by Ryk E. Spoor
The Shadeweaver conjured a green-skinned oval something which he stuck a straw into while DuQuesne ate, which he did with gusto. Again, doubt he brought me all the way here to poison me.
Once he was done, he stood up, and Amas-Garao followed suit. ‘‘So, Dr. DuQuesne,’’ the Shadeweaver said, as he led the way out of the hall, ‘‘What about those observations? Have you any more to add?’’
Showtime. ‘‘Well, I’m guessing that your point in showing me all this was to impress me with what you can do—without showing me too much that was critical; letting me see and hear a little bit of some ritual, showing me the map, and so on. Which really leads to only one logical conclusion.’’
The Shadeweaver tilted its head. ‘‘And that is . . . ?’’
‘‘You want to recruit me.’’
‘‘Very good, Doctor. Like our opposite numbers in the Faith, we also like to recognize the arrival of a new species of citizens in the Arena by a special ritual involving them. Unlike the Faith, however, we do not do this by asking you to perform some symbolic service and then ‘assigning’ you a member of our group who is, in actuality, serving our own needs, and who has no kinship to you at all save from this symbolic service. Instead we prefer to select an especially worthy member of the new species and teach them the ways of the Shadeweavers—awaken, if possible, the powers that lie within them, train them in their use, and welcome them into the Blood of the Skies.’’
‘‘Blood of the Skies?’’
‘‘An expression of many meanings; so was my phrasing translated to you, but it could easily be something else. The Brotherhood of the Arena, in another sense. We are of no world, bound to each other by skill and knowledge, but also free to act as we see fit. You seem a man of great curiosity, of a desire to know and see all things, to travel as you will, to bring forth that which you envision. This is indeed what we seek as well, and what we can offer you.’’
Quite an offer. ‘‘But if I understand right, I’d also have to give up my own Faction.’’
‘‘Say, rather, you would be expected to give your new brothers higher priority. But there is for Shadeweavers no absolute requirement that you refrain from contact with or assistance to your original people.’’ Amas-Garao continued forward.
‘‘I can’t say it’s not a big temptation. But my friends may need me.’’
Amas-Garao stopped. ‘‘With the powers of a Shadeweaver you could be of much more assistance.’’
That’s certainly true. But from what he says . . . ‘‘I’m not sure; if your training takes significant time, I might be gone at a critical moment.’’
The Shadeweaver spread his hands. ‘‘All things are possible,’’ he said softly, that powerful undertone to his voice again, ‘‘yet they have done well before, and is it not unlikely that the truly critical event must come when you are gone? Come. Join us, Marcus Cassius DuQuesne.’’
A grinding internal shock sent a flood of adrenaline through DuQuesne, as dizziness and confusion were opposed by the trigger of a cold iron-hard alertness he had never thought to feel again, that he hadn’t thought was possible to feel outside of the lies of Hyperion. Mind control! The son of a bitch is trying to control me!
Alert now, he focused his will. Damn you, designers, but you did some things right. Figured out a sort of mental checksum, a parallel automated process in my brain that makes sure it’s following its own path unaffected by alien sources. Seemed such a totally useless addition, when we knew there was no such thing as psionics, when the Fenachrone were just a piece of a story . . .
His head came up and he glared straight into the narrowing, startled eyes of the Shadeweaver. ‘‘That was a good try, but you don’t . . . quite . . . ring the bell. And after that little trick, the answer is no.’’
The long-drawn hissing sound was a disbelieving curse. ‘‘How . . . this should not be possible!’’
‘‘Deal with it, you second-rate sideshow magician. It’s not going to work. And I’m leaving.’’
‘‘Fool!’’ Amas-Garao snarled. ‘‘Do you think I brought you here and showed you secrets so you could talk? You will be joining us—your unique resistance simply shows that you have something very much worth learning. And I assure you, it will not hold out forever against us!’’
And he’s probably right about that. Once they figure out how that defense works, whatever their mumbo-jumbo really is, it’s bad medicine, and they can probably either rewrite me or overpower the resistance somehow. ‘‘Ariane!’’ he called, seeing a green shimmer appear in the air. ‘‘I’m in—’’
The green ball vanished in a coil of black fury. ‘‘Oh, we won’t be having any more of that, I assure you, Dr. DuQuesne. No one will be coming to help you—even if they could, which—I promise—they cannot.’’
