“Tragic,” said Flatline.
“Oh,” said the knight, holding up a shield made of pure yellow-gold light. “I finally managed to get the Dawn Aegis. About damn time, too. I’ve lost the roll on this drop six times already. I can’t believe Jimmy let Ly11th have it last week. She doesn’t even off-tank, but she’s sleeping with the guild master. Everyone knows she’s doing it. That’s why he brings her along every raid even though she has no damn idea how to play a damage paladin.”
“Why don’t you complain to HR about it?” asked Flatline.
“You’re mocking me, Eric.” The knight wagged a finger at him. “The raid group isn’t from work. I can’t complain to HR about them. I should argue for more time for lunch. I’m the head of their network administration team and they only give me forty-five minutes.”
“I know. You say that every time I see you.” Noticing Mamoru, Flatline gestured at him. “Milton, this is Mamoru.”
“I’m Davan the Pure, Eric. Milton doesn’t exist in this world. Davan the Pure would get more than forty-five minutes for lunch.” Milton shifted to face Mamoru. “Nice gear. What raid did that come from? I don’t remember an Asian expansion pack.”
A dark spot appeared in the sky, from which black threads of lightning crawled out into the perfect blue.
“He doesn’t play Monwyn Online.” The elf flashed an apologetic look to Mamoru. “Is it coming?”
“Yes,” said Mamoru. “I believe I may have annoyed it.”
All three men looked up as the sky shattered, sending chunks of blue and black glass the size of small boats spearing into the meadow all around them. From an expanding hole filled with stars, Nightwing dove amid the flickering cloud of tumbling shards. Milton raised his shield, creating a dome effect over them. Mamoru teleported to the side; Flatline blurred into a streak, moving thirty meters to the side in an instant.
Davan the Pure became Davan the Flat.
“Still slow, lizard.” Mamoru ran in, slashing at the dragon’s side.
Nightwing leapt over him, snarling and snapping. He raked at Mamoru with a series of cat-like swats. Too late, Mamoru realized the distraction and walked right into a power swipe that sent him flying. His landing gouged a long trench in the grass, sod and dirt spraying skyward. Nightwing’s mocking laughter melted to a yelp of pain as a blue ray of frost connected Flatline’s outstretched hand to the dragon’s rear end. Mamoru gritted his teeth, focusing all his energy on protecting his borrowed deck’s firmware from deleting itself. The hollow samurai armor sat up, a clod of dirt fell out of the helmet and broke apart over his leg. A mental impulse dumped the corrupted operating system from memory and brought back a fresh load in a nanosecond, something a normal deck jockey couldn’t do without losing connection. Splintering cracks creeping across the white enamel slowed to a halt. A second later, they reversed until he appeared whole again.
Flatline held his staff over his head, surrounded by a glowing azure sphere of light. Ice spread over the dragon’s body, engulfing him in an inch-thick clear shell. Nightwing stopped moving, looking much like a lawn statue left out in freezing rain.
“Ouch,” said Milton, sounding far more grand than his embedded-in-the-dirt posture conveyed. He sat up in a paladin-shaped hole. “What the hell was that?”
“This isn’t a Monwyn node,” said Flatline. “You still remember how to run standard combat softs, don’t you?”
“Thrice-damned beast.” Milton climbed out of the divot and readied his shield. “I am here.”
“Can’t ‘tank’ this thing, Milt. No threat mechanics, and it doesn’t give a shit about your armor.” Flatline threw more ice into the dragon. “I’m not casting frost bolt. I’m bogging down its error checking routines with a Bogosity virus. It’s looking for damage that ain’t there.”
“Yes, yes.” Davan-the-no-longer-flat brushed dirt from his chest and pulled out a broadsword. “I do recall, though it has been awhile. You said this would be worth a lot of XP.”
The elf gestured at the dragon with a broad smile. “It is quite an experience… just not measured in points.”
Davan the Pure sighed.
