Grand Central Arena

by Ryk E. Spoor

  The Shadeweaver shrieked and convulsed; a faint sound of buzzing and hissing reached their ears. Ariane dropped to the ground, still gripping Amas-Garao’s arm, and with all the leverage of her body and fall threw the Shadeweaver, smashing him to the ground with stunning force.

  ‘‘What the hell?’’ DuQuesne muttered disbelievingly.

  ‘‘Way to go, Ariane!’’ Carl shouted, a grin a mile wide on his face. ‘‘You guys wondered about her biomod? that was her biomod. A built-in shock-stunner, electric-eel derived old-fashioned taser.’’

  ‘‘So that was why you’d already put conductive channels in her weapons.’’ DuQuesne liked things to make sense.

  Ariane slammed a knee into Amas-Garao’s back, then grabbed his head and tried to smash it into the ground. But the Shadeweaver rolled over; the cowl pulled away in the process, exposing a snarling, monstrous head, yellow eyes and fanged mouth and black fur and flattened ears, something like an unholy cross between a mandrill and a humanoid lizard. The great jaws snapped at her, backing her up, and a bolt of fire hammered her backwards. Amas-Garao rose, slowly, painfully, but still more swiftly than Ariane, and the snarl on the Shadeweaver’s face was savage.

  ‘‘And yet another trick, a much more surprising one, little human.’’ The deep, measured voice was angry, but the anger faded swiftly. ‘‘Almost, almost you managed to force me to act from anger instead of policy. You nearly did succeed in achieving the goal of death instead of liberty.’’ He faded, reappeared, as Ariane launched another exhausted strike that touched nothing. ‘‘You have done well. None will see you as weak or impotent; you have given much honor to your Faction.

  ‘‘But now it ends.’’

  With a simple gesture, Amas-Garao tore Ariane from the ground, sending her skyward, dropping her to the hard packed dirt. ‘‘You shall not touch me again.’’

  Ariane struggled to rise, but another gesture hurled her across the ring, to impact against the wall. ‘‘You shall not even approach me.’’

  ‘‘You son of a . . . ’’ she muttered, and tried again to charge him, but her feet left the ground and she was pinned against the impenetrable barrier around the Core Ring.

  Amas-Garao did not answer her, or even appear to heed her curses. As the crowd roared, and as DuQuesne found himself once more pounding futilely against the barrier, the Shadeweaver systematically, dispassionately, and implacably battered Ariane repeatedly against the walls, barrier, ground, again and again, impact after impact echoing through the stadium; the crowd grew quieter, realizing they were no longer watching a battle but a humiliation, a beating of a spirit as well as a body.

  Finally there was nothing but silence and the sound of a body hitting the ground. A pause, and the young woman—barely more than a girl to DuQuesne—twitched. No, please, Ariane. Let it go. Don’t give him the excuse.

  But Ariane’s wobbling posture, as she managed to get to her hands and knees, showed that even if he’d shouted, she probably wouldn’t have been able to understand. She stayed there, unmoving, hair falling over most of her face, blood dripping into the dirt.

  ‘‘Surrender,’’ Amas-Garao said, and even his voice now seemed tinged with sympathy, or at least with less amusement, as though the enjoyment of this mismatch was finally beginning to pall.

  The only part of her face that was unshaded by Ariane’s hair was her mouth, bloodied, lips working, clearly trying to gather strength for yet another futile assault.

  And then it stopped. DuQuesne could see that even her breathing had stopped, as though some thought had struck her so suddenly, so strongly, that even the need to breathe had been momentarily overriden.

  And her mouth was curved in a smile.

  Chapter 66

  Ariane stared down at the dirt, trying to focus. Even the ground seemed to be moving, and not in a helpful way. She could barely hear anything, even the Shadeweaver’s taunts. If he was still taunting.

  Lost. I’ve lost.

  She replayed all the facts she’d learned, but they were meaningless. All she saw were faces—DuQuesne’s, as she’d seen it a moment before while she fell, white, furious, tears streaming down the usually impassive cheeks; Simon’s, grim as a thundercloud; Carl’s, teeth bared in a helpless snarl, Gabrielle’s with tears running down her face . . . Steve’s, half-covered by his left hand, Tom’s with eyes closed, unwilling to watch any more.

