Known Afterlife (The Provider Trilogy, Volume One) (26 page)

Steffor scanned the city along the buttress. He started with the long range of humped steppes and plateaus descending from the Trunk before the bulk of the level limb formed. He then searched the relatively level two hundred mile expanse of buttress. Framed by the thick limb and an expanse of clear blue sky, the city sparkled like a colossal crystal as rays from the morning sun sliced through the narrow gaps formed between the reticulum of tubular shaped buildings.

Structure by structure, Steffor looked for anything out of the ordinary. Each u
nique building was a township, a self-sufficient nerve center for thousands: living quarters, temples, artisan shops, restaurants, theaters, markets, arboretums, labs, meditation rooms, storage, healer’s quarters, and administrative offices. Uniting countless generations and extended families, all connected into an advanced society propagating peace and harmony. One by one, they all came up clear.

"Our brethren are updated and are prepared to act." Kilton reported.

His confidence refortified by the thought of an elite army ready and waiting to help, Steffor went back to what he had control—the mindful present—and soaked in the activity of the city. As the waking consciousness of Citizens and Mystic began to re-sync, there was unrest, a natural response to losing the Mysticnet, but it was not a panic.

In fact, it appeared business as usual for the productive people, moving on from the unique event and resuming their day as usual. People hustled along the plethora of stairways and elevators; groups congregated
and communed on the numerous catwalks, bridges, verandas and large decks, the organic hubs that connected one township to the other. Trolley cars moved along the intricate network of vine cables spanning from one end of the city to the other, transporting goods and people.

"Look!" Martna shouted, her terrified gaze locked on the Trunk at a spot several thousand feet above the buttress.

Steffor searched the gigantic wall of wood predominating over the city for what could have caused such trepidation in his stalwart companion. His eyes then located the three, protruding black spikes. He moved in for a closer look, a few hundred feet out, altering their perspective to become level with the phenomenon.

"Are they....thorns?" Grimlock asked, puzzled. Indeed, the
spikes looked more like thorns at close range. Coated by a dull shellac, the eight-to-ten feet tall thorns spread roughly ten-to-fifteen yards apart in a vertical line. The sun reflected off the sharp inside edge and hooked ends of the curved protrusions, making their mysterious appearance all the more ominous.

"They do not grow from the Trunk, instead they look to escape from it," Martna observed, noting the torn bits of bark edging each thorn.

"There is something very wrong here...." Kilton said. "We must get to the city, now!"

Steffor had formed the same conclusion, a twisted knot gripping his gut the moment they got a closer view of the strange growths. Before they could act, the thorns began to shiver and to their amazement, start to move downward in ra
gged, jerking motions. Seconds later, another set of thorns pierced the surface with violent force a few yards below the first set. Then another. And another.

Steffor heard the Provider scream in agony as the angry blades tore at its flesh from its insides, plowing down and across. "Those are not thorns," Kilton said with desperation, "they are claws." They watched helplessly, stunned by the horrifying scene, a
s claws and the thick appendages from which they grew, continued to tear at the Provider from the inside, stirring their deepest fears as they tried to visualize what kind of horrid creature could possibly emerge.

Claws ripped with deafening fury to create
a jagged rupture a half mile across, edged by dilapidated chunks of wood and bark. They gasped in horror as the Source, tainted a black crimson, oozed from the gaping wound. Abruptly, the violent destruction stopped and the claws retreated into the dark chasm within.

The screams from thousands of terrified Citizens, previously drowned out by all the commotion, broke the companions of their trance long enough for each to exchange bewildered looks.

Kilton said, still staring at the scene with an ashen face, "It’s as the legends foretold, a truth so outrageous and terrifying that we all welcomed its denial."

"What legend do you speak of? The Deeds have never foretold of anything like this
…" Vejax's accusation stopped short, cut off by a maligned sound emanating from deep within the newly formed chasm. A rumbling vibration more than sound, it swept over the buttress, causing it to violently quake and buildings to sway. The perverted dissonance grew louder as demonic hisses and savage clacks joined in its crescendo.

