by Larry Niven
(The man played fair, and had great reflexes! Griffin thought. Poule knew he was beaten, and responded to Griffin's mimed blows like a professional stuntman.)
With Poule doubled over in pain, Alex raised his knife high, ready to plunge into the nape of his unprotected neck But instead let Poule fall to the ground. "Bind this man's wounds," he said. "He is a brave enemy. I would not have him die."
He looked over at Bishop and saw his secretive, meaningless smile.
Griffin tore strips from his own shirt and began to bind Poule's wounds. Top Nun completed the binding and knelt beside the general, threw her hands into the air, and said, "Abracadabra. So I'm making a book already. If you're not too busy, heal 'im up. We might need him. Maybe not now, maybe Tuesday, but why take chances?"
Griffin took stock of the survivors, and it didn't take long. That last ambush had been bloody. Only eleven players remained: Mouser, Mary-em, Al the Barbarian, Acacia, Top Nun, Twan, Tammi, Major Clavell, Captain Cipher, Bishop, and General Poule. The Game had become a slaughter.
Finally there was time to examine his surroundings.
It might have been the biggest indoor spa in the world. It had a makeshift look: no one had planned to put a pool here. But someone had diverted water flow into a vast sunken region of the tenth floor. The resulting pool dwarfed an
Olympic standard. The inhabitants had carted in tanning machines, and sets of gleaming chrome weights, and steam cabinets. Stand-alone Jacuzzis bubbled along the rim of the pool like yeast clusters; rowing machines, stationary bicycles, and massage tables grew like weeds.
But along the ceiling, and all along the walls, tiny gleaming creatures scampered about. They seemed part machine and part animal and were busying themselves with repair and rebuilding. The entire level had an organic honeycomb look, crinkled and textured and pocketed. Shifting, multicolored waves of slow lightning crawled behind the walls, painting everything in the vast room in ethereal, electric hues of red and blue and yellow.
The air was as humid as a sauna, with wisps of steam curling from the water itself.
One of the muscular poolside loungers uncoiled himself lazily and sauntered over. He was well over six feet tall. On his face was written bland, unconcerned amusement.
"Name's Biff," he said. "Gettin' into serious hassles, dudes. Just hang loose, huh? Keep those bad vibes rolling in, the Nommo won't like it. Like, kick back, and we'll get some tasty waves up for you."
For once, Bishop seemed to be a little off balance. "Make a wave?"
"Totally tubular, dude."
Even as they watched, the pool's surface rippled, swelled, and reached up for the ceiling. It crested, boiling with froth.
One golden surfer had been balancing on his board in the middle of the pool, waiting patiently for a wave to happen by. As it expanded he rode the crest up and took the stance: right leg forward, left back and slightly bent, arms spread for balance. Fifteen feet of water ridge rolled him along a thousand feet of indoor lagoon, and then The wave turned itself inside out, flowed through itself, turned back, and headed the other way. The surfer pulled off a maneuver that Griffin was quite certain no other had ever managed. He leaned into the board like a skateboard artist doing a wheelie, his weight sinking back to the rear. The board stood up on end, pivoted, and he sailed back the way he'd come.
Griffin gathered his jaw back off the floor and followed their host to a cluster of chairs and tables. Biff snapped his finger, and a bevy of giggling, bikini-clad bunnies scampered forward to do his bidding. Twan, Tainmi, and especially Acacia bristled at the performance.
The girls disappeared, then reappeared with platters of sushi and carrot juice.
Griffin tried the taste combination and decided he could gag it down. Something beneath the water glistened for a moment, but when he turned his head, it vanished.
Twan leaned toward Biff. "You're only two levels above the Mayombreros," she said pointedly. "How can you be so…"
"Laid back?" He laughed heartily. "This is Nommo country. Everybody's pretty mellow here."
Something that looked like a meter-tall mollusk cruised up to Alex, serving drinks from a nipple on its side. Griffin sampled it. Delicious and martini-like. Did it eat grain and sugar, ferment them in a second stomach, and then regurgitate alcohol?
