Spheres of Influence

by Ryk E. Spoor

  “You would get in my way,” Wu said, trying not to sound rude. “This is the control room, yes? I am sure there must be something you can do from here.”

  Sethrik paused. “Captain Austin? Do you . . . is he serious?”

  She was looking at him with another slow smile dawning. “Sethrik, are your people more dangerous to fight than the Molothos?”

  “No,” Sethrik said without hesitation.

  “Then remember this: two of my people wiped out an entire Molothos scouting party, and Wu’s more dangerous than either of them. Let him do his job.” The smile became momentarily dazzling. “Because he just showed me how stubborn he is about finishing it!”

  He laughed joyously. “That I am! Stubborn and loud and rude and full of more life than all in Heaven, and proud of it!” Wu bowed low. “And now for a sea of enemies and heads to break!”

  He opened the door, and two Blessed soldiers were already there, in the lift that served the control room. But they had not really expected him, and two lightning-fast blows laid them out. I try not to kill, when I can avoid it. Sanzo never liked it, and I’m sure Ariane doesn’t want me to kill, either. But I may not be able to be so gentle all the time.

  “If you are not foolishly trusting in your machines,” he said over his shoulder, “Then there will be ways up here that do not use this elevator. Block them off, or you will have visitors.”

  He let the door slide shut and pushed the first button. I have no idea how this ship is laid out, but anywhere I go will have enemies, so I will just start at the top and work my way down!

  The door slid open, and he was staring into the faces of a dozen—no, three dozen, maybe four—Blessed. All were armed, wearing extra armor, and they immediately came on guard. “Who are you? Stay where you are!”

  “I am Sun Wu Kung, Great Sage Equal of Heaven,” he said proudly. “And who are you, to give me orders?”

  He could sense the buzzing mutter and even understand it. Most of it wasn’t complimentary. Human, I think. Arrogant. Maybe insane—did that introduction even make sense? No answer from command center. Obviously an enemy. Take the posturing one prisoner if you can, kill him otherwise. The words were all in a flow, coming from different Blessed but at the same time almost part of the creatures’ thoughts, as though their minds were somehow one.

  Many of them lifted their weapons and sighted on him. “Get on the floor. We do not wish to kill you, but we will if you put up any resistance.”

  He laughed. “Oh! I have heard that song many times before, and yet I am still here!”

  With a single bound, he was up, clearing the doorway of the lift and rising nearly to the three-meter ceiling above, their initial startled volley blazing by underneath him. By the time they realized what had happened, he was landing among them, kicking, smashing, punching. Bodies flew away with every movement. Gentle! Gentle! Maybe we don’t have to kill them. And I shouldn’t reveal everything I can do.

  He realized they were drawing away from him now, and the posture of their bodies, their scent, told him they had realized they were up against something terrible, something unknown and fearsome. Orders were being shouted, groups that charged him were clearly doing their best to slow him, as barricades were thrown up across the hallways leading from this room. Bullets screamed through the air, now from multiple directions. Energy bolts stabbed, slashed. More came against him—two, four, a dozen, and there were still dozens to take their place.

  The Blessed were no longer confused, no longer doubtful or uncertain. They knew he was a deadly threat, and they were treating him that way. A burning bullet seared its way along his bare arm, and it stung. The Blessed were coordinating. They were thinking.

  This isn’t going to be easy at all.

  The thought was such a joyful one that he began to laugh.

  CHAPTER 38

  Simon ran along the corridors of Zounin-Ginjou. Why . . . am I doing this?

  Even as he asked, he felt the uncertainty melting away, and understood. The stress of the battle, the danger to Ariane and DuQuesne and, I suppose, myself . . . that strange clarity is returning.

  He knew, even before he rounded the corner, that the bulkhead door ahead of him would be closed, could visualize the extent of damage to Zounin-Ginjou beyond. But there is another route. And if I get there, I can remove the damaged section, and use a piece of the control cabling from the disabled secondary turret to splice.

