Transendence

by Jared Teer

  To the rear of the bay, two guards in black fatigues armed with AK-47s stood on either side of two steel slabs that opened horizontally to a conference room. The doors were locked. A meeting was taking place inside. The twelve men—a veritable who’s who of terrorist masterminds—some in dishdashas and headscarves, others in military fatigues, sat around a long mahogany table discussing the recent affronts that had befallen their enterprise. The massacres in Pakistan and the Beqaa Valley had to be avenged. Surely the United States was responsible, employing some new terrible weaponry to dispatch their freedom fighters.

  Their deliberation was suddenly interrupted by a thunderous crash from inside the bay. There was a scream, more like a roar, followed by automatic gunfire and shouting. There was the screeching of smashing metal and plastic, as if the cubicles and computer consoles were being hurled about. The guards outside the conference room pleaded for their leaders to let them in, but the leaders were glued to their seats, paralyzed by fear at what the guards were saying—demons, demons ripping the men apart! The guards outside the door pleaded to Allah, but were silenced when something powerful smashed into the steel slabs, actually bending the doors in slightly where they joined, just enough to let a crimson puddle seep into the room. At this, the leaders stood, scattering about frantically with nowhere to escape and the ominous feeling that their lives were about to end. There was sporadic gunfire from the bay as well as the screeching of terrible beasts. The gunfire subsided and raspy breathing replaced the screeching roars.

  The leaders were startled by rumbling coming from behind the concrete walls and ceiling above the conference room, as if some device was boring through the ground toward them. Impossible! The conference room was fortified by the ground itself. Except for the bay-side wall, the room was completely surrounded by rock and earth.

  There was a mighty knock from above, then another, fracturing the concrete ceiling. With another booming blow, the ceiling crashed in and an enormous beast fell into the room, smashing through the solid table like it was made of thin plywood. The men gawked in horror as the creature stood. It was humanoid, with a brown exoskeleton, standing on two-pronged claws instead of feet. It had long arms with large, hooked, serrated, clawlike structures for hands. The creature was about seven-feet tall from shoulder to toe, but had a bulbous frill rounding its head that put it at over ten feet altogether.

  The terrified men rushed for the door, crowding before it and pushing and throwing each other, scrabbling to escape. One hit the door control, but the bent doors wouldn’t slide back and only parted minutely. The insectizoid approached, hacking and hammering the men with its forelimbs.

  Their cries resonated through the underground base, but at the castle’s surface, all was still peaceful.

  CHAPTER 15

  Fight Like a Girl

  The grueling tournament matches continued in the arena. Darion, along with Takeya, Ray, Sky, and four other fighters, advanced to the quarter-final round, all dispatching their opponents in spectacular fashion.

  Takeya won his quarter-final match by disposing of a Rowdy representative with a clasped hand thrust to the spine that paralyzed the warrior before the cataclysmic effect released him from his catatonic state.

  Ray was successful in his quarter-final bout as well, the years of Oneiric Gaming and squabbles with his best friend Sky apparently paying off. He defeated a fellow Rowdy by back flipping, raising the toes of both boots into the underside of his chin in the course of the flip, shouting “Back Flip Kick!” during the move. Sky shook his head at Ray’s ignorance upon hearing this. He would have gone with “Double Kick Flip!”

  With their quarter-final victories, Takeya and Ray advanced to the next round, where they would face each other to determine who would advance to the finals.

  Sky won his quarter-final bout in equally (greater in his view) dramatic fashion. Fighting against a powerful Ascended fighter who dwarfed him in stature, Sky had to delve into his repertoire of “special moves”—“Rocket Uppercut,” “Knuckle Twister,” and then his finishing move, the “Sayonara”—to dispatch his foe. Sky advanced to the semifinals, with one match remaining to determine his opponent.

