The Loss Queen (Approaching Infinity Book 5)

by Chris Eisenlauer

  He let the first of them reach him. Som brought his square blade down furiously, but Biggs merely met it with with the edge of his comparatively tiny knife. Som pressed and the two struggled for a moment to assert dominance before Biggs cast the larger blade away with the sweep of his knife.

  “Twenty-three?” Biggs said, thinking out loud, and then turned to address Borsa.

  Borsa’s chain seemed to multiply and elongate, coming for Biggs like a host of striking snakes. Biggs leapt back, to avoid the barrage, but one of the chains pursued him, forcing him to reach out and catch it with his left hand, to direct it past his face.

  Biggs nodded, cast the chain away. “I’ve heard of the Chain Priest. So this is where you’ve built your reputation? Superior gravity rating. What is it? Twenty-six?”

  “I’ll tell you after I’ve jellied your bones.”

  “You’re the law around here, aren’t you?” It wasn’t a question. “You, sir, have saved me the trouble of seeking you out.”

  Borsa growled and shot his chain again, and again it became chains. Biggs leapt high into the air, flipped over and landed behind Borsa, whose chains proceeded to crumble the stone seats they crashed into—along with all the spectators who’d been sitting or standing there. Blood and meat mixed with the spray of dust and gravel. Chunks of painted stone came down like morbid hailstones, scattering those who were close but unhurt.

  Biggs wanted to engage Borsa, but Som was in the way. The fat square blade lashed out, and Biggs parried it again and again. With each parry, he skidded his knife along the edge of Som’s sword, sending short bursts of air down the sword’s length to sink savage little cuts into Som’s knuckles and hand. One slash of air slipped past the bulk of this boney defense and tore a perfect line up the length of Som’s relatively soft inner forearm. Blood rose from the wound instantly, covering his lower arm and hand and fouling his grip on the sword hilt.

  Biggs cocked his head and clucked his tongue. “Truly, faster that I’d intended. But I’ll take it.”

  Som fumbled with his sword, the handle slipping in his wet hand. Biggs grabbed the blade as he had the thrown knife, anchoring it in place and now swept up with his knife. The blade itself didn’t make contact, but the whistling air went forth, cleaving Som’s right arm neatly, up through the armpit and out through the top of the shoulder. Som collapsed, gripping the stump with his left hand and slipped into shock. Biggs turned to face Borsa, and with a gesture set the square sword to a lazy spin in the air, catching the now tacky handle in his left hand. He looked from the knife to the sword, seemed to consider for a moment, then tossed each to the other hand with smooth, synchronized ease.

  Biggs whirled the knife and square sword in interweaving figure-eights as he advanced towards Borsa, fending off the countless chains that darted for him. The staccato clang of blade on link filled the arena and was punctuated with flaring spark showers. Within seconds, Biggs had entered beyond Borsa’s effective range, was about to carve him into pieces, but Borsa retrieved his chain, set it to spinning like a pinwheel to catch anything attempting to pass through like an animate spider-web. This was a momentary consideration, though. Borsa leapt high overhead, allowing the chain to lengthen incredibly, to pour down like a stream of mercury, draping over Biggs, and ultimately tangling him in its length. Still in the air, Borsa turned, regarded his opponent on the ground, and yanked suddenly on the chain. The chain cinched, closed upon the target, and ground it to bloody chunks.

  An arm, a leg, various unrecognizable pieces: these all fell from the knot of dripping, red chain. But something was not quite right. The sound of slow and deliberate—mocking—clapping came from where Som had fallen. Standing there, in Som’s absence and completely unhurt with a blade tucked under each arm, was Vansen Biggs. He retrieved his weapons now as Borsa screamed and charged forward again.

  Biggs raised both blades, flashed them in an impressive flourish, which was intricate and hard to follow. “Moonlight Barrage,” some heard him say.

