Dream Park

by Larry Niven

  He'd sleep an extra hour tomorrow morning. Nobody would complain. Tonight was business.

  Skip was dozing, chin on fist, elbow on table. Griffin pushed him slightly off balance and smiled as O'Brien jerked alert. "They're coming, Skip."

  Skip said, "Right," in a voice that went from drowsy to alert in mid-syllable. His fingers smoothed imaginary wrinkles from his shirt. He was smiling 1~ightly when the foursome rounded the Corner.

  Lopez and his wife Mitsuko were both radiant as children on

  Christmas morning. They carried totebags over their shoulders, and behind them tottered the security guard, Albert Rice, hauling three more cases. Ms. Metesky brought up the rear, clucking with quiet disapproval.

  "I didn't know they were bringing everything over right now, Alex," Metesky said petulantly. "They wouldn't even wait for a cargo ‘bot."

  "Sokay, Chief," Rice gasped, setting the cases on the floor. "I was there. No hassle."

  "Good man. We'll take this stuff now." Alex hefted one of the cases. It was heavy. Alex wondered what was in them. They must have been checked out at the front gate of the R&D complex, but still...

  When he looked up, Rice was still there, with a funny kind of half-smile on his face. Did he want something? Oh, yes, the break-in. Alex said, "I don't remember seeing your report on the dam­age."

  O'Brien asked, "Anything valuable broken?"

  "Well," Rice said carefully, "I'm not sure it was vandalism. I think it was attempted theft. I don't keep anything valuable in plain sight, just some personal effects. Even there," Rice's eyes met Alex's and held steady, "he didn't get anything valuable.

  There were a few things he could have used, but he just skipped right past them. Then I guess he smashed a few things to prove he was irritated." He laughed a strained laugh. "Well, let me get back to my post. I'll see you later, Chief."

  Alex watched Rice thoughtfully as he walked away. Funny vibes there... Metesky broke his train of thought with a har­rumph. Alex turned to Lopez. "What have you got in those cases? Lead?"

  Mitsuko hugged Richard's arm tight, and they giggled like kids.

  "Mostly notes and resource material. Last minute entries for the computer. Secret stuff. It's all been checked out, Mr. Griffin."

  "Alex, please. Well... have you met Mr. O'Brien? He's one of our top child psychologists."

  "Then I can understand why he's here," Mitsuko smiled. "My husband is the oldest child present."

  Skip shook Richard's hand firmly. "Most optometrists wear glasses, right? We'll have to compete for the title of ‘oldest child'."

  "No, thank you. I try to confine my competitive instincts to the

  Games." Richard shifted his duffle bag on his shoulder, itchy with eagerness.

  "Let's have mercy on these people and get them into Game Central," O'Brien said. Alex nodded and led the way.

  The hallways of the Research and Development complex were nearly deserted. The entire building sat in the northwest corner of Dream Park, in section VI. It bordered Gaming Area A, looking out on 740 acres of magic. Game Central covered an entire floor of the five story building, and used close to 30% of Dream Park's total resources, whether measured in technicians, energy, or dollars.

  Alex summoned an elevator, and the five of them went up to the second floor. Richard was nearly vibrating with enthusiasm. Mit­suko whispered something in his ear and he grinned wider, but quieted down. The elevator doors opened.

  Two technicians in green smocks met them at the doors. One was stocky, with thin, quick fingers and lively eyes. "I'm Larry Chicon," he told them. "This is Dwight Welles, the other crazy you'll be dealing with."

  Welles's round, unlined face belied his snowy hair. He had the firm grip of a much younger man. "Really pleased to meet you again, Mr. Lopez. I saw you for a few minutes last year. I want to congratulate you on the Game you've designed this year. May I ask how long it took you to put it together?"

  "Two and a half years, if you count all of the preparatory research. If you mean just the actual programming, about a year."

  Welles nodded, awed. "Well. As you already know, one of us will be available to you twenty-four hours a day in case of any emergency. This way, people, no need to keep you waiting."

