The Blood Solution (Approaching Infinity Book 3) (2 page)

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 reached 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.”

“I’m aware of that. But what does the Chief Steward want with me? Despite backing the whole tournament circuit, the Church rarely gets directly involved in the politics of fighting. It can’t be that you really want me to spice up my matches.”

“No,” Stusson said, laughing. “I have something very important to show you and a proposition to make.”

“A proposition?”

“Might I persuade you to accompany me? After you’ve gotten cleaned up, of course.”

“What about these guys?” Braams said, indicating the men in black.

“Bodyguards. You have yours and I have mine. But I would like for you to think of these men as your men from this night forward.” He turned to Braams’s bodyguards. “I mean no disrespect, gentlemen.”

Braams studied Stusson for the second time, trying now to fathom the other’s purpose. “Looks like you boys get the night off,” Braams said.

Each of the three bodyguards made a sour face and shared looks with one another and with Raally, who looked nervous.

“Gar, I know who he’s supposed to be, but what if he isn’t?” Raally said.

Braams nodded. “What if? Well, Raally, if not and things get ugly, there might be some real pretty fireworks tonight.”

Stusson, unmoved by the show of distrust, merely grinned.

“I’ll shower and be right out,” Braams said to Stusson.

It wasn’t difficult to avoid the crowds, and Braams was glad to be able to do so once in a while. Stusson’s car was parked in the VIP lot exclusive to Church officials and at some remove from the main lots. They left Sovros Arena, easily beating the exit traffic. The car was comfortable and by the complete lack of outside noise, Braams knew that it was mass driver compliant.

“Where are we going?” Braams said.

“To Shaala.“

“Right. I don’t think Sosa likes me showing off here on Iss anyway.”

“You may be seeing Bask Sosa before too long. Kan Fosso, too.”

Braams said nothing. His interest was piqued, but he was not impatient and knew that explanations would be forthcoming. If all this turned out to be a set-up, then he’d show them just what the Entitlement of God really meant.

They approached the offramp for the mass driver expressway, the great coils ahead lit by electric lights and humming with power that could be felt even through the spinning tires.

“We’re coming up on IP49, to Shaahal, Shaala,” the driver said. “Everyone fasten your seat belts. The vehicle is secure and ready for transit. Here we go.”

As they passed through the first few loops of the coil, their velocity increased smoothly then by degrees until they were a flash of light lancing towards the horizon of Iss. Within fifteen minutes they were caught by the IP49 collection array in Shaahal, righted, and returned to the road.

Braams stepped out of the car into the crisp night air. Before him loomed the towering white marble walls of Shaahal Cathedral. He looked back the way they had come, first at the pale shadow of Iss hanging like ice in the sky, then at the city lights of Shaahal, filling the bowl of the valley below them, then east towards the sound of crashing surf, where ghosts danced and played on the wavetops.

“Have you ever been inside, Mr. Braams?” Stusson asked as they approached the entrance.

“No. I trained in the south, at Suur Cathedral when Fosso was finishing up his stewardship there. I haven’t been to a Cathedral since I finished my orthodox training years ago.”

“I see. Have you ever thought of becoming a steward?”

One of the men in black opened the doors and ushered them in. Then he and the other three fell into step behind Braams and Stusson as they made their way to the interior. They walked between the two rows of thick marble pillars that supported the high vault of the ceiling, moonlight filtering down from cleverly wrought lattice-work panels set therein.

“I’m only twenty-five. Are you trying to recruit me already, Stusson?” Braams said.

Stusson cocked an eyebrow at the omission of formal address—more because he was so used to hearing it than because it actually bothered him. “In a manner of speaking, yes.

“Shaahal Cathedral is very old, Mr. Braams. You’ve heard of course of the King of Hearts and the King of Spades.”

“What schoolboy hasn’t?” Light against dark, good versus evil. I suppose those stories had something to do with my pursuing Entitlement.”

“Yes, the Entitlement of God, what every churchman strives for: true realization and internalization of the divine. The core myth is more than just a story, though, and it all started here with Keska Kessel’s prophecy. He built this cathedral.”

Braams narrowed his eyes.

“I see that you’re not unfamiliar with the name.”

“Keska Kessel was the last Initiate of the Seventh Secret. That was several hundred years ago,” Braams said.

“That’s right.” Stusson stopped them at a stone dais, the steward’s traditional place of instruction, and knelt down. His hands moved in the shadows between the dais and the floor. There was the sound of a latch being released, then of stone grinding against stone.

Braams hopped back as the whole dais slid forward.

“What’s going on?”

“Please don’t be alarmed, Mr. Braams,” Stusson said. “Keska Kessel built this cathedral—and most of what you will soon see beneath it—following his prophetic dream. All of the stories revolving around the King of Hearts and the King of Spades began with his prophecy. The King of Spades is not a a metaphor for night, a supernatural terror, or a even a way to help teach morality, but an alien invader.

“There is a timeline. There are signs which cannot be ignored. The prophecy has proven one hundred percent accurate to date and the timeline is running out. The King of Spades, or whatever he’s really called, is coming.”

Braams stared at Stusson. He didn’t know if he should be intrigued, frightened, or incredulous when an unbidden memory surfaced with such clarity that it gave him a chill. It was a plate above the entrance to Suur Cathedral that read:

He comes from the dark
Born of calamity
Born of defilement
Black and clad in the bones of his victims
The dead respond to his whim, abandoning home and family
None can stand in his way
But one
This one
Born of Cathedral
Born of the hearts of righteous men
Red and alive, Entitled by God
The living respond to his will, restoring righteousness
Only he, full with the blood of heroes, may stand against the dark foe

Stusson met his quiet stare and nodded. “Follow me.”

Braams did as told, following Stusson down stairs that were usually hidden by the dais. Recessed lights gave off an eerie glow as they progressed deep into a hall that was as vast as the cathedral above. Gleaming steel tanks stacked from floor to ceiling lined the walls, and unseen pumps worked out an incessant bass rhythm.

“It was Kessel,” Stusson said, “who established the tournaments so celebrated now throughout the Three Worlds. He wanted to prepare us for what was coming. And he has, but there’s still a lot left to be done.”

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Braams could see that the shadows hid countless men, some dressed in black suits stationed at intervals, some wearing white coats and administering to the steel tanks.

“There is an extensive network beneath Shaahal Cathedral. All that you see here is to prepare for the coming invasion.”

“This? This is going to stop an invasion? How much do we really need to fear with mass drivers?” Braams said.

“We had mass drivers in Kessel’s day; they’re not new, but Kessel was sure that they would mean nothing to the King of Spades. His prophecy was very specific.”

“How come I’ve never heard about it?”

“But you have heard about it. What schoolboy hasn’t?” Stusson said, smiling.

They walked on and on, always girded on either side by the steel tanks. Braams was sure that they were no longer directly under the cathedral. Just how big was this facility and what was it for?

“There was of course what was made available to the public, and then there was the detailed account made available only to ranking members of the Church.”

“Stewards,” Braams confirmed.

“That’s right. The timeline was long and there was no need to create unnecessary panic. Stewards took over the required preparations, with the Chief Steward always presiding. The prophecy has directed the scientific pursuits of Shaala, Iss, and Voskos for the last six hundred years. Still, though, the only outsiders who have any knowledge of our operation here are contract holders.”