F-Infinity Saga Canto I Read online

F-Infinity Saga, Canto I

  James Smith

  Copyright 2013 by James Smith

  Acknowledgements

  To my friends, now scattered across the world like so many fallen stars: you have always been the light in my midnight sky. Thank you for everything you've done for me, to help me achieve this -- and other -- dreams.

  To my readers: I'm truly grateful that you've chosen to give this series a read, please take your time and enjoy the journey. My personal hope with this series is to inspire curiosity and wonder, and your interest is what will drive me to even greater heights. More than anything, have fun with the read and thank you!

  A special thank you, too, is due to Sabina Hernandez Gracia, who has always been a true friend and an amazingly talented artist who not only designed this book's cover, but whose insights helped define and shape the mysterious world you are about to explore!

  Thank you again, and please enjoy the journey ahead!

  -James D.R. Smith

  Prologue: The Future is Now

  Death did not find Seven Kharaos as it had so many others, alone and afraid. Instead the bastard wore a triumphant grin frozen to his face by the pain and the frigid cold. It was the smirk of a man who had cheated destiny; a man who had died a hero -- and the world itself, shuddering at its very core and resounding with the mechanical thrum of Fate could neither imagine nor abide such a fairy tale outcome.

  No, Death did not find Seven Kharaos as it had so many others -- all others, in fact -- for the first time since mortality reached its inevitable conclusion and found It waiting at the end, the Death had come as a harbinger of life.

  Nor did the fallen find death in the way one expects or hopes. Not in the sense of wishing to die comfortably in bed, slain by the scythe-like hands of time, nor in glory -- a martyr for some ultimately insignificant cause, eroded by the immutable winds of change. Such things had never held meaning to him.

  Seven Kharaos had simply not expected the red-rimmed eyes of Death to so much resemble his own.

  Chapter 1:4 Days

  Two weeks before the world ended, a young man with pensive blue eyes looked upon his sweeping homeland for what he decided would be the last time. Mountain peaks grasped at the sky with fall's final fury, flames licking greedily at the very doorstep of Heaven. The lazy little town he had grown up in had barely changed for all the years he had been away -- from a distance, not at all. Though he had expected as much, the young man found himself both disappointed and relieved. His had been a life of chaos, and that minute constant disturbed him nearly as much as it offered comfort.

  A capricious wind ruffled dark, curly hair as the man hesitated at the foot of the tall hill that swooped down into town. He used it as an excuse to fuddle in his pockets for a comb. Distracted fingers found three dollars, a pocket knife with a broken blade, two purple Japanese charm called omamori, two blue and white Turkish nazar boncugu, "evil eyes", and various other trinkets from his journeys. When he grasped the comb at last, victorious, he pulled it along with a score of his other prizes out, spilling them onto the dirt-packed ground.

  With a huffed sigh at his characteristic klutziness, he retrieved them one by one. He winced sharply at the new crack running through the tiny lapis lazuli moai statue -- the second in its relatively short tenure with him. The final item he gathered was his passport; the ID page had flipped open and he chuckled at the open and innocent stare that beamed at him. When his eyes at last slipped from the photo to the rest of the information, though, his smile soured. The letters pronounced it boldly, a scathing condemnation. Seven Kharaos. In many years, he had been many people. He had been who he had to be, and who he could be, but never what he wished to be. Now, things had come full circle, no further than when he had left. Only now he had less time. Much less. The why, though, escaped him in its entirety.

  The dreams still haunted him as they always had, veiled whispers that tugged at the back corners of his mind -- promises, revelations... threats. Even now, if he pressed his eyes shut tight against the empty cerulean canvas of the near-winter sky, he could see the silhouette of pristine wings, cast by the afterglow of fiery and terrible destruction. Such things had never come to pass, of course, and his logic railed against the very possibility. As such, he had chosen, at last, to come home.

