Dream Park

by Larry Niven

  elders vanished. He spoke into the mike. "Attention. This portion of the Game is over. Those of you who are scheduled for the Agaiambo sequence should report to makeup immediately. The rest of you, thank you for excellent performances." The two dozen ‘native' men, women and children gave themselves a round of ap­plause.

  Silent electric trains buzzed through the underbrush, and work­men bustled out to dismantle the village. About half the actors got onto trams, which ‘moved them quickly away. Some of the others began walking; others waited for the second run.

  The holo dissolved, and Richard Lopez spun around in his chair to face Myers. "Our first chance to kill somebody comes in about forty minutes. We've got to get them closer to the swamp first." He drummed his fingers against each other. "You know, I've got this Game stocked with some of the nastiest surprises we've ever come up with, but this is too much like murder, some­how. I don't like it."

  "There's no reason for you to feel like that." Myers was sooth­ing. "Accidents, those with positive or negative results, are always part of every Game. If the odds are shifted a bit this time, another player will have the advantage of the counterbalancing good luck. I promise that the Game won't suffer."

  Richard looked at the bald man curiously. "Official nitpicker of the I.F.G.S. that you are, Myers, I'm surprised that you agreed to this screwing about at all, let alone as calmly as this." He fingered his small beard reflectively. "Last year when Henderson threw a tantrum about a few little snow vipers, you were the first one to start waving the rule book in my face, screaming infraction. When I was cleared of any fouling, you were instrumental in forcing me into a face-to-face with the aforementioned Lore Master, in the in­terest of ‘fair play.' Why are you now playing lap dog for Dream Park?"

  Myers purpled a bit, and Mitsuko threw her husband a worried glance. Myers said, "Shall I call Ms. Metesky and tell her that you find Dream Park's terms unacceptable? She would halt the Game immediately, of course. This would be inconvenient and em­barrassing to all concerned, and, I might add, expensive to you. Exactly how much of your personal capital is invested in the South Seas Treasure Game?"

  "A lot," Lopez conceded. He looked up to Myers from behind

  beetled brows. "Fm relieved to find you so interested in my we!­fare."

  Myers bristled. "I've said all that I need to say-"

  "More," Lopez corrected him gently.

  "I'm going back to the observation room. Goodby, ma'am," he said to Mitsuko. She turned and flashed him a brilliant smile, which he could not make himself return. He departed, spine rigid.

  Mitsuko reached out her left hand to her husband, and he took it warmly, chuckling to himself. Then his expression sobered.

  The control room door opened again, and Metesky entered. "My goodness, what did you say to Myers? There was a storm cloud following him out of the room."

  "I'm afraid that my husband expresses displeasure perhaps too skillfully."

  Lopez looked sheepish. "I didn't really mean to be nasty with Arlan. I just dislike people messing with my Games."

  "I know, Richard. I'm sorry, but there has been a murder."

  "Dammit, there are a hundred murders a day in this state, but only one Game a year. Why can't they leave me alone to do my work?" He sighed. "All right, all right. I'll cooperate. You'll get your sword fodder."

  "Thank you, Richard."

  Metesky folded a cot out of the wall and sat, fascinated. Rich­ard and Mitsuko were far more interesting than other Game Masters, most of whom were either sallow scholars or ex-Gamers so deeply immersed in their fantasy worlds that their motivations were nearly incomprehensible, and their conversations completely so.

  But like any professionals at the top of their field, the Lopezes were exceptional. Bright, imaginative, personable and often irasci­ble, Richard contrasted with his wife, the better known of the pair. Mitsuko was always reserved, never displaying more of her talent than necessary. As people, they were interesting. As Game Masters, they were spellbinding. Metesky had watched them con­duct the hornbill attack. During these sequences, when the com­puter-animated holograms had to attack and respond in the most lifelike of fashions, the Lopezes were one mind with twenty fingers. The illusion they created was complete: no one ever seemed to notice that only two or three of the birds were actually attacking at any moment; the rest were in the air, in a holding pat­tern. It was marvelous the way Richard would take a bird out of

  its automatic figure-eight and bring it to life with the sure hand of a master puppeteer, flying it with double-toggle controls and foot pedals.

