Spheres of Influence

by Ryk E. Spoor

  “And you want to go catch up with Davison?”

  “Yeah. Find out who’s after him. Maybe check in on a couple other potential targets—if whoever or whatever it is has the same basic hit list, Davison’s just one of about a dozen good candidates, he’s just one of only a couple I really worry about.”

  Ariane looked at him for a moment, then nodded. “All right. Since you’re going back, there’s something else I’d like you to do.”

  “Name it, Captain. Want me to talk to Saul about—”

  “Hold off on that; I’ll send through some instructions on a torpedo myself when I know which way we’re going to jump on that. No, I want you to contact someone else. My AISage, Mentor.”

  DuQuesne and the others blinked. She was not entirely surprised when Laila reacted first. “Took quite a risk, didn’t you?”

  Gabrielle, DuQuesne, and Carl caught on then, with Simon only a split-second behind. “Damn, Ariane!” Carl said. “You let Mentor go rogue?”

  Ariane really didn’t like that term—if she was right, Mentor was even more her partner now than he’d been all the years they’d been together—but legally . . . “Yes, I guess we have to call it that. He asked me to, because he felt in view of what we’d learned about the Minds—”

  “Oh,” Oasis said quietly, and the others stopped talking, suddenly realizing the implications.

  “Living up to his name, is he?” DuQuesne said after a moment. “Okay, I’ll do it.”

  “I’ll give you a code to contact him—without it he’ll never answer, since he knows just how dangerous it would be for both me and him.” She saw DuQuesne getting up, realized he really did feel he had to go now.

  “I will come too!” Wu stepped forward.

  “No, you will not,” both Ariane and DuQuesne said in such perfect synchrony that, despite the deadly seriousness of the situation, Simon started chuckling—along with everyone else around the table. “Your job is to bodyguard me, Wu,” Ariane said. “I haven’t taken you off that job, and obviously neither has DuQuesne.”

  Wu looked a bit hangdog, but nodded. “Sorry. You’re right. It’s just . . . they’re my people, too.”

  “I know, Wu. And . . . I hope they’re all right. I’ll do my best.”

  Simon looked thoughtful, and Ariane guessed what was going through his head. And how many people can Marc dare trust with his secrets? Not many. “I don’t know if you’d find it useful, Marc,” he said, “but I will come with you, if you like.”

  DuQuesne looked startled, then grinned again. “You know, that turned out damned well on board Zounin-Ginjou, and I’d love to have you along. But Ariane’s right about what you might be able to find out about the Shadeweavers and the Faith, and it’s crucial.”

  “Then let me,” said Oasis.

  There was something . . . odd about the exchange of looks between DuQuesne and Oasis, and Ariane wondered suddenly just what the relationship had been between the two survivors of Hyperion. But from the way DuQuesne’s talked, the person he was really close to was this . . . “K,” one of the five, not Oasis, who was a soldier who just happened to survive . . .

  “Ariane? You have any objection?”

  Not my business, as far as I know. Ariane did her best to keep any trace of her musings from her voice. “Objection? No, it sounds like a great idea to me. She was on Hyperion and was connected to Saul, so I’m guessing she might know some of these people too.”

  “Yes,” Oasis said, her face troubled. “I did. Quite a few, by the end of it all. Thank you, Captain.”

  Ariane smiled. “Just keep him out of trouble, okay?”

  The redheaded soldier bounced up and saluted. “Impossible mission accepted, Captain!”

  DuQuesne managed a smile before turning for the door. “Yeah, we usually do find a bit of trouble. But with you along, I hope we’ll both be able to get out of it, too.”

  CHAPTER 46

  “I understand your captain is back now, Simon,” Relgof said, with an undertone of relief that Simon was glad to hear. If he was that worried, then I think I can truly depend on him being a friend of ours . . . even if there are strong limits as to what I can expect from that friendship.

  “Yes, she returned just yesterday. Apparently someone took a shot at her on the Docks, and she escaped in Thilomon.”

