Eric Flint's Blog, page 329

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 21

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 21

 

“Mutti and Vatti died before the soldiers came, along with my little brother Johann. The pastor came and put me in a family to foster me, because I had no uncles or cousins to take me in. That was okay, I guess, but then the soldiers came and we had to leave.”

          “That’s when I got hurt.”

“Hans told me last night.”

Ursula sighed. “He would. He gives no thought that I might like some things to remain private.” Sigh again. “Brothers.”

“Anyway, when we came back, they didn’t want me any more. The pastor tried to find me an apprenticeship, but no one wants a one-handed apprentice. Especially a left-handed one. He found me another family to take me in, but they were hateful folk, so I left. I’ve been on my own ever since.”

“So what do you do?”

“Whatever I can. I can carry messages and small packages. I can watch over things. I can sweep.”

“You seem to be surviving.”

“I do okay.”

Simon stood up, restless all of a sudden. He wandered around the room, looking at different objects, wondering what it was like to be able to pay for rooms like this, and have your own things in them. His path took him by Ursula’s chair, where he looked at what she was working on. He discovered she wasn’t sewing, she was embroidering.

“That’s pretty,” he remarked.

“Thank you,” Ursula replied. “It’s a good thing I like to embroider, since that’s about all I can do to earn money.”

“Someone pays you to do this?”

“Oh, yes. I work mostly for Frau Schneider, seamstress for many of the best families in the city. Sometimes I’ll do something for someone else, but Frau Schneider keeps me pretty busy.”

Simon watched her for a while, watched the precise stitches being placed just so, watched as a bit more of the pattern was revealed. “I wish I could do something like that.” His voice was very wistful. “To be able to make something beautiful, that would be . . . wonderful.”

Ursula looked up at him. “Perhaps some day you will.”

“Not with only a left hand I won’t.”

She started to say something, then stopped all of a sudden. A smile crossed her face. “Did you know that one of the heroes of the Bible was left-handed?”

Simon was startled. “Really?”

“Really.” Ursula set the embroidery in her lap and reached over to the table, where she picked up a worn Bible. She handled it with care, opening it with a delicate touch. “It’s in the book of Judges.” Pages were turned, one by one. “Here it is.” She cleared her throat and began to read:

“And the children of Israel did evil again in the sight of the Lord: and the Lord strengthened Eglon the king of Moab against Israel, because they had done evil in the sight of the Lord. And he gathered unto him the children of Ammon and Amalek, and went and smote Israel, and possessed the city of palm trees. So the children of Israel served Eglon the king of Moab eighteen years. But when the children of Israel cried unto the Lord, the Lord raised them up a deliverer, Ehud the son of Gera, a Benjamite, a man lefthanded: and by him the children of Israel sent a present unto Eglon the king of Moab.”

Simon listened as she read the tale; how Ehud bound a dagger to his right leg under his clothes, fooled the king into dismissing his guards by saying he had a secret message for him, and when they were alone stabbed him with such force that the handle of the dagger was hidden by the king’s fat. The end of the story was eighty years of peace for Israel.

There was a moment of silence after Ursula finished reading. She closed the Bible and put it back on the table, then resumed her embroidery. “Of course, I always thought it was a little unfair for Ehud to trick the king like that. But then, I guess the king was not a nice man, so maybe it was all right.” She giggled. “He must have been very fat, though.”

Simon laughed with her, all the while marveling at the thought of a left-handed hero. A Bible hero, at that. His heart seemed to beat stronger at the thought of somehow following in Ehud’s footsteps. He didn’t know how he would do it, but somehow, some day people would tell stories about him like that.

The outside door opened as they were laughing. Hans stepped through, a small keg on his shoulder. He grinned at their mirth. The keg was placed in its corner and made ready. Hans straightened and dusted his hands together.

“Hah! All done.” He looked to Simon. “Well, boy, time for us to be about our work. Come on.”

Simon stood and crossed to the door, where he turned back for a moment. “Goodbye, Fräulein Ursula. I’ll see you another time.”

“Goodbye, Simon. I’d like that.”

Hans crossed to his sister and bent to kiss her cheek. “There’s still water left from yesterday. I think you have everything you need. I’ll be back late tonight.”

“Another fight?”

“We need the money.” Hans straightened.

She caught his hand. “Be careful, then. You know I don’t like you fighting. You might get hurt.”

“Don’t worry. Careful doesn’t win fights. I’ll be the best.”

Simon waited for Hans to move through the door, then he followed him with a wave to Ursula. At the bottom of the steps, Hans turned to him.

“I’m off to work.”

“Where do you work?” Simon asked.

“At the Schardius grain factorage warehouse, down by the river.”

“Can I come? Would they have work for me?”

“Probably not.” Simon’s face fell and Hans added, “But I will ask. Where will you be around sundown?”

“At Frau Zenzi’s.”

“The bakery?” Hans asked. Simon nodded. “Good. I’ll meet you there. Here.” Hans pressed a pfennig on Simon. “Get something to eat today. I’ll see you later.”

With a wave of his own, Hans was off down the street, whistling tunelessly as he dodged around a woman with a basket on her arm and then sidestepped a pile of dung. Simon watched him go, feeling a bit left out. He comforted himself with the thought that Hans had promised to meet him in the evening.

Simon squared his shoulders back, and set out to face the day.

 

Spheres Of Influence – Chapter 14

Spheres Of Influence – Chapter 14

Chapter 14.

          “I thank you for being so open-minded, Captain,” Oscar Naraj said to her with a more genuine smile than he had given in the first few hours after learning the truth. A couple of days to look at things and mull it over has at least given him some perspective… I hope.

“I won’t say I’m open-minded on this subject, Ambassador — actually, I’m pretty certain I know exactly what’s going to happen — but I’m willing to let you and Deputy Ambassador Ni Deng try anything as long as one of us is there to keep anything Arena-related from going wrong.”

The Grand Arcade was the one truly neutral location in the Arena — and thus the only place Ariane would let them try to meet the Molothos. All the Factions traded here and no matter their attitude towards other creatures, that included the Molothos — perhaps even more than many, since as a Great Faction they had a huge need for trade.

This also allowed her new guests more chances to become used to the strangeness of the Arena and see the thousands of other species that Humanity would have to interact with in one way or another.

Ambassador Naraj stared in wonder at the immense expanse of open-air and enclosed markets, stalls, restaurants, amusement centers, and other things possibly less identifiable. Ni Deng’s expression was awed, perhaps a touch frightened at first, but it swiftly became more chagrined. “I admit… this is somewhat overwhelming, Captain,” she said finally. Her eyes tracked a large, multi-legged lizard-like creature with an upright torso — a Daelmokhan, Ariane thought, One of Sivvis’ people — walking alongside a Daalasan and carrying on an animated conversation, while another creature of unfamiliar species — some sort of strange floating gasbag — drifted next to them, occasionally flickering and gesturing.

“That’s an understatement,” she said with a smile.

“I think it’s exciting!” Wu said, then looked somewhat contrite. He really was trying to manage the silent stoic bodyguard approach, but sometimes…

“Oh, it is certainly that, Wu Kung,” Naraj agreed. “But overwhelming… yes. I admit I have had relatively little experience in more fantastic simulation areas — not my preferred sort of game — and perhaps that might have prepared me a bit better. I understand you, Captain Austin, were quite the aficionado in such games.”

She nodded, grinning. And that saved my ass in ways you can’t imagine. “True enough — but believe me, you two are doing humanity proud, as Gabrielle might say. We were still pretty much gobsmacked after this long, and we’d at least spent time working our way through our Sphere before we got here. You’re doing just fine.” She pointed. “Here, let’s get a little something to eat. Hi, Olthalis!”

The blue-green jellyfish-like alien was behind his usual stall near one of the main thoroughfares of the Arcade, moving on tendrils too delicate to support him in Earthly gravity; Ariane knew that the Arena provided each visitor to Nexus Arena with its own proper environment so that all were on equal footing here. Olthalis waved a pair of tendrils in a complex pattern. “A pleasing sight always, that of a customer and leader! Ariane Austin of Humanity! The currents flow well today?”

“Well enough, Olthalis. Ambassador Naraj, Deputy Ambassador Ni Deng, this is Olthalis of the … Dispersants, is that correct?” At Olthalis’ back-and-forth affirmative gesture, she continued, “of the Dispersants of the Chiroflekir. Olthalis was the first merchant with whom we dealt and he’s been very helpful in helping us get supplies and learn what we can and can’t eat or drink here, along with Mairakag Achan — you’ll meet him later.”

“It is an honor and pleasure to meet you, Olthalis,” Oscar Naraj said cheerfully. “We very much appreciate your assistance. ‘Dispersants’… would that be a particular, oh, political group of your species, then?”

The same affirmative gesture, followed by a negative one. Yes and no? “The Dispersants travel the currents, journey to the far reaches, return to the seas and join the Contemplative. Within the Contemplative there are political groups.”

“Ah!” Ni Deng said, brightening. “An intelligent species with at least two lifecycle stages, then?”

“Exactly,” Olthalis agreed. “The Contemplative remain in one place but are much larger, much wiser as they learn and exchange thoughts with many others. But not all agree on all things, so where their Dispersants go, this varies much.”

“So,” Ariane said, “You’ll have to return eventually to your home planet and become one of the Contemplative?” She seemed to remember there were some creatures on earth, maybe a kind of jellyfish itself, that went through a similar lifecycle. Have to mention this to Laila, if she hasn’t heard about it herself; she’ll be fascinated.

“Eventually,” Olthalis agreed, while opening one of the panels of his shop-stall. “But enjoying this time and not ready to go; a Dispersant does not have to return until they feel ready, and I have much to see yet!” The creature flickered with cheerful bioluminescence. “Especially with your people to provide more entertainment.”

