The California Voodoo Game

Tammi and Twan shot their fists into the air and gave a mighty cheer of "Ahroooo!" The human sound blended with one that was pure canine.

Alex realized that the dogs had vanished. Only one animal remained a smallish black Labrador. It crept up to Twan and tried to lick her hand. It couldn't touch her, but she patted its discorporate head and spoke to it.

It arfed, turned, and burrowed under the shattered wall. It was into the broken jewelry case next door. In a moment it was out, dragging… a necklace. The necklace was made of metal beads: seven brown beads alternating with three black beads.

Twan hefted it. "Talisman." She handed the beads to Tammi. "God of war. Your turf."

"Bobo-what do you think?"

Alex Griffin, aka Bobo, tried to remember what he had been told. "Oggun challenged you. You won. He has acknowledged victory-your power will increase."

That sounded pretty good. Moreover, the voice of the Game Masters was silent.

His eyes met Acacia's squarely. Her lips moved silently. Alex.

Tammi made a T formation with her hands, and said, "Fifteen minutes, potty break. I saw a crescent moon back a door or two. "

Acacia Garcia slipped away from her compatriots and found a quiet corner. She drew her belt knife and twisted off its handle. Within the five-inch hilt was two inches of hollow. She shook out a tiny cube with a standard tripronged electrical plug attached. She spoke into the cube rapidly, concisely, spitting consonants, then plugged it into the nearest electrical socket.

It was 5:30 P.M.

There were apartments on the eighteenth and seventeenth floors. Nigel set his team sampling them at random. Trevor Stone, Bishop's Sorcerer and second-in-command, found two sets of ancient scuba gear in a closet. Bishop flickered a smile at him, the equivalent of a pat on the head, and left him to carry them. Stone dithered, then handed one set off to Holly Frost; but he couldn't make himself get rid of both. The stuff was heavy, too.

There was no salt anywhere, not in any kitchen or dining or breakfast room, until Tomasan found lemon pepper in a fifty-years-abandoned spice rack. Not many Gamers would have had the wit to read the list of ingredients: the first named was salt.

Bishop decided to skirt the fifteenth floor's arcade, although his guide, the irrepressible Coral, had recommended it strongly. "Let Da Gurls do da work," he had said with a flat, hard smile. "Then, if they came up with anything worth having, we'll hijack them."

"Grody," she grumbled, "to the max." Stone had nothing to say… or maybe he lacked the breath. Nigel was leading them a stiff pace. The younger General Dynamics Adventurers were keeping up, but Stone was pushing his envelope.

By 5:50 P.M. they were combing an abandoned office suite on the fourteenth floor, finding nothing but cartons of paper cups and ancient computer disks. Reveal information spells reaped nothing but columns of accounting data. Disgusted, Bishop called a break.

He watched his team scatter to perform their various ablutions. There was a brief, mutinous glare from Trevor Stone as he dropped his pack and wobbled off.

Nigel wandered off by himself and leaned back against a wall, sliding down to a squatting position. He drew his belt knife and unscrewed its handle. He shook out his own tiny cube, and plugged it into the electrical outlet at his heel.

The tiny transceiver sent out a coded pulse along the copper wiring that webbed densely through the building. In a tenth of a second it had located and communicated with its mate, the device Acacia had plugged in at the video arcade. Acacia's transceiver uploaded its data in a supercompressed, encrypted format. ScanNet failed to differentiate this from ordinary static, although it did register the disturbance.

Bishop waited a few seconds and then plucked the transceiver from the wall, plugging it into his Virtual display equipment.

He listened to Acacia's voice: clipped, concise, urgent. It was time to make a move, but what?

He brightened.

It was time to let Trevor Stone's pent-up frustrations out to play.

For an hour the General Dynamics team had crept down empty hallways and narrow, unlit stairwells, ready for anything. There were no more apartments; no other Adventurers crossed their path; nothing attacked them.

The stairwell opened up into a grove of banana trees lit by rows of artificial lights. Their fronds rustled in a synthetic wind. Bishop moved out, testing the ground as he went, suspicious as hell. He spied other vegetation growing alongside the banana. Bamboo, and maybe coconut?

