The Blood Solution (Approaching Infinity Book 3) Page 8

  “I apologize for not being honest with you from the start. That was an error in judgement.”

  Sosa closed his mouth and swallowed down a combination of feelings he didn’t feel comfortable sorting out just now. In response to Stusson’s words, he simply nodded.

  “I was a boy once,” Stusson continued. “It was long ago, but I still remember. I too had and have a fascination with heroes. I’m also a student of history—being long-lived makes that a sort of necessity after a while—so I know that you are not the first Black Snake.”

  The grin reappeared along Sosa’s muzzle. “Oh? And what does the Chief Steward know of the first Black Snake?” Sosa said in friendly and good-natured challenge.

  Stusson returned the other’s grin. “Very little. Or quite a lot, depending on your point of view. I believe that I know all that is available to know about him. He was a contemporary of Keska Kessel. Some said he was Kessel’s shadow self. He averted or created some tragedy, demonstrating a power that was curiously similar to the Seventh Secret, and disappeared soon after. Of course there is more of what we don’t know than of what we do, but he is said to have looked. . . Well, just like you.”

  “I’m impressed, Sar Stusson. You are the first person I’ve come across—besides two of my learned history professors—who knew anything at all about the Black Snake.”

  “Whose name wasn’t Sosa,” Stusson added. “You do know, of course, that the man’s name wasn’t Sosa, that that was the name of his female companion.”

  “I know. But her name is even lesser known than his, making it all the more mine. There’s a certain amount of satisfaction to be had in creating such an obscure reference, and in keeping a secret that’s not really a secret. Plus Sosa rolls off the tongue better than any of the alternatives.”

  “I’ll grant you that,” Stusson said. “Your obscure reference is not so inscrutable, though. I have heard others speak of it with admiration. The story is a good one with all the proper elements intact and just enough of the facts missing to make it mysterious, romantic, and morally ambiguous. Did he kill all those people because he was a monster? Or did he save Lin Sosa from all those people who were in fact monsters? A perfect association for a dark hero like yourself, and somewhat reminiscent of another story that should have had a better ending for the Baskaart family.

  “All of your reports are in order Sar Sosa. I’m not here to evaluate you or your charges. I’m quite satisfied with you and the progress you are making here. Indeed, the Three Worlds owe you and your fellows a great debt.

  “I came here today to say what I have said, to tell you how much your father was—and you are—appreciated. I wanted to tell you this in no uncertain terms and before the prophecy’s deadline made doing so seem like the product of a guilty conscience. Well, solely the product of a guilty conscience, anyway. There is guilt enough to go around, but the sacrifices we make for the Blood Solution are for our salvation. We are lucky that your father saw it that way. We are lucky that you see it that way, as well. You have my thanks and my respect. Perhaps one day, when the Blood Solution has delivered us, and if it is your wish, I may call you by your given name and you can answer proudly.

  “Now, Sar Sosa, show me your Halo once again and prove to me that none here can beat you.”

  “You’re not serious,” Sosa said.

  “I am. Think of it as my penance for being dishonest with you.”

  “You are the Chief Steward. You have done nothing to me that requires penance.”

  “I believe that I have, but if that will not move you attack me, then you must defend yourself.” Stusson began to move to one side, his white robes shimmering as if unreal, his movements making him seem to flicker between truth and phantasm. “Do you know why I never fought on the circuit?” he asked as a bright Halo of warm white light surrounded his head.

  “No,” Sosa said simply, raising his own black Halo in response.

  “It’s because there would be little in the way of fighting and no spectacle to speak of.”

  “Oh?” Sosa stepped back from Stusson’s approach.

  Stusson bent the fingers of each hand, gathering them to points, like the beaks of birds.

  Sosa narrowed his eyes, suddenly very wary of the Chief Steward. He recalled with building apprehension a remark made by Kan Fosso years ago and which no one had really understood. When asked about his physical training with the Chief Steward, Fosso had complained that Stusson was like one’s own shadow, inescapable and inevitable. That Fosso would say such was intriguing enough, but the look of dread that had darkened his face at the time was taken by some as comical in light of the fact that Stusson was known to have never entered the fighting ring.

