Chapter 25 The Ego Trip, Part 1: Boy Toys "Take us back!" demanded Amelia. "Take us back right this minute!" (Everybody had been so happy when they first arrived in C’hou. Freedom! Normal size! Sunshine! Wind!) John gaped at her, so startled that words completely failed him. Around him, everyone fell silent; the whirr of George’s movie camera was the only noticeable sound. (They screamed and shouted and wept and jumped and hugged and ran around the lawn, ripping up handfuls of grass and leaves and thrusting their faces into them or tossing the greenery up in showers of confetti.) Amelia stood on tiptoe to thrust her face into John’s. "I said," she growled, enunciating each word with exquisite precision, "Take. Us. Back. NOW!" (Quickly, the celebration turned into a real party, with John running down the road to the inn to get lots of food while Ringo and George brought out what was in the house to start. Only Paul didn’t join in; feeling himself near the point of explosion, he was able only to set the Vasyn-piece down alongside the other [to the cheers of the encamped Raleka] and thud-leap away down the beach.) Still not believing what he was hearing, John was at least now able to say, "What’re you, fuckin’ daft? You wanna go back to that fuckin’ basement?" (One man brought out a harmonica, and for a while everything was sing and dance, eat and drink, tours of the house, peeps at the treasure cellar.) The middle-aged woman’s body quivered with rage as she struggled to maintain her composure. "Of course we don’t want to go back to that! But don’t you think your rescue would have been more… appropriate… if you hadn’t just… just…." Her self-control broke down, and she finished up screaming, "…. kidnapped us a second time?" (Then, as everyone began calming down and looking toward the future, Amelia the mayor trotted over to John, formally thanked him for the rescue, and asked where the nearest Confederation Travelers’ Aid Society was.) John’s face reddened. Over his head, a small black cloud rapidly built up from nothing. "Kidnapped you? What the fuck are you talkin’ about? We freed you! You’re back to normal size! You’ve got your lives back!" He gestured angrily at the world around them. "You don’t have to stay here! You can do whatever you want now!" (There wasn’t one, John explained. No CTAS? said Amelia. How about an ansible office? A starport? Not even a landing pad for mail ships and merchant craft? But then, how did C’hou communicate with the Confederation?) "We can do whatever we want except return to our homes!" Spittle struck John’s face along with Amelia’s words. "We’re even more cut off now than we were on Dandond! There, only normal space and evil separated us from our home planets! Now we’re not even in our own plane of existence! This is no rescue! This is another prison!" (It didn’t, John explained. It wasn’t part of the Confederation; it wasn’t even in the same universe. And that was the moment when everything went to shit.) Behind Amelia came angry mutters from the other refugees, many of whom had still been celebrating when Amelia first approached John about the CTAS and didn’t know why she was ranting—until now. "We’re not in our own universe?" "Where are we?" "You mean we’re stuck on this primitive planet?" "I didn’t want to die there, but I sure don’t want to die here!" yelled a bearded man. "Port us back! I’ll join the fight—at least I’ll die doing something for my world!" "Yeah, yeah!" cried several of the other adults. "Take us back!" "I can’t!" John looked around frantically for the others, but they were off to the side somewhere. His little black cloud roiled. "We don’t even do it to ourselves!" "Then tell whoever controls the teleport to send us home!" *** [Can we do that, Jeft?] ~Not for a long time. We have limited resources for universe-breaking, and we gotta save them for our characters.~ +Hey, I meant to ask you, how come our heroes got shrunk on Dandond?+ ~I dunno. Probably the Pyar gods interfering, making things as hard as possible for the characters. They can’t interfere directly without immediately lifting the curse, so they gotta throw this indirect stuff at us and hope it’s enough.~ [Talk about that later—John’s trying to contact us.] *** George and Ringo had prudently drifted around the corner of the house when the shouting started. Now they watched the crowd mutter and move restlessly as John fell silent, presumably communing with the Fans; the little black cloud slowed its churning to a soft, regular pulse. George filmed everything as best he could from his awkward angle. "Bloody ingrates," he said out of the side of his mouth to Ringo. Ringo grunted assent. "Too bad Paul left. If I were him I'd’ve blown up here." George focused the camera on a silent knot of people who didn’t seem to be of Amelia’s mind; huddled off to the side, they looked with dismay at the rest of the refugees. But the overall mood was getting uglier by the second. "Remind me never to rescue anyone again." "Not even Lyndess?" "Well, she better smile when we get there." They saw John come out of his trance, even more frantic and upset. His black cloud started to rotate, flickering with tiny lightning flashes. "They can’t!" he wailed, which precipitated shouts from the refugees. Several of the larger men moved forward threateningly; John backed away and snapped up his water field. *** [Is there nothing we can do?] ~Nope. What are you worried about? They can’t hurt him. Unless he wants them to, which I don’t think he does.