The air in front of them shimmered, and a ghostly image of Garret appeared. Chester cursed venomously and Garret groaned, looking at the shimmering red splotch spreading on his shirt.
“Aw, shit!” he said with real feeling. His legs buckled under him and he sprawled in an untidy heap, mouth open, eyes rolled up in his head.
“Nice fall,” Richard muttered. He tapped two keys.
Garret’s hologram double crooked a spectral finger to him.
“Wait a minute,” Chester said. “Gwen, do you think you have enough for a saving spell?”
The blond girl’s cheeks plumped with worry. “Right now? I’m not sure. If that was a natural accident, maybe. If there were spirit powers involved . . . I’ll try.” Unhappily, Gwen raised her arms and began her invocation. “Hear me, O Gods. Harness my strength and give this man back his life. By the powers which are mine to wield, I ask this.” She sank to her knees and bowed her head, eyes closed.
Lopez nodded, smiling respectfully. “Well done. I wonder if it will work.” He watched Mitsuko feed the request into the computer. Electrons danced; a random number was selected and matched against two logged Wessler-Grahm numbers, Garret’s assigned stamina and Gwenevere’s power level . . . Lopez shook his head as the rosy aura around Garrett faded to a sooty tinge in the air. “No good. Sorry, sweetheart.” He tapped a key.
Garret jerked at the shock from his neck tab. He rolled over and stood up to confront his tindalo. “Well, I guess that’s it, huh? Guess I didn’t last too long in this Game.” He started to say something else, and it would have been bitter. Gwen squeezed his shoulder with one soft hand, and he turned to follow the somber ghost. The two figures left the projection field.
Richard’s face was no happier. Metesky saw a flash of deep resentment before it was submerged behind a neutral mask. One dark slender finger played with the end of his mustache, and his eyes were half-lidded. “All right. you’ve got your killing. Put the watchdog on, and let me do my work.”
The Dream Park liaison stood and started to leave. “Metesky!” he yelled at her back. “Tell the watchdog that if he screws with my Game, I’ll kill him out of it so fast his nose will bleed, and hang the consequences!” He saw her silent nod, and spun his chair back to the console.
Mitsuko watched Metesky leave, heard the door sigh shut behind her. Then she flexed her fingers gently and went back to her work.
* * *
PART TWO
Chapter Thirteen
ENTER THE GRIFFIN
“We can’t use these guns, Chester.” For the first time in the Game, S. J. looked unhappy. “They’ve got to be jinxed. If what’s-her-name . . . Gwen couldn’t save Garret, there has to be magic involved.” His blond hair was limp with sweat and greasy with dirt. He looked tired and discouraged.
Chester tapped his foot in impatient rhythm. Unconscious of Gina’s hand stroking his arm, he stalked angrily to the chest and glared in. “We paid blood for these things, and we’re going to have them. Maibang, front and center.” He snapped his fingers angrily.
Maibang, his khakis blotched with sweat after the march, appeared at Chester’s side. Henderson thought carefully before speaking. “Now listen. We know that Gwen couldn’t reverse the accident, but she was temporarily drained by the protective field she cast for S. J. We need to disarm this booby-trap, and I don’t want to try one of our spells until I know the alternatives. I remember reading something about your magic. There is a ritual, something about a table, but I can’t remember it. Do you know?”
“I know the table ritual. Which of my people would not? I don’t know if it will be enough.”
“We’ll try it anyway.” Chester looked around at the thirteen gamers and the three natives, nodding when there were no objections. “All right. Kasan, what do we do?”
Their guide scratched his head. “We need a table, first, and a clean white cloth, and some gifts. Food is best. And flowers, of course.”
“S. J.?” Chester said without looking at the youngster.
“Covered, Chief. I can whip up a three-legger in a few minutes using branches.”
“Good. Dreager, help him. As for the gifts, I think that the gods have already provided that. He picked up one of the cans of tinned meat.
