The Path to Loss (Approaching Infinity Book 4)

by Chris Eisenlauer

  Twenty seconds into blackness, the close room erupted with bright light. Stoakes chastised himself for starting at the holographic screen, and forced his heart to slow its gallop.

  Witchlan hovered in the middle of the room like a ghost. He was already speaking, but Stoakes had missed the first of it.

  “Did you hear me, Mr. Stoakes?”

  “No sir, I did not,” Stoakes replied.

  “I said that we have a situation on our hands,” he said rapidly, without patience.

  “A situation, Minister?”

  “Yes. You well know that we have established certain systems to monitor for your ever-present target.”

  “Yes, Minister. And I recall you telling me that there was no target awaiting me at our next destination.”

  “And yet here we are,” Witchlan said tersely.

  Stoakes cocked his head. “Minister?”

  Witchlan sighed. “There is and was nothing wrong with the monitoring apparatus. There was no signal when we left, no signal while in transit, no signal as we approached for planetfall just prior to our recently rectified time mishap.”

  “Then we’re back in the present?” Stoakes said, interrupting.

  “Yes, yes, yes. The Vine is even now mending. Our tether to the rest of the Empire has been restored. However, now that we are here, we are receiving the signal. I would say that the signal is strong, but given its proximity, that would be untrue. All diagnostics have come back positive, but the signal is barely registering even though its source is within a five kilometer radius of the Palace.”

  A top-down map of glowing outlines replaced Witchlan’s image. Stoakes could see the Palace, the wrecked hulk of Gran Mal. Seven massive pillars were on one side of the Gran and another huge structure was on the other. From this other structure, a light waxed and waned as the specialized radar pulse from the Palace came and went.

  “As you can see,” Witchlan continued, “she is very, very close.

  “I’m not ashamed to say, Mr. Stoakes, that we are worried. We have come too far to encounter failure here, under these circumstances.”

  Stoakes had been one of the 19th Generation Generals, had been very successful at his job, and was no fool, so it wasn’t fear or mere curiosity that prompted him to speak rather than take immediate leave without having to be asked. “You’ve ruled out equipment failure, and user error as well, I assume.”

  Witchlan fairly barked his incredulity.

  Stoakes nodded and pursed his lips, and kept talking to prevent the insult from sticking. “Do you know of any agent that might have been responsible for our failing to detect the subject?”

  There was a pause. “Yes,” Witchlan said soberly. “And we must act quickly to counter it.”

  “Explain.”

  “Time, Mr. Stoakes. Time is—”

  “Please, Minister.”

  Again there was a pause. “This planet is saturated with radiation which cannot be natural and which is of an unquantifiable nature. It is like looking through murky water and has effectively masked the subject’s presence. Indeed, only her proximity is enabling us to read her even now. Beyond that, though, it is dangerous. It is breaking down the cell walls of the outer layers of Vine fiber insulating the Palace. All Shades will be particularly vulnerable while Dark, which is why you—why everyone—must hurry.”

  “Yes, Minister.” Stoakes moved to his bunk and collected the Yellow Diamond Spectacles from the cubby set within the wall behind his pillow then stepped up to the Tether Launch tank.

  “I fear that the Tether will not survive long enough to effect your return, Mr. Stoakes.”

  Stoakes snorted quietly and nodded his understanding.

  “This area seems to have the highest concentration of radiation,” Witchlan said. “If you can locate the source and eliminate it, you must do so.”

  “Yes Minister.” Stoakes pulled his long, soft collar up over his nose and stepped into the tank. He completed the settings on his wrist controller, and the tank began to revolve, out to the open air.

  “Do not fail, Mr. Stoakes. There may be nothing to return to if you do.”

  Stoakes sighed, glad to be out of earshot of Witchlan’s voice once the tank locked into place. He stared through the holographic countdown timer into a gentle storm of green light. He immediately felt a weak strain of nausea creep into his stomach where it curled up and took residence. He went Dark to ensure the tether’s synchronization and felt his stomach lurch. Besides that, he felt, for the first time while girded by the power of his Artifact, completely vulnerable, as if he were naked and his skin was covered with biting insects.

