Spheres of Influence

by Ryk E. Spoor

  For the first time, Simon focused on that feeling of knowledge and certainty, and looked at Vantak.

  In that moment, he saw the Blessed as though from all angles, impossibly envisioning him in every direction, and projecting possible actions. He could see the possibilities, as he had sometimes been able to envision time-space distortions when building the Sandrisson coils. But in those transcendent moments of design and theory, he had been deaf, blind, unaware of anything else around him, focused only on the understanding of the coils and their effects; now, his perceptions were heightened. He could feel the blistered tightness of his upper neck and shoulder that had been exposed to the flare of the last shot, perceive the tilt and vibration of the deck, register Vantak’s tensing of muscles and preparation for movement. Possibilities narrowed, focused, and Simon knew.

  He threw himself aside and cut outwards and down, and the ring-carbon-edged blade cut a deep gash in Vantak’s right wingcase. Simon backpedaled, watching in what seemed slow-motion as Vantak sprang about, pivoting around his center of mass with literally inhuman speed.

  He also remembered his prior actions, thought back, saw those probabilities rising, the vectors, chances, and understood the only possible way out of this. I cannot dodge him forever. He is faster than me, he is vastly more skilled, and knowing what he is going to do a few tens of milliseconds before he does it will only go so far.

  This will all depend on timing. So very much on timing.

  He dodged another lunge, seeing and parrying the tail strike that followed, dodging. Must go farther towards that side. Another attack, this one nearly going home, sending him staggering back. But closer.

  Zounin-Ginjou jolted as though struck with a club, and both combatants staggered. There was rattling behind him, and Simon could feel the radiating heat.

  This time a wing-strike took him square in the chest, too fast to dodge; all he could do was curl and roll. But the roll took him into something as hot as an iron poker from a fire and he half-screamed, half-cursed, slashing out with his sword to keep Vantak at bay as he moved away from the expended assemblies. Vantak circled, obviously uncomfortable with the heat but somewhat more armored and resistant. Simon was trying not to limp or favor his side, but he could see that Vantak recognized his weakness, was preparing to risk taking the sword through him on a last charge—

  And Simon saw probabilities spiking as he had hoped, and dropped flat to the deck.

  There was a slamming, shattering detonation as though a lightning bolt had struck, and Vantak flew by him, tumbling like a puppet with cut strings until coming to a halt, while flaming debris showered all around Simon, some of it burning like pins of flame into his face.

  The Blessed twitched, tried to rise, but there was a metal support embedded more than halfway through his back. “Wh . . . what . . . ?”

  “Your pistol,” Simon said, painfully getting to his feet and retrieving his sword. “I . . . had thrown it into the wreckage. I remembered that it must be powered with superconductor batteries . . .”

  Vantak buzzed weakly. “Minds . . . curse you.”

  He shoved himself upward, and for an instant Simon froze. I can’t fight him any more. I just don’t have anything left.

  But something broke inside of Vantak; he gave a buzzing cough, and collapsed. Another buzz, and a last, faint hum like a fly against a screen on a summer’s day . . . and then he was still.

  A sledgehammer blow rammed Zounin-Ginjou sideways, and Simon could hear alarms screaming throughout the ship. Marc was cursing, and so was Orphan in his own way.

  Simon Sandrisson lunged painfully for the remaining assemblies. I can’t be too late! I can’t!

  CHAPTER 40

  Wu Kung’s parting words made all too much sense to Ariane. “Sethrik—”

  “Yes, there are such accesses.”

  “Can we lock them down physically?”

  Sethrik went to a panel off to one side of the control center. “I . . . believe so. They are meant to be opened from either side, but using the same mechanism.”

  “Is there another one on this side?”

  “Yes. Look for a small circular area—it will probably appear to be slightly lighter in color to you—on the left-hand side of the third panel.”

  “Found it.”

  Sethrik tapped the circle with three fingers simultaneously, and it opened out into a half-moon-shaped handle; after a few tries she duplicated the action. “Now what? Is there a lock?”

