Abanastar was caught in a self-perpetuating loop. Just as Kalkin’s power was intensified to incomprehensible levels, Abanastar’s mind was attempting to infinitely focus on the finite, which caused his mind to rocket further and further away from reality. Having stopped beside Kalkin, he plummeted down the hole, tipping over like an unbalanced mannequin as the floor was eaten away beneath his feet.
A toothy grin, reminiscent of the one Karr bore before he killed Cranden, spread between the dark folds of bandages wrapping his ruined face. His three Gun Metal Soldiers were doing quite well against the two Shades. He turned his lone eye on Witchlan.
Witchlan regarded Karr patiently as the fighting raged around them. “Bravo. I must say, though, that I am very curious as to how and why you have come to be in possession of such power. It’s unfortunate for me that the source of it bears such a nasty grudge.”
(12%)
Karr chuckled. “I am not fooled by your masquerade. I know you are a terminal and I know that by now you must have some idea, at least as to how. But,” Karr waved a hand magnanimously, “things are going my way. Why not tell you? Cranden’s definition of Bahahm was perhaps not wrong, but it was misleading and incomplete.
“When the Bahahmeians created the Gun Golems so long ago, they enshrined the god of their own creation severally into permanent but imperfect—limited—vessels. You wondered what powered the Gun Golems; it was the simple insistence on uniform purity, to which your presence and that of Rasthain stood out in such stark contrast. As long as you and those like you exist, the Gun Golems will have their life, their motivating force. They are independent of the group mind that infused them with their power, made immortal by the human sacrifice that brought them into being. They are the ever-living, bright and polished sword of Bahahm. But that is all they are and all they ever could be.”
Karr paused. “This,” he said, his grin widening and sharpening as he tapped the side of his head with a gnarled finger, “this is the will of Bahahm. When I, as Ty Karr, held the Gun Golem head that day the first of them came, it changed me. Only subtly though, not in any way noticeable to me or to anyone else, but on some fundamental level that would show in my dreams, my taste for things I’d never known or given thought to. It opened the way, you might say.”
Karr’s eye drifted to where Jav fell unmoving to the floor, a gash from Lara’s Gun Metal Scissors running from shoulder to hip.
“It was a stroke of sick genius to initiate the extinction of the Bahahmeians the way you did,” Karr continued. “It wouldn’t stop the Gun Golems of course, but it might bring an end to Bahahm in one respect. If Bahahm has one weakness, it is that he requires a vessel. Since the Gun Golems themselves were too simple and already filled to capacity, the living, thinking will of Bahahm, sustained as it was by the population of Bahahmei, might have been lost. But what Cranden failed to realize in his analysis, is that while Bahahm may not in fact have originated with the sun, Bahahm most certainly did evolve beyond its source. It started as the voice of reason for all Bahahmeians, the moral imperative, the cry—the demand—for order out of chaos. The more people listened to this inner voice, the stronger it became, the more it resonated; that similarity in thought echoing throughout thousands then millions of tenuously connected minds, the kernel of godhead building in strength with the ever increasing number of minds it touched. What is now Bahahm, what I have inherited, evolved thousands of years ago beyond the limitations of the people that spawned it. Though I, as Bahahm, require a physical vessel, I am autonomous; my thoughts are my own and are self-sustaining. I am not ashamed to say that the extermination of the Bahahmeians has left me somewhat alone and disconnected, but I live. Indeed, because of his psychic facility for reading objects and his rather substantial RMP untainted by one of your filthy Artifacts—keep in mind that no Bahahmeian’s RMP ever exceeded five hundred—Ty Karr’s brain was perfect, already primed and made compatible by contact with Gun Golem steel, and was a ready receptacle when the forced exodus occurred.”
“So you’ve been with us the whole time,” Witchlan said. “Since even before the final wave of Gun Golems arrived.”
“Yes. But I was as an infant. Parts of me were lost in the massacre and during the transfer. Thoughts die just as the cells of living organisms do. Since your methods could not be anticipated and because so many Bahahmeians were killed before a plan could be formulated, much of what I was was lost. But this brain allowed for great development. It had never been necessary to so fully exploit a physical brain before, but I am well satisfied with the results. You will agree that the results are impressive.”
