by Ryk E. Spoor
Blessing of Fire was growing in the sky, now visible as a dark dot with a hint of shape.
‘‘You’ll have to drop the scrambling to do it. I can run an antenna to the hull to amplify the reception, give us the range, but what about his headware?’’ Carl indicated Maizas.
‘‘Oh, I think I’ve got something for that problem.’’ He grabbed Maizas by one striking claw and began dragging him up the ramp. ‘‘Come on, Maizas. You’re going on one last ride.’’
The alien struggled futilely as the former Hyperion pulled him into his scout craft. ‘‘This cannot work!’’
‘‘Oh, I rather think it can. Maybe not a good chance—only one chance in a thousand, say, given other issues involved—but a chance more than worth taking,’’ DuQuesne said; he noted that this statement seemed, for some reason, to shock the Molothos even more.
He finished dragging Maizas into the shattered control cabin. ‘‘I think we’ve killed off most of the relays in here, and the hull will shield any direct headware transmission. Now, you guys do talk—like us—with part of the same apparatus you use to eat with. It’s possible, once the scrambling goes down, that you’ll be able to trigger something like a voice-command relay, even if I think I’ve got them all. I doubt it, but just in case . . . ’’ He rammed the point of a Molothos trooper’s leg into Maizas’s mouth. ‘‘Here we go. All you have to do in order to activate any such thing . . . is finish eating.’’
He needed no words to translate the utter horror in Maizas’ contracting stance.
‘‘DuQuesne! It’s speeding up! I think they guess something’s happening!’’
The black-bearded power engineer hooked the ends of Maizas’s bonds to what had been landing restraint points—sort of the equivalent of seatbelts—and headed for the door. ‘‘Coming!’’
The Twinscabbard-class vessel Blessing of Fire loomed larger in the sky; thunder of engines was now faintly audible, though seeming to come from a much more distant point, sound still slower than light even in the weird conditions of the Arena. ‘‘At least the design of their ship utterly precludes supersonic speeds in air,’’ he said to Carl, accepting the clumsily-assembled control rig. ‘‘Not surprising, given other considerations, but it’s a good thing for us.’’
‘‘Especially,’’ agreed Carl with a grin that echoed his own predator’s smile, ‘‘since their landing vessels can, if you push them.’’
He waited. The problem was judging the exact critical distance and the reactions of the aliens. At a far longer range, of course, a ship like Blessing of Fire could have rained destruction down on them with almost pinpoint accuracy. This argued that, whatever their genocidal views towards other lifeforms, they valued the lives and health of their own people, something that Maizas’s various statements generally confirmed. So they’d want to wait, get really close, see whether any of their people were still alive, and if there was any way they could manage to save them, rather than just pounding the site to slag from a distance.
But exactly what was that distance . . . and how long would it take for them to make their decision? What would their reactions be? What sort of defenses would the ship have active under these circumstances? Part of this plan . . . well, a very large part of it . . . depended on the Molothos being overall as arrogant as the individuals he’d already met, and being really unlikely to assume that any ground-based threat could harm Blessing of Fire, especially in the absence of any evidence of civilized natives who might have notable weaponry.
‘‘Five kilometers out and they’re slowing, DuQuesne.’’
‘‘Roger that.’’
Blessing of Fire loomed huge now, bronze and silver and gravel-gray and monstrous, casting knife-edged shadows on the mountains. ‘‘Four kilometers, DuQuesne!’’
‘‘Activating now . . . ’’
A low thundering snarl came from the Molothos landing craft; it began to rise, tilting to port. Damnation! DuQuesne jiggled the lefthand joystick, incrementing thrust, balancing the scout lander with clumsy care, like a man trying to balance a long box half-filled with water. This has to look like at least a somewhat controlled takeoff.
He fed more power into both engines, adjusting the balance by pure instinct; Ariane would do this better, he suddenly thought, and realized that he really wished she was here to do this. Cut it out, superman. This is not the time for self-doubts. Beside him, Carl sucked in his breath as the ship nearly clipped its wing on a nearby tree.
