Dream Park [2] The Barsoom Project

by Larry Niven;Steven Barnes

  “Yeah, well, neither did I.”

  She smiled shyly.

  “Does that make a big difference?” he asked hesitantly.

  “Always,” she said. She stared at that bank of fog as if it concealed answers to every important question. “Oh, girls say that they want strong sensitive men. When we can’t find both, we settle for strong.”

  Some part of him resented that. “Evolution in action?”

  She nodded. “Sure. Deep down inside, we all know that something like this could happen. That the civilization we’d spent so much time and money building up could all come toppling down. And if it did, what would get us through is strength.”

  “Not just physical strength, though.” He was trying to get into her mind-set.

  He expected this to be more entertaining than easy. She was too deep into the Game. He believed she was nice-crazy, harmless crazy. Maybe just lost in the fantasy a little more than most. Somehow the fight with Hippogryph had changed him in her eyes. Her admiration turned him on. Hell, he’d always wanted to be someone’s knight in shining armor.

  Out on the horizon, distant winds shaped the fog, picked it up, and curled it like a gray, storm-tossed ocean. Eviane shuddered, and leaned almost imperceptibly closer.

  “I’m afraid.” Her whisper was so soft it could almost have been a trick of the wind.

  “Are you?”

  He felt, rather than saw, her answering nod. “I don’t know what we’re going to face tomorrow. I know it’s important. I know that everyone is counting on me.” She paused, fumbling for correct phrasing. “Michelle is counting on me.”

  “Michelle?”

  No answer, just: “I’m afraid.”

  Crazier than he’d realized? Yet it felt good to have her lean against him, and even better to slip his arm around her shoulder. At first he thought she would let it remain there, but she stood. “I think we should be heading back,” she said, as if there was something, spoken or unspoken, that had ruined the moment for both of them.

  Max got to his feet. It was not love, but lack of love, that caused madness . . . and Max could not have told where he got that notion. In his mind other notions were equally powerful. Love cannot be forced. And We’re all in this to find help.

  “I think I know what you mean, about being afraid,” he said. “I always get the jitters just before I go out to fight, even though it’s only scripted.”

  She looked at him uncomprehendingly.

  “You haven’t figured it out?”

  “Figured what out?” They had begun walking slowly back to the ice cave. The ground had a snow-cone feel to it, crunching under every step.

  “I’m Mr. Mountain. For the past four years I’ve been a professional wrestler.”

  “Is that good?”

  Bless you, child. “I don’t know. It’s honest farce, I guess. I guess there are maybe seven people who still believe it’s real. Even the grannies are in on the joke. We honestly work hard, and do the best show that we can. I guess it’s as good as I let it be.”

  “So you make a living fake-fighting?”

  “Yup. Three or four nights a week. It was fun at first, but lately . . . ”

  She stopped, leaning against the outer, crystalline wall of the cave. He could hear the others inside, hooting and calling to each other as they played games. “And now you’re tired of playing a role? Tired of playing that game?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I don’t want to be the clown anymore. I want to be the hero. I want the crowds to cheer me, not laugh at me. I just want . . . ” He groped for the words. “Respect.”

  “How does it feel?”

  “That’s what I can’t handle. Every time I go out there in those goddamned purple tights, I feel like I’ve betrayed myself.”

  “You want to be a hero.” Her eyes shone at him. “You are a hero. I saw what you did in there. I saw the way you faced those monsters. I’ve never seen anything more heroic than that. How can you say you’re not a hero?”

  But it’s not real! How crazy . . . ?

  It’s as real as you let it be.

  He closed his eyes, and let her words sink in. He was a hero. Underneath all of the flab, beneath the memories of jeering crowds . . . “So I don’t have to be all muscle?”

  “Silly.” She slapped his hand lightly, held it to her cheek.

  Then she dropped it. Their eyes locked. The contact became entirely too intense. Max saw something, someone else behind those eyes. “Who are you?” he whispered.

  She broke the gaze and turned away. “Eviane.”

