Jack Dann - Dangerous Games

“Yeah. He’s the single guy. The nut.”

Mike could see Juelie looking up at him for a moment, then down at Sam.

“He might,” she said. “He still might.”

Sam’s laughter echoed in the dying Martian day.

“Promise them more flights,” Evan McMaster said.

“We don’t have any,” Jere Gutierrez said. The Russians had looked at their plans, conferred gravely, and named a price that was ten times what their highest projections were. Now they were back in their shabby Moscow hotel, drinking Stoli in a decaying bar that looked like it was last decorated back in the 90s.

“They’re bluffing,” Evan said.

“What do you mean?”

“They do tourist crap. You don’t think they really know how to put together a Mars mission? They never even landed a man on the moon!”

“Yes they did…”

“What do they teach you with in school these days? A VCR and a chocolate cake? No Commies on the moon. Just us. 1969.”

“The Russians did it, too!” Jere said.

“Nope. Never. Once we did it, they dropped their program and did unmanned probes. Said that sending people was a showboating capitalist move.”

“Shit, man, don’t scare me.”

“You just need to know what we’re dealing with,” Evan said. “It’s a poker game. And they’re bluffing.”

“If you don’t think they can get to Mars, why are we here?”

“I think they can make it to Mars. But it won’t be easy. It’ll be hard. And they know it.”

“So what do we do?” Jere said.

“Bluff right back. Tell them we’re going to do this every year. Every three months. Every shittin’ week if that’s what it takes.”

“You’re going to lie to the Russian mafia?”

Evan smiled. “No. You are.”

“No,” Jere said, shivering, remembering too many stories from Dad, the first days of the internet, the way some companies got financed.

“I thought Neteno was the big maverick studio, willing to take any chance.”

“We are.”

“Then act like it, or I’ll take it to Fox.”

Jere opened his mouth. Closed it. The rumor had already been spilled. Every network knew about it. And they would probably be interested, if they saw Evan’s data.

Evan had him by the nuts.

“How do I do this?” Jere asked. “And live?”

“They’re gonna have their setbacks, too, stuff we can put them over a barrel for. Once we’ve primed the audience, they have to meet our schedule. Or all the advertising for RusSpace goes out the door.”

And you think you’ll draw them into your web, too, Jere thought. “I wish I had your confidence.”

“It’s my life, too,” Evan said.

Yes, Jere thought. And you’re more visible than I am. I will make sure it is your life. First, you fuck. First.

“Okay,” he said. “We bluff. Now, what’s this the lawyers have come up with for the contract?”

“Aha,” Evan said. He pulled out a Palm and scrolled through a long document. “Eighty pages of gibberish. They want real signatures in real pen.”

“What does it say?”

“You don’t want to know,” Evan said, eyes still on the screen.

“Give me the gist.”

“Has them renounce their US citizenship, become wards of Neteno, hold us harmless, things like that. If they make it back, they may have to live at airports.”

“There are always volunteers.”

“The lawyers had one other suggestion.”

“What’s that?”

“Start in the prisons. If they die, public reaction will be less.”

“But they’ll have less buy-in,” Evan said, frowning.

“Yeah, that’s a problem. Do you think we can spin it?”

“I’d be happier if most of them were just genpop.”

“Maybe a mix,” Evan said.

Jere nodded and sipped his drink. There was silence for a time. The sound of an argument deep in the hotel, maybe from the kitchen. Jere let the silence stretch out.

“Why?” Jere said, finally.

“Why what?”

“Why are you doing this? Just the money?”

Evan sighed and looked away, to the cute blonde bar-tender. For a while, Jere thought he wouldn’t answer.

Then Evan looked down at the table and said, “After a while, you get used to it. Not the money. The other shit. Having dinner with George Bush, ’cause you have your hand on the throat of the public. Fucking Mary-Kate Olsen, since you pay more attention to her at one premiere than her husband does all month. Picking up your office phone and asking for anything and getting it, ’cause you’re on top, you’re on fire. Why else?”

Because you don’t want your dad to look at you with that look, that are-you-fucking-stupid look, ever again, Jere thought.

But he just nodded, and they went back to serious drinking. Later, there would be women. Later still would be more negotiation. Endless rounds. Bluff and dare. The real product of Hollywood.

The only thing that kept Keith Paul from swatting the tiny cam that dangled in front of him was that he knew that would lose him the thirty million dollars. Contract breach, the asswipe PA would say, in that breathy feminine voice of his. All camera, all the time. We can tap in whenever we want.

Yeah, and I hope you get a shot of me taking a great huge shit, Keith thought. Broadcast that to your eight hundred million viewers. Here is Keith Paul, taking a dump on your ratings.

He would be sure to say that when he won. When they pointed the camera at his face, he would tell them exactly what he thought of them. His crowning words, his first major televised fuck-you-all.

And he would win. No doubt about that. Teams were for pussies. He’d been able to skin the Wheel and string the Kite faster than any team back when they were training. He didn’t have arguments with himself, or forget where something went.

No, everything was great. He allowed himself to look up at the light blue sky. Really not that different from Earth. There was only one creepy thing. Nothing moved. It felt old and ancient and unnatural, and the sun looked small and dim. He kept wiping at his header’s visor to clear it, but it wasn’t cloudy or tinted. That was just the way Mars looked. Because it was farther away from the sun.

“We need to make a request,” said the voice of the Can. Not the breathy one, but the cute little girl that the breathy asshole was sleeping with.

“What?” They always had requests. Look at this, do that, scratch your ass.

“The Ruiz team’s transpo pod had a landing, um, malfunction. They have no transport.”

“So?” Tough shit.

“We’d like you to divert your Wheel and collect them.”

“I haven’t even reached my transpo yet.”

“After you get there.”

“And you’re going to give me extra time for this?”

A pause. “No.”

“Then how the hell am I supposed to win?”

Another pause. “They’ll die if you don’t pick them up.”

“So?”

Finally, a new voice, deep and resonant. Frank Sellers, that John Glenn fuck that had rode them out here.

“Keith, we’d really like you to consider this. Even if you don’t win the prize money-and you still might-the act of rescue will create its own reward.”

“Like, they’ll pay me more than thirty million bucks for it?”

“I’m sure our sponsors will be very generous.”

“More than thirty million generous?”

Another pause. For a while, Keith thought they’d given up on him. But Frank started in as he caught the first glimpse of his transpo pod, glittering in the distance.

“Keith, we’ve got buy-in from several of the sponsors. We can get you a million. Plus other things. Cars…”