The Moon Maze Game

by Larry Niven

  “And how does this affect us?” Scotty asked.

  “It might not.”

  “Sure it does,” Wayne said. “No one is going to mount a room like this without a purpose.”

  “What I meant is that it might affect a coming clue rather than a previous one. If the Moon people got something that allowed them to attack Mars as Mars has been attacking Luna…”

  “For instance,” Maud said, “Cavorite.”

  “Yes,” Angelique agreed. “Cavorite. Who knows what Xavier might have had in store for us.”

  Wayne shook his head. “That probably won’t work now.”

  “I see it,” Sharmela said. “I think I see it.”

  “What?” Wayne asked.

  “A war. We landed in the middle of a war. A war that has been going on for centuries. Maybe millennia.”

  “Cavor’s technology…?”

  “Look at these screens,” the Indian girl said. “The design of the ships is kinda familiar, isn’t it?”

  “Moon ships,” Wayne said. “Powered by Cavorite, attacking Mars. Crushing Martian cities.”

  “As Mars crushed human cities? We saw no evidence of that when we left Earth.”

  Angelique was getting excited. “So nobody spoke of it … directly. But the comments about ‘the war’ and ‘the unpleasantness’—it was the War of the Worlds.”

  “Holy shit,” Mickey said. “And Mars is pissed at the Moon. And their armada is on its way.”

  “I’d say that it’s almost here. There’s our time clock, people. If we were playing a game, we’d have to get out of here before the Martians blow us to hell.”

  Wayne cocked his head a bit sideways. “Wait a minute … that means that Xavier had to be prepared to simulate an all-out Martian assault. Darla?”

  “Maybe,” she said. “He’d have to shake the dome without damaging it. Sound, smell … big effects.”

  “Stage explosives,” Scotty said. “If we can get to them, they might be very useful indeed. Good work. Damned good work. Let’s get going.”

  32

  Breach

  1457 hours

  Ten men and women had gathered beneath the harsh lights and sharp shadows of Heinlein’s northern motor pool. The newcomers might have been confused by Piering’s frantic calls, but all were committed to the task at hand. He recognized Gypsy from his own security team. Then there were Hazel and Lee, both tough women, a Communications tech and a Fabrication specialist. Then an ex-cop named Chambers, a guy from Food Services and an He3 miner.

  “I’m sure you’re wondering why we called you here,” the big man said. “You are all either Security, or have police or military experience. All checked the little box on your contracts agreeing to serve in a Security capacity if needed. Well, you’re needed.”

  “The dome?” the lanky miner asked. This was Jankins, probably the oldest man in the room. Tall, pale and looked like he was made of catgut wrapped around barbed wire.

  “The dome,” Piering agreed. “The Beehive, currently called the gaming dome, is now controlled by an aggressive threat calling themselves ‘Neutral Moresnot,’ professional kidnappers with allegiance to no nation or cause. We’ll call them ‘the pirates’ for simplicity’s sake.”

  “Fatalities?” the miner asked, his narrow face pinched.

  “One that we know of.”

  Chambers scowled. “Who?”

  “One of theirs, thank God. We think his name was Victor Sinjin. British expat, mercenary, career criminal. In a few minutes, we hope that the gamers inside the Beehive will be able to blind the pirates, keep them from seeing what is happening outside the dome long enough for us to get there, get in, and take them out. There may be explosives planted in the dome, so our rescue team has to wear pressure suits in case of … accidents. The use of lethal force is authorized.”

  He paused, scanning their faces in challenge. If there was anyone who might object to killing, this was the time to speak. No one did. “Any questions?”

  “Yes,” asked Hazel, the short, round woman from Communications. “What are we facing in terms of weaponry, honey? And what exactly are our own resources?”

  “Damned good question,” Piering replied. “We believe that the opposition is armed with makeshift weapons. These include air guns and possibly crossbows of advanced design.” He paused significantly. “Made here on Luna.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Are you saying that somebody here helped?”

