Griffin closed his eyes lightly. “And then there’s the matter of Tony McWhirter. He may be a thief, but he’s no killer, and I don’t want him treated like one.”
“Alex, we can’t tell the District Attorney—” Harmony began.
“No, we can’t. But we can offer Tony legal assistance. I can testify that a reasonable doubt exists as to his capacity for coldblooded murder. That, together with the voicestress analyzer, if he takes it, may well counterbalance the coroner’s report.”
“All right. . .”
“And one more thing. Even with that, a couple of years are going to be added on his sentence for . . . oh, negligent homicide at the least. When he gets out of jail, I’m going to offer him a job. With me. He beat my security system, and I can use him. Well, what do you say?”
The man with the linebacker shoulders nodded. “That seems fair.” He turned to the man with the briefcase, the man with the flesh stretched tight across his cheekbones, who seemed to be trying to hide in the plushness of his chair. “All right, O’Brien,” Harmony said, his voice for once unmelodic, ugly. “I’d like you to dictate your letter of resignation, and then go clean out your desk. I want you out of the park by 1400, and out of CMC by next week.”
Griffin stood.
“Aren’t you staying, Alex?”
“No, I don’t have any stomach for this.”
He had reached the door when he heard Skip whining, “But . . . what do I tell . . . Melissa?”
And before he could stop his tongue, he heard himself say, “Just follow your instincts, Skip. Tell her anything but the truth.”
Then the door sighed shut behind him.
Alex watched the towers and domes of Dream Park shift in his office, shadow-puppets that swirled and loomed at his command.
There were people in the streets. He couldn’t see their faces or hear their sounds, but he knew they were happy. Their balloons and cotton candy and plaid cotton shirts said so. The children that skipped to a faroff jaunty melody said so.
There was sunshine out there, and color and magic and music. But tomorrow, or next week, the people would leave, go back to their worlds carrying a little bit of the Dream with them to lighten their lives. And when those lives grew dreary again, they could think of vacations, and holidays, and travel . . . and Dream Park.
He had to laugh at himself. How often had he accused the Gamers of blurring the line between fantasy and reality? The truth was that their fantasy was his reality, and their reality his fantasy.
Tony would go to his grave thinking he had killed a man, and there was nothing to be done about it.
For that matter, it was true enough. Tony McWhirter had gambled the lives of anyone who crossed his path that night. He might have found a witness waiting when he emerged from G. A. 18; and then what? He might have crushed Rice’s windpipe; Rice might well have died of a stopped nose; McWhirter could have died in that fight, leaving Rice to carry the guilt of the manslayer. Instead, he had left Rice as a gift to anyone with the whim to hold his nose shut.
Tony must have known the odds when he set forth to rob Dream Park. People die during burglaries.
But if Tony McWhirter was getting justice, then what was Skip O’Brien getting?
Alex’s fingers dug into the controls on his desk, and the shadows shifted, now the abandoned Gaming area, now the streets of Section One, now the hotel transport strips . . .
It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t. For Skip O’Brien to escape was obscene.
“See you later, Chief—”
Right. And maybe if Griffin had consciously noted that Rice had no words for O’Brien, his former teacher, the man who got him his job at Dream Park . . . if he had noticed that Rice had been talking to him for O’Brien’s benefit, taunting . . . They must have skipped over anything important.
But that was expecting too much of himself, and that wasn’t fair, either.
A holo window opened up in the air above his desk, and Millie’s face materialized.
“You have a visitor, Griff.” Millie was unusually subdued, eyes worried. She and Bobbick had been treating him with kid gloves ever since he’d laid out his suspicions about O’Brien. Friend. Buddy. Killer.
“Can’t it wait, Millie?” His voice was more petulant than he cared to admit. Leave me alone. Let me hurt . . .
“I don’t think so, Alex.”
He sighed and faded the holo map to black. “Send’em in.”
When she stood in the doorway, outlined in the darkness, her brown hair flowing behind her like a scarf, he swallowed, not knowing if this was something he wanted. He thumbed up the light.
“Hello, Alex.”
“Hello, Cas. What brings you here?”
“Do I need a reason?”
“No. No, but you’ve got one.”
She nodded, smiling. “I just wanted to tell you that you were voted fifty bonus points for Best Novice Player.”
He leaned back in his seat and folded his hands behind his head. She walked a few steps closer. “May I sit down?”
