Future Games: Anthology Part 2

The greater the scope entailed in implementing an activity, the greater the need for strict attention to small details.

Each split-second decision taking into account all that Will read of gravitational fields, electromagnetic and heat-energy factors, gravdrag on nearby asteroids, influence of solar wind-the consequences of interaction with these factors.

Will struggled with ecstasy. Each aspect of the celestial field had its own music, in Will's mind, and its own fireworks, exquisite and hypnotic: a threat of distraction.

Opponent drew Roche Three in ever-widening spirals, never quite breaking free of the gravitational field of the sun. She used the pull of the sun, increasing her speed as she neared it. She expended weeks in each strategic repositioning, always moving with strict reference to the ploys of Will the Chill . . .

Concentration opaqued time; Will's fixation on Contest never faltered. The weeks collapsed upon themselves; Three and Five spun nearer, and nearer.

Hookup fed and cleansed him. In place of sleep it washed his unconscious and hung it to dry in the winds of dreaming. Weeks melted into minutes. Sports-eyes recorded all. Sports-eyes staring from a thousand angles, a thousand drones.h.i.+ps with camera snouts preparing the composite timelapse vid reducing Contest to the relative simplicity of a bullfight.

They entered the specified ninety thousand cubic kilometers of s.p.a.ce agreed upon as Impact Zone.

Like macrocosmic sumo wrestlers, the planets closed, bulk upon bulk.

The ma.s.spieces were ten thousand kilometers apart.

She was closing fast, impulsively, driving straight as a billiard ball, utilizing the equatorial bulge as impending impact point. She was overconfident, perhaps, because Will had not been performing as well as in the past; his mind was troubled, divided. He had to struggle to keep from thinking of the ruins, the sunharp, the voices, and Mina.

This was his final Contest, and his heart pleaded with him to play it to denouement.

But as the two planets engaged for impact-each making minute split-second adjustments in trajectory, rate of spin, and lean of axis-Will rose up from hookup, thinking: Sports-eyes, this time you're cheated. Crack your own eggsh.e.l.ls.

Great Senses was not capable of surprise. But it was capable of alarm.

Alarmed by Will's withdrawal from hookup, the computer spoke to him through s.h.i.+p's intercom. "What's wrong? Impact is in-"

"I know. Less than two hours. So it is scheduled, and so Opponent expects. But there will be no impact. We are stalemating; no one wins. I'll back out of the approach pattern as if I'm preparing another. But Five will never collide with Three."

"Because of the voices in the ruins?"

Will was capable of surprise. "You aren't supposed to read my mind."

"I read only what hookup leaks to me. I know you want to preserve the planet for the voices. The dead one hundred thousand. Why? They're already dead. Do you want to preserve Five intact as a monument to them?"

"In a way, it will be a monument. But-do you know what they require of me?"

"They want you to guide them upspectrum. Beyond the shortest known wavelengths, the highest frequencies. Into the fuller spheres."

"I want to go. I want to see upspectrum. And I want Mina . . . We have to depart from an intact planet; it's like a door into the Farther Place. If the game were consummated, most of Five would be destroyed . . . The only reason-beyond my love of Contest-that I've played this far was to be near Five. I had to Contest to stay near, since this is sponsor's s.h.i.+p."

"Within an hour the quakes on Five will begin. If you want to preserve the ruins-"

"I've programmed the backup navigator. You won't have to do a thing. In forty-five minutes the pushcoil will veer Five. Opponent's momentum will prevent her from coming about to strike. As soon as we're out of impact zone, on that instant, transmit a message to her, tell her, as is my right at this point, I declare stalemate, by right of points accrued. That will infuriate her."

"And you'll go to the surface of Five."

"Yes . . . and you'll go to serve another waverider."

"And on Five you'll die and go with the unseen mult.i.tude."

"Yes."

"How? Will you crash the lander?"

"No. I've got to be in sunharp rapport with them when I die."

