Infinity Blade: Redemption (2 page)

His hands found an arm. The God King reached a clawlike hand to Siris’s face, ripping at the skin.

Siris ignored the pain, methodically grabbing his enemy by the head and pounding his skull against the floor.

Smash.

Smash.

Smash.

Like a primeval man breaking open a fruit with a tough rind.

Time passed. Siris eventually became aware of himself in the prison, kneeling over the God King’s bloodied corpse. Raidriar, the God King, did not breathe. Siris’s own breathing went in and out with ragged gasps.

His eyes finally worked, but he didn’t see much. An open cell of rough-hewn rock—the soul prison in which the Worker of Secrets had been held.

Much of the floor was coated with dried blood. His, and that of the God King.

This is what I can do,
he thought.
When I let my Dark Self free.

He forced down those instincts. It was a struggle, one nearly as difficult as killing the God King had been. Eventually, Siris reached forward and pressed his thumbs into the God King’s eyes, bursting them, though the creature’s skull had been cracked wide open by his attacks.

The skull would heal—but the eyes would come last.

“Thanks for the tip,” Siris said, stumbling to his feet.

THE TIME
for the meeting with the executives, including Mr. Galath, approached. Uriel could do nothing more to prepare, so he diverted himself by summoning some different ledgers. A pet project of his.

Like all ledgers, these did not lie. They showed him that Mr. Galath, the chairman, had been withdrawing resources from the company. Subtly, slowly. Uriel had access to all of the accounts, though he wasn’t technically an accountant. He needed these numbers to create his risk assessment charts.

Mr. Galath was up to something. He was the source of pretty much everything that the company had created, from the satellite technology to the new data compression methods. Galath was a genius—but genius in and of itself was unremarkable. What made Galath special was his ability to run a company at the same time. He was smart, but also wily.

It had only been six months since Galath had revealed the technology that had been christened Project Omega. Teleportation.
Real
teleportation. Six months of frenzied work to test products, to obtain patents, to prepare for a world reveal.

And yet, during all that, Galath had been subtly moving resources to another, hidden project. One nobody else seemed to know about. But Uriel had found it in the numbers, for the numbers did not lie.

How he wished he could make people act like the numbers did. Rational, consistent.

This is something big,
Uriel thought, sorting through the ledgers.
Important.

But what? That was Uriel’s pet project. Trying to figure out what it was, to guess what Galath was attempting to accomplish. What would his next wonder be?

As Uriel worked, his screen’s automatic reminder feature pulled up the news of the day. Mary was behind that, as part of her desire for him to pay more attention to the outside world.

He wasn’t certain why she bothered. The news had nothing interesting for him. More killing in the Middle East. The war in South America. Radiation poisoning from the bombs in India.

Wasn’t progress supposed to have brought an end to all of this? What of the wonders of technology?
We look down on the ancient days for their brutality, but when people murdered each other then it was by the dozen. Not by the million.

Modern men were the real barbarians.

He closed the news feed and turned back to his spreadsheets. Curious—according to Galath’s schedules, the chairman had been vanishing for long periods lately.

That’s odd . . .
Uriel thought, noticing something else. Meetings before each disappearance, usually with someone from the company. Not always executives.

Each time an individual met with Galath in one of these instances, they immediately took a leave from work. So far, none had returned, yet all were still drawing salaries.

He’s gathering them,
Uriel thought.
The best of the company, judging by the numbers. He’s placing them on the new project.
Uriel pulled up some more files, noticing that each person chosen got a promotion around the same time.

He found himself increasingly excited. This was really, really big. The corner of his table screen started flashing. A phone call. He tapped on the square, sending the conversation directly to his implanted earphone.

“Hello?” he asked, distracted.

“Uriel?” Mary’s voice.

He smiled immediately. Her voice . . . it always took some of the tension away. He looked up from his screen. “Hey.”

“I was just wondering,” Mary said. “Is there something special I could get for dinner tonight? Something you’d like?”