  Simon could envision the entire turret in his mind, even though it was terribly complex, a mechanical and electronic marvel with thousands of components. He felt a rising exhilaration, a feeling that there was nothing beyond this vision of reality . . . and a mounting fear of what that exhilaration could mean.

  He pushed back against both feelings, and felt relief as they both receded. I . . . am still master of my own mind, even if it is . . . changed. I cannot afford panic or overconfidence. DuQuesne and Orphan—and Ariane—are counting on me.

  A transmission from the command deck reached him, and he saw a cloud darkening, and then a nightmare blasting forth from the depths of the shadow, a thing so huge and terrible that he was momentarily stunned, stumbling even as he ran down the corridor. “My God, Marc, Orphan, what is that?”

  “Morfalzeen,” Orphan said, even his voice not free of awe. “One of the largest predators in the Arena. As it is nearer the Blessed, this seems fortunate for us . . . but what are all those other creatures with it? I do not under-”

  DuQuesne began to chuckle, and the chuckle built up, rumbling, louder, echoing, a laugh of victory and vindication that still somehow gave Simon a momentary case of the creeps. I think . . . I think I’m hearing the original Marc C. DuQuesne there.

  Wind tore at Simon as he entered the breached compartment, but the gravity was still active, and he could manage to walk. Maintenance tools . . . there. Sufficient. Cable linkage already exposed by explosion, just need a clean section to splice, about two meters long . . . “Marc, what is so—”

  “Don’t ask,” Marc said, his voice filled with a fierce exaltation, “but take my word for it—these guys are on our side. Orphan—”

  “Doctor DuQuesne, I have accustomed myself to not understanding you, so I will simply accept what you say. Let us continue the battle.”

  Odd. Orphan sounds . . . almost vindicated.

  He cut the section of cable free, seeing the sparkling of innumerable optic-cable ends. Junction splices . . . over here.

  Zounin-Ginjou made a sudden turn, but Simon found he had already grabbed a support without thinking. Creepy, as Ariane often has said. “Orphan,” he said, feeling the ship begin a steep climb in what he thought was the general direction of Thilomon, “I know we are busy, but . . . you do not seem terribly surprised by this turn of events.”

  “In a way, I am very surprised, Doctor Sandrisson,” Orphan answered. “At the same time . . . I have become quite used to being surprised by your people. To the point I do, in fact, expect it.”

  “Ha!” came DuQuesne’s voice. “Got another one! Orphan, what are you being so blasted mysterious about?”

  “Let us just say I believe I have confirmed a hypothesis, and that this is most in your favor.”

  Simon inserted the second junction splice, put the second end of the cable section in and locked it down. “There! Orphan—”

  “Excellent work! Control linkages fully active!”

  A concussion rocked Zounin-Ginjou.

  “Not for long if we keep getting hit,” DuQuesne growled. “The morfalzeen and its friends are leaving, and while that gave us some breathing room, we’re still bad, bad outnumbered and outgunned. Simon, you’d better get back up here—”

  Another image came to Simon’s mind—the third main battery, the storage areas nearby, and he suddenly had an inspiration. “No. No, I have an idea, Marc. Just . . . stop using the third main turret for a bit, and don’t get us killed immediately, all right?”

  Marc was silent for a moment; he could hear the echoing rattl
e and whining screech of weapons fire. “You got it, Simon. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  “So do I.”

  I . . . think I know what I’m doing. Yet a part of me doesn’t understand at all. Was Ariane right? Am I simply hooked into the data of the Arena?

  The storage room was large, with a Liberated equivalent of a forklift. Replacements for the focused energy cannon are over here. I need . . . all right, there’s a total of eight. Maybe that will be enough.

  Simon found a set of grips that looked somewhat like the long pincerlike claws that he’d seen in documentaries about logging. These should work.

  The grips clasped the tubelike assemblies perfectly. Simon was surprised to find they seemed relatively light. I was sure they had a higher heavy metal content than that, but I’m not going to complain. It will make the remainder of the plan that much easier. He felt a rising confidence return, and this time allowed it more rein. Might as well; no reason to undermine myself.

