The Barsoom Project

Some of the refugees paused, then raised uncertain hands.

“All right. These are Remington thirty-caliber gas-operated semiautomatic carbines-”

Max sidled over to Eviane, ready to lend assistance. She didn’t need any. As the Guardsman called out instructions she worked with manic intensity, with a mixture of dread and fascination that was almost alarming to watch. During a pause in the instructions she relaxed, and then looked up at Max, through

Max, as if he wasn’t there at all. The bullets in her hand were blanks, and she was not his enemy; but there was something in her eyes, something in the way she gripped the gun that made him feel queasy.

“-we don’t know what we’re heading into, but we do know that it’s dangerous: we don’t want to lose any of our own.” There were sober nods of agreement from the others, but Eviane stared fixedly ahead, her eyes on the snow-blown horizon, or beyond.

Damn, she was really into this. Had she Gamed before, in the real Games? Once her hands closed around the rifle she didn’t seem to want to release it. Her reluctance created a neat topological puzzle as she tried to pull on her backpack.

“Need a little help, there?” Max volunteered. “Why don’t you let me hold that?”

She clutched the rifle defensively for a moment. He watched her face tighten and then reluctantly relax. “Yes. Thank you very much.”

She handed him her rifle. She shrugged into her pack, bent, and fastened on her snowshoes. “Check me, will you?”

“Nothing looks broken from here. Maybe a closer look.” He ran a finger along her shoulder.

A smile struggled with her businesslike expression, won for a moment, then fluttered nervously and died. “You’re nice,” she said shyly. “I hope we make it out of this.”

“Stick with me, kid,” he said, giving it his best Bogart.. “I’m strong enough for both of us.”

She took the rifle, twirled heel-toe, and was gone.

He knew he was pushing it. Bulky, flirtatious, helpful Max Sands. Some women seek a nonthreatening man. He could usually tell, but he couldn’t tell with Eviane. Maybe she didn’t know herself.

He could switch out of that “harmless” mode. He could do a Jekyll-Hyde and become “Mr. Mountain,” but he didn’t want to.

God, he was tired of Mr. Mountain and his lavender leotards.

Distantly, he heard a playful announcer singing about “purple Mountain’s majesty-”

With a little help from Dream Park’s magic, he just might retire that role forever.

Snow Goose knelt by the lead dogs to hug a muscular light gray husky with reddish highlights in his fur. They nuzzled each other like old friends.

Max hunkered down next to her, scratched the back of the dog’s neck, peered out toward the horizon. The weather was clearing a bit, but a curtain of snow rolled across the horizon, reminding him of an Arizona dust storm.

Snow Goose said, “This is Takuka, the Red Bear.”

“Hail, O Bear.”

Red Bear sniffed at Max, found him mildly unobjectionable, and then turned back to adoring Snow Goose. She said, “He and Otter are our last lead dogs. All of the others just ciphered. Disappeared. Lost.”

As if on cue, Red Bear whined disconsolately.

“We’ll get ‘em back. We’ll get everyone back.”

She nodded silently, then stood.

Most of the gear had been tightly packed onto the sled, then bound with tarps and oilskins. Antibiotics, coils of thin line, hard-weather gear, food. The dogs came to attention, shuffling and whining at Snow Goose impatiently, as if awaiting a signal.

Martin the Arctic Fox emerged from the qasgiq tunnel. Old age and despair seemed to have filled his joints with rust: his neck virtually creaked as he scanned them. He pulled a bag out after him.

He pulled out a fistful of little leather pouches on leather thongs. “Hang around your necks,” he said. “You are angakoks now.”

Again he reached into the bag. “These are things of power,” he said. He pressed a bird’s foot into Max’s hand. Max took it, grimacing. “Owl claw. Give strong fists.”

He gave a withered Caribou’s ear to Bowles, who smiled and bowed. “Make you quick of hearing.” He pulled a crumpled skin from the bag, opened it to show that it was crusted with black soot, and gave it to Kevin. “For strength. Soot is stronger than fire.” For Charlene he had a swatch of white fur. “Sealskin. Hide you.” Kevin whipped out his little computer and entered the new information soberly.

He moved along the Gamers until the bag was empty. Then Martin spoke to them all. “You from the hot countries are our final hope. If you cannot prevail, all is lost. I trust the Gods will grant you victory. Seek the Thunderbirds. Only they can take you to the underworld.”

Snow Goose hugged her father. Captain Grant took his place at the sled, and cracked his whip once. The sled began to move. The huskies snapped the reins taut, straining against the inertia of the sled. Slowly, it began to slide across the field, toward a blank, wind-whipped horizon.