The Artifact Competition (Approaching Infinity Book 1) Page 2

  One kilometer from the villa lay the Vine where it had rooted into and sprouted back out of the planet so long ago. Set within the crotch of the Vine was a perfectly level landing pad, a square, one hundred meters to a side. Lights blinked on and off eternally in sequence, always ready to receive visitors. This was a jump deck, a method of transportation perfected by the head of the Military Hardware Division, Gilf Scanlan—the same genius responsible for the magnificent Grans. From another jump deck, travel was almost instantaneous, but over extremely long distances the risk of being lost in the warp field the system created became unacceptably high. To remedy this, jump decks and relays had been installed at intervals all along the Vine up to the planet that housed the farthest retiree.

  Now from the jump deck came a terrible sound. It was the mournful cry of a machine being pushed beyond its limits, of gears straining and metal rending, the kind of sound that makes you squint and grit your teeth and pray that it stops soon before irreparable damage is done. But this was the sound of a perfectly working jump deck in operation. Millions of lines of light crisscrossed and moved like the point of a stylus, tracing a pattern until a jump ship sat upon the deck, fully formed and solid. Once the sound of the jump deck had subsided, the ship had nearly completed powering up its engines and was ready for the short flight to the villa.

  The ship—a sleek stack of long-nosed, three-sided, overlapping pyramids—touched down just outside the walls of the villa. Two figures emerged and were greeted by a member of the villa staff who escorted them through the front gates. The remainder of the staff, about ten people, formed a line inside the courtyard to welcome the visitors. Laedra Hol, dressed in a long dark robe, stood at the head of the line. Further inside and behind her were seven young ladies with fierce expressions.

  The two new arrivals wore identical gray uniforms. One of them was Lor Kalkin. The other looked to be about thirty years old. He had close-cropped, light brown hair and, besides the slightly wild look in his eyes, he seemed to be surpassingly ordinary. While Kalkin looked straight ahead, the other, because of nerves or outright paranoia, shot looks everywhere. He eyed the staff perfunctorily and noted the seven young ladies behind Hol—they in particular appeared to be capable fighters. He absorbed the details of the courtyard wall, the layout of the buildings, where conspicuous doors were, and where hiding places might be found.

  The man came to a halt, probably because Kalkin had, but his eyes continued to dart around.

  “Hey!” Kalkin forced a whisper through clenched teeth. “Remember what I told you? Kneel.”

  The other suddenly grasped the situation and quickly knelt and bowed his head. “My apologies,” he said. “There is no excuse for a lapse in etiquette.”

  Mildly confused, Hol looked at Kalkin and said, “This is Mikaidaa?”

  “Yes.”

  “I wasn’t expecting him to be so polite.”

  “Just wait,” Kalkin said, grinning.

  Hol turned to the other. “Well, Mikaidaa, I understand that you can’t remember anything prior to receiving the Ritual Mask. Do you think the Mask is to blame for your memory loss?”

  “I don’t know, but I tend to think not. I have been told, though, that the temporary nature of the Ritual Mask combined with the instability of my F-Gene could have produced a shock sufficient to account for the memory loss during the bonding process. I guess there’s no way to know, really.”

  “I see. Do you remember anything?”

  “Nothing specific. But I remember being very, very angry.”

  “Can you imagine why?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “They say you are uncontrollable while Dark.”

  “That is, I suppose, partially true. I feel like I can do anything with the Ritual Mask. There are no limits; there is nothing to restrain me. I can vent my anger on anything with my bare hands. Often, though, there comes a point where it all turns into a red dream.”

  “The Mikai Curse?” Hol said.

  “Yes. I can’t always control the onset of the Curse and once it’s started, anything in my way seems to be. . .”

  “Lost,” Kalkin said.

  “So, you lack control. Gene Soldiers are one thing, easily regrown, but human beings are something else. How many of General Barson’s troops have, uh, ‘gotten in your way’?”

  Mikaidaa stared at Hol uncomfortably. She met his gaze and did not falter. Feeling betrayed, he cast a reproachful glance at Kalkin who merely pursed his lips and cocked his head.

