Dream Drive Ch. 07

And yet, for his lack of poise, Jackson did not look lazy; he seemed confident. His skin was ghostly pale in the noontime sun, all but for the vibrant black scar on his hand. Against the black cliffs of the mountain, he seemed a spirit walking amongst them.

Katran held his spear low, out from his body. There were no doubts as to his intentions. Jackson considered something for a moment, and then set himself in a similar stance.

A slight red haze settled onto his hands where his fingers gripped his spear. It flickered like wisps of smoke from a candle that had just been put out. Everyone exchanged glances and whispers.

Chaki couldn't sense any essence, but even so, she looked toward Shaka. A few other spirit guides leaned toward her; they had a brief and rapid discussion. A few moments later, they parted. No one ran to stop Jackson, the implication being that they had no problem with his actions.

Jalak waited a moment longer, then raised hand. "Begin!"

Katran and Jackson raced into the ring. Katran's start was better; he met Jackson past halfway. Their spears clashed. Katran spun the back of his spear up following the block and struck Jackson's wrist. Jackson winced and turned from the blow.

Katran stepped into Jackson's flinch and attacked again, a straight thrust. Jackson drew his spear in short, and his hands flashed yellow. The tip of his spear darted to the side, knocking away the thrust. It reminded Chaki of Vuntha's final exchange, when he'd used a similar style to press Boonta with attacks from various directions.

Katran was not deterred. His spear was already back and moving out in another thrust. Jackson knocked it aside, but this time, Katran's follow-up came in twice as fast. Jackson was forced to step back to receive the blow.

The pattern continued, slowly, inevitably. Jackson's technique allowed him to stop Katran's flickering stabs, but Katran was faster, more experienced, and already beginning to lead Jackson's movements. It was all Jackson could do to fend him off.

The other fights ended; Chaki could tell by the small groups of cheers that came from the other end of the crowd, one by one. She and everyone else were locked on Jackson's fight.

Jackson's remaining ground was being used up at an alarming rate; the longer they fought, the more Katran adapted. His skill was simply too much to overcome, even for Jackson.

Jackson stepped back to the end of the arena; the yellow flicker vanished, replaced by blue. He stood firm, his spear tucked in front of his body.

Katran didn't press in close, but kept himself at spear length. He swung at Jackson from the side. Jackson blocked with his shaft.

Katran dragged his spear back, catching Jackson's shaft with the wingtips below his blade. Jackson's spear was dragged away from him, hard enough to throw him off balance. He stepped forward to keep his weapon in hand.

Katran flipped his weapon sideways with a graceful flick of the wrist, releasing the lock on Jackson's weapon; immediately, he thrust back in. Jackson wasn't able to reorient; the blade sliced through Jackson's shirt, under the arm. The crowd drew in a breath as one whole. Chaki's hands flew to her mouth.

Katran pulled his spear back and stepped away -- and then, when Jackson moved into the offered space, he stiffened. Jackson's clothes were torn where the blade had cut, but he didn't show any sign of injury.

"...that bit your skin," Katran said. His voice was easily audible over the quiet. Every other fight had ended. "I felt it."

"I guess you felt wrong," Jackson said. He kept his spear level, ready to defend. "That was a cool trick. Does it have a name?"

"It's just a simple lock. Ready yourself."

"I've been ready."

Katran thrust his spear forward; Jackson slapped it away. He made a few more attacks, but they were noticeably slower than before, with greater pauses between each one. His eyes hunted for an opening; his blade probed Jackson for weaknesses.

Jackson, for his part, didn't look the least bit interested in attacking. He stood with his blue-smoke grip, feet planted as surely as a rock buried in the soil. The fight went on like that for a few moments; Katran prodding, Jackson defending.

"What's Jackson waiting for?" Palla asked.

Hanta shrugged. "I don't think he is."

"I don't get it."

"Jackson isn't waiting," Hanta said. "He can barely keep up with Katran. It's all he can do to sit there and hold their stalemate. It won't last long."

"But..." Palla shook his head. "Jackson just hasn't had a chance to attack yet!"

"No," Hanta said. "Katran is holding back. He's making sure he has a handle on Jackson's movements before he tries another attack. He thought that first strike would have ended it." He glanced at Chaki. "So did I."

Chaki licked her lips, but didn't answer. Her eyes glanced up. Normally, her health bar was transparent, but at her attention, it grew bold and red, clearly visible. It would protect her from harm, but it was not infinite.

