Dream Park

by Larry Niven;Steven Barnes

  Chester interrupted. “Pardon me. I don’t mean to be rude, but I may need to know about that. What is this Bidi-Tar-whatever? I know that ‘Bidi’ means ‘man’. . .”

  Maibang relayed his request to the old woman, who gave a lengthy reply. “It is the man-ripe-making snake. If you meet its eyes you rot from within.”

  Chester nodded, murmuring, “Tropical twist on the Gorgon legend.”

  “Please,” Maibang insisted, “This is important. In four days he died, badly swollen and already nearly putrefied. His body was placed on the ku. Two days later, he was half rotted. The flesh hung loose on his bones—”

  Next to Griffin, McWhirter groaned. “Good Lord. Is this really necessary?” Acacia had her hand over her mouth. She looked a little green herself.

  “But then his eyelids opened, and in the empty wet sockets there burned a terrible flame, and the man who had led us came down from the ku, and with the strength of ten he decimated us. Not fire, nor spear, nor knife could slow him, and he killed all who came within his grasp. At last, desperate, we bound his limbs with snares, cut him in pieces, and threw the pieces into the swamp. Even that was not enough, for one of the arms came out of the swamp and tried to re-enter the village. One of the great lizards who haunt the water’s edge caught the arm and devoured it.”

  McWhirter looked dyspeptic. Griffin hid his amusement.

  “This is why we are so weak, he says. We have undergone many such assaults in past years, and each has taken its toll. We would not have survived even as long as we have; but this village is situated on ground holy to both your gods and ours. Years ago, missionaries came to teach us of God and Jesus. Not far from here they built a place of worship. Because we of this village helped supply materials and what labor we could, they blessed our land and our boats.”

  The old man had been mumbling to the woman as Maibang spoke, and she relayed more information to them. “But now,” Maibang continued, “we fear that our protection is weakening. We know that strange things have been happening at the old Anglican mission, and that tonight a sacrifice will take place there, on the altar of your God. They will desecrate the holy place, and end our protection. We will be doomed. We are not strong enough to stop them. You are strong. You have powers. Your world is at stake as much as ours. It is in your hands.”

  It was slow in coming, but it was there: an almost tangible crackle of emotion in the air, a feeling of shared purpose that ran through the adventurers like an electric current. And strangely, unmistakably, Griffin’s heart speeded up by a few beats, and he found himself thinking: this sounds like fun. Then he remembered who he was and why he was here, and pushed these thoughts aside.

  “We can do it. Count on it,” Chester said grimly. “Tell Maibang how to get there, if you can’t supply us with a guide.”

  It was very dark now, but a full moon was rising, and it would soon be light enough.

  The last few hundred meters the adventurers had traversed as quietly as possible. Griffin watched Mary-em for his cues. The dwarf-woman was deadly serious, her halberd threaded and in hand, tilted against danger from any direction. Alex was aware of the inadequacy of the dagger in his belt, and wished for one of the stolen guns. Fortunato seemed at home with his Smith & Wesson, and Dark Star had unslung her rifle and was carrying it at port arms as she traveled.

  Whatever else he might think, these people were taking their Game seriously. The Griffin would too, if he wanted to survive long enough to find Rice’s killer.

  The progress of the line had ceased, and they were bunching up. Henderson came back down the line. “We’re near the mission,” he told them briskly. “I sent Oliver and Gina ahead to scout for us, and we can’t move in until we know what we’re up against. I’m sure they’ve got guards and fortifications, and probably a ghastly or two.” He glanced significantly at Dark Star. “If my hunch is right, we’ll have some action for our Thieves. You’ll have to brief Fortunato, and Griffin, honey. You’re our only experienced Thief.”

  Oliver broke through the line, breathing shallowly. “It’s up there, all right. And it’s not empty. Looks as if there are about two dozen natives, and maybe one boss man. I don’t see the sacrifice, but they’re preparing for it, no question.”

  “Weapons?”

  “I saw spears, mostly. Knives, a couple of bows, and two guns. No machine weapons.”