The two ambassadors chose something from Olthalis’ collection of human-certified foodstuffs; Ariane got one of the red nidii for herself. Wu Kung bounced forward, sniffed at the various offerings, and grabbed a pair of things that looked like blue cinnamon sticks coated in a rippled glaze. “How much?”

“Three point seven vals, Captain,” Olthalis said.

Gabrielle’s foresight is paying off big time, Ariane thought as she reached into the pouch to get out Olthalis’ payment. She caught sight of the blonde doctor just entering one of the larger shops, carrying several wrapped packages with her. Gabrielle had already exchanged several pieces of unique human artwork and cultural pieces for a lot of “vals” — short for simply “value units” — which were the common currency in Nexus Arena.  Until now we’d been relying on Steve’s big winnings from our early days here. Now… now we all have money for regular outings and reserves in case we need to buy bigger things. Such as recharges; we could afford to just buy a recharge from the Powerbrokers now, if we had to.

After the incredible lengths they’d had to go through to get that recharge the first time, that thought felt extremely good.

“How is Dr. Sandrisson’s work coming?” Naraj asked, even as he continued watching everything around him.

“He thinks the designs he’s working on now, with Steve, Carl, and Marc, should allow us to locate the Sky Gates,” she answered.

“Excellent news.”

It was good news — great news, really — but Simon had been astonishingly quiet about it, almost withdrawn, and she didn’t understand why; obviously his negotiations with Dr. Relgof had gone spectacularly well, as Simon had informed them that he was now able to visit the Analytic’s Archives any time he wished for the next year and a half; yet he’d come back seeming… disturbed about something. If this keeps up I’ll have to try to yank whatever it is out of him, but I just haven’t had the time yet.

Naraj was continuing. “As I understand it, that will give us a direct route to Nexus Arena from our own Sphere, correct?”

“That’s not guaranteed,” she said cautiously. “According to what we’ve been told, it’s a very good chance that one of the Sky Gates from our Sphere will lead here, but there is a small minority which don’t have a direct connection. While the latter might be preferable for some security applications, overall I’d much rather we had such a connection.”

“As would I,” Naraj agreed.

“Hey, over there!” Wu Kung broke in.

Following his pointed finger, they saw a group of four Molothos, the crowds giving the all-hostile aliens a very wide berth. Ariane squinted, bringing up vision enhancements. Yep, that’s the pattern. “Well, here’s your chance, Ambassador. That’s Dajzail himself, Leader of the Faction.”

She allowed Naraj and Ni Deng to lead the way, though she and Wu Kung stayed close. She wasn’t sure whether to smile or tense up; violence rarely went very far in Nexus Arena, as the Adjudicators would show up out of nowhere to intervene (barring direct interference by the Shadeweavers or, she presumed, the Faith), but with the Molothos you could never quite be sure…

Oscar Naraj placed himself directly in front of the advancing Molothos, but at a considerable distance, so that it became clear that he was waiting for them when he remained still and the rest of the crowd began moving away. “Dajzail of the Great Faction of the Molothos, might we speak for a moment?”

Dajzail slowed and halted, tilting the crested, lamprey-mouthed head slightly; its wraparound yellow eye glowed faintly. “Ariane Austin of Humanity, is this one of yours?” he rasped, ignoring Naraj for the moment.

“He is an ambassador of my people, though I remain Faction Leader. Dajzail, this is Oscar –”

“I care not for your names,” Dajzail said, cutting her off. “Nor for ‘ambassadors’ from enemies of the Molothos. What words would matter?”

“I was hoping, perhaps,” Naraj said, unfazed, “that we could recognize that while our initial contact has been unfortunately hostile, the crew here was not intended to speak with and establish relationships with other species.”

One of the other Molothos started forward. “You waste our time on –”

To Ariane’s surprise, Dajzail flicked a claw backwards, silencing the other instantly. “Go on.”

Naraj glanced at her with a raised eyebrow, then turned back. “While our emergence into the Arena has been quite successful, we are still a small and new faction; I was hoping there is some way we can find to eliminate what, as I understand it, is a virtual declaration of war from one of the most powerful factions.”

“Not virtual. There is no such thing. Either it is war, or it is not. Molothos have declared war on Humanity,” Dajzail corrected, “and even now our ships seek your Sphere. Perhaps have already found it.” He groomed his claws in a manner similar to a praying mantis. “Still,” he said finally, “we have many wars and goals to pursue, and much effort may be wasted in this search. As Leader of the Faction of the Molothos, I am empowered to make peace when necessary, even with inferior species.”

Which includes everyone who isn’t a Molothos, of course. She could sense Wu Kung standing, tense as a bowstring, at her side.

“Of course you are, sir. So I ask you if there is in fact anything we might be able to do in order to make peace with your people?”

Dajzail groomed again. “I can see three such paths before us, Ambassador,” he said, and Ariane did not like the suddenly-silky tones. “The first, and simplest, is that your Faction voluntarily ceases to be, by becoming a vassal of the Molothos. We do not make war on our own, and even lesser species can be of great use. As few join voluntarily, you would be accorded greater status among the slave species.”

Oscar Naraj maintained a pleasant smile, though Ariane thought it must have been something of a strain. “I… see. The second?”

“In the interests of being reasonable,” the Molothos leader went on, and something about the tone and posture was like a mocking grin, “we could also be satisfied with your ceding your Upper Sphere to us. Our people had landed upon your Sphere and claimed it, so I would be… willing to end the declaration of war if you were to give us that which we had fairly claimed.”

“I can understand that position,” Naraj said, still with a pleasant, neutral tone. “And your third offer?”

“While my prior offers are most generous for the Molothos, we are often … accused of being both hostile and unreasonable,” Dajzail answered, and his tone was almost unctuous. “So, in the interests of … fostering a more cooperative atmosphere with others and showing how … willing we are to enter the greater Arena community, we will be satisfied with a much less expensive act — even, I would say, a mere symbolic trifle, given the injuries we have suffered.” His voice suddenly shifted back to the rasping screech she expected from Molothos. “Give us Marc C. DuQuesne and Stephen Franceschetti. Let us kill them with our best executioners over a period of two weeks. We will even allow you to take back the bodies when we are done.” He spread his claws in a grotesque parody of open-armed welcome. “A fair bargain indeed, would you not agree?”

DuQuesne threw one of their bodies down right in front of them; Steve … Steve was the one who figured out how to get past Dajzail’s blockade of Transition, when we were about to lose our Sphere by default.

“Certainly a vastly more… diplomatic and reasonable offer than the others, Dajzail,” Oscar said slowly. “I will… think about these offers.”

“Yes, do that, Ambassador,” Dajzail hissed silkily. “And while you do, ask of news of the Randaalar, who rejected similar generosity a thousand years ago. The head of the last survivor is mounted in my council-chamber.”

The Molothos swept forward, and Oscar and the others drew back, letting them pass. After a few moments, Naraj spoke again. “I shall think about these offers, and how they show that there truly exist monsters with whom negotiation is not possible. My apologies, Captain; if that is what they have chosen as the leader of their entire species — which if I understand aright will have thousands or tens of thousands of Spheres… well,” he smiled wryly, “we have no use for diplomats in that particular case. I will so report as soon as possible.”

“Will you have to go back for that report?” It’d be nice if they’d be leaving the Arena periodically.

“Oh, not at all,” Naraj said. “A message … torpedo, I suppose you could call it — supplied with Sandrisson coils and sufficient charge to travel back and forth — will allow two-way communication. The first of these should be ready by now, in fact, and I would expect more ships will follow very soon.” He smiled broadly. “You did say we would have to establish a larger presence, didn’t you?”

 

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 20

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 20

 

Chapter 9

          Morning came. Simon came awake gradually, aware that someone was nearby. For a moment he panicked, until he remembered where he was. He opened his eyes to see Hans crouched by his feet, feeding sticks into the rekindled fire. A yawn came upon him without warning and tried to unhinge his jaw. When that was finished and his eyes were open again, he saw Hans looking at him.

          “Good morning.” Hans’ voice was grumbly in the early morning air.

“Good morning,” Simon replied. The tip of his nose was cold, so he reached up and rubbed it. Hans stood and walked over to a table in the corner, where he took cloths off a loaf of bread and a partial wheel of cheese. Simon unfolded the blanket — the nicest, warmest blanket he’d ever seen — and sat up, smacking his lips and rubbing his eyes.

“Hungry?” Hans asked over his shoulder.

“Yah, but . . .”

“There’s a chamber pot in my room.”

Moments later Simon walked back into the main room. As usual, arranging his clothing with only one hand took a bit of effort, but by backing up against the wall to hold things up he managed to deal with the buttons.

“Here.” Hans handed him a plate of bread and cheese.

Simon sat on the stool and began eating just as the door to Ursula’s room opened. Her progress was no faster in the morning that it had been the previous evening, but she finally made it to her chair and lowered herself with care. She sighed and hooked her cane over the edge of the table as Hans approached with another plate.

“I like this cheese,” Ursula said with her mouth full. Simon smiled at the sight of her plump cheeks. “You need to get some more when this is gone.”

“If I can remember who I got it from,” Hans said as he brought two cups over, one for his sister and one for Simon. “This is the last of the small beer. I’ll need to go get some here in a little while, so you’re not left dry when I head out for work.”

There was silence for a while as the three of them munched on hard bread and soft cheese. Midway through their repast, they heard the piercing whistle of the night soil man with his wagon. Hans stood while his cheeks were still bulging and went into his room. He returned with the chamber pot, went into his sister’s room, then carried the two pots down to be dumped in the wagon’s barrels. Simon grinned as he saw that even Stark Hans did not want to be confronted by the CoC and their mania for sanitation.

“All right,” Hans said as he came back into the main room. “I’ll go get the beer now. Nay, Simon,” as the boy started to rise, “stay here. I won’t be gone long.” He picked up a small keg in the corner and left.

