The California Voodoo Game

30

Friday, July 22, 2059 — 11:10 A.M.

S. J. Waters kicked the ventilator grille free of its housing, and it clattered to the ground.

He scooted around in the vent until he could just poke his nose out. He sniffed, and smelled water. An enormous bank of fluorescent tubes overhead cast hard shadows.

SJ pushed himself out and landed on the balls of his feet. The hallway seemed empty. "All clear," he whispered.

His head jerked, and he notched an arrow to his bow, pointing it down the corridor at the unexpected splashy-giggly sounds.

Seemed harmless. Merry. Still, his nerves burned.

Alphonse Nakagawa emerged just after him, followed by Major Clavell, and then General Poule.

They formed a protective pocket around Mary-em, who crawled out just before Crystal.

"What do you think?" Poule asked when the last of their party had emerged.

"We think that you had better remain very still," Tamrni said, stepping out of a door to their left. In a flash, they were surrounded and outnumbered.

Poule was deadly quiet. "An ambush?''

"Call it a hijack," Bishop said lazily. "We want your icons. All of them."

Alphonse glanced at Mary-em; but no, he'd keep that secret for now. He said, "You can't just kill us, you know."

"And why not?"

"We were told very specifically: the gods don't take murder lightly. On the other hand…"

Prez the Zulu had fixed his attention on Alphonse just one instant too long: Poule leapt into action.

His sword was out in a flash, and he had slashed Prez's right arm. Prez deftly tossed his assegai into his left hand and lunged at Poule. Clavell blindsided him, and the fight was on.

The hall was too narrow for effective maneuvering, and Alphonse knew their cause was lost. Regardless, Poule and Clavell teamed brilliantly. They had Prez Coolidge, an accomplished Warrior, down and dead in a moment. Then they broke through the opposing line, using a confused Twan as a shield. They pivoted to another twin-prong attack, and then another…

Still, it was hopeless. Al's heart went out to S. J. Waters, who quickly found himself surrounded.

SJ was no great fighter. He simply didn't have the reflexes for it, but he had played enough Games that his Shield and Recovery ratings could see him through. Twice Tammi struck him, and twice the computer disallowed or healed her touches. Then Acacia was beside her, and SJ was doomed. He died before loosing a single arrow.

Crystal Cofax hadn't room to swing her staff. She sobbed in frustration as she tried to get a clean shot in on Bishop. Finally she screamed, charged through the line, and ran down the corridor toward the sounds of laughter and music And skidded to a halt, her eyes wide. She balanced at the edge of a vast swimming pool ringed with diving boards and lounge chairs. The boards vibrated as bronzed beach boys bounced off, sailed high, and somersaulted in midair, plunging into the water. On every chair reclined a golden girl, oiled and sun-haired and masked in bronzed plastic, perfect breasts and hips swathed in wisps of bikini gauze.

They saw her at the same moment she saw them. For a moment the tableau was frozen, and then Led by Bishop, the battle spilled out of the hall, and the sunbathers yawned, and returned to their tans.

Crystal feinted a figure-eight pattern. Bishop faded back, deflecting the tips skillfully, never committing himself. Crystal lunged Bishop slid his blade down the staff and grazed her fingers.

They glowed red and black, and might as well have been twitching in the dirt, for all the good they'd do her now.

Panting, Crystal dropped the staff. Bishop saluted and ran her through.

He turned to Griffin. "Watch out, Bobo!"

General Poule, enraged by the ambush, even more incensed by the hopelessness of his situation, had attacked the only unarmed member of the enemy party: their guide.

Griffin. What were the rules about this? Weren't guides off limits? Wasn't he protected by the gods or something?

There was no more time to think.

Poule lunged with his sword, and Griffin snatched up a beach chair to deflect the blade. Twice more Poule attempted to breach his defence, and each time Griffin frustrated him neatly.

"I can't get used to this fighting with furniture," Poule said nastily. "Where did you learn it?"

