Grand Central Arena

by Ryk E. Spoor

  ‘‘I don’t know what people might be able to do, Captain,’’ he answered levely. ‘‘And that’s the reason I’m worried. If I know what I’m up against, I’m willing to bet I can deal with it. It’s the stuff you don’t know that comes up behind you and bites you on the ass when you’re not looking.’’

  As the door opened, DuQuesne tensed, but there was nothing threatening; the usual mass of people (of all shapes, sizes, and descriptions) moving this way and that, but nothing that appeared organized. The only odd thing he’d seen so far was someone summoning one of those green comm-balls when they stepped out of their Embassy, and that wasn’t really that odd; a lot of people ranging from the just curious to the Arena equivalent of journalists did spend a lot of time watching their Embassy and reporting on the activity they saw.

  ‘‘Come on, let’s move it.’’ DuQuesne led the way, his size and presence carving a path for the others; Steve followed him, with Tom Cussler behind and Ariane bringing up the rear. As they approached Transition, DuQuesne had a sense of something wrong; the traffic wasn’t flowing the way it usually did—in fact, there seemed to be far fewer people exiting the area of Transition than usual, yet it sounded like there was a lot of activity . . .

  Then he was able to get a good look into the cavernous transfer and arrival area of the Arena. ‘‘For the love of—what in the seven flaming hells of space is this?’’

  Every single Gateway was a focus of activity—some with people and cargo emerging, hurrying across, to disappear through another Gateway. The movement was constant, fluid, clearly coordinated for the most part as a carefully orchestrated process. Only three Gateways seemed to be exempted from this, and there were deep, long lines extending from them.

  A little fur-covered creature with four eyes and the nervous, twitching mannerisms of something used to having to be very cautious around larger, more threatening beings, hurried up. ‘‘Many apologies, honored citizens of the Arena, but the Masters are performing a major reconciliation adjustment, and thus only the three central Gateways are currently available.’’

  With a creeping cold sensation that he already knew the answer without asking, DuQuesne demanded, ‘‘And just who are these ‘Masters,’ and how long is this going to take?’’

  A rattling, clicking noise translated to a nasty chuckle, as out of the crowd emerged exactly what he’d feared. ‘‘We are the Masters, as you will learn one day, Human DuQuesne.’’ Dajzail, leader of the Molothos, said with a satisfied air. ‘‘As for when it will be done, not long at all; say fifteen to twenty minutes?’’

  The bastard knows. I have no idea how he does, but he knows, or guesses, exactly how long we have, and he’s timed his revenge to within a few minutes.

  ‘‘You can’t do this!’’ Ariane snapped, striding to the front and glaring straight into the Molothos single yellow wraparound eye. DuQuesne noted that she had no hesitation in approaching Dajzail. When she’s mad enough, she forgets to be afraid of anything.

  ‘‘I assure you, we can, and we have.’’ The savage mandibles with the grinder mouth behind clicked tauntingly.

  ‘‘Resolving balance of trade and such through a quick exchange through the Gateways with all of our colonies, redistributing resources, troops, slaves, and so on, is something we do on occasion—as do a few other major Factions. As long as we do not take all of the Gateways, and do not take too long, neither the other inhabitants nor the Arena object.’’ The Molothos preened one fighting claw with the more delicate mouth manipulators, like a casual, insulting gesture of polishing the fingernails while speaking. ‘‘I will admit that I have arranged for the precise timing of this event to be adjusted.’’

  DuQuesne measured the timing by eye. The long lines in front of the few remaining open Gateways were not moving fast enough. He could see Ariane’s quick estimation agreed with his; by the time Steve got to the front of the line, time would be up.

  ‘‘We could butt in line,’’ Steve said. ‘‘Just head up and—’’

  ‘‘Maybe. If someone lets you in.’’ DuQuesne saw Ariane’s fist clenching, hoped she didn’t do anything stupid. ‘‘But if they’re going through as fast as they reasonably can, you might find yourself going through a Gateway to somewhere else, because the Gate took the other guy’s transport code. Unless they’re smart enough to react directly upon contact?’’

