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Challenges Of The Deeps – Chapter 12

Challenges Of The Deeps – Chapter 12

Chapter 12.

“As always, a fine celebration,” Orphan said, observing Wu Kung trying to imitate a whirling dance by three of the Genasi, while a laughing crowd of a dozen species watched the performance. “Afterward, however, would I be correct to hope that you and Captain Austin will be free?”

“You mean, to go on your little jaunt into the back end of nowhere? That’s the plan,” DuQuesne answered. He had noticed the tall alien had a particularly cheerful demeanor — even more, in his estimation, than the simple fact of the victory would have been expected to cause. He’s definitely got another secret that’s amusing the hell out of him. “Barring someone else throwing an emergency curveball at us. Which I hope won’t happen for a few days, so that we’ll be well gone and leave the others to deal with it.”

“So you have already made most of the necessary arrangements? Excellent. Might I ask who will be serving as Faction Leader in Ariane’s absence?”

DuQuesne thought a moment, but didn’t see any harm in telling him; it wasn’t as though the information wouldn’t be general knowledge soon enough. “Carl Edlund and Laila Canning,” he said, reaching out and grabbing a mini-sandwich from a nearby platter. “Simon’s going to advise them, too, but he’s got other work to do that we don’t want interrupted.”

“Research in the Analytic Archives being a large part of it, I would presume,” Orphan said with a handtap, and helped himself to a crustacean of some sort.

DuQuesne ignored the faint but audible crunch as whatever piercing mechanism Orphan hid inside his mouth-proboscis penetrated the shell, and looked narrowly at the green and black alien. “Just how did you know about that?”

“Oh, I was able to deduce it from conversations with both Researcher Relgof and Simon himself. An extremely interesting situation, if I guess aright. How long does he have access?”

“Sorry, that’s need-to-know, and you don’t need to know,” DuQuesne said with a grin.

“Of course. No harm in asking, however.”

“None at all, as long as you drop it like that whenever we say it’s off limits — and to your credit, you always have, so far.”

Orphan laughed and gestured vaguely around him. “But of course, Doctor DuQuesne; as I told you when first we met, the Arena is built on secrets; asking about them, and knowing when to stop asking, is the true lifeblood of Arena interactions.” His wide black eyes studied Wu Kung. “For instance, I would dearly like to know what was discussed in that interim when the five of you vanished, when old Selpa first objected, and then withdrew his objection. But I know for certainty that that secret must be one of considerable value, and if you ever wish to convey it to me, you will decide it on your own.”

Yeah. More value than you know. “Just like I’d be real interested to know what’s got you looking like a cat that just busted into the cream warehouse, but I figure you’re telling no one until you’re ready.”

“Doctor DuQuesne, you have some most refreshing turns of phrase, though I have a great suspicion that what I heard there bears relatively little relation to what you actually said. And yes, I am not yet ready to discuss that issue with you. But soon, I promise. Very soon indeed, with luck.”

A movement caught his eye and he turned to see the rhino-like Byto coming to a stop nearby. “Byto? I’m a little surprised to see you here.”

The shift of the head and body was somehow equivalent to a nod. “I had not originally expected to come… but I wished to speak with you for at least a moment.”

Orphan maintained his position, and while Byto glanced at the Leader of the Liberated, he made no indication that Orphan should leave. “Well,” said DuQuesne, “I’ve got no objections to that. What about?”

“I wished to say that you played an extremely good game — with, as far as I could tell, absolutely terrible alignment of chance against you.”

DuQuesne grinned. “And you played a hell of a game yourself, with the devil’s own luck.”

The massive form relaxed fractionally, and a snort was translated as a laugh. “DuQuesne, I have never had such a run of fortune in all my years. I was certain we would win… and at the same time, I felt it was almost unfair. If you have the opportunity… I would very much like to play you again, hopefully when the random factors are more equally distributed…” another snort, “… and you have no impossibilities waiting to save you at the end.”

“I’d like that, Byto. Tell you what, I’m going to be busy for a while, but as soon as I get a chance we’ll set up a game and choose some matched racers, and maybe do some less-apocalyptic-sized betting on the outcome.”

“So let it happen!” Byto bobbed his huge head in what seemed the rough parallel of a bow, and moved off.

“That was auspicious,” Orphan observed. “Byto is one of the best players of most games of skill and chance combined in the Arena. Having him on friendly terms with you cannot help but be a good thing.”

“That’s my take on it. He’s still wound up over exactly what happened there, but I guess the game’s more important to him. Selpa didn’t come, and I’m not sure we’ll see him for a while.”

“Someday,” Orphan said with that tilt that indicated a wry smile, “I would very much like to know what the objection was (though I could guess that much), and how, precisely, you managed to counter it.”

Given that it’s one of our biggest secrets? Not likely. “Don’t hold your breath, Orphan. That’s a secret worth more than you’re likely to offer.”

“Unsurprising,” he said with equanimity. “The objection being what I suspect, anything that could counter it would be… extraordinary.”

Across the room, DuQuesne saw Ariane finally disengage from what had been a long conversation with Nyanthus and Mandallon and start making her way towards DuQuesne.

“Orphan,” she said with a cheerful nod. “Enjoying yourself?”

“Greatly, yes,” Orphan replied. “But I noticed your most direct approach to our location, and suspect you wish to speak to Doctor DuQuesne rather than myself.”

Good eyes as usual; that’s what I figured.

Ariane gave a half-smile. “As usual, you’re right. But you don’t have to move. Come on, Marc, I want to talk with you somewhere quieter.”

DuQuesne nodded and followed her out of the Embassy ballroom and down a hall that led to one of the smaller conference rooms. “What’s up, Captain?” he asked, as the door slid shut.

“Hold on.” She went around the room with a device in her hand, scanning carefully. DuQuesne, recognizing what she was doing, stayed quiet.

Finally, she straightened, then gave instructions to the Embassy directly that included both electronic and sound insulation, as well as physical security (i.e., locking the door against intrusion).

“That secure, huh?”

“Did I do the job right?”

“You mean checking? Yeah, looks like you should have covered pretty much everything. You’re a quick learner. So, what’s the deal?”

She sat down, gesturing him to join her. “Marc, this is one of the few times I’m separated from Wu without having to order him away, so I wanted to get a few answers from you now.”

Right. I kinda expected this. “Go ahead, Captain.”

“I think I’ve finally put two and two together. What happened today — what Wu had the Arena show us — and the discussion afterwards, plus a couple other things, tells me what that secret is you were telling Oasis — “K” — in private.”

“And that is…?”

“Well… we heard what Byto and Selpa said, and it echoed in more detail something we heard from Orphan way back when — that there’s a limit to how much individuals could enhance themselves. And we even have some more direct evidence for it — a couple of the top commando soldiers we brought in found that their enhanced capabilities were way below spec here in the Arena, and nothing they could do would bring those capabilities back. But when they went back home, everything worked fine.”

Startled, DuQuesne gave a nod and a grin. “You know, I didn’t pick up on that little test at all. You managed that right under our noses and no one caught on?”

“I did. Well, with Saul and the CSF helping set it up on the quiet. They wanted to verify that guess. They weren’t happy about the results, either.”

“I can imagine. Go on.”

“Well, back when the Blessed had kidnapped me and you guys rode to the rescue, we thought we’d lost Wu — and then he showed up at the head of a living armada and kicked the crap out of practically a whole crew of Blessed. And that made me think about Wu Kung really hard, and even more so after this race. Did you know he could actually communicate with Arena animals? I wondered if that was just something anyone could do — I mean, the Arena does all that other translating for free — but I couldn’t get any other creatures to react when I tried it out on our Upper Sphere.”

“Yeah, I knew. He showed it the first time we visited the Sphere together, and I had a gut feeling it meant something important.”

“Something like an extension of what Byto described, right? About Hyperion being the world for your people.”

“You’ve got it,” DuQuesne said. I think she really does. “And yes, I think it does mean what you think it does, for Wu, maybe for Ki… Oasis, and probably for me, too. I’m not going any farther than that, even here. If we’re right, it’s the biggest ace in the hole humanity has.”

“And you don’t trust Wu to keep the secret?”

“It’s not a matter of trusting Wu,” DuQuesne said. “It’s knowing what Wu’s like. He can keep a secret like, oh, a surprise birthday party, or a prank he’s going to pull, for a few days, but a secret this big, and one that affects him, for what might be months or years — since ideally we don’t want to let that set of felines out of their containment units until we absolutely have to? No, he’d never manage that. He’d get put in some situation where he got really mad over someone being mistreated and let it all out. We saw that within the first few weeks we were here. Sure, that worked out fine in the end with Tunuvun, but…”

She nodded. “I understand. And I understand why you didn’t even want to drop it on me. You couldn’t be sure, and even if you were, we don’t know the nature and extent of … this issue.”

“Right.”

Ariane nodded again and stared abstractedly into the empty air of the conference room. “Can I ask you something, Marc?”

“You can always ask. And I’ll try to answer.”

“When you… in your original life, I mean…” She rolled her eyes, a flash of blue below the sky-blue hair. “Argh. When you were in Hyperion, you and Richard Seaton were best friends, right?”

“Pretty much from the time we met, yeah. We were a lot alike, but just enough different that the other guy sort of filled in gaps the first one didn’t know he had, if that makes any sense.”

“It does. So… I read the original Skylark books, of course. He must have married Dorothy Vaneman, if they kept anything about him the same.”

“Sure did. I was best man, of course.”

“So you…” She actually blushed slightly. “Did you meet anyone? If you were replacing Crane, then you would have –”

He looked down. “No, never did, quite. There were… well, could have been, maybe, a couple women, but the chance never quite came. See, I wasn’t quite the original DuQuesne, so Stephanie De Marigny wasn’t really the match for me, I wasn’t Crane, so they didn’t put Margaret Spencer in, and I wasn’t exactly Kimball Kinnison either, though our adventures were in a universe that combined the two series, so I never had a Clarissa equivalent.” He felt his smile touched with sadness. “The old bastard admitted that he and his friend never could quite figure out the right person to match me with, and said he wasn’t sure if he should be sad or grateful, since it would’ve meant I lost even more when…”

“I know,” she said quickly. “There was nothing left of your … world, then?”