  Now, Darion’s quarter-final match was up, and to his dismay it was against a female opponent—a Rowdy representative named Diana who had defeated her previous two opponents with spectacular displays of fighting prowess. Sure, she was powerful … but she was a girl. Nana warned Darion to watch out because Diana just might whup his butt. Hughes told Darion not to take Diana lightly, because, for Ascended bodies that derived their strength from the Essence, terrestrial notions of differences in strength between the sexes did not apply. He warned Darion to attack Diana with the same ferocity he would anyone else, for she was quite capable of ending his tournament run and setting him back in his quest to help his friend. Darion deferred to his teacher’s wisdom and steeled his resolve to defeat Diana by any means.

  The announcer’s voice resonated throughout the arena. “Now, for the final match of the quarter-final round. Representing the Rowdies of the Hall of Might, Diana Davis!” The crowd erupted in applause for the female warrior who had so thrilled them with her tenacious style—never backing down and pressing her opponents with relentless attacks. The crowd was anticipating an exciting match, given the clash of styles with Darion’s superior movement and countering.

  “Her opponent, the Iraq-war casualty trained by Joseph Hughes, Darion Elmore!” Upon hearing his name, Darion teleported to the center of the arena.

  Aw crap, Darion thought as he looked across the threshold at his opponent. Not only was she a girl, but a pretty one. She was slim and didn’t appear to be formidable in the least, except for the mean look on her face, with her large, light brown eyes squinted in determination. She wore the optional Hall of Might uniform of matriculating females—a formfitting, sleeveless white top with golden shoulder spaulders that descended to the front and contoured her bosom as a chest guard; white, mid-thigh skirt with golden trim; and white leggings tucked into her boots. She had mocha colored skin and black curly hair with brown highlights, braided and tied back in a ponytail.

  “Are you ready?” Darion nodded. “Are you ready?” Diana nodded. Clay disappeared.

  “Fight!”

  Darion exploded forward, looking to set things off with a right to her jaw. Diana was faster on the draw. She leapt forward, intercepting his charge with a flying front kick to his face that snapped his head back. Diana came down and pressed forward with a barrage of alternating straight punches interspersed with whipping roundhouse kicks to the body. Darion flew straight back, managing to block the majority of the strikes with his tight guard. Darion shifted to the right while spinning counterclockwise; Diana was open to a counter but—he didn’t take the shot, still bothered by the prospect of striking a female.

  Diana didn’t have such qualms. She reacquired her target and continued the assault. For Darion’s part, he put on a masterful display of defensive maneuvering, shifting frantically to avoid her relentless attacks. Frustrated (and frankly offended) by Darion’s unwillingness to engage, Diana decided to restrain him and thrust herself upon him, clasped her hands behind his neck in a Muay Thai clinch, and began lifting knees into his gut. Darion flew back, attempting to shake her, but her grip was too tight. Darion was taking a lot of punishment and had to do something—regardless of his feelings. He locked his hands around the small of her back and pulled her close in a bear hug. He exploded forward, rocketing across the arena, and drove her into the stands in an explosion of stone shards.

  Anticipating his misplaced chivalry, she lay still in the crater, feinting unconsciousness. Darion rose and backed away, then Diana kicked up, smashing the soles of both boots into the underside of his jaw. She continued in her diagonal ascent and with her interlocked fingers caught him underneath the chin, righted herself, and hurled him forward a good distance to the arena floor below. Darion lay prone on the cracked floor and attempted to push himself up, but Diana
came down on the small of his back with her heels, flattening him out while forcing a vortex ring of misty Essence from his body.

  The crowd let out an ominous oooh, recognizing the Essence diffusion as a sign of one being on the verge of molecular explosion.

  Diana dropped down and locked in a rear-naked choke. Darion began to lose consciousness, and as he began to fade he envisioned Jacob lying in the hospital bed in bandages. Then came an image of Zadadach’s face chuckling in mocking laughter.

  Darion went wild, zigzagging backward through the arena like a pinball, smashing Diana into any surface he could. Diana tightened the choke. Darion then flew straight up about a hundred feet with Diana on his back. He rolled backward to a supine position with Diana clinging beneath him and shifted downward, smashing her back into the stone below. Diana was stunned, but the tenacious warrior refused to relent and held onto the choke. Darion stood with Diana still clinging on. He had no choice; he reached up and grabbed two handfuls of her hair and hunched forward, breaking her grip and hurled her into the crowd, sending a fissure up the stands upon impact.

