Grand Central Arena

by Ryk E. Spoor

  Dr. DuQuesne’s avatar nodded to her as she directed her attention to that area of the vessel. She didn’t, however, see any sign of his AISage Isaac, and there appeared to be almost no connectivity surrounding DuQuesne outside of direct observation. Not watching the systems, Doctor?

  The massively-built, dark-haired, dark-eyed scientist-engineer shook his head. No point at this stage. I have checked them, I know they are ready. Fusion reactors all at full, backup batteries fully charged, surge demand storage for Dr. Sandrisson’s drive all ready. I would rather watch this historic event myself, without electronic intermediaries or enhancements. Although, a glint of humor showed on the almost olive-skinned face, you will note I am not separating myself from perceptual assistance. Perhaps I am already as soft as I feared.

  Or just prudent. I may also prefer to do things myself, but you’ll note that my control and piloting systems are not just physical joysticks and displays.

  Carl Edlund had, of course, given her straight physical interfaces, as they’d discussed, but the mind-interface control system, assisted by Mentor, cut out the physical reaction time. Only the time necessary for her to process critical data would delay reactions. As a racing pilot, she had been allowed only minimal nanoenhancement, but for this mission she’d accepted considerable upgrading. She wasn’t bothered by simple upgrades—making her faster, tougher, stronger, easier to heal, all that kind of thing wasn’t a problem. It was just things that touched the brain—the center of one’s self—that got her nervous.

  The enhancements she had now meant that even with the physical controls she could perceive, process, and react appropriately to a threat in less than seventy-five milliseconds. Without physical controls, her reaction time was a tenth that—and that assumed complex reaction time, rather than a simple reaction to a simple, unambiguous stimulus.

  Of course, that was still slower than a glacier’s flow when compared to the sub-microsecond, sometimes nanosecond, response time of a good AI control system. And if events involved moving at high speeds, a few milliseconds might mean hundreds of meters, or even thousands, crossed in the time it took her to react. She admitted to herself that her hope to be actually needed was a purely selfish one, and not a particularly bright impulse either. Anything that took out all the automatics would probably kill them all.

  All her musing had taken some time. The timing countdown was dropping drastically. ‘‘This is Commander Ariane Austin,’’ she said, using for the first time the title she’d been accorded as the ultimate backup pilot for the mission. ‘‘We’re almost to the activation point. I can see by the telltales you’re all ready, but in the interests of tradition and verification, all hands, please report readiness in order.’’

  ‘‘System oversight, ready!’’

  ‘‘Sandrisson Drive, ready. For proof or mockery we shall see in a moment.’’

  ‘‘Medical all ready. You can all rest easy.’’

  ‘‘Power systems all secure,’’ DuQuesne’s calm baritone said.

  Dr. Laila Canning’s distracted voice answered next. ‘‘Experimental analysis and monitoring fully online. Please do not distract us.’’ The us gave Ariane a slight case of the creeps.

  ‘‘Hey, you tell me if the controls are working,’’ Carl Edlund said cheerfully. ‘‘Me, I’m strapped in and integrated, my job’s pretty much done. Let’s go!’’

  ‘‘Nanomaintenence is online . . . everywhere,’’ Tom Cussler said. Holy Grail’s nanomaintenance and replication expert had integrated himself with the systems nearly as much as Laila Canning had with her experiments. ‘‘If it gets broke, I’ll fix it. Just don’t break anything.’’

  ‘‘Definitely not in the game plan,’’ Ariane assured him. ‘‘One minute to activation.’’

  She reached out and grasped the manual controls. Contrary to her prior statement to DuQuesne, she decided it was best to cut out the direct connects. If they worked, all the other systems probably did, too. The manual controls and standard displays used old-fashioned electro-optical methods which were completely separate from the main integrated controls. If she was really going to be needed, these were the controls she’d need.

  Thirty seconds. She could almost feel Sandrisson’s anticipation, a bleed-through from his focus. He was, she realized, far more nervous about this than he let on. She smiled. You’re still a genius, you know.