"Then-you'll remove your respirator? An ugly death."

"I don't think that will be necessary. She's proved herself to be vindictive. When she discovers the stalemate she'll come after me. She'll find me in rapport."

That was where she found him.

The sudden change in orbital trajectory had riven the surface of Five. The sky was mordant with volcanic smog. Some of the ruins crumbled. The sunharp survived.

Roche Five was moving into a wide, cold, permanent orbit. The pushcoil column, in the waning light like a colossal mailed fist and forearm, flared for the last time.

He stood before the sunharp, tranced by its distant hum. The voices whispered, sang louder, a cry touched by exultation.

"h.e.l.lo," he said.

Again you have not come alone (said the voices). A she comes in a small, armed s.h.i.+p. Just out of sight, in the clouds. She approaches.

"I know. She will be the instrument of our union."

Tondius . . .

"Mina!" shouted Will the Chill warmly.

I'm here.

The planet was rotating into darkness. Light diminished, night engulfed Five. But Tondius Will had no lack of light: "Mina!" he breathed.

She touched him before the others, a chill breath, a kiss of ether. Then the others came and he was borne up, the surfer deliquesced; a sea of one hundred thousand and two waves. His body, still standing, remained alive and for a few moments it tethered him to that plane.

Something metallic broke from the clouds. A chip of light glittered low in the black sky, growing. It was a contests.h.i.+p, diving like a vulture. It spat a beam of harsh red light; the laser pa.s.sed through Will's chest and through his heart-but before his body crumpled his ears resounded with a joyous cry, the song of the sunharp: struck by the laser pa.s.sed through his flesh.

One wavelength, infinitely divisible.

Freed of his body Will had no need of hookup. He showed them the way. In a moment, the one hundred thousand and two had gone.

Far over the surface of Five, Great Senses surveyed the planet. Its face of honeycombed crystal was a mixture of three colors: red for regret, blue for considering, green for triumph.

Great Senses veered from Five and departed the system.

Opponent's s.h.i.+p departed as well.

Now, Roche Five, icing over, a frigid forever monument to a transcended race, was utterly empty. Except for the lonely ghost of a forgotten a.s.sa.s.sin.

Football players keep getting bigger and stronger. In 2011, of the 1,948 active NFL players, the average weight was 247 pounds; 426 players weighed over three hundred pounds, five players tipped the scales at over 350. The introduction of Nautilus machines in the mid-1970s allowed wider use of slow-resistance weights; development of the science of timing weightlifting routines made the machines even more effective. The result was stronger athletes. Future football players will probably be even bigger and stronger . . . but not stronger than beings from a heavy-gravity planet. Although not swift, a team of such aliens would still easily dominate a human team. Or would they?

Run to Starlight.

George R. R. Martin.

Hill stared dourly at the latest free-fall football results from the Belt as they danced across the face of his desk console, but his mind was elsewhere. For the seventeenth time that week, he was silently cursing the stupidity and shortsightedness of the members of the Starport City Council.

The d.a.m.n councilmen persisted in cutting the allocation for an artificial gravity grid out of the departmental budget every time Hill put it in. They had the nerve to tell him to stick to "traditional" sports in planning his recreational program for the year.

The old fools had no idea of the way free-fall football was catching on throughout the system, although he'd tried to explain it to them G.o.d knows how many times. The Belt sport should be an integral part of any self-respecting recreational program. And, on Earth, that meant you had to have a gravity grid. He'd planned on installing it beneath the stadium, but now- The door to his office slid open with a soft hum. Hill looked up and frowned, snapping off the console. An agitated Jack De Angelis stepped through.

"What is it now?" Hill snapped.

"Uh, Rog, there's a guy here I think you better talk to," De Angelis replied. "He wants to enter a team in the City Football League."

"Registration closed on Tuesday," Hill said. "We've already got twelve teams. No room for any more. And why the h.e.l.l can't you handle this? You're in charge of the football program."

"This is a special case," De Angelis said.

