by Larry Niven
"Back! Back!" he yelled, and his comrades retreated as far as they could.
The creature was both smoking and screaming now, and then Its carapace burst open. Its metal legs trembled, shook, groped out one final time…
And were still. The acid blood streamed away in rivulets, leaving a harmless residue.
SJ examined his wrists and arms. Where the claws had gripped were tiny red welts (which looked much worse in DreamTime), and his eyes stung from the ammonia but he was alive.
"All right…" He nudged the beast with the tip of his knife and began to push it along in front of him. When they reached a cross-path in the tunnels he pushed it to the side.
Much softer, but still ahead of him, he heard another clicking sound. He could just make out the image of a second beast, its pseudopods pulsing with rage. Had he slain its mate?
The beast retreated, wanting no part of the mighty Scout.
"Come back, you coward!" he screamed.
It stopped, and one of its pseudopods formed into a hand. Four of the fingers bent down, leaving a single digit standing straight up, in a universal symbol of disapproval.
And then it was gone
29
The Larger Game
"The strategic arts are: first, measurements; second, estimates; third, analysis, fourth, balancing; fifth, triumph.
"The situation gives rise to measurements, measurements give rise to estimates, analysis gives rise to balancing, balancing gives rise to triumph." — Nigel Bishop, The Art of Gaming, 2052
Friday, July 22, 2059 — 10:30 A.M.
Tony was in the break room with Lopez, surrounded by screens, sipping very good, very strong coffee from a vending machine. A nap would have helped more, he thought sluggishly; but not yet. That black magic coffee would have to do. Tex-Mits and Army were about to reenter the Gaming area and nobody was about to get any rest.
"They've nearly reached the Nommo, and they've got their diving gear," Tony said. "They're never going back to the roof. So they'll miss the fish. So I've extended the Nommo's speech, but I haven't-"
"Let me see."
Tony brought it onscreen. "Haven't inserted it in the script yet."
Richard Lopez skimmed it, then began to chop. Tony flinched, but he watched. Richard had cut the speech to half before he could blink.
"There. That will tell them much of what they need to know. Smile."
Tony spoke through a wide rigid grin. "They'll miss the island. All that frigging work and they're going to miss the island fish."
"Nothing is lost, Tony."
"Twenty million viewers aren't going to know how clever I am, Richard. It was so wonderful! The floating island is an adult Nommo. That's why they can't go home, they get too "The Gamers always miss half of what we put in. They can't take every path, Tony. The home viewers will get it when they buy the cassette."
Richard Lopez must have been exhausted, but his eyes and his smile were very bright. Tony asked. "What keeps you going?"
"You are playing your own Game," Richard Lopez said.
"So what? Everybody plays-"
The little man's eyes glowed. "It involves Nigel Bishop, and the Army team. It involves gambling. It involves Alex Griffin, who entered one of my Games once before, and is a remarkable man."
He knows. "Yeah," Tony said dryly. "I think that I can remember that Game."
"You need my help."
"Richard," Tony said, "we've got a Game running here. You've got to focus your attention there, or the whole thing will come apart."
"Come, now," Lopez chided. "Something has occurred which might damage California Voodoo's integrity. I should be involved."
Tony sipped more coffee. His thoughts crawled in slow circles. What should he do? Get in touch with Griffln? Harmony? Vail? Summers? The little man was hovering, awaiting an answer.
"I will tell you a secret," Richard Lopez said. "This is my last Game."
" What?"
Lopez's smile was small, sad, wearily regretful. "The doctors did not want me out of my bed. They have held me together as long as they can. I'm afraid I am out of time."
Tony fumbled for words, and didn't find them before Lopez held up a hand. "It is all right. The pain is manageable, and my mind is clear."
"That makes one of us." There was no way he could deny Richard Lopez his request. His last request? "There's a dead woman. Alex was in love with her, but there's more to it…" Haltingly, Tony began to lay it out. Lopez leaned back, closing his eyes.
