The California Voodoo Game

22

On the twelfth floor, stalks of corn and sheaves of wheat grew from hydroponic tanks, beneath a network of track-mounted lights. Goats and chickens roamed placidly between the rows of tanks, occasionally chased from the checkered tiles back to a grazing pen by healthy-looking barefoot children.

The air was scented with the mouth-watering aroma of Mexican food. Spanish guitar and castanets and the almost-inaudible heartbeat rhythm of drums pattered from a loudspeaker.

Everything was very clean. The hydroponic tanks were capped with glass, and pale green lights flared irregularly in the rows, perhaps sterilising or driving away insects.

As the Adventurers approached, muscular young men appeared, blocking their path. They wore lab smocks and carried clipboards. Pens were tucked behind their ears, and their breast pockets were jammed with pencils. They also carried twenty-four-inch black batons.

Tammi raised her hand. "We come in peace."

A young, pale woman in a lab smock pushed through the guards and answered her coolly. "Greetings. We are a simple farming people, senorita." She was plain and fair-skinned, her hair pulled back severely in twin braids.

"I see. And can you perhaps spare us a little food?"

"Oh, no, senorita. We are obliged to our neighbors down the way. We give them chickens, goats, and grain, and they refrain from eating our children." She seemed to consider a new thought. "But if you could help us with them, then it is possible that we would then have food to give you."

"This augurs not well," Prez whispered.

Corrinda agreed. "If we have to fight, why not here and now?"

Acacia watched Corrinda's face. It was, increasingly, a mask of strain. Damn it. That knee must be killing her.

"No way," Bishop said. "Major faux pas. Even the gods can only fight defensively. Clear cue for our own behavior. We march."

Tammi and Twan nodded agreement.

"Tell us of your enemy," Nigel said. "Describe them."

"Oh, senor, they are very fierce, and they eat people." She shuddered as if it were just too terrible to relate.

Nigel waited, but she said no more. "Very well. Can you draw us a map?"

"Yes. Juan!"

A tall, broadly built young man stepped forward and conversed with the girl in rapid-fire Spanish. He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and scratched a series of lines on it, involving a big square with a piece missing from one corner.

Lab Smock translated his explanations and then said, "Juan says that the path is dangerous, but that if you are brave and strong, you may succeed. May Orisha-Oko go with you."

"Prez" Coolidge, Zulu Warrior, led the way. The remaining Adventurers stretched out in a line behind him. The village bordered on an air well. The railing was rectangular; a blank wall bit a piece out of one corner. Looking over the railing,

Mouser could see the neon glitter of the Mall several floors below, and the well dropping a couple of stories farther than that.

Graffiti and pictoglyphs marred the walls, many of them representing sun and crops and meat animals, speaking to simple peasant concerns.

But as they traveled around the Mall's edge the Latin flavor changed, becoming something else, something older and more sinister.

A forty-five-degree turn took them past an unmarred stretch of blank wall. Mouser trailed and, unobserved, reached out to brush his hand along the surface. It was ceramic, but not brick: smooth and hard, perhaps too hard to take frescoes, and easy to clean of paint or charcoal clubbings. Not quite vertical, it leaned back at five degrees or so.

The path turned again, and there were more graffiti carved painfully into soft stone. The symbols looked older than contemporary Mexican Mayan, perhaps. Angular, jutting faces and spear-carrying warriors in frieze. But the wall behind them, Mouser saw, was as smooth as glass and tilted at five degrees from vertical.

Virtual imaging his Thief's power showed him a small round door thirty yards down; but Bishop was leading them in the opposite direction.

Mouser brushed Tammi's elbow. He whistled a single, very low note and then pointed by shifting his eyes. Her gaze followed his and registered comprehension.

Her nod was barely perceptible, just a hairline tilt of her jaw. But it told him everything that he needed to know.

The floor beneath their feet throbbed with an odd, distant beat. Irregular and yet organically steady. Perhaps a stuttering piece of machinery. Perhaps something else.

They descended into night. What little illumination there was struck busts and statues lining the corridor and cast a tangled, prickly forest of shadows.

"I've seen this one before," Bishop mused. The thing was five feet high, and balanced on a diamond-shaped brass stand. It was a warrior's mask, with a broad, curved axeblade ornament projecting from the helmet. The face was strong and severe.

