by Ryk E. Spoor
“Exactly,” Olthalis agreed. “The Contemplative remain in one place but are much larger, much wiser as they learn and exchange thoughts with many others. But not all agree on all things, so where their Dispersants go, this varies much.”
“So,” Ariane said, “You’ll have to return eventually to your home planet and become one of the Contemplative?” She seemed to remember there were some creatures on Earth, maybe a kind of jellyfish itself, that went through a similar lifecycle. Have to mention this to Laila, if she hasn’t heard about it herself; she’ll be fascinated.
“Eventually,” Olthalis agreed, while opening one of the panels of his shop-stall. “But enjoying this time and not ready to go; a Dispersant does not have to return until they feel ready, and I have much to see yet!” The creature flickered with cheerful bioluminescence. “Especially with your people to provide more entertainment.”
The two ambassadors chose something from Olthalis’ collection of human-certified foodstuffs; Ariane got one of the red nidii for herself. Wu Kung bounced forward, sniffed at the various offerings, and grabbed a pair of things that looked like blue cinnamon sticks coated in a rippled glaze. “How much?”
“Three point seven vals, Captain,” Olthalis said.
Gabrielle’s foresight is paying off big time, Ariane thought as she reached into the pouch to get out Olthalis’ payment. She caught sight of the blonde doctor just entering one of the larger shops, carrying several wrapped packages with her. Gabrielle had already exchanged several pieces of unique human artwork and cultural pieces for a lot of “vals”—short for simply “value units”—which were the common currency in Nexus Arena. Until now we’d been relying on Steve’s big winnings from our early days here. Now . . . now we all have money for regular outings and reserves in case we need to buy bigger things. Such as recharges; we could afford to just buy a recharge from the Powerbrokers now, if we had to.
After the incredible lengths they’d had to go through to get that recharge the first time, that thought felt extremely good.
“How is Dr. Sandrisson’s work coming?” Naraj asked, even as he continued watching everything around him.
“He thinks the designs he’s working on now, with Steve, Carl, and Marc, should allow us to locate the Sky Gates,” she answered.
“Excellent news.”
It was good news—great news, really—but Simon had been astonishingly quiet about it, almost withdrawn, and she didn’t understand why; obviously his negotiations with Dr. Relgof had gone spectacularly well, as Simon had informed them that he was now able to visit the Analytic’s Archives any time he wished for the next year and a half; yet he’d come back seeming . . . disturbed about something. If this keeps up I’ll have to try to yank whatever it is out of him, but I just haven’t had the time yet.
Naraj was continuing. “As I understand it, that will give us a direct route to Nexus Arena from our own Sphere, correct?”
“That’s not guaranteed,” she said cautiously. “According to what we’ve been told, it’s a very good chance that one of the Sky Gates from our Sphere will lead here, but there is a small minority which don’t have a direct connection. While the latter might be preferable for some security applications, overall I’d much rather we had such a connection.”
“As would I,” Naraj agreed.
“Hey, over there!” Wu Kung broke in.
Following his pointed finger, they saw a group of four Molothos, the crowds giving the all-hostile aliens a very wide berth. Ariane squinted, bringing up vision enhancements. Yep, that’s the pattern. “Well, here’s your chance, Ambassador. That’s Dajzail himself, Leader of the Faction.”
She allowed Naraj and Ni Deng to lead the way, though she and Wu Kung stayed close. She wasn’t sure whether to smile or tense up; violence rarely went very far in Nexus Arena, as the Adjudicators would show up out of nowhere to intervene (barring direct interference by the Shadeweavers or, she presumed, the Faith), but with the Molothos you could never quite be sure . . .
Oscar Naraj placed himself directly in front of the advancing Molothos, but at a considerable distance, so that it became clear that he was waiting for them when he remained still and the rest of the crowd began moving away. “Dajzail of the Great Faction of the Molothos, might we speak for a moment?”
Dajzail slowed and halted, tilting the crested, lamprey-mouthed head slightly; its wraparound yellow eye glowed faintly. “Ariane Austin of Humanity, is this one of yours?” he rasped, ignoring Naraj for the moment.
