by Ryk E. Spoor
—And closing tight on the hard, tough metal of one of the rearmost guide fins of Thilomon.
CHAPTER 30
Shimmering light cleared from the forward port of Zounin-Ginjou, and Simon saw the incomprehensibly immense shape of Nexus Arena looming, a column large enough to support the roof of creation, ahead of them, with cloudbanks larger than Earth shrouding its center. Lightning flickered and crawled through the cloudbank, encircling Nexus Arena like a halo forged by all the gods of thunder combined.
“Subarashi . . .”
“It is impressive, yes,” Orphan agreed. “And quite a menace to traffic, too. No approaches or departures in that direction, not without considerable detours.”
“I would think not,” Simon agreed, staring. “Those bolts make the ones we see on Jupiter look positively restrained.”
“Jupiter is a gas giant, I would presume?” At Simon’s guilty start, Orphan laughed. “Oh, do not worry. Such planets are not at all uncommon, and you reveal little about your home system by telling me you have a gas giant therein.”
Still, Simon reminded himself, I should stay focused on asking questions rather than volunteering information. Not that they weren’t on good terms with Orphan, and with this mission they’d entrusted him with one of the most valuable pieces of information, but he should stay in the right habits for the Arena.
A moment’s thought reminded him of something he wanted to ask. “Orphan, I note from the light of our arrival that the same light—our people have taken to calling it the ‘shocklight ring’—must emanate from a ship coming or going through a Sky Gate. How far away can our entrance or departure be detected?”
“Shocklight ring? A rather evocative description. We and the Blessed have always just called it the jumpflash. In any event . . . how far depends on the method used for detection and just how fancy your equipment is. No more than a thousand kilometers, in general, though it is quite simple to monitor your own Sky Gates directly. Here at Nexus Arena, however, there are far too many to easily monitor—and it appears that the Arena doesn’t want us monitoring them casually, as something always causes monitoring devices around Nexus Arena to fail.”
“Just as well,” DuQuesne said. “Means we can probably keep the gate to home hidden, at least for a while, and that way the Molothos can’t just send a fleet there by jumping here first.”
“They could not do that in any event,” Orphan said, bringing Zounin-Ginjou to a faster cruising speed. “While the Arena does not prevent wars, it will not permit Nexus Arena to be used as a staging ground or channel for warfleets or other operations associated with warfare.”
“Really?” Simon felt some relief. “That is indeed good to know.”
DuQuesne frowned. “And how does it know what you intend to do with a bunch of ships?”
Orphan stood up from his console and gave an elaborate wing-shrug. “How? There are undoubtedly myriad ways, Doctor DuQuesne. Some more disturbing to contemplate than others, true, but whatever the means, the results are quite clear; the Arena has nothing against your fighting, or even having an all-out war, but you won’t fight inside Nexus Arena (unless as part of a Challenge, of course), and you won’t conduct warfare—of nearly any sort—anywhere within Nexus Arena’s claimed space.”
“Well, I suppose there’s not much to do but wait for now,” Simon said. “Twenty thousand kilometers to the Docks; that will take us quite a few hours.”
“Especially since we are not pushing the speed, yes. About ten hours from now, and we will be home, so to speak.” He bowed to Simon. “Would you care for a game of anghas?”
“You mean, to be beaten? Why not, before we have some dinner. You joining us, Marc?”
“Sure,” DuQuesne said. “I must admit, it’s nice to play an old-fashioned board game sometimes.”
Anghas was a multi-player game which apparently was originally from the Blessed but had become popular throughout the Arena. Like many other games, it took a complex process—in this case, colonizing a planet, as the name anghas meant “colony”—and simplified it into a set of requirements for success. Competing “developers” tried to get and hold resources and develop production and so on, under a set of deceptively simple rules that turned out to have a lot of subtle twists and turns—and random chance in the form of octahedral dice.
Like many such games, it was as much a social occasion as it was a competition, and during the several days spent transferring ships from Orphan’s hidden depot to Humanity’s Sphere the two humans had come to enjoy anghas quite a bit. They had, however, yet to win a round against Orphan. Even with several runs of good luck, Orphan’s skill and experience in the game eventually beat them down.
