Larry Niven - The Barsoom Project

“Yes. And you timed the engagements in the original Fimbulwinter Game to ‘hide’ some of the clues in plain sight, as it were. You took advantage of temporary blackouts due to fatigue or attention engagement. This idea forms the foundation of the Fat Ripper Specials. We hit the Gamers on every level except conscious/analytical. They think that the point of the Game is the exercise. The exercise isn’t the medicine, it’s the spoon.”

“Nothing up my sleeve…” Arlan chuckled. “If my little postulations have been useful on a more practical level, I’m glad. Tell me: you’ve run several of the Rippers; why is this one a special problem?”

Now Alex spoke up. “Due to a security risk, it has become advisable for me to enter one of our people into the Game. This run consists of thirteen Gamers and up to forty-three Actors playing multiple roles. Most of the Gamers were on the waiting lists long before Dula was announced for the Game, so no problems there. Actors are all Dream Park personnel, and have been checked. The Park is closed to ordinary tourists, so we’ve minimized risks across the board.”

“So what exactly is your problem?”

“I wouldn’t want Mr. Bobbick killed out. I can’t bend the rules to help him.”

Arlan nodded approval. “Even in the best of causes, cheating is still cheating.”

Marty shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I’ve seen plenty of Games. Watched ‘em from the outside, I mean. It doesn’t look so hard..

Asian Myers laughed heartily. “Oh, I can hardly wait to see your tapes. Appearances can be deceiving, Mr. Bobbick.”

Griffin warmed, remembering his own Game. “I was wondering whether it might be permissible for Marty to take a look at the actual Game plans.”

Myers reddened. “No, no, no! If he knows the answers, he will give them away.”

“But if they aren’t playing for points…?”

“No! The other players will notice who is lucky, or who is successful, and rally around him.”

Dr. Vail’s blue eyes narrowed. “It throws the whole structure of the Game off. The Actors are highly trained to conceal their knowledge. You’d be surprised how much eye and body movement gives information away. In the last century a performer named Kreskin ran a mind-reading act you wouldn’t believe, basically by observing body language.”

“I agree with Vail. You could destroy the balance of the whole Game.” Myers turned and looked at Marty. “What do you have, three hours until the Game begins?”

“Seven hours. Time difference.”

Myers’s lip curled. “Oh, yes. Well, that gives you enough time to read I Made the Pits Too Big: Confessions of a Retired Deity.”

“The Lopez biography?”

“Yes. That will give you an overview. I can give you a rundown of the Gaming rules.

“One. The duration of the Game will be three days, that is to say seventy-two hours.

“Two,” he ticked off on his fingers. “The number of participants, thirteen.

“Three, the Wessler-Grahm auditing company has produced a variant on the standard Gaming tables for use in the Rippers. Even though they have no credit with the IFGS, they provide a means for Ripper participants to reference their efforts. This is new. In earlier Rippers there wasn’t enough feedback.”

“Competition is often valuable,” Vail said. “Feedback always is.”

“Four,” Myers continued, “there will be a penalty of fifty percent of accumulated points in the event of a player’s death, twenty-five percent of which will be rebated if the player returns to the Game as a tornrait, a helpful undead.

“Five, the Game will be conducted for sixteen hours out of every twenty-four-”

Dr. Vail interrupted. “Except that the programming will continue for twenty-four hours a day.”

“Ah… yes. Six. Due to the nature of the Game, food and rest breaks will be subject to randomization and interruption.

“Seven. The usual quarter-moon symbol will indicate the presence of rest room facilities. That’s all.”

Dr. Vail smiled at Myers like a cat inspecting a bowl of cream. Griffin had the distinct impression that he was calculating Myers’s body fat content from the thickness of the bearded cheeks. “Thank you, Mr. Myers. I think you will find that the adjustments we’ve made in the Game actually make it more interesting. I can’t imagine any of our refinements-”

“Modifications,” Myers corrected politely.

“Ah, yes. Refinements would interfere with security work. Mr. Bobbick, you may find that you are more tired than usual by the end of the last day, due to the fact that your brains are receiving constant input. We balance that with the distribution of food-”

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing but fruit or raw vegetables after nine in the evening. In that way your digestive system gets to rest while you sleep. Second, all of the participants will be wearing heart and blood pressure transmitters wired into the mesh of their underwear. These will be in constant operation.

“Well-I think that’ll do it for the time being. You’ll find everything else you need to know as the Game proceeds.”

The two screens winked out. Griffin sipped the dregs of his coffee. “What do you think?”

Marty’s face broke into a huge smile. “You know, for years I’ve been telling myself that I was going to do a Game. You seemed to have so much fun in the South Seas Treasure Game! But I just never did it. Now I’ve got the chance. I love it. I’ll make you a little side bet-I outpoint everyone there.”

“I’ve got a different bet for you. Lose twenty pounds within eight weeks, and we’ll see about that raise.”

“Aw, Chief, c’mon. I can still pin you two out of three-”

“That’s the deal. What do you say?”

Marty waited a minute, then extended a heavy hand. “You’re on.”

Griffin pumped it solemnly. “Now, then. Is War-Bots set up yet?”

Marty rubbed his hands together. “Let’s see.”

Griffin punched a series of buttons, and the window cleared and Razul sat in a tiny cabin that pitched and yawed as he manipulated his controls. Each thundering footstep of the War-Bot reverberated to the core of his spine.

The enemy War-Bot came at him again, scarlet trimmed in black, two hundred feet tall. A thousand tons of mechanized thunder, with Andrew Chala invisible in the torso. It swung a gigantic fist that impacted like the direct strike of an avalanche.

Razul went down, and when he did, a row of buildings was crushed beneath him. Razul must keep the War-Bot rolling, must bring it back to its feet; but he was rolling across a park and into a block of apartment buildings, while families screamed and fled. Tiny nannies pushed prams at sprinter’s speed, or abandoned them to die beneath the metal behemoth. He’d smashed the base of a building. It disintegrated. Concrete and screaming people showered his shoulders as he came to his feet.

“ Have you never wished to fight a war all by yourself? Yourself the only general and the only warrior. No ally to betray you. No subordinate to ruin your plans through mistake or misunderstanding. War reduced to its basics!” Dream Park’s fool of a psychiatrist thought he knew Razul’s mind.

He was wrong. Razul had accepted the War-Bots challenge in spite of Vail.

He glimpsed his enemy through the wreckage. Razul and Chala had agreed to fight without missiles; but one could improvise. Razul clutched a mass of the concrete beehive and hurled it. It smashed through a shell of wall that was still standing; the scarlet behemoth behind it staggered, then came on.

By the sacred mountains of Allah! Dream Park’s servants had violent, bloody dreams. He was a war all to himself, facing one monolith of an enemy now wading toward him through waisthigh structures: a bank, some ancient business buildings that had become apartments. It was good, it was simpler than life, it was a heady experience. If only he couldn’t hear the screams, he could enjoy the battle, concentrate on smashing Andrew Chala. They were little white English, antlike, insignificant; not his people at all.