Acacia tasted her California roll gingerly, then bit in. "We'd like to see the Nommo. Would you call them for us?"
"No can do," Biff answered regretfully. "The Nommo don't like coming out all that much. Maybe if you wait around for a day or two…"
"No can do."
"Well, then I guess you better go in after them. I hope you can swim."
Twan punched Bishop's arm lightly. "You know, right about now I'm glad we brought you."
Seated, Bishop managed to bow gallantly.
Alphonse, still seething with anger, noted the booty bags that Bishop and others had brought to the tables. A gleaming regulator poked out of the top.
Scuba gear.
The first self-contained underwater breathing apparatuses had, of course, used compressed air. The development of cheap nuclear batteries had made those obsolete: a rebreather driven by a really powerful pump could last for twenty hours on a charge, far beyond the capacity of air bottles.
At first he wondered if these would be the classic, older devices, lost in MIMIC since 1995…
Biff had the same question. He examined one of the rebreathers and raised an ironic eyebrow. "Not what I expected," he said. "I was going to tell you about some scuba gear guarded by a local fire demon."
"Not interested." Bishop grinned.
"Can't say I blame you."
Bishop checked over the apparatus. "We've got three sets of gear here."
Major Clavell, who had been miserable, took an interest again. "Does the word anachronism mean anything to you?"
Bishop beamed. "Not a thing. Working fine," he announced. "Who's coming?"
Twan inspected the gear, hesitantly at first, then with a growing excitement. "I want in," she said.
Bishop nodded. "And we need a guide. Coral having departed this vale of tears, I believe that Bobo is our only choice."
Griffin smiled coldly and began to strip.
The poolside surfers gathered around to watch them, with the sounds of old Beach Boys and a little Jan and Dean still playing over the loudspeakers.
They were down to underwear, with the exception of Twan, who had borrowed a swimsuit. Her body was petite but taut, a swimmer's body, in fact the body of a swimmer who might have done weights and running merely to keep in shape for more swimming.
The rebreather gear looked slightly oversized on her. Of course, on Mary-em it would have been absurd.
Alex slipped himself into harness, balanced the gear in place, and checked to make sure that everything was operating smoothly. Acacia handed him a hand lamp, and he splashed its yellow beam across to the far wall.
He noticed that Bishop was treating him with just a hair more respect. Was that the result of the little episode with General Poule? Or was it something else? He took this opportunity to examine Bishop more closely. In the swim trunks he was a very dark black man without an ounce of useless tissue on his body. Probably a high-metabolism type, seething with testosterone. Any level of exercise would make his body bulge with muscle. Perfect coordination. A precise mind driven by a monstrous ego. He probably weighed twenty pounds less than Griffin and was possibly as strong.
Griffin didn't like to think about that. As strong. Possibly faster. Probably smarter. But there had to be a flaw there. Griffin felt the stirrings of a sour cold knot of fear in his belly.
Bishop nodded to Griffin and slipped feetfirst into the water. Griffin went in a moment later, followed by Twan. The water closed about him in warm embrace.
It was fresh water, unchlorinated and murky. He couldn't see anything in it but submerged walkways and corridors. He shone his lamp around, and the beam stretched out like a yellow finger, briefly touching first a stat
ue, then an ancient, rusted bank of computer terminals.
The water rolled. For a moment he thought, Wave! and readied himself for the turbulence to follow.
But it wasn't that. Something like a textured torpedo brushed past him. It was rough and slick at the same time.
Griffin kicked back and reached out for it, but it was gone. When he switched his light around, the murk had already concealed it. Gone.
He hovered there, sucking cold, flavorless air from his mouthpiece. What had it bet on?
Nommo.
He pushed a button on his wrist, and a line of green arrows projected in front of hirn, taking him down farther into the depths.
Bishop was a few feet off to his right, moving beautifully and having no trouble keeping up. The setting was so ethereal that for a few minutes Griffin was able to forget the mission, forget the job at hand, and just submerge himself in the underwater world.
Twan slid alongside him and extended an arm, pointing out a building that looked something like a cathedral dome.