  “Yes. I have to hope that they have not gone through the entire ship and removed my authorization; after all, they intended to imprison me temporarily and then return me to duty; it would be an annoyance to do that to all ship systems.” He humm-buzzed something and placed his hand beneath the handle.

  With a whirr and click, the handles rotated one hundred and eighty degrees and locked.

  Whew. “They’ll be able to cut through or blow up the panels eventually, of course.”

  “Naturally,” said Sethrik, striding to the command perch. “But I believe this battle will be over one way or the other by then. Can you pilot Thilomon?”

  Ariane went to the pilot’s station, pushing the unfortunate Kandret’s body out of the way and sitting down; the perch was something like sitting in a chair backwards, but she could handle that, and the safety harness automatically slid across her back. “Umm . . . maybe. This doesn’t look much different from the layout of the controls on Zounin-Ginjou. Hmm. No tail controls?”

  Sethrik chuckled. “The Survivor uses those, I have no doubt, because he needs to be as many people as possible. But in general, no, because our tails are not nearly so dextrous and are more used for combat and support than for controlling things.”

  I dunno, they seemed awfully dextrous when they were trying to sting me. But I’m not looking a gift equine in the dentition, so to speak. “What about armament?”

  “I can control much of that from here. No telling how long that control will last, of course, so let us cross as many trees with this leap as we can.”

  “Make the most of it, as we say. Yep. Hold on!”

  Thilomon turned quickly, a little raggedly as she came to understand how the turn mechanisms worked, but quickly, and she saw Blessed ships coming around in front of them, trying to regroup after the attack by Arenaspace lifeforms and press the attack on Zounin-Ginjou.

  Even as the Liberated battleship swam into view, a spear of intolerable brilliance erupted from its upper turret, a bolt of energy so intense that it seemed to make the entire Arena around them dimmer; the beam ripped straight through one of the Blessed ships as though its armor were nonexistent, and the ship immediately and vehemently exploded.

  “Great Minds!” Sethrik muttered. “What sort of a weapon is that, and why wasn’t the Survivor using it earlier?”

  “I dunno,” she said cheerfully, feeling her confidence rising, “but let’s focus on our own problems. Like our own targets.”

  Sethrik’s overlay displays came up, showing armament-targeting displays; she couldn’t quite read some of the symbols but could tell he was disabling something—safety interlocks, I’ll bet, to keep you from accidentally shooting your friends by mistake.

  The targeting symbols locked on a nearby vessel.

  She waited, but nothing happened. She looked over her shoulder. “Sethrik?”

  The Leader of the Blessed was sitting with his hand over a control; the hand trembled.

  Damn.

  “I . . . do not wish to do this,” Sethrik said sadly. “Ariane Austin, can you understand how hard this is? I am of the Blessed. We are near to one, in many ways, and now I will turn our own weapons upon them. I am meant to protect them, not destroy.”

  “I know, Sethrik. Dammit, I know exactly what you mean. But if you don’t fire—”

  “Yes. I know. They will kill us. Or worse, far worse, for both you and I, even though I will not think it so when they have finished with me.”

  He inhaled deeply and buzzed something tha
t sounded like a prayer. “Minds forgive me, but I do what I believe. I do what I think is right. I do what I must.”

  His hand came down.

  Instantly the forward batteries of Thilomon cut loose, firing energy and explosive shells into her sister ship barely twenty kilometers distant. The ship shuddered and then detonated in a flare that blanked the screens for a moment.

  “Thank you, Sethrik. And I’m sorry, but . . .”

  “But there is more work to be done. Let us finish it, then.”

  The other Blessed ships were thrown into disarray a second time now, as they tried to respond to an attack by their own flagship. The hesitation will work in our favor too; attacking one of their own ships will be hard.

  Another eye-searing bolt of energy impaled a Blessed ship and it, too, disappeared in vapor before the power of Zounin-Ginjou. She cheered, came about even as the first tentative counterfire began. “Pick your target, Sethrik!”

  “Hmm,” Sethrik said. His hands were still shaking, and the involuntary occasional buzz showed how badly the stress was affecting him, even as he spoke in an artificially light and casual tone. “That’s Lahthindosan. I admit to never liking its commander much at all.”

