Grand Central Arena

by Ryk E. Spoor

  Even though he won’t want to hurt her . . . there’s also no way that I can see Amas-Garao quitting. If she dies, he still gets a human body, and maybe he can read a lot from even a dead mind, given the chance.

  He closed his eyes and swallowed, feeling a lump that wouldn’t go away in his throat, or maybe his chest. His eyes met Simon’s, and he saw the same bleak fear in the emerald green eyes that he knew must be in his own coal-black ones.

  Ariane wouldn’t give up. And the Shadeweaver wouldn’t stop.

  In two more days, Ariane was going to die.

  Chapter 64

  This is it. At the sound of the chime, Ariane stepped forward, through the swirling portal in front of her.

  The blaze of light and sound that met her was staggering. The roar of a human crowd in a stadium might, possibly, be as loud, but the sounds of the Arena spectators covered a vastly larger range, thunderous hoots and nearly supersonic shrieks and drumming of dozens of different types and sizes of limbs on floor, railing, chairs, or each other. She stared around with her jaw half-dropped for a long moment.

  The ‘Core Ring’ stadium of Nexus Arena was an immense hexagonal space surrounded by level upon level of seating (adjustable for the wide range of species). Every space available was filled by something, many of them of species she hadn’t even gotten a chance to meet, ranging from slender multi-tendriled rods that ‘‘sat’’ in slotted cylinders to amorphous blobs that had no seat, just a lot of floor space. As near as she could tell, there had to be at least one member of every known species in the Arena present for this Challenge. If she’d been vulnerable to stage fright, she was pretty sure she’d have surrendered to Amas-Garao right then and there; as it was, the sight was nearly overwhelming.

  And they’re all here to see me lose, she thought wryly. There wasn’t a single bookie, gambler, or other odds-maker anywhere in Nexus Arena that would give odds for her on this contest. In fact, there basically weren’t any bets going on because no one would take the other side of the bet. Mandallon said the reason they’ll all be watching is they can’t believe I’ll actually go through with it. They expect me to surrender just before things get ugly.

  Well, you just go on expecting that.

  She spotted the human and allies contingent on the nearby wall. They had seats up against the invisible barrier—she might as well call it a ‘‘force field’’ because that’s what it seemed to be: a transparent, nonmaterial, yet very real barrier between the Core Ring and the spectators—as close to the action as possible. All her crew was there, Steve and Tom as projected avatars (that apparently she could see, but others couldn’t, so as to keep secret the exact numbers of their faction), along with Nyanthus, Mandallon, Orphan, Dr. Relgof, and a few others.

  Odd. DuQuesne’s not there! There’s an empty chair . . .

  She was surprised at the depth of her disappointment.

  Across from her, Amas-Garao stood immobile, perhaps surveying the crowd, perhaps only studying her. Then he raised his arms, and the crowd roared louder.

  There’s DuQuesne! She spotted the huge Hyperion, striding through the crowd, pushing his way past other spectators to get to his seat. Wonder where he was? He’s not the type to forget to hit the bathroom before the main event . . .

  The Arena spoke, driving all other thoughts from her mind. ‘‘Are the contestants ready?’’

  Ariane felt adrenaline already starting to flow, the tightness of the stomach and cool tingle of fear/anticipation putting her to the edge of combat. She gripped the Wrath of God and spun it once, as Astrella would. I’ll need all the tricks of all my games and then some. ‘‘I’m ready.’’

  ‘‘I am ready.’’ The deep voice of Amas-Garao echoed throughout the Stadium; she suspected it would have done so even if the Arena were not amplifying their voices.

  ‘‘Does either of you wish to yield at this time, prior to any injury ?’’

  The Shadeweaver spoke no reply; the clearly audible mocking chuckle was enough.

  ‘‘Not a chance in hell,’’ Ariane said. ‘‘And you’re going to regret that laugh, Shadeweaver.’’ Nothing like a little bravado to start the day.

  ‘‘Then . . . by the ancient laws of the Arena . . . Begin .’’

  Ariane exploded from her position like a sprinter hearing the gun. He’ll be expecting me to take the defensive, not the offensive, to look for an opening. Well, I’m not playing that game.

