The California Voodoo Game

40

Friday, July 22, 2059 — 11:27 P.M.

MIMIC was almost deserted. Voluntarily, all of the employees had accepted scans. Only security men and women moved in and out, and they subjected themselves to repeated inspections. A good pickpocket can place something on a person as well as take it off. Even an innocent employee can be used as a mule.

The building was searched for hours, but without real hope: in MIMIC's vastness, an elephant could have evaded a search for days.

"We can't keep this up forever," Alex said to Mgui-Smythe. "Eventually, the work crews are going to have to come back."

"So what do you want me to do?" the little engineer said softly.

"The Snake is alive," Griffin said. "You just found unexpected earthquake damage. Nobody comes in the building until we have a full reappraisal."

Mgui-Smythe nodded. "Could take weeks."

"Six weeks," Alex said. "Give me six weeks. By that time, one way or the other, it will be over."

Acacia had stopped crying by the time the shuttle reached Dream Park. During the entire trip she had remained on her side of the car, not watching anyone, enmeshed in her own thoughts.

Bishop had kept to himself as well, but as they began to file out, he gathered up his gear and crossed to her.

"Well," he said quietly, fiercely. "You managed to screw yourself out of a million dollars. I hope it was worth it."

Then he turned and left the car.

She felt like a stranger. Security had kept her Virtual projection equipment, her pack, her weapons most of her costume. It was as if she had left the corpse of Panthesilea to be buried at Dream Park. How appropriate.

Panthesilea, dead. Years of growing and fighting, gathering power and experience, all nothing. Dead. She would have to start all over again, from the bottom.

Oh, God. She didn't know if she could do that again.

"Excuse me," a voice in front of her said. "I was wondering if you need a lift."

Acacia looked up and for the first time in eight years faced Tony McWhirter. She saw his tentative smile slip and guessed how she must look.

"A lift," she said. "Yes. Definitely."

Griffin slept for twelve hours, then awakened to the buzz of the telephone. He awakened instantly, relieved to find himself in his modular apartment, returned to CMC once again.

Moshe Osterreich, chief of the Yucca Valley Sheriff's Department, was on the line. "Sorry, Griff. The hookers who saw the man enter the motel identified the car. It was stolen. No prints, no traces, no damage either. Owner never even knew it was gone. Ladies can say it was a tall, slender person, but no description beyond that. Not race or even sex. I'm sorry."

"So am I," Alex said, and punched off the line, and went back to sleep.

In parties throughout Dream Park's peripheral hotels, music, laughter, and debates raged far into the night. Bishop made a few low-key appearances, then slunk back to his room. No eyebrows rose, and few tongues wagged. With so few previous defeats on record, how could his present behavior be judged? Depression and embarrassment seemed as likely as tantrum or bemused resignation.

He packed his bags and checked out. He took the shuttle to Los Angeles, and there changed cars to the Denver line. Two more shifts took him to his condo in Montreal.

Once there, he carefully scanned his luggage and his personal clothing for bugs, and found nothing. Griffin was either as ineffectual as he seemed, or very good indeed and so Bishop discarded luggage and clothing and bought all new.

He walked from the mall to a nearby office building. On the second door was a lawyer named Trapman, who had accepted Bishop's cash retainer a month before. Trapman admitted Bishop to a soundproofed room with a com screen. Bishop spoke a telephone number that connected to a number in Ecuador via satellite.

"It was a good Game," he said when the line was eventually picked up. No face appeared on the screen. "Looking forward to playing again. Maybe next year."

Year meant week.

"Those of us who follow your exploits," a heavy voice said, "are disappointed that it will take so long. There is great interest, Mister Bishop, which every day grows greater."

"Next year," he said. He hung up.

He templed his hands together and clapped them over his mouth. The operation could wait another week, damn it. But that was his timetable, not theirs. For the sake of this very special operation, close to two million dollars of their money had been invested.

He had succeeded, but the information on ScanNet was not in hand. There were multiple copies of it. There was no way that Dream Park could find them all, or shield them all.

It was a waiting game.

Now, as at no time during California Voodoo, Bishop felt the cold tight feeling at the back of his neck, at the pit of his stomach.

He had to control himself. Control the vision, and the dreams that he knew would come. Now was not the time to crack. Not now, when he was so close to winning that he could scream.

It was the size of a quarter, made of stiff plastic, almost transparent. A hologram. Mgui-Smythe held it up in two fingertips. "You'll never guess where we found this."

Tony walked around the image. "Oh, Lord, I'm sane. It's not just mob paranoia," he said. "Where?"

Alex Griffin's spectral head popped up next to the engineer's. "Ah. Very good, Mgui-Smythe."

"Where?"

"We found it when we were taking the nuke plant apart. It was in the radioactive tunnel, near the far end."

"He planted one then?" Tony found that awesome. "He does have nerve. Griff, we want a number of people to look that over."

The engineer rang off. Tony stayed on.

"So it's all real," Alex said. "But we still don't have anything actionable. Legally."

"Legally. But give me that disk for a while. Trust me, I'm a Game Master."

Even Norman Vail hadn't suggested taking Bishop to court, and under the civilized veneer, Vail was the most vindictive bastard it had ever been Griffin's pleasure to meet.

Even this last, desperate gambit had been Vail's idea. It had taken every bit of convincing, and Tony McWhirter and the entire tech team at Cowles were working on it.

He hoped Vail was right. Alex Griffin was out of ideas.