  And Orphan’s, as she’d first seen it, alien and ironically confident . . . Oh, not good, I’m starting to lose it. She needed to focus on what was, here and now, not start drifting . . . drifting into the past . . . Mandallon’s face as he became an Initiate Guide . . . Laila, two faces, the focused scientist, and the cold, alien smile seen only perhaps in her mind . . . Nyanthus’ non-face, gesturing in the midst of ritual . . . Her own vision cleared momentarily, dark spots on the dirt . . . her blood. And the glitter of Wrath of God, impotent on her wrist.

  ‘‘When your enemy surpasses you, you must defeat him beyond the battle.’’

  Oh, wonderful. My brain’s throwing cryptic quotes from a game sensei . . . think that was Astrella’s master, that’s why, saw the weapon . . .

  ‘‘Beyond the battle’’, oh, thanks, that’s so useful. Means that you have to beat him with something other than skill and strength, you have to change the rules. But this place changes all the rules anyway.

  Entering the Arena, the end of nuclear power . . . all the AIs shutting down . . .

  How can I change the rules, when the rules don’t work any more?

  Fragments of chants, the Faith, prayers of Mandallon, a few words through a Shadeweaver door.

  A few words . . .

  ‘‘ . . . dem orthar usat . . . ’’

  ‘‘ . . . beyond the battle . . . ’’

  Blood . . . a sharp, acrid taste . . .

  And suddenly it was all there before her, as clear as though she had known it all along. It was an insane gamble, and probably wouldn’t work, it had probably been tried many times before, but . . . what was there to lose?

  Maybe my soul, she admitted to herself. That’s the problem; I might win, and lose everything at the same time.

  But if it works, it saves my friends; that’s a good enough exchange no matter what the price.

  She felt herself smiling. And then the laugh began, a faint chuckle that built up and threatened to dissolve into coughs in her pain-wracked chest.

  ‘‘Why do you laugh?’’ demanded Amas-Garao.

  ‘‘Because . . . I’m about . . . to beat you . . . ’’

  Now the Shadeweaver laughed. ‘‘I think you are suffering from far too many injuries. Delirium does sometimes bring false senses of triumph.’’

  Not ‘‘dem orthar usat’’ . . . or it doesn’t have to be that. If I’m right . . .

  The Shadeweaver said something else, but now she had to focus. Remember . . . get the pronunciation right . . . She opened her mouth, and began to speak. ‘‘Recardisea tinduk wesni . . . ’’

  Chapter 67

  Amas-Garao halted in mid-sentence, and burst into fresh laughter. ‘‘Fool! You believe it is so simple?’’

  Simon stared, listening hard. It can’t be that simple, no.

  Nyanthus’ openwork tendrils shuddered dismally. ‘‘A brave last throw . . . but not possible.’’

  But Ariane was continuing. ‘‘ . . . cotarey wademor tharus zatra . . . ’’

  Suddenly he understood. The words DuQuesne had repeated, overheard in another ritual, were very nearly the same. ‘‘Dem orthar usat’’ was just a slight change in emphasis and timing from ‘‘ . . . demor tharus zat.’’ The same, or similar, rituals, perhaps distorted through separation and time.

  But just the words could not possibly be enough, else there would be no controlling the spread of the powers.

  Amas-Garao smiled, a terrifying sight, and raised his hand for a final strike.

  ‘‘ . . . setsdensu kama threy !’’

  For a single split second, the Arena was silent
, motionless, as though the Universe held its breath.

  And there was a detonation of power like an exploding star.

  ‘‘Impossible!’’

  The word was torn from Amas-Garao, even as his hands came down to block the wash of blazing energy that drove outward to the very limits of the barrier about the Core Ring. His feet dug in, but the force of the unleashed, uncontrolled energy was not to be denied; slowly, inexorably, he was being pushed backward, leaving a trail of earth in his wake, a trail being erased by the increasing vibration of the combat ring.

  ‘‘A miracle!’’ Simon heard Mandallon say, a hushed and joyous whisper. ‘‘The Creators have heard, and they answer!’’ But Simon noticed that Nyanthus was still, unmoving, even the symbiotes flattened to the ground.

  ‘‘Not . . . impossible.’’ Ariane’s voice was strained, the sound of a woman either in agony, or at the edge of ecstasy—perhaps both. ‘‘And . . . I’ve won.’’

  ‘‘Won? Won?’’ there was strain in the Shadeweaver’s voice now, strain and desperation and disbelief.