  Concerned faces twisted into ugly masks. In an instant, the rescue party had transformed into a lynch mob. Piering raised his hand for silence. “We aren’t sure what we’re dealing with, and shouldn’t leap to any conclusions. The point is not who might have turned against us. The point is that we have good people in bad hands, and need to do something about that—now.”

  He waved his thick hands above one of the workbenches, crowded with a hastily assembled array of weaponry. “Nail guns are lethal, but only at short range. No more than five meters. We’ve reworked a half dozen handheld welding lasers, but they aren’t lethal at more than a dozen meters—but can blind up to a hundred. The most promising possibility?” He raised a bulky pistol-like device. “Used by engineering. Piton device. If it can throw a steel arrowhead into rock at fifty meters, it can kill a man.”

  He braced his meaty arms on the bench. “Here’s what I ask. Everyone here has fired a weapon. I’m not asking you to stand down if you haven’t fired a piton. But find the weapon that is closest to something you’ve already used. We have maybe an hour before we get the green light. Practice. And keep practicing. And then we’ll take it from there.”

  “What’s the entry plan?” Hazel asked.

  “Two teams,” Piering said. “One will enter at ground level, G. I’ll take a team up the side to level C. That’s where Asako Tabata’s body is. I think the pirates might be a little spooked by that, and give us a clear shot.”

  * * *

  Beneath the golden dome of Xavier’s gaming complex, the mood was just as serious.

  “Are you ready?” Kendra asked.

  “Almost,” Xavier said. He waved his little hands over a projection table, and a display of Heinlein base and its associated domes blossomed. “This image is ten hours old—just before the game began. It’s been shadow-adjusted to be identical with what the pirates would expect to see right now. Unless I’m very mistaken, they should suffice.”

  “Good,” Kendra said. She peered down more closely. A hundred-meter perimeter around the dome had been established, but there were holographic gawkers just beyond that limit. Controlling Lunies was like herding cats.

  “Kendra,” Xavier began, and then paused. “I assume I have permission to call you by your first name?”

  “Knock yourself out.”

  “Once we’ve regained control of communications—”

  “I wouldn’t call it control. But we can get more than we have now.”

  “Fine,” Xavier said. “Once we have more control, there are things we can do.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “Let’s just say that it isn’t a good idea to attack a mad scientist in his own workshop,” Xavier said.

  “I like the sound of that.” Kendra said. “What exactly did you have in mind?”

  * * *

  The flame of Darla’s adrenaline had burnt down to a dim and dismal coal. Her stomach felt sore, her mouth tasted as if she’d drunk a cup of sour milk.

  She had led the eight gamers to bubble 100-G. This was a small, partially furnished sphere strewn with communications and electronics gear. She thumped her palms against a foamed plastic plate and popped out a section of wall. In they crawled on all fours.

  “Wish they’d make the access panels a little easier to access, dammit,” the former mermaid said. “Come on, hurry up.”

  “This is a communications substation?” Scotty asked.

  “Yes. And if I can change the protocols we should be able to communicate with the outside a bit. Enough, anyway. The
voice and image feeds may be scrambled, but we’ve got some emergency hard lines in place. Just vanilla stuff, but I can get to them.”

  Darla walked around the dome, holding her wrist out in front of her as if she were dowsing for water. Reading the wiggles on the monitor imprinted on her cuff. An anxious pause and then she smiled. “We have a signal. Xavier is sending files.”

  “What kind of files?” Angelique asked.

  “Visual files.” Her smile broadened. “Kendra added a note: ‘Sow confusion among the ungodly.’” Her expression grew sober again. “But I can’t do it from here. Someone has to go out into the interstices and find a hard-line video input.” She made a face. “I hate to say it, but I’m the only somebody who can do that.”

  “And?” Wayne said. “If the gaps are full of pirates?”

  She patted his cheek. “Oh, sweetie. You’re worried about me. I’ll just have to figure something out.”