  “Good. Gina?”

  “I took a read on the area, and there’s plenty of magic, all right. At least two priests fifth-level or higher, and one vibration I don’t like at all. I think that was one of the . . . Enemy, and if they’re all as powerful as him, we’re in trouble.”

  “Stow that. We can handle them. What does the lead man look like?”

  The redhead pursed her lips thoughtfully, trying to remember. “Strange. Animalistic. Leather loin cloth, long fingernails and toenails, very dark. Looked like his hair had been shampooed with mud. Very strong aura, and even though I was shielded, he knew I was there.”

  Chester grunted. “Any link with the sacrifice?”

  “Slight. She’s in there, and she’s plenty scared, I can tell you. Chester, we can’t try a frontal assault, they’ll kill her, and she’s our only link to the Enemy.”

  “Got it. You’re right, of course. Good work, hon. Did it tax your energy much?” The green field glowed around Gina, and Chester judged her aura with a practiced eye.

  “You’ll do. When the assault begins, team with me.”

  “You talked me into it,” she grinned, snuggling against him.

  He pretended not to notice. “ It looks like we are going to need the Thieves. Gina’s no slouch, and if her shielding wasn’t good enough to slip past them, then no one but the Thieves can do the primary work.”

  Despite himself, Griffin felt a bubble of excitement percolating its way to the surface. “What’s our mission?”

  “Rescuing the fair maiden, of course.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  THE RITE OF HORRIFIC SPLENDOR

  At the edge of the clearing, hidden behind a broad-leaved tree, crouched three Thieves. Two were novices, and their hands and foreheads were damp with expectation. One of these was blue-eyed with shaggy black hair; he carried a pistol and dagger. He wore dark pants and shirt, and his face had been blackened with charcoal. His name was Fortunato.

  He hawked and spit quietly, too near the boot of the second novice, a huge man who moved with disquieting ease, who squatted on his haunches with the relaxed endurance of an Outback Abo. His hair was red and cut short. His thickly callused hands were curled loosely around a twelve-inch poniard. He called himself the Griffin.

  The third Thief held a subtle but powerful influence over the others. She was not what one would call pretty, except perhaps by the light of a lonely campfire. Her lips were too large; they glistened momentarily as she wet them with the tip of a pink tongue. Her ears sprouted like semaphore flags from under her short dark hair. Now they were straining to catch any slightest sound. Only her eyes might honestly have been called beautiful. Within them was a swirl of tiny reflected lights, oilfires floating in a whirlpool. Her eyebrows arced together like markings on the face of a bird of prey. Her entire body was canted forward like a runner awaiting the gun. Her name was Dark Star.

  Before them was spread a strange and barbaric panorama, one which assaulted every sense. Lean, dark figures twisted in rhythmic movement, as the sound of wooden drums and reed pipes mingled beneath a bloody moon. Maibang, their dark wiry guide with the quick eyes and the ready tongue, had said that this was originally an Anglican church. No living man remembered clearly the day that the forest creatures arose and slew the missionaries; but since that day, no sane man came within a spear’s cast of those vine-mottled walls. So much blood had soaked the ground that the very souls of the priests cried out in agony at any footfall.

  The church, crumbled and in jungle-moist disrepair, was small, not much more than living quarters for the long dead occupants. Services were held in a ro
ofless chapel, an open area covered with ancient and rotted mats, where two hundred at a time might kneel together in prayer.

  The roofless chapel now hosted a ring of frenetic dancers. Another ten or twelve natives, scattered in an outside ring, swayed silently to the beat without moving their feet. In the middle of the area was a frame of timbers lashed in the form of a vertical “X”.

  “If she isn’t out here, then she’s got to be inside the church building itself—” Dark Star’s breath caught in her throat, and she pulled her companions back further into the bushes.

  The figure that came out of the building was a strange one. He looked more beast than man. His nails were talon-long and sharp, his canines were filed to points, his hair was a shattered wasp’s-nest of mud and sticks. He glared around the clearing, looking right past them, and spoke sharply and hurriedly to the dancers. They took handfuls of grain from little leather pouches at their waists and began to sow it.