  ‘‘Unfortunately,’’ a familiar deep voice said from behind them, ‘‘while undoubtedly the Voidbuilders could have arranged such subtlety in the Gates, they are not so quick or foolproof.’’ Amas-Garao regarded them from above, seeming to be seated on an invisible throne. ‘‘One stepping forward with intent to pass through activates the gate; others attempting to pass through at the same time may find themselves going to the first person’s destination. Only if the platform is clear, or at least all those on the platform are not concentrating on passage, is it safe to attempt without risking visiting a destination one was not prepared for.’’

  ‘‘You slimy son of a bitch!’’ Ariane whirled and glared up. ‘‘It’s a good thing you’re up there, or I’d be breaking your head! This was your idea, was it?’’

  ‘‘Your anger is understandable, but misplaced, Captain Austin.’’ Amas-Garao’s voice was amused. ‘‘I am, in fact, here only as an observer. This gambit is entirely the work of the Molothos, I assure you. I merely find the challenge an interesting one. How will you resolve this conundrum, I wonder.’’

  Ariane’s gaze seemed almost enough to bore its way through the Shadeweaver. ‘‘I’d really like to believe you, but if that’s the case, how the hell did he,’’ she jabbed her finger at Dajzail, ‘‘know what the score was?’’

  A rattling, buzzing laugh answered her. ‘‘So often the lesser races make the mistake of thinking they are so much more clever than the Masters. It was a matter of deduction, Captain Austin. Only eight had ever been seen, and never all eight at the same time. Now, suddenly, an observer reports that a pair of you leave abruptly, returning with the two absent individuals, and this immediately after both Shadeweaver and Faith arrive at your Embassy? Knowing the ending of the last Challenge?’’

  He’s good, DuQuesne ceded grudgingly. But Dajzail was not finished.

  ‘‘Obviously a bargain had been made to permit your Sphere to be temporarily unoccupied. Precedents such as dying individuals have previously been allowed, and in those cases the Arena requires that the Faction re-occupy the Sphere within a short interval following notification—not quite the minimum time for a notified individual to reach the Sphere, but not much more, either. Given the circumstances, we deduced that the next time any of you emerged, you would head for the Gateways—and thus to secure your Sphere. And so it was.’’ The Molothos preened himself again.

  DuQuesne stared hard at the three gates. No way to get in edgewise. We might try to argue someone into letting us in . . . but hell, if I were Dajzail I’d make damn sure most, if not all, of the apparently innocent travellers in that line were ringers. These guys are just too used to these Gateways; there’s barely a second’s pause between one group disappearing and the next starting across the platform, already concentrating on their destination.

  Ariane glanced around, her gaze raking over the entire cavernous amphitheater of Transition; DuQuesne could tell she was reaching the same conclusion.

  He became suddenly aware of Steve at his elbow. The curly-haired, short engineer was pressing fingers to his temples as though trying to force a thought out, or keep it in. ‘‘What is it, Steve?’’

  Steve Franceschetti looked up at Amas-Garao. ‘‘You’re not interfering, and you’re not going to interfere in any way?’’

  ‘‘You have my word. I am merely an observer.’’

  ‘‘In that case . . . ’’ Steve suddenly took off, running toward one of the lines. ‘‘DuQuesne, Ariane, come on!’’

  DuQuesne caught up with him almost instantly; Ariane was only a few steps behind. ‘‘What’s on your mind, Steve?’’

&
nbsp; The narrow face gave a sharp grin. ‘‘How far do you think you can throw me, DuQuesne?’’

  ‘‘Pretty far,’’ he admitted, as he jogged alongside the shorter man, noticing that Dajzail was not able to quite keep up. ‘‘But it won’t do you any good for me to toss you through the gate the way things are going now.’’

  ‘‘That’s why the Captain has to get into trouble at the right time. Like when I got in trouble, and when the Blessed beat on Gabrielle . . . ?’’

  All of a sudden Steve’s plan was clear—a plan so simple, so desperate, so last-minute-improvised, that there was no way anyone had ever anticipated it. He heard Ariane suddenly give a burst of breathless laughter. ‘‘You’re just as crazy as I am, Steve!’’

  ‘‘What the hell are you all talking about?’’ Tom said, breathing hard in his effort to keep up.