  The air came alive with ghostly white disks, all zipping for Borsa. Borsa countered with his chain, striking furiously, desperately. Cuts opened up upon his arms, his legs, his torso. Still he shot his chain, spun it with tight precision, shot it again, snuffing out disks with every contact until one passed through his defense and opened a gash upon his bald head, from just above his left eye up to his crown. His chain poured to the ground, and he stood there, motionless, his eyes wide and white, his teeth clenched, blood fountaining from his head wound, running down to coat his body and saturate the rags that were his clothes.

  “Does anyone have any parting words for the Chain Priest?” Biggs cried out to the silent crowd.

  Biggs jammed the square blade into the ground, turned in a circle to regard the crowd in every direction while he waited for a response. He paused, narrowed his eyes, focusing on one man in particular, and saw himself suddenly behind the man. A sound filled the arena, like something metallic cycling back and forth, back and forth. The Biggs in the arena seats took hold of the man’s wrist, bent it back with a series of grinding pops, and aimed the barrel of the Farmington skyward. The man cried out, but couldn’t move. From behind, Biggs held the knife blade before the man, pressing the tip to just beneath his chin.

  “How can we have a dialog if you speak with a Farmington?” both Biggses said, their voices echoing surreally. He slowly pushed the blade up, through the bottom of the man’s chin. The man cried out again, but this time he spit out his tongue amidst a spray of blood. “That’s right,” Biggs said as if suddenly recalling, “I’ll do the talking.”

  Another Biggs appeared before the man who’d originally thrown the knife at him and all three Biggses said with mock surprise, “You’re still here. Let me give you this Farmington as you gave me your knife.” He pulled the trigger, the barrel flashed fire, and the knife-thrower’s head burst apart in a riot of blood and smoke. “Sorry. Much harder to catch, isn’t it?”

  Each of the three versions of Biggs held a knife in one hand and a Farmington in the other. The one down in the arena, did a slow spin, regarding the crowd once more. “You may call me the Many Priest.” As he said it, more and more Copies appeared within and throughout the crowd, until there were at least a hundred of him and the cycling sound was almost deafening. He shouted now, his many voices rising above the cacophony produced by the Copy Army, “I hope you’ll do your part to ensure a smooth transition in leadership.”

  • • •

  Months passed. Biggs enjoyed his reign over Planet 0585, but the novelty wore off before too long. Despite the traffic coming through, and the steady stream of arena participants, he recognized the limits of holding sway over such a restricted venue. He’d picked up the threads left by Borsa easily enough and had ensconced himself as de facto king almost immediately. Most of the operations were self-sustaining, requiring little supervision. This allowed him, with no real threat of consequences, to focus exclusively on the arena, which he saw as an excellent opportunity to train against a wide variety of opponents. He always made sure that he got the best match-ups, but over time the quality of F-Gene fighters—and the occasional Locsard graduates—that came through decreased. The Empire had just come away from an Artifact Competition, but most legitimate contestants wouldn’t consider testing their skills in such a place: many had families or aspirations to Imperial posts. Most of the dregs of Imperial society had already found their way here, and from what he understood, the number of fatalities in the ring had increased sharply since his arrival. No matter.

  Planet 0585 was a temporary diversion, and for that he was glad. There was little else for him to do while waiting for the Root Palace to make planetfall, so he would maintain his position until it was time to go, but he was anxious. He was anxious to test his skills against outworlders, where the spoils would amount to another planet added to the Empire. While with the Jaims, he’d had some degree of freedom to come and go, to do as he pleased, but connecting with people had always been
difficult for him. After taking Jav Holson’s place in history, things would be better. Everyone would respect him. Women would throw themselves at him, and he would let them. It didn’t bother him that he hadn’t done any of the things for which people would love him. He knew that he could have done these things and that there was much more he would do that Jav Holson hadn’t and wouldn’t have been able to. No, things were only going to get better for Vansen Biggs. He simply needed to wait for events to play out.

