A whistle split the air, stilling voices. A door opened at the western edge of the lobby. Four combatants advanced to the mark.
Tammi Romati's ash-blond hair was tied back by the band of her slimline Virtual goggles. She was beautiful, a vision in white leather. Tammi had the physique of a semipro bodybuilder. Her energy and intensity intimidated most men even before they learned her sexual preference.
Beside her, enfolded in a red cloak and an emerald sheet of flames, was Twan Tsing, Magician. Twan's black hair was chopped short and hidden under the emerald skullcap that incorporated her Virtual apparatus. The green- tinted liquid crystal lenses of the Virtual gear leached the color from Twan's Cantonese eyes but couldn't disguise their intensity. She was half a head shorter than Tammi, and more smoothly muscled. She gestured mystically, fingers intertwining in arcane, angular configurations. Her aura flared until it matched and then surpassed the radiance of all the Hyatt's lights, then silently subsided.
To her left stood Tammi's son, Mouser. He was clad in grey leather, a silver saber weighting his belt at the left hip. He was a Thief, if not a reaver or slayer. Two months shy of his fourteenth birthday, he combined an adolescent's narrow-eyed insolence with an adult's cold-blooded self-assurance. His thumb tested the edge of his blade.
Beside Mouser was the Warrior Appelion. He was everything Mouser was not: tall, sinewy, black-bearded, and ferocious in countenance. He balanced a single-headed battle-ax easily in his massive left hand.
Both wore their own versions of the Virtual gear, video equipment that would enable them to see specialised overlays on the holographic and mechanical illusions to come.
All four raised their hands to the assembled multitude, graciously receiving a deafening ovation.
And then, the eastern portal swung open.
Again, the first through was a woman, Acacia Garcia. She was dressed in the leather body armor and chaps of a nomadic warrior. Not as muscular as Tammi Romati, Acacia was a lithe, athletic blend of Pueblo Indian and Spanish with a dash of Moor. She was sloe-eyed and wide-mouthed, quick to laughter or anger. Her long black hair gave her an air of sensuality that quieted the room and evoked a clearly audible 'Jeeeesus Christ' from somewhere above her. She scanned the room almost absently. She relaxed, shoulders slumping
… then in a flash her sword appeared in her hand, with only the hint of a blur to suggest a draw. She stood perfectly balanced, as alert as a hungry leopard.
Behind Acacia came a short figure in a nun's habit, with a tranquil, sun-bronzed face. The roar 'Top Nun!' rose from the crowd. The Cleric inclined her head solemnly, her fingers tracing a Star of David on her chest. A small, pale, chunky man followed her: Captain Cipher, Magician. And beside Cipher was a man with the height, color, and weaponry of a Zulu warrior. His name was Terrance Coolidge.
All wore slimline goggles or costuming incorporating the Virtual lenses.
The Crystal Maze shuddered before them, groaning and weeping as if it were a living thing.
'In two days we're going head-to-head with the Troglodykes in the California Voodoo Game. They're used to winning. We've got to shake them now. Establish dominance, or at least gain respect or they'll motor over us. I've got a strategy,' Acacia had told her team. 'It may seem crazy, but you have to trust me…'
Now, looking into the vid monitor and the coldly confident gaze of Tammi Romati, who had never lost a game of Crystal Maze, Acacia wondered if her confidence had been misplaced.
The door to the Crystal Maze opened to a cloud of flaming pink smoke.
A little man walked out of the smoke. He stood only waist-high, his thick grey skin mottled with warts the size and shape of half-dollars. His hand brushed smoke from his stubby nose, then waved Acacia and her companions forward. 'This way,' he whispered, raising a gnarled finger to his lips.
Acacia followed the troll, trusting in her instincts and sword arm to save her. Her opponents hadn't had time to subvert the locals… had they?
The wall slid shut behind them.
'Eyes open for a double cross,' she whispered to 'Prez' Coolidge, the tall, stocky African-American at her left. His eyes were focused intensely. He would miss nothing, and she had seen him catch flies in midair, on a summer day…
The walls of the Maze throbbed around them like the chambers of a titan's heart. Faces flared momentarily behind crystal panels, mouths leering or laughing. If she turned to look at the faces they dwindled, then vanished altogether, their laughter echoing mockingly through the corridors.
Acacia glanced at her wrist monitor. She brushed a button on it and gained an aerial view of the Crystal Maze. The Troglodykes were clearly visible as a cluster of red dots. She could keep track of them-it was the only sane thing to do. But the monitor's special ViSiOII had cost dearly.
Both teams were expected to struggle to the center of the Maze. Then, equally drained of power, they would slug it out for the pleasure of the audience. There might be another, better way…
She punched buttons, disabling the wrist monitor.
'What are you doing?' the slender Zulu whispered.
'Trust me,' Acacia told him. 'I have a plan.'
'Jesus. Don't they all?'
A bone-chilling buzz vibrated the walls of the Maze, and Acacia tightened her sword grip. It sounded like… what? A swarm of flies? Bees?
Light flared ahead, light that moved with such impossible torpor that it bounced back and forth between mirrors in a visible sheet. Still, it moved much too fast for her to dodge or avoid. When it struck her face, the world was instantly seared white. Then black specks rose in a mass, black against a screen of white, and swarmed toward them.
Bees. Swords were useless. 'Top Nun!'
The small, dark-cowled woman pushed past her to face the approaching swarm. She raised her arms high and began to chant. ' fly gevalt! For honey, bees are good. One of your better ideas, God. Stingers on the other hand, pfui!'
A brisk, irresistible wind flared up behind them, striking the bees just as they reached Top Nun's hood. The entire swarm tumbled away, down the corridor and gone.
Acacia hissed air. Top Nun had probably won them five hundred points right there, but… 'Too close. Any stings?'
Top Nun scornfully held up unblemished arms. 'Stings schmings. Am I a shmegegge now, or what?'
1
Tuesday, July 19, 2059 — 5:00 P.M.
Late afternoon shadows crept across MIMIC.
Meacham Incorporated Mojave Industrial Community was one of the largest structures in the world, for all of its ruined grandeur, a testament to 1990s optimism and the vision of the late Nicholas Meacham. Built forty miles northeast of Barstow, about twenty miles west of the California-Nevada border, MIMIC looked east with a facade that resembled a nineteen-story rust-colored sandwich board with a vertical convex crease. A thirty-foot-high horizontal row of letters spelling M.I.M.I.C. divided the crease from the tenth to the twelfth floor. The flattened top extended acres of concrete roof onto Clark's Ridge, a natural mesa. At the bottom, MIMIC measured nearly half a mile across.
According to documents found among Meacham's effects after his demise, MIMIC was intended to be the 'linchpin of a planned community, an ever-expanding prefab metropolis poised to house and employ the excess population which, in years to come, will boil out of the Los Angeles basin like a crazed yeast culture.'
As one might guess, Meacham's genius lay in construction, design, and financing, rather than the realm of prose. If not for a little seismic misunderstanding in 1995, MIMIC might have been all he anticipated.
After the Quake, MIMIC lay cracked and rotting for almost fifty years. Myths about the abandoned hulk multiplied. There was a live nuclear reactor in its guts; mutants prowled the ruins, shambling semi-human Morlocks
