IT’S SIMPLE, REALLY. . .
Jav Holson has a time bomb ticking away inside him with one chance to survive: learn the martial art known as the Eighteen Heavenly Claws and win the Artifact Competition. The prize will make him an elite Shade of the Viscain Empire and virtually immortal. There’s just one catch: learning the Eighteen Heavenly Claws.
Jav is willing and able, but nobody knows when the time bomb will go off. Undeterred, he practices long past dark every day, enduring heavy gravity training and the not-so-petty abuse of other students. His only distraction is carving stone flowers for the girl he inadvertently put into a coma, and for Mai, who takes over his training.
Even as Jav begins to excel, developing a number of unique techniques based on the advanced Approaching Infinity principles, one of his teachers tries to kill him in a fit of prideful anger. Another tries to seduce him, which would be all well and good if Jav hadn’t already fallen for Mai.
His every success has a cost and every step along the tightrope path is a hazard, but the competition still lies ahead. For all the challenges his training poses, Jav must still cross fists with the top fighters of the Viscain Empire and risk a double—permanent—loss to ensure his preservation.
APPROACHING INFINITY: BOOK 1
THE ARTIFACT COMPETITION
by Chris Eisenlauer
THE ARTIFACT COMPETITION
Published in the United States
by Chris Eisenlauer for Kindle.
Copyright © 2011 by Chris Eisenlauer.
All rights reserved.
First published July, 2011.
Cover by Chris Seaman.
for Paul Langer, wherever you are
for Will Weaver, still my best friend
and for Ai most of all
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
1. STARTING POINT
2. GETTING STRONGER
3. APPROACHING INFINITY
4. PRELIMINARY MATCH
5. IMPRESSIVE ESCAPE
6. FINAL COMPETITION
SHADE DOSSIERS
AFTERWORD
PROLOGUE
The Viscain Empire. More than 10,000 years ago, a voracious god born of the Viscain Tree set out from his own desiccated world to feed upon the bounty of the universe. He called himself Samhain and wherever he went his super-powered emissaries—Shades—laid waste to any resistance a civilization could muster. In this manner, thousands of worlds have been stolen, each connected by the Viscain Tree, now a massive vine and umbilical tether that yanks planets from their orbits and robs suns of their light. To trace the Vine back to its source is to traverse a vein of rot irrevocably rooted in the heart in the universe, all the way back to the dead planet of Samhain’s origin. As miracles are the stuff of gods, physical laws are easily bent or broken where Samhain has left his mark.
Whenever the Vine makes planetfall, a new Root Palace is born and it is from this palace that the Viscain Empire conducts its business. The Vine has most recently landed and taken root on a red planet, fourth in line from its sun. The fantastic science of this already dying world was not enough to save it. Though the toxins introduced into the thin atmosphere by the Vine would have eventually decimated the population, the three generals of the Viscain Empire led their armies swiftly, sweeping over the planet, first crippling the airborne battleships and then eradicating the ground forces. The indigenous people fought to the last, leaving no survivors.
In the fighting here and upon the previous world, a recent recipient of one of the Emperor’s Artifacts distinguished himself through his pure and unrelenting savagery. The coarse talent within that savagery was duly acknowledged and would not be allowed to go to waste. . .
1. STARTING POINT
10683.050
A permanent sunset decorated this world. Permanent in the sense that the planet’s orientation to the sun would never again change, but fleeting because the sun was in fact dying. The red sky collected smoke in streams from countless sources. Wrecked hulks of blistered and hollowed out warships littered the rocky surface of the planet, as did the mirrored shells of the domed cities, all of them cracked open like broken eggs. It was quiet now. The fighting was over and one more world had been added to the chain.
The Vine hung from the sky, disappearing into the heights and terminating into the sprawling, twisted Root Palace upon the surface. On planetfall, the Palace shot a spiderweb network of actual roots into and throughout the planet, a parasitic circulatory system that pumped the world dry of its resources and of its very life. The Palace was almost ten square kilometers at its base and woody ridges reached around like greedy arms from either side, forming a gated courtyard that again doubled its overall size. Within those encircling walls, a ceremony of sorts was about to begin.
