Dream Park

by Larry Niven;Steven Barnes

  Tony had looked at the read-out with a cautiously lidded excitement. “This bodes not well for my ambitions of warriorhood. What are my choices?”

  Chicon and Dwight Welles were there to act as intermediaries and override controllers for the IFGS referees. Larry Chicon had enjoyed the chance to get involved. He had counted off Tony’s options, one finger at a time. “Magic user, Warrior, Thief, Cleric, and Engineer. And Explorer. Each of them have their plusses and minuses, and we do allow some combination play, but in general it’s best to find one category and get into it as deep as possible.”

  Tony found himself wishing that the oversized monitors were switched on, to give him a peek into what waited for them in Area A. “How would I do as a Magic User?”

  Welles shook his head slowly. “Wouldn’t recommend it, but I can’t stop you if that’s what you want.”

  “What’s wrong with Magic User?”

  “That’s pretty complicated for a first outing. Besides, your Charisma score was only 36%. Trying conjuring up a demon with that and you’ll be dinner.”

  “What’s the difference between Magic User and Cleric?”

  “Oh, Clerics usually perform preventive magic or curative magic. And they get their powers ‘from on high,’ which means they must be pure of spirit. Playing with the ladies while in the Game might mess that up—”

  Larry shot Welles a nasty look. “That’s turkey turds, Tony. What you do during the twelve hours a day that the Game is ‘off’ is totally up to you. Look: with good scores in Intelligence and Agility, why don’t you try Thief?”

  Tony opened his mouth as if to protest, then he laughed and nodded. “If it’ll help me survive the Game, I’m for it.” And Tony McWhirter became a first level Thief, Fortunato by name, thought to be a bastard son of either Fafhrd or the Grey Mouser, it being that kind of relationship. He would enter the gaming area in cotton tropical garb . . .

  The warning buzzer sounded again, and Chester Henderson bounded into the room. He wore a green safari shirt and matching pants, with creases sharp enough to cut paper. His pipestem arms and legs were fairly flapping with enthusiasm. “Last minute check, everybody. We’ve only got a few minutes, and then we’re off. Any questions?” He looked slowly around the room.

  S. J. Waters, the youngest Gamester in the room, raised his hand halfway, as if afraid of being noticed. When Chester pointed at him he flinched, then said, “Chester? What is it exactly that we’re after?”

  “We haven’t been told. I’ve got my suspicions, though. We’ll find out for sure once we enter the Game, so don’t worry. Getting there is half the fun. Any more questions? . . . Good. We’re going to have a tremendous time, people, and everyone is going to take home more points than he can carry.” He flashed his smile again, and began circling the room, checking on individual needs.

  Gwen had returned to her seat next to Ollie, and he was busy enjoying her costume. Registered as a Cleric, Gwen wore a simple dress cut several inches too high for a real missionary, and leather-soled walking shoes with just enough heel to bring out the shape of her calf. The dress was beige, and almost too frilly to wear on a jaunt, but the way that it brought out the most attractive lines in her figure pardoned all impracticalities.

  She stood up and twirled around for him, biting her lip. “Do you like it, Ollie?”

  He grinned until the corners of his mouth threatened to meet in the back. He reached out for her, and she backed away coyly. “Do you like it?”

  “South Seas Treasure or not, I already know I’m a winner.”

  Gwen blushed. “You know what I like best about Gaming?” Ollie shook his head. “You always say the sweetest things when you think you’re someone else.”

  Ollie looked her dead in the eye. “Maybe that’s because you’re someone else?”

  “Hah! You know perfectly well—”

  Acacia stooped over them. “You guys ready? Everything in order?” Her Character Identification sheet was doubled in her hand. “We’ll be starting in a few seconds. What’s that, Ollie, Tropical Chocolate?”

  “Frankish Oliver to you, Panthesilea, and yes. The stuff tastes like cocoa butter, but it doesn’t melt. We’ll find food along the way, but I like to be prepared.”