  It was like watching a duet on a synthesizer keyboard. With something close to awe in her heart, Metesky watched them.

  The group had been trudging through the bushes for some time before the terrain began to change. The bushes gave way to vines and creepers, and the soil was becoming damp and sticky. Maibang chose their path more carefully now. He and the warrior Kagoiano were in the lead, and they looked worried.

  Chester's voice crackled into the room. "Gina! Let's have a sweep of this area. What exactly do we have here?"

  Richard sat back and whispered to Metesky. "Chi-chi can al­ways pick up on a Magic request faster than I can. I'm not totally sure how she does it." He glanced into the hologram. Gina was swathed in green, and her eyes were closed. Mitsuko listened care­fully to Gina's invocation.

  When her fingers touched the keyboard they fairly disappeared into a pink blur, the keys beeping softly at machine speed as she fed her request into the computer. A shadow-image of a steel locker appeared floating before Gina, and vanished a few seconds after she opened her eyes.

  The Lore Master nodded. "Good. We're very close to something interesting. I want Garret up front, we may need a Cleric." A dark face separated itself from the rest of the group.

  "Are we going to need protection, Chester?"

  "Some of us might. We'll need to recover that chest, whatever it is, and that probably means an Engineer. If it does, he'll need pro­tection all right."

  Richard muttered to himself about the sharpness of the holo image, and when Chester called for a trail indicator, the Game Master handled it personally. He manipulated the image of the chest until it was translucent but dead clear. The image floated ahead of the group and led them to a stand of trees growing in moist, spongy earth. The trees were thin-boled, with spidery branches and sparse leaves. The roots twisted about on the surface for a few feet before disappearing underground. The chest image sank into a tangle of roots.

  Chester looked at the patch of trees speculatively, and raised his right arm. "Reveal to me hostile or malignant spirit forces!" His green glow expanded to a field twenty meters across, and in its

  light there were dim, writhing shapes, little more than wisps of fog. They retreated from the light.

  "Right," he muttered. "S.J., front and center." There was a whoop, and the youngster materialized at Henderson's shoulder, breathing heavily. "We have some treasure to recover, and it's be­tween those trees. What do you suggest, Engineer?"

  Grinning, S.J. walked quickly around the stand; probed into the soil with his boot toe; nudged the roots. "I don't think it would take long to dig through this stuff. These trees aren't from New Guinea, that's for sure. They look like something from the Matto Grosso. My bet is that the Army didn't spray them with fungicide before they planted ‘em. They look like they have root rot."

  "Would you try to stay in character, please, Engineer?"

  Richard Lopez gritted his teeth. "Little bastard. We'll have to cut that out of the final tape. I'd love to kill him out of the Game right about now."

  Metesky's voice was sharp. "We can juggle the odds in the computer, Richard, but you can't choose the victim. You just have to see which way it goes."

  "I can wish out loud, can't I, Metesky? That S.J. character just rubs me the wrong way."

  S.J. had broken a folding shovel out of his pack, and was dig­ging industriously. Eames, never one to miss a chance to flex
his muscles, chopped away at the exposed roots.

  Chester watched them dig. In the control room, Richard lounged back in his chair and watched Chester think. Neither spoke, until the Lore Master softly said, "Garret. .

  The Cleric quickly crossed himself and dropped to his knees in prayer. Mitsuko's fingers flew over her keyboard, and an instant later a soft, golden glow surrounded the young Engineer.

  S.J.'s shovel struck metal, and Eames got down into the hole to help. They shifted the remaining soil with their hands. With a gasping wrench they tore it free. Chester stalled them for the few seconds that it took to cast a Reveal Danger spell on the corrod­ing steel chest, and when the glow showed only green, he told them to go ahead. Richard heard a certain reluctance in his voice. He smiled.

  Jimmying the rusted padlock was easy for S.J., who seemed to have brought a tool for all occasions. He set the blunt folding edge of the shovel against a screwdriver-like implement and pounded it into the thin line where the halves of the lock met. It

  split into three pieces, and the Gamers cheered. Taking a cautious step back, the youngster lifted the lid.