“No,” he said heavily. “The five of us were the main targets of the counteraction at first, and the AIs driving the countermeasure figured — probably rightly — that depriving us of our whole basis, our world, was the best chance of breaking us.”

“So… who was ‘the old bastard’ you mentioned?”

“My personal Frankenstein, Doctor Timothy J. Bryson (though he didn’t actually rate the title of ‘Doctor’). The guy in charge of making the Doc Smith Hyperion — and honestly pretty much the only one so interested in Smith’s old work that he pushed through my creation.”

“Are you saying he’s still alive?”

“Yeah. Not many of them left, after Maria-Susanna got through with them, but… well, after I got over being furious at the whole mess of them, I decided I at least owed him my existence so I helped him disappear — with a little assist from Saul. Gave him another warning before we left about our new problem — the renegade AI. Maybe it’s not going to give a damn about the so-called experimenters, but I didn’t want to take chances.”

The look she gave DuQuesne warmed him through. “Marc, that was… noble of you.”

“What? No, I… look, okay, it was more than some of the others would’ve done for their creators, yeah. But mad as I was about what he’d done, he was one of the ones who decided that the whole thing had gone too far. I never found out for sure… but I think he — and Nat, his AISage and fellow researcher — might’ve tweaked the security feeds enough to give us the slack we needed. I do know he was one of the ones that tried to help both groups get out of there when it came apart. And the two of them had created me. I wouldn’t be here, wouldn’t have any memories real or false, if he hadn’t reached back three centuries and tried to breathe life into some old author’s pulp fiction.”

“So you helped this Bryson and his AISage escape?”

“Just Bryson.” He shook his head. “Nat… Nat got wiped out making sure Bryson and a couple others got clear. Don’t know who got him, but it was one of the villain AIs, I’m pretty sure. Maybe even the one we’re dealing with now.” He looked up, although he wasn’t seeing the far side of the room now; just the old man’s face, and the shadow of Hyperion. “Anyway, why’d you ask?”

“Well…” She blushed. “Never mind. We had better get back to the celebration, and tomorrow we’ll have a lot to get ready for.”

“As you say, Captain.” He could not keep a broad smile from his face as he rose and gestured the door open. “After you!”

 

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 38

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 38

Chapter 18

Bavaria, on the Amper river

Two miles east of Zolling

The ducks were what saved Jeff Higgins’ life. What bothered him afterward was that he never knew what kind of ducks they were, so he couldn’t properly thank the breed with something suitable like erecting a small temple or naming his next child after them.

He and the small scouting party he was leading had just reached the spot on the Amper which Captain Finck had recommended as a good place for a crossing to be made. Jeff had started to come out of the saddle to lower himself to the ground when the flock of ducks — did ducks come in “flocks”? he didn’t know — suddenly started squawking — or whatever you called the racket that ducks made when they got agitated — and what seemed like thousands of them lifted themselves out of the river and went flying off.

Startled, his weight resting mostly on one stirrup, he looked to the west and had a glimpse of the oncoming Bavarian cavalry.

He assumed they were Bavarian, anyway — and he wasn’t about to stick around to find out. He’d go on that assumption and let the devil worry about the details.

“Out of here!” he shouted, sliding back into the saddle and spurring his horse onto the trail they’d followed down to the river bank. “Get the fuck out of here!”

****

The ducks were mallards and General von Schnetter felt like cursing the things. The waterfowl had alerted the enemy patrol just in time for them to make their escape.

Von Schnetter wasn’t concerned about the failure to capture the patrol, in and of itself. What worried him was that the big fellow who’d seemed to be leading them was dressed like an officer — at least, if von Schnetter was interpreting the design and insignia of USE uniforms properly.

The army of the United States of Europe was an outlier in that respect, being the only large military force of the time that insisted on clothing its soldiers in standard uniforms. That actually made it harder to distinguish between officers and enlisted men because the gray uniforms were much the same color and the insignia were hard to differentiate between at a distance. In a properly costumed army, the extra money officers usually spent on their clothing made them stand out more. He himself, for instance, was at that very moment wearing a broad-brimmed hat with a pair of splendid ostrich plumes which nicely set off his bright red shoulder sash.

If that big fellow who’d made his escape was just a scout, it would probably take him and his mates a bit of time to find their commander and pass on the warning, and if the commander was a sluggish sort…

But if he was the commander himself, which he might well have been — von Schnetter was in the habit of leading his own reconnaissance, as he was this very moment — and if he was capable…

“Fucking mallards!” he snarled.

****

“Form up! Form up!” Jeff shouted, as he reached the sentries he’d posted to guard the flanks of the regiment.

For once, he was thankful for the sword he had to haul around. The damn thing was all but useless for actual fighting but it made for the most dramatic pointer you could ask for. He had the sword in his hand and was waving it in the direction from which he and his three scouts were racing.

He wasn’t too happy about that, either, since Jeff disliked being on a horse under any conditions and especially galloping over terrain he wasn’t familiar with. Push come to shove, though, he’d prefer falling off a horse even at high speed to getting shot or — worse still — getting stuck like a pig by a damn sword. Unlike himself, there were men in the world who knew how to use the idiotic devices.

“Form up! The Bavarians are here!”

****

He didn’t have time to get the whole regiment into proper formation. Not even close to enough time. But he was able to get three companies in a line with their muskets ready to fire.

No breastworks; no pikemen — against cavalry. This was going to be hairy as all hell. He could only hope that Engler and the flying artillery would come up soon.

Bavaria, near Moosburg

Five miles east of Zolling

At that precise moment, Colonel Thorsten Engler was cursing ducks himself — and wasn’t bothering to make fine distinctions between breeds. Being a former farmer, Thorsten knew perfectly well the ducks were mallards. But at the moment, so far as he was concerned, they just belonged to the cursed category of “noisy birds.” Between the ones still on the river just a few dozen yards away and the ones who’d taken to the air, they were making such a racket that he couldn’t hear anything else.

What he was straining to hear was the sound of horses moving. Or, more likely, the sound of cavalrymen’s gear clattering. If there were horses in the area they were moving slowly. Even over the clamor being made by the ducks, Thorsten could have heard the sound of a large group of galloping or cantering horses.

You couldn’t see anything, between the heavy growth and the walls of Moosburg. The town wasn’t fortified, but like almost all towns and villages in central Europe the buildings were erected right next to each other. Looking at Moosburg from a distance of a hundred and fifty yards or so, he couldn’t see anything beyond the walls and roofs of the outlying edifices. For all he knew, there was an entire cavalry regiment gathered in the town square, ready to charge out at any minute.

Or there could be nothing there at all, beyond some frightened civilians trying to hide in root cellars and basements.

The Pelican had arrived shortly after dawn, but it had only been able to stay in the area for a short time. The airship was operating at the very edge of its range, this far from its base in Regensburg. By tomorrow or the day after, the SoTF National Guard should have an airship base in operation in Ingolstadt, which would cut perhaps twenty miles from the distance. Better yet, if the Third Division could cross the Amper and secure a beachhead, they could establish an airship base almost right next to their field of operations.

Just before the Pelican left — actually, after it was already on its way back to Regensburg and several miles away — it reported what seemed to be significant cavalry movement near Moosburg. General Stearns had immediately ordered the flying artillery squadron to deploy west of the town. He was sending the Dietrich and White Horse regiments from the 3rd Brigade to support them, with Brigadier Derfflinger in command, while keeping the brigade’s third regiment in reserve. That was the Yellow Marten Regiment, commanded by Colonel Jan Svoboda.

All well and good — once they got here. But Derfflinger’s infantry was still a good three-quarters of a mile away, and the artillery units attached to his brigade would be lagging still farther behind. And in the meantime, Thorsten and his flying artillery were on their own.

If they’d been operating in open country, Thorsten would have been less concerned. By now, he had a great deal of confidence in his men, especially the veterans of Ahrensbök. Given enough open space to fire several volleys, he was sure he could drive off any but the largest cavalry force.

Unfortunately, the terrain west of Moosburg was wooded. Not a forest, exactly, but there was enough in the way of scattered groves and treelines to allow an enemy cavalry force to move up unseen until the last few hundred yards — not more than two hundred, in some directions.

If only the Pelican were still here…

Bavaria, Third Division field headquarters

Village of Haag an der Amper

The first indication Mike Stearns had that his campaign plans were flying south for the winter was the eruption of gunfire to the west. From the sound of it, a real battle was getting underway.

By the time his units had entered Haag an der Amper early that morning, the little village located a short distance north of the river had already been deserted by its inhabitants. From the looks of things, they’d left several days earlier. Bavaria had been relatively unravaged by the Thirty Years War, especially this close to Munich, but by now people living anywhere in the Germanies — anywhere in central Europe — were hyper-alert to military threats. Every city and town and most villages had their own militias, but except for those of walled cities the volunteer units were only suited for fending off bandits and small groups of plundering soldiers and deserters. As soon as they realized that major armies were coming into the area, the inhabitants would flee elsewhere. To a nearby walled city, if they had privileges there. To anywhere away from the fighting, if they didn’t.

 

1635: The Wars For The Rhine – Snippet 19

1635: The Wars For The Rhine – Snippet 19

Chapter 9

Bonn, The Archbishop’s Palace

August, 1634

“Charlotte, I have had enough of your willfulness and lack of gratitude.” Archbishop Ferdinand pushed open the door to Charlotte’s room with a bang, causing her nursing son, Philipp, to let go of her nipple and scream. The archbishop paid no attention to the baby, just frowned and motioned for Sister Ursula to leave. He calmed his face and smiled, but his hand’s jerky movements showed that he was extremely upset. “You are nothing but a silly girl and in no way capable of handling the affairs of your son and his estates. You will now write letters naming me the sole guardian of my new little godson and entrusting all his affairs — and yours — to me. You will also make it quite clear to your family that it is entirely to your wish that the two of you are staying here as my guests.”

“No!” Charlotte rose with the screaming baby in her arms. “My son’s guardians will be my brother and my family. You cannot keep us here forever. You and your two jailers have kept me from all information about what is going on outside this room, but I know my family. My aunt, Princess Katharina of Sweden, will have written to her emperor brother, and my mother will have the entire Simmern family alerted. They haven’t heard from me for more than a month, and even those who don’t care for me personally will know the importance of my baby. You risk having not just the Swedes coming at you from the north and east, but also the entire Pfalz rising against you in the south. And judging from the last news I heard before you locked me up, your ducal brother in Bavaria has far too many problems on his own to come to your aid.”

