The Draw of the Cards

THE DRAW OF THE CARDS
(Part 5)

Passing through the mirror was little worse than passing through smoke. There was, in fact, no sensation of crossing the dimensional barrier at all save a slight tingle on the skin when the energy nexus opened to receive them.

"Not exactly Vegas, is it?" Peter remarked, eying the roiling clouds of mist with displeasure. "Man could go nuts here -- with boredom."

"Where's...?" Ray trailed off, an odd expression crossing his face. The reclaimed walking stick hit the ground with a muffled thump, dropped by heedless fingers. He slapped his chest lightly, then again and again with increasing force.

Alarmed, Peter stilled the action by grabbing Ray by both wrists and squeezing hard. "What's wrong?" he asked, giving them a shake. "Are you all right?"

Stantz looked up, a delighted smile on his lips. "Nothing is wrong! My ribs -- my ankle! They don't hurt any more!"

"Not much of a trick," the Player admitted modestly from the side. "The human body is an astonishingly simple mechanism to someone of my power."

The Ghostbusters ignored him. Peter gave his younger colleague a last scan then released him, apparently satisfied with Ray's reassuring nod. "Where's Egon?" he demanded, once more turning his attention to their surroundings.

The Player grinned again. "Dr. Spengler is right over there." With a flourish, the nether-lord gestured and a brilliant light appeared several yards away. In its midst stood a tall, bespectacled figure, wound round about with a length of the same golden chain that the Player still grasped casually in one hand. A blue uniform shone dully under that unearthly illumination, scarlet staining the juncture of the pink lapels.

"It's Egon!" Winston shouted, leading off at a run. He crossed the distance in seconds, arms spread to sweep the still figure out of that bright column. Winston braced himself, leaped ... and landed roughly on the opposite side of the circle, passing through the chained Spengler, who had not moved.

"What happened?" Zeddemore demanded, scrambling to his feet. "I couldn't have missed!"

The Player, again in his favorite lotus position, drifted lightly around the team, chuckling to himself. "You've been hunting my kind for years, Mr. Zeddemore. Haven't you learned by now how impossible it is to capture one with your bare hands?"

"Your kind?" Peter echoed, also reaching out to touch. His hand passed through Spengler's with no more resistance than there had been from the mirror; Peter pulled back. "What kind of a game is this, anyway?" he snapped, unpredictable temper flaring to the full. "Why is he chained? Let him go."

"Low-life," Winston hissed, uncaring of the possible repercussions.

The Player delicately cocked one arched brow. "Not at all, Mr. Zeddemore. I'm a gamemaster."

Winston circled Egon once, then again; Egon remained motionless, frozen in place. Only his eyes -- wide, alert, glassy -- revealed his awareness of their presence, a deep underlying sadness shadowing their sapphire depths. "I don't understand," he commented at last, coming to stand directly in front of his captive friend. "I saw Egon die -- held him in my arms until he was gone. I would have thought he would have ... well, done whatever it was he was supposed to do. Why...?"

The Player hunched his shoulders modestly. "That, I must confess, is partly my doing ... all right, it's all my doing. Did you notice the chain?" A rhetorical question if ever there was one. "That chain was forged by my own power precisely one instant before his demise. It arrests the life processes, freezing the creature in time. Life, mind, consciousness, body ..." He kicked out with one foot in Egon's direction. "... all bound together in your own realm."

"He don't have no body in our own realm," Charlie pointed out when it looked like no one else would. "Less'n you mean them ashes we was just visiting."

"You couldn't have chained him to that!" Ray breathed, convulsively bunching Peter's black sleeve in one fist.

"Of course not." The nether-lord clapped his hands loudly and the mists parted to allow the ornate, old-fashioned mirror to approach seemingly under its own steam. It was a heavy piece, antique gold framing the silvered reflector. It rolled closer to the group, stopping mere inches from the Player's soft boot. "Do pay attention," he told the Ghostbusters with mock sternness. "I'm only going to say this once." He clapped his hands again and the mirror's surface shimmered then resolved into a large, familiar room, white-painted and antiseptic.

"That's the morgue," Peter said with unwilling recognition. "We've done that scene before, chum; didn't like it then, either."

The room was deserted, thus there were no witnesses to the eerie sight of one of the body drawers sliding itself out of the wall. The mirror's view panned closer to reveal limp blond hair and empty eyes.

"Egon!" Ray gasped, staring from the mirror to the chained form with wide eyes. "It's Egon! But how--?"

"Elementary, my dear Stantz," the Player pronounced, grinning widely. "I've always wanted to say that," he told Charlie as an aside; Charlie shrugged. "The ashes to whom you so touchingly paid tribute belong to Mr. John Friedman, pseudo-president and CEO of Walcutt Chemicals."

Ray shook his head. "I don't get it."

The nether-lord flipped over in mid-air until he was staring at Stantz upside down. "It was an illusion, dear boy -- one of my more uncomplicated if no less successful ones, I might add. As is this pitiful representation of your friend's still-active mind." He glanced around, seemingly annoyed by their continued blank looks. "Don't you understand? They cremated the wrong man!"

