“No, but I’m not too worried about Holson, either. Even with his mastery of AI, he won’t be able to do much against the Copy Army, not with all of us using the Wind Fission Scythe.”
Merasec continued to pull at his chin and tried to ignore a memory of having similar thoughts and losing his arm to the mindless Gun Golems. He wanted to tell Biggs not to underestimate Holson, but couldn’t bring himself to verbalize any acknowledgement of Holson’s skill or ability. He knew he didn’t have to worry with Biggs, anyway. He’d been raised by the Jaim family as one of their own and they had plenty of reason to hate Holson, regardless of his status as a hero of the Empire. Some people knew better. Some people knew the truth. Besides, Biggs was stronger than Merasec had ever been. While Merasec relied upon his Artifact, the Fugue Inducer, to create an army of himself, Biggs could do it using Approaching Infinity alone and was made that much stronger by the power of the Ivory Scythe.
“Are you ready for your meeting?” Merasec said finally.
“Of course. And for whatever my orders are.”
Merasec grunted again, turned and acknowledged his student in silence, then proceeded back inside.
Biggs watched him go, then took Merasec’s place at the edge of the structure to stare off at the former Root Palace himself. This was the death of his unfettered freedom, of his youth, he thought, but there was so much to come, and he welcomed it.
Besides his long face and suspicious eyes, there was something unusual about Biggs, something off-putting. Socializing, even during his years with the Jaim family, had been difficult and had produced no lasting relationships that didn’t rely on some shared sense of outrage or having been wronged. Only the Emperor and Biggs’s handler knew that Biggs was part of a secret project, Biggs being one of only three successes so far, which involved experimenting on various elements of native populations.
Biggs was intelligent, but amoral and essentially apathetic, so he often faked—effectively and convincingly—whatever emotional response was required or expected. This was less true with the Emperor, to whom he felt he owed his existence; with his handler, whom he considered to be his father; and with Cov Merasec, whom he considered to be an underrated and underappreciated genius. He sometimes wondered at the disparity between the intensity of emotions he felt for these three and the lack of emotions he felt for just about everyone and everything else. He understood that conditioning on any number of levels might have played a role in this, but if he was being manipulated, he was getting compensation enough in return.
Outside of those three, he really only cared about himself. He often sought to be the center of attention and usually succeeded most readily through shows of skill. The Wind Fission style had been easy to master, but was very visually appealing. Demonstrations always drew a crowd. Approaching Infinity had been more difficult, but he’d shown an uncanny affinity for the particular techniques in which Cov Merasec specialized, so the match had been perfect—if not crafted.
His hate for Jav Holson was innate. He wasn’t sure if that had always been the case and didn’t care. In addition to his ego, and many other flaws, Holson was an icon of hype. The rest of the Empire didn’t seem to remember that there were three other Twenty-first Generation Generals, or that there was a Titan Squad. And of course they didn’t know that Holson plotted against them, planned to turn on them at the Empire’s greatest moment, on reaching The Place with Many Doors. The Emperor had confided in Biggs, had revealed his knowledge of Holson’s secret plot, and asked Biggs personally to be the instrument of Holson’s undoing. How could he ignore or deny such a request? It was almost as if he’d been made for that very purpose. Soon there would be a new Skeleton General, but such plotting on the Emperor’s part would be largely misunderstood. Even though, he’d been asked to eliminate Jav Holson, Jav Holson wouldn’t disappear from the Empire. Vansen Biggs would simply take his place. And why not? By whatever means, Holson had built a reputation for himself and Biggs saw no reason for that to go to waste, whether he hated the man or not.
10,922.045.1100
Planet 1251
Former Root Palace
Biggs knelt in the now disused Emperor’s chamber. He was on time and where he was supposed to be, but the darkness and the silence of the place, here in particular where even his breaths echoed up into unseen heights, made him question himself. The wall before Biggs began to ripple, to vibrate, to remold itself. It was unnerving and somehow nauseating to watch, and since Biggs knew what was coming, he bowed his head and simply waited. Within moments, the pale, fleshy visage of the Emperor took up most of the wall. Firelight danced within the hollowed gourd, showing through carved features.