“You are entirely right, my dear,” the archbishop kept smiling, “and that is just half of my problems. Which is why my faithful Gruyard will have the care of your baby until I get those letters.” He snatched the swaddled baby, and had the door locked behind him before Charlotte could reach him.

Sister Ursula had stepped back from the door so quickly she fell, and rose stammering an apology, but the archbishop just thrust the screaming baby at her and said: “Get a wet-nurse.”

* * *

Charlotte sat staring at her bloody hands in the fading evening light when Sister Ursula opened the door and entered with a covered tray and a burning candle. “You miserable monster! Where is my son?” Charlotte grabbed the empty cradle and aimed it for the nun’s head, but it slipped in her hands, which were weak and torn from battering against the door all day. She stood panting and glaring while Sister Ursula calmly set the tray on the table and placed the cradle right way up in the middle of the floor. Then from the tray she took a sealed clay pot with long piece of thin rope sticking out from the top, and placed this in the cradle.

“Katharina Charlotte,” said Sister Ursula, looking straight into Charlotte’s eyes. “I have loved and served Archbishop Ferdinand all my life, I was even his mistress briefly in my youth. But he has now gone too far. The end may justify the means — but not all means. And Ferdinand has gone beyond all that is reasonable. He is no longer the person he once was.” She sighed. “Gruyard has left for Fulda and your baby is waiting for you at the home of Irmgard Eigenhaus. There is a man outside waiting to take you there. I’ll go tell the archbishop you were gone when I came with your dinner, and create a mystery with this.” She held the burning candle to the end of the rope, which caught fire and started a sputtering burn. Then she grabbed Charlotte’s arm and pulled her out of the room, leaving the door open behind them.

* * *

The late Master Eigenhaus, Councilor of Bonn and Master of the Merchant’s Guild, had sired four daughters on his wife and four more on his mistress. This was not in itself an unusual situation for a prominent man, but insisting that both women with all the children lived together in his house had been regarded as rather eccentric. Not to mention that he dowered all the girls equally. Still, he was wealthy, well-liked and well-connected, and contributed freely to both the church and civic projects, so nobody made that much of an issue of the arrangement.

The girls had been brought up to consider themselves a family, and to aim at making that family wealthy and powerful. As females they were barred from sitting in Bonn’s ruling council, but six of the eight girls had married prominent guild members, and they were now a major force in town.

Irmgard, the oldest of the illegitimate daughters, had never married, but instead used her dower to buy the shop from the town’s apothecary, and officially set herself up as a midwife. She first paid the old apothecary to remain the official head of the business, but everybody knew that his shaking hands made it impossible for him to make even the simplest tisane. After he died, Irmgard simply kept on running the business.

After Sister Ursula had delivered Charlotte to a big, limping man, he had hidden her in his waist-high, fish-smelling basket, and actually carried her on his back to the backdoor of the apothecary shop. Irmgard had been waiting with the baby in her arms, and even before the archbishop had calmed his household after the explosion in Charlotte’s room, Charlotte and the baby had been fast asleep in the attic above the shop.

The next morning Irmgard set about changing Charlotte’s appearance by bleaching her hair with chamomile and darkening her pale skin with walnut water. So by the time the archbishop had accepted that the baby had unexplainably disappeared from his new cradle at the wet-nurse’s room, the pale and delicate brunette, Countess Palatine Katharina Charlotte von Zweibrücken, had become the buxom, fair-haired and sunburned Lotti, widow of a soldier from Trier. And by the time he had picked up the trail of the young mother travelling into Berg in Charlotte’s clothes, Lotti was just another of the many refugees the Eigenhaus family took in and briefly employed before finding them a position through their many friends and connections.

The matriarch of the Eigenhause family was the oldest legitimate daughter, Benedicte, who ran the family trading affairs as well as the household. Every major concern of the town from polluted wells and garbage removal to new wall-cannons and the women’s militias went by way of Frau Eigenhaus. Her devoted husband had inherited a series of wineries, and — while no bad merchant himself — was more than satisfied to concentrate on wine-making and leave the general trade to his wife.

Frau Benedicte’s household was big and busy with all the matriarch’s activities, so no one found it the least bit unusual when Charlotte — as Lotti — was hired to embroider the gowns for the wedding of Frau Benedicte’s youngest daughter. Charlotte — along with baby Philipp — was given a room in the attic and a place at the servant’s end of the family table, and — to protect the expensive fabrics — Frau Benedicte had arranged for Charlotte to do her work in the main parlor. Charlotte had no problems with the delicate needlework, and she could keep her baby beside her while she worked, but the parlor was also where Frau Benedicte spent most of her day, and just thinking about all Frau Benedicte’s projects made Charlotte feel exhausted.

 

Challenges Of The Deeps – Chapter 11

Challenges Of The Deeps – Chapter 11

Chapter 11.

Even as Wu crossed the finish line, he was suddenly there in front of Ariane, skidding to a halt not three meters from the table at which DuQuesne and his opponent were seated, surrounded by rank upon rank of spectators, silent, staring, frozen in disbelief and shock. Even though she had been warned, Ariane was herself still in a state of utter awe. DuQuesne had said Wu was better than him. But this…

And then the silence broke and a roar of applause, of furious curses and mighty cheers, broke over the Arena like a wave. Tunuvun caught up Wu Kung in an embrace that must have made even ring-carbon supported ribs creak, and his words were incoherent but needed no translation to hear the joy and gratitude.

Orphan was moving forward along with Ariane, and she saw his body’s pose echoed a new emotion: vindication.

Wu escaped Tunuvun’s grasp only to be swept into a bear-hug of victory by DuQuesne. “Dammit, Wu, you scared the crap out of me! Don’t ever cut it that fine again!”

The Hyperion Monkey King was grinning, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. “Those Adjudicators were not playing, DuQuesne! I really had to work! It was fun! Lots of fun!”

“It was a most… artistic finish, Sun Wu Kung,” Orphan said, with a full pushup-bow. “Such a victory will be remembered long indeed.”

That strange expression remained clear on the alien’s face and form, and Ariane wondered what it meant. You learned something there. You were looking utterly disappointed before, almost crushed really. Now you’re riding high. “Did you have a bet on this match?”

“Ahh, Captain Austin, I think you have come to know me well. Yes, a most interesting result, and most profitable as well.” His black eyes seemed to twinkle at her. “But we shall speak of this later. It is time for the victor to receive his prize.”

The crowd which had begun to flood the center of the ring fell back — or was gently shoved back by the glittering golden light of the Arena. “Sun Wu Kung,” the calm, quiet yet thunderous voice of the Arena began, “Step –”

“We object!”

The voice was the rough bass of Byto, echoed by the higher-pitched precision of none other than Selpa’A’At, who had reached the side of his selected champion. “Arena, we object!”

The entire crowd went deathly silent, and Ariane looked around nervously. “What’s going on?”

Orphan was studying the Leader of the Vengeance with a clinical air. “While it is rare, it is possible for a Challenger, or Challenged, to object that some aspect of a Challenge was unfair or that somehow the result was rigged against them. These objections are rarely sustained — the Arena is, after all, the overseer of the Challenges — but it is their right and it has been known to work.”

After a moment’s silence, the Arena spoke. “Your objection will be heard. However, only the relevant parties shall be involved in the discussion.”

Without even a blink, Ariane found herself in a smaller — but still huge — room with only DuQuesne, Wu Kung, Tunuvun, Byto, and Selpa. Even the far more experienced Leader of the Vengeance looked startled and disoriented. “State your objection, Selpa’A’At of the Vengeance.”

Recovering from his startlement, Selpa lifted his manipulators and pointed to Wu Kung. “He has been enhanced to a degree that reveals malfeasance in this contest. Either a Shadeweaver or an Initiate Guide has provided him with capabilities beyond those allowed any of us in the Arena.”

“You are saying I cheated?” Wu Kung began to lunge forward, tearing free of even DuQuesne’s attempt to restrain him; without warning he was pinned to the ground by a force beyond even the Monkey King’s ability to oppose.

“Violence will not be tolerated,” the Arena said dispassionately. “There was no cheating or manipulation, Leader of the Vengeance.”

“Do you think I would have tolerated cheating?” Tunuvun demanded. “I do not know how my brother Wu Kung did what he did, but you –”

“Is it not true that the Shadeweavers and Initiate Guides have powers to sometimes conceal their work from even you, Arena?” Selpa said, ignoring Tunuvun’s anger.

“It is,” the Arena conceded calmly. “But this is irrelevant to the current instance.”

“We know the rules, Arena! Any species may enhance its individuals only so far beyond their natural level! We have seen what the other humans can do, and there is no possible way in which this –”

DuQuesne raised his hand. “Hold on. Arena, there are… elements of our security here that may be relevant.”

“Understood.”

Tunuvun stopped and gave a narrow stare at DuQuesne, and then at Wu Kung, who met his gaze with a swift nod.

Ariane thought she was finally getting an inkling of what was going on — of what DuQuesne was implying — and it sent a chill down her spine… whether of fear or excitement, though, she wasn’t sure.

“Show them.”

Everyone suddenly stared at Wu Kung as he rose, slowly, from the floor, glaring furiously at Selpa and Byto. “Wu, are you sure –” DuQuesne began.

“SHOW THEM!” shouted Wu Kung. “Show them and bind them to never speak of it, but show them, so they will know that my honor remains!”

“Ariane Austin, do you give permission?”

Ariane looked from Wu to DuQuesne. “Marc? What am I giving permission for?”

Marc’s brows were drawn down, but not in anger; in pained sympathy. “To show these two why Wu’s so far beyond everyone. Why it’s right that he is. To show them… Hyperion.”

“What?” Ariane was stunned. “Arena? You could do that?”

“Yes.”

She saw DuQuesne start to speak, then close his mouth with a visible effort. He wants to say something more, but he’s not. He’s letting me figure it out on my own. “Can and will you do as Wu asked? Show them, but not allow them to tell anyone else of secrets learned here, in any fashion?”

“Yes.”

