by Ryk E. Spoor
Carl looked at him questioningly; clearly he still couldn’t hear it. DuQuesne shook his head very slightly; the other man looked grim and made sure he had a good grip on his gun.
The sounds continued, gradually approaching. No . . . there was more than one set of sounds. Dammit! DuQuesne cursed inwardly. Whoever they were, it was a trained squad. He caught Carl’s eye, used his hands to give him vectors. Four individuals. There, there, there, and there.
A very faint shadow moved in the gloom; based on his sketchy knowledge of the area, he guessed it at about seventy-five meters off, and that made it pretty good-sized. Couldn’t quite get a good look at it. Of course, if the things had infrared imaging on, they might already see him and Dr. Edlund. They would certainly spot them as soon as either of them moved.
Then another movement in shadow, a bit closer; this one stalked cautiously, smoothly into a slight clearing, and DuQuesne’s heart seemed to drop straight into his boots. A centauroid body atop seven sharp-jointed legs, with a pair of jack-knife arms held curled and ready.
Molothos.
How the hell did they get here? There’s no way they could have known where we came from. We must just be hitting the absolute jackpot of bad luck; some scouting party happened to find our Sphere and land on it.
He considered their options coolly, dispassionately. They’d be discovered in the next few seconds—that much was certain. There were four of them—and he’d be stupid to assume there weren’t more somewhere else. No chance to make a sprint for the winch; unless the things were terribly slowed by the vegetation—unlikely—the two of them would just end up being a piñata for Molothos to gun down. That was assuming that they could outsprint the things through the jungle and not get killed by something along the way. Surrender was pretty much out of the question; even if he hadn’t had a first-hand sample of their attitude, Orphan’s description had made it clear that he’d be about as warmly welcomed as a Jew into a Nazi meeting. Oh, they might keep one of them alive, or both, for study, but that wasn’t going to be much fun.
And it would just leave the problem for later, leave it to get worse. No. Only one thing to do.
His one hand was still in Carl’s field of view. He aimed it at the one to the right, since that was on Carl’s side, wiggled his gun ever so slightly, then held up three fingers. Carl’s eyes widened, he swallowed. Then nodded.
DuQuesne balled his fist, then began the count. One finger. Two fingers.
Three.
As the Molothos suddenly gave a chittering hiss and turned towards their hiding place, DuQuesne and Carl opened up on them.
Let’s start a little interstellar war!
Chapter 31
‘‘Meet me here in thirty-nine and a half hours,’’ Orphan said, preparing to step through the Gateway.
‘‘That’s a rather odd number,’’ Simon said.
Orphan buzz-chuckled. ‘‘Because in this case the facile nature of the Arena’s translation obfuscates the actual meaning. That is two of my days.’’ He gave them a serious look. ‘‘Don’t be late; I would not want to meet my erstwhile people alone.’’ Then he disappeared in a flare of iridescence.
Alone in the Arena. The very thought sent a chill—both of excitement and fear—down her spine. Instead of showing that, she turned cheerfully to Simon—who was looking apprehensive—and said ‘‘Well, now that we’ve dumped our chaperone, let’s see what kind of trouble we can get into.’’
‘‘I think,’’ Simon said dryly, ‘‘we’d best avoid the trouble if we can.’’ His eyes scanned the immense foyer area as they walked towards the elevators.
‘‘No real argument there,’’ she conceded. ‘‘Simon, I’ve been thinking about what we know about the Arena, and I guess I’m starting to get a—really vague—grasp of why you and DuQuesne found it so shocking. That is, it’s really impressive even to me, but for you guys it’s kicking at the very foundations of reality, right?’’
‘‘I suppose that’s one way to put it, yes,’’ the green-eyed Sandrisson said after a moment. ‘‘I knew, of course, that there was a conceptual framework which permitted a UFOR—Universal Frame of Reference—and that it was on that conceptual framework that I could base the Sandrisson-Kanzaki-Locke Drive.’’ He shook his head, gazing around in bemusement. ‘‘But never in even my wildest dreams—or I suspect DuQuesne’s—would I have imagined a literal instantiation of this, a separate reality which permits us to make the concept of simultanaeity a real and rational part of the universe. And—in point of fact—we are seeing, not one UFOR, but two, two separate levels of such a frame of reference, one privileged over the other.’’
