Drawn to the rare and delicate life of a Healer, he transitioned his concentration from the Provider's body to its spirit: the aura surrounding both planet and its living organisms in a protective shroud. Tuned to this natural connection between Citizen and Source felt, he allowed the beloved race to shift his spirit to mend broken bone and flesh, to nurture the health and growth of man, tree and all living creatures alike.
Last, moving from spirit to mind, he entered the Provider's hollowed core, the pipeline that fed the Source to all life. Here is where the Mystic shifts my endless energy to cultivate the telepathic network, uniting the mind and spirit of all Citizens to each other and in turn, the Provider. Steffor viewed this symbiotic relationship between Citizen and the Provider in a new light, recognizing the byproduct of the beautiful union as none other than the Deeds, the ever-evolving memory of all life experiences that foster the continual growth of the Provider.
The Deeds, to Steffor's relief, remained intact; from the first day man shifted the Source and became Citizen up to his own recent experience in the Forging Ceremony. The flow of Source, in every measurable facet, was stronger than ever. With these potential factors removed, he concluded the issue must lay with one or more of the Mystics.
His objective close at hand, Steffor jumped from one Mystic to the other, probing each communication hub for any flaws that would explain the network's recent failure. Region by region, from the cluster of Mystics residing in Razum, to the distant field Mystic living amongst the harvest Shifters, individually, they all functioned flawlessly.
Tillamund! His removal must be accounted for. Tillamund now resides within my staff; therefore, I must restore the balance.
Steffor dove deep into the Forging Tree, systematically navigating the remnant signatures of past Teutons and locating Tillamund’s, the same he sensed now residing within his staff. He gathered the compounds that created Tillamund, the Forging Tree, his Teuton Staff and himself and meshed them into a heterogeneous mixture. Once done, he ignited the concoction and in doing so, forever transformed the Forging Tree into what Citizens would come to call the Mystic Tower.
He returned to body and staff. The four Guardians stood staring up with mouths agape. He followed their gaze. Gone was the goliath tree with its layers of fractal limbs and dense canopy. In its place loomed a wooden monolith. Perfectly round, displaying the same width at the base as the top and possessed by the same fluid color and refraction traits of his staff. A proud smile creased his face as he admired his first creation.
"What have you done?" Vejax asked in a castigating whisper, his eyes still transfixed on the Mystic Tower.
"I have reestablished the Mysticnet."
Before anyone could comment further, a sudden influx of images and sounds blared from the no longer surceased Mysticnet. "Grab hold of my staff," Steffor ordered. Doing as he said without question, Steffor extended his power to each, then quickly leveraged the trinity of Mystic Tower, staff and Citizen to filter the rushing stream of data into one, comprehendible message.
The map reappeared, now displaying the location of every Mystic, denoted as pulsing blue dots. Steffor navigated from one to the other, surveying the images of groggy faces and sightless eyes, each asking the same dumfounded questions. "Is that you...what happened....the Deeds, they are still intact...what is happening!"
"What is that?" Grimlock asked, pointing at a chaotic commotion of Source located at Provider's center.
Steffor zoomed in for a closer inspection. The area in question was at a major fork in the main pipeline of Source, located near Razum City. There, inside the Trunk’s hollow core, just above Razum, like an invasive island constricting a river's flow, a brackish red blight with a virulent black core had formed. The contaminated knot of energy throbbed menacingly, expanding with every pulse, instilling the Guardians with a foreign fear.
"It is an abomination," Kilton replied. "We cannot allow it to spread."
Driven by paternal impulse, Steffor locked onto every Mystic within range of the area and, with a quick tweak of the mind, morphed the perspectives of each to create one, omnipotent view. The customized venue centered them a mile out and several hundred feet above Razum City, providing the Guardians a rare look at the immense limb.
"Kilton, sync with Traiken and the other Guardians within the city and update them on this development. Once done, do the same for the rest." With a quick nod, his old friend closed his eyes and relayed the message.
"What do we search for?" Vejax asked, understanding Steffor's recent impulse but uncertain as to what to do next.
"Any outward anomaly or sign that could be connected to this phenomenon," Steffor said, disturbed by the frantic pitch of his voice.
Steffor scanned the city along the buttress. He started with the long range of humped steppes and plateaus descending from the Trunk before the bulk of the level limb formed. He then searched the relatively level two hundred mile expanse of buttress. Framed by the thick limb and an expanse of clear blue sky, the city sparkled like a colossal crystal as rays from the morning sun sliced through the narrow gaps formed between the reticulum of tubular shaped buildings.
Structure by structure, Steffor looked for anything out of the ordinary. Each unique building was a township, a self-sufficient nerve center for thousands: living quarters, temples, artisan shops, restaurants, theaters, markets, arboretums, labs, meditation rooms, storage, healer’s quarters, and administrative offices. Uniting countless generations and extended families, all connected into an advanced society propagating peace and harmony. One by one, they all came up clear.
"Our brethren are updated and are prepared to act." Kilton reported.
His confidence refortified by the thought of an elite army ready and waiting to help, Steffor went back to what he had control—the mindful present—and soaked in the activity of the city. As the waking consciousness of Citizens and Mystic began to re-sync, there was unrest, a natural response to losing the Mysticnet, but it was not a panic.