  “Who is Michelle?”

  “Michelle?” Her expression became vague again, questioning. “Michelle is . . . someone who needs me. Someone I let down.”

  Max touched her cheek. It was warm, and firm. The tip of his finger painted a little heart there with melted snow.

  It was just the two of them in the little overhang. Max saw some of the others (was that Trianna?) running and playing, absorbed in their break time, running out sore muscles, sharing their fantasies.

  And here he was, with this fragile, powerful girl. She burned with such energy and seemed so terribly weary. She pushed her cheek against his hand, and made a sound in her throat very like a muffled sob. He took her chin in his other hand, and tilted it up, until their faces were only a bare inch apart, just a fraction, just a breath of frosty air separating them. They were sharing the same breath of air now, and then her eyelashes, moist with melted snow and eyes shiny with repressed tears, closed slowly. She tilted her face forward.

  Kissing her was like kissing an artless child.

  Their eyes met, and then hers lowered. “I’m sorry. I’m really please forgive me.”

  “For what? There’s nothing to forgive.” He could feel her contracting into herself like a hermit crab. It disturbed him.

  “I’m so ashamed. If you knew me. If you really knew me.” She looked up at him, trembling. She kept trying to be strong. To be Eviane. Untouchable, unflappable. A woman who could stare down monsters and fight demons from Thunderbird-back.

  He tried to smooth her hair. “We’re all here to heal,” he said, as softly as he could.

  “It’s so hard. I feel so guilty.”

  “I heard something once that helped me through a lot of bad times. It was written by a man named Neal Birt. He said, ‘The only way we can be perfect is to be perfectly willing.’ You’re willing, Eviane, or you wouldn’t be here. If you let Michelle down, or if Michelle let you down, you have to be willing to forgive each other, and get on with life. Things don’t always turn out the way you want them to.”

  “Just like that?” Her voice was wondering. “You can forgive yourself just that easily?”

  “Hahaha! No. Sorry. But I sure love it when someone holds me and reminds me that it can be that easy.”

  “And how often is that?”

  “Not often enough,” he admitted.

  Not nearly often enough.

  She looked up at him. “Max,” she said shyly. “Could we . . . try that kiss again?”

  “Hey, it was fine the first time—”

  “Oh, well, then.”

  “Anything worth doing is worth overdoing.”

  She must have missed the lessons on banter. She only kissed him. But this time there was both child and woman in her kiss, and her arms tightened around him . . .

  Outside in Dream Park’s winter wonderland, the light was fading, but here, in their ice cave, amid small, tremulous gaspings and the rustle of unneeded, unwelcome clothing, a special kind of light was coming up.

  And it was just exactly as warm as they needed it to be.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  OVERVIEW

  Outside the snow might have been howling, but inside the ice cave it was comfortably warm, warmed even more by the unexpected circumstance of a warm-water spring. The cave was half the size of a football field, with vaulted ceilings that sparkled with meter-long icicles.

  Yarnall was doing laps in the s
pring. Charlene had never really noticed, but his lean dark body was actually quite nice, probably the best among the Adventurers. At Falling Angel only first-comers carried muscle like that. If Yarnall hadn’t been so intense and serious, she might have been interested.

  A flash of pain shattered her train of thought.

  “Did that hurt?” Oliver let a little air pressure out of the pneumatic bandage on her knee.

  “I’ll be all right.” She gritted her teeth. Her knees ached, but there was no swelling, and no grinding, and she was damned if she was going to let a little pain get between her and what she hoped was going to be a memorable evening.

  Trianna Stith-Wood and Johnny Welsh dove in tandem. Water splashed high and far. They bobbled up laughing and spitting warm water, playful as seal pups. “Race you!” Trianna yelled, splashing a palmful of water into Johnny’s face.

  “What’s the wager?” he said mischievously.

  “What do you want?” she asked. Their eyes locked for a moment, and then he pushed off and thrashed across the pool.