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Witchlan snorted.
“Even from the beginning I had great power, but not enough to destroy the entirety of this foul and malignant vine, especially not when you could summon reinforcements so quickly and easily. So I bided my time. I hadn’t intended to kill Cranden when I did. It was quite by accident that we met on the way to the jump deck, but when I saw him I knew that I had to test just how powerful I had become. And imagine my surprise at what I found within his mind just waiting for me.
“First, one of the very pieces I had lost in the transfer: detailed plans and procedures for producing Gun Golems; an old, disused piece of information, but suddenly quite relevant. Even if those banished by Director Scanlan’s bit of spatial hijackery were here, they could not be controlled, they could not have waited for the right moment to strike. A new model was required; these Gun Metal Soldiers were the result. How do you like my modifications? I had some difficulty with test subjects. For some reason, females are far more receptive to the treatment.
“That alone would have satisfied me, but do you know that I found a host of unique abilities all revolving around Cranden’s fabulous vaults? And I found to my delight that all of it was mine for the taking. I copied everything useful and destroyed the source material.” Karr paused for a moment, considering. “Though, I suppose I could have done a more thorough job. I did subject him to his own technique in a manner that would never have occurred to him, and in the end I believe it was sufficient. What do you think? Come now, as one divinity to another, you can tell me.”
Karr saw Barson fall, his head still coming apart, succumbing to the vibration of Saya Lostrom’s Gun Metal Handaxe.
“Actually, no, don’t bother,” Karr said. “I’m bored with this. Before too long I will recover to the point where your little barrier will offer no resistance to my subtler powers.”
Before Witchlan could say anything, Karr gestured with neat precision, spraying the Minister of Affairs with a handful of metallic dust. Witchlan’s outstretched arms curled and withered as his whole body receded, shrank, wasted to nothing under the feathery touch of the light, ephemeral substance.
(63%)
From somewhere else in the room, Witchlan’s voice, perhaps slightly altered, came sharply, “Now would be a good time, Mr. Holson.”
Karr turned towards the voice and was momentarily dumfounded to see Witchlan standing there. Realization came almost instantly, though, and he sighed. “Term—
The blade of Jav’s pole sword—Rommel in his elementary form—shot through the side of Karr’s head, up to the guard so that the full remaining length of the blade protruded from the other side. Instantly, all over the room, ghostly vaults sprang open, dissipated, and disgorged their caches of stolen Gun Golem steel. Stray limbs, bodies whole and partial, twisted chunks of pocked and charred steel clattered to the floor in heaps.
Now Karr turned slowly, carefully, the blade bobbing as he moved, until he faced Jav. “Uck. . . Uh. . . Mr. Holson. I-I’m disappointed in you. You uh. . . of all people should be sym-sympathetic to my cause given your origins.” Karr struggled, regaining his composure by degrees. “I suppose bondage comes in many forms, though.”
Jav stared at Karr, a memory insinuating itself into his present thoughts of shaking hands with him just before Karr’s initial contact with Bahahm right here in the war room.
&nb
sp; “Pardon me,” Witchlan said, “but do you mean to suggest that you believe me to be responsible for his memory loss? I assure you that Mr. Holson’s mental state is of his own design. He will remember if and when he chooses to.”
Karr eased the pole sword from his head, producing the sound of metal scraping metal for the full length of the blade. He cast it away and it resolved itself to atoms. Karr regarded Barson who held Lara Bester by the throat, suspended limply at the end of powerful black arms high above the floor. Nanda Oslet and Saya Lostrom lay sprawled like broken dolls, their weapons dull and lusterless. “Ah, Miss Winn,” Karr said. “I’d forgotten that you are an artist. Your powers are so easily overlooked when you can apply them so subtly. How much more have I missed in the last few minutes?”
Witchlan shrugged.
“Minister?” Brin said, her eyes eager.
“By all means, Miss Karvasti,” Witchlan said. “Do be careful, though.”