"They cremated Friedman instead of Egon," Winston murmured, revelation lighting his dark face. "But ... who was John Friedman? We know he didn't have anything to do with Walcutt Chemicals."

The slow roll continued until the gray nether-lord was again right side up. "Him? Oh, he was just a man who lost a bet. No one important."

Green eyes blazed, Peter's handsome face contorting with fresh rage. "So this was a set-up! Who were you aiming for to kill? Egon? Or would any of us do?" He started forward, unconsciously rolling up the sleeves of his suit jacket. "You slimy...."

Unalarmed, the Player tsk-tsked him and indicated the motionless blond in their center. "I wouldn't do that. Remember, as long as I have this ..." He tugged at the chain, "... your friend is bound on this side of death ... forever."

Each yank produced a spasm of visible distress in Spengler's sky-blue eyes though he made no sound. "That's enough!" Peter barked, making an unsuccessful snatch for the chain. "I asked you once, what do you want?"

There was a long pause while the merrily-clad being floated a slow circuit of the immediate area. He circled Spengler twice, yanking again on the chain and studying the results with satisfaction. He then returned to the close group of Ghostbusters, paying them the same curious regard as he'd done Spengler. He patted Winston on the head causing the black man to flinch, smiled widely at Ray, who shuddered. He finally settled himself six feet from Peter, pulled out a file, and began to pare his nails.

"What do I want?" he began just as Peter's patience ran out. "I want to ask you a question. Dr. Spengler, as you can see, makes a lovely souvenir of your world, don't you think? Of course you do," he went on, taking Peter's furious growl as assent. "A lovely souvenir. Unfortunately, being dead -- more or less -- he's also a boring one. Not his fault; I daresay he doesn't mean to be dead."

"What-is-the-question?" Peter gritted between clenched teeth.

The Player added a few more teeth to his grin. "What would you say to a trade? One of you for him?"

Ever practical, Winston hiked up the knees of his dark slacks and knelt, examining the glittering chain from a closer angle. "First you said he wasn't dead," he stated slowly, "then that he was. Which is it and how can we trade with him?"

"I mean," the entity returned, examining one long nail critically, "that if one of you unharmed Ghostbusters was to take his place, the chain binding Dr. Spengler to his late, lamented life would be severed and he would be free to do ... well, whatever it is you humans do when you die." The nail file vanished with a little 'poof' and the Player began to buff his nails on his jerkin. "What do you say, Ghostbusters? Interested?"

The humans stared, mouths agape from the nether-lord to Spengler, while the possibilities inherent in that offer sank in. "Egon could rest in peace," Winston murmured, his voice loud in the tense silence of decision. "Man needs to ... rest when he's gone."

"We can't leave him there forever," Ray added quietly, to himself rather than to the others. Then, louder, "We won't leave you there, Egon. Player, I--"

Venkman's sharp elbow jab to the ribs cut him off. "Hold on, Ray, anyone can tell it's me he wants." He grinned roguishly at Ray's incredulous look. "Who else? We're both party-people. We understand each other."

"In your dreams, Venkman," Winston snapped. "What do you know of life after death? I'm the only one of us with any theological training."

"I know enough to bring clean underwear," Peter returned, slapping his pockets. "Got 'em here somewhere."

Panic creased Charlie Venkman's lined face even further. "Wait'a minute, son," he protested, stepping between Peter and their foe. "Let's think this out. If you go through with a deal like this, you'll be trapped -- caught in this ... this place forever!"

Peter returned the look steadily. "Egon's my friend, Dad, and he's--"

"He's already dead," Charlie interrupted sharply. "This ain't no different from any other afterlife I ever heard of, is it?" He glared at the silent blond as though daring him to refute the statement. "Besides, Egon's time already came. There's no need for you to do this."

"Your father's half right, Pete," Ray said softly. He caught Peter's arm, smiling gently into his friend's face. "It shouldn't be you -- not Winston, either." He held up his hand, buying himself a single instant before either of his friends could speak. "Think about it: you've both got family that'll miss you if you're gone. I don't have anyone left; that makes me the logical choice to stay."

"Logical choice? Who do you think you are?" Peter shot back. "Mr. Spock?"

"I take it this means you would be interested in such a proposal?" the Player asked carefully.

"Of course we're interested," Winston retorted, hands on hips. "We accept. Release Egon and you can pretty well take your pick."

"Right," Ray agreed, standing up very straight.

"So long as it's me," Peter put in with a wry look at his friends.

Unfolding until he stood erect in mid-air, the Player spread both hands and raised his eyes heavenward. "Good enough for you?" he called, obviously intending the question for someone other than the Ghostbusters.

At his hail, a figure appeared at his side. Black veils hooded the newcomer from head to foot, long folds draping over the face. It nodded once mutely.

"I thought so," the Player sneered, buffing his nails again. "I shall collect in my own time. Now go."

The newcomer nodded again and vanished.

"I do so love winning!" the Player chortled, rubbing his hands together with glee. "Even if it was a sucker bet. I knew I'd read you Ghostbusters correctly the first time we met."

