Game Play

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Chapter 19:

  PROFESSOR VERNE'S EXTRAORDINARY JOURNEY

  "I never realized the map was so huge. I never fully conceived of the parameters of Gamearth from one edge to the other. If the Outsiders can create such a world as a Game, then they must be powerful indeed."

  ― Professor Verne, Les Voyages Extraordinaires

  (unpublished journal).

  The steam engine car chugged along, hissing and sputtering. Professor Verne's ears ring with the racket. The steel-shod wheels rattled along over the uneven and rocky terrain. Harsh sunlight made him sweat and scratch at his gray beard. His forehead and nose stung with sunburn ― he didn't usually sit unprotected in the open air for so long. His legs ached, and his buttocks felt sore from the bouncing ride hour upon hour, day upon day.

  Grit and dust puffed into the air behind him, stirred up by the rolling car. Verne's warm woollen coat lay wadded in the seat beside him, but he would not put it on until the sun fell toward the horizon and the air grew cool again.

  The Sitnaltan weapon was secured in the seat behind him. One monitoring gauge stuck out on an elbow of pipe. Polished bronze rivets reflected against the old metal around the chamber that contained the deadly Outside power source. The controls of the weapon consisted only of a timer knob and a detonation button. Angled red fins protruded from the sides for no reason other than that Verne had dreamed it that way.

  The vehicle rolled along. The desert sprawled out gray-brown and lifeless in front of him. For a while the sweeping emptiness of hexagon upon hexagon filled Verne with an awe at the sheer size of the Gamearth map. Then it all grew boring until he spent his time daydreaming and working out difficult ideas in his head.

  In the pockets of his overcoat Verne had tucked neatly folded sheets of paper on which he scribbled concepts and designs for other inventions. Verne's handwriting was difficult to read, and the diagrams were shaky ― the vehicle jostled him too much as it bounced along. But neatness didn't count. The ideas did.

  The professor also kept track of his progress so he could mathematically deduce the variation in travel allotments while journeying long distances with the steam-engine vehicle. Rule #5 specifically listed walking rates, but the supplementary tables in The Book of Rules made no mention of the Sitnaltan car. Verne came to the conclusion that with the vehicle he could proceed at about three times the pace he could go on foot.

  But even as he made the calculation in his head, something made an odd clunking noise inside the boiler of the steam engine. The clean white exhaust belching up from the stack hiccoughed, curled black for a moment, then dissipated entirely. The machine hissed. The vehicle clattered, then slowed, coming to a stop all alone on the dusty rocks. The boiler groaned again, and the pistons locked.

  Verne pursed his lips. "Hmmmm," he said, tugging at his beard. He climbed out and went around to the engine. He removed a toolkit from the sidebox and began to tinker, making sure nothing mechanical had gone wrong.

  But he had expected this to happen at any time....

  At dawn, three days before, Professor Frankenstein had helped him carry the Sitnaltan weapon to the back of the vehicle. Before the Sitnaltan technicians were awake, shivering but ready for another day's work excavating the Outsider's ship, Verne and Frankenstein had filled the car's main boiler and the reserve water tank from the stagnant cistern in the Slac citadel.

  The boilers heated the water, raising the temperature and building up steam. Verne and Frankenstein waited, chatting, killing time and making plans.

  A few of the others stirred and came out into the frost-covered courtyard before the pressure-release valve in the boiler hissed, spitting out its announcement that the car was ready to travel.

  Verne climbed aboard and made sure the weapon was safely secured. He waved to all of their puzzled expressions as the vehicle chugged forward, gaining momentum and traveling away from the citadel, out of the mountains.

  All that day Verne rolled on without stopping, despite difficult times on the harrowing switchbacks of the forested-hill terrain, and then going through the easier forests or, better still, the hexagons of flat grassland.

  Black lines marking the sections of terrain passed beneath his wheels.

  Verne consulted his own map of Gamearth to make sure he was indeed taking the shortest and most efficient route. He calculated the speeds and estimated travel allowances for the best types of terrain.