The table was crude, but serviceable. Dark Star had donated a white skirt, which was spread as a tablecloth. Gwen’s candles, normally used for exorcisms, burned in the center. Bandanas and knives and spoons from various backpacks made do as place settings, napkins and silverware. Arrayed upon the table were all of the cans of food from the buried chest, two of Oliver’s tropical chocolate bars, some beef jerky from Dark Star’s larder, and flowers gathered by the rest of the crew.
“We are ready to perform the bilasim tewol,” Chester said. His voice held no trace of doubt or uncertainty. “Kasan will assist me, but it is my power that beckons. Hear me O Gods, hear me Jesus-Manup. We strive for your people. I know that our actions are righteous in your sight. Do not let our brave priest’s death be a useless one. We are desperate with need, yet we destroy vital supplies to demonstrate our faith.”
On cue, Bowan the Black said, “Fire!” The aura around his right hand blazed from green to red; flame shot forth to touch the table. Like the Biblical burning bush, the jerky and chocolate and aging tin cans blazed up without being consumed, and without scorching the robe.
“We have shown our faith. Give us now that which we need to harness the strength in these weapons.” Henderson was still speaking when the air began to shimmer. Three ghosts took shape: translucent caucasians in jungle camouflage uniforms. Their faces were pasty, and one of them bore a gruesome open slash along the side of his face, a machete wound, perhaps.
“Who are you?” Chester demanded imperiously. There was a moaning crackle of sound, and one of the three worked its mouth without words. Finally noises came from the withered throat.
“We’re . . . your kind . . .”
“Americans, yes. How did you die?”
The one with the machete-scar answered this time, coughing out his words in jerky phrases. “We died to take . . . the Cargo back. You’ll die too. All of you. You. . .” There was a pause, and the pale and whiskery dead mouth worked wordlessly until sound stuttered forth again. “You don’t know what you’re up against.”
“Help us,” the Lore Master demanded. “You must. Give us the guns.”
“The guns were ours—” The gaping slit in the spirit’s face began to bleed dark sludge. “But the Foré stole a secret weapon. It might have beat . . . the Japs . . . if it hadn’t come so late. Now the have it. We were sent with guns to take it back. Guns! No damn use against magic. We died in this . . . stinking jungle . . . but in our last breaths we cursed the guns. Cursed them . . . so that they’ll kill anyone who uses them.”
“Remove the curse. We need them. With them, we will win you your vengeance.”
The spirits seemed to confer with each other, then Machete-Wound answered their request. “You’re being . . . stupid. You’ll see. But we were . . . stupid too. You can have your . . . heroes’ deaths. Take the guns. Kill as many Foré . . . as you can . . . before you die. . . “ The spirits faded with the voice. A final “Give ’em hell . . .” hung in the vacant air.
Chester cast a precautionary “Reveal danger” spell before giving the go-ahead. Gina was sympathetic. “You forgot to check the guns themselves, last time, Ches. After the outside of the box showed green you didn’t worry about it.”
“You’re right. But that’s the last easy point Lopez is getting from me, you can count on that!”
Tony and S. J. carried handguns now. Kagoiano had one of the rifles, and Dark Star carried the other slung over one freckled shoulder. The other two handguns were packed neatly away. “Let’s move,” Chester called out, and the column moved on.
McWhirter slapped the pistol at his side heartily as he moved up next to Oliver. “You know, I feel like a new man with this thing on my side. Um—the bullets aren’t real,
are they? I mean, those shots looked awfully real to me.”
Oliver seemed a little irritated. “No, they’re not real. But it’s still not a good idea to set one off next to somebody’s ear. Even a blank can hurt your eardrums.”
“Right.” He watched Gwen’s hand find its way to Oliver’s arm, and jealousy showed in his face. His eyes flicked back toward Acacia, who guarded the rear with Alan Leigh.
Ollie caught it. “You know, those bullets aren’t real, but I know something that is, and you’re playing with it right now.”
Tony pursed his mouth. He didn’t need to ask what the chunky warrior meant.
“Listen, Tony—”
“Fortunato, thank you. You’re Oliver, I’m Fortunato, right? And we’re off to steal what sounds like an atomic bomb, an experimental one at that. All crazies in this camp.
“Go ahead, play games with her feelings, Tony. She may have hurt your feelings last night, but it wasn’t on purpose, and she thought she was doing you a favor. You’re hurting her on purpose.”
