Grand Central Arena

by Ryk E. Spoor

  ‘‘What is the Sevenfold Path, by the way? Another little thing I never asked.’’

  ‘‘At least that is something I can answer more clearly, Captain Austin!’’ Mandallon seemed pleased. ‘‘I have spoken at some length with Laila, of course, and found that your people have some related concepts—especially a listing of—what was it . . . ah, yes, the Seven Deadly Sins. We believe that there are seven basic facets of a true soul which exalt us—the Seven Keys of Creation—and seven opposing facets which debase us, make us less than we were, the Seven Keys of Destruction.

  ‘‘So the Sevenfold Way, then, is the Faith’s . . . ritual schooling, path of learning, to emphasize the Seven Keys of Creation within us, and to reduce or eliminate from us those of destruction. The Seven Keys of Creation, what you might call virtues I suppose, are Compassion, Wisdom, Courage, Trust, Dedication, Generosity, and Wonder. Their opposites, respectively, are Hatred, Prejudice, Fear, Betrayal, Apathy, Arrogance, and Cynicism.’’

  ‘‘Wisdom the opposite of Prejudice?’’ Ariane took a sip of her new drink—noting with pleasure that it managed to burn its way down her throat while also echoing the scent and sweetness of exotic flowers—and thought about that. ‘‘I wouldn’t have thought of that. But . . . yes, I suppose I can see it. Wisdom in the sense of looking for true understanding, versus prejudice in the sense of assuming you already know and can judge everything.’’

  ‘‘Precisely so, Captain! And well worded, I will say, for one who had not thought of the Key-Pairing before.’’ Mandallon seemed to beam at her.

  ‘‘Be careful, Captain Austin,’’ Relgof said warningly, but with a flutter and glance that implied a wide grin. ‘‘Show too much insight of that level, and you may find yourself an Initiate as well!’’

  The others laughed, and this seemed to her a good time to move to a more pressing subject, while everyone was in a good mood. She turned to Dr. Relgof. ‘‘Doctor, there is something quite important I want to ask you. While I’ve had answers from other people, I think I’d like one more opinion from what may be the most unbiased source in the Arena.’’

  The filter-beard flip-flopped as a rough chuckle resounded from behind it. ‘‘Ah, Captain, a scientist does attempt to avoid bias, and yet I could not say there are none, either within my own mind nor those of the Analytic. Yet it may well be true that we are the least interested directly in the petty politics of the Arena. What is your question?’’

  ‘‘As you know—from our little discussion earlier, before you, Orphan, and Mandallon absented yourselves—I have requested that the Blessed pay the fee—whatever it may be—to have the Faith secure our Sphere. Meaning no offense to our good friend Mandallon . . . can we trust that this ritual, or whatever it is, will truly be secure?’’

  Mandallon did look somehow slightly hurt, but said nothing, as Relgof responded, ‘‘Indeed a wise question to ask, here in the Arena. How to answer it in a way that conveys the correct meaning, yet is precise . . . well, allow me to answer merely in the fashion of a true scientist. There is, as far as I am aware, no way to know, beyond any shadow of a doubt that there are no, how might it be put . . . ’’

  ‘‘ . . . Back doors?’’ suggested Simon.

  ‘‘Back doors! An excellent word! Yes, no way to be absolutely certain that there are no back doors within the rituals. Yet, this can be said for certain: that never have I heard, or read, or even heard rumor of, the security of a Sphere being violated once secured by Shadeweaver or Faith. I have heard, yes, of people who had specified incorrect conditions of security, which had ways that they could be exploited by others, but never of an actual failure of security,’’ Relgof said, picking up one of his appetizers, a misty greenish liquid in a peculiar container that seemed like a cross between a soup bowl and a faceplate. As the Analytic scientist took a deep draft of the liquid, she understood the design; the soup or whatever it was—ocean water? she suddenly guessed—passed through the filter-beard and then poured back out, far clearer and lighter in color, to disappear downward through a tube attached to the container. Relgof’s filter-beard then flip-flopped a few times, presumably allowing him to actually eat whatever had been strained from the liquid.