  He made sure to keep well away from the city of Sitnalta, just in case the weapon detonated prematurely.

  The first evening he had pulled up the vehicle and let the boiler fires run low. He found a stream and, handful by handful, he refilled the water tanks for the boiler. "Victor, why didn't you remind me to bring along a simple bucket?" He sighed. "I hate poor planning."

  Verne lay down in the grass to sleep, but woke up in the middle of the night, cold. He curled up next to the metal of the still-warm boiler and slept again.

  The second day he headed due east around sloping grassy hills, around a spur of the Spectre Mountains. When the mountains ended, he turned straight north across grassy hexes. At the end of the day, he entered the first section of desolation. Verne stared at the growing boundary where Scartaris's influence had drained all life dry. The long-range detectors in Sitnalta had suggested this would occur.

  Verne had spent the entire day moving across barren terrain, chewing up dust and sand and rocks. He felt thirsty, but he kept most of the water in reserve for the engine. His lips were cracked, and he felt grit between his teeth. He had covered five hexagons in one day.

  But now, far from the Sitnaltan technological fringe, the steam engine had died. He couldn't complain ― the Rules of Probability stated that technological devices would have a smaller and smaller chance of functioning as they moved farther from the city of Sitnalta.

  Verne tapped at one of the gleaming bronze piston shafts with a wrench, but it was no use. Unless he got the steam engine moving again, he could not destroy Scartaris, and Verne would be stranded out in the middle of the wasteland with a doomsday weapon powerful enough to blow a hole right through the bottom of the map.

  Verne checked and rechecked the steam-engine. He didn't know what else to do. He could never carry the heavy Sitnaltan weapon by himself. Nothing mechanical was wrong ― that much was obvious. Nor was it any surprise. He muttered to himself about the vagaries of Gamearth, and the rigid Rules that dictated everything. He hoped the Outsiders enjoyed making things difficult for him.

  After the long day, he decided to reward himself with a precious cup of tea while waiting for the car to function again. He poured a little of the water out of his canteen into a tin cup from the car's supply case, then used his fingertips to hold the cup over the flames by the boiler. He shifted his grip from one hand to the other as the handle grew hot, but the water began to boil at last. He sprinkled tea leaves into it. They swirled with the heat currents in the water, and sank to the bottom as they let brown coloring seep into the cup. Steam rose from the hot tea.

  Then Verne stood up so quickly he sloshed some of the tea onto his pants. "Incredible!" he cried as the idea struck him. This was one of his own ideas, something clearly his own, not inspired by the Outsider Scott at all.

  Here, far beyond the Sitnaltan technological fringe, water still boiled, did it not? Steam still rose, did it not?

  He set his cup in a depression on the ground and went to the engine of the car. With both hands, he grabbed the pistons and pulled them out, pushed them back in. Yes, the pistons still moved, one cylinder inside the other.

  The steam engine was a simple machine. He knew how it worked. Not a thing could go wrong.

  It made no sense. Nothing got Verne more frustrated than things that made no sense. He knitted his eyebrows and pursed his lips, pacing around and around the steam-engine car. He grew angry. There was no reason for it!

  His face grew red with emotion, and he pounded his fist against the side of the boiler.

  The Rules he
had made a part of his life were completely arbitrary!

  Yes, he had always accepted that Sitnaltan technology would not function beyond the fringe ― but when inspected closely, all technology was based upon fundamental laws of nature. Simple principles.

  "It's not fair!" he shouted up, as if the Outsiders were listening. He hoped they were. He would throw their own arbitrariness back into their faces.

  "I am beyond the technological fringe, yes ― but what is the reason for this vehicle not working? Water still boils. Steam still rises. A piston will still move up and down. Wheels still turn.

  "Everything in this vehicle must work, even on the other side of the fringe! I have used nothing out of the ordinary here. Just boiling water, rising steam, and turning wheels."

  The sky remained silent and empty.

  "You had better rethink your rules and restrictions."

  Verne coughed because his throat was dry and caked with dust. In annoyance he kicked the iron-shod wheel of the car with his heel.