“Please.” She folded herself into a chair, and wiped her hands on her slacks.
“I thought you might want to know the final score.”
He was silent, just watching her.
“As a party, we won almost 2100 points. Personally, I walked away with a hundred and sixty.” She paused. “You earned a hundred and seventy-four, counting your bonus. Congratulations. You’re no longer a novice player.”
Somehow her smile grew so warm and alive that it crossed the distance between them, and they shared it. “Thank you. I really appreciate that. I’ve been feeling very much the novice, lately.”
“There’s something else, Alex. I care about Tony . . . Maybe I love him. I’m not sure. But he used me to get into the Game—”
“Hey, no. They probably propositioned him after he was already registered. They’d have wanted a novice.”
Her brows contracted. “Oh.” She shrugged, her strong smooth shoulders lifting under her blouse. “Never mind. What he did—I can’t let what happened stop me from letting you know how much I like you.”
“Not now, Cas—”
But she already understood. “No, not now. But you’re not rid of me, and I’ll be back.” Her dark eyes twinkled at him. “Sooner than you want, probably.”
“I doubt that,” he heard himself say, surprised and glad that he had been able to get it out past numbed lips.
“My train leaves in twenty minutes,” she said, rising. He stood, and the gulf between them grew great, impossibly great again. He held out his hand.
She looked at it for a second, then took it. Gently he pulled her closer, feeling only the slightest tug of resistance, and kissed her. It was a light, brief kiss, but it was less an ending than a promise, and he was happy.
She turned, pausing only at the door. “I’ll be back, Alex,” she said.
He fumbled in his mind for something appropriate to say.
“Good Game,” he said, finally, the beginning of a grin framing the words.
“Good Game,” she echoed, and closed the door behind her.
He sat there in his office, grinning like an idiot. Presently he tapped the Com line. “Millie?”
His dark genie materialized. “Yes, Griff?”
“My desk is irritatingly clear. Dammit, isn’t there some work to do?”
“You bet, Chief.”
“Then wire it in here.” He stretched his head side to side, listening to his neck pop. Good Game. Damn straight, it had been.
“On its way,” she said. His desk printer began to hum. “Oh, and one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I’ve never met a Slayer of the Unclean before. Can I have your autograph?”
“We heroes are a busy lot,” he said blandly. “I’ll try to work you in Tuesday.” He watched the sheets of fanfold paper sprout out of his desk. When it reached a pile an inch high, it stopped.
Millie whistled. “That’s a lot of
business backed up there. Good luck. Personally, I’d rather be fighting monsters.”
Wouldn’t we all? he said silently. Wouldn’t we all.
He tore off the sheets and went to work.
* * *
AFTERWORD
The authors had a wonderful time researching Dream Park. As we hope you will agree, Melanesian myth patterns are as bizarre, convoluted and imaginative as any in the world.
All of the various monsters and most of the magics are taken from the literature available concerning New Guinea and its sibling isles. Road Belong Cargo by Peter Lawrence was the single most informative work; Albert and Sylvia Frerich’s Anutu Conquers in New Guinea; Benjamin T. Butcher’s My Friends The New Guinea Headhunters; Roy Wagner’s Habu; and Ian Hogben’s The Island of Menstruating Men (honest!) are also worth reading.
The Cargo Cult is the Melanesians’ attempt to explain the disparity between their own lifestyle and the superior technology of the “Europeans” who changed their lives.
The Melanesian approach was and is pragmatic. They adapted Christian deities to their own naturalistic pantheon, to form such entities as God-Manup, Jesus-Kilibob, and God-Dodo. They hoped that the right combination of ceremonies and imitation of Europeans would “open the road of the cargo”, bringing them the wealth that God intended for all his children equally. When one approach to the rot bilong kako failed—and they have all failed, to date—the Melanesians always tried something else. Even twenty years ago there had been at least five systems of Cargo Cult belief; and where it stands now is anybody’s guess. Because it is intended to divert goods now reaching “Europeans” alone, the Cargo Cult is by nature a secret society, and illegal.
The worship of European artifacts created some truly bizarre situations. One tribe did indeed try to hatch an “airplane’s egg” in a fire, with results better imagined than witnessed. Europeans ignorant of the Cargo Cult have found themselves involved in strange schemes intended to divert mail or to build airfields.
