Larry Niven - The Barsoom Project

“Well, or somebody’s afraid she knows something.”

“You know, we won, but we lost. Fekesh lost, but he won. Missed his takeover bid by four votes. But the bastard bought his stock low, and made his profit when Cowles won the design bid for the Transcontinental Subway. Didn’t lose a dime.”

“How can you be so sure about Fekesh?”

“When you follow the money back through all the filters and all the fronts, after it changed hands through all the brokers, it went right back in his lap.”

Alex rolled his glass in his hands. You could follow the money, and that would tell you the truth, all right. But it was nothing that could be proved in court. Even if Fekesh had been a U.S. citizen. Even if there had been a reported crime. Shit, what a tangle.

Harmony was looking more peaceful. His shoulders were more relaxed and his voice less strained. Damn well should be. He’s dumped it all onto you, boyo.

“I grew up in the corporate world. We bent a lot of rules, sometimes broke rules, but it was a structured world. The world worked because of structure. And you know, sometimes in the back of my head, I always hoped you’d fix it, Alex. I brought you in from the outside. You grew up in a different tradition, where the world was a little more real. I was hoping that you could trace this all down. Help me make sense of it. Maybe I’m asking for too much, Alex. Maybe it’s all been dead for too long. But I’ve got to hope.”

Alex thought for a long time. He sat, watching the fire. He thought about all of the people, all of the time, all of the factors.

There would be few leads to follow. Nothing to prove. But… if there wasn’t something, why would the unknown traitor have tipped his hand by trying to kill Michelle Sturgeon out of the Game? That didn’t make any sense, either. There had to be something.

And if there was… it still had to be found. Maybe if The Griffin stirred things up a little?

“All right, Thadeus. I know my move.”

“Good! What?”

“I don’t know what else to do. It’s not fair to anyone involved. But it might work. It might work small, or it might work big. The girl is the key. Eviane. This Michelle Sturgeon. Somebody wanted her out of the Game? Hah! I’ll put her back in.”

Harmony sat heavily. His eyes glittered in the firelight. “You can’t do that. She’s emotionally unstable. It’s against the rules.”

Alex grinned mirthlessly. “That’s where you’re wrong. That’s where our traitors made a big mistake. There aren’t any rules, Thadeus. There aren’t any rules at all.”

Warm in the foil/foam sandwich of her sleeping bag, Gwen rolled onto her side and pressed herself back against Ollie. Her sigh of satisfaction, quite appropriately, sounded much like an old-fashioned kettle venting steam. Exhausted, surrounded by berserk Gamers and mad Actors, she and Ollie had managed to attain a little madness of their own. Sly, very sly he had been… wiggling up behind her “for warmth.” Heh-heh. Then came the stealthy linking of the bags, and much suppressed giggling and jouncing about while the Gamers around them slept. Or pretended to sleep. Frankly, my dears, she didn’t give a damn.

The air was warm, the dome above them covered with fluffy Dream Park clouds. She snuck a peek at her watch: eight o’clock. Unfortunate. Not enough time to get in a quicky with Ollie. Fair enough. It was the long slowies she liked best, anyway.

There was a crackling sound behind her. Gwen craned her head and saw Trianna standing just beyond the circle of heat-reflective cocoons, dressed in some kind of pink leotard, going through a slow, dancelike stretch routine. With surprising grace for so bulky a woman, Trianna torqued and twisted her body a joint at a time, working out the morning kinks. Behind her stretched a jagged, misty, whitecapped stand of iron-gray mountains, the object of the day’s exercise.

A low crinkling sound from behind caught her attention. Francis Hebert, dark face soft with fascination, was watching Trianna. She was lovely, Gwen conceded. There was a woman of tremendous sensuality hiding in that lumpy body. Every twist and turn was a scream to be touched. Kevin and Hebert were both interested.

What did Trianna want? Hebert had much the better body “Arrrgh!” The voice was right behind her. She rolled over and got up on her elbows, amused as Johnny Welsh fought toward consciousness. “Mother,” he moaned, “what has become of your little boy?”

The crackle of his foam and foil sleeping envelope was enough to rouse Robin Bowles, who sat up suddenly, not yet completely awake. Bowles looked around with eyes that seemed still focused on the last dream. His gray beard was ragged, his hair mussed, and he wore a ridiculous pair of red and black flannel pajamas. For all of that, he carried himself with immense dignity.

Bowles’s wandering eyes fell on Welsh, and the flickering smile which had raised feminine pulses for three decades curled his lips. “Well, Jonathan. Are you determined to subject us to another litany of woe?”

Welsh smiled sheepishly. “Oh, don’t pay any attention to me… ”

“You may rely upon it.”

“I know I need this. I saw the tapes from my last concert. Those close-ups were the worst. I had more chins than the Taiwan telephone directory.”

“Jeez.” Max Sands hoisted himself up on an elbow. “It’s too early for this shit.” All around the campsite, the Gamers were stirring to life.

Gwen reached down into her sleeping bag, found the torn remnants of her body stocking (Ollie, you beast!), and slipped it on. Jumpsuit on top of that, and then she reached around until she found her costume, pulled it down inside the bag, and began to dress.

She felt pretty good about the Fimbulwinter Game so far. The group had started pulling as a unit by the end of the first day, and judging by her mildly urgent hunger, the Dream Park magicians had been up to their standard tricks in the night. Usually she wanted crescent rolls, oatmeal with cream and sugar, eggs, sausage, and biscuits for breakfast. For some reason, all she wanted right now was fresh fruit.

And… she wanted answers, and didn’t have them. The National Guardsman was a few feet away. He had slept in a makeshift bag formed out of two emergency thermal blankets. He was sitting cross-legged, glaring out at the world. His name was Yarnall, and the problem was that he had no Game personality at all. Like the pilot and copilot and stewardess, his part was over; he was to have been killed out.

Trailing his sleeping bag like a snake half out of its skin, Yarnall wiggled over to the center of the campsite. Breakfast had magically appeared during the night.

“Small mercies,” he muttered. He was in his late thirties, a light-skinned black man with a good-humored face that made it difficult to take his grumbling seriously. “I can’t believe this.”

“Screw-up still gets to ya, huh?” Kevin Titus stood and stretched, the bones of his ribcage like barrel bands under his skin. He was startlingly thin and pale. “Just relax and enjoy it. What’cha makin’ now? Time and a haff?”

“Double time.”

“So what’s your beef?”

“I’m tired. I thought I was going to sleep in a bed last night. I want a scotch and water. If I can’t have that, leave out the water. Worst of all, I ain’t got no script.”

“Join the crowd,” Kevin said, yawning. “When they fix the screw-up, the first thing they’ll try to do is kill you out. The longer you can keep ‘em from doing that, the more money you make.”

Yarnall thought about that for a minute. “By… by the Implementors! If they give me a direct order to throw myself in front of a spear I suppose I’ll have to do it…” He raised his voice until it was almost a shout. “Of course, since it wasn’t my fault, maybe the Gods will give me a fighting chance to stay in the Game.”