"I wondered why the betting money all went through Ecuador, but maybe there was more I didn't see. But I can't find it, and six hundred thousand is about what you'd expect Bishop to scrape up, and the tilt in the Vegas odds is about right. But… he'd have to be crazy. Stark crazy, and that would explain his killing Crayne too. If he did. Richard, can he do it?"
"Not Army," Richard said, with his eyes still closed. "Only Clavell or Poule can control that team. Neither are gamblers. I cannot imagine either routing six hundred thousand dollars through Ecuador, stealing maps, killing a Dream Park security woman and then playing this Game as they have. There is no compulsiveness-" He stopped, considering. "Except for Clavell's accident on the modular walk. He risked his life to finish the Game. Yes. That makes it possible."
"And Bishop?"
"Psychologically capable. But capable and culpable are two different things. I agree that he can't force a win for Army. But if he cooperates with Army, and has Acacia Garcia…"
He shook his head again. "Absurd! Acacia and Bishop and the Army all in conspiracy? Too complex and the winnings split too many ways. A team of two, perhaps. Bishop and Acacia? But Army alone?"
His eyes opened. "There is something wrong here," he said quietly.
"What you got?"
"This feels too much like a logic puzzle. 'lf A and B cooperate, then C and D can 't win. But if D gives A a bribe…' That sort of thing. It… is superfluously complex. Deliberately complex." He grinned. "A trap for excessively clever minds. I shall look elsewhere."
They both glanced at the screens first; but Tex-Mits/Army were still crawling through pipes, wiggling legs filmed by an insectile cleaning robot. Now Lopez took control of a small break-room monitor console. His fingers blurred as he accessed the IFGS library, Master's level.
"In the library are computerised versions of every book germane to Gaming. We know about Bishop's The Art of Gaming. What you may not realize is that since 1960, over a dozen different game versions of the source material, The Art of War, have been created. The entire book has been rendered into a series of If-Then propositions."
"Meaning?"
"The Art of War was uniquely suited to a man like Bishop, who sees the entire world as a zero-sum game, and more importantly, as a black or white proposition-that is, he divides all actions into those things which are good for Nigel
Bishop, and those things that are not. I propose to you that we run those routines, especially the best AI version, which is called, I believe, 'Sun Tsu.' It was designed to give opinions of gaming strategies-chess, go, role playing. You submit the Gaming scenado, and it offers an opinion. I suggest that we enter a synopsis of 'California Voodoo,' available in my own file-"
Tap tap tappity.
"And the moves made thus far-"
He went into fast-playback mode, following Bishop around MIMIC.
"And see what happens."
Tony licked his lips. "Ah, Richard. It may be more than that. You have to expand it outside the realm of the Game."
"To include the gambling, yes." At first enthusiastic, Lopez had bogged down. He was staring at the screen. "There are too many variables now," he said. "Too many to feed them into the computer. Yes. Too complex for the machine. We must trust our own minds, yes?"
Richard Lopez sipped his coffee, thinking, and then, very lazily, asked, "The money was routed through Ecuador?"
"Yes."
"Why Ecuador? Drug money?"
"Fifty years ago, maybe. Now it's old
money, and there are service corporations running parts of the government."
A long pause. "Is Ecuador part of the Barsoom Project?"
"Heard a joke about that." Tony leaned back. "The Barsoom Project is much like the European Space Agency, circa 1990 or so. That is, countries put in X amount of dollars, and they get back a guaranteed X dollars in the shape of contracts."
''Sounds fair."
"But it doesn't really work out. Some countries simply don't have sufficient industrial base to produce the goods. Ecuador is one of them. I heard someone say that Ecuador had put in like three hundred million dollars and that Barsoom was gonna end up with enough Ecuadorian toilet paper to gift-wrap Phobos. They want a launching base for the Phoenix F. Being near the equator, it might actually save a little fuel, but Ecuador simply can't cut the mustard-not in the next forty, fifty years. Then it might be a different story."
