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Spheres Of Influence – Chapter 19

Spheres Of Influence – Chapter 19

Chapter 19.

          One Sky Gate located, DuQuesne thought in satisfaction. And if we didn’t just get lucky at the opening gun, we might have quite a few Sky Gates leading to a bunch of places.

It was true that there was some danger inherent in that, but overall it was probably a good thing; more options, more possible places to explore. As long as one of them doesn’t lead to the Molothos homeworld or something like that.

          He caught one of the elevators without anyone in it. What do you know, a few seconds of silence in the Arena. In that quiet pause, a thought suddenly struck him about the events of the afternoon, and he almost reversed the elevator. No, I’m going to get there ahead of him anyway. I’ll just make sure Wu talks to me before he tells Ariane anything. I think… there’s some strategy to play through here.

The doors opened and he jogged out, looking for one of the floating open-air taxis. But really, do I need to take one? I can walk.

Then one of the taxis went by in the middle distance, and on board…

He wasn’t even conscious of his actions; he just found himself following, having flagged down another of the transports and leaped aboard practically in a single motion. “Come on, hurry up!”

The destination was clear enough, and unsurprising: the Grand Arcade. Anyone new to the Arena would probably go here soon enough. And she hasn’t had a chance to get on her own since she arrived.

His target still hadn’t noticed him, and it was almost impossible to miss her even in the alien crowd with that spectacular head of hair. He came up behind her as she was glancing over the sparkling wares of an Arena weaponsmith.

“Hello, K,” he said quietly.

She jumped a tiny bit — honest-to-God surprised her. Not often that happens. “M… Marc.”

For a moment he just looked at her, remembering how she used to look when ready for action; the straight red hair full and flowing back, down to her waist (damn, she’s grown it out), black shirt tight and smooth, pants with a multiplicity of pockets both visible and hidden for holding almost anything she might need in an emergency — from chewing gum to grenades. That much hasn’t changed, he thought, noting the military gear that she’d somehow re-styled to look … cute, but still retained pouches and bandoliers galore.

And those green eyes haven’t changed a bit. It was startlingly painful to realize that, because he’d thought a certain pair of dark-blue eyes had finally replaced them in his heart. Maybe I was just … giving up.

She hadn’t said anything either, looking back at him almost sadly. And he couldn’t bear that look.

“Why, K?”

She sighed. “As Seaton would’ve said, that’s a dilly of a question. Or a lot of questions, all rolled up into one. Right?” The redheaded woman looked around, gestured. He followed her to one of many side booths where people might sit to rest, eat something bought, or otherwise escape while in the heart of the Grand Arcade.

“Why did I come here, when I wouldn’t come when you called?” she said, picking up the thread of conversation. “Why did I come with Naraj? Why did I just hide away for fifty years? Those whys, or something else?”

He was puzzled, and — honestly — a little hurt by her phrasing. “Dammit, K! Yes, all those, and all the rest, too! I gave you space, I knew how much it hurt — but by Tarell’s own favorite stars, it hurt me too!” He tried to rein himself in. “It… hurt us all. More than some of us could bear.” He remembered the day he said goodbye, and hugged her, and watched her leave… and suddenly he didn’t want to even try holding back. “I loved you, K. I still do, I think, and the biggest why is why you didn’t think we could survive better together than we could apart and alone!” He heard his voice near to breaking, and the clinical part of him raised an eyebrow. Dr. Marc C. DuQuesne, about to lose control over a woman he hasn’t really spoken to in half a century.

Her eyes had widened, and her hand went to her mouth as though to cover up her shock. Then her face crumpled and her head dropped, and he saw two tears drop to the table in front of her, glittering diamonds that spattered and were gone. “Oh, Marc,” she said, and her voice trembled. “Oh, Marc, I’m sorry. I really, really am. I… loved you too. But…”

“But? What possible but could there be, K?” Now that he’d opened the floodgates he couldn’t stop himself. He needed the answers he’d denied himself all those years ago.

“But…” She hesitated again. “Oh, darn, darn, darn…” she dropped her head into her hands and gave a huge, heaving sigh, then straightened and looked directly into his eyes with the air of someone preparing to face an execution. “But… I’m not really K.”

He abruptly realized he must have been sitting, staring at her like a gaping fish for nearly a minute. “Uh… you’re what? Of course you’re K!”

“No, I’m not. Really, DuQuesne. It’s…” She suddenly looked more like a young girl than a woman, lost, confused, upset. “Darn. It all goes back to Hyperion… like everything else…”

*****

          Oasis looked down at the body, panting, holding the broken butt of her AX-12mm tensely.

But after a few moments it became clear that the dark-haired man in the formerly impeccably-tailored suit would never move again. I didn’t want to kill him! I wanted to help him!

But — like so many of the victims of this place — the sudden breakdown of the simulations had either driven him insane or fit somehow too well with whatever world he thought he lived in. He’d been certain this was some trick by an enemy — she hadn’t quite caught the name, Bluefield maybe, or Specter — and that she was an agent of the other side. And maybe a part of him knew things were much, much worse than he imagined, because he had grown increasingly irrational and paranoid when she tried to reason with him.

And he almost killed me anyway — him with just bare hands, me with my armor, my combat knife, my sidearms, my rifle. She was shaking, and so was Hyperion Station around her. Almost my entire kit’s wrecked. No comm working, no relays… don’t dare try to tie into this place’s automation…

She forced herself upright, feeling the grating of a rib, and she was pretty sure her collarbone was cracked. Maybe internal injuries, too, but I think my medical nanos are on it. No shock. Got to get out of here.

Hyperion Station was huge. When you travelled hundreds of millions of miles in patrol, ten or twenty miles sounded tiny, but in the chaos of its collapse she realized it was almost the size of a world, layer upon layer of secrets and dangers and mazes — some real, some illusion, all deadly.

She pitched a spent cartridge down the hall, noted the curve. Spin like that, so I need to head… this way.

Abruptly the floor tilted under her. She heard the distant moaning scream of metal and composite slowly giving way. This place isn’t going to stay together long, even if the Commander doesn’t give the bombardment order!

She still wasn’t clear on exactly what had happened, or what was happening now; but it was obvious that the internal war the Hyperion… subjects? victims? projects? had begun with their creators, and the creators and systems’ attempts to control them, was tearing the entire gigantic station apart.

A sputtering light caught her eye. A comm station. Maybe I can at least listen in on what’s happening, get an update.

She staggered to the comm station; as she did so, cables suddenly dropped from above and tightened around her. She cursed and tried to struggle, but in her current condition it was hopeless.

The figure of a man, appeared on the console, a fair-haired man in a perfect white suit… with a warm, casual smile that somehow gave her the creeps. “Good afternoon, Miss Abrams.”

“Who…”

“Of course, you are quite correct. I have failed to introduce myself.” He gave a little bow. “I am Doctor Alexander Fairchild,” he said, blue eyes practically twinkling with a good cheer that sent a chill down her spine from the incongruity of his manners with her situation. “One of the unfortunate… creations of the former masters of this station. I require your assistance to escape from here, Ensign Abrams.”

Maybe he’s just desperate. “You hardly needed to tie me up for that. Just tell me where you are and I’ll do my best to –”

He laughed. “Oh, dear. I am afraid you labor under a misapprehension, Ensign Abrams. I am as much… here as I am anywhere, if you understand me.”

Her gut knotted and felt as though doused with ice water. Shit. He’s a feral AI. A feral AI made by these people.

Still… there was no reason not to play along. “Still — I have plenty of storage in my logger unit. If you want to –”

The slight widening of the smile told her it was no use. “I suppose I cannot fault you for trying to carry out your no-doubt precise instructions for dealing with … artificial persons whose origin and intent are unknown. However, your suggestion is unacceptable. You will undoubtedly be scanned carefully and any storage media examined for additional, undesired content.” His smile broadened. “Any storage media but one, that is.”

Another mass of cable fell, shoving her against the comm unit — and the interface socket extruded, directly into her left neural port.

He wants to transfer to me? Even as the horrific idea struck her, she felt the presence of another mind, strong, cold, focused, trying to enter her own. She triggered her shielding protocols, but they were slow, and began to drop. He… he is figuring out the way through the defenses almost as if they weren’t there!

Naturally, Fairchild’s voice echoed through her head. You’re not at all stupid, nor untalented, but I was able to stay a few steps ahead of even DuQuesne, and I am very much afraid you are nowhere near him, child.

Her head felt near to splitting; she tried to scream, managed a sob. He’s… trying to … shove me out!

Suddenly there was another presence, and a voice. “Fairchild! Get the hell out of her!”

A sense of consternation and anger. “Walk along, my dear Kimberly. If you move, you may just live through this.”

Sudden movement — a sense of slashing, of darting speed and edged metal — and agony ripped through her head. But at the same time she felt the pressure on her brain fade, the other presence fleeing in fury and fear.

She opened her eyes, to see another woman looking down at her… one whose hair was her own shade of red, with green eyes not much different from her own. But there was something wrong with her vision… it was blurring…

“Damn him. If he can’t win, he has to poison the bloody well.” The newcomer was kneeling. “Oh, blast it. You’re hurt worse than I thought. And he shut down your medical nanos…”

“I… don’t want to die…” she heard herself murmur.”

“Shit.” The other woman — almost a girl, Oasis thought vaguely, maybe younger than me — looked torn.

Then her face smoothed out with firm decisiveness. “Then you won’t die. Not today.”

*****

          “So,” Oasis said quietly, “she… transferred me into the only healthy body available. Hers.”

He looked at her in dawning horror. “You mean … K is dead?”

“No, no… Not exactly. She… we’re both here, Marc. But… Oh, damn, this is so hard to do.” Now that he knew what to look for, he could hear faint shifts in cadence, in accent, in the way words were said, and abruptly it sounded much more like K. “Marc, I couldn’t let her die. She’d done everything she could, and it just wasn’t fair. So I let her take her own life back. You knew that Saul helped me fit in…”

He still couldn’t quite believe it. “I didn’t realize … he was helping one of his own soldiers, with the worst case of shellshock ever. He must have convinced her family she had some face and bodyshaping done.”

“With my help,” she said. “And… Marc, we’re not entirely separate any more, either. There’s… a gap, sort of, but we’ve been in the same brain for fifty years. I’m not the woman you knew, exactly… and she isn’t the girl she was, either.”

DuQuesne was, for once, utterly at a loss. What was there to say to this? Who was the woman in front of him — Oasis Abrams, K, or … someone new? How should he think of her?

He didn’t doubt the story. It was so utterly K’s personality that if someone had told him the situation he’d have been able to predict what she would do — save the helpless victim, no matter what it would cost her. Because she could always afford more than anyone else.

With an effort, he smiled. “Yeah, that’s you, all right, K. You could’ve had a clone made, though, given her own body back.”

She shuddered. “You know we wouldn’t do that. Would you?”

He shook his head.

“See? Anyway, Oasis’ original body was destroyed when Hyperion went up, and there was no way I’d be letting people play with my DNA.”

“No, that wouldn’t be good.” He looked up, studying the branching-leafed tree idly. “I have to say this is a lot more awkward than I thought it was going to be.”

She smiled sadly. “I’m sorry, Marc. I… probably should have found a way to tell you, but…”

“Nah, you were probably right. I don’t think I’d have been rational about it. Not sure I am now.”

Oasis touched his hand. “I don’t think any of us were rational… then.”

Just as he was about to answer, emerald light glowed from the air. “Marc, get back here now,” said Ariane, and the tone of her voice was chilled steel.

“What’s up?” he asked, unable to keep his own tension from his voice.

“Sun Wu Kung, that’s what’s up. Mandallon just told me, and he just confirmed, that he’s gotten into a fight — on the Docks.”

Klono and Noshabkeming! Only the old curses were adequate for the moment. I should have known!

Aloud he said “On my way, Captain.”

He stood, looking down at the redheaded enigma before him. “We’ll talk later?”

She did, at least, give him one of her sunny smiles, driving away a little of his confusion and gloom with the force of her personality. “We’ve got a lot of catching up to do, no matter what. Of course.”

Better than nothing, he thought. “Then I’d better get moving.”

