He started to tell her that he didn’t need anybody, that three other girls had proposed sharing his bedroll for a position in the Game, that one was in Gina’s league as regards beauty. But there was something . . .
“Well,” he said, feeling sleep-demons tug at his eyelids. Tomorrow is a big day, they whispered. Surrender. “You’re needed, Gina. You pull your weight. You always do.”
“Nice to know the team needs me,” she said softly, and behind the heavy makeup her face was warm and open. “What about you, Chester?”
“What about me?” He tried to smile up at her, but the muscles in his face were fast asleep.
“Don’t you need me too?”
Again Chester was tempted to say something other than what was in his mind, but he was too tired for anything but the truth. He closed his eyes and said, “Gina, you are very much appreciated. Let’s go to bed.”
Gina kissed him wetly. “You say the sweetest things.”
“It’s why you love me as you do.” He tucked the stack of dossiers under his left arm and slipped his right about Gina’s waist.
The echoes of their footsteps followed them as they walked past the empty bleachers. The lights in the ballroom dimmed to deep shadow. The only sound was the lonely humming of the maintenance ’bot.
Gwen stepped out of the shower and into a drying screen, feeling her skin tingle as the water evaporated from it. She wrapped herself in a towel and looked at the effect in the mirror. She pulled the towel tight around her waist and let one leg protrude from the slit. Not bad, she thought. The leg was white and firm and smooth; only the ankle and upper thigh betrayed her chunkiness. If she pulled the towel a little tighter . . .
She tossed her head to the side, watching the bounce of her short blond hair. Good enough. Have at you, Oliver the Frank! A dab of perfume behind each ear and another in the rounded cleft of her bust, and she was ready for her entrance.
Stepping from the bathroom to the bedroom was like stepping into another world. Phantasms floated through the air, and shadows shifted menacingly on the walls. Something tapped at the window, and when she looked, a large black bird was squatting on the sill, pecking at the glass. It cocked its head at her and uttered the inevitable three-syllable word.
Wrong-o, she thought at it.
Ollie lay on the bed, naked, watching the raven. When Gwen emerged from the bathroom he flipped a switch at the bedside and the bird faded away, along with the other illusions. His eyes gleamed. “You know, I really like the way you look fresh out of a shower.”
She curtsied low, then lay down on the bed and, still in her towel, snuggled next to him.
“What do you think, Gwen?”
“I wanna.”
Ollie rolled to face her, and tried again. “What do you think about tomorrow’s Game?”
“I think it’s going to be hard. Harder than anything I’ve been in, that we’ve been in. That’s why I don’t want to think about it right now.”
“South Seas Treasure. What would that mean?”
“It means I’m going to roll over and go to sleep if you don’t pay some attention to me, that’s what it means!”
Ollie snapped out of his reverie. “I’m sorry, hon. I’m just worried about my standing, that’s all.”
“Oh. Well, I think I can handle that,” she said, and reached down.
Ollie wiggled delightedly. “Okay, all right, you win, monorail mind,” and they kissed in a chorus of giggles. Some time later Ollie said, “You know something? I love the way you smell.”
“I was hoping you’d notice.”
Tony McWhirter poured himself a big glass of orange juice and added a splash of vodka. “Do you want anything, Cas?” he called over his shoulder.
Acacia’s eyes flamed at him, and she coyly raised the bed sheet up to her chin. “Lo que yo quiero no veine de la botella, hombre,” she said.
He sipped from his drink as he crossed the room to the side of the bed. “That drink’s too complicated for our limited bar facilities. What’s it mean?”
“Why don’t you put that drink down and find out?”
“No sooner said. . . “ He lifted the glass and chug-a-lugged. His robe hit the floor with a rustle, his glass hit the dresser with a clink, and he landed on Acacia with a grin. “And what is your pleasure tonight, madam?”
“Well I was thinking . . .”
“A pleasant change of pace, to be sure.”
“Hush.” She kissed him. “You know, you and I aren’t going to be quite this secluded again for four days. Oh, we can snuggle in the sleeping bag, but . . .”
“You think maybe we should put a little something in the bank?”
She nodded. “For a rainy day.”
