Grand Central Arena

by Ryk E. Spoor

  Well, we’ve gotten the summary of their position—which, right or wrong, sounds pretty nuts to me. ‘‘What about the other Factions? You have anything to say about them?’’

  ‘‘Directly, they have little bearing on our goals, except insofar as they may discover or hear things that could help us in our search. The Analytic, of course, simply seeks out the truth for their own researches; we have often gained some useful information from them. The Molothos . . . well, in many ways their general attitude mirrors our own, but,’’ the impression of a cynical smile, ‘‘they have certain rather insular attitudes which makes it difficult to maintain any long-term cooperation. It is not pleasant to work with someone who thinks of your entire species as a waste of resources.

  ‘‘The Blessed . . . we can work with them; the Minds who guide them have perhaps been more shortchanged by the Voidbuilders than anyone else; they have intelligence and capabilities vastly beyond those of any ordinary organic intellect, and yet they are utterly unable to enter or even perceive events in the Arena. So they are quite willing to entertain the possibility that the Voidbuilders are the enemy.

  ‘‘As to the other Factions . . . there are too many to easily discuss. Some cooperate, some do not, some do not care.’’

  ‘‘What about the Liberated?’’ DuQuesne asked, partly out of curiosity to see whether Orphan’s prediction would be accurate.

  The hum-buzz was translated as a snort of laughter. ‘‘A Faction of a single member? A member who plays all Factions against each other, never taking sides longer than necessary to gain his advantage? An opportunistic and untrustworthy creature, the Survivor.’’

  ‘‘He seems to have held up his end of our bargains so far,’’ Ariane protested.

  ‘‘He has been in somewhat desperate straits,’’ Selpa pointed out. ‘‘But . . . very well, perhaps I was overly broad in my statements. We have had . . . some unpleasant encounters with Orphan. But I will admit that I have not heard that he would directly violate his word or go back on a bargain, though he is certainly more than capable of obfuscation and creative interpretation where it suits him.’’

  Had ‘‘unpleasant encounters,’’ have you? Have to ask Orphan about that. Sounds to me, though, like he managed to end up with the upper hand. Which says one whole hell of a lot about him.

  After a pause, Ariane stood. ‘‘Well, Selpa’A At, I thank you for this meeting. It was certainly interesting and informative. I’ve gotten a different perspective on some things, and learned others I didn’t even know. But we’re not committing to any Factions other than our own at this time. I hope you understand.’’

  Selpa put his feet fully down and the chair-cradle vanished into the wall. ‘‘I quite understand, Captain. I hope, however, that we will be able to work together. You have made a most . . . impressive entrance to the Arena, and it is clear your people will have much to offer.’’

  ‘‘I hope we will too.’’ Ariane glanced at DuQuesne.

  DuQuesne nodded at her and went to escort the Vengeance leader out. Once Selpa’A At was gone, he went back, making sure that Orphan was still in his conference room. ‘‘That was interesting.’’

  ‘‘What do you think, Marc?’’

  ‘‘I’m not sure yet.’’ He found her gaze uncomfortably penetrating.

  ‘‘Reminded you of Hyperion, didn’t it?’’

  Way too penetrating. Thought I was harder to read than that. ‘‘Yeah. Not the same idea, but same effect. Which I don’t like even a tiny little bit. I had entirely more than a sufficiency of having my life and choices mapped out for me by some group of clowns outside my life, I really really don’t like the idea of someone doing it to my entire universe.’’

  ‘‘But do you think they’re right?’’

  Do I? I’d better think about it on both sides. Part of me’s paranoid enough to embrace that theory, the other

  part doesn’t even want to think about it, and neither of them’s exactly rational on the matter. ‘‘Like I said, I’m not sure yet. My guess . . . I think no one’s got the exact reason yet. I don’t think the Arena’s going to be that simple to pin down. Like . . . do you believe Nyanthus and Mandallon were telling you the truth as they saw it?’’

  Ariane nodded. ‘‘Oh, certainly. You would be, too, if you’d talked with them.’’

  ‘‘No doubt. Nyanthus struck me as a true believer, not a scam artist—and I’m pretty good at spotting those. So anyway, if what they told you is true, we’re not dealing with people ‘just like us,’ like Selpa wants to believe. Beings that can deal with seeing the entirety of the Arena, like Mandallon did for just a second? I don’t think even those super-AIs the Blessed call Minds could do that for an instant. Even shrunk to scale, this place is too huge and complicated for anyone to really envision. Even me.’’ He grinned at her for a moment.

