Dream Park

by Larry Niven

  "Echoes of a Golden Age," Ollie said soberly.

  There were roast pork, yams, and leafy vegetables only S.J. could name. Although the meat had been tended largely by the women, it was divided and served by the men. Larry Garret, a Cleric almost as dark as the natives, passed around a hubcap full of steaming maize. It was golden, delicious, and its kernels dripped with some sort of liquefied fat. Garret told Oliver, "If Lopez keeps feeding us like this, I don't care what he hits us with."

  "Amen to that, Brother." Oliver muffled a belch. "Pass me the beer, will you?" Garret handed him the big gourd. The beer was warm and flat, but Oliver quaffed it with evident pleasuro.

  The Garners squatted or sat on the dirt and ate and talked and laughed. Some of the natives were eating too, but many just stood back and watched. Oliver had waved away the offer of lukewarm raw milk. "No, I really don't think I'm ready for pig milk, thank you." The native waiter had pretended not to understand and passed on. It was probably cow's or goat's milk, Ollie thought, but you never knew.

  Some of the warriors were pushing something out on a plat­form. A massive television set with a broken screen. Gun-Person walked slowly out of his hut and raised his knobby arms. First the natives, then the Garners, fell silent.

  He spoke for almost a minute. Then Kasan stood and trans­lated. "Pigibidi wishes to demonstrate his own magic to the magi­cians here gathered, that they might see what once was, and un­derstand." Polite applause greeted this announcement, and Kasan waited it out. "Once this box brought us pictures and sounds from all over the world, yes, even beyond its edge. Our enemies have rendered it worthless, except when our great chief uses his own strength to animate it. See now his greatness."

  Pigibidi squatted on his heels, and began to chant, shuffling his feet in a strange rhythm. Now his chanting grew strong, now it dropped so low that they couldn't hear it at all. Slowly he uncoiled from his squat, mouth opened so wide that his facial wrinkles seemed to radiate outward from it like the rays of the sun. A gurgling howl rose from his throat. Tendons and veins stood out in bunches from the old man's neck as the howl reverberated from huts and trees.

  In the bowels of the dead television set, merely a mid-twentieth-century flatscreen model with shattered tubes and a crusted inte­rior, a light began to grow. It pulsed like the mating glow of a firefly, shifted from red to orange to bright yellow, and the yellow curled from inside the set as a tongue of flame might leap from a fire, and there was suddenly a flat bank of opaque amber fog at least five times the size of the set.

  The old man rolled his head in great circles. His eyes became glassy, his body trembled as if shaken by wind or cold. But he danced on.

  Now the ground itself shook with the force of his incantations, and as it did, shapes formed in the smoke, dark winged shapes that seemed to wobble to the rhythms as they flew. There were perhaps a dozen small shapes within the cloud, flapping their

  wings with seeming awkwardness, darting and climbing, becoming more solid by the second.

  Gun-Person screamed and fell to the ground, twitching like one helpless in the grip of an epileptic seizure. He foamed at the mouth and clutched helplessly at the air, fingers crooked into talons.

  From the corner of his eye Oliver saw Chester go taut, an in­stant before the first of the giant hornbills emerged from the smoke.

  "Weapons!" Henderson screamed, his voice all but lost amid the screams of the villagers. Then the birds were among them. Three of the Garners were already swathed in green light and fighting back.

  Mary-em was the first to attack. She whipped the halberd off her back and assembled the threaded handle just as a wickedly long beak snapped at her. She hit the ground and rolled, and as the bird wheeled clumsily for another pass she gutted it. Its death-squawk sounded like a maniac laugh as it plunged to earth.

  "One down!" she cackled triumphantly. She took a firmer grip on the halberd. "Here, birdie, birdie. .

  A hornbill swooped at Tony. The Thief stood paralyzed with shock. The bird flew right by him. "What the hell?" he said to nobody in particular. Acacia pulled him to the ground, none too gently.

  "Listen." Her voice was a terse hiss. "You're a Thief, so they're going to have a hard time seeing you. But your skills won't help the rest of us much right now, so just stay out of it, okay?" She jumped to her feet and joined the fray.

  Tony stayed on his stomach and watched her go, his expression ugly.