Great. Now I just have to decide what to do. “What happens if I say no? Selpa, you have the Arena’s word that there was no cheating. You have Tunuvun, your selected champion, saying there was no cheating. You also have my word, if you care to take it, that there was none, and that the reason for Wu’s abilities is a secret of Humanity’s that just knowing is more valuable than I can easily imagine. Can you let it go at that?”

The Leader of the Vengeance swayed uncertainly on his spidery legs, looking even more like a harvestman than usual. “I wish I could, Captain Austin,” he said finally, and the regret in his voice sounded genuine. “But this is an entire Sphere that hangs in the balance.”

“One Sphere of many, which would go to a species that deserves one. You of all people should understand and sympathize with these people, the worst victims of the Arena’s usual rules!” At her words, Tunuvun gave a complex look — both grateful and pained. He hates having to have others stand up for his people… but also is grateful if anyone does.

“I do.” There was actual pain in Selpa’s voice. “And were the Sphere truly mine to do with as I please, it would be different. But I am the Vengeance and I must do as the Vengeance requires. I cannot simply let this go on the word of the force that is — as it well knows — an agent of our Adversaries, and that of a still-new species which is not even fully understood. You must understand this, Captain Austin. I am sure you do.”

She sighed. “I wish I didn’t. But yes, I understand.” She looked up — even though that was silly, the Arena wasn’t really in any particular location. “Arena, if I refuse, what happens?”

“The results of the race will stand and the awarding of the prize will commence. There will be political and personal issues that you will be forced to confront due to this unusual event.”

Translated: there’d be a lot of people who suspected some kind of underhanded trickery, maybe even, now that she thought of it, believe she had somehow managed to do it using the powers that were still locked away inside her. And Wu Kung, who was now staring at her with pleading emerald eyes wide, would forever be under a shadow of suspicion.

And for him, honor’s one of the most important things in the universe.

It was that — and, possibly, a tiny bit of her own curiosity — that decided her. “All right, Wu. Arena, I give permission. With the restrictions mentioned, show us all the truth that Sun Wu Kung wants us to see.”

“By your command.”

Suddenly she floated in an omniscient void, looking down and through, as seven young people sat around a table, and joked and laughed, and one had an idea, and the others started discussing it…

… the same seven, and more people, both virtually and physically present, and the talk becoming something more serious, examining possibilities, designs which could be made, what could never be achieved, and what might be possible.

A shimmering tracery of girders, nanoassemblers and automated machines spinning a web, girdling it with cables and reinforcing ring-carbon, steel and aluminum and titanium, an immense shining colony…

And now images, so fast she could barely grasp them, yet could sense the emotions, the impressions, the gestalt that each image represented: a blond man in a gold uniform, stripes meaning “Captain” on his sleeve; the ebon skin and flowing indigo hair of Erision, facing the Unreality Effect for the first time; a familiar red-headed girl leaping from a building and gliding to safety on a parasail; DuQuesne staring up at the Skylark with his friend Richard Seaton; a tall, dark-haired figure in red and blue, streaking into the sky with a thought; her old virtual friend and first crush Tarellimade, staring through greenery at the woman he would one day marry; a blonde girl facing a monstrous vampire, wooden stake in her hand; Wu Kung, emerging from his sealed stone prison, startled to see a woman’s face beneath the hat of a monk; and dozens, hundreds more, each a figure of legend large or small.

Then the impression of rage, of betrayal, and shadow was cast over the brilliance, and the sound was of screaming and fighting, guns and swords and fists in the dark, and more flashes of single scenes: the red and blue standing back-to-back with one wearing red, white, and blue and holding a shield; the gold-uniformed man standing straight, holding a salute, as in the screen before him a woman, dark-haired, wearing a beret and eyepatch, saluted him, and then Maria-Susanna, screaming as she held the gold-uniformed man’s body; eighteen men, all different yet, somehow, all the same, poised for combat around a strange blue box.

And still more; four children in strange costumes fighting alongside an assortment of gray-skinned, orange-horned creatures that were, themselves, children, and the blood all around was purple, blue, green, brown, and even red; Wu Kung staggering forward, drugged and slow, to be beaten down to the ground; a tall, slender man sitting in a Victorian dressing-gown, immobile, waiting in a cluttered apartment with a strange pattern of bullet-holes on the wall, an apartment that suddenly disappeared, and in that moment the man raised a pistol he held in one hand…

Without warning they were back, the room now too bright, sterile and cold, and the glory and madness and anguish of those two decades compressed into moments almost brought her to her knees; she swayed and was caught by DuQuesne, whose face was white, with tears leaving shining streaks behind. “Not again,” he was murmuring. “Not again.” Nearby, Tunuvun was half-collapsed, his gaze flickering incredulously between Wu Kung and DuQuesne.

Wu Kung was standing now, shaking, glaring at Selpa and Byto; the Leader of the Vengeance had sagged to the floor, his legs vibrating, and the rhinoceros-like Byto uttered a gasp of disbelief and pain. “What do you say now, Vengeance-ones? What of my honor now?”

Trembling still, Selpa rose and then bobbed before Sun Wu Kung. “I… retract the implication.” The translated voice was raw with horror, disbelief, revulsion. “You… your people… this was true?”

“Every last bit,” DuQuesne said, voice rough. “And you didn’t see the half of it.”

“Do you understand?” the Arena asked.

“Yes,” Byto spoke finally, with the same disbelieving horror in his voice. “These… people. They … those were their native worlds. So whatever enhancements were made to them… were natural. By the Arena’s own decrees, they retain all they were made with… for they did not know they were made, or even that there was another world in which they could have been made.”

“Then do you withdraw the objection?”

Selpa rocked so his eyes stared full at DuQuesne and Wu Kung, horror still writ large in that pose. “Yes. It is withdrawn.” The tilted gaze turned to her, and Selpa tightened with what had to be not merely horror but revulsion. Why?

Even as she asked the question, she understood. Because now he knows that we were capable of creating Hyperion. He knows just how far human beings can go even in their own system, against their own species.

“You will retain this knowledge, Selpa’A’At and Byto of the Vengeance, as well as you, Tunuvun of the Genasi, but you will be incapable of conveying this knowledge to any others. You will also recognize that none of those responsible for Hyperion are present, or likely to be present in the Arena.”

“Understood.” Selpa’s voice was finally dropping to its normal controlled register; Byto echoed the agreement. Tunuvun simply bowed.

Instantly they were back in the amphitheater. Once more the golden light cleared a path, and this time Ariane could see that a tall raised platform lay before them, with a stairway winding to the top. “Sun Wu Kung,” the Arena intoned, “the objection has been withdrawn, your victory untainted and uncontested; step forward, and receive the prize.”

That’s right, she remembered. The selected champion claims the prize first.

Since the prize was an entire Sphere, she wasn’t sure how this was going to be handed out; strong as Wu was, she suspected lifting twenty thousand kilometer-wide Spheres was a little out of his range.

The cheers had begun again as Wu Kung, once more proud and happy, stepped jauntily forward, barely keeping himself to a semi-dignified walk rather than the all-out sprint she could tell he would prefer. Strains of music echoed around them, a fanfare or tribute to a winner that while alien still managed to evoke a kinship with other, similar ceremonies on Earth, including her own experiences in the Winner’s Circle back home.

Finally the four of them — Wu Kung, DuQuesne, herself, and Tunuvun — reached the top of the platform. A beam of pure white light touched Wu Kung as he stretched out a hand, and something glittered within, a something that floated steadily downward, sparkling like a jewel, until she could see that it was a perfect crystal sphere, with a white-glowing symbol within.

“You have won Racing Chance in Challenge, Sun Wu Kung, and thus the prize is yours. This token is yours. Whoever presents it to the Vengeance, they shall be given a Sphere and all the privileges of the Arena that are the right of every Citizen of the Arena.”

Wu Kung caught the jewel and held it in wonder. “A Sphere…”

She saw DuQuesne stiffen.

“A Sphere that becomes a home,” Wu murmured, staring at the sparkling crystal, enraptured. “DuQuesne! It could be… it could be our home!”

Oh, no. No, Wu. But she understood exactly what Wu Kung was thinking: a home for the Hyperions. Perhaps, just possibly, a home for their friends, too, the friends locked away as patterns in quantum states. Wu came from a place that believed in such miracles, and with the power of the Arena… was it entirely impossible?

And could anyone in Wu’s position not be tempted — terribly tempted — by that possibility?

DuQuesne swallowed hard. “Yes. Yes, Wu. It could.” She could tell that Marc did not dare push Wu Kung one way or the other. The Arena had given Wu Kung this treasure, and it was his, and his alone… and pushing Sun Wu Kung would probably end poorly anyway.

Tunuvun stood, rigid as steel, staring in mute fear. The Monkey King is also known for his caprice…

And then Wu grinned. “We have to get one for ourselves!” he shouted, and then tossed the priceless gemstone into the air, so it came down perfectly into a stunned Tunuvun’s hands. “Now — we have a celebration!”

The cheers that erupted around them were nearly deafening, and a swarm of Genasi sprinted up the column and caught up Wu, lifting him high. “A celebration for our rights and our victory, Sun Wu Kung,” Tunuvun said, and his translated voice was thick with near-tears of joy, “and for you, who gave it to us when we thought all lost. And you, who I now know never had a true home… You were my brother before, now you are brother to us all. You are Genasi now and forever, no matter what else you may be, and forever will our home be your home as well!”

Wu Kung laughed as they flung him high and caught him again. “Then I have gained many brothers and sisters today! A wonderful thing to celebrate!” He grinned down at the rest of them. “Time for a party!”

“Yes, Wu,” she agreed, smiling her relief and echoing his excitement. “It is definitely time for a big party!”

 

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 37

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 37

“That spot’s east of the confluence between the Amper and the Isar. We’d wind up on the wrong bank of the Isar and have to find a place to cross back over again.”

Duerr nodded. “True.” He glanced up at the ceiling of the room they were in, as if he could see through it to the sky beyond. “The Pelican can be back by nightfall and can lay over until tomorrow. We’ve made a landing place for it. When we move out in the morning we’ll have excellent reconnaissance until they have to return.”

Mike shook his head. “I don’t want to wait, Ulbrecht. I want to keep pushing on, since we still have most of the day left.” His own finger tapped a place on the map. “By sundown — well, allowing for enough time to bivouac — I want to be here. This village called Attenkirchen.”