  She laughed. ‘‘But if anyone could do it, it’d be you.’’

  ‘‘My Visualization is very flawed and imperfect,’’ he said, and getting a slightly sad-edged smile in return for quoting the source of her own AISage. ‘‘But I do the best I can. Should I go get our opportunistic fence-sitter?’’

  ‘‘Yes. I think I want to hear his input while the conversation’s fresh in my head.’’

  DuQuesne nodded and went out. So do I. More and more, I’m getting the impression that he’s a lot more formidable than he’s generally let on. And at almost three thousand years old, he’ll have something interesting to say about almost anything.

  And I still don’t trust him as far as Steve could throw him.

  Chapter 43

  ‘‘Thank you for trusting me with this most delicate task, Ariane Austin,’’ Mandallon said.

  Ariane smiled at him. He really did have that ‘‘earnest young man’’ air about him. ‘‘Thanks for coming, Mandallon. Follow me, we have Laila in here.’’ She led the way towards one of the side rooms from the main Embassy entrance. ‘‘I didn’t know if you needed anything . . . equipment, special materials . . . ?’’

  ‘‘No, nothing like that, Captain Austin,’’ Mandallon replied. ‘‘Just my own faith and, I hope, the blessing of the Creators upon me, that I shall see her spirit and guide it back to you. I have done much studying in the past few days of the old records, and meditated and prayed, and I think I now understand clearly what is to be done, if she has been harmed as you say.’’

  The door rolled open in front of them and they entered. Gabrielle looked up, while Steve, Simon, and Carl stood. ‘‘Gabrielle, this is Mandallon, Initiate Guide of the Faith. Mandallon, Dr. Gabrielle Wolfe, our Chief Medical Officer.’’ Also our only medical officer. I wonder how long we can actually keep people confused about just how few of us there are?

  The diminuitive blonde doctor exchanged curtsy-bows with Mandallon, having been shown the gesture previously by Ariane. ‘‘Pleasure to meet you, Mandallon. Must say, I’m not really used to the idea of having someone pray as a principal method of healing, but I’m about at the end of my rope.’’

  ‘‘Dr. Wolfe, I am sure you’ve done everything you could. But truly, if I understand the problem aright, there is little that you could do here, or perhaps even in your home system, for such a terrible injury to the mind.’’ His filter-beard flip-flopped nervously. ‘‘I cannot guarantee that it will work, you understand; the blessing comes only through me, it is not truly of me.’’

  ‘‘All we ask is that you give it your best.’’ Gabrielle looked down at the still, blank-faced form of Laila Canning and sighed. She ran her fingers gently down the woman’s straight hair, a gesture of affection that Ariane recognized as part of her concerned bedside manner. ‘‘Ain’t as though she could be much worse off than she is.’’ She looked over to Ariane. ‘‘If this doesn’t work . . . I don’t think anyone at home could do anything. They’ll probably . . . probably pull the plug once they examine her.’’

  Ariane shook her head; she’d only known Laila for a few days, but in that time she’d come to like the direct,
matter-of-fact manner and razor-sharp mind behind the biologist’s plain brown bangs. There was no way she was going to just let her stay a vegetable on a table if there was a way to change that.

  ‘‘Then . . . should I begin?’’ Mandallon asked hesitantly. ‘‘Or are there . . . rituals, observances? Any taboos?’’

  Gabrielle and Ariane exchanged smiles at the young Initiate Guide’s diffidence, and DuQuesne’s deep chuckle rumbled around the room. ‘‘Not really, Mandallon,’’ he said. ‘‘There’s taboos on various things, sure, but doctors and such generally get a pass, and you not even being our species, we’re not worried. Unless you’re going to get out knives or something like that, just go and do whatever you have to.’’

  ‘‘Oh, no, no, I will do no cutting or anything of that nature!’’ Mandallon looked either scandalized or afraid he’d given the wrong impression. ‘‘Just some gentle contact and prayer.’’

  ‘‘Do you mind if I keep recording everything?’’ Gabrielle asked. ‘‘We’ve got her wired up like a Christmas tree with sensors, and if you do fix her up, I’d really like to have a chance to try to figure out exactly how you managed it.’’