He headed straight for the Embassy. One way or another that fight will be over soon… and the coal-raking will be happening at home.

 

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 26

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 26

 

Herr Sylwester nodded, having never said a word to the gathered writers, then turned and followed his wife. Friedrich felt his mouth quirk again. With Frau Linder for a wife, why would the man need to say anything? And from what Friedrich had heard, although he followed in his wife’s wake often, Sylwester was no rudderless ship sucked along in an undertow. One could be quiet, and still be a rock of strength.

          Friedrich turned back to his friends.

“Well?” Plavius demanded.

“Well what?”

“Aren’t you going to show us the English lyrics?”

Friedrich made a pretense of considering this suggestion, before letting his face settle into a grin. “No,” he said as he beamed at them. “You will hear them like everyone else, when she is ready to salvo them at the world.”

“Salvo?” Gronow caught at that word. “You infer that it will be a momentous occasion.”

“My friends, you have no idea. But you will remember that day, I doubt not.”

As those around him erupted in expostulations, Friedrich looked back down to his notebook, and crossed out “destruction“. He wrote in a simple word, so that the last line of the epigram now read “Compromise brings death.” He read the line again, nodded, and put the notebook back in the breast pocket of his coat.

****

          Bam!

Gotthilf walked up to the counter just as Byron fired his last shot. The action in the .45 locked back; Byron ejected the empty magazine and laid it and the empty pistol on the counter.

“Clear!” he called out to the range officer as he slid the ear protectors down to hang around his neck.

The range officer blew his whistle. Even though Byron was the only shooter in the range at the moment, the officer still yelled out, “Range is cold.” After a moment, a young man ran out to grab the target off the hook, then ran back to the side and around the range perimeter to bring it to the lieutenant.

Gotthilf looked around his partner’s arm to see the grouping. “Not bad, Byron.”

Byron laid his hand on the spread. Nothing showed outside his palm. “Yeah, eight shots in a five inch diameter at thirty feet. Not world class, maybe, but good enough for the guy’s heart and lower left lung lobe to be hamburger.” He put the target on the counter, then bent over and picked up his cartridge casings. “I almost forgot these. I’ve got almost a box worth that I need to get reloaded.”

Gotthilf winced at Byron’s description of the effect of the shots on a body. He couldn’t disagree with it, but the thought still caused his stomach to lurch a bit. He covered for that by setting his case on the counter.

Byron started feeding stubby .45 cartridges into the empty magazine. Click. Click. Click. “Whatcha got, partner?” In a matter of moments, seven cartridges into the magazine, ram it into the handle, one cartridge into the chamber, release the action, throw the safety, and shove the pistol into the holster in the back of his belt, all the while looking with interest at Gotthilf’s case.

Gotthilf flicked a particle of dust off the top of the polished wood. “Nothing you’d be interested in.”

Byron grabbed for the case. “Anything that comes in a presentation case to a firing range interests me.”

Gotthilf slapped his partner’s hands away. “All right, all right! Don’t get greedy.” He lifted the lid of the case on its hinges, and unfolded the cloth from where it covered the contents.

“Ahhhhh.” That lengthy satisfied sigh from Byron made Gotthilf chuckle. “What?”

“You sound like a tad in the kitchen when the cook is baking pies,” Gotthilf said.

Byron started to reach into the case, stopped, and looked to his partner. “May I?”

Gotthilf nodded. Byron completed his motion by pulling the pistol from its nest in the case. He held it in both hands at first, turning it this way and that to examine it in detail. “That’s nice,” he finally passed judgment. “Hockenjoss and Klott?”

“Of course,” Gotthilf affirmed. He was very happy with the H&K .32 he’d been carrying for almost a year, so when he decided to look for another pistol he naturally gravitated to that firm’s designs.

“Big bore,” Bryon commented as he hefted the pistol. “Bigger than your other pistol.” He held it out at arm’s length, sighting down the range. “A bit heavy, I think. Nice balance, though.”

“.44 calibre,” Gotthilf nodded as he took two gunpowder flasks from his coat pockets and the small box of percussion caps from its slot in the presentation case. He staggered from the slap Byron delivered to his shoulder.

“All right! It’s about time you got a man’s gun.”

“Give me that.” Gotthilf plucked the pistol from Byron’s hands, and swung out the cylinder to begin loading. “In truth, I wanted something heavier than the .32, and I also wanted more shots.”

“Wait a minute,” Byron reached out and tapped the cylinder. “Seven shots? When did they come out with this one? Your .32 only has five.”

“Uh-huh. New design.” Gotthilf was pouring powder into the cylinder chambers, tongue sticking out from between his teeth. At that moment he envied Byron the up-time .45 cartridges more than ever. He knew H&K was making some cartridge weapons, and he lusted after one of them, but the price of the ammunition was so high he just couldn’t justify it right then. Maybe in a few years. “I was in Farkas’ gun shop a few months ago, and I talked with the master gunsmith of H&K when he dropped by, told him what I wanted. They’ve been making six shot .44′s for a while. I asked for more, and he came back to me with this.”

“Hmm. Seven shots.” Byron obviously mused on that for a while as Gotthilf finished loading the cylinder. “Okay. With a percussion cap system, it will take that much longer to reload, though.”

“Maybe.” Gotthilf started loading the bullets into the chambers one at a time. “Remind me to tell you what Herr Farkas suggested when I complained about that.”

Byron stepped back when Gotthilf began placing the percussion caps on the chamber nipples. “That stuff makes me nervous, even in small doses.”

“Relax. H&K switched to the French caps, the potassium . . . potassium chlorate. It’s not nearly as sensitive.”

Gotthilf swung the cylinder into place in the gun frame, keeping it pointing down range. He reached into his vest pocket and pulled out the flat pill case he used to carry his wax ear plugs. Moments later, he was ready to shoot, and nodded to the range officer.

“Range is hot!” the officer yelled as Byron pulled his ear protectors back up.

Gotthilf waited for the range officer to give him the nod, took a two-handed grip, focused on the target through the sights, and began squeezing the trigger.

Bam!

 

Spheres Of Influence – Chapter 18

Spheres Of Influence – Chapter 18

Chapter 18.

          “Go enjoy yourself for a little bit, Wu. I’m heading back to the Embassy to give Ariane the good news.”

Part of him wanted to protest that he should probably go back, but… finally on my own in the Arena! So many things to see! So many things to do! “All right, DuQuesne! I am sure she’ll be so excited to hear Simon’s already located one Sky Gate!”

          “I’ll bet she will.” The big, dark-haired man grinned back. “Now behave yourself as much as you can, okay?”

I will! I’ll make sure I don’t cause trouble! “I promise!”.

“Good enough. See you back at the Embassy.” DuQuesne waved and then loped down the rampway, quickly disappearing in the distance.

For a few minutes, Wu just stood there at the top of the ramp to the black-sparkling gateway, watching the unending traffic in Nexus Arena. It’s like the Promenade of Heaven, or the entrance to the Celestial Emperor’s palace!

He remembered DuQuesne’s words: ” A place where a thousand races of… of demons and gods walk and speak, where there are worlds floating in the clouds, where you can fly up to touch the suns or sail a ship off the edge of the sea into that infinite sky”, and he laughed aloud. It’s so true! The thousand races of demons were here — the round-bodied, spidery Milluk, the claw-handed Molothos, the moving-tree with its singing spirit-aides that was a Rodeskri, toad-faced Daalasan, three creatures with tri-horned heads that Ariane had called Dujuin, and so many more; he’d seen ships and a distant world drifting in the endless sky through the giant window-room DuQuesne had stopped off in on their way to Humanity’s Sphere; and he’d seen the blazing Luminaire and knew that he only had to fly up and he could touch the sun of the world. Though that would probably hurt!

“Greetings to you, Sun Wu Kung,” a deep, resonant voice said from near his elbow.

He whirled, staff coming up reflexively. I didn’t sense it approaching me! That’s –

The tall figure was dressed in black robes, only a hint of shape, a glint of eyes, showing within the cowl. “Oh, that explains it. You are that wizard that Ariane beat, one of those Shadeweavers.”

A chuckle rolled from under the shadowed hood. “I am Amas-Garao, yes. You are an interesting newcomer. An associate, perhaps a former comrade, of DuQuesne’s, I perceive.”

“We’ve been friends for a long time.” He looked suspiciously at the cloaked figure. “What do you want?”

“At the moment? I merely wished to speak with you, to see you closely. I had observed a few… intriguing aspects of your nature upon your arrival, and speaking with you has afforded me more opportunity to evaluate you.”

Gives me a chance to evaluate you, too, Wu thought. There was a power about this one, definitely. He wasn’t something you went after casually. And he had the smell of a warrior, someone accustomed to fighting, not one who would retreat from combat. Still, he stood at a short distance, the way of a sorcerer whose battles were fought with spell and fear, not hand and claw. Not far enough to make a difference for me, but maybe he’s not used to people like me. “Well, I hope you see something interesting. I’m just looking at all the people here.”

“It is, in truth, a magnificent and always changing sight,” the Shadeweaver said. “I have spent many hours here, watching the interplay of species and the formation of alliances even in the shadow of the Gates.”

Wu Kung nodded, thinking. “You want me to do something, I guess,” he said at last. “Ariane said you’re always trying to get people to do what you want without telling them somehow.”

Another laugh. “Your Captain is an interesting being indeed. And what do you believe I wish you to do?”

Wu laughed and spun the staff between his fingers. “Oh, I don’t know. Your kind’s always hard to figure out, with plans that twist in on themselves like a badly tied knot. It doesn’t matter — either I will do what you expect or I won’t, but either way it will be what I wanted to do.” He gathered himself and bounded down the stairs. “Bye!”

The Shadeweaver didn’t follow; when he glanced back there was nothing but a quickly-fading mist where Amas-Garao had been. Maybe I’ll go to the Grand Arcade now!

It was easy to get one of the elevators down, and then to head off in the direction of the Arcade. As he was half-walking, half-dancing his way through the crowds, something caught his attention, a small lone figure — even shorter than he was — followed by a much larger group of assorted creatures who seemed to be speaking at him.

The movement … the way the little figure kept walking, straight, tail rippling behind, just a hair too stiff… it was familiar. That… I remember that…

He remembered.

“Monkey!” they called, and laughed at him. Some did not laugh, but looked down, faces filled with contempt and disdain, and sometimes with fear. He was in Heaven but they did not want him there, with his sense of fun and energy; they drove him out and so he played a prank on them, and they did not laugh; only Wu Kung laughed, he and his monkey friends, when he could visit them. So the others, the spirits and gods and functionaries of the Heavens mocked him behind his back, even as they asked him for his strength, and when he retaliated they grew even more angry.

And in the end their anger made even Buddha turn his back and he was sealed away for so long that nearly he forgot everything except bitterness, joy fading in darkness… until the stone cracked and an innocent face looked up at him, a face that held no malice or envy or hatred, a face of such purity so that he could not strike her.

Sun Wu Kung looked again, and saw them still following the little figure; young, or perhaps not as young as they looked, but though they were a half-dozen different species somehow he knew the expressions. Without even thinking of it, he strode towards the tiny white-and-purple figure walking towards the Powerbrokers’ area. As he approached he could hear fragments of words, and most often repeated was the word “Sphereless”.

That doesn’t sound nice at all! Though… Spheres mean something else here. But what does it mean, then?

He turned and began walking stride for stride next to the little figure, which was also armored in some enameled white and bronze material. He smells… very angry, barely leashed. “Hi! I’m Sun Wu Kung! Who are you?”

A scent of startlement. The small creature looked up. “You do not know who I am?”

“No… wait.” He walks like a real fighter. A warrior. Wasn’t that in the briefing? “… are you Tunuvun?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, wow!” This person was a real fighter then! “I saw your race-battle with Sivvis — not in person, because I wasn’t here in the Arena then, but I watched it! You were amazing!”

Another set of insults were hurled from behind, but for the moment Tunuvun seemed more interested in Wu Kung. “Hm. You move as a warrior yourself. I thank you for the compliment.”

“Just the truth.” He glanced pointedly backwards. “So what is their problem with you?”

