The Blood Solution (Approaching Infinity Book 3)
Page 1
EVER ONWARD. . .
With the Gun Golems and their god defeated, the Empire proceeds on its quest for The Place with Many Doors. On Sarsa, Jav Holson enlists the aid of Raus Kapler, and together they set out to subdue what little resistance the rest of the planet has to offer. That proves to be more than anticipated when Jav finds himself abandoned by the Kaiser Bones and neither he nor Raus are able to raise their armies of the dead. On Zahl, another outsider, this time a cousin of sorts to the Emperor, joins the ranks of the Shades to help bolster their numbers along with Blue Squad, called out of retirement until new Grans—the Empire’s giant mobile weapons—can be completed.
The Place with Many Doors still lies far ahead, but the Three Worlds await and will prove to be the Empire’s greatest challenge when Garlin Braams exercises the Blood Solution, a plan more than 600 years in the making to meet and turn back the Viscain invasion. In their still-weakened state, can the Empire survive an encounter with the concerted might of three planets long-prepared for their coming and armed with the Entitlement of God?
APPROACHING INFINITY: BOOK 3
THE BLOOD SOLUTION
by Chris Eisenlauer
THE BLOOD SOLUTION
Published in the United States
by Chris Eisenlauer for Kindle.
Copyright © 2012 by Chris Eisenlauer.
All rights reserved.
First published December, 2012.
Cover by Chris Seaman.
for Faye
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I want to thank Joshua Davey for all his time and patience and for being a good friend. Thanks also to Sheena and Sheronita, both for your goodwill and your interest.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
1. THE RED TIGER
2. THE ISOLATED PRINCE
3. THE WOODEN MAN
4. THE SKELETON GENERAL
5. THE FRACTURED BUTTERFLY
6. SNAKE & CRANE
7. THE CORPSE GENERAL
8. ALL & NOTHING
9. THE GHOST KILLER
10. A LOST ECHO
11. THE LAST PARDINE
12. THE FIRE KING
13. ENTER BLUE SQUAD
14. THE PUPPET GENERAL
15. MOVING THROUGH TIME
16. YOUTH & CONSEQUENCES
17. THE THREE WORLDS
18. ON DRY LAND & WATER
19. THE BLOOD FRAME
20. MII KAISER
21. THE 21ST GENERATION
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, countless 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 of 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.
But the Empire has suffered more in the last year than it has in the entirety of its history. The Gun Golems and their god, Bahahm, ran rampant, like an unchecked disease, through the Root Palace, taking a heavy toll of lives and crippling the Empire’s massive mobile weapons, the Grans. The Emperor is not so easily deterred, though. Still countless years and planets away, The Place with Many Doors awaits, and the Empire moves on.
Now, as the Vine approaches Sarsa, with but a fraction of its normal military strength, the Emperor has sent Jav Holson ahead to establish ties with Raus Kapler and ensure the Vine’s safe landing. Kapler, the only power of note upon Sarsa, has bargained in good faith and sworn fealty to the Empire, so taking the planet should be simple. The systems beyond, however, may prove otherwise.
1. THE RED TIGER
Year of the Church 487
(10,094)
The King of Hearts
He fairly starts
And darkness, darkness fades
The King of Hearts
He plays his part
And gone the King of Spades
-Children’s Rhyme, First Recorded Appearance
Year of the Church 1079
(10,686.127)
The din of the fans, numbering in the tens of thousands from all of the Three Worlds, was deafening and signaled the arrival of the fighters. Garlin Braams, escorted by Raally his chief handler, climbed onto the hexagonal ring, pulling himself up by the top chain. His bronze skin, already beaded with sweat from his warm-up, gleamed in the brilliant arena lights while his short red hair seemed to glow in its contrast to his dusky skin. He scanned the crowd and smirked—another full house. Raally clapped the fat bands of smooth steel around Braams’s wrists, then another pair about his ankles. These, besides his signature red trunks, were Braams’s only adornment. He turned suddenly as his opponent entered the ring opposite them.
Karrs Kromma was in his mid thirties, was perhaps ten years older than Braams, and looked hard, weatherbeaten. He was clad in ash-gray trunks, and like Braams, would wear nothing else besides those and the steel bands about his wrists and ankles. He gave Braams a nod that was one part respect and two parts incredulity. It seemed that despite Braams’s reputation and his Three-Worlds Championship title, no one who fought on the circuit believed what he could do until after they’d experienced it firsthand. Today Kromma would expose the myth or be forced to believe in it himself.
“Many have come before you, with more experience and more right to it,” Kromma called out over the crowd noise. “The title doesn’t belong to you, Braams.”
“That’s what Bask Sosa says. Does he know you’re here, sneaking past him and his title, going for the Three-Worlds?” Braams called back.
Kromma snorted.
Braams shrugged and walked casually to the center of the ring, awaiting Kromma to meet him there. Kromma approached and they each extended both fists, touching knuckles.
They backed off, Kromma grinning arrogantly, Braams shaking his head.