“Vansen Biggs,” the Emperor said.
“Lord Emperor.”
“Listen carefully. Soon the Root Palace will launch. In transit, even communication places undue strain on our resources, so we will have few opportunities to discuss the finer points of your assignment.”
“Yes, Lord Emperor.”
“Though the upcoming trip is farther than the usual, transit time will be shorter. This will put additional strain on resources. To ameliorate this, in forty-one days, measures will be taken to see that the Root Palace is connected with the rest of the Empire by planetfall or shortly thereafter.
“In sixty-five days, relays will be in place to allow for a five-day window of communication. During this time, you are to go to Planet 1342 to secure your Gran.”
“What of the engineers, Lord Emperor?”
“No one must know of Gran Ketz, Vansen Biggs. Not yet. Later, we will see about having you replace Jav Holson in history. Once this is accomplished, your name, your face, your Gran will replace his. You will be the hero of the Viscain Empire.
“Remain with Cov Merasec. Learn if there are still things he can teach you. Practice your skills, but allow no one to see your Darkened state. We will communicate again during the appointed time.”
“Yes, Lord Emperor.”
“That is all.”
10,922.086
Planet 1607
Former Root Palace
In the dark, inaccessible bowels of the recently vacated Root Palace, thirty-two jump relays, each housed in a metal cylinder two meters long by one meter in diameter, rolled from an automated rack and passed one by one through a veil of otherwise impermeable Vine fiber. By way of undulations in the fiber, the relays were loaded into phloem tubes and launched into the new growth left in the Root Palace’s wake, programmed to stop at designated points along the fresh shoot of Vine. On reaching each designated point, one relay would remain permanently, while the rest would await further growth, then launch again, resuming progress via the phloem tubes. With no interruptions to the schedule, relays would be in place along the entire span of new growth by planetfall, allowing for immediate contact with the rest of the Empire.
10,922.105
Planet 1342
Former Root Palace
Planet 1342 was home to no one but engineers, a select group of twenty men, who had worked diligently to produce what Gilf Scanlan had designed. They knew that what they’d built was a secret, the latest example of Viscain technology, just waiting to be unveiled. The timing had been poorly planned, though—how could the unveiling take place while the current Root Palace was now weeks into transit? Perhaps something much bigger, much grander was being planned for after planetfall.
With their assignment completed, the engineers had the run of the former Root Palace, though few of its amenities were actually functional. Some had taken the opportunity to explore the dark, lonely halls, trying to recapture some sense of history in this largely forgotten step in the Empire’s past. Some proudly tended to their creation, spending hours each day going over every detail, cosmetic or otherwise. Some grew restless waiting for the recall message that was now months overdue—transit or not, the message needn’t come from Scanlan himself. Some grew nervous. Engineers were, by inclination and by training, good at puzzles, and the situation in w
hich they found themselves, began to present itself as such.
It had been some time since the main cargo jump deck had been activated. This had been the only conduit to their former lives in the Empire, and none had the means to come or go as they pleased. Once they’d accepted the assignment, they came by way of the deck and thereafter it had been a one-way transport, providing them with the materials they needed for production on a set schedule. So it was the source of some surprise when the cargo deck alarm sounded, signaling an incoming delivery after so long. Mixed in with that surprise, though, was a variety of other emotions, indicative of respective personalities and growing suspicions. Some were elated at the prospect of going home. Some were disappointed that the end had come to a long vacation. Some were quite sure that the end had come to more than just a vacation.
Fourteen of the engineers had gathered at the cargo deck out of curiosity or a sense of duty. What appeared there confused most, but confirmed the fears of a few.
The deck was forty meters wide and long. At its edge, just before the ramp way, stood a lone man who must have been a Shade, though none recognized him. He was in some ways reminiscent of the First General, but his head was the skull of a sharp-beaked bird of prey.