“Is it any business of yours?” Tunuvun demanded sharply. Almost instantly he covered his face with his hands and bobbed slightly, a gesture that, with a shift in scent, Wu interpreted as an apology. “I do not intend hostility. You are of the new Faction, yes?”

“Humanity, yes.”

Tunuvun’s eyes narrowed. “Then you may, perhaps, not understand that to have no Spheres in the Arena is to be no citizen at all. We are of no account except as we may be useful to those above us. There are times I regret any of us being found by the peoples beyond the skies.”

“Why are they bothering you, though?”

Tunuvun gave a hiss. “Because they hope to force me to lose my temper. To give them Challenge, or a chance for Challenge. I — my people — have now one chance, one chance only, to Challenge and win a world of our own, to no longer be ‘Sphereless’, and I dare not lose that chance. Some of these are just … tzykiss, children of no account, wandering visitors who are amused by bothering me; but others I think are agents of my enemies, and would hope to trap me in some Challenge I cannot win.” Tunuvun gave a hiss that sounded to Wu like the Genasi warrior was spitting on the floor. “And the Arena does not permit me to do violence to them inside Nexus Arena.”

“I understand.”

Wu whirled suddenly and pointed his staff. “Why don’t you leave him alone?”

“Mind your own path!” One of the larger participants — a broad, multi-legged creature like a quadrupedal hippopotamus with an upright torso and massive arms — snapped.

“Ha! You cannot make me be quiet either, can you?” He spun about and presented them with his rump, tail whipping about, and let them have a good view, punctuated by what Wu thought was a most satisfying burst of flatulence. “You are all cowards and fools without honor.”

“Would you Challenge us over this?” another voice asked. Ha, he sounds like a schemer. The speaker was a tripedal being with three manipulative members atop a circular body.

“You are not worthy of a real Challenge,” he answered. “You taunt someone who dares not reply because he has too much to lose. Whose lickspittles are you, trying to trick a Challenge from a being who can give only one?”

“Ha, then,” said another — a Daalasan — “perhaps you seek to get us to Challenge you?”

“How about a not-Challenge challenge?” he countered.

“A… what?”

“A bet, a simple wager, no worlds in the balance, no Challenges mediated by this huge Arena, just your group against me and him; I’ll even drop my Staff, just bare hands.”

“A fight?” The group of aliens, two dozen strong, looked at him with unmistakable skepticism. “There is no fighting allowed in Nexus Arena.”

He pointed past the Powerbrokers to the Docks. “But those are not in Nexus Arena… are they?”

Tunuvun had said nothing; he was just watching now, his posture uncertain.

“Clarification,” said yet another of the group, this one a low, crablike creature which must have massed five hundred pounds yet moved swiftly on multiple jointed legs. “You propose that the two of you will fight our entire group as a wager. What are the stakes, then?”

“If we win, you — and everyone associated with you — stops trying to bother Tunuvun and his people. They’ll give their Challenge soon enough. Don’t try to mess it up for them!”

“And if you lose?”

Wu realized he was now in a spot that he should never have gotten himself into. But I had to! “Then… then I’ll have to Challenge one of you of your choice, and you get to take Humanity on in whatever challenge you like to put us in.”

A murmur went through the group at the mention of Humanity. I don’t know if that’s good or bad.

“You are mad, I think,” Tunuvun said conversationally, but the tone was both respectful and surprised. “You risk all this for one you did not know?”

“I saw your fight. I know your spirit. That’s what matters.”

“All right,” the huge multilegged hippo-creature said, and there was an ugly chuckle that rippled through the crowd… a crowd that now looked even larger. They somehow called more people in! “The two of you and all of us, Dock Two. Right now?”

“Right now.”

News had already started to spread. Wu saw people moving in that direction, spectators, perhaps gamblers wagering on the outcome. As he passed through the doorway to the vast expanse of the Arena and Dock Two, a green ball of light popped up.

“Sun Wu Kung,” Ariane’s voice said sharply, “I hope to god that Mandallon had things wrong –”

“I am sorry, Captain Austin, really I am, but I’m about to be in a fight, so I will talk to you later! Bye!”

The green ball sparkled red, then vanished.

Wu gestured to Tunuvun. “Run — let us get space, or they will try to mob us right away.”

Even as the larger group poured out onto Dock Two, Tunuvun sprinted with Wu up the hundred-meter-wide Dock; workers and travellers and traders ducked out of the way, running to their ships, clearing a wide space. “I hope,” Tunuvun said dryly, “that you are as good at fighting as with speaking, Sun Wu Kung.”

He grinned savagely. “We will see.” He took his staff and put it off to one side.

The twenty-nine aliens suddenly charged forward.

Tunuvun gave a high, uluating cry and went to meet them; Wu laughed and charged as well.

He remembered DuQuesne’s emphatic orders. Must not show them everything I can do. He also remembered how good Tunuvun was. That’s it. I’ll match Tunuvun. If he’s as good as he looked…

Both of them were small — Tunuvun a meter and a half high, Wu a scant few centimeters taller — and they used that, ducking under the first wave of assailants, rolling between their legs and grasping members, coming to their feet simultaneously, as though moved by the same thoughts. A spinning whipcrack of white and purple and a Sai’Dakan tumbled limply away; Wu laughed and delivered a hurricane kick to the head of the hippoid creature that made it stagger and go to its front knees. This gave Wu a chance to vault up, bouncing from the creature’s own back above the heads of the crowd, twisting himself around and coming back down atop the crab-thing.

Hands grasped and pummelled; some of these people were not amateurs, not in the least, and they evaded Wu Kung’s blocks, caught and hammered him down to the unyielding dock with an impact that drove the air from his lungs, even as he saw Tunuvun fly past, trying to recover from some huge impact.

But he could twist around, now, fur smooth and loose and hard to hold, he was free, a knee lock on a neck here, tail grasping another there, pull hard, wham! and two more assailants collapsed to the ground.

Tunuvun had just taken the full brunt of a Daalasan’s swing; he just laughed in a high-pitched voice and shrugged the impact off. Great! He’s really strong!

Wu ignored the next strikes and punted a Milluk over the heads of the crowd; the creature almost went over the edge of the Dock before spectators caught it. The Hyperion Monkey King could hear the excited shouts, the murmured bets, see the ebb and flow of the crowd. I have to be careful, he thought, sensing a swift-moving strike. I don’t think Tunuvun could avoid that one, so I can’t, either.

The kick hit like a runaway cart and as Wu skidded over the Dock, knocking down both opponents and spectators, he realized with surprise that it had been the multi-legged hippo creature. Boy, he’s a lot faster than I thought!

Focus, got to finish this! Roll to your feet, they’re coming, the remainder are tough and more organized, maybe eighteen left standing, but they’re not getting in each others’ way now. Tripod-head and a green eel-thing coordinated, moving fast, Tunuvun’s out of the way, kick the tripod-thing’s near leg out from under him and jump out of the way, come down on eel — look out, another behind us, a Salaychen, all armor and edges, bounce off eel, land on armor, punch as hard as Tunuvun seems to, crack goes the armor and it’s in more pain than it can handle, it’s down, ow! Something hit me, got to get up –

And suddenly there was stillness, nothing moving around them, just him and Tunuvun standing and a distant clump of spectators whose shouts echoed into the vast beauty of the Arena.

Wu realized he was actually breathing faster. Still… not all recovered from my long sleep! I will have to do a lot more exercise!

Tunuvun surveyed his fallen tormentors and then turned giving a spread-armed bow to Wu. “We have seen victory today, and I thank you.”

“Hey, it was fun!” Wu said.

Tunuvun’s straightening and a baring of teeth was so clearly a smile that Wu laughed. “It was indeed fun, Sun Wu Kung, and in more ways than just the joy of combat! Perhaps you and I will one day meet in combat as well, but for now I am glad that you chose to taunt my own enemies and led them to this battlefield.”

“I look forward to another fight — with you or against you!” He looked at their fallen adversaries, who were slowly rising. “Remember our bet!”

The hippo-like being shook its head slowly. “We… will not forget. The Genasi shall be left unmolested until they complete their single Challenge.”

Sun Wu Kung gave a leap of triumph.

And then the green ball reappeared. “Sun Wu Kung. Get your ass back to our Embassy right now.”

Wu winced. “I think I’m in trouble.”

 

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 25

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 25

 

Chapter 12

          Friedrich von Logau sat in Walcha’s Coffee House, doodling in his pocket notebook while his friends argued. Gathered around the table were a group of poets and writers from all over Germany, there to seek patrons and to partake of the capital city’s élan.

“Lovecraft was the greater writer,” intoned Karl Seelbach, Friedrich’s fellow Silesian. Karl then proceeded to slurp his coffee, which evoked winces all around the table.

Friedrich drew loops around his latest attempt at an epigram.

In danger and great need,

Irresolution brings destruction.

It was rough, and he wasn’t satisfied with it yet. So he listened to his friends while his mind worked under the level of the conversation.

“You’ve drunk so much coffee your head is addled,” Johann Gronow retorted. “Anyone with a wit can clearly tell that Poe’s skills were far superior to Lovecraft’s, although he didn’t write as much. Isn’t that right, Friedrich?”

Gronow’s Hamburg accent grated on Friedrich’s Silesian ear just a bit, but he ignored it. “Don’t be dragging me into your interminable verbal duels over which up-time author of old grandmother tales is superior.”

Friedrich spoke with a smile, as he was the one who had put Gronow on the trail of both authors, with the end result being the creation of Der schwartzer Kater – Eine Zeitschrift. Or Black Tomcat Magazine, as the up-timers more succinctly called it. Gronow was the publisher/editor of the two issues it had done so far, and his oft-spoken mission was to further the development of the art of macabre story-telling in German. Friedrich had it on good authority that Johann had written all of the first issue and most of the second issue except for the translations of two Poe stories.

His mind raised a thought at that moment, and he crossed out “Irresolution” and replaced it with “Compromise.” He surveyed the result. Better, but still not quite right, somehow.

A sudden silence at the table caused Friedrich to look up. His friends were all looking behind him. “I wonder what she wants?” Johannes Plavius said. Friedrich turned in his chair and draped an arm across its back.

He knew who the woman was that approached with her husband shadowing her as he usually did. No one could move in the middle or upper circles of Magdeburg and not know — or at least know of — Marla Linder. Depending on one’s beliefs about music, she was either famous or notorious, but she was never ignored. All agreed that her voice was spectacular.

Walcha’s Coffee House was not one of her usual haunts. Friedrich watched her walk toward their table. Tall, with long black hair pulled back into a “pony-tail,” as up-timers called that odd hairstyle, she walked with assurance, as if she was so certain of herself and her place that she had no doubt of what she was doing. Which she probably didn’t, he thought before he echoed Plavius’ thoughts. “I wonder what she wants with us?”

“I believe we are about to find out,” Plavius muttered.

Frau Linder came to a halt just beyond Friedrich’s reach. “Good afternoon, meine Herren.” Her Amideutsch had the unmistakable flavor of the Grantville up-timers, for all that her pronunciation was impeccable. Something about the tonal quality of the voice, he mused.

Greetings rumbled from most of the circle at the table. Friedrich contented himself with a nod of the head.

“I’m looking for Friedrich von Logau.”

Although Friedrich did not react, he felt the gazes of his friends fix on him, and one of them must have pointed, for Frau Linder’s eyes settled on him. A feeling not unlike staring at the muzzle of a loaded gun entered his mind.

“Herr Logau, I am Marla Linder, and this is my husband, Franz Sylwester.” Herr Sylwester nodded his head in turn.

“I know who you are, Frau Linder. How could I not?” He felt the corner of his mouth quirk upward.

That seemed to fluster her for a moment, but she clasped her hands around the tube of paper she carried and settled. “I — we — have need of a poet. You have been highly recommended to us. Herr Adalbert, the editor at The Times-Journal, told us we might find you here.”

“You have need of a poet.” Friedrich made it a statement, not a question, and his voice was very dry.

“Yes. I have a song lyric written in up-time English that I need translated into German.”

“A . . . song.” Friedrich had trouble believing what he was hearing. He frowned. “You want me to translate?”

Frau Linder started to nod, then shook her head, which made for a very odd motion.