  On the edge of a breakdown or not, Sethrik’s aim was deadly. Thilomon’s assault shattered the aft section of his target, and while it did not explode, the ship immediately began drifting aimlessly, out of control.

  For a third time that impossible beam of light turned the atmosphere of the Arena to plasma, and another Blessed vessel vanished. That’s . . . ten! More than half! We just might win this one!

  They came about, fired again, missed; the other Blessed vessels had now accepted that their flagship had become their enemy, and they were divided now into two-ship groups. At the same time she realized that Zounin-Ginjou was severely battered. The screen showed multiple gaping wounds on the ship. Though it was still clearly functioning—and functioning quite well—it was clear that there was not much left for Orphan’s vessel to give.

  And the mysterious weapon atop Zounin-Ginjou had stopped.

  She could hear hammering on the access panels now, but tried to ignore it. Have to do as much damage as we can!

  Sethrik found another target, tried to fire—but the forward turret failed to respond. “Roll hard to port!” he shouted.

  And the Arena translates that as “port” rather than left. I don’t think we’ll EVER know how it makes its decisions. Even as she thought that she was rolling the ship, turning—

  And the topside port cannon fired, crippling the target. “They shut down the forward batteries,” Sethrik said. “I have no doubt they are doing the same to the others. We do not have much time left.”

  Thilomon rang like a bell, the impact so hard that Sethrik would have been thrown from the command perch if he had not been strapped in; Ariane felt her own harness creak. The lights flickered and then shifted to a dimmer light in a slightly different shade.

  “Ah. No more time at all,” said Sethrik. “A perfect shot, straight through the main power-distribution core. I suspect the crew has deliberately sabotaged the backups.” A faint glow showed on one of the panels now. Cutting torches.

  “Don’t suppose you have a self-destruct or scuttling command?”

  Sethrik flicked his hands out. “Except for very experimental ships such would be . . . unheard of.”

  She grabbed up one of the pistols from the unconscious guards, and Sethrik took up a rifle. “Then I guess we just have to go for suicide by military.”

  “Indeed.” Sethrik gave her a deep pushup-bow. “It has been a true honor fighting alongside you, Ariane Austin of Humanity.”

  “And you, Sethrik of the—”

  Light came that turned the clouds dark, paled the mighty lightning within them to insignificance, and another Blessed warship was gone. Zounin-Ginjou plowed through a wavering mist of smoke and wreckage, turning, seeking, and that intolerable, irresistable spear of energy impaled another, flaring up, gone. That’s five left against us!

  The other ships banked about, desperately aiming, trying to mass their fire upon Orphan’s flagship, Zounin-Ginjou boring onwards, directly towards them, as though utterly uncaring of any hazard. The forward batteries of the Liberated battleship fired again, hammering into the armor of the Blessed to Serve, and another ship was done, gone, drifting and powerless. Again that coruscating, dazzling sword tore through Arenaspace, and one more was finished, a drifting memory in smoke and flame.

  Sethrik stared at something on the command chair, reached up and activated it.

  “Thilomon, this is Doctor Marc C. DuQuesne of Humanity, calling from Zounin-Ginjou,” came a deep, savagely triumphant voice. “You are drifting crippled, and if you’ll look your last three ships are trying to flee. Surrender and prepare to be boarded.”

  Sethrik buzzed with amusement, and clicked the control again. “This is Sethrik, Leader of the Faction of the Blessed—for now, and only temporarily, I am afraid. But I am glad to hear this. Do not allow them to escape. No mercy. No quarter. Is this understood?”

  Orphan’s voice replied, and held an odd mixture of satisfaction and regret. “Completely, Sethrik. Is Ariane Austin—”

  “I’m here!” she called. “But do we have to . . .”

  She stopped herself and thought. If any of them escape, the Minds will know exactly what happened here. Maybe they’ll even figure out what’s going on with Wu Kung. They can’t know. They cannot ever know exactly how close they came to success, or how much luck played a part in this. “. . . sorry. Do what you have to.”

  She turned to where the panel lock was now glowing near white. “We’re about to have company anyway.”

