The Blood Solution (Approaching Infinity Book 3) (39 page)

He passed Un Azameio. If Set needed help, Lowe had no doubts that he would ask for it. Set had a sizable ego, but rarely did it encroach onto the battlefield. He’d learned his lessons and the value of teamwork while on Blue Squad.

The harpies had ceased to fall for a time, but now several more dropped like stones, and Lowe understood why. From amidst the enemy, still inaccessible to the merman gene soldiers, was one of the Entitled by God. His body was like white light. His Halo was the same, tight and narrow about his head. Lowe couldn’t help but be reminded of the 18th Generation General, Sana Bale with her Prismatic Scales. He’d always thought her beautiful while Dark. This Entitled was pure white light, different from Sana in his way, but at heart similar. With his shine he would have stood out more clearly, if not for the crowd around him. Lowe watched him put a hand of light to what would have been his temple then “swords” of the same white light shot forth, machine gun fast, each one piercing the heart of a harpy, killing it instantly.

Lowe had noted that there was a pause between volleys and used this to his advantage. Once the Entitled had fired off his limit, Lowe responded. The surface of the pods on his shoulders split down the middle, each opening like an eye and revealing seven dark, wet nodules within. These, Lowe’s pollywog drones, launched like missiles, streaking towards the shining Entitled, leaving trails of evaporating moisture. The crowd around him was thick, though, and the first four of the drones simply exploded on contact like conventional missiles. These scattered the crowd to chunks and pieces, while the rest of the drones underwent their evolution, quickly growing, changing, metamorphosing into simple copies of Lowe himself. Ten copies alighted. They were gray and imperfect, covered with the protein-rich gelatinous slime that was their food and their substance.

More of the enemy soldiers had closed the open circle made by the explosions, rushing to support the Entitled. Lowe’s copies engaged them, succeeded in killing or crippling a few using a parody of Lowe’s Lead Cloud Steps at its most basic. Two of the copies succumbed to enemy group efforts, only to detonate as the missiles had, once sufficient pressure had caused their unstable “blood” to react.

That had been enough time for the Entitled to recharge, though.

Bela Fan had sensed first then confirmed with her eyes Un Azameio’s fate. Set’s faux Gran was still far ahead, but it glimmered like a diamond mountain in the light that descended from the heavens, then again when that light scattered over the sea. Her feelings for Dolma Set were complicated, but
no one
insulted Blue Squad, especially not Set, and
especially
not using ice and cold.

It took her no time at all to identify the perpetrator. He radiated cold like none of his fellows and registered blatantly upon Bela’s Dark, specialized senses. Stark winter white shot out before her, this time with such intensity that the icicle-festooned dead shattered under their own weight, so thoroughly did her cold and the resulting ice penetrate through their bodies. At the limit of the cone-shaped blast zone, the guilty Entitled stood, brought to a halt and humbled by the eruption of the frosty landscape before him. They regarded each other across that winterscape for a moment frozen and made still by Bela’s power, her writhing tail the only indication that time itself had not stopped. And then she was all sound and motion, screaming, limbs flailing, striking down the ice half-sculptures that had once been flesh and blood men and women. She crossed the distance between them in an instant and had her hands about the Entitled’s throat, though she had to reach up to do so. Her eyes flashed and before the man who had been known as Jarro Sessek could react, his life was snuffed out by a freezing rush. Cold, far more intense than he had ever been capable of producing on his own, had invaded his body, crystallizing every cell and making his neck brittle under the powerful grip of Bela’s hands. His head, now a double-crusted gem, dropped from its crumbled setting, landed on the ground heavily and cracked along a jagged crimson plane into two halves.

“I don’t know if you can understand me,” the steel-clad Entitled said, “but we of the Three Words are civilized. I am Kan Fosso. If possible, I would have the name of my opponent.”

Dolma Set stared in disbelief through his Dark yellow eyes. “Dolma Set,” he said simply.