“He is an ambassador of my people, though I remain Faction Leader. Dajzail, this is Oscar—”
“I care not for your names,” Dajzail said, cutting her off. “Nor for ‘ambassadors’ from enemies of the Molothos. What words would matter?”
“I was hoping, perhaps,” Naraj said, unfazed, “that we could recognize that while our initial contact has been unfortunately hostile, the crew here was not intended to speak with and establish relationships with other species.”
One of the other Molothos started forward. “You waste our time on—”
To Ariane’s surprise, Dajzail flicked a claw backwards, silencing the other instantly. “Go on.”
Naraj glanced at her with a raised eyebrow, then turned back. “While our emergence into the Arena has been quite successful, we are still a small and new Faction; I was hoping there is some way we can find to eliminate what, as I understand it, is a virtual declaration of war from one of the most powerful Factions.”
“Not virtual. There is no such thing. Either it is war, or it is not. Molothos have declared war on Humanity,” Dajzail corrected, “and even now our ships seek your Sphere. Perhaps have already found it.” He groomed his claws in a manner similar to a praying mantis. “Still,” he said finally, “we have many wars and goals to pursue, and much effort may be wasted in this search. As Leader of the Faction of the Molothos, I am empowered to make peace when necessary, even with inferior species.”
Which includes everyone who isn’t a Molothos, of course. She could sense Wu Kung standing, tense as a bowstring, at her side.
“Of course you are, sir. So I ask you if there is in fact anything we might be able to do in order to make peace with your people?”
Dajzail groomed again. “I can see three such paths before us, Ambassador,” he said, and Ariane did not like the suddenly-silky tones. “The first, and simplest, is that your Faction voluntarily ceases to be, by becoming a vassal of the Molothos. We do not make war on our own, and even lesser species can be of great use. As few join voluntarily, you would be accorded greater status among the slave species.”
Oscar Naraj maintained a pleasant smile, though Ariane thought it must have been something of a strain. “I . . . see. The second?”
“In the interests of being reasonable,” the Molothos leader went on, and something about the tone and posture was like a mocking grin, “we could also be satisfied with your ceding your Upper Sphere to us. Our people had landed upon your Sphere and claimed it, so I would be . . . willing to end the state of war if you were to give us that which we had fairly claimed.”
“I can understand that position,” Naraj said, still with a pleasant, neutral tone. “And your third offer?”
“While my prior offers are most generous for the Molothos, we are often . . . accused of being both hostile and unreasonable,” Dajzail answered, and his tone was almost unctuous. “So, in the interests of . . . fostering a more cooperative atmosphere with others and showing how . . . willing we are to enter the greater Arena community, we will be satisfied with a much less expensive act—even, I would say, a mere symbolic trifle, given the injuries we have suffered.” His voice suddenly shifted back to the rasping screech she expected from Molothos. “Give us Marc C. DuQuesne and Stephen Franceschetti. Let us kill them with our best executioners over a period of two weeks. We will even allow you to take back the bodies when we are done.” He spread his claws in a grotesque parody of open-armed welcome. “A fair bargain indeed, would you not a
gree?”
DuQuesne threw one of their bodies down right in front of them; Steve . . . Steve was the one who figured out how to get past Dajzail’s blockade of Transition, when we were about to lose our Sphere by default.
“Certainly a vastly more . . . diplomatic and reasonable offer than the others, Dajzail,” Oscar said slowly. “I will . . . think about these offers.”
“Yes, do that, Ambassador,” Dajzail hissed silkily. “And while you do, ask of news of the Randaalar, who rejected similar generosity a thousand years ago. The head of the last survivor is mounted in my council-chamber.”
The Molothos swept forward, and Oscar and the others drew back, letting them pass. After a few moments, Naraj spoke again. “I shall think about these offers, and how they show that there truly exist monsters with whom negotiation is not possible. My apologies, Captain; if that is what they have chosen as the leader of their entire species—which if I understand aright will have thousands or tens of thousands of Spheres . . . well,” he smiled wryly, “we have no use for diplomats in that particular case. I will so report as soon as possible.”
“Will you have to go back for that report?” It’d be nice if they’d be leaving the Arena periodically.