‘‘Whoa. Two? Where are you getting that?’’
He waved a hand behind him. ‘‘Those, for starters. They amount to instantaneous teleportation gates from one part of the Arena to here. But from what Orphan said, the Arena itself is—while vastly smaller than the universe it models—truly immense, something between fifteen and thirty light-years across.
‘‘Those gates means that simultaneity is meaningful within the Arena as well as in our universe. Meaning that there is some privileged frame of reference for the Arena itself as well as for our universe.’’ Simon smiled faintly. ‘‘I know, for you, the entire concept of non-simultaneity makes no sense. It doesn’t for many people.’’
‘‘I’ll agree with that. But I’ll accept that it’s an important and—until now—very real concept for understanding our world.’’
Simon waggled a finger at her. ‘‘It is still a very real concept for understanding our world. The existence of the Arena and associated frames of reference merely shows that the relativistic effects are limited—special cases which will collapse if subjected to analysis from the point of view of the privileged frame, but only if they become relevant to the spacetime track of . . . ’’ he saw the incomprehension in her eyes and stopped. ‘‘Sorry.’’
She grinned as they entered the elevator. ‘‘No need to apologize, Simon. Just because I don’t understand doesn’t mean you have to stop talking.’’ She stared at the blank doors of the elevator as they descended. ‘‘The thing that gets me is really the sheer scale of the Arena. I spent time trying to visualize it last night, and it’s . . . scary. Billions of stars, each with a Sphere, gathered into billions of galaxies, all connected, running like clockwork—you know, sorry to divert, but I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen clockwork, and I’d think it must fail a lot more often than solid-state devices . . . anyway, all of that running, while keeping track of all the things happening in the different locations . . . ’’
‘‘Not to mention,’’ Simon said, ‘‘maintaining the environment around the Spheres. Energy balance for something this size is . . . inconceivable. How do you stop areas of Spheres from overheating or underheating? If the walls are reflecting heat, the entire Arena should be warming eventually to an oven. For that matter, how
does one have walls on something like this? Are the walls themselves expanding as the universe does? What powers this?’’
Ariane noticed, as they exited and headed for one of the automated taxis, that a considerable number of the Arena’s diverse inhabitants were—mostly discreetly—watching them. By now, imagery—suitably translated for the various species—from their prior day must have made the rounds, and given that First Emergents showed up only once every few thousand years, they were undoubtedly a major source of interest. Some of those creatures were probably trying to figure out a good way to approach them, others just wondering what they were up to. Hopefully none of them were hostile . . . well, except the Blessed and the Molothos, both of which were already sort of done deals on that side. The Molothos hated everybody and they’d gotten in the Blessed’s way from the start. She helped Simon board, as she was leading the way, and then sat down. ‘‘The Grand Arcade,’’ she said, giving the name Orphan had given them for the central meeting, entertainment, and business district to be found on this level of Nexus Arena. The silver autocab immed
iately departed.
‘‘Simon,’’ she said finally, ‘‘do you think . . . do you think the Arena is a technological construct?’’
He stared at her for a moment. Then his glasses flashed as he tilted his head back and gazed to the far-distant ceiling, chuckling gently. ‘‘Ariane, I am a scientist. I do not believe in gods or demons. And as DuQuesne pointed out, we know theoretically how such technology might come to be. The existence of a universal frame of reference is upsetting and astounding, but given that, someone with Plancktech—the ability to manipulate reality with what amount to spacetime-scale devices—could do everything we have seen.
‘‘That would no more make them gods or magical than we would be gods in, oh, the Roman era. Being hidden is what makes them mysterious. Clarke’s law applies, of course—I can’t distinguish the powers here from magic, not logically and beyond argument, but Okham’s Razor helps me there; it is less complex for me to simply assume a race that’s progressed a great deal farther down the path of technology, than to assume some being or set of beings with utterly unknown and unconnected powers of ‘magic.’’’