~ [That isn’t the point, Jeft. Those people—] )`Scuse me, are you Shag Gen? You have a vidcall.( [What, now? Who is it?] )Dunno. I’m just telling you about it. The call’s in the Office of Alien Psychology.( [All the way over there? Can’t they forward it here?] )I guess not, or they wouldn’t have sent me to tell you.( [All right, thanks. I guess I’m summoned away, boys. Keep an eye on our heroes, and try to figure out how to help the Thirders.] ~Sure. Hey, Varx, would you do me a favor? My throat’s real dry; I’d like a fizzy. I’ll buy you one if you go get me one.~ +Mm, that's a good idea. I'm dry too. I’ll take you up on that offer. What flavor?+ ~Zapple, or tebberry if they're out.~ +Okay. Back in a flash.+ … ~Thanks, Rolt.~ )No problem, Jeft.( *** "Shit!" said George, lowering his now-empty hands. They were ghosts standing in white nothingness again. Or at least, three of them were standing; Paul was curled up on the "floor," thoroughly asleep. And John’s back was to them, distracted as he had been. "—fuckin’ touch me!" John screamed, then noticed where they were. He whirled around in a fury to the single shape that rose before them. "You got somethin’ better to tell me this time?" Squeaky's voice thundered through their mental ears: ~YES. WE'VE FOUND THE THIRD PIECE OF THE VASYN.~ "THAT'S GREAT!" exclaimed Ringo. "Thank God," John muttered. "What about Paul?" asked George, nudging the body on the floor. "He’ll be out for hours. Shouldn’t we wait for him to wake up?" ~NO. A DIMENSIONAL STATIC STORM IS BUILDING, AND IF WE DON'T GET YOU THERE NOW IT’LL BE A YEAR BEFORE WE CAN TRY AGAIN.~ "Send us now!" barked John. "I’d rather wait for Paul to wake up somewhere else than stay here for another minute!" The figure seemed to draw itself up importantly. ~ THIS JOURNEY WILL BE DIFFERENT FROM THE OTHERS. JOHN, GET YOUR VEST AND PUT IT ON UNDER YOUR CLOAK—YOU’LL NEED TO HIDE THE KANSAEL. AND LEAVE THE LOCATION BAR HERE; IT'S NOT GOING TO WORK. THE PYAR GODS DISCOVERED WHAT WE'RE DOING AND BLOCKED THE SIGNAL. HOWEVER, I ARRANGED FOR A LOCAL INHABITANT TO GUIDE YOU TO THE PIECE." Squeaky sounded pleased with himself. "GO TO THE INN THAT YOU’LL SEE WHEN YOU ARRIVE, AND ASK FOR THE HUNTER. NOW YOU ARE DONE HERE.~ John, George, and Ringo returned to themselves and a great deal of noise as Amelia and other people surrounded John, yelling at him. "Abibbity mambo screeton!" John screamed back at them. He sidled between two of the people (drenching them as his water field brushed them) and scampered around the mob and into the house to get his vest. Curses followed him. Then everyone noticed George and Ringo not doing enough to remain inconspicuous along the side of the house, so the crowd flowed in their direction, Amelia pushing between her people to take the lead as George and Ringo backed away, George filming as he went. He got a wonderful and rather nerve-wracking close-up of Amelia waving her fist into the camera lens, mouth open and working furiously, before she and the other refugees and the house and C’hou faded away…. *** … and were replaced by greenery, vegetation smells, and the peacefully neutral sounds of medieval-type traffic. George swiveled slowly, filming everything he could see of this new place. The four had been projected into a copse of leafy trees, thick enough to hide their presence but thin enough to afford them an excellent view of their surroundings. They were about fifty yards away from a busy stone highway, with riders and wagons and suchlike moving lively in both directions. Prominent off to their left was a series of large rustic buildings, quite obviously the inn mentioned by Squeaky. It had the air of a truck stop, what with its long, busy stable and an enormous fenced, well-guarded parking lot full of wagons and carts neatly lined up. Some individuals camped with their vehicles in the parking lot, while others had tied everything down and taken advantage of the inn’s services. The main building had a restaurant/tavern and shops; other buildings were dorms or storage. A road perpendicular to the highway snaked past the far end of the complex, heading into the rocky hills just visible behind the buildings. Not a tenth as busy as the highway, it nevertheless had its share of traffic from both directions. The time of day appeared to be late afternoon, and the air, though clear, was a tad nippy. As in the white space, Paul lay on the ground, curled up and snoring. Taking only a cursory glance at the new place, John crouched on the ground next to Paul, cloak puddling around him, holding his head and trembling with rage. The little black cloud still churned over his skull, but it slowly came to a halt as John took deep breaths to calm down. Gradually the