  ‘‘Won.’’ Her voice was stronger, but Simon couldn’t even see her clearly any more, as energy blazed from her form, making her indistinct, dissolving in pure light. He became aware that the ground under his feet—Nexus Arena?!—was vibrating, shaking, as the uncontrolled power clawed at the barrier. The audience were suddenly on their feet, panic beginning to emerge as the impossible played itself out before them.

  ‘‘You . . . can’t control . . . this Awakening by yourself,’’ Ariane said. Her voice echoed, contralto thunder, shaking the foundations of Nexus Arena itself, even though the tone was still that of a woman near the end of her strength. ‘‘I may survive it by myself—others have—but you, confined here, within a barrier you cannot escape . . . you are only one. Are you seven times greater than Nyanthus of the Faith? Are you?’’

  Amas-Garao’s face was a rictus of fury and fear, teeth bared in a humorless, terrified grin as he fought against a power that was redoubled in that instant; the ground heaved under him, sending him staggering back. He realized at that moment that he was nearly to the barrier . . . an immovable object, with an irresistable force pressing in on him. DuQuesne could see disbelief warring with the need for self-preservation, but the Arena-born instincts won out. ‘‘I . . . I yield. I yield!’’

  But with that shout, the barrier came down, the contest ended. Blue-white energy lanced outward, shattered seats, scattered the now-fleeing watchers; DuQuesne stood frozen, staring at the featureless globe of light expanding from the center of the circle.

  Higher-pitched in desperation, Amas-Garao shouted ‘‘Now, my brothers! Now, O Faith! Initiate Guide and Shadeweaver, to me!’’

  Six more shapes materialized around the great Core Ring; Shadeweaver and the Initiate Guides, Gona-Brashind across from Nyanthus, others of both sides entering, focusing the power of Faith and Shadeweaver to contain the energies unleashed.

  A figure began to take shape, forged from flame and sunshine, taking on solidity, yet floating meters above the solid floor below. Eyes opened, eyes that themselves blazed with pure luminance for a moment before that faded. A figure with hair of blue, dressed in robes of midnight azure touched with gold, with a symbol—a cup crossed with a ship—of purest silver.

  Ariane Austin’s gaze met his own, a gaze filled with wonder and awe.

  And still the Shadeweavers and Faith fought to contain the power, as the Arena shook to the thunder of her triumph.

  Chapter 68

  DuQuesne vaulted down, dropping the seven meters to the Core Ring floor as though it were a single step on a staircase. The incredible energy had finally dissipated, and all in the center of the Ring—Shadeweaver, Faith, and Ariane—knelt or sat or lay, recovering from near disaster. As he ran, DuQuesne heard a humming whirr behind him; a glance showed a ramp had extended down, allowing the others of Holy Grail’s crew to follow. The remaining crowd that had not fled during the devastating finale of Ariane’s Challenge were starting to cautiously make their way down as well.

  As he got closer, he saw Ariane slowly standing upright again; he noticed that her new outfit was not—exactly—a set of robes, but more formal than that; a gi, it seemed, was the base garment, but a gi with structured and clean lines woven into the fabric, a martial-arts outfit crossed with a suit or uniform; rank bars on her shoulders, with the ship-and-cup symbol over the left breast, like an insignia. It suits her, he thought.

  He slowed and stopped, putting out an arm and stopping Simon’s headlong rush as though the tall scientist were an overeager child. ‘‘DuQuesne, what—’’

  He held up his hand, and all the others stopped. His gaze met Ariane’s, and he could see her eyes widen. ‘‘Captain?’’ he asked cautiously.

  The question in his voice caused her to nod. ‘‘I . . . think so.’’

  Simon glanced from one to the other, looking puzzled.

  ‘‘I see.’’ Laila’s voice was suddenly analytically cold. ‘‘And that must be one of the questions you have about me as well.’’

  ‘‘I can’t deny it,’’ DuQuesne acknowledged, keeping his gaze on Ariane. ‘‘So, Captain, are you sure?’’

  She sighed. ‘‘How can I be, Marc? Would I know? If I did know, would I tell you, or would I play the part of myself well enough to fool you? All I can say is . . . I don’t feel any less Ariane Austin. I feel . . . well, more myself, if that makes any sense.’’ She glanced over to where Amas-Garao was also rising. ‘‘And we can deal with this later; it won’t be settled in the next few minutes anyway, and I have to go shake down a Shadeweaver.’’

