by Ryk E. Spoor
‘‘Then imagine . . . imagine that you could hold it all in your mind, that you could see all things, all places, at the same time, that to you the riddle of time and space was as trivial a puzzle as opening a box in your hand, that you could open that box and see every star, every planet, as a master artisan might look upon it. An artisan who wished to create a replica, the greatest work of art praising Creation that ever has been . . . ’’ Orphan paused a moment. ‘‘For every star, a Sphere. Within each Sphere, a faithful duplicate of its attendant planets and their moons; and the Spheres themselves, collected as are their originals in great gathering, a hundred billion Spherepools filled with a hundred billion Spheres, and all, all following with infinite precision the same cosmic dance as their counterparts.’’
For a moment, DuQuesne saw in his mind’s eye what Orphan was describing, and it was enough to stagger even his imagination. He glanced at Sandrisson, who seemed half-fascinated, half-terrified at the thought. The physicist clearly grasped something of the scale and implications, far more than the awed Ariane. ‘‘You . . . can’t be serious. You are saying that . . . that the entire realm of Kanzaki-Locke-Sandrisson space is filled with these constructs?’’
‘‘You still do not understand, Dr. DuQuesne.’’ Even Orphan seemed subdued, as though simply thinking clearly and in detail about the truth weighed upon him. ‘‘It is not even that . . . small a construct, if you will permit me such an outrageous statement. As near as the scientists of all races have been able to determine, this ‘space’ is a construct—or at least, all of it that can be reached is enclosed within a construct. The Arena is a single construct, a volume many light-years across, which itself contains a duplicate of every galaxy, a Sphere for every star, in all the cosmos from which we come.’’
Ariane seemed to shake off the mood; perhaps her mind didn’t handle the scale to the point that it could overawe her. ‘‘Who made all of it, though . . . and why?’’
Orphan managed another, if weaker, laugh. ‘‘Ah, Captain Austin, the second question is perhaps the greatest of the mysteries . . . well, aside from the obvious how. Perhaps my little conceit of an artist, a model-maker who made a perfect model, is accurate—though it fails to explain other details of the Arena. Others believe it is a deliberately designed method to restrict us—imprison, some say, while others attribute a more benevolent motive to the Voidbuilders. The Faith, of course, have a far different interpretation of the situation.’’
With a great effort, DuQuesne forced himself to stop trying to comprehend the entirety of the Arena and the implications behind it. ‘‘Right. I hope we’ve given you some satisfaction in our reactions, Orphan, because I can honestly tell you I’ve never been so completely knocked for a loop by anything in my entire life.’’ In some ways, not even by the discovery of what a lie my life had been on Hyperion. A part of me had been guessing that for years. This . . . is completely out of the blue. ‘‘But I think we’d better back off from the big cosmic questions and start to get down to the serious business, the details of our situation, and what we need to know to keep ourselves alive.’’
Sandrisson shook himself, blinked, and gave an involuntary shudder. ‘‘Yes . . . yes, I think I’d much prefer that, at least for now. I’m not sure but what this will give me a few nightmares.’’
Ariane looked at the two of them, clearly puzzled. ‘‘What am I missing here?’’
‘‘Captain . . . Ariane,’’ DuQuesne said, feeling a sudden and unexpected grin appear, ‘‘believe me when I tell you I’m glad you are missing it. You need to keep focus on the situation, not worry about a picture so big that we’re just a minor detail in one corner.’’ And it’s not that she’s stupid and we’re smart. Sure, Sandrission and I are probably brighter than she is, but she’s got something we don’t, and I’m not even sure what the word would be for it.
Orphan bob-bowed from his chair. ‘‘I agree with Dr. DuQuesne, and I find that I have, also, contemplated more of the infinite than I care to. So . . . details.
‘‘First, your Sphere. I have mentioned the Inner Gateway and Outer Gateway. The Inner leads to Nexus Arena, what one might call the heart of the Arena. To Nexus Arena all species travel eventually, and there are almost all Challenges given, accepted, and performed.
‘‘The Outer Gateway, or—more likely—Gateways, lead to the top of your Sphere, to its exterior.’’