  “I had heard rumors, but that’s quite worrisome. Admittedly,” Relgof made an expansive gesture around the Archives, “one can find motives for nearly anything in the Arena, and your faction has hardly been . . . how should I put it . . . hidden in the weeds very often.”

  “Yes, we haven’t kept a very low profile,” Simon agreed. And let’s continue away from the subject; a complex lie is much more vulnerable and I’m terrible at them anyway. “I was wondering if I could get your assistance on a bit of research.”

  Relgof’s filter-beard flip-flopped as it often did when he was thinking. “You recognize that—”

  “Yes, I know. And I’m not asking you to add more overall to the bargain. I was asking more as a friend, to see if you could save me some research.”

  The tall, slender alien gave an elaborate exended-arm bow. “Then why don’t I hear your question, and we shall decide then if I might have to demand a price for the answer.”

  “All right. You know, of course, that Ariane has within her the powers of Shadeweaver, or Faith, or something like them,” Simon began. “Now, I don’t expect you to know—or to point me towards—information on how to use or control those powers, even if the Archives have anything of the sort—”

  “Ha!” Relgof’s laugh was hearty. “‘If’? It is true that the Shadeweavers and Faith guard their secrets well, but I would be surprised if there is not quite a great deal on their powers and their use, hidden somewhere in the Archives. But go on.”

  “Well, when she’s Transitioned between normal space and the Arena, she says she’s felt . . . something. She has a difficult time describing it,” and I would have a hard time describing the exact sensation I have had in those moments, “but she doesn’t recall feeling it the first time we did Transition, and the others don’t report anything like it either.” Others, of course, don’t include me. “So we became curious; do you know if the powers of the Shadeweavers or the Faith work in normal space?”

  Relgof’s beard stopped moving halfway across his mouth, and the Wagamia stared at him for several moments. “You know . . . by the Sea, that’s an extremely interesting question. And one to which I do not know the answer. Certainly it is not common that they leave the Arena. The Shadeweavers are not even a true Faction, as I believe you are aware, purely a fellowship within the Arena. The Faith are, but the Initiate Guides are rare and one would expect they are busy enough here without often going to the worlds of normal space.”

  He hadn’t thought about that difference between the two forces, but now that it was brought up he wondered. “I thought they had a Faction House.”

  “Hmm . . . the Shadeweavers have one, yes, but they are not—and never have been—treated precisely as a Faction. For one thing, they are not permitted to Challenge, in general. This is one reason that Amas-Garao had to work through the Blessed when he made his ill-omened gambit against you. They are, perhaps, more akin in character to the Powerbrokers.”

  That made some sense, but then he had to wonder why the difference. “I see. But you don’t know—”

  “No, I do not. And it is a question well worth investigating.” He turned, then stopped, looked back. “I do not have any objection to your remaining with me while I investigate this question.”

  Simon laughed. “Excellent.”

  Researcher Relgof spoke some commands to the air; despite listening carefully, Simon could not make out either the commands or the responses. I don’t have permission to access the index, and apparently that permission’s being enforced, either by the Arena or by some technology the Analytic has. We could do something like that at home, but the technology that I would use back home wouldn’t work here.


  After a few moments, Relgof clapped his hands together and made a rubbing motion, filter-beard moving again. “How very intriguing. Nothing in the index directly on the subject at all. There are of course many items relating to both Shadeweaver and Faith, but that particular set of facts . . . not cross-indexed. My initial reaction would then be to say that no, their powers only work in the Arena, but that is only a hypothesis. We need to now attempt to falsify the hypothesis. If you would care to join me,” he said, with a cheerful nod to Simon, “we can both proceed to the research!”

  The first step was to get one of the many floating platforms; the second took them on a surprisingly wild ride through the nigh-endless aisles, levels, and rooms of the Archives of the Analytic, grabbing old tablets, books, data crystals, what appeared to be tree branches with shimmering leaves, a structure of intertwined knots of vast complexity that reminded Simon of an Incan khipu he’d once seen in an museum, other things of strange and difficult-to-interpret structure. As they proceeded, he looked to Relgof. “As a question of purely personal opinion,” he said, “do you think that the Shadeweavers and the Faith use the same power?”