"I've been in the hospital," Richard said in nonapology. "What-"
"I only meant they're on the equator, Richard. That's why it's Ecuador, and that's why they might be king of the walk when the Barsoom Project is ready to start testing skyhook devices on Mars. I know of at least six ways of getting to orbit without rockets. Mostly they involve tether technology, none of them can be built yet, and they all have to be on the equator to work. But of course there are other countries…"
Lopez's brow wrinkled. "Corporations. How many of the countries and companies involved in the Barsoom Project have moved in at this time?"
"Practically none, although some of the spaces have been tailored for their use."
"But Ecuador would be in a better position twenty years from now if they had better technology now. Could they boy what they need?"
"A lot of it is proprietary. They'd have to steal it."
"Just thinking aloud. Listen: I will confer with Mitsuko. If she gives permission, I would like to see more information pertaining to this situation. Perhaps…"
He closed his eyes again. "Just perhaps. Security is an interesting Game," he said approvingly. "A larger Game. I think I begin to like Alex Griffin. Very much."
30
Ambush
Friday, July 22, 2059 — 11:10 A.M.
S. J. Waters kicked the ventilator grille free of its housing, and it clattered to the ground.
He scooted around in the vent until he could just poke his nose out. He sniffed, and smelled water. An enormous bank of fluorescent tubes overhead cast hard shadows.
SJ pushed himself out and landed on the balls of his feet. The hallway seemed empty. "All clear," he whispered.
His head jerked, and he notched an arrow to his bow, pointing it down the corridor at the unexpected splashy-giggly sounds.
Seemed harmless. Merry. Still, his nerves burned.
Alphonse Nakagawa emerged just after him, followed by Major Clavell, and then General Poule.
They formed a protective pocket around Mary-em, who crawled out just before Crystal.
"What do you think?" Poule asked when the last of their party had emerged.
"We think that you had better remain very still," Tamrni said, stepping out of a door to their left. In a flash, they were surrounded and outnumbered.
Poule was deadly quiet. "An ambush?''
"Call it a hijack," Bishop said lazily. "We want your icons. All of them."
Alphonse glanced at Mary-em; but no, he'd keep that secret for now. He said, "You can't just kill us, you know."
"And why not?"
"We were told very specifically: the gods don't take murder lightly. On the other hand…"
Prez the Zulu had fixed his attention on Alphonse just one instant too long: Poule leapt into action.
His sword was out in a flash, and he had slashed Prez's right arm. Prez deftly tossed his assegai into his left hand and lunged at Poule. Clavell blindsided him, and the fight was on.
The hall was too narrow for effective maneuvering, and Alphonse knew their cause was lost. Regardless, Poule and Clavell teamed brilliantly. They had Prez Coolidge, an accomplished Warrior, down and dead in a moment. Then they broke through the opposing line, using a confused Twan as a shield. They pivoted to another twin-prong attack, and then another…
Still, it was hopeless. Al's heart went out to S. J. Waters, who quickly found himself surrounded.
SJ was no great fighter. He simply didn't have the reflexes for it, but he had played enough Games that his Shield and Recovery ratings could see him through. Twice Tammi struck him, and twice the computer disallowed or healed her touches. Then Acacia was beside her, and SJ was doomed. He died before loosing a single arrow.
Crystal Cofax hadn't room to swing her staff. She sobbed in frustration as she tried to get a clean shot in on Bishop. Finally she screamed, charged through the line, and ran down the corridor toward the sounds of laughter and music And skidded to a halt, her eyes wide. She balanced at the edge of a vast swimming pool ringed with diving boards and lounge chairs. The boards vibrated as bronzed beach boys bounced off, sailed high, and somersaulted in midair, plunging into the water. On every chair reclined a golden girl, oiled and sun-haired and masked in bronzed plastic, perfect breasts and hips swathed in wisps of bikini gauze.
They saw her at the same moment she saw them. For a moment the tableau was frozen, and then Led by Bishop, the battle spilled out of the hall, and the sunbathers yawned, and returned to their tans.
Crystal feinted a figure-eight pattern. Bishop faded back, deflecting the tips skillfully, never committing himself. Crystal lunged Bishop slid his blade down the staff and grazed her fingers.
