The Blood Solution (Approaching Infinity Book 3) Read online

  “I’m aware of that. But what does the Chief Steward want with me? Despite backing the whole tournament circuit, the Church rarely gets directly involved in the politics of fighting. It can’t be that you really want me to spice up my matches.”

  “No,” Stusson said, laughing. “I have something very important to show you and a proposition to make.”

  “A proposition?”

  “Might I persuade you to accompany me? After you’ve gotten cleaned up, of course.”

  “What about these guys?” Braams said, indicating the men in black.

  “Bodyguards. You have yours and I have mine. But I would like for you to think of these men as your men from this night forward.” He turned to Braams’s bodyguards. “I mean no disrespect, gentlemen.”

  Braams studied Stusson for the second time, trying now to fathom the other’s purpose. “Looks like you boys get the night off,” Braams said.

  Each of the three bodyguards made a sour face and shared looks with one another and with Raally, who looked nervous.

  “Gar, I know who he’s supposed to be, but what if he isn’t?” Raally said.

  Braams nodded. “What if? Well, Raally, if not and things get ugly, there might be some real pretty fireworks tonight.”

  Stusson, unmoved by the show of distrust, merely grinned.

  “I’ll shower and be right out,” Braams said to Stusson.

  • • •

  It wasn’t difficult to avoid the crowds, and Braams was glad to be able to do so once in a while. Stusson’s car was parked in the VIP lot exclusive to Church officials and at some remove from the main lots. They left Sovros Arena, easily beating the exit traffic. The car was comfortable and by the complete lack of outside noise, Braams knew that it was mass driver compliant.

  “Where are we going?” Braams said.

  “To Shaala.“

  “Right. I don’t think Sosa likes me showing off here on Iss anyway.”

  “You may be seeing Bask Sosa before too long. Kan Fosso, too.”

  Braams said nothing. His interest was piqued, but he was not impatient and knew that explanations would be forthcoming. If all this turned out to be a set-up, then he’d show them just what the Entitlement of God really meant.

  They approached the offramp for the mass driver expressway, the great coils ahead lit by electric lights and humming with power that could be felt even through the spinning tires.

  “We’re coming up on IP49, to Shaahal, Shaala,” the driver said. “Everyone fasten your seat belts. The vehicle is secure and ready for transit. Here we go.”

  As they passed through the first few loops of the coil, their velocity increased smoothly then by degrees until they were a flash of light lancing towards the horizon of Iss. Within fifteen minutes they were caught by the IP49 collection array in Shaahal, righted, and returned to the road.

  • • •

  Braams stepped out of the car into the crisp night air. Before him loomed the towering white marble walls of Shaahal Cathedral. He looked back the way they had come, first at the pale shadow of Iss hanging like ice in the sky, then at the city lights of Shaahal, filling the bowl of the valley below them, then east towards the sound of crashing surf, where ghosts danced and played on the wavetops.

  “Have you ever been inside, Mr. Braams?” Stusson asked as they approached the entrance.

  “No. I trained in the south, at Suur Cathedral when Fosso was finishing up his stewardship there. I haven’t been to a Cathedral since I finished my orthodox training years ago.”

  “I see. Have you ever thought of becoming a steward?”

  One of the men in black opened the doors and ushered them in. Then he and the other three fell into step behind Braams and Stusson as they made their way to the interior. They walked between the two rows of thick marble pillars that supported the high vault of the ceiling, moonlight filtering down from cleverly wrought lattice-work panels set therein.

  “I’m only twenty-five. Are you trying to recruit me already, Stusson?” Braams said.

  Stusson cocked an eyebrow at the omission of formal address—more because he was so used to hearing it than because it actually bothered him. “In a manner of speaking, yes.

  “Shaahal Cathedral is very old, Mr. Braams. You’ve heard of course of the King of Hearts and the King of Spades.”

  “What schoolboy hasn’t?” Light against dark, good versus evil. I suppose those stories had something to do with my pursuing Entitlement.”

  “Yes, the Entitlement of God, what every churchman strives for: true realization and internalization of the divine. The core myth is more than just a story, though, and it all started here with Keska Kessel’s prophecy. He built this cathedral.”

  Braams narrowed his eyes.

  “I see that you’re not unfamiliar with the name.”

  “Keska Kessel was the last Initiate of the Seventh Secret. That was several hundred years ago,” Braams said.

  “That’s right.” Stusson stopped them at a stone dais, the steward’s traditional place of instruction, and knelt down. His hands moved in the shadows between the dais and the floor. There was the sound of a latch being released, then of stone grinding against stone.

  Braams hopped back as the whole dais slid forward.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Please don’t be alarmed, Mr. Braams,” Stusson said. “Keska Kessel built this cathedral—and most of what you will soon see beneath it—following his prophetic dream. All of the stories revolving around the King of Hearts and the King of Spades began with his prophecy. The King of Spades is not a a metaphor for night, a supernatural terror, or a even a way to help teach morality, but an alien invader.

  “There is a timeline. There are signs which cannot be ignored. The prophecy has proven one hundred percent accurate to date and the timeline is running out. The King of Spades, or whatever he’s really called, is coming.”

  Braams stared at Stusson. He didn’t know if he should be intrigued, frightened, or incredulous when an unbidden memory surfaced with such clarity that it gave him a chill. It was a plate above the entrance to Suur Cathedral that read:

  He comes from the dark

  Born of calamity

  Born of defilement

  Black and clad in the bones of his victims

  The dead respond to his whim, abandoning home and family

  None can stand in his way

  But one

  This one

  Born of Cathedral

  Born of the hearts of righteous men

  Red and alive, Entitled by God

  The living respond to his will, restoring righteousness

  Only he, full with the blood of heroes, may stand against the dark foe

  Stusson met his quiet stare and nodded. “Follow me.”

  Braams did as told, following Stusson down stairs that were usually hidden by the dais. Recessed lights gave off an eerie glow as they progressed deep into a hall that was as vast as the cathedral above. Gleaming steel tanks stacked from floor to ceiling lined the walls, and unseen pumps worked out an incessant bass rhythm.

  “It was Kessel,” Stusson said, “who established the tournaments so celebrated now throughout the Three Worlds. He wanted to prepare us for what was coming. And he has, but there’s still a lot left to be done.”

  When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Braams could see that the shadows hid countless men, some dressed in black suits stationed at intervals, some wearing white coats and administering to the steel tanks.

  “There is an extensive network beneath Shaahal Cathedral. All that you see here is to prepare for the coming invasion.”

  “This? This is going to stop an invasion? How much do we really need to fear with mass drivers?” Braams said.

  “We had mass drivers in Kessel’s day; they’re not new, but Kessel was sure that they would mean nothing to the King of Spades. His prophecy was very specific.”

  “How come I’ve never heard about it?”

 
“But you have heard about it. What schoolboy hasn’t?” Stusson said, smiling.

  They walked on and on, always girded on either side by the steel tanks. Braams was sure that they were no longer directly under the cathedral. Just how big was this facility and what was it for?

  “There was of course what was made available to the public, and then there was the detailed account made available only to ranking members of the Church.”

  “Stewards,” Braams confirmed.

  “That’s right. The timeline was long and there was no need to create unnecessary panic. Stewards took over the required preparations, with the Chief Steward always presiding. The prophecy has directed the scientific pursuits of Shaala, Iss, and Voskos for the last six hundred years. Still, though, the only outsiders who have any knowledge of our operation here are contract holders.”

  “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.”
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  2. THE ISOLATED PRINCE

  (10,689.120)

  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.