  ‘‘You’ll have to time the offense just right, Ariane—and the distance I’ll have to maintain is going to be iffy. I have no idea exactly how widespread the clampdown will be.’’ DuQuesne ignored Tom’s query. He’d understand once everything happened.

  Dajzail started to screech out something that sounded like ‘‘Stop th . . . ’’ but then halted, realizing that if his people physically intervened, the Adjudicators would intervene as well—and once they were present, there was no telling how things might go.

  That, of course, is what we’re counting on—and the whole point of Steve’s question to Amas-Garao. The Shadeweavers could delay the arrival of Adjudicators, but the Molothos can’t.

  Ariane put on a burst of speed, heading for the central platform, and DuQuesne began, along with Steve, to separate from her, distancing himself in preparation for acting out his part in this last minute throw.

  The captain of Holy Grail sprinted up towards the platform, the people in line beginning to murmur, point, and shout questions as she raced by. DuQuesne judged

  her progress, guessed at the timing and range, and adjusted his course. A crazy idea from us crazy humans once again. But it’s better than trying nothing.

  Ariane reached the top edge of the platform, with people progressing across it in orderly fashion. ‘‘Listen, all of you, one of us needs to get through!’’

  ‘‘Get to the back of the line!’’ snarled a semi-reptilian creature.

  ‘‘How very rude!’’ said a Wagamia, one of the same species as Mandallon. ‘‘A wait will do you good! It is but a short time, and—’’

  There were shouts and screams of shock as Ariane’s katana blazed from its sheath. ‘‘We don’t have a few minutes, and by God you’re all getting off this platform before I start cutting!’’

  ‘‘She’s insane!’’ another alien shouted. ‘‘Adjudicator!

  Adjudicator!’’

  A massive figure in Adjudicator armor—something like a humanoid rhinoceros—materialized just above Ariane. Everyone in the area suddenly froze under the Adjudicator’s field. ‘‘Threats of this nature and assaults on other citizens is a very serious offense. So,’’ it said, glaring at another member of the now-frozen line, ‘‘is preparing to use additional ranged weapons in a crowd.’’

  DuQuesne heard the rattling chuckle of Dajzail far behind. Laugh it up, bugface, because I’m about to deliver the punchline.

  Turning, he caught up Steve, broke into a sprint that only a Hyperion could possibly have managed, and launched Steve straight for the ebony, blue spark-touched surface of the Gateway. Eyes closed, the smaller man bulleted forward, hopefully concentrating only on one thing: getting back to Humanity’s sphere. All others on the platform—as Steve and Ariane had intended—were focused on Ariane and the Adjudicator. The Adjudicator glanced in startlement as the body flew past, clearing the heads of the crowd and plunging straight through the Gateway, a throw of over thirteen meters.

  Dajzail let out an infuriated screech that echoed throughout Transition, and lunged forward, killing claws extended.

  That got the Adjudicator’s attention, and suddenly all of Transition was locked down, motionless. ‘‘These actions are connected.’’ It was motionless, and no one else—except Amas-Garao—could move. The Shadeweaver gave a delighted-sounding laugh, and faded away into shadow.

  After a few more moments, the Adjudicator straightened. ‘‘Captain Austin of the Faction of Humanity, did you intend injury to these people?’’

  ‘‘No, sir,’’ Ariane answered immediately. ‘‘I was deliberately trying to scare them, though, so that one of you people would show up, freeze the crowd, and keep them distracted.’’

  A pause. ‘‘I can see from the stress patterns and other readings that you believe what you say, and the events and your personality are consistent with this.’’ It turned slowly. ‘‘We do not need to ask whether you intended injury, Dajzail of the Molothos.’’

  It seemed to consider for some more moments. ‘‘The Molothos’ actions were legal, and an ingeniously nonviolent approach to bringing about a defeat of their enemy. Nonetheless, they were also provocative of desperation on the part of the Human Faction. There is no evidence of actual intent to injure on the part of Humanity, and indeed the record shows multiple instances of Humans having been deliberately provoked or harrassed by the Molothos or others.

  ‘‘Ariane Austin of Humanity, you and Dr. DuQuesne will be confined to your Embassy for three days. Dajzail, you and your people will be similarly confined. Other potential penalties are waived in both cases.’’