There seems no sure way to convince a Melanesian native that his world-picture is wrong. If present spells are not effective, he tinkers some more with the system—as if a European were working on a car that has been seen to run. Consider the case of Yali—
Born in (approximately) 1912, Yali was undoubtedly the secret leader of the Cargo Cults in the late 1940s and mid-1950s. He enlisted in the Army during World War II, and was trained in Australia. He toured European-style factories. He returned to New Guinea claiming to have seen God and His Cargo workshops. A highly intelligent, charismatic war hero, he amassed great power through his system of “Boss Boys” who controlled political and religious activity in dozens of villages. His legend includes a tale of Yali’s death and rebirth in the jungle.
Depending on who’s talking, he was either a saint or one of the greatest con men who ever lived. Peter Lawrence (Road Belong Cargo) sees Yali as himself a victim of the Melanesian world-picture. He saw those factories as an elaborate ritual intended to divert goods created and sent by God.
Cargo Cult, or the worship of material goods, is only one facet of Melanesian mythology. The winds, the tides and rains all were influenced by an incredible array of gods, goddesses, spirits and nether-beings.
The Foré do indeed exist, and are the only group of people on earth known to be carriers of Kuru, the laughing sickness. They are feared as magicians and cannibals of terrific ferocity.
Giant snakes, lizards, birds and other “natural” creatures abound, and required no modification to bend them to our story needs.
Magical creatures needed a bit more modification.
The Nibek is a village monster or “big thing”. It is generally described as having a head like a snake’s, a body like a huge stone, and legs like a centipede’s. It has a tiny mouth that expands “in the manner of a python swallowing a rat.”
The dread Bidi-taurabo-haza, the “man ripe making animal” is precisely as presented, a tropical Gorgon of immense lethality.
The Haiavaha was a demigod who guarded the secret of fire. According to legend, a dog stole the secret and brought it to mankind. We added the “reverse fire” as well as the Just-So type “Why dogs can’t talk” anecdote.
Zombies of one kind or another are common to many cultures. The Melanesians are no exception.
The Spruce Goose is, of course, an actual plane. It flew only once, off Long Beach, California, with Howard Hughes aboard. The fantastic troop-transport was constructed almost totally of wood, and was never put into production.
The concepts of Gaming used in Dream Park are drawn from many sources: computer-gaming, Dungeons and Dragons, the Society for Creative Anachronism, and the fiendish imaginations of fans throughout the Southern California area.
To the many friends who contributed eyes, ears and voice to the creation of this book, a hearty thanks. Without your knowledge and enthusiasm, writing Dream Park would have been far less than the exhilarating experience it was.
Table of Contents
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CAST OF CHARACTERS DRAMATIS PERSONNAE
The Creators
The Players
The Dream Park Personnel
PART ONE
Chapter One
ARRIVALS
Chapter Two
A STROLL THROUGH OLD LOS ANGELES
Chapter Three
THE LORE MASTER
Chapter Four
THE MASTER DREAMERS
Chapter Five
THE NAMING OF NAMES
Chapter Six
FLIGHT OF FANCY
Chapter Seven
THE ROAD OF THE CARGO
Chapter Eight
THE BANQUET
Chapter Nine
KILLED OUT
Chapter Ten
NEUTRAL SCENT
Chapter Eleven
GAME PLAN
Chapter Twelve
OVERVIEW
PART TWO
Chapter Thirteen
ENTER THE GRIFFIN
Chapter Fourteen
THE WATER PEOPLE
Chapter Fifteen
THE RITE OF HORRIFIC SPLENDOR
Chapter Sixteen
REST BREAK
Chapter Seventeen
THE LAST REPLACEMENTS
Chapter Eighteen
SNAKEBITE CURE
Chapter Nineteen
NECK RIDDLES
Chapter Twenty
THE SEA OF LOST SHIPS
Chapter Twenty-One
THE HAIAVAHA
Chapter Twenty-Two
THE ELECTRIC PIZZA MYSTERY
Chapter Twenty-Three
BLACK FIRE
Chapter Twenty-Four
AMBUSH
Chapter Twenty-Five
THE EGG OF THE AIRPLANE
Chapter Twenty-Six
THE LAUGHING DEAD
Chapter Twenty-Seven
CARGO CRAFT
Chapter Twenty-Eight
THIEVES IN THE NIGHT
Chapter Twenty-Nine
END GAME
PART THREE
Chapter Thirty
THE FINAL TALLY
Chapter Thirty-One
DEPARTURES
AFTERWORD
Dream Park Page 36