‘‘And what’s up there?’’ Ariane asked.
Orphan gave a wing-shrug. ‘‘In detail, one cannot say until the Gateway is opened and you take a look. In more broad terms, living space. The Arena insures that the top of the Sphere is reasonably habitable by the native intelligent species.’’
‘‘Hang on,’’ Sandrisson said, ‘‘Are you saying that outside the Sphere there is breathable air? Even though the interior of the Sphere, where Holy Grail entered, is vacuum?’’
‘‘Indeed I am, Dr. Sandrisson,’’ confirmed the alien. ‘‘The ‘breathable’ part is, of course, not guaranteed once you leave the immediate region of your Sphere.’’
DuQuesne very carefully avoided trying to visualize those implications; time enough for that later. ‘‘And, to return to an earlier conversation, why—if there’s breathable air, water, and so on up there—would the Outer Gateway be useless to us now?’’
‘‘Because the Outer Gateways will not open until at least some of the native race have used the Inner Gateway . . . and returned.’’
This place has a lot of rules . . . and we’d better get familiar with them. ‘‘So we couldn’t force the door, or hack the controls?’’
Another wing-shrug. ‘‘Many have tried; I have never heard of any group succeeding. Of course, most would end up exploring the Inner Gateway eventually, especially once the Outer balked them, so I would doubt that many have spent inordinate amounts of time on it. Perhaps it is possible, but why concern oneself with it?’’
DuQuesne snorted. ‘‘Maybe because we just don’t like someone else determining what we can and cannot do. Maybe we don’t want to join this little community.’’
Orphan gave the bow-like gesture. ‘‘Truly there do we have similar thoughts, Dr. DuQuesne. That is in fact the very foundation of the Liberated—that we direct ourselves and our own choices, and follow not the directives of other overseers, no matter how great their Minds may be.’’
‘‘The ‘Liberated’?’’ Simon repeated.
An assenting handtap. ‘‘My faction, you might say—of which I am, both unfortunately and fortunately, currently the sole surviving member.’’
Ariane grimaced. ‘‘I see. So the Spheres are set up to basically force everyone to meet at this Nexus Arena.’’
‘‘Indeed.’’ Orphan’s body tightened and relaxed. ‘‘I now begin to comprehend your difficulties, my friends. Many apologies; when one has lived one’s entire life aware of the Arena, of its dangers and opportunities and rules, and has never before encountered any who have not . . . well, it is now somewhat sobering to realize how very much you do not understand.’’ Orphan’s hands stroked the edges of his head-crest in a gesture that somehow brought to mind the semi-conscious motion of someone drumming his fingers, or rubbing his chin in thought. After a moment, his hands dropped and he gave a brisk wing-snap. ‘‘We have limited time indeed, and I had best try to choose the most useful material to tell you. Thinking about it, I believe that will be to summarize the most important factions and the immediate steps you will have to take if you are to become accepted residents of the Arena—which you must, if you wish to return home in any reasonable time.’’
DuQuesne considered Orphan. He still thought the alien was willing to use them for its personal gain if the chance presented itself, but he was now much more convinced that Orphan did feel both a considerable obligation and something of a kinship with them. He caught Ariane’s eye and nodded.
‘‘All right, Orphan,’’ she said briskly, ‘‘we’ll have to leave it to your judgment. We’ve only got a few hours; tell
us what we need to know.’’
DuQuesne made sure his internal data recorders were fully on. I’d better not miss anything he says, because if I do . . . there might be no one left to complain about my sloppy procedure.
Chapter 24
Another door rolled open before Orphan—Ariane thought this made six since they’d left the area where they’d first met Orphan, going in the direction that Sethrik and his gang of Blessed had gone. This time, however, instead of just continuing onward—perhaps with another of his travelogue-like comments on the structure and layout of their Sphere, the green-and-black alien stepped in and then aside, as though pulling open a curtain. ‘‘The Inner Gateway, my friends.’’