"Where?" Prez asked. "No, wait. My… citadel had a collection of art from the old world." He squeezed his eyes shut, then looked again.

"From Gabon," he said. "A people called the Bakota."

There was another a little farther on. This was a complete figure, squatting with its hands in a prayerlike position. Prez had no comment.

Bishop ran a hundred images past closed lids. "Bayaka people. Zaire."

Prez nodded approval. "You know the motherland, my brother."

Bishop's smile glittered, and it was too dark to see how devoid of warmth or humor his eyes truly were. "Like coming home, isn't it?" He clapped Prez on the back, thinking, Jigaboo.

Prez held up a hand. "We've got something up here-"

And there was a scream behind them.

They turned in time to see Mouser lifted off his feet, carried up and toward the ceiling by fanged shadows.

Instantly, Corrinda snatched her bow and notched an arrow. She aimed carefully and fired it into the shadow figures flitting around Mouser. It struck one, to no effect.

"Quick!" she yelled, and handed a fistful of arrows to Top Nun.

The little cleric screamed, "You should pardon, God-no time for the whole shmeer. Bless these arrows!" and handed them back. Corrinda took aim and fired one after another.

The wounded shadows fluttered like crippled bats; they lowered the screaming Mouser back to the deck. He was covered with wounds, great claw marks that wept blood.

Top Nun immediately hunched over the wounded Thief and began to glow. Tammi asked, "Healing?"

"I should be playing dominoes, maybe? Excuse me for asking, but is all this trouble worth it for a little nosh? Could we maybe find a nice deli?"

Prez examined another frieze and crooked his finger at Tammi. "I don 'I like this."

"What have we got?"

It was a collage of metal and plastic, an impressionistic rendering of a head with two faces, a braided topknot of hair linking the foreheads. Eyes were inset hollows; teeth splayed out from angrily parted lips.

"This looks like a burial symbol," Prez said uncomfortably. "Someplace in Nigeria, I think. I think we've stumbled into another cemetery. But every one of these statues and images seems to be from a different culture, as if… as if…"

Coral began to back up. "Oh, grody."

"What is it?"

"Look. This is like McCannibals, you know?"

"She's right," Bishop said. "They raid the other villages. But in Africa, the dead are never really dead. Their souls can haunt. So they bury the bones here and steal idols from their victims, sealing each soul in with its own familiar god.

Don't know what kind of spells they use to hold it together, butWatchit!"

It was too late. Coral shrieked as the frieze groaned and shivered. Dust and bits of plaster flaked from a thick, stubby arm as it grabbed her. "Eeeooowww!" she screamed, flailing with her hands to no effect. It tightened its grasp, and there was a terrible crunching sound. It threw Coral's limp body aside like a Barbie doll, blinked thick, crusty eyelids, and groaned again, wrenching itself from the wall.

It was an immense, ragtag spectacle of flattened tin cans and human femurs and ribs, brass and copper tubes and wiring, with squat stubby arms and legs.

It climbed down out of the wall, shook itself like a wet dog, and lumbered after them, teeth dripping dust. It groaned in a voice like splintering bones.

Ponderous it may have been, but with Corrinda's damaged knee and Mouser's injuries, it wasn't much slower than they were. Without hesitation, Twan and Tammi went to either side of Mouser. Shoulders set in his armpits, they heaved him up and carried him at a scamper.

Their allies were paces ahead of them. Bishop screamed, "Get it moving!" back over his shoulder, just before he rounded a corner.

Behind them they heard that ghastly cacophony, the splintering bone sound. The monster was at least twenty seconds back. The rest of their allies were out of sight. In gasps, Mouser began to whisper secrets.

"The stairway is blocked," Acacia said. "Bobo, what the hell is that creature?"

There had been something in the briefing, but it had gone clean out of Alex Griffin's mind. He would have been lost without the notes scrolling across his bronze shades. He read, "We entered the burial ground of the Ikoi tribe without performing proper ritual-"

Now he remembered: it was scripted as a battle, with no tricky little puzzles except that winning would give them access to a small round door. "We run, or we fight. There is no other option."