DuQuesne turned and ran. I may not be able to get away . . . but I sure as hell am not going to make it easy! The laughter from behind him . . . was already ahead of him.
Chapter 53
Ariane found DuQuesne’s departure upsetting—something that surprised her, as he was clearly doing it just to cool off, and mainly because he’d been . . . well, speaking honestly, something of a jerk. Of all the people present, he should have known what he was doing when he made her captain.
Because, looking back on it, it really had been DuQuesne’s doing. He could have taken that position any time, and he hadn’t wanted it, and he’d made sure that his pick for the job got stuck into it. Without making it obvious that he was the real driving force.
Well, what do you expect? He’s a superman. Best of breed, too, if the story is halfway accurate.
Which did make it all the more ridiculous that he’d screwed up so badly in this little argument. But enough of the musing—everyone was looking at each other with sort of deer-in-the-headlights stares. ‘‘Okay, Marc’s gone to get some air, and we’ve settled that argument, right?’’ Ariane caught everyone’s gaze. ‘‘Right? No more doubts about my being in charge?’’ Well, none but my own, but that’s my problem, not theirs.
‘‘None whatsoever, Ariane,’’ Simon said, speaking for the others. ‘‘I’m quite sure that Steve and Tom will agree. Steve has, of course, worked for you for years, like Carl here, and Tom trusts your judgment.’’
‘‘Well, in that case,’’ she said, deliberately injecting more energy into her voice, ‘‘I think a celebration is in order!’’
Carl leaped up with a grin. ‘‘Now there is an order I can get behind!’’
‘‘Well, before we get too far, might I have a word with you, Ariane?’’ Simon asked.
‘‘As long as it’s not another emergency. I don’t want any of those for a while.’’
Simon laughed. ‘‘Oh, I would hope we’ve exhausted our quota for the week, at least. Actually, I was going to invite you to join me for dinner, unless you were dead-set on a party here. I’ve found a restaurant on the Arcade which is excellent at catering to biologies like ours, and as Steve generously donated a large chunk of his winnings to permit us to receive our pay here in actually useful form, I wanted to spend a bit of that doing something entertaining.’’
Ariane almost missed the real point of Simon’s invitation; she was on the verge of asking the others if they wanted to come along when she remembered certain prior exchanges. I think Simon’s asking me out on a date.
Why do some men have such terrible timing? Right now I’m in the mood for a rowdy celebration, if I’m going to do anything at all. After that race and this argument, I’m sure not in a romantic mood . . . but I sure don’t want to just shoot him down.
She was saved by the door rolling slightly open. ‘‘Captain Austin?’’ came the rough voice of Relgof. ‘‘We saw Dr. DuQuesne leave in what seemed something of a hurry, and wondered if there was a problem.’’
She held up a hand to Simon as if to say ‘‘hold on,’’ and then turned to the door. ‘‘Come in, Doctor. And Orphan, and Mandallon, as I presume you all were waiting in the guest conference r
oom to see what happened.’’
‘‘She seems to know us well, my friends,’’ Orphan said, striding in as the door finished opening.
‘‘It is true, Orphan. I am afraid that I am revealed to be insufferably curious,’’ Mandallon conceded. ‘‘But it is the way of a priest to be concerned with the doings of the world.’’
‘‘Don’t worry about it; we’ve all done the same kind of thing, I’m sure,’’ Ariane said. ‘‘Excuse me a second, would you?’’
She moved over to Simon. ‘‘Simon . . . I don’t think the schedule’s good for that right now. Given the circumstances. But that’s not a no, okay?’’
‘‘Bad timing?’’
‘‘You are a master of it, Dr. Sandrisson. The first time you flirted with me, we ended up here. The second time, we were still in emergency mode. And whenever I win a race—or get in an argument—I want something rowdy with lots of people to blow off steam.’’
The elegant, long-fingered hand came up and brushed the snow-white hair from Simon’s face, and he smiled. ‘‘Then I hereby resolve not to wait until the next emergency, but to wait for the very next quiet moment and ask again.’’
