Grand Central Arena

by Ryk E. Spoor

  ‘‘Steve, he’s right. It’s like . . . well, you’re into art, right? You’ve actually studied the history of art and you can name off artists and their works without any of Allerdyne’s input. What we’re looking at here is something more completely impossible than . . . well, than walking into the hut of some lost tribe of savages, and finding that their witch doctor has just finished painting a copy of the Mona Lisa—exact down to the precise brush strokes—when they’d never even encountered civilization before.’’

  That seemed to get through to Steve. ‘‘Then . . . how could it be here?’’

  I think I have an answer to that, but it only raises a lot more questions, DuQuesne responded. I just went back over our initial entry to this space. It’s hard to tell for certain, but as near as I can see, this . . . spacedock was not present when we first arrived.

  Dr. Sandrisson gave vent to an incomprehensible Japanese curse. ‘‘That entire thing was built since we arrived?’’

  And without radiating sufficient energy to draw our attention to that fact. In our own solar system we might, given sufficient motivation, manage to build something that size in a few days, but it would be a very, very spectacular bit of work indeed, especially in the infrared, as the waste heat had to be carried away.

  ‘‘You all seem to be taking this the wrong way,’’ Gabrielle Wolfe said, entering the control room. ‘‘Seems to me that this is downright hospitable of whoever owns this place. They’ve given us a place to tie up and a doorway to come on in and visit by.’’

  Ariane laughed suddenly. ‘‘Gabrielle, you are the best cure for depression, as always. Maybe you’re right.’’ She looked at the hulking alien spacedock again. ‘‘There’s still a creepy aspect though, which is exactly how they knew that design. If they managed to get it out of our computers . . . ’’

  This time Carl laughed. No need. It wouldn’t be hard to simply create a match to the external docking rings on our hull, now would it?

  Ariane smacked her forehead. ‘‘Duh. The best example is a prototype.’’ She felt better. That kind of approach was impressive, and the construction capability kind of frightening, but it made the unknown Others a little less godlike. And as Gabrielle said, it was a lot more friendly than keeping all the doors locked. If whoever owned this . . . place was hostile, they certainly didn’t have to offer them a door at all. ‘‘What about control linkages? Even if they’ve got the hardware down, the firmware and software isn’t likely to be identical. You can’t deduce those from a scan.’’

  ‘‘I would be very wary of using the term can’t with respect to this place,’’ Sandrisson cautioned. ‘‘We have already encountered several phenomena that we would call impossible if we were not directly experiencing them.’’

  True enough, Carl said. But in any case, even if they’ve just duplicated the hardware, it’s not a problem. Me and Steve can tickle the hardware into accepting a firmware update from external control and that’ll get the doors to open.

  Ariane nodded. ‘‘Good. Well, people, we aren’t accomplishing anything just sitting here. We’ve got docking rings to fit us and we think we can get the doors open, so let’s head on in. Our power supply isn’t getting any bigger.’’

  Fortunately, even rather stupid automation was well up to the automated docking task; Ariane had done full manual docking during her pilot training, but it was not something she particularly wanted to try again, and especially not with the two hundred meter long Holy Grail rather than a one-person fighter or racing vehicle.

  As the alignment was completed, Ariane felt the docking rings engage and lock. ‘‘Steve, you and Carl didn’t do anything yet, did you?’’

  ‘‘No.’’

  ‘‘So much for can’t,’’ Sandrisson said dryly.

  Out of a sort of morbid curiosity, DuQuesne said, how did the station identify itself during the dock-and-lock?

  For a variety of reasons, including ensuring unambiguous communications routing, all installations had unique identifiers attached to them, used during all interactions ranging from docking to work requests. Steve parsed the command flow. ‘‘Identifier is . . . null.’’

  What? Carl said, startled. The system won’t even operate without a valid ID!

  ‘‘Sending another ID query.’’ The answer returned almost instantly. ‘‘Just . . . wildcards. And our damn system’s still accepting it.’’

  ‘‘Okay, I’m officially creeped out again,’’ Ariane announced. ‘‘All and None, that’s what it’s saying.’’

  As though it is everything, or nothing at all, DuQuesne’s silent voice mused. Sending another ID query.