A particularly loud clack of wood against wood made her look back. Katran had pushed his spear against Jackson's block, but this time, he didn't let up. He stepped forward, pressing his weapon against Jackson's.

"Is he trying to force him out of the ring?" Palla asked.

"Just watch," Hanta said.

Katran set himself against the shaft of his spear, pushing harder. Jackson dug in his heels - he was holding his weapon close, so he had more leverage. He stood firm at the edge of the ring.

Katran released his press. Jackson fell forward a step.

He looked up in time to see Katran's spear fly back toward him, but he couldn't react fast enough. The weapon plunged through his gut. Jackson made a choked groan.

"Jackson!" Chaki shouted.

Katran turned his weapon in Jackson's stomach, then drew it back. Jackson fell to his knees, clutching his abdomen and curling up in the grass. Katran huffed, then turned away.

Shaka sprinted forward. Chaki vaulted over the pole, intending to get there first. She had to heal him, she had to --

Jackson stood up. He lunged at Katran's back.

Jackson's thrust went wide, past Katran's side. Jackson held it there. Katran froze, glancing at the blade that was almost touching his arm. Chaki pulled up short next to Shaka.

"Where are you going?" Jackson said. "This isn't over."

Katran whirled, using his spear as a bar to knock Jackson's blade away -- but Jackson was already moving back anyway. He'd missed intentionally.

The crowd was silent. No one spoke; no one moved. Chaki's eyes felt like they'd bounce out of her head. Jackson had just taken a blade to his gut, and all there was to show for it was a tear in the center of his hide shirt.

"That's not possible," Katran said. "You're using essence. This is an unfair contest."

"No I'm not." Jackson looked at Shaka. "Right?"

Shaka shook her head. "He is not holding his spirit, Katran."

"What is this, then?" Katran said. "Some form of trickery?"

"Let's see..." Jackson thought a moment. "I think I like this one." His hands flashed yellow, and he choked up on his spear.

"This battle is over!"

"Fine," Jackson said. "Since you're giving up, I guess I win by default."

"I'm not forfeiting!" Katran shouted. "How are you still standing?!"

Jackson shrugged. "You gonna fight or what?"

Katran growled. He choked up his own grip and closed the distance with short, thumping steps.

With both of their grips drawn high, their thrusts and cuts were lightning fast. The blades flickered, whacked into one another. They were forced to use their wingtips as shields to prevent the other from slicing their fingers off. It was more like fighting with daggers with elongated hilts than with spears.

Katran's blade struck home on Jackson's grip. This time, Chaki saw it -- a red line drawn where Jackson's fleshed was sliced by the blade.

They both stepped away from one another. Jackson wrung the offended hand. "Dammit, that really stings."

Katran just stared. "I don't understand."

Jackson raised the back of his hand, showing his scar. "Was there something you missed? Let's go again."

"This isn't fair!"

"Fair?" Jackson said. His voice was loud, carrying over the crowd and the elders and the spirit guides. "Didn't you want to fight me to prove yourself? Didn't you stake your honor on this? Weren't you bragging about how you were going to defeat me and get the Gem-Flower?" Jackson smirked. "Maybe you should have thought a little harder before you mouthed off to a warrior of Shakhan, dumbass."

Katran gripped his spear low. He did not roar and rampage like Boonta; his beady eyes were like ice. He bent his knees. "Ready yourself."

"How many times are you gonna say that?"

Katran whipped forward. Jackson met him with his short stance. They flew past one another; Jackson took a hard rap across his legs. That would slow a normal man, but Jackson accepted the hit and kept on moving, rotating into a quick jab.

Katran deflected Jackson's attack, and the second, but the third forced him to give ground. For the first time, Jackson took the offensive, using the speed offered by his short stance to keep Katran guessing. Compared to Katran's sleek, wasteless motion, his form was wild and unpracticed, but his moves were unpredictable. Only Katran's sharp reflexes and quick hands kept Jackson at bay.

Katran led Jackson on a chase around the ring, then, gaining a step on him, launched a long, full-bodied stab. Jackson was able to swipe it wide, but again, he couldn't predict the draw-back. The wing under Katran's blade struck him in the back of the head. Jackson reeled forward -- even if he wasn't hurt, he could still be pushed around.

