Delos 2 - Futureworld

by John Ryder Hall

  “We have had a number of requests, yes,” Duffy admitted, “but we are on much safer legal ground if we, shall we say, utilize historical characters such as Lucrezia Borgia, Cleopatra, Helen of Troy, et cetera.”

  “Literary, too . . . ?” Tracy queried.

  “Yeah, like Fanny Hill,” Chuck suggested and Tracy frowned at him. “Or Moll Flanders? What was that waitress called, in Of Human Bondage?”

  “God, not her!” Tracy said. “But Heathcliff, now, or Brian Thorne, Rhett Butler—?”

  Duffy laughed. “You see why Delos will always be popular? Everyone has some fantasy—general or specific—and we can bring it to life for him or her.”

  “At a price,” Chuck prompted.

  Duffy shrugged. “Of course. This is a profit-oriented world. These technicians, this equipment, the research . . . it doesn’t come cheaply. Even the twelve-hundred-dollar-a-day admission price does not make that much for us, really. Everything gets plowed back into enlarging and developing Delos.” He smiled softly. “The investors in Delos do not expect a quick turnover on their money.”

  “Do they come here?” Chuck asked quickly.

  “No comment,” Duffy answered.

  “Do you plan any other additions than the ones you’ve mentioned already?” Tracy inquired as they moved back into the main aisle and resumed their walk.

  “Yes, but some are quite vague as yet. Perhaps . . . in time . . . we will reopen Westworld.” He gave Chuck a glance and the reporter shrugged.

  “With improvements, of course,” Chuck said and Duffy grinned.

  “With improvements,” the Delos rep agreed.

  “What about a world based upon Dante’s Inferno, or some kind of Heaven?” Tracy suggested.

  Duffy nodded. “There are so many things we could do. But time, money . . . even energy . . . are all limited. I only have two hands.”

  “You could design an assistant with four,” Chuck laughed, but earned a look from Duffy he could not quite comprehend.

  Chuck and Tracy paused by a table where a medieval knight lay gutted, not by the sword of a human competitor, but by the deft electronic surgery of three technicians. These bent over the body and one asked, sympathetically, “How’s that?”

  The knight responded. “Better, but the last time that went out you put in a Twelve-Seventeen Jay-Six.”

  “This is the Jay-Six, Mark Two,” one of the repairmen said.

  “I liked the old Jay-Six better,” the knight said. “It was original equipment.”

  “You’re getting the Mark Two.”

  “All right,” the knight replied without rancor.

  Tracy looked up at Chuck and lifted her eyebrows. He took her elbow and steered her down the aisle of the huge repair shop. “Painless dentistry,” he muttered.

  Duffy urged them on. “There’s still a lot to see,” he said.

  • • •

  “Kill ’em!” Al roared, and fell back laughing. He waggled his thumb down and yelled it again: “Kill ’em!”

  Below, in an arena about the size of a baseball diamond, a slim gladiator, wearing the leather uniform of a retiarius and holding the tips of his trident spear against the throat of a bulky, heavily muscled secutor in armor and wide-brimmed bronze helmet, looked up at the screaming crowd. The secutor lay motionless, his short sword lying in the sand, out of reach. The faster, more agile net thrower had caught the strong secutor, entangled him, tripped him with his trident, and now awaited only the verdict of the spectators before giving the deathblow.

  It was always the deathblow. Seldom did the jeering, cheering, shrieking crowd grant life to the defeated. As Al had said, when the previous gladiator had lost, “Hot damn, Ed, they’re only robots!”

  “So are Octavia and Claudia.”

  “Yeah,” leered Al, “but they’re up here and those toys are down there.”

  “They don’t look like toys,” Ed had said. “They look like the real thing. I wouldn’t want any of them out after me.”

  “Death!”

  “Kill!”

  “Do it!”

  “Do it! Do it!”

  The yells came from the hundred or so guests who lounged under splendid awnings, attended by obedient slaves. Impassive Roman soldiers stood with spears around the rim of the arena, their body-shaped armor glistening and polished, their red cloaks hung precisely. They moved just often enough, shifting weight and moving their heads, to look alive; but they made no attempt to join the screaming, as did some of their fellow-robots, and the slavegirls and slave-boys in attendance upon the guests.