Simon and Ursula looked at each other. After a moment, Ursula gave a tentative smile, which Simon echoed.

Fräulein Metzger seemed even more like an angel today, Simon thought to himself. She was dressed in a forest green skirt, with a brown bodice and a cream colored linen blouse. Her hair was braided and wrapped around her head under a soft cap. A glint of humor was in her eye, and a flush was on her cheeks. All in all, she was the prettiest woman he’d ever seen.

Aware that he was almost gaping at her, Simon tore his gaze from the young woman and crammed the last of his bread into his mouth. He looked around the room as he chewed the bread, and noticed the traces of mud that he and Hans must have tracked in last night. “Um,” he started, then strained to swallow the wad of bread in order to clear his mouth. “Do you have a broom?”

“In the corner,” Ursula pointed. She had set her plate on the table next to her, and removed a bundle of cloth from a bag sitting beside her chair. Unfolding it carefully, she pulled a needle out of the cloth and started sewing.

Simon stood and crammed his feet into his wooden shoes. They were cold, and he shivered at their contact. He walked over to the corner and picked up the broom, then turned to address the dried mud.

It took him a few moments to find the balance of the broom. That was always a bit of a challenge for him. But he was sweeping away before long.

Simon decided that as long as he was sweeping, he might as well do a job of it, so he swept the entire room. He was well begun when Ursula spoke.

“Is your other arm hurt?”

He felt his cheeks flush a bit. “No. It’s useless.”

“An injury?”

“No. It’s always been like this.”

“Did Hans bring you here because of that?” She looked up with a frown.

“No . . . at least, I don’t think that was the only reason.” Now she had a quizzical expression on her face. “He calls me his luck.”

Ursula chuckled, and now it was Simon’s turn to feel confused. “My brother, for all that he is hard-headed about most things, is surprisingly superstitious. If something is lucky to him, he’ll keep it around until it absolutely wears out and falls apart.”

“Well, I hope that doesn’t happen to me.” They both shared a laugh over that comment.

Simon swept around the room, brushing all the dirt toward the outside door. He built the pile with care, then opened the door and swept it all outside onto the landing. It was the work of a moment to sweep the dirt off the landing, then he returned inside and placed the broom back in its corner.

“Do you have a family, Simon?” Ursula asked from where she was plying her needle.

“No, Fräulein Metzger.”

Her laugh rang out. “Please, call me Ursula. You make me feel like an old maiden aunt.” The smile left her face. “Not that I won’t be an old maid some day. No one will marry a cripple.”

Simon sat down on his stool. “Me neither.”

“So what happened to your family?”

 

Spheres Of Influence – Chapter 13

Spheres Of Influence – Chapter 13

Chapter 13.

The room stretched away in front of Simon, and to both sides, to such distances that he momentarily groped for a true sense of scale. Bakana, he thought. It simply cannot be this large.

But it was. The ceilings, set with arched windows from which streamed beams of what seemed pure, natural sunlight (though, perhaps, by the tint, not Earth‘s sunlight), rose one hundred meters or more; yet it was low, almost oppressively low, compared to the extent of the room it covered.

Shelves kilometers long dwindled, perfect perspective lines, so far that the clear air began to soften the edges like the peaks of mountains on the horizon. And on those shelves…

Soft laughter penetrated his stunned consciousness, and he looked over to see Relgof with an expression and pose that Simon recognized as mirth. “Ahh, my friend, it is always a reward to see the reaction of a first-time visitor to the Archives of the Analytic.”

“My… God,” Simon said, and for once he meant the reverent tone. “This… this really is…”

“… the collected knowledge of the Analytic, in the original form — paper, electronic, carven in ancient tablets found on Spheres where no living being had walked in a million years, written upon metal sheets, absorbed in scent-matrices, recorded on nanotechnological writing pads or as patterns of light deep within crystals, written words and spoken, holographic images of motion and thought, all of them here, all studied, categorized, and preserved, the thoughts and hopes and fears and learning of a million worlds across a million years. Yes, it is, and it is my pleasure to welcome you here, where very few save our own Researchers have ever stood.”

Simon stood for a few more moments, just staring in awe. He could see some shelves built for things rather like Earthly books; others with row upon row of recording media; yet others that were more supports for huge monoliths of stone or steel; and still more holding less-identifiable objects that hummed or sparkled or flickered.

Enough rubbernecking, as DuQuesne might say. I have work to do. “Why here on Nexus Arena? You have many Spheres of your own.”

“Many thousands of Spheres of our own, yes. Yet… where else, Simon? No other place is so central, and — you can understand — no other place is even imaginably so safe. A Sphere can be lost in a Challenge, or — though rarely — by direct conquest from without. But nothing can challenge Nexus Arena, nothing can conquer it or force its way in, unless it were something that could shake the foundations of the universe itself. And here, in one of the Great Faction Houses, we have room almost beyond limit.”

He nodded. “Of course. I had suspected as much, but it was worth asking. Then the information I seek is, obviously, somewhere here.”

“Undoubtedly.”

Simon noticed movement, and saw a Researcher of a semi-ceratopsian build climbing into one of many half-egg shaped objects scattered about the Archive. The polished white and silver egg rose and flew silently down the rows, carrying the Researcher with it. Well, that answers one of the questions I had. Fifty meter high shelves and many kilometer long aisles could have defeated me before I started. “And I can stay here…?”

“As long as you like, Simon. We were agreed on the value of your gift, and now that you have read its text to us, it is now part of our knowledge — and absolutely fascinating, I will add.” Relgof’s filter-beard flip-flopped in happy excitement. “You may return any time over the next year and a half, and spend as much time as you wish.”

“That is… extremely generous, Head Researcher.” Simon was astonished. Being allowed unlimited access to this facility for a year and more? Even with the relatively limited hardware I can use in the Arena, I can learn so very much in that time… “Where is the… index, reference work, whatever you might call it, that I would use to find my way around this paradise of knowledge?”

Relgof paused and tilted his head. Oh-oh. I know that pose. Something both serious and amusing.

“It may be, my friend, that you will not find our gift quite so generous as you think at the moment — although I believe in the end you will still see it as more than fair.

“Still, you understand that knowledge is our currency. The discussion was… heated as to exactly what to give, and how to give it. I am Head Researcher, but that position can of course change, so I am obligated to satisfy at least some of the demands of my colleagues. Some of them… have interests and alliances of their own which may not be aligned with yours, I am sorry to say. I could possibly have gotten you the precise information you asked for, but nothing else — and it might have been in a rather limited format.”

I see.” And…?”

“And so I allowed them to argue me into what they found a rather amusing yet, they felt, ultimately useless generosity. Namely, you have full access to the Analytic’s Archives… but no access to the Indices of Knowledge, which only a full Researcher may have.”

Simon realized his mouth had dropped open and he was simply goggling at Relgof, who at least had the decency to restrain his mirth after a single chortle. “I… what? This entire library of the gods and I won’t even know what’s where?” He felt anger rising and didn’t bother to hide it. “Head Researcher, I can’t even imagine what in God’s name possessed you to ‘allow’ this? What possible –”

“Simon, please. I understand your anger, and it’s quite justifiable… for the moment. But the fact is simply this: I was.. making a wager, a wager with myself against their assumptions.”

Simon looked at him. “A… wager? On what?”

“The group which were being obstructive,” Relgof said, “were interested in granting you as little as possible while gaining your prize in return. This struck them as an ideal method — giving you everything you asked, and more, but removing your chances of finding the key facts, leaving them as a single rope hidden in a forest of kelp. But I felt they were missing a key element: that you, yourself, conceived, built, and tested the Sandrisson Drive, the first of your people to do so, one of only a few thousand such in the history of the universe. Even if you cannot find your answers to the Sky Gates here, I believe — I absolutely believe — that you can derive an answer yourself.

“So I took a risk, yes. A risk that you might possibly not be as capable as I believe you are, against the ability for you to sample the knowledge of the Analytic freely, for the space of a year and a half.”

Simon looked around again. For a few moments, his anger only increased, along with a feeling of overwhelming futility. It was an impossible task, and even finding anything useful in that nigh-endless Archive…

But Relgof’s tone penetrated, finally. Those were not the words of someone who had managed to put one over on a sucker, but… “You have that much faith in me?”

Relgof spread his arms and bowed. “Have I not been at the side of Humanity almost since its arrival? Have I not watched you all closely? You chose your crew, Doctor Sandrisson, no one else, and that crew has done extraordinary things. I have faith that the man who brought them here is at least as extraordinary.”

Simon looked up at the towering shelves; but now he felt a tiny shift within himself, a feeling of stubborn certainty. I am standing within the greatest repository of knowledge in the entire universe; even if I pull out books and records at random I cannot imagine I would fail to find something interesting.

He turned back to Relgof. “I … thank you for your faith, Rel. Really, I do.” He surveyed the nigh-endless expanse. “I just hope I can live up to it.”

Relgof bowed again. “I thank you for your understanding… and I wish you good luck.”

Simon watched his friend — and he is my friend, I think, and a good one – leave through the door they had entered by, and then turned to face the Archives. Once more their infinite expanse nearly daunted him.

Yet…

Yet…

There was something almost … familiar.

That makes not the slightest bit of sense, you know, he thought. You’ve never been here, and not a bit of this is actually familiar. I’m not even sure I’ve seen anything vaguely like this place, even in a simgame.

The feeling refused to go away, however, and he found himself walking swiftly along, jumping into one of the egg-shaped craft and urging it forward. He did not quite understand how he knew how to operate the thing so well, but even that thought was distant.

Another part of him was simply growing more confused. He wasn’t sure why he was going in this direction, or where this feeling of certainty came from.