Two hours into this game, however, Simon thought he could see victory approaching. “I have a surveyor active and I have invested in him this turn.” The polished-stone die rolled and turned upward, showing the circled square. “Ha! he has found something of the third tier!”
“Again?” Orphan looked plaintive. “That is the third time in four turns! The third tier selections are starting to get low.” He passed the blindbox with the three-leveled symbol, and Simon reached in.
“Excellent. More fissionables.” Simon placed the token on the board. “And right here near my city, so I can develop the mines.”
“By the Minds, I swear you cannot possibly be so fortunate,” Orphan said casually. “Still, it will take you some time to get those fissionable mines in play. I will remove one of your laborers.”
“How did you get—”
Marc grinned. “Sneaky. Should’ve seen that misdirection coming, but I didn’t. Thought you were putting the research into something else.”
“Cautious and conservative play will usually win over the long haul, gentlemen,” Orphan reminded them.
And it did, once more, though in this case only by a turn or two. “My good friends, you are learning fast indeed. I may have to be cautious about playing at all, or possibly find myself losing.”
“One of these days? Yes. Soon . . . I’m afraid I don’t think so.”
“You are a pessimist,” Orphan said. “Or possibly still playing the game now that it is over!”
Simon grinned. “It doesn’t hurt to keep you underestimating us.”
“I see. I will have to re-evaluate my perception of you, Doctor Sandrisson; I had thought you less devious than the rest of your species.” Orphan stood and put the fold-box containing the anghas game away. “Shall we dine?”
Dinner passed swiftly, and Simon spent the next couple of hours in a lounge room with a blue-green theme like some deep alien forest, reading some of the notes he had taken on his last visit to the Analytic’s Archives. He had discovered that the strange . . . knowledge, perception, understanding? He wasn’t sure what to call it . . . was hardly a constant companion. After that initial surge of near-omniscience, his next visits had been exactly the way he would have expected originally; a lot of wandering around to see all sorts of fascinating things, but nothing he was directly looking for. But then, I wasn’t after something so vital, and not nearly so frustrated and angry. Initial hypothesis, then, is that only sufficient stress will bring out this capability.
That did imply that if he figured out the key, he should be able to trigger it more reliably . . . unless it was something mediated by the Arena, which could undoubtedly tell if he was just trying to mimic desperation or anger instead of being actually furious or frustrated at something. Something to think about and test when I have the chance. Perhaps with Ariane; I am sure there is a connection between her dormant powers and whatever I have, and she might be able to sense or trigger something, even in her current state.
He dismissed the musings from his mind—Simon hardly intended to test a mysterious access to the knowledge of the Arena here, in Orphan’s ship—and read the notes he’d accumulated and copies of entries he’d managed to make.
DuQuesne stuck his head through the lounge doorway. “Hey, Simon, we’re getting close.”
“I
’ll be right there.”
A few minutes later the door rolled up before him and he saw the dark wall of Nexus Arena covering most of the forward port. Still, that’s deceptive. We’re probably still almost an hour out.
Now, though, there were signs of movement, lights and dots that moved in more purposeful manners in the sky. “Orphan, I appreciate your willingness to let me examine the way in which your ships work—”
“No need to thank me for that, Doctor Sandrisson,” Orphan said with the most casual hint of a bow. “After all, you would be able to examine those I have loaned to you in excruciating detail.”
“Of course, though with you to explain it was much more informative. But what I was going to ask is if you could show me how to operate your viewing mechanisms here? I would very much like to examine the other ships we are passing.”
“Oh, but certainly.”
Orphan, or the Tantimorcan he had employed, obviously had spent a very long time thinking about usability problems, because for manual controls these were some of the simplest and most effective he had ever used. Once Orphan explained, he was able to locate a ship and zoom in on it with ease, holding the target steady and tracking without difficulty.
“That’s a hell of a wingspan,” DuQuesne said, seeing a streamlined vessel with gossamer wings like a spectral albatross a kilometer across.