  With a blurring jolt, DuQuesne found himself standing in the doorway leading to the party, Ariane next to him. A number of partygoers gaped in astonishment.

  Ariane gave a whoop that turned all remaining heads. ‘‘Hey, all of you! We’ve got another story to tell you, if you’re not tired of hearing them!’’

  DuQuesne grinned and shook his head. That vital secret isn’t vital any more, I suppose. One more desperate crisis averted. Now let’s hope we don’t have any more until we get home.

  Chapter 74

  ‘‘You are actually leaving, Captain Austin?’’

  ‘‘We are, right now, Nyanthus.’’ Ariane smiled at the faceless Initiate Guide, whose expressive gestures had become for her nearly as good as a face. ‘‘Now that we can, we have to. The clock started ticking when we kicked the Molothos off our Sphere. They’ve already proven they’re not going to let that drop. We need to get our whole species up to speed on what’s going on here, and get a real force up there, before we find a whole fleet of Molothos upstairs.’’

  ‘‘There is that, most certainly,’’ Orphan agreed. ‘‘And all the other aspects of now having contact with the vaster universe. I would still go with you, if you like—’’

  Ariane shook her head. ‘‘Not quite yet, Orphan. With the Molothos carcass samples we’re bringing back, and other things from our Sphere, we’ve got the actual proof of where we’ve been . . . and of course before I bring anyone else through our whole Sphere I need to talk with our people.’’

  Orphan, she was relieved to see, took no offense at the implied lack of complete trust. Not that she’d expected him to. ‘‘We’ll be back, of course—a lot more of us—and we’re leaving half of us behind so things just don’t go quiet while we’re gone.’’ She glanced around the Transition platform at the little farewell group.

  ‘‘Indeed,’’ Dr. Relgof said, shaking hands one last time with Simon, ‘‘it was my first fear that the Arena would become far more boring and tame when you had left!’’

  ‘‘We’ll do our best to prevent that.’’ DuQuesne shouldered a box of samples.

  ‘‘Who is staying behind, Captain Austin?’’ Mandallon asked.

  ‘‘Carl Edlund, Steve Franceschetti, Tom Cussler, and Laila Canning,’’ Ariane answered.

  She hadn’t wanted to leave many people behind, but the practicalities of the situation pretty much demanded it. ‘‘No telling how long it will be before we get back,’’ DuQuesne had pointed out. ‘‘And we need to know what’s going on in the Arena. Our enemies here aren’t going to
sit still. Even if all we do is sit in our Embassy and thus avoid getting into Challenges, we need to be watching, listening, and learning. If the Blessed, the Shadeweavers, or, more likely, the Molothos start moving against us, we don’t want to just drop into the middle of it without warning. So someone’s got to stay in touch here—which means at least two people, because we need to leave someone on the Sphere, too. And since none of us like the idea of leaving one person alone in either place, I’d say that means we have to leave four of us behind.’’

  Laila Canning had volunteered first. ‘‘I have a million things to study here, Captain, and I’m still catching up on everything you people learned while I was out. And after what happened . . . I’m not sure what would happen if I went back now. My AISages are still there, I think, dormant; no one removed them, as far as I know, and . . . ’’ she looked rather lost for a moment, ‘‘ . . . and I don’t know if I could understand them, or they me, any more. If,’’ she gave a twisted, sarcastic smile, ‘‘I am in fact me, something I know you are all unsure of.’’

  In actuality, Simon had said he was sure that Laila Canning was in fact there, whether or not something else might also be there, based both on what he and Ariane had discussed before and on whatever he’d experienced during that sealing ritual. Ariane hoped he was right, but wasn’t really concerned about it at this point; whoever ‘‘Laila Canning’’ really was, she’d been working with them ever since she awakened and showed no signs of being likely to be a problem.

  Since Ariane had to go back—being the nominal Captain and the one who’d led most of the contact from the beginning, and DuQuesne insisted that he, too, had to go back, that pretty much left Carl by default as the one person they could leave behind who might be able to physically handle himself in a Challenge if something unforeseen happened. Steve and Tom would be continuing the development of the Upper Sphere installations, with Carl’s assistance, but neither of them were really men of action.

  She glanced over at Simon, who smiled back. ‘‘Are we ready?’’