‘‘Thanks. Now, if your restaurant can handle an actual party we might still benefit from your explorations!’’
‘‘I can certainly check. Mairakag Achan!’’ he called to the air. A green ball appeared, but surrounded by a sparkle of red that showed that the call was inconvenient at the moment—the equivalent of letting one’s phone signal occasionally but not answering. As it was a restauraunt, Simon simply waited. A few moments later the sparkle disappeared.
‘‘The voice and cadence . . . if memory serves me correctly, this is Dr. Simon Sandrisson of Humanity! What can my kitchen do for you, Doctor?’’
‘‘Well, I won’t be needing the special we discussed quite yet; however, we have a celebration for our recent Challenge win starting, and the question was asked whether your establishment would accommodate a perhaps noisy group of celebrants?’’
The unseen alien’s translated voice was rich and deep, as was his chuckle. ‘‘While I enjoy such celebrations myself as well, my own establishment is designed to focus on the experience of dining as only Nexus Arena can make possible. But I can recommend several excellent alternatives, Dr. Sandrisson.’’
‘‘I believe I know a perfect choice,’’ Relgof said.
‘‘Dr. Relgof! Of course, you would indeed, as a patron of many of our establishments. Follow the Analytic’s advice, Dr. Sandrisson, for they do indeed perform their research!’’ The green ball vanished.
Simon looked slightly disappointed, but cheered up visibly when Ariane leaned over to him. ‘‘Never mind, Simon; this way you can treat me to a place I won’t have seen before.’’
‘‘So desu,’’ he agreed with a smile.
The entire group headed en masse toward the doors. It struck Ariane suddenly how she was actually getting used to this—which immediately made her recognize how strange the picture before her was: Carl, Gabrielle, herself, Simon, and Laila, walking in a group with and talking to two tall, slender, six-fingered creatures with beard-like filters and an even taller, massive, insectoid creature with black beetleish wingcases, two curved crests at the sides of its head, and a disquietingly nearly-human face. How quickly we adapt, if we’re only willing to be open to the possibilities. Maybe we will make it here in the Arena.
The place Relgof picked was closer to a nightclub than a simple restaurant . . . and the easy familiarity with which he walked them through and picked out a subdivision of the club which had tolerable ambience and food for all in the party indicated that, indeed, the alien scientist was familiar with the establishment. There were a fair variety of alien species present, including some of Relgof and Mandallon’s people. It seemed that at least some other species enjoyed very similar entertainments to humanity, which was another reassuring part of this venture.
Carl caught her eye. ‘‘Hey, Cap’n. Let’s enjoy ourselves, but not like we did at Hanover Station.’’
‘‘What happened at Hanover Station?’’ asked Simon quickly.
‘‘Carl—’’
‘‘Oh, the same thing that happened after the Mars Cup when we stopped off at Phobos Hab, and that happened at Kanzaki-Two after the Photon Limited, and—’’
‘‘Carl!’’ The tone in her voice brought him up short. Dammit, I have to even watch out for people joking around. I sure hope he gets it . . . She saw him wince and settle back.
‘‘Don’t be a spoilsport, Arrie. And what was it that happened, Carl? Stop with the suspense, don’t taunt your medic.’’
‘‘Um . . . never mind.’’ Carl had clearly realized that talking about her . . . tradition of ending up in a post-race brawl would end up possibly giving away more about Humanity’s risk-taking habits.
The others, especially the aliens, stared in curiosity for a moment, but then realized that, whatever they’d been talking about, it wasn’t going to be discussed further. She saw Laila raise an eyebrow, then nod to herself, and Simon showed a similar expression. I think they’ve got it, too.
A waiter came by and managed to get orders from all of them—though it took the humans some time to figure out what was and was not safe. Ariane studied the crowd. If she had understood things right, this was the sort of establishment, back home, that would be pretty rowdy. And—for the aliens she’d met—it did seem somewhat rougher. But compared to the way a human bar would be, this was a genteel drawing room. It’s got to be that risk thing again. There’s a chance of being really hurt in a brawl, and they just won’t take that kind of chance if they aren’t forced to.
