alex sighed. He sniffed at his collar. The Epsom salts were still moist upon it. Mixed in it was another fragrance. The scent of a delicate young woman, cruelly used; and something else, something feral.

  Chapter Fifteen

  HOLY SMOKE

  Max’s Thunderbird was wounded. Its left wing fluttered weakly against the driving wind. The great eagle strove to pace itself: two strong beats, and then a rest. Gain altitude, and then pause into a gentle downward glide.

  They flew through a clear layer between two cloud decks. The upper haze layer let the sun through as a brighter disk. It was thirty degrees above the horizon of the lower cloud deck, though the time must have been about noon.

  They flew above a knobby white landscape, so dense that Max could see no trace of an earth below
. Suddenly, and for the first time, he felt the primal fear of falling, that cling-to-Mommy, hairless-ape-in-the-treetops fear. His Thunderbird’s beak was open, and he could hear the ragged whistling of its breath even above the wind.

  Trianna put her lips to his ear and whispered, “Look,” and pointed down.

  Curiously, as his air sickness increased, hers had begun to fade. A mile below them there was a break in the clouds. They could find outlines of a mountain range, vast and foreboding, all jagged peaks sheathed in impenetrable ice.

  The Thunderbird began to glide down, making its slow and gentle descent. A mist of blood streamed from the wounded right wing.

  The Thunderbird was fighting for its life, for their lives. Max felt gratitude and admiration for the creatures, repaying their debt in so heroic a fashion. The only problem was that he could see no place to land. The mountain was all cliffs, all bare rock faces at varying angles.

  There might be ledges, landing places, somewhere below; but diving blind through the clouds would be suicide. What would the wounded bird do?

  Half-hidden by mist was a tiny ledge, too narrow, narrower than the bird’s spread wings.

  Max’s chest ached with the tortured wheeze of its breathing. He felt its triumph of will as gilded wings spread wide. It swooped toward the ledge. The wings half-folded—he felt the drop in the pit of his stomach—and the bird’s feet slammed into rock. Three hopping steps brought it to a halt.

  It looked back at them. In its eyes shone a mixture of pride, and anger, and gratitude. Max swung himself over and landed heavily on rock. “Off! Get off, Trianna. Let the beast rest!” He helped her descend. She was heavy . . . and he saw her surprise at the strength in his arms.

  Francis Hebert descended without help and at once began trying to stretch his back out.

  The other birds came down behind them, landing with half-folded wings on the same narrow, fog-shrouded ledge. Stiffly the Gamers unstrapped themselves from their mounts and tumbled to the ground.

  Max’s toes curled hard against the ground, and his knees half-buckled, then became firm again. His stomach felt a little shaky, and he called an old trick into play: find a spot on the horizon, gaze at it until the dizziness passes . . .

  He chose the distant, pale disk of the sun, yellow-white and wan in the mist. He had to squint a little . . . but this world’s sun, crippled by magic, was such that his eye could meet it squarely.

  Even on this side of the magical barrier, Seelumkadchluk, there was something visibly wrong with Sol’s disk. A shadow, perhaps an enormous sunspot: an alien shape that didn’t quite belong . . . The clouds thinned for a moment, but Max held his gaze against the increased glare.

  What in the world?

  His eyes were squeezed tight against tears. “Does anyone have a pair of binoculars?”

  Kevin Titus dismounted just behind Snow Goose. He reached into his backpack. He pulled out a leather case. He extracted a pair of binoculars with molded plastic handgrips, and gave them to Max a bit reluctantly. “Be careful with ‘em.”

  “Actually, I was planning to heave ‘em off the . . .” Max aimed and focused, squinting hard. Even through the clouds, it was too damned bright, but . . . ”I will be dipped in shit.” There, in the center of a pale wavering disk, was the shadowed form of a great black bird. The shadow’s beaked profile turned . . . looked at him?

  He handed the binoculars to his brother Orson. “What do you make of that?”

  Orson focused the glasses. Presently he said, “I’d say we know where the Cabal is hiding the Raven, wouldn’t you?”

  There was a general ripple of excitement as news of the discovery spread down the line, then Max handed the binoculars back. He felt pretty damned good. They had just solved a major piece of the puzzle.

  Snow Goose was gazing into the sun. “I can’t believe it. How could the Cabal get enough power to do something like this?”

  “What would it take?” Robin Bowles asked. He walked with an exaggerated, bow-legged gait. The ride must have left him sore.

  “The Raven created the world! I can’t even imagine that much power. I just don’t know..

  “The satellite?” Orson asked hopefully.

  “Right, sure. The satellite. And they caught the Raven while he was in human form.” She sounded doubtful but afraid. “We’ve got to find Sedna.”

  The five Thunderbirds preened, and ministered to each other, and inspected their wounds. From time to time one would glance up at the frail humans who had set them an impossible task. The birds seemed so beautiful, so terrible, but there was a fragility beneath the strength. Try as he might, he couldn’t get the image of those shattered eggshells out of his mind.