cloud lightened in color from black to gray to white; finally it evaporated. That’s when John looked up. "Right, lads," he said to no one in particular—George was filming and Ringo had tranced out to take a wider look around—"this time it’s business. We’re here to get the Aspirin, we’re not getting’ distracted by Beatlemaniacs or revolutions or any of that rubbish." "Amen," muttered George as he zoomed in as best he could on a pony-cart loaded with flowers. At that moment his film ran out, so he *ping* put the camera away and turned to the others. "Should we wait for him to wake up before we go to the inn, then?" he asked, nudging Paul with his foot. "It’ll be hours yet." "Nah, I’ll carry ‘im over. I’m hungry, and I don’t wanna eat leaves." John stood up and ruefully felt his empty food pouch—he’d never had a chance to refill it. "The quicker we get over there, the quicker we find this hunter and get this thing over with." "A hunter—lord, how disgusting," George muttered. "He’d better not hunt anything in front of us." "Actually…." The light of innovation flickered in John’s eyes. "Why should we bother with that guy when we’ve our own finder?" He tapped Ringo on the head. "Can you see where it is, mate?" Distantly Ringo replied, "Yeah…." His voice trailed off in an unspoken but. "What’s the matter?" George prompted. "It’s in some kind of temple high up in the mountains." "Mountains?" George and John pivoted around, scanning the horizon as best they could between the trees. Hills, road, more trees, fields, but no mountains. George even *ping* turned into a bird and flew up and out of the copse, made a big circle in the sky, returned and *ping* said in some despair, "I don’t see mountains anywhere." Ringo snorted. "I could’ve told you that." "Where are the mountains, then?" John demanded "Dunno. They’re so far away I can’t figure out where we are compared to them." "Ah, fuck!" John’s little black cloud sprang right back into being as he threw his arms up in mixed anger and frustration. "How the fuck long is this gonna take?" *** ~Long enough. Hee hee hee!~ *** With no answer to that question, they stood around gloomily until George sighed and said, "Well, maybe by the time we get back those damn refugees’ll have cleared out." The words didn’t comfort John, whose little cloud began to revolve again, though he kept his thoughts unspoken as he continued to brood. "Right," continued George, gesturing at the inn. "Let’s go find that hunter. Looks like we’ll need him after all, and we may as well get this done as fast as possible." "Yeah OK mutter fuck grumble shit." Brushing folds of his cloak away from his arms, John stooped and gathered up Paul. Luckily, Paul’s illusory clothing and coloring had persisted despite his unconsciousness, but John had to be careful not to impale himself on any of Paul’s hidden spiky bits. His arms vanished into Paul’s clothing somewhat, but the effect wasn’t noticeable from above. As John prepared to step out of the copse with his burden, George moved to block him, saying "How d’ye think they feel about magic here?" John shrugged. "Who knows. Suppose we oughtn’t use any until we know." "Right, then, you’d better get rid of that." George jerked his head up at the little black cloud, which had started to lighten to a dusky gray. A blank look rewarded this gesture. "Get rid of what? Are me wings showin’?" "No," George said patiently, "the cloud." "The what?" When George explained, John dropped Paul and waved his hand over his head until his fingers encountered the little cloud. In wonderment he pulled it down. The thing trembled like a gerbil in his hand, still reflecting his agitation. "How long has that been there? I didn’t even know it was up there." "It showed up when you got really angry at the refugees, and it’s come and gone ever since," George said. "It’s tied to your moods, seemingly—went away when you calmed down, but popped right back when you got angry. Changes color, too." "Hm…." John squeezed the cloud, and it burst into smoky fragments that quickly dissipated. "Don’t like that I didn’t feel it," he murmured, more to himself than George. "Have to be more careful about this." *** ~Wow! I didn’t realize he didn’t know about it either. I wonder what that means? I hope he talks about it later.~ *** "Welcome, gentle travelers, to the Rest at the Gate," said the blond man seated behind a desk inside the entrance to the main building. He beamed through an impressive handlebar moustache at George and Ringo as they entered, blinking and squinting as they looked around the firelit lobby, with its leather couches and chairs, stone fireplace-in-the-round, and reservations desk along one wall. Straight ahead through the lobby was an enormous, noisy eating area; shops were visible down corridors to the left and right. "Will you be staying a night or just require a fine meal? We—" The blond man broke off as John came into view with Paul in his arms. "By the gods! Do you require a doctor?" "No, no thanks," George interrupted. "He’s just really tired… we, uh, had a long trip." As if to illustrate, he yawned, as did Ringo a few