  Sosa thought he understood now, though, and was shocked by Stusson’s prowess. Perhaps it was unintentional, but Stusson had kept this particular talent a secret that no one could begin to guess at. He was like a bubble on the wind, driven away by Sosa’s very attempts to strike him, but the points of his gathered fingers came, and it was all Sosa could do to keep them from landing. One of Stusson’s strikes glanced off his left forearm and that whole side of his body felt like it was filled with warm—and terrifyingly welcome—sleep. Sosa renewed his efforts, aware that Jarro was starting to rise and hoping that he’d stay out of the way. This was taking all of Sosa’s considerable concentration, but at best he was only keeping up with Stusson. They wove their way through the morass of fallen acolytes, never missing a step, never so much as jostling any of the unconscious men, all in a symphony of silence.

  Sosa was getting tired and knew that it wasn’t because he’d felled 109 men plus Jarro before engaging Stusson. Stusson was unlike anyone Sosa had encountered in the ring. For the most part, fights on the circuit were physical, the powers afforded by Entitlement only supplementing what was essentially a contest of measurable skills. Stusson’s style was, for lack of a better word, mental. It was draining simply to look on him, to pursue him, to attempt to lay hands on him. Sosa knew, though, that if such were to take place in the ring, the fans would never be satisfied and would demand their money back. For the casual observer, there was no fight taking place, Sosa chased while Stusson ran. But so much more was happening and it was exhausting Sosa.

  He jumped back, much as he had with Jarro, and once again sent forth the smoke serpent. Stusson braced himself, placing the elbow of his bent right arm upon his crossed left arm, his right hand emulating a bird’s head before his own face. Stusson blazed with warm white-gold light that took the shape of a great and benevolent egret, topped with a crest of magnificent head feathers as the smoke serpent engulfed him and was parted by the power of Stusson’s light. The serpent surged past Stusson, on to the unfortunate Jarro, who fell a second time that day, but Sosa had anticipated Stusson’s defense. He followed just behind, hidden by its black rush, to place himself just before the Chief Steward, fingertips poised at Stusson’s throat.

  “Well done, Sar Sosa,” Stusson said.

  Feelings of accomplishment and failure competed bitterly within Sosa. His eyes drifted to the fingers Stusson held at his temple. His shoulders sagged and he dropped his hand from Stusson’s throat.

  “Don’t you dare be disappointed,” Stusson said. “Kan Fosso knows all my tricks, and still he cannot best me. I struck you but once and only glancingly; Kan Fosso’s skin is steel because he cannot escape my attacks. I do not doubt that Garlin Braams could kill us all if he were to invoke the Seventh Secret, but you—along with Kan Fosso—are the finest Entitlement holders alive. If there is any hope to be had for the Three Worlds, it is with you, with Fosso, and with Braams. No one man can do it alone. That is the core truth of the Blood Solution.”

  “Thank you, Sar Stusson.”

  • • •

  Seen from Shaala or Iss, Voskos looked like a suspended steel ball marbled with blue. The surface of the planet was in fact covered with steel, at least where it wasn’t covered with ocean. The mountains had long ago been mined, leveled, and
made into new foundations upon which to build. Voskos had no borders. Cities were only approximate delineations of area, and every bit of land had been turned to man’s use. The Voskosians had no real need of nature. They could synthesize oxygen and cleanse the atmosphere chemically, they could grow crops hydroponically in automated tower farms—where they could also keep livestock—and the remainder of the animal species that were left either enjoyed life as pets, or within the zoo tunnels that ran throughout cities and which opened up underground in tailored environmental niches that were open to the public. These zoos and their inhabitants were kept more as a living record of how things had once been on Voskos than as any sort of appreciation for nature. Certainly some missed the more natural days of Voskos, but the zoos were open to all, with both guided and free tours, and were popular vacation spots. Also there was always nearby Shaala, raw, green, and wild, for those seeking the authenticity of nature. Voskos was for making things. All the technology of the Three Worlds sprang from its steel womb.

