Grand Central Arena

by Ryk E. Spoor

  ‘‘So they’re not actually citizens of the Arena?’’

  ‘‘Not in the sense that those of us here are, no,’’ Nyanthus confirmed. ‘‘And they cannot Challenge directly without that legitimacy.’’

  Simon frowned. ‘‘Rather unfair to them, given they evolved here.’’

  DuQuesne shrugged. ‘‘Seems pretty clear to me the Arena isn’t about ‘fair’ at all, except in pretty limited categories.’’

  The voice of the Arena suddenly echoed around the colosseum. ‘‘Are both participants ready?’’

  A dual ‘‘Yes’’ came from the ends of the mazes—one rough and deep, the other a sharp, impatient tenor.

  ‘‘Will either of you yield now, before the contest begins? ’’

  Neither of the contestants even deigned to speak, apparently considering the question itself not worth responding to. After a pause, the Arena spoke again. ‘‘The first to reach the center and, following that, interrupt—by any means—the beam of light from the central tower shall be the winner. Both of these conditions must be met for victory. By the ancient laws of the Arena . . . begin. ’’

  The two figures charged forward into the maze. Simon noticed that the mazes were the same size, but not identical. He wondered how the Arena decided what design was appropriate.

  Sivvis halted suddenly, barely in time to keep from falling into a spike-lined pit that had appeared in front of him. The huge creature studied the pit for a moment, then backed up and made an amazing sprint and lunge that sent him literally running along the side of the wall like a gecko before coming to a skidding halt on the other side of the pit.

  Meanwhile, Tunuvun of the Genasi was confronted by a grating blocking his passage—a grating that looked like it was made up of huge, razor-sharp sword blades, edges facing the contestant. With scarcely a pause, the tiny Genasi inserted his arms between two of the blades and levered outward. The glinting swordblades bent like twigs and the slick-skinned creature slid through the opening.

  That was very impressive. Simon glanced over at Orphan. ‘‘His size is rather deceptive; I would hardly have expected such strength from so small a creature.’’

  ‘‘Indeed, Dr. Sandrisson, it would be unwise to judge the Genasi by ordinary standards. Make no mistake, if by chance the two do reach the center at the same time, neither Sivvis nor Tunuvun will be in for an easy time of it.’’

  Sivvis was speeding his way through a series of branching corridors. ‘‘Oh-oh, that’s not good,’’ DuQuesne said with a grin. ‘‘He’s taken a wrong turn.’’

  ‘‘He might make up the time, though. Look!’’ Simon could hear the excitement in Ariane’s voice. This element of the Arena . . . worries me. Though, thinking about it dispassionately, it is in many ways little different from the racing Ariane already participated in.

  Tunuvun was now in one of the small open areas, facing an armored figure of familiar outline: a Daalasan, the same species as Nyanthus’s bodyguards. The compact form of the Genasi halted and stood waiting, not even assuming anything that Simon could recognize as a combat pose.

  The Daalasan whirled a thick staff about his body in a theatrical gesture, demonstrating skill and speed, then sidled into action, the clawed, backward-bending legs shifting him sideways. Tunuvun did not bother to turn; he didn’t even seem to be really bothering to watch. That has to be a tactic in itself. Taunting your adversary with complete disdain.

  Without warning, the armored Daalasan gave a tremendous leap, the legs showing their strength, propelling the creature nearly nearly five meters into the air, coming down towards Tunuvun with the staff jabbing downwards.

  There was a white and violet blur and the sound of a whipcrack combined with a head-on collision of two groundcars; the Daalasan tumbled limply away like a discarded doll and lay motionless on the ground as the crowd roared and the Genasi warrior moved with swift but unhurried strides towards the next tunnel. Simon blinked. ‘‘What the bloody hell just happened? I couldn’t see a thing!’’

  ‘‘Not surprised,’’ DuQuesne said, eyes narrowed. ‘‘Bastard’s fast as a striking snake. He turned to face his opponent just as the Daalasan jumped, and then just before the staff could hit he did a flip, a sorta aerial somersault, and totalled the poor bastard with his tail. One shot, one takedown.’’

  ‘‘Some of the maze is open,’’ pointed out Ariane as they watched Sivvis desperately retracing his steps. ‘‘Why doesn’t he just climb up, get a good view, and just run across the tops of a lot of these corridors? He could cut off a lot of time that way.’’

