Grand Central Arena

by Ryk E. Spoor

  ‘‘But . . . Marc, you’ve spent fifty years not being that. That has to have changed you.’’

  ‘‘Yeah. Maybe. But a lot of that was done by forgetting, Ariane. Forgetting and repressing everything about myself.’’ He smiled bitterly. ‘‘And if necessary, making my environment repress it. Gravity isn’t variable, at least not where we come from. So what exactly was I going to do in order to both keep in shape and keep from constantly feeling—and looking—like I was an Earthman walking on the moon?’’ He held up his arm, pinched it. ‘‘Sure, medical nanos will minimize muscle and bone loss, all that, but they won’t shift your perceptions.

  ‘‘For that, I had to design my own clothes. Every suit of clothes I wear, every piece of it, is basically actuator fabric, harvesting energy from my movements to oppose those movements. It drags at every motion I make so that it feels as though I’m in my full gravity. None of you have been inside my cabin, so you don’t see the other rigs I have there to keep myself restrained. All of them have cutoff signals, of course—in case of emergency—but until yesterday I hadn’t cut them off in fifty years.’’

  Ariane nodded. She thought she was starting to understand what DuQuesne was driving at, and it sent an ache of sympathy through her.

  The big man sighed, looked down, shook his head again. ‘‘I didn’t want to be what they made me. I’m not even exactly sure why I didn’t change my name, except maybe . . . well, no, I do know. I was erasing so much, I needed to keep a part of me, a central core that would let me at least have a touchstone of continuity.’’

  ‘‘DuQuesne . . . Marc . . . ’’ Simon’s brows were knotted, trying to understand. ‘‘What was so bad about what you were? What you are now?’’

  DuQuesne gave a frustrated snort, almost a snarl, that made them both jump. ‘‘I . . . don’t know. It’s hard to explain. I try to get my own head around it and I just end up chasing my tail. It’s even harder now, because I’m . . . what I was, mostly, now. It’s like letting the damn genie out of the bottle.

  ‘‘Part of it’s just knowing I’m . . . not a person. I didn’t grow up, no matter what my memories say, in anything like a real world. That haunts me every day. Am I saying these words because I’m programmed to? Because it’s what a good-guy version of Marc C. DuQuesne would say? When I let go, I’m so totally confident, certain . . . and different . . . everyone can see it. Feel it, even. But I’m not . . . close to most people. Very few. Can’t be. Part of me doesn’t even really know how to connect, but I can fake it.’’

  DuQuesne was pacing again, faster, with the sharp, nervous motions of a trapped animal. ‘‘Like I said, I’m not even human, Ariane. They didn’t just make perfect humans, they changed bone density, modified muscle structure, spliced in useful elements from a dozen other species, redesigned skin, connective tissue; as long as it wouldn’t show outwardly . . . or show anything they didn’t want to show, like some poor SOBs who were based on something a little inhuman . . . they’d use it for any advantage. And nobody knows exactly what all the stuff was that they did. Oh, if I was willing to do a full analysis, let someone put me through a full-scale scan or nanoprobe, yeah, we could have figured it out . . . but there are some things that ought to stay buried.’’

  He suddenly threw back his head with a sharp, barking laugh that had very little humor in it. ‘‘And of course there’s the other set of reasons. The less people know, the better my advantage. Good guy or villain, DuQuesne still knows the value of a secret, my friends. And the worst part? Hyperion’s Marc DuQuesne lived about twenty years—though there were parts that felt longer, and the Marc DuQuesne you knew, about fifty. I’ve lived half a century in the non-Hyperion world, had friends, a career, all that.

  ‘‘But there’s no doubt which part of me’s dominant now. I can feel the loss, I feel sorry for it, I’m scared by it even, but the fact is that . . . that shadow, that little mask, feels just exactly like that, a little role I was playing until I woke up. Everything’s a dozen times sharper now, brighter, clearer. Those fifty years were spent in . . . in a daze, slow, dumb, crippled. The fact I did it to myself doesn’t make any difference. I’m awake now, and the thought of going back . . . oh, there’s no way in hell I’m going back, not ever again, not by all the hells of space!’’