  The final warning sounded, and the gamers began shouldering knapsacks and gear. There was an impatient buzz in the air, and all eyes turned to Chester, who stood by Gina in the center of the room. His voice was nearly cracking with excitement. “May I have everybody’s attention, please. Will the fourteen Primaries please line up by the elevators. The doors will be opening automatically. It is now 7:52, eight minutes until the Game begins. Hustle, people, come on . . .”

  He was wasting his breath. Long before he finished, fourteen faces were clustered below the digital floor monitor as it displayed the approach of the elevator cars. When the doors slid open there was a general whoop of delight, and the fourteen Primaries crammed in. Chester turned to look around the waiting room. No one had left anything behind; the room was clean and empty. Within hours the first Alternates would appear. Within minutes the progress of the Game would be broadcast to monitors in selected areas of Dream Park.

  But he and Richard Lopez had been at war for one solid year. Chester stepped back and the elevator doors closed.

  Chapter Six

  FLIGHT OF FANCY

  Somehow Acacia had expected the elevator to carry them down, into the bowels of the R & D building, to long lost caverns where blind gnomes would lead them, hand in gnarled hand, to the beginning of the Great Adventure. instead it went up. A McDonnell-Boeing Phoenix helicopter was waiting on the roof, its engines humming quietly as the vast horizontal blades turned in lazy circles.

  “What the hell . . . ?” Tony whispered. She turned to caution him, but saw the grin of incredulous delight and said nothing. “You know, I’ve always wanted to ride in of these.”

  “Let’s just take it one fantasy at a time,” she murmured. Over one edge of the roof she could see the shapes and colors of Dream Park, its towers and mazelike walls. To the other side . . . nothing. Area A was hidden in featureless haze, a hologram projection of primal chaos.

  The cargo doors of the Phoenix were open, waiting. A dark brown face suddenly popped out of the darkness, immediately split in a grin. “Greetings!” the man yelled cheerily. “Please, come aboard!” Chester looked at him suspiciously for a moment, then nodded and stalked aboard lugging his totebag.

  Acacia was fifth aboard, just behind a huge man named Eames who walked with a self-conscious swagger. Warrior, she snickered, then reflected that his freckled boyishness might have interested her, if Tony weren’t along to keep the chill off. One fantasy at a time, she reminded. herself. Anything can happen . . .

  The interior of the Phoenix copter was comfortable but not plush, with twenty seats and room for their gear in both overhead racks and a hamper in the rear. The pilot of the copter waved back at them as they were seated. “Make yourselves comfortable, folks. I’m Captain Stimac, and you just let me know if you have any problems.” The dark man who had greeted them at the door was energetically bouncing up and down the aisle, helping people with their luggage and generally having a great time. Tony filled the seat next to Acacia, and she took his hand affectionately. He asked, “What’s next?”

  She shook her head. She didn’t want to talk; she wanted to sense.

  The cargo doors creaked shut. The rotors of the Phoenix accelerated, blurred and disappeared; but, characteristic of the model, the engines only made a hoarse and urgent humming sound. Developed for nocturnal combat duty, the Phoenix was as silent as a motor-driven craft could be.

  The ground dropped away. “Yah hoo!” screamed Mary-em’s buzzsaw voice. “Children, we are off!” The gamesters cheered as the Phoenix tilted and began to eat distance.

  When the “fasten seat belts” pictogram clicked off, their one-man welcoming committee stood and bowed shallowly to them. “I would like to introduce myself to all of you. I am Kasan Maibang
, and I will be your guide and liaison with the people of my island.”

  Chester stood now, his facial lines gone angular with eagerness. “Your island. Then you know where we’re going? And what our quest is?”

  Kasan’s smile was innocent. “Of course, Mr. Henderson. You do not think that your government would send you on such a perilous adventure without benefit of a guide?”

  “Our government. Chester absorbed that. “No, of course not. I assume you have our briefing sheets?”

  “I am your briefing sheets.”

  The Lore Master’s shoulders relaxed and he nodded. Behind him, Tony whispered, “Why is that good? ”

  Acacia told him. “The briefing material has to be true, in context. Lopez isn’t allowed to lie to us about the basic assumptions behind the Game. Now Chester knows he can trust Kasan, up to a point. Kasan can’t lie.”