"Kilton speaks of a legend that precedes the Deeds," Steffor replied, his throat dry and raspy, sharing a knowing glance with Kilton. "Events that took place long ago that removed all mystery as to the origins of the Deagrons."

Before either could answer the confounded expressions, the noise paused. They reluctantly turned their attention back to the rupture in the Trunk. For what felt like an eternity, nothing happened as they lay glued to the Mystic feed. Then, like a warning beacon, the images began to blink, barely detectable at first before the broadcast became completely sporadic. The last image they received was of a creature beyond their imagination, exploding from the Provider's gut with gruesome force.

Chapter 16

"Of course!" Clortison shouted to the assembled bishops and cardinals. "It is all so clear now. The innovations, social movements, political lobbying, just one false trail after the other. It was never about power, at least not in any material sense of the word. No, it was all a ruse used to distract us from his true objective."

Thortizan probed the other apostolic board members seated around the ornate table and registered a theme of puzzled expressions and slight shrugs from the group, affirming he was not the only one struggling to decipher the cryptic speech of their ecclesia
stic patriarch. "I apologize for my confusion your excellence, but I do not understand what it is you require me to do," Thortizan interjected within the brief pause, respectful of Clortison's divine authority.

Clortison, his eyes flitting from the ancient
tapestry hanging on the stonewall across the room back to the men seated before him, ignored Thortizan and continued to sound out his thoughts.

"While certainly not ideal, our inevitable takeover of Alterian Enterprises was never a deterrent to his ultima
te mission." Thortizan sat back at that moment and did his best to listen patiently. More intimate than most with the man's peremptory genius, he had witnessed more than once, and had come to trust the process therein, in which their living prophet received and processed visions direct from God.

As he had so often before, Clortison released his thoughts like jigsaw puzzle pieces spilled across a table, trusting his soul to connect them and reveal their purpose. Hunched in a lurid posture, his eyes often rol
ling back into his head, Clortison labored to give the raw revelation structure and pragmatic substance.

With an acrid loathing etched in his voice that sent a chill down Thortizan's spine, Clortison broke from his rambling trance, his zealous fervor reac
hing its apex. "Oh what a diabolical trap he had set for us, one we helped craft from the start. Stalling Alterian is truly the most deviant servant of the Dark One we have ever faced."

Without warning, Clortison grabbed Thortizan's hands with alarming for
ce and penetrated his heart with his fervent gaze. "He aims to destroy our God!" he proclaimed. "Not just usurp our authority with another religion of his making, but to usher in a new social existence, one devoid of any faith." Thortizan nodded with understanding, trembling from Clortison's providential possession. "The eve of the apocalypse is upon us, the day you and the Vorenian Knights have prepared for since the death of our Savior has arrived!"

With an abrupt break in the tension, Clortison flopped b
ack in his high-backed chair and proceeded to wipe fresh beads of sweat off his forehead and face with an embroidered handkerchief. In a composed tone, making brief eye contact with those seated around the table to confirm he still held their undivided attention, he turned back to Thortizan and elaborated on God's newly delivered prophecy.

"Your mission is simple but far from easy to accomplish. Infiltrate the main campus of Alterian Enterprises and capture Muzar Tarcones. He resides in the depths of the c
overt underground chamber we discovered while vetting the inconclusive data provided by Janison. If you must, take the facility by force but no matter what you do, no harm must come to Tarcones. He is the key to winning the war for either side."

*****

"Muzar Tarcones?" The lieutenant asked. "The same Muzar Tarcones that still holds every bladeball record worth having?"

"The one and only," Thortizan calmly replied

Lieutenant Wertson rubbed his chin with the palm of his hand, the perplexed look growing on his face as he studied the images projected on his telipad. "Meaning no disrespect sir, but wasn't he convicted of murder, sentenced to life in the Blacadoma Caverns over fourteen years ago, where he met his death four years later?"

