by Ryk E. Spoor
The huge, normally solemn and impressive room was decorated incongrously with brilliant paper streamers, celebratory lights, banners, and balloons; Carl and Gabrielle were hooking the last long streamer up while Steve worked on a punchbowl fountain. Ariane was talking with Laila, but looked up immediately. “Marc! What wonderful timing.”
In those few moments, DuQuesne—and Oasis, it looks like—had discerned the only rational explanation. “Ha! You did it, Captain! You faced down the Minds and made them pay!”
She looked slightly embarrassed, then straightened and nodded. “Yes . . . yes, I guess I did do just that, Marc. Though the fact you all backed me made it all work.”
“Well, then . . . congratulations to all of us, I guess. They caved completely?”
“Didn’t even quibble,” Laila said matter-of-factly. “It was obvious they realized they had so badly messed up that their only chance was to admit everything and throw themselves on our mercy.”
“Not that I’m complaining in the least,” Gabrielle said, jumping down from the ladder, “But just what were you threatening them with?”
“The Shadeweavers and the Faith,” Steve said with quiet certainty. Structures and patterns are his profession, Simon remembered. He’d note the connections right away.
“Exactly right,” DuQuesne confirmed. “She figured that the worst possible outcome for the Minds would be to let both groups know that the super-AIs had tried to grab their special powers for themselves.”
He glanced over to Simon. “Did you get an answer on that question, by the way?”
Simon nodded. “An extremely definitive yes. The Faith’s powers operate perfectly well in normal space—at least, well enough to pull off seemingly magical tricks—and we must therefore assume the Shadeweavers can do that as well.”
“Damnation. I was really hoping that wasn’t the case. It’d be nice to think that normal space is a defense against all the Arena’s insanity.”
“But we already knew it wasn’t,” Carl said, grabbing a cup and going for the punch even as the fountain started.
“What? How?” Ariane asked.
“Don’t you remember? That whole bit about how nanotech colonization and AI exploration doesn’t work in normal space? The Arena, or whoever or whatever set it up, made sure we couldn’t use our machines to spread like weeds across the galaxy, either.”
That’s right, Simon thought to himself. “Yes, that conversation we had with Selpa when he first came to visit. And I remember having a conversation with you, Marc, along similar lines.”
“You mean how none of our interstellar slower-than-light probes had managed anything? Yeah. That little set of facts sure clarified that mystery.” DuQuesne’s face looked grim, and Simon noted that Oasis’ usual cheerful expression hadn’t returned after the initial surprised joy at Ariane’s triumph.
That hadn’t escaped Ariane’s notice, either. “Marc, do we need to talk before our guests show up?”
“Guests?” DuQuesne looked momentarily confused, then shook his head as if to clear it. “Yeah. Not everyone—I mean, I guess we could tell everyone here, come to think of it. We’re not keeping my secrets close to the vest in this group.
“First—you did look over the file I gave you, back when we returned to the Arena?”
“Your Hyperion file? Yes. I’ve read it, Marc, and no one else has seen it.”
“That’s okay; to understand what happened you don’t have to have read it . . . you’ll just understand what it means to me—and Wu and Oasis—better that way.”
DuQuesne hesitated, and the others slowly stopped everything else and gathered closer. Something . . . terrible has happened.
DuQuesne looked over to Oasis, who nodded. “All right,” he said, finally. “For those of you who didn’t know, Doctor Davison was the guy I had in charge of watching over the Hyperions who’d chosen to . . . go back, I guess. Stay in the illusions of their universe. There were five of them; Wu was one.”
Wu Kung was standing now very still and stiff, his posture anticipating dread and loss.
“Oasis and I, we followed the traces the way I’d arranged. Took us a while because the whole point of the activity was to lose potential pursuit of just about any type. Just doing the following made us so hard to chase down that Mentor didn’t catch up with us for over a week.”
“So you did contact Mentor,” Ariane said with some relief.