The mortals exchanged a confused look. "What are you babbling about now?" Peter demanded, temper fraying again. "When are you going to free Egon?"

"Why would I want to do that, Dr. Venkman?" the Player asked blandly, smile slipping. "I've already won my bet."

"What bet?" Winston inquired, taking the plunge.

The Player tilted his head pityingly. "I would have thought that much was obvious. I wagered that you three would be willing to exchange yourselves for your deceased comrade. An associate ..." He jerked a thumb toward the spot the vanished being had occupied. "... disagreed. He thought you humans would save yourselves first." He grinned in a friendly manner at the silent Charlie Venkman. "It's a good thing you're not a Ghostbuster or I wouldn't have won."

Charlie flushed. "Trading lives," he spat, angry and embarrassed. "Some things a man ain't supposed ta dabble in."

"But I'm not a man," the other purred. He waited for a response but Charlie held his tongue and the Player soon lost interest. "That mirror is a gateway back to your own world," he added, producing a toothpick from his cuff. "You may now use it."

The humans hesitated. "What ... what about Egon?" Ray asked timidly. "Is he ... can he go?"

The Player tossed his head, jangling the little bells. "I made you no firm offer and have no obligation either way. We have nothing further to discuss. Now go."

Winston clenched his fists. "Why you--!"

"Wait a minute, troops." Peter raised his hand but it was the crafty look in his green eyes which gave Winston pause. "Maybe we do have something to discuss ... say in the nature of a bet?"

The toothpick froze between two pointed incisors, then resumed as though it had never stopped. "What kind of a bet?" the entity inquired with an obviously false lack of interest.

Peter scratched his lean jaw with one finger. "Oh, just a friendly wager. Obvious stakes: I win, Egon goes free, you win, I stay, too." He lifted one shoulder in a modest little shrug. "Nobody knows a good gamble like I do; I'd make a pretty useful shill for whatever you're doing. Just ask my Dad."

The Player regarded him interestedly. "He'd make a better one," he commented, pointing to Stantz. "With a little training. No mark in the world would suspect a face like that."

Not completely understanding the remark but willing to back Peter to the hilt, Ray forced a smile. "So I'm added to the stakes," he said pleasantly. "What do you say, Player? Two for one?"

"Three," Winston chimed in, ever a part of the team.

Charlie raised both hands, a gesture of understandable reluctance. "I--"

"Uh-unh, Dad," Peter broke in firmly. "This is one play you are not part of. This is Ghostbusters business." He turned to the Player and made a slashing gesture. "That's a ground rule, bunky; whatever happens, he walks out'a here after."

The Player nodded solemnly. "Agreed. We can use him as an observer. Now as to the wager, I propose three games. The first will be for--"

Peter glanced over his shoulder at his companions, at the lines of strain in Winston's rugged features and the exhaustion in Ray's. "Forget it," he stated flatly. "One shot, all or nothing. Take it or leave it."

The nether-lord trailed off, startled by the steel in Peter's voice.   He recovered immediately and nodded. "Very well. One shot -- my choice."

Then it was Peter's turn to nod, albeit reluctantly. "Agreed. What's it going to be?"

Ray took a single pace forward. "Can we ... can we say good-bye to Egon first?" he asked diffidently. "Please?"

The Player shrugged. "Why not?" A simple gesture and the golden chain binding Egon in place fell away though still attached by way of his aura. Spengler shook himself once and stepped out of the circle of light to approach his friends.

"You three must be mad!" he snapped in lieu of a greeting. "If you think I'm going to let you...."

Ray cautiously poked the blond's chest with his forefinger, once then twice. "We can touch you!" he cheered. "You're physical again!"

"Man, Egon," Winston choked, shoving Ray aside to pull the blond into a tight hug. "We didn't expect to see you ever again!"

Ray blinked rapidly but was unable to prevent the joyful tears from overspilling his lids. They ran down his face unnoticed as he took his own turn at greeting his friend. "Thank goodness, Egon," he whispered, throwing his arms around Spengler's chest and hanging on tight. "We thought you were dead forever."

Touched, Egon wrapped his own arms around his friend, censure fading away. A look of deep pain crossed his face as he stared down at the bowed auburn head. "I am dead, Ray," he said, his voice infinitely gentle. "Forever."

Ray stiffened but didn't pull away. "But you're not! Not-not yet."   They regarded each other from a distance of inches, the unavoidability of that fate, or one even worse, alive in each man's expression. Ray slowly lowered his arms and stepped back, gaze dropping to the bloodstain in the center of Egon's chest. "I-I'm sorry...." he stammered, dashing his cuff across his face. "Egon, I'm sorry...."

"Not your fault," Spengler returned, ruefully wiping away a tear of his own. "That screwdriver could have hit either one of us; it was just the ... luck of the draw that it hit me. Besides, it was my shot which blew the plant up -- nearly killing you, too, I might add." He stared past Ray to the sober figure of Peter Venkman. "Where do you come up with these crazy ideas?" he chided the psychologist with a weak grin. "I can't leave you alone for a minute, can I?"