  Mandallon’s laugh was more natural-sounding, less tense, now. ‘‘You are, of course, welcome to use all the sensing devices you wish. Analyzing the power of the Creators is, I am afraid, likely to be beyond you, but there is no forbiddance of such an attempt.’’ He gave one more glance around. ‘‘Then . . . I shall begin.’’

  One six-fingered hand reached out and rested, feather-light, on Laila Canning’s forehead. Mandallon closed his eyes and bent his head, feathery topknot nodding down over his face. After a few moments, Ariane heard Gabrielle gasp; a faint blue glow was emanating from the young Initiate Guide. At the same moment, Mandallon began a prayer, one in the ancient incomprehensible language that the Faith believed was that of the Voidbuilders themselves:

  ‘‘Dilkare deon arlyo

  ‘‘Camven rangestel ancfrin . . . ’’

  ‘‘Well, bless us all,’’ murmured Gabrielle. ‘‘Look at that . . . ’’

  As the blue light began to extend out, bathing Laila Canning in insubstantial illumination, the vital monitors reacted. Her pulse, previously a slow forty beats per minute, rose swiftly, passing seventy. Her breathing quickened. The brain monitors showed increasing activity. ‘‘Not normal, though . . . completely unrecognizable. My God, look at that, Marc!’’

  ‘‘I see it.’’ DuQuesne was suddenly standing next to them.

  Ariane wasn’t sure what she was seeing, but it looked to her as though almost all of Laila’s brain was becoming active. ‘‘Isn’t that good?’’

  ‘‘Looks more like a seizure,’’ whispered Gabrielle.

  ‘‘Tolfas niperod ingecar,’’ Mandallon intoned. ‘‘Meriban . . . ’’

  Small blue sparks danced suddenly along Laila’s body and rippled almost playfully across Mandallon’s hand. The alien priest stiffened. ‘‘I . . . I see her! Creators and watchers, helpers and healers, heed me now! Bring back this woman, Laila Canning, from the place within herself, regather her memories and feelings, her loves and joys, return them to this her mind and body, to we who still walk the Arena!’’ His other hand joined the first. ‘‘Come now, Laila Canning! Return! Satwond norlew hite!’’

  A brilliant flash dazzled them all momentarily, and the displays went blank; apparently the sensors had been overloaded. Mandallon sank down, exhausted; Ariane stepped forward to help ease him into a chair as Gabrielle practically leaped to the bedside.

  Then Laila Canning opened her eyes, gave a tiny gasp, and began to cry.

  Chapter 44

  ‘‘I . . . I’m afraid it’s all very, very confused,’’ Laila said. Her voice was the same, but the tone was not the abstracted, impatient one that had last been heard before their transition into the Arena. The scientist’s contralto was soft and still somewhat thick from both disuse and crying.

  It had taken almost half an hour for the revived woman to stop crying, and another fifteen minutes of quiet argument with Gabrielle Wolfe to convince her that they really did need to try to ask her questions now, rather than later—when memory might have faded. Even so, Ariane could feel her old friend’s gaze tracking her like a security cam backed by a rifle. ‘‘Laila, it will help if you can remember anything. We’re still trying to figure out what happened to you.’’

  Her eyes surveyed the area narrowly, her analytic nature obviously not entirely subdued by her experiences. Given the circumstances, Ariane was glad that Mandallon had immediately left the room when asked; she was fairly sure that Laila hadn’t actually seen him, and she was under enough stress as things were.

  ‘‘This is . . . not Holy Grail. Or any place I’m familiar with,’’ Laila said finally. ‘‘How . . . how long was I out?’’

  ‘‘Weeks,’’ DuQuesne answered, bluntly. ‘‘We’ll fill you in later. Right now, we need to know what you remember from the time we activated the Drive.’’

  The biologist grimaced and forced herself to sit up. ‘‘Ouch. Yes, even with the nanomaintenance apparently one gets stiff after weeks. Indeed.’’ She studied the others, then sighed. ‘‘It isn’t pleasant. I wasn’t even . . . me, I suppose.’’ Her voice trembled. ‘‘I . . . there was a sort of ‘I’ there, in a way, I have a feeling of . . . of wandering through disconnected rooms, hearing voices. I think some of them were your voices. Others were speaking in languages I couldn’t understand. And it was all empty at the same time, cold and lonely. It . . . it was like I imagine an infant might feel, abandoned, no one there, nothing to tell me who I was or where I came from. I saw . . . things go drifting by, animals, mathematical formulae, cell diagrams, DNA structures. Sometimes there were echoes of voices, of Linnaeus and Darwin and Crick, I think.’’