  Alex hung back, watching Mitsuko and Richard interact. There was a lot of love there, and a relationship based on a shared, ex­tended childhood. Children, but genius children. That was a curi­ous thing. They made so little of the incredibly complex task of designing a program for Gaming Area A. The logistics of it would have strained any human mind. Yet it was the Game itself that held their interest, not the myriad paths they traveled to reach it. The programming was a shadow-reality; the Game was reality it­self.

  Welles slid his ID card into the slot in a heavy steel door. It opened with a sigh.

  Mitsuko's eyes turned buttery, and she stepped inside. "It's been so long..." she said to herself, hands touching panels.

  The control room of Gaming Central was a technophile's dream. It was about fifteen by fifteen meters, and little of it was empty floor space. There was one great central control board facing two big dish-chairs with adjustable pneumatic cushions. Seven flat-screen viewers surrounded the room, but mounted directly above the main controls were two hologram projectors. The controls were gleaming steel, plastic and chrome; they all but begged to be stroked. If there was a single speck of dust in the room, it was no­where in sight.

  "Your cots are over here," Chicon said, pulling one of the inflatable mattresses out of its niche in the wall. "Coffee and food dispensers are in the usual place, but the lavatory is built into the control room now. You won't have to leave even to get a shower."

  Lopez nodded without speaking, running his hands over the controls with a lover's touch. He and Mitsuko exchanged looks, and she blushed prettily.

  Alex shunted the luggage over into a corner. He was fighting a contact high from the Lopezes. This room was infectious. It had obviously been built for more than sheer utility, or even comfort. For some, this would be the Game's real lure. One day the faithful Game player would graduate to the Control Room, to create his own fantasy worlds instead of merely acting out someone else's

  to be a prime mover instead of just a participant.

  For just an instant Alex could see into the Lopezes' rela­tionship, could see the world they shared with each other and with nobody else. He could feel that their love for each other was filtered and colored by their fantasies, by their ability to make dreams come real. A dream born of their minds would be shared with a select group of Dream Park technicians, then with a team of fantasy Garners. If all went well, when all the bugs were out of the programming, then it could be shared with the world.

  As if guided by one mind, Richard and Mitsuko turned to them, hand in hand. "This is fine. We need to be left alone now, if you don't mind. Richard and I have a lot of work to do before morning."

  "Of course. If there's anything you need, just give us a call." Welles shook hands with both of them again, and the Dream Park personnel departed.

  O'Brien chuckled as they walked back to the elevators.

  "They're classic. I bet there's a level of nonverbal communication between them that borders on telepathy. Did you notice how fre­quently they touched each other?" Alex had noticed. "I'd call that a continuing reassurance for each that the other exists. They live very deep in their heads. I noticed something else, too."

  "What was that?"

  "They only spoke to each other once."

  "What the hell do you mean? They were all over each other."

  "Physically, they're in constant communication. Intellectually, I bet they mesh even better. But apparently very little of their in­terplay is on the verbal level."

  Alex chewed on that while they waited for the elevators. Fi­nally, uneasily, he said, "Well, don't just stand there. What does it mean?"

  Skip smiled maliciously. "Damned if I know. I'd heard about them and wanted to see for myself."

 
; "You mean you're just going to raise the question and leave it dangling? How am I supposed to sleep tonight? What kind of man are you, anyway?"

  "The kind who's going to buy you a drink, if we can find a bar open around here."

  Alex held the elevator for him. "Oh. That kind of man. My father told me to stay away from your type-" and the door shut behind them.

  The morning outside these walls was still black. In the waiting area it was all artificial lighting. Take it as an omen, Tony told himself. Reality is artificial from this point on. He squinted at the Character Identification form in his hand.

  Acacia wrote part of a line on her own form, then turned to him. "Panthesilea was real. She was one of the Amazon queens killed in the Trojan War by Achilles. She was strong and beautiful and they sang songs to her memory for years."

  Tony snuck a peek at Ollie's sheet, and laughed. "Oliver the Frank? Are you kidding, or what?"

  Ollie looked up sheepishly. "When I first started Gaming I was afraid I'd forget my character's name. So I used my nickname. Anyway, Oliver's a legitimate hero; he fought under Charlemagne, with Roland."