“Not just translate. I don’t want a word for word literal translation. I need a German’s poet’s translations of the . . . the thoughts behind the English words. I need you to make the German lyrics sing like the English ones do.”

“Ah.” That was different. That, he could understand.

Friedrich had done some translating in his time. Most poets and men of letters did at one time or another in their careers. Translating words was usually easy. Translating the thought was always the challenge.

He held out his hand. “Let me see it.”

Frau Linder placed the paper cylinder in his hand. He unrolled it, and started scanning the text. Midway through, he stopped, went back to the beginning, and read through again slowly, letting each word register in his mind.

He looked up at the woman. “I will not insult you by asking if you know what you are asking. But do you realize the kind of storm this could raise? Especially now?”

Frau Linder returned a grin that reminded him of nothing more than a feral cat showing its fangs. “Oh, I intend for it to do that,” she breathed. “Exactly that.” Her tone was not loud, but every man at the table heard it, and Friedrich felt the hair on his neck rise.

Friedrich looked at the short length of lines on the page. He read through them again, then folded the paper and put it in his inside coat pocket.

“Where can I reach you?”

“Messages can reach me at The Duchess Elisabeth Sofie Secondary School for Girls, at the Royal Academy of Music, or at our home.” Herr Sylwester handed his wife a card, which she in turn handed to Friedrich. He looked at the address, then tucked that card into the same pocket.

“Give me a week.”

“Sooner would be better, but if it takes a week, and it’s good, so be it.”

Herr Sylwester leaned forward and whispered in Frau Linder’s ear. She nodded in response, then returned her focus to Friedrich. “How much?”

Friedrich was tempted to play word games with the woman, but in the end decided not to. “Nothing. I will do this just for the pleasure of being a part of it.”

He was surprised when Frau Linder didn’t remonstrate with him. She simply took him at his word, and nodded. “Within the week, then. Good day to you, Herr Logau, meine Herren.”

 

Spheres Of Influence – Chapter 17

Spheres Of Influence – Chapter 17

Chapter 17.

          “May the Minds show favor on this meeting,” Sethrik said formally, as he seated himself before the conference table in one of the split-back seats designed for his species. “It is a pleasure to meet more of your people, Captain Austin.”

          “It is a pleasure to meet with you as well, Sethrik of the Blessed,” Oscar Naraj said, and Michelle Ni Deng echoed the sentiment. Oasis Abrams was not present; the two diplomats had given her leave to spend a day out on her own, and the energetic redhead had instantly disappeared out the door.

Sethrik turned, to indicate one of his companions; this Blessed’s exoskeleton had a distinctive pattern, dark green for the crests and lighter green for the face. “I present to you Vantak, currently my second in command.”

Vantak performed the pushup-bow which was one of the few things shared between the Blessed and the Liberated. “I greet you, newcomers to the Arena. I hope the meeting in peace will become one of many.”

Ariane remembered Vantak without much warmth — her clearest memory of the other Blessed was of him assisting in the humiliation of Gabrielle to sucker her into the challenge of Amas-Garao — but to be fair, he had simply been following his own Faction’s directives. “Our hope as well.”

“It is in fact that very subject which caused me to have Captain Austin invite you here, Leader Sethrik,” Naraj said warmly. “I find it very gratifying and hopeful that you accepted so quickly.”

Sethrik glanced at him, and then back to Ariane. “Clarify, please, what this newcomer’s status is?”

“Ambassador Naraj and Deputy Ambassador Ni Deng are emissaries from the governing body of our solar system. They have been sent to assist us in establishing better relations with the various Factions, among other things.”

“Ah.” Sethrik gave a slightly deeper pushup-bow. “It is more of an honor, then. I greet you in the name of the Minds, Ambassadors.” He looked to Ariane. “Have they… your authority, Captain?”

“If you mean, have I ceded the leadership of our Faction to them, no. Decisions of any import will still have to be cleared through me in the end. However, they are certainly empowered to discuss many things and may arrive at tentative arrangements pending my final approval.” Ariane had given a lot of thought to the situation in the last few days, and the fact was that she had to concede some level of power to the Ambassador, give him some amount of authority, or his reports would — rightly — lead inevitably to the conclusion that Ariane was a potential tin-pot dictator trying to keep all power to herself.

Still, in a sense that conclusion would be entirely correct; Ariane had no intention of giving away Humanity’s current advantage just for the sake of making things more comfortable back home. Thus she retained full authority over any final agreements. If this worked well, she’d have extended her negotiating reach via proxies who understood negotiation better than she did, while not losing the basic power of decision.

Sethrik’s wingcases relaxed fractionally. “Ah, very wise. I would advise against any sudden changes in leadership.” He addressed himself to Oscar and Michelle. “Captain Ariane Austin is an extremely formidable person, and the Arena and its Factions hold great respect for her. Delegation of authority from her shows great trust — and puts a grave burden upon you all to honor her properly.”

Naraj nodded. “I have been learning of this since my arrival, Leader Sethrik. Our initial impressions at home had … failed to grasp the entirety of the situation, but I am coming to understand the magnitude of the… challenges before us.”

“Good. What was it you wished to discuss?”

“First — do you require any refreshment?” the Ambassador inquired, and made sure that appropriate materials were provided; Sethrik took a drinking sphere such as Orphan often favored, while Vantak sucked or nibbled on a sticklike confection which Ariane thought was his equivalent of potato chips or similar snack foods. “Excellent. Now, from what I have heard of you, Leader Sethrik –”

“No need of the honorific. You may call me Sethrik, if I may address you by one of your names.”

“But of course, Sethrik. Call me Oscar or Naraj, as you would.” Oscar did an excellent bob-bow, showing he had studied the movement and probably practiced it multiple times. “As I was saying, from what I have heard you would appreciate directness, so I shall try to be as direct as possible.

“You must of course be aware that we have already managed to offend the Molothos sufficiently that we are at war with their faction.”

A whistling sound overlaid with a chuckle showed the Blessed Leader’s amusement. “Easily accomplished.”

“So I have learned. But I am also aware that Humanity has — sometimes inadvertently — offended the Blessed To Serve, and I would like to present apologies for any such offenses, and hope that we can move forward to a common ground and perhaps partnership.” The Ambassador smiled. “After all, we are a new, and small, faction and could use all the friends we can get.”

Sethrik leaned back, then bowed. “Your apology is accepted. As Leader of the Blessed to Serve, I in fact declare that any prior offenses are forgiven — if our own are forgiven as well.”

Sethrik was, of course, referring to that setup which had not only injured Gabrielle but nearly gotten Ariane killed, and which had not reflected well on the Blessed. Oscar looked at her with a raised eyebrow. Ariane smiled. “We spoke at a certain party afterwards, but I suppose it was not a formal forgiveness. So yes, Sethrik, any offense both personal and Factional is forgiven.”

“Excellent,” Sethrik said, and she thought there was a note of genuine gratification in his voice. “Your approach, Oscar, is well-timed. For you should know that the Minds themselves, upon reviewing our encounters with Humanity, directed that we seek to lay aside even the natural opposition due to your alliance with the Liberated, and instead try to convince Humanity that the Blessed are worthy allies.”

That was something of a surprise. The super-AIs which ran the entire civilization of the Blessed were one of the more frightening things they had yet learned about, especially from the point of view of a humanity which had yet to give AIs the full rights of living people. I wonder what they’ve seen in those interactions that makes them willing to even ignore the fact that we’re obviously pretty much committed to our alliance with Orphan and the Liberated, their archenemy?

She made a mental note to go over this with DuQuesne at first opportunity. And maybe Orphan himself, too. Aloud, she said, “That’s wonderful news, Sethrik.”

“I am glad you accept this news in the spirit it is given, Captain Austin –”

“You can call me Ariane, if you’d rather.”

Sethrik laughed. “Indeed. Then I am glad, Ariane. And in that spirit, Ambassadors, I would encourage negotiations of trade and knowledge. As any agreements will of course be subject to the ratification of the Leader of each faction, allow me to suggest that such negotiations be carried out by you with Vantak, who — while not given precisely the same title — holds a position of power very similar to your own.” He turned to Ariane. “I have a few things to discuss which are, however, only the business of the Leaders.”

Oscar stood immediately. “Then — if it is agreeable to you, Vantak — I would continue our discussions outside, perhaps while travelling about the Grand Arcade. I must confess,” he said with a more open smile than his usual controlled expressions, “I am still enjoying the spectacle of Nexus Arena enough that I prefer being outside of the Embassy.” Left unsaid was the fact that Ariane would not leave the Embassy without Wu Kung.

“I have no objection, Ambassador,” Vantak said, sounding slightly nervous — second in command suddenly stuck with what could be a delicate duty, I’ll bet — but not reluctant.

After the other three had left, Sethrik vented air with a whistle that was overlaid with a sigh of relief — exactly in time with her own sigh.

The two looked at each other and burst out laughing. “What the heck have you got to be nervous about, Sethrik?”

Even though his face was virtually immobile, something in his posture, the way he leaned forward, gave her the impression of someone grinning. “Captain… that is, Ariane Austin… I was not exaggerating about the Minds’ directives. While I believed you held no grudge directly, you are of course still allied with Orphan and the Liberated, and we had performed a … quite offensive set of actions in order to entrap you at Amas-Garao’s direction.” He looked towards the door. “And I suspect you have had additional pressures since last we talked.”

He is very good. “You guessed, did you?”

The same assenting handtap that Orphan also used was the reply. “Your people were… an interesting assortment. But not one of you intended for a first contact of any type. Yours, then, was not a vehicle intended for long travel, but a single jump, a test of a drive system and a return. Common enough in history, but it meant that if your people had leaders that — almost certainly — none of them were represented in your little group. While the Blessed have… a rather unique position in that sense, we are of course not at all unable to understand what might follow in that situation.”

“So we’ll talk as Leaders, and you’ve shuffled my problems off onto your second in command.”

“I see you understand perfectly!”

She laughed again, then grew serious. “What did you want to talk about with me?”

“I am unsure as to how much you know about a particular… individual who has recently arrived –”

“Maria-Susanna?”

“Yes.”

“I know a fair bit about her — in some ways much more than you, I’m sure — but we don’t have much information as to what she is up to right now.”

Sethrik paused, obviously considering what to tell her — information being, naturally, the greatest source of value in the Arena. “Well, I can tell you how she has been living thus far. She is… shopping, I suppose you might say… for an appropriate faction. This allows her to go in and out of various Faction Houses or Embassies and avail herself of various conveniences as she does so. She has also sold some valuable items of Human workmanship and has thus sufficient vals to keep herself comfortable for, I would surmise, a considerable time.”

“Did she approach you?”

“No, she has made no overtures at all to the Blessed.”

Not surprising, thought Ariane. Product of the Hyperion Project that she was, Maria-Susanna would almost certainly have an aversion to AIs that controlled other people’s lives.

Sethrik went on, “I know for a fact she has visited at least four other Factions and possibly as many as twice that. What can you tell me about her? I am curious, as she is obviously a human being, yet is clearly operating separately from you.”

Now it was Ariane’s turn to consider what she could afford to tell — and possibly what she should tell for the sake of political advantage. “She is an extremely capable and wanted criminal in our solar system, responsible for murdering dozens of people.”

“By the Minds!” murmured Sethrik. “And you have been unable to catch her?”

“As I said, extremely capable. She is also apparently very good at giving a good impression — she’s demonstrated the ability to convince other people of almost anything, according to what I’ve been told.”

“Most disturbing.” Sethrik paused a moment, then gave a handtap of decision. “I had occasion to exchange information with the Minds just a short time before our meeting — Vantak travelled directly to the home system and back to convey the situation and their directives, in fact — and they provided their own evaluation of her behavior.

“In their opinion, this ‘Maria-Susanna’ has a specific faction already in mind; she is negotiating with other factions both as a backup and as a confusing tactic, and also to give her time in negotiations with the target faction.” He looked at her, dark eyes difficult to read in the nearly-human face. “They do not say which faction is her target, but it is clear that she had this intent from the beginning — which, I would suspect, would strongly limit the likely targets.”