Tony brushed a springy branch out of his face as he walked, and said, “The ground’s really getting marshy. We’ll have to watch for quagmires.”
Oliver was disgusted. “All right, Fortunato. I just don’t see how your macho could be wounded all that badly.”
“Watch out for snakes.”
Gwen released Oliver’s arm and stretched out a hand for Tony. He skittered out of her reach, but he was grinning now. She stuck her tongue out at him and snuggled back up against Oliver.
Tony set his long chin bravely and dropped back in line to where Acacia kept vigilant watch, her hand never straying far from her sword. She pretended not to notice him.
“How goes the rear guard, Panthesilea?” he asked nonchalantly. She made a noncommittal sound, studiedly looking the other way. He matched strides with her for several steps, trying to read her expression. “Listen, hon, I’m sorry about last night.” She flickered an eyelash in his direction, and he was encouraged. “My pride just got hurt a little, that’s all. Hey, it’s hell being a man. The burden of carrying my ego around everywhere I go is enough to make me old before my time. Hey, Panth, at least look at a poor soul when he’s humbling himself before you.”
“I don’t think you can keep up with us on your knees, so just keep walking. I guess I’ll get over it.” The frost was thawing, but there was still a distinct coolness in her voice.
“Believe me—mind if I take your arm? I mean, it’s not doing anything right now, and looked kind of lonely—I’ll make it up to you. Tonight, if you’ll let me.”
At first there was no real response, then he felt an answering inward pressure from her arm. “Is that right?”
“You bet. Moonlight, soft breezes, and a warm bedroll. Mosquitoes courtesy of Cowles Industries.”
She raised an eyebrow skeptically. “Not like last night, eh?”
“So I was off sulking in the bushes. Sorry about that. You weren’t in your hut last night either.”
“Well, in case you haven’t noticed, there are some very attractive men on this expedition.” She fluttered her eyelashes at him. “Very attractive. Some of whom know how to treat a lady.”
“When they can find one—just kidding. Aw, Cas, you know I can’t handle this kind of thing very well. What say we call it a truce.”
“Agreed.” She slipped her hand down to his, and squeezed, feeling a little knot of tension dissolve in her stomach. Her newfound feeling of relaxation brought an automatic smile to her face, and Tony pointed at it.
“Now what’s that for?”
She gave him a little-girl laugh, wishing there was somewhere that they could go to curl up together and get it out of their systems.
“By the way,” Tony said thoughtfully, “Where were you last night?”
A shout from the front nullified that question. Tony’s hand found its way to his holstered pistol in a blink, and he had to run to keep up with Acacia, who was in motion instantly.
The ground was extremely moist, now, and every footstep sank an inch into the muck. Reeds and fernlike plants abounded, and in the areas where water had seeped out of the ground to form puddles, islands of green scum floated. Someone shouted, “Help!” up ahead, and Tony realized that he had heard that cry twice before, too faint to register consciously. Another monster? An attack by the Foré whatever the hell they were?
He almost bumped into Acacia’s back, so suddenly did she skid to a halt. She was bent over, trembling, and at first he was afraid for her. Then he heard the laughter and knew it was all right.
A man was stuck up to his waist in quicksand, or the Dream Park equivalent thereof. He was big, with thick shoulders and neck. Another jock warrior, Tony bet himself silently. The man had close-cropped red hair and an unsaintly look of irritation on his face. “Get me the hell out of here, will you?”
Chester was laughing, hands on knees, standing as close to the quicksand as he dared. “Well hello there, stranger. I’ve been expecting you. Who exactly are you, and why should we trouble ourselves to rescue you?”
“I’m the Griffin. I’m the best Thief in the world.”
“Excuse me.” Dark Star tossed her head, bouncing her short brown hair. “And just how do you think you deserve that title, Mr. Titanic? Leave him, Chester.”
“Now, now. Let’s have no quarreling over matters of rank. We’re all equal here, except me of course. Still, her point is well taken. On what grounds rest your claim to greatness? Hurry, now, I do believe you’re an inch or so shorter than you were a minute ago.”