Distantly, but growing closer, they heard crunch rriiip crrrunch…

The knot of Adventurers stood with swords and staffs and magical implements at the ready, everyone snarling defiance and trying to get behind someone else.

"I blink we can fight that thing," Tammi said. "We've got the Staff of Oranyan and-" another glance at Twan "-Oggun's Necklace. Let's go for it."

Acacia shook her head. "Not now. Not here. Let's find out more about combining the magic. We've lost too many people."

Bishop leaned out over the balcony, dreamily peering down into the next level. Mist roiled below, and, beneath it, cackling human throats.

"Listen to me," he said, spinning around. "We're supposed to fight that thing, but we're not required to."

Tammi frowned. "What are you babbling about?"

Crrrunch.

He tapped the door behind them, a sealed stairwell emblazoned with a radiation sign.

Tammi grimaced. "Nigel are you blind? That's a Nekro seal. Instant death for the person who opens it." She lowered her voice. "We're not supposed to go through that door. You know that. This is an encounter. We fight!"

"Think about it," Bishop said urgency. "If we have this encounter, we'll lose maybe two people, maybe half of our healing points. My way we lose one person, sure. But only one person. You have to think flexibly."

Tammi paled. "That isn't done. You never throw away a member of your team."

"I'm not throwing him away. I'm investing him."

Alex couldn't believe his ears. Or his eyes: his bronze mirror shades were innocent of any hints from the GMs. "Ah-" Remain in character. "This symbol is death, Kabuna."

Rrrippp. Cruuuuunch.

"Yes, Bobo, we know. And so is that creature." Bishop took a quick scan of the Gamers. Corrinda was sitting against a wall with her leg straight out. The Mouser was getting up. Red still glowed in patches on his torso and right arm.

Bishop pulled them aside. "Listen. So far this Game has made hash of your abilities, Mouser. You're holding your team back. Corrinda, your knee is getting pretty bad; you know you'll have to drop out by tomorrow. Why not be sensible? Take this way out-I can offer you the chance to be voted 'Best Player' and win the Game Masters' discretionary award. What do you say?"

Mouser bared his sharp little teeth. "You say that to me again, you're gonna fall downstairs for a month."

"Another time. Corrinda?"

She narrowed her eyes. "Is this within the rules?"

"Nobody's ever tried it. Next time it'll be illegal. This time, it's a free ride."

Where does that stairway go? Alex thought. Into the residential quarters? Jesus. And then out through a false wall into the next Gaming level. He couldn't think of an excuse to stop them. As long as they didn't vandalize…

Corrinda was weighing her options. "Let me get this straight. I sacrifice myself for the good of my team, and I am a guaranteed hero."

"And you go down in the record books. This hasn't ever been done before. It will probably result in the 'Harding Principle.' "

She grinned evilly. "I like it."

Where was McWhirter? Dammit, Elmo thought, they were in the middle of the Game, and here came another problem. McWhirter deserved his breaks, yes, but Elmo had never seen so much rule-bending in all of his life.

McWhirter seemed to be preoccupied elsewhere, with some problem that had to do with the Security man now playing Bobo. The DreamTime routines were working automatically, but…

Elmo was getting the fits about this. Bishop had found one lulu of a loophole, and now that he had it, it would fit his profile to use it up. The only option was to change the rules concerning the Nekro seal, next time. This time it was too late.

Elmo wanted to do this one personally. "Doris, I'm going in," he said. He switched off his throat mike and stepped up onto the Virtual stage. Doris stepped back and watched: Elmo wasn't a masterful mime, but he was great fun to watch.

He adjusted his goggles. A Virtual Corrinda knelt in front of the door, actually picking the lock. Not a simple task, either-the locks were both mechanically and electronically sealed. Game locks could be just as difficult to crack as real ones; many Thieves developed actual criminal skills.

Corrinda used a combination of fiber-optic probe and computer tap. She anchored herself into the data line, opened it up, and used a processor in her belt pod to determine its protocol.

Twenty seconds later, the door clicked open.

Elmo spread his arms…

There was a thing in the doorway, a creature made of dust and cobwebs, something so old that it had fallen almost completely apart, holding itself together only by the application of dark magicks, arts beyond the ken of man.

Corrinda's triumphant expression gave way to terror.