  Tony hadn't meant to put Ollie on the defensive. He started to say so, but the intercom interrupted him. "Attention all Game

  participants. Costuming will proceed for another forty minutes only. Thank you."

  There was a general buzz in the waiting area beneath Game Central, and four people scurried off to the enclosed costuming booths for last minute touch-ups.

  The fifteen players were an odd lot. Although all had stowed cotton shirts and pants in their tote bags, each now wore clothing peculiar to the characters they chose to play on the expedition. Two things they had in common: the eagerness, thick enough to cut, and the "neck tabs": silver metal disks held in place by nearly invisible, soft plastic bands.

  Mary-Martha, "Mary-em," waddled around the oak-paneled waiting area with the self-assurance of an iron duck. The longer she waited, the fiercer burned her energy. She wore brown leather that hugged her chunky body glue-tight, with joints cut in the leather at waist and knees to provide leeway. She carried a short halberd with a flat heavy blade, slung across her back.

  Acacia recognized several of the other Garners by reputation. The thin, wiry blond man would be Bowan the Black. He had dis­carded the scarlet robe that had been his first choice of raiment, and settled for hip boots and a black velvet shirt split in a hairy­chested "V." His companion was a half-pretty redhead, tall and thin, with a slight roll of flabby skin around her midsection. A sure sign of the diet faddist. What was it this month, dear? Ten grams of vinegar-soaked raisins before every meal?

  Acacia clucked at herself, half-ashamed of her automatic nega­tive reaction to the woman, who had registered in the "Thief" cat­egory as Dark Star.

  Ollie and Gwen didn't worry her. Beneath their awe-shucks ex­teriors she sensed born Gamesters. Even Chester had seemed glad to see them. Gwen was still in the costuming room, as Ollie's fre­quent casual glances in that direction confirmed.

  Gina Perkins had been dressed to kill every time Acacia had seen her. Now she wore hiking shorts and shirt, both covered with pockets, but they didn't cling to her like a coat of paint. There was makeup, but it was subdued. Her hair was intricately arranged, and she was still stunning. She was playing her wizard's staff while she waited.

  That was stunning. Acacia had seen pictures in the Gaming magazines. It was five feet tall and an inch thick, jammed with in­strumentation and the internal computer. Patterns of colored

  lights ran up and down its length, and monochromatic flames lashed from the tip, as Gina's fingertips ran over the contact-sensi­tive keyboard.

  Tony watched as if mesmerized; then tore his eyes away and went back to work on his Character Identification sheet. He was feeling the crunch, she thought. The jokes were there, and the smug smiles and knowing touches, but there was something else too. Pre-Game jitters, a touch of fantasy flu?

  His long jaw worked a nonexistent wad of gum, and his choco­late eyes seemed watery as he worked. The Character Identifica­tion sheet was an optional adjunct to the Game that Lopez had asked everyone to fill out. It listed not only imaginary physical and mental characteristics, but shaded over into genealogy.

  Acacia looked at her own sheet. How did Amazons have chil­dren? Captured male slaves, maybe? Parthenogenesis? She used a little of both. Panthesilea was a sterile female born parthenogenet­ically. Her mother (drown it! Finding a name for your character's mother on the spur of the moment was too much like work). Her mother Melissa was the offspring of Queen Herona (more fiction) and a captive Greek named, ah, Cyrius, a bastard son of Her­cules.

  She hoped that the other players were having as much trouble. All personal characteristics were measured in Wessler-Grahm points and were pre-registered with the I.F.G.S. and filed in the Gaming A computer. In this group, only Tony had no initial rat­ing. The computer had run a random number series for him, and spit out double-digits which, in Wessler-Grahm terms, repre­sented percentage chances of a positive result in combat or emer­gency. He had come out high in agility and intelligence, medium in strength, and low in recuperative powers.

  Tony had looked at the read-out with a cautiously lidded ex­citement. "This bodes not well for my ambitions of warriorhood. What are my choices?"

  Chicon and Dwight Welles were there to act as intermediaries and override controllers for the I.F.G.S. referees. Larry Chicon had enjoyed the chance to get involved. He had counted off Tony's options, one finger at a time. "Magic User, Warrior, Thief, Cleric, and Engineer. And Explorer. Each of them have their plusses and minuses, and we do allow some combination play, but in general it's best to find one category and get into it as deep as possible."