Bishop stopped, floating, and made a very broad gesture. Reveal magic.
The dome glowed weakly at first, and then more strongly, until they were all but blinded.
Griffin shielded his face, the hiss of air muffling his hearing.
But when the light died down, they were surrounded by Dolphins. Alex tried to touch one of them. His hand slid along its body, and it darted away. There were six of them. With gentle nudges, they herded the three Adventurers down to the glowing dome.
31
The Nommo
The dolphins seemed as friendly as Flipper. They coaxed the swimmers through the water with gentle bumps and nudges. Despite their incredible delicacy, one could feel the power of a dolphin moving past: a wall of muscle, capable of smashing bone with a flick of a tail.
Their inner sanctum was tropically warm, a lagoon within a lagoon. Wisps of steam rose from slow, swirling, oily whirlpools.
Imitation rock slabs rose from the surface of the water, forming broad rough steps. Lounging on the steps were-something was wrong with the light-a man and a woman? But their arms and legs were well, flattened, a little like the flukes of a whale; and their faces were unforgettably ugly; and their skin was not white or brown or any human shade, but a dark blue reminiscent of the dolphins themselves. They whispered to each other in high-pitched, gobbling, squeaking sounds.
One of the dolphins arched backward out of the water and danced on its tail as it skipped across the surface. It balanced upright at the edge of the stone steps, shimmered, melted into an amorphous cloud of blue light, then became another of… those. The Nommo. Her face, like theirs, seemed immobile, the eyes lidless and staring, the mouth turned up in a rigid meaningless grin. Without a shred of self-consciousness, she lounged back on one of the steps and grinned at them, challenging.
She gave a dolphin-like burbling chuckle, and then addressed them in a very human voice. "Betcha like this tons better."
"May I?" Bishop indicated the steps out.
Twan said, "Go for it."
Bishop settled himself on the steps. Griffin continued treading water, working off restless energy. So did Twan, for whatever reasons.
"We are from the outside," Bishop explained.
The blue woman found that funny. "Oh? Outside. And we are from Queeepzz-from outer space, from the worlds circling Sirius Little."
Back on the surface, eight remaining Adventurers were as relaxed as might be, considering the circumstances. There was little to do until the two Loremasters resurfaced. Only a nominal guard was placed on Alphonse Nakagawa, Clavell, and Poule. They were, after all, disarmed and helpless.
All this water: it seemed likely that they'd all be under it sooner or later. Al wasn't the only Gamer who had changed into his swimband. Slender and muscular, he looked almost as good as Bishop. He'd spent a few minutes making eye contact with Tammi and Acacia and Top Nun. The ladies weren't responding; they were ignoring him, in fact.
So no one seemed to be watching Alphonse as he stood watching the water, or knelt and stirred it with one hand, near the piles of discarded clothing and costumes.
Bishop had left all of his gear behind. Al the Barb's fingertips wandered through side pockets in the Loremaster's pack. A spare shoestring… a dirty sock… good. They went into his waistband. And what's this a long-toothed comb? Humming a silent, joyous little song, Alphonse teased it out with two fingers, keeping his eyes carefully fixed on the water's surface.
Still nobody watching? He peered down. Caught in the black plastic tines were six black, curly hairs.
He plucked them out. For an instant he held them in his open palm in full view, not of any passerby, but of some omnicient deity, some hypothetical ceiling camera. The Game Masters could play it back if need be. Nakagawa's Law
#4: If the GM didn't see it, it didn't happen.
Then he rubbed the hairs into a tiny ball the size of a pinhead and tucked the ball under his right thumbnail. His folded hand returned to Bishop's pack and emerged empty. A lost comb would be noticed.
According to voodoo lore, a single hair was enough for a charm.
Mess with me, Bishop? My daddy put a rattlesnake in a man's pocket once, then asked him for a match. And he's the family wimp.
Al the Barbarian edged back from the pool. Nobody watched him too closely, and why should they? He wasn't close to any weapons, or anything valuable at all.
"Sirius Little?" Bishop asked, momentarily confused..