“Oh, not at all,” Naraj said. “A message . . . torpedo, I suppose you could call it—supplied with Sandrisson coils and sufficient charge to travel back and forth—will allow two-way communication. The first of these should be ready by now, in fact, and I would expect more ships will follow very soon.” He smiled broadly. “You did say we would have to establish a larger presence, didn’t you?”
CHAPTER 15
“Challenges,” Carl Edlund said, “are the heart of Arena political maneuvering.”
The entire group was gathered in one of Humanity’s briefing rooms. Well, DuQuesne thought to himself, everyone except Tom and Laila, who’re on the Sphere because someone’s got to stay there, and Simon, who thinks he’s close to finishing his design so he’s not letting anyone interrupt. Something else was bothering the physicist, DuQuesne could tell, but he hadn’t said anything about it and DuQuesne was reluctant to pry. Not like I never had secrets.
Carl was giving the lecture—mostly targeted towards the newcomers—because he’d spent a lot of time while they were gone learning about the mechanisms and approaches of common Challenges.
Carl nodded at them. “Those of us who were here understand that in our gut. There is nothing more important in the Arena than someone issuing a Challenge to another Faction, and you newcomers need to really get that through your heads. Almost everything of importance either gets triggered by, or settled with, a Challenge. There’s some exceptions, but not very many.”
“My general impression of these Challenges seems . . . rather primitive for a civilization so advanced,” Oscar said slowly. “Trial by combat as a—even, perhaps, the dominant—negotiation tool?”
Carl laughed. “Combat and physical prowess did seem to feature highly in our experiences, yes. But there are plenty of Challenges which turn out to be focused on things a lot less flashy. Admittedly, those are the type of Challenge that don’t get very many spectators unless the spectators are involved in the outcome—I’d be pretty riveted watching the equivalent of a game of chess if our homeworld was in the balance, but otherwise I don’t think I’d be much into it.
“The big, flashy Challenges serve multiple purposes, and a smart Faction understands that your Challenge performance isn’t just important for that particular Challenge—it’s important for how everyone else views you, it draws attention to your Faction, it gives you good, or bad, publicity, all sorts of things. This part should be familiar to most of us; that’s not all that different from things back home. We all know how the Interest vector’s one of the most tradeable—and volatile—units of value, and how even a single spectacular event can drive interest sky-high—or drop it in the toilet, if the spectacular event involved failure.”
Images materialized over the table; DuQuesne and Carl facing the Molothos, Ariane in the Skylark, Sivvis with Tunuvun dangling from one arm, and Amas-Garao towering over a stunned Ariane. “The Challenges we saw—either by being a part of them, or watching them—in our first time here actually provide us with a good introduction.” The first image swelled. “The very first Challenge we faced actually is one of the rare ones that the Arena calls a Class Two Challenge. Class One Challenges are initiated by mutual agreement in the Arena, and are basically more-or-less formal affairs. In effect, one way or another an authorized member of a Faction says ‘I challenge you!’ and another authorized member of the Challenged Faction accepts the Challenge.” He nodded to DuQuesne, who was assisting him in the presentation.
“Class Two Challenges are a whole different can of worms,” DuQuesne said. “They’re events that take place outside of Nexus Arena but that have a major impact on a Faction or Factions, and that stem from a direct conflict between the Factions in one way or another. In this case, we humans were newcomers who just happened to have the bad luck to have the Molothos land a survey and initial colonization party on our Upper Sphere. In a sense, of course, that was also bad luck for the Molothos; normally they either wouldn’t encounter any significant resistance landing on an Upper Sphere, or the Sphere would be inhabited and there’d be obvious civilized presence there.
“For a big Faction, the Molothos landing on one Sphere wouldn’t be a big deal—potential interstellar incident, yes, but nothing of great import to the Faction as a whole. But for us it was absolutely crucial we get them off our Sphere pronto. If the Molothos controlled our Upper Sphere, we’d be pretty much crippled until we managed, somehow, to get another Sphere of our own and thus access to Sky Gates and Straits that wouldn’t be watched and guarded by our enemies. So from the Arena’s point of view, that was a Challenge, and by our managing to defeat the entire invading force and prevent a direct counterstrike by Blessing of Fire, we won the Challenge. Other examples of Class Two Challenges might be an actual war, or simultaneous landings on an uninhabited Upper Sphere, things of that sort.”