  After several tests, it was clear that the station alternated between the two identifiers with no preference. It was either a wildcard identifier, all possible identities at once, or a null, no identifier at all, both equally impossible and yet equally accepted by the Holy Grail’s systems.

  ‘‘Creepy or not,’’ Gabrielle said finally, ‘‘we sure ain’t getting anywhere sittin’ here pinging it. Are we going in, or not?’’

  ‘‘No real choice,’’ Ariane admitted. ‘‘Everyone’s outfits have the right environmental programming?’’

  ‘‘I made sure of it,’’ Carl said, joining them in the control room. ‘‘No AI, as you know, but the basic sensors and rule-based expert systems will make sure they react to the environment pretty well. Just make sure you’re fully charged before we go out.’’

  ‘‘I’m staying,’’ said Gabrielle. ‘‘The automatics have Laila under watch, but I just don’t trust things without someone on hand.’’

  Ariane nodded. Dr. Canning had shown only the faintest signs of recovery, and she knew Gabrielle felt that she was failing as a doctor, despite everyone from Ariane to DuQuesne pointing out that Canning’s dependency on AI-support automation had been so extreme that even the best therapists would probably have to run a full personality recovery to even begin putting her back together—assuming there was enough of a backup and remaining structure of Laila Canning to rebuild. ‘‘Stay connected with us, though.’’

  ‘‘No way I wouldn’t. Now, don’t none of you get yourselves hurt out there, all right?’’

  ‘‘I don’t think even all the rest of us should go out. At least not right away,’’ Ariane said. ‘‘I think it should be—’’

  ‘‘—not you,’’ DuQuesne said firmly from the doorway. ‘‘You are the only qualified pilot of this ship and, of course, you’re the captain.’’

  The situation might be creepy, but she had been looking forward to being one of the first people to step foot on an alien installation. ‘‘Each and every one of us is unique and irreplaceable on this mission, Doctor.’’

  ‘‘Indeed, but for different reasons. In this case, we are most in need of power—my specialty—and I will need to have assistance perhaps in locating and utilizing controls and systems. If more . . . exotic demands are placed upon us, we will require the services of a theoretician, but that could likely be done via remote.’’

  Ariane wished she could think of an argument that wouldn’t sound petulant, but DuQuesne was perfectly right. ‘‘So you, Steve, and Carl?’’

  ‘‘Makes sense to me,’’ Carl agreed.

  ‘‘What if . . . well, you get in trouble out there?’’

  ‘‘You mean, if we encounter something hostile?’’ DuQuesne looked slightly amused as he looked down on her from at least fifteen centimeters above her full standing height. ‘‘Captain, in all likelihood, if there was any hostility here we would be dead. Still, it might not be totally out of the question to bring some form of weapons for self defense.’’

  ‘‘What, a club?’’ Steve said sarcastically. ‘‘Oh, sure, we could render something else without the interlocks, but I don’t have any training in using real weapons.’’

  ‘‘No virtual adventures?’’

  ‘‘Well . . . ’’ the diminuitive systems engineer looked slightly embarrassed. ‘‘I tend to have the realism dialed wa
y down. Makes it easier, and I’m more a story and dramatics guy.’’

  ‘‘Dr. Edlund?’’

  ‘‘I do a lot of that; I use maximum reality with my weapons use, and I do multiple timeframes—I like crossover, actually, though I admit I still prefer melee to distance weapons.’’

  DuQuesne nodded. ‘‘That should work well, then.’’

  ‘‘What about you?’’ Ariane asked. ‘‘I’d volunteer, though I’m mostly a fantasy buff when I’m not working, which means I’m generally experienced in using really old-fashioned stuff—swords, spears, bows, that kind of thing. But I agree that I should stay here for now.’’

  DuQuesne looked slightly surprised. ‘‘With your profession, I would have thought you get enough senseless excitement. On the other hand, that sort of weapon is easily rendered from even basic game files, and if you have some custom renderings that don’t involve game-magic . . . ?’’ He glanced at her questioningly, and she nodded.

  ‘‘As for myself,’’ he went on, ‘‘I have similar tastes in entertainment to Dr. Edlund. I use the virtual inputs, but my actual body motions control the weapons.’’

