Scotty Griffin checked himself and Ali into guest dorm 312, the third floor of a prefab hutch set in a small crater a klick south of Heinlein station’s central bubble. The main facility had good accommodations, and frankly he would have preferred that. Security felt better there. On the other hand, on the Moon the harsh external conditions were a security shield all in themselves. Trekking from dome to dome without proper training was like tap-dancing on a tightrope. Paparazzi would be at a minimum, and frankly there hadn’t been a lot of attention for Ali at the party, which had annoyed his primary no end.
Scotty had to laugh. So far, even considering the training and preparation, this had been pretty easy, and in fact, a lot of fun. He had completed basic space training years before, but old Kikaya paid very well for him to do the kiddie version again from scratch. When this was all over he’d have enough money to take two years off. Do almost anything he wanted…
What he wanted right now was to disappear into makeup, or other anonymity. It was inevitable that silly things would happen during the game, and those silly things would be used against Kendra in the election. Well, she was right about one thing: The miners and construction hands loved their “last of the old-time pioneer” personas. They liked loners, sure, but they liked winners even more.
He was going to give them one. That would be the way to do it. He was going to win the damned game. At the very least, he wasn’t coming in last. That would be fine for a first-time gamer playing at this level. Just don’t come in last.
Burdened by the first sense of unease he’d had since landing, Scotty went through his mental checklist in preparation for sleep.
“Moonman,” Ali said.
Scotty didn’t turn. “Here.”
“We have arrived,” Ali said. “All throughout our training, I sensed that you could not take things with complete seriousness.”
“Your safety I take seriously. The game… well, it’s a game.”
“Not to me,” Ali said. “You promised that once we arrived, you would, as you said, ‘get into it.’ Well. We are here. Have you?”
“Have I what?”
“‘Gotten into it.’”
“I’m doing fine,” Scotty said. “My primary job is protection. My secondary is to see that the client enjoys himself. We’ll be fine.”
“And how will you protect me if you are killed out?” His voice was challenging. “And that is what will happen, if you are not completely present.”
There it was again, a touch of imperious presumption that had begun creeping back in on the way to Luna, a reminder that Ali was a prince, and Scotty a pauper. While he suspected that this was just a way of dealing with a nervous stomach, Scotty fought to avoid irritation. “I always, under all circumstances, do my level best to avoid dying.”
Ali held his eyes for a beat, and then nodded. “Good. Please do that.” Something in the Prince’s face said he’d be relieved if Scotty was killed out of the game. After all, bodyguards were his father’s idea. With Scotty dead, Ali could concentrate on winning.
By 2:00 A.M. Lunar Standard Time, most of the guests had sunk into exhaustion. Counting travel from the L5 station and the arrival party, most of them had not slept for at least twenty hours. Some had grumbled that Xavier had deliberately arranged the times to confuse and fatigue them. Others just shook their heads wryly, knowing that they were in for a serious tail-wringing in only eight short hours. So sleep pills and delta-wave units were in heavy use, nightcaps were swallowed or smoked, and experiments with low-gravity sex conducted.
And now, the vid calls had stopped, and talking dropped to a soft burr.
By 3:00 A.M., silence had descended upon the dorm. The rooms sealed themselves into emergency mode: The doors would not open. Whoever was in there was simply in for good.