“For a rainy day,” he agreed. Rain and hurricane winds were attacking the windows, and phantom skeletons were passing through the room. The human occupants ignored them.
Chapter Five
THE NAMING OF NAMES
Midnight. Alex Griffin had stolen three hours of blissful unconsciousness before showering and tubing back to Dream Park. It wasn’t quite enough. One of the quirks of an otherwise astoundingly healthy metabolism: he couldn’t stay alert on less than eight hours sleep a night.
He’d sleep an extra hour tomorrow morning. Nobody would complain. Tonight was business.
Skip was dozing, chin on fist, elbow on table. Griffin pushed him slightly off balance and smiled as O’Brien jerked alert. “They’re coming, Skip.”
Skip said, “Right,” in a voice that went from drowsy to alert in mid-syllable. His fingers smoothed imaginary wrinkles from his shirt. He was smiling brightly when the foursome rounded the corner.
Lopez and his wife Mitsuko were both radiant as children on Christmas morning. They carried totebags over their shoulders, and behind them tottered the security guard, Albert Rice, hauling three more cases. Ms. Metesky brought up the rear, clucking with quiet disapproval.
“I didn’t know they were bringing everything over right now, Alex,” Metesky said petulantly. “They wouldn’t even wait for a cargo ’bot.”
“S’okay, Chief,” Rice gasped, setting the cases on the floor. “I was there. No hassle.”
“Good man. We’ll take this stuff now.” Alex hefted one of the cases. It was heavy. Alex wondered what was in them. They must have been checked out at the front gate of the R&D complex, but still . . .
When he looked up, Rice was still there, with a funny kind of half-smile on his face. Did he want something? Oh, yes, the break-in. Alex said, “I don’t remember seeing your report on the damage.”
O’Brien asked, “Anything valuable broken?”
“Well,” Rice said carefully, “I’m not sure it was vandalism. I think it was attempted theft. I don’t keep anything valuable in plain sight, just some personal effects. Even there,” Rice’s eyes met Alex’s and held steady, “he didn’t get anything valuable. There were a few things he could have used, but he just skipped right past them. Then I guess he smashed a few things to prove he was irritated.” He laughed a strained laugh. “Well, let me get back to my post. I’ll see you later, Chief.”
Alex watched Rice thoughtfully as he walked away. Funny vibes there . . . Metesky broke his train of thought with a harrumph. Alex turned to Lopez. “What have you got in those cases? Lead?”
Mitsuko hugged Richard’s arm tight, and they giggled like kids. “Mostly notes and resource material. Last minute entries for the computer. Secret stuff. It’s all been checked out, Mr. Griffin.”
“Alex, please. Well . . . have you met Mr. O’Brien? He’s one of our top child psychologists.”
“Then I can understand why he’s here,” Mitsuko smiled. “My husband is the oldest child present.”
Skip shook Richard’s hand firmly. “Most optometrists wear glasses, right? We’ll have to compete for the title of ‘oldest child’.”
“No, thank you. I try to confine my competitive instincts to the Games.” Richard shifted his duffle bag on his shoulder, itchy
with eagerness.
“Let’s have mercy on these people and get them into Game Central,” O’Brien said. Alex nodded and led the way.
The hallways of the Research and Development complex were nearly deserted. The entire building sat in the northwest corner of Dream Park, in section VI. It bordered Gaming Area A, looking out on 740 acres of magic. Game Central covered an entire floor of the five story building, and used close to 30% of Dream Park’s total resources, whether measured in technicians, energy, or dollars.
Alex summoned an elevator, and the five of them went up to the second floor. Richard was nearly vibrating with enthusiasm. Mitsuko whispered something in his ear and he grinned wider, but quieted down. The elevator doors opened.
Two technicians in green smocks met them at the doors. One was stocky, with thin, quick fingers and lively eyes. “I’m Larry Chicon,” he told them. “This is Dwight Welles, the other crazy you’ll be dealing with.”
Welles’s round, unlined face belied his snowy hair. He had the firm grip of a much younger man. “Really pleased to meet you again, Mr. Lopez. I saw you for a few minutes last year. I want to congratulate you on the Game you’ve designed this year. May I ask how long it took you to put it together?”