  Darla tapped at the floor until she found a section that thumped hollowly. She used her multitool’s flat-headed wedge to pry up an edge, and slid down into darkness, up to her shoulders. “Seal this behind me,” she said.

  “Darla?” Sharmela asked. “How safe are these bubbles? What I mean to ask is, what would happen if the pirates depressurized the dome?”

  Darla sighed. “Tell the truth, I’m not certain. By the time the Beehive was opened to the public in a couple months, everything would have been tested. The materials are up to standard … that’s not the problem. The problem is that we’re in kind of a transitional phase right now. May have been some shortcuts to speed things up for the game. I can tell you this: All of the doors are flanged so that air pressure will keep them sealed in the case of a pressure drop. You should be safe.”

  “Not you, though.”

  “I’ll be right back. Scotty? Seal this door after me, would you?”

  “You’ve got it,” Scotty said.

  Darla climbed downward. All around her was darkness and vague, hollow echoes.

  She wiggled through tight spaces, breathing hard. She climbed up the side of one bubble, and stopped. Listened. Machine sounds. Fluid in pipes. Humming of wires. And distant human voices, fractured into echoes like water trickling over rocks.

  She continued to climb, until she reached a stenciled number: 103-G. She pressed the side of her head hard against the wall, and held her breath. From within, a steady, thrumming sound … but no footsteps, and no human voices.

  “Easy. Easy…”

  She crawled up the side, lost her grip, and started to slide around the bubble’s curved roof. She looked down. It seemed to Darla that the bubble structure went down forever, dissolving in shadows somewhere below in moonrock. She gripped at the walls with fingernail-shredding strength.

  “Shit fire!” Pain shot down her fingers, and as soon as she stopped her slide, she sucked at her fingers, disgusted at the tears drooling from the corners of her eyes.

  At a spot where the rim of one bubble’s roof neared the floor of one just above, several cables ran out of the bubble’s side, meeting in a knot before branching off again. She used her multitool to tap into a little juncture box, and attached her PDA. If the pirates had scrambled the com field, then they probably had the capacity to unscramble it to scan for intruders. With just a drop of luck, this might fool them.

  Suddenly, muffled sounds from the bubble above her. Pirates?

  Terrified but determined, she triggered the data transfer, keeping her breathing shallow until an UPLOAD COMPLETE message flashed.

  She wiggled back through the spaces, until she reemerged at 100-G, the gamer bubble. She knocked three times, and the door lifted out.

  She sealed the door behind her. “I did it.” She rolled over on her back, gasping open-mouthed.

  “Good girl,” Scotty said.

  The gasps turned into shivers. Darla rolled onto her side and clutched herself. “Give me a minute, hon? I think I’m gonna throw up.”

  Wayne’s fingers brushed her cheek. “I’ll buy you a gold-plated barf bag later. What’s our next step?”

  Darla swallowed air, forced herself to calm. “We have to let Heinlein know that it’s done,” she said. “Then it’s up to them.”

  * * *

  The Moresnot pirates had combed their way through the rubble of bubble 62-E without finding either gamers or evidence of their passage. In the last hours Thomas Frost had pinballed through a series of emotions: tension, joy, frustration, fear. Anger at Shotz and the mercenaries he had hired. And finally cautious optimism that they had behaved in a professional fashion, creating alternate plans when the old ones went south. They did not fall apart, and that gave Thomas hope.

  “Celeste?” Shotz asked. “What do you have on the monitors?”

  Thomas watched the big woman check a handheld monitor, switching rapidly from view to view around the dome. Viewing over her shoulder, the monitor displayed rocks, the curve of domes and spidery collisions of light and shadow. The line of her jaw was too strong, too masculine. He couldn’t imagine being in bed with her, although he had the sense that she and the intimidating Shotz were lovers. Nothing said. Nothing in their body language. Just a sense. And that put a picture into his head that churned his stomach.

  “Nothing,” she said. “No changes. But no bad news, either.”

  “Small favors. Thomas?”