In fact, it appeared business as usual for the productive people, moving on from the unique event and resuming their day as usual. People hustled along the plethora of stairways and elevators; groups congregated and communed on the numerous catwalks, bridges, verandas and large decks, the organic hubs that connected one township to the other. Trolley cars moved along the intricate network of vine cables spanning from one end of the city to the other, transporting goods and people.
"Look!" Martna shouted, her terrified gaze locked on the Trunk at a spot several thousand feet above the buttress.
Steffor searched the gigantic wall of wood predominating over the city for what could have caused such trepidation in his stalwart companion. His eyes then located the three, protruding black spikes. He moved in for a closer look, a few hundred feet out, altering their perspective to become level with the phenomenon.
"Are they....thorns?" Grimlock asked, puzzled. Indeed, the spikes looked more like thorns at close range. Coated by a dull shellac, the eight-to-ten feet tall thorns spread roughly ten-to-fifteen yards apart in a vertical line. The sun reflected off the sharp inside edge and hooked ends of the curved protrusions, making their mysterious appearance all the more ominous.
"They do not grow from the Trunk, instead they look to escape from it," Martna observed, noting the torn bits of bark edging each thorn.
"There is something very wrong here...." Kilton said. "We must get to the city, now!"
Steffor had formed the same conclusion, a twisted knot gripping his gut the moment they got a closer view of the strange growths. Before they could act, the thorns began to shiver and to their amazement, start to move downward in ragged, jerking motions. Seconds later, another set of thorns pierced the surface with violent force a few yards below the first set. Then another. And another.
Steffor heard the Provider scream in agony as the angry blades tore at its flesh from its insides, plowing down and across. "Those are not thorns," Kilton said with desperation, "they are claws.
" They watched helplessly, stunned by the horrifying scene, as claws and the thick appendages from which they grew, continued to tear at the Provider from the inside, stirring their deepest fears as they tried to visualize what kind of horrid creature could possibly emerge.
Claws ripped with deafening fury to create a jagged rupture a half mile across, edged by dilapidated chunks of wood and bark. They gasped in horror as the Source, tainted a black crimson, oozed from the gaping wound. Abruptly, the violent destruction stopped and the claws retreated into the dark chasm within.
The screams from thousands of terrified Citizens, previously drowned out by all the commotion, broke the companions of their trance long enough for each to exchange bewildered looks.
Kilton said, still staring at the scene with an ashen face, "It’s as the legends foretold, a truth so outrageous and terrifying that we all welcomed its denial."
"What legend do you speak of? The Deeds have never foretold of anything like this…" Vejax's accusation stopped short, cut off by a maligned sound emanating from deep within the newly formed chasm. A rumbling vibration more than sound, it swept over the buttress, causing it to violently quake and buildings to sway. The perverted dissonance grew louder as demonic hisses and savage clacks joined in its crescendo.
"Kilton speaks of a legend that precedes the Deeds," Steffor replied, his throat dry and raspy, sharing a knowing glance with Kilton. "Events that took place long ago that removed all mystery as to the origins of the Deagrons."
Before either could answer the confounded expressions, the noise paused. They reluctantly turned their attention back to the rupture in the Trunk. For what felt like an eternity, nothing happened as they lay glued to the Mystic feed. Then, like a warning beacon, the images began to blink, barely detectable at first before the broadcast became completely sporadic. The last image they received was of a creature beyond their imagination, exploding from the Provider's gut with gruesome force.
Chapter 16
"Of course!" Clortison shouted to the assembled bishops and cardinals. "It is all so clear now. The innovations, social movements, political lobbying, just one false trail after the other. It was never about power, at least not in any material sense of the word. No, it was all a ruse used to distract us from his true objective."
Thortizan probed the other apostolic board members seated around the ornate table and registered a theme of puzzled expressions and slight shrugs from the group, affirming he was not the only one struggling to decipher the cryptic speech of their ecclesiastic patriarch. "I apologize for my confusion your excellence, but I do not understand what it is you require me to do," Thortizan interjected within the brief pause, respectful of Clortison's divine authority.
Clortison, his eyes flitting from the ancient tapestry hanging on the stonewall across the room back to the men seated before him, ignored Thortizan and continued to sound out his thoughts.
"While certainly not ideal, our inevitable takeover of Alterian Enterprises was never a deterrent to his ultimate mission." Thortizan sat back at that moment and did his best to listen patiently. More intimate than most with the man's peremptory genius, he had witnessed more than once, and had come to trust the process therein, in which their living prophet received and processed visions direct from God.
As he had so often before, Clortison released his thoughts like jigsaw puzzle pieces spilled across a table, trusting his soul to connect them and reveal their purpose. Hunched in a lurid posture, his eyes often rolling back into his head, Clortison labored to give the raw revelation structure and pragmatic substance.
With an acrid loathing etched in his voice that sent a chill down Thortizan's spine, Clortison broke from his rambling trance, his zealous fervor reaching its apex. "Oh what a diabolical trap he had set for us, one we helped craft from the start. Stalling Alterian is truly the most deviant servant of the Dark One we have ever faced."