  Griffin nudged Fortunato. “Most of their attention is focused in front of the building. Shall we try the rear?”

  Fortunato’s grin split the stained blackness of his face. “What about it, Star? Will we need a distraction?”

  “Only to get out alive. Now listen, both of you. We need to work our way around to the other side of the church, and we have got to do it quietly. Follow me.” She shifted the rifle from behind her shoulder and held it across her chest as she crouched. She ran lightly through the bushes. At intervals of five meters Griffin and Fortunato followed.

  They made it to the other side of the clearing and stopped, surveying. Dark Star nodded, and they scurried across the fifteen meters of clearing to the back of the church. The rear wall was half again as tall as she. “Boost me,” she whispered to Griffin. He bent and linked fingers for her to step into, and straightened up. The Thief caught the edge of the roof and pulled herself up until she had both elbows resting on it. With a final push from Griffin, she was up.

  Fortunato, helped Griffin up, and the big man returned the favor. Fortunato was panting heavily. Dark Star sent him a dirty look, and he tried to quiet it down.

  Years of rain and weather had reduced a once sturdy roof of thatch and timbers to rotted weakness. They were able to crawl along the, main supports without much risk, but the tilt of the roof made it a tricky business. The sound of the music and stamping feet drowned any noise they were making. If they didn’t shake down too much dust on the people within, they would be all right.

  Dark Star shinnied up the slanted center beam, bracing her feet in the thatch. Griffin and Fortunato followed. She halted a couple of meters from the top, drew her knife, and slit a peephole in the woven straw. She had to saw at some of the stronger fibers, but accomplished her task without noise. Griffin followed suit.

  The room below them was dimly lit, but in the flickering light of a single torch it was possible to make out four figures. Two men stood with arms folded, bracketing a woman who lay bound on a pallet. Above her loomed the mud-haired man who had directed the dancers. At this range they could make out slitted cheeks stained with fresh blood: self-inflicted ritual wounds, probably rubbed with dirt or manure to create permanent scars.

  The girl was blond, and her clothes, now tatters, had once been expensive and beautiful. Griffin couldn’t see her face clearly, but her body was small and sweetly shaped.

  Dark Star’s toe nudged Griffin’s ear, and he glanced up. She gestured, cutting the air with her knife. Griffin made a circle of forefinger and thumb. He liked the idea; the thatch roof seemed to be made of two sturdy mats joined at the center beam. If they slit it where it met the beam, they would be able to drop through onto their enemies.

  Quietly, they cut. The moonlight made their task easy, and only the pulsating sound of the drums promised doom. Once, one of the guards below glanced up, and they stopped cutting until he turned away. Griffin looked back at Fortunato, who kept the watch for them. The Thief rubbed at the charcoal around his eyes and waved back dutifully.

  Dark Star was preparing to peel the roof back when the door of the chapel opened, and several warriors filed in. The girl moaned as they hoisted her to their shoulders. They carried her out.

  Griffin heard the lady Thief curse venomously. He understood how she felt. So close . . .

  Two guards remained in the room after the others left. Griffin tapped Dark Star on the foot. He pointed down. “All right,” she whispered, “give it a—”

  A patch of air in front of her face glowed red. “Gary,” she said, breaking character, “your blade is still live. Sheath it and unlock the handle.”

  Griffin looked at her blankly before he remembered the admonitions given to him by the referees in Gaming Central:

  1) No live blades during personal combat. All edged weapons have detachable blades, with simple holo projectors in their hilts. All sheath sensors must confirm lockdown before combat sequences can begin.

  2) No physical contact allowed, and no blows may be aimed at joints, groin, face or neck except with hologram blades.

  3) Minor infractions will necessitate halting of the game and awarding of penalty points. Major infractions will automatically terminate the Game.

  Alex pushed his poniard into its holder until he heard it click. Then he twisted the hilt a half-turn, and it came free. An eight-inch glowing blade projected from it, and he passed a finger warily through the field. The red glow before Dark Star’s face dissolved, and she gave him the go-ahead.