Bishop spared a glance for their guide, but Coral was hanging back, silent.

There was no natural order to the trees. Bishop suddenly realized that some of them-no, all-were planted in rectangular wooden pots.

The ceiling crawled with clouds distorted shapes, as with an old-fashioned planetarium ceiling. A distant crackle of thunder rumbled through the floors, but it felt more like Sensurround than reality.

Tamasan reached into the dust and retrieved a faded clapboard, like something from an old movie set. Silently he held it up. It read: Scene 34, Ile Ife.

The village itself was made up of storefronts and flats, imitation native huts built over fiberglass frames, and wooden shacks with three walls.

Holly Frost looked at it uncomprehendingly for a minute and then nudged Bishop. "Be damned. It's the set of King Solomon's Mines."

Trevor said, "Hollywood refugees. Trying to get into the spirit."

"So where are they?" asked Holly.

It wasn't completely empty. There were dozens of statues or partial statues of human beings. Bronze busts of men and women and children were apparently half-buried in the earth. Their expressions were of exaggerated pain and terror, extras emoting for the camera.

"Touch nothing until our Cleric has scanned," Bishop said testily.

Trevor glared at him. "Aye-aye, sir."

Tamasan began an elaborate Shinto ritual, taking his time.

The set's most prominent feature was a gigantic cylindrical shaft, which jutted from the ground at an eighty-degree angle and pierced the ceiling twenty feet above them. The shaft was of pitted, weathered stone. About its base were the remains of dozens of baskets of fruit, long withered. The last one might have been placed there a year before, and only stones at the bottoms of the rotted baskets kept the wind Wind?

Holly touched Bishop's sleeve, and he peered through the artificial grove. Just barely, they could make out the shapes of giant wind fans, eight-foot monsters humming and pulsing with electricity, whipping air across the set.

She came close to the shaft, but didn't touch. ''Wonder if this whole thing is a matte painting," she muttered.

The surface was studded with iron nails in patterns of wave and curlicue, driven to various depths.

Bishop came up behind her. "Language of some kind. Can't scan it."

"What about this?"

There was a stone tablet set in the ground in front of the shaft. Commentary in several different scripts was carved into it, including one in English: The Staff of Oranyan. And a smaller, older sign under it: Wet Paint.

"Scan," he said softly, and it began to glow.

He couldn't keep his eyes off those statues. Or busts. Or petrified people? If they had once been people, they were now buried to thigh or chest or chin.

The slate showed no residue of magic, nothing dangerous.

He scanned the statues next. Nothing. "Not transformed human beings," he said to Holly. "Statues. Just statues."

"Check out the set?"

Tamasan, a brown swirl of monk's robes, was scuttling about checking buildings. Bishop remained in the center of the town. Thinking.

Looked like they had broken for lunch. Just about ready to film a scene? Did he have to guess hard to figure out which one?

Bishop raised his hand and whistled. Coral and his three remaining team members flocked to him. He squatted on the ground to talk. "Booty?"

Holly Frost's dark brown face was streaked with dust and sweat. "We haven't found a talisman, if that's what you mean. There's some costume jewelry, some plastic pottery. It's a movie set, all right. I suspect similarity magic. I'm not sure I want to see the special effect."

"Tamasan? Danger?"

"Nothing, Bishop-san."

" Ile Ife," Bishop began stentorianly, "was the mythical birthplace of the Ibo people. They were protected by a mighty god-" His voice was sonorous and dramatic, and he was starting to work himself into a roll.

"Excuse me," Trevor interrupted. "I believe that it is part of the Yoruba legends. Not the Ibo."

"No, I'm sure-" Bishop paused. "Are you certain?"

Trevor hid his smirk. "It wasn't in the notes. I can finish the briefing, if you'd like."

Bishop allowed a trace of unease into his voice. "Ah yes. Why don't you do that-I'll be gone for maybe twenty minutes. I'm sure I don't have to remind you not to touch anything, Trevor."