  Eames, the massive warrior, stood with his back to one of the huts, and three wall-eyed black children cowered behind him. One of the hornbills swooped in from the air while another approached on the ground, waddling forward and thrusting its three-foot beak at him with a noisy honking sound. Eames thrust at the airborne bird first, and as he did, the one on the ground bit at his wrist. The green glow around his hand immediately went pink. Eames said, "Damn!," and hastily switched his sword to his left hand. As if sensing his increased desperation, the birds began to worry him more boldly, taking turns to draw his attack, then pecking at him.

  The grounded bird prepared to lunge for his neck as a bolt of

  red flame struck it in the side. Immediately it caught fire and flopped away trailing smoke and the smell of singed feathers. Eames took advantage of the moment's diversion to skewer the other bird when it flapped back in for a bite. It cawed in pain and expired.

  Wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, Eames looked around for his benefactor. Alan Leigh ran over. "Are you all right?"

  Eames nodded. "Just caught me one on the wrist. I'll get one of the Clerics to fix it up as soon as the fight's over."

  "Good," Leigh said sincerely. "I don't want you out of the Game too soon." He spun around and ran toward Gwen and Oliver, who were protecting the unconscious Gun-Person.

  Bowan the Black had taken a stand at the far end of the roast­ing pit. As a hornbill swooped, honking, its brown wings beating the air like those of a condor, he called fire from the pit, engulfing the unfortunate fowl.

  Chester and Gina stood back to back casting glowing spears of light. Several of Gina's missed, but those that scored shore off wings and heads. Chester's beams were deadly accurate.

  Most of the Clerics and S.J., the Engineer, hid beneath one of the huts. This wasn't their work. When an inquisitive bird thrust its beak beneath the building and poked around for them, S.J. used a makeshift spear to keep it away. The bird, angered, squawked to its companions and several of the monstrous horn-bills joined it. They butted and slammed into the hut. The walls shook.

  "It's collapsing!" S.J. screamed. "Everybody out!"

  As the last body squirmed out from underneath, the building's supports gave way; an entire side collapsed, and the rest of the building followed it down.

  Garners ran in all directions.

  Across the courtyard, Maibang fled from an attacking hombill. He was too slow. As its claws gripped his shoulders he screamed in pain and terror. "Please! Help me!" The bird flexed mighty wings and pulled Kasan into the air.

  Bowan gaped. "Chester! We're losing the guide!"

  "The hell we are. Gina! Bowan! Join hands with me!"

  Maibang's thrashing feet brushed the roof of a hut.

  Hastily the three linked up, and Chester intoned solemnly, "We

  three meld strengths, we three meld minds. Demon of the air we find blocked before and bound behind."

  The hornbill reacted as if it had run into an invisible wall. Brown feathers flew as it beat its wings helplessly, trying to escape the grip of three mighty wizards.

  Chester smiled with grim satisfaction. "Return unharmed that which is ours, and you may flee with your life, thing of evil."

  Whooping with frustration, the bird at last opened its claws, and Kasan fell butt-first through the straw roof of a hut. Straw flew as if a bale of hay had exploded, but when the dust had set­tled the guide limped into sight with a huge grin on his face. He waved his hand and Chester waved back, screaming at him to lie low.

  Most of the remaining birds
were wounded and dying. Acacia had finished one off by the roasting pit. She gave it a shove with her foot. Her foot went right through it; but a split second later the corpse rolled over and landed with a satisfying thump and a spray of embers and ashes.

  The remaining hornbills were dispatched with a minimum of problem, and soon all was quiet on the Melanesian front.

  Natives emerged from their hiding places to see what the pow­erful strangers had wrought. Only a few of the Daribi warriors had stayed to fight, and several of these were dead.

  Chester raised his hand. "Any fatalities? How many injuries? Auras, please." Everybody promptly glowed green, except for Eames, whose wrist glowed scarlet, and Larry Garret, who had a scarlet glow all down his right leg. "What happened?"

  Eames explained his own wound. Garret had been hit by a support (foam plastic) when the hut collapsed. Chester sighed, but seemed not totally dissatisfied. "Okay, we've got two minor casualties. Gwen, you weren't in that action, so your energy should still be up. Let's have a reading on Gwen's healing aura and see if she can handle both wounds." Gwen's green aura slowly shifted to a warm gold, twinkling like a field of stardust. "Good. You heal them now, and you'll have a full recharge by morning."