  Pulling all eight was a bit of an effort, even with the forkliftlike device, but he dragged them across as quickly as he could, nearly tripping on the scabbard of his sword. I may have gotten used to wearing it, but there are still some times it is extremely inconvenient. Simon unfastened the scabbard from his belt and hung it on one of the main turret supports, clear of any of the rotational axes. If this works, I’ll be going back and forth between the forklift and this gun quite a few times.

  Zounin-Ginjou shuddered again, and he thought the lights flickered. Have to do this fast, or there will be no point!

  The main control circuitry . . . there. Have to cut out the amperage override and the voltage limiter in these areas. He estimated the actual power connections. There is a lot of margin in this, and the power comes from one of the local storage rings . . . “Orphan, how are we doing on power?”

  “Enslaving monsters, come around, into our sights!” he heard from Orphan, then, “Many pardons, Doctor. We are . . . still running, but I must hope this battle will end relatively soon. The second apex ring—for the third turret, where you are—is actually still near to full, however; that one has been fired less than the others.”

  “Good.”

  He completed cutting out the circuit protection. Now, the controls must be reprogrammed . . . must make sure the circuits will handle the shift in parameters, especially for the containment field. Simon frowned, looking at the overall design. This may not survive for long. But . . . it won’t have to.

  Even as another impact rocked the ship, he slammed the cover back down. “Marc, use the third turret. Make sure you don’t miss.”

  “What have you done?” Even as DuQuesne asked, the huge turret began to rotate, and Simon ducked behind one of the baffles, covering his head with the armored labcoatlike outfit he always wore.

  The world went white and Simon felt as though he’d been hit with a padded hammer the size of a rhino. His ears were ringing, and if he’d had to rely on hearing, nothing DuQuesne had to say would have registered. But through the link he could still hear “Holy great jumping—got him! Right through the main armor!”

  The turret started to track again.

  “No, no, wait, Marc! I have to replace the main projector lining and focal assembly! That single shot probably vaporized most of it!”

  “You . . .” Suddenly Marc DuQuesne was laughing again. “You incredible son of a . . . you’ve just given me primary beams?”

  “I . . . see,” Orphan said, and there was an awed note in his voice. “Not something practical for most circumstances, given the potential hazards, but . . . ingenious. And it may just give us that edge, if we can destroy one ship per use. How many . . .”

  “Eight more, I think, if this turret doesn’t explode,” Simon answered. He yanked down on the maintenance latch, and the remains of the assembly fell out, smoking, scorching the deck. Great kami, the internal heat’s going to burn me to a cinder.

  But the internal coolant systems were still operating, and the brilliant white glow swiftly faded, down to a point that he could manhandle the new assembly into place and pull the lever to relock the barrel shut. He dove for his shelter. “Now, Marc!”

  “Need better reload times on this,” Marc said absently. The turret began to track.

  “Need better equipment,” he retorted. “I’m doing this by hand, and—”

  Concussion and light robbed him momentarily of breath and thought. “. . . and it takes time to cool down to the point I can get near it. Even with near-superconductors of heat and a lot of coolant.”

  He dumped the other seven assemblies on the floor, ejected the now-spent second assembly, and used the forklift to shove the expended components to the other side of the room. They’ve actually melted or vaporized part of the deck. The heat’s . . . incredible.

  Third assembly in and locked, and Simon felt the strain of effort starting to tell. They get much heavier the more often I do this.

  This time he heard a cheer from both Orphan and DuQuesne even before the gun fired. “What is it?”

  “Ariane!” DuQuesne said exultantly. “Got to be! Thilomon just started firing on her own fleet!”

  “How in the world could she possibly be in control of a warship on her own?” Simon muttered.

  Orphan’s voice was suddenly grave. “Doctor Sandrisson, you are still in the third turret?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Then we may have a problem. While security and monitoring are currently severely compromised, I have registered the opening and closing of two doors near your location, along the corridors you traversed previously.”

