“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.
13. ENTER BLUE SQUAD
10,690.086
“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 ther
e 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.”
Kalkin nodded.
Jav, sitting next to Kalkin, thought for a moment about the paradox involved: the sun that gave birth to the Emperor was also deadly to him. How did nature account for that? On reflection, though, he realized that little about the Emperor was natural.
“These stars are rare,” Witchlan said. “As to why they pose any threat at all to what they spawn, we cannot say, but. . .”
Jav sat bolt upright immediately. It could have been a natural progression of Witchlan’s explanation, but Jav couldn’t help thinking that the Minister of Affairs had heard his thoughts as if he’d voiced them.
“. . .there seems to be a point at which the star’s radiation exceeds tolerable limits. Once the. . . organism is filled to capacity with the signature radiation, any further infusion becomes harmful, destructive, and ultimately fatal. Too much of a good thing, one might say. In this way it is really quite simple to understand, but why other radiation should, by such stark contrast, nurture and promote growth on such a grand scale is also unknown. And moot in the end.”
10,690.091
All of the Shades were crowded into the jump deck station. Instead of a technician, Mefis Abanaster stood at the controls, ready to supplement the warp field with his Focusing Lens, covering his face as always, if necessary. The alcove that housed the deck itself presently lit up and the terrible, straining sound of the deck in operation heralded the three members of Blue Squad. Stepping down first, was Bela Fan, a compact woman with a sleek black bob that shone. Her eyes, Jav could not help but notice, were pale blue, like ice. Behind her were Dolma Set, his head a tousled mass of blond hair, and Stafros Lowe whose own downy white hair stood out against his bronze, nearly red, skin. All wore heavy, armored black boots, cobalt-blue trousers and long, square-shouldered coats of the same color with bright silver buttons down the front.
Barson moved to greet them, offering his hand to Bela Fan who looked up and took it. She stood just a little taller than Mefis Abanaster at 148 centimeters, and looked like a small child compared to Barson. “You’ve looked better, Barson,” she said, her voice, strangely, both soft and hard at the same time.
Dolma Set approached Barson as well, combed the hair away from his eyes with his fingers, and regarded him. “You stayed still too long, Barson. I told you that would be the end of you.”
Defeated, Barson cast his eyes down and nodded, a reaction for which Dolma Set was clearly unprepared. He clapped Barson high on his shoulder. “Now maybe you’ll let me teach you Liquid Palm.”
A weak grin formed upon Barson’s lips. “A rematch first, then maybe.”
Dolma Set returned his grin and nodded. By chance he caught sight of Jav and approached him. “So you’re Laedra Hol’s prodigy.”
Jav swallowed. “Prodigy? I don’t know if I’d go so far as to say prodigy.” Jav knew nothing about Dolma Set or any other member of Blue Squad except that Stafros Lowe had trained Lara Bester’s teacher in the Lead Cloud Steps, this he’d heard from Kalkin.
Dolma Set eyed Jav appraisingly for a moment then gave his head a violent shake. “Damn. What is it about you that reminds me of my little brother?”
Jav looked around the room, hoping someone might have an answer for him.
“Whatever happened to your brother?” Barson said.
Set stared fixedly at Witchlan, who had entered the room, and replied without looking away from the Minister. “I don’t know. He was never as good as me, but he was good. Just disappeared.” He turned back to Jav. “Well, Jav Holson, we’ll have to have ourselves a contest as well. Barson first, though. We’ve got history, he and I.”
Jav nodded and shook Set’s proffered hand.
10,690.093
Jav watched them on the gravity block. Stafros Lowe, in his uniform, arms folded and leaning up against the far wall, watched as well. Dolma Set wore a white T-shirt and the blue pants and black boots of his uniform. Barson wore his signature neat black suit. Set was a fraction of Barson’s size, but he stood his ground effortlessly. In fact, he easily dodged Barson’s every attempt at contact, moving like liquid, and Barson’s punches always slipping by as if both were coated in slick oil. And in fact, one might argue that Set was. His Artifact, the Essential Oil, did surround him in some kind of field that made him slippery, almost, if not entirely, frictionless. At least according to Kalkin.
Jav couldn’t help but feel sorry for Barson. He didn’t know what had gone on between those two in the past, what rivalry there might have been, but now, there was no contest. Barson couldn’t touch Set and Set didn’t appear to be exerting himself. The more Barson tried, the more he had to stop to cough, until finally he coughed so violently that he dropped to his hands and knees, bringing up a splash of blood mixed with something more substantial.
“Barson, look—”
Set tried to help Barson up, but Barson waved him away without making eye contact.
Barson wiped his mouth as he stood and then left the training facility without a word.
Shocked, Jav watched him go, but tried not to stare.
Set shook his head and ran his fingers roughly through his hair. He glanced at Stafros Lowe. Lowe shrugged, showing no other emotion. Set then stared at Jav for what seemed a long while before speaking. “Come up here, Holson.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t call me ‘sir.’ You’ll make poor Slowe over here sick to his stomach and Bela’ll think I’ve been claiming to be First Specialist. Former First Specialist. You know, Holson, you come with some pretty impressive credentials.”
Jav cocked his head as he stepped up onto the gravity block.
Set nodded. “Laedra Hol’s Eighteen H
eavenly Claws are the real thing and she talks you up like you wouldn’t believe.”
This surprised Jav.
“There’s also the fact that you’re still alive and essentially unmarked after all that’s gone down in the last three years.”
“Luck, I guess,” Jav offered.
But Set shook his head. “Has little to do with it. Are you familiar with our styles?” Set said, gesturing towards Stafros Lowe with a nod. Lowe, or Slowe as Set called him, stood straight and approached the gravity block.
“Lara Bester,” Jav said, “one of the Competition finalists, used Lead Cloud Steps, but I have to confess that I know little to nothing about your Liquid Palm style.”
“As far as I know there are no other living practitioners. My brother practiced a related style, but it must have died with him.” He turned and abruptly addressed Slowe. “Do you see it, or am I crazy?”
“No,” Slowe said in a deep, measured voice, “I see it. I don’t know what it is, though. I mean they don’t look alike, really.”
“I guess it doesn’t matter,” Set said. “I’m sorry, Holson. It’s just that you remind me so much of my little brother. Now,” he said, grinning, “let’s see if you fight like him.”
Jav removed his gray leather jacket and flung it onto one of the low benches that surrounded the block.
“Let’s start raw, huh? No Artifacts,” Set said.
“Sure,” Jav replied as he moved further inside the influence of the block.”
“Ever spar with Barson?”
“Uh-uh. I don’t think he likes me. I used to kill his troops by the score. Not on purpose, of course.”
“Ah, so you’re the source of the Mikai Curse.”
Jav pursed his lips and nodded. “Shall we?”
The Blood Solution (Approaching Infinity Book 3) Page 20