seconds later. John said over his burden, "We’re lookin’ for a hunter, actually." The blond man smoothed his moustache and gazed thoughtfully at the ceiling. "A hunter? I’m sure I can find someone here to accommodate you… hm…." "Didn’t he say the hunter?" George said to John. The blond man’s eyes snapped down. "The hunter? You mean—the Hunter?" "Yeah, I’m sure we mean the Hunter," John said. He sighed and shifted Paul to a more comfortable position. "Of course it’s got to be the Hunter. We always get the the’s." Standing up and leaning over the desk, the blond man said quietly, "You’re expected, but please don’t spread it around that the Hunter has been frequenting our inn. His reputation won’t sit well with…." The young man swallowed and broke off. "Well, anyway. The Hunter isn’t here at the moment—he’s gone hunting." "Oh, no, he couldn’t wait for us," said John, irritated. "What’s this about his reputation?" The blond man looked away. "I thought you knew… My pardon, gentles, but it’s not safe to talk about him. It’s said the gods themselves take an interest in him, and one doesn’t risk offending the gods’ ears with slander about their favorites." "Right, that’s all very well, but we need to—" began John. George stopped him by touching his shoulder and saying, "Don’t press him, John, we’ll find out soon enough." John subsided, grumbling, and the blond man flashed George a grateful look before he resumed: "Anyway, he told us that he’ll be back after nightfall and that you and he will be staying the night, so we’ve set aside a room for you—no charge, of course." The blond man nervously twirled an end of his moustache. "He also said that he expects to find you in the restaurant when he returns, and if he doesn’t he’s going to be angry." "Ah, well, wouldn’t want to make him angry, would we?" John shifted Paul again. "Never fear, we’ll be down here when he shows back up. Now be a good chap and give us the keys to the room—me friend here’s heavier than he looks." As the blond man trotted off to the reservations desk, John muttered to George and Ringo, "Christ, won’t this be a jolly romp—sounds like the guy’s the biggest villain in the neighborhood." George made a dismissive gesture. "Ahh, we can handle him." *** ~Can you? We shall see, we shall see….~ +Hi, Jeft. I’m sorry it took me so long. The machine ate my money, and—hey, what are you watching?+ ~Whaddaya think?~ +You sent our heroes out? Couldn’t you have waited until we got back? When did you locate the third piece, anyway? Where are they?+ ~It’s a world called Damaeren. Don’t worry, they’re all there. See?~ +Why didn’t you at least wait until Paul woke up?+ ~I had to send them quickly because a dimensional static storm was building.~ +A dimensional what? I’ve never heard of anything like that.+ ~There’re a lot of things you’ve never heard of. Now sit down and watch; things are gonna get interesting pretty soon.~ +How do you know? Hey, why aren’t they using the location bar?+ ~It won’t work here. Trust me; things are gonna get real interesting pretty soon.~ *** Paul was of course inactive, and George and Ringo were exhausted, so after they settled into their room John went back to the restaurant by himself to keep an eye out for the Hunter. He took a table along the wall, out of the way of traffic but with a good view of the entrance. So as not to draw attention to himself, he sat the normal way, wings pressed uncomfortably against the back of his chair. And there he sat for several hours, eating, drinking, and dying of boredom. There was nothing to read, and people-watching got old quickly, even with the diverse crowd around him. His main pastime (besides watching the door) was listening to the conversations of nearby patrons and wincing every time the bards playing in the corner hit a wrong note. He got so desperate that he toyed with the notion of offering to perform, if only to save his ears, but common sense prevailed and he stayed where he was, mood growing fouler by the hour. Contributing to his mood was the refusal of the Kansael to speak to him. It was by no means prolix, but it had never fallen so silent before. He mentally cajoled the amulet to respond, but it remained silent. It certainly hadn’t lost its powers—John would have noticed immediately if his connection to water had failed—so the problem lay elsewhere. Had he offended it somehow? Was this new world having an effect on it? Did its silence have anything to do with that undetected cloud over John’s head? Who could tell? In an effort to nudge it back into chatty mode, he began to use it, gently tugging on the water-strings of nearby people to make them thirsty or sweaty or needful of peeing. Thus occupied, he was not quite paying attention when the hubbub in the inn abruptly died down; it took the dull shattering of a plate, a final discordant twang from the bards, to jerk him back to reality and focus on the inn's entrance. *** ~Oh, yeah. Ohhhhh, yeah.