  The vehemence, combined with the anachronistic wording and slight though definite change in voice and posture, frightened Ariane. Frightened her a lot more than she would have thought. ‘‘Does that mean that all the time and work we’ve done together . . . don’t mean anything to you?’’ Does that mean we don’t mean anything to you?

  The dark-haired head snapped up and the eyes looked wide; for a moment, the expression was much closer to the old DuQuesne. ‘‘No! That wasn’t . . . wasn’t what I meant. I’m not a monster. Not like that.’’ He managed a small smile. ‘‘For all their idiocies, the Hyperion group weren’t completely insane. They didn’t want a sociopathic superman. A . . . a magnificent loner, maybe, but not someone who’d discard people whenever they were no longer useful.’’ He shook himself and then forced himself to sit down, glancing around the sparsely-furnished room which was the conference room of their Embassy. ‘‘And my personal crisis of identity is wasting your time and ours, Captain. I’m sorry for the difficulty.’’

  The curtain had dropped again; maybe Marc still didn’t even know what parts of his past and his present had to be addressed. Sure as hell I don’t know. But whether he was really reachable or not now, he was right. ‘‘We’re not entirely finished with this topic, Dr. DuQuesne, but you’re right. But do not make the mistake of thinking that I will forget it, or let you forget it either.’’

  The black eyes managed a faint twinkle. ‘‘I would not dare to believe the Captain would forget anything at all.’’

  She smiled back. ‘‘Good. Then . . . what next?’’

  ‘‘Well,’’ said Simon, ‘‘I think it’s clear that we have to move forward to another Challenge, somehow. Even with the additional caution, I’m afraid that Marc is correct; the Molothos hate all other races to begin with, and a humiliation like this must be essentially an imperative to war for them. They cannot afford to allow such an event to go unpunished.’’

  DuQuesne leaned forward, relaxing into . . . well, whatever his real self was, and grasping Simon’s drift immediately. ‘‘So in a year or two—three at the outside—there’ll be a Molothos battle fleet at our Sphere. The real problem is that, according to Orphan, the Sky Gates work two ways: if you activate a Sandrisson Drive inside one of those Gates as though you were trying to transition to FTL from our universe, you’ll jump to the point that the Sky Gate connects to—somewhere near Nexus Arena, or to another Sphere, something like that.

  ‘‘But . . . if you invert the field inside the Sky Gate, you’ll pop out into the regular universe, maybe a light-year or so from the home system.’’

  ‘‘Oh, bloody hell,’’ Sandrisson said in a horrified whisper, and a cold hand seemed to close around Ariane’s heart as she, too, understood. ‘‘That means they can bring the war home to us, once they figure out where we are.’’

  ‘‘Exactly. So we can’t take years to recharge and go home, even if we could afford to stay away that long personally. We’ve got to get home fast, and start the human race preparing.’’ He grinned sharply. ‘‘But it’s not all bad. We’re citizens now. Our Sphere’s fully activated. We need to establish some real relationships and figure out if we can manage some form of trade.’’ He rubbed his chin. ‘‘Now that we’ve kicked out the Molothos, I advised Tom—with your approval, Captain—to start fabricating components for a water-driven power system. If we get that going, then we can bring in more raw materials, replicate a few more AIWish units, and at least have the start of manufacturing for our little set of desperate impromptu colonists.’’

  Ariane nodded. ‘‘That sounds fine to me.’’

  ‘‘What about the Straits?’’ Simon asked. ‘‘Should Holy Grail go out? We could bring her up to
the surface . . . ’’ he trailed off as Ariane shook her head vehemently.

  ‘‘Holy Grail was designed for space operation only, Simon. I’m not sure she’d hold up at all in an atmosphere, and if the descriptions of the way things work in the Arena are to be trusted, she’d have to fly through atmosphere in a 1-G field. No way.’’

  ‘‘Ah. Yes, that would be a bit sticky, to say the least. I suppose that must wait until we either are here long enough to manufacture ships, purchase them, or get home and can have them built there.’’ Simon looked slightly embarrassed. ‘‘Then at this point all I can think of are generalities. I don’t think it’s fair to keep our other people back at the Sphere all the time, so I think we need to rotate people in and out on occasion.’’

