Grand Central Arena

by Ryk E. Spoor

  Even the chitinous armor of the creature couldn’t withstand that carbon-composite reinforced steel edge. Only literally inhumanly fast reflexes kept her from bisecting it from one side to the other; as it was, she actually cut off the lower edge of one wingcase as it whirled desperately aside, revealing a gossamer crystal shimmer that might be a furled wing.

  But the stinger-tipped tail had whipped around and smashed the sword from her hands. In the next moment, its hard, cold fingerlike talons grabbed her. The uniform responded instantly by hardening into almost unbreakable protection, but she knew that was only temporary. There was a very strong limit as to how much impact protection the suit could provide, and this thing could just beat her against a wall until she broke, even if the suit stayed intact.

  The first impact rattled her teeth. She tried to twist with the next blow, and succeeded in cushioning the blow, but the thing’s joints just didn’t quite work like a human’s, which meant that she wasn’t having any luck in pulling free. The wingcases flared as it braced and lunged again, and she caught a flash of patterned pink and red. What . . . ?

  The impact put a blood-colored haze over her vision for a moment, then she was yanked away again. Whatever it is, it’s different from the rest of him. With that as the feeble justification, she swung her body up and around as it drove her towards the wall once more, and just as her body was driven into the wall, hammered her heel down.

  She felt the buzzing shriek of unmistakable agony through her leg, and the iron-hard grip fell away. Barely able to keep standing, she focused her will and staggered to her feet, slamming an armored elbow into the thing’s face and then grabbing the wingcase as it made an ineffective swipe at her. With all her augmented strength, she shoved upward and pulled.

  A loud crack rewarded her, and the alien screamed again, this time weaker. Her vision cleared as she kicked the thing away from her.

  DuQuesne, blood trickling from a cut on his forehead, had just managed to make his opponent attempt—unsuccessfully—to emulate a nail going into a board, with the corridor wall playing the board. The erstwhile nail did not look up for an immediate rematch with either opponent.

  The remaining eight of Sethrik’s group were trying to restrain their target, but they were apparently now aware that the humans were not cooperating. Abruptly the group—in a coordinated motion—drew back into a tight defensive formation. ‘‘This is unforgivable. We issue challenge!’’

  ‘‘I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about,’’ Ariane said, keeping a wary eye on the first two attackers.

  That caused all of the aliens to freeze, utterly motionless. Sethrik’s group finally leaned back, just as their prey suddenly generated a repetitive pulsing buzz which was overlaid, somehow, by laughter. ‘‘New players, Sethrik! First Emergents!’’ It laughed louder. ‘‘First is forgiven, Second should be, Third may be, Sethrik! You can’t do anything!’’

  She did not like Sethrik’s posture. Neither did DuQuesne, apparently, because he resumed a combat stance. Sethrik’s words confirmed her forboding.

  ‘‘If none witness, there are none to question,’’ he said softly.

  ‘‘Indeed,’’ the lone alien said. But he pointed as he did so.

  Ariane felt a crawling sensation between her shoulderblades, and turned, in guard stance.

  A hundred meters or so away, almost invisible in shadows thrown by incomprehensible machinery nearby, stood a figure. It was hard to distinguish, a black shape like a hooded and cloaked man. But whatever it was, it had a dramatic effect on Sethrik. ‘‘Shadeweaver,’’ he hissed. He drew himself up, as did all his companions—in an eerily identical fashion. ‘‘So. First is forgiven. You knew not what you did, and we cannot act against you for that, and must yield.’’ The entire group threw an unmistakably venomous glance at Mindkiller. ‘‘For your sake, you had best hope this abomination will explain your fortune, for the Blessed will not—nor do we ever forget.’’

  The Blessed stalked past the humans, helping their wounded to walk with them. As they continued down the corridor, she saw the shadowy figure—Shadeweaver?—give an almost human nod, and then just . . . fade away into the shadows.

  And, once more, I’m officially creeped out by this place.

  Chapter 18

  The tall green and black figure of the one addressed as ‘‘Mindkiller’’ strode forward. Simon noted DuQuesne moving up to interpose himself between Ariane and the alien. ‘‘Don’t bother,’’ Ariane said. ‘‘He’s not going to hurt us at this point. Go check Simon.’’