Christopher Long tugged at the point of his beard, which was another of the Van Dykes so popular at the time. Mike, who favored a full beard cut short, had never been able to see the logic of the things. Maintaining a proper Van Dyke required almost as much work as being clean-shaven. Why bother?

“I recommend against that, sir. Attenkirchen is a good six — maybe seven — miles south of here. We can certainly make it there by nightfall, in this weather. But we’ll be too far away to maintain the security of the Pelican‘s landing site — and it will be much too late in the day to set up a new one.”

Duerr chimed right in. “Which means the Pelican will have to continue operating out of Regensburg, and we’re getting close to the limit of its operating range unless we provide it with a new secure base.”

Mike tried not to let his impatience make him irritable. The more time that passed, the more convinced he became that Bavaria was a distraction, a side show. Yes, Duke Maximilian of Bavaria had a lot to answer for. But the cold, hard fact remained that by now Bavaria had been stripped of most of its former power. In any event, that power had always been heavily dependent on Bavaria’s alliance with Austria — which Maximilian had shredded with his maniacal response to the flight of the Austrian archduchess who had been supposed to marry him.

And, meanwhile, the Turkish armies were marching through the Balkans toward Vienna. That, in Mike’s opinion, was where their attention ought to be focused. Instead, practically all of the military power of the nation was tied up fighting either the Poles or the Bavarians, neither of whom posed an existential threat to the United States of Europe. Whereas the Ottomans might, if they could take Vienna.

And the problem there — again! you’d think people would have learned by now — was the damned American history books. Suleiman the Magnificent had failed to take Vienna in 1529, and the up-time history books said the Ottomans would fail again when they tried — would try; might try; could have would have tried; the grammar got insane — again in 1683.

Half a century from now, in another universe — as if that provided any guidance for what should be done today, in this universe, under these conditions.

As bad an influence as the American history books could be, Mike sometimes thought that the influence of American technology was even worse. As witness the reliance his officers were placing more and more on the reconnaissance provided to them by the Pelican.

Yes, the airship made a superb observation platform. Much better than airplanes, really. A plane had to spot something while speeding through the air with only one or two pairs of eyes; an airship could effectively hover in place, allowing several observers to take their time examining the landscape below through binoculars and telescopes.

But the damn things had such limits! They burned so much fuel just keeping the envelopes filled with hot air that they could only stay in position for a short time, unless an advance base was created for them. And the problem there was that the craft were so huge and unwieldy that it took time to build a base for them — and then you had to detach a sizeable force to guard the base. Not to mention that they were all but useless in bad weather.

All of Mike’s experience as a fighter — first as a prizefighter, and now as a commander of armies — was that if there was any one secret to winning a fight it was to be relentless. Hit ’em and hit ’em and hit ’em and hit ’em. Don’t stop, don’t rest. Push on, push on.

The boxer he’d tried to model himself on when he was in the ring was Rocky Marciano. And while Mike had never thought he had Marciano’s talent, he did have the man’s temperament as a fighter. Never let up. Once you start, keep on. Hit ’em and hit ’em and hit ’em. If you can’t knock them out, wear them down for a while — and then knock them out.

Never let up.

Of course, you had to be strong and in very good shape and be able to take a punch, for that strategy to work. But Mike had all of those qualities and he thought his Third Division did as well. Most of all, he was profoundly distrustful of allowing time to go by in a fight. Yes, yes, it would be nice to have excellent reconnaissance at every waking hour. Why not wish for orbital satellites while you’re at it?

“No,” he said firmly. “Piccolomini just took over command of the Bavarian army less than a month ago — and he’s only had a few days — well, a week or so — to integrate the forces retreating from Ingolstadt. Granted, he’s got a lot of experience and a good reputation, but he’s not a magician. His C2 is bound to be a little ragged.”

“C2″ — he’d pronounced it Cee Two — was an Americanism that had by now spread throughout the USE’s military. It stood for “command and control.”

Duerr and Long were both giving him looks that might fairly be described as fishy.

“So is ours, General Stearns, as many new recruits as we’ve got,” said Long.

He had a point. This campaign against Bavaria was coming on top of the Third Division’s campaign in Saxony and Poland, followed by a march to and back from Bohemia to fight Báner outside Dresden, followed by a march from Saxony to Regensburg. They’d fought their first big battle at Zwenkau in August — less than nine months ago. That had been followed by the savage fighting at Zielona Gora in October and the big battle of Ostra in February. And here they were, just four months later, readying to fight yet another major battle.

They’d lost a lot of men in the process, some of them killed, more of them injured, and a fair number just leaving for quieter pastures. Some of them did so by the rules, but most of them just deserted. There was no great social opprobrium attached to desertion in this day and age.

Because of its reputation for paying regularly, keeping the soldiers well-equipped and well-fed, and winning victories, the Third Division had no trouble finding new volunteers to replace the men they lost. In fact, the division was technically over-strength, at almost thirteen thousand men, because of its success at recruitment.

But that came at a cost. To a degree, the Third Division was constantly recreating itself as it went.

“I’m more concerned about our weakness when it comes to cavalry,” said Long. “I understand your frustration with the Pelican‘s limitations, sir. But even reinforced with Mackay’s men, our cavalry is terribly understrength. That allows the Bavarians to use their superior numbers in cavalry to overwhelm our own, which –”

“Enables them to move their troops without us being able to spot them,” Mike finished for him. “Yes, I know that, Christopher.” He ran fingers through his hair, resisting the temptation to tug at them with frustration. “The ideal solution would be to have another airship permanently attached to us that could rotate with the Pelican. But we’re stretched too much. If only –”

He shook his head, shaking off the pointless wish that Gustav Adolf would come to his senses and end the war with Poland. Being fair to the emperor, even if Gustav Adolf was willing to make peace it was doubtful at this point that King Wladyslaw would be. Part of the reason for the never-ending rancor between the USE and Poland was that the two nations were ruled by two branches of the same Vasa royal family — both branches of which were firmly convinced the other was a pack of scheming bastards who couldn’t be trusted. Not for the first time since he’d arrived in the seventeenth century, Mike was reminded of his native state’s own reputation for stupid feuding.

Hatfields and McCoys, meet Vasas and Vasas.

“One of these days,” he said, “the new hydrogen dirigibles will come into service. That’ll help, because they’ll be able to stay up a lot longer.”

He looked back down at the map and placed his finger on the spot marked Attenkirchen. “Here, gentlemen,” he said firmly. “By sundown. The Pelican will be fueled up and ready to go by sunup, so they’ll be here early in the morning.”

And then they’ll have to leave again in half an hour or so. But he didn’t see any point in adding that. Life was what it was. You fought a war with the army you had, not the one you wished for.

 

Please Stop Posting Typographical Corrections Here

Folks, please stop posting typographical corrections here. All you’re doing is wasting your time and effort and cluttering up my web site. As I have explained many times, these snippets are taken from UNPROOFED manuscripts. Naturally, you’re finding lots of typos and grammatical errors — that’s precisely why publishers pay a fair amount of money to have manuscripts proof-read.

I’m busy. I am not keeping track of any corrections posted here and neither is anyone else. In any event, it’s too late for WARS FOR THE RHINE because I’ve already submitted my corrections to the page proofs. So has Anette as well as two professional proof-readers. That book is already at the printer.

Challenges Of The Deeps – Chapter 10

Challenges Of The Deeps – Chapter 10

Chapter 10.

Wu Kung landed in a crouch-and roll, came to his feet in the precise center of the platform, saw the figures — one Dujuin rhino-like creature, two Daalasan like armored frog-men, and one spidery Milluk in the silvery Arena armor — appear from nothing around him. Adjudicators! The Arena’s own peacekeepers!

Then he heard Orphan’s quiet despair, and rose to his feet, grinning savagely, baring his fangs to the Adjudicators as they raised their own weapons. “I gave my word to Tunuvun and Ariane that I would win this,” he said, and his own speech echoed across the chamber and was repeated throughout the great amphitheater beyond, its murmurs resonating back to his own ears. “And Sun Wu Kung has never broken his word!”

He leapt towards the Milluk, and suddenly felt as though the air itself had condensed, become a mud-thick sludge that dragged at his limbs. A trap, like the hidden swamp of Numachi no O, the Kappa King!

This would make it a challenge!

Now he dug deep into his reserves, feeling strength and speed flooding into him as he unleashed everything. DuQuesne said I didn’t have to hold back! With a lunge he sped towards the Milluk, ducking under a bolt of energy from the Duijin and outdistancing the two Daaalasan. Two of the Milluk’s legs crossed, blocking his strike, but the creature was driven back almost a full meter, approaching the edge of the suspended floor.

But the others were closing now, their weapons shimmering with energies he was sure were meant to stun and disable their foes on contact. But I still have Ruyi Jingu Bang!

He spun about, whirling the great red-enameled, gold-ended staff in a blur that made the speed of the Adjudicators sluggish, parrying strikes of three of the four. The fourth, a narrow-pointed trident, slid past his guard and hammered directly into his chest.

The impact was startling, a strength he hadn’t felt in years except sparring with DuQuesne. These Adjudicators are good.

The field did not seem to impede him skidding across the floor, tumbling towards the opposite side, yet it did slow his arms as they extended out, as his feet’s claws reached out and dug, and he saw drops of blood trailing in the air, slowly falling to his perceptions as he sought to stop his swift career towards the precipice. It works against me, and only against me.

Claws struck and gripped the platform surface, sending a shrill, ear-piercing shriek like a thousand nails drawn across a thousand blackboards, slowing his progress just enough. He rebounded from his crouch, met the two froglike Adjudicators halfway across the platform, moving through the impeding field as though it were thin air, and heard the gasps finally echoing from the unseen audience, the rustle of them slowly, slowly rising to their feet, leaning against the spectator rails, as they realized something extraordinary was playing out before them.

In the distance he could hear feet running, closing in, and knew that he didn’t have long before Tunuvun arrived.