It certainly would, Ariane thought grimly. There wouldn’t be enough information to make a decision like that on anything except… the five Great Factions, the Shadeweavers, the Powerbrokers, and maybe a couple of the minor factions we had gotten good info on. With the Blessed and the Liberated out of the picture, the choices are pretty narrow… and none of them would be good for us. “I thank you for this information, Sethrik.”

“You are welcome, Ariane,” he said, “And — I mean this without any trace of irony — we are extremely familiar with the potential damage a single renegade can eventually produce. I hope that this will not be the case for you.”

He’s talking about the Liberated… and yeah, something like that would be a disaster. “So do I, Sethrik. So do I.”

Abruptly a green sphere of light shimmered into existence above the table. “Ariane Austin of Humanity!”

The voice was Mandallon’s, the young Initiate Guide. His tone was tense.

“What is it, Mandallon?”

“I am unsure exactly what his purpose is,” Mandallon said, with a tone that sounded nearly apologetic, “but… your new member, Sun Wu Kung… I believe he has somehow gotten himself into a duel!”

 

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 24

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 24

 

Their badinage ended as they stopped before a familiar door. The sign above the door read Zopff and Sons, and through the small panes of glass set in the door they could see the printing presses the firm operated. Franz opened the door, and they stepped in, to be greeted by their friend Patroclus.

          “Franz! Marla!” He advanced with open hands, albeit somewhat ink stained.

“Don’t touch me,” Marla warned. “Last time you got that ink on me, it took me two days to get it off.”

Patroclus laughed. “All right, I will keep my hands to myself, then. But what brings you to see us? We do not have a commission from you at the moment, do we?”

“Nope,” Marla said. “Although I think the Grantville Music Trust will have the next batch of music to be printed ready before long.”

The younger of the two Zopff sons, Telemachus, came up behind his brother just as she said that. He made a face. “Music. All the fiddly little bits with the notes and stems and flags going just so. I would rather set ten pages of words, even in Roman type, than a single page of music.”

Patroclus landed a back-hand on his brother’s biceps. “That music has kept us in sausage and ale the last couple of years, and you should be thankful for it.”

Telemachus made another face and headed back to his press.

“So if you don’t have a commission for us, what is the occasion for your dropping by?” Patroclus asked.

“I need a poet,” Marla said. Patroclus raised an eyebrow, and she continued, “I have a song with English lyrics, and I need them translated into good German. But it can’t just be a literal translation; a few of the lines will need to be modified to fit the modern circumstances. That’s going to take poetic skill. So, I’m hoping you know a man we can contact.”

“Hmm.” Patroclus rubbed his chin, leaving a trace of ink behind. “A poet, who reads up-timer English, and is skilled at his art. And is in Magdeburg. I can think of several who can write doggerel, good enough for that.” He nodded at the broadsheet that Franz was still holding. “But one who is truly worthy of the name poet?” He shook his head. “My mind is empty.”

Telemachus turned around from the typesetting bench he was working at. “Logau might be able to do it.”

Patroclus looked back at his brother. “Who?”

“Friedrich von Logau. You know, the guy who wrote that epigram you like so much:

“Was bringt den Mann zum Amte?

Vermutlich seine Kunst?

Gar selten, was denn anders?

Fast immer Geiz und Gunst.”

Franz saw a hint of confusion on Marla’s face. For all that she was adept at the Amideutsch that was common around Magdeburg and Grantville, and for all that she was better than adequate at the local dialect and in the specialized language of music, poetry was another level of skill she hadn’t fully developed yet. He ran through the epigram in his head one more time, then translated it for her as:

“What brings a man into public office?

Presumably his ability?

Very seldom, so what else?

Almost always, greed and connections.”

“Hah!” Marla’s face lit up. “Okay, I don’t know kielbasa from bratwurst as far as German poetry goes, but if that’s his attitude, I think I like the man.”

“The CoC like him,” Telemachus said before he turned back to his work.

“I can see why. So where do I find him?” Marla turned back to Patroclus.

“He has been writing things for the Times-Journal.” He shrugged. “Start with them.”

****

          Ciclope and Pietro moved to the side of the road and stopped to rest their horses. Magdeburg had been in sight in the distance for some time, but Ciclope saw no reason to exhaust the animals. They were pretty worn as it was. It had been a long fast ride from Venice, and there had not been much grain available for a lot of the way. And truth to tell, neither he nor Pietro were the most accomplished riders around, although they were somewhat better now than they were when they began the ride. Now that the end was in sight, he didn’t begrudge their mounts a few moments of rest.

“So tell me again, One-Eye,” Pietro muttered, “what are we going to be doing here? And why did we come all the way from Venice to do it?”

Ciclope hardly ever thought of his birth name. For years, ever since he had lost his left eye in a desperate fight, he had gone by the Italian form of Cyclops. It piqued his sense of humor; he was a solid bulk of a man, but not inordinately large, and the thought of being compared to a giant did make him smile a bit every now and then.

“Pietro, how many times do I have to tell you . . .”

“One more time. What are we going to be doing?”

Ciclope sighed. “I don’t know. All I know is the boss got a request to send two men to Magdeburg who will not be known to the residents nor to the up-timers from Grantville, and who ‘know how to handle difficult situations.’”

“Sounds to me like somebody is trying to be clever.” Pietro spat to the off side of his horse.

“Perhaps,” Ciclope nodded. “But the boss owes a favor to the guy who sent the request, so here we are. And we don’t dare leave without doing the job.”

Pietro shuddered. “Nay. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in this land of barbarians, and if we were to go south of the Alps back to civilized country, the boss would find us.”

Ciclope reached up and adjusted his eye patch. “Sooner we get into town, meet the new boss, and get the job done, the sooner we can get back to Venice.”

“Let’s go, then.”

The two men urged their horses back into motion, and headed for the capital of the USE.

 

Spheres Of Influence – Chapter 16

Spheres Of Influence – Chapter 16

Chapter 16.

          “Are you sure this is okay, DuQuesne? I mean, I really really want to go with you, but you want me to guard Ariane, and –”

“Relax, Wu,” DuQuesne said, smiling. Already talking a mile a minute. “We all agreed you needed to be able to get out and about.”

          “Quite so,” agreed Simon absently, as they made their way along the broad corridor towards the elevator to the Outer Gateway. Low, flat tracks of shaped superconductor now lay along the entire length of that corridor, and also to the Inner Gateway, allowing magnetic levitation to be used as a support and guide for cargoes. In this case, both Simon and DuQuesne were drawing large cases along behind them.

“And Ariane’s agreed that she’s not leaving the Embassy whenever you’re gone. Anyone wants to see her, they have to go in our territory.”

Wu grimaced. “I’d still feel better if you were with her right now.”

DuQuesne shrugged. “I don’t expect direct assassination, to be honest. The Arena clamps down pretty hard on anyone who initiates violence, unless the Shadeweavers or — I’d guess — the Faith mess with that.” There was a faint sensation of acceleration as the elevator doors closed and the room shot up towards the Outer Gateway. And if the geometry of the Sphere is anything like we’ve guessed, we’re actually accelerating at a lethal pace. We’ll cover a couple thousand kilometers from down here to the top in about five seconds. Something like thirty thousand gravities — hell, that wouldn’t be too shabby even from the old Skylark‘s point of view.

Almost before he had finished thinking that, the chamber slowed and the doors opened. They were now in what Gabrielle, if he remembered right, had christened “the antechamber” to the Upper Sphere.

But things were very different from the first time. Now, the superconducting tracks continued all the way to the huge doorway, and the whole area was covered by simple automated weapons emplacements, with storage areas for needed items and materials… and tracks and marks showing how much traffic there had been over the past few months. Carl, Tom, and Steve have been busting their humps over this, that’s obvious. “Open Outer Gateway,” he said.

The great door — made of the same “coherent quark composite”, or CQC, that appeared to be the Arena’s preferred structural building material — rolled effortlessly aside, and a blaze of golden sunshine poured in, along with the warm fragrance of a living world.

“Wow!” exclaimed Wu, and bounded out before DuQuesne could stop him. His voice came immediately from outside. “It’s beautiful! And there’s a waterfall over there — and look, something’s flying way, way over there, like a bird, but not quite!”

The tracks cut back from the Gateway and headed up the ridge from which the Gateway projected. “Ah. This road must lead up to the river, just above the falls.”

“So I am given to understand,” Simon said. DuQuesne noticed that he was not spending much time looking around — which was not characteristic of the usually highly attentive and aware scientist. Simon drew ahead of DuQuesne, because DuQuesne had to wait and catch Wu’s attention. “This way, Wu. Yes, this way! We’ll go over and look at the jungle in a minute, just hold your horses!”

The Monkey King bounded back towards him, then stopped at a gesture. “What is it?”

“First, I’ve got some things we need to get straight. You heard the lecture on the Challenges, and I know you read the accounts of what we went through here. I want you to be double careful, Wu. Yes, I know, there’s probably still not much here that could beat you, but this isn’t your world, remember, and you can’t just bust heads whenever people piss you off.”

Wu looked slightly hurt. “I know that! I wouldn’t… I mean, I never just break heads because… Well, almost never… unless they’re really mean… or…”

“See, that’s exactly what I’m talking about. You’ve got to think, just like if Sanzo — or Ariane — were holding the charm to make your headband go crunch, got me?”

Wu Kung nodded, red-black hair tumbling over his face in emphasis. “I got you, DuQuesne. Think before I fight.”

“And about fighting — it’ll probably come to that, sooner or later. But I want you to hold it down, hold way back unless you’ve got no choice (like, for instance, Ariane’s life is in the balance).” He glanced, saw that Simon was still moving along towards the crest of the hill, grinned at Wu. “These people still don’t really know what we can do, you see… and I don’t think that even the best of them can match us.”

“I thought you said that you were beaten by this wizard, this Amas-Garao.”

“Well…” DuQuesne shrugged. “He’s a tough customer, no doubt about it, and he can cheat in a way no one but another Shadeweaver can. But truth? Wu, I spent fifty years shutting myself down, and even with active resistance clothing to keep me sort of in shape and a few other tricks, I just wasn’t anywhere near up to top form. I’d been … awake, I guess you’d call it, for only a few weeks when that happened, and to be honest? I think I was fighting at best at about eighty percent. Which means that they don’t know what I can really do when I’m pushed, and they sure as hell haven’t a clue as to what to expect from you.

“So remember, we need diplomacy and sneakiness here. I don’t want them getting any idea just how much tougher and faster you are than me. Except — just a little bit — Orphan, because I think he’s guessed it and we did imply we’d show him. Even then, though, I want you to baffle those jets way down.”

Wu grinned, showing his fangs. “Until there’s no choice — and then I have surprises!”

“Exactly.”

Wu looked more serious, and DuQuesne followed his gaze. “He’s … not happy, exactly,” Wu said.

Yeah, I knew it. “How do you mean?” he asked aloud.

“He smells… nervous. Upset. Confused,” Wu said after a moment. “Not about what he’s doing now — he’s pretty sure about that. But something else — maybe related to it, maybe not — that’s bothering him.”

Wu’s senses were always the best. “Noticed it myself. But he hasn’t decided to talk about it, and I’m not quite ready to force him to talk.”

Cresting the hill, they could see the broad, swift-flowing river flashing in the light as it ran from the mountains which lay to the east (figuring apparent sunrise as “east” and sunset as “west”) and then plunged straight down thousands of feet. The rumble-roar of the shimmering cataract was clearly audible.

Just before the river plunged into air, there were new, rough-looking structures, erected on each side. Our first native generators; thank the Gods for people like Tom and Steve and Carl. Together they got this stuff going with nothing but one AIWish unit and a lot of personal sweat. And not a minute too soon — we’re going to be getting new potential colonists any day, maybe any minute now.

Simon looked around. “This should be as good a place as any. Marc –”

“On it.” He unslung his own pack and started setting up the control relay set. Have to hope it works.. “Wu, hold on, would you? Once I’m sure this is all working I’ll show you some of the sights.” Damn but I’d forgotten how it’s like babysitting a toddler sometimes. I don’t suppose I should really worry right now; there’s not much he can hurt wandering around here, and there’s sure as hell not much here that could hurt him.

Still, he wanted to make sure he kept an eye on Sun Wu Kung; getting into trouble seemed to be his tradition.

