Transendence

by Jared Teer

  Still with his back to Darion, Hughes lashed out with a fierce onslaught of alternating back kicks, mixing it up with alternating back fists thrown by twisting his waist to the right or left with each right and left backhand. Darion caught Hughes’s foot on one of the back kicks, but Hughes kicked his hands away with a back kick from his free leg and flew forward in his prone position. Darion exploded forward as well, this time opting to pull up beside Hughes instead of following him from behind. Hughes’s speed was difficult to match, but Darion pulled up next to him on the right, both of them flying in a prone position, glaring at each other. Darion reached out with his left hand and grabbed Hughes’s sleeveless robes near the right pectoral and begin firing straight rights for Hughes’s face, hitting whatever he could—face, side of the head, neck. Hughes grabbed Darion in a similar fashion with his left hand and began shooting right uppercuts to the underside of his chin. They continued flying forward while exchanging blows in this manner until Hughes had had enough and over-hooked Darion’s left arm with his right. Hughes flew into a clockwise spin that broke Darion’s grip, torqued his arm, and sent him crashing to the unforgiving canvas. Darion stood up, but Hughes was hovering above him, striking down with stomps for the top of his head. Darion blocked most of the strikes and then flew forward suddenly as Hughes descended with a two-footed stomp meant to crush Darion into a heap.

  They continued, going back and forth with both men taking a beating but neither gaining a decisive edge. After many mutually punishing exchanges, Hughes began to get the better of his pupil, connecting with a number of unanswered blows. Reeling, Darion’s right knee began to give and he began dropping into a sort of lunge, blocking his face the best he could with his left arm as his right reached to brace his collapse.

  Just as Darion considered his imminent defeat, he thought of Jacob lying in the hospital being tormented by Zadadach and his minions. He couldn’t give up! He balled his right fist with his last bit of strength and exploded up out of his lunge with an uppercut aimed for Hughes’s chin.

  At that very moment, the blue halo of a telepathic hail formed around Hughes’s head, distracting him momentarily, and Darion connected with the mighty blow. Hughes went sailing up and away out of the ring, smashing a crater somewhere in the distant mountain range.

  Hughes lay partially unconscious in the rubble and answered the hail. “Hyu … Hu … Hughes,” he stammered.

  “It’s Enoch,” the commander returned. “I need you here, fast. There’s been an incident.”

  “Roger.”

  A translucent double of Hughes rose from his body and then solidified. It turned around and helped the true Hughes up from the rubble.

  “Tell Darion I was called to the Command Center,” Hughes said to the clone. “He’ll continue training with you until I return.”

  With that, Hughes teleported away and the double flew toward the ring.

  Hughes materialized on the command platform of the Command Center. As soon as he appeared, Jones was in front of him filling him in.

  “It’s serious, Hughes,” said Jones. “It seems that Kagan didn’t change one bit during his exile … except for going completely over the edge. The old man has finally lost it.”

  “Has he been sighted?” Hughes asked.

  “Hah. If only that were so,” said Jones. “Giant … humanoid … insects,” Jones said, sharply articulating each word.

  “Excuse me?”

  “That’s right,” said Jones. “There have been two attacks. At an Allied Jihad training camp in Pakistan we found evidence of giant ants. The radicals were torn apart by pincers we estimate to be at least a foot long.

  “That’s just for starters. In the Beqaa Valley in Lebanon, we discovered an ambushed convoy of terrorist armaments. Some of the men were cooked with—you ready?—superheated quinones—an exothermic compound sprayed by bombardier beetles as a defense mechanism. And that’s not all. Some of them were cut in two by giant scorpion claws. But there’s more. Some of the men managed to flee from the road to the desert. They were pulled underground and shredded by giant burrowing spiders.”

  “Wait,” said Hughes. “Are burrowing spiders indigenous to the Middle East?”

  “Are giant insects indigenous to anywhere?” Jones returned with a laugh. “It appears that Kagan is catalyzing evolution in insect species and imbuing them with the most deadly attributes in nature.”

  Hughes pondered for a moment and then spoke. “You said there’ve been two attacks. How is that possible? Don’t we have men watching for Kagan? Isn’t he a top priority?”

