tunnels and halls, repairing, cleaning, inspecting.
He was confused. This wasn't part of the Game…
He turned to stared back at his compatriots. 'Do we see this?'
Alphonse said, 'The buzzer, you dipshit. Flip your visor down.' SJ did that, and sighed in admiration.
It was half metallic, half fleshly tentacles. Whatever it was, this wasn't the product of an ancient African imagination. This was from a world of aquatic intelligence: a cyborg octopus.
It extruded a tentacle toward him.
He couldn't get to his bow. The passage was too narrow, and Docking an arrow would have been a topological riddle to boggle Captain Cipher.
Then the thing had wrapped its arms around him. Maybe they felt slender and mostly metallic, but they looked green and reptilian.
A head evolved out of the churning mass, and it hissed 'Duck!' Alphonse yelled behind him. SJ turned his head to the side just fast enough to avoid a stream of hissing green venom.
(Funny. It smelled like ammoniated glass cleaner…)
When it struck the side of the tunnel, the metal there smoked and glowed.
' Crom!' he screamed, and grabbed the acid spout before it could eject again.
No matter how he braced himself, he could only get clumsy, partial leverage. No matter what he did, the damned thing always had another arm to attack with.
His breathing sobbed raggedly, echoing in the enclosed space. Behind him, his teammates watched helplessly. How to beat this doing? He thought of the knife in his belt. He didn't dare release either of its arms. It was all he could do to keep this damned thing off balance.
Balance. Yes. SJ fought his way to his knees, then bent his arms, getting all of the leverage that he could, wedging himself solidly in the duct And hoisted.
He tilted the creature sideways, so that it was on edge in the cramped space. His back was sore, and the muscles in his arms ached. The friggin' machine must have weighed fifty pounds, and without proper leverage it was a bitch to lift and control. It screamed and scrabbled like a beetle flipped on its back, and he watched as its claws attacked his hands, tearing flesh away. Blood spurted.
But S. J. Waters, mighty Scout, would not be denied. He managed to brace his elbow against the machine, wedging it into the wall. With his right hand he finally got to his belt knife.
The thing's underbelly was softer than its back. He wedged his knife into a crack, shrieking with concentration, loud enough to drown out the sounds made by the beast itself. He waggled the blade back and forth Green foam bubbled out of its innards, and suddenly that ammonia smell was everywhere. Acid blood spurted, miraculously spraying him with only a few mild droplets.
'Back! Back!' he yelled, and his comrades retreated as far as they could.
The creature was both smoking and screaming now, and then Its carapace burst open. Its metal legs trembled, shook, groped out one final time…
And were still. The acid blood streamed away in rivulets, leaving a harmless residue.
SJ examined his wrists and arms. Where the claws had gripped were tiny red welts (which looked much worse in DreamTime), and his eyes stung from the ammonia but he was alive.
'All right…' He nudged the beast with the tip of his knife and began to push it along in front of him. When they reached a cross-path in the tunnels he pushed it to the side.
Much softer, but still ahead of him, he heard another clicking sound. He could just make out the image of a second beast, its pseudopods pulsing with rage. Had he slain its mate?
The beast retreated, wanting no part of the mighty Scout.
'Come back, you coward!' he screamed.
It stopped, and one of its pseudopods formed into a hand. Four of the fingers bent down, leaving a single digit standing straight up, in a universal symbol of disapproval.
And then it was gone
29
'The strategic arts are: first, measurements; second, estimates; third, analysis, fourth, balancing; fifth, triumph.
'The situation gives rise to measurements, measurements give rise to estimates, analysis gives rise to balancing, balancing gives rise to triumph.' — Nigel Bishop, The Art of Gaming, 2052
Friday, July 22, 2059 — 10:30 A.M.
Tony was in the break room with Lopez, surrounded by screens, sipping very good, very strong coffee from a vending machine. A nap would have helped more, he thought sluggishly; but not yet. That black magic coffee would have to do. Tex-Mits and Army were about to reenter the Gaming area and nobody was about to get any rest.
'They've nearly reached the Nommo, and they've got their diving gear,' Tony said. 'They're never going back to the roof. So they'll miss the fish. So I've extended the Nommo's speech, but I haven't-'
'Let me see.'
Tony brought it onscreen. 'Haven't inserted it in the script yet.'
Richard Lopez skimmed it, then began to chop. Tony flinched, but he watched. Richard had cut the speech to half before he could blink.
'There. That will tell them much of what they need to know. Smile.'
Tony spoke through a wide rigid grin. 'They'll miss the island. All that frigging work and they're going to miss the island fish.'
'Nothing is lost, Tony.'
'Twenty million viewers aren't going to know how clever I am, Richard. It was so wonderful! The floating island is an adult Nommo. That's why they can't go home, they get too 'The Gamers always miss half of what we put in. They can't take every path, Tony. The home viewers will get it when they buy the cassette.'
Richard Lopez must have been exhausted, but his eyes and his smile were very bright. Tony asked. 'What keeps you going?'
'You are playing your own Game,' Richard Lopez said.
'So what? Everybody plays-'
The little man's eyes glowed. 'It involves Nigel Bishop, and the Army team. It involves gambling. It involves Alex Griffin, who entered one of my Games once before, and is a remarkable man.'
He knows. 'Yeah,' Tony said dryly. 'I think that I can remember that Game.'
'You need my help.'
'Richard,' Tony said, 'we've got a Game running here. You've got to focus your attention there, or the whole thing will come apart.'
'Come, now,' Lopez chided. 'Something has occurred which might damage California Voodoo's integrity. I should be involved.'
Tony sipped more coffee. His thoughts crawled in slow circles. What should he do? Get in touch with Griffln? Harmony? Vail? Summers? The little man was hovering, awaiting an answer.
'I will tell you a secret,' Richard Lopez said. 'This is my last Game.'
' What?'
Lopez's smile was small, sad, wearily regretful. 'The doctors did not want me out of my bed. They have held me together as long as they can. I'm afraid I am out of time.'
Tony fumbled for words, and didn't find them before Lopez held up a hand. 'It is all right. The pain is manageable, and my mind is clear.'
'That makes one of us.' There was no way he could deny Richard Lopez his request. His last request? 'There's a dead woman. Alex was in love with her, but there's more to it…' Haltingly, Tony began to lay it out. Lopez leaned back, closing his eyes.