  “Uh huh.” Tony examined the “native” suspiciously. “Is he a hologram?”

  “No. I saw him carrying luggage. Later he might be a hologram. He’s a Gaming actor. Probably playing for straight points: he gets his whether we win or lose, as long as he doesn’t blow his lines.”

  The Lore Master, more relaxed now, was perched on the arm rest between two empty seats. He asked, “Where are we headed?”

  “To the Melanesian islands, New Guinea to be specific.

  Chester almost laughed. “You’re from New Guinea?”

  Maibang was apologetic. “The Episcopalian mission sent me to UCLA.”

  “Where you were recruited, no doubt.”

  “Oh, absolutely. You must appreciate the problem Ever since the Road to the Cargo was opened in 1945—”

  Chester’s sigh of comprehension was audible all over the copter. “Cargo Cult. Right. Please go on.”

  Maibang was clearly pleased that Chester had made the jump. “Yes. Well, ever since then, the Melanesian peoples, those who have learned the secret, have been stealing back the possessions that the Europeans—”

  “That’s us?”

  Their guide shrugged. “There are us, and there are Europeans. Some Europeans are black or brown or yellow, though most are white—”

  “Okay.”

  “My people, the Daribi, were among the peoples blessed with the true secret of the cargo. We prospered. God-Manup sends many wonderful things to his faithful children. Canned meat, electric lights, jeeps, refrigerators and, of course, weapons with which to drive out the Europeans.

  “Of course,” said Chester.

  “Then, nine years ago—” Bare flicker of an eyelash. “In 1946—” Chester absorbed that datum, and nodded. “—my people the Daribi began to divert shipments of cargo intended for Europe and the Americas. Naturally your people fought back with your own rituals, but our Sorcerers were mighty. Then you tried the force of your military, and again we prevailed. Late in 1947 my people made their greatest effort, and stole from your people a very great cargo indeed.”

  “Which was?”

  Maibang wagged his head sorrowfully. “We sensed its existence and we used our powers to take it, but we never saw it. The extreme effort strained our sorcerers. At the last moment, as the cargo was coming to us, a rival tribe who coveted our power used their own magic to divert its path. We were too weak to resist. Their victory over us gained them great mana, great power. They became the dominant force on our island. Your government knows the rest: how their power and their greed leave no ship or airplane safe for a thousand kilometers around. It has gone on for seven years, with the powers. . . our enemies growing ever greater.”

  Chester sighed. “Do I gather you can’t tell us the name of this enemy tribe?”

  “You catch on quick, bwana. Nope, to use the name of so powerful a tribe without their prior permission is much bad mana. So my people made contact with yours to strike a bargain. We will help a small group of Europeans into the lands held by the Enemy. You steal back what you can, and get it out. The Enemy will lose mana, and we will regain our power. We will then sign a treaty with you binding us to take only cargo intended for us by God-Manup, and none of yours, assuming as you hold to the same agreement.”

  “And why should we trust you to keep your promises? Chester gave Maibang his most beneficent smile.

  “Because we are not Europeans,” Maibang answered humbly.

  “Jee-zuss,” S. J. Waters exclaimed. “We are a long way out.”

  Chester slid over to the nearest window. “We’re over the ocean . . . I don’t see any points of reference yet . . .

  “Islands over here, Chester,” S. J. called from the other side of the ’copter. He shaded his eyes against the glare.

  “I think we’ve got Hawaii here.”

  “Then we’re halfway,” Chester said to himself.

  Acacia said, “That’s Oahu, I think.”

  “Don’t know, hon. I’ve never flown this—” Tony caught himself. “Damn. I mean I’ve never been to Hawaii It’s just too easy to forget that this isn’t real.”

  “So stop trying.”

  Tony grinned uneasily. “Last gasps of sanity, I guess.”

  “Then breathe deep, lover. The air gets pretty thin from here on out.”

  The Phoenix began to judder, and Captain Stimac’s voice sounded over the intercom. “We’re about to hit rough weather, people. Please notice that the seat belt warning is in effect, and comply with it. Thank you.”