  But the Griffin’s own face felt like it was glowing in the dark. Jesus, a Dream Park Security Chief had been that close to slicing up two actors! Great publicity there, O Griffin! . . . hell with it. Griffin ripped the roof open and dropped into the room.

  The guards were taken unawares. He landed almost on top of one; his knife plunged bloodlessly into his back half a dozen times. The native collapsed. The second one tripped over the corpse of the first, and as he flailed to the ground Griffin cut his throat neatly.

  The big Thief shook his head. “Swordfodder,” he muttered.

  Dark Star dropped from the roof, followed by Fortunato, who nearly twisted his ankle. She looked around at the damage, and gave him a grudging nod of approval. “Pretty smooth for a first-timer. What do you do for an encore?”

  He ignored her and moved quietly to the door. “We don’t have much time. They’re getting ready to do it now.”

  She peeked out at the wooden frame, where the European girl was being anointed with a mash of crushed grain and pig blood.

  “Fortunato,” Dark Star said, pulling the blackfaced Thief to her, “do you think you can hit a man’s throat at fifteen meters?”

  I can try. My Wessler-Grahm is seventy-nine for dexterity, and beyond that it’s up to the computer. The gun might be better.”

  “No, save the bullets. Use the knife.”

  Fortunato twisted the knife hilt free, and now he held a glowing blade.

  “We’ll have to time this just right . . .

  The music outside grew louder. Swirling and capering, the scarred and mud-haired high priest moved around the girl and jabbed at her with a blade chipped from black glass. The others moved back to let their leader dance, hypnotized by his movements. He was fairly foaming at the mouth now, scuttling from side to side like a rabid crab. He drew a knifeline of blood on his own stomach, then writhed forward, rubbing his belly against the girl’s and smearing her with blood.

  Griffin couldn’t see the captive’s face from this angle, but he could see her body stiffen and jerk away. The high priest grinned lasciviously and did it again, more slowly, and this time her wail of misery rose quaveringly above the throb of the drums. He raised the knife high, and—

  “Now!” Dark Star hissed. Fortunato’s hand flickered in a short arc as he mimed throwing the blade. A glitter of silver flashed from his hand to the priest’s throat. The priest gagged, hands flying to his neck, and blood drooled from between writhing lips.

  “Bullseye!” Fortunato, shrieked delightedly. before the wor
d was out of his mouth Griffin was out of the doorway and streaking to the side of the captive. There was a brief moment when their eyes met, and the gratitude and awe in her face were glorious. Fortunato was at his side in the next instant, and they faced the charge side by side as Dark Star untied the girl’s bonds.

  The first man in thrust a spear with a glowing point at Griffin. The Thief sidestepped, grasped the haft firmly, and twisted. The man somersaulted and landed on his back. The second man in got the glowing point in the stomach and collapsed, howling. A quick glance at Fortunato showed that he had acquired another glowing blade and was holding two natives at bay.

  Dark Star had the girl loose. She thrust her to the center of a protective triangle formed by the three Thieves. Two men rushed her. One went down before Dark Star’s knife. She sidestepped the other’s wild swing. He sprawled to the ground, and she finished him from behind.

  Suddenly the mass of natives pulled back into a ring, and several spears were raised to casting height. As they prepared to throw, there was a marrow-rending screech from the rear. The natives turned en masse to meet the new threat, but it was clear from the first that they were unequal to the task.

  For Mary-em had arrived. The little woman charged like a berserker, her glowing halberd tilted before her. Her leather armor was caked with dirt and her face was grubby and scratched, but the gleam in her eyes was effervescent. A dozen warriors and wizards charged behind her.

  Gina’s power staff whined and piped its song; lightning leapt from the tip as she played and danced amid the slaughter. Panthesilea wielded her sword with stunning speed, fighting her way to Fortunato’s side swiftly, pursing a kiss at him before turning to stand shoulder-to-shoulder in the fray.