Mamoru roared and leapt out of his trench, projecting himself skyward. He cleared the distance to the dragon in an instant, careening in an upward arc, and landed on Nightwing’s head. His katana came down in a raking slash from the ridge above the right eye to the tip of his nose. The strike shattered the ice, precipitating a spreading crack that wrapped all the way over the beast, freeing it. Mamoru attempted to teleport, but the server couldn’t handle processing that at the same time it chewed on Nightwing’s error-correction routines. The world bogged down under syrupy lag, slowing Mamoru’s fall to the point he hung suspended in midair. A massive black-scaled hand swiped around and seized him. The agony of watching such a slow attack coming for him while being unable to move made him scream in rage. Patches of samurai armor turned to white glowing panels, cracking under the strain of the dragon crushing him.
Milton reached up and closed the visor on his plate helm. He rounded his broadsword into the dragon’s side, causing a loud bellow of pain to issue forth from the beast as a scale broke. Nightwing raised Mamoru in a closed fist and smashed him into the meadow under a flattened hand. A second later, two inches of katana broke out of the back of his paw. The dragon leapt up on its haunches, screaming and waving his hand as if burned. Mamoru sprang out of the ground like a missile, slashing the huge lizard twice along the throat before landing on top of it and running the length of its back, cutting left and right on his way down the tail to the ground.
Nightwing writhed around, seething with anger that sent lime-colored flames shooting from gaps in his teeth. Milton ran up along the creature’s left flank as it chased Mamoru in circles. His next three swings glanced away from scales with ineffectual clanks. Mamoru skidded to a halt and whirled to face the dragon. Milton’s shield disappeared at the utterance of a command word; he grabbed his broadsword in both hands and thrust it up under a scale, sinking it to the hilt.
Nightwing flickered, claws frozen in midair three feet from Mamoru’s head. His skin vanished, changing him into a dragon-shaped outline of white light for an instant before the creature faded to a wireframe model. The beast’s horrible roar broke into digitized chunks and bits, a sound akin to glass shards scraping over silicon.
Milton leaned into the blade, calling out in a deep voice befitting his image. “Hah. I still got it, Eric. Poison CRC. It’s eating itself.”
“That virus hasn’t worked since we were sixteen.” The elf waved his staff around in an intricate pattern, tracing a fiery azure rune in midair. Both energy spheres orbiting his weapon rocketed straight up. He held the staff sideways over his head, intoning a chant in a strange language.
“Guess they forgot about it and stopped programming countermeasures.” Davan the Pure raised a blond eyebrow and cupped the pommel of his broadsword. Golden light surrounded his hands. “Back to the abyss, foul creature!”
The same gold light shone from spots where Nightwing’s eyes had been; the dragon clawed at the ground and pulled itself forward. “No! Insects! Fleas!”
“Hit it now,” grunted Milton. “I killed its hardware acceleration support, it’s gotta do everything in software mode now… and this server is a piece of shit. Where the heck did you find something this old?”
The elf laughed. “You sold it to me a year ago.”
Milton looked shocked for a second. “Oh… right.”
The teleport finally kicked in, much to Mamoru’s irritation. He sprinted back to the fray. Black skin spread over the wire model from nose to tail, with the faintest hint of scales defined by discolorations in the surface. When he got close enough, Mamoru sprang at the AI, but his katana met no resistance, as if he’d struck at a hologram. He thrust his left gauntlet forward, sword held to the side in the other hand. A blazing glow flared around his fingers as they pierced the beast’s hide. Hundreds of thousands of pages of program code took shap
e in his mind; Mamoru strained, focusing his will on altering the software into useless routines that went in circles.
The flutter of fire drew his gaze up at a six-foot wide fireball streaking out of the sky. Unsure of its nature, but alarmed by its appearance, Mamoru leapt away. An explosion of violet flames drilled Nightwing flat on his belly seconds before a second meteor smashed over his head.
Silver, like liquid mercury, spread over the dragon’s body from the point of impact. Wisps of flame rocketed back to Flatline, forming again into the twin spheres orbiting the top of his staff.
“Sector scan,” said the elf. “The server thinks the memory this bastard’s taking up is corrupt and is trying to flush it.”
“You hacked the system,” said Milton. “Starcall isn’t ’til level 130, and you’re only ninety-three.”