Orphan glanced over. “Ahh, now, that’s a Genasi Skyfarer. They developed their technology entirely on their own for use in the Arena. That design is often used for long-distance cruises; they glide down in the gentle gravity fields, occasionally spending time rising in the upwellings, and make their way across distances of hundreds of Spheres.” He flicked his wings in a humorous way. “Of course, this one undoubtedly has considerably more advanced aspects to it.”
As they continued towards the Docks, Simon examined other ships; a wedge-shaped cargo vessel Orphan thought was of Vengeance design, a dandelion-seed drifter that no one recognized, vessels similar to Zounin-Ginjou in general outline.
Another ship caught his attention, clean sharp lines with few curves, guide-fins but little else breaking the flow of the design. “Who owns that? Do you know, Orphan?”
The sole member of the Liberated glanced up from adjusting their course. “Know? Nearly as well as I know Zounin-Ginjou, though far less fondly. That is Sethrik’s, or rather, the Blessed’s, flagship, Thilomon.”
“Really?” Simon found that very interesting. He had expected the Blessed and the Liberated to have very similar vessel designs—after all, where else would the Liberated have gotten their originals—but now that he thought of it, that was a silly idea. Orphan is—if we take his word for it—three thousand years old. He was born while ancient Greece was at its height, before Rome was founded. And he was not the first of the Liberated. Obviously they have had more than enough time to drift entirely away from the Blessed in aesthetics as well as politics.
Thilomon was, to Simon’s eye, a beautiful ship; there was a mathematical precision to her design that spoke of efficiency, economy, and power. The patterns on her hull . . . there are indeed Sandrisson Coils inlaid there. And she’s made such that I could imagine her in our space. Both Arena and real-space capable, then.
He blinked. Was there . . . something moving on the hull?
Not impossible, remember. We pass living creatures of all sizes and types regularly. A zikki even hitched a ride on Ariane’s Skylark during her race with Sethrik. He juggled the controls, zoomed in closer.
The figure was tiny, even at full magnification . . . yet the glint of gold from the staff on the figure’s back, the entirely humanoid outline, the spectacular glint of color . . . bakana. “Marc . . .”
His tone brought DuQuesne instantly to his side. “What is it, Simon?”
Simon pointed wordlessly.
DuQuesne squinted, then stiffened. “God-damn. That’s Wu!”
Orphan glanced around. “What?”
“But Marc, why in the world would Wu be . . .” he trailed off, as the only explanation struck him like a bucket of ice water.
“Only one reason, Simon. Ariane’s got to be inside. And if she’s inside, and Wu’s outside while that ship’s accelerating towards Mach speeds, then there’s something rotten in the state of Denmark.”
“Can we call them?” Simon asked. He spoke to the empty air. “Ariane! Ariane Austin! Arena, connect me to Captain Ariane Austin!”
No green sphere appeared, and DuQuesne shook his head. “Doesn’t work outside of Nexus Arena and maybe your own Spheres. Outside, never works.”
Simon stared at the little figure, now pressing itself down to the hull behind one of the few protrusions available. “Great Kami. Marc, they’re going to kill him.”
“Maybe. I sure don’t envy him.”
“At Mach speeds? Marc, he—”
“Dammit, I know! All I can hope is that he’s as tough as I think he is—and the clothes he’s wearing will help, they were made to mimic the legends he was made from . . . if he remembers that in time. But that’s not the question.” He turned to Orphan. “Orphan . . .”
The alien was not looking at them; he was staring resolutely forward, still maneuvering Zounin-Ginjou towards one of the Docks.
“Dammit, Orphan!”
The green and black figure contracted slightly, then straightened. “Yes, Doctor DuQuesne?”
“You just heard. Don’t tell me you didn’t.”
A buzzing sigh. “Yes. They have captured Captain Austin, and Sun Wu Kung is on the Thilomon’s hull.”
Simon restrained himself from shouting. There’s diplomacy here. We have to approach this right. He touched Marc’s arm, and the other man glanced at him. Their eyes met and he could see Marc understood.