  “Right here,” Frost said, grateful that the image of a quarter ton of writhing beef was stricken from his mind.

  “Contact your brother, ask if he has received any word.”

  Thomas tapped a code sequence into his sleeve’s com link, and waited.

  * * *

  In Doug Frost’s cell, a rusty voice began to sing “No High Ground.” His wallet and its built-in communicator lay in a basket on the table, along with the other contents of his pockets. A star-shaped light glowed on and off and on again, in rhythm with the song.

  “No high ground, no high ground, no high ground anymore…”

  He looked up, but could do nothing.

  “Kendra,” the security guard barked into his communicator. “Mr. Frost is receiving a message from inside the dome. What should I do?”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  Doug looked up at her with no expression on his long dark face as Kendra entered, breathing hard from her half-kilometer sprint around the dome’s rim.

  “What does your brother want, Douglas?”

  He peered up at her, expression unreadable. He gestured toward the wallet. “You would have to let me answer to find out.”

  She shook her head. “I’m sure you’d like that. Too risky.” She turned to the guard. “Keep him isolated.”

  * * *

  Thomas Frost punched a slender finger down at his PDA, ending its attempt to reach his brother. “I’m getting nothing,” he said.

  “What does that mean?” Shotz asked.

  “They may have captured him.”

  Celeste nodded. “I agree that we should assume the worst. That just makes it more important to catch the Prince.” She turned to Stavros, their communications man. “I want you to open the emergency channel, see if we have any word. Perhaps we cannot speak, but we can still listen.”

  “At once,” Stavros said, and hunkered in a corner of the room.

  She turned back to Thomas. “We will capture the Prince. And once we do, we can force Heinlein base to free your brother.”

  He hadn’t the slightest illusion that this gargoyle gave a damn about Douglas as a person, but it made good operational sense to pretend to. Bitch.

  She turned and glanced at him, almost as if he had said that word aloud. Her face was neutral, but somehow he felt as if she was grinning inside. A death’s head grin. God, this woman frightened him

  “Nothing from the external feeds?” Shotz asked.

  “Nothing,” she replied. “I guess Douglas remained silent, after all.”

  Thomas stiffened. “Of course he did, but I could not expect mercenaries to understand such a t
hing. We are patriots.”

  Shotz smiled thinly. “Of course. She meant no harm.”

  Thomas hoisted his air gun. “Let’s get them.”

  Thomas opened the bubble door, exiting to the next chamber. After he left, Shotz turned. “Stavros,” he said. “What do you have for me?”

  * * *

  The Heinlein base motor pool was a flurry of activity as Piering’s volunteer brigade checked their weapons, experimented firing pitons and lasers against makeshift targets. Some tinkered with their suits, trying to get a bit more flexibility and mobility out of the polyplastic joints.

  “We have the go-ahead,” he said. “Our people have cut into the communications lines, and right now these bastards are blind. Let’s hit them.”

  “Yes, sir!” the brigade called. And if they didn’t snap to attention as might a more practiced unit, enthusiasm compensated for group experience.

  They piled into the Scorpion transport, and the pressure seals battened down. The Scorpion hissed and then levitated on the track, and slid forward into an airlock, which sealed behind them.

  “This is Scorpion two three three,” Piering said. “Awaiting permission for egress.”

  “This is control. You are cleared for egress through to maintenance track two-two. Good luck.”

  “Amen to that,” Piering said.

  The airlock lights cycled between red, yellow and green. The outer door opened, and the Scorpion slid forward. Eight men and two women looked out at the lunar landscape as the Scorpion progressed. It swung around the track and headed toward the dome. Ground level. Level G.

  * * *

  Although he did not need to, Shotz stood near Stavros. He stood straight, hands clasped behind his back, lecturing an unseen audience.

  “Attention, Prince Ali,” he said. “This message is being sent over all communications frequencies within the dome. Your father has requested that we convey the following message to you: ‘Death does not sound a trumpet.’”