  The launch didn’t improve anything. It felt like the rush stripped away his skin, exposing every bit of the wet flesh beneath. He felt like a raw nerve blown and abraded by razor-sharp winds.

  Abruptly, he found himself passing through a small, high-set window and in a gray-walled corridor with a floor of glossy black stone. There were dim lights at intervals, but the quiet that surrounded him felt like that of late night or early morning. He put the Yellow Diamond Spectacles to his eyes and had difficulty focusing through the green radiation that permeated even here. He’d fairly mastered the lenses, he thought, but this radiation was something new, something different, something that needed to cease if they were all to survive their return to the present.

  Despite his difficulties, though, he saw that he was right. Most of the occupants of this structure—a fortress, actually—were asleep. He noted the Shades outside, most back near the Palace, all of them accounted for, along with their Grans. He could sense behind him something that hummed and seemed to breathe with life, but he couldn’t bring himself to look on it, not with the lenses. Instead, he squinted at the infinity whorl he’d learned to recognize long ago. She was in a room that faced what looked like a public square, where Gran Mal lie crippled. He could make out the pillars now, too, but they weren’t pillars at all. They were figures, machines with hearts that pumped and breathed the terrible green—

  He tore the Yellow Diamond Spectacles from his face, unconsciously returning to normal and collapsing to his hands and knees as he did so. He panted for a moment, taking stock of his mind, and hoping against hope that insanity hadn’t breached the gates of his eyes. He pushed back and fell upon his buttocks on the floor. He swallowed hard and put the glasses into a pocket. He would not use them again. Ever.

  Even as he struggled to clear his head, he was not unaware of footsteps approaching. They were heavy, accompanied by the creak of something like leather which bound either weapons or tools of metal. Stoakes felt comfortable that it was the former at this late hour and blindly swept his two-fingered Secret Sword Fist behind him. There was a guttural “urk”, followed by a hiss, then a wet pattering onto the polished floor, and finally the sound of something heavy thumping down.

  Stoakes didn’t look. He stood slowly and straightened his charcoal-colored clothing. He reoriented himself to make sure he knew where his target was, went Dark again, and proceeded towards the subject’s room. The nausea had increased. So had the raw nerve sensation. First the girl, then the. . . whatever it was. Even if it was killing him, he didn’t fear facing the source of the green radiation, he just couldn’t abide looking at it, not with the Yellow Diamond Spectacles.

  He wished Ana were waiting for him back at the Palace. But with the way he felt, he wondered if he’d actually make it back there.

  There was a ruckus outside. Given the direction from which the sound came, Stoakes was pretty sure that the giant robots, for that is indeed what they were, were active now and on the move. No matter. He had to focus on the task at hand, and that was challenge enough right now.

  He kicked off the floor and sped down the corridor, fighting the spinning in his head, and soon arriving at the door he sought. It wasn’t hermetically sealed, so he had little trouble squeezing through one of the gaps between door and frame. He passed through a simple foyer decorated with potted plants and colorful flowers into
a large chamber. The opposite wall was a thick pane of glass looking out over the square and providing an excellent view of the seven giant robots, three of which were sprinting with earthquake steps straight for this room it seemed.

  Two figures in nightgowns stood between Stoakes and the window. One of them, the one on the right, he knew, was his target. The other—the girl’s mother perhaps—didn’t matter. He hoped he didn’t have to kill her, but he wasn’t himself at the moment, and might not be able to count on his stealth to prevent detection. He crept up behind the more petite figure, making not a sound. He drew the Suicide Knife, placed the chisel point to her temple, and froze in place as Jav Holson was suddenly hovering before the window.

  Holson’s hand was outstretched and, with what appeared to be the slightest contact with his palm, the glass shattered, pouring down like a transient waterfall, some of the splintered shards hitting the floor before spilling out into the green-lit night.