The pattern of bones that armored this Shade was quite different from that of the First General, and from between the bones jutted bunches of glossy, black feathers. Set within one of the ribs that crossed his chest, just above where his heart would be, was what appeared to be a seed, two and half centimeters long, like an upright comma. He held in his left hand a long ivory shaft topped with a wicked curved blade of the same material. Some recognized this as a tool for harvesting grain, others recognized it for what it was, an instrument of death.
The Shade cocked his head in a very birdlike manner to regard the end result of the engineers’ work. Opposite the cargo deck, lit properly only in places by spots, was a complex of great ivory shapes: a winged serpent, coiled and inert, rendered entirely in bone.
“Gran Ketz,” the Shade said with an air of satisfaction.
“Yes,” one of the engineers spoke up, “Gran Ketz is finished. Have you come to oversee transport?”
“I have. My name is Vansen Biggs. Allow me to convey the Emperor’s thanks. And my own, of course. Unfortunately,” Biggs said, a frown evident in his tone, “your recompense will not be commensurate with your work.”
The engineer who’d spoken looked confused, but a number of his fellows understood perfectly and began to scatter.
Biggs laughed, and though he remained upon the cargo deck, he also appeared in front of every man, fleeing or standing still, to bring his scythe down and through each of them with initially bloodless precision. In an instant all fourteen engineers were dead. He would have to hunt the rest.
The Copies flickered out of existence, and Biggs walked down the ramp. He approached his Gran, craning his neck more the closer he got, staring with obvious appreciation.
10,922.110
Planet 1342
Former Root Palace
Gran Ketz remained in its place opposite the cargo deck, but standing in two rows of ten before it were twenty skeletons whose bones had been recently cleaned. All were intact—though the Ivory Scythe bit through flesh with its razor edge, it left bone unscathed, always passing harmlessly through. Crescents were etched into their brows and each held a scythe made of an amalgam of materials—metal, plastic, vine fiber—drawn from fixtures and the walls of the Palace itself. With his back to them, Biggs knelt, facing a holographic screen, which now hid the cargo deck with the flickering image of the Emperor.
“Preparations are complete, Lord Emperor,” Biggs said.
“Excellent, Vansen Biggs.”
“What are your orders?”
“There is a place that I believe will capture your interest until planetfall. Are you familiar with Planet 0585?”
“No, Lord Emperor.”
“It is an unincorporated colony. Very small in scale.”
“Unincorporated? An illegal colony?”
The Emperor wheezed out a laugh that was like an audible leer.
“They think themselves hidden. Go there. Your jump access will supersede their security measures. See what there is to see. Act as you wish, but your Gran must remain on Planet 1342 and you must refrain from going Dark. Beyond that, the only thing that is required of you is that you make the jump to the current Root Palace once planetfall has been confirmed. Upon joining us, there may be little time for further discussion so I will caution you again on your additional gift. Booster seeds have not been seen in the Empire for millennia. In its dormant state, it will appear as mere decoration, but should you activate it, you can never revert to your human form, and there will remain no mystery as to its purpose. This will raise unnecessary questions with both the Twenty-first Generation Generals and the Titan Squad, regardless of how we try to integrate you into history. A one-for-one switch is something we can accomplish, but adding another variable to only one side of the equation complicates things. Best to avoid this if possible and use the booster only in the direst of circumstances.”
“I understand, Lord Emperor.”
“Good. We shall speak again in approximately ten months.”
“Yes, Lord Emperor.”
“That is all.”