The announcer’s voice boomed through the arena as they reached their respective corners. “Ladies and Gentlemen, the event you’ve been waiting for is about to commence. Please be patient as the ring is made secure.”
Great coils of copper rose up from around the ring while smaller but more numerous coils descended from the vaulted ceiling. Power cycled up through them and the area about the ring began to shimmer. Static rolling throughout the shimmer, which formed a globe now, gave the surreal impression that those upon the ring were not really there at all. As the static subsided, the image seen through the globe focused and magnified, making the fighters plain and easily seen by all in the arena, no matter how far back their seats were.
Again the announcer’s voice came. “And now, Iss’s own Sovros Arena presents the Three-Worlds Championship bout. Two Initiates of the Greater Secrets will engage in death-defying combat. Only one will walk away as Three-Worlds Champion. Will it be Garlin Braams, the Red Tiger and current title holder? Or the challenger, Karrs Kromma, the Ash Wolf, Twelve-Cities Champion of Voskos. We shall find out now! Fighters. . . Begin!”
Once again Braams walked casually out to the middle of the ring. “Karrs Kromma, out of respect to you and your experience, I would have you show me your mastery of fire. Out of this respect, I will not use any fire of my own.”
Kromma snorted a second time. “You do what you have to, Braams. I won’t hold back.”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way. Here I am. Come get me.”
Kromma sneered and responded to the taunt, launching himself forward, with his fingers bent so that his knuckles, held tightly together, jutted to form a sharp striking surface. Braams knew that many had fallen to Kromma’s wolf fist, but he didn’t fear for himself in the slightest.
Kromma’s sleek, sharp fists hissed by Braams, who appeared to simply lean away, out of their crisscrossing paths. Finally, Braams stepped back in response to Kromma’s continued advance, but an enigmatic smile—a smile maddening to Kromma—suffused his face. He evaded Kromma’s onslaughts, bending, dodging, only occasionally raising a hand to aid Kromma’s blows on their way past him.
“Is this how you win your fights, Garlin Braams?” Kromma shouted. “You bore your opponents to death?”
“My fights are a matter of public record. There are no secrets on the circuit. How can there be? You are Entitled, are you not? Come on. Beat me.”
Kromma roared and called forth his Halo. A ring of smoke flecked with sparks and pregnant with real fire rose up from his shoulders to encircle his head. He moved his wolf’s fists in what Braams knew was a prescribed pattern known only to a very few. When his knuckle fists came now, they were followed by small eruptions of soot. Braams also knew that despite the lack of fireworks, Kromma was burning exceedingly hot. In the world of fire, of which Braams was a part, there were three levels of note. The first, was accomplished by simple combustion and was characterized by flashes and explosions. All well and good, especially for a show on the circuit, but there was little behind the punctuated bursts. Next up from that and harder to accomplish—and harder still, to maintain—was what Kromma was displaying now. His fists were so hot, that they burned the dust and the very air. It was as messy as it was deadly. Though he would not vocalize it here in the ring, Braams did respect Kromma. He’d heard that Kromma had even been able to attain the third level, creating and directing short-lived currents of liquid fire with his fists. Braams hoped that he would see this today; he hoped to be the prod that enabled Kromma to produce fire of that order.
With his Halo up, Kromma’s speed and power both increased. His fists were a blur and now Braams was actively engaged, blocking as frequently now as he was dodging, but he’d yet to adopt an offense of any sort.
“Raise your Halo!” Kromma cried.
“Unnecessary,” Braams replied calmly.
“Fight me!”
“Very well.” Braams stopped his retreat suddenly, countered each of Kromma’s punches with arms like iron bars, and struck.
Kromma had gotten his wish and instantly regretted it. He felt one last strike caught by Braams’s left hand, drawing his arm down and pulling him off balance momentarily, which was enough as Braams’s right hand came out suddenly with speed Kromma couldn’t believe. Everything stopped and all his forward momentum was reversed in an instant. The arena spun and a red spiral of blood erupted before his eyes. His face throbbed even as he skidded back down to the ring upon his back. He curled up to see Braams still in the tiger salute position, in front stance with his left arm crossed low before his body, his right arm still extended, the fingers of both hands bent into rigid claws. Kromma had fallen prey to the most rudimentary technique in the tiger’s repertoire.
The crowd went wild at this display. The raising of a Halo was spectacle enough, but what Braams had just done—without raising his own Halo—was unheard of.
Braams relaxed, stood straight, allowed Kromma a few seconds to recover.
Kromma wiped the blood from his split lip and broken nose as he rose to his feet. He sucked air in furiously and his Halo blazed, the smoke dissipating to reveal a livid ribbon of molten fire. He crossed his fists and proceeded to trace intricate patterns through the air with them until finally driving both fists upwards. There was a bass thump as his hands seemed to strike something physical and fire, just like that which now composed his Halo, roared out in fountain, streaming for the arena ceiling. Before the fire could reach that high, though, it hit the top of the electromagnetic globe, which was specifically designed to contain such energies, and spread out along its inner contour, raining back down upon the ring severally.