“Yeah, no problem there.” DuQuesne paused. “Blast it. Anyway, we got close to the new location and . . . well, whoever it was had gotten there first. Davison’s in long-term reconstruction now, no telling if he’s going to remember anything that happened. And the other four . . .” DuQuesne’s voice actually rose, almost cracked, on the last word, and he stopped, unable to continue.
“No. No, please, no, DuQuesne, no!” Wu was pleading, as though whatever terrible news DuQuesne had could be taken back by enough entreaties.
“They were . . . killed and . . . burned,” Oasis managed finally.
Oh, great Kami . . .
“A pile . . .” She swallowed, with the pallor of nausea spreading across her face, but visibly forced herself to continue. “A . . . pile of bones and ash was heaped in the exact center of the room. And all the VR units had been destroyed.”
“NO!” Wu Kung lunged forward, grabbing DuQuesne. “No, not Sanzo! Not Jing and Jai! Not—”
“I don’t know yet, Wu!” DuQuesne said. “I don’t. We might be able to recover the world. Saul’s got his best people working on the site. First thing is to figure out what happened, try to get a handle on who or what did it. If the . . . Hyperion worlds are recoverable, they’re not going to be less recoverable if they take their time.” Simon watched Wu slowly release DuQuesne, looking as though he was deflating; DuQuesne put a hand on his shoulder gently. “We’ll do the best we can, Wu. You know that.”
“Yes. I know.”
For a moment everything was silent. Simon glanced around, as he often did in such awkward moments, and winced. What a horrid incongruity between our joyous setting and this hideous news.
“Marc,” Ariane said, and her voice was very gentle, but somehow still had notes of steel beneath, “I’m very sorry for your losses, and I hope something can be salvaged. But I need to know—is that all?”
DuQuesne took a breath, blew it out. “No. One more wet blanket for your party, and I’ll be done, though. After everything, Mentor had a message for you.”
They waited.
“The message is: ‘Boskone exists.’”
Ariane’s next words were ones that made Simon wince, as she very rarely used language like that. Then she said, “I presume that ‘Boskone’ was behind the attack?”
“He gives it a five-sigma probability, yeah.”
“Excuse me, Arrie,” Gabrielle said, “but could you explain that?”
“Simply? Mentor was designed after the . . . well, head of the good guys in the Lensman series. More complicated than that, but anyway, the big adversary for several books was just called ‘Boskone,’ after they heard one of the bad guys calling himself ‘Helmuth, Speaker for Boskone.’ So when Mentor says ‘Boskone exists,’ he means he’s found rogue AIs organizing and up to no good—maybe against the whole human race. And if they were behind what happened to Marc’s friends, he’s right; no one gains from wiping out the Hyperions except, just maybe, AIs who plan on taking control and know that the Hyperions managed to break out of their own cages more than once.”
Bloody hell. And shimatta. “Have you been able to determine anything else about this adversary?”
“Not much yet. I figure they’ll know more by the time we get back—which will be soon, unless I miss my guess?”
Ariane nodded grimly. “Not much time to lose. I can’t keep both Michelle and Oscar locked up forever, and things up here need to be organized—yes, Marc, we’re going back tomorrow, I think. Unless you have something else to do here.”
“No, no. We need to get back and straighten
things out.” He looked around. “Sorry to kill the party. Really, you’ve got things to celebrate. Maybe me and Oasis—and Wu—aren’t up for a party, but there’s no reason to let it die.”
“I hope you can at least be quiet wallflowers or something, Marc,” Simon said. “Our guests will want to see you.”
“Who are we waiting for?” DuQuesne glanced around. “Tom? Is he on his way?”
“I tried to get him to come, believe me,” Steve said regretfully. “But there’s so much going on at the Sphere and Tom’s been doing so much of the coordination—you know he used to do that for a living—”
“Yeah, I know. He was running Empty-5 almost by himself when I recruited him. Okay, so then who?”
Ariane smiled for the first time in several minutes. “Really, Marc, only two people could be invited for this without blowing the secret—”
The door chimed. “Orphan and Sethrik of the Liberated request admittance.”