"That is correct," Tho
rtizan said, standing before the cockpit entrance, the audio to their helmets projecting his voice over the pervasive scream of jet engines. Thortizan empathized with the younger man's confusion, having recently gone through a similar thought process. He took a moment to study his lieutenant and the other fifty soldiers seated in two orderly rows on either side of the narrow cargo hold.
These are the best of the best but their true value will be revealed by the end of this historic day.

"Now listen up. This
will be the only briefing on our mission before reaching the drop zone in exactly thirty-one minutes. Our objective is to locate, capture and return to Vorenius one Muzar Tarcones, aka
The Hammer
during his illustrious career as a six-time all pro Point Tackle for the Segroit Missiles."

Thortizan paused in his narrative as a string of highlights started, showing a sample of Muzar's mind-boggling exploits on the tri-field. Most of the men that composed the special ops team seated in the jet hold were but ba
bes or yet to be born by the time the name Muzar Tarcones became synonymous with the national sport of bladeball.

Given the aggressive and violent nature of the sport, every
one of the elite soldiers grew up playing the game and were, in their own right, superior players; no group of individuals were more apt to appreciate the insane skills possessed by Muzar Tarcones. In Thortizan's opinion, their own internal tournaments, watched by only a few, select military niches—given the covert nature of the unit—were as competitive as any pro venue.

The man's entire career was one, ongoing highlight. To this date, dozens of separate fan clubs around the world debate endlessly on what plays should make the all-time top ten. Certain his men had viewed hundreds of Muza
r Tarcones highlights prior to this moment, if not entire archived matches, the last play chosen for his brief was a piece of vintage footage Thortizan was confident few had seen: his one and only personal encounter with The Hammer on the tri-field.

It was
his fifth and final year as a student and while none of the church academies had produced a squad worth mentioning in the national title hunt for decades, a few of the pundits were tossing Thortizan's team around as a pre-season contender. Thortizan, a seasoned player and captain of the experienced squad, had actually started to believe in the hype.
I still remember the palpable expectations I had for that season. Who knew, if my play kept improving, I might have been drafted.
A minute and thirteen seconds into the match, both his high expectations and bladeball career were dashed.

Thortizan rubbed his right collarbone as the montage of highlights finally reached the rarely seen footage, secretly hopeful a few of his men would recognize him in pads and helm
et, or at minimum do the math and put two and two together. He had watched the play countless times since and to this day could not think of how he would have reacted any different.
From the throw, to the flip turn off the wall, to the savage impact of his block, Muzar played it perfect.

A chorus of "Ooohhhhs!" escaped from the men as they watched Muzar, flying horizontal to the ground with forearms crossed in front him, crumple a young Thortizan who was standing dumfounded in the middle of the field, mesmerized by the still curving ball.

I never saw him coming, I didn't even receive the honor of seeing that impossible shot score
, he thought, admiring yet again, after the fact, how the ball completed its third and final turn, thread the extended arms of his two teammates and fly into the narrow goal. The highlight ended with Muzar timing his landing with arms extended up in triumph a split second before flashing red goal lights erupted; in the far edge of the screen, five yards away, Thortizan lay flat on his back, out cold.

Knocked out for
over an over hour only to wake with three broken ribs and a right collarbone snapped in two places, Thortizan's bladeball days were effectively over after that fateful play.

I was just one of many to fall victim to the magic that man created in his amateu
r career and would only continue to perfect as a pro. Still, I consider myself privileged for the opportunity to have played against the best the game has ever seen.

"After being convicted of murder in the first degree for the death of three Drakarlean cit
izens," images moved from bladeball highlights to a compilation of sound bites and coverage of the highly publicized trial. "Mr. Tarcones, as a future lifetime resident of Blacadoma Prison, soon became known by his fellow inmates and public at large as
The Law
."