  "All right," he breathed. "Guns."

  There were four holstered handguns, two rifles and at least a hundred rounds of ammunition. There was also what looked like Army-issue canned food: turkey rolls, Spam, and tinned pound cake. S.J. was ecstatic. "Cargo! Yee-hah!"

  Even Chester seemed pleased. "Very good. That's not a lot of points, but it's definitely a start. S.J., we're going to intensify the protective field around you while you test them."

  "Gotcha, Chief."

  "Gwen, would you please add your prayer to Garret's?" She had scarcely nodded before the green glow appeared around her, and the golden glow around S.J. deepened until it seemed that he was in the center of an amber gem.

  He picked up a revolver, worked its action a few times, and thumbed in a cartridge. He sighted carefully on a tree some twenty meters away, and pulled the trigger. There was a deafening report, but no puff of dust from the tree. Frowning, he loaded in two more rounds and pulled the trigger again. The same loud bang, and no sign of a hit.

  "Ah, S.J., what is your character's coordination rating, any­way?"

  "Lousy. Eleven. That's why I'm an Engineer. I'll try a closer tree."

  This time dust puffed from the tree trunk. This was hardly sur.~ prising; he'd fired at point-blank range. "Okay, who wants this one?" Tony's raised arm caught his eye. He handed the revolver over butt first.

  Next he extracted the rifle from the box. "M-1 ," he murmured. "Nice." He worked the trigger a couple of times, then loaded in one of the bullets and sighted on a rock ten meters away. He squeezed the trigger.

  The gun roared and flamed, and there was the zinging sound of a ricochet. S.J. ducked instinctively. "Jesus-"

  The air in front of them shimmered, and a ghostly image of Garret appeared. Chester cursed venomously and Garret groaned, looking at the shimmering red splotch spreading on his shirt.

  "Aw, shit!" he said with real feeling. His legs buckled under him and he sprawled in an untidy heap, mouth open, eyes rolled up in his head.

  "Nice fall," Richard muttered. He tapped two keys.

  Garret's hologram double crooked a spectral finger to him.

  "Wait a minute," Chester said. "Gwen, do you think you have enough for a saving spell?"

  The blond girl's cheeks plumped with worry. "Right now? I'm not sure. If that was a natural accident, maybe. If there were spirit powers involved... I'll try." Unhappily, Gwen raised her arms and began her invocation. "Hear me, 0 Gods. Harness my strength and give this man back his life. By the powers which are mine to wield, I ask this." She sank to her knees and bowed her head, eyes closed.

  Lopez nodded, smiling respectfully. "Well done. I wonder if it will work." He watched Mitsuko feed the request into the com­puter. Electrons danced; a random number was selected and matched against two logged Wessler-Grahm numbers, Garret's as­signed stamina and Guinevere's power level... Lopez shook his head as the rosy aura around Garret faded to a sooty tinge in the air. "No good. Sorry, sweetheart." He tapped a key

  Garret jerked at the shock from his neck tab. He rolled over ‘and stood up to confront his tindalo. "Well, I guess that's it, huh? Guess I didn't last too long in this Game." He started to say some­thing else, and it would have been bitter. Gwen squeezed his shoulder with one soft hand, and he turned to follow the somber ghost. The two figures left the projection field.

  Richard's face was no happier. Metesky saw a flash of deep re­sentment before it was submerged behind a neutral mask. One dark slender finger played with the end of his mustache, and his eyes were half-lidded. "All right. You've got your killing. Put the watchdog on, and let me do my work."

  The Dream Park liaison stood and started to leave. "Metesky!" he yelled at her back. "Tell the watchdog that if he screws with my Game, I'll kill him out of it so fast his nose will bleed, and hang the consequences!" He saw her silent nod, and spun his chair back to the console.

  Mitsuko watched Metesky leave, heard the door sigh shut be­hind her. Then she flexed her fingers gently and went back to her work.

  PART TWO

  Chapter Thirteen

  ENTER THE GRIFFIN

  "We can't use these guns, Chester." For the first time in the Game, SJ. looked unhappy. "They've got to be jinxed. If what's­her-name... Gwen couldn't save Garret, there has to be magic involved." His blond hair was limp with sweat and greasy with dirt. He looked tired and discouraged.