“—and there they are!” She raised her voice slightly. “Come in, Orphan, Sethrik!”
The two tall green and black figures strode through the doorway and then slowed, looking around at the heavily-decorated entrance hall.
Hm. Their wingcases have tightened. That indicates considerable discomfort . . .
“Captain Austin,” Orphan said, an uncertain tone in his voice, “I had not heard . . . but perhaps I assume overmuch. What are those?” He pointed to the streamers.
“We call those streamers. They’re decorations we use for various types of celebrations.”
“So, they are a positive sign, then?” Both Orphan and Sethrik visibly relaxed.
“I presume,” Simon said, “you have something similar in your culture that has less positive connotations?”
“Correct, Doctor,” Sethrik said, a note of relief clear in his reply. “We call them shroudlines; they reflect the appearance of dying plants, especially certain trees, on our homeworld, and so are used at funerals, executions, and trials for the gravest crimes—such as both of us would be subject to, were we captured by the Blessed.”
“I’m so sorry!” Steve said, contritely. “It never occurred to me, and it should have, especially since I knew we hadn’t used streamers at our last party. Of course symbolism will be different between species.”
“Worry no more about it,” Orphan said with a much more relaxed wave of one hand. “We are both . . . well experienced in the ways of the Arena, and if the setting seems a bit . . . macabre, well, it is made up for by the companionship. What, then, are we celebrating?”
“I bet you can guess part of it,” Ariane said, offering them both drinks of the punch (which, Simon knew, both Laila and Gabrielle had carefully gone over to make sure it was both safe and likely to be tasty to their guests as well as to the humans present).
“As sufficient time has passed, I presume you have heard favorably from the Minds themselves,” Orphan said, bob-bowing and accepting the drink, as did Sethrik. “What was their counteroffer?”
“No counteroffer, that’s the beauty of it. They simply said ‘yes’—in rather more flowery language.”
Sethrik nearly dropped his punch, then gave a buzz of incredulity. “I can . . . scarcely imagine this. The Minds yielded everything?”
“Admitted they had completely screwed up and that our demands were perfectly reasonable, especially as we had already gone out of our way to preserve—and even enhance—their reputation instead of destroying it. Yes.”
“That is cause for celebration indeed!” Orphan raised his glass to them; Sethrik mimicked the gesture.
“Oh, it gets better,” Ariane said, and smiled warmly at Marc. “After the message was delivered and the bargain concluded, the Arena signaled that we had just won a Class Two Challenge.”
The two Liberated exchanged startled glances. “A most auspicious event indeed, Captain Austin. Your Faction has now won, if I count aright, four Challenges—two of them Class Two, which are quite rare, comparatively speaking—in considerably less than one year! For even a moderately large Faction that would be noteworthy; for a Faction so small, I believe it may be unprecedented.”
“I certainly have never heard of such a thing,” Sethrik said. “But having fought alongside you—and raced against you—I am less surprised than I might have been.”
“Not done quite yet, either,” Ariane said. She raised her voice. “Arena!”
“I hear,” answered the quiet, earthshaking voice.
“I, Ariane Austin, Leader of the Faction of Humanity, direct that one of the three Spheres won by Humanity from the Blessed To Serve be given directly to the Liberated.”
“Acknowledged. One of the three Spheres shall be given to the Liberated. The transfer is recorded. It is done.”
Simon saw Orphan and Sethrik’s wingcases literally sag open with shocked astonishment. Finally Orphan found his voice. “I . . . Captain . . . why?”
“Orphan,” Ariane said, and there was unmistakable affection in her voice, “we can’t argue that you haven’t been a . . . sometimes frustrating ally, and you’ve often been clear that your ultimate goals were focused on your own Faction—a Faction consisting at the time solely of yourself.
“But when it’s come right down to it—when it was you being forced to make a decision—you’ve come through. Twice, when we really needed you. First, daring to confront Amas-Garao,” and Simon saw an amazed glance from Sethrik. Oh, that’s right. No one but us really knew what happened there.