  “Slit his throat!”

  “Go on—stab him!”

  “Bloodthirsty, aren’t they?” Ed asked.

  Al laughed, sweeping up his goblet of wine. “They? We, you hypocrite! That’s us up here! They’re just like us. They’re just humans—bloodthirsty humans, the kind that is glad when the other guy gets it.” He grinned, and pulled Claudia to him for a rough nuzzle. “Sure, kill the bastid—who cares? They aren’t real. None of this is real. It’s better than real!” He leaned forward and jutted his jaw out at Ed. “Hot damn, Ed, don’t you get the real significance of Delos yet? Jesus, man, don’t you see anything? It’s better than real, because there is no responsibility attached!”

  He waved his hand grandly. “Sure, if I damage one of their fancy toys beyond what they call ‘normal wear and tear’ then I gotta cough up some loot to cover. But so what? You always gotta pay for your fun.” He hugged Claudia again. “You wanna tell these two what we did before we came here to the arena?”

  “As you wish, master. My lord and I—”

  “Hold it!” Ed said, putting up his hand, palm out. He looked embarrassed. “I can guess.”

  “No, you can’t,” Al replied, still smiling but with his eyes growing cold. “You wouldn’t dare try what we did, even with a robot that was programmed not to blabber. Go on, tell him, babe.”

  “My master and I tried—”

  “No, dammit!” Ed snapped. He was flushed.

  “Afraid you might learn something?” Al sneered. He took another gulp of wine.

  “No, it’s not that. It’s . . . Aw, hell, Al, what a guy does with a woman is his business.”

  “That’s the trouble with you, Ed, you still haven’t got it straight yet. These aren’t woman, they’re robots. They just look and feel and”—he laughed lewdly—“and act like females. But the point is, they aren’t. No more than your TV set or your car, fergawdsake!”

  Again, Al leaned forward as he began to speak, but the crowd screamed as one person and he whipped his head around. “Aw, hot damn, you made me miss the hit!” For a moment he watched the retiarius yank the trident from the bloody throat of the “dead” secutor, and take a short triumphant tour of the arena. Meanwhile, attendants carried off the dead gladiator, pulling him by the heels, his helmet making a wide, shallow ditch in the sand.

  Al returned to the subject, but in a more reasonable tone of voice. “Look, ol’ buddy, the point is they ain’t real. But you suspend your disbelief, as they say. Just like you do when you go to the movies. You know the cavalry and the Indians ain’t having it out up there on that screen, nor nowhere else either with it bein’ piped in. Hot damn, boy, don’t you see the advantage of all this yet?”

  Ed bit at the shoulder of his seductive companion and grinned. “I’m beginning to get your point. What we do here—any of us—doesn’t matter. We can work off our fantasies.”

  “That’s it. Some want to fly to the stars or be king or something. Fine. Let ’em! Some want to relive their youth or get blown outta their gourds by seeing some sort of dream come to life. You know the type.” He hugged Claudia again. “But this here is my kinda fantasy. Hot damn!”

  A flourish of trumpets sounded and a new team of gladiators entered the ring. They saluted the “Emperor,” in his box, then started banging away at each other.

  “Hey!” Al called over to Ed. “How do you think Rocky Marciano or Joe Louis or Muhammad Ali
would do against one of those guys?”

  “All it takes is money,” Ed grinned. “And imagination.”

  • • •

  In the Master Control room a technician flipped a switch to the Memoranda Recorder.

  “Alpha-Five-Six-Six-Zero-Gamma. Suggest investigation of staging computerized fights between known boxing champions in addition to existing staged combats. Alpha-Five-Six-Six-Zero-Gamma out.”

  • • •

  The warm spring wind blew the dresses of the elegantly dressed ladies and fluttered the pennants that hung from the tents of the knights who lined the jousting ground. The entire place had the air of a country fair, hawkers of food, wine, trinkets, and flowers mixed with the gaily costumed ladies and gentlemen. A wandering minstrel played a pretty air. Full-bosomed apple girls sold their fruit with cheerful smiles. A cucumber salesman with a barrel of pickles sitting in a cart was shouting that they cured warts, impotence, ennui, and lighter cases of leprosy. A young man in brown tights and a leather shirt was selling flower crowns from a pole that was strung with them. A burly woodsman was chewing on a meaty pork rib and a number of children ran through the grounds, crying shrilly.