  In Tensa, the rising sun was yet a burgeoning corona on the horizon, but the dim glow was already creating a great gear-tooth shadow that crept across the sleeping city. Though the people slept, the city never did. All cities on Voskos thrummed non-stop with automation, making for better lives and endless innovation. Soon now, with the break of day, the movement of people would compete with that of the machines and clockwork chaos would ensue, winding down only with the setting of the sun.

  Peace and calm reigned for the moment—though to the ever-present tune of mechanized progress—and found resonance in an unlikely spot. A pond with a smooth, mirrored surface was nestled snugly in he midst of some low trees and flowering shrubs atop the tower of glass, concrete, and steel that was Vos Raansik Cathedral. Upon the unmarked surface of the pond, at its very center, was a polished statue of flawless steel. The statue was of a man on one leg with the other leg upraised and bent so the foot pointed down, toes just above the opposite knee. Its head, featureless and sleek with a pointed chin that suggested a bird’s beak, was bowed, and its hands were pressed together before its chest as in prayer.

  For six hours every day, the statue graced the pond. The six-hour term was nearly up now as the sun threatened to crest the horizon, and just as it had previously at intervals, light began to gather around the statue, until a flowing ribbon of white-gold light seemed to race from shoulder to shoulder in a circular course about the statue’s head, forming what looked like a Halo. The Halo light flared softly once, then pulsed rhythmically thereafter, increasing in intensity each time. With the second pulse, the pond stirred. With the third, the pond splashed and began to steam. With the fourth, a clear circle could be seen cutting into the water’s surface, and the pond boiled. With the fifth, the circle cut again, but instantly gave rise to an explosion of steam and boiling water that left the pond at half of its former volume. The statue remained, unchanged, still standing on one leg, supported by nothing but thin air.

  “Sar Fosso,” came a voice, sweet and clear.

  As along an unseen seam where it was joined to the body, the statue’s head turned, birdlike and enigmatic with no eyes to regard the girl who stood at the at the muddy bank. She had parted the leaves and the branches there, had them bent and twisted still to make room for her and yet her approach had gone completely unnoticed.

  The statue dropped its upraised leg, dropped its hands to its sides. Its body rotated to follow the orientation of its head.

  The girl blushed now that the statue’s full attention was on her. The statue drifted softly towards her, like a steel whisper, a cold metal breeze that stopped just before her, several centimeters off the ground.

  “How long?” the statue said, its voice a bass echo off a tin drum.

  The girl swallowed hard, her excitement and the pleasure of her achievement competing with her sense of propriety. “Only a few seconds, Sar Fosso,” she said.

  “It is enough. At least for now. You have a right to be proud, Lissa. I didn’t sense you until you called. You’ve only recently mastered the Fourth Secret, but your progress is. . . is breathtaking. The Sixth Secret is nearly yours to exploit. It won’t be long now.”

  “Thank you, Sar Fosso,” she said. Her hair was a cascade of tight blond curls, framing a face of pure white cream. She was still blushing, though, and smiling. Her breathing was yet quick with her excitement, and she stared into the blank face of steel that looked back at her, trying to read the features she knew to be beyond the layer of armor.

  “Lissa, you shouldn’t look at me that way. I’m your teacher, your Steward.”

  She shrugged. “You won’t always be.”

  Fosso put his heavy hands on Lissa Kraaskau’s shoulders. “You are the most talented, the most tenacious, the most beautiful—and so also the most frustrating—student I have ever had. How can anyone, even with the power of Entitlement, stand up to all that?”

  “Does this mean that Kan Fosso’s legendary patience has been outmatched?”

  “You’ll corrupt me yet.”

  She giggled through her excitement. Her smile sweetened, and the blush of her cheeks grew more intense.

  Kan Fosso stayed where he was in the air, hands still gripping Lissa gently, but the steel drained from him. Like beads of mercury, it rolled down his his chest, off his shoulders, dissipating to nothing, leaving him naked before her and drawing from her a shiver. He stared into her blazing green eyes, desperate to say what he wanted to say, but only able to shake his head in mute helplessness.