  The steam engine sputtered and gasped, surging back to life. Startled by the noise, Verne jumped out of the way. The vehicle lurched ahead, rumbling along the quest-path by itself.

  Verne blinked and smiled. His tea sat ready on the ground, but he had no time to go get it. The vehicle moved farther away, picking up speed. He ran to catch up with it.

  By noon the next day the steam-engine car labored up a slope. The rock outcroppings had gotten larger and more jagged. Verne had to devote more attention to steering around sharp boulders and other debris that could cause serious damage to the vehicle.

  He began to grow concerned. The water level was going down in the main boiler, and he had already used the auxiliary tank. But according to his calculations, based on data he'd taken from the Sitnaltan detectors, he should be nearing Scartaris. And the doomsday weapon was still intact.

  When the steam-engine car came to the crest of the hill, Verne looked down over a vast basin. A hooked line of jagged mountains bordered hexagon upon hexagon of desolation. Ah, he thought, those cliffs would be where Scartaris dwelled.

  But in front of him, spread out in encampments, was the greatest horde of monsters he had ever imagined. They seemed unreal to him, all those creatures the Sitnaltans had ignored for turn after turn.

  Verne pulled the car to a stop and then coaxed it into the shelter of a broken rock outcropping. The professor dismounted from the car, removed an optick tube from the sidebox, and peered down at the armies.

  He saw marching angular-faced Slac covered with scales. He turned the field of view to observe monsters of all kinds, stone gargoyles, hairy brutes, a few ogres, worm-men sloughing through the broken sand in churned paths, green-skinned and pointy-eared goblins in their breeder groups.

  On his scraps of paper, Verne noted the main features of each monster he saw, documenting them for future reference. With his interest in biological matters, Victor Frankenstein would probably delight in such first-hand observations.

  Then Verne realized that each of these monster soldiers would stand in his way, block his passage to Scartaris. They would want to attack him, capture him, perhaps kill him. He suddenly considered what might happen if these unpleasant creatures managed to possess the powerful Sitnaltan weapon.

  He and Victor had not thought of that.

  "This could cause a problem," he muttered to himself.

  A direct road led to the mountains. He saw a wide but steep path heading directly to a great opening in the flat cliff like a lipless mouth of rock. Strange and oily colors flashed from inside the broad cavern.

  As he expected, the Outsiders would make the lair of Scartaris wonderfully obvious. Reaching it, though, would be the primary problem.

  He shut off the boilers in the steam engine, remembering that he had to remain hidden. The car would make plenty of noise when he restarted it. When he decided to move, he would have to make all possible speed to his goal and hope he could cover enough terrain, to get to a place where he could detonate the weapon ... before the monsters got him.

  Verne sat with his back against the shaded rock and took out his last clean piece of paper. He jotted down notes to himself, waiting for dark.

  Chapter 20:

  SHADOW BATTLE

  "The Outsiders love to play at warfare with us. They can slaughter characters by the thousands without risking harm to themselves. But this is our Game too, and we must fight back."

  ― General Doril, memoirs from the Scouring.

  Clouds gathered over Scartaris's mountain, making the sky look like a cooling pool of molten lead. Overhead wheeled several batlike reptilian creatures. Delrael found the air thick and hard to breathe.

  The Cailee had not come the night before. Mindar shook her head.

  "Scartaris wouldn't resurrect me without bringing back the Cailee," she said.

  "He's just having his fun."

  "I'm not sure who our true enemy is anymore ― " Vailret said, "Scartaris, or the Outsider David."

  The Slave of the Serpent limped and dragged his leg beside them. The wound from Delrael's sword still bled slow and thick, but Sadic did not complain.

  At dusk they reached another hex-line. Only one more section of terrain separated them from the end of their quest. The ground grew more broken and jagged, as if Scartaris had tossed chunks of his mountain like giant dice in every direction.

  Behind them the monstrous black cloud rose up from the ground, near enough to hear clearly now ― a constant buzzing, squawking turmoil. The cloud pushed ahead like a clawed hand scooping them toward Scartaris.

