by Duncan Long
Chapter 7
Ralph Crocker
I landed in a forest with a belly flop and a clatter of metal. Much as I hate to admit it, I quite often bite the dirt when I enter a SupeR-G on jet. Possibly this would tell someone of the psychologist persuasion something about my personality. Or perhaps it’s a deficit of dexterity, an incipient case of stumbleosis.
However, I normally don’t clatter on my landing. And I creaked like a rusty door hinge as I got to my feet. I looked down and discovered I was encased in a rusty suit of armor. Not a bad idea, I thought. A little extra protection never hurt anything, especially in often-violent SupeR-Gs.
Something clung to my chin — grass?
No.
A neatly trimmed beard that I soon forgot as I feasted my eyes on the electronic world around me. It was another beautiful feat of programming. Although I knew it was only electrons coursing through a computer somewhere and assembled within my brain, it was all a highly detailed and perfect illusion. Someone had gone to a lot of work to create this wooded area.
Turning around, I spied an ill-kept yard and a run-down thatch-roofed cottage of 1800 vintage, I guessed, making my armor from a much earlier period a bit of a mystery. In front of the house, under a large oak, was a dining table set haphazardly with broken crockery lying around it. This all took second place to the creatures sitting at the table. The man-sized rabbit I recognized as the March Hare. The wild-eyed little man next to him with the tall headgear had to be the Mad Hatter.
Which one was Huntington?
Or was he even here?
They noisily toasted themselves, oblivious to the small furry creature lying in a saucer between them.
“Sleeping on a dish must be very uncomfortable for the Dormouse,” the young lady who materialized next to me said. “Don’t you think?”
“Yeah,” I said, eyeing her closely for some hint if she might be Huntington. There was no resemblance at all to his picture or to the last incarnation I’d just seen him in. But I’d been in enough SupeR-Gs to know that he might be a cross player. It would be a mistake to assume he could only be one of the male players. So, for all I knew, he was standing right next to me.
Or not.
He could be anyone or anything. He might be the oak tree, for all I knew. Finding him was going to get tricky. Of course if it was easy, then Death wouldn’t have hired me and I’d be dead.
Time to quit complaining.
The young lady spoke again, “I said, ‘Sleeping on a dish must be very uncomfortable for the Dormouse. Don’t you think?”
“Uh, yes,” I muttered.
“I guess Dormouse is asleep,” Alice continued. “I suppose it doesn’t mind. Come on let’s join them.” She took my hand in her cool grip and pulled me along toward the expansive table.
Despite the length of the table, the Dormouse, Hatter, and Hare were crowded together at one corner of it.
“No room,” the Hatter and Hare cried as Alice and I approached.
“There’s plenty of room,” Alice insisted, sitting down in a large armchair at one end of the table. She pulled me down into the chair beside her where I sat with the clang and clatter of armor.
“Who are you supposed to be,” the Hatter demanded. “You’re not a part of this story. You must be in the wrong SupeR-G.”
“There’s always room for another player,” Alice said. Then, winking at me she said in a low voice, “Besides, I have taken a fancy to him. I wonder what he has hidden under that oversized codpiece.”
Normally I’m as risqué as the next guy, but I felt a blush creep up my neck from Alice’s remark. Hearing a demure young lady make lurid suggestions seemed obscene and had taken me off guard.
“Who are you,” the Hatter demanded of me again.
“I’m the, uh, White Knight,” I mumbled.
“Have some wine,” the March Hare said before the Hatter could say anything else to me.
Alice glanced round the table. “I don’t see any wine.”
“There isn’t any,” the March Hare replied.
“Then it wasn’t very civil of you to offer it,” Alice said, trying her best to appear angry while glancing my way to be sure I was watching her.
“It wasn’t very civil of you to bring this joker to our party without being invited,” the March Hare countered.
“Let’s get naked,” the Hatter said.