Just hearing him say that so calmly, with a certainty that swept aside the awesome existence of the Arena and replaced it with the investigative analytical wonder of the eternal scientist, steadied her. She smiled. ‘‘Thanks, Simon. That really does help.’’
The elegant white-tressed head bowed graciously. ‘‘My pleasure as always, Ariane. Oh, by the way,’’ he continued, as though a thought had occurred to him, ‘‘did I mention that I actually did figure out why it was that the probes seemed to be giving almost random results in terms of their emergence?’’
‘‘No, actually, you didn’t. So, go on, tell me.’’
Simon smiled. ‘‘It came from examining the data logs on our . . . shutdown, and comparing those with what would thus likely have happened on the probes. On Holy Grail, we had deliberately designed alternative paths and shutdown protocols that assumed other systems onboard, and that were predicated on the assumption that things that normally never fail . . . might. Well, modeling the way in which the systems would have failed in the absence of such careful design—which would have been useless without, of course, human beings on board to run those alternative systems—shows that many of them would have had their drive systems come on and run wild, so to speak, for the duration of their time in the Arena-space. Thus causing them to randomly displace, rather like a rocket touched off in atmosphere with no guidance. Since they tended to start with relatively small vectors, unlike Holy Grail which was moving at something like ten KPS when we transitioned, the final emerging locations were very close to random.’’
‘‘Ha! That does make sense. I’m glad we cleared that little mystery up.’’
The vehicle slowed and stopped, depositing them at the entrance to what would, elsewhere, be an immense open-air mall or marketplace; a vast circular expanse of streets and smaller buildings, miniature parks, covered smaller arcades, wandering street performers, and vendors of a dozen species. Smells—ranging from the enticing to the repugnant—drifted on the air, though something prevented the entire effect from being overwhelming; the scents of uncountable numbers of species of intelligent beings, of meals being cooked in a hundred or a thousand different ways using a million ingredients, the pungency of other goods—perhaps spices and fuels, or perhaps something indescribable in function—combined to make a heady and almost intoxicating whole. Everywhere Ariane looked she saw some new type of creature, and all around were the sounds of different beings, devices, and signals.
‘‘Let’s just take a look through the area. If someone engages us in conversation, fine, but let’s not try talking ourselves yet. And don’t commit us to anything.’’
Simon nodded his understanding. ‘‘More than a trifle overwhelming.’’
Taking a deep breath, she plunged into the whirl of the Grand Arcade, Simon at her heels.
Chapter 32
Ariane sagged onto a nearby bench. ‘‘God, I’m tired. This place is the size of New York Megaplaza.’’ She nibbled at the purple-edged, yellow flame-shaped object the Chiroflekir vendor had called a tullundu. From her expression, she was trying to decide if she liked it or not. ‘‘How do you like your snack?’’
‘‘It’s quite good, actually,’’ Simon said cheerfully. He’d noticed the delicate, blue-green jellyfish-like alien—the same species that had caught his attention early in their entry to the Arena—and suggested they at least ask him about how common it was for different species to actually be able to eat one another’s produce. As it turned out, the biology of the Chiroflekir was startlingly similar to that of Earth creatures, enough so that the tentacled creature had several candidate foods in stock, and was willing to offer some samples in exchange for one of their ration bars; even if it couldn’t eat the ration bar, it was material that gave Olthalis (the vendor) some unique and useful information about the First Emergents.
Simon took another bite of his selection—deep red, rod-shaped, with a startling white and pink speckled interior, called nidii—and then offered it to her. ‘‘Here, try it. I’ll take a bite of yours.’’
The two alien food samples changed hands and Simon took a bite of the tullundu and chewed contemplatively. Hm . . . somewhat salty . . . a faint sharpness, a smooth internal texture, almost oceanic backtaste . . . ah, yes.
Ariane bit into hers with a crunch-snap like that of a good apple, and her face lit up. ‘‘You’re right, I like this. Like . . . I don’t know, cattail stem crossed with seaweed?’’
‘‘Not a bad comparison. I like this one, too. Reminds me rather a lot of uni.’’
‘‘Sea urchin roe! That explains the vague familiarity. Not quite the same texture, though. And I never did really like uni.’’
