'And why not?'
'We were told very specifically: the gods don't take murder lightly. On the other hand…'
Prez the Zulu had fixed his attention on Alphonse just one instant too long: Poule leapt into action.
His sword was out in a flash, and he had slashed Prez's right arm. Prez deftly tossed his assegai into his left hand and lunged at Poule. Clavell blindsided him, and the fight was on.
The hall was too narrow for effective maneuvering, and Alphonse knew their cause was lost. Regardless, Poule and Clavell teamed brilliantly. They had Prez Coolidge, an accomplished Warrior, down and dead in a moment. Then they broke through the opposing line, using a confused Twan as a shield. They pivoted to another twin-prong attack, and then another…
Still, it was hopeless. Al's heart went out to S. J. Waters, who quickly found himself surrounded.
SJ was no great fighter. He simply didn't have the reflexes for it, but he had played enough Games that his Shield and Recovery ratings could see him through. Twice Tammi struck him, and twice the computer disallowed or healed her touches. Then Acacia was beside her, and SJ was doomed. He died before loosing a single arrow.
Crystal Cofax hadn't room to swing her staff. She sobbed in frustration as she tried to get a clean shot in on Bishop. Finally she screamed, charged through the line, and ran down the corridor toward the sounds of laughter and music And skidded to a halt, her eyes wide. She balanced at the edge of a vast swimming pool ringed with diving boards and lounge chairs. The boards vibrated as bronzed beach boys bounced off, sailed high, and somersaulted in midair, plunging into the water. On every chair reclined a golden girl, oiled and sun-haired and masked in bronzed plastic, perfect breasts and hips swathed in wisps of bikini gauze.
They saw her at the same moment she saw them. For a moment the tableau was frozen, and then Led by Bishop, the battle spilled out of the hall, and the sunbathers yawned, and returned to their tans.
Crystal feinted a figure-eight pattern. Bishop faded back, deflecting the tips skillfully, never committing himself. Crystal lunged Bishop slid his blade down the staff and grazed her fingers.
They glowed red and black, and might as well have been twitching in the dirt, for all the good they'd do her now.
Panting, Crystal dropped the staff. Bishop saluted and ran her through.
He turned to Griffin. 'Watch out, Bobo!'
General Poule, enraged by the ambush, even more incensed by the hopelessness of his situation, had attacked the only unarmed member of the enemy party: their guide.
Griffin. What were the rules about this? Weren't guides off limits? Wasn't he protected by the gods or something?
There was no more time to think.
Poule lunged with his sword, and Griffin snatched up a beach chair to deflect the blade. Twice more Poule attempted to breach his defence, and each time Griffin frustrated him neatly.
'I can't get used to this fighting with furniture,' Poule said nastily. 'Where did you learn it?'
'Macy's School of Self-Defense.'
Poule tried a low-line attack, aiming at Griffin's left foot. Slamming the chair down, the security chief disarmed him.
And now everyone was watching. Poule was enraged. Exhausted emotionally by the long crawl and the fight, the general was determined to take someone with him to hell.
Poule leapt forward, drawing a foot-long dagger from his belt, holding it underhand. His weight was balanced as neatly as a prizefighter's. Once again, Alex ran the Voodoo Game's specs through his mind: this was a Level Ten Hazardous
Environment event. Physical challenges between players were acceptable. But between players and NPCs?
Griffin backed up until he was against the wall.
'Got no guts?' Poule taunted.
Griffin was facing a professional military man with a twelve-inch fighting knife in his hand. If he wasn't careful, his guts were going to be very much in evidence.
Bishop threw Griffin a knife, and Alex snatched it out of the air. 'Here you are, Bobo,' Bishop said cheerfully. 'Go to town.'
Griffin balanced the 'blade' carefully. It was twelve inches of plastic dowel, set within a holographic image of gleaming, curving steel.
Poule had every reason to go for the kill. His team had been neutralized, but a good personal combat would fatten up his Wessler-Grahams; and his enemies would lose a Guide.
He slid in, blade held underhand in the right, left hand forward and flat as a spade.
At all costs, Griffin had to stay in the Game. He stood, lowering his hand. 'I am no Warrior. I cannot fight this man.'
'Die, then!' Poule laughed, stabbing viciously for Griffin's arm. Griffin scrambled back. Despite the potbelly, Poule was lightning. Damn the man!
Contempt flashed in the general's eyes, and Griffin suddenly realized something:
Unlike Bishop, Poule didn't know who Griffin was. To Poule, Griffin was just another actor. He could feed that overconfidence, and maybe, just maybe…
Griffin flipped his knife around into classic 'ice-pick' configuration. It was a mug's game, a John Wayne Indian position, a Hockey-Mask Killer position, completely wrong for any sophisticated knife fighting. It limited the arc of approach and confined the defender to stabbing only. Or so said conventional wisdom.
Griffin and Poule circled each other.
Alex's attention screwed down to a point so intense that the rest of the room ceased to exist, became a grey fog. And in the center of that fog… General Poule.
Confident. An ex-Beret, perhaps? Combat specialist? Griffin wanted this to be over fast, and his only hope was to keep Poule overconfident.
Poule tested Griffin's perimeter, slashing in with the blade, smiling grimly when Griffin merely jumped back again, almost stumbling, knife still held like an ice pick.
Then the general went for the kill.
The ice-pick knife position allows only for stabbing, but if one folds the knife back against the forearm, it becomes a tool capable of vicious slashing defences. Because of the shortened reach, one must wait for one's opponent to approach. One must have great speed, very precise timing, and a keen eye for distance.
Alex Griffin had all three. Poule lunged in, his left hand high to deflect. Griffin sliced Poule's left wrist, and in a single fluid, swerving stroke brought the blade down and across the attacking arm.
Red and black light spilled from the wound. Poule groaned and dropped his knife.
Griffin grabbed Poule's right wrist with his left hand. He stepped in, driving an elbow to the jaw and a knee to the groin.
(The man played fair, and had great reflexes! Griffin thought. Poule knew he was beaten, and responded to Griffin's mimed blows like a professional stuntman.)
With Poule doubled over in pain, Alex raised his knife high, ready to plunge into the nape of his unprotected neck But instead let Poule fall to the ground. 'Bind this man's wounds,' he said. 'He is a brave enemy. I would not have him die.'
He looked over at Bishop and saw his secretive, meaningless smile.
Griffin tore strips from his own shirt and began to bind Poule's wounds. Top Nun completed the binding and knelt beside the general, threw her hands into the air, and said, 'Abracadabra. So I'm making a book already. If you're not too busy, heal 'im up. We might need him. Maybe not now, maybe Tuesday, but why take chances?'
Griffin took stock of the survivors, and it didn't take long. That last ambush had been bloody. Only eleven players remained: Mouser, Mary-em, Al the Barbarian, Acacia, Top Nun, Twan, Tammi, Major Clavell, Captain Cipher, Bishop, and General Poule. The Game had become a slaughter.
Finally there was time to examine his surroundings.
It might have been the biggest indoor spa in the world. It had a makeshift look: no one had planned to put a pool here. But someone had diverted water flow into a vast sunken region of the tenth floor. The resulting pool dwarfed an
Olympic standard. The inhabitants had carted in tanning machines, and sets of gleaming chrome weights,