  Tony found himself wishing that the oversized monitors were

  switched on, to give him a peek into what waited for them in Area A. "How would I do as a Magic User?"

  Welles shook his head slowly. "Wouldn't recommend it, but I can't stop you if that's what you want."

  "What's wrong with Magic User?"

  "That's pretty complicated for a first outing. Besides, your Cha­risma score was only 36%. Trying conjuring up a demon with that and you'll be dinner."

  "What's the difference between Magic User and Cleric?"

  "Oh, Clerics usually perform preventive magic or curative magic. And they get their powers ‘from on high,' which means they must be pure of spirit. Playing with the ladies while in the Game might mess that up-"

  Larry shot Welles a nasty look. "That's turkey turds, Tony. What you do during the twelve hours a day that the Game is ‘off' is totally up to you. Look: with good scores in Intelligence and Agility, why don't you try Thief?"

  Tony opened his mouth as if to protest, then he laughed and nodded. "If it'll help me survive the Game, I'm for it." And Tony McWhirter became a first level Thief, Fortunato by name, thought to be a bastard son of either Fafhrd or the Grey Mouser, it being that kind of relationship. He would enter the gaming area in cot­ton tropical garb.

  The warning buzzer sounded again, and Chester Henderson bounded into the room. He wore a green safari shirt and matching pants, with creases sharp enough to cut paper. His pipestem arms and legs were fairly flapping with enthusiasm. "Last minute check, everybody. We've only got a few minutes, and then we're off. Any questions?" He looked slowly around the room.

  S. J. Waters, the youngest Gamester in the room, raised his hand halfway, as if afraid of being noticed. When Chester pointed at him he flinched, then said, "Chester? What is it exactly that we're after?"

  "We haven't been told. I've got my suspicions, though. We'll find out for sure once we enter the Game, so don't worry. Getting there is half the fun. Any more questions?... Good. We're going to have a tremendous time, people, and everyone is going to take home more points than he can carry." He flashed his smile again, and began circling the room, checking on individual needs.

  Gwen had returned to her seat next to Ollie, and he was busy


  enjoying her costume. Registered as a Cleric, Gwen wore a simple dress cut several inches too high for a real missionary, and leather-soled walking shoes with just enough heel to bring out the shape of her calf. The dress was beige, and almost too frilly to wear on a jaunt, but the way that it brought out the most attrac­tive lines in her figure pardoned all impracticalities.

  She stood up and twirled around for him, biting her lip. "Do you like it, Ollie?"

  He grinned until the corners of his mouth threatened to meet in the back. He reached out for her, and she backed away coyly. "Do you like it?"

  "South Seas Treasure or not, I already know I'm a winner."

  Gwen blushed. "You know what I like best about Gaming?" Ollie shook his head. "You always say the sweetest things when you think you're someone else."

  Ollie looked her dead in the eye. "Maybe that's because you're someone else?"

  "Hah! You know perfectly well-"

  Acacia stooped over them. "You guys ready? Everything in order?" Her Character Identification sheet was doubled in her hand. "We'll be starting in a few seconds. What's that, Ollie, Tropical Chocolate?"

  "Frankish Oliver to you, Panthesilea, and yes. The stuff tastes like cocoa butter, but it doesn't melt. We'll find food along the way, but I like to be prepared."

  The final warning sounded, and the Garners began shouldering knapsacks and gear. There was an impatient buzz in the air, and all eyes turned to Chester, who stood by Gina in the center of the room. His voice was nearly cracking with excitement. "May I have everybody's attention, please. Will the fourteen Primaries please line up by the elevators. The doors will be opening auto­matically. It is now 7:52, eight minutes until the Game begins. Hustle, people, come on..."

  He was wasting his breath. Long before he finished, fourteen faces were clustered below the digital floor monitor as it displayed the approach of the elevator cars. When the doors slid open there was a general whoop of delight, and the fourteen Primaries crammed in. Chester turned to look around the waiting room. No one had left anything behind; the room was clean and empty. Within hours the first Alternates would appear. Within minutes