  For a moment they regarded each other, neither moving. Both women had screams trapped in their throats, but the mother, if that’s what she was, noted that Holson, despite the threat he might be, was staring at something that wasn’t supposed to be in the room. The older woman turned to look, her lips parted and quivering.

  Before she could give voice to her scream, Stoakes acted. He drove the blade into the girl’s temple and his left, underhand two-fingered Secret Sword Fist into the older woman’s throat. Her eyes went wide while the younger girl’s closed softly. Holson lurched forward once, then flashed into the room. Stoakes yanked his left hand free, giving release to a jet of blood. He shook most of the blood free with snap of his wrist, and started to ease the girl down to the floor, but Holson was already upon them, taking the girl by the shoulders to support her.

  Stoakes stumbled backwards, landing on his buttocks, unintentionally this time, and rolled over reflexively to vomit blood onto the shiny black floor. His head was pounding, his vision was blurred. He felt like a giant open, suppurating sore. He had to do something about that radiation source. He had to try. He was a Shade of the Viscain Empire. He couldn’t die. Not like Isker Vays, not like Aila Schosser, not like any of the others who had died.

  He scrambled to his feet, nearly slipping on his own blood, passed back through the foyer and into the corridor, where he kicked off mightily to sail down the straightaway to begin his search for the thing that was killing him. It was crazy, but he half-hoped that Holson would follow. He had an idea that Holson’s skill set might be better suited for what needed to be done, but that wouldn’t stop him from trying on his own. Besides, at least for now, Holson wasn’t following.

  Stoakes careened into the wall then as the fortress shook and listed slightly. He had an idea that the robots had arrived and that perhaps they’d expanded on Holson’s redecorating while fishing for Holson himself. He grinned as he regained his feet and started off again. The corridor lights had all turned blood red and a klaxon sounded, filling the world with noise.

  Strangely, Stoakes found comfort in the noise. Somehow it didn’t exacerbate his condition, but submerged his discomfort and evened out the pounding in his head. Everything felt muted and far away, but it was better. He didn’t care if anyone saw him. He had but one objective now and thought he might be able to accomplish it.

  He rushed through a squad of twelve armed men, all clad in beige uniforms and running three abreast. He laughed out loud, thinking that none had even noticed the strange black wind passing between them, but four of the men at the rear clearly had. It only took one to call out to the rest. Most of the men drew their firearms and began shooting. Two of those at the rear had started to chase after the him.

  Portions of the walls around Stoakes burst apart with great showers of liquid sparks. One of the explosive shells hit his left triceps, numbing his arm instantly and making it go limp. He stopped, patted and massaged the impact point. His arm was intact, but if the shells were sensitive enough to detonate against his person while he was Dark, then he couldn’t ignore these men. One shot hurt, was temporarily debilitating, but he might not survive multiple shots, not if the radiation continued to eat away at him. He turned around and once again ran towards the men, all of whom had stopped now. He had no time for art or mercy. Carefully eyeing the barrels, he anticipated projectile trajectories, and avoided shots by watching the bright green breech flare that preceded each discharge. He was amidst the throng in less than a second and the first of them rose up separately into the air, cleaved in two at the waist by the Suicide Knife. Another’s head leapt from his shoulders. Three gun arms were sheared at the shoulder. Stoakes whirled through them, their guns now useless in such close quarters, and lost track of the manner in which he finished them.

  He started again towards his objective, staying close to the wall now, and ready to slip within, through the seams between panels. He had a general idea of where the generator, or whatever it was, was, but hadn’t been able to determine the most direct path to it. He might need to start passing through the walls anyway if he couldn’t find a way down. He was at least five floors up and needed to get to the ground floor.

  It wasn’t long before he came across two sliding doors, which opened following a terrible grating sound and disgorged another squad of twelve men. He backed through the seam in the wall opposite and let them pass the way he’d come. He nodded silent thanks for showing him to the elevator.

  None of the ninety degree angles were where they were supposed to be anymore, so the elevator doors were having difficulty closing. Stoakes ignored them, stepped to the threshold, and dropped through the two-centimeter gap that opened into the crooked shaft below.