  ‘‘Hold on, Captain! Before you do that, you need to know something. You don’t need to bargain for power. I’ve got it covered now.’’

  The delight that lit up her face—immediately followed by narrow-eyed suspicion—gave him hope that this really was the Ariane Austin who’d gone into the Ring. ‘‘That’s wonderful, Marc . . . but I have a feeling we need to have a talk about exactly how you managed that.’’

  ‘‘Later, I think.’’

  ‘‘Don’t think for a second I’ll forget.’’

  No, you won’t. No matter who you really are, you’re not going to forget that.

  The Captain of Holy Grail had turned away and in three strides stood face to face with Amas-Garao. The Shadeweaver had pulled the cowl back over his head, and his posture was still wary. ‘‘You have achieved unexpected victory, Captain Austin,’’ the deep voice said. ‘‘I congratulate you . . . for now.’’

  ‘‘Thank you, I think,’’ Ariane said, an edge of sarcasm in her tone. ‘‘I am claiming my prize.’’

  ‘‘So quickly?’’ Nyanthus’s voice was tired, and there was a strange catch in his voice, a sound of caution and unease. ‘‘You have won an unprecedented victory, and given the demands that the Shadeweavers were making, your price could be high indeed.’’

  ‘‘Meaning no offense, Arrie, but he’s right,’’ Gabrielle said. ‘‘If Marc’s taken care of our first need, why be in a hurry?’’

  ‘‘Because,’’ Ariane said, voice hard as steel, ‘‘I know exactly what I want from these people, and waiting could be dangerous as hell.’’

  DuQuesne had a suspicion, just based on the leashed anger in her voice, that he knew what she was going to demand, and couldn’t quite restrain a slight grin. ‘‘Then far be it from us to question you on this one, Captain—especially after our prior second-guessing.’’

  That earned him a quick flash of a smile, disappearing instantly into the glare that she leveled on Amas-Garao. ‘‘Amas-Garao, your price would have affected my entire Faction, and not in a good way. I am sure you agree with that.’’

  ‘‘I . . . I cannot disagree. No.’’ The reluctance in the deep tones was clear.

  ‘‘Then my price will affect all of the Shadeweaver faction. From this point on, no Shadeweaver will ever read, sense, influence, brainwash, mentally assault, or in any other way outside of the mundane met
hods available to all other Arena species have any effect upon the minds of the Faction of Humanity or our direct and close allies.’’ She grinned savagely, one of the expressions that DuQuesne couldn’t help but find too dangerously attractive. ‘‘The only exception will be if you are individually, and specifically, requested to do so by an authorized individual of the Faction, and even in those cases you will never step one millimeter beyond the specific services requested.’’

  Even Gona-Brashind seemed taken aback, and Amas-Garao sounded insulted. ‘‘Never? Never? This is a completely disproportionate penalty, compared with—’’

  A chime echoed through the Core Ring, and the dispassionate voice of the Arena spoke. ‘‘The requested prize is entirely appropriate and fair. The Shadeweaver Amas-Garao will accept this, and his acceptance is binding on his Faction. ’’

  Silence. Then Amas-Garao gave a surprisingly rueful chuckle. ‘‘I have been well outmaneuvered by you, Captain, and it would seem also by other members of your crew. A most disconcerting, yet exceedingly entertaining and instructive, sequence of events. I accept your demands; your prize for winning the Challenge is freedom from that sort of interference by the Shadeweavers, as you have specified and the Arena has adjudged fair.’’ He bowed, and he—along with the other Shadeweavers present—evaporated into nothingness.

  At that point Mandallon leapt forward and grabbed Ariane’s hands, breaking into a strange sort of capering dance that was so joyous as to be infectious. ‘‘You won, Captain, you won! I prayed and prayed for a miracle, and was granted one! Did you not see? Was it not glorious?’’ He gave a hooting sound that translated as a laugh on the edge of tears of joy.

  DuQuesne noticed Nyanthus make an abortive move in Mandallon’s direction; the strange creature’s symbiotes were almost all sitting internal to the candle flame-like upper portion, the tendrils of the top were tightly interwoven, like a man wrapping his arms around himself against cold . . . or fear. But his voice seemed normal, or close to it, as he said, ‘‘Indeed we congratulate you, and Humanity, on such a stunning victory. But I think you shall be needing rest, not excitement, for the next few hours.’’