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

“Contract holders?”

“Kessel made a list of important lineages that would necessarily be tapped. These lineages were approached and have been cooperating since the beginning. Your father was a contract holder.”

“Is that why you brought me here? You want me to make good on my father’s contract?”

“No. Your father has already fulfilled his obligation.”

“But you said something about a proposition.”

Stusson nodded.

They had entered into a wide hub of sorts with passages branching off in various directions. The sound of pumping seemed loudest here and the lighting particularly bright. Cables and pipes ran along the ceiling from all the passages, converging to form a cap to a great steel drum directly in the center of the chamber. Several attendants worked at terminals surrounding the drum, and with a word from Stusson, all but one departed.

The remaining attendant worked some controls, and the drum began to hiss. Braams, the Three-World champion, feared no man nor act of man or nature, but he started at the hiss nonetheless. The drum began to descend into the floor, or rather its outer sleeve did. An inner sleeve rose up and a final, core sleeve, some five centimeters thick, slid with a gentle scraping sound into the floor. Upon a stainless steel pedestal sat a collection of ivory shapes. If Braams were forced to describe it, he might say it looked like the polished skeleton of an old man squatting on its haunches, hugging its knees, and resting its chin between them.

Braams stepped back. “What is this?”

“This is the legacy of Keska Kessel,” Stusson said. “This is the Blood Frame.”

A new sound filled the chamber, that of great gears turning. The floor shuddered and light began to shine from around the base of the drum. The floor was receding, pulling away in great halves. A thick layer of transparent plastic lay atop the retreating sections so there was no danger of falling, but Braams was preoccupied with what lay below. Stretching fifty meters out in all directions from beneath the drum, was a white basin, a hundred meters deep and bright with reflected light. It was marked with regularly-spaced holes and etched with channels that all led to the base where a segmented stalk of the same immaculate white rose up to support the drum sleeves and the pedestal that held the strange set of bones.

Braams stared at the pedestal, and remembering the inscribed plate at Suur Cathedral, understood—at least in part. “Those tanks. They’re filled with blood, aren’t they? The blood of contract holders.”

“Yes, Mr. Braams. We have been collecting the blood of specific family lines for the last six hundred years. One of our first main hurdles was to overcome the problem of long-term storage of so perishable a substance, but we have achieved a nearly perfect preservation rate.”

“You called it the Blood Frame. Do you intend to somehow feed all that blood to those bones? To what purpose?”

“Power, Mr. Braams. Let me tell you what we know.

“In 1084, Shaala will be struck by an organism of near-incomprehensible size. The impact alone will devastate the world and kill hundreds of thousands. Ecosystems held in balance for millions of years will be shattered in an instant. Poisons will be introduced into our atmosphere which will finish off another large portion of all life here. Both Iss and Voskos will be subjected to the same fate, as will the remaining, non-life-bearing planets in this system. This we cannot avoid. We will use our mass drivers, which might hold off a conventional invasion, but they will prove ineffective. The Entitlement of God is our only hope. From amongst the top fighters of the Three Worlds, we may put together an army of maybe three to four hundred strong, led by three, championed by one.”

Braams knew better than to question or to interrupt. By opening himself and exploiting the first two Secrets, he began to read Stusson’s heart. He knew that the Chief Steward spoke the truth, and more, the narrative took on a dreamlike quality, like deja vu, as if this weren’t the first time he’d ever heard this horrible future laid out.

“While the threat to the Three Worlds is great, this. . .
organism
bears with it an army led by beings who, with their various disciplines and powers, far outstrip Entitlement holders. Perhaps you, Fosso, and Sosa are their equals, but there are eleven of them and one among them is the King of Spades.

“The King of Spades will wear a suit of bones; he will command the dead; he will be unstoppable. Keska Kessel believed that his power comes from the lives that were once housed within the bones he wears and that therein lies the secret to our defense and potential victory. To copy and surpass the King of Spades has been our singular task.

