The Blood Solution (Approaching Infinity Book 3) (25 page)

The heat from the blaze was becoming uncomfortable for Aareks and Faaiz. Sweat beaded and hung heavy upon them, soaking their simple white acolytes’ clothing, but all they could do was stare open-mouthed. They new that Braams was moving towards a crescendo.

And he was. Braams leapt up through his lines of living flame, sinking his fingers into this one and that, redirecting courses according to a plan only he knew. When he reached a height of five meters he slowed to a halt and hovered. He breathed heavily, his chest heaving with a slow deliberate rhythm, the look of satisfied exhaustion upon him. He inhaled sharply, looked to the sky and drove a flurry of palm heel strikes upwards, each of which too fast for either Aareks or Faaiz to see, but from each strike it seemed a new stream of fire was born. It was spectacular, the flames rose like an relentless salvo skyward. After moments of this, Braams  composed himself, then cried out, howling with palpable, preternatural force. As he he did this, the currents of fire, some of them having run rampant for lack of control, stopped like snakes gripped by their tails, and started to recede. All the fires were reigned in, slowly at first, but with ever increasing force and speed until Braams’s enormous Halo—which until now, the two acolytes realized, had not been in evidence—became distinct: a raging pinwheel, powered by his endless cry, claiming all of its wayward progeny.

Braams was silent only when the last of the licks of flame had sunk into his spinning Halo, at which point he resumed his heavy but controlled breathing, his bright eyes, like smooth nuggets of gold, gleaming. He drifted back down towards the ground and assumed a cross-legged posture just above it as his Halo blew another bowl of glass beneath him and formed the cushion upon which he sat. He closed his eyes, bowed his head, and held his hands together as if cupping water before him, just above his lap.

Aareks and Faaiz squinted to see what, if anything, Braams held, staring for what seemed like a long time. Finally, the air grew heavy, and all sound became dull, muted. They regarded each other briefly, before looking again at Braams and the grain of light that had germinated, suspended above his hands. The reality-erasing flash preceded the boom, but only imperceptibly.

Before they could see anything, they could hear the trees rustling, recovering from the shockwave that had knocked them both several meters back along the path they had come and dusting them with a fine crust of sand. Faaiz was first to regain the use of his eyes. He helped Aareks to his feet, escorted him down the path, and out into Braams’s presence.

“Welcome,” Braams said. His Halo was gone and he sat upon the glass, which strangely didn’t smoke or appear to be at all hot. “It’s best to avert your eyes, but your vision should return to you shortly.”

“Yes, Sar Braams,” Faaiz said. Then, tentatively, he asked, “That. . . That was creation?”

“The first step of it, yes. Creation is destruction, even to the vacuum of its birth, but from it we get all of this,” Braams said, waving his hand to indicate the sky, the sea, the sand, the trees.

“It was incredible,” Aareks breathed.

Faaiz nodded in agreement.

“It was merely an exercise, but thank you.”

Aareks was standing on his own now, rubbing the sightlessness from his eyes. “Sar Braams,” he said, “may I ask you a personal question?”

“Of course,” Braams said, standing.

“The night of the trial, you said that our success will depend upon the promises we’ve made to God. Will you tell us, Sar Braams, what your promise to God was?”

“Can you walk on your own, Aareks?” Braams said.

Aareks stood a bit straighter, nodded.

When Braams stepped from the glass bowl, the glass turned to powder, slightly discolored but hardly discernible from the rest of the surrounding sand. Faaiz gaped at this, but said nothing. He nudged Aareks, and the two followed Braams down to the water.

“When I talked about the purity of your promises to God, I was really speaking to your reasons for pursuing Entitlement. I don’t want to know your reasons, they are between you and God, and your performance at the trial is clear enough indication of your worthiness. I’ll tell you
my
reason, though, not as an expression of ego, but as means of comparison. That’s not to say that my reason is any better than anyone else’s, but none can say that mine has proved unsatisfactory.”

Braams didn’t speak again for several moments, a span of time that was, for Aareks and Faaiz both, filled with an inordinate amount of tension. Their steward was gazing at the horizon, at the reflection of the sun upon the sea.