In the middle of the courtyard stood Tia Winn’s Gran Kohm, a ten-story fortress, angular and gleaming. To one side of this was Mefis Abanastar’s Gran Zaim, a huge coiled worm, purple and metallic, breathing with unnatural life. On the other side was Wheeler Barson’s Gran Kwes, an equally large, jet-black horse made up of innumerable thirty-centimeter cubes. These were the war machines of the Viscain Empire and atop each, stood one of the Empire’s three 20th Generation Generals.
Behind the Grans were the top ranks of the three armies. They were all Gene Soldiers except for Wheeler Barson’s ground troop coordinators: Tia Winn’s hot-tempered reverse harpies, with the heads of savage, hook-beaked birds, and inordinately sensual female bodies; Mefis Abanastar’s amphibious fish men, with their bulbous yellow eyes, clawed hands, and jagged dorsal spines; and Barson’s coordinators, humans with low-level psychic abilities, armored and settled into their personal walking tanks so that they resembled black, mechanized centaurs.
Before the military array were rows and rows of technicians, medical personnel, court officials, and even some retirees called back especially to attend this ceremony.
At the head of the courtyard, fifty meters above the main gates into the Root Palace proper, was an elaborate outgrowth of what looked like great lengths of gnarled driftwood. These were ornately woven into a half-enclosed dais ten meters across. Set within that cradle, the blurry, three-dimensional image of a giant, inhuman face resolved finally into a plump, sallow gourd, dark with shadow along its vertical ridges and exuding the suggestion of menace. This was Samhain, the Viscain Emperor, and furnace flames shone through his carved features. His true size was impossible to determine and his eyes and mouth, though seemingly fixed, were subtly different each time you looked at them.
On the dais, below the Emperor’s image and to its right, stood Witchlan, the Minister of Affairs. Witchlan was two meters tall, draped in a dusky robe that was adorned with luxuriant green, moss-like trim. His head was a fibrous cone and at its peak was a long curled antenna that more than passingly resembled a stem. His overall appearance brought to mind a large bell. Witchlan raised two long sinewy arms from beneath his robe, calling for silence from the crowd. After a moment, the murmur died down and the Emperor spoke.
Samhain’s voice was a low, booming whisper that forced down the flames within him and created a hissing thunder. In spite of this noise, once he’d uttered them, his words were always perfectly clear and understood by all.
“Lor Kalkin. Step forward,” the image of Samhain commanded.
A man with slicked-back, black hair in a smart gray uniform, who looked perhaps twenty-five years old, moved from the rows arranged before the three Grans. At twenty paces beyond the last row, he stopped, knelt down on one knee and bowed his head.
“Yes, Lord Emperor,” Lor Kalkin said, his voice st
rong and unwavering.
Samhain’s voice came again like rolling surf, slow and measured, “Your original team has been reduced to you alone. But, as you know, during the fighting on the previous planet, number 1397, I awarded the Ritual Mask with its Mikai Curse to supplement the hard-hit Plague Squad. What no one knows, however, is that the Ritual Mask was never meant to be a permanent addition to the ranks of the Viscain Empire. While it has exceeded my expectations, it was not designed to last. I fully expected our otherwise nameless man, Mikaidaa, to fall during the conflict on 1397, to of course be of considerable use, but ultimately to fail.” A wheezing snicker made Samhain’s flames dance. “Now he’s proven himself in two campaigns. As the Ritual Mask will ultimately fail, steps will be taken to provide Mikaidaa with the chance to win a second, permanent Artifact.”
Samhain now addressed all those arrayed before him. “My Shades, you who hold Artifacts, you who are like my very children, it has been two hundred and sixty-three years since we have had a single fatality. On Planet 1397 we had two. I have asked some of you who once served this Viscain Empire and who are now living on your pensions to serve once more, to take on students if you haven’t already, or to push your existing students harder to have them ready for a competition to be held in five years. Some of you have already come forward and registered your students. Those of you who have not but are prepared to do so please waste no time.