  “I am a follower of Cthulhu

  And I lead a mad horde

  Searching everywhere for our vanished

  Overlord . . .

  But though we need him more than want him,

  Still we’ll have him for all time

  When his city of Rl’yeh

  Ascends from the sliiimmme!”

  Snow Goose—Gwen—was leading the other Gamers in a series of rousing, bawdy songs. Orson Sands’s voice was surprisingly high and sweet, though it broke occasionally. She sighed. Orson might have been interesting, but the Hippogryph wasn’t letting anyone close.

  He was her personal bloodhound, and a dear boy. She wished he would be less protective, or else make a move on her himself. There was something about this Dream Park that got her hormones running.

  The environments within Falling Angel were designed for survival and for work. One could lose oneself in the thousand little necessities of life, software and momentum and radiation shielding and recycling of toilet paper, and forget that human beings need more than air, water, and food to be whole.

  Then again, Charlene Dula was Ambassador Arbenz’s niece. She was damned rich, and that kept a lot of the men at bay. And there was her height . . .

  What it boiled down to was a set of teen-aged nerves in a twenty-five-year-old body.

  “There. I think that’s all we need.” Ollie slapped the side of her knee gently.

  “And aside from the knee, how am I doing?”

  “Everything is fine, hon.” Ollie cocked his head at her. “My professional opinion is that with plenty of sleep, and the help of your calcium supplements, we’d have your muscular and skeletal system up to Earth normal in about two months. But you’re handling the stress just fine. Now—go and have fun.”

  “Doctor’s orders?” Married, he was. Just testing—

  “Doctor’s orders.”

  She pushed herself up and tested the knee carefully, walked over to the campfire by the side of the spring.

  There had been plenty of driftwood available for a fire, much to nobody’s surprise. In Dream Park, the Gods provided. The Adventurers circled the bonfire, clapping, drinking fruit juice, and finishing their dinners. Two paid special attention to her approach: Hippogryph/Marty, and Snow Goose/Gwen.

  Gwen’s face lit up. She asked, “Is Ollie all finished with you?”

  “So he says.”

  “Good. Kevin?”

  Kevin had been keeping an eye on the spring, watching Trianna and Johnny cavorting. Those two climbed out of the water now. They dried each other primly, but shared the same towel. Johnny wound it into a rope and snapped the tip at Trianna’s bottom. She squealed and ran jiggling to the firelight.

  Gwen said, “Kevin?”

  “Oh . . . yeah?”

  “Have you got the verses?”

  He was a little sad, but forced some jollity into his thin voice. “Sure. You go ahead.”

  Gwen kissed Kevin on the cheek, and ran off to join Ollie. Kevin swung into the next verse:

  “You see I met this crazy Arab,

  And he showed me his book.

  I thought it couldn’t hurt me just to take one

  little look.

  But though I couldn’t read the language.

  It did something to my mind.

  Now I’m searching for something

  I’d rather not fiiind!”

  Charlene kneed Hippogryph in the shoulder. He made a contented grunting sound and scooted aside to make room for her. He had been trying to sing, but the poor darling couldn’t carry a tune if it had handles. He was trying hard to be a Gamer, but just wasn’t quite fitting in.

  “How’s the knee?”

  “Nice,” she said, and extended her leg, flexing it a couple of times. “Feel?”

  Hippogryph probed it gingerly with a forefinger. A little light went on in his eye as he carried the probe down to the meat of her thigh.

  She flexed unobtrusively, she hoped. She had worked long and hard to put firmness there. Too many of the women of Falling Angel never put in their full time on the treadmills and climbing racks. They had rubbery, gelatinous thighs in spite of countless posted cautionary notices and the imposition of penalty points.

  There was even a fashion movement to suggest that it was more attractive, sexier somehow, to be flabby. Ridiculous. Charlene screwed up her courage, and asked: “You like?”

  Hippogryph tried to slap his professional mask back down. “Lady . . .”

  She reached over and touched her forefinger to his lips. “I’ll tell you what. You take a walk with me, tell me all about it?”