  Sure enough, she saw the still-distant, but rapidly-nearing, figure of Amas-Garao jerk, a jump of surprise, as she streaked towards him, hand reaching across to her katana. If he’ll just stay surprised for a couple more seconds . . .

  But the Shadeweaver was a veteran of many combats; before she was even within twenty meters of Amas-Garao, he faded into darkness, reappearing almost eighty meters away behind her and speaking in a soft yet penetrating voice the alien word that she heard as ‘‘Thunder.’’

  The crackling ball of energy streaked toward her, tracking her as she tumbled aside; but unlike the prior battle this time she had enough range in which to act—she took a small globe from her pocket and threw it straight into the approaching ball of lightning.

  The globe exploded on contact, the electricity coursing through it more than enough to trigger the state change, shattering the sphere and casting strands of conductive water solution everywhere, grounding the ball into the ground; a few ineffective sparks drifted forward a few meters more, but Ariane was already past them, running towards the Shadeweaver who reflexively hurled another lightning ball. The crowd was roaring and cheering, and now that she’d proven the tactic, Ariane continued straight forward, the second globe of liquid preceding her, neutralizing the seething mass of lightning, allowing Ariane to dive straight through, the widening eyes of Amas-Garao focusing on her as her iai draw tore its way through the narrowing distance.

  She felt contact, even as the black-clad Shadeweaver vanished, and something fluttered to the ground. She tumble-rolled and grabbed it up, holding it into the air, grinning a killer’s grin at Amas-Garao, who coalesced from shadow halfway across the hundred-meter arena. ‘‘First cut goes to Humanity, Shadeweaver! Want to concede?’’

  ‘‘An impressive beginning, Ariane Austin of Humanity.’’ Was it just wishful thinking that made her hear a slight tremor in the very first syllables, a sound of someone more startled than they wished to let on? ‘‘There are those in our audience who would never have believed even so symbolic a strike against me; well done, indeed. Yet you hold nothing but cloth, child, no blood, no flesh, no substance. Am I a puppet, a thing of stuffing and stitches, to be threatened by the loss of a few threads? Try this, then, and see if you remain so confident!’’

  Twin thunderballs arced outward, crackling across the hard-packed dirt (Genuine replicated traditional dirt, she thought wryly) of the Core Ring, a trail of disturbed dust kicked up by their passage. She ran forward, trying to hurl one of her fast-shrinking supply of the globes toward the encroaching thunderballs, but they were too far apart; one vanished in ozone and sparks, but the other—

  Ariane convulsed as the full power of the thunderball struck. Even with the insulation and the channeling armor, some of it’s getting through, and it hurts. And I have to make it look convincing, because any chance I’ve got against him depends on a sucker punch.

  And he’s not going to be easy to sucker.

  Amas-Garao hit her again, lightning coursing through her, sending her pitching face-forward to the ground.

  The floor of the Arena’s ring definitely tasted like dirt. Considerably more slowly than she actually had to, Ariane pushed herself up, began to stand, then desperately dodged as another thunderball streaked in.

  This time, though, she was a lot closer to Amas-Garao, and as she dove, she chose her course carefully. Seeing what she was up to, the Shadeweaver dismissed the lightning-ball before her maneuver brought it close enough to potentially threaten its caster. Unfortunately, he also faded away at the same moment. Damn! That w
ould’ve been the perfect shot. I’m sure I’ve got some juice now.

  The Shadeweaver was getting her measure, unfortunately. He knew how fast she reacted, and he was no longer surprised that she was attempting to bring the fight to him as fast as possible. He materialized a bit more than fifteen meters off this time, but instantly a hurricane howled outwards from him. I can fight my way forward through that, but I’ll be doing it like wading through molasses . . . which gives him a perfect chance to aim and fire.

  But there’s another way.

  She knew from DuQuesne’s experiences that the Shadeweaver had to think about it to throw up certain types of shields. Right now he had the hurricane up. Which means . . .

  Kicking in the combat mods, driving her strength to full, she lunged forward, jabbing her arms forward as hard as she could . . . and triggering the Monkey King’s staff to full extension.