‘‘Well, then, I’ll try to be a gentleman; please keep the nidii.’’ He glanced appreciatively at Ariane’s sharp-featured face.
By the smile she gave him, after a pause, he suspected that the glance had not gone unnoticed. ‘‘You’ve always been a gentleman, Simon. Except for those early moments putting your foot in your mouth.’’
He gave a rueful laugh. ‘‘Ariane, you have no idea how much I regretted those two faux pas moments. I was not attempting to impress you with my intellectual bigotry.’’
She put a hand on his arm. Oh, now, that’s a more definite signal. ‘‘You’re forgiven. Now, if you’d like, why don’t you escort me into that den of iniquity over there? If the translators are correct, that’s the Random Fortune Casino.’’
‘‘Is it really?’’ Simon took her arm, and was pleased to find that she leaned slightly into him as he did so. It is rather fun to find it’s just as exciting at thirty as it was at sixteen. A casino, now . . . that’s interesting. ‘‘Amazing. They must have some form of money or credit for wagering, perhaps after you become a full citizen, winning one of these Challenges. Well then, let’s go take a look. And try not to gamble our planet away.’’
Inside the building—despite the mass of radically diverse aliens and unfamiliar artwork—it was almost homey. The air of excitement, of dice being thrown and machines being activated and games being played for high stakes . . . this was very much the same as any casino back in their solar system. ‘‘It seems that in some ways, we are all very much alike,’’ Simon observed. But there’s . . . something . . .
‘‘That’s actually pretty comforting,’’ Ariane said, seeming to relax a bit. ‘‘Okay, human beings can be dangerous bastards too, but if I can understand alien psychologies the same way I understand ours, it’s going to be a lot easier to handle than if they really did have very, very alien ways of viewing things.’’
‘‘Indeed.’’
As they strolled along, Simon became sure that there was something . . . off about this casino. Everything seemed normal on the surface, just as it would in an Earthly gambling establishment . . . and yet . . . and yet . . .
‘‘What is it, Simon?’’
&nbs
p; ‘‘I’m . . . not quite certain yet,’’ he answered, in an absent-minded tone of voice. ‘‘Give me a few more minutes.’’
They stopped next at a game involving four-sided dice being rolled on a long table, somewhat reminiscent of a craps setup. He studied the rolls . . . the bets . . . so desu! He drew Ariane aside. ‘‘I know what it is. You’ve noticed it, too, haven’t you?’’
Ariane’s expression reflected how he’d felt earlier. ‘‘Well . . . something’s been bothering me, but I don’t know what it is.’’
‘‘Odds, Captain,’’ he said, intensely studying the other games. ‘‘The odds. Look at those dice. They’re betting on combinations of the ways in which those dice fall; none of them exceed one chance in sixteen—either two ones or two fours. That . . . card game over there. The deck appears to have three suits of ten cards each, and the combinations that appear to be sought run in the same area of probability. The roulette wheel equivalent, over there, in the high stakes area, offers nothing beyond a twenty to one gamble. I don’t think I’ve seen a single game yet in which the odds against the gambler exceeded fifty to one or so except what appear to be pure lotteries—and even those seem to go no higher than a thousand or so to one.’’
‘‘That seems . . . awfully good odds, actually.’’
‘‘Very good odds by the standards of Earth casinos—or terrible odds, in the sense of whether you can get rich quick. In standard poker, odds of fifty to one only get you to three of a kind. Getting a full house is about one chance in seven hundred, while a straight flush is one in seventy-two thousand; roulette wheels commonly top out at odds of fifty to one hundred to one, and lotteries of course run into odds of millions to one.’’
He was so focused on what he was seeing that he was startled when Ariane pushed him gently aside to let a passing quadrupedal alien go by. He shook his head. ‘‘Yet this is a busy, clearly profitable casino, and one that does a great deal of business. It is located on a prime area of what must be some of the most in-demand real estate in the universe—the Grand Arcade of Nexus Arena—and thus must reflect the demands of the vast majority of customers, from tourists to high-rollers, and do so with enduring popularity. I can thus only conclude that virtually all of those who visit these establishments will not tolerate odds even nearly so high as those which rather conservative human gamblers expect.’’