He looked down at the hive of numbers. “I . . . I might be working late again.”

“Oh, you needn’t say it so hesitantly, Uri. I know your work is important. Do you know when you’ll be home?”

“Ten?”

“How about I order in something from that Thai place you like so much? It will be waiting in the fridge when you get home.”

“That would be nice,” Uriel said, smiling. “You’re too good to me, Mary.” He hesitated. “But what about Jori? He hasn’t seen his dad in three days.”

“I’ll let him stay up,” Mary said. “He won’t be home until later, anyway. Hockey practice is tonight.”

There was a game this weekend, a championship. It was blocked out on his schedule, marked in red, immovable even if Mr. Galath demanded it. Uriel often worked late—too often—but he’d never missed a game.

“Mary,” Uriel said, leaning down. “I think something is coming. Something amazing.”

“Uri? I haven’t heard you sound this optimistic in a while. Aren’t you worried? About . . .”

She didn’t say it. He wasn’t supposed to talk about work with family, but she was one of the only people who ever actually
listened
to him.

“I am worried,” Uriel said. “But I think this project is a cover for something greater. I don’t think Mr. Galath intends to release the . . . other thing. He’s watching to see what we’ll say about it. I just . . . I can’t explain. But it’s in the numbers. He’s pulling people aside, one at a time. Telling them about the new project. Preparing them.”

“That’s wonderful! Do you think he’ll choose you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” People, even Mr. Galath, didn’t make as much sense as numbers did.

“We should get you a new suit, just in case.”

“You know I hate shopping.”

She laughed. “All you have to do is try it on. That won’t be so bad, will it?”

“No, I guess it won’t. First dinner, now this. You’re wonderful.”

“I guess I just want to do something special for you, Uri. You’ve been working so hard lately. See you at ten.”

He hung up with a tap on the screen. Rain still washed against the window outside, but despite the dreary weather, he was glad for the window. Mary had been right about that, as she was about so many other things.

He found himself writing down his thoughts, as he sometimes did. A kind of journal, but one filled with his dreams of what could be. What would the world be like if people made sense? What would the world be like if they were not able to kill each other so easily? Could he make the ideas work? He wrote it all down.

“Hey,” Jarred said, walking by. “Aren’t you supposed to be coming to this?”

“Hmm?” Uriel asked.

“The meeting? Mr. Galath? Project Omega?”

Uriel sat up straight, checking the time on his screen. He cursed, sliding his spreadsheets off the virtual table and into the chip in his wristwatch. Some made fun of him for it. So archaic. He liked it better than carrying around an embedded datacore.

“Seriously, Uriel,” Jarred said, shaking his head. “You’re in your own little world, aren’t you?”

Uriel hastened to grab his suit jacket and throw it on while jogging after Jarred.

EVEN AS
he was slaughtered, Raidriar planned.

Each moment of awareness helped him put together a plot, a method of escape.

Control. He
would
be in control.

So, even as he died, even as he flailed and struggled, he continued to plan.

It involved holding himself back and waiting for an opportunity. That opportunity was not now.

But it would come.

SIRIS KILLED.
And he was killed.

Again and again, they made those same rounds. Sometimes he defeated the God King, and would keep him crippled and broken for weeks on end. But then he’d lose track of the passage of time. He wouldn’t notice that it had been far too long since he’d smashed the God King’s face against the ground.

Sometimes . . . he almost welcomed it. A change. Another voice, just for a few moments. He walked that line, letting Raidriar come just to the brink of recovery.

Because of that, sometimes he lost. When he did, he would swim that void, letting the Dark Self grow stronger and stronger until it broke him free again.

It was difficult to track the changing of days in this prison, particularly while wearing a body that did not age and did not need to eat. He felt hunger, yes—it was perpetual, a horrid scratching inside, as if something were trying to eat its way out. But he did not
need
food. He was immortal—truly immortal.

He won. He lost. They played this game over and over. Dozens of reversals. Hundreds of deaths and beyond.