  ‘‘So,’’ the scientist continued, ‘‘I can offer to you only the fact that in many, many tens of thousands of years, there is no clear evidence of any failure ever occurring—even when such a failure might well have been to the benefit of the securing faction.’’

  Well, that does relieve me some. It was clear we needed some kind of security on the Sphere, and we will have to have other people from the Arena travel to Earth, probably often, as time goes on. I’m sure we’ll try to set up our own security, but without Arena-level security there is no telling what tricks or traps might be waiting for us.

  I’ll just have to talk to DuQuesne when he gets back about just what conditions to arrange, so we don’t have any of those loopholes Relgof mentioned.

  As though summoned by her thought, a green ball abruptly materialized before her. ‘‘Ariane!’’ came DuQuesne’s voice, filled with a grim urgency she had never heard before, not even at the worst times, and at the same time with a hard eagerness she’d also never imagined. ‘‘Ariane, I’m in—’’

  The green ball vanished.

  She was on her feet now, as was Carl. ‘‘Heard his voice like that before,’’ Carl said, answering her unspoken question. ‘‘When we were cornered by the Molothos.’’

  ‘‘Marc!’’ she called. ‘‘Marc, answer me!’’

  But no green flickered. ‘‘Arena, connect me with Dr. Marc DuQuesne! Marc!’’ There was no response, no hint of a connection.

  What’s going on? This has worked everywhere in Nexus Arena, and everyone I’ve talked to has said how reliable it is. The Arena simply doesn’t fail . . .

  . . . Unless someone is messing with it. And that means . . .

  ‘‘Orphan.’’ She gestured and the last of the Liberated stood—slowly, as though he suspected what she was about to say. ‘‘Orphan, I’m collecting on that debt you owe me. In full.’’

  The black eyes, touched behind with ruby-red, studied her a moment. ‘‘What do you ask of me?’’

  ‘‘Help me get DuQuesne. I know where he is . . . except I bet I can’t find it. But you can. Because you know exactly where he is.’’

  Orphan took a step backwards. ‘‘W . . . what do you mean?’’ His hands almost unconsciously flicked outward, again and again. No. No. No.

  ‘‘Only two groups could possibly be shutting off the Arena’s little network: the Faith, who have no reason to do this, and the Shadeweavers, who might very well.’’ She dragged him to the side, keeping the others from following with a savage cutting gesture that needed no translation even for Relgof and Mandallon. ‘‘You worked for the Shadeweavers. You know where their Faction House is. Don’t you?’’

  ‘‘You are truly, utterly mad. You intend to go to the Shadeweaver Faction House and think you can somehow . . . argue? Compel? them to yield up DuQuesne? It will not work! You have no conception of these beings! What they can do!’’

  ‘‘You’re three thousand years old, Orphan. You have to have some trick, something to help bring the odds down, even if they still suck.’’

  ‘‘Even if I do . . . Please, Captain Austin, do not do this! They will not kill your friend, I am sure! Just wait—’’

  ‘‘I am not waiting. He called me because he is in trouble, and as his Captain—as well as his friend—I’m going. The only question, Orphan, is whether you’re going to back out on what you agreed you owed me, or not.’’

  The green-black coloration was definitely paler, faded by the stress. Orphan looked genuinely panicked, like a man trapped between two raging fires. ‘‘Please! Captain

  Austin, I cannot do such a thing!’’

  ‘‘Then your word is worthless?’’

  Orphan’s mouth closed. His wingcases snapped shut. He stood for a moment, staring into her eyes.

  T
hen he slowly forced his body to unbend, to stand upright. ‘‘No, Captain Austin. If this is your requirement, then I shall fulfill my promise. You will accept that if I can offer you any assistance in this matter, then my debt is paid in full?’’

  ‘‘Agreed.’’

  Orphan closed his eyes; she heard a whoosh as his breathing organs took in a huge breath. Then the eyes opened, and his posture shifted. It was still stiff . . . but it was much more the Orphan she knew. ‘‘Then let us be off; if Dr. DuQuesne was indeed in trouble, we cannot afford to wait.’’

