The Loss Queen (Approaching Infinity Book 5)
Page 1
JOURNEY’S END
For several centuries, the Viscain Emperor has sought The Place with Many Doors, crushing each civilization encountered along the way. His Shades have fought and died to advance the Empire’s frontier and their efforts have finally paid off. Though Planet Loss—soon to be Planet 1612—houses The Place with Many Doors, its secrets will not be immediately accessible. One civilization yet remains to defy the Emperor, but will they, or their enigmatic queen, be enough to stop him from using the Doors to finally satiate his boundless hunger?
APPROACHING INFINITY: BOOK 5
THE LOSS QUEEN
by Chris Eisenlauer
THE LOSS QUEEN
Published in the United States of America
by Chris Eisenlauer for Kindle.
Copyright © 2014 by Chris Eisenlauer.
All rights reserved.
First published October, 2014.
Cover by Chris Seaman.
For Atticus.
Thanks for the push.
Without Joshua Davey as my sounding board, this and previous books would likely have gone unwritten. Thank you, Josh, for your unwavering support.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
1. TITAN SQUAD ADDITIONS
2. FINAL PLANETFALL
3. THE LOSS TOWER
4. THE LOSS QUEEN
5. THE VOICE OF A HUNDRED HEROES
6. THE OTHER SKELETON GENERAL (THE POSEUR)
7. THE CORPSE GENERAL
8. TITAN SQUAD, SPECIALIST KAPLER
9. TITAN SQUAD, SPECIALIST WAICE
10. THE PUPPET GENERAL
11. TITAN SQUAD, SPECIALIST KARVASTI
12. TITAN SQUAD, FIRST SPECIALIST VAYS
13. THE MACHINE GENERAL
14. THE VISCAIN EMPEROR
15. THE END
EPILOGUE
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.
Twenty-two years ago, events on Planet 1607, formerly known as Stolom, left Jav Holson physically and mentally shattered. His physical wounds healed quickly, but his mind never completely recovered. Despite his condition, though, he remains an ever-capable fighter, perhaps even more efficient than before. He still holds the position of First General; Forbis Vays still that of First Specialist of the Titan Squad.
The year is now 10,922. The Empire is poised for one last foray into space, which promises to bring them to The Place With Many Doors, but first, an Artifact Competition is about to come to a close and usher in the two Shades who will replace Hilene Tanser and Nils Porta, both lost in the initial skirmish on Planet 1607.
1
TITAN SQUAD ADDITIONS
10,922.035
Planet 1607
Root Palace Courtyard
Planet 1607 was desolate, almost completely drained by the Vine that tethered the thousands of worlds comprising the Viscain Empire and which terminated here in the Root Palace. Under the pale spot of the artificial sun, the Palace courtyard surged with cheers. A voice echoed over the public address system, cutting through the crowd noise and declaring Spaier Waice the Block One champion. The cheers came again, redoubled. Artifact Competitions never failed to draw spectators from all across the Empire, but one little man, small and bent with years, stood alone, removed from the rest, upon the courtyard wall. He watched with interest, but not with the fervor of the crowd surrounding the competition rings down below. He went unnoticed by most, which was by design.
As the Block Two match participants were announced, the little old man found that he was about to have company. Streamers of fabric, like long, thin kites at the mercy of the wind, came together from at least five different directions to tangle together and give shape to a man. The man, when complete, was wrapped entirely in the thin strips of fabric. He was like a mummy, lean and dangerous, with sickly purple light spilling from a gap in the wrappings where his eyes should have been. There was no mistaking Wil Parish, counted among the very first Shades of the Viscain Empire.
Parish floated in the air, with his wrapped arms folded across his chest, descending to where the little man stood upon the courtyard wall.
“Professor Fanslo,” Parish said. “I see that reports of your death during the assault on the original Locsard Academy were inaccurate.”
The little man stared back, offering only an enigmatic smile.
“Taal Fanslo,” Parish said, thinking out loud and addressing the hollow sky. “There never was such a person. That fact was easy enough to confirm. I’m sure the Emperor knows and simply doesn’t care. The damage is done, right? What purpose would it serve to discredit the best Sinzer Method Projection instructor the Academy has ever known? Especially since any confederates he may have converted during his second tenure were lost along with the Academy that day. Best to rebuild and move on, hope that people just forget. And most have. But not all.
“I know who you are. I can see through your illusion. I’ve even stumbled across your chunk of Planet 1001 on an occasion or two. Quite impressive, especially the way you’ve co-opted Thuzo Povall’s Artifact. But if the Emperor can’t be bothered to really pursue you, what investment would I have?”
At this, Fanslo’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.
“What are you doing here Sinzer?” Parish said.
The man continued to stare, his smile never faltering, until finally he answered. “Povall lives on as a part of Ghost Squad, despite his betrayal.”
Parish snorted, but the little man’s smile remained.
“Actually, Mr. Parish, that is my question for you and exactly why I’ve come: What are you doing here?”