Siris gave a brief notice to when he died his thousandth time in the prison. He had already killed Raidriar twelve hundred times at that point. Keeping track of those numbers . . . they were the only things
for
him to keep track of.

This became his world. His life.

Kill. Be killed.

With each death, the Dark Self grew stronger. Instincts he did not want, but which he seized and used anyway. A primal force that lived inside of him, like a monster bound in fragile, fraying ropes.

A nightmare.

YES . . .
RAIDRIAR
thought as he awoke from death.
Hold something back.

He threw himself to his feet as awareness returned. He struggled, he fought, but he did not give everything.

A nugget of strength, buried within. He would need that. For now, he played the game. He fought back. This time he actually won, blinking his eyes as they restored themselves, looking down at the corpse of the man he’d battered against the wall until his neck broke.

Raidriar took a deep breath and settled down to think, plan, and plot.

SIRIS WAKENED
from death and waited for the blow to fall.

He had recovered too slowly this time. Disoriented, he prepared to fight back, to reach up with hands gnarled and twisted. He had begun breaking Raidriar’s hands each time, and so his foe had begun doing the same thing.

No blow fell.

Go!
the Dark Self said.

Siris roared to his feet, ready to punch with the backs of his wrists, fingers flopping uselessly. If he could get his arms around . . .

Around . . .

He searched about, blind, swinging this way and that. Where
was
his enemy? What game was this? Would Raidriar give him hope, then crush him? Raidriar was a fool! Any advantage would be seized, would be used. And—

“I never thought,” a weary voice said, “I would ever grow tired of killing you, Ausar.”

Siris’s eyes finally started picking out light. He backed away from the shadow near the voice and put his back to the wall of the prison.

Shadows became fuzzy images, which slowly became distinct. Raidriar sat on the floor, wearing only a loincloth and a ripped shirt stained with blood. He looked young—too young to be this ancient thing.

No armor, of course. Siris had stripped that from his enemy early on, and had broken it as best he could, pounding it flat with rocks. That was the Dark Self’s influence. Take away the enemy’s weapon. Disarm him. Expose his vulnerabilities before going for the kill.

Raidriar had done the same for Siris, of course. Often, one or the other would use bits of that armor as a weapon to murder his foe as he awoke. Most of the time, they just used their hands.

Raidriar leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes, sighing. “Turns out I was wrong,” he said, his voice echoing in this cavernous chamber, lit dimly by the glow of ancient machinery hidden in the floor and ceiling. “I
can
grow tired of killing you. It took merely sixteen hundred and fifty-two murders. Apparently, even the most pleasing of tasks can grow mundane by repetition.”

Siris rounded the chamber, keeping his distance. He picked out a chunk of metal, one of their shields, battered and broken, cracked down the middle. He tossed it aside.

“Nothing to say?” Raidriar asked.

“Fifty-one,” Siris said. His voice sounded ragged to his ears.

“What?”

“Sixteen hundred and fifty-one,” Siris said. “That’s how many times you’ve bested me. Not fifty-two, as you said earlier.”

“And of the two of us, you’d trust your own memory above mine?” Raidriar sounded amused. “I thought you knew me better than that.”

Siris grunted. He found his sword, but Raidriar had beaten it against the Worker’s throne over and over, rendering the weapon a mangled mess, broken halfway down. Siris sensed anger in those marks on the rock throne. They were mirrored by marks along the back, where Siris himself had pounded with his shield in a frenzied tempest, frustrated, powerless.

The Dark Self was powerful, but it was also wild, temperamental.

Siris picked up the broken sword.

“How long,” Raidriar asked, “do you suppose he was playing us?”

“I don’t know,” Siris said. “I doubt he originally wanted me to trap him in here.”

“Are you certain?”

Siris hesitated. “No.” He didn’t know anything, not any longer.

“Perhaps you are right, though,” the God King said idly. “What kind of creature could put himself in such a helpless state? Powerless, no control—uncertain if he’d ever be freed? It reviles the senses and the mind alike.”