Grand Central Arena

by Ryk E. Spoor

  The bewildering scenes around them were simply too much to grasp all at once. Ariane left some of her internal nanos on record, just to make sure crucial data wasn’t missed, but she focused mostly on Orphan rather than trying to take in everything they were passing; her comprehension and sense of wonder were already near to burning out, and she needed to have some reserves for these Powerbrokers and anyone else they were going to meet.

  ‘‘Orphan, you said you’d never met First Emergents before, right?’’ DuQuesne said suddenly. ‘‘How often do they show up, anyway?’’

  ‘‘As one might expect, the times vary quite a bit, but I would say, on average, once every . . . oh, four to five thousand years.’’ Orphan was leading them through an area filled with widely-spaced columns which a little observation showed must be elevators or something similar. ‘‘A bit longer than I have been present, I admit.’’

  Ariane started to chuckle, then stopped herself, realizing that what would have been gentle understatement for a human being might be something very different here. ‘‘How old are you, Orphan? If you don’t mind my asking?’’

  ‘‘Hm? Oh, roughly three thousand years. Two thousand, nine hundred, and seventy-seven, to be more precise.’’

  She glanced over at DuQuesne, whose eyebrows had climbed suddenly with that comment. ‘‘Is this normal in the Arena?’’

  ‘‘Oh, not at all,’’ Orphan said cheerfully. ‘‘Most live considerably shorter lives. Including the Blessed, which gives me some most unkind thoughts as to the Minds.’’

  ‘‘The Minds are the leaders of the Blessed? Is Sethrik one of them?’’ Simon inquired.

  ‘‘Sethrik? A Mind?’’ The explosion of buzzing that served as laughter for Orphan was so loud that the translated sound was actually momentarily overwhelmed. ‘‘A . . . a Mind! Why, if Sethrik were to hear that, he would . . . well, to be entirely honest I have no idea what he’d do, but it would be amusing, I assure you! No, he is no Mind, and you may pray to all the fates and gods which may be that you shall never meet one. In the Arena, fortunately, that is a prayer likely to be met, as no Mind has ever successfully entered the Arena, nor likely ever will.’’

  DuQuesne nodded. ‘‘Artificial intelligences. The Blessed to Serve are slaves to a bunch of AIs.’’

  ‘‘Very good, Dr. DuQuesne. Very good indeed,’’ Orphan said, confirming DuQuesne’s guess.

  DuQuesne chuckled. ‘‘Must drive them nuts. I think I start to get the picture, Orphan. They have to work through the Blessed, but they had to make you guys independent thinkers to send you through. Which meant that a few of you would get uppity ideas about going your own way. Thus . . . the Liberated.’’

  ‘‘You have the correct general idea. Though none of it was or is as simple as you describe it.’’ The little group now passed through another set of archways, and beyond these Ariane could see several huge alcoves, with what appeared to be an immense window or port in the wall of each, and many different creatures milling about.

  As they walked closer, she could see that each alcove was separated from the others by a wall, and from the open space in front by an elaborate gateway; framing each gateway was a large building, in the shape of a trapezoid with the center cut out for the gateway. Gateway and building each had the shaded undertones that implied that a lot of the construction material was the CQC—Coherent Quark Composite—that made up the structural supports of the Sphere.

  ‘‘I think the story of the Liberated might be well worth hearing . . . sometime later,’’ DuQuesne said. ‘‘I’m guessing these are the Powerbrokers. My earlier question, before we got sidetracked, was leading up to the question: if First Emergents are so rare, and the Powerbrokers can’t move their power production facilities, then who are they selling to most of the time, and why? Given what I’ve now seen about the outside, I can figure out several power generation schemes that should work.’’

  ‘‘An excellent question, Doctor. Indeed, once a race becomes well established, they can supply many of their own needs. However, it is often convenient to make Nexus Arena a stopping point for many travels, due to the way in which the Sky Gates operate, and recharging one’s storage capacity here is an excellent opportunity. Beyond those windows are charging stations, where ships of a thousand species may be charging their storage cells even as we speak. Also, since the power generation facilities must—almost of necessity—be set up on the outer portion of the Sphere, it is often not convenient to run a conduit from the generators to the interior; that would require leaving the Outer Gateway open, and there are risks inherent in that. Given that, the exterior power generation is often set up such that it supplies the exterior colony and fleet, while recharging for the interior can be done more easily by exchanging fully-charged coils here.’’