Ruyi Jingu Bang ducked down and then up, clotheslining both Daalasan beneath their armored chins. Wu Kung pressed forward, the impact and Wu’s strength tearing the two Adjudicators from their feet, dragging them forward with the Hyperion Monkey King and forcing both the Milluk and the Dujuin to brace for collision. Wu braked, flipped up, and came down, aiming a blow for a precise point on the Milluk’s armor. If I guess its anatomy right…

The creature tried to turn, even as it fended off the momentarily incapacitated Daalasan, but it was just one hair too slow. The golden ball on the end of the Monkey King’s staff crashed into its armored carapace with enough force to dent both the armor and the golden ball — a ball made of ring-carbon composite. The creature spasmed, legs clenching inward like a stunned spider, and fell, rolling back and plummeting into the unguessable void below.

Now Wu Kung faced the three remaining Adjudicators and matched staff and feet and fists with their weapons, limbs, and armor. A blaze of blue energy from a silver bludgeon made his limbs momentarily seize up, and the Duijin took the opening, grabbed him, slammed him with ground shaking force into the shining platform, then lifted him to hurl him into space.

But Wu Kung’s tail seized the rhinoceros-like head about the neck, used the power of its own throw to jerk it savagely forward, then Wu flipped around and used a double-heel kick to send it spinning helplessly into the void.

Two left, and these worked as a team, taking him deadly seriously; he could smell they knew these victories were no flukes, no lucky accidents; disbelief rose high, almost as high as determination in their scents, disbelief that he could move as he did in their field of solidified air. Tunuvun’s footsteps were closer now, approaching the entrance and the final path to victory.

The Daalasan pursued him relentlessly, pushing their own speed and strength — obviously boosted by the Arena — to match his own. But strength and speed were only as good as the skill to use them, and was he not Sun Wu Kung, the Great Sage Equal of Heaven? Wu laughed, laughed at the sheer joy of finally, finally finding an opponent in this world to test him to the limits, even as the two at last passed his guard with sheer determination and strength to momentarily match his skill and guile, striking his head with force enough to snap it around, blood spraying from his mouth, pain shocking, hot and urgent as the footsteps that were approaching above.

But he tumbled away, a fall turned into a handspring, a lightning-fast succession of somersaulting leaps that sent him springing into space, rebounding off the far wall, and diving back, bouncing from the floor to sweep one froglike creature’s feet from beneath it and then grappling with the other, gritting his teeth and ignoring the shocking pain as he grasped the energy-charged staff and tore it from the Adjudicator’s shocked grasp, hurled it away, and then sent the third Adjudicator plummeting after his weapon.

Above, Tunuvun’s feet were on the final path, sprinting at full speed across the gap, as Wu faced the last Adjudicator. With none of his allies to concern him, the Daalasan unleashed a torrent of electrical bolts, a network of destruction and shock that should be impassable, invincible.

But Wu could see the writhing of the bolts, follow the Daalasan’s intent, his weaving of his tapestry of thunderbolts, and duck under one, leapt through a hole, brushed off the cramping shock of one bolt, and brought down Ruyi Jingu Bang to be parried at the last second by the wide-eyed Adjudicator. The roar of the crowd, distant though it was, was still nigh-deafening, and Wu strained to hear the final footsteps above, charging hopelessly towards the goal that honor demanded Tunuvun reach and his people prayed he would not.

Five seconds, he thought as a machine-gun fast exchange of staves ringing against each other sent both of them staggering back for an instant. Four seconds, and the Adjudicator fired a wide-bore blast of force that would have sent Wu hurtling away into space had he not read that motion at the last possible moment, tumbled to the side. Three, and he retaliated, knocked the Adjudicator’s staff aside and rammed his elbow home at a point just below the throat that stunned the creature. Two seconds, and the Adjudicator tumbled limply away and slid over the edge as Wu Kung turned, judging distances, seeing Tunuvun only a scant few meters from the far doorway and the finish line.

One second, and the crowd had gone silent, breaths and movements, even thoughts being held as the final moment of the race had come; Wu shouted the command, and Ruyi Jingu Bang extended, doubling its length in the blink of an eye, catapulting him up to the doorway at the very instant Tunuvun reached his, and past it, over, though, breaking the white-sparkling line of victory.

 

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 36

1636: The Ottoman Onslaught – Snippet 36

Chapter 17

Bavaria, just north of Zolling on the Amper River

General Ottavio Piccolomini lowered his spyglass. “You are certain of this, Captain? If I anchor my plans on your claim and you are mistaken, it could be a disaster. Almost certainly will be a disaster because I will have divided my forces.”

He spoke in Italian, not German. Most of the officers in the Bavarian army, like Piccolomini himself, were mercenaries and Italian had been something in the way of a lingua franca for such soldiers since the late Middle Ages. The transition of military practice from feudal levies to mercenaries employed by a centralized state had begun in Europe with the condottieri of the thirteenth and fourteenth century Italian city-states like Florence, Genoa and Venice. Many of those Italian traditions were carried on by those who practiced war as a profession, including the language, even after the rise to prominence of Swiss pikemen and German landsknechts in later centuries.

As was true of most mercenary captains, Piccolomini spoke German and Spanish as well as his native Italian — German fluently, albeit with a heavy Florentine accent, and Spanish passably. The reason he was using Italian as the common tongue of the Bavarian forces was not so much due to his own preferences as it was to the heavy Italian element in his army. His immediate staff and most of his commanders were German, but since they all spoke Italian reasonably well he had decided it would be wiser to use that language than run the risk that orders transmitted farther down the line in the course of a battle might be mistranslated.

The officer to whom he’d addressed his question was Johann Heinrich von Haslang, newly promoted from captain to colonel. Shortly after Piccolomini took control of Bavaria’s army he had begun a reorganization of the officer corps. Many of General von Lintelo’s favorites had been eased out, replaced by officers in whom Piccolomini had more confidence.

His judgment had generally been very good, thought von Haslang — even allowing for the obvious bias he had, being himself one of the beneficiaries of the new regime. Piccolomini was a humorless man, whose thick body and heavy face were a good reflection of his temperament. But he was competent and experienced and didn’t seem to suffer from the tendency of all too many mercenary commanders to play favorites with his subordinates.

“I can only give you a conditional assurance, General,” said von Haslang. He nodded toward the receding airship in the sky, still quite visible despite now being several miles away. “I have kept extensive and careful records of these vessels. The one we are watching now is the one they call the Pelican and it is the one which the USE has maintained in service here in Bavaria since the beginning of the conflict. But they have two others at their disposal should they choose to use them, the Albatross and the Petrel.”

He took off his hat and wiped his forehead with a sleeve. It was an unseasonably hot day this early in May. “Normally, they employ the Albatross as something of a general-purpose transport vehicle. It can be almost anywhere in central Europe on any given day. At the moment — but please keep in mind that these reports always lag days behind the reality because –”

He broke off. Because our pig-headed duke insists on keeping Bavaria’s few radios in Munich where they do no one any good at all instead of letting me give at least one of them to our spies… would be impolitic, even though Piccolomini himself probably would have agreed.

“– because they do,” he finished a bit lamely. “But for whatever it’s worth, the last reports I received placed the Albatross at Luebeck.”

Piccolomini grunted. “How fast could they get it back down here?”

Von Haslang shrugged. “That depends on how much urgency they felt, General. These airships operate with hot air and have a very limited range because of the fuel that needs to be expended to keep the air in the envelope heated. Eighty miles or so — a hundred miles, at the most. Luebeck is about four hundred miles to the north.”

Piccolomini frowned. “Much farther than that, I would think.”

“By road, yes. But I am speaking of the straight line distance which is more or less how these airships travel.”

“Ah. Yes.” Piccolomini pursed his lips, doing the calculations himself. “So, at least four legs to the trips; probably five or six.”

“Six, in this case, General. I know the specific stops they’d make. Each leg would take two to three hours, depending on the winds. If they had fuel ready to go at each stage and made a priority of refueling, they could be back in the air in an hour or so.”

“Can they fly at night?”

“Yes, but they try to avoid it whenever possible.”

“So, about two days, you’re saying.”

“Approximately. And unfortunately…”

“That’s quite a bit quicker than our spies can alert us” — Piccolomini’s heavy lips quirked into what might have been a smile of sorts — “since Duke Maximilian is unwilling to risk the few radios he has out in the field.”

He copied von Haslang’s hat-removal and use of a sleeve to wipe the sweat off his brow. Added to the heat of the day was the weight of the buff coat the general was wearing — as was von Haslang himself. Most cavalrymen favored buff coats, no matter the temperature. Risking a gaping wound in the side or even on an arm was not worth the comfort of light clothing.

“And what about the third airship? The Petrel, was it?”

“There, we are on firmer footing. They have been using it in their salvage operations in Ingolstadt, trying to raise those two ten-inch guns we tossed into the river before we evacuated.”

“It’s still very close — closer than the Albatross, most likely.”

Von Haslang smiled. “Yes, it is — but they’ve altered it rather drastically in order to lighten it as much possible so they can get the most lift from the envelope. Instead of four engines, it now only has two — and our spies tell me that they keep as little fuel on board as possible for the salvage operation.”

He pointed to the still-visible but now very distant airship. “I can’t promise you anything, General. But the odds are quite good that the Pelican is the only airship we will need to worry about for the next few days.”

Piccolomini grunted again. “Better odds, you’re suggesting, that what we face against Stearns’ forces if we don’t take the risk.”

“Yes, sir.”

After wiping his brow, Piccolomini had kept his hat still in his fist. Now he placed it back on his head. “We’ll do it, then.” He turned his horse toward von Haslang’s immediate superior, General Caspar von Schnetter — who had been a mere colonel a week earlier. He was another of the Bavarian officers who’d enjoyed a promotion.

“You will lead the attack on the enemy’s flank, von Schnetter,” said Piccolomini. “Remember — speed is critical. We won’t launch the attack unless the diversion succeeds in drawing off the enemy’s flying artillery — but they don’t call them ‘flying’ for no reason. If you dawdle, Stearns will be able to get them back on his right flank soon enough to face you. And those batteries have a fearsome reputation against cavalry, which is all you’ll have at first.”

“I understand, sir,” said von Schnetter.

“Make sure you do, General.” Piccolomini’s tone was forceful. “I have heard all too many officers since I arrived in Bavaria spout the opinion that Stearns is simply lucky rather than capable. Maybe so — but only a fool would operate on that assumption. He’s won every battle he’s fought so far, which in my experience indicates that something more than mere luck is involved.”

Piccolomini looked up at the sky, scowling. It was not a clear day; a good third of the sky was covered with clouds. But those clouds foresaged nothing more than an occasional sprinkling.