For the first twenty-six years of his life, no man living in the modern era could imagine a more fulfilling life of fame, fortune or health
, Thortizan reflected as the brief recounted the events leading to the man's fall.
Up to that fateful day he committed those heinous crimes, he was the most beloved and admired person, not just in Drakarl, but also in the entire world. And he threw it all away for a handful of Ecifrican scum!
It was an act that puzzled Thortizan and the Drakarlean elite to this day.

"We have all studied, with intimate detail, the enigmatic leadership skills Muzar Tarcones displayed while incarcerated in the world's most secure and deadly penal facility. From his unique style of martial arts, to unprecedented urban warfare tactics,
his influence is evidenced in all we do today." The brief transitioned into a condensed overview of the referenced archived footage, gleamed from the security cameras strategically placed throughout the inmate run facility.

The first significant episode sh
own occurred about three months into Muzar's life sentence. Prior to that time, he had managed to survive in relative isolation from the rest of the population but, by design, the lack of sufficient food, water and basic survival needs had forced him to surface and fight over a recent drop of supplies.

The scene took place soon after a random supply drop into one of the main caverns connected to the surface by a mile long shaft. In the midst of the mayhem that ensued, as gangs fought to gain control over th
e precious currency, Muzar managed to secure a bottle of water and a few cans of food, but failed to escape detection of several inmates who quickly put up chase.

Eventually eleven other inmates, all members of an Ecifrican gang known as Destiny's Charge,
cornered Muzar in one of the many dead-end cul-de-sacs. With Ecifricans comprising over seventy percent of the prison population—an overall number that ranged between a two hundred and fifty thousand to half a million—Destiny's Charge had ruled over the dystopia since its inception over a century ago.

The dominant Ecifricans allowed other provinces represented in the inmate population to form their own gangs and semblance of leadership so long as they paid homage to Destiny
’s Charge. All except for the tiny minority of unfortunate Drakarleans sentenced to the maximum-security penitentiary, who were ritualistically tortured to death upon their immediate arrival.

The delayed and rarely edited public broadcasts of these tortures and other horrid events that too
k place daily in Blacadoma Caverns had quickly surpassed Drakarle's millennia long, draconian enforced capital punishment as the best deterrent against crime. In tandem, and to a greater affect, the popular channel was the primary tool used by the Drakarlean ruling class to edify their enduring propagation of the Ecifricans as an animal species that was less than human.

The famous scene showed Muzar make several feeble attempts to reason with the men. They met his pleas with scoffs as the ring of bodies aro
und him tightened. Each armed with crude clubs and blades, one could sense their mounting excitement at the prospect of finally capturing the elusive icon. They had something special in store for the most famous Drakarlean known in modern times: an exercise in torture they intended on relishing for weeks to come if possible.

Seconds before the first strike, resolved in his decision to fight for his very survival, Muzar crouched
—a posture that, for a brief moment, eerily resembled his signature stance on the tri-field—and sprung forward into the first line of assailants. None of the convicted murderers that surrounded Muzar in that moment was prepared for the raw savagery unleashed upon them. Moments after the violent blur of motion, five bodies littered the floor, arms, legs and necks twisted and bent in repulsive, unnatural positions, the flesh riddled with lethal gashes and punctures. As Muzar stepped clear, blood pooled from the heap and began to seep across the floor.

But the most devastating act of viole
nce occurred next as the self-appointed leader of the group turned in shocked anger and swung his club toward Muzar's head in retaliation for his fallen brothers. Poised for the counter strike, even when slowed down frame by frame, the awesome burst of speed and force in which Muzar thrust his fist into the man remains a natural phenomenon difficult to comprehend. The scene ended with a close-up of the dead man's caved in face, the remaining Ecifricans scattering and of Muzar's casual escape down a dark hall.

Thortizan scanned his soldiers with satisfaction as the sobering scene delivered the full weight of their mission for the first time, clutching the group into a primal state of alertness. "Within a year after this incident, either by choice or default,
Muzar Tarcones managed to aggregate the disparate gangs comprised of the criminals hailing from the various other nations represented in the facility. In the process, he seized and maintained control over three of the seven main caverns."