“Out of character,” the Dormouse protested, suddenly sitting up, wide awake. He squinted at me a moment and then scuttled off the table and fell onto a chair with a loud plunk. His disembodied voice rose from behind the tablecloth. “We’ve got to stay in character if this is going to be any fun. And this is supposed to be a children’s story. No lewd comments, please.”
“It’s her fault for bringing an extra guest,” the Hatter cried.
“I didn’t know it was your place to decide,” Alice said. “Besides, the table’s laid for a great many more than three people.” She looked me in the eye when she said laid, leaving no chance for me to miss her double entendre.
“Your hair wants cutting,” the Hatter said, fingering a wicked-looking dagger that somehow had been hidden in his jacket. “Or maybe your throat.”
“You shouldn’t make impertinent threats,” Alice countered, drawing a Webley from her garter belt and brandishing the revolver carelessly. “Never bring a knife to a gunfight. How about a little lead with your crumpets, dearie?”
I held my breath, unsure what to say. If Alice shot a simm that game programmer had created, nothing would be lost. But if she shot a real person who was in the SupeR-G on jet — the way I was — it might very well be fatal to him.
Or me.
The March Hare glanced wildly back and forth, leaning back in his chair to stay out of the potential crossfire that seemed imminent. “Now, children. Mustn’t hurt anyone. Tell me, why is a computer like a writing-desk?”
“I’m glad you’ve begun asking riddles,” Alice said, setting her revolver on the table beside her as she returned to character. “I believe I can guess that one.”
“Do you mean that you think you have the answer?” the March Hare asked.
“No.”
“But you said —”
“I mean I know I have the answer.”
“You might,” the Dormouse said, his voice groggy as if he were talking in his sleep. He peered over the table edge and spoke with one eye still closed. “And then again, you may be on another flight of fugal fancy.”
“Have you guessed the riddle?” the Hatter asked.
“No, I haven’t a clue,” Alice replied. “What’s the answer?”
“But you said you knew the answer,” I protested.
“That was only to fake everyone out,” Alice replied. “So what is the answer?”
“I haven’t the slightest,” the Hatter said.
“Of course not,” Alice said. “It’s the March Hare’s riddle.”
“That’s too bad,” said the March Hare. “Because I don’t have the slightest clue to the answer, either.”
Alice sighed. “I think I might do something better with my time.” She stood and took me by the hand. “Come with me. I have something to show you.”
“Oh, oh,” the Hatter said, raising an eyebrow and winking at me. “I bet I know just what it is.”
I started to speak, when the Dormouse interrupted. “Treacle. I want a clean cup. Let’s all move one place.” He leaped to the tabletop as he spoke, teetering on the edge.
I rose to my feet with Alice still tugging at my hand. I didn’t have time to get involved in a tête-à-tête in cyberspace. On the other hand, I wasn’t totally sure that Alice wasn’t really Huntington, so I didn’t want to lose track of her/him, either.
The Dormouse scooted over to the next place setting, staggering on hind legs in an odd, very un-mouse-like way. What should I expect from a talking mouse?
The March Hare settled into the Dormouse’s former place, spilling a cup of tea in the process. The liquid fo
rmed a rivulet that flowed a short distance to pool into a tiny sea on the already stained land of the tablecloth.
“Surely you two aren’t going to leave our party,” the Hatter said to Alice, plunking himself into a new chair.
“I’m tired of this,” Alice replied. “It’s always just the same old thing.”
“You forget the time we had an orgy in the pasture,” the Hatter protested, his head jerking so violently it threw his hat askew. “Now that was fun.”
“I wasn’t here that time,” Alice protested. “Some other player.” Turning toward me, she confided, “A nice girl like me would never do anything like that.”
“Wrong,” the March Hare said, again drawing his knife and jumping onto the table. “You were there and now you’re lying to impress the White Knight.”
“Was not.” Alice coolly raised her revolver and placed a slug between the eyes of the March Hare before I could make a move to stop her.
The creature fell over backward, a gaping hole in its head.
“Happiness is a warm gun,” Alice told me, blowing the last of the smoke from the barrel. “Anyone else want to argue?”