  ‘‘Very important,’’ agreed DuQuesne. ‘‘Right now they’re starting to feel a little left out, especially Gabrielle, but even Steve and Tom are going to want to be part of this, and deserve to be. When we get back home—and we will, one way or another—the crew of Holy Grail will be famous, and all of us deserve some stories to tell.’’

  ‘‘I can’t disagree,’’ Ariane said slowly, ‘‘but what about the fact that we didn’t want to reveal our numbers?’’

  DuQuesne shrugged. ‘‘We don’t have to state that they’re seeing everyone . . . and this latest development will mean that even a couple of us may be seen as pretty formidable. If they think we’re all capable of dealing with a Molothos invasion given two people and a little time, we may have some considerable leverage.’’

  Ariane couldn’t restrain a laugh. ‘‘Yes . . . I suppose I’d be pretty scared if I thought some newcomers’ entire species were superbeings.’’

  ‘‘So,’’ Simon said, ‘‘the other thing to do is continue to develop the connections we’ve already made—Orphan, the Faith, and the Analytic—and see what we can manage to get out of those. I’d call Nyanthus immediately, Captain; how one of their rituals can relate to us I don’t know, but I’m very sure we want to find out. Check of course with Orphan to make sure that accepting the invitation won’t be a problem for us. I will meet with Dr. Rel—I would very much like DuQuesne to come with me—and see what the Analytic can discuss with us now that we have ascended to full citizenship, so to speak.’’

  ‘‘I’ve no problem with that.’’ DuQuesne stood. ‘‘But I want to get back and start involving the others in the next couple of days.’’

  ‘‘All right,’’ Ariane said. ‘‘We’ll do it that way. Once we’ve had these two meetings and evaluated anything that comes of them, we start bringing the others over. Maybe even move everyone here, but we’ll decide what needs to be done then.’’

  The finality in her voice caused both Simon and, to her surprise, DuQuesne to simply nod. Sensing the current meeting at an end, Simon excused himself. ‘‘It’s been a very long day indeed, Ariane. I’ll see you both in the morning.’’

  As DuQuesne nodded and turned, she said, ‘‘Wait a minute, Marc.’’

  She could feel that intangible wall again, and it almost made her change her mind, tell him to go on. She thought, for an instant, that he was going to keep going anyway. But he paused, then turned. ‘‘Yes, Captain?’’

  ‘‘Marc . . . I don’t know . . . I can’t know . . . exactly what it is you’re going through. I suppose there’s only two or three people living who could. But I want you to know three things.’’ She took a deep breath, feeling the weight of his scrutiny. ‘‘First . . . I’m not letting you go hide inside that wall, Dr. DuQuesne. Maybe I look a lot slower and stupider than I did to you before, but I’m still your friend as well as your Captain, and I’m telling you I’m not letting you hide that way.’’

  The bit about ‘‘slower and stupider’’ hit him, made him blink apologetically. ‘‘Captain . . . Ariane . . . I didn’t mean . . . ’’

  ‘‘Second, I want to thank you for taking that risk, for letting out something that obviously scares you so much. Because if you hadn’t, I’m sure that you and Carl would be dead. I don’t care nearly so much about the Challenge business—although that’s a wonderful bonus; what I care about is that both of my friends came back alive, and it’s only because you are what you are.’’

  A very faint blush appeared to be visible on the cheeks, not quite hidden by the almost-olive complexion. He started to speak again, but she didn’t give him the opportunity.

  ‘‘And, third, I trust you, Marc. Absolutely. I want you to remember that whether you were made or made yourself, you’re a man who people can trust, and will trust. They made you a man of iron-clad honor and that’s a part of you that you’ve kept. You’ve given your word to help us, and you will, and I want you to remember that I believe in you. If you need to talk . . . you know where to find me.’’ She swallowed, feeling a new and hard-to-analyze nervousness, as though she was skirting a very dangerous canyon at her feet. ‘‘But if you don’t, if you can’t, it doesn’t matter. Because no matter what you think, I know you’re the hero you’re afraid to be.’’