~ *** A huge man stood there, dramatically silhouetted in the restaurant’s arched entryway. At first he seemed to have two heads; then John realized the second "head" was actually the black hilt of an enormous sword sticking up behind the man’s right shoulder. That explained his ramrod-straight posture. What happens if he drops something? John wondered, knowing immediately that this was the Hunter. The Hunter stepped in, becoming fully visible, and the volume of whispering increased. Forty or so, he was movie-star handsome, with short wavy brown hair and a clean-shaven Kirk Douglas jaw. Intelligent steel-gray eyes shone out over an aristocratic nose and tight-lipped, half-smiling mouth. He wore a fur-trimmed leather vest that fell open to display his immense, muscular, hairy chest; his bare arms were also covered in coarse black hair. His pants were leather, and his belt buckle appeared to be made of bone. He wore no jewelry, but he had a couple of daggers sheathed on his belt. Confidence, strength, and self-satisfaction radiated from even the man’s pinkies as he beckoned to a quaking serving girl and said in a deep, amused voice, "Get me an ale, girl—quickly, or it’ll be the worse for you. And you—" he pointed at a hapless waiter, who froze instantly "—get me a venison sandwich. Now." The girl bobbed at the knees and darted over to the bar, where she began to fumble with mugs and kegs. The waiter swayed in place for a few seconds, until a nearby patron nudged him and whispered that he should get moving now, at which point the waiter came to himself and ran full tilt to the kitchen. John narrowed his eyes. So we’re that sort of bastard, are we? His needs being tended to, the Hunter surveyed the tavern, his half smile broadening into a full grin as he basked in the fear radiating from the patrons, who stopped whispering, hunched over their drinks and plates, and tried not to catch his eye. The band members grew very busy tightening the strings on their lutes, and the last of the uncommanded waitstaff could be seen slipping into the kitchen. And as the tension in the room became this close to tangible …. "HEY, MISTER! MISTER!" Half the patrons jumped in their seats, some groaned or yelped, and everyone in the room turned to look at John, who ignored them and continued to shout, "ARE YOU THE HUNTER, MISTER? I THINK YOU’RE LOOKIN’ FOR ME!" He scrambled out of his chair and began to jump up and down, whistling and waving frantically at the Hunter. <tweet> "Here I am, over here, mister!" <tweet> <beckon beckon beckon> "I'm the one you’re here to meet! Right over here, mister!" *** +The hunter?+ ~I told you, the location bar doesn’t work here, so I arranged for a local guide.~ +This ‘hunter’.… are we talking about Jim Hunter?+ ~Oh… maybe….~ +What? What’s he doing here? What’s going on, Jeft?+ ~Hee hee hee! Toldya things were gonna start getting interesting! I’ve been dying to see how they match up.~ *** As startled as everyone else, the Hunter arched a thick eyebrow as he watched John caper. His grin faded into puzzlement for a moment, then returned to the half-smile that was apparently his default expression. Accepting the mug offered him by the quaking serving girl, he swigged down his ale in three huge gulps, wiped the back of his wrist across his mouth, tossed the mug to the girl, and strode across the room to meet John. Patrons shrank in their seats or flinched away as he passed. John saw the imposing figure coming and called out helpfully, "Don't trip over that chair! Watch out for that guy’s head! Go left instead of right, it’s less crowded over there! Ah, good, you made it!" he cried as the Hunter came within handshaking distance. With a dazzling smile, John proffered his right hand. "Glad to meet you, I’m John, we can’t wait to go traveling with you, we’ll have such fun together!" Ignoring the friendly hand, the Hunter stared sardonically down at John from his ten-inch advantage. The effect wasn’t so much father and son as it was schoolyard bully and Ken doll. "I have yet to comprehend the gods’ fondness for fools," the Hunter announced to the room. "Ah, well, I’m comforted by the certainty that the journey we are to undertake eats fools as easily as I eat grapes." John gazed back all bright-eyed and skinny in his cloak, thinking Pompous fuck and saying, "Oh, but you’ll protect us, won’t you, Mr. Hunter?" He batted his eyelashes at the enormous man. "The gods would be so disappointed if we were hurt." "Perhaps," the Hunter said in a tone of voice that suggested he’d be willing to risk finding out. He pointed a massive index finger at John. "Know you, little fool, that I’m charged with guiding you to your ultimate goal, but I’m under no such onus in regards to your well-being. Whereas I’ll exert reasonable effort to ensure the safety of our party, I don’t protect individuals from their own stupidity." The Hunter withdrew his hand and folded his arms across his chest, looking grimly satisfied. As if John needed another reason to dislike this guy…. He was beginning to regret having started off on this foot; he was already tired of his own silly-ass behavior, which ran counter to his general mood. But the guy just… just deserved it. And something told John to keep it up, that leaving the Hunter in the dark about his true