There it was, the word that they had hoped not to hear.
“Then… Cavor is dead?” she whispered.
“No. He lives.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We rescued him. The guards assigned to protect us were mind-locked to follow our commands. They rescued him from the executioners, and took him to the caverns, where the colony dares not go.”
“The caverns?”
“The deep darkness, where the Old Ones live, the ones who could not be bent to the hive ways. There the Queen has no authority. There, Cavor lives… or did until last lunar day when he sent us a message.
“Even though he hides, he still inspires and teaches us. We need him. We dare not enter the caves, for such transgression might birth war. But you are outsiders, as he was. You can go, and find him, and bring him back. If you do, then the hive might rise up and take its freedom. Overthrow the Queen.”
“And then… if we do this… we would be able to leave? I will tell you honestly: We come to take Professor Cavor back to Earth.”
“That would be perfection. He would return to Earth our emissary, capable of brokering a peace between our peoples.
“Will you help us?”
Well, that was more like it. A rescue mission. And perhaps then a battle to win the Moon. With their retreat Angelique’s spirits soared.
“We accept,” she said.
There was a trilling burr from the walls, as if an entire forest of cicadas had awakened from their slumber at once.
“We are so grateful to you. May we show you appreciation?”
“What do you have in mind?” she asked.
The walls parted and insectile creatures appeared, carrying platters of steaming meat and vegetables. “Professor Cavor showed us how to make the food he loved. Our fungus can be trained to produce flesh of any flavor and texture. Please accept this offering.”
Scotty Griffin snagged a chunk of meat from the platter, and took a healthy bite. The rest of them looked at him, as if their growling stomachs were suddenly awakening from slumber.
Angelique sat beside him, and he noticed that Sharmela had arranged to sit closely next to her. Their knees brushed. Sharmela took a healthy bite and grinned at the Lore Master. “Tastes like chicken,” she said. “As long as your chickens taste like tofu.”
19
From Heinlein base to Hanzo crater and the Pan-Asian group, to the European Union spray on Luna’s dark side… to Falling Angels, the industrial complex orbiting in geosync, to the L5s and the surface of Earth a quarter-million miles away, the adventures of the first lunar expedition into nineteenth-century fantasy dominated the entertainment news.
They crowded in bars watching the vidscreens, they hosted home parties with overflowing bowls of popcorn served to couches filled with engineers and tram-jockeys hypnotized by wall screens, they programmed their watches and glasses and the corners of their transport windows to display the streaming live or edited feeds from the gaming dome.
And that was hardly the extent of it. With seconds or minutes of delay, the feeds flew out as far as the asteroid belt, to the other L5s, and crossed the quarter-million-mile gap to Earth. And there, if the reaction on the Moon had been in any way restrained, all pretense of dispassion dissolved as soon as the images hit the thousand million screens.
From Rangoon to Portland, from Tunisia to Tel Aviv, it was estimated that 12 percent of all the viewers available were tuned in to what the IFGS called the Moon Maze Game. Legal and illegal gambling had already placed a half-billion New dollars; that amount growing by the second. And the network had yet to edit much of the footage at alclass="underline" This was raw, real and unfiltered. The secondary market for more polished versions was enormous. While the initial viewers were treated to the occasional glitch or imperfect effect, those willing to wait for a day received visual perfection. In forty-eight hours they got supplemental narration, and a week after the game the gamers themselves would have laid down their own commentary.
Games were always popular. But unusual games, with unusual stakes or locales, could become cultural phenomena. The Moon Maze Game was arguably the most expensive game ever mounted (the final details wouldn’t be available until the insanely complex web of subsidizers, exchanged labor and energy, and all construction work was combed through by an army of lawyers and accountants) so a half-billion Earthviews was not a particularly impressive number. In fact, it was assumed that the IFGS was still chewing its collective fingernails.
And would, until the game was over.
“Chris? Pick up, dammit.” Wu Lin was fighting a rising wave of irritation, trying to keep it out of her voice, and losing the struggle.
“Hello! I am currently evolving into something unrecognizable. Leave your message at the sound of the beep.”
“Chris, this is Wu Lin. I have tried everything sane to get to you. Xavier says you’re on now. Get your hideously modified arse into the game.” Pause. “Oh, wait, the word is you’ve already entered. Why aren’t you at your post? I think I have to call Security, Chris.”
Wu Lin drummed her elaborately tapered fingernails on the desk, lips puckered into an angry O. Something was wrong, she could feel it. Something always went wrong, which was why redundancy was built into all games. First things first: She signaled her assistants in the dome to slip an alternate into Foxworthy’s role.
Second, she called Piering in Security and told him to send someone to Chris Foxworthy’s pod. Find him. Break the door down and wake him up. Whatever it took.
Five minutes later, Max Piering had arrived at Foxworthy’s door. An attempt to establish electronic communication had failed, suggesting some kind of glitch. It happened. He remembered back in ’76 when a computer error had sealed a pair of newlyweds into their pod for two days, and they’d barely noticed Piering banged on the door, heard a faint, muffled shout from inside, followed by the dull, repeated thump of a fist. He clicked his tongue. “Maintenance? I need door 88-C opened right now. Jammed, I think. Send someone up?”
He had barely finished replaying the delicious scene presented when the newlyweds’ door opened, when Mike Berke, one of the Maintenance techs, whisked around the corner on a go-bike, hopped off and immediately opened a tool pouch on his belt.
“A jam?” he asked.
“You tell me.”
Mike whistled a bit as he slipped a pronged tool into the door jamb, pulled, and the door popped open.
Chris Foxworthy had been leaning against the door. He tumbled out into the corridor, hyperventilating.
“What the hell, Chris! You all right?”
Foxworthy couldn’t speak. He braced himself against the far wall and pointed a finger into the room. The finger shook.
Piering took one step into the room, inhaled, and stepped back out. He clicked his tongue. “Kendra Griffin,” he said. Then when she came online, he said: “Boss, we’ve got an excessively big problem…”
The corpse was rapidly identified as a “Victor Sinjin” who had recently arrived from Earth. Foxworthy knew less than that. He said that the box Sinjin had been carrying was supposed to be a change of costume. It held only tissue paper and a pair of slippers with gooey-looking soles.
By the time Kendra arrived at Foxworthy’s apartment, the first U.N. cops had already been summoned, and would be no more than five minutes behind her.
Chief of Security Max Piering had been the first one on the scene. She hadn’t ever known the guy well. After the disaster that almost killed him and Scotty, the big man had put in for an indoor gig, and she had been impressed: Too many men and women, after a major mishap on the Moon, packed their bags and fled home to Earth. Too many Moon marriages gone. She could hardly blame Scotty for making tracks.