“No,” said the Dormouse, feigning sleep.
“I’m stopping this game,” the Hatter said. “This has gone too far. I’m leaving if you can’t obey the rules.”
“So long then,” Alice said, pointing the muzzle of her firearm at his head.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “You —”
The gun discharged with a blast that echoed back from a distant hillside. The meadow became ominously silent as the Hatter’s lifeless body fell to the ground.
The Dormouse continued to feign sleep and I stood silent.
Alice grabbed my hand again. “Don’t worry your mind about the Hatter or the Hair.”
“They were just simms,” the Doormouse agreed. “After you play a few times, you realize that.”
“So no harm’s done,” Alice said. “Come on, we’ve got to leave right now. The Jabberwocky’s coming. I can hear it.”
“Beware the Jabberwock, my son,” the Dormouse chanted, dancing around a large cup, making motions with his front paws as he continued, “The jaws that bite, the claws that catch.”
There was a roar from the forest that rattled the crockery and made my knees feel weak.
“Come on!” Alice cried over the still-chanting Dormouse’s litany. “We don’t have a second to lose if we’re going to escape from it. It’s a killer and it’s very, very fast.”
There was another roar that punctuated her warning. Whatever the creature was, it was now a whole lot closer.
Alice said nothing more but instead turned and ran, her dress flapping behind her. I snatched the Dormouse from the table along with my helmet and followed her, my armor clanking as I sprinted toward the maze of oaks.
The roaring behind us grew louder. I ran even faster.
The Dormouse squealed and hid in my helmet.
Chapter 8
Commander Jacque Thuriot de La Tribunat
Bodyguards become unemployed when their charges expire. Had I not glanced to my left, my job would have ended quite abruptly. As it was, I did turn to my left, studiously ignoring Emperor Napoleon VI as the monarch directed the crowds’ attention toward the newly constructed hypergenerator.
With nearly all eyes in the pitch-black theater gazing toward the massive construct of glass and wire, the assassin, who had edged his way through the entourage surrounding the emperor, drew the plas-steel stiletto from beneath his great coat and readied to attack.
“I’m here today with great pleasure,” Napoleon VI said, his amplified voice thundering through the hall.
“Bogie on the stage,” I whispered, my warning carried to my men over the transponder embedded in my jaw. “Move in — now!” Reflexively, I shoved through the crowd, placing myself between the assassin and my emperor, knocking Napoleon VI to the floor in the process, interrupting the speech in mid-sentence. The gasps of those around him went unnoticed by me; my whole attention was focused on the poison-tipped blade that glinted in the bright spotlight bathing the podium.
Seeing me blocking his way, the assassin took a step back to size me up, dropping into a crouch and grasping the blade to his side in a style that marked him as a highly trained killer. Those standing around us drew back; a woman screamed at the sight of the blade.
I swallowed, wishing the Emperor had kept his praetorian guards around him instead of ordering them to remain at the sides of the stage where they were now helpless to do anything quickly enough to stop the attack. They were pushing through the crowd, but not making great headway, and it would be too late by the time they got here for them to offer me any help.
“Commander, it’s going to be a few seconds before we can get to you,” the voice of my nearest assistant whispered over the radio.
I made no reply; I knew I was on my own for the next few critical seconds.
A lot can happen in a few seconds, especially when your opponent has a wicked looking dagger in his hand.
I blocked everything out, focusing on my opponent. The crowd was too dense for me to risk drawing my pistol; a stray shot would be disastrous. That meant I’d have to disarm the assassin with my bare hands, or at least slow him down enough so the guards and my men could be on top of him.
Suddenly his blade darted toward my chest.
I sidestepped, my hands reflexively grasping for the killer’s knife hand. For a moment I almost succeeded in restraining my adversary, but then the assassin changed the direction of his thrust, circling around for a jab at my chest. There was a momentary thump of the point of the weapon against my breast, and then the attacker broke away, circling for a follow-up jab.