  Simon had been quiet during most of the discussion, but spoke up finally. ‘‘If it comes to that, I can handle a sword reasonably well—although I’m sure not nearly so well as Marc or Ariane, and probably not as well as Carl.’’

  Ariane nodded and glanced over at Dr. Cussler. ‘‘Tom, we can render weapons, right?’’

  ‘‘Without the interlocks? If we have accurate full templates, I can make damn near anything.’’ She was very cheered to see how well Cussler was recovering. ‘‘Game templates often don’t have the detail, though, unless you are using full realism.’’

  ‘‘I assure you, my templates are more than detailed enough,’’ DuQuesne stated. ‘‘Examining the files Dr. Edlund’s made available . . . well, some aren’t usable, but there are some excellent candidates here. So between myself and Dr. Edlund we have at least some defensive capability, and if the captain disembarks at some point, I see that she will have some quite suitable weapons as well.’’

  ‘‘How long will it take to render the weapons?’’ Ariane inquired.

  ‘‘Oh, a few hours, assuming we’re discussing hand weapons and not siege artillery.’’

  She nodded. ‘‘All right. Then let’s get that set up, and since it’s getting a little late, shipboard time, the . . . well, away team, I guess, or boarding party, will go out tomorrow morning.’’

  The others all agreed. Ariane leaned back in her chair as most of them left. A few more hours to think about what else I might be missing, and wonder if I’m going to get us all killed.

  This ‘‘captain’’ business is really overrated.

  Chapter 14

  DuQuesne watched tensely as the inner lock door opened. It was easy to argue logically that there was no reason for any danger to be lurking on the other side; convincing his gut of that likelihood was not nearly so easy.

  The lighted corridor revealed by the open lock—lit by some gentle, white source that seemed to come from the material of the ceiling itself—was only a temporary relief. He stepped out cautiously, Steve and Carl following, and stopped.

  The corridor was large, though not nearly so immense as it could have been in this megastructure. The disquieting part was the absolute emptiness, stretching straight away in both directions for kilometers. Aside from the slight misty softening that kilometers of atmosphere gave any sight, the corridor might as well have been a simply-rendered graphic, with none of the scratches, dust, smudges, or a thousand other subliminal details showing that an installation had been built for use by living beings.

  Of course, it didn’t even exist a few days ago. The softened edges of distance did bring a more interesting point to mind. ‘‘Check our environmentals.’’

  ‘‘Atmosphere’s . . . perfect.’’ Carl said after a moment. ‘‘78% nitrogen, a little more than 21% oxygen, smidge less than 1% argon, a little CO2, and about 50% relative humidity. Pressure’s one atmosphere, a little over one hundred kilopascals, temperature twenty-two degrees C.’’

  ‘‘Any contaminants?’’

  ‘‘Nothing.’’ Carl shook his head. ‘‘Aside from the motes we’ve brought with us, this air’s just . . . air. No bacteria, viruses, sensor motes, or dust. Not even as much as you’d expect in a brand-new fabbed habitat. It’s completely clean.’’

  DuQuesne nodded. ‘‘No point in wasting our own resources at this point.’’ His suit retracted the few-micron-thick helmet it had generated until that point. ‘‘Just keep the environmental monitors online and have it go to full life-support isolation if anything changes significantly, especially in our own life signs.’’

  The air smelled . . . flat. With nothing else in it, there couldn’t be smells, except what they brought with them. ‘‘Carl, our first priority is power. Could we get power from the lock connections?’’

  Carl stepped back to the lock and examined it. ‘‘Well, yeah, in an absolute pinch, I suppose. But these things aren’t built to handle much power at all. I’m not sure they’d handle the draw that we’re using just to keep everyone alive and comfortable, so we’d have to move out if we wanted to have a net gain. And it would take a long time to charge up to departure level that way.’’

  And, DuQuesne thought, assuming that our unknown hosts allowed us to dismantle the lock mechanism so as to cannibalize it for power, rather than just shutting off the juice when we started. He spoke again, activating the shipboard connection. ‘‘Captain, we’ve entered and there is breathable, safe atmosphere inside. It’s my intention to proceed inward, towards the main shell, as I would presume that is where we will find our answers. Looking down the corridor in the other direction, it appears to come to a dead end at about the distance we would expect if it runs the length of this . . . spacedock.’’