“So these . . . impromptu external Challenges would be triggered only by events of considerable importance to the relevant Factions, then?” Oscar asked.
Carl nodded. “As far as I can tell, yes.” He grinned nastily. “That’s not the case for Class One Challenges. You can issue Challenge for an awful lot of things if you’re authorized to do so.”
“Hold on, Carl,” Ariane said. “I don’t remember authorizing people to issue Challenge, exactly, and it seemed to me that any of us were in danger of getting Challenged or inadvertently issuing one.”
“An artifact of our being a brand new Faction with a tiny number of members in the Arena,” Carl said. “Basically, those who are part of the main Embassy staff are the most subject to issuing or receiving Challenge. There’s some complicated details—like how a Leader can partially reduce the exposure to Challenge while they’re away, but how that reduction can be nullified, mostly to prevent a Faction like the Molothos from basically having their Leader go home and the rest be able to act like total . . . jerks to everyone else with impunity.” He looked over at Oscar, Michelle, and Oasis. “That means you people are definitely in that class, and so you need to walk carefully.”
“Hm. Yes, I understand,” Oscar said slowly. “I recall the other complication—that you can refuse Challenge twice, but you must accept the third or immediately default, and defaulting is the same as losing a Challenge.”
“Right.” Ariane pointed to the racing image. “I was trying to second-guess that bit when I accepted the Challenge from what turned out to be a proxy for the Blessed To Serve. Now that turned out okay—because I figured out a way to win it at the last moment—”
“—because you’re more than half crazy,” put in Carl.
“Well, maybe.” A grin flashed out.
“And you always have to remember the key point,” Gabrielle spoke up. “Like in many old Earth duelling traditions, it’s the one being
Challenged who gets to set the conditions. So the other big tactic is to try to get someone to Challenge you when you’ve got a plan on how to beat them.”
“And work through proxies is a big part of that, too.” DuQuesne found himself, like Ariane, looking at the image of Amas-Garao. “That gives you a huge advantage. The other guy doesn’t realize who he’s really Challenging, and may even think he’s trying to maneuver your proxy, rather than being played himself.”
DuQuesne looked around, suddenly grimly serious. “But before you start thinking this sounds like some fun game to play, remember this: these guys are all Big Time Operators. Even the smaller Factions, the younger species, they’ve been here for thousands of years. We’ve been lucky as hell so far and we’ve managed to pull off a couple of honest-to-God miracles, but we can’t expect that to keep going. Even the guys that seem nominally on our side, like the Analytic and the Faith, they’re playing the game ten layers deep and we can’t count on not being a pawn on their board.”
“On the positive side,” Carl said, pointing to the image of Sivvis and Tunuvun, “not all Challenges are the product of hostile takeover attitudes; for instance, the Powerbrokers’ Challenges pretty much have to be accepted, but they don’t actually care about the prize per se from winning the Challenge and so the general tradition there is that their chosen champion gets to take the prize home.”
“I found that challenge very interesting,” Oasis said seriously, pushing one of the long ponytails back out of her way. I have to get a chance to talk to her alone, but that’s going to be a problem as long as they keep her nearby as a bodyguard. She went on, “I mean, the idea that we were already able to Challenge as soon as we showed up, but this native race gets nothing? That doesn’t seem fair.”
“Sure doesn’t!” Wu agreed emphatically. “They were born here, they should have—”
DuQuesne laughed. “That’s the other thing to keep in mind. It isn’t fair, except by the rules of the Arena—and we still don’t know all those rules. Maybe nobody knows all those rules except the Arena itself. It’s not set up to be nice and evenhanded to each and every person and species, it’s set up by these Voidbuilders—whoever and whatever they were—to accomplish . . . something. And since we don’t know what that ‘something’ is, plenty of what goes on here is going to look arbitrary, maybe even cruel, and sure as God made little green apples it’s not going to look fair.