“I wondered why Koniecpolski chose to attack Gustavus Adolphus in the middle of a storm,” he said. “Now I understand the reason. Damn and blast those airships — and the airplanes may be even worse. Your enemy can see everything you’re doing.”

Thankfully, Gustavus Adolphus seemed to be keeping his few airplanes in the Polish theater. Proving once again — as if the passing millennia had not already given proof enough — that rulers were prone to being pigheaded. If they’d had to face airplanes as well down here in Bavaria…

Rudelzhausen, Bavaria

About ten miles north of Zolling

Ulbrecht Duerr’s finger touched a place on the map spread out across the table in the center of the small tavern’s main room. “Here, upstream of where the Amper makes that big bend southwest of Moosburg, a bit east of Zolling. That’s the place where Captain Finck says a crossing of the Amper would be easiest.”

“Anywhere else?” Mike Stearns asked. “And how recent is the information?”

“The information concerning the spot near Zolling is now a day old. There hasn’t been any rainfall worth talking about lately and the weather seems to be staying good, so nothing will have changed as far as the condition of the river is concerned.” Duerr shrugged. “Of course, there is no way to know if Bavarian forces have moved into the area since Finck was there.”

He now tapped a spot on the map that was just north of Moosburg. “This does us little good, of course, but Finck reports there’s a place here on the Isar where the river could be easily forded. Cavalry and flying artillery could cross directly, he says, with no preparation at all. For infantry — certainly heavier artillery — you’d want to lay down a corduroy road. But no bridge would have to be thrown up.”

 

1635: The Wars For The Rhine – Snippet 18

1635: The Wars For The Rhine – Snippet 18

Chapter 8

Fulda

August, 1634

The horse Melchior had chosen for Father Johannes in Cologne had plodded on steadily up along the Rhine and Main rivers, across the new bridge at Frankfurt and then north along the Fulda river to Fulda town. The country side had so far been peaceful but active with the harvest under way, but the closer Father Johannes got to Fulda, the more people seemed to be looking back over their shoulders. The guards at the border stations had given him no problems — though he had had to be careful which of his two sets of letters he let them see — and those guards willing to chat had known of no fighting.

Rumors had come down from Fulda: vague talks about expected rebellions once the harvest was over, but nothing had seemed alarming until the night before. Father Johannes had stopped for the night at the Inn of the Red Bear, and sat talking to a south-bound postman named Martin Wackernagel, who claimed to have seen troops moving in the area between Fulda and Kassel. Father Johannes would have liked to know more, but the entrance of Felix Gruyard surrounded by three soldiers, had made him withdraw from the common room before Gruyard saw him. Gruyard had last been heard of in connection with the disappearance of Duke Wolfgang of Jülich-Berg’s young widow, and finding him now near Fulda was not a good omen.

Fulda looked like a disturbed anthill in its broad, fertile valley, when Father Johannes approached. As expected the overcast sky made a few farmers hurry around getting the last grain into the barns, but aside from that, all kinds of people seemed to be moving around; not fleeing, not looking frightened and not all carrying weapons. The guard at the gate politely stopped Father Johannes and asked the usual questions: identity, origin, destination and business in town. He also wanted to know if Father Johannes had noticed any people — perhaps soldiers — transporting one or more prisoners. Father Johannes mentioned Gruyard and the three soldiers, and upon hearing that a henchman of the Archbishop of Cologne had been in the area until the night before, an officer was called and Father Johannes had to repeat the entire story plus as much as he knew about Gruyard.

It was thus late in the evening before Father Johannes made his way to the Church of Saint Severi. The small grey church had been build two centuries ago by the important Wool-Weavers Guild on a small rise between the Council Hall and the Cathedral, and the new, tall, surrounding half-timber houses seemed to hover protectingly around it. The evening service had just ended, and the congregation dispersed along with the priest with softly murmured goodnights. Father Johannes approached the sexton snuffing out the lights by the door, “Blessed evening Goodman, I was wondering if you would be as kind as to help me. My name is Father Johannes Grunwald and I’m a painter. I’ve been told your church has been richly decorated within the last few years, and I would very much like to come see the church properly in daylight tomorrow. For now, could you tell me the whereabouts of the painter? I would enjoy talking to a colleague.”

“The painter is here in the church, but he keeps to himself, and I doubt he wants company.”

“Perhaps, you’d be kind enough to ask him. Say Father Johannes Grunwald wishes to see him.” Father Johannes placed a few copper coins on the wooden bench beneath the window, and went to put a few more in the collection box by the door into the nave. The sexton swiped the coins from the bench and disappeared, only to come back followed by a small, thin man in rag-shoes and a worn tunic.

“Paul! So it is you.” Father Johannes went to embrace his friend, but was stopped by the lack of reaction in the other man’s face.

Paul blinked his eyes a few times, “Yes, I’m Paul,” he seemed to pull himself together, “please come in. We can talk in the sacristy.”

* * *

In the sacristy a half-open closet showed a collection of stoles, albas and other priestly garments, while an oak table with neatly line-up painting paraphernalia, and a pallet and a slop-bucket made it clear that Paul both lived and worked out of the small room.

Paul waived Father Johannes toward a stool by the table, then kicked off his shoes made of braided rags, before sitting down on the pallet pressing his back against the wall; the skin on his feet and legs were scarred and twisted, and several toes were missing.

“Paul …” Father Johannes stopped and hesitated.

“Please sit down, Father Johannes, you lean so.” Paul pulled his feet up under his tunic and looked away.

Father Johannes sat down, pulling a bottle from inside his doublet. “I’m staying at the Inn of the Wise Virgin, they had bottles of the plum-wine you used to like. I wasn’t sure you were the painter at Saint Severi, but I brought along a bottle. Just in case. Do you need anything?”

Paul shook his head and rattled by his friend’s silence Father Johannes went on, “Three years ago I saw the Black Mass pictures by Van Beekx, that you were accused of painting. And read the interrogation protocol and what else the archives contained. I should have come looking for you in Aschaffenburg, but I didn’t. I’m sorry. I should have.”

Paul remained silent.

“I was on my way to Magdeburg. To paint propaganda for that campaign. You know I’m very good at closing my eyes to those things I don’t wish to see, but Magdeburg was too much. I rebelled and had to flee. Ended up with the Americans in Grantville. Last winter I accepted a commission from Prince-Bishop Franz von Hatzfeldt of Würzburg and went to Cologne to try if I could find you. I know I should have searched when I first knew that you had been in trouble. I’m sorry. Paul? Is there anything I can do?”

Paul turned his head back to look at Father Johannes. “No. And it would have made no difference if you had come earlier. By the time Magdeburg burned I had been here for more than a year. And this is where I want to be. Right here. Some of my Aunt Louise’s Baril relatives are here, working for the American administration — and the parish supply me with food and paint in return for me decorating the church. I want nothing but to stay here and paint.”

Paul looked down on his hands rubbing them against each other before continuing. “I’ve gone to see the American people twice. It was the right thing to do. Felix Gruyard has been doing his dirty work here. I wanted to stop him, but I don’t want to go outside. I want to stay here. This is sanctuary.” Paul looked up again at Father Johannes, his eyes wide open, “Isn’t it funny? A torturer working for a Prince of the Catholic Church hurt me until something inside me broke, and I did what he wanted me to do. Yet once a shot made my horse panic, and I had the chance to escape, it was in that same church I felt safe. I don’t want to go anywhere.”

Father Johannes rose and went to kneel before Paul, touching first his shoulder then his cheek. “Dear Paul, this will change. After Magdeburg I fled to my childhood home, hiding in a cabin like a wounded animal in its den. Encountering Evil in your fellow man taint you, destroy your innocence, as you will never again be able to delude yourself that such Evil isn’t real. But as pain and evil is real, so is joy and love. The Bible tell us not to put our Faith in princes, nor in the sons of man; I agree on the first but not on the second. We are all sons of man: princes and beggars, soldiers and painters, even Our Lord Jesus Christ came to us as son of man.”

Father Johannes stopped and swallowed before continuing. “Paul, I’ll come to see your paintings tomorrow, and we can talk again. I’ll stay in town for a while. I’m going to see the American people about the archives from the abbey. If you don’t want to come with me when I leave, I’ll arrange to leave you some money with them, as well as addresses for people who will know where I’ve gone. If you ever want — or are forced — to leave, you can use the money to go to your family or come to me. I’ll most likely be in Magdeburg working with porcelain.” Father Johannes rose and smiled, “And by the way: your Heavenly Madonna is beautiful, and it no longer belongs to the archbishop, but to a most lovely lady called Maxie.

 

Challenges Of The Deeps – Chapter 09

Challenges Of The Deeps – Chapter 09

Chapter 9.

“Draw two,” DuQuesne said, evaluating his cards. Nothing impressive in this hand. I need a break.

The two cards passed to him turned out to be a Sky Gate and a Nexus Gateway. With the Inner Gateway and Outer Gate I have, that at least makes a decent run. “Bet 5 points,” he said, not without trepidation. That’s half of what I’ve got left.

He could see Orphan, absently stroking his high head-crest in a nervous fashion, sitting near Ariane; Laila Canning sat on his other side, with Simon on Ariane’s left. The Players themselves were in the center of a large circular amphitheater — maybe even the same one that Ariane and Amas-Garao had dueled in — and around them was a ghostly image of the racing course.

Unlike the racers, DuQuesne could also see inside the huge final building, which contained a winding maze which was at least three kilometers long — a lot more of the race than the building’s external appearance would imply. Have to mention that to Wu — without being specific, of course.

“Match five points,” Byto said in his gravelly, deep voice. “Rolling draw die.”

The eight-sided die rattled across the table, to come up with a single-line symbol. Damn! That’s the fourth time!

“Line of Transition,” the Arena announced. “Accrue two more Obstacle points and may draw up to three cards.”

Byto’s gained points almost every play so far, and I’ve barely stayed even. DuQuesne saw his opponent choose to take three cards. At least that means his hand wasn’t that strong –

The twitch Byto gave was incredibly subtle, but DuQuesne’s Hyperion-built senses picked up on it. Damn. He’s got something now. As he’d delved deeper into the game, it had become clear it was indeed more like a mash-up of three or four games, ranging from standard poker to collectible card duel games, but that wasn’t really helping. There were more ways to win, or lose, and different types of winning plays or hands.