  I hope so. But I’d much rather it get proved than have to argue the point after failure.

  Don’t worry. I’m the spare wheel. It’ll go just fine.

  The avatar-face was very contrite. And as I said, I will owe you a much more involved and detailed apology, if your unique skills do, in fact, turn out to be necessary. I really did not mean any offense. You do know that?

  I do, she answered; to her surprise, she found it was true. Sandrisson had been trying to explain the entire situation to her—partly, she suspected, out of the need to convince himself once more that he was right—and it must have been very frustrating for him. And I know I’m weird.

  But still charming and skilled.

  Are you flirting with me, Doctor? She was even more surprised by the anticipation that welled up in her at the thought.

  It is possible. The simulated green eyes took on a devilish sparkle.

  She grinned widely. Let’s take this up again . . . maybe in a few minutes. Ten seconds left.

  Agreed.

  Hey you two! None of that! Steve’s simulated voice said.

  You’re just jealous.

  The wizard-like avatar Allerdyne and Steve’s avatar simultaneously demonstrated the maturity of AI and human intellects by sticking out their virtual tongues.

  Five seconds. Sandrisson coils charging.

  The field strength built swiftly, symmetrically. If Sandrisson was correct, the drive would basically enclose the Holy Grail in a deformation of space-time somewhat similar to a high gravitational field—but instead of squashing them down to nothing, would cause them to be catapulted into the parallel related spacetime represented by the Kanzaki-Locke context parameter matrix.

  If he was correct.

  Two seconds.

  One second.

  Activation.

  In the sudden, silent blackness, Ariane heard Dr. Sandrisson scream.

  Chapter 9

  The scream was still echoing—in fact, had not yet finished—when the backup power systems brought her displays and controls back online. But it’s not online! she thought desperately. The wireless systems were down, there was no connectivity at all that wasn’t provided by hardwiring and actuators. What the . . .

  Proximity Alert! What the hell . . . solid surfaces? Everywhere! One closing at high velocity! And still in null-G?

  Racing-trained reflexes, enhanced by still-functioning nanotechnological augmentations, snapped into action. Chemical side-jets fired, spinning Holy Grail into reverse alignment with their vector on the fast-approaching object, and instantaneously triggering the nuclear pulse engine.

  Except that the engine didn’t fire.

  Dammit! Her hands danced across the panel, molasses-slow manual controls overriding the original settings, shunting in the last-ditch backups.

  Holy Grail shuddered as the massive chemical rockets roared to life, sending a blazing beacon of white-hot flame through the darkness. Incredulously, Ariane saw reflections all around her—dark-tinted shimmers and distorted waves, moving like the shadows and glints from water as you drove along the shoreline. The cameras pointing to the rear of Holy Grail showed an even more terrifying sight—a massive, unmistakeable, impossible Wall, a wall on which they were closing with terrible speed. Ariane went to full power on the rocket, the ship’s structure audibly creaking as more than four gravities crushed down upon it. That unbelievable barrier continued to approach, looming in her displays like a gray oncoming tsunami, something elemental and massive beyond belief. The reflections of the rockets were becoming brighter, sharper, as they closed with the enigma.

  Now she
could see that they were slowing, but they were close, close, and the mighty tail of flame was actually touching that wall, splashing off it like a jet of water from a battleship’s plating, broadening, still closing . . .

  Almost stopped . . .

  The long, arched tendrils of Holy Grail’s four mass-driver coilguns impacted squarely with the wall, sending a jolt through the ship, snapping one off at the base and bending the others. The experimental vessel began to twist, but the relative velocity was now almost zero and Ariane cut the rocket, going to docking maneuver thrusters. There was a screeching clang as the broken coilgun bounced off the main hull, and Ariane compensated. Relative velocity effectively zero.

  As the thrusters cut off, she became really aware of the silence of the ship. The environmental systems were still (or once again?) running, sending a subtle breeze of air through the vessel, but . . . there was no contact. The central computer systems were down. She had no direct connectivity to anyone, even Mentor.