  Jones nodded. “It appears that Kagan has developed the ability to conceal not only his movements, but entire geographic regions as well, shrouding an entire area to appear unchanged when he is present, with the illusion disappearing upon his departure.”

  “But … that’s a technique of the Enemy!” said Hughes. “It’s a skill only possible for the most powerful angelic beings.”

  “Well,” said Jones, “It appears that Kagan now possesses that ability.”

  Enoch left the display highlighting terrorist cells in the Middle East that he was monitoring and stood with Hughes and Jones.

  “Commander,” said Hughes with a nod.

  “Joseph, good to see you,” said Enoch. “How is young Darion?”

  “He’s coming along better than I could have hoped for. He had actually just flattened me when I received your hail.”

  “Good, good,” said Enoch. His face suddenly became serious. “Hughes, I take it Jones has filled you in on our predicament?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What say you?”

  “Well, there isn’t much we can do,” said Hughes. “If Kagan has developed the ability to conceal his activities in entire geographic regions, all we can hope for is for him to slip up and expose himself. Barring a mistake on his part, we’re kind of in the dark.”

  “We could appear to the terrorists and convince them to change their ways,” Jones offered jokingly.

  “Right,” said the commander. “But first we’d have to convince the Fallen to give up their war against God and live in peace with all creation … Anyway, you’re up to speed, Hughes. If Kagan does slip up, we’ll be ready to confront him. Get back to training that promising pupil of yours. When we find out anything, we’ll contact you.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Hughes. He gave a nod to Enoch and Jones and teleported away.

  The next day, in the arena of the Hall of Might, all of the pupils were on edge, for the first tournament was at hand. Darion was confident, confident in himself and confident in his training.

  At the completion of their last training session, Hughes informed Darion that if he was able to win the tournament, his training would be complete: He would be ready to challenge Zadadach and relieve Jacob of his torment.

  Spectators from all across the universe filled the stands. People traveled from light-years away to see the Hall of Might tournaments; the fights showcased the up-and-coming warriors and were entertaining as well. Darion’s grandparents and uncle were in the stadium to cheer him on. Enoch was present as well to scout the new talent.

  Clay Conner stood in the center of the arena floor and addressed the crowd. “Welcome fighters, trainers, and fans to the first tournament of the quarter for the matriculating class dubbed the Rowdies. This contest promises to be a good one, with some exceptional matriculating fighters as well as some highly touted Ascended warriors.

  “Today’s tournament will consist of two brackets with sixteen fighters in each. Fighters will advance by no less than the complete particle dispersal of their opponent. The arena should be sufficient to accommodate the battles, but there are no out of bounds, and fights that stray from the arena floor will proceed until a winner is declared.

  “God bless, and I wish you all good fortune. Without further ado, the first combatants please … ”

  The voice of the announcer resonated in the arena. “Yukinaga Takeya, representing Kozaki Seishi
n Kirishitan-do.” The crowd erupted in raucous applause for the representative of the well-known and powerful style. Takeya materialized in the center of the arena floor, wearing the sleeveless black top over the white gi.

  “His opponent, Fernando Silva, representing Curitiba Monastery’s Vale Tudo.” The crowd erupted again for the practitioner of the well-known grappling martial art. Silva materialized facing Takeya, a span of twenty feet between them. Silva wore a white gi with a golden belt that signified the mastery of his style.

  Clay stood between the two warriors. “Fighters.” Clay bowed to each of the men, and they returned the gesture. The competitors then bowed to each other. “Are you ready,” asked Clay. Takeya nodded. “Are you ready?” Silva nodded. Clay disappeared.