Braams stepped out of the way of one such firefall and grinned. This is what he’d hoped for. It was a beautiful show, but it wouldn’t win Kromma the match, even if it was just the next step in his escalation.
Once again Kromma launched himself towards Braams, his tight, narrow fists, whipping up an intaglio of fire along the way.
Braams could no longer afford to treat Kromma casually. He ducked under a rush of fire, avoided a sweeping fist, blocked another, then another. He followed up now with his tiger’s claws. Though his fingers were outstretched, poised and implacable, this was a friendly fight, so his palms would be his only real weapons today. They would suffice. His palm strikes landed unerringly in series up the length of Kromma’s torso, upsetting his momentum.
Kromma staggered back, renewed his efforts. Braams stepped forward and lower than expected, close enough to to whisper to Kromma, “It’s over,” parried an incoming blow and struck with a rising palm up under Kromma’s chin.
Kromma’s eyes went wide with shock and true understanding as he rose up at an angle, following the trajectory set by Braams’s blow, out of the ring until his body began to pass through the electromagnetic globe. His back phased through easily enough, but as his wrists and ankles made contact with the energy sphere, his progress stopped immediately. For a moment he was suspended there until he went limp and fell back down to the ring, unconscious.
Again the crowd went wild, their shouts and cheers louder even than before.
Garlin Braams had won again. He stood in the center of the ring with his arms raised, turned in a slow circle. He saw that Kromma was collected by his own handlers and that he was all right before returning to his corner. Raally met him there and helped him remove the steel bands from his wrists and ankles. The copper coils receded back into the floor and up out of sight into the high ceiling. With one final acknowledgement to all of the fans in the arena, Braams stepped down from the ring. His eyes were like faceted gold and he knew their power. He winked at the first beautiful woman in the crowd he saw, then at every one thereafter on his way back to the prep room. With each wink came the unheard promise to fulfill his every wish. He planned to collect on a few of those promises.
“Yes, ladies and gentleman!” came the announcer’s voice. “Three-Worlds Champion Garlin Braams, the Red Tiger, has done it again! With each victory, he shatters firmly-held beliefs, winning this time without—I repeat—without exploiting the Fourth Secret. Bare-handed, up close and personal, physical! A true master of the art and a god himself to fight fans everywhere.”
Within his entourage, Braams cringed a bit at this last as they passed into the access hall leading to the prep rooms. He shared a look with Raally, who shrugged and shook his head. Braams smiled and looked for a moment like a little boy, innocent and unaffected. But it was only for a moment.
“Raally, in order of importance: row sixty-three, row twelve, row one twenty-four, and uh. . .”
Raally sighed.
“Okay, that’s good for a start.”
“You always start with the redheads, huh?”
Braams ran his fingers through his own red hair. “Call it vanity if you like.”
“Okay, then, vanity.”
Sensing the combination of envy and disgust in the other’s voice, Braams said, “Hey, I’m just doing my part to contribute to the gene pool. Every little me out there is being well-cared for.”
“The money helps, Gar, but every kid needs a father.”
Braams looked down at the floor, momentarily silenced. His usual comment about many of those kids already having fathers didn’t feel right anymore. “Some day, Raally. Not yet, but it’s coming.”
As they r
eached the prep room Braams’s three bodyguards moved suddenly, pressing their backs to him, making a protective circle, and each brandishing a large-bore pistol. Another group was waiting for them in the dimly-lit hall. Five men stood stock still, unperturbed by the flurry of action and the gun barrels leveled at them. Four of these men wore black suits, but the fifth wore the white raiment of the Church. This man stepped forward.
“You could shoot me, gentlemen, but it would only serve to ruin my Whites and to waste everyone’s time,” the man said in deep voice that rang with friendly command.
“Put your guns down,” Braams said impatiently.
“Mr. Braams, let me first congratulate you on another stunning performance. You keep winning with less and less show. While it is impressive, you may be destroying your own brand if you continue to whittle away the spectacle.”
Braams smiled.
“Let me introduce myself. My name is Olka Stusson, Chief Steward of the Devine Church, Initiate of the Sixth Secret.”
Braams’s eyes widened. “Chief Steward? Stusson. . . You were Fosso’s teacher.”
“That’s right. Kan Fosso was the best and most accomplished of my students.”
Braams looked closely at Stusson. Kan Fosso was a hundred and fifteen years old, and didn’t look a day over forty. The man before him had to be at least double Fosso’s age and looked perhaps fifty. His hair was short, a lustrous gray, and parted neatly. He was thin, but by no means frail in his appearance. Indeed, if it had been Olka Stusson out there in the ring with him, Braams knew that the match would have lasted far longer and the outcome would have been uncertain.
“The Sixth Secret,” Braams said. “Very impressive when turned inwards.”
Stusson shrugged. “While I appreciate your acknowledgement, my abilities pale in comparison to yours. You are part of an exclusive club, Mr. Braams. Of the fifty-seven living Initiates of the Greater Secrets, only you have fully mastered the Seventh. On top of that you are one of only three confirmed Initiates of the Seventh Secret in all recorded history.”