  Determined now, his feet once again met the road, long strides closing the distance to his destination with increasing speed. He began to run, a battle cry caught in his throat, backpack bouncing behind him. A few idle cars passed, the drivers following him with eyes that wondered who the stranger in their midst was, and what had brought him to Nowhere, USA. He met the gazes evenly and fiercely until they were gone, carried on their way by the sweeping tides of time.

  On cresting the top, to the thin plateau on which perched the few scattered houses that represented the town's more antisocial residents, Seven allowed himself the slightest of breaths. Yet unable to focus properly ahead, he instead broke his promise and turned back to look down over the village once more. Green hills rolled languidly, emerald waves lapping at the outskirts of civilization. A single, crinkled road meandered drunkenly onward, a dull grey snake scaled with distant low-rising buildings and dotted with the occasional car. No future existed in that direction. None ever had.

  Teeth grit, and twenty-seven years of pain weighing down on his soul, the prodigal son turned back to where home lay. At the end of the road, the head of the metaphorical snake, the dingy white house reared up to its less-than-impressive height of roughly two and a half floors. Two paned windows stared down at him, slightly illuminated from the inside like the eyes of a disgruntled dragon. One had once been his room, and the other belonged to his sister. The light meant she was home. Seven shuddered and wondered if he should make his grand return another, safer time. In his life, he had never run away. Tactical retreats were another matter altogether.

  A mere minute: an infinity measured by tempered fear, his hand lingered on the brass knob, pondering his final chance to escape. He turned the miserable thing open and stepped inside.

  Little had changed there as well. The door opened on a kitchen punctuated by half a dozen different scents -- the strongest of which, cinnamon, hung in the air like whispered promises of apple pies underscored by the stale scent of ancient tobacco, long spent. A half-burnt candle, also cinnamon, teetered in the corner above the stove, and the maple table stood as it had for years; a silent sentinel welcoming guests merely with its polished visage. One plate with a crust of burnt bread and the remnants of runny egg squared off against a bowl of soggy cereal and an untouched glass of orange juice. An unfamiliar bit of country pop bastardization played low on the radio; a rousing tribute to the wonders of alcohol and a third-grade education at a fourth-rate school. Though no one listened, it added a flavor to the essence of the home -- a subtle vibe that resonated within the wooden floorboards and white-plaster walls spattered with powder blue.

  Just in case, Seven called out, "I'm home!" with all the enthusiasm of a cowardly hunter intruding on a sleeping bear's private den. Ashamed, he found his voice the second time, and yelled louder. Still no answer. His shoulders sagged, though whether with relief or disappointment, he doubted even they knew and he breathed out a long breath that stuck in his throat at a familiar, throaty voice.

  "Hi brother," a young woman said behind him. Electricity crept through every fiber of his being as icy fingers played haunting melodies along the keys of his spine. From where and how his sister had come would be an answer he could never quite understand. She managed to slip in and out of shadows, ghostlike, and for as long as he had known her -- often appearing where least expected -- and wanted. Like on dates. When he had been pinned down under insurgent fire in the
deserts of Afghanistan, the land flat and wide for a hundred miles in every direction and the hated sun of that cursed land purging any semblance of shadow save the blasted and pitiful makeshift barrier he crouched behind he had almost expected to hear those words, "Hi brother," and to turn and see her next to him -- a petulant look pasted on her face.

  Seven turned on that voice to find his sister staring at him -- her wide green eyes shining with a child-like innocence that thinly, so thinly! masked the berserk monster raging beneath. A slight smile slipped past her lips and was gone again, lost forever and quickly replaced by a thin-lipped grimace. He returned that smile, no larger, though it lingered imperceptibly longer. "Hi Destine," he whispered in his own gravelly voice -- throat so dry the words trembled on his lips, fearful to plunge into the endless void that made up at least 70% of the stuff between his sister's ears.

  "So..." his sister began, "Where've ya been?" She slipped past him and plopped down in one of the kitchen chairs, mounting it backwards so she could look at him, head resting on arms crossed atop the backrest. "Mom, and Bryan, and everyone else would like to know. We took bets."