She tried to scream, but it was cut short by the touch of a spectral hand. She and the creature both fell to dust.

Corrinda's ears buzzed. The buzz became Elmo's voice, a voice as warm and welcoming as a blizzard. "Kindly roll to the side. Your character is irrevocably dead. Not just for this Game. Corrinda Scout/Thief has been registered as dead in the IFGS computers."

Her Virtual world went gray. In dull confusion, she watched her companions travel on in the land of the living without her.

The door shut behind them.

As soon as it did, a black-suited stage troll popped out of a hidden door and hoisted her to her feet.

"That," he said, "was the stupidest stunt I've ever seen."

"I–I reinjured my knee. It was locking up again, click every time I move. I would have let my team down."

"You should have," the troll said disgustedly. "You're not just out of the Game. Your character's dead."

He led her through a side maze of passages, leading her ultimately to Security, and Gaming Central.

She was fascinated by the room, by the huge arc of ceiling and the background sounds of computers and human activity.

Richard Lopez examined her curiously. "Congratulations," he said. "You have just made history."

She managed a smile.

"Bishop played you very well."

Her smile faltered. "What do you mean?"

"He got you kicked out of the Game. People have made it through with injuries before. Worse, you are dead-dead, lady. Corrinda the Thief is gone. Forever. You spent eight years building her up into a Thirteenth Level Thief? Gone. Start over from scratch, if you can." His dark face was even darker with rage. "I talk to my friends, and I know everyone." His tone was deadly quiet.

"But Bishop suggested it!"

"And you can be sure he knew the consequences. To you. If you were the Bishop, you might get away with it. You're not. There is only one Bishop."

He paused. Temporarily, his anger had been leavened by pity. "And that may be one too many. Well. You might as well break into civies. Settle back, take care of that knee, and watch the Game." He motioned with his head to the troll: the audience was over.

Corrinda was escorted out. She felt confused, uncertain, and more than a little scared.

Lopez returned to his palette. Everything was working smoothly right now. All of the routines were running, and he was just beginning to feel fatigue. How long had he been on duty? Twelve hours? That was fine. Gamers should start breaking down for early dinner soon. With the Game divided into two main groups, that was manageable.

He scanned the room. Everything was going well, but Where was McWhirter?

Tony McWhirter was exhausted. It had been a long, tiring day so far, and it wasn't over yet. Game Masters were allotted breaks during the eight to sixteen hours of daily up-time. In California Voodoo there would be more free-floating optional breaks than usual, because the Gamers had been given no solid down-times. Even so, he felt guilty being away from the desk.

But he had to see Millicent.

He used a holo wall in one of the empty offices outside the Game regions. Dream Park was closed down, but many of the executive offices were still open.

She answered after three beeps, just a still photo of her face and a voice saying, "Yes?"

"Don't worry about your makeup. It's just Tony McWhirter."

The air rippled, and the real Millicent appeared in front of him, still wearing elements of her Mallsters makeup. Despite his fatigue, Tony giggled.

"You've found yourself. How did it go?"

Her smile was marginal. "Fine. I liked it a lot better than I like this." She tapped a stack of paper on her desk.

"What have you got?"

She had two computer screens on simultaneously. "I've been tracing back her financial records, including a few things that I really shouldn't have been looking into. Thanks for the passkey program, Tony. I'm now a partner in crime."

"I've wanted to corrupt you for well, months. What did you get?"

"I did a search for unusual deposits or withdrawals in the past six months, anything to indicate sudden pressure. Nothing. I did come up with a smallish check to a private detective agency, annotated 'services rendered,' but that was over a year ago, and there was no repeat. No idea what that might have been."

"Can we get Vail on this line?"

Millicent typed in Vail's number and got a busy signal, followed by an encode that he would be off in a minute. "What did you get, Tony?" she asked.

"Odd pattern of betting on California Voodoo. Somebody with insider knowledge has been betting on Army to win. Big money. I've told Alex, and now he's in as a rooftop guide."

The air fizzed again. Norman Vail wasn't in his office at Dream Park. He was at CMC. His home office there was roomier than the one allotted him at the Park. "Good evening, Tony. Millicent."

Tony inclined his head in acknowledgment. "I've found something of interest. Maybe. I think."