The man looked down at his waist and grimaced. “Well, I stole the Emerald Eye from the sacred statue of Katmandu.”
“Not bad. Anything else?”
The man shifted uncomfortably in the muck. Tony reflected that the stuff must itch like crazy. “I filched the Silken Bellows from the temple of Kosell the Wind God.”
“My. That must have been exciting.” Chester covered a yawn. “If you’ve never done anything bigger than that, we may have to lend you a snorkel.”
“All right. Last try. I have the only existing black market print of Star Wars.”
“Woops.” Chester paused respectfully. “A slight anachronism, seeing as we’re in New Guinea circa 1955 or so, but the point is well made. We’ll get you out, S. J., you’ve earned a rest. Where’s our other Engineer? Let’s get Rudy Draeger out here.”
Draeger, a short stout man with a bulky backpack and a sunburn-red complexion, hustled out and began taking mental measurements. His voice was a squeak. “No really solid trees to use as a pulley, so I’ll need some help with the line. Eames, would you be kind enough? Thank you.”
Eames looked miffed to be thanked before he had consented, but he stepped forward and took the end of the thin nylon line Draeger offered him. The chunky little man threw the other end to the trapped Thief, who wound the end of it round one wrist and held on with the other hand.
The procedure was clumsy but effective, and with an obscene sucking sound, he came free of the mire.
The Thief wiped his leather trousers partly clear of mud and smiled cynically. “I guess after an introduction like that I’d better be worth it.”
“He’s a mind reader, Chester,” Dark Star sniffed.
Chester hushed her with a look. “You aren’t who I was expecting, so I assume you’re a guest of the Dream Gods?”
“Well put. I can promise to pull my weight, though.”
Dark Star scratched one of her stubby ears. “Do you expect us to share our supplies with you?”
“Ray of sunshine, aren’t you? It so happens that I know the location of a substantial quantity of supplies.” He paused for effect, then added, “Including a couple of six-packs.”
All reservation dissolved in that instant. Oliver shook his hand heartily. “Glad to meet you. My name’s Oliver. What’s yours?”
“ Griffin.”
“All right, Griffin. Let’s find your supplies and break for lunch.”
; Chester looked at his watch, then squinted up at the “sun” that burned on the inner surface of the covering dome. “If I were a sundial I’d say it was three o’clock or so, but I know it’s only eleven-thirty. Somebody’s collapsing time on us and I wonder why. . .?” The last words were almost under his breath, and Chester shook himself back to alertness. “Fall in with Mary-em. She’ll protect you until we see what you can do.”
“Her protect me?” There was an incredulous edge to Griffin’s voice, broken off as small strong fingers dug into his arm.
“Come on, handsome. If Mary-em has to nursemaid somebody, at least you’ve got a decent body to guard.” She crinkled an eye at him speculatively. “Naw,” she said finally.
Griffin tried to fix a friendly, or failing that, at least a neutral expression on his face. “Well, let’s go.”
“Let’s.”
“The goods are about a hundred meters that way—” he pointed toward a slightly less marshy stretch of ground, and the gamers headed in that direction, eagerly.
“My name is Acacia,” the dark-haired girl said, sitting down next to him. “But you can call me Panthesilea.”
“A chrysanthemum by any other name . . .” he grinned at her, and downed a forkful of pork and beans. His feet were bare, socks and shoes laid out in the sun to dry.
A lantern-jawed man with shaggy black hair staggered up the slope with a beer in either hand. The foam plastic “cans” had been suspended in a shadowed pool of water, and were pleasantly cool . . . cooler than the water, in fact. The newcorner said, “I’m Tony McWhirter.” He tossed a can to Acacia, who caught it neatly. “Dark Star and I are the other Thieves on the expedition.” He plopped himself down next to Acacia, sighed with contentment, then ducked as she playfully sprayed him with beer foam.
Griffin asked, “Have you been on many of these?”
“Nope. This is my first one. The lovely lady dragged me along. You?”
“My first time too. I supervise Gavagan’s Bar. It’s one of the Dream Park restaurants. That’s what got me in.”
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