  Relgof did not immediately answer. When he did, his translated voice was serious, reflective. “I am not sure, to be honest. I have tried to filter that question more than once.

  “On the surface, of course, one would be inclined to say yes. The initial reaction of any scientist is to seek parsimony in their observations of the universe’s workings, and it is so much simpler to posit a single source of power—specifically, the technology of the Arena—and use it to explain any, shall we say, apparently-supernatural occurrences.”

  “Agreed. The Arena already does things that violate all the natural laws that we know of. While we can postulate some type of mechanism that would make it possible—femtotech, the manipulation of the very characteristics of spacetime, that sort of thing—we certainly don’t know how the Arena does what it does, and it would seem reasonable to think anything with similarly . . . outré powers must stem from the same source.”

  Relgof flip-flopped his agreement. “However, the behavior and actions of the two groups often indicates an opposition. We can, of course, assume various reasons that the Arena or its creators would create more than one group with access to its powers and foster enmity or at least an adversarial relationship between them, but at the same time one could also as easily take the Faith and Shadeweavers at their word that there are considerable differences between them—although,” he continued, taking a thick volume from a shelf they had just stopped at, “sometimes the Shadeweavers imply they are the same. Not a terribly cohesive group.”

  “No, they aren’t,” Simon said. Simon’s own suspicions were that there had to be some connection between the two groups—what had happened with Ariane, he was fairly sure, happened only because Ariane had figured out something about the two groups. But both groups had also been absolutely stunned when it worked, so it was also possible that she’d pulled off something that didn’t fit with anything either group knew. She had been extremely close-mouthed, and Simon had not pressed her. And a good thing, too. I do not believe it would have been wise to have that particular mystery explained in our reports.

  Sometimes I suspect the Arena was set up for no other reason than to . . . mess with the minds of everyone in it.

  “Well, that’s enough to start with, certainly,” Relgof said briskly. “Shall we see if we can get anywhere with these?”

  “I don’t know how many of them I’ll be able to read—if ‘reading’ is the right description—but I’ll certainly do my best.”

  The two scientists brought their large collection of Shadeweaver- and Faith-related material to one of the examining rooms and spread it on a long table. Relgof looked it over, humming pensively. “You are right, Doctor Sandrisson. Much of this is in languages dead and lost, the speakers gone, perhaps their Factions also long since gone to dust. But we can but try.” The two bent over the assortment and began trying to puzzle out meanings.

  Hours passed. The room should have been—probably was—climate-controlled, but still Simon found himself getting warmer, and finally shed his labcoat-like outerwear, draping it over a nearby chair, before going back to the research.

  Finally, it dawned on Simon that he was terribly thirsty and hungry. And I’ve still found nothing. At a few points in this work, he’d felt that preternatural clarity . . . hovering, waiting in the wings, and he thought that if he tried very hard, drove himself, that it might emerge. But if I do that here, I have a very good chance of tipping off Relgof, and that is a piece of information far too valuable to give away.

  Still, it was important to know the answer to the question; if the answer was no, then the Minds’ plan had been doomed to failure, and there was one concern that need never bother them again. If the answer was yes . . .

  “Ha!”

  Relgof’s voice was tired, rough, and it was clear he was probably more in need of refreshment than Simon, but for a moment he looked bright and alert, holding up a roll of greenish material like parchment. “Listen to this, Simon. This is a Ryphexian hand-record, a written scroll made to record and enshrine events of importance in their history. Such scrolls are usually copied by hand once every, oh, century, and checked by four other scribes before being accepted, so they generally survived thousands of years or more being recopied without significant change.