  Though she landed with a crash, Diana seemed to bounce off the stands and was right back in Darion’s face with a barrage of punches. They traded savage shots in the center of the arena, each blow resonating like an artillery blast.

  Both were taking a vicious beating, with each emitting puffs of Essence with every blow received. Diana was fierce, aggressive, powerful—but predictable. She would keep coming forward no matter what. Darion feinted retreat, flying straight back while absorbing her charging blows on his tight guard. Suddenly, he shifted to the right while turning counterclockwise, and, as expected, Diana was wide open. This time, he capitalized. With all his might, Darion lashed out with a right cross to the exposed back of her head. She exploded in a golden blast, the conflagration washing over Darion as he stood with his punch still extended.

  The crowd roared in appreciation for both warriors and their hard-fought battle. Darion rose both fists in victory. The stage was set for the semi-final round—Ray vs. Takeya in the first, and Darion vs. Sky in the second—and Darion was one-step closer to his goal.

  CHAPTER 16

  The Semifinals

  Jacob no longer drifted in and out of a coma as he had before. Now, his incapacitation was due to his own actions. His every waking moment was spent in mad ravings about “demon insurgents” or inconsolable pleadings to see Elmore, refusing to believe that his friend was dead. He thrashed and flailed so that he was aggravating his burns, and his caregivers had no choice but to keep him sedated.

  When the irresistible sleep came, so did Zadadach and his minions. Ever since the time Darion had come to him offering encouragement, he had resisted the demons’ attempts to corrupt his soul and adamantly refused to do the bidding of his disguised tormentors. And so, Zadadach changed tactics, no longer seeking to turn Jacob, but now simply to torture him. He forced him to relive over and over the events of the Mosul ambush. The events grew ever more gruesome with his teammates being burned and dismembered by demonic insurgents—Zadadach resorting to “shock and awe” in an attempt to drive him mad.

  On the surface, though, Jacob appeared to be resting peacefully in his bed. It was a nice day in San Antonio, and the nurse raised the blinds in Jacob’s room to let in some sun. When she left the room to check on her other patients, a golden ray of light shone in, bathing Jacob in its brilliance.

  On Polaris, the semifinal round was at hand. Only the best of the best remained, the two elite fighters from each bracket. The crowd sat quiet in anticipation.

  “Representing Kozaki Seishin Kirishitan Karate,” said the announcer, “Yukinaga Takeya!” Takeya materialized in the center of the arena to raucous applause and bowed to the audience and then to Clay.

  “His opponent, representing the Rowdies of the Hall of Might, Ray Park!” Ray materialized across from Takeya and waved to the cheering crowd. He bowed to Clay and then to Takeya.

  “Winner advances to the final round,” said Clay. “Are you ready?” Takeya nodded. “Are you ready?” Ray nodded. Clay disappeared.

  “Fight!”

  Ray exploded forward with one of his signature attacks, instantly covering the distance to Takeya with one leap and brought up both knees. “Double Knee!”

  Sky shook his head at the corny name. Takeya blocked the attack.

  Ray landed and pressed Takeya with a series of roundhouses, kicking with the same leg repeatedly while hopping forward on the other. Takeya backed up, catching all of the kicks on his forearm guard. Ray changed tactics, going into switch roundhouses, still hopping forward with each strike. Takeya caught the alternating kicks on his guard, and after one, stepped forward with a right cross to the chest that stopped Ray in his tracks. Undaunted, Ray continued with the kicking onslaught—roundhouses, up-kicks, side-kicks, up-kick fakes to roundhouses—but Takeya put on a display of defensive prowess, catching the roundhouses on his forearms, stopping the up-kicks with downward palm slaps, parrying the side-kicks down and out, and stopping the up-kick fakes to roundhouses with one-armed, downward slaps to forearm blocks.

  Ray contemplated his next strategy with an audible hmm and backed away with his arms akimbo. Takeya surged forward with alternating straight punches but Ray avoided them all, slipping, bobbing, and weaving with his hands still on his hips. It appeared as if Ray turned to flee, but he went into a rapid twirl, extending both fists as he spun. “Tornado Fists!”