Peter shook his head sadly. "No, I guess not. Egon, I--"

"Don't say it," Spengler warned. "For my sake, never say it. There's no blame, no guilt, no responsibility. I wouldn't like to face the infinite ... or whatever ... if I thought you three were blaming yourselves for what happened."

"You may never get that option, anyway," Peter returned seriously. "Not unless we win." He held out a hand which Egon gravely accepted. They stood a long time, staring at each other over their tightly clasped hands, neither showing any hurry to terminate the physical contact. Around them the others gathered; Egon dropped his free arm around Ray's shoulders, Ray slipping his own around both Egon's and Peter's waists. Winston took the clasped hands between both his own and held them tight, binding the circle together. Even Charlie, disapproving in concept and fearful for his son's safety, joined the group, resting one veined hand on Peter's back.

The warmth of their reunion fair shone around them and might have endured forever had not the Player chosen that moment to clear his throat. "I believe we have a wager?"

The humans reluctantly released each other though maintaining their proximity to Egon. "We're ready any time you are," Peter boasted cockily. "What'cha got in mind?"

The Player smiled mockingly and raised his hand. "This," he said simply, letting it drop.

The Ghostbusters vanished.

Three Ghostbusters, that is. Egon Spengler stared dismayed at the empty spaces once held by his friends, his shoulders drooping. "I wish they hadn't done that. They shouldn't have risked themselves like that."

"They couldn't have done any different than they did," Charlie told him, slowly lowering his own hand.

"They haven't done anything yet," the Player reminded them, putting away his toothpick. "Come, what say we observe the flesh beings ... I mean, your friends, while they figure out my newest game?"

Egon shoved his glasses higher on his long nose in old, familiar habit. "I'd be curious to see what it is."

The Player fixed him with a stern look. "In the interests of fairness I think you should know that I will not tolerate interference from either of you. Say one word to help them and I win by default. Understood?"

Egon nodded reluctantly. "Sure, sure," Charlie grumbled, brushing the admonition aside. "We gonna go, or what? You're as bad as my son fer talkin'."

Again that toothy grin split the nether-lord's corpse-like face. "Then let us go; I've a feeling things are going to get very interesting from here on in."

***

For those three participants on the other side of that wager, the world shuddered once and then faded away, swallowed by the roiling clouds which seemed to comprise most of the Player's realm. Sound also ceased to be and the sensation was one of floating between reality and dream. Eventually, the mists began to clear, blurry colors resolving themselves into vibrant hues, the vague shapes solidifying into vines, trees and swampy ground. Overhead green canopy all but obscured crystal blue sky, broken here and there by a dazzling shaft of golden sun.

The three Ghostbusters examined their surroundings warily, alert for the slightest warning of danger. They looked to right and left, up and then, finally, down.

"Oh, swell," Peter groused, using both hands to pull his foot out of the sucking mud hole he found himself standing in. "Real garden spot, here. Hey, Player!" he called aloud, "when you said wager, I thought we were talking Atlantic City not Mosquito Med." He pulled his other foot free and stepped up onto relatively higher ground. "I don't think we're in Kansas any more, Toto," he added, tapping Ray on the head.

"Doesn't look like Oz, either," Ray pointed out, accepting Peter's hand and pulling himself out of the mire. It took the both of them working together to get a cursing Winston clear; it was only then that they spared the time to examine the changes to themselves more closely.

"Aren't these Army uniforms?" Ray asked, running his hands curiously across the rough material. Gone were the sober suits and white shirts appropriate the funeral home. Each man now wore identical olive green fatigues of the type made famous decades ago by the U.S. Army, with battered combat boots soaked through with mud on their feet. Peter's long brown hair was held back by a green rag tied indian fashion, while Winston wore an old brown fishing cap pulled down low. Ray's head was bare, his auburn hair already beginning to plaster itself across his forehead in the jungle heat.

"So we play soldier." Peter shrugged, adjusting his headband to a cocky angle. "We've faced worse."

"Maybe we haven't," Winston told him grimly. "At least, you haven't."

Ray unbuttoned his heavy shirt and tugged at his already sweaty tee shirt. "We don't have any choice, Winston. It's for Egon." He paused, tilting his head. "I hear sounds coming from ... that way." He pointed in a general westerly direction. "Let's check it out."

Winston snagged his arm in one hand and Peter's in the other before either man could start off in the direction indicated. "Hold up. For starters, we don't know what's waitin' on us down there. It could be another one of the Player's traps."

"Do you have a better idea?" Peter asked, yanking his arm free but making no effort to continue his course.

Winston released Ray and shook his head. "Only that you two better let me go first. If it's a base camp, there's a chance access points are booby trapped."

Ray and Peter exchanged a startled look.

"Booby traps?" Ray asked shakily.

Peter stepped back, gesturing the older man ahead with a little bow. "After you, m'man."

"Thought you'd see it my way," Winston muttered, starting off.