"Macy's School of Self-Defense."

Poule tried a low-line attack, aiming at Griffin's left foot. Slamming the chair down, the security chief disarmed him.

And now everyone was watching. Poule was enraged. Exhausted emotionally by the long crawl and the fight, the general was determined to take someone with him to hell.

Poule leapt forward, drawing a foot-long dagger from his belt, holding it underhand. His weight was balanced as neatly as a prizefighter's. Once again, Alex ran the Voodoo Game's specs through his mind: this was a Level Ten Hazardous

Environment event. Physical challenges between players were acceptable. But between players and NPCs?

Griffin backed up until he was against the wall.

"Got no guts?" Poule taunted.

Griffin was facing a professional military man with a twelve-inch fighting knife in his hand. If he wasn't careful, his guts were going to be very much in evidence.

Bishop threw Griffin a knife, and Alex snatched it out of the air. "Here you are, Bobo," Bishop said cheerfully. "Go to town."

Griffin balanced the "blade" carefully. It was twelve inches of plastic dowel, set within a holographic image of gleaming, curving steel.

Poule had every reason to go for the kill. His team had been neutralized, but a good personal combat would fatten up his Wessler-Grahams; and his enemies would lose a Guide.

He slid in, blade held underhand in the right, left hand forward and flat as a spade.

At all costs, Griffin had to stay in the Game. He stood, lowering his hand. "I am no Warrior. I cannot fight this man."

"Die, then!" Poule laughed, stabbing viciously for Griffin's arm. Griffin scrambled back. Despite the potbelly, Poule was lightning. Damn the man!

Contempt flashed in the general's eyes, and Griffin suddenly realized something:

Unlike Bishop, Poule didn't know who Griffin was. To Poule, Griffin was just another actor. He could feed that overconfidence, and maybe, just maybe…

Griffin flipped his knife around into classic "ice-pick" configuration. It was a mug's game, a John Wayne Indian position, a Hockey-Mask Killer position, completely wrong for any sophisticated knife fighting. It limited the arc of approach and confined the defender to stabbing only. Or so said conventional wisdom.

Griffin and Poule circled each other.

Alex's attention screwed down to a point so intense that the rest of the room ceased to exist, became a grey fog. And in the center of that fog… General Poule.

Confident. An ex-Beret, perhaps? Combat specialist? Griffin wanted this to be over fast, and his only hope was to keep Poule overconfident.

Poule tested Griffin's perimeter, slashing in with the blade, smiling grimly when Griffin merely jumped back again, almost stumbling, knife still held like an ice pick.

Then the general went for the kill.

The ice-pick knife position allows only for stabbing, but if one folds the knife back against the forearm, it becomes a tool capable of vicious slashing defences. Because of the shortened reach, one must wait for one's opponent to approach. One must have great speed, very precise timing, and a keen eye for distance.

Alex Griffin had all three. Poule lunged in, his left hand high to deflect. Griffin sliced Poule's left wrist, and in a single fluid, swerving stroke brought the blade down and across the attacking arm.

Red and black light spilled from the wound. Poule groaned and dropped his knife.

Griffin grabbed Poule's right wrist with his left hand. He stepped in, driving an elbow to the jaw and a knee to the groin.

(The man played fair, and had great reflexes! Griffin thought. Poule knew he was beaten, and responded to Griffin's mimed blows like a professional stuntman.)

With Poule doubled over in pain, Alex raised his knife high, ready to plunge into the nape of his unprotected neck But instead let Poule fall to the ground. "Bind this man's wounds," he said. "He is a brave enemy. I would not have him die."

He looked over at Bishop and saw his secretive, meaningless smile.

Griffin tore strips from his own shirt and began to bind Poule's wounds. Top Nun completed the binding and knelt beside the general, threw her hands into the air, and said, "Abracadabra. So I'm making a book already. If you're not too busy, heal 'im up. We might need him. Maybe not now, maybe Tuesday, but why take chances?"