His internal telemetry, from the sensors they’d scattered through the interior, showed Maizas standing almost frozen in the center of the room, leg still stuck in the Molothos’s mouth; Maizas was making furious keening noises but obviously accomplishing nothing.
Cleared the trees. Now . . . he pushed gently forward, while still increasing power. The ship began to move forward.
Blessing of Fire slowed and began to circle around, clearly trying to decide what this new development meant. ‘‘They’re transmitting to the scout lander, trying to get an answer, DuQuesne,’’ Carl said.
Not much time now. But . . .
The scoutship was moving forward now, engines almost in full forward alignment. He began turning the ship towards the Twinscabbard.
‘‘I have a coded transmission! I think it’s a remote override!’’
That wouldn’t do them any good . . . but they knew, now.
Just one little second too late.
DuQuesne wrenched power higher on the starboard engine—seeing the condition telltales on their controls reaching critical points—and slewed the fifty meter long scout vessel around to point directly at Blessing of Fire . . . or where she would be, in about seven seconds. ‘‘See you in hell, Maizas!’’
Then he slammed both engines to full.
The whining rumble of the air-rockets changed abruptly to a scream as the entire power of the scout lander’s superconductor storage coils was directed to the engines, a single catastrophic surge of power that kicked the low, armored vessel forward at multiple gravities, far beyond any design tolerances. At almost the same moment, blazing spears of energy streaked from Blessing of Fire, one scoring a dark line across the swiftly moving scout vessel, the others missing by mere inches. With only a few more seconds, the antimissile batteries of Blessing of Fire would have turned the lander to vapor.
But there were no more seconds to spare, as DuQuesne’s improvised missile annihilated the three kilometers between it and its target and smashed at nearly a kilometer per second straight into the main body of Blessing of Fire.
The massive Twinscabbard-class vessel seemed to stagger in midair, tilting, slewing out of control, plummeting from the sky. Carl punched a fist exultantly skyward. ‘‘Yes!’’
DuQuesne grabbed Carl’s shoulder. ‘‘Get down!’’ Both men hit the dirt, just as Blessing of Fire, continuing forward on a course to destruction, struck a mountaintop five and a half kilometers away. Metal and composite screamed in tortured agony at the unstoppable impact and—somewhere, deep inside the vessel’s stricken core—ripped across the energy-saturated superconducting storage coils that supplied the power for a journey a hundred thousand miles long.
The flash of light ignited the tops of trees for nearly three kilometers around; the concussion blew many of them flat like matchsticks. Wracked by the shockwave and temporarily deafened, the two men slowly rose and looked up in awe, to see a monstrous mushroom cloud towering above them, slowly, slowly dissipating into an ordinary cloud of smoke above the burning remnants of the destroyed starship.
And both men felt, at the same time, the oppressive weight of gravity lessen and return to normal.
Chapter 36
Ariane was trailing slightly behind Simon and Dr. Rel. She and Simon had discussed their next move, following their interesting, and still rather incomprehensible, discovery of the past day, and decided that at this point they should simply not mention the discovery to any of the aliens—even Orphan. ‘‘I definitely don’t want to do anything until
I’ve had a chance to discuss it with Marc, at least,’’ she’d said.
Simon had concurred. ‘‘Oh, definitely not. But in that case, I think we should continue talking with the other Factions. Unfortunately, since we also have agreed not to be separated, that means we’ll have to take turns selecting our . . . targets, so to speak.’’
She’d found the simile amusing, and accurate. They were trying to find appropriate targets from which to extract information while avoiding giving away anything important. That morning they had discovered that the Arena had something equivalent to a messaging service which could find them at Orphan’s embassy, and found messages from no less than seven different Factions—five of them unknown and thus, if Orphan’s information could be trusted, probably of minimal importance in the short run, one from the Faith, and one from Dr. Rel. The Faith’s message had been short, welcoming, and requesting a meeting at some point in the near future; Dr. Relgof’s had been long, rambling, and excited, hoping to see them again today. As Orphan had indicated the essentially benign nature of the Analytic, and since she already rather liked the odd alien scientist, Ariane had agreed to follow Simon’s lead. She’d informed the Faith that she would be somewhere in the Grand Arcade with Dr. Relgof of the Analytic, if they wished to reach her.