  ‘‘Carl, you’re coming with us. So’s Gabrielle—but you stay in the back, understand? Simon, you get yourself and Laila back to the Embassy right away. Relgof, Mandallon, I’m sorry—’’

  The two simply stared at her. ‘‘You cannot go against the Shadeweavers. They will destroy you—or more likely simply humiliate you, then demand a price for your continued survival.’’

  ‘‘Maybe,’’ Ariane said, heading for the door. ‘‘But they’ll also learn that you don’t attack one of us without having to deal with all of us.’’

  Hold on, Marc! We’re coming!

  Chapter 54

  This is very much Not Good. DuQuesne thought grimly, as the black-cloaked Amas-Garao stepped out in front of him yet again. I’ve used just about every trick I’ve got, and he’s somehow managing to end up ahead every time. Isn’t there any blasted limit to how often he can pull off that stunt?

  ‘‘You are achieving nothing beyond wasting time, Doctor DuQuesne.’’ The Shadeweaver’s voice was calm, certain, with just a hint of mockery.

  ‘‘My time to waste, isn’t it?’’ He moved slowly towards the Shadeweaver.

  ‘‘Mine as well,’’ Amas-Garao said, seeming to simply observe his approach. ‘‘Yet I will not argue that since the situation is of my own devising that it is not for me to complain. I find this rather entertaining. It is also most instructive.’’

  ‘‘Always glad to be educational.’’ DuQuesne said, stopping about ten to twelve meters away; that seemed to be about the limit before the wizard-like being decided to do his teleport business, or otherwise throw some kind of barrier up. So far, he’s made what amounts to a damn sci-fi forcefield that stopped me like a brick wall, caused a hurricane-force wind to blow me back, and of course just done that spooky disappear-appear-disappear trick. And he’s right to do it, too, because I’m pretty damn sure I could take him if I could just get one hand on him. ‘‘So what are you learning?’’

  ‘‘That you are indeed a quite formidable being—far more so, I think, than your companions. This had been our suspicion for quite some time, but your reflexes, your endurance, and a number of other little facets of this chase have verified it. You will be a most impressive addition to our ranks.’’

  Damn. He isn’t giving up on that either. ‘‘And after you give me these superpowers, what makes you think I’m not going to use them to do unto you exactly and precisely as you’ve been doing unto me?’’ He began to focus his will, speeding up his perceptions to full combat mode.

  A faint chuckle. ‘‘Firstly, Doctor, because I have many, many years of experience on you, and it would be most unwise for you to challenge me in that manner. More importantly, of course, because you would not remember these circumstances. While your resistance to control is quite unique and fascinating, I do not think even you would be foolish enough to contend that it cannot be broken eventually.’’

  DuQuesne shook his head. ‘‘No. You’re right there. With all the stuff you people have—and it’s a lot, I’ll grant you that—I’m sure you’d figure out a way. Which is why I can’t let you do that.’’

  He’d been trying to avoid escalating the conflict. That way lay a whole huge fifty-five-gallon sized can of worms he didn’t want to open. But with the Shadeweaver basically telling him flat out that he intended to recruit DuQuesne, and make DuQuesne think it was his own idea, and with every effort he’d made so far giving him exactly zero in progress, Marc didn’t think he had many options left.

  While he hadn’t carried his main sidearms, he never went anywhere without something—actually, several somethings—on him for insurance. Feeling his readiness reach its peak, he triggered the action.

  With inhuman speed and accuracy, DuQuesne brought up his arm, the holdout pistol sliding smoothly into his hand, the trigger being pulled in the very moment his arm aligned directly with Amas-Garao.

  There was a subdued click. DuQuesne stared at the pistol, a sinking feeling in his gut.

  The Shadeweaver had been startled by the sudden move; he’d twitched, moved half a step backwards. But then he laughed. ‘‘So, you are indeed fast. I did not, in all honesty, see that movement even begin. Yet how naïve of you, to believe that such mundane weaponry could be used against me.’’

  DuQuesne looked at the pistol and popped the chamber open. The old-fashioned chemical pistol had functioned properly; he could see the dent on the primer case. The weight of the cartridge was correct, as far as he could tell. The gun should have fired.

  But it hadn’t. One more instance of impossibility in this insane place, but this one had been made to order.