Trevor's eyes were hooded.

"Right, then," Bishop said, and rose to his feet. "I want to do a little spying on Da Gurls. Coral, come with me."

Alex squatted with his back to one of the battered video machines, arms draped over his bent knees.

Acacia sat next to him. She smelled a little sweat-sour, and her hair was a ruin, but in a remote way he had to admit that she was, physically at least, as attractive as ever.

He knew that guilt wasn't acid: it might eat at the heart, but it didn't necessarily etch the human face. He searched for its signs, anyway. Where might it show? Around the eyes? Were those wrinkle lines a little deeper, more pronounced? Or was she just tired?

Tired…

Suddenly, and with a little shock, he realized that he hadn't slept the night before. When the adrenaline burned itself out he was going to crash, and crash hard.

Acacia offered him half of a tropical chocolate bar. "It's good to have a guide," she said, studiously avoiding direct eye contact. He nodded without comment. "It's good to have… someone that I can trust. Can I trust you?"

"Assuredly, miz. I'm here to help. For the good of all, and the survival of New Africa, and because the Mamissa doesn't trust my temper."

She nodded. "I've seen you before…" She wavered, and then lowered her voice to a whisper. "Hi, Alex. I can't play games with you, can I?"

"Games are all we've ever played, Acacia. Why change the pattern?"

Their eyes met sideways. For a moment they kept their expressions solemn, then she began to shake with silent ironic laughter.

"So. Here we are again. Just couldn't miss another chance to fight zombies?"

He made an expansive hand gesture that might have meant almost anything. "Hundreds of us are in it, Cas. Hell has let out for lunch; everybody's going wild."

What are you thinking, Acacia? There are so many possibilities. If you aren't dirty, you could be wondering if I'm here to bitch up your game. Could wonder if I'm trying to patch things up with you. Whether that will cause problems with Bishop.

If Bishop is rotten, and you are helping him…

Or if you're involved in Sharon's death, God help you. Don't bother trying to kill me out, Cas. I can take more hit points than Godzilla.

"So you'll be with us from here on?" she asked.

"All the way."

There was a sudden commotion at the front of the arcade. "Intruders approaching!" Mouser yelled.

"We seek parley!" That was Bishop's voice above the hubbub. Acacia cringed.

The line parted for Bishop and Coral.

He swaggered up to them. "Well," he said, examining Tammi's necklace. In his vision, it would glow like an aurora. "Looks like you've been busy."

"Should have been here," Tammi said.

"Would have. Too busy getting ahead of you."

"Get anything interesting?"

"That would be telling."

"So what do you want, Bishop?"

"Peace in our time? Surcease of sorrow?" He wandered farther back into the arcade and stood over Acacia. "Panthesilea." He bowed deeply. "So nice to see that you've survived."

Griffin got to his feet. He and Bishop studied each other for a second before the Loremaster turned back to Acacia.

"Coral suggested this place, but it looked more your speed. Congratulations."

"Cut the crap, Bishop. What do you want?"

"I was wondering whether any of your people would care to switch teams now, while they still have the chance."

Twan made a "hurry up" motion with her hand.

"I wanted to look over the damage," he said with deceptive casualness. "Make a body count. We've come a long way."

He examined the smelted video game. It was a barely recognizable heap of glass and plastic and scorched metal.

"My goodness. You had a time here, didn't you? And lost a Scout. Get anything beside the necklace?"

"That's for us to know-"

"Yes, yes. Let's not be tiresome."

He took Acacia's hands and squeezed, eyes twinkling. "Well. It seems you've fallen in with the right group, dear. And who is this? Your guide?"

For the first time he examined Alex carefully. Measuring. Categorizing. "My memory must be failing me. I could swear Bobo's changed since the Mami Wata ceremony."

"Changed?" Acacia asked. "How?"

"Why, he looks so much larger and more competent now. Intelligent, even." He enjoyed another moment's muse and then stalked back toward the front of the arcade. "Well," he said. "I can see that everything is in line here. I've learned everything that I want to know."

"Like what?" Twan asked.