Simon was seated next to Mandallon, across from her and Relgof; this seemed to spark something in his mind, because he suddenly turned to the young Initiate Guide. ‘‘Mandallon, it just occurred to me that there is something we keep meaning to ask you.’’
Oh yes. ‘‘Thanks for remembering, Simon. It’s been weeks now and I still kept forgetting it.’’
Mandallon gave a fluttering gesture. ‘‘So tell me of this thing you keep forgetting.’’
‘‘When the First Guide Nyanthus greeted us upon our arrival,’’ Simon began, ‘‘he was very courteous, as usual, but he did say one thing that was quite odd. He said . . . ’’ there was a pause, as Simon obviously was consulting his headware to make sure he got the wording exactly right. ‘‘ . . . ‘In the seventh turning of yesterday’s light that I saw this place, and knew you would come. Perhaps they are the ones?’
‘‘So naturally, we have wondered exactly who ‘the ones’ are.’’
‘‘Who . . . oh, but of course, you would not know, would you?’’ Mandallon laughed, then took a breath and brushed his fingers back and forth contemplatively across the filter-beard. ‘‘I suppose you still know little of the beliefs of the Faith, really.’’
Ariane smiled. ‘‘I have to presume your religion is at least as complex as one of ours, and it would take me a lot longer than a few weeks of casual contact to understand one of those. I know that you see the Arena itself as a manifestation of the Divine.’’
Mandallon chuckled, a sound in translation that was rather like his mentor Nyanthus’s. ‘‘As Simon might say of my understanding of physics, that is . . . at best a vast oversimplification. But true enough.
‘‘As with many other religions I have studied, from a hundred different worlds, we have our own . . . prophecies? Foretellings? Beliefs, in any case, in things that are to come. One of the most important—perhaps the most important—is that one day we shall pass the tests of faith and skill and will that the Arena presents us, and come to the Canajara.’’
Ariane blinked. ‘‘That word didn’t translate.’’
‘‘No more did my name,’’ Relgof pointed out, ‘‘save perhaps only to become pronounceable. Word concepts that are specific yet have no direct equivalent are translated only as names are. The names of foods or creatures, for instance.’’
‘‘
And a few which have many equivalent meanings, such as ‘Sandrisson Drive,’’’ Mandallon continued, with the multiplicity of subliminal words underneath the last phrase emphasizing his point, ‘‘are translated as many-in-one. The Canajara is . . . the Meeting of the Ultimate, the Choice of Path, the End and Beginning that may be. It is the time we strive for, and also what we fear most.’’
Simon raised an eyebrow. ‘‘Ah, I think I begin to see. When you reach the end of Faith, you believe that there is a great moment of choice, a potential for the greatest glory or complete defeat, as in my ancestors’ Ragnarok.’’
‘‘An end of the world? Mm . . . or the attainment of all worlds. Yes. But the Faith will not reach the Canajara alone. It is said that there will one day be newcomers, First Emergents, who will lead the Arena’s people to the Canajara, with the Faith but not always of it. They will have followed the path of the Creators even before they knew the Arena; they will be set amongst the factions, though none will have Challenged them. The Blessing of the Arena will be upon them, and nothing to which they turn their hands—for good or evil—shall they fail at for long. And for good or evil none shall say, for the Sevenfold Path they tread in both directions, and they shall be exalted in light and terror.’’ Mandallon’s voice held a note of recitation, of speaking ancient words whose true meanings still were unknown.
‘‘That doesn’t sound all that fun. I hope it will be a long time before these people show up,’’ Ariane said. ‘‘I suppose you might be able to shoehorn us into part of those prophecies, but other parts don’t really fit, or are so vague that they’d fit anyone.’’
Mandallon’s filter-beard flip-flopped apologetically. ‘‘Alas, Captain Austin, is it not the way of prophecies to be difficult to understand? They are hints and warnings, not roadmaps of the future. Yet there is much, much more in the teachings, far more than the, hm, simple summary that I gave you, which is part of what all the followers know. As an Initiate, and now Initiate Guide, I studied the visions far more deeply as I progressed along the Sevenfold Path.’’