  Nyanthus waved his branching tendrils in an amused manner. ‘‘So he could, were it possible to do so; yet not only would such an action be a gross violation of the expected protocol, but also the Arena relies not at all on others to adhere to its protocols. While one can jump and climb as desired during the contest, the participants here would see only black walls above, preventing an advance knowledge of the maze, and if they attempt to pass over, the barriers will prove to be quite solid.’’

  The two contestants pressed forward; Sivvis literally ran over a creature that confronted him, Tunuvun was momentarily balked by a strange puzzle-lock that took him several precious minutes to resolve. A narrow passage barely wide enough for his body caused Sivvis to wiggle and drag himselv slowly forward, while his opponent leapt precariously from one trembling, unstable foothold to another over what appeared to be—and, given the Arena’s technology, could actually be, Simon thought—a bottomless chasm.

  The rustle and cheer and roar of the crowd rose to a crescendo as the two contestants each entered the final straightaway and charged into the central area as though shot from the same gun, catching sight of each other at the same moment, breaking into all-out sprints for the tower and the glittering beam of light at its apex.

  Sivvis was ahead by perhaps the length of his massive torso, but as their two paths converged Tunuvun did not slacken his pace, but instead leapt onto the Daelmokhan’s armored back.

  Instantly the center of the arena became a whirlwind of furious motion. Sivvis whipped his head-crest backwards, an edged axe of evolution, as the Genasi warrior hammered downward. Tunuvun evaded the slash of sharp bone but was nearly crushed as the Daelmokhan rolled over; deep-purple claws dug in and he skittered around Sivvis’s body like a squirrel running around a falling tree, jabbing and harrying. A massive arm caught at Tunuvun’s tail, pulled, threw, but the tail curled around Sivvis’s wrist, sent the Genasi slingshotting back directly for the glittering eyes, which were abruptly replaced from that angle by Sivvis’s mouth, a great tearing beak like that of a monstrous eagle. Tunuvun’s high-pitched curse was audible as the point of the beak scored a line across his body despite an amazing last-second release and twist by the Genasi. Now he landed, leapt over a swipe by Sivvis’s bladed tail, and jumped back onto the vastly larger Daelmokhan’s back.

  ‘‘Holy kami,’’ Simon heard himself whisper. He’d never imagined such a vicious duel of apparently-mismatched opponents.

  Even DuQuesne looked impressed. ‘‘Damn, that’s good. Almost a perfect matchup, both strong as hell, trained like nobody’s business—Sivvis is a lot faster than he looks so Tunuvun never gets a good chance for a killing blow, but he sticks like glue and Sivvis never gets a really good shot at him either.’’ Ariane was leaning forward cheering. Simon couldn’t quite tell which one she was actually rooting for . . . or if she even knew.

  The two combatants suddenly separated, glaring at each other across perhaps six or seven meters of space, breathing hard. Both were scored with at least four or five additional wounds garnered in the last few moments of vicious combat, and it was not at all clear which one was faring worse in this conflict. Sivvis edged sideways, and Tunuvun shifted as well, easing behind a cone-shaped pillar—one of four ringing the tower. The Genasi tried to scramble up the pillar, for a leaping vantage, but unlike the tower nearby, it was smooth as glass.

  Sivvis took instant advantage of the momentary
delay and lunged for the tower with that scrambling splayed-leg posture that had gotten him across the first pit. Claws and flat-padded feet grabbed hold and he began spiraling his way up the side of the tower.

  Tunuvun bounced from the ground and sprinted in a whirl of long tail and short, sturdy limbs into a doorway of the tower, running and leaping up the interior stairway. Windows set at intervals around the tower showed him moving with incredible speed, gaining on the huge Sivvis. As the two drew even, Sivvis jabbed one arm through the window, missing Tunuvun by a hair’s breadth; at the next window, the Genasi warrior leaped through, hammering both feet and his tail squarely against the climbing Daelmokhan, propelling himself off his opponent’s body to the edge of the tower roof a meter or two above.

  Adrenaline charging his system from this amazing combat, Simon felt his perceptions go into overdrive in that moment; time seemed to slow. He could see Sivvis, turning over in midair, starting a fall directly towards the point of one of the four sharp columns below. He saw Tunuvun’s hands grip the top of the tower firmly, legs supporting him, the little Genasi throwing a last glance in the direction of his opponent. He saw the beam of light, now only two meters straight ahead of Tunuvun. One move, a flip of those arms and the Genasi would win.