I circled, keeping myself between the assassin and the emperor. Now that he knows about my ballistic vest, he’ll try for my groin or face. I instinctively raised my right hand to my throat and lowered my left in front of him, keeping my feet spread so I could move quickly without loosing my balance.
The assassin lunged forward, arm extended as far as it would reach. I swung to the side, the blade slashing past my neck, missing fatal contact by just an inch. I grasped the assassin’s wrist before he delivered a follow-up backward slash. For a moment my fingers failed to gain purchase on his silk sleeve — and then I had a secure grip, tight around his wrist and lower hand.
“Got you,” I whispered, throwing my weight to the side before the assassin could twist his hand free for another thrust. I swung my opponent’s wrist to the side, jerking back hard as my foe’s arm crossed my chest. My action was rewarded with the dull snap of the killer’s elbow.
His arm suddenly useless, the assassin exploited an ancient Judo move, throwing himself backward, using my strength against me. The two of us tumbled toward the floor; the crowd surrounding us scrambling to avoid the deadly blade skidding across the stage.
As we hit the floor, I leveraged our momentum to roll once, landing on top of the assassin, pinning his face to the floor while restraining the man’s good arm. I pulled back my fist to deliver a blow that would knock the man unconscious and then felt him convulsing in my grasp.
Too late. The killer’s flushed cheek and the convulsions rippling through his body betrayed the first stages of cyanide poisoning.
I released the killer, swearing under my breath as I rose to my feet. “This one’s taken the dose,” I whispered to those on the security band.
“Loupé?” my assistant asked over the radio.
“Looks like it. Probably ingested the poison just before mounting his attack.” I pulled my gaze from the killer whose death spasms racked his frame. “Everyone stay alert. There’re probably more.” There always were; the Loupé operated in packs.
My eyes darted around the stage, the electronic circuits tied into my brain scanning faces for a match with known terrorists.
There! I warned myself as a positive ID flashed inside my brain, causing a red outline to superimpose itself over the image of a man half
hidden in the crowd at the front of the stage. I caught the man’s eyes just before the would-be killer turned and leaped into the crowd below, trying to lose himself in the now confused throng.
“Another bogy traveling down the center aisle in front of the stage,” I said into my radio, pushing a spider-legged news camera out of the way to follow the criminal. I could leave the Emperor because his praetorian guards had finally reached the stage, surrounding him with cold steel and Kevlar, their guns at the ready. “He’s headed for the south entrance,” I added as he turned down a row that was now empty.
I mentally switched the frequency of my radio to the band the guards at the south entrance used. “Stop the man in the green velvet suit — he’s headed your way. Use your swords.” I ordered.
I hoped the guards would have the good sense not to shoot; with as many people as there were on the stage and throughout the packed auditorium, a single stray shot would cause a disaster. It was good the emperor insisted on arming the noblesse d’épée both with pulse rifles as well as out-dated swords.
I leaped from the stage and for a moment the lone Loupé was lost from my view. I ran toward the south entrance and spied him again; the guards had managed to cut off his retreat from the room. The assassin paced between them and me like a caged animal. Then he stopped, took two steps toward me, and froze.
The guards spread out, ceremonial swords in hand, half encircling the criminal while taking care to stay out of reach of the dagger pulled from his vest. Seeing he was trapped, the assassin’s eyes locked with mine as I approached.
He stood at attention and saluted me with his dagger and for a moment I though he might surrender. But instead, with a grim smile, he plunged the blade into his throat, tumbling to the floor where he writhed for a few moments as a pool of blood quickly formed around him.
“Back to your posts,” I ordered the guards who ringed the fallen assassin. “There may be more assassins in the crowd.”
The guards retreated to take up their positions at the exits of the hallway. I searched the crowd for another would-be killer, even though I knew my effort would now most likely be futile. If there had been others, they would have managed to escape back into the anonymity of the crowd by now. As I scanned the faces on the stage, I spoke over the radio band reserved for my men. “Anyone else got any positive IDs?”