So now they were walking through one of the parklike areas, with Simon and Rel talking, sketching incomprehensible diagrams in the air, arguing, all in that language of science which not all the technology of the Arena could make really understandable. The Analytic representative was, clearly, a recruiter of some sort, as he did subtly try to influence the conversation to discussion of their candidacy to join; but while Simon was clearly tempted on some levels, he avoided making any commitments and kept returning to scientific discourse.
Still . . . as she had to follow them around, it was a bit boring. So she was grateful to see the green and gold, bead and plate outfit of Nyanthus approaching her. Simon caught her eye and she nodded; Dr. Sandrisson stopped, making sure that he and Dr. Rel would not just wander farther off and separate the two.
The First Initiate Guide did his flowering, anemone-like bow. ‘‘Again, I am honored and pleased to meet with you, Captain Ariane Austin.’’
‘‘And I with you, First Guide Nyanthus,’’ Ariane replied, bowing in return. ‘‘To what do I owe the considerable honor of being once more sought out by the very leader of the Faith?’’
A rippling, chiming chuckle. ‘‘To our constant interest in recruitment, of course, and the Guidance I have received, which says that you are perhaps of more importance than you may yet imagine. Such visions are oft-clouded, true, and have been known to mislead, yet I always heed them, for the Creators send no such guidance without reason.’’
She grinned. ‘‘I thank you for your honesty. I guess recruiting new members is a constant competition here?’’
‘‘Indeed, by most Factions. It is, alas, not true of the Molothos—misguided and pitiful creatures—nor for the Blessed. But most of us do indeed compete to gain the advantage of appropriate additions to our membership. For us, it is of course a mandate, a responsibility, a duty, to prevent those that we can from falling too far into . . . how should I put it? The snares of disbelief, or worse, that entangle far too many of those who walk the Arena.’’ Though Nyanthus had no clear sensing organs, he gave the impression of glancing in the direction of Simon and Dr. Relgof. ‘‘The Analytic . . . are a group of great knowledge, but of questionable wisdom. Still, a better choice of association than others, indeed.’’
‘‘I hope,’’ she said, with a bit of trepidation, ‘‘that you’ll understand when I say I am not currently planning on committing to anyone. We want to be our own Faction, at least for a while, until we’re sure of our direction.’’
‘‘Oh, quite understood.’’ Nyanthus spun slowly about his center, symbiotic flying forms dancing around and through the candle flame-shaped openwork of his upper body. ‘‘But with such an understanding, have you any objection to learning more of the way of the Faith?’’
‘‘None at all.’’ She was frankly curious. Orphan had talked of ‘‘Shadeweaver powers’’ and ‘‘Faith miracles’’ as being, to his mind, basically the same thing, but they’d actually seen very little of either, and she wondered exactly what it was that these beings could do that even the high-tech, super-advanced, and mostly ancient civilizations here could possibly consider miracles or magical. ‘‘As long as it neither commits me to anything, nor . . . influences me, in any way outside of the way that information would normally influence me.’’
Nyanthus paused in his rhythmic motion for a moment. When he resumed and spoke, the translation of the chiming voice was grave. ‘‘Ah. I see that you have already encountered agents of the other side, our adversaries, those which the naïve call ‘Shadeweavers,’ and for which we have other . . . much worse . . . names. I understand your caution, Ariane Austin. You are wise to be cautious. But I give you my personal word—which, as you may ascertain with any here, is as solid and unquestionable as the very Arena’s existence—that no such influence would be placed upon you.’’
‘‘In that case, yes, I am very interested in learning more of your ways. All of the Arena is . . . overwhelming.’’
‘‘Is it not?’’ She caught a hint of religious fervor in the simple question. ‘‘Indeed, is it not beyond any mortal comprehension? But let me not be carried away by my own beliefs. It is my purpose here to invite you to—’’
A deep, resonant bell-like tone suddenly thundered through the air of Nexus Arena; the ground quivered beneath her feet, and all through the immensity of the Grand Arcade, silence fell. The sound, like a gong and a pipe organ built for a giant, throbbed in the atmosphere for long moments before fading away.