"Then make an exception and let the team in if you want to," Hill interrupted. "Or don't let them in. It's your program. It's your decision. Must I be bothered with every bit of trivia in this whole d.a.m.ned department?"

"Hey, take it easy, Rog," De Angelis protested. "I don't know what you're so steamed up about. Look, I-h.e.l.l, I'll show you the problem." He turned and went to the door. "Sir, would you step in here a minute," he said to someone outside.

Hill started to rise from his seat, but sank slowly back into the chair when the visitor appeared in the doorway.

De Angelis was smiling. "This is Roger Hill, the director of the Starport Department of Recreation," he said smoothly. "Rog, let me introduce Remjhard-nei, the head of the Brish'diri trade mission to Earth."

Hill rose again, and offered his hand numbly to the visitor. The Brish'dir was squat and grotesquely broad. He was a good foot shorter than Hill, who stood six four, but he still gave the impression of dwarfing the director somehow. A hairless, bullet-shaped head was set squarely atop the alien's ma.s.sive shoulders. His eyes were glittering green marbles sunk in the slick, leathery gray skin. There were no external ears, only small holes on either side of the skull. The mouth was a lipless slash.

Diplomatically ignoring Hill's openmouthed stare, Remjhard bared his teeth in a quick smile and crushed the director's hand in his own. "I am most pleased to meet you, sir," he said in fluent English, his voice a deep ba.s.s growl. "I have come to enter a football team in the fine league your city so graciously runs."

Hill gestured for the alien to take a seat, and sat down himself. De Angelis, still smiling at his boss's stricken look, pulled another chair up to the desk for himself.

"Well, I-" Hill began, uncertainly. "This team, is it a-a Brish'diri team?"

Remjhard smiled again. "Yes," he answered. "Your football, it is a fine game. We of the mission have many times watched it being played on the 3-V wallscreens your people were so kind as to install. It has fascinated us. And now some of the half-men of our mission desire to try to play it." He reached slowly into the pocket of the black-and-silver uniform he wore, and pulled out a folded sheet of paper.

"This is a roster of our players," he said, handing it to Hill. "I believe the newsfax said such a list is required to enter your league."

Hill took the paper and glanced down at it uncertainly. It was a list of some fifteen Brish'diri names, neatly spelled out. Everything seemed to be in order, but still- "You'll forgive me, I hope," Hill said, "but I'm somewhat unfamiliar with the expressions of your people. You said-half-men? Do you mean children?"

Remjhard nodded, a quick inclination of his bulletlike head. "Yes. Male children, the sons of mission personnel. All are aged either eight or nine Earth seasons."

Hill silently sighed with relief. "I'm afraid it's out of the question, then," he said. "Mr. De Angelis said you were interested in the City League, but that league is for boys aged eighteen and up. Occasionally we'll admit a younger boy with exceptional talent and experience, but never anyone this young." He paused briefly. "We do have several leagues for younger boys, but they've already begun play. It's much too late to add another team at this point."

"Pardon, Director Hill, but I think you misunderstand," Remjhard said. "A Brish'diri male is fully mature at fourteen Earth years. In our culture, such a person is regarded as a full adult. A nine-year-old Brish'dir is roughly equivalent to an eighteen-year-old Terran male in terms of physical and intellectual development. That is why our half-men wish to register for this league and not one of the others, you see."

"He's correct, Rog," De Angelis said. "I've read a little about the Brish'diri, and I'm sure of it. In terms of maturity, these youngsters are eligible for the City League."

Hill threw De Angelis a withering glance. If there was one thing he didn't need at the moment, it was a Brish'diri football team in one of his leagues, and Remjhard was arguing convincingly enough without Jack's help.

"Well, all right," Hill said. "Your team may well be of age, but there are still problems. The Rec Department sports program is for local residents only. We simply don't have room to accommodate everyone who wants to partic.i.p.ate. And your home planet is, as I understand, several hundred light-years beyond the Starport city limits." He smiled.