  ‘‘I’m fine,’’ Simon said, pushing himself shakily to his feet and coming forward. The impact had stunned him but his suit had cushioned the blow. The real blow is this entire . . . impossible set of events. None of it makes sense.

  About six meters off, the alien dropped to a sort of strained four-point posture, tail stretched far out behind, looking almost like a man doing a pushup. ‘‘My thanks, First Emergents,’’ he said. ‘‘Truly I owe you much, for the Blessed had cornered me beyond any calculation of escape.’’

  Simon could see Ariane’s face now, a mask of caution. She clearly realized how carefully she would have to proceed. ‘‘You’re welcome—I hope, anyway, that I won’t come to regret it, since I didn’t even know who or what you were when I got involved. To be honest, I’m not even sure why I did,’’ she said, after a moment.

  ‘‘Ah.’’ The alien rose from what was obviously a formal position analogous to a bow or something of the sort; he cast what was clearly a speculative glance down the corridor to the shadows into which the ‘‘Shadeweaver’’ had vanished. ‘‘Then perhaps I also owe a debt there, as well. I find that . . . considerably more worrisome.’’

  Up close, it was clear that however ‘‘Mindkiller’’ was talking, it wasn’t the same as human conversation. The apparent mouth—smaller than the human equivalent, set in a just-too-triangular face with overlarge, slanted eyes and a tiny, almost unnoticeable pointed nose—moved not at all in relation to the words, or to the scraping, buzzing sounds she now heard as an undertone to the voice.

  ‘‘If you owe us, does that mean we’re going to get some explanation of what just happened here—and, for that matter, where we are?’’ DuQuesne said.

  ‘‘I will do what I can to enlighten you, indeed,’’ the alien agreed.

  ‘‘I think introductions are the first thing to do,’’ Ariane said. ‘‘I’m Ariane Austin; I suppose I’m the one in charge of this group. This is Dr. Marc DuQuesne, and Dr. Simon Sandrisson.’’

  ‘‘I thank you for your names; individual designations are indeed useful,’’ it said, studying them closely. ‘‘It would seem to me—forgive me if this intrudes on some custom of yours with which I am of course unfamiliar—that your names carry little meaning other than the identification of self.’’

  ‘‘Overall true,’’ Simon responded with a nod. ‘‘While some people choose or are given names of specific significance, most of them are simply a matter of parental or personal preference and have no other significance.’’

  Something about the creature seemed to relax; maybe the wingcases expanded slightly, as though not holding tightly to the body, or tense joints relaxed incrementally. Now, I wonder what it was that worried him . . . and what about our naming practices relieved that worry?

  ‘‘My designation is not ‘Mindkiller,’ as the Blessed called me. I call myself Orphan.’’

  ‘‘Does yours have the implied meaning?’’

  ‘‘Indeed, for I chose it carefully.’’

  The fact that the ‘‘implied meaning’’ existed only in English reminded Simon. ‘‘So can you explain exactly how it is that you’re speaking our language?’’ he asked, noting that Ariane was allowing him to do the talking for the moment.

  Orphan gave a short buzz-laugh. ‘‘I cannot explain what is not true; nor can I explain the truth of which you speak, save only to say this: none here speak each others’ language, yet we all understand each o
ther to perfection. It is one of the gifts of the Arena.’’

  ‘‘The Arena?’’

  The expansive gesture Orphan gave with arms and tail encompassed the entirety of space. ‘‘You stand within the Arena—a small portion of it, indeed, but then, none stand within more than the smallest portion, nor pass through more than a fraction in all their lifetimes.’’

  ‘‘Why,’’ asked DuQuesne, ‘‘is it called the Arena?’’

  ‘‘There are other names for it, true,’’ the alien conceded, ‘‘but Arena is, to my thoughts, the most accurate single word. It is a place where we all meet and challenge, where bargains are made and broken and avenged, where an alliance may be built on blood and fortune. It is a place where faith is lost, and where religions are founded or proven true. It is where you shall confront, and be confronted by, truths and lies, enemies and allies, belief and denial, impossibility and transcendence.’’

  A short-range radio ping from Ariane carried her reaction. Great. That speech sure narrowed things down. ‘‘Are you trying to be evasive?’’ she demanded.

