Larry Niven - The Barsoom Project

Johnny Welsh wouldn’t play; he didn’t like things hitting him in the face. Orson wouldn’t play; it just didn’t sound like fun. Max no longer found that surprising, but it still bothered him. Those two watched from the sidelines, looking obscenely comfortable.

There were two trenches twenty feet apart, with low parapets of snow. Max, Eviane, and Trianna manned the battlements. Behind them crouched Hebert and Kevin. Together they composed the Reds, a gang of desperados if ever there was one.

They sucked frigid air, dizzy with exhaustion. A few minutes earlier they had repulsed an all-out assault by the Blues.

They had Charlene on defense, and although she had to stop every few minutes to massage her knees, she was actually quite good. She couldn’t run anymore, but dogged practice had given her fair control of a snowball, and indecently high speed. Her first attempts were hilarious; her reflexes didn’t know which way gravity went.

Kevin threw himself into the game with maniac zeal which was already beginning to flag. He had no reserves at all.

The Blues were headed by Hippogryph. Max had experienced firsthand the full brunt of the man’s tactical brilliance (“The Cabal!” Hippogryph screamed. When Kevin turned his head to look, pop.)

— and his courage: hiding behind a shrieking Charlene, approaching under a white flag to strike swiftly and devastatingly. Max decided that he didn’t like the man. The only reasonable course was assassination.

“Kevin?”

Kevin was winded, and flushed from where a snowball had brushed the end of his nose, followed a moment later by a dinosaur-killer that exploded on his parka. The skinny computer-warrior wasn’t going to be much use much longer.

The situation was grim.

“We have to lure that son of a bitch out,” Max said.

“How?” Pant pant. “Got any ideas?” Pant.

“Well, he already used the white flag, so that’s no good. What about single combat?”

“What?”

“I remember reading about a form of Eskimo single combat. I could challenge him. If it looked like I was losing, you could bomb him.”

“Why do you think he’d go for that? You’re bigger than he is.”

Max grinned. “Yeah-but I think he’s Dream Park Security. if he is, he’s well trained. He won’t be intimidated by size.”

Eviane nodded. “Sounds good.” Her face clouded for a moment. “Are you sure we have guards posted? I like playing-”

“We’re on break-” Kevin started.

Max shut him down with a wave. Stay in character. “I’ve got Johnny and Orson keeping an eye out for the Cabal. We need the relaxation.”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure.” Eviane seemed vague.

“So what’s got you so worried?”

“I feel blind. I still get glimpses of the future, Max, from back when I was dead. But I don’t remember any of this.”

Trianna and Kevin tried not to roll their eyes too obtrusively.

The two snowmen referees looked somewhat like fluffy white Gumbies. One waddled over to the Red team’s walls and intoned, “The score is twenty-four to twenty-four. The rules allow for an extension of the play period, or you can go for sudden death.”

Max beamed. “Sudden death!”

“And the preferred mode?”

“ Mano a mano. Get that lardass Hippogryph off his duff. Quote me.”

The snowman’s eyes twinkled: an odd sight. “You can be sure of it, sir.”

Kevin brushed snow out of his hair, and plopped back against the snowdrift. “Do you really think he’ll go for it?”

“I can hope.”

“And if he does, do you think you can fuck him up?”

“Kevin, do you eat with that mouth?”

Kevin shuffled his feet, embarrassed. “What I meant was, I’ve never actually seen you fight, but this isn’t some choreographed bullshit-”

Max batted an arm at him. Kevin yiped and skipped away. Eviane drew lines in the snow with her finger, thinking absently. “I’ve… been here before.”

“Here? You mean this exact place, reliving this exact day?”

She smiled shyly. “Something like that. It’s the place, and I think I was doing the same thing. And it was just as important as everything is today… ”

“But?”

“But different people were there. No snowmen. And four of us were dead before we ever reached here. We’ve been lucky.”

“I wasn’t there?”

Her green eyes flashed at him. Devastating. “No. You weren’t.”

The snowman plodded back over to him. “The leader of the Blue team has accepted your challenge. We have a traditional Eskimo combat ready for you.”

Max peered up over the lip to be sure that no snowballs were arcing merrily toward him, and then climbed up out of the slit.

Opposite him, Hippogryph was discarding his external garb. He peeled down to a thermal shirt. Charlene Dula stood beside him, delighted. My hero! She grinned a challenge at Eviane.

Max saw his chance, and took it. “My lady,” he said to

Eviane. “I fight for all of us, but would you honor me by allowing me to be your personal champion?”

Eviane stared blankly. “What do you mean?”

“Allow me to carry some little memento into battle with me.” A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, and finally she giggled. Actually giggled! and said, “Sure.” She took off her belt and handed it to him. Max wrapped it around his thigh, cinched it tight, and tucked the tail in. He bowed expansively to her, and trudged off to do battle.

The two snowmen led the way. They were great clumsy beasts, the heads sometimes wobbling for balance. One of them tripped. The head fell off, made a squashing sound as it hit the ground. He had to feel around for a moment to find it.

The procession marched along (It was a moment before Max realized that there were actually martial strains in the background. Soft, integrated with the wind until he could persuade himself that it was his imagination; but no, there it was. Sousa march? Maybe.)

A hundred yards from the snowball battle area was a patch of ice fifteen feet across. Max looked down into it. He saw a stirring in the depths. A mermaid floated to the surface and blew a kiss at him, pressing lips and palms against the surface of the ice. She was gone before he could react.

“Wasn’t she cold, dressed like that?”

“Secrets of the deep,” the snowman said solemnly. “And now, will the two antagonists please take their places on the opposite sides of the ice rink?”

Max looked back at Eviane, then waved toward the sidelines.

“The object is to cause your opponent to lose his balance, while keeping your own. If you cause any part of his body except his foot to touch the ice, he is debited a point. If you lose your balance at the same time, no point, if you force him out of the ring, one point, if you both go, no points. The first to gain three points wins.

“Are there any questions?”

“What is illegal?”

The snowman grinned. “That can be decided by the two of you. We merely act as referees.”

Max and Hippogryph approached each other across the ice. Max’s boots didn’t grip the ice at all well. He wondered how Hippogryph liked it.

Max sized his opponent up. Hippogryph was four inches shorter, but almost as large across the shoulders. The man was disturbingly light-footed for his girth.

“No punching,” Max said.

“Agreed. Or kicking or poking.”

“Fine. Or any of that stuff.” Max paused. “How do you feel about slapping?”

“Fair enough,” Hippogryph said. “But not to the eyes, or face.”

Max studied him. Hippogryph had a secret. Dream Park Security training? Something else? Max had a secret too. He turned to the snowmen. “We haven’t started yet, have we?”

“Not until you return to the edge of the ring.”