"Ah, my little Asian jungle bunny, that is for me to know, and for you to never, ever find out." He smiled expansively. "I'll see you again, and sooner than you think!"

Still under the sign of truce, Bishop and Coral backed away.

Twan watched him go, chewing her lip. There was a game going on here, right under her eyes, and she didn't like it. And she didn't like the switch that Dream Park had made with Bobo, although it wasn't the first time something like it had happened. A guide got sick, or twisted an ankle, or screwed up a scenario, and an alternate stepped in. Still… she didn't have to like it.

"All right," she called out. "We move out in five minutes."

Trevor had propped his pack against a papier-mache stone fountain, using it for a cushion. He said, "Anything?"

"Nothing, Trevor-san. No icons or talismans. No magic, not even in the signs and sigils. Even so, the place must be important. Work was done here."

"Might I ask, would you call me Mr. Stone, or Stone-san or-"

"Stone-san, of course. Forgive me."

"Is Tamasan your first name or-"

"My nickname. It more or less means 'Mr. Ball.' My shape, you know, from Beverly Hills High School."

Holly Frost had climbed a potted tree. She slid down and came back to the fountain. "Zip."

"If there's nothing here, then something must be made to come here," Trevor said. "Some magical ritual associated with the I le Ife legend, if we knew enough. Or… perhaps one of these trees is needed somewhere else in the building."

"Ugh." Holly flopped down against her pack. Stone had looked worn out when Bishop left. Now he had his energy back she judged; in fact he was becoming twitchy. She said, "So we wait. Tell a story, Trevor."

"My turn? It'll be lovely not to be interrupted. All right, this was a long time ago, and the Gaming area was just a patch of high desert near Denver. No special effects really…" Trevor settled more comfortably against his pack. "Three groups of players had gone through ahead of us. Their corpses were scattered everywhere. This one chap was standing upright, not moving. 'Hi, I'm dead,' he said.

"He'd been killed in a patch of cactus, you see. Needles everywhere. He may have been dead, but damned if he was going to lie down."

Holly laughed. Was this really the only way to keep him from going off half-cocked? Bishop seemed to think so though he kept interrupting the damn stories…

Bishop and Coral were halfway down the stairs when Bishop held out a restraining hand.

"Like, what's the prob?"

"I need to think," he said. "Let's wait a minute."

"Your dime, dude."

Bishop sat down and put on a thoughtful expression. But most of what he was thinking was, Trevor Stone. You're boiling by now. Impatient as hell, and you want to show me up. How much longer before you make your move?

Stone said, "Your turn, Tamasan."

"Hai," the monk replied. "I played in Japan once," he said. "It was all very formal, the ranks established very clearly. We were supposed to know the legend, I think, but I didn't. I fought when we were attacked. There was never any doubt about who was the enemy. Very different from Dream Park."

"You missed the mental challenge?"

"Yes." Tamasan stood up abruptly. "I wonder if there's anything about the fountain itself?"

There was nothing to do at the moment. The inactivity was wearing at all of them, especially Trevor Stone. Holly Frost, Warrior and Thief extraordinaire, hated playing baby-sitter. Such passive work really wasn't in her nature. She would much rather have been stealing something or killing someone.

Still, it had to be done. "My turn? Something I overheard from an old Game Master. 'The Orb of Eternity' was a twenty-four-pound bowling ball. Some teams carried it the whole eight miles before they realised it wasn't what they wanted, and it sucked the power out of magic spells…"

It wasn't exotic enough, she had lost him. "This whole level is an H. Rider Haggard movie," he said. "I think you were right, Holly. It was some kind of ritual. The fans are still running. Movie cameras still set up. So where are the actors?"

Holly watched him carefully. "Go on."

"We are the actors. It's been set up. The whole village is a ritual waiting to happen."

"This is voodoo?"

"Similarity magic. Reenactment of ancient events, Hollywood-style."

"So?"

"So let's put on a show."

Holly didn't much like the sinking sensation in her gut. Stone was dying to do something, anything. And Bishop had to know it. Why had he left like that? Something was wrong here, and Holly Frost was stranded in the middle of it.