Sinzer sensed the beginnings of a smile beneath the wrappings that covered Wil Parish’s face, but there was no immediate answer.
“You are a recluse, Mr. Parish, involving yourself little in Imperial affairs, with the one exception of the aid you provided in investigating the origin of the Gun Golems some years back. In very nearly eleven thousand years, after the establishment of the Empire proper, that has been the extent of your involvement. Until now. Now you have taken on a student—who appears to be an exceptional combatant, by the way—and make an uncharacteristic public appearance at a very public event.”
“Should I have avoided a show of support to maintain my image?”
“Come now, Mr. Parish. We are neither of us fools. I do not believe that you have abandoned your hermitage simply out of boredom, however prolonged. You have an agenda, and I would know it. I believe we might have more in common than just our like powers.”
Parish considered for a moment. “Do you know the Empire’s pre-history?”
Sinzer shrugged. “I’m familiar with what’s available, which is very little, but I would say, perhaps naively, yes.”
“Then you know the name Pylas Crier.”
“King Yellow. Yes. One might call me his inheritor, which would put you and me at odds, if I’m not mistaken. “Do I have reas
on to fear you, Mr. Parish?”
“We keep asking each other the same questions,” Parish said.
“I would argue that that makes us allies of a sort.
“Did you know that there has been no single Imperial civilian fatality due to any of the terrorist acts attributed to me? I cannot say the same about Shades, but I assure you, I’ve had far more opportunity to kill Shades than actual follow-through.” Sinzer shrugged again. “Take that for what you will. I’m not here to hurt anyone. My goals have always been to prevent suffering.
“I have been honest with you, Mr. Parish. Now I would ask the same courtesy of you.”
Parish nodded slowly, silently. “Pylas Crier was my best friend. I spent a long time trying to justify what I did, that it was for the good of the Empire, that it was out of loyalty to the Emperor, that it was the right thing to do. . . But you know, that last just never seemed to sit well with me, not with all Pylas did for me. We all make mistakes. Usually they die with us, but as you know, we just keep on living.” Parish raised his hands, regarded the wrappings defining his fingers. “Not sure I’d call this true living, though. The mistake fills all the spaces, becomes all there is until existence is guilt. Guilt for wrong-doing, guilt for being.
“Pylas was right. I just refused to see it. Even when Leilia sided with him, it was easier to dismiss the truth in favor of the Empire’s progress.” Parish shook his head. “Makes me sick every time I think about it.” Parish looked up, the purple light of his eyes seeking Sinzer’s. “If I’d done things differently, the Empire would likely have come to a halt. Thousands of worlds would still host life. The universe wouldn’t be contracting at an ever-accelerating rate.”
Sinzer winced at this last. His furrowed brow relaxed and his eyes brightened. “But you made other life possible. Trading one fate for another isn’t morally fair or right, nor has it been an equitable trade, but the Empire is made up of normals who owe their lives to the choice you made.”
“It can’t continue.”
Sinzer sobered instantly. “So, you mean to continue King Yellow’s legacy.”
“And yours.”
Sinzer shook his head. “Careful, Mr. Parish. I will not condone or be party to violence done to any citizen of the Empire.”
“Then help me.”
“Interesting. The Empire’s first and greatest hero working with the Empire’s most notorious terrorist. . .”
“I think both of us are misunderstood.”
Sinzer barked inadvertent laughter, which brought on a coughing fit, he had to stifle with a handkerchief. “That, Mr. Parish,” he said, recovering, “may be the greatest understatement of all time.
“So what is your plan? Are you and your charge, with his newly acquired Artifact, going to stage a two-man rebellion right here?”
“No. I want to see how things play out. There have been rumors about Holson, that plans are in the works to replace him.”
“Replace him? The current hero of the Empire?”
“An unassigned Gran under construction in a secret facility makes me wonder. And apparently, he’s become more and more unstable.”
“In spite of his uncanny knack for pushing the Empire along on its implacable course.”
“That’s the other thing. The Place with Many Doors. If it’s what I think it is, we are on the cusp of a dilemma that threatens everything everywhere. You seemed surprised when I mentioned spatial collapse.”
Sinzer nodded.
“I can spread myself very, very thin across light years of space, and in so doing I gain expansive powers of perception. This is how I’ve found you and your group in the past. I assure you, the universe is contracting and if The Place with Many Doors allows the Emperor the kind of freedom I think it might, then I believe total collapse may become imminent.
“I’m acting many thousands of years too late, but I’m acting. It took a while for me to find the right student, the right circumstances, but now time’s run out. Help me, Sinzer. Not to end my guilt, but to make things right and ensure the safety of sentient life everywhere, not just that of the Empire.”
“I know the secret facility you mentioned,” Sinzer said. “There are more of them, most with different, darker purposes. I was born in one and I’ve vowed to shut them down. An additional Gran does not concern me, but I have a feeling I may know something of its future master.” Sinzer’s eyes grew distant for a moment, likely fixed upon a memory.