A flicker of memory came… a surge of energy, of Shadeweaver and Faith working together desperately, trying to contain the power that Ariane Austin had neither the knowledge nor training to control… The floor heaving, contacts broken, all the power of both … and perhaps of Ariane herself… momentarily focused through him…

He couldn’t remember that moment clearly; it had blurred, faded, and he realized that he had in fact avoided thinking of it since shortly afterwards. But I think I took down notes just afterwards… I have to read them. I think… something happened.

The silver and white egg had stopped, and his hand reached out, grasping a jointed object like a foldable piece of parchment. He looked on alien script written by a species he had never met, one perhaps a thousand years or ten thousand or a million years gone, and there was no translation, none of the Arena’s usual tricks…

Yet Simon realized he did understand, that it made sense… and even as a surge of triumph went through him, Simon Sandrisson felt the chill breath of fear.

 

Spheres Of Influence – Chapter 12

Spheres Of Influence – Chapter 12

Chapter 12.

          DuQuesne grinned as he saw the three figures crowding together — just as he, Ariane, and Simon had the first time they’d stepped through to Transition. Nothing really prepares you for that. Not when it’s real. Oh, sure, simgames have stuff just as impressive in its own way, but you always know in the back of your head it’s just a game. Somehow I even knew, in the end, about Hyperion.

          But this is no game.

Ariane led the way; Wu flanked her just to the left, DuQuesne on her right, and she was moving fast. The crowds of Transition, however, parted before her; Kekka was not the only one who recognized Ariane Austin.

He kept his eyes on the three figures. Naraj was already straightening to his full height of well over six feet, stepping slightly forward, his deep blue and gold outfit contrasting well with his mahogany-brown skin and black hair. Michelle Ni Deng was a contrast herself; a woman of sharp angles and light-boned body, her resemblance to a wading bird emphasized by the biomod of featherlike hair that bobbed in white and blue waves over her head. Just emerging from behind her was –

For just a split second even the speed of his Hyperion-born thoughts was not enough to cope. That red hair… done in that style… those eyes, I can see them from here…

But he was lucky twice. First, she was emerging to the right side, which meant that he got the first glimpse one tiny fraction of a second before Wu Kung; and second, the two of them were behind Ariane, and not in front. His hand lashed out and he gripped Wu’s arm in an unmistakable warning.

The Monkey King’s emerald-touched golden eyes glanced at him, surprise and joy fading to puzzlement, then understanding. He nodded, just enough for DuQuesne to see, and DuQuesne let go.

Of all the … He looked at Naraj, remembering, judging. No, there’s no way he could know. He set his jaw. Focus. You can’t afford to let Naraj’s lucky break distract you from the main event.

Ariane reached the base of the ramp and started up. “Ambassador Naraj! A pleasure to see you here so soon.”

Good move. Acknowledge his title — in fact, give him the title in public. He’ll have to accept it at this point.

Naraj’s smile was, possibly, just a fraction off, but only for a moment. “Captain Austin, good of you to meet me so promptly. I suppose I have Doctor Wolfe to thank for that?”

“She did pop over here briefly to make sure you got a good reception,” Ariane said, shaking his hand.

Michelle laughed; it was, DuQuesne admitted, a very nice laugh, gentle and lilting. “I did think she seemed a little out of breath; now I know why! Walking all that way… she must have run in both directions.” She turned. “We all know each other, but I should introduce our own security expert –”

“We’ve met,” DuQuesne interrupted, stepping forward. He could feel Ariane’s curious gaze. “Hello, Commander Abrams.”

“Doctor DuQuesne.” They shook hands, hers gripping as strong as he remembered, and he waited, wondering…

And the pixie-cute face suddenly broke out in a broad smile and she threw her arms around him. “Long time, sir, a long time!”

He relaxed fractionally, hugged back. “Has been, hasn’t it?” Releasing her, he turned. “Ariane, this is Commander Oasis Abrams.”

A grin returned to his face as Ariane shook hands with the newcomer, trying to size her up. He knew what she saw; a young woman who didn’t look any older than Ariane herself, with flaming red hair so long that, even done up in four separate ponytails, it trailed well past her waist, whose military accoutrements were distributed in such a way as to make her appear to be dressed for some sort of exotic masquerade. Not exactly what I’d expected, he heard on their private frequency.

DuQuesne gave a silent laugh. Don’t be fooled by that perky can-do exterior, he replied via the same frequency. That’s former Ensign Oasis Abrams of the Third Recon Platoon of the First Combined Battalion under Commander Saul Maginot. He sensed her sudden understanding. Exactly. And she’s tough. She’s the only trooper who took out one of us pretty much by herself, the only survivor of her entire company, and she was about the age then she looks like she is now. She’s a friend and someone you can count on… but she’s also got some goals of her own right now, and she’s hired on to work for Oscar and Michelle, which isn’t good.

He was glad to see that Wu had got the message, so he simply bounded up and gave her a hug. “I’m so glad you got out okay!”

As she returned the hug, Oscar nodded. “I had wondered if the implied events in her resume had happened. I see now they must have. Excellent.”

The words reassured DuQuesne. If he knew the real score Naraj would either say nothing or he’d be asking questions — really pointed questions.

Oscar Naraj turned to Ariane. “Captain, since you have come all this way, I presume you’re here to show us to the Embassy?”

“Exactly, Ambassador. I want to bring you up to speed on the current situation and see if we can arrange for you to meet some of the people you undoubtedly wish to speak to as soon as possible.” She turned. “Please, follow me.”

Naraj followed, trying to look confident and at ease. And could be you’re fooling Ariane — though I doubt it — and maybe even yourself, but you sure ain’t fooling me. The eyes darted to the sides just a bit too often, Naraj — and Ni Deng — turned subconsciously as creatures of bizarre and often frightening aspect approached.

But Naraj had viewed all the recorded data they’d turned over, as had Michelle Ni Deng, and the two adjusted almost frighteningly quickly. By the time they reached the elevators, Oscar Naraj’s pretense of relaxation was fast becoming reality. They’re both real, real good, DuQuesne thought grimly. I’d hoped he just wasn’t really up to the challenge — God knows we haven’t needed any real politicians much in the last couple of centuries — but I’d hoped wrong. He’s a genuine Big Time Operator, and he’s ready to start his operations real soon now.

This isn’t good. Simon’s private chat with Researcher Relgof had shown that Maria-Susanna was somehow managing to send out feelers to the various groups (after being rebuffed by Orphan), yet no one knew exactly where she was. She’s the kind of spanner in the works we really don’t need. Might not hear from her for years, or she might pop up tomorrow, but whenever she does make her move…

He shook his head. One thing at a time. Right now, it’s our new guests who are the immediate problem.

With the help of one of the floating taxis the six of them soon arrived at the Embassy of Humanity. Michelle gave an approving nod as they entered. “Oh, very nice. I was afraid we’d still have the rather… utilitarian look that was visible in the recordings. My compliments to the designer.”

“That would be mostly Steve; remember to tell him yourself the next time you see him.”

“Oh, I certainly will, Captain.”

“Now,” Ariane said, “would you like me to show you to your rooms? I see you have only a small amount of luggage with you now, but –”

“Oh, no, no, Captain,” Oscar said firmly. “I am quite rested, I assure you — it was early morning when the Duta departed from Kanzaki-Three and so I’ve only been up a few hours. Why don’t we have lunch and I’ll tell you how I would like to proceed?”

He could see Ariane stiffen and take a slow breath, like a diver nerving herself to take a plunge into murky water. “We can certainly do that, Ambassador.”

“Don’t look so nervous, Captain. I have no intention of just shoving you out of the limelight — or letting you run off, even if you prefer being out of it. Your advice and help will be invaluable initially,” Naraj assured her. “And yours, Doctor DuQuesne. Indeed, I will be relying on the entire crew of Holy Grail initially, as we have a great deal to accomplish.

“The Space Security Council and the Combined Space Forces have empowered me to act as Ambassador for Humanity, at least in these initial months.”

“A shame, that,” DuQuesne said, cutting him off before he could continue.

Naraj looked disappointed. “I expect rather more than cheap shots from someone of your stature, Dr. DuQuesne.”

“Not a cheap shot; honest assessment. It’s a shame you wasted all that time ramming that authorization through when it’s useless.”

“I beg your pardon?” Oscar looked completely at sea.

“I’m afraid he’s telling the truth,” Ariane said; her voice was calm and businesslike, but she stood stiff, nervous, and she swallowed hard before straightening and continuing. “You see, neither the SSC nor the CSF — or both of them together — are empowered to make that appointment.”

“I… see. And just who is? A vote of all the citizens of the Solar System?”

“No, Ambassador,” she said, and he felt a tiny bit of relief, because that tone was returning to her voice, the tone that she got when she’d made up her mind and was ready to take whatever bull was in front of her by the horns and throw it. “No, Ambassador, even that won’t work.

“That decision and appointment can only be made by the Leader of the Faction of Humanity… which just happens to be me.”

DuQuesne caught a flash of mirth from Oasis Abrams — just a moment of a crinkle of laugh-lines around the emerald eyes, a quirking upward of the corner of the perfect lips.

The other two did not seem so amused; in fact, it was nearly a minute before — to his surprise — Michelle Ni Deng spoke. “You are the Leader of … the Faction of Humanity.”

“I am.” Ariane managed a sour smile. “I didn’t ask for the job, I didn’t know I was in line for it, but I’ve got it — and before either of you says anything, I am not handing that authority over to anyone unless I believe my successor understands what he or she is dealing with, and can handle it well enough so I don’t need to worry about it any more.”

Oscar Naraj had an expression of equal parts outrage, puzzlement, and sympathy — an impressive combination, DuQuesne had to admit. “I do not mean to sound… stupid, Captain Austin, but, just to clarify… from the Arena’s point of view, you, personally, are the leader of the entire human species?”

“Yes.”

Naraj muttered something in an Indian dialect that DuQuesne couldn’t quite catch. “And would you mind,” he said, and now his voice was hard, edged with annoyance and some lingering disbelief,  “explaining to me, then, why you did not include this — I would think absolutely crucial — piece of information in your summaries?”