Finally he spoke. “My reason was—
is
—quite simple and I’m afraid you’ll both be disappointed. All I ever wanted was to be needed. At first it was by my father. Growing up, we never had much, but I saw the pleasure the circuit fights brought him, his respect for those who rose above the mundane and made themselves into something more. Everyone has the potential to gain Entitlement. Failure to reach it is no fault of God’s, but due to a weakness of will. My father was admirable in that even though he couldn’t walk the path of the Church, he didn’t blame anyone but himself and the choices he made. That impressed me even as a child. He recognized his own shortcomings and upheld the Church, the pursuit of Entitlement, and of course, the baser satisfaction of the circuit fights above all else. This was particularly big of him, considering how many generations our family has been a part of the circuit fights.”

Aareks’s cloudy eyes lit up. Suddenly he remembered a number of Braamses dotting the history of the fighting circuit. None of them had ever amounted to much, a city champion or two, maybe. He’d never realized that there was any connection.

“Even before I was old enough to understand the fights, he had me by his side, cheering on his favorites, filling my head with stories of Haalan Mohs and Allos Vesta, the history of the circuit, and to a lesser extent, the Church itself.”

Braams turned to face his students. “I never wanted fame or fortune, though I’ve had more than my fair share and have abused them both. While he still lived, I wanted to be hope to my father, to be the example of one who rises above the mundane and realizes the potential that he believed—that I believe—we all have. I wanted to give him some sense of having accomplished Entitlement himself, if only through his blood, to make him proud. Later, it wasn’t just for him. I saw that I could be to millions what I was to my father. I wanted to make people happy. At heart, though, at the bottom, I wanted to be
useful
. I would gladly end war if war returned to the Three Worlds. I would gladly weed out all crime if my Halo weren’t so destructive. Before I knew the truth of Keska Kessel’s prophecy, the circuit was where I could be most useful. Now it’s here, with all of you.”

Aareks and Faaiz took in Braams’s words, each in his own way. Perhaps there was profundity in the words, perhaps not. Their reasons were their own, as were their life experiences, and comparisons are sometimes less than helpful, but both were taken aback by the simple power of the desire to be needed, to be useful. Garlin Braams had been known, of course, for his skill in the ring, but also because of his arrogance, and because of the trail of young women he left behind, many newly with child. None of these could be argued and Braams never tried. His arrogance was playful, part of his circuit persona, the women and their children were taken care of financially at least. There were reasons to dislike Garlin Braams, but the purity of his promise to God, to strive for Entitlement for the benefit of others—to simply be useful—could not be denied. His incomparable power was proof of that.

Thinking again of the display Braams had given earlier, Faaiz said, “Sar Braams, do you think the King of Spades is really so terrible? That it will require the combined might of the Three Worlds and the Blood Frame to turn him back?”

Braams grinned enigmatically. He gently kicked at a passing fish, silver in the calf-deep waves. “That’s difficult to say. We aren’t ready yet. Many such as yourselves are still gaining full use of their Haloes. Beyond that, though, even invoking the First Secret, future events involving the King of Spades are blurred.”

“Surely,” Aareks said, “with you backed by all the Entitlement holders we will assemble, the King of Spades stands little chance.”

Braams smiled again, gripped Aareks and Faaiz each by the shoulder, and led them back up the beach, sloshing through the last of the dying breakers. He said nothing and neither saw his smile turn to a frown. The King of Spades worried him. Prophecy was not his specialty; others were working on that, on what would occur
after
the arrival of the King of Spades, but they had come up with just as little or less. He contemplated the King of Spades every night, and though all remained a blur, one concept seemed to rise up through the haze: paradox.

Keska Kessel’s vision was not without gaps—prophecy is never so complete—but his plan was thorough, detailed, elaborate. So far they had followed it exactly and the Blood Frame promised to be a weapon comparable to God Himself. That was fair, though, considering what it required as
fuel
.  Braams couldn’t imagine what kind of paradox might be at work, or what it might mean, but it troubled him. Unfortunately, it was something none of the stewards better able to probe the future by exploiting the First Secret had reported. He didn’t feel confident raising the issue as his real skills lay elsewhere. Also, he didn’t want to be the one to sabotage their morale. The King of Spades would come. The King of Hearts would defeat him. That’s how it was supposed to go. That’s how it
must
go.