  Ariane nodded. ‘‘Makes sense. So First Emergents may generally be the only people who need the additional power, but it’s valuable to most people.’’

  ‘‘Correct.’’ Orphan was leading them towards one of the central stations. ‘‘You recall what I said about them not being a true Faction?’’

  ‘‘Yeah, I got it,’’ DuQuesne affirmed. ‘‘Powerbroker’s more a position—and not a permanent one. You have to answer one or more of these ‘Challenges’ every so often, or your station shuts down and won’t start up again until someone else takes over—and that’s a first come, first served situation. With you, the losers, as the only group that can’t grab it.’’

  ‘‘But they work together, sort of, to make sure that they all receive acceptable compensation for the power they supply, and that none of the Factions tries to control them,’’ Simon continued.

  ‘‘Excellent. This station is controlled by the Shiquan at the present time.’’ Orphan’s gaze was scanning the area directly before the gate, which included a sort of long, low table. ‘‘Ah. Very good. Come, I know this one.’’

  The creature at the table was squat and had no need to sit, as it appeared to have no legs; it reminded Ariane somewhat of a slug with a sort of squarish face and four manipulative tendrils at each corner of the face. ‘‘Orphan of the Liberated,’’ the creature said, waving all four tendrils, which changed subtly in color from gray-brown to several different shades as they moved. ‘‘Greetings and welcome to you. What purpose moves the Survivor from his safety?’’ The voice was light and warm, strongly feminine to Ariane’s ears.

  ‘‘Ghondas of the Shiquan, Master Powerbroker, my greetings and thanks,’’ Orphan responded, giving the strange creature a full pushup-bow. ‘‘My purpose is to introduce to you those without which I would no longer be the Survivor. First Emergents, called Humans or Humanity.’’

  Ghondas swelled and stretched upright, then flattened, attention now fixed on Ariane, DuQuesne, and Sandrisson. ‘‘To me you bring them? A kindly thought.’’

  ‘‘Their leader I present to you, Captain Ariane Austin, who stepped forward and spoke for me when Sethrik had me inconvenienced.’’ He introduced the others by title and name.

  The sluglike Powerbroker did her rise and flatten trick again as her four eyes—shiny, crystalline objects, one set between each pair of manipulative tendrils—came to bear on Ariane. ‘‘Greetings and welcome to you, Captain of First Emergents. So you have confronted the Blessed upon your emergence? An . . . exciting introduction to our community, I would think.’’

  ‘‘A bit, yes. Should I address you as Powerbroker, Ghondas, or something else, Master Powerbroker?’’

  Iridescence chased subtly around Ghondas’s body; analysis showed that in ultraviolet she was constantly shifting color. This shift seemed to correlate with a translated gentle chuckle. ‘‘So long as we are speaking merely as new friends, Ghondas. Should we begin speaking business, perhaps we will be more formal—or perhaps not, as my mood takes me. I am sure that your visit is not entirely a casual one. Not sufficient power to return to the home, eh? It is a common story among First Emergents—or so I have been told.’’

  ‘‘That is i
ndeed our major problem at the moment, Ghondas. I do not know, however, whether we have anything of value to offer you for your vital services.’’

  ‘‘Hm.’’ The boneless body settled lower, relaxing, as though thinking was easier when less effort was expended to support Ghondas’s form. ‘‘Confronted the Blessed . . . was it a Challenge? Was it accepted?’’ She glanced at Orphan.

  ‘‘Alas, no. Such might have been the case, but I adjudged the odds poor, less than one in ten, and pointed out the Rules of Emergence.’’

  A bubbling sound translated as a sigh. ‘‘Unfortunate. Not that your judgment was unwise—life is nearly always preferable to risk—yet that means they are still untested.’’

  ‘‘So,’’ DuQuesne said, ‘‘That means you won’t trade with us?’’