  As he descended Stoakes felt increasingly sick, so much so that he thought he might black out. It was a struggle to remain Dark, which was unusual, but somehow he intuited that remaining Dark was expediting his worsening condition. All the while, the green light intensified in brightness and. . . and sound.

  An access ladder ran the length of the right wall of the shaft. He reached out just as the roar of the green light rose to nearly deafening, took hold of one of the rungs near the closed elevator doors, and returned to normal. Instantly he felt a wave of relief wash over him. He was still nauseated and his head still pounded, but both had subsided. The sickness was inside him and festering, but less so now, and he no longer felt like an open wound.

  He kicked the elevator doors, easily loosing them from their tracks and sending them flying into whatever corridor or foyer they opened into. He hauled himself out, landing on one of the doors, and marveled slightly at what he saw.

  Stoakes stood in an atrium, the hollow center of the fortress, which rose up to what he guessed was at least half of the building’s overall height. Directly before him was the source of the green light. It was like a giant diaphanous green gem housed in a plain, unimaginative setting. Only it wasn’t a gem, it was pure energy. Stoakes could feel it reaching the Artifact inside him, corrupting or disintegrating it bit by bit. A lush lawn spread beneath the generator. Bushes and trees with luxuriant growth surrounded it in a lazy, pastoral palisade. Stoakes shot glances in every direction to confirm that all of this was housed within the fortress. It was like a park, and if not for his nausea, the blatting alarm, and flashing lights ringing the walls, he might have found it rather pleasant. He studied the roof overhead and noted no breaks, no machinery, no way to let in natural light. He thought it might be possible to attain the kind of growth he was witnessing inside here with specialized lamps, but he was pretty sure he’d guessed the ironic truth, that the green light, deadly to him, to Viscain, was a boon to other forms of life.

  Stoakes approached the generator cautiously, padding softly upon the grass and keeping an eye out for more men in uniform. He was alone, though. Completely alone. He drew the Suicide Knife, thinking, perhaps foolishly, that he would stab through. . . something, but as he raised the blade, nearly close enough now to touch the generator, he watched the Knife melt away like running mercury, right o
ut of his grip.

  He stared at his empty hand and understood. He understood why he had been so vulnerable. He had an idea that all Shades would be affected to a different degree, but that he in particular was especially vulnerable, that Hilene Tanser, despite her usual ghostly invulnerability, might be most vulnerable of all. When Stoakes went Dark, it was, in a way, like he was wearing his Artifact inside out. This was true for many Shades, their Artifacts manifesting power as various types of armor. Even if their physiology changed, it was simply a hard expression of power. The Suicide Knife, not the actual Artifact, but the construct Stoakes used as a weapon was a hard expression of his Artifact’s power, just as the Kaiser Bones were, or Vays’s Titan Star ensemble. But Stoakes’s “armor” was soft, pliable, not designed to reflect or resist, but to accept and to yield like a tenuous liquid. His defense was, essentially, escape. What he needed to escape, however, was too subtle to register and so he suffered at what he was beginning to realize was an accelerated rate, at least while Dark.

  He stood straight, steadied himself, and held his right Secret Sword Fist before his face, focusing his concentration. He leapt back with a sweeping flourish of his right arm which gave immediate birth to a sonic boom. Glass shattered somewhere. The bushes and trees beyond the generator whooshed noticeably, raining down fresh trimmings, but the diagonal he’d cut had left the generator’s base, the glowing green sphere, and the articulated prongs housing it completely unblemished.

  Briefly Stoakes entertained the idea of using the glasses one last time to ascertain the density of the materials that made up the generator. He shook his head for no one’s benefit but his own. Never again. He supposed that the fortress surrounding the generator wasn’t the generator’s only defense.

  If they could turn the Palace Lightning Guns first on the fortress, then on the generator, they might destroy it before it destroyed them. Then he remembered the blackout. They’d built up power for nearly twenty-four hours and exhausted every last bit to return to a present without a future.