  "Here and there," Seven replied, looking down at his sister. A distant memory stirred in the depths of his eyes and his voice mellowed whimsically, "Mostly there."

  Destine looked him up and down, "I bet that you'd gotten drunk and passed out somewhere in Boston." Her voice took on a somber tone, "Looks like I was wrong. Are you okay?"

  He brushed the question off with a wave of his hand that turned into a sweeping gesture. "Where is everyone else?" he asked, looking around the ostensibly empty home for any sign of the rest of his family, equally reluctant to explain his sudden homecoming.

  "Mom left for Maine for a few weeks and took Bryan with her, if you even remember our undistinguished brother," Destine said as she looked at him, scanning for some reaction. Something played in her body language mischievously, a cat playing with a live morsel. Seven saw the trap and walked into it resignedly, seeing no other route.

  "And Dad?" he asked, wincing at the question.

  Destine's features lit up, the trap sprung with all the perfection of an ancient trapper hunting naive deer, tempered by experience and not dulled in the least by the banal thrill of the kill. "Divorced. Going on three years. No idea where he is. Good riddance," she declared at last, voice firm and cold as ice. A proclamation of execution issued by a merciless governor.

  Disappointed, but unsurprised, Seven's shrug spoke volumes to his own experiences. The death of love, and the childhood illusions -- or delusions -- of family held little relevance in the mind of one who had seen the death of so many souls. Burdened still, he swung down his bag, an old duffel that he referred as "The General", as though relieving the physical would negate the spiritual.

  The General lacked anything immediately recognizable as a handle. It had belonged to his grandfather sometime between Vietnam and Okinawa, and the steel blue fabric had long ago worn to something more resembling a dusty grey. On every journey he had ever taken with it, careless baggage handlers had managed to remove a piece. Two handles, three patches, a giant rip had appeared in the side that he kept held together with duct tape and a dozen other scraps, scrapes, and broken pieces of plastic jutted out like cavity-marred teeth that bit at any who failed to afford The General proper respect. Seven carried it with a makeshift rope of green duct tape that functioned just as well as the real thing -- more or less. The General bulged now, small trinkets wrapped in colorful cloth poked out of a new hole -- its most recent scar thanks to the baggage jerks in L.A. -- as though making a break for freedom.

  One of these he withdrew, pulling it through the hole carefully and respectfully so as not to anger his loyal companion -- or add further injury to either of them -- and presented it to his sister. "Not much," he said, "but I hope you like it."

  Destine snatched it from his hands, the crimson cloth crinkling in her grip. She did not ask whether she could open it there or not, the feature being noticeably absent from American culture, and curiously pulled back the cloth revealing the sharp gold-studded brass. In her hands she held an ancient knife, sheathed in a wooden case painted with a dizzying array of blues and greens. Seven's sister smiled at the gift as she pulled the short blade from its home, observing the edge in the light filtering in from outside. She seemed disappointed that it could not really slash, but was quite satisfied with the exceptionally sharp tip.

  "Thanks," she said. "So where does this come from?" Seven doubted she really cared but had a little surprise of his own to launch.

  "Korea," he replied nonchalantly, "women used to wear them there, in its final dynasty. It's called an eun-jong do."

  The violent girl really seemed to like that. She spun the blade with her fingers, twirling it like a magician until it balanced precariously on one fingertip. "So, they used this to protect themselves from men?" she asked with a wolfish grin, "I can think of some ways to put it to good use, too."

  "Not quite," Seven corrected, "when girls were assaulted they used it on themselves. To protect their purity." He returned his sister's chilling stare, happy the tables had turned, "Enjoy it," he said.

  As quickly as the knife had whirled in Destine's experienced hands, it reappeared in its sheath, and then that too, disappeared into her pockets. Though his sister often proved evil in mind if not action, and perhaps at best unstable on her better days, she did have a very strong sentimental streak. Of course, he had not bought the dagger with the hopes that she would ever use it -- aside from its sordid past, the weapon made quite a gift and had cost him quite a bit. Seeing her expression, though, was worth every penny.