  Lissa’s face darkened somewhat, but it was with earnest resolve. “I do not wish to corrupt you, but neither would I see you live the rest of your days alone,” she said.

  “I have already lived a good many days,” he said.

  She shook her head. “You have only just begun to live, I feel the power in you. Sar Stusson may be without peer in some respects, and Sar Braams may have the Seventh Secret, but in you is Life, pure and unbridled, coursing like a river, swelling like the seas, contained by the steely shell of your indomitable will. I know, too, the overwhelming sense of obligation you feel. But we all have our parts to play. I would share with you the task of bearing that obligation, to lessen your burden. However that might be accomplished. Sar Braams and Sar Sosa have only recently taken up Stewardship. I do not deny or belittle their worth or the roles they have taken, but you have given so much for so long.”

  “How am I any different from Sar Stusson? The man taught me and is still teaching.”

  “In the most critical way. Sar Stusson lived his life, had a family, lost them, and discovered that even later in life he could grasp the Secrets. You, you’ve never lived your own life. You trained at Cathedral, gained your Entitlement, became a Steward almost immediately, entered the fighting circuit as a an exhibition fighter—one might even say for recruiting purposes—and found wild success there. But everything you’ve done has been for the Church, directly or indirectly.”

  She studied him as was her unconscious habit, sinking into his slate-blue eyes. He looked like a man of 40, in perfect physical condition, his skin healthy, but brown with the sun and weathered by years and by his training. He was lean and of average height, but covered with corded muscle. Everyone who knew him spoke of his presence, though, having the sense that he has a much bigger man than he was in reality. Lissa knew that this was the result of a combination of his Entitlement and his potent will which spilled out of him constantly, like wine overflowing a cup.

  “I know that you want more. I can see it in your eyes when you look at me, hear it in your voice when you speak to me. But that steely will of yours provides you with a variety of armors.”

  “Some day, Lissa.”

  She took his wrists, lifted his hands from her shoulders, drew his body to hers, and pressed her lips to his. The kiss was long, gentle, and insistent. When finished, she stepped back and wiped the wetness from her confident smile.

  “Sooner than you think, Sar Fosso. There is no shame in coupling
. Before long all those that can be taught will have been, and your role as teacher, as mentor, as Steward will be finished. You’ll simply be a man Entitled by God, free at least to love who you will. I only hope that it’s me.”

  She turned, and started away, but added over her shoulder in a musical tone, “I can wait. And I will. There are things—people—worth waiting for. You’ll pardon me for continuing to try while I wait, though. We all have our gifts. I’m simply exercising mine.”

  And then she was gone.

  Fosso stared after her, grinning in spite of himself, though his eyes were sad. Somewhere below the surface he was weak. In fact, he couldn’t imagine life without Lissa or her advances. Of course it stoked his ego, what ego he could afford to have, but from the beginning it had been different with her. He’d had thousands of students, and though female Entitlement holders were somewhat rare, that fact did not prevent women from studying in great numbers and among them had been and would always be a fair share of those who could be classified as nothing less than beautiful. But Lissa was different. Something about her personality fit the contour of his in a way that made him shudder, that felt more divine than Entitlement itself. He hoped that she’d been sincere, that she would wait. He wanted nothing more than to be with her—when such was possible. It was a hope that he feared to embrace, though. Duty could not be ignored, not if the prophecy were to be believed. And what else was there but to believe it? Fosso had no doubts in that regard, nor could anyone who held Entitlement. One need only focus his or her powers of concentration to know the truth of the prophecy and its coming.

  Fosso tore his eyes away from where Lissa had gone and now regarded the rising sun, a bright yellow disk resting on the ragged gear-tooth skyline of Tensa. Time passed and could never be reclaimed, and though the Sixth Secret could be a great boon, the promise of a thousand years meant nothing if the coming calamity could not be stemmed.

  He pushed through the bushes and low trees, following the path Lissa had taken. He stopped long enough to collect and don his clothes—white linen britches, a shirt of the same material—then continued through the access way that led down into the cathedral.