Nyanthus stood stock-still, even the symbiotes motionless on the ground or within his body; Dr. Rel was paused with one six-fingered hand in the air, as motionless as though he had been paralyzed. As far as she could look, no one moved. Distant autocabs traveled, carrying what momentarily seemed to be cargoes of statues.
Then motion resumed, and a huge susurration of conversation, twice as loud as before, spread like a breath of wind before a storm through the Arcade. She turned to Nyanthus as he slowly resumed motion. ‘‘What the heck was that?’’
‘‘The Ascendant Chime.’’ Nyanthus’s warm, deep voice was subdued, hushed with startled awe. ‘‘I have never heard it before, and likely never will again. It means some one of the species here has met its first Challenge, become a true Citizen of the Arena.’’
Ariane was confused. ‘‘But . . . wouldn’t that mean us?’’
Nyanthus laughed faintly. ‘‘Oh, you are not the only species who have not yet met your first Challenge. Some species have spent thousands of years without daring to meet a Challenge, or—unfortunately—failing to win those they were forced into. One of these, undoubtedly, has finally succeeded. A joyous day!’’
‘‘The Arena doesn’t tell you who?’’ Simon asked, joining them.
It was Dr. Relgof who answered. ‘‘Indeed, it is a puzzle to me as well as to you, Captain,’’ he said in his rough tenor voice. ‘‘Nearly always it is well-known the challenges which are underway, and the participants therein—and if one of them is a species seeking to win its first true recognition, then always there is someone watching. Yet so far, I hear nothing from the Arena, no announcement from spectators or Adjudicators, or from the victors themselves—who would almost certainly wish to spread this news far and wide.’’
Ariane could see that both Relgof and Nyanthus were sincerely as much in the dark as they were. ‘‘Are Challenges ever held outside of Nexus Arena?’’
‘‘On occasion,’’ Relgof said. ‘‘Yet . . . even those are usually announced and well-known. But if not . . . then the victors, or the losers, would return here eventually, to announce the fact.’’ He glanced around. ‘‘I see a few others have already reached the logical conclusion. Quickly—let us go, before the
movement becomes a mob.’’ He began to move off, his long gangly legs making surprisingly quick strides, so that both Simon and Ariane had to jog to keep up, and Nyanthus seemed hard-put to stay even with them; his two silent escorts, Tchanta Zoll and Tchanta Vall, grasped him on each side and began to carry him.
‘‘Where are we going?’’ Ariane asked.
‘‘I would guess . . . to Transition, yes?’’ Simon said in reply.
‘‘Precisely deduced, my colleague,’’ Dr. Rel confirmed. ‘‘There, almost certainly, will the news come. If it is not already being spread by joyous victors or pleased spectators, then soon it shall be, when they can arrive here—and, almost of a certainty, that shall be through the Inner Gateways of Transition.’’
It took some time for them to make their way through the thickening crowd and up the elevators, but eventually, after an hour or so, they did manage to reach Transition. The area that Ariane thought of as the foyer of Nexus Arena was incredibly busy now; it seemed that the news was spreading to other Spheres, and new arrivals appeared almost every second—perhaps the equivalent of news reporters, sightseers, or just the curious.
Even waiting here wasn’t wasted time from Ariane’s point of view; this odd event was giving them a chance to observe a tremendous concentration of the Arena’s drastically varied lifeforms, and she had her head-recorders going constantly. She had no doubt Simon was doing the same thing.
A Gateway about a hundred meters away blazed with pearlescence, and she recognized the solitary green-black figure. ‘‘Orphan! Over here!’’
As their alien friend moved through the crowd, she pushed forward to meet him. ‘‘How did you . . . Oh, I see. It’s already that time, isn’t it?’’
‘‘It is indeed, Ariane Austin. But it seems that we have a far more exciting moment at hand. I had hoped . . . but clearly you have taken no Challenges in my absence, for this is a gathering of people who await the news.’’ Orphan glanced around. ‘‘Look, even Sethrik is here for the spectacle.’’