  “Don’t be angry with Mr. Kalkin,” Hol said. “Even if he had been the one to inform me, it’s not as if it’s a secret. How many?”

  Mikaidaa cleared his throat and composed himself. “Over a thousand, I’m told. Given the nature of our business, it’s impossible for a more accurate figure.”

  “Of course,” she said, nodding. Hol addressed Kalkin, “Didn’t you also say something about his numbers fluctuating?”

  Kalkin nodded. “On 1397, his Raw Physical Power was rated at just under thirty-three thousand. On 1398 it was half that. While he was in the hospital they couldn’t get any stable readings, but his RPP was recorded as being as low as four thousand at one point.”

  “What about his Raw Mental Power?”

  “A constant five hundred.”

  “Oh? That is high for not exhibiting any specific talents. But maybe those talents are just being hidden by everything else going on inside him.”

  Kalkin shrugged.

  “I want to see it,” Hol said, turning to Mikaidaa.

  “Ma’am?”

  “The Ritual Mask.” She indicated the young ladies behind her while still speaking to Mikaidaa. “These are my students. Any one of them can easily defeat a normal man. But four of them are currently learning my secret techniques. This puts them in a class far above normal. While one or two of them might not be a match for a Shade, all seven of them should be. I want to see you fight first hand. I want you to try to hit me.”

  He looked at the seven young ladies and then at Hol before him and nodded. “All right. Perhaps it would be best for your staff. . .”

  She waved her hand and the line backed away and started to file into the main building. The seven young ladies stepped forward. They wore silk robes, each of a different color, and effectively made a wall between Mikaidaa and their teacher. Kalkin stepped back several paces.

  Mikaidaa took a deep breath. Pearls seemed to ooze through the pores of his face as he went Dark and the Ritual Mask surfaced. It was a simple oval plate of slightly yellowed bone that was veined with cracks. It followed the contour of his face but was itself featureless except for two creases where the eyes would be. Those “eyes”, like Samhain’s features, changed when you weren’t looking, giving the mask a surreal, punctuated expressive quality.

  Hol studied the mask carefully. The network of cracks made her stomach drop. How much longer could it last? Mikaidaa had fought tirelessly on planets 1397 and 1398. Perhaps the cracks weren’t as bad as they looked. Still, when an Artifact was destroyed, its recipient was dragged along to destruction with it. It was never clean, either. She fought back a chill then gathered herself. “Begin!”

  Mikaidaa’s head moved in response to Hol’s words, but it was a jerk devoid of any motion. Suddenly Mikaidaa was two steps forward, hunched over, arms extended. Again, no motion and yet he had moved. A third time, there was no in-between movement as he was suddenly in mid run, barreling forward.

  One of the seven young ladies wasted no time, leaping to intercept his rush. The fingers of Mikaidaa’s left hand went rigid before him, curled into a claw, and he batted her away with a backhand. She was able to bring her arms up just in time to block the strike, but the force of it sent her crashing into the wall. The others noted the strength necessary to accomplish that feat and, with a series of nods between them, fanned out to approach Mikaidaa from different directions.

  One of the ladies dropped and swept the ground with her leg. Mikaidaa jumped to avoid being trip
ped and he sailed through the air effortlessly. However, while in the air, he had little control of his movement and was set upon by three of his attackers. Two of them flashed by him, one in front and one behind, nearly like scissor blades, and indeed, they came away with their hands bloodied. Like him, all the ladies had their hands set into claws, and these two had just ripped out stringy knots of flesh. This upset his forward momentum and prepared him for the third lady’s attack. Spinning through the air like a pinwheel, her leg kicked out and she brought all her force down on Mikaidaa’s head. Making a nearly instant ninety-degree shift in direction, he shot into the ground, raising a cloud of dust.