  ‘‘Understood, Doctor. I don’t have any better suggestions, so carry on.’’

  A momentary dizziness assailed him, and adrenaline surged through his veins. What now?

  Something bumped into his arm; he tried to turn, found that he was lying on his side.

  Lying . . . ?

  ‘‘Holy jumping Jesus on a pogo stick,’’ Steve whispered reverently, as he slowly sat up.

  DuQuesne and Carl stared at each other from the floor.

  ‘‘What’s wrong?’’ Ariane’s voice demanded.

  He stood slowly, feeling the emphatic, perfectly distributed drag of weight. ‘‘Captain, you have seen no movement from where you are, correct?’’

  ‘‘Movement? No, nothing is moving within the range of Holy Grail’s sensors. Why?’’

  ‘‘Because that means we have another mystery. There is gravity now. About . . . one full G, in fact.’’

  There was a pause. Then Sandrisson’s voice came dryly over the radio. ‘‘You know, I am becoming rather tired of having to believe six impossible things before breakfast. You are sure the corridor isn’t rotating?’’

  ‘‘Very sure,’’ Carl responded. ‘‘Besides the fact that we didn’t feel any lateral acceleration, an analysis of our radio signals shows no sign that we’re rotating with respect to Holy Grail.’’

  ‘‘This isn’t nearly as courteous as the air,’’ grumbled Steve. ‘‘I’m not used to Earth gravity, I spend most of my time in the orbitals.’’

  DuQuesne snorted. ‘‘It will do you good. Even if your medical nanites keep you from the standard low-weight syndromes, it’s good to be in real gravity. And this is hardly anything.’’

  Even before he finished that sentence, he winced inwardly. What the hell’s wrong with me? Do I want them to know? It’s just one clue, though so could be no-one will . . .

  But he heard a shocked indraw of breath over the link, and Carl stopped dead and slowly turned, eyes widening. ‘‘So that’s why your background’s fuzzed. You’re a Super!’’

  DuQuesne wanted to kick himself. Managed this masquerade for half a century, and now I
make some amateur slip of the lip? Maybe . . . maybe I did want them to know. Still, look at their faces. Play it down, play it down. DuQuesne gave him a frown, restraining a much stronger glare. He wasn’t even born at the time it all came apart. Hell, not another person on board Holy Grail was alive then. ‘‘I would much prefer you not use that low-brow nickname. The Hyperion Project may have been—was—a mistake on many levels, but it insults the creators and especially the . . . results of the Project to use that term.’’ I have every reason to hate Hyperion, but, as one book put it, they did great things. Terrible, but great.

  ‘‘You’re . . . one of the Hyperions?’’ Ariane’s voice was clearly trying to sound controlled, at ease, but the shock was still there. For most people, it’s like meeting up with Frankenstein’s monster. You don’t expect a cautionary tale of our time to be working on your engines.

  ‘‘Yes,’’ he said quietly. ‘‘But in the end, we . . . well, most of us . . . the ones who survived . . . we’re just people. People with some special problems, maybe some special advantages, but not really that different.’’ And it’d be real nice if I could believe that.

  Steve nodded, and then to his surprise just gave an appraising grin. ‘‘Well, that explains your build. Two point five G’s of spin acceleration for your whole life.’’

  Thank you, Mr. Franceschetti. ‘‘Two point six, actually, to be precise. And sorry, Steve, you’re not my type,’’ he said—adding a small smile of his own to take the edge off it. And express my gratitude for giving me this opening.

  The serious look behind the smile showed that Steve knew exactly what he was doing. ‘‘I already guessed that. A guy can still appreciate the view.’’

  ‘‘Appreciate away, but let’s get back to work.’’ He could feel the tension easing. The revelation had been a shock, but—thanks to all gods that might be—the others had come to know him and trust him enough to let it slide, now. ‘‘We have artificial gravity and no apparent mechanism for it, which means we have a long hike ahead. I’m not sure if this qualifies as more of Gabrielle’s ‘hospitality,’ or whether it’s an obstacle.’’