“Do you want the truth, or the excuse?”

Naraj blinked. Then he smiled briefly. “I think I will take the truth, even if you think it so unpalatable.”

“All right, then.” Ariane looked up and away for a moment, as though seeking support from the very cause of the problem. “Simply? What would you people have done if I had told you?”

“Well, we certainly wouldn’t have just come charging out here without having the authority to negotiate!” Ni Deng said frostily.

“Right,” Ariane agreed, and her tone brought Michelle Ni Deng up short. Full-blown Captain mode, “look of eagles” and all. “You would have insisted I — and perhaps my entire crew — stay back home unless and until I turned the leadership over to someone more suited, or at the least until I delegated authority to you. As I stated, I have no intention whatsoever of doing that until I’m sure the person taking the job has, as DuQuesne would say, the jets to swing that load, and no one will have that who hasn’t already been here, and learned the ins and outs.

“So we would have been stuck arguing for weeks, maybe months longer, while the Molothos methodically search for our only Sphere so they can put a whole invasion force on the surface instead of a scouting party. Not happening while I am in charge, Ambassador. And I am in charge here, and I will do my best to make sure that we don’t get blindsided by those monsters — or,” she looked pointedly at both of them, “anyone else.”

“Are you –”

Oscar Naraj gestured and Michelle Ni Deng cut her outraged protest short. “I … see.” He frowned, obviously thinking. And that’s dangerous, but other than just shooting him there’s no stopping him from thinking. “Then should I simply take my people and leave?”

Ariane sighed, and looked — just slightly — less intimidating. “I’m not saying that, no. You both have skills and experience no one on Holy Grail had. And I don’t have any objection to you talking to people — as long as I know about it, and as long as you’re willing to listen when someone who’s experienced explains the pitfalls — especially how you might get goaded or tricked into a Challenge. Understand, we cannot afford a Challenge we have not extensively planned for — and even then, it could really go completely wrong.

“And obviously if I want to ever get rid of this ridiculous position as Leader of Humanity, I need people who come here and become familiar enough with it to replace me. So no, Ambassador.” She gave a professional smile, but there was some warmth behind it. “I would very much like you to stay and help. All of you.” The smile turned rueful. “God knows we’ll need all the help we can get!”

Naraj allowed a chuckle. “Very well. Then shall we have lunch, and you shall tell us how you would like to proceed?”

Ariane’s smile grew more natural. “I think that is an excellent suggestion, Ambassador.”

Not bad, Ariane, DuQuesne thought as she led them to one of the dining areas. But don’t you start relaxing now.

Because they sure aren’t.

 

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 19

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 19

 

****

          Marla stepped into her study and pulled her lighter out of her pocket to light a lamp. She and Franz hadn’t been able to afford a generator package yet, so they were still making do with lamps and candles. After getting the light started, she stared down at the old stainless steel Zippo for a moment. Odd how something that had belonged to her cigar-smoking grandfather and had almost been thrown away by her non-smoking dad was now something that never left her possession, especially now that someone was producing up-time style lighter flints. She’d heard that the stuff they made it from came from India. She didn’t care if it came from Antarctica, as long as she could keep using the lighter.

          She looked around the room, knowing without hearing them that the guys were asking Franz how she was doing. Truth was, she didn’t know how she was doing, so how was poor Franz supposed to know?

Some days Marla felt almost back to normal, that the miscarriage was past and over and done with; others, it was all she could do to get out of bed. And mood swings, oh my — on a bungee cord, it seemed like.

The worst thing was that she couldn’t seem to focus. That was perhaps the most frustrating thing of all to her, that she just could not seem to finish anything. The room was filled with music books, all open to pieces that she had started to learn or review, only to drift away from them when something else caught her attention.

She didn’t want to be that way. She was tired of being that way. She could feel a dull knot of anger forming in the pit of her stomach; anger partly at her circumstances, at the unfairness of life that had robbed her of her daughter, but also anger at herself, for drifting and not standing firm to start again.

Marla felt a snap of decision. “Enough,” she said out loud. Order would return to her life, beginning with this room. Before she retired to bed tonight, this room at least would be clean and orderly again.

With that resolution, she began. Each book was picked up, place marked and closed, then returned to the waiting shelves.

As she worked, Marla’s mind kept returning to what Mary Simpson had told them earlier in the evening, and some of the things she had heard from others about what was happening in Berlin. It worried her. She didn’t want to live in a place and time that was ruled the way the reactionaries seemed to be headed. She definitely didn’t want to . . .

Marla realized she was standing stock still, frozen, hands locked on the last book she had picked up, unwilling to complete that last thought. She definitely didn’t want to . . . raise children under such a regime. The very thought made her angry.

Funny how finishing that thought gave Marla some release. Hard and painful as it might be to think about at the moment, she knew there would be other children. She even could see herself holding them. What happened with Alison would not be the end of her story as a mother.

She turned to put the book away, and the cover illustration caught her eye. The young waif on the cover with her blouse sliding off her shoulders morphing into the Tricolor always sent a chill through her. Les Miserables the musical had had a huge impact on her when she was first studying voice. She still loved it, and hoped one day to stage it at the new opera house, for all that Andrea Abati, her mentor, looked askance at it.

Opening the book again, Marla flipped through the pages slowly. I Dreamed a Dream, Castle on a Cloud, Master of the House; the songs flipped by one by one, until her fingers stopped seemingly of their own accord. She stared down at the title and the first line of the song, transfixed.

A slow fire began to burn within her as her mind raced. Yes, this is the one.

The fire bloomed. Yes, it had the message she ached to throw in the teeth of the Swedish chancellor.

Blossomed. Yes, the lyrics would need some adjustment and translation. Surely there is a poet in Magdeburg.

Brighter. Yes, although it was a man’s song in the musical, she would make it hers.

Hotter, surging. Her hair seemed to float away from her head, the feeling was so strong.

Marla snatched up the lamp so quickly the oil sloshed. A moment later the study was dark and empty.

****

          “So, we have The Lemminkainen Suite by Sibelius, Mazeppa by Liszt, von Suppé’s Light Cavalry Overture, the Schubert Military Polonaise, Procession of the Noblemen by Rimsky-Korsakoff, and Stars and Stripes Forever.” Franz looked up from his notes. “What else can we add to our concert slate that we can polish quickly?”

“We need a symphony,” Thomas Schwartzberg responded.

“Suggestions?”

“Beethoven’s Third,” Josef Tuchman said.

“Good thought,” Franz replied as he noted it down.

“I know we’ve already got Sibelius on the list, but his Third Symphony is beautiful,” Herman Katzberg said, “and it has some stirring passages in it.”

“I like that,” Franz said. “It’s a beautiful piece, and since Finland is connected to Sweden here and now, that would suit our purpose.”

“Shostakovich’s Fifth,” Thomas countered.

“Too dissonant,” one of the others said. “Even Frau Simpson’s backers aren’t ready for that one yet. It’s way more dissonant that the Sibelius, or even the Vaughan Williams and Barber pieces we did back in ’34.”

“I agree with that,” Franz added. “In a few years, maybe, but not now.”

Thomas crossed his arms and leaned back in an exaggerated pouting pose. “But the fourth movement is so cool!”

“Bide your time, Thomas,” Franz laughed, “bide your time.”

Before any of the others could respond, the door into the back of the house flew open and Marla strode through. Franz managed to refrain from jumping, but some of the others didn’t.

“Sorry to interrupt, guys, but I need something now.” By then she was standing directly in front of Thomas, and she thrust an open music book into his hands. “Thomas, I need two arrangements of this song as soon as you can produce them — one for our Green Horse Tavern group, and one for full orchestra accompaniment.”

Franz looked at his wife as Thomas scanned through the song. Her posture, the way she held her shoulders and her head; they spoke of resolution, of determination. A sense of excitement began to build in him. She looked at him and grinned, and his heart soared to see the fire in her eyes.

Thomas looked up. “A piece of cake, as you say. Two days for our group, two weeks for the orchestra, less if you have a recording for me to hear.”

“I have the recording,” Marla said. “You can hear it at the school tomorrow.” She lifted her head and almost danced as she looked around at their friends. “Gentlemen, we are going to give Mary and the emperor all the support they could ask for, and we’re going to give old Ox more than he bargained for.”

“So what is the song?” Franz asked over the snorts and chuckles of the others.

The fire in Marla’s eyes seemed to blaze even brighter. “We will give the people a voice with Do You Hear the People Sing!”

Franz could only nod in agreement.

 

Spheres Of Influence – Chapter 11

Spheres Of Influence – Chapter 11

Chapter 11.

          “Arena,” Ariane said to the empty air of her own room in the Embassy of Humanity, “I have serious questions with respect to the operation of a new Faction, and it would seem unwise to trust other Factions for the answers. Will you speak?”

         She knew from experience that the Arena — or whatever intelligence controlled it — would rarely speak on its own, and even if addressed directly would only speak if the request fit whatever unknown, mysterious set of rules that guided its behavior. She waited, tensely, for an answer that might not come.

A moment passed. Two.

“Speak.” The voice was quiet, yet something about it echoed and resonated like a shout.

          Well, at least I know it heard me. Aloud, she said, “Is it possible for my people to force me to abandon the position of Leader — I mean, in the sense that they could pass a law or something?” She winced. What a marvelously well-spoken leader Humanity has! ‘Pass a law or something’? What are you, ten?

The Arena’s voice did not show any particular reaction, neither of annoyance nor of amusement, to her clumsy phrasing. “No. If you do not wish to relinquish leadership of the Faction, no political mechanism may remove you from that position unless you, personally, have agreed to that mechanism.”

“Besides my deliberately relinquishing my leadership, what general ways are there which could remove me from that position?”