level of competence was a Good Thing. Still, he found it impossible to prevent his face from revealing some distaste as he forced himself to say in an offhanded tone, "Well, I guess we’ll just have to die, then." "John!" came a scandalized bark from the entrance. The two adversaries turned to see Paul standing in the spot the Hunter had vacated minutes ago. Fully awake and coming to keep John company, Paul had heard about half the exchange, mostly on the Hunter’s end because of his booming voice, and had rushed into the restaurant as fast as he dared to perform damage control. Now he picked his way between the tables toward the pair, and threw a glance full of thunder and lightning at John (who returned it with studied blandness) as he said to the Hunter, "I want to apologize for my friend’s behavior. He’s been under a bit of stress lately." The Hunter sized up Paul, skinny and unimpressive in his simple clothes, and his lip lifted in a sneer. "I don’t envy you your role in life, little hero. ‘Defender of Fools’ carries with it certain… obligations that you obviously can’t fulfill. But, rather than press you beyond your capacity to handle, I accept your apology for the nonce." Paul had been expecting a nasty comment about John, not an insult directed at himself. As he stood processing it, and noticing the Hunter’s unpleasant garb for the first time, John touched him on the shoulder and thought at him, Charming lad, eh, Macca? The waiter charged with fetching a sandwich sidled up with the item. Absently, the Hunter took it from the tray, and the waiter scurried away. "In there, children," he said, pointing at a cubicle set off by a curtain, and he strode over to it, gulping down his sandwich as he went. He was still chewing when he yanked the curtain aside. Two women and a man stared out from the table within, bewildered and frightened. "Out," the Hunter growled, and the three tumbled over each other in their haste to leave. The Hunter sat sideways on a chair to accommodate his sword, while Paul and John silently slid into chairs across from him. Drawing the curtain, the Hunter gave the two another disdainful inspection over the messy table. "Can you fight at all, children?" Paul and John exchanged glances. Without even touching, both knew immediately that they were of the same mind on this subject. Paul replied, "If you mean with swords, no. We do know a bit of magic…." The Hunter’s lip curled. "Bah! ‘Prentices! True magic comes from decades of study. You’re too young to know more than the most elementary spells—little that would be useful on this quest." Shaking his head, he made a sign with his index finger and looked heavenward. "I cannot question the wisdom of divine Indle in charging you with this quest; but I cannot believe you’ll survive the journey to the Twisted Temple, let alone defeat the guardians of the bloody Twist and destroy that foul object." "Oh, but that's why we need you," said John. "We're just so young and helpless, we need a real man like you to protect us." The man missed the drips of sarcasm tingeing John’s words—probably no one had ever dared to use it on him—as he replied, "Truer words were never spoken. You must be made aware of the perils that await you en route, little fool. Look you here." The Hunter withdrew from his pocket a thick folded parchment map, which he unfolded on the table so that it faced John and Paul. Titled Armia, it depicted a single country that in shape vaguely resembled Russia. Rich browns, greens, whites, and blues built up the topography beneath dozens of city and town icons, all named and coded with various symbols. Other symbols lay scattered around the map, some near obvious landmarks, others in the middle of nowhere. Yellow lines denoted roads and highways linking the cities. Notably, most of the civilization symbols lay in the southern and middle part of the map; the northern part was almost bare of habitation. "Mark these." The Hunter stabbed a large forefinger in front of a red archway symbol, of which there were a fair number on the map. "These denote portgates, which make it possible to rapidly cross Armia—if you know how to activate the gates and attune them to the correct destination." He looked down his nose at the Earthmen. "I know how, naturally." "Oh, naturally, we're not at all surprised," John chirped. "So the name of this inn—" began Paul The Hunter made an approving noise. "Very good, little hero. The Rest at the Gate is indeed situated close to a major portgate oft used by wealthy merchants and pilgrims to reach destinations across southern Armia that would otherwise take days or weeks to attain. We, on the other hand, will be traveling in a different direction." He moved his finger northward on the map to a portgate symbol in the middle of a forest that was quartered by the intersection of two highways. "First we shall travel to the Forest of Screams, which was once a crossroads between several important cities, but has since fallen into disfavor because of the bandits who now inhabit the area. From there..." The finger moved not very far along the northern highway to another