  Orphan’s voice was contrite. ‘‘No, not at all, Ariane Austin. But the Arena admits of no simple words. You shall have to see it for yourself. Speak to me again in a few years and tell me if perhaps I was close.’’

  ‘‘Look, we’re actually trying to find a power source. If you can help us find one, I’d consider us even.’’

  ‘‘A power source . . . ?’’ For a moment the alien looked curious, then his head moved back in a clear gesture of enlightenment. ‘‘Ah, it is clear! Forgive me, I have never before encountered First Emergents—in truth, within my knowledge it has not happened for a long time indeed. Of course, your—’’ for the first time, a word was not translated clearly, but sounded almost like a mishmash of many words said at once. ‘‘—Drive will need much power to return you to your system of origin. And you cannot generate it within your rooms.’’

  ‘‘We already know that,’’ DuQuesne said dryly. ‘‘We were hoping you had an answer to what we could do.’’

  Orphan tapped his hands together in a casual gesture that Simon guessed might be something like a nod. ‘‘Yes. There are several possibilities. All have some . . . cost associated with them, of course.

  ‘‘You could trade something with a Powerbroker, naturally. But unless you were quite fortunate, you probably have little or nothing to trade with you.’’

  ‘‘What kind of things?’’ Simon asked. With an AIWish replicator, they could naturally duplicate just about anything, with a pattern.

  ‘‘The most common things to trade are unique services, unreplicated items of interest, and, of course, people,’’ Orphan answered.

  ‘‘People?’’

  ‘‘Naturally. You learn so much more about a species that way. Many species, however, are reluctant to sell members of their own group.’’

  Simon raised an eyebrow. ‘‘Yes, that grouping would include us.’’

  ‘‘You haven’t learned enough to provide useful services, I don’t think, and unreplicated items you’ll have very few of.’’

  ‘‘Just out of curiosity,’’ DuQuesne said, ‘‘how would they know, and why would they care, whether it was replicated or not?’’

  ‘‘As to how, I cannot say for sure. Some employ Shadeweavers to verify such items; others just seem to know. The why . . . well, for those willing to trade in such things at all, it appears to be a matter of perception. They think there is something more important about, for example, a sculpture done by hand or food grown as it does on its native world, than the identical object created by a replicator.’’

  The collector’s mindset; the numinous of the original. ‘‘All right, that makes sense,’’ conceded Simon. ‘‘And I’m afraid you are correct that we did not bring much along those lines. What else could we do?’’

  ‘‘Well . . . ’’ Orphan hesitated. ‘‘I have very limited resources of my own, but I could probably obtain enough energy for you to go home. But . . . ’’ He was clearly torn between conflicting drives.

  ‘‘ . . . But it might be more than you can easily afford, even though we did save your tail—and the rest of you?’’ DuQuesne finished for him.

  A buzzing laugh. ‘‘I . . . suppose that would be a good way to put it. But without your assistance, there would have been nothing in any case.’’

  Ariane held up her hand in a cautioning gesture. ‘‘If it’s going to end up causing you just as much trouble in the long run, I’d rather you not do it. Otherwise we wasted that rescue mission.’’

  ‘‘No, no.’’ Orphan seemed to have made up his mind. ‘‘Show me your power-cells or coils or whatever you may call them, and I will give you the energy you need.’’

  ‘‘I find it hard to believe you carry so much energy on you,’’ Simon said.

  That won him another laugh. ‘‘Of course not. But I will have to see exactly how your devices are constructed in order to connect mine to yours, or else I shall have to bring yours with me to my own Sphere and then return them after they are filled.’’

  ‘‘Makes sense. You’ll pardon us requiring you to go through the more complicated process of bringing your storage material here for the transfer, rather than letting you take our storage coils.’’ Ariane said.

  ‘‘I forgive you the suspicion. It is only rational, an assessment of potential risk and gain perfectly in line with the situations.’’

  ‘‘Then,’’ said Ariane, ‘‘let’s go back and let you take a look—and you can give us some more explanations, with all of us able to listen in.’’

  An abbreviated dip and movement of the arms, clearly echoing the full-bore pushup-like pose Orphan had given earlier. ‘‘It would be a great pleasure to move forward so smoothly.’’