  The two who had not yet attacked, along with the one who had tried to sweep his legs, now set upon him. One snatched up his right arm, applying opposite pressure to his elbow in an attempt to break it. One wrapped her arms around his neck, either to snap it or choke him. The third struck again and again with her clawed hands, tearing his gray uniform to tatters and saturating it with his blood.

  Mikaidaa never made a sound. He reached up behind him with his left hand, finding a firm grip as his fingers tangled in a mass of glossy black hair. He pulled and flicked his arm at the elbow, yanking the girl from his neck and sending her screaming through the air. Some of her hair remained in his fingers as he turned his attention to the lady before him and caught one of her striking claws by the wrist. With a quick counter-clockwise jerk, there was a snapping sound and the lady on the other end let out a stifled cry. He rose from his knees and, using the shift in position along with his superior strength, twisted his right arm free of the elbow lock, taking hold of his former captor’s wrist. With her trapped in his grip, he front-kicked the other directly in front of him to put an end to her persistent strikes with her good hand. Her lower body shot out from under her, and she skidded to the ground, her chin plowing a shallow trail in the dirt. He took the remaining lady’s wrist in both hands now and, with a quick rowing motion, made her body follow the course of his hands. She snapped to the ground, the flat of her back hitting with a tremendous impact, forcing a coughing spray of blood into the air.

  A loud, sharp sound echoed through the courtyard as Mikaidaa’s head jolted to one side under the pressure of a vicious kick. He dropped back down to one knee, but a second kick to his midsection forced him back two unbalanced steps. Swift hands gripped his right wrist as a third kick splintered his elbow. A final kick spun his head around, raising his chin to the sky and exposing his throat. A blurred shape passed before his neck and blood burst forth, raining all down his front. All seven had now gathered and were raining down blows.

  Every muscle in Mikaidaa’s body suddenly tensed as if an electric current were being fed into his body. At the same moment, the space around Hol’s head shimmered as her stylized helmet became semi-visible. Upon the smoked-glass visor, warning lights danced and blinked. Gray phantom eyes had opened on the face of the Ritual Mask. Suddenly, the air was wet with red mist and filled with a maddening drone. Blood had risen from various wounds and hung heavy in the air. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the blood was being drawn into the Ritual Mask.

  “Stop!” Hol shouted, but her voice was barely audible above the noise. She went completely Dark, the Charging Fork now visible and beginning to work.

  Mikaidaa’s right arm bent back into correct alignment and his elbow mended itself before everyone’s eyes. With that hand, Mikaidaa grabbed the nearest girl by the face and threw her head into the ground where it bounced with a sick, hollow clop that was strangely too loud above the noise of the Mikai Curse. Body still, her eyes had gone white and were staring blankly up at the dim sky.

  Another advanced, but her strike was met early with Mikaidaa’s own. Her forearm folded at the impact point, the sound of her crushing bones somehow perfectly clear above the din.

  The blood haze was being drawn into the Mask more quickly and with greater force now. Something was about to happen. Both Hol and Kalkin could feel it. Kalkin jumped back and shouted something unheard through the clamor and his body suddenly changed, took on a grotesque, mottled appearance, bruised and purple.

  Suddenly, Hol was before Mikaidaa, her palm one centimeter before his chest. The two-tined Charging Fork jutting from her helmet vibrated into a blur and created a long resonant note that began to compete with the drone of the Ritual Mask. Light instantly began to trace intricate patterns like myriad atomic models between her hand and his chest. Mikaidaa roared. Whatever was going to happen was about to happen now. Hol pushed the heel of her palm into Mikaidaa’s chest.

  There was a thunderous boom followed by a loud crash followed by the sound of a distant splash. The mist had dropped, painting the ground red with blood. The droning noise was gone and Kalkin appeared to be human again.

  Mikaidaa was gone. His trail was clear enough, though. Two ruts in the ground led straight through a shattered portion of the wall near the front gates and through the hole in the wall, the tumultuous state of the sea made his whereabouts clear.