  She and Sethrik checked to make sure there wasn’t anything coming through the other panel—it was cool and dark—and took shelter behind the command perch. On the screen they could see Zounin-Ginjou in pursuit of the final three Blessed vessels. Good luck, she thought. Then she steadied her arm and took careful aim.

  The panel dropped with a heavy clang, and she saw two Blessed, rifles dropping into line just behind the panel. Her first shot struck, but the Blessed were wearing armor and it did no damage. Sethrik’s shot was more effective—not surprising; I should have taken a rifle, but I’m better with handguns. Wish I could’ve gotten to my own weapons.

  The two leapt into the command center; the one wounded by Sethrik ducked behind one of the control perches, while the other laid down a barrage of fire which ensured both Ariane and Sethrik kept their heads down. More movement told her that there were reinforcements coming.

  She popped up, snapped off a shot, dropped back down. Got to get in the right mindframe. Outnumbered, but they still have to come in through a choke point. Shame there weren’t any grenades.

  Sethrik fired twice, scoring a hit that took down the wounded one for good, then dropping back with a curse; there was a nasty-looking burn along his left arm.

  She stuck her head around on the other side and fired; this time she caught the unwounded one just as he stuck his head out. If that didn’t kill him, he’s sure hurt.

  More shapes were coming up . . . but then they stopped.

  What’s happening?

  She heard some kind of commotion, shouts, buzzing cries, gunshots, and the sound of impacts so fast they seemed almost like machine-gun fire.

  Without warning, two bodies hurtled from the opening, tumbling limply to a halt. A single shadowy figure moved forward. She sighted, daring to hope that she wouldn’t want to fire . . .

  The Monkey King stepped into the command center and waved. “I see you kept busy until I came back!”

  CHAPTER 41

  “How is Simon?”

  DuQuesne grimaced; after the battle, he’d found Simon unconscious in the third turret. “Alive. He’ll heal, we just need to get him home so he can have some proper care and support or it will take his medical nanos ages. What he did was insane, except like the rest of us he didn’t have much choice.”
r />   “What was wrong with him?” Ariane was, somewhat to his surprise (and considerable gratification), mostly keeping a professional tone to her questions. She must have gone through a lot, but there’s something a little . . . changed about her. I hope in a good way.

  “Honestly? I haven’t got one goddamn clue as to why he didn’t collapse long before we finished. That idea of his was damned brilliant—and went through I have no idea how many vals’ worth of Orphan’s equipment in that time—but I don’t think he understood just how deadly it was going to be in that turret. Even with the best designs in the universe—and Orphan’s got some of the best, believe you me—the overpressure, heat, light . . . he might as well have been detonating shock grenades next to himself. And he somehow took on Vantak by himself.”

  “Wait, what? Vantak? He was here?” Wu Kung laughed. “I am glad! A poetic symmetry!”

  Orphan came into the control room, hearing the last lines. “Most certainly,” Orphan said. “You took his ship, he decided to take mine if he could.”

  “Next time, Wu, remember that the Blessed have wings. Sure, he couldn’t directly match our speed, but apparently he was able to guide himself in the right direction and catch us as we went by.”

  Ariane transferred her gaze to Sethrik, who was seated before an auxiliary panel of Zounin-Ginjou. “Are we recharged?”

  The Leader of the Blessed did not answer immediately; he seemed sunk in gloom, and DuQuesne remembered that for the first hour after rescue he had practically curled up in a corner, unresponsive. After a moment, however, Sethrik managed a small bob of assent. “I . . . yes, Captain Austin. We have transferred virtually all power from the remains of Thilomon to Zounin-Ginjou. The Blessed survivors have also been locked into specific areas of the vessel.”

  “Are we able to return home now?”

  Orphan’s bow was more emphatic. “Beyond any doubt. Thilomon had participated relatively little in the battle directly, and thus retained a quite considerable charge. We have in fact nearly fully recharged Zounin-Ginjou.” He strode to the main console and seated himself. “Now we shall cast off and complete the final stage.” Sethrik’s hands twitched, and his wingcases tightened as he turned away.