portgate "...assuming we aren't murdered by the bandits, we shall take this portgate to here." The finger shot northward to a portgate in an east-west valley surrounded by low mountains. "The Poison Valley, so named because many poisonous beasts inhabit it." A hop took the finger to a portgate at the other end of the valley. "If we are not poisoned to death before we reach this gate, we'll make our biggest leap yet, to here." He lifted his finger and plunked it down at the edge of a strange northern area that looked like a valley full of shrubbery with a village and portgate at its center. "The great northern maquis, the domain of the Warrior Women, who are charged by the gods with guarding this gate." He indicated the village gate. "This gate leads to very dangerous locations, and we shall have to pass a test of skill or strength to be granted right of passage." John smiled. "I can't imagine we'll have trouble with the test with you along." "Likely not," the Hunter agreed, and turned back to the map. "This will be our last portgate. One reason it's so dangerous is that most of the destinations to which it leads are one-way—as is ours. We shall find ourselves here." With a dramatic flourish, the Hunter spiraled his finger down at the top of the map, landing on a large, empty plain dotted with skulls and flanked by mountains. "The Plains of Death, riddled with fearsome undead creatures. We must make our way across the Plains and climb the frozen Misery Mountains to reach the Twisted Temple, whence shall come our climactic battle against the Brothers of Terror, whose very touch brings death." "Dear me," said John, putting his hand to his mouth as if to suppress a gasp, but actually to suppress mirth at the trite names, "our chances don't look very good, do they?" "They're better than you think," the Hunter announced, "because I will be with you." He didn't move, yet still seemed to strike a heroic pose across the table. Which was wasted on Paul, who had stood up and was silently retracing the route with his eyes. He lifted his head. "Right, then, how long is this going to take? How far apart are the pairs of gates?" "Allowing for travel time, unexpected stops, and battles—inevitable, children—we shall arrive at the gates of the Temple between five and ten days from now." A dismayed glance passed between Paul and John, but the Hunter didn’t see it. "We're fortunate in that the portgate-pairs are close to one another—less than a day's travel on foot, with the exception of the two in the Poison Valley. Normally we would camp at each outgoing gate overnight and pass through just after dawn, but the length of the Poison Valley is such that we'll be forced to camp in the wilderness between the gates." "But we haven't got any camping gear," Paul said, "and I don't think we're up to sleeping on the ground." The Hunter gave a tolerant chuckle. "Fear not, children! You can purchase what you like in the inn's shops—they cater to unprepared and, shall we say, ‘hurried’ travelers. Prepare to surrender a good portion of your purse, though! Oh, and our first portgates will require a toll; as this is your expedition, I expect you to pay it." "What about food?" said John. "I eat a bit more than normal." The Hunter burst out laughing, chortling so hard he doubled over in his chair. When his guffaws subsided, he wiped the tears from his eyes and fixed an enormously amused gaze on John. "You ask a hunter about food? I leave it to you, little fool, to puzzle out the solution. "Well, then, children!" The Hunter swept the map off the table, folded it, and tucked it back in his pocket. "We'll leave at the first light of dawn. I suggest you do your shopping now, as the inn's stores will close soon. Meet me in front of the restaurant at daybreak, and our expedition will begin." The huge man stood up and nodded to his putative employers—was that a glitter of irony in his eye? Then he swept the curtain aside and strode out and through the press of tables and customers. The volume of conversation, which had not regained its pre-Hunter levels, dropped to zero again until he left, and then there was a tremendous buzz of speculation round the restaurant. John and Paul sat motionless, watching the Hunter until they were sure he was gone. Then John got up and drew the curtain again, and he turned his chair around before he sat back down. "Fuuuuuck," he said softly. "We could be stuck with him ten whole fuckin’ days? I don’t wanna spend even one with that arrogant bugger!" "Oh, I don't know, ten days and then it’s homeward bound." Paul touched John's fingers ever so gently. Besides, we're just so young and weak, we couldn't possibly make him look silly, could we? He took a discarded fork and wadded it into a ball. They grinned nastily at each other. *** +Are you crazy? There’s a million creds riding on this, and you’re acting as if it’s a game!+ [Hi, guys! Sorry I took so long, but you won’t believe the call I got. A reporter from the school paper interviewed…. What’s going on? Why did you send them before I got back, and when did you find the third piece, anyway?] +Shag, he put Jim Hunter in with them!