  About ten minutes later, the tattered and exhausted form of Mikaidaa was trudging through the braking waves towards the beach. The Ritual Mask was gone, his movement normal. Halfway between the villa and the beach, Hol waited with Kalkin standing a little off to her side. Kalkin had his arms folded across his chest and wore an uneasy expression. Hol stretched out a hand to aid Mikaidaa, which he accepted, and the three proceeded back to the villa’s courtyard.

  The staff had reassembled and six of the seven young ladies waited again where they had originally. Moving along the line of staff, Hol gently dropped her supporting hand, leaving Mikaidaa and Kalkin, as she continued forward to stand before the six girls. She sighed heavily before speaking.

  “It’s clear that the power of the Ritual Mask is waning, but it’s resilient; it’s not finished just yet. I’m afraid that you may depend on it unconsciously and summon it unnecessarily, which would give rise to two problems. First, if training ever proved too taxing and the Mask came unbidden, it may imperil your fellow students and my staff. Second, any use of the Ritual Mask will surely drain its power, which could prove fatal to you and make your proposed training moot.” She waited for the importance of her words to sink in.

  Kalkin nodded in understanding. “What do you propose, Miss Hol?”

  “As soon as we’re finished here, I’ll send a request for Professor Cranden, to have him come here and seal the Ritual Mask away for the duration of Mikaidaa’s training.”

  She looked at Mikaidaa with narrowed eyes. “You’ve had no memory and no other name than Mikaidaa since receiving the Ritual Mask, but the Ritual Mask and that name have no place here. From now on, you will be Jav Holson, my student and subject to my rules. You will address me as ‘Teacher’. Do you understand?”

  Jav bowed. “Yes, Teacher.”

  “Let me introduce you to your fellow students.” She gestured toward each as she said their names. “This is Mei Pardine, my most advanced student. This is Mai and down at the end is Mao, both Mei’s half sisters. These are the twins, Amia and Tani Aman. And this is Sessa Olster.”

  The man who was now called Jav Holson bowed slightly to each of the grim-faced young ladies, but when Hol was done with her introductions, he made a quick confirming count and knitted his brows in sudden concern. He shot an intense look at his new teacher who anticipated his reaction.

  Hol’s breath caught in her throat before she could speak and she swallowed it back. “Lili Farina. . . has sustained a head injury. Her condition is stable, but she appears to be in a coma at present. She is in good hands with Dr. Bell, but it’s unclear whether she’ll wake up or not.”

  Jav was about to speak, but Hol held her hand out for him to stop. Jav’s eyes were quivering in their sockets. He was furious; furious with a need to hear it again, but differently this time; furious with the need to apologize; furious with the need undo what he’d done while not himself. His eyes bore into Hol beseechingly as he unconsciously began to shake his head.

&n
bsp; Hol continued facing Jav, but her eyes dropped back and she was clearly addressing the girls behind her. “I made a mistake. The responsibility is mine. . .”

  Jav suddenly became aware of each and every girl staring murder at him and a chill raced up and down his spine ceaselessly.

  “. . .and mine alone,” her voice became dark and hard. “Anyone who doesn’t see it that way is encouraged to meet with me to discuss the virtues and the subtleties of responsibility. Is that clear?”

  All the girls responded in the affirmative in somewhat forced grunts and Hol dismissed them. She dismissed the staff as well and she was once more alone with Jav and Kalkin.

  Jav apologized at once.

  “Tch. I said it was my responsibility. I’ve heard enough of the stories and you warned me yourself. Let this be the end of it. People die in training camps just like this one every day. You may die. Or the Ritual Mask may, and take you with it. They came here to learn how to fight, to serve the Empire. I’m not pleased about what happened to Lili, but there are lessons to be learned in everything. Even for me.”

  Kalkin was nodding respectfully, convinced that in spite of what had happened, Jav and the girls were indeed in good hands.

  “Mr. Kalkin, you are more than welcome to stay for a few days. Perhaps you’d like to spend some time with your old professor.”

  “I’d love to see him, but I’ve got too many obligations right now that I can’t reschedule. I will be stationed on 1051 for some time, though, so I’m sure we’ll run into each other at Locsard.”