“I will help you,” Sinzer continued, coming out of his reverie, “but I have conditions. The first you already know: no citizens are to be harmed. The second is that you must help me find some things I’ve been looking for. I think you are ideally suited to help in this regard. You must also know, Mr. Parish, that I am not as able as I once was. I have an injury that plagues me, that never completely heals despite my powers, and that in fact appears to worsen with time. I will do what I can, though.”
“That’s all I ask.”
10,922.040
Planet 1251
Cov Merasec’s Residence
Ban Kapler stepped down from the angular jump ship to the roof of Cov Merasec’s retirement home, a giant concrete cube, standing ten stories high and about a kilometer away from the former Root Palace on Planet 1251. The artificial sun that shone down was identical to that he’d left behind on Planet 1607, but for completely irrational reasons, he favored the light of this one. After waking from his centuries-long coma brought on by Catalyst Wine poisoning, he’d made this planet his home, this rooftop serving as his proving-ground.
He’d trained here for five years before seeking additional training to prepare for the Artifact Competition. Ideally, he would have trained with all of the Triangle Squad members, as Jav Holson had, but Kimbal Furst was long-dead. Kapler had been more than satisfied with what he’d learned from Laedra Hol, though. It was no wonder that Jav Holson had risen like a bright and shining star in the Empire. Kapler was sure there were other just-as-capable fighters in the Empire, but was equally certain that few if any were better than Laedra Hol. He felt ashamed to think this here, where Cov Merasec had taught him so much, but the truth of the inevitable comparison between teachers couldn’t be undone. Still, this—and not Planet 1287—was his home and Cov Merasec—not Laedra Hol—was his true teacher. This he felt with pride and conviction. Here he had learned the Wind Fission techniques, a comfortable primer for his own fluid style. Here he had learned the Copy Twin, which for him opened up a dark world that only he could enter. Here he had been remade and all the myriad humiliations inflicted on him by his father on his home world had been erased. Cov Merasec had made all of that possible.
Kapler was dressed in his Titan Squad grays. He stood a hundred and ninety centimeters tall—small and frail by the standards of his race, but well-proportioned and well-muscled by any other reckoning. There was some debate over whether or not he possessed a true F-Gene, or if his adaptability was in fact a byproduct of his father’s genetic tampering. In the end, it didn’t matter. He’d grasped the mental and physical disciplines required by both Wind Fission and Approaching Infinity instantly, as if the medical tanks had been dosing him for just that purpose.
He’d come here to train, to follow the example set by Jav Holson. He’d intended to start with Laedra Hol as Jav had, but she resisted taking on any students for years before relenting just prior the Competition. He took a deep breath and smiled. The order of instruction had proved to be logical, beneficial, but he was glad to be back, even if it was only temporary. He’d made no secret about his training desires, but Cov Merasec had not been pleased when Kapler left, had not come to the Artifact Competition to see his student claim victory. Kapler owed Merasec, wanted to thank him for everything, wanted to apologize, and attempt to make things right between them.
Merasec was coming into view, his glossy black prosthetic arm gleaming dully in the false sun’s light.. He stood upon a platform which rose from within the cube until it was flush with the roof. Behind him was Vansen
Biggs. Biggs stood a hundred and eighty-five centimeters tall, with greasy brown hair, all one length, hanging to his shoulders. His pale face might have been described as handsome, but more often it was described as being too long with eyes—they were muddy brown—too narrow.
Kapler grinned and moved forward to greet his teacher and former practice partner.
Merasec cocked his head back, and while maintaining eye contact with Kapler, said to Biggs behind him, “Looks as though he made good on this promise, eh?”
Kapler stopped in his tracks, the grin wiped away as by a cascade of some cleansing disinfectant. He pursed his lips and nodded to acknowledge his understanding. “Teacher, I will say what I came to say and leave immediately.”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” Merasec said. “You are more than welcome to stay. You’d planned on it. We,” Merasec said, then cleared his throat before continuing, “planned on it.”
Kapler’s eyes went from Merasec’s to Biggs’s. The former’s were hard and unamused despite the game he was playing; the latter’s sparkled with laughter and perhaps a hint of mockery.
Though he knew of no one who knew him better, Biggs was a mystery to Kapler: private and evasive, but also trustworthy and loyal. Now Biggs shrugged as if to to remind Kapler that their teacher hadn’t changed, would never change, and that there was little choice but to accept him, idiosyncrasies and all.
Kapler swallowed hard and attempted to master himself. He hadn’t expected his teacher to be so. . . so what? Petty was the only word that came to mind, but he hated himself instantly for thinking it.
“Well, do you want to come in, or do you want to show Mr. Biggs here what it takes to be an Artifact Competition champion?”
Kapler relaxed suddenly, relieved at the change in subject. Besides, getting some exercise might be very therapeutic just now. “What do you say, Biggs?”