Flatline gasped, hand across his heart. “Hack? Me?” He examined his fingernails. “We’re not even technically in the game right now anyway. I only borrowed the graphics.”
Mamoru sheathed his blade and grabbed the dragon’s chin in both hands. “Time to destroy this abomination.”
White spots approximating eyes flared inside the empty helmet. Mamoru wanted the AI to break apart into a thousand separate programs. He sectioned off routine after routine, spawning innocuous device drivers, flickering animations of cherry blossoms, and several harmless ‘pet’ softs. Data tiles erupted like a volcano from the center of Nightwing’s back, raining around them.
“Okay.” Milton stepped away and pointed with his sword. “That is completely outside the parameters of normal network operation.”
Flatline approached, looking impressed. “That it is. What are you doing?”
Mamoru growled, his mind too far into the code to answer.
“I think he’s somehow trying to delete it a piece at a time. It’s stopped trying to get up. The CPU is decked from the AI rewriting itself.” Milton strained as if stuck to the ground. “I can’t even cat my softs.”
“It’s stalemating.” Flatline raised his staff. “It’s rebuilding itself as fast as he’s killing it.”
The elf froze, a band of blue light appeared at his forehead and crept downward over his body.
“What are you doing?” asked Milton.
“Trying to run a virus, staring at a loading bar. I haven’t seen a loading bar in fourteen years. Not since the Zeo-series machines.”
“Ooh. I remember those things.” The knight gave up trying to move. “It would be better not to delete it.”
Mamoru’s concentration faltered; holes in Nightwing’s side filled in. “Impossible. This monstrosity stands in my way.”
“Whoa,” said Flatline, jerking back and forth from a combat posture to standing upright in an endless loop. “Milt’s right.”
“Davan the Pure,” said Milton, with a gallant face.
Mamoru growled, focusing again on destroying the program that had reached out of cyberspace to kill him.
“It’s going to have a backup,” said Flatline. “It may lose the memory of what happened between when it saved itself and now. And if I know AIs, it’s still going to want to come after you. You’ll be killing dragons twice a week for the rest of your life.”
“I cannot allow this thing to interfere.” Mamoru scowled.
“I need some CPU,” said Milton. “Back off a little and let me try something.”
“It must die.”
“Mamoru.” Milton struggled to unstick his foot from the grass, which stretched up like glue. “You can’t kill software. Unless you are prepared to hunt down and destroy every backup copy it ever made of itself deep inside military server farms.”
Mamoru relaxed; fatigue wrung his muscles tight, leaving him ready to collapse where he stood. He had no words for his anger.
Sir Davan the Pure strode to Nightwing’s nose and took on an air of authority. “Dragon, hear me.”
Full-resolution scales spread over the creatures head, recreating the sense of emotion in the shape of its eye ridges. “Mortal…”
The booming voice lofted golden hair in a puff. It hovered for a few seconds, caught in lag, and fell flat against his back.
“I’m sure you’ve realized you have strayed into a realm that cannot withstand your power.”
Mamoru narrowed his non-eyes. Why does he defer to it?
“What have you done to me?” Great wings folded inward, cramped. “I cannot bear this place, or suffer the insolence of your presence.”
“If you would prefer to be vanquished, then so be it.” Milton raised his sword. “Against our combined strengths, you cannot survive. Your arrogance shall be your downfall.”
A broad grin spread over the face of Flatline’s elf. “This one perhaps thought himself too strong to waste time with a backup. How long has it been?”
“Moments ago,” snapped Nightwing, struggling to lift himself onto his legs.
“Then destroying you shall be only a minor setback.” Milton gestured at Mamoru. “Please, continue.”
“Wait,” rasped the dragon upon weary breath. “What do you propose?”
“Abandon your quest to kill this man, and we shall spare your life.” Milton thrust forth his chin.
“Insolent mortals,” roared Nightwing, rising to his full height.
The dragon leapt upon Milton, swatting him aside with a dull clank. Davan the Bouncing’s plate-armored figure skipped over the grass as Nightwing surged forward, his serpentine neck swinging his head to the left. He exhaled with a thunderous rush, covering Flatline with a twenty-foot wide shaft of green flames. Somewhere within the deafening roar, an elven voice shrieked.