The two circled each other appraisingly for four synchronized heartbeats before Kan Fosso dashed forward, leading with all the fingers of his right hand held together to form a point. This was the crane fist. The pecking motion, though perhaps somewhat weak in appearance, whistled through the air and would have struck Set just below his left ear, but Set was moving, rolling his head out of harm’s way, delivering a palm strike to Fosso’s midsection. Fosso didn’t flinch, and for the first time in his career, Set felt the placoid scales betray him in a way. Frictionless or not, when Set struck using the Liquid Palm and his strikes landed, they
always
transmitted their force throughout or through
and out of
his opponents’ bodies. Now, though, his hand slipped across and off of Fosso’s gleaming trunk.

Fosso struck again and again, moving with mechanical precision and efficiency. Set was impressed. He operated defensively until he recovered from his initial shock at the inefficacy of his blow, then went on the offensive. The Slow Push would be useless given Fosso’s mass and density. The Ripple would be better, the Infinite Ripple better still. Set wove between Fosso’s attacks with seeming ease, then while in close he delivered a volley of Ripple palm strikes which stopped Fosso’s advance. He finished with a dual palm delivery of the Infinite Ripple which pushed Fosso back a step, but something was wrong. Set had the sense that Fosso was in fact simply pushed back, not that he was at all staggered by the force of the blow. Set was beginning to feel that there was no blood housed within the steel shell, that Kan Fosso was, like the Gun Golems, solid steel. If that were the case, none of his techniques would work. It couldn’t be so. These Entitled were many things, as he could see all around him, but they were, at base, human. Could it be that they had additional power sources akin to Artifacts? Or could it be that they had developed their own mental powers to effect such an incredible transformation? Set refused to believe it.

He increased his pace, checking Fosso’s strikes, making his blocks into strikes of his own each time. Now he was gaining ground, driving Fosso back by degrees, and his confidence swelled back to full. He could hear Fosso’s body vibrating now, like the tine of a tuning fork, the frequency increasing with each successfully delivered blow, each blow coming faster and faster. After a particularly intense flurry of blows, Fosso reeled under the relentless pressure. Set kicked off the ground, rising high to bring down the finishing blow. Set’s palm descended like a two-ton weight and struck the flat forehead of Fosso’s steel faceplate, Set crying out, “Transference!”

Thunder reverberated off of Fosso’s head. A visible circle of force spread out from around Set’s hand and brought thick silence, uncanny and surreal after the cacophony of the instant before. But under his palm, Set felt the vibrations no more, and the blank steely faceplate seemed to stare with meaning. Microseconds passed, allowing just enough time for sick foreboding to fester in Set’s stomach and save his life.

In slow motion, he saw the Halo about Fosso’s head come into being, intensify to white-gold brilliance, and flash outward, threatening to carve him to pieces. Set contorted reflexively, leaping once again like a fish, twisting his body, and arcing through the air to relative safety. Fosso’s Golden Crown shaved across his chest and along the line of his upturned jaw. Set landed on all fours, very much unlike the sea creature after which he was modeled, his entire front smoldering and sizzling audibly.

Through his Artifact, Set called out not for Stafros Lowe but for Jav Holson. It was a desperate cry, but not without thought. Like Liquid Palm, the Lead Cloud Steps were formidable, were in fact more devastating in some less subtle ways, but Kan Fosso, whatever he was, required more. He required the Eighteen Heavenly Claws and power that approached infinity.

“Jav!” Set called.

Jav started at the voice in his mind. He was busy fighting, but only partially engaged mentally, having encountered no fighters or powers of note as yet. He scanned the battlefield, located Set in seconds and responded, “I’m coming.”

Employing a simple Approaching Infinity technique, Jav was by Set’s side almost instantly, helping him to his feet.

Kan Fosso stood by, allowing Set to recover his feet, confident that nothing would alter the course of the fight, whether it would continue to be with Set or with his proxy.

“I concede, Kan Fosso,” Set said, “but I’m not ready to die just yet.” Set nodded to Jav, no further communication between them necessary, and darted off for other opponents.

“He is remarkably skilled,” Fosso said, his arms folded across his chest. “But I know
all
the hidden truths of the Sixth Secret. I am Kan Fosso. Because I grow weary of the death and destruction you bring here, I will not allow my contest with you to go unfinished as I did the contest with him. I will be your opponent until one of us falls. But I would have your name.”