  She saw he was searching for the right reply, and a part of her suddenly panicked at the thought that he might find it. ‘‘That’s all, Dr. DuQuesne. You can go now; I’d better get some rest myself.’’

  His expression was almost comical, and as the door rolled shut behind him she couldn’t help but giggle. My God, I think I just managed to out-maneuver Marc DuQuesne!

  That made a very pleasant thought to take with her to sleep.

  Chapter 39

  The Temple of the Faith was near the center of the Embassy level, one of five great buildings surrounding a sort of central square (which happened to be pentagonal). The Grand Arcade surrounded this central square, separated from it by a ring of other buildings, not quite so large and impressive as the central five.

  The Temple of the Faith was also a striking building, in the shape of a many-armed spiral whose arms began as tiny beads and enlarged into great spheres, coalescing in the center to a huge tower of spheres ranging from one nearly five hundred meters across at the very base to rice-grain sized dots composing the point of the highest spire, more than two kilometers above. It, like the uniforms of its adherents, was predominantly green and gold, patterns of geometric yet living complexity twining across the surface of the spheres in emerald and auric diversity.

  It was a night-cycle within Nexus Arena, and above glowed only the faint hint of sparkles and reflections from the ceiling . . . or whatever night-like imagery the Arena had chosen to display. Whatever the case, the Temple was lit like a bastion of luminance against darkness, a blazing spire of belief and hope set against the backdrop of night.

  ‘‘They don’t lack in their showmanship, do they?’’ she murmured.

  DuQuesne’s ears caught her comment. ‘‘Not one little bit. Shaped like a galaxy of spheres, reaching upward to the sky, all that kind of symbolism works real good for me. I’d guess that kind of thing must work pretty good for a lot of species, since that’s the design they chose.’’ He glanced around. ‘‘Not that these other buildings are any slouches at design either.’’

  ‘‘Indeed so, Dr. DuQuesne; I am sure that your people, as well, recognize the value of striking the right perceptual chord in your fellows.’’ Orphan, who had accompanied them, surveyed the other buildings. ‘‘For public display, for recruitment in many cases, or merely a statement of presence; these are the Faction Houses. Not all Factions have them, of course, but those that do use them to ensure that they are recognized outside of their Embassy, and to conduct business of a general nature for which they still would not wish to give access to their Embassy.

  ‘‘And here, of course, the greatest of the Faction Houses, won only by direct Challenge, built to design of the one controlling them, mighty statements indeed of the power and influence of their owners. The Faith, of course, before which we stand. The Blessed, my former people. The Molothos, who recruit not at all but indeed wish it clear that they are second to none. The Analytic, masters of Knowledge. And the Veng
eance, adversary to the Arena itself.’’

  ‘‘Not to the Arena, Survivor,’’ a knife-sharp voice snapped from the surrounding gloom. ‘‘Merely to those who created the Arena.’’

  The speaker was of the species Orphan had called Milluk—a spherical body suspended on multiple slender legs that arched up above its back rather like those of a daddy longlegs, three eyes spaced equidistantly around the body, with some sort of manipulative arms or tendrils underneath. At this range, as it entered the light near them more fully, Ariane could see a glitter as of another eye or two underneath—which made sense, given the need to be able to see what one was manipulating. The creature was surrounded by a slight brownish haze and attended by a faint sharp smell. ‘‘You know better than to make such inaccurate pronouncements, Orphan.’’

  The great black wingcases gave their swift shrug. ‘‘Who is to say whether opposing the creators of the arena is not itself opposition to the Arena?’’

  ‘‘I’m a little puzzled here,’’ Ariane said. ‘‘I thought no one knew who or what made the Arena. You have some sort of name for them—Voidbuilders is the term I’ve heard—but that’s about it.’’

  ‘‘Oh, we know them—Captain Austin, is it not?’’ the creature said. ‘‘Selpa’A At, Swordmaster First of the Vengeance, greets you. In safety and in security, in peril and plague, in victory and vengeance, may your course be ever your own.’’

  ‘‘Ariane Austin, Captain and—for the moment—leader of the Faction of Humanity, greets you,’’ she echoed and bowed. ‘‘May your course also be ever your own as well. So what do you mean, you know the Voidbuilders?’’