Brin stepped forward, snuffled, and wiped her eyes, now hard and focused. The Dharma Engine was suddenly at her back, turning with its intricate black clockwork machinery. She clenched every muscle in her body to make her power manifest, pouring it through her Artifact.
Karr was snatched by the Dharma Clock, his arms and legs yanked forcefully and stretched apart so that his body made an X. His greatcoat was thrown from him and he let out a high-pitched yelp. The act of crucifixion jerked a spray of fresh blood from him and dark runnels traced their way down his twice-broken body, running in fine threads to pool upon the littered and diminished floor.
“The pain is. . . excruciating, young lady,” Karr said in a strained voice, “and you may break my body further, but you will find no way to impose your will upon my conscience.”
Karr finished his sentence just as Brin brought her Dharma Clock to a complete revolution. The scalpel-fine spokes of the flower shot out with explosive force, piercing the walls, the floor, the ceiling of the war room, subjecting Karr’s body to its final punishment, rending it to wet fragments.
The Dharma Engine faded from Brin’s back and she nearly swooned, dropping to her knees, great beads of sweat standing out on her brow like a rank of boils. For Ren she had been able to push the Clock through its cycle at twice the normal speed, with twice the normal force. She was exhausted.
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But it was not over. From the remains strewn about the floor, a shape rose up, pasty with thick, black blood and caked with knots of soft tissue. It pulsed with something akin to a heartbeat, a psychic heartbeat that echoed in everyone’s head, doubling everyone’s vision for a moment as if reality itself were re-synchronizing with each beat. As the blood oozed down its sides, down etched channels, and chunks of meat and gristle dislodged by the rhythmic, inexorable pulse fell back to the floor, the shape began to gleam and was soon unmistakable: it was Ty Karr’s brain, but it was made of Gun Golem steel.
From all over the war room, in a sudden explosive instant, Gun Golem metal was wrenched violently to what was left of Ty Karr. Long, fat needles shot from the heads of Lara Bester, Saya Lostrom, and Nanda Oslet, causing each of their limp, prone bodies to lurch. A heat haze obscured the growing mass of junk metal, which took on a liquid quality, like running mercury. As the irregular shape smoothed and reformed into a great egg, pocked with a familiar motif of six holes, a great sword blade, three meters long, began to scythe through the air. From what might be described as shoulders issued spindly arms that ended in huge, primitive hands, surely capable of more violence than the disparately thin arms would indicate, and which now brandished the singing blade.
Barson moved forward, his index finger aimed upwards as if readying an audience for an important point.
Karr’s blade whooshed. Jav jumped clear; Tia and Brin scattered; but Witchlan had nowhere to go and was cut down. As the weapon came, Witchlan attempted to lay his palms upon the flat of the blade to redirect or slow its passage, but with no success. As soon as the edge cut into him, he withered and was cleaved in two, crackling like a dry, brittle leaf.
Jav launched forward, applying the full force of the Kaiser Kick to the broadside of Karr’s “head” which was his body. A muffled bass tone sounded, and at least half of the force was returned to him, sending him crashing into the wall.
The big blade was stabbing for Barson now. The Shade did not retreat, but instead met the point with his index finger. There was a clash of wills for the briefest of moments, then the blade—itself bigger than Barson—was drawn to oblivion into the tip of his finger.
There was a hollow, echoing laugh just before the familiar motif upon the face of the steely egg spilled out a chain of huge muzzle flare eruptions. Barson was driven back by degrees and made to look like an abused rag doll: his left shoulder punched with invisible and immeasurable force, sending his arm into fit of uncontrolled, whipcord motion; his right hip impacted similarly, nearly doubling him over; his face hit next, flying up and back to the left, making his whole body go loose until the next shot came and then the next and the next as each set his body to dance from the impact point until he was pressed into the wall, crushing the hard screens there and sinking into the equipment, crumpling the metal like foil.
The fusillade continued, pinning Barson to the wall, pushing him further into the resin beyond the equipment, and bringing a fine spray of blood from some unseen point about his face. But he too began to laugh. The black spot atop his index finger continued to increase in density and would be ready in another moment.