  Ghondas rose. ‘‘A Powerbroker judges all risks, all factors, and makes no decisions with excessive unknowns. We have no need for extreme risk, save only if and when we must Challenge to keep our positions. Even if you have something of value—unlikely—and have sufficient of that thing to pay for the power you require—highly unlikely—the value is directly variant depending on your future; a unique collectible from a race that appears and disappears would be extremely valuable, but may be nearly worthless if you establish yourself and the collectible turns out to be something commonly available. The only thing of value you have that I would accept . . . ’’ Ghondas’s topmost portion swayed back and forth, moving her face to examine all three of the humans. ‘‘ . . . would be one of you. Service, and knowledge of your race. That would be worthwhile.’’

  Ariane shook her head. ‘‘I can’t afford to trade my crew, even if it was something our people permitted, which we don’t.’’

  A shuddering ripple echoed through Ghondas’s body, a metaphor of a shrug. ‘‘Then we may only speak of little things, of gossip and superficialities, until you have won a Challenge. Until that time, you remain children of the Arena, and must first grow up. It is for your own good, as well, for until you have won a Challenge you have no Embassy or hope of establishing one, few to none will bargain or treat with you—and even fewer in good faith—and you shall be unable to use your Straits, and your Sky Gates shall remain closed, until that time.’’

  Ariane sighed. This was what she’d expected, but that didn’t completely prevent the disappointment. ‘‘Well . . . I thank you for your time and your honesty, Powerbroker Ghondas. We shall meet again, I hope, when we have more to offer you.’’

  ‘‘That is my hope as well, Captain Ariane Austin. At the least your story should be an interesting one, if you continue to associate with the Survivor. Not a long story, perhaps, but interesting.’’

  Orphan has a reputation . . . and it appears to be both good and bad. ‘‘Are you hinting that we should reconsider the association?’’

  Ghondas’s rise and fall was jerky, and the tone of voice reinforced an impression of quick—perhaps almost too quick—negation. ‘‘Oh, no, not at all, Captain! Orphan is not . . . usually . . . the cause of his problems. And we would not wish to imply that the Survivor is untrustworthy.’’

  I think she’s . . . wary of Orphan. Maybe even a little scared. And given the implied position of the Powerbrokers . . . maybe Orphan’s estimation of his importance wasn’t as arrogant as we thought.

  She bowed to Ghondas and turned away. Now what?

  From the corner of her eye, she saw something move abruptly, sharply; then an impact sent her reeling.

  Chapter 26

  DuQuesne had also been studying Ghondas—and Orphan’s reaction to her comments. He’s definitely a Big Time Operator, Orphan is. Bigger than Ghondas. At the same time, I’m sure he’s serious about needing our help—which tells me quite a bit about the mess we’re in.

  Orphan’s tail suddenly rose halfway, his body and wingcases tightening, staring at a point just past DuQuesne’s shoulder, where Ariane had just passed him.

  As he turned, Ariane staggered back and fell, her black-blue hair pooling outward as she hit the smooth floor ungracefully. He spun fully around. ‘‘What the hell—’’

  The thing that he was suddenly confronting was a nightmare, taller than him, standing on seven claw-tipped, chitin-covered, jointed legs, a central body like a gorilla crossed with a praying mantis, the entire creature colored in violent splotches of red, black, and bluish-purple; it probably outweighed him by a hundred and fifty kilos. Two more of the things stood just behind it and in flanking positions. It screech-hissed from a mouth that combined the worst features of a lobster and a lamprey, sounds translated into a rough, grating voice. ‘‘You stand in my way and speak unquietly. Unwise. Move.’’

  Ariane was getting up, looking shaken and pale, a trickle of blood from the corner of her mouth showing that she’d been hit harder than he thought. Now that’s just torn it. ‘‘I move when you apologize for hitting my Captain. Not before.’’

  Orphan hissed, a sound of dismay. ‘‘Molothos!’’

  In the moment before the creature reacted, DuQuesne had time to realize what a stupid mistake his antiquated instincts had driven him to. The Molothos were one of the most powerful Factions, and by far the most dangerous—a race of xenophobic—no, xenomisosic, alien-hating—creatures who had managed to establish a power base large enough to challenge even groups like the Faith. Of all the lousy breaks . . .