They had followed the jungle trail for less than a hundred yards when the camp came into view. Tents of various sizes were pitched seemingly at random about a clearing, although closer observation revealed them to be patterned in a very rough circle around the largest, a canvas shelter topped with a peculiarly colored flag. Uniformed men scurried like ants from shelter to shelter, the crunch of vegetation under their boots loud even at the distance. The Ghostbusters dropped into a shielded crouch.

"Dat must be de place," drawled Peter, squinting his eyes for a better look. "At least they're all dressed like us."

Zeddemore hesitated. "We're not wearing an insignia," he pointed out, re-examining his clothes, "and I don't recognize the one on the flag."

"What do you think, Winston?" Ray asked, peeking out from under the cover of a small shrub on Peter's other side. "Are they friendly or not?"

Winston shook his head. "I'm not accepting anything here as friendly, but I can't see us squatting here all day, either. Guess we'd better check it out."

The camp looked even less appealing close up than it had from afar. The tents were dingy and tattered, some of them holed through in places. One of them tilted precariously, one of its supports having worked loose from the mud, and the air was alive with the pungent fragrances of garbage and unburied human waste.

Peter wrinkled his long nose. "A little Lysol could go a long way in this place."

"Not to mention bug spray," Ray added, swatting his way through a swarm of gnats.

They passed through the midst of the camp, basically ignored by the dozen or so men who moved in what the Ghostbusters assumed to be their everyday routines. Four more lounged around the clearing, obviously off-duty. One slumped dejectedly on a tree stump, cleaning his rifle, another whittled on a green branch cursing fluently to himself. Still others stretched full-length on the muddy ground, either asleep -- or dead.

Ray stared around eagerly, taking in every detail with wide-eyed fascination. "Wow! This place is really neat! Isn't that the ... the...?"

"Mess tent," Winston supplied, grabbing Ray's collar before the younger man could investigate. "Yes, it is. Why don't we try the com shack over there? We might be able to pick up some info on what's going on."

He brushed aside the flap and stepped into the largest tent, surveying the interior by the light of the single naked bulb dangling from a wire over his head. The center of the room was dominated by a sturdy wooden table liberally covered with charts of every shape and description. One large map, a terrain guide sketched on rough graph paper, lay unrolled in the exact center, its four edges secured by cartridge belts.

Against one canvas wall a uniformed soldier wearing corporal's chevrons, bent over a bulky transceiver unit. He scribbled something down, barked an acknowledgement, and handed the paper to a red-haired man hovering anxiously at his side. "New coordinates; better up-date the chart."

The redhead nodded, then tapped the operator's shoulder, jerking his thumb at the newly-arrived Ghostbusters. "Hey, look who's here, Shaw," he said in a pleasing southern accent. "'Bout time, ain't it?"

The black radio operator, Shaw, doffed his headphones and turned to examine the Ghostbusters with barely concealed displeasure. "We've been waiting on you ... sirs." He bit the last word out as though it tasted bad. "Central just radioed command transfer. What are your orders? Sirs?" He looked from one to the other, clearly at a loss as to which one of them actually held rank.

It was Winston who stepped forward, shoulders coming back in a command brace. "I need a status report, soldier."

The redhead, whose name tag identified him as a member of the extended Smith clan, gestured him to the map. "It's all right here, sir. I've been plotting both enemy and friendly movements over a period of three days. Our forces are on stand-by waiting for instructions."

Winston bent over the graphed map, studying it with a knowledgeable eye. "Looks like 'our' forces are marked with that little flag, right?" he asked the redheaded Smith, who nodded.

"Yas'suh. Marked 'em all proper."

Ray peeked over Winston's shoulder, taking in the map in a single sweep. "This is where we are, right? Behind that arrow?"

"Behind the eight-ball, you mean," Peter grumbled, leaning one hip against the rough table. "Okay, so we're here and the bad guys are ... over there." He waved one hand vaguely toward the opposite side. "So what?"

Winston shrugged. "Got me, man. The bad guys look like they've got a lot of units, though." He frowned, scratching his head.   "Hmmm. There's something kind'a familiar about all this -- besides the obvious I mean." He shrugged again.

"Looks like an old war movie to me." Peter drummed his fingers impatiently on the tabletop. "Well, we can't sit here and do nothing. Any ideas?"

Ray's gasp cut off the plaintive inquiry. "Look!" the engineer exclaimed, a glad look lighting his face. "It's Egon!"

"Dad!" Peter added, straightening. "What are you...." The Player floated out from behind Charlie's concealing form and Peter stopped, a disgusted grimace twisting his lips. "Oh, you're here, too. Well, two out of three ain't bad."

"As charming as ever," the nether-lord retorted through gritted teeth.

Peter blew him a kiss before turning back to his father. "So, Dad, you have any idea what's going on here?"

"What about you, Egon?" Ray asked, reaching out to touch the tall blond, the both of them wincing when his hand passed through the blue-clad arm. "Uh ... sorry."

Spengler smiled and walked carefully around his friend to study the map for himself. Neither he nor Charlie said a word.

"You can't talk to us, can you, Egon?" Ray asked sympathetically, following him. "Has he ... has he hurt you?"