"I think," she said finally, "that we had better wait for Bishop. Finish what you were telling us. You were halfway up a mountain? Before Bishop-"

"Yes. Fifty years ago, near as dammit. I wasn't a player, I was an Implementer, one of the chaps who makes the Game happen. I could watch the Gamers going up another peak a mile away, and I had a walkie-talkie to guide the NPCs who were going to fight them. I could also see a kind of black whirlwind, a real one, mind you, coming toward them. They couldn't see it, and I'm a Brit, you know, we don't get tornados, but I couldn't believe it was any kind of special effect…" Trevor stood up abruptly. "You wait if you want to. I'm going to start a ceremony. There are personal points to be won here. I was performing sorcery before he could spell it."

Trevor drew a circle in the ground with a sprinlde of powders, chanting softly as he did. The circle glowed and hummed. Lightning flashed overhead, filling the air with a sharp, stinging metallic scent.

"I call to the gods of this land. The Drama Cosmic unfolds! Your cast awaits! Ready when you are, CB."

"Trevor, Jesus-"

He turned on her, furious. "Go and hide if you want, Miss Frost. This is Gaming."

Too late anyway. Out of the darkened sky an oblong shape formed and dropped toward them, a shape with stumpy legs and a thrashing black tail. It landed in the common with a thump. They couldn't quite make it out, despite the overhead lighting. It unfolded itself, a two-meter length of pinkish tongue whipping out and back repeatedly.

"What in the hell?"

It was ten meters of rather loony chameleon, multicolored, changing shades to match every object it passed in a steadily shifting, fractured rainbow. Big, but hard to see. It plodded toward them, enormous pop-eyes rolling. Its entire body flickered. Unmistakably, it was a stop-motion monster, a refugee from a Gumby film festival.

Tamasan was running toward them. He stopped suddenly and set his staff against the ground. "I'm scanning-"

"Yes," Trevor said sarcastically. "Scan it. Haven't you ever seen a Ray Harryhausen movie? Kill the damned thing!" He spoke a spell in some unknown language and hurled his sword. The sword burst into brilliant flame as it spun toward the thing's head.

The results were disproportionate. Flame singed the lizard from tail to tip. Its distended eyes bulged, and its entire claymation body rippled with agony.

Frost and Tamasan never had the chance to add their own power. The chameleon fluttered, glowed, seemed to electrify, and was transformed into a jet of lightning, crackling and arcing in the shape of a lizard.

Then, with a howl, it burst apart. Beneath its skin was a clockwork maze of metal gears and plastic knobs. It steamed and shuddered, and then was motionless.

"There's for you!" Trevor cheered it.

Holly eyed her teammates nervously. "Trevor…"

Trevor relaxed suddenly. "I know. Too easy. We've been had. I've been had, but I still don't understand-" He stopped, giving up, as the earth beneath them began to tremble.

The sound was as rhythmic as a slow drumbeat. Footsteps. Then a violent crackling, the sound of trees and shrubs torn up by the roots.

They could see nothing, but they heard a voice that crackled like thunder, coming from everywhere. "Haven't… you read… the script?" it asked.

Stone's voice was thin and cracking. "We are the defenders-"

" Who are you?" The voice was closer. Terribly close, and now they could see an immense shape forming in the sky. Staggeringly huge. Wearing a black beret and Brobdingnagian sunglasses; carrying a riding crop. A gigantic potbelly bulged from beneath a sun-bleached safari shirt. Bermuda shorts exposed knees as white as fish bellies, quaking with rage.

"Ohmigod," Holly moaned. "The director."

The Adventurers fanned out in the semblance of a defensive posture.

"Foolhardy… miserable… pitiful… actors!"

Trevor screamed at the others. "We can negotiate with this guy!"

Holly barked derisively. "I've gotta meet your agent!"

But by then the shadow of the director lay upon them, as dark as night.

The creature leaned down, its grin filled with gleaming, capped teeth a cubic foot in size.

And it hissed, "Strike the set."