  Well, first things first. She knew she wasn’t hurt—just bruised a little from the maneuvers. In the control cabin with her . . . ‘‘Steve? Simon? Are you all right?’’

  The voice behind her and slightly to her right didn’t speak; there was a slight indrawing of breath and a . . . whimper, a sound of such pain and fear that she couldn’t even recognize it as made by the same man who had been flirting with her just seconds before. On her other side there was a moment of silence and a chill seemed to fall over her heart before, finally, Steve answered.

  ‘‘I . . . I don’t know.’’ Steve Franceschetti’s voice was hurt and thin and confused. ‘‘He’s . . . gone. I’m alone . . . ’’

  ‘‘He?’’ She was momentarily at sea, then suddenly understood. ‘‘Allerdyne?’’

  ‘‘Yeah.’’

  ‘‘Simon? Simon, talk to me!’’

  The internal lighting electronics finally seemed to finish reconnecting, and the control cabin was suddenly lit. She winced and then looked around.

  Sandrisson was staring wide-eyed into nothing, hand to his mouth. The blaze of light did seem to finally penetrate, especially as Ariane unstrapped and came into his field of view. The green eyes blinked and slowly focused on her, and he lowered his hand. ‘‘A . . . Ariane.’’

  She repressed an exclamation at the blood; he was apparently completely unaware that he had bitten deeply into his own index finger in fear or shock. ‘‘Simon. Are you all right?’’

  He shook his head violently, muttering something in Japanese. Without Mentor to provide unobtrusive translation, she couldn’t understand it, but the tone seemed to be both angry and disbelieving. ‘‘Y . . . yes. Perhaps,’’ he said, switching to English, then winced and stared in surprise at his hand. ‘‘Perhaps not. I . . . I have not been without Mio for, oh, twenty years—since I was twelve. Like Steve, I am . . . alone now.’’ He pulled a tissue from one pocket and wiped his face; she noted with some relief that at least some of the healing nanotech must still be working, as the wound on his finger had already stopped bleeding. ‘‘I will be all right for now, I think.’’

  ‘‘Steve, can you get manual systems up throughout the ship?’’

  The diminutive system overseer wrinkled his brow, hands rubbing distractedly through his curly hair. ‘‘I . . . I have to think about that. Damn. They should have come up on their own. Except . . . I think they’re set for at least some intermediary communication.’’ He looked like he was ready to panic, but then closed his eyes, took several deep breaths, got it under control. ‘‘Too used to having Allerdyne there doing the direct access. Without him I can’t directly reach my headware storage—I’ll have to do a direct-link hack later. If I can remember how. Trying to remember exactly how to go about doing this . . . ’’ He touched a few controls tentatively. After several more moments, he seemed to get a feel for what he was doing. Lights flickered momentarily again, then she saw another set of indicators on the main panel light up. ‘‘There, that’s done it.’’

  She hit the manual intercom. ‘‘This is Commander Austin. We have had multiple system failures but appear to be—at least for now—in no immediate danger. I need to know if everyone is all right. Please respond!’’

  DuQuesne’s level, calm voice was the first to respond. ‘‘I am unharmed. My AISage is offline, however, and the main reactor has completely shut down. We are running on battery power only.’’

  ‘‘How long will that last?’’ she asked immediately.

  ‘‘For most ship internals, quite a long time. If you try to use the coilgun drivers or something similar, not long at all. I will get you exact numbers soon, but unless you do something extreme, the superconductor loop storage cells have enough power for weeks at least.’’

  ‘‘Well, that’s good news.’’ She took another deep breath, continued to check on the others. Her old friend first. ‘‘Gabrielle?’’

  The usually-confident voice was much softer and unsure. ‘‘W . . . watch that first step. It’s a doozy. My little friend’s shut down too and I’ve got nothing in connectivity.’’ Her laugh was forced, but at least it was a laugh. ‘‘I may have to actually use some of that stuff I studied in school.’’

  ‘‘Carl?’’