"Yes?" Vail said noncommittally. His perfect, even teeth glistened, as if he brushed them with glycerine.

"I was looking, ah, looking into the gambling patterns for California Voodoo."

Vail's lips twitched. He'd caught the hesitation. Tony plunged on. "I came across some weird shifting in the odds."

Vail listened as Tony explained. "Yes. I see what you mean. Millicent? Anything so far?"

"No extraordinary expenditures, no unusual patterns of absence for Ms. Crayne."

"Hmmm." Vail sat back in his chair, rubbing his fingers along the bridge of his nose. "I am attempting to fill in the blanks on the unfortunate young lady. Harmony arranged for her confidential medical and psychological records to be relayed from Tacoma. At this point I have a complete autopsy. Millicent, I assume we can have financial and telephone records eventually?"

"We already have all transactions or calls made from Cowles terminals. I'm hunting down the rest."

"Fine." Vail folded his hands. "We are looking for an influence which might have caused an employee of Cowles Industries to betray a trust. To violate security in a very specific manner. McWhirter?"

"If my guess means anything, she pulled a copy of the interior security map of MIMIC out of the file and copied it." Tony paused. "How long did Alex know her?"

"Just eight weeks, as far as I can tell. She was hired in Tacoma after he left. She came down here to pave the way for the eventual opening of MIMIC to the Barsoom Project, and to establish liaisons with Alex Griffin."

"She certainly managed that," Millicent muttered. "Would she have taken over Security?"

"No. She would have assisted the eventual chief."

Tony said, "She could have resented that-"

"Suspicion of sexism or some such?" Vail's lips pursed. "Not a rational position there were a half-dozen people with greater seniority. I'd like to examine your data, if you don't mind."

Millicent and Tony nodded. Millicent immediately began to feed the material over to Vail.

Tony doodled up a window and watched the numbers flow through the scenery, Millicent's office, and Vail's rec room. He hoped that Norman Vail could do something. The man was ruthless, and absolutely committed to Dream Park.

"That's it," Millicent said. "Anything else, Doctor?" When Vail shook his head, she popped out. Tony was about to do the same.

"McWhirter, would you pause for a moment, please?"

Tony paused. Vail tempted his fingers and smiled pleasantly. "Tony," he said, "I think that we have much in common."

Tony didn't see it that way. He said nothing.

"Neither of us cares for the niceties of social restriction. Both of us believe in getting the job done. I was wondering if I could count on your… unusual skills, if need be."

Computer skills, of course. "If it will get the job done."

"They may be the only doing which can."

Tony nodded uneasily and winked out.

Norman Vail watched information flow through the air before him. A printer in his desk was spewing out sheets of paper, folding into a neat stack. He sighed, pulled an oversized pipe out of his desk drawer and stuffed it with contraband tobacco, lit it, and took a drag.

With McWhirter in the fold, he could count on an endless supply of information. McWhirter wouldn't ask too many questions. One merely pointed such a person in the proper direction and gave him an excuse to do what he wanted to do in the first place.

Vail closed his eyes, and unbidden, his mind formed thin blue lines against perfect black.

Some were vertical, bisected a moment later by a series of horizontals. Along the horizontal axis he wrote Crayne. Along the vertical, Griffin. As an afterthought, he expanded the imaginary construct into three dimensions and on the third axis wrote Bishop.

What could Bishop have offered Sharon? Not money-that had been established. She earned more than she spent, and had no regular savings program.

Sex? Bishop had retired to Toronto. He had only been in the United States three times in the last two years and Sharon Crayne hadn't been in Canada at all. Hardly a torrid romance.

What did Sharon Crayne want?

What had attracted her to security work? Or better yet, driven her from police work?

Ah. It was there in her personnel record. She had been injured in the line of duty. Clean wound, beam weapon, but it had damaged her uterus. She would never bear children.

Vail examined that. Sharon Crayne had come from a family of four children. She was the second child. Happy childhood in a conservative Catholic family. How would she feel about childlessness?

Not a serious problem. Healthy ovaries; hire a bearer mother… hmm?

There were other avenues to explore, but for some reason, that one stuck in Vail's mind. He wondered why. There was something of interest there, he was certain.

Norman Vail trusted his hunches.