The room into which they entered was very large, even bigger than the oval rooms; it was essentially circular, over two hundred meters in diameter and nearly one hundred high at the center. Concentric low walls, interrupted in the center, emanated outward like ripples from the center of the far wall, with support structure pillars spaced between the low walls. And at the center of the far wall was something that could only be the Inner Gateway.
Ariane felt a chill go down her back. Even at this distance the Inner Gateway was awe-inspiring, a whirling funnel of light-destroying black, twenty meters across, with occasional pearlescent fragments of light flickering in its depths. ‘‘That’s . . . a Gateway?’’
Orphan’s hands tapped together. ‘‘Of course. You did not expect a door like these others, did you?’’
DuQuesne eyed the whirling ebony vortex analytically. ‘‘Perhaps not exactly, but I think we were expecting something less bizarre. Why, I’m not sure, it’s not as though this entire trip hasn’t been bizarre. So we step into that and end up at this Nexus Arena?’’
‘‘Even so. You will note the size and arrangement of this room, permitting the residents—yourselves, in this case—to construct appropriate structures to secure the area, limit traffic, and so on.’’
‘‘No way to just turn it off?’’
Orphan flicked his hands outward, a gesture of negation. ‘‘None. Although only those with the proper code, or random chance, will be able to arrive here.’’ He advanced to stand before the Gateway.
Remembering their brief discussion of that aspect of travel and security, Ariane said, ‘‘And those codes are only directly available to us, right?’’
‘‘It is even so. Once I leave, I will be unable to return—barring a recurrence of the same fortuitous random chance that brought me there in the first place—unless you grant me access.’’
The maelstrom of night drew the eye and held it. Ariane tore her gaze away with great difficulty as DuQuesne said, ‘‘Well, how do we use this thing?’’
A buzzing chuckle greeted his question. ‘‘That, my friend, is one of the easiest questions to answer.’’ Orphan turned and strode without a moment’s hesitation through the Inner Gateway. As he touched the swirling nothingness, it suddenly enveloped him in a gentle blaze of iridescent cold flame that just as abruptly disappeared . . . and he was gone.
The humans stared for a moment. Then DuQuesne shrugged. ‘‘Well, I don’t see him as the suicidal type,’’ he said, and stepped through.
Sandrisson approached the Gateway, staring. ‘‘Some form of . . . dimensional interface? Tesseract?’’ He reached out, touching the very surface . . . and disappeared in a blaze of subtle pearlescence.
Alone in the cavernous room, Ariane grinned. Diving into a dimensional whirlpool so I can go somewhere I’ve never been! And my mom thought racing was dangerous!
She backed up and took a running leap into the whirling heart of the Gateway.
There was a moment of abyssal cold, mixed with hair-raising electrical tingles and the scent of ozone, while dark-glowing streamers of impossible shapes whipped by her in a vortex her wide-open eyes could not translate and her mind could not fathom, touching nothing yet compressed on all sides as though in a vise. Then she burst through into brilliant golden light.
Her foot touched down on smooth stone or metal, skidding slightly as she realized her forward speed was undiminished, and she tried to slow down as something massive and dark—DuQuesne, she sensed—loomed all too closely in front of her. Instead of the graceful landing she’d envisioned, she stumbled and smacked clumsily into the power engineer’s back. DuQuesne barely moved—giving her a new estimate for his mass and strength—but turned and helped steady her. ‘‘Are you all right, Captain?’’ he asked. His voice sounded oddly distracted.
She knew she was probably blushing; that had been a stupid stunt. ‘‘Yes, sorry, I was . . . ’’ she trailed off, unable to speak, as she began to take in the scene in front of her.
Orphan appeared to fully understand their reaction; he opened arms and wings in a sweeping, expansive gesture. ‘‘Welcome, my friends, to Transition, what one might call the grand foyer of Nexus Arena.’’
The room—though that word was utterly inadequate—in which they stood made the one they had left seem little more than a closet, a cupboard when compared to a ballroom. Dozens—no, hundreds—of the enigmatic ebony-whirling vortices of Inner Gateways were arranged in concentric circles, smooth landing areas before them grading into downward-sloping ramps towards the center of the room. Lit from above by a gold-shining sphere, Transition was kilometers across, a vast amphitheater of pearlescent steel, rainbow-touched gold and crystal, and polished fragments of night.