Egon looked up at that and shook his head, maintaining a strict silence.

"This is a switch," Peter drawled. "I don't think I've ever seen either one of you quiet for this long."

Charlie glared; Egon ignored him. The radio operator, however, exchanged a look with Smith and made a familiar circling gesture against his temple. He stiffened suddenly and clapped the earphones back on his head. "Paladin-level-one has shifted position," he sang out, waving the soldier closer. "He's advanced to Bravo Hill, and an offense is expected at any moment."

"Bravo Hill confirmed," Smith acknowledged, stepping though Egon to make the appropriate correction on the map.

Spengler sighed but made no objection. He adjusted his glasses and studied the reconfigured map avidly, his brow furrowed.

Shaw's sudden oath froze everyone stock still. He listened intently then allowed the headset to droop forlornly around his neck. "Report from Preacher-man Jones, sir," he said quietly, addressing Winston but fixing his dark gaze on the open tent flap. "He managed to tell me that the enemy was overrunning his position. Then the transmitter went dead."

"They went through boot together," Smith explained quietly.

Ray's soft eyes darkened at that and even Peter was obliged to turn his head. Egon, however, paid no attention whatsoever; he adjusted his glasses again, a quick, nervous gesture, then began to pace the floor, his chin sunk on his breast.

Shaw broke his distant contemplation, returning his concentration to the radio. He flipped several switches, listened closely and sent an acknowledgement. "Sgt. Templar on the horn, sir. He's waiting new orders."

"Tell him to hang on, corporal," Winston said wearily. "We'll get to him. Any ideas, Pete?" he asked the frowning psychologist at his side.

Venkman shook his head. "We've obviously got to win something here, but what? The sides look like they're pretty evenly matched, and we don't even know what our goal should be."

"We better find out soon," the black Ghostbuster grumbled. "I've got a feeling that giving the wrong order right now could blow things permanently."

He and Peter bent over the map again, heads together in low conversation. For his part, Ray returned to the tent entrance and leaned against one of the support posts, looking abstractedly out at the bustling compound. The scene was little changed from before, the soldiers still toiled at tasks unfamiliar to the young engineer and, after a moment, Ray turned away only to find himself face-to-face with the grinning visage of the Player. He made to step around the floating nether-lord, who simply shifted his own position a foot, blocking him again. Ray's face hardened. "You're in my way," he stated boldly. The Player grinned wider, then turned to allow Stantz to edge his way past.

Lips tight with anger, Ray returned to Charlie's side but stared sadly at Egon in the far corner. The blond seemed uncomfortable under the scrutiny and continued pacing, fidgeting nervously all the while. Ray sighed, then his eyes widened, dawning comprehension making them glow. He quickly lowered his head, veiling his expressive eyes behind his lashes, then sauntered casually back to the table.

"... or we'll end up over-run ourselves," Winston was explaining to an attentative audience. "But we've no way of knowing the enemy's strike capabilities -- or ours," he added, looking questioningly at Smith. "Do we?"

The redhead shook his head. "No intelligence, yet, suh, just code names which ain't worth spit ta me."

Peter chewed his thumbnail. "I think we ought to concentrate on this Bravo Hill. That's only a few miles from here, isn't it? Couldn't they use artillery on us from there or something?"

Winston nodded solemnly. "Possibility. They could soften us up enough for a ground assault."

Ray pushed himself between them to examine the map for himself, eagerness in every line of his body. The two shifted their position to allow him in, then continued their discussion over his bent back.

"If we have artillery of our own or something...." Peter was saying.

"Don't worry about that hill, Pete," Ray interrupted, stooping to peer at the map from eye level. "They can't hurt us from there."

Peter, mouth opened to press home his point, closed it with a little click. "You know something you maybe wanna tell us?" he asked suspiciously.

Ray didn't answer, instead he turned to Radio Operator Shaw. "Tell Sgt. Templar to move his men to grid ... D-7. Tell him to hold on there no matter what."

"Hold that order," Winston rapped out. Shaw hesitated, dark-skinned hand just touching the send button while Zeddemore confronted his friend. "Ray, if you know something, spill it now. We're running out of time."

Stantz bit his lip. "You've got to trust me on this, Winston. Please? Peter?" Brown-amber eyes turned from Winston to the lounging psychologist, naked appeal shining in their depths. Peter dropped his eyes and even Winston's harsh expression softened fractionally.

"Look, Ray," the black Ghostbuster went on more calmly, "it's not that we don't trust you, but this is Egon's whole eternity at stake. One screw-up and we'll never get him out of here."

"He's right, buddy," Peter added, albeit reluctantly. "This has to be a team play or we can't go along. There's too much riding on this."

Ray's cheeks colored at that and the droop of his shoulders clearly bespoke his hurt.

"Ray," Peter made to add soothingly.

Stantz cut him off without meeting his eyes. "It's a game," he said abruptly. "A chess game and we're part of it."

Winston cocked a brow at the open chart, noticing for the first time the marked grids. "One ... two ... three...." he counted swiftly, eight across by eight deep. "Son of a.... He's right, Pete!"