But Ariane was continuing. “But then second, choosing to come after me. You did this knowing you were pursuing your most dangerous adversaries into their own territory, chasing a ship which would be able to use its full firepower against you while you dared not use your full power against it. You chose to do this because you thought of us as friends, as allies worth possibly dying for. You did this even though your death would end the Liberated. You risked the entirety of your Faction for me, for the sake of my friendship and that of DuQuesne and Simon.
“And so you’ve damn well earned that Sphere, no matter what other . . . plans or motives or anything else may be behind you now, or in the future.” She dropped to the floor, and so did Simon and the others, even Marc and Oasis after a momentary pause. They all did the full pushup-bow. “Humanity pays its debts, Orphan, and we owed you something very big.” She got up and grinned. “I can’t quite figure out how to gift-wrap it, though.”
Orphan was staring at them, and for a moment he quivered. Then he sank to his knees, braced in a triangluar pose by his tail, and emitted noises that were translated more as sobs than anything else. Sethrik looked unsteady as well, but stood near his Leader, waiting for him to recover.
Simon was momentarily amazed by the reaction, but then light dawned. I think I see. Orphan hasn’t had anyone show him such . . . generosity. Perhaps ever.
“My . . . my friends. My true friends. I . . .” Orphan paused. “I cannot describe my feelings,” he said, finally, “though perhaps my reaction gives some idea.
“Yes, I did choose to rescue you; but that had already brought me a new brother, who once had been a great enemy. I had never expected . . . this.”
“If you had, I probably wouldn’t have given it to you,” Ariane said bluntly, but with a smile that took some of the edge off. “You didn’t expect or ask for anything. You did this for yourself as much as for us—for your own self-respect, for the things you valued, and that told me a lot about you.” She grinned. “Besides, it’s not all that valuable right now. It’s not like you’re filling up a solar system—or much more than a metaphorical teacup, even—with your current membership.”
Orphan stood and his buzzing, rippling laugh echoed out. “Oh, most certainly, Captain Austin. Yet I still think I have gained far more than you—and I, at least, do not have to face the difficulties I suspect lie ahead of you in your own system.” He raised his glass. “So—in your own tradition—to Captain Austin!”
“To Captain Austin!” Simon repeated cheerfully
.
CHAPTER 50
“My God!”
The words were wrenched from Ariane as she stepped through the final door to the Inner Sphere region nearest the place Steve had dubbed the Foyer.
The multiple rooms and tunnels were filled with people; the murmur of conversation of hundreds echoed through the halls. Where the huge rooms had been were now buildings, pathways, workshops, play areas—an incredible mishmash of everything that interested humanity, placed almost at random throughout the Inner Sphere—not just here, she could tell, but extending much farther through the Sphere and obviously to the Foyer area as well.
“That’s right, you haven’t been back here in a while,” Steve said. “More than a thousand people in permanent residence now, and with the work crews and SFG study groups and others I think it’s close to two thousand total, so we just expanded into this area too.” He grinned. “And that is with the CSF and SSC filtering it and our schedule controlling access to the Sphere.”
Ariane was, for a moment, utterly speechless. It’s one thing to hear about it, another to walk into it. Wu was also goggling a bit wide-eyed at the scene. The others seemed impressed, but not quite so surprised. After a moment, she realized why. The last time I was here was right after we made the first trip with Zounin-Ginjou, a couple of months or so ago. Everyone else except Wu and me—even our prisoners—have been through here since then.
Before she could finish pulling herself together, a deep voice shouted out, “Ariane! Steve! Welcome back!”
Tom Cussler emerged from a nearby archway, waving, his dark skin standing out from the bright green outfit he’d chosen to wear that day. “I knew you were coming soon—why didn’t you let me know?”
“Because I hadn’t been paying attention, really, to how busy you must be getting. Sorry, Tom.”
“Don’t apologize. I heard about your little problems.” He levelled a quick glare at Oscar and Michelle, who were being escorted by an extremely vigilant Oasis.