The Barsoom Project

The crackle of his foam and foil sleeping envelope was enough to rouse Robin Bowles, who sat up suddenly, not yet completely awake. Bowles looked around with eyes that seemed still focused on the last dream. His gray beard was ragged, his hair mussed, and he wore a ridiculous pair of red and black flannel pajamas. For all of that, he carried himself with immense dignity.

Bowles’s wandering eyes fell on Welsh, and the flickering smile which had raised feminine pulses for three decades curled his lips. “Well, Jonathan. Are you determined to subject us to another litany of woe?”

Welsh smiled sheepishly. “Oh, don’t pay any attention to me… ”

“You may rely upon it.”

“I know I need this. I saw the tapes from my last concert. Those close-ups were the worst. I had more chins than the Taiwan telephone directory.”

“Jeez.” Max Sands hoisted himself up on an elbow. “It’s too early for this shit.” All around the campsite, the Gamers were stirring to life.

Gwen reached down into her sleeping bag, found the torn remnants of her body stocking (Ollie, you beast!), and slipped it on. Jumpsuit on top of that, and then she reached around until she found her costume, pulled it down inside the bag, and began to dress.

She felt pretty good about the Fimbulwinter Game so far. The group had started pulling as a unit by the end of the first day, and judging by her mildly urgent hunger, the Dream Park magicians had been up to their standard tricks in the night. Usually she wanted crescent rolls, oatmeal with cream and sugar, eggs, sausage, and biscuits for breakfast. For some reason, all she wanted right now was fresh fruit.

And… she wanted answers, and didn’t have them. The National Guardsman was a few feet away. He had slept in a makeshift bag formed out of two emergency thermal blankets. He was sitting cross-legged, glaring out at the world. His name was Yarnall, and the problem was that he had no Game personality at all. Like the pilot and copilot and stewardess, his part was over; he was to have been killed out.

Trailing his sleeping bag like a snake half out of its skin, Yarnall wiggled over to the center of the campsite. Breakfast had magically appeared during the night.

“Small mercies,” he muttered. He was in his late thirties, a light-skinned black man with a good-humored face that made it difficult to take his grumbling seriously. “I can’t believe this.”

“Screw-up still gets to ya, huh?” Kevin Titus stood and stretched, the bones of his ribcage like barrel bands under his skin. He was startlingly thin and pale. “Just relax and enjoy it. What’cha makin’ now? Time and a haff?”

“Double time.”

“So what’s your beef?”

“I’m tired. I thought I was going to sleep in a bed last night. I want a scotch and water. If I can’t have that, leave out the water. Worst of all, I ain’t got no script.”

“Join the crowd,” Kevin said, yawning. “When they fix the screw-up, the first thing they’ll try to do is kill you out. The longer you can keep ‘em from doing that, the more money you make.”

Yarnall thought about that for a minute. “By… by the Implementors! If they give me a direct order to throw myself in front of a spear I suppose I’ll have to do it…” He raised his voice until it was almost a shout. “Of course, since it wasn’t my fault, maybe the Gods will give me a fighting chance to stay in the Game.”

He waited and stared up at the sky, and then shrugged. “Good thought, though.”

The clouds above them shimmered and twisted themselves into a fleecy Cheshire cat grin. A thunderous reverberation rolled across the space of Gaming B:

“Are you… a gambling man, Mr. Yarnall?”

“Bet your ass. Who speaks?”

“Subdeity Welles. Kindly restrain your language. There are cherubim listening. As you must know, I have a discretionary budget. I would be willing to bet you, say… triple time against zip that I can kill you out before the end of the day, without bending any rules. What do you say?”

Yarnall realized that he suddenly had an audience. Gwen was fascinated-you could hear the gears churning in his head. “No cheating?”

“Gods don’t need to cheat. We know what fools you mortals be.”

“If I lose?”

“You forfeit yesterday’s salary.”

Yarnall looked around him. All of the Gamers were awake now, gazing up at that ethereal grin, waiting for the National Guardsman’s answer. He slapped his leg. “All right, Welles, you son of a bitch! You’re on!”

The cloud-smile transmuted into a ten-foot hand and snaked down from the heavens. It hovered just above Yarnall, and then the Actor reached up and shook it. The Gamers broke into cheers as the hand dissolved, and Yarnall looked around sheepishly.

Johnny Welsh was in stitches, tears rolling down his face. He slapped Yarnall on the back. “Let’s see ‘em top that in Vegas!”

Ollie’s arms came around Gwen from behind, gave her a little squeeze good morning. “Let’s get going,” he whispered.