  But in that glance downward, Tunuvun undoubtedly saw what everyone else did: Sivvis plummeting directly for the sharp, smooth point, his massive weight driving him towards what was almost certainly unavoidable death.

  The white tail lashed out, wrapped around Sivvis’s own flailing tail, pulled taut; Sivvis was pulled inward, reached out, grabbed the side of the tower as the stone of the tower crumbled under Tunuvun’s grip and the Genasi

  slid back to catch hold of a window on a level with Sivvis. For a moment, the two warriors looked into each other’s eyes.

  Then Sivvis’s immense left arm snapped out, grabbed Tunuvun from the wall, and threw the smaller warrior with such speed and force that he streaked upward, completely over the edge of the tower, and tumbled directly through the beam of light.

  A chime resounded through the Arena. ‘‘Challenge is concluded, ’’ the Arena’s passionless voice stated evenly. ‘‘Sivvis Lissaturas for the Vengeance has interrupted the light beam using his opponent’s body. ’’ As the roar of the crowd began to swell, the Arena continued, ‘‘At the same time, Tunuvun for the Powerbroker Ghondas has interrupted the light beam, using the strength of his opponent to do so. ’’

  A confused babble broke out. ‘‘As these are not merely simultaneous but in fact identical events, this constitutes a true tie. ’’

  ‘‘Amazing,’’ Mandallon said. ‘‘I am not sure that one challenge in ten thousand has such an outcome. Truly are you fortunate to have witnessed this!’’

  ‘‘Does that mean they have to go through another Challenge to resolve the tie?’’ Ariane asked.

  ‘‘Alas, I am afraid so. Poor Ghondas. The only way . . . but wait!’’

  Sivvis had raised his arms above his crested head and bellowed. ‘‘There is no tie!’’

  Oh my, thought Simon. If that means what I think it does, Sivvis may be about to anger his patrons.

  The Arena responded immediately. ‘‘Clarify statement. Simultaneous accomplishment of goals clearly tie. ’’

  ‘‘Bah!’’ Sivvis’s deep-voiced cough of dismissal was translated perfectly. ‘‘Tunuvun had won. He had taken me from the contest, was poised to break the light himself. He saved me from injury or death.’’ His voice rose to a roar again. ‘‘There is honor in this Arena, is there not? Have I not always fought with that as my word and bond, in a thousand battles?

  ‘‘When I threw him, it was with the full and direct intent to give him that victory which he had earned. Now declare the contest his!’’

  There was a pause. ‘‘Intent of actions can be considered when the situation warrants.’’ Simon thought there might have been, perhaps, a touch of amusement in the normally passionless voice. ‘‘Physiological signs and past history confirm your statement.

  ‘‘The Challenge is therefore concluded, victory for Tunuvun and the Shiquan Powerbrokers. ’’

  Tunuvun came forward from where he had landed, on the other side of the tower, crossing his arms across his chest and crouching low before Sivvis, clearly a gesture of great respect, and then straightened. ‘‘Then I have my prize—but the prize I ask can only truly be granted by the Arena itself.’’ The tenor voice was precise, hard, and focused.

  Orphan leaned forward. ‘‘Oh now. That sounds interesting, especially as I cannot offhand think of what the Arena could—or would—grant . . . ’’

  ‘‘The Arena is not a participant and thus not normally subject to such requests. What prize is this that you require? ’’

  ‘‘That which is controlled solely by the Arena: the right of Challenge,’’ Tunuvun said, quietly. ‘‘Arena, we are born of you; we have never seen the dark skies of the other universe, never walked within our own Sphere. Give to me the chance to change that, the right to Challenge another Faction as though we were one of them, to Challenge them for a Sphere that we may call our own, that we shall be a Faction, not merely the pawns and soldiers of others.’’

  A hush fell over the colosseum. For a moment, there wasn’t a sound throughout the huge circular arena within the Arena.

  ‘‘A prize whose value will depend entirely upon meeting another Challenge—a prize which may therefore be valueless, and costs nothing from any party at present. The Arena deems this reasonable. One Challenge you may give, and that Challenge must be accepted by those to whom you give it, and the stakes of that Challenge will be—for you—the chance to win your own Sphere. You may only issue challenge, therefore, to those who have a multiplicity of Spheres—ten or more.

