Dream Park

by Larry Niven;Steven Barnes

  “Now: Pigibidi was the most respected elder in the village, and therefore a powerful magician. Clearly the village is under assault by unnamed enemies. Clearly the enemy is skilled in sorcery. Pigibidi, an old man, went into a dancing frenzy intended to impress the visiting wizards and warriors. He pushed himself too far and weakened himself physically, and that weakened his psychic powers as well. He himself formed one of the most formidable barriers against outside attack. When he passed out, the Daribi became vulnerable. The rest of it follows from that.”

  Myers was unimpressed. “And you think that Henderson should have followed that line of reasoning?”

  “Not at all,” Lopez said in a voice he usually reserved for children. “How many people were killed in that attack?”

  Myers frowned. “None of the Gaming party, but . . .”

  “No buts. How many were seriously wounded?”

  “None, but I don’t see . . .”

  “You’re supposed to see, dammit! Myers, don’t you find it unusual that there wasn’t even a serious wound among the whole lot? It was a warm-up. Henderson needed an opportunity to blood his group, and I need to teach him some of the rules of my universe. Don’t worry. When the real fireworks start, any nasties I come up with will have clear precedent in prior Game encounters. There will be no valid protests from Mr. Henderson, I think.” Lopez turned back to his console.

  As he did, Mitsuko visibly relaxed at her controls. They each had their own keyboard, and individual sets of foot controls for the viewfields. Within easy reach were additional controls that regulated conditions in the control room itself. At the moment, a single hologram floated above and slightly in front of the central control board.

  It was the Daribi village. All of the gamers were present and packed to go. The council of elders was present, along with the blanket-swaddled Pigibidi. Richard cocked his head, and Mitsuko nudged a sliding indicator, and the sound rose to audible levels.

  “—leaving now,” Henderson was saying to Gun person. He seemed chipper and alert. Maibang was at elbow, wearing khaki shorts and shirt and carrying a backpack.

  Pigibidi, a sickly figure nursed by two young attendants, spoke a string of unintelligible words filled with long vowels. Maibang translated. “He says that he is dying. He must tell you something that he feared to say before.”

  Chester pursed his lips speculatively. “Can’t enemies get to him in the hereafter?”

  Lopez immediately bent forward and whispered into the goosenecked microphone projecting from the top of keyboard. “Tell him that Pigibidi’s ancestors are strong enough to protect his spirit, if not his body.”

  Maibang scratched his ear. “Although the powers of our departed ancestors are limited upon this plane, they assure the soul of Pigibidi a welcome resting place among the heroes. In life, he fears only for the village. In death, needs fear nothing.”

  “I see.”

  Mitsuko diddled a dial and Pigibidi’s face broke out in a sheen of sweat. He was in obvious torment. Saliva drooled from the corner of the wrinkled mouth, and when he coughed there was a deep-seated moistness to it that was decidedly unpleasant. He tried to sit up, and the two young men helped him. His mouth framed words in English.

  “You find . . . find them. They . . . Foré.”

  There was a gasp from the assembled villagers, and Pigibidi’s body shook as if a string of firecrackers was exploding in his stomach. Chester Henderson called to the other gamers. “Do not say that word! Don’t mumble it, don’t whisper it. We can’t use that word during Game time!”

  His attendants tried to steady Pigibidi, but they could do nothing. Their leader howled in torment. His eyes rolled back into his head until they were glistening white orbs shot with red and yellow. He bit through his lower lip; blood trickled down his chin.

  Someone whose back was to the camera pointed an unsteady hand at the dying Pigibidi’s abdomen. It was collapsing from within. As it did, the trickle of blood became a torrent. His muscles locked in a final spasm, and he was dead.

  A mournful wailing filled the air. The villagers began falling to their knees to clutch at the dirt in sorrow. Kasan Maibang remained standing, his dark face darker still with pain and rage. “This will be avenged. The spirit forces of our enemy have eaten Gun-person’s liver, but we shall slay them to the man.” He raised his arms in invocation, voice quavering with holy wrath. “Hear me, men of the Daribi! These brave and powerful strangers come to fight our fight for us. They will need bearers, guides, and friends. Who among you will come with us to help?”

  Mitsuko leaned to her mike. “Let’s not get too dramatic, Harvey. Just say the lines.”

  Maibang scratched his ear, doing a good job of hiding a grin. Mrs. Lopez covered the microphone and giggled.

  Myers asked, “Harvey?”

  “Harvey Wayland. Isn’t he good? I found him in a student production of Illuminatus at USC eleven years ago. We use him as often as we can.”

  In the projection field, three strong young men had joined the ranks of the Gamers. They were dressed in native garb of woven fiber. Chester was questioning Maibang, but as if he already suspected the answers. “Why the birds last night? Why did Pigibidi die like that?”

  “We are in a continuous battle against the forces of our foes,” Maibang explained. “The elders of our people are our first line of defense. Gun-person was our greatest power. When age and exhaustion sapped his strength, the barrier was breached.”

  Chester nodded. “And the liver? What could do that. Some kind of worm?”

  “No. Very bad thing. Izibidi. Ghost people.”

  “Ghosts. ‘bidi’ suffix means person or people . . .”

  Chester was talking to himself. His voice rose to audible levels. “Our enemies can control the spirits of their dead?”

  Maibang shook his head. “Not control. They are allies. They cooperate.”

  “Do the spirits of your dead cooperate with you?”

  “They may, if the call is strong enough. I have the knowledge, but not the power.”

  “Then we’ll get along fine. We have the power, and I’m getting the knowledge a little piece at a time. . .” Henderson’s voice was drifting away again, and Gina’s hand on his shoulder pulled him out of it. “Right, hon. All right, let’s clear out of here before something uncuddly pops up. Mary-em, I want you up front with me. Ollie and Bowan in the rear. The rest of you, eyes open, I think the gloves are off.

  The troop shouldered their packs, and with a last backward glance at Pigibidi’s hideously twisted body, moved off in an orderly line. As soon as they were out of sight, Mitsuko’s private viewscreen flashed to a patch of jungle, where the Gamers were coming into view. Richard’s screen stayed with the village. At a flick of his finger, Pigibidi’s body, the two retainers, and the silent 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 trams 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 wo
n’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 Loremaster, 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. “I’m relieved to find you so interested in my welfare.”

  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 Loremaster 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 expose 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 Garrett’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 surprising; 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—”