  Ring-carbon reinforced active-memory composite, powered by some of the Shadeweaver’s own energy, jabbed outward like a ten-meter punch, hammering into Amas-Garao with an impact so brutal that the transmitted vibration sent splinters of bee-sting agony through Ariane’s hands, making her drop the staff.

  The air whooped from the Shadeweaver’s lungs in an incredulous shrieking gasp, and Amas-Garao folded up like a greeting card, tumbling backwards limply. Ignoring the fading pain in her hands, Ariane sprinted forward, the hurricane winds now gone, drawing her sword, and diving towards the prone form of the Shadeweaver.

  Amas-Garao rolled aside as she came, and this time there was no mistaking the desperation in his move, the shaking and wheezing sound of a creature barely able to force air back into its stunned body, no time to focus on arcane powers. Ariane’s booted foot smashed into the robes, force blunted by the stiffening cloth but still hitting with considerable strength on what felt like a shin. The Shadeweaver grunted, and she thought she could hear a triumphant shout from DuQuesne, not far away. If I can just keep this up, get one good contact cut . . .

  But the Shadeweaver contracted into a ball for a moment, and her kicks, punches, and cuts were blunted by the flexible yet tremendously tough robe. Knowing she was running out of time, she aimed a last cut at the head area, readying the electrical discharge. One good bolt back . . .

  ‘‘Away from me!’’

  The voice was like the thunder of a vengeful god, and it was accompanied by a blue-white blast that crackled through her limbs like vengeance. Oh, damn. I had him on the ropes, but he’s just tougher than I thought. Or just has more defenses.

  Amas-Garao rose, darkness gathering about him. ‘‘A painful and well-considered attack, little Human, but not enough, not nearly enough. And what exactly gave such speed and power to that weapon, hm . . . ?’’ He circled her, fading in and out like a nightmare, keeping her turning in place to try and find him, never coming closer than twenty or thirty meters. He seemed to be considering. ‘‘Ah, yes, of course. A clever ploy indeed, Captain Austin, but do you think you are the only one to think of such things?’’

  Abruptly the temperature surged around her. She felt like she was in a sauna. ‘‘What, you’re going to make me sweat to death?’’

  A dark chuckle. ‘‘Something very like that, yes. A network of superconductive layers, I think? Something to lead me into a false sense of security, while all the time giving you the power for quite a number of little tricks.’’ The heat increased again. ‘‘But superconductors, alas, are such very touchy things, even in their advanced forms. Does the term ‘transition temperature’ bring anything to mind, Captain Austin?’’

  Oh, no. She was no engineer, but those words meant something to just about anyone who dealt with superconductor storage units—which meant pretty much everyone in the Solar System who used high-power equipment. A superconductor that got above its transition temperature would suddenly stop being a superconductor—and if it was storing energy at the time, that energy would be released. Immediately.

  The transition temperature in question was 71 degrees

  C. And by the feel, it wouldn’t be long before Amas-Garao reached that level.

  The batteries are integral with the armor!

  She tore at the fastenings, forcing them open, sweating now from fear as much as from the furnace-like heat. One arm out. Another. Get that last fastener open! She pulled the flexi-armor free and hurled it from her just as the temperature gave another surge.

  The storage coils transitioned just as the armor left her hands. At a distance of about a meter and a half, all the energy she’d stolen from Amas-Garao detonated.

  She’d had the presence of mind to duck and cover; even so, the blast felt like a wrecking ball, smashing her aside with irresistable force. She tumbled over and over, finally coming limply to rest against the side of the Core Ring.

  That’s funny . . . I thought the lights were bright . . . but everything’s getting so very dim . . .

  Chapter 65

  DuQuesne gripped the railing so tightly he felt the metal give slightly. He hated this. He hated having to sit here and do nothing, while she gave everything . . . and all of it to make sure that he wasn’t in the Shadeweaver’s hands. He hated seeing her hurt.

  He glared at Amas-Garao, the Shadeweaver gliding untouchably as Ariane tried everything at her command. And she was good. Oh, as a fighter she wasn’t anything compared to him or Orphan (or, god forbid, Wu), but she had the head of a fighter, the guts and strategy and cold-blooded calculation. The Shadeweaver had the power, but even as he unleashed his lightnings, DuQuesne could tell there were more eyes on the hopelessly outclassed Ariane Austin. She dominated that battlefield through sheer chutzpah.