  Chester tapped his foot in impatient rhythm. Unconscious of Gina's hand stroking his arm, he stalked angrily to the chest and glared in. "We paid blood for these things, and we're going to have them. Maibang, front and center." He snapped his fingers angrily.

  Maibang, his khakis blotched with sweat after the march, ap­peared at Chester's side. Henderson thought carefully before speaking. "Now listen. We know that Gwen couldn't reverse the accident, but she was temporarily drained by the protective field she cast for S.J. We need to disarm this booby-trap, and I don't

  want to try one of our spells until I know the alternatives. I remember reading something about your magic. There is a ritual, something about a table, but I can't remember it. Do you know?"

  "I know the table ritual. Which of my people would not? I don't know if it will be enough."

  "We'll try it anyway." Chester looked around at the thirteen Garners and the three natives, nodding when there were no objec­tions. "All right. Kasan, what do we do?"

  Their guide scratched his head. "We need a table, first, and a clean white cloth, and some gifts. Food is best. And flowers, of course."

  "S.J.?" Chester said without looking at the youngster.

  "Covered, Chief. I can whip up a three-legger in a few minutes using branches."

  "Good. Dreager, help him. As for the gifts, I think that the gods have already provided that..." He picked up one of the cans of tinned meat.

  The table was crude, but serviceable. Dark Star had donated a white skirt, which was spread as a tablecloth. Gwen's candles, nor­mally used for exorcisms, burned in the center. Bandanas and knives and spoons from various backpacks made do as place set­tings, napkins and silverware. Arrayed upon the table were all of the cans of food from the buried chest, two of Oliver's tropical chocolate bars, some beef jerky from Dark Star's larder, and flowers gathered by the rest of the crew.

  "We are ready to perform the bilasim tewol," Chester said. His voice held no trace of doubt or uncertainty. "Kasan will assist me, but it is my power that beckons. Hear me 0 Gods, hear me Jesus­Manup. We strive f or your people. I know that our actions are righteous in your sight. Do not let our brave priest's death be a useless one. We are desperate with need, yet we destroy vital sup­plies to demonstrate our faith."

  On cue, Bowan the Black said, "Fire!" The aura around his right hand blazed from green to red; flame shot forth to touch the table. Like the Biblical burning bush, the jerky and chocolate and aging tin cans blazed up withou
t being consumed, and without scorching the skirt.

  "We have shown our faith. Give us now that which we need to harness the strength in these weapons." Henderson was still speak­ing when the air began to shimmer. Three ghosts took shape:

  translucent caucasians in jungle camouflage uniforms. Their faces were pasty, and one of them bore a gruesome open slash along the side of his face, a machete wound, perhaps.

  "Who are you?" Chester demanded imperiously. There was a moaning crackle of sound, and one of the three worked its mouth without words. Finally noises came from the withered throat.

  "We're... your kind..."

  "Americans, yes. How did you die?"

  The one with the machete-scar answered this time, coughing out his words in jerky phrases. "We died to take... the Cargo back. You'll die too. All of you. You..." There was a pause, and the pale and whiskery dead mouth worked wordlessly until sound stuttered forth again. "You don't know what you're up against."

  "Help us," the Lore Master demanded. "You must. Give us the guns."

  "The guns were ours-" The gaping slit in the spirit's face began to bleed dark sludge. "But the Ford stole a secret weapon. It might have beat... the Japs... if it hadn't come so late. Now the Fore have it. We were sent with guns to take it back. Guns! No damn use against magic. We died in this... stinking jungle

  but in our last breaths we cursed the guns. Cursed them. so that they'll kill anyone who uses them."

  "Remove the curse. We need them. With them, we will win you your vengeance."

  The spirits seemed to confer with each other, then Machete-Wound answered their request. "You're being... stupid. You'll see. But we were... stupid too. You can have your... heroes' deaths. Take the guns. Kill as many Ford... as you can... be­fore you die..." The spirits faded with the voice. A final "Give ‘em hell..." hung in the vacant air.