“Having been in transit for a mere eighty-five days, many of you may be wondering about the announcement to disengage the Stitch Drive,” Witchlan said, addressing the occupants of the war room.

The 20th Generation Generals and the current members of the Death Squad were all present. Forbis Vays had been badly marked with a thick, jagged scar around half his neck, but he had healed quickly and completely, in spite of the amount of damage Saya Lostrom had done. Wheeler Barson, also marked with matching scars on his chest and his back, had healed as much as he was going to. He was lucky to be alive after being run through by Ty Karr’s Cleansing Gun. He needed daily treatments, his every cell strained through a Prisma Shield, to keep the infection from spreading. Nothing they did had managed to completely eradicate or dislodge the microscopic particles of Gun Golem Steel still inside him. He had adopted the habit of keeping his arms folded tightly across his chest. This had the effect of making him look smaller, diminished in some way, but helped him control the cough the racked him as a result of the injury.

“You can see the star of System 283, which we are approaching, here.” Witchlan pointed to a pale sun on a holographic screen to his left. “Our Astrophysics Division has determined this star to be of the same variety encountered in the Bahahm System. The same as that of our
own
system of origin.”

Everyone shared looks with everyone else and some exchanged muted comments. Raus looked confused.

Witchlan stepped forward. “I see that some of you understand what this implies. There are two concerns. The first is that close proximity to this star’s radiation will prove to be inimical to the Vine. We cannot pass through this system without detonating or collapsing that sun. The second is that there is a chance we may encounter a being not unlike our Emperor and his distant, deceased cousin, Rasthain.

“We are still close enough to Planet 1401 to make use of the jump decks, but have not recovered enough to rebuild our Grans. We need resources. Without them we cannot replace the teeth we’ve lost in our past skirmishes.”

Unconsciously, everyone in the room glanced fleetingly at Barson who, in his inability to ignore their attention, sighed irritably. His sigh caught in his chest and brought about a coughing fit that turned him nearly purple.

“That comment was not meant to insult Mr. Barson. It was a simple statement of fact. Mr. Kapler has recently been provided with an Artifact, and there has been talk of an Artifact Competition, but there will be no spoils—no Artifacts—if we cannot take root and replenish what we lost to the Gun Golems. It is, of course, no fault of Mr. Kapler’s, but there simply was not enough in the previous system to satisfy our requirements.

“Mr. Barson, you will be pleased to know that you figure prominently in the current plan to eliminate that sun,” Witchlan said, gesturing again, this time with a nod, to the holographic screen.

“We must make planetfall and soon. Because of our lack of Grans and as a precaution, we will summon the aid of retired Blue Squad. Long-range scans have already turned up. . .
interesting
readings for which Blue Squad’s support might be necessary.”

With the mention of Blue Squad, both Tia Winn and Mefis Abanastar glanced again at Barson. He stared at both of them in turn as if to say, “Yes?” then rolled his eyes and returned his attention to Witchlan.

“Blue Squad should arrive in one week. Following their arrival, we will disengage the Stitch Drive, and approach the system by conventional means.
All
of you will then go via Tether Launch to the planet showing unusual readings. If those readings prove, in fact, to be another cousin of the Emperor and there is the slightest chance that an ally can be made, as one was with Mr. Kapler, we will seize that chance. If, however, you are met with hostility, you will annihilate whatever it is you find.

“Are there any questions?”

Kalkin scanned the room, hesitated. “Forgive me, Minister,” he said a bit sheepishly, “but there has been little in the way of information regarding the danger these suns pose to the Vine, to the Emperor. . . to Shades.”

“Quite right, Mr. Kalkin. They are indeed rare and while the danger is real, the threat will be minimal upon entry into the system. At the system’s threshold, the sun’s radiation is diffuse and will not pose a significant risk for the short term. A blind runner will be sent out to secure the outermost satellite, which is of sufficient size to shade us almost entirely within its umbra. Additionally, I have a suspicion that the Prisma Shield may, with some modification, offer us yet more protection. The dangers posed to Shades closer to the source are essentially unknown. Although, I will remind you that Mont Cranden and Wil Parish both spent a week on Bahahm and suffered no apparent ill effects. Any damage to Tether Launch lines was also negligible.”