“Seems like a beautiful day for this,” Simon said, sounding more relaxed than he had been. “Hardly a breath of wind.” He squinted into the distance. “I see some clouds off to the horizon, but nothing worrisome.”

DuQuesne glanced upward. He suspected that what he saw was somewhat different than what Simon saw; to DuQuesne, the alien shadows behind the deceptively-normal blue sky were clear and ominous, the echoes of a universe that violated every law DuQuesne had thought he understood. But I’ve figured out tougher puzzles in stranger worlds, he thought wryly. Even if the worlds were simulated, I didn’t know it at the time.

“What are you doing?” Wu asked, having bounded back nearby. “I mean, I know you’re looking for these Sky Gates, but how?”

“Well, that’s… fairly simple and complicated at the same time,” Simon said, smiling. “The simple explanation… we need to search a large portion of the sky over our Sphere to find the Gates. I’ve…” DuQuesne caught the slight hesitation, “made some quite sensitive instruments that should be able to detect a Gate if they get within a reasonable distance of one. The problem is that the Gates are … well, out of our gravity well, so to speak. Just above the region where gravity ends, much as I hate to use such a term.”

“Accurate here, though. Border’s just about as sharp as a knife from everything we’ve seen; goes from no gravity to full in maybe a few meters.”

“But that’s a really long way up, isn’t it?” Wu asked. “I mean, way higher than even the Mountains of Heaven!”

Simon’s smile returned at that. “Yes, much higher.” He glanced at DuQuesne. “Is he exaggerating himself for me?”

Wu snorted and looked slightly embarrassed. “There’s your answer. Look, Wu, I know your personality. You don’t have to go making yourself look stupider than you are around Simon. Or me, or Ariane, for that matter. Other people, yeah, but the core group — the eight originals? Be yourself, but no less than yourself.”

“All right! You’ve caught my tail fairly.” He bowed apologetically to Simon. “So, that’s a long way up — thousands of kilometers, yes?”

“About twenty thousand above the Upper Sphere, and extending about five to ten thousand kilometers to the sides of our Sphere, yes.”

Wu thought. “You came here with DuQuesne before, a couple of days ago, while I was out with the Captain, right? So you started it… hmm… Ha! Balloons!”

Simon laughed. “Not a bad idea, but I’m afraid too slow. At any reasonable ascent rate a balloon would take on the order of a month to get there, and we have something of a time pressure involving our friends the Molothos. But your general concept is right. DuQuesne and I sent the instruments up in what amount to heated-air ramjet drones manufactured by Tom according to my specifications. They used the majority of the energy in their coils climbing, but in the weightless environment above they should be able to recharge from the sunlight provided by the so-called ‘luminaire’ above our Sphere, and they won’t need nearly so much power to maneuver.”

Wu squinted up. “So that is not really a sun at all?”

“Nope,” DuQuesne said. “It still isn’t small, of course — not in any way. We’re pretty sure it’s at an altitude just a little ways outside of the gravity area, which would make it about a hundred, hundred and ten kilometers wide.” He remembered the lighting shifts and grinned. “The Arena also does some kind of lighting tricks with it so that you get sunsets and night pretty much like at home… though you’ll be seeing something other than stars in the night sky.”

“Hm. You know, I hadn’t thought about that, Marc,” Simon said, “but that’s yet another of those subtle but impossible effects we keep coming across. In an atmosphere that extends so far, the light should be more diffuse, and there should be no true night.” He shrugged. “Now, if we could finish getting set up…?”

A few minutes sufficed to get all the equipment assembled — and pitch a tent nearby. “You’re sure about this, Simon?”

“It’s almost like camping in the backyard, Marc. Someone’s coming up here at least once a day, and as I understand it the first group of newcomers will be arriving tomorrow or the day after. I’ll be fine.”

“So your probe-things are already up there in the sky?”

“They should be, Wu. We’ll find out if they all made it and if they’re all ready in a moment.”

“How many did you make?”

Simon bent over the console and pulled out a hardwired interface connection, locked it into the connector port at the base of his skull. The system went live; while DuQuesne could see displays on the field controls, he knew Simon would now be seeing much more. “Fifteen units — as many as Tom could manage in two days with the materials input we could scavenge from Holy Grail.” A pause. “I am getting operational responses from twelve; number six probe is at altitude but the instrument package is showing no operation, and two others are simply not responding.”

“Is that enough?”

“Oh, I think so. Lined up side by side, I’m confident they can each cover a hundred-kilometer radius, so together they cover the equivalent of twenty-four hundred kilometers of the projected area in a sweep. A few weeks, perhaps a month or two at the outside, should give us contact with most if not all of our Gates.”

“How about knowing where they go?” Wu Kung asked sensibly. “It will be fine to have many doors in the sky, but you would like to know what waits on the other side.”

“Oh, most certainly. Tom is making some additional probes for that; once we locate the gates, two-stage probes will be sent up. The second stage will enter the gates, and each will have enough energy for a double jump at such a small size. They will jump, take readings for a few seconds, and jump back, relaying the data back here.”

“You’re going to check all of them?” DuQuesne asked.

Simon seesawed his hand. “Maybe, maybe not. The goal, after all, is to find out if we have a Gateway to Nexus Arena. So I will send probes through until either I have found Nexus Arena on the other side, or I have run out of Gates to check. I would prefer not to send probes through the others if I could avoid it, as we have no idea what might be on the other side — including a hostile Molothos colony.” He tapped controls on the console before him. “That may seem improbable in the extreme… but I think we can all agree that the improbable has become the commonplace for us here.”

“Amen; I read you to nine decimals on that. Find Nexus Arena and then stop until we have ourselves set up, courtesy of Orphan.” He saw Wu starting to follow the river. “Okay. You set for now?”

“Marc, go,” the white-haired scientist said with an honest grin. “I may look like an academic, but I am not entirely unable to survive outside of the laboratory for a few moments. It will be a novelty, at least for a while, and if I find it wearing the elevator is, what, fifteen minutes’ hike away.”

DuQuesne chuckled. He does have something bothering him, but this isn’t the time to push. “Okay, then, I’m off. Let us know as soon as you find something.”

“I assure you, I will sprint home with that news.”

By the time DuQuesne caught up with Wu Kung, the Monkey was hanging over the side of the waterfall. “Wow! This is almost as far as Seven Devils’ Torrent!”

He thought back and managed to remember that part of Wu’s own world in Hyperion. “Yeah, just about. Seven Devils would’ve been maybe thirty meters higher.”

“It’s really beautiful. The color of those plants is so bright — and different!” Wu let go, slid down the sheer cliff face so quickly that DuQuesne found himself frozen, reaching out for a figure that had already dropped far out of reach. Clawed hands contracted, dug indestructible claws in, found purchase in stone. The Hyperion Monkey King now dangled by one hand from the cliff-face, sniffing at a flower that grew from a blue-green clump of leaves in the middle of an otherwise barren span of rock. He sneezed. “Spicy! I’ll bet you could use that as a flavor.”

“We’ve barely begun categorizing stuff here, Wu.” Not that warning him would do any good, but he had to try. “So anything could be poisonous or –”

“Worry worry worry, you haven’t changed, DuQuesne! I will know if these are dangerous!”

Utterly hopeless. Why am I even trying?

As he watched Wu Kung swing himself back up to the top of the cliff and then start running precariously along it, back the way they’d come, he answered himself with a smile. Because he’s one of the few good things from my old life, and I want those things safe.

“Ah! There’s that path down!”

Naturally, Sun Wu Kung didn’t actually run back to the beginning of the path; he just dropped down twenty or so meters to the place where he’d noticed the path on the cliff-face.

DuQuesne swore good-naturedly. “Hold on, Wu!” I am not letting him drag me into some show-off “follow the leader” just so he can find out how out of shape I am even now.

Wu didn’t exactly wait, but he did slow down enough so that DuQuesne nearly caught up to him before he reached the winch that led to the forest below. “Oh, wonderful!” he exclaimed, and swung himself out and over, sliding down the cable that disappeared into the forest below.

“Dammit. Sun Wu Kung, I am going to…”

An explosion of colorful, glittering wings showed that Wu had just annoyed a stagfly nest — the giant insectoid things that DuQuesne had encountered on his first trip down. They weren’t dangerous to someone in armor, and that meant that Wu probably wouldn’t even pay them much mind, but there were other creatures down there…

Oh, stop worrying. You sound like my mother, Marc! He heard Seaton’s voice, with that humorous tone that always took the edge off the corrections or remonstrations when Marc DuQuesne found he wasn’t handling the situation as diplomatically as Seaton thought he should. A whole assault force of Molothos wasn’t enough to stop you, do you think there’s anything down there he can’t handle? No.

“Actually,” he muttered to himself, “I’m more worried about the native lifeforms.”

He could manage the slide down the cable too — his hands were, naturally, much tougher than any ordinary person’s — so down he went.

As he reached the bottom, having batted the odd stagfly aside, he heard burbling screeches some distance away. The sound was familiar from a recording. Carl called them splaywolves… Pack hunters, not top predators maybe but not harmless.

He jogged up cautiously. Sure enough, Wu was standing in a small clearing, ten or fifteen creatures with the sinuous bodies of weasels or ferrets circling him, running like lizards on wide-set legs. The heads were long yet flattened, almost crocodilian in a way, but covered with a ruffled material — something like scales crossed with hair; the same material covered the entire body in a close-woven pattern of pale browns and muted blue-greens. Each of the things was six feet long and stood a foot and a half off the ground at the shoulder.

One scuttled toward Wu, leaping slightly, snapping with backward-jagged teeth. Wu dodged effortlessly and smacked the creature on its rump, evading what looked like a bladed tail. The splaywolf gave a cooing shriek and fled to a distance of ten or fifteen meters. The others echoed the sound and shifted their patrol pattern slightly.

DuQuesne checked around to make sure there weren’t any of the predators trying to sneak up on him. No, not at the moment. But they’re pretty bright; they’re trying to adjust tactics, figure out this new animal.

Then Wu dropped to all fours, spun around on his hands and feet in a similar manner, and gave vent to a burbling call of his own.

What the…?

The splaywolves froze. Then one answered, this time with a threatening call; Wu responded even more threateningly, and the largest of the group gave an unmistakable snarl, baring all its teeth, claws extending on the feet.

Wu did not move.

DuQuesne stayed where he was, unable to believe what he was seeing. It can’t be.

The large splaywolf leapt forward and Wu met it halfway, boxing its head like a punching bag. A cry of pain and shock, and the creature spun again, trying to catch Wu, but this time Sun Wu Kung bounded over its snapping, clawing attack and landed squarely on its back. The creature tried to claw and bite, but Wu shoved its head down to the ground and ignored the attacks.

A moment later the creature gave a whining sigh, and Wu immediately let it go. The splaywolf backed up, head down, whining, and Wu bobbed up and down, giving another burbling call.

Immediately the whole pack moved in and rubbed around Wu in an unmistakable greeting.

My … God.

He knew what had just happened. But… “Wu!”

“Oh! Hi, DuQuesne! Caught up as I was making some friends! They aren’t quite like the monkeys, but they aren’t completely stupid.” The splaywolves were backing up, showing their teeth as DuQuesne moved into view. Wu shook his head. “No! None of that! This is DuQuesne. He is my friend. You go, smell him, know friend!”

And as the creatures followed Wu Kung’s instructions, he had to accept what he saw. It shouldn’t be possible. But it is. What’s the Arena up to now?

 

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 23

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 23

 

Chapter 11

          Otto looked up from the document he was reading at the sound of the tap on the door frame. When he saw his father-in-law standing in the opening, he stood and moved around the desk.

          “Come in, Father Jacob, come in.” He ushered the older man to a chair. “How goes your gout today?”

“Not badly, Otto. Not badly at all.” Jacob waved a hand at the desk. “Sit, sit, my boy. What are you poring over so intently?”

“Oh, Father Christoff forwarded some documents from Fürst Ludwig that will be useful to me. He has granted me, or rather, the mayor of Greater Magdeburg, police authority over the properties of the Stift within the confines of the city.”

Jacob’s eyebrows rose. “The new city?”