  10,923.020

  Planet 0585

  Unincorporated Colony Settlement

  The day the Root Palace was scheduled for planetfall, Biggs spent several hours in the bathhouse. He had his hair cut short, shorter than he could ever remember, and had new clothes brought to him. When he emerged, he was hardly recognizable, and now seemed out of place on 0585. He’d had to fight the urge to go sooner, but knew that even if the Palace somehow arrived early, his role would come later—the other Shades, Holson included—were responsible for defending the Palace from any initial attack upon planetfall. He walked back the same route he’d taken from the former Root Palace when he’d arrived, forcing calm and restraint upon himself, adopting a very slow and deliberate pace. He ignored the noise, the chaos, climbed the carved steps up the courtyard wall, to where the jump deck awaited. No one noted his passage. Some were aware of his absence from the arena grounds, but no one missed him.

  10,923.020

  Planet 1342

  Former Root Palace

  Biggs stepped down from the cargo jump deck, passed through a holographic screen that alternated between a readout of “000” and a solid rectangle of translucent red to stop and stare at his Gran and the twenty skeletons he’d left to wait for him.

  “Gran Ketz!” he shouted. “Awaken!”

  Light filled the otherwise vacant eye sockets, and the Gran stirred to life.

  He killed the spotlights that had shone for so long, had Gran Ketz and his modest company of soldiers occupy the cargo deck, took a position before the deck, folded his arms, and proceeded to wait for the blinking holographic screen to go from red to green.

  Forty-two hours later, before his unbroken gaze, the screen changed. The countdown was now replaced by a solid green block then red, green, red, green. Biggs cocked his head and grinned. Soon. So very soon.

  10,923.023.1800

  Planet 1612 (Loss)

  4th Perimeter (Barcos Basin)

  Just outside Jav’s bunker, Biggs stood atop Gran Ketz’s head. Biggs was Dark. Gran Ketz was coiled, but its wings were spread, ready to beat for immediate flight. The twenty skeleton soldiers were lined up ahead of them. They all faced west. Biggs wasn’t worried about their lack of numbers. The only known native force that might still be operational was the Heavy Land Division. Despite his feelings for Jav Holson, Biggs was pretty sure that Holson had cut that army down or eliminated it entirely. If he was wrong, he could easily multiply his troops using AI. He could also invoke the Ivory Scythe’s power to completely destroy the flesh of any number of enemy troops to add to his own.

  His mission was simple. The Emperor had sent him on ahead to Holson’s bunker. No one else knew he was there—they couldn’t, not yet. He was to wait two days, to see if Holson returned, to engage him if he did, or to advance and finish what Holson had started if he’d failed. Once Biggs captured the Loss Tower, he was to return to the bunker, communicate his victory to the Emperor, and steps would be taken to blur the lines between him and the memory of Jav Holson. He’d been given permission to summon the aid of the other generals and the Titan Squad, but only after confirming Holson’s death. This suited him fine. In fact, he had no intention of calling for aid even after Holson was gone. If somehow Holson had been defeated by the Heavy Land Division and came limping back, he would dispatch him, of course, and proceed to the Loss Tower alone. He was confident that he could do anything Holson couldn’t.

  10,923.024.0200

  Planet 1612 (Loss)

  4th Perimeter (Barcos Basin)

  Biggs didn’t have to wait two days. The sound of the skeleton army’s march preceded them by an hour. When they first came into view, Biggs was able to confirm that Holson led them from atop Gran Mid. At first sight, Biggs thought nothing of the force Holson led, but as the mist shifted with the occasional brisk winds that had picked up over the last few hours, he could see that Holson had a full complement which affected Biggs in a way he hadn’t expected. Twenty thousand in reality was a great deal more than he’d thought. It didn’t matter, though. Biggs’s individual troops were stronger than Holson’s. Even if the Ivory Scythe only granted him control over one hundred, his ability to multiply them by another hundred would easily bend the battle his way. And soldiers weren’t going to win this fight. Biggs was.

  • • •

  Jav felt good—strange, but good—as he rode atop Gran Mid, back towards the 4th Perimeter bunker. The Loss Queen—Champagne, whose name he was sure he knew but not in connection with her—had healed his wounds, and given him a way to contact her. He examined the small, egg-shaped stone, rolling it between his fingers.