“Death,” the Arena replied immediately. “The leader of a Faction must be a living being; no symbolic leaders, no religious symbols with no living manifestation, or other substitutes for an individual are permitted.”

“You mean that each Faction has to have a single person in charge? Not a, say, committee?”

“That is correct. They may be selected by various means, but at any given time there is a single leader.” As she digested that and its implications, the Arena continued. “Besides death, any event which makes the leader effectively dead; brain-death, for example. Joining another Faction automatically negates leadership. If a specific procedure has been established for a Faction, there may be mechanisms to remove the Leader from power.”

“Can I designate a… heir, so to speak, if I get killed or as good as dead?”

“No.”

Ariane froze, mouth open in what would undoubtedly have been a hysterically funny double-take if anyone else had been there to see it. She had been so certain the answer would be yes… “No? I can’t? But I thought I could step down for anyone I chose?”

“You may make your final act as the Leader of the Faction to be the selection of your successor,” the Arena said, “but if you are already dead your orders have no force. Nor do the orders of others.”

“So DuQuesne was right,” she muttered. “It’ll chose the new leader, and we have no way of knowing who that is.” She sighed. So much for the easy route. I’m stuck with this position until we can actually get a method for picking a new Leader of the Faction in place! “Arena, I –”

A green comm-ball popped into existence. “Ariane! DuQuesne!” came Gabrielle’s voice, a little breathless. “They’re coming! You’ve got maybe half an hour at the outside!”

“What?” Dammit! “I thought we’d have hours of notice!” We set the Holy Grail to detect the flare of entry, and the radio relays should have let us know –

“So did I, Ariane.” Gabrielle’s voice was chagrined. “The Duta transitioned in moving faster than we were on our first trip. I left while it was still en-route, but Steve’s guess was it’d take about fifteen minutes to reach the dock.” Ariane knew that Gabrielle would have had to run from the Guardhouse, all the way down the corridors to the Inner Gateway and take it through before she could make the call. Which would have taken about fifteen minutes, meaning that Naraj and his party were already getting out of their ship…

Gabrielle was continuing, “Now, Steve and Tom might be able to delay them a little –”

“But Naraj obviously wants to catch us off-guard,” came DuQuesne’s voice. “He’s a hell of a lot of things, but as my friend Seaton would’ve said, stupid sure ain’t one of them.”

“On my way! I’ll meet them at Transition!”

“Got it. I’m going back.” The ball disappeared.

She leapt up from the desk, which folded up and vanished into the wall, and yanked on her most Captain-like jacket.

Sun Wu Kung leapt to his feet as she charged out the door. “What’s wrong, Captain?”

“They’re on their way. We want to get to Transition before they do.”

Wu didn’t ask questions; he followed like a shadow.

DuQuesne joined them as they exited the Embassy. “Carl and Laila will hold the fort here,” he said. “Simon’s gone over to the Analytic to talk with Relgof and a couple of the other Researchers — hopefully we get good news there.”

“Four days, Marc. It only took them four days.”

“Yeah, and they must’ve spent a day or more doing some quick mods.”

She glanced up at the olive-skinned face; DuQuesne’s expression was not comforting. “Why?”

“The Duta‘s design. I glanced over what we had on it, and it didn’t have the bunkerage for the reaction mass necessary to brake down from what must be around ten kilometers per second.” He shook his head. “They must have done calculations for modified Sandrisson coils that let them take disposable reaction tanks; it’s the only explanation that fits.”

Ariane gestured and one of the hovering taxis slowed to a halt near them; Wu leapt in to do his quick survey. “But you can’t change the shape of your ship and still use your Sandrisson coils! I know that — we had to chase down the broken drive spine because of that, back when we first got here.” She got in at Wu’s gesture and ordered the vehicle to head for the Elevators to Transition.

“Right,” DuQuesne said as he sat down. “My guess? They’ll have to spend some time fixing up the coils to make them work to go back, but they probably designed them to make that as easy as possible. Worth it to get the advantage of surprise.”

Calm, she reminded herself. If I let this agitate me, they’ve really got the advantage. This isn’t a race, it’s not that time critical. A few seconds here or there make no difference. “Is it really that much of an advantage?”

“From their point of view? Probably.” DuQuesne’s head turned, watching the Embassy area streaming by. “Naraj’s been playing these games for a long time. Keep the other guy off-balance, distract him, really get him worked up and he’ll make a mistake.”

She smiled wryly up at him. “Then you’d better make sure I don’t make any mistakes.”

As they got into the elevator, she focused on the task at hand. Time seems to crawl by with this much urgency; so make use of that. Remember all the contingencies we discussed. Remember what you know about Naraj. Be ready to adjust depending on who and what’s around when they come through.

Transition loomed up before them, a kilometers-wide room filled with almost uncountable numbers of Gateways. “Great. Which one?” she heard herself mutter.

DuQuesne shrugged. “No telling. If someone isn’t maintaining a connection, they go inert and wake up for whichever is the next incoming or outgoing signal. They could come through that one in front of us, or one of the ones in the far corners.”

“All right, there’s three of us,” she said. “I’ll watch the center area, you watch to the right, DuQuesne, and Wu, keep an eye on the gates off to the left, okay?”

“Yes, Captain.”

Once more time seemed to crawl by. Other creatures of a hundred different species moved around them, sometimes glancing curiously at the three humans just standing still in the midst of Transition.

“Apologies for distracting you?” came a buzzing voice, accompanied by just a hint of a sharp chemical smell.

The voice sounded… very young, and she looked down to see a small Milluk – the same species as Swordmaster First Selpa’A'At — looking up at her from the glittering eyes set slightly above the midline of the spherical body. The creature was very small compared to the others she had seen, about half the height or less of Selpa and far less massive, with smaller defensive spines and less decoration. A child?

She realized now that Wu had already watched its approach and had his staff casually ready, but he, also, did not seem terribly worried. “Apology accepted. What can I do for you?”

“I must inquire — are you the human Captain Ariane Austin?”

“I am,” she said. Still no sign of Naraj.

The voice shifted slightly, to a more exited tone. “Oh, wonderful! Builders be praised!”

A member of the Faith? She wondered for a moment why that seemed wrong, then realized the answer was obvious: Selpa, the only Milluk they’d had any real contact with, was the head of the Vengeance and didn’t trust or like the Faith.

But the little creature was continuing, harvestman-like set of legs rising and falling, making the spherical body bob like a beachball in a choppy sea. “I am Kekka’a'shi, Captain Ariane  Austin! I have wanted to meet you for many days!” Kekka’a'shi produced a strange triangular object; Wu stiffened slightly, then relaxed as the creature pulled on one point and the object folded back, revealing itself to be some kind of a three-sided book. “I was hoping… would you possibly…?”

She was puzzled. “Would I…?

Suddenly she was aware that DuQuesne was chuckling. “What are you laughing at?”

“You don’t know what he’s asking, do you?”

“No, I –” she froze, then looked down. “You… want my autograph?”

“Your personal mark identifier, as signifying I have met and spoken with you! Yes!”

She laughed. Hardly the first time I’ve been asked, but I had actually thought I’d left that behind. “If you’ll explain to me how this little thing works so I know how, yes. But why me?”

“Oh, you’re famous already in the Challenges, Captain!” Kekka said enthusiastically, the translation making him sound so very like a young sports fan meeting one of his idols that Ariane had a momentary pang of longing for her days as a racing pilot. It’s only been… not even a year, but it seems three lifetimes ago. “You beat the Blessed in a sky-race, and then you beat Amas-Garao. No one’s beaten a Shadeweaver for centuries.” He held up a sticklike object. “How it works? Some will touch it with their manipulators and generate a unique scent, others impress their nose-prints on them material… the pages are made to accept all sorts of impressions. You can use the stylus to make marks, too.”

She took the stylus and smiled. “I’ll do it the way we do at home.” She thought a moment, then wrote quickly and handed the book back.

Even though the creature was almost completely alien, of armored legs and spherical body, with manipulative tendrils and lacking anything ordinarily considered a face, there was somehow something about the young Milluk’s posture and movement as he took the signed book and studied it that conveyed the same awed excitement she’d seen in thousands of human fans. “What… does it say? It is language, yes?”

“Yes, it is,” she answered with another smile. “It says, ‘To Kekka’a'shi — My first fan in the Arena, where I didn’t know I had fans. Thank you! — Ariane Austin.’”

“Wow,” he said. What the original expression, or even sound, was, it didn’t matter; the Arena’s translation had perfectly conveyed the reaction. “Your first fan here?”

“You are indeed,” she said. “And –”

“Ariane!”

She looked where DuQuesne pointed, and saw three clearly human figures standing on one of the Gateway platforms about three hundred yards distant.

The real game’s begun.

 

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 18

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 18

“Hans? Is that you?”

Simon’s ears perked up at the sound of the voice from inside the rooms. It was a clear bell-like soprano that seemed to tease his ears, so unlike the voices of the vegetable sellers and bar maids that he saw on the streets.

          “And who else would it be, Ursula?” Hans reached back and drew the boy into the room with him, then closed the door. Simon could make out a figure sitting in a chair with a candle on a nearby table.

“Oh!” Simon heard the surprise in her voice. “You have someone with you.”

“Ursula, meet my young friend Simon . . . I never did learn your other name, boy.”

Simon felt a laugh coming up his throat, which he hurried to turn into a cough. “Bayer.”

“Ah,” Ursula said, “you are from Bavaria.”

“Yes. I mean no.” Simon was flustered now. “I was born here in Magdeburg. My father came from Bavaria, I think.”

“Well, it is good to meet you, Herr Bayer. Please excuse my appearance.” The young woman was sitting in a robe, yellow hair plaited into a thick braid that hung before her shoulder. Simon was stunned by how beautiful she looked in the soft candlelight.

Hans dropped his hand from Simon’s shoulder, ducked his head and shuffled closer to his sister. “I . . . uh . . . I forgot how late it was, and I wasn’t thinking. Sorry, Uschi.”