  ‘‘Your AISages?’’

  She nodded. ‘‘They’re . . . gone now.’’

  Simon looked surprised. ‘‘You’re handling that . . . rather well. It took me quite a while to recover.’’

  She ran a hand through her brown hair, then grimaced at the stiff, uncombed feel. ‘‘Yes . . . odd, I suppose.

  But . . . part of me seems almost glad, as though I never needed them.’’ She frowned, narrow, delicate features furrowing in thought. ‘‘Which is very odd.’’

  DuQuesne’s expression was hooded; Ariane could tell he was worried, but not what he was thinking. ‘‘Go on, Laila. Do you remember anything else?’’

  ‘‘Oh! Oh, yes.’’ She suddenly looked more animated. ‘‘I was wandering, not knowing who I was or where or even, really, that I was, and then . . . it was like there was a beautiful white light, and singing. I don’t recognize the singing, it’s . . . very strange, but somehow still beautiful. And as the singing and light got louder, I suddenly heard my name, and I said to myself, ‘Yes, that’s my name. I’m Laila Canning.’ And when I said that, I heard my name being called from inside the light.’’ She smiled suddenly, a quick sharp flash of white teeth like a lightning bolt. ‘‘And . . . this will sound silly. It already does, I suppose.’’

  ‘‘No, not at all. Please, Laila, even if it does sound silly, just go on.’’ Ariane wasn’t sure what to make of all this.

  ‘‘Well, I moved toward this light and the singing and the voice calling my name,’’ Laila said slowly. Her gaze was distant, not focused on anything present. ‘‘And . . . well, I was moving. I mean, walking. There was grass, silvery-green grass with white and gold flowers, and a lovely smell, and there was . . . someone waiting for me, holding his arms out, the light spilling around him.’’ She blushed visibly, looking uncomfortable. ‘‘You know, I’m a scientist, and this sort of cheap romancesim imagery isn’t what I thought my own mind would give me. But . . .

  ‘‘ . . . I kept walking toward him, and as I did I was more and more . . . me. I suddenly thought ‘That’s very strange grass, I’ve never seen it before, I wonder what species it is?’ and I was thinking of picking a blade to examine it. But then I rea
lized that the person calling me . . . wasn’t a person. Human, I mean.’’

  ‘‘Really?’’ Ariane tried to keep her expression neutral.

  ‘‘Well, he was generally humanish, I guess, but he had a lot of features that were just wrong. Six fingers on his hand, three pairs of two opposed digits, for one thing. But I wasn’t scared . . . or even all that surprised. And the light behind him . . . ’’ Suddenly she had an almost ecstatic look on her face. ‘‘The light was filled with life. It was life, everything I’ve ever seen or known or wondered . . . for just a moment, just one tiny moment, I understood life, I knew everything about it, all of the ways it could or has developed on a million different worlds, all the different species Earth has ever had, how to rebuild a Tyrannosaurus rex from base pairs, exactly how the first living cell came to be . . . I knew this, it was child’s play, all so obvious and beautiful and perfectly clear.

  ‘‘And then he spoke my name again and took my hand . . . and . . . and it all went away, except the memory, and I felt myself breathe, and I remembered the scream as poor Crick cut off, and . . . well, it all hit me, and I started crying. Sorry about that.’’ Laila Canning’s embarrassment was still plain on her face.

  Ariane nodded after a moment. ‘‘That’s good enough, Laila. Sorry to be pushing you so soon after you came back to us. We’ll leave you alone with Gabrielle for now, okay? She really wants to examine you, see if you can eat, all that kind of thing.’’

  Laila nodded. ‘‘All right. But you have something—I’d guess a lot of somethings—to explain to me, too. I can tell that much.’’

  ‘‘You’re right,’’ Gabrielle agreed. ‘‘But not until after I’m sure you should be discussing it. Now out, all of you.’’

  The rest of them nodded and went to leave. Just as she stepped through, Ariane glanced back. For just a moment, she thought she caught Laila’s eyes looking straight at her, brown eyes somehow analytically cold, yet with a vast interest and even amusement mingled in that momentary glance. But even as she thought that, she could see that Laila wasn’t even looking at her, but at Gabrielle as the doctor conducted her examination.