  “You may use this,” she’d said, “to contact me once. I’m afraid that I am unable to leave the Tower so will only be able to offer you the comfort of encouraging words, but sometimes, that is enough.”

  Besides healing him, she had laid hands upon the Kaiser Bones, freeing them from silence and imparting something more that he didn’t quite understand. He thought about this now as he tucked the communications device behind the Bones that encircled his waist.

  “You will know when the time comes, Jav Holson, what she has done for us. For you,” the Voice said.

  “So none of my thoughts are my own?” Jav said.

  “Not since our union.”

  Jav nodded. “We’re almost there.”

  “There appears to be someone waiting for you.”

  Jav used AI to focus on what was unquestionably a Shade upon a Gran. “Who is that?” The more he looked, the more his mind worked. “He looks like. . .”

  “Your replacement,” the Bones said. “Have you not noticed the shift in behavior towards you lately?”

  Jav thought for a moment. Certainly he’d observed what might be considered odd behavior, unrealistic expectations, even being snubbed by Witchlan. Before it hadn’t mattered to him. His existence had been black and white, action and reaction within the framework established over the last twenty years or so. Nuances hadn’t been entirely lost on him, but they figured little if at all into any final decisions for action. Now things were different. Everything was vibrant color and rich emotion. Every little thing meant something and contributed to his understanding of each ticking second.

  “You’re right,” he said finally. “But how could they have known?”

  “You have been manipulated, Jav Holson. From your introduction into the Empire, until you woke up in the Loss Queen’s arms. There is no way for us to know all of the ways in which you’ve been manipulated, but the realization alone would be enough for any to rebel. This was anticipated, and obviously, preparations have been made.”

  “So be it,” Jav said. “Gran Mid. Prime the Fire Circuit for consecutive bursts. Rommel, I may have need of you.”

  Rommel collapsed into a pile of bones, which his skeleton fellows continued past, while in Jav’s hand a superior pole sword took shape.

  The winged Gran arched its wings and gave them a mighty beat, launching itself into the air. The twenty skeletons—they had crescents on their foreheads, Jav saw—became two thousand. Jav instantly sensed AI at work. The skeletons began marching forward, following on the ground the Gran’s passage through the air.

  “Greetings, Jav Holson,” the Shade atop the flying Gran hailed. “I am Vansen Biggs, here to facilitate your early retirement. Gran Ketz—”

  But Jav finished Biggs’s sentence before Biggs could, “Fire!”

  Even as Gran Mid reared to belch its flames, Jav hurled Rommel, using AI to make it unstoppa
ble. The pole sword pierced Gran Kets’z brow and Gran Mid’s Fire was caught in the missile’s wake, spiraling into an ethereal drill bit, and drawn through the breached skull plate. The volume of funneling flame seemed to be extinguished as it made contact, but the Gran shone, the air about it shimmered, and each bone comprising Gran Ketz exploded, sending a rain of what looked like gobs of white hot, molten plastic to pepper Biggs’s troops.

  Biggs was surprised by the attack, but equipped to recover from it. Great skeletal wings erupted from his back, flexed powerfully to push him up and away from the chaos his lost Gran had become.

  Jav suddenly sensed a presence behind him, turned to deliver a spinning backhanded claw which caught the Biggs there in the face and snuffed him out along with the metallic cycling sound that had accompanied him. The Biggs in the air flinched as if recovering from a light blow and rubbed the boney cheek of his bird skull helmet.

  “Do not presume to outfight me with AI, Vansen Biggs, whoever you are,” Jav said. “I’m not particularly fond of the Copy Twin technique, but I certainly recognize it.”

  “Obviously,” Biggs said. “But that won’t save you.”

  “Save me? If we’re keeping score, things don’t look very good for you. The only one I know who teaches the Copy Twin is Cov Merasec, or perhaps one of his former students. Have you got anything more than the Twin and Wind Fission?”

  Biggs snorted and filled the air with Copies of himself and the signature noise they produced. “It may feel like the Twin to you,” every Biggs said, “but my technique is an improvement on the original. Mine is the Copy Army.”