  In the beribboned grandstand nobles of the court sat in ornate chairs, waving lace handkerchiefs and laughing at barbs thrown out by a gamboling jester. A flower girl wended her way among the gentry, dispensing blossoms with a smile. Broad-shouldered, dark-bearded men in chain mail and carrying broadswords guarded the entrances to the grandstand.

  Booths were marked MEAD, BEER, and ALE—sold to the common folk. And nearby, meat pies were sold hot and steaming from an earthen oven. Cold cider and jam tarts, slices of fruit and hot rum were liberally vended by rosy-cheeked women and bearded men in tunics.

  In the knights’ tents men were donning armor, swinging test swords, having last-minute adjustments made to helmets, and pulling on gloves studded with sharp bosses. Just outside, spirited horses were being calmed by grooms, draped with brightly tinted fabric, and their tall-backed saddles were being cinched up. The horses were not slim, graceful racetrack-type animals, but were much larger—sturdy and broad—with great-muscled legs and withers, large-toothed and fiery.

  In the center of the jousting space two dismounted knights were flailing away at each other with sword and mace, their metallic clashes resounding throughout the tournament grounds.

  Reed, the rich visitor from Palm Springs, was fastening the last buckle on his armor and looking up adoringly at the beautiful young maiden tying her scarf about his neck. In formal tones, he said, “It will be an honor to wear your colors, milady.”

  He stood up as she blushed faintly and curtsied. “And tonight, my lord”—she paused to look around chastely before she smiled intimately and whispered—“I shall give you your reward.”

  At the sound of trumpets, Reed turned, his chest expanding with excitement. A beautiful white stallion pranced through the tents out to the edge of the jousting ground and Reed smiled as he recognized the Japanese businessman from the plane.

  Takaguchi took his helmet from his squire and set it carefully over his head. The horse snorted and the two chargers behind him, carrying the Japanese’s armored friends, echoed the snort. As Takaguchi reached for the long lance held in readiness by the squire, one of the Nipponese pulled out his Nikon and began taking photographs.

  In Master Control, a technician barked, “I thought the Queen stole that camera!”

  Another controller said, “She did. Apparently he stole it back.”

  The first technician then instructed: “Begin the joust sequence on my mark. Three . . . two . . . one . . . Mark!”

  A technician on the opposite side of the control room had just panned his monitoring camera on the fingers of Takaguchi’s right and left hands. He reached now to a button beneath his console—a small, insignificant button.

  It was marked RED ROOM.

  The trumpets sounded again and the bright banners hanging from the shining brass horns fluttered in the wind. A heavily armed Saxon knight swung onto his sturdy horse with a clank and reached for the long lance. The weapon had a pennant fluttering from just behind its sharp tip and this snapped loudly in the wind.

  The Saxon wheeled, his prancing stallion around abruptly, his eyes glittering out through his raised visor at Takaguchi, who was putting his lance into attack position. The horse reared and wheeled again, charging down the tournament grounds, which had been cleared of the two battered knights.

  Reed’s horse’s hooves vibrated the ground under him as he watched Takaguchi move out into position to face the Saxon.

  The Saxon knight, burly and exuding the deadly power of an expert fighter, brought his horse to a pawing and rearing stance; then dropped the horse down. His mailed fist slammed down his visor and his lance swung into position, crossing over from his right to aim toward the left, across the neck of his steed.

  Takaguchi rang down his visor. His lance dropped into position and settled in against his side. He gripped it strongly, any expression he might have had hidden behind his helmet’s faceplate.

  The trumpets blew their challenge and the two knights bolted toward the center with a thunder of heavy hooves.

  The Saxon’s lance was level and he rode the plunging, pounding beast as though he himself were a centaur, a part of the giant attack animal. Takaguchi’s lance bobbled and swayed erratically, yet managed to bang loudly off his opponent’s shield and the Saxon’s lance just scraped across his. They rode to the end of the tournament grounds, pulling their powerful mounts to a halt. Wheeling, they dug spurred boots into the flanks of their horses and charged again.