Wu Kung and Tunuvun were dashing through the forest now, the Genasi racer considerably ahead of Wu — and, DuQuesne saw, was taking advantage of the lead to drop large tree branches across his competitor’s path. If my luck doesn’t turn…

He rolled the Draw die; it came up as Emergent, which at least let him draw three like his opponent. He decided to only take two. Okay, that makes a Gateway run and Dual Shadeweavers, that’s not a bad hand. Still… “Bet three points.”

Byto rocked his head from side to side, rolled, drew two cards, discarded two into the dump, and matched the bet, spreading out his cards. DuQuesne also saw him muttering instructions to Tunuvun. Can’t hear them, of course, any more than he can hear what I say to Wu.

Huh. I don’t see any triples or doubles, or a run of…

The murmuring from the crowd started just before it dawned on DuQuesne. “Hand of Arena,” the Arena announced. Every one of Byto’s cards was different, and represented one of the major facets of the Arena, including the Arena card itself as the high card. It was technically a losing hand in Arena Challenge — but in a Racing Challenge such a hand gained the player twenty Obstacle points. Since the total bet on the hand by Byto had been eight points, this was a big win overall for him.

On the positive side, DuQuesne was at least now up by eight points, and it would also be his turn first on this play. Still… “Wu,” he said.

“Yes, DuQuesne?”

“Open it up just a hair. You’re way back and it’s not getting any easier from here on out. By the way, the course in that building is a lot bigger than it looks.” That should be sufficiently nonspecific.

Apparently he was right, because the Arena said nothing, as Wu answered, “Okay, I’m stretching my legs a little. But only a little, right?”

“Right. Not quite ready to hit the panic button.”

The murmurs rippled around the stadium again, with Ariane showing a hint of a smile instead of concern as Wu Kung raced along the branches of the network-like trees, ducking under the branches to evade the obstacles Tunuvun had dropped. He was closing the distance, slowly but surely, between him and his opponent.

DuQuesne and Byto finished the next play as Wu Kung burst from the forest and began racing across gray-golden desert sands, pursuing the faint dust trail that showed where Tunuvun was scrambling like a lizard ahead of him. “I’m getting closer, DuQuesne. Two hundred thirty meters, I think. Still keep going at this speed?” Wu didn’t even sound winded yet, which — if anyone other than DuQuesne could have heard it — might have been a dead giveaway about how much Wu was holding back.

“Throttle it back just a hair, to the top we agreed on before. You’ll still catch him about the time you guys hit the water, I think.”

This time Byto obviously thought he had something, but DuQuesne knew he had a major hand, too. Arena card for me. Only two in circulation, and the one he had is still going to be in the dump, but more importantly I’ve got three Faction Leader cards — and not small ones, either. Vengeance, Molothos, and Blessed– only two of each of those in circulation, too. The Arena can be counted as a Faction, a Construct, or a Leader, so that gives me almost a Great Leader Run, which is something close to a Royal Straight Flush. Plus with two Spheres in my show cards and the single Sphere in my hand I’ve got a triple.

“Bet eight,” he said. Byto matched him without a pause, rolled, got to draw one card. Again Byto tensed in that way that signaled he thought he had something big. But by now he might guess I’ve started reading him and be trying to use his tell to throw me off. Hard to know if he realizes what his tell is; maybe no one but a Hyperion would notice it.

Byto glanced up, then nodded. “Bet eight.”

Ow. That’s a big bite. Must be confident.  DuQuesne wasn’t going to yield this one that easily, so he matched and rolled the die. Ha! Finally luck’s turning my way! Line of Transition for me. Two more points and I get to draw up to three. Real good chance of drawing at least some Faction Leader in that, even if not a Great Faction. Time for me to make up some ground too. “Draw three.”

Staring at him from the middle of the two new cards was Faction Leader: Tantimorcan. Not all Great Factions, but definitely a very high Leader Run… and I’ve got another Sphere, too! He dumped one of the draw cards — a Sky Gate — and also dumped the Challenge card from his show cards, replacing it with the Tantimorcan Leader card. I’ve got sixteen points left. This is a huge hand, though. “Bet ten.”

Byto looked up at him, expression on the rhinoceros-like face unreadable. “Match and increase six.”

That’s the most allowed — he can’t raise beyond what I can match! “Are you sure you want to do that, Byto?” he asked, levelly.

The other hesitated only a fraction, then waggled his ears in what was clearly assent. “Match and increase six.”

Too late to bail now. Okay, that’s the sunk cost fallacy, but still… “Match with six. Beat this: Leader Run, Arena high, and a Quadruple Sphere,” he said, laying down his cards.

Murmurs chased themselves around the audience; Byto sat back slightly, surprised. “Indeed an impressive hand,” he said. “And an interesting coincidence.” He spread out his hand. “Great Leader Run, with Quadruple Challenges.”

DuQuesne stared in momentary shock. He couldn’t even think of an appropriate curse as his count of Obstacle Points went to zero. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted that Orphan looked, if anything, more shocked. Wonder why that is. Probably the whole improbability of the thing; chances of both of us getting all those same cards is ridiculously low. But this is really bad; I’m broke and he’s thirty-two points up in one play. “Arena, I need my first stake,” he said, and saw ten points appear in his account.

I’ve really got to win the next plays. At least I’ve got a good read on his style, his tells — I don’t think he knows I can read them — and I know what’s in the dump and how fast it recirculates. There’s still time.

But Wu, nearing the edge of the desert, suddenly vanished into the sand. “DuQuesne! Dry quicksand! This really annoys me!” The image showed Wu now effectively swimming through the sand, looking for an edge where it turned solid enough to burrow upwards. Ordinary human wouldn’t stand a chance, really, but Wu and Tunuvun ain’t ordinary in any sense of the word. Still, that was dead-slow movement compared to Tunuvun, who was now speeding through the water part of the course, his tail lashing back and forth and helping propel him rapidly through the water. Looks like… it is! That damn tail actually shifted shape, it’s got fins top and bottom!

That was going to be too much of a pain. DuQuesne used all ten of his points to have a bunch of predators converge on Tunuvun, letting the Arena give him another ten stake. If I lose so badly again that I need the third stake, it’s not going to matter much that I used up the first this way.

Wu burst from the sands and dove into the water ten seconds before Tunuvun finished dispatching his adversaries. Wu had only lost thirty meters, but it was clear he was going to lose more for the rest of the swim; Tunuvun was just too well adapted for swimming. “DuQuesne…” Wu murmured pleadingly.

“Just a bit. Like you did before.”

That didn’t completely keep him from losing ground, but once they hit the second no-gravity section Wu started eating up the space between the two… until an unexpected flurry of zikki intercepted him in mid-leap. Wu managed to beat them down with his staff and claws (since no inter-competitor combat was allowed, apparently the Arena didn’t object to either Wu’s staff or the chain-link belts that Tunuvun wore), but by that time Tunuvun was scrambling across the ice and tundra, seven hundred meters and more ahead of Wu.

And it kept happening. Every good hand DuQuesne got, somehow Byto had a better one. He couldn’t bluff or trick his opponent. Reading a guy’s tells doesn’t help much when all it tells you is that he’s going to hand you your head on a platter.

At the same time — ominously — Byto had stopped throwing obstacles at Wu. Wu was slowly making up ground, but by that time it was looking very grim. Wu was almost a full kilometer back and the two were toiling their way across the badlands, with Tunuvun — wearing a desperately focused, yet despairing expression — about to enter the immense building for the final stretch.

“I am very much afraid,” he heard Orphan say, “that our friend is going to lose.”

DuQuesne looked up, and finally grinned. “That would be a really bad bet to make.” He lowered his voice — even though he didn’t need to. “Wu, this guy’s kicking my ass, luck’s on his side every moment. So it’s time to stop playing around.”

“You mean it?” He heard the excited tension in his friend’s voice, and chuckled.

“I mean it, Wu. Go, Wu, GO! Go all-out and show them what Sun Wu Kung can do!”

Wu laughed aloud with delight, and there was suddenly a murmur, a rumble, a roar from the crowd, an outcry of stunned disbelief as the Hyperion Monkey King tore his way across the remaining badlands at a speed that made Tunuvun seem to be standing still. Ariane’s jaw dropped, and then she began clapping furiously, the other members of Humanity joining her.

Byto made a noise that DuQuesne was sure was something obscene, then turned his head to his cards.

But, DuQuesne noticed with concern, he still did not call for a single obstacle.

The building-maze was now visible to everyone, and Tunuvun sped through corridors, along perilous cables suspended over drops, through narrow tunnels, always at speeds to put a human runner to shame. But behind him Wu Kung burst through the entrance and ran so fast that as he turned a corner of a corridor he was running on the wall, then bounding back and forth between the walls enclosing an otherwise empty space, spurning the tightrope there as too trivially easy, satisfying the Arena’s requirements by constantly re-crossing the path of green sparks.

DuQuesne made another play, lost, saw his last stake appear in his account. I have no idea how many points Byto has now. He heard an incomprehensible mutter, saw Tunuvun stiffen and redouble his efforts, leaping from isolated pillar to pillar in yet another room; but halfway across, Wu Kung streaked into view, jumping not from one pillar to the next but clearing half a dozen pillars in a single impossible jump, then another and another, passing Tunuvun as both reached the far side of the room.

The Genasi leaned forward and, somehow, wrung another burst of speed from what had seemed to be his ultimate effort, but he was still falling behind at a ludicrous pace. Wu was ahead by a hundred meters, two hundred, four hundred, outdistancing his opponent effortlessly, closing in on the final room: a huge cylindrical room, two hundred meters across with two narrow golden paths leading to the white-sparkling finish line; twenty meters below the paths was a circular platform a hundred fifty meters across, and below that the room dropped away immeasurably.

And then he heard Byto say “Arena, I request my first stake.”

Holy Mother of God. That means he’s just —

As Wu Kung entered and began the final sprint, the golden path dissolved beneath him, sending him plummeting to the flat, silvery platform below. Even as he struck, four shapes materialized at the cardinal points of the circular floor, four shapes clad in unmistakable armor: Adjudicators.

“We have lost,” Orphan said quietly.