  In the silence brought by his proclamation something seemed off. Many years had passed, however Seven never imagined his sister would remain simply quiet after such a twist. Seven scanned the room, looking for the source of the disturbance: a small tickle on the back of his neck that told him things were not as they seemed.

  And then he realized it. Distracted by his sister's hurricane-like presence, he had not noticed the existence of another, far more subtle flicker of life. Seven turned to look back at his sister, his eyes widening as he placed the feeling, the question forming on his lips cut off by his sister's answer as though she had read his very thoughts.

  "Yep," she said simply, a smug smile returning to her face. Seven had lost again. He turned mechanically as the familiar energy emerged from his sister's room, praying to some distant and deaf god that he could have mistaken the instinct. Very rarely, though, had Seven's extended senses betrayed him.

  From the room beyond emerged a young man wearing little more than a towel. His ebony skin glistened over hardened muscles, his smile broad and pearly and pure as he took in his long lost friend. "Seven!" Jennsen Wraist exclaimed, voice a booming echo that oozed confidence and the calm of firm command. Shoulder to shoulder, he would have towered over Seven but for now, he held his distance -- half unyielding wall, half spooked rabbit. Though he held himself confidently, his burnt-amber eyes searched the room frantically for escape.

  Seven, though, choked on a dozen questions; the most prominent of which was simply, "WHY?" Instead, he just goggled at his half-naked childhood friend, head turning mechanically back and forth to register the connection between him and his sister.

  Seeing his friend so obviously torn brought a look of pained understanding to Jennsen's face and he took a step forward to put a calming hand on Seven's shoulder. "Look man, I'da told you but you've been incommunicado since you saved my ass back in the jungle." Seven shrugged the hand away. He wished he hadn't pulled Jennsen out of the fire. Good deeds never went unpunished.

  At the thought of his old friend not being there, though, Seven's bitterness temporarily subsided. He chided himself for wishing harm on someone who had never before failed to support or defend him. With a final look at the scene, as though to record the fear in some kind of mental diary, he did his best to let it go.

  "What brought ya back?" Jennsen asked,
eager to change the subject. Growing up, Seven had been the ever-calm eye of a vengeful storm. The last time Jennsen had seen his friend, though, the storm had raged unabated. He still had nightmares of those days, and though it was for his sake, Jennsen had never managed to look at his friend quite the same again. Though Seven had, quite often, claimed his sister to be unstable, a fearsome and drunken berserker who fed on chaos -- had he ever taken the time to look into the mirror, Jennsen once told him, Seven would recognize the insatiable blood thirst that swam just below the innocent glow of his too-clear eyes.

  "I found my answer," he said simply, losing a willful battle to suppress his emotions. His voice terse, he clipped the end of his sentence with a fierce bite.

  Curious, Jennsen pressed, "What did you find?" he asked calmly. The predicted answer, though, came as a startling condemnation.

  With a voice that trembled with terrible power, like an angelic herald who proclaimed all days were now at an end, Seven replied with an unsure smile, "Nothing," he said. "The answer is nothing."

  Unable to contain the cresting waves of shock and rage, and entirely unwilling to drown in that depthless sea of emotion, Seven spun on his heel and left his childhood home once more.

  Perhaps they should have gone after him. Perhaps they should have told him the truth, or at least alluded to it. Perhaps they should have simply remained quiet, waiting for a conclusion dictated by fate and set into motion upon the first breath of the first star.

  But Destine Kharaos and Jennsen Wraist were of a different stock. Even before the retreating form of brother and friend eluded their sight, the two looked at each other only once before setting into motion. Seven's sudden arrival and unexpected conclusion had confirmed deep-seeded fears shrouded in the dark and terrible realization that they, too, had probably played some small role in the world's end.