  Ladies in the grandstand stuffed scented handkerchiefs into their mouths as their escorts cheered mightily. The great steeds galloped toward each other, kicking up clods of the churned field. Takaguchi’s lance was better aimed than before, but still it bobbed and canted erratically. The Saxon knight swerved slightly and the Nipponese’s lance point dug a deep crease into his enemy’s round shield. But the burly, white-skinned knight ticked off a blow to Takaguchi’s shield that staggered the Japanese in the saddle.

  The horses raced past each other again, their lances swinging low, then coming up high as the two men pulled the snorting beasts to a wheeling, rearing halt. Without a pause the Saxon knight came straight at Takaguchi, lance level and aimed. The Japanese fought his horse around, dropped his lance point, and kicked the powerful animal into yet another charge down the jousting field.

  The Saxon was swifter this time and they met closer to Takaguchi’s end of the field, but the Japanese businessman’s lance was perfectly aimed, tumbling the Saxon from his saddle with a great crash.

  The riderless horse ran into the tents, where it was caught and calmed by a quartet of grooms. Takaguchi swung his own horse around, threw his lance from him, and swung down from the saddle. Thumping heavily to the chewed-up field, he almost lost his balance. He drew his sword at once and it rasped noisily from his scabbard. Then the short knight thumbed-up his visor, looked at the Saxon getting groggily to his feet, and slammed it down again.

  The Japanese charged him and in a few quick blows “killed” him. The groggy knight put up only a token defense, too battered to be much good against the swings and thrusts of the triumphant Takaguchi.

  With the bloody corpse of his opponent facedown in the dirt, the businessman dramatically raised his visor to the cheers of the grandstand. Grinning widely, he accepted the plaudits, not bothering to dodge the thrown flowers that plinked off his armor. He bowed in Japanese style to the applauding spectators and strode off the field—trying hard not to swagger.

  • • •

  “Do the guests always win?” Chuck queried, pointing his thumb at the screen that showed Takaguchi accepting the congratulations of his friends and at another screen that showed yeomen carrying off the defeated Saxon knight.

  Schneider leaned forward, past Duffy, to say, “Oh, yes.” He smiled thinly. “We try to make it believable for them,” he
shrugged. “But of course they are always the victors.”

  Duffy suggested they move along the platform above the banks of monitoring screens. Chuck and Tracy looked at scenes from all the different worlds and listened to the technical chatter from the various controllers.

  “I’m not getting sound pickup from the tenth quadrant,” said one technician. “Please check my leads to the console in A-Twelve.”

  The technician next to him began, “Forty-Eight Ninety at Checkpoint Six-Eff . . . Mark! Begin Orgy, Degree Five, at end of present Intro-Two . . . On my mark . . . Three . . . two . . . one . . . Mark!”

  Next to him a controller was saying into his microphone, “. . . Yes, he can be the executioner if he wants. The last one was just killed. Check with Costuming and assign a six hundred . . .”

  “. . . Okay, program the torturerer in Five-Niner one . . .”

  “. . . The dungeon lighting is Five-Five. Repeat . . .”

  Another controller: “. . . Caesar won’t be repaired until tomorrow. Switch to another scenario. Is Brutus in position? Begin programming Octavia . . .”

  Chuck and Tracy paused before a bank of flickering monitors that showed Spa World. On one screen a fine carriage, drawn by two beautifully matched black horses, was coming down a nicely backlit road. A coachman of the Russian cossack type was driving the spirited animals and in the carriage rode the young Karnovsky with his beautiful wife. He wore a dark uniform with gold frogging and ornate braid and she had a fur-lined hood pulled up around her face. He was pouring her champagne and their legs were covered by luxurious furs.

  “Sir,” a technician asked, appearing at Schneider’s side. He whispered to him and the gaunt senior technician allowed himself to be pulled away. Duffy said, “Excuse me,” to Tracy and Chuck and joined Schneider at a console, where they discussed a policy decision.

  Chuck pulled Tracy along the railing behind the technician’s chairs and glanced back at the figures hunched over a readout screen, punching-in options. She looked at him curiously and he pointed at the screens before him, where some pseudo-Romans were enjoying the ministrations of some lovely robot women and handsome robot men.