  Human and Thunderbird owed each other much. Max felt fumble-tongued, but he knew he should speak.

  They let him approach, watching him from the depths of those emotionless, void-black eyes. Max stood close enough to touch, but didn’t. Dammit, he didn’t know when Dream Park switched from hologram to mechanical, and he didn’t want to spoil the illusion now. For him, at this moment, these creatures were as real as his companions.

  “Thank you, great ones.”

  A low, buzzing voice reverberated through his body. “We have repaid our debt. When next we meet, beware!”

  Then the great eagles, one at a time, spread their wings and veered away. The Gamers stood silently in the snow, watching until the Thunderbirds vanished into the clouds.

  Snow Goose spoke. “Legend says that the entrance is here in the mountains. I don’t know exactly where.” A gust of wind blew her straight black hair into her face, and she paused to wipe the strand aside. “We’re going to form a circle, and have a prayer smoke.” She motioned them down against the mountain wall, under a slight overhang where they had a little protection from the weather. When they were all seated in a circle, she produced a leather pouch from her backpack. She undid the thong tie with fingers and teeth, and shook a hand-rolled cigarette out.

  “Tobacco?” Max was shocked. “I haven’t seen tobacco since Milan.”

  “Nicotine can save your life,” Snow Goose said piously. She lit it, inhaled deeply, and then exhaled in a thin stream that was so white it seemed to glow. “To my brothers in the north,” she said. “Brothers of the mind, children of the wind. Guide us, help us. Help us find the doorway to the nether kingdom, to the land of the dead, to the realm of the All-Mother.”

  She blew a second puff directly into the whistling wind. The smoke should have vanished instantly, but it didn’t. It merely drifted, as if on the faintest of breezes. “The south. Brothers of the heart. Help me feel my way. Let your water nurture us, and help us in our quest!” Another breath. “Brothers of the east, you who are of spirit, beings of fire and light. Open the path. Show us the way!”

  With a final puff, she saluted the West. “Brothers of the west! Children of the Earth! Holders of physical form, guardians of the body, protect us in our quest.”

  The smoke: it had not dissipated into the wind, although the wind continued to build. Four tendrils of smoke were drifting haphazardly, ignoring the wind.

  Snow Goose was sliding into a trance. “Ohhh . . . they are near. The dead, the endless legions of dead, are near. Show us! Great . . . great evil! There is great evil . . .

  Four tendrils of smoke turned and twisted in the wind, but would not go where the wind went. Instead they were beginning to move all in the same direction, turning like four blind snakes who have caught a scent. They drifted toward the mountain wall. One by one they brushed against the gray rock, and again, and, gradually, were gone, scattered by the wind or absorbed by the rock.

  The mountain began to shudder.

  “Jesus! What’s going on?” Orson yelled.

  The snow above them began to tremble. Snow Goose, stirring from her trance, suddenly screamed, “Up against the wall!”

  Kevin muttered, “—motherfuckers!” But he was moving, rolling, like the other Gamers.

  Snow Goose’s warning bar
ely came in time. The slight rumbling that had alarmed Orson abruptly became a thunderous, malevolent roar, and their entire world turned white as countless tons of snow and displaced rock crashed past them.

  They huddled together, tight against the wall. Somebody down at the other end screamed, and Max didn’t blame him a bit. He felt sick to his stomach, genuine gut-fear hammering at his desperate attempt to remember that it was only a Game. He closed his eyes tightly, and waited.

  After an endless time the ground stopped shaking, and Max opened his eyes again.

  And could see nothing. His reaching hand met a solid layer of snow.

  Francis Hebert triggered a flashlight. The luminescence lit them an eerie yellow in their tomb of ice. The overhang was all that had saved them.

  For a long time, no one spoke. There was the sound of their constricted breathing, and the low, bass rumble of a distant tremor. Then even that died away.

  Snow Goose broke the silence. “I guess the Gods were listening,” she said calmly, and lit another cigarette.

  She exhaled in a long, long stream . . .in fact, she didn’t stop exhaling, even after a solid thirty seconds of feathery breath. The smoke formed a glowing cocoon around her. It lit the interior of their makeshift snow cave so brightly that Hebert switched off his flashlight.

  Without another word she turned, and walked directly at the wall of snow. It melted before her, the water flowing and fusing into the crystal ice walls of a snow tunnel.

  She almost floated as she walked, yesterday’s college-girl persona completely submerged. She seemed to be a different person entirely, one not wholly of this world. All they could do was follow her. Max looked to Orson for advice or comment, and Orson shook his head.

  The snow tunnel twisted and wound, angling steeply into the very heart of the mountain. Max stretched out a hand to touch the walls. They were hard and cold, although the air in the tunnel was pleasant.