“Specialist Kalkin,” the Emperor said. “You are a graduate of the Locsard Psychic Academy. Though he has some facility, your psychic disciplines will do Mikaidaa little good.”
“Yes, Lord Emperor,” Kalkin said without raising his head.
Samhain’s eyes scanned the retirees, fixing on one. “Laedra Hol. Step forward.”
From one of the rows, a woman emerged, came forward, and knelt down beside Kalkin. She was dressed in form-fitting black so glossy that it gave off a blue sheen. About her shoulders was a wide, feathered ruff of the same color. She wore a helmet the shape of an eagle’s head. The beak was formed of smoked glass and a four-centimeter, two-tined fork rose from its brow. “Yes, Lord Emperor,” she said in a low, almost hoarse voice.
A fine layer of sweat suddenly coated Kalkin’s down-turned face. Kneeling next to him was one of his predecessors, the legendary Laedra Hol. His eyes darted in her direction, but behind the smoked glass, her face was impossible to see.
“Former Specialist Hol,” Samhain said, “Mikaidaa’s F-Gene is unusual. It might even be described as unstable. He requires training. Though you already have a number of students, I believe you are ideally suited to take charge of that training. I believe he will respond well to your regimen and satisfy your requirements. He may even prove to be a challenge.” The hint of a sharp grin flickering with firelight was suddenly evident.
Laedra Hol bowed more deeply and said, “Yes, Lord Emperor.”
“All of you, this is the time to demonstrate your skills, to revel in your excellence, and to perpetuate the glory of the Viscain Empire. A preliminary competition to determine qualified participants will be held three years from today. The final competition will be held two years from that date. Two Artifacts will be awarded based on the results of that competition. An additional Artifact will be awarded to the top student of the Locsard Psychic Academy. Until then we remain incomplete and we mustn’t relax our hold on the future.”
Samhain turned his gaze back to Kalkin. “Specialist Kalkin, you will remain in charge of the Plague Squad. Mikaidaa is ultimately your responsibility. But, as we have encountered the last of the sentient life in this system, we can all take a temporary step back from active martial pursuits. Our current focus is on vigilance and training. For now, Specialist Kalkin, your role will be supervisory. With regard to your request, in light of your. . . personal loss, you are hereby allowed temporary leave contingent upon emergency and upon a schedule to be developed jointly by former Specialist Hol and yourself.”
“Yes, Lord Emperor.”
“All of you have worked hard. Though we gained vital information there, Planet 1397 put uncommon strain upon us all. There will be time again for warfare before too long. Today we rest, recuperate, and indulge. That is all.”
As the Emperor’s words faded, so did his image. From openings all along the enclosing walls, food was brought out and musicians emerged. A carnival atmosphere suddenly filled the expansive courtyard.
Lor Kalkin stood and sighed heavily, running his hands through his hair. Taking her helmet off, Laedra Hol rose beside him. Her wavy auburn hair was fairly short and parted carelessly to one side. She looked like she might be thirty-five years old, but that would have been when she received her Artifact, the Charging Fork, more than five hundred years ago.
“Mr. Kalkin, it’s a bit late, but I’m very sorry for your loss,” Hol said, her voice disarmingly—almost seductively—husky.
“You mean of my teammates?”
“It’s a shame about Karlan Farsal, but there was obviously more to it than that. I don’t believe personal relationships of the sort you and Miss Orlo were engaged in have any place in our line of work. Being unable to control your emotions is dangerous. For you, your teammates, anyone who might be counting on you—”
His dead stare prevented Hol from continuing for a moment.
Her expression, stoic at first, quickly lightened until she was smiling warmly. “That sounded judgmental, didn’t it. I’m sorry, let me start again. Emotions are our responsibility, but whom we fall for is out of our hands. Quite frankly, I envy you that you found someone you could feel such passion for, who, by all accounts, felt that same passion for you, and that the two of you could enjoy each other’s company as long as you did. We should all be so lucky.”