  ‘‘Then follow me.’’ She led the way; Orphan followed, with Simon and DuQuesne in the rear.

  The excitement of the situation was starting to really make itself felt. First contact, Simon thought almost dizzily. We have made first contact with an alien race, on the first voyage of a vessel using my own drive—and we shall soon have the power to return home!

  Things were finally looking up.

  Chapter 19

  DuQuesne followed a short distance behind the alien, taking care not to tread on the tail. He suspected that Orphan was just as aware of the location of his tail, and how to not let it get stepped on, as DuQuesne was aware of his feet, but no point in taking chances.

  As they approached the entrance to the prior section of the station, the one they’d left just moments before first seeing Orphan and the Blessed, he noticed something. The wingcases had tightened slightly, and Orphan’s tail seemed to have lifted up just a hair.

  ‘‘Open door.’’ Ariane said.

  In the moment the door began to roll aside, DuQuesne saw Orphan’s legs flex slightly, almost unnoticeably. I may be making a mistake . . . but to hell with it.

  Kicking his combat capabilities into full gear (or as close to full gear as he ever allowed), the massive black-haired engineer lunged forward. In a single motion, he grabbed hold of the alien’s tail, just behind the stinger, yanked, and threw with every ounce of enhanced strength in his two hundred kilogram frame. At the same time he shouted ‘‘Close door and lock!’’

  Orphan, taken utterly unawares, was slung down the corridor from which they’d come, an almost comical look of shock on the alien face, landing a full eight meters away with a skidding thud that sent a faint vibration through the deck.

  ‘‘DuQuesne? What the hell—’’

  ‘‘This clown was getting awfully eager, or tense, the closer we got. A lot more tense. I think there’s something he isn’t telling us.’’

  The alien’s stance, as he rose, was dramatically transformed. The tail arched up over one shoulder and the creature crouched low, in what was unmistakably a combat stance. It buzzed threateningly. ‘‘You attacked me, you unshelled monstrosity!’’

  ‘‘You were talking really nice ba
ck there before. Am I right? You just couldn’t wait to get through that door. You were hoping for just the kind of opening we gave you.’’ DuQuesne had his combat knife out. After seeing the Blessed in combat, and seeing that Orphan had been holding his own against them at several-to-one odds, he wasn’t under any illusion that he could take out the alien by himself, but he wasn’t planning on making it easy. ‘‘Let me guess: once you’re inside, you can give access directives. It’d be really stupid of the designers, or at least it wouldn’t make sense to me, but if that’s true, you have every reason to try to get inside someone else’s enclosure.’’

  Ariane spoke up from behind him. ‘‘Orphan, if you truly feel you owe us anything, you’d better admit it if DuQuesne’s right.’’

  The alien hesitated for a moment, then with a clear effort straightened himself and let the tail drop. ‘‘Your eyes are sharp and your mind quick. Yet . . . I could not let such an opportunity pass. The calculated risks were acceptable in view of the immense gain.’’

  ‘‘Why? What would you get out of being able to poke into our little section of this mausoleum? Like we said, there’s no power there, just us and a ship that won’t go without the power you claimed to have. Unless that was a lie too.’’

  ‘‘A slight exaggeration. I would have to bargain to get the power for your vessel, or at the least have to sacrifice my own vessel’s return capability temporarily.’’ The alien’s voice was less friendly, somewhat defiant. ‘‘It would have been worth it.’’

  ‘‘For the second time,’’ DuQuesne said, glaring at Orphan, ‘‘why?’’

  Orphan gave one of his short laughs. ‘‘Because with such access, I can designate myself the right to travel to your system, or through it.’’

  ‘‘You mean . . . if we entered your area, we could authorize ourselves to travel to your system?’’

  ‘‘If I had no additional safeguards, yes. It takes specialized knowledge to arrange such safeguards and prevent a casual authorization.’’ Orphan gave an almost humanlike shrug and sat down on the deck, coiling his tail around him. ‘‘I am the last of my kind, Ariane Austin. I may be able to gain some new . . . recruits might be the best word . . . but without some spectacular victory to show that despite being the last I am still a force within the Arena, they will be few, desperate, flawed,and likely killed off by the Blessed or any of a number of other Factions before they can learn the strength of their selves.’’