+ [What?] ~No, no, no, Varx got it all wrong. I didn’t put Jim Hunter in with them.~ +What are you talking about? You just said—+ ~I didn’t put him in with them; I put them in with him.~ [You put them on his world? How dare you! For one thing, they’re not yours to play with, and for another, might I remind you that we’re working toward a goal here, and we don’t have time for this—this pointless and dangerous side trip!] ~It’s not a side trip. The third piece is here.~ +Whoa! Whoa! Wait a moment here! What are you saying? That the Pyar gods deliberately moved the piece here to make trouble for our heroes? How did they know about Jim Hunter?+ ~Guess they musta read my mind or something. Hee, hee, hee! Jeez, Varx, you are so dense! I thought you’d catch on a lot quicker than this.~ +Are you working for the Pyar gods?!+ ~Ha ha! I don’t believe it! You still don’t get it, do you!~ +You are, aren’t you, you utter slime!+ ~<snicker> No, Varx, I’m not working for the Pyar gods. Now, use that little brain of yours on this logic problem: if I’m not working for the Pyars, but the third piece is on the same planet as my favorite character, what’s going on?~ [Oh, no….] ~Finally figuring it out, Shag?~ +Wait… wait… you can move the Vasyn pieces now? You put the piece on Jim’s planet?+ ~Oh, jeez, Varx, do I have to spell it out for you? Of course I can move the Vasyn pieces! I’ve always been able to do that. But that’s just a tiny part of it.~ [It’s all been a real game, hasn’t it. Not just this part—all of it. Everything we’ve done with the Vasyn.] +What?+ ~Thank you, Shag! I have to admit, I thought you’d be the one doing what Varx is doing right now.~ +You’re saying—+ ~— that I’ve been running this whole thing since we got back from vacation. I searched out the three Vasyn pieces over vacation and put ‘em in interesting places. I set the whole deal up with the ‘gods’ and wrote an AI to handle that end of the conversation. You really thought we were gonna get a million credits for this, didn’t you.~ +But—but—+ ~I thought you’d figure it out sooner than this. I mean, when the characters got shrunk before they even landed on Dandond, that was pretty ridiculous. But you believed me when I said the Pyar gods did it. Didn’t you ever stop to think that if the Pyar gods were that powerful, why didn’t they just kill the characters and get it over with? ~ [Pull them out! Pull them out right now! We’re sending them home!] ~Nope. I didn’t go to all this trouble to stop it just as it’s getting to the best part!~ [Pull them out or I’ll tear your head off!] ~Ooh, scare me. Go ahead. Won’t help you. Did you honestly think I’d give you the chance to get ‘em out before anything happened? I’ve got six layers of ice between them and us, and I bet, I just bet, you can’t break through. You won’t be able to do anything to the characters until they pick up the third piece. That’ll melt the ice and unlock the controls.~ [Then I’ll pick them up via another computer!] ~Fine. Got the coordinates? ‘Cause you’re not getting ‘em from me.~ +Okay, I was stupid. I admit it. You fooled me completely. I’m not usually this stupid. But I think, Jeft, that you’ve been stupider than I have.+ ~That’d be hard, Varx.~ +Quit with the insults and listen to me! However fake this quest is, that curse is real. The legend about the Vasyn ending it is real. Lyndess was talking about it before you got involved. If you found the pieces so easily, don’t you think the real C’hovite gods knew where they were—and didn’t want to retrieve them for some reason? Maybe they want the curse to remain! Maybe something’s going on that needs it to stay active!+ ~I thought about that. So what? It’s not my planet. I don’t care what happens there after I pull out—I’ll never be back again.~ +But the gods will care! We could get into a universe of trouble with them! They could trace everything back to us!+ ~Nah. Unlike you, I think of everything. I’ve been covering our tracks. I had to, or they’d probably have intervened by now. But we haven’t heard a peep from them, have we? Well, you wouldn’t know that, but I do. They don’t know anything’s happening, and they won’t until the Vasyn actually gets put back together and the curse goes away. And that’s not gonna happen, actually. I figure we’ll pull out after the third piece gets to C’hou, before the Vasyn gets set up. So your precious curse won’t be broken, Varx.~ [And our boys? What happens to them?] ~Well, first they gotta survive. If they do, and they get the last piece back, we’ll tell ‘em they’ve done enough and send ‘em home.~ [And Lyndess? Will you at least be gracious enough to rescue her?] ~What for? Who cares what happens to a non-player character?~ [You’re just a stellar individual, Jeft. Really stellar.] ~Thanks. I think so. Hee, hee, hee! So you guys might as well relax and enjoy it. It’s gonna be good, I think!~ [I think not. Come on, Varx, we’re leaving.] +But—+ [Come on, Varx!] … ~Wonder if they’re gonna complain to the Coordinator. Oh, well, let ‘em. I’m not doing anything illegal—not on this world, anyway! Hee hee! Oh, this is gonna be good!