Mamoru leapt into the sky, flipped, and came down upon the dragon’s back, between its wings. The impact flattened the great beast into the meadow and sent a wave rippling outward across the grass like a stone dropped in a lake. Flatline’s elf had become a standing suspension of ash that blinked once before it disintegrated.
He lurched over and buried his arms up to the elbows in scales, which gave way like dough rather than armor. Mamoru resumed his assault, willing parts of the dragon’s program into blocks of zeroes. Nightwing let out an agonized roar. The creature clawed at the ground, futilely trying to drag itself forward as if pinned under a tremendous weight.
Milton ran to the ash-outline of the elf; he held a hand out over it, but nothing happened. “Damn. It’s knocked him offline. I can’t rez him.”
Mamoru roared. Psionic energy coursed through his body, outlining every bone in a sheath of pain. The horizon on all sides closed in, forming a dark whirling mass around him and the dragon. He ignored the fire in his limbs and swam amid a vortex of whirling zeroes. White streams of lightning crawled up the walls of shifting numbers from whatever Milton did. Somewhere in the distance, the metallic clang of a sword striking scales rang out three times.
A rush of air preceded a deep, keening roar. Threads of lightning joined, turning the tornado of digits into blank space containing nothing. Mamoru fell upon a smooth surface of gloss white, gazing upon a reflection of his true appearance. A lumpy mass rose from a pool of opaque white liquid, expanding into the form and detail of a dragon’s head, an unpainted porcelain sculpture.
“Hold,” said the dragon. “I… I yield.”
“You have pressed beyond that point.” Mamoru stood. “You will be destroyed.”
Nightwing narrowed his eyes. “Hear me, Mamoru Saitō. Delete this copy of me, and I shall reawaken. I shall not make the same mistakes again.” His neck extended, a coiling serpent winding its way around the man. “While you have proven my hubris, you forget what I am. You accuse me of arrogance, yet you suffer the same condition. You pay no heed to my capabilities beyond my sentient software. We are not so dissimilar.”
Mamoru’s hand found nothing on his belt.
“Your sword matters not in this place. For us, time has paused. Destroy me, and you will regret it.”
“I should have destroyed you when first we met.” Mamoru ducked the elo
ngated serpent, backing away.
The dragon straightened out, head gliding after him. “I need not venture from my primary core to harm you. Tell me, how long can you survive being hunted by the full might of military intelligence? Can your… abilities detect a sniper three miles away?”
“You will not remember.”
“Will Nami see the bullet coming?”
“Do not dare!” yelled Mamoru
“Will Caiden?”
Mamoru stared.
“Will Sadako?”
“No!” He grabbed at the reptilian head, which eluded him.
The serpent coiled to the right, low to the ground, gliding at the same pace he advanced. “I propose a truce, as your downtrodden associate suggests. I shall direct no harm toward them and I shall not interfere with you, on one condition.”
“You are dying, yet you demand terms?”
Nightwing’s colorless lips parted, letting chuckles slip past razor teeth. Panel screens appeared in a curtain around Mamoru. Hundreds of images of Nami, Caiden, and Sadako appeared. Innocuous scenes from daily life, Mamoru’s home, Mars, and even a few of a curious Sadako wandering the streets of Querq.
“Their lives for a simple request,” said the dragon.
Mamoru closed his eyes, his voice resigned. “What?”
The voice drifted closer, nose to nose with him, and took on a tone of wounded sadness. “Take back what you said about me being simple-minded and fancying shiny things.”
When Mamoru looked up, the dragon seemed to be pouting. “Fine.”
“Say it.”
Mamoru wanted to rip its head off, but stilled his rage with worry for his sister, for the woman he knew he could never have, and for a boy who had helped him.
He bowed as if to an equal. “Gomenasai, dragon. I rescind my statement that you are simple-minded.”
The ends of Nightwing’s mouth curled upward.
Angel Descended (The Awakened Book 6) Page 36