  I am still not beaten, and I’m not giving up no matter how hopeless it looks! Without warning, he whipped his arm back outwards, but this time throwing the pistol in a flat, hard arc, straight for the Shadeweaver’s head.

  The prior reactions had shown that Amas-Garao did not have DuQuesne’s speed. Whatever barrier he might have had prepared to stop a full-blown charge by the former Hyperion, it was not triggered by the small and vastly faster improvised missile; with a sharp smack the heavy metal pistol slammed solidly into the side of Amas-Garao’s head.

  In that instant DuQuesne moved, sprinting forward while the Shadeweaver was distracted by surprise and pain.

  This time, nothing stopped him. He slammed a hard-driven fist into the robes, where he figured the thing’s gut was, following immediately with an elbow to the head, driving Amas-Garao into the wall with the force of his charge. The robes seemed to stiffen on impact, blunting the effect of punches and wall, but for a moment he had his hands on one of the Shadeweaver’s limbs, and that was enough to turn, roll, and hurl the black-cloaked creature another ten meters into the far wall, to strike with muted yet groundshaking force. DuQuesne immediately sprinted again, trying to catch Amas-Garao between his hammer and the wall’s anvil, but in the fraction of a second between movement and strike, the Shadeweaver vanished in a roil of smoky darkness.

  He’ll be back any minute. Probably take him a few seconds to recover, and maybe I’ve put the fear of God into him, but more likely I’ve just royally ticked him off. Even his damn clothes were protecting him. Actively. I’ve got to get out of here, and do it now. He broke into an all-out run.

  The corridors of the Shadeweaver Faction House were . . . confusing. DuQuesne had become aware of that as soon as he’d started running. There was something about them—and not in the construction, either—that threw off perceptions of direction. But as a Hyperion, he’d had an awful lot of experience, especially towards the end, of being able to ignore confused perceptions and focus on the facts—the real direction he was going, the actual number of steps he was taking—and he knew exactly where he was. He suspected Amas-Garao thought he was lost. But one thing he’d been trying to do was slowly work his way towards the exit. This is it. I’ll never get a better chance.

  Why the other Shadeweavers weren’t helping Amas-Garao, he didn’t know, but he wasn’t going to complain. He came to the central hall, scrambled up the railing, leaped upward, grabbing the floor of the next level, heaved himself up and over in an acrobatic flip that landed him atop the next level’s railing, right in front of the corridor that led to the exit. He kicked into a flat sprint, running as he hadn’t run in fifty years. There was the door, ahead of him.

  And then it was gone. A flat, featureless wall loomed up, and he barely slowed in time to keep from smashing himself into it.

 
There was laughter—angry, vengeful laughter—behind him. ‘‘A most impressive effort, Dr. DuQuesne. You have injured me—something I would have believed impossible in the circumstances.’’

  Not injured you bad enough, though. Damn, if only Wu were here. I think we could take this guy, even with all his tricks. Wu might even do it by himself. He turned to face the black-cloaked Shadeweaver, feeling behind him with his hand. They’ve got a lot of power, but they also do a hell of a lot of misdirection. I’m betting the door’s still here, somewhere. Whether I can get it open, though, that’s another issue.

  To his dismay, the Shadeweaver seemed to be reading his mind . . . or maybe he was just very perceptive now that he was taking DuQuesne seriously. ‘‘Even if you could find the door, you would not be able to open it. At the moment, it will only open from outside, and even then only to one who knows exactly where it is and how it is to be opened. A Shadeweaver, or one of our very, very few allies.’’

  ‘‘Aren’t you a little worried I’m going to finish the job I started on you?’’ DuQuesne said, straightening. ‘‘So far, you’ve gotten the worst of it.’’

  ‘‘Indeed I have,’’ the Shadeweaver said softly. ‘‘So I think that ought to change.’’ He gestured with one hand, muttering a single alien word that DuQuesne half-heard as thunder.

  A crackling sphere of energy burst into existence and screamed into the astounded DuQuesne, who heard a bellow of startled pain driven from his own lungs as electricity seethed through his body. He staggered and fell against the wall, using it for temporary support. Holy Mother . . . that hurt. Like about a dozen stun charges. Would’ve killed most other folks. He forced himself to straighten, but it was an effort.