Without warning, Clortison grabbed Thortizan's hands with alarming force and penetrated his heart with his fervent gaze. "He aims to destroy our God!" he proclaimed. "Not just usurp our authority with another religion of his making, but to usher in a new social existence, one devoid of any faith." Thortizan nodded with understanding, trembling from Clortison's providential possession. "The eve of the apocalypse is upon us, the day you and the Vorenian Knights have prepared for since the death of our Savior has arrived!"
With an abrupt break in the tension, Clortison flopped back in his high-backed chair and proceeded to wipe fresh beads of sweat off his forehead and face with an embroidered handkerchief. In a composed tone, making brief eye contact with those seated around the table to confirm he still held their undivided attention, he turned back to Thortizan and elaborated on God's newly delivered prophecy.
"Your mission is simple but far from easy to accomplish. Infiltrate the main campus of Alterian Enterprises and capture Muzar Tarcones. He resides in the depths of the covert underground chamber we discovered while vetting the inconclusive data provided by Janison. If you must, take the facility by force but no matter what you do, no harm must come to Tarcones. He is the key to winning the war for either side."
*****
"Muzar Tarcones?" The lieutenant asked. "The same Muzar Tarcones that still holds every bladeball record worth having?"
"The one and only," Thortizan calmly replied
Lieutenant Wertson rubbed his chin with the palm of his hand, the perplexed look growing on his face as he studied the images projected on his telipad. "Meaning no disrespect sir, but wasn't he convicted of murder, sentenced to life in the Blacadoma Caverns over fourteen years ago, where he met his death four years later?"
"That is correct," Thortizan said, standing before the cockpit entrance, the audio to their helmets projecting his voice over the pervasive scream of jet engines. Thortizan empathized with the younger man's confusion, having recently gone through a similar thought process. He took a moment to study his lieutenant and the other fifty soldiers seated in two orderly rows on either side of the narrow cargo hold. These are the best of the best but their true value will be revealed by the end of this historic day.
"Now listen up. This will be the only briefing on our mission before reaching the drop zone in exactly thirty-one minutes. Our objective is to locate, capture and return to Vorenius one Muzar Tarcones, aka The Hammer during his illustrious career as a six-time all pro Point Tackle for the Segroit Missiles."
Thortizan paused in his narrative as a string of highlights started, showing a sample of Muzar's mind-boggling exploits on the tri-field. Most of the men that composed the special ops team seated in the jet hold were but babes or yet to be born by the time the name Muzar Tarcones became synonymous with the national sport of bladeball.
Given the aggressive and violent nature of the sport, every one of the elite soldiers grew up playing the game and were, in their own right, superior players; no group of individuals were more apt to appreciate the insane skills possessed by Muzar Tarcones. In Thortizan's opinion, their own internal tournaments, watched by only a few, select military niches—given the covert nature of the unit—were as competitive as any pro venue.
The man's entire career was one, ongoing highlight. To this date, dozens of separate fan clubs around the world debate endlessly on what plays should make the all-time top ten. Certain his men had viewed hundreds of Muzar Tarcones highlights prior to this moment, if not entire archived matches, the last play chosen for his brief was a piece of vintage footage Thortizan was confident few had seen: his one and only personal encounter with The Hammer on the tri-field.
It was his fifth and final year as a student and while none of the church academies had produced a squad worth mentioning in the national title hunt for decades, a few of the pundits were tossing Thortizan's team around as a pre-season contender. Thortizan, a seasoned player and captain of the experienced squad, had actually started to believe in the hype. I still remember the palpable expectations I had for that season. Who knew, if my play kept improving, I might
have been drafted. A minute and thirteen seconds into the match, both his high expectations and bladeball career were dashed.
Thortizan rubbed his right collarbone as the montage of highlights finally reached the rarely seen footage, secretly hopeful a few of his men would recognize him in pads and helmet, or at minimum do the math and put two and two together. He had watched the play countless times since and to this day could not think of how he would have reacted any different. From the throw, to the flip turn off the wall, to the savage impact of his block, Muzar played it perfect.
A chorus of "Ooohhhhs!" escaped from the men as they watched Muzar, flying horizontal to the ground with forearms crossed in front him, crumple a young Thortizan who was standing dumfounded in the middle of the field, mesmerized by the still curving ball.
I never saw him coming, I didn't even receive the honor of seeing that impossible shot score, he thought, admiring yet again, after the fact, how the ball completed its third and final turn, thread the extended arms of his two teammates and fly into the narrow goal. The highlight ended with Muzar timing his landing with arms extended up in triumph a split second before flashing red goal lights erupted; in the far edge of the screen, five yards away, Thortizan lay flat on his back, out cold.
Knocked out for over an over hour only to wake with three broken ribs and a right collarbone snapped in two places, Thortizan's bladeball days were effectively over after that fateful play.
I was just one of many to fall victim to the magic that man created in his amateur career and would only continue to perfect as a pro. Still, I consider myself privileged for the opportunity to have played against the best the game has ever seen.
Known Afterlife (The Provider Trilogy, Volume One) Page 22