"True," Remjhard said. "But our trade mission has been in Starport for six years. An ideal location due to your city's proximity to Grissom Interstellar s.p.a.ceport, from which most of the Brish'diri traders operate while on Earth. All of the current members of the mission have been here for two Earth years, at least. We are Starport residents, Director Hill. I fail to understand how the location of Brishun enters into the matter at hand."

Hill squirmed uncomfortably in his seat, and glared at De Angelis, who was grinning. "Yes, you're probably right again," he said. "But I'm still afraid we won't be able to help you. Our junior leagues are touch football, but the City League, as you might know, is tackle. It can get quite rough at times. State safety regulations require the use of special equipment. To make sure no one is injured seriously. I'm sure you understand. And the Brish'diri . . . "

He groped for words, anxious not to offend. "The-uh-physical construction of the Brish'diri is so different from the Terran that our equipment couldn't possibly fit. Chances of injury would be too great, and the department would be liable. No. I'm sure it couldn't be allowed. Too much risk."

"We would provide special protective equipment," Remjhard said quietly. "We would never risk our own offspring if we did not feel it was safe."

Hill started to say something, stopped, and looked to De Angelis for help. He had run out of good reasons why the Brish'diri couldn't enter the league.

Jack smiled. "One problem remains, however," he said, coming to the director's rescue. "A bureaucratic snag, but a difficult one. Registration for the league closed on Tuesday. We've already had to turn away several teams, and if we make an exception in your case, well-" De Angelis shrugged. "Trouble. Complaints. I'm sorry, but we must apply the same rule to all."

Remjhard rose slowly from his seat, and picked up the roster from where it lay on the desk. "Of course," he said gravely. "All must follow the regulations. Perhaps next year we will be on time." He made a formal half-bow to Hill, turned, and walked from the office.

When he was sure the Brish'dir was out of earshot, Hill gave a heartfelt sigh and swiveled to face De Angelis. "That was close," he said. "Christ, a Baldy football team. Half the people in this town lost sons in the Brish'diri War, and they still hate them. I can imagine the complaints." Hill frowned. "And you! Why couldn't you just get rid of him right away instead of putting me through that?"

De Angelis grinned. "Too much fun to pa.s.s up," he said. "I wondered if you'd figure out the right way to discourage him. The Brish'diri have an almost religious respect for laws, rules, and regulations. They wouldn't think of doing anything that would force someone to break a rule. In their culture, that's just as bad as breaking a rule yourself."

Hill nodded. "I would have remembered that myself if I hadn't been so paralyzed at the thought of a Brish'diri team in one of our leagues," he said limply. "And now that that's over with, I want to talk to you about that gravity grid. Do you think there's any way we could rent one instead of buying it outright? The Council might go for that. And I was thinking . . . "

A little over three hours later, Hill was signing some equipment requisitions when the office door slid open to admit a brawny, dark-haired man in a nondescript gray suit.

"Yes?" the director said, a trifle impatiently. "Can I help you?"

The dark-haired man flashed a government ID as he took a seat. "Maybe you can. But you certainly haven't so far, I'll tell you that much. My name's Tomkins. Mac Tomkins. I'm from the Federal E. T. Relations Board."

Hill groaned. "I suppose it's about that Brish'diri mess this morning," he said, shaking his head in resignation.

"Yes," Tomkins cut in at once. "We understand that the Brish'diri wanted to register some of their youngsters for a local football league. You forbade it on a technicality. We want to know why."

"Why?" said Hill incredulously, staring at the government man. "Why? For G.o.d's sakes, the Brish'diri War was only over seven years ago. Half of those boys on our football teams had brothers killed by the Bulletbrains. Now you want me to tell them to play football with the subhuman monsters of seven years back? They'd run me out of town."

Tomkins grimaced, and looked around the room. "Can that door be locked?" he asked, pointing to the door he had come in by.

"Of course," Hill replied, puzzled.