Griffin took stock of the survivors, and it didn't take long. That last ambush had been bloody. Only eleven players remained: Mouser, Mary-em, Al the Barbarian, Acacia, Top Nun, Twan, Tammi, Major Clavell, Captain Cipher, Bishop, and General Poule. The Game had become a slaughter.

Finally there was time to examine his surroundings.

It might have been the biggest indoor spa in the world. It had a makeshift look: no one had planned to put a pool here. But someone had diverted water flow into a vast sunken region of the tenth floor. The resulting pool dwarfed an

Olympic standard. The inhabitants had carted in tanning machines, and sets of gleaming chrome weights, and steam cabinets. Stand-alone Jacuzzis bubbled along the rim of the pool like yeast clusters; rowing machines, stationary bicycles, and massage tables grew like weeds.

But along the ceiling, and all along the walls, tiny gleaming creatures scampered about. They seemed part machine and part animal and were busying themselves with repair and rebuilding. The entire level had an organic honeycomb look, crinkled and textured and pocketed. Shifting, multicolored waves of slow lightning crawled behind the walls, painting everything in the vast room in ethereal, electric hues of red and blue and yellow.

The air was as humid as a sauna, with wisps of steam curling from the water itself.

One of the muscular poolside loungers uncoiled himself lazily and sauntered over. He was well over six feet tall. On his face was written bland, unconcerned amusement.

"Name's Biff," he said. "Gettin' into serious hassles, dudes. Just hang loose, huh? Keep those bad vibes rolling in, the Nommo won't like it. Like, kick back, and we'll get some tasty waves up for you."

For once, Bishop seemed to be a little off balance. "Make a wave?"

"Totally tubular, dude."

Even as they watched, the pool's surface rippled, swelled, and reached up for the ceiling. It crested, boiling with froth.

One golden surfer had been balancing on his board in the middle of the pool, waiting patiently for a wave to happen by. As it expanded he rode the crest up and took the stance: right leg forward, left back and slightly bent, arms spread for balance. Fifteen feet of water ridge rolled him along a thousand feet of indoor lagoon, and then The wave turned itself inside out, flowed through itself, turned back, and headed the other way. The surfer pulled off a maneuver that Griffin was quite certain no other had ever managed. He leaned into the board like a skateboard artist doing a wheelie, his weight sinking back to the rear. The board stood up on end, pivoted, and he sailed back the way he'd come.

Griffin gathered his jaw back off the floor and followed their host to a cluster of chairs and tables. Biff snapped his finger, and a bevy of giggling, bikini-clad bunnies scampered forward to do his bidding. Twan, Tainmi, and especially Acacia bristled at the performance.

The girls disappeared, then reappeared with platters of sushi and carrot juice.

Griffin tried the taste combination and decided he could gag it down. Something beneath the water glistened for a moment, but when he turned his head, it vanished.

Twan leaned toward Biff. "You're only two levels above the Mayombreros," she said pointedly. "How can you be so…"

"Laid back?" He laughed heartily. "This is Nommo country. Everybody's pretty mellow here."

Something that looked like a meter-tall mollusk cruised up to Alex, serving drinks from a nipple on its side. Griffin sampled it. Delicious and martini-like. Did it eat grain and sugar, ferment them in a second stomach, and then regurgitate alcohol?

Acacia tasted her California roll gingerly, then bit in. "We'd like to see the Nommo. Would you call them for us?"

"No can do," Biff answered regretfully. "The Nommo don't like coming out all that much. Maybe if you wait around for a day or two…"

"No can do."

"Well, then I guess you better go in after them. I hope you can swim."

Twan punched Bishop's arm lightly. "You know, right about now I'm glad we brought you."

Seated, Bishop managed to bow gallantly.

Alphonse, still seething with anger, noted the booty bags that Bishop and others had brought to the tables. A gleaming regulator poked out of the top.