  “What?” Simon heard DuQuesne echo the shout. “No one could have possibly—”

  The door to the turret room slid open, and Simon stared with shocked incredulity.

  Breathing so hard the air whistled from his spiracles, battered, scorched, one crest broken, Vantak of the Blessed to Serve glowered at him through the sights of an unfamiliar, but undoubtedly lethal, pistol.

  CHAPTER 39

  Everything froze for Simon. He could see the sights steady, the hand tightening on the weapon, and knew that he had no chance to dodge, even the preternatural quickness that his strange Arena-born knowledge and perceptions only giving him enough time to know clearly that he was going to die.

  There was a blaze of light and thunder that hammered him and Simon wondered that things still hurt after death. Then he opened his eyes, scrambling to his feet, feeling the tight, insistent pain of burns across one side of his face, smelling burned hair, and understanding that he now had a single, momentary chance.

  DuQuesne had fired. Whether because he’d simply acquired a target, or because he’d somehow guessed that Simon could use a sledgehammer of distraction, Simon didn’t know, but it had knocked Vantak almost out of the room and made the Blessed warrior drop his pistol. Simon leapt to the other side of the turret supports, felt the warm but not quite burning hilt of his sword and yanked it free.

  Vantak had begun a charge, but came up short when he saw the long, sharp blade in Simon’s hand. “Fortune seems to spare you,” he said finally, backing away.

  Oh, no you don’t! He knew it was risky, but he could feel that nigh-omniscience in his head, see exactly the course Vantak would take, and he dove forward, rolled—God, that hurts, my shoulders and neck must be terribly burned—and jabbed.

  He came to his feet, Vantak’s pistol now dangling from the tip of his rapier; as the Blessed hesitated, Simon flicked the pistol up and out, to land with a clatter among the expended assemblies. They’re still terribly hot; I don’t think even a Blessed wants to go anywhere in that collection of half-melted scrap.

  “How did you get on board?” he asked, shifting his position, trying to get an angle—and to work his way back to the gun emplacement. If I can hit the maintenance lever . . .

  Vantak buzzed. “After I was thrown out by that . . . pet monster of yours, I was able to use my wings to shift my course; when Zounin-Ginjou took the high approach
it came close enough to land on.”

  Simon could hear his pulse hammering in his ears. Vantak must be close to Orphan in skill. Even with this sword I think I’m terribly outmatched. He’s watching, trying to judge when I make myself vulnerable—

  A green and black blur streaked towards him, ducking down and under. Somehow, Simon turned, shifted his weight, following that strange instinct, lessening the impact but still sending him skidding over the deck. He barely kept his grip on the sword.

  To his surprise, Vantak hit the maintenance lever and leapt aside to avoid the falling, burned out assembly. What is he up to?

  “Simon! Simon!” he heard DuQuesne’s voice. “Dammit, what’s going on?”

  “I have a problem called Vantak, Marc.”

  “By the Minds!” Orphan said. “Vantak, here?”

  Marc swore. “I’d come down there, but I can’t afford to stop shooting now, Simon. I—”

  Vantak reached up, still watching Simon, and touched other controls. Shimatta. He’s put the turret into local control. But what . . .

  As Vantak glanced over at the next assembly, it was suddenly clear. On manual control, Vantak could deliberately fire the gun with the assembly misaligned—quite possibly taking Zounin-Ginjou with it, and even if not, dealing a lot of damage to the Liberated warship. He doesn’t expect to live. He just wants to make sure we go with him!

  Simon took advantage of Vantak’s flickered gaze to the side and lunged. The point of his rapier scraped along the Blessed’s abdomen, leaving a narrow cut and forcing Vantak to jump back.

  But the damage was only superficial, and Vantak was now advancing on him with all-too-calm precision. He is armored, and I have a single slender blade. It is obvious what the outcome will be. “I know, Marc. I’ll keep him as busy as I can, and reload if I get the chance.”

  DuQuesne was silent, and Simon knew why. Vantak was, quite simply, far out of Simon’s league.

  But maybe . . .