  “I don’t know about this.” His face was darkly humorous. He was attracted to her, no questioning that. But duty was calling.

  “Of course, if you don’t want to, I’ll just stroll outside by myself. Maybe I can find a nice terrorist to keep me company.”

  Marty levered himself up. “Truly, whither thou walkest I must walk too.”

  So she walked him over to a quieter corner of the cave. Her bedroll was already out, and a plate of fruit was nearby, just in case. As a girl she had been a Moon Scout. Charlene believed in being prepared.

  Marty squinted. “I’m being seduced, yes?” He sat down, and offered his arm for support. “Oh, well!” A thick black-furred arm as solid as an angle iron.

  They sat together in the shadows. Marty put his arm around her ribcage, and sighed. “I wonder if I can be fired for this.”

  “Bushwah. You’re supposed to be a bodyguard. So, guard my body!” His wide neck was in the crook of her elbow; her fingers played in the thick fur of his chest. She leaned her cheek against his scalp. His hair still smelled a little of good clean sweat from his match with Max. She giggled.

  “What now?”

  “Oh, I was just thinking about watching you throw Max around. He’s a lot bigger than you. You really did well.”

  “Yeah,” he growled, “but they’re the ones off celebrating.”

  She nibbled at his ear. “Oh, we’re allowed to celebrate too. Call it a moral victory.” Another, softer laugh. “Besides, Eviane deserves it. She’s been taking this whole thing so seriously. Then getting killed out, then brought back, and she’s so perfect, she never falls out of character! You’d think it was for real points.”

  “Or real money with a piece of the gross. Eviane’s a strange one.”

  “Oh, she’s nice. I like her.” Charlene paused. “Listen—you’re in Security. You must have seen her files. What do you know about her? Or is that classified?”

  He laughed. “Not much to tell. She’s not an Actress, if that’s what you’re thinking. And Eviane isn’t her real name. But I didn’t pay much attention to the Gamer files before I jumped into the Game. Never saw her before.”

  “What is her real name?”

  He chucked her under the chin. “Now, that is classified.”

  “Aw, pleeease.”

  “Nope.”

/>   She rolled him over on his back, and started looking for places to tickle. “Pretty please with moondust on top . . .”

  “Help!” He was laughing uncontrollably now. “Dammit, stop taking my mind off work—” Her hands started moving slower, more surely, and Marty stopped laughing, suddenly relaxed. “Oh, bloody hell,” he said, and rolled her over.

  “Careful, lover,” she said, eyes alight. “You’ll break something.”

  “The only thing I’m breaking is training,” he said, and pulled her to him. He murmured into her breath, into lips just touching his, “My self-control is legendary.”

  “Half history, half myth. You feel solid enough. Are you fragile?”

  Blood was rushing in Charlene’s ears when they broke the kiss. Very distantly, she could hear the Gamers singing:

  “We will have a mighty orgy

  In the honor of Astarte

  It will be one helluva party

  And it’s good enough for me!

  Give me that old-time religion

  Give me that old-time religion

  Give me that old-time religion

  It’s good enough for me!”

  Yes indeed! she thought contentedly. Yes indeed it was.

  Everything that happened in the Game came to Dr. Vail. Everything, whether it was supposed to or not. Questions of morality or privacy meant little to Vail. Efficiency was everything, and it was efficient for him to know everything that went on. When. Where. What.

  Who.

  Dr. Vail’s jaw hung loose as he watched the monitors. Jagged green-on-green lines shaping hillscapes. Columns of numbers, color-coded. Max Sands and Michelle Sturgeon in a pile of clothing. Yarnall moving smoothly through the warm water. Trianna and Welsh testing a self-inflating mattress to destruction. Bowles in a circle of conversation, breaking off suddenly to bellow a chorus.

  Vail looked stupid; he looked stunned. A camera watching him would have shown no more . . . but Vail’s mind was racing, correlating.

  He had just learned something very strange.

  But what was he to do with it? He would have to tell Griffin something.