“Two and a half years, if you count all of the preparatory research. If you mean just the actual programming, about a year.
Welles nodded, awed. “Well. As you already know, one of us will be available to you twenty-four hours a day in case of any emergency. This way, people, no need to keep you waiting. Alex hung back, watching Mitsuko and Richard interact. There was a lot of love there, and a relationship based on a shared, extended childhood. Children, but genius children. That was a curious thing. They made so little of the incredibly complex task of designing a program for Gaming Area A. The logistics of it would have strained any human mind. Yet it was the Game itself that held their interest, not the myriad paths they traveled to reach it. The programming was a shadow-reality; the Game was reality itself.
Welles slid his ID card into the slot in a heavy steel door. It opened with a sigh.
Mitsuko’s eyes turned buttery, and she stepped inside. “It’s been so long. . .” she said to herself, hands touching panels.
The control room of Gaming Central was a technophile’s dream. It was about fifteen by fifteen meters, and little of it was empty floor space. There was one great central control board facing two big dish-chairs with adjustable pneumatic cushions. Seven flatscreen viewers surrounded the room, but mounted directly above the main controls were two hologram projectors. The controls were gleaming steel, plastic and chrome; they all but begged to be stroked. If there was a single speck of dust in the room, it was nowhere in sight.
“Your cots are over here,” Chicon said, pulling one of the inflatable mattresses out of its niche in the wall. “Coffee and food dispensers are in the usual place, but the lavatory is built into the control room now. You won’t have to leave even to get a shower.”
Lopez nodded without speaking, running his hands over the controls with a lover’s touch. He and Mitsuko exchanged looks, and she blushed prettily.
Alex shunted the luggage over into a corner. He was fighting a contact high from the Lopezes. This room was infectious. It had obviously been built for more than sheer utility, or even comfort. For some, this would be the Game’s real lure. One day the faithful Game player would graduate to the Control Room, to create his own fantasy worlds instead of merely acting out someone else’s . . . to be a prime mover instead of just a participant.
For just an instant Alex could see into the Lopezes’ relationship, could see the world they shared with each other and with nobody else. He could feel that their love for each other was filtered and colored by their fantasies, by their ability to make dreams come real. A dream born of their minds would be shared with a select group of Dream Park technicians, then with a team of fantasy gamers. If all went well, when all the bugs were out of the programming, then it could be shared with the world.
As if guided by one mind, Richard and Mitsuko turned to them, hand in hand. “This is fine. We need to be left alone now, if you don’t mind. Richard and I have a lot of work to do before morning.”
“Of course. If there’s anything you need, just give us a call.” Welles shook hands with both of them again, and the Dream Park personnel departed.
O’Brien chuckled as they walked back to the elevators. “They’re classic. I bet there’s a level of nonverbal communication between them that borders on telepathy. Did you notice how frequently they touched each other?” Alex had noticed. “I’d call that a continuing reassurance for each that the other exists. They live very deep in their heads. I noticed something else, too.”
“What was that?”
“They only spoke to each other once.”
“What the hell do you mean? They were all over each other.”
“Physically, they’re in constant communication. Intellectually, I bet they mesh even better. But apparently very little of their interplay is on the verbal level.”
Alex chewed on that while they waited for the elevators. Finally, uneasily, he said, “Well, don’t just stand there. What does it mean?”
Skip smiled maliciously. “Damned if I know. I’d heard about them and wanted to see for myself.”
“You mean you’re just going to raise the question and leave it dangling? How am I supposed to sleep tonight? What kind of man are you, anyway?”
“The kind who’s going to buy you a drink, if we can find a bar open around here.”
Alex held the elevator for him. “Oh. That kind of man. My father told me to stay away from your type—” and the door shut behind them.
The morning outside these walls was still black. In the waiting area it was all artificial lighting. Take it as an omen, Tony told himself. Reality is artificial from this point on. He squinted at the Character Identification form in his hand. Acacia wrote part of a line on her own form, then turned to him. “Panthesilea was real. She was one of the Amazon queens killed in the Trojan War by Achilles. She was strong and beautiful and they sang songs to her memory for years“
Tony snuck a peek at Ollie’s sheet, and laughed. “Oliver the Frank? Are you kidding, or what?”