"I can see that much," Venkman muttered, "but what about the pieces? All that's marked here are...."

"Code names, sir," the red-headed Smith supplied.

"Code names," Ray echoed quietly.

Winston brought his hand down on the table in an open-handed slap that caused all and sundry to jump. "Code names!" he chortled happily. "Hey, Shaw, who was that first report about when we came in?"

"Paladin-level-one, sir," Shaw told him at once.

"Paladin -- a knight." Peter nodded slowly. "Makes sense. Who was next?"

"Preacher-man Jones," Ray said, brushing back his hair with one hand. "A bishop ... I think."

"You 'think' real good, kid!" Winston clapped the younger man cheerfully on the back. "Okay, so that's a couple of the closer ones...."

"Sgt. Templar is still waiting orders, sir," Shaw reminded them, hand hovering on the switch.

"Tell him to stand-by; we should have something for him soon." Winston chuckled. "Templar. Ha! I love it!"

"I'm so glad you approve, Mr. Zeddemore," the Player purred, coming to a new vantage over the table.

Winston's smile faded as the hovering figure brought back the soberness of the situation. "Doesn't mean I don't think you're a certified sleezeball."

Ray rubbed his eyes. "I can't place Sgt. Templar," he muttered. "I should, I think, but...."

"More my field than yours," Winston told him kindly. "The Knights Templar participated in the Crusades in the Holy Land. You know, Ray," he went on after a minute, "if you had this chess gambit figured out, why didn't you just tell us about it?"

Ray's flush deepened and he hung his head. "I-I guess I just ... wanted to ... uh, look like the hero in this," he mumbled, looking distressed at the admission.

"No wonder you're embarrassed." The Player tsk-tsked a few times, then jerked a thumb over his shoulder at a gaping Peter. "From him I expected a scam, not from you, Dr. Stantz. Could it be that you're more corrupt than you appear?"

He studied Ray seriously for some minutes despite the fact that the youngest Ghostbuster refused to look up. During this time, Peter and Winston regarded their friend with identical disbelieving frowns but said nothing.

Finally it was Peter who brought everyone back to more immediate concerns. "So," he said, tapping one of the obscure symbols on the chart, "this is us, right? That squiggle with a flag on it? Then that means that this must be the other guy's 'king,' right?"

"Right," Winston confirmed, turning from Stantz to the brown-haired psychologist.

"Then we--"

"'S'cuse me, sir," the black radio operator interrupted, addressing Ray. "Should I go ahead and relay your message to Sgt. Templar or not?"

"I guess...." Ray began with a hesitance that had not been there a few minutes before and which only deepened when he met Peter's eyes. "I mean, we have to move him to D-7 ... don't we?"

Peter glanced at the map and nodded. "Only thing we can do," he said with a warm smile, which Ray shyly returned., "You heard General Stantz, didn't you, Mr. Corporal Radio Dee-Jay Shaw?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then go for it, baby!" Shaw obeyed, while Peter wandered the room, picking up an automatic rifle from the corner. "Now what? I assume that wasn't all there is to it?"

"Not on your life," the Player chuckled, turning on his side the better to see Peter's face.

Peter sighed. "Didn't think so." He hefted the gun higher and took careful aim at the Player's head. "Say cheese."

"Stop fooling around, Pete," Winston chided, plucking the weapon from his friend's hands. He ejected the magazine, then handed the gun back to an offended Venkman with a pat on the head. "I'd hate you should blow your own foot off," he drawled devoutly. "Or mine."

Peter scowled but permitted the gibe to pass. He finger-combed his hair back into place and bent over the table again, draping one arm casually around Ray's neck. "So, boy genius, any suggestions?"

The younger man shifted until he could see both the map and Egon. "I guess we'd better figure out the rest of the pieces so that we at least know where we stand. After that...." He lifted one hand palm up in a helpless gesture. "You and Winston are both better chess players than I am."

Peter stared expectantly at Private Smith. "You heard my indian side-kick here," he snapped. "Let's get to work, paleface."

The revelation of a few more of the mysterious code names soon had the gameboard laid out before them. Their headquarters was safe for the moment; a little judicious shuffling of personnel ensured that it would remain so while a plan of attack was formulated and implemented. Reports came in regularly via the transceiver, and changes were dutifully noted on the chart. This type of play continued for many hours, a full twenty-four of them passing practically unnoticed. Through it all, the three Ghostbusters worked as a team, each contributing their own brand of expertise and strategy. Some time over the night, Charlie, Egon, and the Player vanished, much to everyone's guilty relief.

There came a time at last when a lull fell, the radioed reports dribbling off. Peter, stretched across one end of the stout table, regarded the chart with a jaundiced, if weary, eye. "I think we're headed for trouble, fellows," he muttered, scratching his beard-shadowed jaw with one finger. "Or am I wrong in thinking we've got a stalemate on our hands?"

Winston, sprawled in a folding canvas chair, shook his head. "I've seen it coming for the past hour or so. Doesn't seem to be any way around it -- we're gonna end up in a tie."