And it was busy. Movement of a dozen dozen different shapes and outlines, iridescent flashes as creatures and machines emerged from one gateway, disappeared through another. Scents sharp, sweet, pungent, indescribable, filling the air just below the level of tolerance. A babble of voices, of alien shouts and electronic hums, of a dozen different rhythms of walking, rolling, hopping . . .
Ariane found that she, DuQuesne, and Sandrisson had almost unconsciously drawn together, backs to each other. She forced one of her hands to release what had been nearly a deathgrip on DuQuesne’s arm.
Something—three somethings—moved up the ramp towards them. The one in the lead flowed forward with an easy grace if somewhat slowly, clothing like a shifting cloak or skirt of shimmering green-gold beads and plates concealing the exact method of motion. The upright portion was a latticework of blue and brown that looked for all the world like an elaborate open-work carving of wood in the shape of a candle flame, with a fluted, ribbed central column. Other small shapes darted around and back and forth inside the latticework, hovering and flitting around the creature, sometimes zipping out for a short distance then coming back; a humming sound accompanied its approach. The other two shapes moved in a more familiar two-legged gait, though not a human one; instead they bobbed forward with the measured rhythm of an ostrich. Wide-padded feet were visible underneath their clothing, which had slightly different coloration but similar patterns to those of the first creature, and the overall effect was something like a toad or frog crossed with a kangaroo. Gray-black eyes with slit pupils regarded the little party from those odd creatures, as the first alien reached the landing in front of the Gateway.
‘‘Orphan!’’ the lead creature said. The translated voice was mellifluous, deep, hearty; an undertone of humming chimes seemed to come both from the main central column and the flying shapes nearby. ‘‘So it is indeed true, that you have encountered First Emergents and they have rescued you from the Blessed!’’
‘‘I would prefer to describe the events a bit differently,’’ Orphan responded, ‘‘But the facts are indeed as you see them. Perhaps my companions and allies might care to present themselves to you, or you would wish to present yourself to them.’’
The creature drifted sideways to bring what Ariane presumed were sensing capabilities based in its central column more to bear upon the humans. It suddenly unfolded, the carved-wood appearance belied as the candle-flame outline blossomed, the alien momentarily taking on the look of an anemone; the small shapes within flew outward in the same moment (though all carefully avoiding coming near O
rphan or the humans; Ariane could now see that they appeared to be something like a skate egg case with wings on each corner). ‘‘A greeting and great welcome to you, First Emergents! We greet you, and offer our name, which is Nyanthus, and our Faction, which is the Faith, and our position, which is First Guide.’’
The Faith . . . that’s one of the most powerful Factions. Ariane quickly accessed the information Orphan had given them, the thumbnail sketches of a hundred things they needed to know. Religious types, believe that the Arena isn’t a ‘‘construct’’ in the technological sense, but that we’re in the ruins of, or maybe an antechamber to, heaven or hell, and that the ‘‘Voidbuilders’’ were nothing more or less than true gods.
Data access being very fast, she’d called that to mind even as the anemone-like Nyanthus continued, ‘‘To you we also present our fellows in Faith, Tchanta Zoll and Tchanta Vall. The Faith welcomes you, and praises your arrival in hope.’’ The creature re-folded itself, the independent fliers returning to it.
Ariane guessed the gesture was one of welcome or respect, a bow or something. The speech had clearly ritual, or at least formal, elements to it. She hoped she wouldn’t screw this part up. The last thing we need to do is alienate another major faction . . . since it turns out the Blessed are one of the big boys. ‘‘First Guide Nyanthus, we thank you for your greeting.’’ Orphan gave a very slight handtap, showing she was proceeding correctly. ‘‘We offer you our greeting as well. I offer you my name, which is Ariane Austin, our . . . faction, which is Humanity, and my position—’’ By default, she noted to herself. ‘‘—which is Captain. To you I also present my friends and companions, Dr. Marc DuQuesne and Dr. Simon Sandrisson. We hope that all the greetings we shall receive in the Arena will be as pleasant as yours.’’