The Sacrifice Game

I put out the stub and peered back into the softworld. It felt like the precredits sequence in The Spy Who Loved Me, when he skis off that cliff and falls past all these interestingly striated rock formations while it takes forever before his parachute opens. From a distance the landscape underneath me was more numerical-not strings of digits the way a computer would think of it, but constellations of coordinates on the nodes of vast curves-but as I got closer I could see it more as a weirdly weathered landscape, Monument Ice Valley as redesigned by Eero Saarinen, bluffs and buttes and interlocking rock bridges coalescing out of the mist and eroding away again, not like Gibsonian cyberspace but all pale and fragile and mysterious.

My disembodied eye settled on the apex of the mul, paused, and then seemed to unreel away from the apex in a widening equiangular spiral, spi

I felt for the keyboard and called up LEON. The processors had been thinking all night, and almost all day, now, and they’d come up with a move. I touched INPUT.

Everything shifted around me. I stayed the same. Now it was like I was standing at the edge of a low cliff at the tip of a sterile promontory, not that high up but a little too high to jump and survive, and much too steep to climb down. So from where I was in the Game-world-at least the way I was visualizing it at the moment-I could see across the next two months to the ridge at 4 Ahau, but I couldn’t see how to get there, let alone over it and beyond. The whole Game-state depends on the truism that if you don’t know what something is, you can’t visualize it enough to predict its effects. You know, ya can’t tell where you’re goin’ without knowin’ where you’re comin’ from, all that. Which was Koh’s problem all along. I mean, there’s a limit. And right now it was as though I could see all these details spread out in front of me, maybe like I was stumbling over a vast Petoskeyish pebble beach, except instead of pebbles it was more like those drifts of novelties and jawbreakers and figurines and dice and tiny cameras and flashlights and trinkets in plastic capsules in one of those arcade crane-game things. But the thing with details is they’re so small and there are so many of them. And I had to grab the right one just to take the next step, I could walk out into space and across to the next mesa if I could just find the bridge, find the solid path through this fruit-salad bog of image-confetti quicksand, but when I’d squint down into the surface I wasn’t just picking through a coastlineful of stationary objects, I was peering down into a Gaudi-Facteur Cheval-Watts Tower mosaic of compressed events churning under my feet, translucent layers of forking capillaries, knotted nets of beads, each bead with something different inside, an idea or a particle collision or a disease or just any old thing, people and minerals and televised political speeches and dead termites and schedules and trajectories, charities, deaths, monetary units, chemical reactions, shoes, and ships. It was like Error’s vomit in the begi

Okay, decision time. Only, I realized I’d already decided.

Making a real chocolate ice-cream soda is getting to be a lost art, like semaphore signing. The deal is to put a mouthful of milk, two mouthfuls of chocolate syrup, and a coarse shot of seltzer in the bottom of the glass, and mix them all really really up before you do anything else. Then I like to put in a handful of chocolate ice cream shavings and stir those around to get everything cold. Then you pour in the bulk of the seltzer, up to within two fingerwidths of the rim, and stir that around really gently. Then you drop in two scoops of ice cream, submerge them in the liquid, let them bob back up, and perch the last and most perfectly spherical scoop of ice cream on the side of the glass. Finally, you blast in the last bit of coarse seltzer until the foam rises out of the cylinder and is just about to spill over. Oh, and if you like, you can make sure a little seltzer drizzles over the top scoop and forms an icy crust. And then you sink in a long, long spoon and you’re done.

So I did all that and cleaned up and then tasted it.

Gastronodelic, I thought. Not quite there yet, though. Only one thing could possibly make it better. I checked the GPS. It showed Marena’s Cherokee hurrying into the hospital parking lot. Whatever. I got the Lobel Brothers tub out of my food delivery, put the two Styro cylinders on the lap desk, and poured the little one over the big one.

Fabulous. I took a fountainspoonful.

Mnmnmnmnmn.

Perfect. Perfectomundino.

(102)

“Hi, Jed.”

“Hi, Marena.”

“So how are you doing?” she asked. She put down an empty Phlegmy cup, found the food delivery, dug out a slice of salmon, folded it onto a big round water biscuit, and pushed the package five finger-widths in front of me.

“I’m good,” I said. An imaginary mosquito buzzed behind my neck. That thing I’d forgotten. Damn.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Why, don’t I seem good?”

“Well, I don’t want to say you don’t seem good, but you don’t seem exactly happy, you know.”

“Maybe I just have a sad face.” I lifted out a slice and lowered it onto my plate. I took a bite. It wasn’t dry enough and the smoking was different, but it still had that great old taste. I said thanks to Great Grandfather Salmon.

“Oh, yeah… but, you know, you brought back the stuff, we’ll work out the LEON software on the Sacrifice Game, we’ll deal with it, we should all be feeling a lot better than we did two months ago.”