Jav nodded, impressed with Fosso and his sentiment. “I’m Jav Holson. There will always be predators and prey, but please don’t think that all of the Viscain are without conscience. I believe in skill and determination. If my Eighteen Heavenly Claws cannot bring you down, and more, if the Viscain Empire is defeated here today, then that is what must be.” When he was finished, Jav marveled a little at himself. He’d been honest, but he didn’t understand his own need to voice his honesty. Perhaps it was because that so far among the natives they’d fought—Jav couldn’t quite bring himself to think of them as
enemies
—Fosso was so much like those he counted as friends.

Fosso regarded him for a time, appraising him with featureless steel. “Skill and determination then.”

Jav nodded.

After seconds more of silent mutual acknowledgement, the two rushed forward, crossing fists and trading blows. Jav’s style differed markedly from Set’s, incorporating more aggressive blocks that were, as often as not, strikes to the limbs. Fosso had difficulty landing his crane fist as Jav was faster. Jav was also more frenetic than Set, delivering series after series of complicated strikes, that perhaps did not penetrate through Fosso’s steel, but upset his pace and drove him back much more so than Set had.

Fosso wasn’t worried, not really worried, not yet anyway, but the seed had taken root. Doubt had crept in.

Jav’s claw hands struck and raked, raising ringing gong sounds as they set Fosso’s steel to vibrating. Fosso blocked and stepped up his offense, landing a strike upon Jav’s skull helmet with his crane fist, jarring Jav’s head upon his shoulders. Jav staggered backwards, but smiled behind his helmet. The next strike he delivered was unlike anything Fosso had ever experienced. The deafeningly resonant peal his body gave off was almost incongruously swallowed by a dull pop, the signature of an Approaching Infinity impact.

Now Fosso staggered back several steps, clutching at the impact point, heaving as if out of breath.

“Is it you then? Are you the King of Spades?” Fosso said through heavy breaths.

“What?”

“Your garish costume is appropriate, but I would have thought you the leader if you were in fact the King of Spades?”

Jav shook his head, uncomprehending.

Fosso swallowed hard, caught his breath, nodded his acquiescence to the inevitable, and resumed his fighting stance. But rather than advance, the Halo about his head sprang to life, flashing out with its deadly edge. He thought he saw Jav cut apart before him, disintegrated and reduced to smoke which scattered with the passage of the Golden Crown, but unimaginable pressure struck his head from behind, making him stumble forward and sprawl to the ground. Again there had been that dull popping sound.

Fosso quickly gained his feet, turned, found Jav behind where he’d been. He shook his head and muttered to himself, “How?” not expecting anyone, least of all Jav to answer.

Jav proceeded to land heavier and heavier blows in unending succession, Fosso’s defense all but abandoned for the methodical relentlessness of Jav’s assault.

Though Jav’s strikes were harder and heavier than anything Fosso had ever encountered, and Fosso’s confidence had visibly waned, Jav could not seem to breach his steel. He’d apparently given up fighting back physically, but Fosso was indomitable. He merely had to catch his wind, take an instant to prepare and set his Golden Crown upon whatever was in front of him.

This time, Jav was taken somewhat by surprise. Fosso had been fighting for a while, and had expended a great deal of energy, but it had been a mistake to think him exhausted. Jav turned sideways to allow the Golden Crown to pass, but it was close, catching his left arm and raking all the way down its length, tugging at it to follow. Smoke rose from Jav’s arm, but another Golden Crown flashed out. This time, Jav stared, as if down the barrel of a gun, and invoked the Ghost Kaiser once again, leaving a smoke double in his place which, as before, was dashed apart by the cutting attack.

Jav had been right to respect Fosso. This time, when Jav appeared behind him, before he could strike, he himself was struck by Fosso’s backwards upswinging right leg. Fosso’s heel caught him directly under the chin, lifted him high and sent him sprawling. The blow jarred him far more than the direct crane fist had.

Jav recovered his wits and rose quickly. Before Fosso could send another Golden Crown, he performed the multiple calculations for the Kaiser Kick: AI to propel his forward momentum, and AI to dramatically increase his impact. He did this with the efficiency of rage. His foot met the line of Fosso’s jaw squarely and sent him like a projectile through the clashing armies. Fosso tore a discernible path through bodies, both human and gene soldier, which broke and splashed lifeblood in profusion.