  "Right, Ches." She raised one hand. "Hear me, 0 Gods-" The golden glow concentrated around her right hand, then lashed out to bathe both wounds. The red glows died. "How about that. The gods can be right cooperative sometimes."

  "Thanks, Gwen. Okay, people, we've only got a few minutes until close-down for the night. Good day, everyone. Lots of

  points. We'll get some treasure points tomorrow, I'm pretty sure, so you Thieves and Engineers don't worry. Everybody gets their share." Chester looked around until he spied Kasan. "Get over here, Maibang." The little guide skipped over with a prankster's grin plastered across his face. "I'm not going to ask you how you managed the business with the bird. I just want to know if Gun-Person's mind is snapped for good, or what?"

  Kasan managed to look serious. "Grave damage, yes, very bad. He has been helped to his resting place. Perhaps in the morning he will be able to help you, but I'm afraid that he is dying, and the men's council will not speak to you unless he recovers, or dies, in which case they may choose a new spokesperson, who will decide whether or not to cooperate with you. I'm afraid you are on your own, now."

  "Not quite, my friend. You're coming with us." Chester thought for a second, then asked, "What about the women's council? Will they speak to us?"

  Kasan seemed to ponder that. "Yes, yes they might. But in the morning." Maibang noticed Oliver with his arm around Gwen. He spoke sternly. "It is not proper for those of the opposite sex to sleep together before such an undertaking."

  Oliver was incredulous. "Jee-zuss. We're engaged!"

  "It would not matter if you were married. Please. If you do not follow the rules of our people, the women's council may not aid you. Further, they may forbid me to accompany you on your voyage."

  Chester waved deprecatingly at Oliver. "Go along with it. All bets are off after eight anyway."

  Gwen hugged her man to her, and whispered something in his ear. He reddened noticeably, and pecked her goodby, and moved to join Chester and the other men.

  Acacia took Tony's hand. It was cool and unresponsive. She looked into his face with playful concern. "I'll meet you by the banana tree, hombre."

  His lip curled with ill humor. "I thought I was supposed to stay out of troubler I'm only a Thief, after all."

  She stepped back from him, holding both of his hands, and searched his eyes. "Hey, Tony, I was only trying to help you. I was talking about the Game, Fortunato!"

  He squeezed her hands back, but there was little affection there. "Yeah, well, you were so busy slaying dragons that I guess you

  didn't have time to notice that you were coming on a little strong. I mean, I might like to play too." There was hurt in his voice, and Acacia didn't know what to say.

  "Hey, Tony, I'm sorry, really. Listen-"

  He thrust outward with his hands and shook his head defen­sively. "File it, Cas. I'll be all right. You just can't keep telling me to take everything seriously, then suddenly tell me it's just a game. I didn't get to do a damn thing today, alright? I got to watch ev­erybody else play hero while I lay with my face in the dirt. I don't know what that would feel like to you, but I felt pretty shitty, airight?" He reached out and stroked her gently on the left cheek, then turned and walked away.

  Acacia watched him go, her mouth hanging open, jaw working as if trying to find something, anything to say. Words wouldn't come.

  Gwen tugged at her arm. "Come on, Cas, let's check out our bunk space." Numbly, Acacia nodded and followed.

  One of the village women showed them to their hut. Gwen, Acacia, and Mary-em laid their bedrolls down one side of the woven-reed flooring; Gina and Felicia down the other. Acacia said nothing as she watched her mattress inflate.

  A callused palm slapped her heartily across the back. "Man problems?" Mary-em boomed cheerfully. "Don't worry about your boyfriend, honey. He's just got first day jitters, that's all it is. Just hunt him down after lights-out and give him a little bit to calm him down, and he'll be all right."

  The little woman chucked her under the chin with a playful nudge that nearly lifted Acacia from her feet, but the dark-haired girl managed to keep smiling. "Right, Mary."

  "Right? Of course I'm right. Mary-em sees all, knows all. You take it from me." And she waddled away humming a verse from "Eskimo Nell" that dwelt on the amorous advantages of six­month nights.