“Karr!” Barson shouted.
He could not see through the muzzle flares which of the barrels were actually firing upon him, but one of the middle barrels bore a steady, increasing glow now accompanied by a whine that hinted at an approaching climax.
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Barson was laughing hysterically. He opened his hand to catch the singularity when a shaft of silvery light impaled him and pried his chest open. Suddenly the wall behind him shone white for an instant before exploding outwards—Karr’s beam had pierced the Shade and the wall behind, struck the Prisma Shield and followed its contours back into the war room. Half of the room was now gone, exposing the next few levels, both up and down, of the Root Palace and bathing all in the pale glow of the surrounding Prisma Shield.
Barson, the singularity gone without his will to power it, was blown towards the remaining enclosure of the war room. His upper torso hit the lip of the floor, his arms sprawling clumsily, uselessly, and he slowly slid like a clot of viscous fluid from it down into the darkness towards the faintly glittering shell of the Prisma Shield below. Brin and Tia were blown from their hiding places, the former knocked unconscious to the broken floor, skidding beneath a toppled table, the latter not so lucky and following Barson into the dark.
Jav managed to stay clear of the explosion and the flying debris. The pole sword took shape within his right hand. He drew it back over his shoulder and hurled it like a spear, this time harder than before. A streak of light shot through the face of the egg, penetrating the space between the two middle barrels and leaving a vertical crack that passed through both, incapacitating them.
“Betrayer! Damn you!” Karr cried.
A third incarnation of Witchlan, pristine and untouched, subtly different in color and other discrete details than his predecessors, swept a hand in Karr’s direction. Brilliant green sparks played heavily all along the length of the egg and up the left arm, scoring and pitting the metal wherever they touched and loosing Karr from his axis, setting him to list. The drift subsided, but Karr was quiet, perhaps hurt by the double assault.
“I can see the difficulty that Isker Vays ran into with your kind,” Witchlan said. “With the exception of two—my own progeny—Vays the senior’s Artifact made him most like me of all my Shades. He didn’t have a chance. But I don’t have to touch you to hurt you, Karr, Bahahm, or whatever you want to call yourself. You have had free reign long enough and it’s time you remember exactly where you are.
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“Mr. Scanlan?” Witchlan said over his shoulder.
“Yes, sir,” Scanlan’s voice came from somewhere unseen. “Initialization complete.”
“Thank you.” Witchlan resumed his focus on Karr. “We are both usurpers you and I, but I am not Rasthain, and I do not feed on miniscule quantities of blood, but upon planets and their very suns. It’s ironic: Bahahmei’s sun would have been toxic to me now, just as the sun that birthed me came to be. Bahahm may indeed have been my true nemesis, but as you are what you are, even with your powers, once you have been sniffed out, you are nothing but a pestilent rat. And our Director Scanlan has prepared a trap.”
Witchlan raised both hands, his fingers splayed, and two overlapping spheres—Prisma Shields—shone dimly in the broken war room with Karr in the narrow space where the spheres overlapped.
Karr laughed. “What is this? The extent of your fear? That last of yours was potent, but I know that you cannot afford too much more like that, not and maintain the integrity of the Palace. Once again, I simply have to bide my time. I will scour this Vine clean of your intelligence, extract every ounce of hydrogen to induce a sustained nuclear reaction, and give birth to Bahahm anew. Your immense snaking carcass—all of it—will be reduced to a trail of impotent ash—”
“Silence!” Witchlan suddenly filled the space gutted by Karr’s Cleansing Gun, a giant with a booming, thunderous voice to match his increased size. “I have tolerated you long enough. Your crimes against one of my fellows were enough to warrant your extermination, but your insolence knows no bounds. Whatever you are now, you were born of human thought and that makes you inferior—do not dare to speak of what you will do to me.”
The borders of the Prisma Shields grew smaller, the overlap shrinking likewise. It narrowed further and Karr’s unwieldy arms were soon pressed close until crumpled against the bulk of his body.
“What are you doing?” Karr said, fear beginning to intrude into his metallic voice.
The Gun Golems (Approaching Infinity Book 2) Page 23