Peter shook his head firmly. "No good. Ties go to the house and we," he gestured vaguely around the tent, "are the visiting team."

"A tie wouldn't help Egon anyway," Ray pointed out dispiritedly from his cross-legged position on the floor. "If we don't win, he has to stay here forever." He sighed and rested his chin on his fist. "There has to be something we can do."

"Yeah, but what?" Peter demanded, rolling over until he lay on his back. He remained thus, staring at the ceiling for some minutes. "Queens," he murmured dreamily.

"Who is?" Winston asked, snapping out of his own reverie with a start. "What are you talking about, Pete?"

Venkman rolled over again, this time pillowing his chin on his folded arms. From this vantage he could see both Winston and Ray, who were staring at him bemusedly. "Don't you see? We haven't used our queen, yet."

Ray shook his head. "Don't have one," he remarked, exhaustion beginning to blur his speech. "Wish we did -- for Egon's sake."

Peter smiled slowly, mischief brimming in his jade eyes. "Remember that uncoded roving band we put out of action back when we first started this shindig?"

Winston slapped his thigh, understanding touching his craggy face. "That was their queen!"

Peter nodded. "Yep. And the Player may be Grade-A pond scum, but he at least plays fair. If they had a queen, then we've got one, too."

Ray scrubbed at his eyes then fixed Peter with an inquiring look. "But there aren't any more pieces left to identify. If we have a queen, where is it?"

Peter batted his lashes at his younger colleague. "You're lookin' at him, thweetie," he lisped, making little kissy noises.

Winston gaped, thunderstruck, hope giving him the energy to leap to his feet. "Of course! No reason we have to stay here! We've got a whole squad out there just waiting for a mission!"
"Excuse me, sir." Shaw, still glued to his headset, broke in with an apologetic look. "The men stationed at Base Camp are under strict orders to remain here at all costs. The General left them here as defense only -- they can't leave." The subtle emphasis on the word 'can't' was enough to reveal the true source of this information: the Player.

Winston rolled his eyes. "That leaves the three of us," he said, making a swift mental recalculation. "I worked with small units in 'Nam; perfect for behind the lines work."

Peter cleared his throat loudly. "Uh ... may I point out, Teach, that Ray and I aren't exactly Rambos?" He exchanged a look with Stantz, who was beginning to regain his own animation despite his lack of sleep. "In other words, we don't have the foggiest idea what we're doing."

"Winston's right, Pete," Ray said, staggering up. "There's no way we can win from back here; we have to go out ourselves."

Venkman pulled himself into a sitting position and crossed his arms across his chest. "I know, I know. Doesn't mean we're going to be any good at this."

If his intention was to dampen Stantz' reawakened enthusiasm, he failed miserably. "This'll be great, Peter!" Ray crowed, bouncing up and down on his toes. "Just think, us out in the jungle fighting the bad guys! Just like Audie Murphy!"

Even Peter had to smile at that. "Sneak in, sneak out, eh?"

Ray nodded eagerly. "This is gonna be great! I just saw a Rat Patrol rerun last week, too! They were commandos. They...."

Shaw chuckled loudly. "Ain't heard spirit like that since I got here," he told the beaming engineer approvingly. "Nothin' hard about it, after all -- you just go on out and do all the gooks you see. No big deal."

Peter's smile faded as though it had never been; Ray only looked puzzled. "Do what? What are gooks?"

Shaw made a throw away gesture with one hand. "Gooks, man. You know, Charlie? The V.C.? North Vietnamese?"

"You mean people?!" Ray gasped, staring at the radio operator with horror. "Go out and shoot people?"

Shaw stared back. "What were you plannin' on doing? Buying them drinks?"

"I guess I ... didn't really think about that part myself," Peter admitted, chewing on his dirty knuckle. "I mean, this ..." he flipped a hand at the gridded chart, his brow creased. "... it was all a game. I didn't think.... I mean, if there were really people at the other end of the radio...."

"I don't think I can actually ... kill anyone," Ray whispered, looking hopefully at Winston as though expecting him to produce another solution out of thin air.

Winston leaned wearily against the table, his face grim. "I told you we hadn't seen the worst of it yet," he reminded his comrades quietly. He tapped the chart with one finger. "If you can come up with some brilliant move and give us a win from here, go for it. If not...."

Peter studied his nails, looking noticeably paler than before. "Looks like we don't have a choice,"

"It's for Egon," Ray added, even his inexhaustible supply of energy dissipating into the quiet air. "But to kill people...?"

Winston clapped him on the shoulder. "Not to worry, Ray, this is my field, remember? A one-man raid ..."

"... would get you killed and accomplish nothing," Peter finished sarcastically. "It's going to take the two of us to even get close."

"And the three of us to win," Ray finished, sticking out his jaw. Then he wavered, dropping his eyes again. "I'll do my best, Winston. I promise."

Zeddemore surveyed his army of two, a touch of pride softening the resignation etched into each line of his face. "I know you will," he acknowledged quietly. "Just remember, if we can kill them, then they can kill us -- and will. Get some sleep," he ordered at last. "At dawn we go ... hunting."
***