  “Fight!” called the announcer, but rather than exploding forward, both men adopted their fighting stances and began to circle each other. Takeya held his open hands in front of him—his left a foot and a half in front of his face with his right a bit closer. Silva’s open hands were also held to the front, but around waist level with the palms down. Takeya stalked forward, switching from orthodox to southpaw with every careful step. Silva took a stutter step forward, faking a shot for Takeya’s legs, and Takeya simply lowered his stance in reaction and then reacquired his normal stance. Then it came. Silva seemed to go for a double leg takedown, to which Takeya reacted by squatting, but instead of going for his legs, Silva rolled into a forward flip and threw his legs over Takeya’s shoulders and wrapped them around his neck in a scissor lock. Immune to gravity, Silva floated before Takeya and squeezed his legs together with all his might. Silva then began firing alternating straight punches down his supine frame directly into Takeya’s open face. Takeya took numerous blows before reaching up with both arms and draping them over Silva’s legs, blocking the shots. Takeya pulled down with his arms, angling Silva’s body down, and began raising knee strikes into his back repeatedly with the same leg. Silva released his hold and flew into a back flip and hovered in the air. Takeya leapt with a right cross, smashing his fist into Silva’s gut. They both hovered in the air, exchanging vicious blows that Silva took the worst of. Silva abandoned striking it out with the karate master and repeatedly attempted to grab his lapel. Takeya managed to deflect all of his attempts with alternating vertical forearm swipes. Silva backed away a bit, and Takeya struck out with a cross aimed at his chest. Silva anticipated the blow, caught Takeya’s arm, and turned into an arm throw, hurling Takeya to the ground below. Takeya crashed, landing on his butt, and then Silva was on him, straddling his head and squeezing his neck in another scissor lock while dropping elbow strikes on the crown of his head.

  Desperate to prevent more damage, Takeya shot backward like a rocket across the wide arena floor and smashed into the stone stands, Silva first. The impact scattered a cloud of debris, stone, and spectators alike. Silva loosened his grip and Takeya reached back, grabbed Silva by the hair with both hands, and hurled him forward back to the arena floor. Silva crashed to the ground but quickly stood and turned to face the crater in the stands. Takeya wasn’t there. Too late, Silva realized that Takeya was behind him and turned with a back fist. Takeya ducked the swipe, and with his hands pressed together as if praying, drove his rigid fingers into Silva’s throat with a roaring kiah.

  Silva staggered back, clutching his throat with both hands, gasping as golden light began to issue from his mouth and eyes. Silva’s scream was cut off by the boom as he exploded in a spherical burst of golden light and electricity.

  Takeya bowed toward the blast and dematerialized.

  “Your winner …,” called the announcer, “Yukinagaaaa Takeyaaaa!” The crowd roared in delight, the bar set high for the remaining fights.

  Ray (fighting in the first bracket, the same as Takeya) won his fight in a grueling match against another matriculating student. Sky was in Darion’s bracket, but on the top half; Sky won his match against an Ascended warrior, and if he and Darion won their fights they would meet in the semifinals.

  Darion’s was the last fight of the second bracket and he was up next. The only feeling greater than his nervousness was his resolve to succeed for Jacob. His grandparents and uncle encouraged him, and Hughes gave him some final words of advice.

  “Believe in yourself and your training,” Hughes said to him as they awaited the announcer. “Move when you have to and be tricky. When you attack, attack to destroy. Don’t hold back.” Hughes massaged Darion’s shoulders as they awaited the call.

  “Now for the final bout of the opening round,” said the announcer. “Representing the Rowdies of the Hall of Might, Edgar Corrales.” The crowd erupted for Corrales.

  “Peace of cake, Darion,” said Uncle T. “His name is Edgar. The kid’s got to be a nerd.” Nana slapped Uncle T on the back of the head.

  “His opponent, trained by the venerable Joseph Hughes, Darion Elmore.”

  “Go get ’em,” said Hughes, and Darion teleported and materialized in the center of the arena facing Corrales.

  Darion sized up Corrales, noting that he was taller by a bit, about six-foot four. He wore the white uniform of the Hall of Might and was quite muscular, his chiseled frame showing through the formfitting top. He wore a friendly grin that conveyed to Darion that he was no stranger to fighting.

  “Fighters,” said Clay, bowing to Darion and Edgar, who returned the gesture in kind. “Are you ready?” Darion nodded. “Are you ready?” “Yes, sir,” said Edgar. Clay disappeared.

  “Fight!” said the announcer.