They glowed red and black, and might as well have been twitching in the dirt, for all the good they'd do her now.
Panting, Crystal dropped the staff. Bishop saluted and ran her through.
He turned to Griffin. "Watch out, Bobo!"
General Poule, enraged by the ambush, even more incensed by the hopelessness of his situation, had attacked the only unarmed member of the enemy party: their guide.
Griffin. What were the rules about this? Weren't guides off limits? Wasn't he protected by the gods or something?
There was no more time to think.
Poule lunged with his sword, and Griffin snatched up a beach chair to deflect the blade. Twice more Poule attempted to breach his defence, and each time Griffin frustrated him neatly.
"I can't get used to this fighting with furniture," Poule said nastily. "Where did you learn it?"
"Macy's School of Self-Defense."
Poule tried a low-line attack, aiming at Griffin's left foot. Slamming the chair down, the security chief disarmed him.
And now everyone was watching. Poule was enraged. Exhausted emotionally by the long crawl and the fight, the general was determined to take someone with him to hell.
Poule leapt forward, drawing a foot-long dagger from his belt, holding it underhand. His weight was balanced as neatly as a prizefighter's. Once again, Alex ran the Voodoo Game's specs through his mind: this was a Level Ten Hazardous
Environment event. Physical challenges between players were acceptable. But between players and NPCs?
Griffin backed up until he was against the wall.
"Got no guts?" Poule taunted.
Griffin was facing a professional military man with a twelve-inch fighting knife in his hand. If he wasn't careful, his guts were going to be very much in evidence.
Bishop threw Griffin a knife, and Alex snatched it out of the air. "Here you are, Bobo," Bishop said cheerfully. "Go to town."
Griffin balanced the "blade" carefully. It was twelve inches of plastic dowel, set within a holographic image of gleaming, curving steel.
Poule had every reason to go for the kill. His team had been neutralized, but a good personal combat would fatten up his Wessler-Grahams; and his enemies would lose a Guide.
He slid in, blade held underhand in the right, left hand forward and flat as a spade.
At all costs, Griffin had to stay in the Game. He stood, lowering his hand. "I am no Warri
or. I cannot fight this man."
"Die, then!" Poule laughed, stabbing viciously for Griffin's arm. Griffin scrambled back. Despite the potbelly, Poule was lightning. Damn the man!
Contempt flashed in the general's eyes, and Griffin suddenly realized something:
Unlike Bishop, Poule didn't know who Griffin was. To Poule, Griffin was just another actor. He could feed that overconfidence, and maybe, just maybe…
Griffin flipped his knife around into classic "ice-pick" configuration. It was a mug's game, a John Wayne Indian position, a Hockey-Mask Killer position, completely wrong for any sophisticated knife fighting. It limited the arc of approach and confined the defender to stabbing only. Or so said conventional wisdom.
Griffin and Poule circled each other.
Alex's attention screwed down to a point so intense that the rest of the room ceased to exist, became a grey fog. And in the center of that fog… General Poule.
Confident. An ex-Beret, perhaps? Combat specialist? Griffin wanted this to be over fast, and his only hope was to keep Poule overconfident.
Poule tested Griffin's perimeter, slashing in with the blade, smiling grimly when Griffin merely jumped back again, almost stumbling, knife still held like an ice pick.
Then the general went for the kill.
The ice-pick knife position allows only for stabbing, but if one folds the knife back against the forearm, it becomes a tool capable of vicious slashing defences. Because of the shortened reach, one must wait for one's opponent to approach. One must have great speed, very precise timing, and a keen eye for distance.
Alex Griffin had all three. Poule lunged in, his left hand high to deflect. Griffin sliced Poule's left wrist, and in a single fluid, swerving stroke brought the blade down and across the attacking arm.
Red and black light spilled from the wound. Poule groaned and dropped his knife.
Griffin grabbed Poule's right wrist with his left hand. He stepped in, driving an elbow to the jaw and a knee to the groin.