The Barsoom Project

Noise hit her like a solid wall, the cacophony of a hundred throats rumbling at the top of their collective voices. A flood of images rushed in on her, colliding somewhere between her ears.

Eviane wandered away from Charlene, meandering through the group. She felt both at home and alienated, able to float along on the periphery of the groups, skimming bits of conversations without the nerve to join in.

“I’ve never been here before,” one Gamer was saying. He was about five and a half feet tall, black and pudgy. He juggled a drink in one hand and a four-inch saucer of little sandwiches in the other. He wore a quasi-military uniform that was too tight across the belly. His name tag said F. Hebert. “But from what I’ve seen so far, the whole thing is overpriced. Too expensive.”

A stout, extremely pretty blonde whose name tag was stenciled Trianna attacked at once. She may have been overweight, but her self-possession and beautifully cut blue suit made her mass a deadly weapon. There was something else, too-a sense of leashed sexuality that Eviane found instantly intimidating. “If you’ve never been here before, what are you comparing it to?”

Trianna’s target was overwhelmed. “Ah-other amusement parks, I guess.”

“Do other parks really have facilities like this?”

“Well…”

She snorted in disgust. “The word I get, it costs more than you’re paying. They charge it off to research and use it to make cassette games.”

“Oh, that’s-”

“But let’s just assume they’re taking a thousand percent profit. Then what? Nobody else has what they’re selling. What have you got to whimper about? Pay or don’t pay.”

“Ah… ” F. Hebert wandered away looking deflated.

There was a face all skin and bones, one gaunt visage across a sky of full moons. Kevin. She remembered him from the Tar Pits Game.

Fat Ripper, they call it; but we’re not all overweight. Eating disorders. Substance abuse- That one black man was round of face but hardly overweight. Still, he had a twitchy look. She was guessing, only guessing, but who would he kill for a drink? or a cigar?

Eviane heard a ripple of laughter over in one of the corners of the room, and pivoted in time to catch a spherical dervish completing a complex pantomime. She knew that man. Who wouldn’t? It was Johnny Welsh, one of the featured players on Kodak Playhouse. He was acclaimed as a brilliant comedian, but she remembered hearing that he had lost a lucrative television contract because the insurance company wouldn’t issue a bond. Too much excess weight…

He was laughing now, and red-faced. She had seen him this way a hundred times. The rubbery red face and hiccoughing bray were as much a trademark as the famous profile. He was surrounded by a circle of admiring faces. “And if they wanted me to lose weight, then they should have stopped serving pasta in the commissary. Hey! If I look at one, it just cries out to me.” He crouched down and squinted up at them, rubber face suddenly, absurdly reminiscent of a lonesome lasagna. “It says: ‘Johnny! We’re here! Don’cha love us anymore?” Lasagna had an Italian accent.

Music blared in the opposite corner, and several couples were on the dance floor, moving languorously to the latest fusion of Indonesian and Latin music.

Eviane stood on the outskirts and tapped her toes to it, and felt a flutter of pleasure. Such a nice group of people. This is going to be fun!..

Unless something goes wrong.

Her breathing was going haywire, and she craved magic, magic in the form of a black pill rimmed in white. There’s no point to this. Let the past stay dead. What is there to gain?

But I have to know. I have to know.

There were security cameras in every corner of the room. Information on eating habits, conversational patterns, and preferential interactions were being recorded on all Game participants. The data was carefully filed, collated, and processed in a hundred different ways. Computer programs weighed words and patterns of words. One special technician per participant annotated and corrected, planned and theorized as Game time drew near.

The information went out to nutritionists, psychotherapists, experts in aversive-conditioning behavioral modification, neurolinguistic programmers, and the computer experts coordinating the effort.

And it went to one other desk.

At that desk a man watched, brooding. He frowned every time the camera crossed the features of the woman who called herself “Eviane.” Her stringy red hair had once been well groomed. The padded body had been svelte, the confused, frightened eyes filled with purpose.

Dream Park accepted Gaming names, but demanded a real one as well: this woman had written “Michelle Rivers” in her file.

Lies within lies.

He held in his hand the picture of a younger, more slender, prettier woman, a picture summoned from a file eight years old. The label read “Michelle Sturgeon.” There were differences, but the similarities were undeniable.