10,922.111
Planet 0585
Former Root Palace
Biggs stood atop the courtyard wall of the former Root Palace of Planet 0585. No one tended the jump deck—traffic was strictly regulated, but Biggs hadn’t been expected. There was no artificial sun, but giant spots had been wired to various points up the length of the Palace and courtyard walls and shone down onto the bustling shanty town below. Most of the town hugged the base of the wall, but he could see the arena some ways off, like a satellite almost as elaborate as the town itself. He descended the carved stairs, taking his time to absorb every possible detail. When he reached the ground, several men eyed him suspiciously. Some women, wearing little more than gossamer sheaves of fabric, beckoned him to curtained doorways. There were several food stalls, all specializing in different exotic fares and producing a combined haze of pungent smoke. Peddlers of various wares touted their products, but the Farmington dealer surprised him. Despite the lawlessness of the place, someone was policing it or the Farmingtons would have ended any “fair” competition taking place in the arena.
He stepped up to the Farmington counter, shouldering another man out of his way.
“How much?” Biggs said to the proprietor.
The man behind the counter curled his lip as he looked Biggs up and down. “More than you can afford, mister.”
“Think so?” Biggs said.
The man hesitated before continuing. “I don’t know you, mister. I don’t deal with anyone I don’t know. Now, you interrupted a sale.”
Biggs grinned appreciatively, nodded, backed away to allow the man he’d knocked aside to resume his business.
He passed a brightly-lit bathhouse, with soapy water sloshing across its tiled floor, spilling onto the dirt outside, and noted that it might be the most profitable enterprise here. Certainly it was the busiest. He kept walking, right out of town, crossing the bare ground that separated it from the arena. Just as the town noises began to fade, those of the arena picked up.
More stalls and countless tents awaited him. Some of the latter appeared to be temporary living quarters. He thought there must be more permanent dwellings back closer to the Vine. He was pretty sure that the operation on this planet couldn’t survive without a permanent core population.
The path developed into a wide avenue, leading up to the arena itself. Standing lamps reached up through the fluttering skyline of tents and stalls to encircle a vast pit. As he drew closer, he saw that concentric rings were carved into the stone to provide seating, which was perhaps half full, and at the very bottom, two combatants were squaring off.
He watched the fight and was bored: two F-Gene fighters who’d neve
r rate an Artifact Competition. Pathetic.
Hovering above the arena was a holographic screen, which showed the fight bill. It was full. The next contenders made their way down, and Biggs, too, started down. Everyone ignored him until he stepped onto the floor of the pit, all of which served as the ring. The murmuring crowd grew silent.
Albin Som was mostly hidden behind a great square sword blade one and half meters long by a half meter wide. He had a bushy black mane and matching beard which further hid his features. He watched Biggs with interest. His opponent, Jeket Borsa, watched Biggs with surprise and disgust. He was bald, wiry, of somber countenance, dressed in rags, and carried nothing but a length of thick-linked chain.
“You’ll pardon my intrusion,” Biggs shouted to the crowd. “I was anxious to get on the bill, but see that there’s a bit of a line ahead of me. Allow me to fight both Albin Som and Jeket Borsa at once. If they win, they take my life, and resume their scheduled fight. If I win, then I’ve proven my credentials and get to jump ahead.”
Various cries rose from the seats: “Get out!”
“Clear the floor, no-name!”
Someone went so far as to launch a knife with a thirty-centimeter blade at Biggs’s head. Biggs grinned and caught the blade, pinching it between three fingers. “Thank you,” he shouted still smiling and staring the man who threw it in the eyes, despite the chaos of the crowd. “I’ll be sure to repay you for this when I’m finished.” The man, startled by the catch and terrified by the acknowledgement, fell back onto his buttocks, and was swallowed up by the press of bellowing onlookers.
Biggs turned to face the other two upon the arena floor. The three of them made a perfect triangle. Som and Borsa stared at each other and nodded in unspoken communication before charging Biggs together. Biggs had no intention of going Dark, had no need to. If he wasn’t stronger, faster, or more highly skilled than an opponent, he simply needed to call on the Copy Army to even the odds, but there would be no such need here. Though he specialized in the scythe—and hand sickles like his teacher—a knife would suffice. He was well-versed in a hundred and eight different bladed weapons and could employ Wind Fission with deadly effect using any of them.
The Loss Queen (Approaching Infinity Book 5) Page 11