"The Dogon," Twan said with deep satisfaction. "Appelion was right."
"Oh, yeah," the blue woman said. "We thought we'd zip on down here. Earth looked like a party planet. We'd catch some rays…"
The blue male behind her rose, stretching until joints popped. She slapped him smartly on the buns as he passed. He jumped up, flipped, and took a header into the water. In mid-arc he transformed into a dolphin. The dolphin nosed up against Bishop, who stroked it affectionately.
"Our folks-damn near ancestors, now." The Nommo woman grimaced. "Some of them have even died. Well, they were only supposed to stay for a few months, but they took a bad splash when we landed. Couldn't repair the lander."
"Why not?" Twan asked.
"Dig it. It's not like they were some high-dome expedition. They were a buncha kids, out for a good time. Weren't supposed to be here at all. There was a mother ship, stashed up in orbit. When the lander crashed, they must have gotten scared, zipped back to the motherland." She chuckled. "I'd like to hear the story they told the folks back home. Most of the tech they brought was biomech-you've seen some of that? And the Ethereals. You folks call'em demons and angels and so on, but they're like roaches and rats where we came from. Useful, but they breed too damned fast. And we have some little tricks, mental matter-energy conversion stuff, too minor to do a really big repair, but your folk-your ancestors seemed to like'em."
"I'll just bet they did," Bishop murmured.
"Now, the lander crashed in the Atlantic, off what you called the Ivory Coast. Good people. Like the food. We just played around with them, taught 'em a little stuff, and, well…"
The male's dolphin-head popped up. "Our ancestors thought your ancestors were being polite," he buzzed. "Excessively polite, but you know, local mores…"
"They worshiped us. This was a long time ago, back around what you call the Ice Age, and I guess we were kind of unusual. We didn't catch on fast enough."
"Our ancestors taught them our technology," the male explained, and spit a mouthful of water. "What you'd call magic. The mind tricks-sound and visualisation and so on-what you'd call spells. Summoning the Ethereals, who were rutting out of control by then, but don't have much to do with humans unless someone calls 'em."
"Years passed," the female continued, "hundreds of years. Our folks couldn't go home even if they could get the ship repaired-"
"Why not?"
"Too big. Adults of our kind get as big as islands. As for us, we were having fun. Lots of sun, and water, a
nd good company. Ever been treated like a god?"
"Not recently," Twan said.
"From time to time," Bishop admitted.
"Addictive, isn't it? We got lazy. Some of us a lot of us started making babies, going out further into the ocean where there was room for them, goin' native, I guess you'd say. They forgot even the simple magic, or didn't teach it to their kids. Not many of us even remember what we really are."
"How could that happen?" Griffin asked.
"Easier than you think. Hey the ocean was warm, the fish were slow, and nothing had teeth big enough to bother us, not even us kids. Humans are fun to play with. We've had a great time teaching you tricks!"
She laughed warmly, then grew serious.
"Then something that we hadn't really expected happened. One of the big things about what you call magic is that it takes life force to create life force-I mean, it can be amplified or converted, but not actually created. Back home, they breed a sort of hive beastie. Lots of individual bodies, one big life-form. We could 'kill' pieces of it, but it was only like trimming toenails, you see? It died out quick here, and then we actually had to sacrifice animals, harvest their life force."
"Santeria?" Twan asked.
"And the rest. All magic spread out from Africa. A lot of your magicians don't really remember anything; it's like cargocult magic and aeronautics. But we were the beginning. Through sacrifices and rituals-"
"Rituals?"
"Certainly," the were-dolphin said patiently. "Imagine, for example, a cube…" The water fluxed, and a glistening, rubbery cube of water popped up from the surface of the lagoon. It floated there, suspended apparently by the force of mind alone. "Now, divide it into octants…" Concentrating, the Nommo put on an amazing display, dividing the cube of water into ever more complex geometric shapes, while keeping it suspended above the surface. It finally evolved into a crystal castle, its component shapes rotating, dancing, and dividing all at the same time. Her blue-black face was screwed up in concentration.