“Not just the new city, but Old Magdeburg as well.”

The older man’s face adopted a grin that could only be described as evil. “That means you will have unquestionable authority over nearly half of the old city, which also removes it from the sphere of influence of the City Council. Hah! Can I tell them?”

Otto made a note to himself that one of these days he needed to find out just who on the council had offended his father-in-law, and just what they had done. Jacob was normally not a vindictive man, but this was not the first time he had indicated displeasure with the council.

“No, because the Fürst sent a copy of the documents to them as well.”

Disappointment showed on Jacob’s face, but he shrugged it off.

“Oh, well. That is still good news. But enough of that. I won’t be long, must be someplace else soon, but I needed to leave this with you.”

Otto picked up the leather folder that was pushed across the desk to him. He opened and scanned the document it contained. “Ah, you finished the opinion already.”

“Yes. It turns out that we each of us had a surprising amount of case material in our homes. Not enough to reconstruct the archives, of course, but enough to provide some useful precedents. And the review by Master Thomas Price Riddle from Grantville was useful, as well. The man has the clearest of minds and a most incisive wit. I wish his health was stronger. We of the Schöffenstuhl would be delighted if he could come to Magdeburg and spend some days with us in discussions.”

“Discussions. Hah. I know you and your cronies,” Otto smiled. “You would pick the poor man’s mind cleaner than a wishbone at a feast-day meal. You would leave him without two thoughts to keep each other company.”

Jacob smiled in turn. “Perhaps.”

Otto turned back to the document. “So your considered opinion is that the chancellor has no legal standing?”

“For all of his prominent place in the Swedish regime, and for all that the emperor may have unofficially delegated imperial tasks and responsibilities to him from time to time, Chancellor Oxenstierna has no official position, standing, or authority in the USE, neither given by Parliament nor officially assigned by Emperor Gustav. Consequently, he has no basis to act as the viceroy for the emperor or as the regent for Princess Kristina in the USE.” Jacob shrugged again. “It is very clear; he has standing in the kingdom of Sweden, but none in the USE. There is no rule or precedent that authorizes or condones his actions here.”

“So he is outside the law,” Otto stated.

“Indeed.”

****

          Franz took the broadsheet being passed out by the young woman from the Committees of Correspondence. She marched on down the street, pressing copies of the broadsheet into every hand that would take one, and a few that tried not to. Marla took the other side of it, and they looked at it together.

Marla had been surprised to find after they moved to Magdeburg that political cartoons were not a twentieth century original art form; that, in fact, political cartoons were ubiquitous in the seventeenth century. The one at the top of the broadsheet was a typical sample of the current state of the cartooning art: sketchy, somewhat awkward art combined with savage satirical writing.

“Hmmph!” Marla snorted. “I need to have Aunt Susan send this guy some of my brother’s comic books. Let him learn how to draw real cartoons.”

“I don’t know,” said Franz. “I think he did well with the horns on the chancellor.”

Chancellor Oxenstierna had been drawn as a minotaur figure with sweeping horns; an obvious reference to the inevitable puns on his name that seemed to universally come to mind to both up-timers and down-timers alike. The Ox or Der Ochse, either way it referred to a bovine, and this particular figure was dressed in a fancy doublet.

All the figures in the cartoon were labeled. Franz wasn’t sure if it was the artist or the editor that wanted to make sure that nothing was misunderstood, but it still brought a smile to his face.

“Hmm, that’s the emperor lying on the bed,” Marla puzzled out. “But who are all these people kneeling? Holy cow, this guy’s lettering is atrocious.”

“This one is ‘Free Electorate’,” Franz said, pointing to the label. “That one is ‘Freedom of Religion’, and the other one is ‘Freedom of Speech’.”

“Who’s the girl in the corner by the bed?”

Franz tilted the page, trying to get a better angle on the somewhat muddled drawing. “I think that is supposed to be Princess Kristina.”

“So what is that he’s got in his hands that he’s aiming at the freedoms?”

“Well, judging from the caption, I think it is a giant scalpel.” The caption read “Perhaps A Little Blood-letting Will Help The Emperor Regain His Senses.”

Marla looked at him. “Scalpel?”

“You know they used to bleed patients?”

“Ick!” Marla thrust the broadsheet into his hands and started down the street. “I don’t get it.”

They spent the next few minutes arguing about whether the drawing made any sense or not, walking along dodging other pedestrians, crossing streets, side-stepping wagons, carts, and the inevitable animal by-products. Wagon drivers were supposed to clean up after their horses, mules or oxen. Whether they did or not often depended on how visible a Committee of Correspondence member was.

 

Spheres Of Influence – Chapter 15

Spheres Of Influence – Chapter 15

Chapter 15.

          “Challenges,” Carl Edlund said, “are the heart of Arena political maneuvering.”

The entire group was gathered in one of Humanity’s briefing rooms. Well, DuQuesne thought to himself, everyone except Tom and Laila, who’re on the Sphere because someone’s got to stay there, and Simon, who thinks he’s close to finishing his design so he’s not letting anyone interrupt. Something else was bothering the physicist, DuQuesne could tell, but he hadn’t said anything about it and DuQuesne was reluctant to pry. Not like I never had secrets.

          Carl was giving the lecture — mostly targeted towards the newcomers — because he’d spent a lot of time while they were gone learning about the mechanisms and approaches of common Challenges.

Carl nodded at them. “Those of us who were here understand that in our gut. There is nothing more important in the Arena than someone issuing a Challenge to another faction, and you newcomers need to really get that through your heads. Almost everything of importance either gets triggered by, or settled with, a Challenge. There’s some exceptions, but not very many.”

“My general impression of these Challenges seems… rather primitive for a civilization so advanced,” Oscar said slowly. “Trial by combat as a — even, perhaps, the dominant — negotiation tool?”

Carl laughed. “Combat and physical prowess did seem to feature highly in our experiences, yes. But there are plenty of Challenges which turn out to be focused on things a lot less flashy. Admittedly, those are the type of Challenge that don’t get very many spectators unless the spectators are involved in the outcome — I’d be pretty riveted watching the equivalent of a game of chess if our homeworld was in the balance, but otherwise I don’t think I’d be much into it.

“The big, flashy Challenges serve multiple purposes, and a smart Faction understands that your Challenge performance isn’t just important for that particular Challenge — it’s important for how everyone else views you, it draws attention to your Faction, it gives you good, or bad, publicity, all sorts of things. This part should be familiar to most of us; that’s not all that different from things back home. We all know how the Interest vector’s one of the most tradable — and volatile — units of value, and how even a single spectacular event can drive interest sky-high — or drop it in the toilet, if the spectacular involved failure.”

Images materialized over the table; DuQuesne and Carl facing the Molothos, Ariane in the Skylark, Sivvis with Tunuvun dangling from one arm, and Amas-Garao towering over a stunned Ariane. “The Challenges we saw — either by being a part of them, or watching them — in our first time here actually provide us with a good introduction.” The first image swelled. “The very first Challenge we faced actually is one of the rare ones that the Arena calls a Class Two Challenge. Class One Challenges are initiated by mutual agreement in the Arena, and are basically more-or-less formal affairs. In effect, one way or another an authorized member of a Faction says ‘I challenge you!’ and another authorized member of the Challenged faction accepts the Challenge.” He nodded to DuQuesne, who was assisting him in the presentation.

“Class Two Challenges are a whole different can of worms,” DuQuesne said. “They’re events that take place outside of Nexus Arena but that have a major impact on a Faction or Factions, and that stem from a direct conflict between the Factions in one way or another. In this case, we humans were newcomers who just happened to have the bad luck to have the Molothos land a survey and initial colonization party on our Upper Sphere. In a sense, of course, that was also bad luck for the Molothos; normally they either wouldn’t encounter any significant resistance landing on an Upper Sphere, or the Sphere would be inhabited and there’d be obvious civilized presence there.

“For a big Faction, the Molothos landing on one Sphere wouldn’t be a big deal — potential interstellar incident, yes, but nothing of great import to the Faction as a whole. But for us it was absolutely crucial we get them off our Sphere pronto. If the Molothos controlled our Upper Sphere, we’d be pretty much crippled until we managed, somehow, to get another Sphere of our own and thus access to Sky Gates and Straits that wouldn’t be watched and guarded by our enemies. So from the Arena’s point of view, that was a Challenge, and by our managing to defeat the entire invading force and prevent a direct counterstrike by Blessing of Fire, we won the Challenge. Other examples of Class Two Challenges might be an actual war, or simultaneous landings on an uninhabited Upper Sphere, things of that sort.”

“So these… impromptu external Challenges would be triggered only by events of considerable importance to the relevant Factions, then?” Oscar asked.

Carl nodded. “As far as I can tell, yes.” He grinned nastily. “That’s not the case for Class One Challenges. You can issue Challenge for an awful lot of things if you’re authorized to do so.”

“Hold on, Carl,” Ariane said. “I don’t remember authorizing people to issue Challenge, exactly, and it seemed to me that any of us were in danger of getting Challenged or inadvertently issuing one.”

“An artifact of our being a brand new faction with a tiny number of members in the Arena,” Carl said. “Basically, those who are part of the main Embassy staff are the most subject to issuing or receiving Challenge. There’s some complicated details — like how a Leader can partially reduce the exposure to Challenge while they’re away, but how that reduction can be nullified, mostly to prevent a Faction like the Molothos from basically having their Leader go home and the rest be able to act like total… jerks to everyone else with impunity.” He looked over at Oscar, Michelle, and Oasis. “That means you people are definitely in that class, and so you need to walk carefully.”

“Hm. Yes, I understand,” Oscar said slowly. “I recall the other complication — that you can refuse Challenge twice, but you must accept the third or immediately default, and defaulting is the same as losing a Challenge.”

“Right.” Ariane pointed to the racing image. “I was trying to second-guess that bit when I accepted the Challenge from what turned out to be a proxy for the Blessed To Serve. Now that turned out okay — because I figured out a way to win it at the last moment –”

“– because you’re more than half crazy,” put in Carl.

“Well, maybe.” A grin flashed out.

“And you always have to remember the key point,” Gabrielle spoke up. “Like in many old Earth dueling traditions, it’s the one being Challenged who gets to set the conditions. So the other big tactic is to try to get someone to Challenge you when you’ve got a plan on how to beat them.”

“And work through proxies is a big part of that, too.” DuQuesne found himself, like Ariane, looking at the image of Amas-Garao. “That gives you a huge advantage. The other guy doesn’t realize who he’s really Challenging, and may even think he’s trying to maneuver your proxy, rather than being played himself.”

DuQuesne looked around, suddenly grimly serious. “But before you start thinking this sounds like some fun game to play, remember this: these guys are all Big Time Operators. Even the smaller Factions, the younger species, they’ve been here for thousands of years. We’ve been lucky as hell so far and we’ve managed to pull off a couple of honest-to-God miracles, but we can’t expect that to keep going. Even the guys that seem nominally on our side, like the Analytic and the Faith, they’re playing the game ten layers deep and we can’t count on not being a pawn on their board.”

“On the positive side,” Carl said, pointing to the image of Sivvis and Tunuvun, “not all Challenges are the product of hostile takeover attitudes; for instance, the Powerbrokers’ Challenges pretty much have to be accepted, but they don’t actually care about the prize per se from winning the Challenge and so the general tradition there is that their chosen champion gets to take the prize home.”

“I found that challenge very interesting,” Oasis said seriously, pushing one of the long ponytails back out of her way. I have to get a chance to talk to her alone, but that’s going to be a problem as long as they keep her nearby as a bodyguard. She went on, “I mean, the idea that we were already able to Challenge as soon as we showed up, but this native race gets nothing? That doesn’t seem fair.”

“Sure doesn’t!” Wu agreed emphatically. “They were born here, they should have –”

DuQuesne laughed. “That’s the other thing to keep in mind. It isn’t fair, except by the rules of the Arena — and we still don’t know all those rules. Maybe nobody knows all those rules except the Arena itself. It’s not set up to be nice and even-handed to each and every person and species, it’s set up by these Voidbuilders — whoever and whatever they were — to accomplish… something. And since we don’t know what that ‘something’ is, plenty of what goes on here is going to look arbitrary, maybe even cruel, and sure as God made little green apples it’s not going to look fair.