As Jackson tipped off balance, Katran planted forward and shoved his spear up and through Jackson's chest as hard as he could. His blade buried itself in Jackson's heart, two feet up the shaft, stopping only because the wingtips kept it from driving in further. The tip protruded from Jackson's back, tearing a second hole in the other side of his shirt.

Katran released his spear; Jackson stumbled backward, the weapon still inside him. A red glow surrounded where he'd been run through. He stood there, blinking; he coughed.

The crowd alternated between gasps, screams, and shouts. Chaki covered her mouth. Even for him, this was...

Jackson grabbed the spear. He grunted, then drew it out from his own body. He cleared his throat, shook himself, then tossed the spear toward Katran. It landed at his feet. "That belongs to you," Jackson said. He readied his own weapon.

"This is insanity," Katran said.

"Are you giving up?" Jackson asked.

Katran narrowed his eyes, then drove his foot down on the end of his spear. It bounced off the ground; he caught it, and pointed the tip at Jackson. "Of course not."

They fought.

Chaki watched with clenched teeth and tightened fists. Jackson was playing with fire. She had no idea what he was trying to do, but it was abundantly clear that Katran was simply on another level of skill.

Jackson would usually fight with his hands lighted yellow or blue, only rarely reverting to the red form. As she watched, Chaki began to understand. The light changed depending on how he held his spear: red for an offensive stance; yellow for when he choked up; and blue, when he held it defensively.

He was not the only one who noticed. Katran began to adjust himself whenever he saw the color of Jackson's hands change. He met Jackson's defense with aggression; Jackson's aggression with his defense; and when Jackson held short, Katran did the same.

They would spar for a time, and then Katran would land a true blow; sometimes he pressed that advantage, sometimes not. It seemed pointless. Jackson wasn't using essence, so he wasn't training any skills.

The sun trundled through the sky. It was at least a twelfth-day past noon. They had been fighting for almost an hour.

Steadily, things began to change. Both Katran and Jackson were visibly wearing down -- perhaps Jackson more so -- but Katran's victories were becoming more and more infrequent. They would go for minutes at a time with neither having a clear advantage, but Katran would always find the opening in Jackson's style eventually.

They drew apart after Jackson took a blow to his arm. The red line flashed across his bicep, then vanished. His shirt was a tattered mess of rips and tears.

Chaki's felt like clicking her tongue. That was a tremendous amount of sewing. Maybe she'd make him do it himself.

Katran and Jackson heaved in their breaths. They stood apart for a few moments, letting their spears touch the grass, apparently having settled on an unspoken truce in order to take a rest.

"Warriors, hold a moment!" Jalak said. Jackson and Katran glanced up; the rest of the crowd shifted to look at him. Jalak cleared his throat. "In order that the contest be advanced faster, we will continue to hold battles, three at a time in the remaining rings." He lowered his hands. "Please continue your fight!"

They didn't immediately run at each other; they were still too busy recovering. "How long is this going to take?" Chaki asked Shaka.

The old woman chuckled. "I don't know what's got into Jackson. He isn't the type to do things without a reason."

"What's funny about that?"

"Because I don't know his reason," Shaka said, "and I can't imagine what it might be."

Jackson grunted and lifted his spear up into his hands. "You giving up?" he called.

"Not a chance," Katran said. "Ready yourself!" He lifted his spear up again.

"Every damn time."

Katran smirked. "As long as it keeps annoying you."

****

Boonta stood alone, staring at the side of the mountain, his arms folded tight.

His father pursued him there. Yukatan had scolded him, shouted at him, cajoled him, and then eventually pleaded with him. Boonta returned what he received, up to and including suing his father for a few moments of peace.

Peace. Hardly.

"Boonta."

Boonta was surprised to hear Kunaya's voice. He turned to face the man. The stately elder's feathered headdress blossomed from around his head like a sunflower. Boonta thought it made him look a fool, but he kept that opinion firmly to himself.

"Elder," he said. "Is the contest over?"

"It continues," Kunaya said. "Tatanka Ska still --"

"His name is Jackson Vedalt," Boonta said. "He is not one of us."

"I care neither way," Kunaya said. "What I do care about is you creating a scene. Now is not the time to draw attention."

"I care neither way," Boonta said, throwing his words back.