  Sky shouted, “Hey, that’s my move, and it’s Knuckle Twister. Get it right!”

  Ray’s rapidly spinning fists knocked away Takeya’s straights and forced him to retreat. Takeya flew back and away, but Ray pursued him into the air. Ray pulled his arms back, and, still spinning, lashed out with a spinning hook kick, smashing his heel across Takeya’s jaw. Takeya went reeling into a spin and crashed to the floor. Ray went into a dive with one knee thrust forward, and Takeya flew back in the nick of time as the knee drove into the ground where his head had been—avoiding a potentially fight-ending attack.

  They traded in the air, their years of training showing in their artful displays of attack and defense. Neither gained the upper hand until Ray went once again into his bag of tricks. “Buzz Saw!” Ray came up with what looked like an up-kick to the underside of the chin, and Takeya leaned his head back as Ray’s foot rose in front of his face. The upward kick was just the setup, and Ray’s heel came down first on the bridge of Takeya’s nose and then into his chest. The blows sent Takeya into a descent, and Ray used the momentum of his dropping heel to propel him into a forward flipping series of strikes with the same heel. Ray rolled forward continuously—like a buzz saw—catching Takeya with numerous blows to the head and chest, sending him crashing backward to the ground. Ray came out of his spin and touched down a few yards in front of Takeya. As Takeya began to sit up slowly, Ray squared himself toward him, dropped into a wide squat, and extended both fists to the front.

  “Saaay!” Ray dragged out the syllables as Takeya rose. “Oooh!” Takeya nearly erected himself. “Naraaa!”

  Sky was livid. “I came up with that move first!”

  Ray exploded forward in a prone position, spinning with his fists and legs extended, leaving a swirling cloud of dust in his wake. Takeya covered his chest with an X-block, but Ray’s rotating fists drilled through his guard, his knuckles grinding into Takeya’s chest. Takeya spat gold-hinted crimson as he was helplessly driven back by Ray’s attack. Ray suddenly stopped rotating, jolting to a halt in a prone position.

  When Ray ceased his rotation, Takeya began his, flying backward and spinning laterally, head over heels. He smashed back first into the front row of stands in a heap, clutching his chest and gasping as blood trickled from the sides of his mouth. Ray dropped into a three-point-stance, exhausted from the energy he’d put into his finishing attack—stunned that Takeya had somehow maintained his molecular composure.

  Takeya rose and dropped into a low horse stance with his arms curled with f
ists at his sides. He quickly raised his arms in a half circle and slapped his palms together above his head and slowly brought his pressed hands down and held them before his chest.

  A hush washed over the audience, many recognizing the stance of the Seishin style’s ultimate technique: Praying Hands.

  Ray rose to his feet and adopted a boxing guard with his fists held high in front of him. Takeya shot forward with his arms extended, the tips of his fingers aimed for Ray’s solar plexus. Ray tightened his parallel forearms, but Takeya’s flattened hands split his guard, the fingers of both hands driving into Ray’s chest. Ray hunched forward on the impact and Takeya’s pressed hands flicked upward, the tips of the fingers rising into Ray’s throat. Ray threw a cross for Takeya’s head, but the karate master ducked, dropping to one knee, and thrust his fingers into Ray’s lower abdomen. Takeya sent an upward finger thrust to the underside of Ray’s chin, sending him staggering backward, clutching his throat.

  Takeya adopted his horse stance with his pressed hands before him. Ray regained his composure and surged forward with another series of alternating roundhouses for Takeya’s head. Takeya simply backed away and blocked the kicks from side to side with the backs of his pressed hands and suddenly thrust forward with his fingers, jabbing them into Ray’s sternum. As Ray hunched forward, Takeya draped his pressed hands over his neck in a modified Thai Clinch and lifted alternating knees into his chest. Ray, coughing gold-tinted blood with each strike, covered his chest and absorbed the strikes on his forearms. He reared back in desperation to throw an uppercut to Takeya’s chin, but Takeya anticipated, pulled down on Ray’s neck, and flipped forward over him.