  Darion intended to explode forward with a right cross, but Corrales beat him to the punch, literally. Edgar covered the distance between them in an instant and smashed a right cross into Darion’s jaw that sent him reeling backward, his heels digging trenches into the stone floor. Edgar pursued, his body angled forward and hovering off the ground as he unleashed a barrage of alternating straight punches. Darion tightened his parallel forearms in front of his face to absorb the blows, but the force of the impacts continued to drive him backward. He hearkened back to his training and quickly shifted to the right; Edgar zipped by on his left and quickly turned to face Darion, but his turning head was met with a right hook, adding to the impact. Edgar stumbled back and Darion shifted forward and was on him. He jabbed Edgar with a left and then grabbed him by the front of his top with the same hand and began to jackhammer his face with a series of straight rights. Edgar swung his right arm upward and knocked away Darion’s holding arm, caught Darion under the chin with a left uppercut, and then bored forward with a flurry of alternating hooks to his ribs. The hooks were thrown with terrible intentions, with each connecting blow driving golden mist from the point of impact. Darion had to move. He shifted back suddenly, putting a yard between them and causing Edgar to stumble forward. Darion took advantage and delivered an upward knee to the leaning Edgar’s chin that sent him soaring back into the air—then Darion shifted. Edgar overcame the inertia high above the arena floor and then looked down for Darion—he wasn’t there. Darion gave Edgar the courtesy of tapping him on the shoulder and allowed him to turn around before socking him in the jaw with a brutal cross.

  Now desperate, Edgar fought fiercely to win the day. They traded a continuous barrage of various blows high above the floor—Edgar’s desperation contributing to the effectiveness of his strikes; Darion’s relentless determination to succeed for his friend contributing to his. They traded powerful rights, Darion’s to Edgar’s chest and Edgar’s to Darion’s face. They both shot back from the impact, each being deposited in the stands on opposite sides of the arena. They rose from their craters, each glaring across the expanse at the other. Darion moved first, exploding from the stands like a rocket, flying in a prone position with his arms extended and fists aimed at Edgar. Edgar reacted in kind.

  Come on! Darion thought, ready to end the fight. Play time was over; he’d spent enough time going back and forth with this guy. The quicker he could end the fight, the sooner he could assist Jacob. Keep coming. Don’t
shift. No more tricks. He wouldn’t shift and hoped Edgar wouldn’t either. It was do or die, and whoever wanted it more would survive.

  They smashed together in the center of the arena with a resounding crack and the spherical explosion of molecules detonating. One of them was thrown from the point of impact like an asteroid crashing to earth and deposited in the stone floor of the arena. When the dust settled, it was Darion who rose from the crater.

  “Your winner,” yelled the announcer, “Darioooon Elmoooore!”

  CHAPTER 14

  Island Hideaway

  Arwad, a small island off the Syrian coast in the Mediterranean. As the sun dipped behind the sea’s horizon, a golden ray streaked across the sky. A clustered town of small, block-like, cement buildings comprised the whole of the island, with shoddy marinas and numerous boats lining its circumference. Throughout the ages, the island had been highly contested real estate, being claimed by various civilizations going back millennia. In the thirteenth century, the Crusaders used the island as a staging area, fortifying it with castles. The ruins of one castle still remain, a weathered shell of limestone blocks and mortar in the midst of the island. Now nothing more than a relic, a tourist stop, the castle sits peacefully.

  Below the fortress’s yard lay a shadowy dungeon. Known to nary a terrestrial soul save the upper echelons of the most radical Middle Eastern syndicates, the floor of one of the cells housed a trapdoor that opened to a limestone staircase that descended a hundred feet to a dank corridor. At the end of the tunnel, a steel blast door one foot thick rose to a cavernous modern bunker—a joint coordination base of operations for the world’s foremost terrorist cells. The smooth concrete walls of the rectangular bay rose thirty feet high, lined at the bottom with advanced computer terminals acquired on the black market. Cubicles filled the space like a corporate office: the men of business haggling over the prices of jihad. A staff of fifty, amalgamated of various terrorist organizations, tended the facility, some providing security while others manned the computer consoles, monitors, and cubicles.