  Acacia grinned in spite of herself, and lay down on her bedroll, gazing at the ceiling and waiting for Closedown.

  And approximately thirty seconds later, without noise or fuss, the natives outside the door turned transparent and faded gently away into the night.

  Chapter Nine

  KILLED OUT

  Albert Rice unlocked the front door of the R&D complex and stepped aside. It was 9:15 P.M., and Rice had just twenty-two minutes to live.

  His public smile was in place, but Ms. Metesky and the Lopezes never saw it. There was a bite in Richard's voice. "It may be that you don't quite realize just what three-tenths of a second's delay can do to the Game, the Gamers, and me."

  "Welles and Chicon are thoroughly competent," Ms. Metesky said placidly. "They'll have it fixed long before morning."

  "They'd better. They'd drowning well better. It wasn't my pro­gramming, Metesky. That bird didn't drop right away, and Panthe­silea had to stand there with her foot out in the middle of a battle! And Bowan had to repeat himself before he got his fire-blast..."

  They passed outside. "Thank you," Ms. Metesky said to Rice,

  and stepped after them, adjusting her wire-rimmed spectacles as she went, frail hands trembling a bit from the cool air. Rice locked the door behind them.

  As the door slid shut his smile faded like a happy-face drawn in a puddle of mud.

  He was thinking, How could anyone give a damn about three-tenths of a second, anyway? Lopez was a cocky little shrimp who liked giving orders. Talked funny, too. Prissily precise even when he was being nasty. Always: "Excuse me, do you think you could assist me with. ..." Or, "May I have a tracking badge, please? I'd like to stretch my legs a bit, and I don't want anyone to get nervous." Always with that phony politeness: phony, because the correct answer to every such question was, "Yes, sir."

  Time to start rounds. Rice hopped the elevator to the third floor and thumbprinted the tirneclock as soon as he stepped out.

  On the third floor were many of the model-building shops. Working in steel, aluminum, wood, fiberglass, styrofoam, molded plastic and many more exotic materials, the wizards of Dream Park designed in miniature the rides and attractions of the future. Structures first produced as computer-drawn holograms would one day become foamed steel or the absurdly delicate-looking carbon crystal fibers. Rice enjoyed the occasions when he worked the day shift and could look in on the shops, hear and feel the vibrations of lathe and
press and drill working their wonders, smell the burnt-plastic tang from the molds as a new concept was given solid life.

  But now the shops were empty, the building deserted except for a few techs in Game Central on the second floor, and a few of the late workers in the Psych and Engineering sections on the fifth.

  He checked every door and peered down every hallway, check­ing the shadows, checking the nooks. He remembered a tale about the niece of one of the lathe workers. She'd hidden in the building until after close-up, then managed to get into one of the molding shops. Security found her five hours and twenty thousand dollars worth of damage later. In the course of her spree she had some­how interfaced a roller coaster and a human anatomy model. The results had been so interesting that it inspired the Mr. Digestion ride sponsored by Bristol-Meyers in Section I.

  She ended up with a spanking and a college trust fund. But a guard had lost his job.

  Corridors branched and split, and Rice followed them all,

  checking every inch before he was confident enough to thumbprint the time clock clear and take the elevator to the second floor.

  Even while remaining cautious to check every cranny for secu­rity breaches, he still took time to cakewalk. He glided from side to side with graceful speed, ducking imaginary blows. Cakewalk. Typical name Griffin would give a fighting move. Strange man, Griffin. Tough but soft. Always encouraged gentleness in his men, always wanted them to give the tourists the benefit of the doubt.

  Rice approached the vaultliko door of Game Central's control room, where the Lopezes worked their magic. He pressed his palms to the door, then, almost timidly, his cheek. He felt its me­tallic smoothness, and the purring vibration from the machinery within. He stood there for a while, and whispered, "Playing God." His expression, soft for a bare moment, hardened to a frown and he walked on. Next to the control room was the Dream Park over­ride, where Larry Chicon and Dwight Welles supervised the tech­nical data being fed into the Dream Park computer system. This room had a shatterproof plastic window, and in the interior dimness there twinkled a few tiny red and white lights.