“The Blood Frame is the culmination of centuries of research. Life for life. There is no other way. Its component parts are select bones bequeathed to us by Entitlement holders—all of them Initiates of the Sixth Secret—that we might succeed and maintain a future. Physically the Blood Frame is complete, but its. . . its. . .” Stusson blinked, stumbling over his words, trying to master his emotions. “
Fuel
,” Stusson finally said, making an effort to meet Braams’s steady gaze. “It seems so inappropriate a word for the blood—the lives—of so many who have given themselves to this project. We are still collecting the blood required for activation. Though close to it, our preservation process is not perfect. There has been some loss, so collection will necessarily continue up until the actual invasion. Until now, our contract holders have given their blood upon their natural deaths. When the time comes, in five years, some will have to give up everything, sacrificing themselves for the greater good of the Three Worlds. This is Keska Kessel’s Blood Solution, the answer to the King of Spades.”

Braams’s gaze did not falter, but tears quivered in his eyes before streaking his bronze face.

“Mr. Braams,” Stusson said, pausing. “I brought you here today to ask you—no, to
beg
you—to be our champion, to lead with Kan Fosso and Bask Sosa our army of Entitled. Accept the Blood Frame, become the King of Hearts. You alone, the third ever Initiate of the Seventh Secret—that being Creation—have the ability to produce the fusion reaction that will give the Blood Frame life. You are our best and only hope.”

“Chief Steward—Sar Stusson—I will not say that I haven’t worked hard for what I’ve attained, but perhaps, in comparison to others, the study of Entitlement has come easy to me. During these last several years on the fight circuit, I’ve enjoyed the adoration of fans from all over the Three Worlds, and I’ve taken full advantage of that adoration for my own selfish gratification. While I do not apologize for this, I recognize that I must put such behind me. I’ve lived well, but I’ve shirked duty, responsibility. I’ve left many children I will likely never meet.”

Braams paused for a moment, his jaw tightening to check renewed tears. “Please believe me when I say that it is for them and not for further self-aggrandizement that I humbly and gratefully accept your request. My sincerest hope is that I can live up to Keska Kessel’s expectations, to yours, and to those of all who live in the Three Worlds. You asked me if I had ever thought about becoming a steward. I have now, sir, and if an invitation to stewardship accompanies this proposition of yours, I will do whatever is necessary to rise to the office.”

Raus Kapler stepped out onto the roof of his family’s tower, a glossy blade of obsidian rising up from the flat earth. From here the Kaplers had ruled Sarsa unopposed for untold generations. The sun had set, but even if it shone, there would be little light to grace the dull, gray sky.

Raus ran his hand along the underside of the Lightning Gun’s barrel, counting his steps as he went. He remembered a time, long ago, when he couldn’t reach so high and it had taken him far more than the current twelve steps to walk the barrel’s length. He stood at the roof’s edge, looking down over the waste that made up his family’s kingdom.

Rows and rows of crudely marked graves encircled the tower, a morbid reminder of the cost of absolute power. Scattered fires on the horizon marked the camps of the resistance groups. The groups had given up their forays years ago, finding the Lightning Gun as impassible as it was deadly, but they wouldn’t remain deterred indefinitely. The cycle always repeated itself. In time, fear of the Lightning Gun would subside, the resistance would storm the tower, and the surrounding fields, the Black Fields as the locals had taken to calling them, already lush with death, would stink once again with a new harvest of ozone and charred flesh. Each time the cycle took less time to complete itself, spiraling Sarsa’s already dying civilization closer to its inevitable end.

Raus wondered if
she
was out there. He knew it didn’t matter. If she
was
out there among them, it would be the same. He would kill her like he had the times before, or just as well, she would kill him.

He spun around, heading back down into the tower to check on his brother.

Ban Kapler hung motionless, suspended in a reinforced glass tank filled with a gelatinous, life sustaining protein solution.

“Ban,” Raus said, shaking his head. “You were always so eager for change, you always wanted to do something that mattered, to be the strong one, to make a difference even though you were sick. Father’s experiments improved us, but with you there was a cost.”

Raus threw his head back, sucking in a deep breath as he recalled with perfect clarity the fateful night Ban was put into the medical tank more than a hundred years ago. . .