Ursula gave a warm smile up to her brother. “I know. It’s all right.” She lifted her hand. “Help me up, please.”

Hans took her small hand with one of his and placed the other under her elbow. Simon watched as he gently lifted her from the chair. She came to her feet, then she . . . sagged. Simon almost jumped forward, afraid that she was falling. But then he could see that she was standing on her feet, she just wasn’t straight. Her right shoulder was dropped, which meant that her hip probably was as well.

Ursula reached to the table where the candle was and picked up a cane that was hooked over the edge of the table. With that in hand, she lurched into motion. Step by laborious step she made her way to a door in one wall. She leaned on the cane as she reached to open the door, then pivoted slowly to look back at her brother and his guest.

“Good night, Hans, Herr Bayer.”

“Good night, Uschi,” Hans said. Simon’s tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth. He could say nothing.

Hans sighed after her door closed and sat down in a chair across from Ursula’s. He waved Simon to a nearby stool.

“It happened during the sack of the city,” Hans began. “We were trying to get out, get away from Pappenheim’s troops. I was able to force our way through the crowds, able to hold on to her and keep her with me. She was only fifteen, and so small, so delicate.” There was a pensive expression on Hans’ face in the candlelight. “I thought I could keep her safe, keep her protected. But there came a surge of the crowd and her hand was torn from mine. I turned and looked for her, I called for her, I started pushing against the flow trying to get back to where I lost her. Then I heard her scream.”

The big man clasped his hands together, hard. “She had fallen, and before she could get back up some fool on a horse had ridden right over her. Her left leg was cut up, but her right . . . the knee was crushed, and the bones were broken in two other places.”

Simon heard Hans swallow, hard.

“I almost went for him. I’ve never wanted to kill anyone, before or since, but him I wanted dead. Still do, for that matter. If I ever see his face, he’s a dead man. But she screamed again, and I turned to her. I picked her up and carried her, out of the city and away to one of the villages. I didn’t care where we went, so long as Ursula could find help.”

Simon could see that scene in his mind; Hans cradling Ursula and walking as far as he had to go.

“It was months before she healed and could walk again. The leg didn’t heal straight, and it’s shorter than the other. You’ve seen what she’s like.”

Hans stared ahead, rocking his clasped hands. Simon said nothing, just waited.

“She’s a saint, Simon. I know her leg hurts, but she hardly ever complains. And she never blames me, even though it’s my fault she got hurt. She’s a saint,” he repeated. “She hardly ever gets out, because of the leg. It hurts her to walk, and she doesn’t like people staring at her, but she does what she has to do. She takes in embroidery and sewing. She reads her Bible. And she’s so good it almost kills me to see her like she is.”

There was another long pause. Simon broke the silence. “Is . . . is that why you brought me here? To meet her, I mean?”

Hans looked into his eyes. “Yes. I mean, I thought . . . You’ve got a weakness,” Simon’s pride flashed a bit at that statement, but he forced it down, “I thought you would understand what she’s going through.” Hans looked down again. “You’ve been my luck tonight; I thought maybe you could be hers, too. Maybe even be a friend.” Simon could see his hands twist together. “I think she may need a friend, maybe soon.”

The big man looked up again with a strange expression on his face. Simon looked back at him solemnly. “If Fräulein Metzger will have me, I would like to be her luck, and her friend as well.”

The biggest smile of the evening broke out on Hans’ face. “Great! That’s great, Simon. We’ll talk to her about it in the morning.”

They sat together in a companionable mood, neither speaking. At length, Hans rose and went through a door opposite the one into Ursula’s room, returning with a thick blanket.

“Here. You can pull the two chairs together, or roll up in this on the floor for the night. We’ll do something better if you stay over longer.”

Simon took the blanket, marveling at how thick and warm it was. “Oh, this will be fine. I’ll just roll up in front of the fireplace.”

“Go ahead, then, before I blow out the candle.”

Simon wasted no time in kicking off his wooden shoes. Suiting his actions to words, it was the work of moments to lay the blanket out in front of the fireplace and roll up in it.

“Good night, lad.” Simon heard Hans blow out the candle. Darkness descended in the room, alleviated only by the glow of the banked fire in the fireplace.

“G’night.”

Hans walked across the room in the darkness. The door closed behind him.

It had been an exciting day. Simon had never dreamed when he awoke in his cramped little nook this morning everything that he would do. New people to meet and adventures of a sort. He yawned, and fell asleep thinking that Fräulein Ursula was an angel. He’d never met an angel before.

 

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 17

1636 The Devil’s Opera – Snippet 17

Chapter 8

          “Well, that was interesting,” Marla said as she walked down the steps from the Simpson house, hands busy buttoning her coat to shut out the night-time chill.

Franz looked over as he stepped down beside her. “How so?”

          “Oh, not that she’s coordinating anything and everything she can to support the emperor. That’s a given. For all that she says she’s not political, Mary has been associated with power and influence for so long that if she’s not breathing the atmosphere of politics she starts getting dizzy from the thinness of the air around her.”

All their friends chuckled from where they had gathered around her and Franz. He held his elbow out to her, felt her take it, and they began walking back to their own house, friends trailing in their wake.

“And most of the ideas that she and Lady Beth put on the table are good, and reasonable. Parades — you’ll like that,” she twisted her head to look at Thomas Schwartzberg.

Thomas had finally made his way from Grantville to Magdeburg, having spent the last two years training some of the local musicians to copy up-time music from the many recordings that had come back through the Ring of Fire. Franz was delighted that his good friend had rejoined their little company.

“Parades, mmm,” Thomas rumbled. “Sounds like opportunities for marches.” He gave a huge grin as the rest of the company chuckled. The amanuensis of up-time composers had developed a definite taste for up-time style symphonic band music. The others in the group, who were all involved with the Magdeburg Symphony Orchestra, poked fun at him, which he took in good nature. “I have one in mind.”

“So what was interesting?” Franz prodded his wife.

“Oh, the plans for an opera, of course. Master Heinrich can do it . . .” Here Marla referred to Heinrich Schütz, the emperor’s Kappellmeister for the court in Magdeburg, and the foremost German composer of the day. “. . . but can he do it quickly enough to be a help?”

Laughter sounded from all the group. “Master Heinrich is not one of your neurotic up-timer musicians,” Rudolf Tuchman advised from behind them. “The man is one of the best of our day. He had to write a new cantata every week for weeks on end when the Elector of Saxony was holding court. He will have Arthur Rex ready for rehearsal before you can believe it.”

“I hope so.” Marla was quiet for a few steps. “Funny, but for all that the Arthur legends are truly iconic in our literary history, even by my time there were few musical treatments of them, and none that were of the first rank. Well, except for Wagner’s Tristan und Isolde, Parsifal and Lohengrin.” Franz saw the expression of distaste cross Marla’s face. It was apparent that Wagner was not her favorite composer. “But those only dealt with peripheral stories, not with the main legends. I hope Arthur Rex proves to be the exception to that rule.”

They had arrived at their house, and Franz dug in his pocket for the door key. After a moment of fumbling at the lock, he swung the door open and they all trooped in, led by Marla. There was a busy minute or so of doffing coats and finding places to store them. Their friends all found places to sit or perch around their parlor.

Franz looked up as Marla stepped over to him. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to let you guys talk about the orchestra programs without me. I’m . . . tired,” she murmured. And to his eyes, she did appear to be wilting.

 

“As you wish. I will try to keep the discussion quiet in here.” He squelched all the other things that rushed into his mind to say. It had been an eventful day; if she desired time alone, he would give it to her.

Marla kissed his cheek, then crossed through their friends, smiling and speaking to them as she did. They all watched her leave the room, then turned as one to look at Franz, uniform sober expressions on nine faces: Rudolf and his brother Josef, Thomas, Hermann Katzberg, Isaac Fremdling, Paul Georg Seiler, and Matthaüs, Marcus and Johann Amsel. Friends old and new, all close, all part of the nucleus of musicians committed to the future of music envisioned by Marla and Franz. All now looking at him with the same unspoken question on their faces.

“Yes, Marla is doing better,” Franz responded. “No, she is obviously not back to her normal from before the miscarriage. Frau Mary and Frau Lady Beth both tell me that she’s doing well, but that it might be some time before she is fully recovered.” He withheld from them Mary’s final statement on the matter to him: “And Marla may never fully regain her joy, Franz. To lose her firstborn like that, with no warning, is devastating. It can’t help but change her. We’ll just have to hope that it doesn’t change her for the worse.” Which was now his daily prayer.

****

          Outside The Chain there was a bite of cold in the air. Simon pulled his jacket close around him with his left hand, checking to see that his bread was still tucked away.

The moon was shining full, and in the light Simon could see Hans look over at him. “So, your other arm is crippled?”

“Doesn’t work at all,” Simon said in a monotone.

“Did you hurt it as a younker, or something?”

“Born with it, I guess.” Simon swallowed hard. “Been that way as long as I can remember.”

They walked a few steps in silence, then Hans spat to one side. “Tough.”

“Yah.”

They walked a few more steps.

“Family?”

“No.”

“Tough.” Hans shook his head.

“Yah.” The taste of ashes was back in Simon’s mouth.

“Got a place?”

“Found a nook behind a chimney over in the new town. Stays warm there.”

Hans shook his head again. “Not tonight. You’re my luck; you’ll come home with me. Meet my sister.”

Simon still wasn’t sure what kind of man this Hans Metzger was. He shook his head in return. “You don’t have to do that.”

A large hand landed on the boy’s shoulder again. “I owe you, boy. You’re my luck.” The hand moved on to muss his hair. “Least I can do is give you a warm dry place to sleep tonight and food in the morning.”

Simon felt the lump of bread in his jacket. Food in the morning would mean the bread could feed him later. And he could probably run away if he had to. He knew the ins and outs of the alleys and streets and ruins better than anyone. “All right.”

