by Ryk E. Spoor
“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 law 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.”
The smile faded. “Oh, Marc. Don’t tell me that in all that time—”
“I’m a product of my…fictional times, K…Oasis. You know that, better than anyone. I love you, probably did ever since the first moment we met, two who’d seen through the lies but found a truth worth fighting for. Did you think I’d just go…looking for someone else when I knew you were still there? When I knew the woman that was the best match imaginable was hurting, but might one day open up…”
“Oh, God, Marc. I’m…I should have…” She stopped, bit her lip. Then she managed a faint smile, tears waiting in her eyes. “Listen to us. Not so much supermen, eh?”
“Ha,” he said, with unsteadiness in his own voice. “Take a lot more than being a supergenius to get beyond being human. And we are human—that much I’ve finally really learned.”
“I guess I got to learn that a little easier than you. Oasis had a real family, and I got to live with them, letting her come and go, learning the world from inside…” She shrugged. “I cheated, I guess.”
“You’re talking like you’re separate again.”
“You cut that out!” She put her hands on her hips and glared at him. “You have no idea how confusing all this is! We’d…I’d…I’d figured out how to live with it. It was a good life, and I liked living as Oasis. Being Oasis.”
“And I’d guess Oasis couldn’t complain about the body.”
“Once I got used to the modified face in the mirror?” The voice was as jaunty as the old K, but something in the wording, the posture, the exact tones, told him this was much more Oasis. “Bonus! I got an upgrade package I couldn’t believe. I think faster, I’m stronger, I’m tougher…and I’m probably living longer. Haven’t had to take a single rejuvenation reset yet. I’ll bet you haven’t, either.”
“No, not yet.”
They fell silent for a moment, and he gazed back out into space. Not much farther to go.
Getting back to Earth space hadn’t been hard. Losing any possible pursuit had taken some time, and he hoped to God that the time wasn’t getting people killed. But here there weren’t miracles, and for all the technology humanity had developed, it still took time and effort to move around the Solar System.
Now they were almost to the backwater colony, Counter-Earth 3, that Davison had retreated to. He could see it now, a star slowly brightening, becoming something more than a star. Oasis-as-K knew who would be there with Davison, the other four sleepers; he’d had to warn her, so she was prepared. But they had avoided the subject of the past, for the most part, because to dwell on those who had been with them, and then lost to themselves, was almost unbearable.
“So,” Oasis said, “she is something special, isn’t she?”
“Yes,” he answered simply. “Yes, she is.” He looked over. “But so are you. Even more than you were.” He smiled and shook his head. “You gave up your self—the self you fought for, that we fought for—because you couldn’t stand to see someone die for no reason. So now you’re…more than either of you. And I wish I had something equal to that to brag about.”
“I think you do,” she said, gaze soft and green as spring leaves. “This is the Marc C. DuQuesne I knew…the one who disappeared, hid his real self away behind a shadow, buried, for fifty years. And you come back starting new legends.” Her eyes suddenly sparkled mischievously. “Let’s just agree we’re both awesome.”
He laughed out loud. “All right, you have a deal!”
Even as they smiled at each other, a deep, booming, resonant pseudo-voice thundered in his head. AHH, MARC CASSIUS DUQUESNE OF TELLUS. I HAVE BEEN CONSIDERING YOUR SITUATION FOR SOME SEVENTY-TWO POINT SIX OF YOUR SECONDS.
DuQuesne jumped in his seat; fortunately the loose harness prevented this from becoming comical flailing. “Klono’s Curving Carballoy….Don’t DO that, Mentor!” He took a deep breath, calmin
g himself, as Oasis looked at him in momentary confusion before realizing what was happening.
My apologies, Marc DuQuesne. I work in the manner I was designed.
“Which means you like the dramatics just as much as your template,” DuQuesne observed, glancing down at the hard-shelled case that Ariane had built to house him. “And I’ll admit, you do a damn good imitation of the real thing.” He paused. “Of the simulated real thing I remember. Whatever.”
I will take that as a compliment. May I use your onboard speakers?
“Sure thing,” he said. “You got my signal, obviously.”
“I did, immediately upon your entrance. You did, however, perform numerous evasive maneuvers designed to confound both human and AI pursuers—for good and sufficient reason—and it was some time before I could ensure a completely secure connection to transfer myself to your location.” The deep voice, now coming from the speakers, gave the impression of self-deprecating humor. “Alas, I am thoroughly inadequate and intolerably weak of mind compared to my original namesake.”
DuQuesne couldn’t help but chuckle at the phrasing, so reminiscent of the Mentor he and Seaton and Kinnison had known. “So you’re back in your original home?”
A flicker of lights in many colors rippled across the case. “I am, and I appreciate your consideration in bringing it with you. It is truly like coming home for me.”
DuQuesne glanced at the course tracker. Not too much longer to the destination, but still a bit. “Mind if I ask you something?”
“That is, of course, why you contacted me.”
“True enough, but not for this; it’s just curiosity, and probably a stupid question, but I’m not an expert in this field.” Hell, I’m actually sort of always avoided the field in question. “Why the heck are you transferring yourself instead of just duplicating yourself? I know that the standard AIs have strict legal limits, but you’re technically rogue—”