“We don’t get to set the rules. We don’t get to change the rules. We generally won’t get to argue the rules. No one does. The Arena says how things get done, and we can either take it, or try to pick up our marbles and go home. But that won’t stop the Arena’s people from butting in on our turf eventually, so even that isn’t really an option.”

Wu Kung frowned rebelliously, and DuQuesne didn’t need to be a mind reader to know what was going on in Wu’s head. Arbitrary godlike rules chafe on the Monkey King, and I’m gonna have to sit down and try to pound sense into him real soon, before he tries to do something perfectly in character but disastrous.

“So,” Michelle Ni Deng said after a moment, “You’re basically warning us that all of us here are in the line of fire, and we need to be careful.”

“And open to opportunities,” Carl emphasized. “We want to avoid getting screwed… but we also can use the Challenges to our advantage. You can’t, in general, Challenge away your home Sphere; the closest I know of would’ve been if the Molothos had kicked our asses and taken the Upper Sphere, but even then we’d still have the Inner Sphere and Gateways.”

“I see. And the prizes of a Challenge are proportional to the resources of the participants,” Oscar said.

“Exactly. Which means that as a new, tiny faction, we can generally stand to gain a hell of a lot more than larger factions can from us.” He grinned. “And politically we’ve gained a lot from the Challenges. Yeah, okay, we’re at war with the Molothos, but –”

Oscar bowed from his seat. “– But I have conceded that, given the circumstances, there was indeed no way to avoid that outcome, based on what I now have seen of those enemies. I hope to find the Blessed at least somewhat more amenable to discussion.”

“Right. What that means is that we’ve got great publicity and public image — and recognition — right now. The shiny new coolness will wear off eventually, but not yet, and right now we’re the brand new kids on the block who managed to outfox the two scariest Factions when we first showed up, then whip the biggest bullies around as an encore. That’s the advantage of the spectacular Challenges. ”

“And — pardon me for asking you to repeat yourself,” Ni Deng said, “there is no actual limit on what the Challenged party can put forth as a Challenge?”

“Well… there are some. You can’t for instance Challenge someone to a water-breathing contest when you’re a natural water resident and they’re only an air-breather, so to speak. There has to be some reasonable way that both of you can participate in the Challenge, and the Challenge itself can’t assume proxy use by either side. Other than that… no.” Carl grinned. “And they can be all sorts of mixed-mode kinds of things. For instance, the one I was watching with Selpa a while back? That one was called ‘Racing Chance’, and it combined a sort of combat maze-race with a gambling game.”

DuQuesne raised an eyebrow. “How’d that work?”

“Pretty neat, actually. Each side had a racing individual and they ran through a mostly parallel but sometimes intersecting maze. The contestants couldn’t directly interact with each other but they could try to mess up the course for the guy behind them, and they each had to deal with combat threats along the way. Meanwhile, each side also had a couple people playing a game that was sorta like poker, and you could spend the points you won in the game to up the challenges put in front of the opposing guy’s racer.”

Ariane nodded, smiling. “That would be… pretty exciting. Strategy, luck, and combat all in one package; let your chips ride so you could put down a devastating opposition toward the end, or spend them right away so that you can’t lose them to a bad hand, things like that — plus choosing the right racer. And I’d guess they might have something to do with agreeing on the racecourse, too.”

“Probably.” Carl looked around. “That’s mostly it, I think. The thing to remember is that Challenges aren’t casual. We can’t back out of them without forfeit, and they will cost us to lose or to forfeit — but at the same time, we can gain a hell of a lot if we take and win them.” He looked seriously at the three newcomers. “We can’t keep you out of that part of the game, Oscar, Michelle, Oasis — not and let you guys do anything useful around Nexus Arena. So you may find yourselves in the position of having to decide whether to accept a Challenge — or, if someone’s clearly pushing on you, whether you need to issue one. We can’t reject them all, but we sure can’t afford to just accept them or issue them blindly… because what we do here could affect everyone.”

Oscar nodded, and so did Michelle and Oasis. “Understood, and this little session has helped make this clear to me.”

“One more thing,” Steve said. “Carl mentioned that almost everything of importance gets settled by Challenge — but that almost is important. The last maneuver that the Molothos tried on us was deliberately not a Challenge; they learned stuff about us, made some guesses, and set up a plan that was in no way directly confrontational which would — if they guessed right — deprive us of our Arena citizenship and negate the victories we’d already achieved.”

“Worse than that,” DuQuesne said. “I thought about that scenario right after you,” he pointedly indicated Steve, who gave a slightly embarrassed but proud grin, “saved our asses at the last minute, and I got cold chills. If we were deprived of our citizenship like that — we might not have been able to go back to our Sphere at all. We’d have become like the natives of Arenaspace, at least until someone else from Earth came through and re-started the whole thing. I’m not sure exactly what would have happened, but given what we already know, I’d have to guess it would’ve been worse than just being sent back to square one, at least for those of us stuck on this side.”

“So,” Wu said, “that means that there’s real Challenges, and then little challenges — that might not be so little — and we have to look out for both.”

“Exactly right, Wu. The ‘real’ Challenges may be the usual way of doing business, but as Steve and the Molothos showed, the stakes can get plenty high without being in an official face-off.”

The meeting broke up then, and people filed mostly out of the room; Ariane, along with Wu, hung back. “So… do you think they understand, Marc?”

“Oscar sure as hell does,” he answered. “Ni Deng… yeah, probably. She’s maybe not as experienced as Oscar Naraj, but she’s probably smarter. You can bet Oasis gets it — and she’ll be real careful.” He frowned to himself.

“What is it, Marc?”

He knew there were at least two levels of inquiry there… and he wasn’t ready to address the second, at least not until he got a chance to talk to Oasis privately. “I… dunno, really. We had to tell them about Challenges, they’ve got to understand how much rides on them… but that also makes them real players in the Arena now, and there’s no way to stop it.” He looked at the now-empty doorway. “I just hope I’m worried over nothing.”

 

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 22

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 22

 

Chapter 10

          Gotthilf looked up at his taller partner, and sighed. “Hey, Byron?”

“Mmm?”

“What are you looking for?”

          It was one of the little things about partnering with the lanky up-timer that occasionally irritated Gotthilf. It was bad enough that the man was two hands taller than he was, but he would often start looking over Gotthilf from that rarefied height. And trying to figure out what Byron was looking at when they were in a crowd was a pure waste of time for the shorter German.

“Not a what,” Byron responded.

That was another thing that sometimes ruffled Gotthilf’s feathers. When the mood struck him, which was often, Byron became the very personification of terseness of speech, so much so that his name could become a synonym for laconic. Having meaningful conversations with him in those moments gave new meaning to the word exercise.

Gotthilf sighed again. “All right, who?”

“Mmm?”

“Byron!”

That jarred his partner, who looked down at him. “What?”

“Not what, who. Who are you looking for?”

“Oh.” Byron grinned. “I’m trying to find old Demetrious.”

“Ah.” That explained it. They had spent most of the afternoon running down the stable of observers, informants and snitches they had developed and groomed over the last year, hoping that one of them had heard something they could use to put a crack in the silence surrounding the Delt case. So far, nothing.

Old Demetrious, though, if they could find him, just might have something for them. As Byron craned his neck and looked around the crowd in the market space, Gotthilf stood still and listened. Bit by bit he filtered out the sounds around him, until . . .

He grabbed Byron by the arm. “This way.”

Most of the crowd made way for them. As much as the two men might not like it, they were developing a reputation in the city. Several high profile murder cases, most recently including the murders of several prostitutes, had made them . . . “notorious” was the best word, Gotthilf decided. That made moments like this easier, but also made keeping a low profile more difficult than it used to be.

Gotthilf elbowed his way through a throng of folks standing in a circle near a butcher’s shop. In the center of the circle was Demetrious and his table, with another man facing him on the other side.

“Give the man back his pfennig, Demetrious,” Byron growled. Gotthilf flashed his badge, and the circle began to break up and drift away. The mark grabbed his coin off the table and bolted.

 

Demetrious was almost as lanky as Byron. It was hard to tell how tall he was, because his shoulders were bowed. His face was leathered, and creased with many wrinkles, some of them so deep Gotthilf thought they looked like knife cuts. White hair floated around his face in the chill breeze. His clothes were worn, but neat, and except for his fingerless gloves he might have been any old farmer come to town.

“Ah, lieutenant,” the old man sighed. “You surely have something better to do than come harass an honest citizen who is simply playing a game of chance.”

Gotthilf gave an admiring glance at Demetrious’ table. It was ingenious in its design, and well made in its craft. It was perhaps a cubit square, and a palm in depth, with legs that supported it well but could be folded up and away to make an easily carried parcel.

Atop the table were three wooden cups, upside down — Demetrious’ “game of chance.” Gotthilf had seen it before, and remained intrigued by it; although Byron insisted that the way Demetrious played there was precious little chance in it.

“Citizen!” Byron snorted. “You’re not a citizen until you start paying taxes.”

Demetrious nodded at the touch. “Resident, then.”

“Honest resident? Hah.” Byron was playing to the few stragglers of the crowd. Gotthilf knew how his partner worked, and from the slight smile that tugged at the corner of Demetrious’ mouth he was certain that the old man knew it as well.

“Show me your cups, then.”

The two detectives bent their heads over the table as the old man tipped the cups up one by one. “Got anything for us about the Delt murder?” Byron whispered.

“Nay.” Demetrious set the first cup down and picked up the second. “Only a breath here and there that someone very important has been dealing harshly with those who displease him.”

“Any idea who?” Gotthilf murmured. The second cup was placed and the third lifted.

“Nay.” The third cup was set down. “But you might look for a man named Hans Metzger.”

“All right,” Byron said loudly as he straightened. “Your cups are honest. But there’d better be a pea under one of those cups the next time we stop by.”

Demetrious gave a slight bow. “As you command, lieutenant.”

Gotthilf waved a two-fingered salute as they turned away. Out of the corner of his eye he could see people drifting back to the table once it was clear the detectives were leaving.

Byron muttered something. Gotthilf poked him in the arm. “If you’re going to make noise, say something intelligible.”

“I was really hoping that old gypsy would have something more solid for us.”

“Not in our cards or stars today,” Gotthilf replied as they moved through the crowd.

“Yeah. No joke. Don’t think I’ve heard of the Metzger guy.” Byron pushed his hands into his jacket pockets. “Still, I suppose we’ll have to follow up on the name, since it’s the only lead we’ve got right now.”

“True. And we will be able to tell Captain Reilly that we’re pursuing our investigations.”

“True.”

Byron fell silent, and Gotthilf followed suit. Byron hadn’t recalled the name Metzger, but it rang a bit of a bell with Gotthilf, and he worried after that thought for the better part of a block. Then it came to him.

“Metzger . . . I think he was the guy who got pulled in on that splashy drunk and disorderly arrest a few weeks ago.”

“Oh, yeah . . .” Byron nodded. “Yeah, I remember him now. Big blocky guy, right? Looked like a warehouseman?”

“That’s because he is a warehouseman.”

“Who does he work for?”

“Mmm,” Gotthilf thought for a moment. “One of the corn factors; Bünemann or Schardius, I think.”

Those two names were familiar to both men, as they had investigated the murder of Paulus Bünemann earlier in the year. Schardius turned out to have no connection with the murder, but had impressed them both as being a sharp operator. Gotthilf wouldn’t be surprised to hear that the man skated close to the edge of the law in his business.

After a few steps, Byron looked over at Gotthilf. “You don’t suppose Schardius . . .”

Apparently Byron’s thoughts were running in the same channels as Gotthilf’s. He shrugged. “We’ll find out.”

After another long silence, Gotthilf asked, “Do you really think Demetrious is a gypsy?”

Byron chuckled. “Not full blood, no. But with that Greek name and his facial features and complexion, he’s definitely not from around here. And he might be part Romanian, or Egyptian, or Armenian. Wouldn’t surprise me if he came from Istanbul, even, although he doesn’t look Turkish to me.” He laughed again. “Not that I’m an expert on Turks, mind you.”