DuQuesne took an audible breath, let it out. “Look, Orphan . . . Zounin-Ginjou is your ship. We can’t make you do anything you don’t want to do. I’m not going to try to force you. But . . . that’s the Blessed yanking our friend—and I hope, your friend—out from under our noses. Are you going to let that happen?”
Long moments passed, and Thilomon accelerated farther away. Simon could no longer make out Sun Wu Kung; whether he had been ripped off the hull or not was now something they might never know.
Finally, Orphan rose slowly from his seat, turned to face them, and spoke. “No.”
“No?”
“No, Doctor DuQuesne. I am not going to let that happen.”
Simon saw a grin matching his own blaze out on DuQuesne’s face. “Then turn this tub around!”
“Patience, my friends. Cautious and conservative play, remember. I have no doubt that Thilomon remarked our passage. They will undoubtedly be watching me for any sign of unusual behavior. I must proceed onward, as though we were oblivious to our friends’ plight. You understand?”
Simon saw DuQuesne’s fists clench, but the big man said nothing. Simon felt tension like edged wire around his heart, but forced himself to speak. “Yes. We understand.”
“I truly regret that we cannot simply turn and chase, but we must gain the advantage of surprise in some fashion. Even were we to turn immediately, I am afraid your friend Wu . . . well, he will have suffered whatever fate awaits him.”
DuQuesne’s face went stony-blank at that. Wu Kung was something very special to him, and I really don’t know what will happen to Marc if Wu dies. “But what if we lose sight of them?”
Orphan flicked his hands outward, his equivalent of a shake of the head. “Not a difficulty. You see, I am very much familiar with the major Sky Gates and routes used by the Blessed, and given the circumstances, there is only one route Thilomon will take: directly to the homeworld and the Minds themselves. Homesphere has no direct connection to Nexus Arena, unlike most species’ home systems, and thus in this we are fortunate. Two Gates in quick succession they must traverse, but then they must travel across a considerable gap to reach the next.” His face might not be expressive, but Orphan’s tone more than made up for it. “And it is there, m
y friends, in the empty sky, that we shall catch them.”
CHAPTER 31
The airlock door slammed shut behind her, even as she tried to lunge back out. “Wu!”
“No, Captain Austin!” Sethrik said, not unkindly. “He is doing his job.”
“But—”
“It will be over one way or—”
Sethrik broke off. With consternation she realized the deck below her was moving.
Even as that registered, the inner lock door slid open. Four Blessed stood there, two on either side, all four with weapons drawn and aimed at the two in the airlock. Vantak stood some distance back, watching.
Sethrik stared for a moment, obviously stunned—as was she, too. “What the hell is going on here?” she demanded.
“Lower those weapons!” commanded Sethrik. “Vantak, what is the meaning of this?”
The four Blessed soldiers did not lower their weapons a fraction, and Ariane could hear the faint sideband hum that was associated with the species’ peculiar semi-hivemind capabilities. They’re working as a close-knit unit. All four will coordinate a lot better than four human beings. And they’re not going to underestimate me like they did the first time we met, either.
“Explanations, if any, will follow only after you are secured,” Vantak said coldly. He reached into one of his bandolier pouches and tossed what were obviously a form of handcuffs onto the floor in front of them. “Captain Austin, you will move slowly forward, pick up both sets of restraints, and give one to Sethrik. Sethrik will then put his on, and you will follow his example.”
Damn. It was starting to dawn on her that the attack on her outside had simply been a clever ploy, to separate her from the bodyguard whose capabilities they didn’t fully understand and therefore wanted to take no chances with. This still seems insane. But Vantak never sounded crazy, so there’s got to be some reason behind this.
She complied with Vantak’s instructions. The binders looped around the wrists and held lightly, but—as Vantak demonstrated—they would tighten and retract strongly if she made sudden moves, or if Vantak triggered that reaction by remote. Two of the guards then fell back to near Vantak, about fifteen meters away, and the other two gestured for them to come out of the airlock, and then stopped and searched the two prisoners.