“Thank you,” Kalkin said hesitantly, his brow furrowed in confusion. “You appear to be quite well informed.”
She raised a knuckle to her lips and cleared her throat in an attempt to both call attention to and cover her embarrassment. “I have friends at Locsard,” she said.
“Ah, the Academy,” Kalkin said, nodding. “Well, anyway, thanks. I think that’s one of the nicest things anyone’s said so far. We tried so hard not to let it become what it did.
“It seems—and maybe rightly so—that there’s more concern for our diminished numbers than for either of their deaths. Farsal’s reputation is intact, but there’s been very little sympathy for Kass.” Kalkin glanced unconsciously over his shoulder towards the Grans looming behind them. “I guess I shouldn’t expect any, but Kass deserves better. Our relationship didn’t get her killed.”
“Someone’s suggesting it did?”
Kalkin shrugged.
“Well, maybe they’re like me, jealous of what you had, and just not very good at expressing it.”
“Maybe. Anyway, like I said, thanks. And thank you for Mikaidaa. As things stand, we don’t make much of a team. He’s very hard to control once he gets started. He’s got an above-average RMP but no psionic abilities so there’s really nothing I can do for him.”
“Don’t worry,” she said, smiling. “I saw the video on him. Though the name’s changed, the Squad is in part my legacy. I’m confident I’ll be able to help maintain its integrity. But, uh, where is he? All this,” she made a gesture to indicate all that was going on around them, “is for his benefit, right?”
“Yes. He got a little over-excited during the fighting here. Barson had to step in and Mikaidaa got a little too close to his fist.”
Hol’s eyes narrowed slightly. “His Nine Order miracle, huh?”
Kalkin merely smiled. “He should be up and about in a few days.”
10683.051
VEAD Official Notice
From: Silowan Haspel, Director, Astrophysics Division
RE: Spatial Anomalies
The existence of a number of recently formed spatial anomalies throughout the current system, 281, has been confirmed. Using key measurements, a mean growth rate has been determined, indicating a creation date that falls with
in the campaign for Planet 1397. Due to the intensity of the conflict on Planet 1397 along with these corroborative measurements, it is tentatively assumed that these anomalies resulted, directly or indirectly, from that conflict.
We are currently investigating the nature and extent of the anomalies. Initial findings show them to be a disorganized series of wormholes, some appearing reasonably stable, some in a state of constant flux. Use of the wormholes as a secondary means of expedient transport is undergoing consideration. However, the number of wormholes and the inability to accurately determine their exit points remain problematic. Several probes have been launched in an effort to map those closest to Planet 1398, but this represents a small fraction of an increasingly prohibitive figure.
Of greater concern is the potential interplay between these wormholes and the fold zones resulting from the Vine’s Stitch Drive. Overlap of these two phenomena could prove disruptive to the running of various colony planets and to the Empire in general.
683 wormholes have been cataloged so far, but this represents perhaps 20% of those that can be visually confirmed. There are most definitely more and the possibility exists that they are spread beyond the confines of System 281. If anyone should encounter an unmapped wormhole, do not undertake to investigate it, but report it to the Astrophysics Division immediately.
Updates to follow.
10683.055
Back along the length of the Vine, on planet 1287, Laedra Hol made her home. As a retiree, she was provided with whatever was necessary to maintain a comfortable existence. All retirees could take their pick from the myriad worlds conquered by the Viscain Empire. A combination of science and Samhain’s will kept the chosen planets habitable and self-sufficient, though, in most cases, hardly inviting. The former Triangle Squad leader had a villa and a staff to run it. A small body of water had been re-introduced, complete with wave generators, and the villa sat on its shore. A dim artificial sun kept the temperature a constant twenty-two degrees centigrade, but this could be adjusted up or down to simulate seasonal change. By design, the sun could never produce more than the amber glow of sunset. As a result, for twelve hours each day the villa and its glittering sea were treated to beautiful twilight. The remainder of each day was cast in total darkness.
The Artifact Competition (Approaching Infinity Book 1) Page 1