  “Allowing for the typical phrasing of this period, it goes something like this: ‘The Master of Engines declared that none of the True Blood could enter into service of, or treat with, those claiming access to powers beyond the knowledge of the Four Masters, for only the Place of Testing’—hm, I think by that they mean the Arena—‘for only the Place of Testing as forged by the First and Last could claim dominion above dominion. But the Master’s first-made entered into the Temple of the False Believers’—I think that’s a phrase that refers to the Faith—‘and took up their service, for she found the Guides wise and their powers wondrous. The Master of Engines was bewildered and taken with horror, for the loss of the first-made to the False Believers imperiled his Blood.

  Relgof paused, squinting at the parchment. “Yes . . . um . . . I see! Well, it appears that this ‘Master of Engines’ then decided that it was a particular Guide who was responsible for . . . misleading the Master’s progeny, and he arranged the Guide’s death.”

  “He killed one of the Initiate Guides?”

  “So it would appear. To forestall any vengeance, the Master of Engines departed the Place of Testing, the Arena, and went back to their homeworld. But here’s the key part: ‘And the Master rested well, for those who might seek his end lay a full world beyond the sky away. But in the midst of the day-heat, when no others would stir, he heard a sound outside his doors, which were locked, and called for his Protectors. And when the Protectors came, they found the doors locked from the inside, and no response now came from the Master of Engines, and they worked swiftly in fear to break those doors. But still it was a day and more before they had finished.

  “‘And when at last the doors were opened, the Master of Engines was seen, standing at full height in the middle of the room. But he did not speak, nor turn any gaze in their direction, and they found that he was dead. Nothing else untoward was seen within the rooms of the Master, save only one thing: in the Master’s hand was a note, of shining white in all of the spans of radiance’—Ah, that’s interesting,” Relgof said, momentarily distracted. “Means that it was white in multiple spectra—it would look white to any species with visual perception, I suppose.” He saw Simon’s raised eyebrow. “Oh, I beg your pardon. Where was I . . . ? ‘ . . . all the spans of radiance, and on it was written only this: Guilt cannot be escaped, for with you it travels always.”

  “‘So it was that the Seventeenth Master of Engines passed, and Ryphexia knew that the Believers were not false.’”

  Simon nodded slowly. “So—if I understand that right—the Faith came to him
on his home planet in normal space and killed him for the cold-blooded murder of one of the Guides.”

  “That is indeed the way I read it. In addition, as it has been made fairly clear that overall the Faith and the Shadeweavers are well matched, I would assume that a Shadeweaver could also act in normal space.” Even with his alien face and physique, Simon could tell that Relgof was amazed. “Perhaps I should have expected this . . . but I did not. I expected to find nothing to disprove the hypothesis.”

  “It is somewhat frightening to discover, I admit.” And more so to think of the Minds nearly getting control of that power.

  “Quite. I had assumed our own worlds were safe from . . . deliberate violations of natural law, aside from the interception of our ships into the Arena. It now appears I was wrong . . . and the Analytic must now begin to reconsider our defensive approaches. I suppose I must thank you, Simon; this is valuable information, and it is possible I wouldn’t have researched it for months to come.”

  Simon shook his head. “Perhaps. On the other hand, you’ve just given me the information free, so we can call it even. And I think we both need something to eat—and drink—after that session.”

  Relgof tried to flip his beard, found it stuck. “I am dried, indeed. Still, a most intriguing day. Would you care to join me on another expedition—to the Grand Arcade and one of the fine eateries therein?”

  Simon grinned and picked up his coat. “A challenging expedition indeed!”

  CHAPTER 47

  “She’s something pretty special, isn’t she?”

  DuQuesne jumped, realizing he’d been staring out the port of his personal shuttle in silence ever since they’d gotten underway. “What?”

  “Don’t try to hide it from me, Marc,” Oasis said, in tones only K would have used. “Don’t worry, it’s not jealousy. Or not much.”

  He studied her, flaming red hair, green eyes, a half-smile on the lips he remembered . . . “I’d hope not. You don’t have anything to be jealous over.”