“Raus! The dreams, you know the dreams haunt me nightly, pointing to some horrific future, but on waking nothing ever remains except the impression of the end approaching.”

“Easy, Ban. You’re paler than usual, little brother.”

Ban shook his head, dismissing Raus’s concern. “I’ve done it, Raus. I’ve taken the Catalyst Wine.”

Raus started. “You— Why, Ban? You know what it’ll do to you.” Raus gripped Ban’s shoulders and noticed his brother’s legs shaking, barely able to support him. “You’re sweating, Ban, and you’re scaring me.”

“I see it, Raus. The Wine submerged me in shadow, an ocean of shadow, but, but I could see it and I see it still. Not clearly, but it’s coming. Calamity. The end of everything. We—”

Ban nearly fainted, going limp in Raus’s supporting hands.

“Must. . . must get help. Viscain Empire. . . still time. . .”

So much had happened since Ban had slipped into the coma. Calamity had come as predicted, but help was still a long ways off. Raus’s indiscretion with the serving girl, Milla Marz, had set off a chain of events that destroyed what credibility the Kaplers still had with the people and drove a wedge through the Kaplers themselves destroying them in the end as well.

Raus sighed and forced the memory from his head. He placed his hands upon the glass and looked up into his brother’s peaceful face. “It’s just you and me, Ban,” he said. “We’ve lost so much, but the help you foretold is finally here. In less than a month the first of them will arrive.”

Planet Zahl was lifeless. It hadn’t always been so, and in fact a case could still be made to the contrary, but no animal life nor vegetation remained. Ruins of the long-dead civilization were spread across the land in various states of crumbling decay and offered no trace of the splendor of the planet’s cultural peak.

A lone survivor of the planet’s rise and fall to oblivion sat upon a crag, observing the whorls the wind traced in the sand. This survivor could think, could perceive, could communicate, could even create, but was not, strictly speaking, alive.

Icsain was an articulated figure of smooth wood with mesmerizing grain patterns that seemed to shift. His head was a wooden egg and, though devoid of features, was strangely expressive. Each major joint was a dark sphere and was, like his head, polished to a glossy finish.

Icsain had been cut from a sacred tree that was worshiped in primitive times. A craftsman, immeasurably skilled, carved the figure, at first according to his own design, but as the human figure took shape, Icsain helped guide the craftsman’s hand.

He had seen the peoples of his world settle their differences and achieve peace. He had borne witness to every major historical event, sometimes from the inside as a key participant, sometimes from afar as a simple observer. He never dared to want anything more than to share in the lives of the people who had once worshipped him. And he got his wish. The world had run its course and Icsain had been present through it all. Now he was content—had no choice but to be content—with the day to day dramas that nature could still play out for his amusement, drawing pictures in the sand.

From around Kapler Tower, at the fringes of the Black Fields, they watched, thousands of them, stirred by the sudden flash and crack, roused to interest and alternately filled with or drained of hope. The Lightning Gun hadn’t been fired in a few years now, and none of the groups, affiliated or independent, had made any moves of aggression, but what fell from the sky, touching down where the Lightning Gun had so many times before, was similar—too similar—to do anything but stoke an already present and building feeling of unease.

When the light faded, a lone man rose from a crouching position to stand his full height, which many onlookers thought was little more than that of a child. As they scrutinized, though, many began to shake uncontrollably when they realized—or assumed, really—just what had been deposited upon the Black Fields. It wasn’t a man, or a child, but a skeleton, an incarnation of death come to reap. But to reap what? Was death here for them or for the Kaplers?

Jav Holson, Dark with the Kaiser Bones, stood, checked the Tether Launch control device upon his wrist, then took a moment to survey his surroundings. Immediately beneath him, marked by rings of etched stones, buried in stages within the mixture of char-black ash and sterilized soil, were more bones than he could register. He noted, too, the camps of men and women, their primitive arms, and how they formed an extended perimeter, now animated somewhat by his arrival, around the Tower. He stared into the distance for a moment, thinking. If necessary he could secure the Tower and defend it indefinitely with what were essentially inexhaustible resources below. Hopefully, that wouldn’t be necessary.