  At the top of a rise, Delrael stopped, sheltered by a rock outcropping.

  The army of Scartaris gathered before them on the great plain. "No wonder Scartaris wasn't worried about us." He swallowed in a dry throat.

  By the light of dim fires in the camps, hideous demons and reptilian things moved in organized ranks. Tall Slac generals marched about shouting orders. Delrael saw an occasional hulking stone gargoyle, like Arken. Swarms of small goblins, green-skinned and hairless, clustered together in their breeder groups. Guttural grunts and hisses carried out into the still air.

  The massive enemy was preparing to march upon Gamearth. Scartaris had grown tired of waiting. The Outsider David wanted to ruin the map without further delay.

  One gigantic creature strode through the army, obviously in command. He had a powerful lion's body, a wicked-looking scorpion-tail that flickered with blue lightning, and a horned head showing distorted human features. Delrael thought he had heard of such a creature in the worst old Sorcerer battles, a monster developed by gamers to be powerful enough to oppose even the great dragons.

  "It's a manticore," Vailret said. His voice sounded thin with fear.

  "Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore," Journeyman said.

  Overhead, Lady Maire's Veil reminded Delrael of green blood spilled across the sky. The mountains of Scartaris looked like a strange, warped creature made of stone, rearing its mighty head. Two symmetrical peaks curved upward from the main mountain, broken and pitted, similar to the horns of a giant bull. On the central rock face was a yawning grotto, a cavelike overhang that stared out of the mountain like a cyclopean eye-socket, black and pupilless.

  Delrael had to take the Earthspirits into that cavern. It was obvious. He had gone on enough quests to identify the goal when he saw it. But the entire army of Scartaris stood ready to stop him. He felt his vision go dark and fuzzy; his breathing came short.

  "The game ain't over until the fat lady sings," Journeyman said. He blinked his clay eyelids.

  "Sadic will protect you," the burly Slave said and stood beside Delrael. "You freed Sadic."

  Delrael felt the silver belt at his waist. All of those monsters, each one intent on destroying Gamearth, on stopping him ― how could he ever take the Spirits the final distance? "We'd need an army of our own to get past them."

  "And any time it looks as if we might succeed, Scartaris can go through his metamorph
osis and end the Game anyway," Mindar sighed. "Isn't this fun?"

  Bryl shuffled his feet and kept his head down. "I have an idea." He flinched when everyone looked at him at once. He ran his gnarled hands through the folds of his cloak and withdrew the Fire Stone and the Air Stone.

  "Scartaris knows we have the Fire Stone, since it was Enrod's," he said, then thrust the eight-sided ruby back into his hidden pockets. "But I haven't used the Air Stone yet on this quest. Remember how Gairoth had his army of illusion ogres at the Stronghold? Gairoth has even less training than I do, and his Sorcerer blood is tainted."

  He took a deep breath. "My father Qonnar was a full-blooded Sorcerer; my mother Tristane was a half-breed. I've had some training. If I use up all my spells, I can create an army for you. A good one."

  Delrael pondered a moment as possibilities came into his head, then he grinned and clapped a hand on Bryl's shoulder.

  "Whatever it takes," Journeyman said, "The Rulewoman Melanie is counting on me."

  Bryl seemed small and terrified. "Just remember what I'm going to do, though. It's easy to think of one or two figures and move them around with my imagination ― but I'll be keeping track of a thousand different faces, different characters, all at the same time. Each one fighting, each one moving around like a real character would."

  He blinked his eyes, looking giddy. "It'll be like role-playing on a gigantic scale! It must be what the Outsiders do all the time."

  Mindar held her rippled sword and stared at the army below. The expression on her face seemed explosive. "If you make it look like the monsters are being slaughtered, that'll certainly ruin their morale."

  Delrael saw concern grown on Bryl's face. "Just remember, my illusions won't cause any actual damage, though the monsters will think they're striking something solid. At least it'll keep them busy while you slip past to Scartaris."

  Bryl huddled between broken boulders in the shelter of an outcropping.