Ollie looked up sheepishly. “When I first started Gaming I was afraid I’d forget my character’s name. So I used my nickname. Anyway, Oliver’s a legitimate hero; he fought under Charlemagne, with Roland.”
Tony hadn’t meant to put Ollie on the defensive. He started to say so, but the intercom interrupted him. “Attention all Game participants. Costuming will proceed for another forty minutes only. Thank you.”
There was a general buzz in the waiting arrea beneath Game Central, and four people scurried off to the enclosed costuming booths for last minute touch-ups.
The fifteen players were an odd lot. Although all had stowed cotton shirts and pants in their tote bags, each now wore clothing peculiar to the characters they chose to play on the expedition. Two things they had in common: the eagerness, thick enough to cut, and the “neck tabs”: silver metal disks held in place by nearly invisible, soft plastic bands,
Mary-Martha, “Mary-em,” waddled around the oak paneled waiting area with the self-assurance of an iron duck. The longer she waited, the fiercer burned her energy. She wore brown leather that hugged her chunky body glue-tight, with joints cut in the leather at waist and knees to provide leeway. She carried a short halberd with a flat heavy blade, slung across her back.
Acacia recognized several of the other Gamers by reputation. The thin, wiry blond man would be Bowan the Black. He had discarded the scarlet robe that had been his first choice of raiment, and settled for hip boots and a black velvet shirt split in a hairy-chested “V” His companion was a half-pretty redhead, tall and thin, with a slight roll of flabby skin around her midsection. A sure sign of the diet faddist. What was it this month, dear? Ten grams of vinegar-soaked raisins before every meal?
Acacia clucked at herself, half-a
shamed of her automatic negative reaction to the woman, who had registered in the “Thief&rsduo; category as Dark Star.
Ollie and Gwen didn’t worry her. Beneath their aweshucks exteriors she sensed born Gamesters. Even Chester had seemed glad to see them. Gwen was still in the costuming room, as Ollie’s frequent casual glances in that direction confirmed.
Gina Perkins had been dressed to kill every time Acacia had seen her. Now she wore hiking shorts and shirt, both covered with pockets, but they didn’t cling to her like a coat of paint. There was makeup, but it was subdued. Her hair was intricately arranged, and she was still stunning. She was playing her wizard’s staff while she waited.
That was stunning. Acacia had seen pictures in the Gaming magazines. It was five feet tall and an inch thick, jammed with instrumentation and the internal computer. Patterns of colored lights ran up and down its length, and monochromatic flames lashed from the tip, as Gina’s fingertips ran over the contact-sensitive keyboard.
Tony watched as if mesmerized; then tore his eyes away and went back to work on his Character Identification sheet. He was feeling the crunch, she thought. The jokes were there, and the smug smiles and knowing touches, but there was something else too. Pre-Game jitters, a touch of fantasy flu?
His long jaw worked a nonexistent wad of gum, and his chocolate eyes seemed watery as he worked. The Character Identification sheet was an optional adjunct to the Game that Lopez had asked everyone to fill out. It listed not only imaginary physical and mental characteristics, but shaded over into genealogy.
Acacia looked at her own sheet. How did Amazons have children? Captured male slaves, maybe? Parthenogenesis? She used a little of both. Panthesilea was a sterile female born parthenogenetically. Her mother (drown it! Finding a name for your character’s mother on the spur of the moment was too much like work). Her mother Melissa was the offspring of Queen Herona (more fiction) and a captive Greek named, ah, Cyrius, a bastard son of Hercules . . .
She hoped that the other players were having as much trouble. All personal characteristics were measured in Wessler-Grahm points and were pre-registered with the IFGS and filed in the Gaming A computer. In this group, only Tony had no initial rating. The computer had run a random number series for him, and spit out double-digits which, in Wessler-Grahm terms, represented percentage chances of a positive result in combat or emergency. He had come out high in agility and intelligence, medium in strength, and low in recuperative powers.
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