  ‘‘Never . . . realized how empty it would be without her.’’ The first response was not encouraging; Carl sounded distant and not really there. Ariane’s lips tightened; as the controls and automation specialist, Carl was going to be critical to getting everything working again. His next sentence, though, carried more of the tall, whipcord-slender engineer’s confidence. ‘‘Physically I’m A-okay, though. I’m trying to get manual control figured out for the rest of Holy Grail. Whatever took down the AISages seems to have whacked the thinking automation, too.’’

  ‘‘We’ll worry about what did it later. For now, just keep getting as much as you can working again. Dr. Canning?’’

  She repeated the name several times, but only a thin, almost inaudible keening sound came back. ‘‘Gabrielle—’’

  ‘‘On my way. She was so wired that she must’ve crashed like a drunken fighter pilot.’’

  And our maintenance engineer was a transcender. ‘‘Dr. Cussler?’’

  The voice that answered, after a long pause, was barely distinguishable. ‘‘Empty . . . small . . . lost . . . ’’

  ‘‘Dr. Cussler—Tom—listen to me. We can’t let the shutdown stop us. Focus!’’

  ‘‘Icarus,’’ Tom Cussler whispered. ‘‘Bellerophon.’’

  She exchanged a puzzled glance with Simon. Somewhat to her surprise, DuQuesne spoke. ‘‘Worry about our fall, and our hubris, later, Cussler. Right now, do you have any connectivity with the nanomaintenance systems?’’

  The direct technical question jarred a response out of the apparently nearly-catatonic engineer. ‘‘Nanomaintenance . . . on automatic. No AI controls at all. Basic computational evaluation.’’ He took a deep, shuddering breath with the hint of a sob in it, but didn’t quite break down again. ‘‘Even . . . distributed systems down below Turing threshold. Can’t restart AISage packages—they thrash and drop back to baseline.’’

  ‘‘Have you tried running a fresh core learning seed?’’ Carl suggested. ‘‘Maybe all the priors are corrupt. A naïve AISage would still be kilometers better than none.’’

  Tom Cussler gave a sort of barking vocalization that might have been meant to be a laugh; it was not a comforting sound. ‘‘Infant seeds start up and then crash immediately.’’

  ‘‘Worry about that later,’’ Ariane ordered, using the same voice she used on her racing team when they started debating minor possibilities in redesign. ‘‘Dr. Cussler, I know this is upsetting, but I need you to make sure that we have the best maintenance we can manage without the AISages. Can I count on you to establish direct control where needed, or do I have to get Carl or Steve to take over?’’

  As she hoped, the implication that she thought he was helpless got a more focused response. ‘‘Of course I can do this. I ma
de all of . . . well, with help I made all of them. And I . . . I can figure out how to control them myself. The information’s there.’’

  ‘‘Good.’’ That’s everyone. Aside from Laila Canning, at least it looks like most of us came through it okay for now.

  But what did we come through into?

  Ariane turned back to her own controls and brought up the displays and history. As she tried to bring up some more complex analysis of the current situation, her datacom implant suddenly picked up a carrier signal.

  ‘‘Ha!’’ came Carl’s voice over the speakers. ‘‘That’s got it started. Steve?’’

  ‘‘Trying . . . yeah, I think . . . there!’’

  The carrier became active. ‘‘Oh, thank God,’’ Ariane said, hearing the sentiment echoed around the ship as she made her connection.

  It was still an eerily empty connection, with no trace of the almost omniscient, helpful AIsages or even less intelligent but usually more omnipresent, smart automation, but at least she could access a lot of the control systems and give them more complex direction.

  A model began to build up before her, showing the two hundred meter long Holy Grail and then moving outward. A nearly flat surface just a few dozen meters away. More . . . farther . . .

  ‘‘Holy crap,’’ she finally said, unable to even think of an appropriately apocalyptic curse.

  ‘‘Nani?’’ Sandrisson said, glancing at the display in front of her. ‘‘I . . . cannot quite figure out what I’m looking at.’’

  ‘‘Let me put it into scale.’’ She linked to Sandrisson’s data feed directly, overlaying the data on the image.

  Masaka, His silent voice said after a long time. Impossible.