  He heard a rhythmic muttering, a singsong chanting, and saw, out of the corner of his eye, Mandallon, holding a seven-sided crystalline object, turning it regularly after every muttered stanza; praying, praying for the impossible to happen.

  Then Ariane took her shot, and DuQuesne was on his feet, shouting encouragement like a madman, along with everyone on his side, even Orphan, as the blue-haired Captain of the Holy Grail tore into Amas-Garao. She’s nailed him, she’s got him right where she needs him, by God she’s going to . . .

  But then he saw the Shadeweaver get up, heard his words, and realized that all the planning still hadn’t been enough.

  ‘‘Bloody hell, she almost had him, Marc,’’ Simon muttered furiously.

  ‘‘Bastard’s tough, smart, and mean. I sucker-punched him once myself, and still lost.’’ DuQuesne squinted down as he heard Ariane’s comment about sweating, and suddenly went pale. ‘‘Holy—get the damn armor off!’’

  And then she did—and was caught in the explosion. Ariane tumbled across the floor like a broken doll.

  ‘‘Ariane!’’

  The shout came from two men, both lunging forward, both smashing themselves ineffectually against the transparent, impenetrable barrier around the Core Ring. Gabrielle caught at Simon and pulled him back; DuQuesne felt an iron, alien grip on his shoulder, found that Orphan’s grim face brought him back to a semblance of sanity. It’s worse than I thought. Haven’t reacted like that since the last time I saw K.

  Amas-Garao drifted somewhat towards Ariane, then chuckled. ‘‘A good run. I look forward to seeing you later, when you have recovered.’’ He drifted towards the exit . . . and rebounded. ‘‘What? Why can I not pass?’’

  ‘‘Because . . . ’’ came a weak but iron-hard contralto, ‘‘the Arena knows that I’m not finished with you yet!’’

  The rising roar of disbelief echoed the rising of his own heart as he turned to see Ariane standing, leaning heavily against the wall of the arena within the Arena, a hell-bent grin on her face that either stopped his heart, or sent it leaping from his chest—he wasn’t sure which.

  Amas-Garao turned slowly, incredulously. ‘‘What is the point, human? I have taken all you can do, all the tricks and ruses you have devised—I have given you every chance! Yet you can barely stand! Do you want me to kill you?’’

  ‘‘Want has
nothing to do with it.’’ Ariane pushed away from the wall, moving painfully but straightening, tearing away gloves shredded by her tumble, drawing her sword again. ‘‘If you choose to kill me, I can’t stop you. But I warned you more than once, Shadeweaver, that I will not give up. If you want me, you will have to beat me. I don’t care what the odds are. Maybe you’ll understand it better in these words: give me liberty, or give me death!’’

  And she was sprinting again, from what depth of focus and depth of reserves he couldn’t tell, straight for the Shadeweaver, sword drawn back for a samurai cut that would cleave the creature from one side to the other. You’re gorgeous, but that’s not going to work, Ariane.

  Amas-Garao did not even bother to disappear or step aside. He gestured, and the sword was torn from Ariane’s grasp; he reached out, and his hand was around Ariane’s throat, lifting her effortlessly from the ground; DuQuesne could see now that its hand was black-furred, taloned, like a humanoid panther. ‘‘I shall give you neither, arrogant little creature.’’ The deep, pitiless voice of the Shadeweaver echoed throughout the stadium, slow, measured, certain. ‘‘I have no intention of killing you, as you shall be of vastly greater value to us alive; nor shall you win, and thus shall you have no liberty. Your choice—your only choice, Ariane Austin—is to either spare yourself further pain, and yield the Challenge, or to continue this futile contest until I choose to end it in pain. And pain it shall be, I assure you.’’

  The Arena supplied them with many angles, many views of the contest, available at a simple glance. Now they could see Ariane, held in the unbreakable grip of the Shadeweaver.

  And she was smiling.

  ‘‘Pain?’’ she managed to choke out. ‘‘I’ll give you pain!’’

  Her right hand lashed out and clamped on the exposed forearm of Amas-Garao.