  Chester waved a finger at Maibang. “Don’t you die on me now. I’ve got to get a lot more out of you.”

  Maibang grinned and promised nothing.

  There were dark clouds ahead now, and already the sky was dimming. The Phoenix dipped as if hitting an air pocket, and a unanimous “Ooh!” was followed by a whoop from Mary-em.

  The clouds came fast. They were ugly, boiling with light and dark grays; ominous flashes of fire played within. The Phoenix was swallowed into the storm, and turbulence shook them like a giant child playing with a toy.

  Lightning glared eye-splitting bright to starboard. The aircraft dropped and shook with the force of the thunderclap.

  Acacia screamed delightedly and threw her arms around Tony. He grabbed back, yelling at the top of his voice. Rain pelted the sides of the Phoenix, and the engines whined in protest as it tried to climb and stabilize. Again and again their eyes and ears were assaulted by monstrous bursts of light and sound, until it seemed that the Phoenix was coming apart in midair. The whisper of the engines changed to an ominous growling vibration. Between lightning flashes, nothing could be seen outside, and as the lights failed in the plane Tony found himself kissing Acacia with something akin to genuine terror in his heart.

  At last the storm lightened, and some sunlight peeped through the cloud. There was a stir at the back of the cabin, Gamers pushing and shoving at the windows. The pair looked out to see what the trouble was.

  Tony looked out on a broad, rounded wing studded with thousands of rivets. The motor housing was huge, and the air before it was blurred. Its voice was a shattering roar, like the devil let loose on Earth.

  “Wings. I will be go to hell. We’ve got wings and rivets and propellers!”

  Acacia squeezed past him and pressed her face to the glass. To the rear she could just see the tail stabilizers. As applause and whistles broke out, she shook her head admiringly.

  “It’s got to be a mid-nineteen-hundreds model of something or other,” Tony said softly.

  S. J. Waters had the answer. “Wowie! A DC-3, a Goonie Bird! Hey, these things were supposed to be half-magical anyway.”

  Clusters of passengers began to sing. Fragments of verse celebrating the adventures of Kafoozalem and Eskimo Nell were heard above the roar of the engines. Ollie’s high voice rang out:

  “Oh, the camel has a lot of fun,

  His night begins when ours is done

  He always gets two humps for one,

  As he revels in the joys of fornication!”

  And half the Gamers bellowed a ragged chorus:

  “Cats on the rooftops,
cats on the tiles—”

  The air had cleared. The plane dipped into a cloud deck and out the bottom. Ollie sang, “The hippo’s rump is big and round—”

  “Islands,” the redheaded Dark Star said, and the song died in mid-leer.

  They were coming up on the sub-continent itself, and Chester announced above the roar, “We seem to be approaching New Guinea from the Bismarck Sea . . . those might be the Finisterre Mountains, only about three thousand meters, we can clear those . . .

  The view below was an explosion of dense greens an browns, vegetation crowding from the rich soil in rich profusion. The Finisterre Mountains ruled the Huon Peninsula, overlooking Vitiaz Strait, and in the crystal clear air they seemed close enough to reach out and touch. The DC-3 skimmed over them and reoriented north. Soon they were crossing swamps and marshy areas. Captain Stimac’s voice buzzed from the intercom.

  “We will be reaching Chambri Lake in a few minutes. It’s the landmark for the landing strip which has been cleared for us. In fact, I think I see . . .” There was a, pause, and the plane bucked in the air. This time the bucking became a jarring side pull that bounced Acacia against her seat belt. “Wait just a minute—that’s not the right lake, but something . . . uh! Move, godamit!” Stimac began swearing in panic. The plane was sliding down the sky; the motors screamed. Stimac shouted, “I can’t move the controls! They’re moving themselves!”

  Hands gripped seats and faces went white as the swamps rose toward them, rotating now. There was light down there, and water . . . a sheen of water directly below the plane’s nose, and two lines of lights glowing on the water . . . and a tower.

  “It’s pulling us in,” Chester said. He was squeezed up against a window, and his mouth hung a little open. Not frightened, but fascinated.