  ‘‘This contest is thus concluded. The Powerbrokers retain their position. Let this judgment be entered in the records as precedent .’’ With that statement, the crowd began to slowly break up.

  ‘‘Whew,’’ whistled DuQuesne. ‘‘Quite a show. Thanks again for inviting us.’’

  ‘‘You are truly welcome, Dr. DuQuesne,’’ Nyanthus said. ‘‘And with such a marvelous spectacle, with such honor and strength displayed, I hope you have found your hearts somewhat lightened.’’

  ‘‘Well, I don’t know about anyone else,’’ Simon said, glancing around, ‘‘but I certainly have.’’

  He saw Ariane smiling agreement. And with that said . . . I believe I have something else to attend to, before I make a mistake in timing again. ‘‘Ariane,’’ he began, as the others started to move off, rehashing the Challenge in conversation, ‘‘a moment, please . . . ’’

  Chapter 59

  ‘‘And a toast,’’ Simon said, ‘‘to finally getting you alone at last.’’

  Ariane laughed and tapped the flower-shaped glasses gently together and sipped. The nallitiri, as their host Mairakag Achan had called the drink, was mildly alcoholic, with a light fruity taste something like a grape crossed with a fresh cucumber, and a deep warm undertone similar to a touch of chipotle pepper. Ariane liked it and took another sip. ‘‘Mairakag, this is excellent!’’

  The tripedal Mairakag Achan touched all three of his four-fingered hands to the top of his head, a gesture of gracious thanks. ‘‘It is the purpose of the Kitchen to not merely satisfy hunger, but please the senses, of all who enter. I thank you for these words.’’ He gave a graceful pirouette, elaborate dress robes of black, gold, and many-colored thread patterns flaring out from him momentarily. ‘‘I hope that you shall find all of the dishes presented by my chefs to be interesting, if not all to your taste. Have you selected your cuisine?’’

  ‘‘It’s . . . almost impossible, sir,’’ Ariane confessed. ‘‘You have sorted the offerings for things that aren’t going to poison us and so on, but even then . . . I haven’t even an idea of where to start. I don’t know the traditions or tastes. But . . . ’’ she glanced at Simon, ‘‘I’m not afraid to try new things. We’ve given you a few of ou
r patterns, which should give you some idea of the range of our taste and smell senses. If Simon does not object, I would leave it entirely up to you. Let your experience be our guide.’’

  Another three-handed touch and a pirouette. ‘‘You do my establishment much honor. I shall endeavor to show you the best that the Kitchen has to offer. I thank you for this opportunity.’’

  ‘‘No, Mairakag,’’ Simon said, ‘‘It is we who thank you, given that so few even dare speak with us these days; it is truly kind of you to accept us into your establishment, with the Anathema declared against us.’’

  In a startlingly human movement, Mairakag Achan drew himself up, three eyes staring in all directions but still somehow focused upon them, the very image of the proud artiste. ‘‘Anathema? Preposterous! Do the Shadeweavers not eat? Do they not also come here when they seek the finest cuisine of the Arena? There are none in the Arena who would be foolish enough to task me over this, else I should declare Anathema against them, and let them try to find a restaurant worthy of the title that would serve them.’’ He pirouetted again. ‘‘Please, think no more of it; enjoy your meal, and your time, for here there shall be no intrusions of your outside concerns.’’ The elegantly-clad owner of The Kitchen swept away, a nobleman among his courtiers.

  Ariane couldn’t restrain a chuckle. ‘‘I see, a Faction of one like Orphan,’’ she said quietly to Simon.

  ‘‘Indeed. Not a Faction in the official sense, but he has apparently been running this restaurant for a very long time—long enough that Orphan calls him ‘longestablished’—and from what I’ve heard Mairakag has taught virtually all of the highly-respected multispecies chefs in Nexus Arena at one point or another, and hires the very best to be his kitchen staff. So if other species value their dining experiences—which the very existence of this place shows they do—yes, he can in a sense be a self-made Faction, or an artist above the petty concerns of politics.’’ He took a sip of his own drink. ‘‘I’m just glad we were finally able to take this time. I was so busy trying to arrange this, though, I’ve lost track; what are the others up to right now?’’