Kunaya came nose-to-nose with Boonta in a single step. "Listen carefully, Boonta. I am very close to finally changing the inane and stagnant path of the People-Under-the-Mountain. I will not have a lifetime of work ruined by an idiotic, bull-headed child. Do you understand me?"

Boonta pressed his lips together, held his tongue, and nodded.

"I indulged your little game with the cords as a show of good faith between us," Kunaya said. "That you failed to capitalize is of no consequence -- and neither is your own embarrassment. After tomorrow, it won't matter. So for the sake of the land and the balance, boy, contain your emotions, or I will contain them for you."

"I understand, elder," Boonta said.

"Good." Kunaya leaned back. "They are coming at dawn. Be at my tent before first light, or I cannot guarantee your safety." He left without a farewell, heading back toward the battleground.

Boonta idly wondered how he'd managed to get away from his duties as a judge of the contests while they were still in progress, but he turned back to face the black rock without bothering to puzzle it out. He stared at the side of the mountain, soaking in the dark color that clashed with the grass of the plains. He felt absorbed by it.

Kunaya was right. He'd missed a chance to push Jackson into the mud before taking his leave, but it didn't matter. After tomorrow, he'd be dead.

Boonta smiled at the thought.

****

It was a sunny afternoon under the mountain in Isis, but in Wilmington, Delaware, it was in the small hours of the morning and black as pitch.

Charles waited with Steinson and the seven other members of the primary assault team in a thick stand of trees. They were all fully encased by their combat frames, Ransfeld Security Model SX-III.

The wire-and-armor shells were each about twelve feet tall, all painted a black-green-brown camouflage. The suits responded to both the physical movements of their pilot as well as internal controls. They were strong enough to turn cars and punch through concrete. At the expense of a limited supply of chemical fuel, they could make jet-assisted jumps and glides. The titanium alloy frames and carbon composite armor plates could withstand direct RPG hits with little risk to the pilot's safety. Every space not taken up by banks of electronics contained heavy-caliber concussive and ballistic armaments.

The SX-III was a walking death machine. The military hadn't been interested in mass production; the cost of each unit was too high, so they retained last-gen chassis for the common soldier. But for small, incisive operations, the Ransfeld technology was world-class.

The combat suits had one major drawback: they were noisy. Once they got started, there wasn't any hiding what they were doing. Their battery packs would last for a little over an hour on full use, but that could be dramatically shortened if they made any extended sprints or had to shield themselves from EMP attacks.

Steinson had done the best he could, but beyond the automated turret systems on the outside of the building, he hadn't discerned anything concerning their target's internal defenses. They kept still, systems on minimal power, protected from the nearby streetlights by huddling behind the broad trunks of several oak trees. They had been hauled in and unloaded by truck just a few minutes prior. It was amazing what people would ignore if you threw a tarp over it.

Piloting a suit was almost like sitting in a bicycle seat; it was a slightly crouched position, knees bent. A suit closer to the ground was a suit that was less likely to tip over. Charles's hands and feet fed into short tunnels nested within a tangle of wires and blinking status lights; it was not designed for the claustrophobic. A display of his surroundings wrapped his front side in a 270-degree cylinder. The emergency ejection lever embedded in his seat pressed comfortingly at the small of his back.

Charles's map, displayed in the corner of the screen, titled their current location as H. Fletcher Brown Park. It was the closest location that Steinson could find that would let them stay hidden for the few crucial moments before the attack.

Two blocks over, overlooking the Brandywine Creek, was a twenty-story tower of steel and glass. Charles glanced up through the trees; the suit's camera moved to follow where he looked. A bold red font reading CRUX glowed at the top of the skyscraper.

He suddenly wondered what the H stood for.

"Mivra," Charles said, "what does the H stand for?"

Mivra's face appeared on the heads-up display of his combat frame's screen. "Assuming you refer to your current location, the H stands for Harry; full name Harry Fletcher Brown, a chemist trained at Harvard University. He is credited with the development of smokeless gunpowder that assisted the country of Great Britain's efforts in winning --"

"I get the gist," Charles said. "Are you in position?"

"Holding at five hundred feet."

"Miller, are you up there? Are the ground teams ready?"

"Yes, and yes," the old Indian croaked in over the radio, "but I don't trust the damn android to fly this thing."

Mivra's robotic tone sounded slightly offended. "I am fully capable of piloting a VTOL of this model with precision exceeding human accuracy by 75%. The safety profile in the case of emergency landing is increased by almost --"