“Good. Down this way.”

Hans turned down a cross street. Before long they exited the old city, crossed the Big Ditch and were in a slightly more reputable neighborhood than the depths where The Chain was sited. Simon was tired. His feet were beginning to drag. It had been a long day for him, so he was very glad when Hans turned into an alley between two buildings.

“Come on, boy.” Simon followed Hans’ broad back up a flight of narrow wooden stairs. They arrived at the top, and he waited while Hans fumbled with a key in a lock. After a few moments, Simon heard his friend sigh in satisfaction and push the door open.

 

Spheres Of Influence – Chapter 10

Spheres Of Influence – Chapter 10

Chapter 10.

          “Doctor Sandrisson!” Relgof Nov’ne Knarph strode from one of the shining metal and glass doors opening from the immense silver-and-marble appearing lobby of the Embassy of the Analytic and embraced Simon, to the human scientist’s momentary surprise. He returned the hug, however. Either they have similar gestures, or he has carefully studied ours and knows that to adopt them will make him seem closer to us.

          Not that he really needs to do that, Simon thought, stepping back and smiling. “Researcher Relgof, it is a pleasure,” he said. The Analytic was one of two factions that supported us throughout our first trip — and the only one that did so without any argument or prompting.

“As always, as always,” rejoined the tall, humanoid creature with its beard-like filter and crest of pure white feathery stuff that always looked to Simon like a sweep of white hair that seemed ready to fall over one great eye in dramatic fashion. “But no more of the formalities, my friend Simon. I am glad to see you have returned, and that in hours only after the return you have chosen to come here.”

“Thank you, Relgof,” said Simon. “Although I cannot pretend it is merely a social visit.”

“Of course — and in truth, I would be disappointed if it were! You have so much to learn, as do we, and to waste that time merely on formalities? So tell me, what brings you to the Analytic so swiftly?”

“The Sky Gates.”

Relgof inclined his head like a bird studying a nearby object. “Oh, naturally. You have a Sphere, you have your Inner and Outer Gateways, you can now use the Straits, yet where shall you then go? Immense possibility lies beyond the unknown Gates in the Sky; of course you must find them immediately.”

Simon nodded. “And it seems obvious to me that the Analytic must know the best ways to locate such Sky Gates.”

“There have been many methods developed indeed, and we know them all — or, at least, so we believe. It is always possible that someone has, or shall have, devised a new method.” Relgof’s filter-beard flip-flopped in a pensive fashion. “Yet — as I am sure you understand, Simon — this is valuable knowledge, and while I hope you recognize our prior generosity towards your faction, this is not something which may be simply given away. Even gaining access to the records of the Analytic is something usually reserved for full members of this Faction.”

He suddenly stiffened, a wading-bird spotting a possible meal. “Now, if you have come to join the Analytic –!”

Simon laughed and shook his head. “No, no, I cannot leave my friends like that — certainly not for some long time yet, anyway.”

“A shame, my friend. But then might I expect you have been given some authority and resources to negotiate, or were you hoping to impose upon my goodwill for this information?”

“The latter would certainly be preferable,” Simon said dryly, “but I think we’ve relied upon your goodwill — and that of the Analytic — quite sufficiently for now. Yes, I’m authorized to negotiate, and we’ve brought a few things I think may be worth negotiating for.” He looked sideways at Relgof. “If, of course, you are empowered to negotiate with me?”

The laugh from Relgof was a hearty one, with a faint whistling, chirping undertone that probably came from the actual sound of the Wagamia’s laugh. “The Convocation elected me Head Researcher for this period, so indeed I am so empowered, Simon.” He gestured for Simon to follow. “Let us go inside, then, for other guests,” he indicated the far doors to the outside, which had just opened to admit a pair of three-horned creatures, “have no need or right to observe what we bargain with, or for.”

The small meeting room Relgof led him to was … interesting. Until now, we’d only seen him in public areas — even when I visited before, I was only shown to obviously “general public” regions, with information which was available to any inhabitant of the Arena. Relgof’s chair had a bowl-shaped depression in the table before it, with a stream of water running through it from a channel that was cut into the table for a short distance before going somewhere inside. The water obviously drained down through one of the table supports; the room itself smelled of an ocean, with strange spicy notes to the scent that hinted of alien seas. There were other peculiar arrangements in front of other chairs, while still other chairs — such as the one Simon selected — faced flat, smooth sections of table.

“Would you like something to eat or drink, Simon?” Relgof asked.

“Yes, please — I presume you’ve seen to the safety of such things. I see you have your own already to hand… or mouth, as the case may be.”

“There are advantages to being a Researcher of standing, yes.” Relgof gestured and the wall near him opened, revealing a surprising array of bottles, vials, and packages of various sizes and colors. “Hmm… ah, here, I believe this should be satisfactory.”

Simon could see markings on the bottle, one of them a stylized human figure with lettering underneath. “Water with human-compatible flavorings. Your Laila Canning said this was quite pleasant.”

Simon took a cautious sip. Definitely flavored… something vaguely like lemon. Not my favorite taste, but certainly quite drinkable. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” They took their seats, Simon finding that it was becoming easier, with practice, to do that despite the sword on his hip. DuQuesne insists we be armed, and I can’t entirely blame him.

“Now,” Relgof said, “I already know what you want from the Analytic. What might you be willing to offer us that we do not already have?”

“That was something of an interesting question,” Simon admitted. “Of course what you want — besides one of us as a member of the Analytic — is information on Humanity. At the same time, the more people we give that to, the less valuable it becomes, so we must be cautious.”

“Naturally.”

Simon thought back over his many prior interactions with the Analytic scientist and decided to play a hunch. “But it also occurred to me, Rel, that in our conversations you have always seemed… well, enthusiastic in your interest in the specifics of people and things. That is, that an individual thing is itself of interest to you, even if you know much about that general type of thing. So I wondered… might you also be a collector? One of those who likes to gather true, authentic collectibles?”

Relgof was in the midst of filtering some delicacy from the water, but his beard went momentarily slack and the plankton dissipated into the water before he recovered and took what remained. “Hmph. Simon, you surely are one of us no matter your allegiance. I am a collector of various things, yes.”

“And as you are a great scientist, one of the best Researchers of the Analytic, I thought those things would be scientific things.” Simon reached into the bag at his side. “Something, perhaps, like this.”

On the table he placed an old, old book — one that Gabrielle had found for him once he realized what she was up to. “Let me offer you this, Relgof. Both a unique, unduplicated, original artifact of Earth… and one that reveals something that I think you will find both personally and professionally interesting.”

Relgof wiped his filter clean and leaned forward, reaching out a hand to reverently touch the book’s cover gently. “A… collection of records?”

“A book from our past — from before the era of electronic reading.”

Relgof squinted at the symbols. “Hmm. Translation for your writings has not truly begun, yet. We do not understand you enough for that, I suppose. What is this book about?”

“Do you remember our first conversation, as we traveled to Orphan’s Embassy?”

Relgof laughed. “It would be hard to forget it! My first meeting with a First Emergent — and one of them the inventor of the Sandrisson Drive.” As always, the words “Sandrisson Drive” were overlaid with dozens of other phrases and names.

Simon still felt slightly embarrassed by that being made such a big deal, but he went on. “Yes, exactly. You were very much interested in the specific research paths that took us to the invention of the drive.” He touched the book and ran his finger along the title. “So… How Science Grew is a book for adolescent children, that covers the development of scientific knowledge on our world from its pre-history all the way through roughly the early twentieth century — a few hundred years ago. It lacks much context for you; it won’t explain events or references that assume you are a human, that you are a part of a particular culture; and it gives you no idea of how our technology has advanced since that time.”

“And yet,” Relgof said, with an unmistakable longing in his pose as he touched the book again, “vastly more about your people — how they thought, how they found their way through the confusion and distractions of the real world to find the truths behind them — than anyone else has or could possibly have at this time.” He bowed. “A very strong offering – except that I cannot read it. And — as you may have discovered — mere recordings of speech made by another species are not comprehensible unless you have some knowledge of their language to begin with.”

Simon grinned. “But what if I, or another human, were to read it to you?”

“You understand the Arena’s tricks already, I see. Yes, in that case our recording devices would record what we hear, because it is being read by a conscious mind whose meaning provides the translation; we understand what we are hearing, and thus the translation will be recorded.” Relgof leaned back. “A… very good offer, Simon. I confess to being entirely impressed by your understanding of my personality as well as the Analytic’s interests. You strike to my own heart as well as that of the Analytic.” He laughed. “A true Researcher indeed! You observed, you deduced, you hypothesized, and here you have put your hypothesis to the test and it has proven well-founded.”

“Is this sufficient, then?”

“Hmm. It is certainly enough to move some distance forward on. I must consult with at least a reasonable number of the Conclave… but I believe that, at the least, we shall be able to give you access to some portion of that Analytic’s records — a relevant portion, of course, to your inquiries.”

“Thank you, Rel! When do you think –”

“This very evening I shall call for responses; I would expect… a day or two.”

“That will be fine,” Simon said, and rose. “I suppose I should let you –”

“Oh, don’t start running off now, Simon!” Relgof said. “Come, we may not be able to discuss more of your science or our secrets, but there’s plenty of gossip to catch up on since you’ve been gone — some of it might even interest you.” The glance he gave Simon sent a jolt through the white-haired scientist. It looked… mischievous?

“Really?” He sat down slowly.

“Oh, indeed. Various things about the Shadeweavers, the Vengeance, several of the other factions — oh, you have sent great turbulence through the waves, I assure you, and things are not settling out any time soon; one hears the most amazing things at times. Why,” and the gaze was now definitely on the devilish side, “I have even heard a rumor about a new human in the Arena…”

Simon let himself settle deeply into the chair. I have a feeling… I may be here a while.