  The monster lashed out with jack-knife mantis claws, a stroke faster than anything DuQuesne had seen in fifty years. He barely moved aside in time, as the bladed forelimb ripped through the air where he’d been; the second stroke was just as close. This thing’s a killer. Those aren’t slaps like it gave Ariane; it’s trying to rip my head off! He noticed the other two were moving forward and fanning out, legs moving in a stacatto crablike gait which was deceptively smooth and swift.

  This is bad. Very bad. This wasn’t one of the formal Challenges Orphan had talked about, it was a random gang attack, and it didn’t look like anyone—even Orphan—was inclined to help out. No time to draw my gun, assuming these guys aren’t armored enough to take a hit or two, and with the crowd around us I’d end up doing collateral damage. I’ve got to interrupt this guy’s rhythm, throw him off. The next time the sharp-spined foreclaw stabbed outward, he moved.

  The impact stung like catching a swung baseball bat, and he almost lost his grip. Thing’s too fast, and I’m too slow and way out of practice. But he had the claw, and the hiss-screech was a gasp of startled anger. For a moment they stood motionless, the Molothos trying to pull its claw back, DuQuesne holding it locked in an iron grip. Jesus, the thing’s strong. I don’t know how long I can hold it. And if I shift enough to get my sword out, I’ll hand it an opening and it’ll be just too bad for me.

  A gray shadow suddenly fell over both of them, and DuQuesne felt as though mired in thick oil. He turned his head—more slowly than he wanted.

  A squat, armored figure stood to one side, pointing a flattened, clublike weapon at both of them. ‘‘End this,’’ it said in a hard, flat voice. ‘‘Initiating violence is prohibited outside of Challenge. You know this, Molothos Dajzail.’’

  Dajzail’s single eye—a crescent-shaped organ that extended around most of his head, like a wraparound visor—flickered with yellow light. It slowly relaxed the pressure, letting DuQuesne ease off and let go, but the entire body trembled, so much that the chitinous legs gave a slight rattling hum from their contact with the floor. And I’m sure that’s rage, not fear. It’s furious that it has to stop, has to accommodate this guy.

  ‘‘This . . . creature refused to give ground, and insisted I . . . perform a service before it did so!’’ Dajzail snarled.

  ‘‘Perform a . . . I insisted that you apologize for knocking over my friend and captain!’’

  The armored figure—which appeared to be of a race similar to the toadlike creatures that had been accompanying First Guide Nyanthus—bobbed slightly; the replying voice, though still mostly dispassionate, seemed to have acquired a faint trace of w
ry humor. ‘‘A hard service indeed . . . for a Molothos. But an unwise service to demand, as well.’’

  Orphan stepped forward. ‘‘Adjudicator, my friends are First Emergents. And Dajzail did strike their captain without warning.’’

  ‘‘I see that this is so. Then the fault is not theirs, but yours, Molothos. Not an uncommon situation. But let us simply set it aside; continue on with your business, remembering the prohibitions.’’ As Dajzail and his two companions turned—without a word or glance—to continue onward, the Adjudicator raised its voice. ‘‘But be warned—if we see similar events repeated anytime in the next four weeks, we will be much less tolerant, Dajzail.’’

  The hacking snarl was translated as an obscenity, but apparently any answer was considered acknowledgement. DuQuesne watched them leave with a combination of relief and disappointment. Get over it. Only your stupid hindbrain wants to fight the damn thing. Didn’t you spend five decades trying to wash that poisonous crap out of your head? Get over it.

  Instead, he turned on Orphan. ‘‘Thanks a lot for nothing. Were you going to take pictures of my dissection after they finished gutting me?’’

  Orphan was staring at him, still in his protective-threat pose. ‘‘You are insane. Insane!’’

  ‘‘What the hell’s your problem? I didn’t know exactly what they were, yeah, but once that started they weren’t backing off.’’

  ‘‘You confronted an unknown—and one so clearly formidable—for no reason!’’ Orphan said, the translated voice shaking. ‘‘There wasn’t a chance in ten . . . in a hundred . . . that you’d survive it.’’ Orphan shook himself. ‘‘And you wanted . . . no, you expected . . . me to enter combat.’’ He glanced at the others, realized that they had been positioning themselves to intercept the other two Molothos. ‘‘I thought you had said that it was the Shadeweaver’s interference that caused you to intervene on my behalf . . . yet this was even more of a risk.’’