Scuba gear.

The first self-contained underwater breathing apparatuses had, of course, used compressed air. The development of cheap nuclear batteries had made those obsolete: a rebreather driven by a really powerful pump could last for twenty hours on a charge, far beyond the capacity of air bottles.

At first he wondered if these would be the classic, older devices, lost in MIMIC since 1995…

Biff had the same question. He examined one of the rebreathers and raised an ironic eyebrow. "Not what I expected," he said. "I was going to tell you about some scuba gear guarded by a local fire demon."

"Not interested." Bishop grinned.

"Can't say I blame you."

Bishop checked over the apparatus. "We've got three sets of gear here."

Major Clavell, who had been miserable, took an interest again. "Does the word anachronism mean anything to you?"

Bishop beamed. "Not a thing. Working fine," he announced. "Who's coming?"

Twan inspected the gear, hesitantly at first, then with a growing excitement. "I want in," she said.

Bishop nodded. "And we need a guide. Coral having departed this vale of tears, I believe that Bobo is our only choice."

Griffin smiled coldly and began to strip.

The poolside surfers gathered around to watch them, with the sounds of old Beach Boys and a little Jan and Dean still playing over the loudspeakers.

They were down to underwear, with the exception of Twan, who had borrowed a swimsuit. Her body was petite but taut, a swimmer's body, in fact the body of a swimmer who might have done weights and running merely to keep in shape for more swimming.

The rebreather gear looked slightly oversized on her. Of course, on Mary-em it would have been absurd.

Alex slipped himself into harness, balanced the gear in place, and checked to make sure that everything was operating smoothly. Acacia handed him a hand lamp, and he splashed its yellow beam across to the far wall.

He noticed that Bishop was treating him with just a hair more respect. Was that the result of the little episode with General Poule? Or was it something else? He took this opportunity to examine Bishop more closely. In the swim trunks he was a very dark black man without an ounce of useless tissue on his body. Probably a high-metabolism type, seething with testosterone. Any level of exercise would make his body bulge with muscle. Perfect coordination. A precise mind driven by a monstrous ego. He probably weighed twenty pounds less than Griffin and was possibly as strong.

Griffin didn't like to think about that. As strong. Possibly faster. Probably smarter. But there had to be a flaw there. Griffin felt the stirrings of a sour cold knot of fear in his belly.

Bishop nodded to Griffin and slipped feetfirst into the water. Griffin went in a moment later, followed by Twan. The water closed about him in warm embrace.

It was fresh water, unchlorinated and murky. He couldn't see anything in it but submerged walkways and corridors. He shone his lamp around, and the beam stretched out like a yellow finger, briefly touching first a statue, then an ancient, rusted bank of computer terminals.

The water rolled. For a moment he thought, Wave! and readied himself for the turbulence to follow.

But it wasn't that. Something like a textured torpedo brushed past him. It was rough and slick at the same time.

Griffin kicked back and reached out for it, but it was gone. When he switched his light around, the murk had already concealed it. Gone.

He hovered there, sucking cold, flavorless air from his mouthpiece. What had it bet on?

Nommo.

He pushed a button on his wrist, and a line of green arrows projected in front of hirn, taking him down farther into the depths.

Bishop was a few feet off to his right, moving beautifully and having no trouble keeping up. The setting was so ethereal that for a few minutes Griffin was able to forget the mission, forget the job at hand, and just submerge himself in the underwater world.

Twan slid alongside him and extended an arm, pointing out a building that looked something like a cathedral dome.

Bishop stopped, floating, and made a very broad gesture. Reveal magic.

The dome glowed weakly at first, and then more strongly, until they were all but blinded.

Griffin shielded his face, the hiss of air muffling his hearing.

But when the light died down, they were surrounded by Dolphins. Alex tried to touch one of them. His hand slid along its body, and it darted away. There were six of them. With gentle nudges, they herded the three Adventurers down to the glowing dome.