Dream Drive Ch. 07

Jackson looked at Chaki. She was smiling at him quite expectantly. They leaned in.

"Jackson."

Their heads sprang apart. Jackson sighed as Shaka walked up to them, emerging from the dark to be lit by the firelight. "Hey Shaka."

There was no half-serious amusement on her face from catching them about to kiss. The old woman's eyes were shadowed. "It is time."

Jackson started. And then he began to stand. Chaki held his hand as he stood, then let it slip through her fingers.

"Be back soon," Jackson said.

"Of course," Chaki said. "And tomorrow..."

"Tomorrow, you won't be my fiancé anymore," Jackson said. "You'll be my wife."

Chaki glowed with a white-toothed grin, and her lantern-light bond flared like a star. Jackson felt her warmth, and he smiled.

"Come," Shaka said. "The others are waiting."

Jackson followed Shaka away from the fires scattered about the feast area, past the tents, and past the sloped battleground. They walked past where the archery targets were still positioned. They turned right and headed toward the mountain.

Jackson checked his status. He now had 200 essence in total -- 167 fully active navy blue points, and 33 light-blue points that he'd absorbed from Chaki. He couldn't use it for his Attributes, but he'd tested it earlier, and it let him activate his abilities as normal. He also had all five of his gemstones tucked into his pocket, also charged up by Chaki. They held about 25 essence apiece. He'd use them first before dipping into his personal bar.

And, of course, he still had one remaining minute essence crystal, which he earned from killing a rattok warrior -- that was worth 50 raw essence by itself. He also had the larger crystal from the rattok mage. In his inventory, it was labeled a minor essence crystal. He wasn't sure how much essence it would grant him, but 100 or so was probably a safe bet.

And now it was time to upgrade his stances. Jackson mentally brought up his skills screen, trusting Shaka to pick a path through the grass that wouldn't trip him up.

Aggressive Stance [Tier 5, 89.5%] - 5 points

- 12% Attack Bonus

- 5% Defense Penalty

Defensive Stance [Tier 12, 6.7%] - 12 points

- 10% Defense Bonus

- 4% Attack Penalty

Short Stance [Tier 9, 45.8%] - 9 points

- 10% Agility Bonus

- 5% Attack Penalty

- 2% Defense Penalty

Each tier in a stance awarded him a point. He'd been alerted to them during his fight with Katran, but he hadn't had a chance to investigate. His stances were located in his passive ability section, under the spears heading, so he flipped there and opened them up. The first one he tapped was the Aggressive Stance.

...LOADING COMBAT STANCE GRID...

Spear - Aggressive Stance

A long grey rectangle appeared in front of Jackson. On the left side, there were seven boxes in various colors. Each box held an option, along with what Jackson assumed was a point cost in parentheses.

- Improve Attack Bonus [0/3] (2 points)

- Reduce Defense Penalty [0/3] (2 points)

- Add Agility Bonus [0/5] (3 points)

- Add Stun Chance [0/5] (3 points)

- Add Critical Strike Chance [0/5] (3 points)

- Add Fire Attribute [0/5] (5 points)

- Poison Strike Ability (10 points)

He could improve the bonuses, reduce the penalties, or add entirely new functions -- even gain new abilities. His eyes went toward the right. Leading away from each box was a line connecting to yet more boxes -- but they were greyed out. He tried tapping one. There was a sharp error tone.

You must spend more points in prerequisite abilities.

An upgrade tree. Jackson rubbed the back of his head. This was yet another whole new level of customization.

There were six different attributes. There were two fundamentally different kinds of magic. He'd been memorizing thousands of runes -- he really only had a few hundred down pat, if that. Every piece of equipment had a durability rating and could be enchanted. All his abilities had Modifiers and could be individually improved and leveled up -- and some of them had Amplifiers, whatever the hell those were. All his Active Abilities could be chained to form even more powerful Combination Abilities. And now, he had Stances, unlocked once his passive skill with a given weapon was high enough -- and every single stance for every single weapon had its own customization tree.

This was getting a little out of hand.

Jackson tried pushing the tree along with his finger. It scrolled to the side, revealing more grey boxes that he couldn't see. Wondering how large is was, he kept scrolling.

And scrolling.

Jackson's eyes started to widen. He scrolled another pass, and another. More boxes, connections, interconnections, prerequisites. He'd seen at least fifty individual boxes, and he could still keep scrolling. There was no indicator to show him how far he'd gone. Was there a way to zoom out?

He glanced down; there was a small toolbar at the bottom of the upgrade tree.

[Merge Stances] (Compatibility: Staves, Polearms, Thrusting Weapons)

[Divide Stance]

[Essence Conversion]

[+/-]

Jackson sighed. More things to worry about.

He focused his gaze past the translucent status screen. They were getting very close to the mountain. The camp was just firelight and smoke far behind them. "Where are we going?" Jackson asked.

"To the mountain," Shaka said. "You will see."

Jackson idly nodded, then went back to the menu. He tried the merge stances button. The error sound buzzed again.

You have no stances capable of being merged.

He tried the divide button, and got the same response. One more thing to try -- essence conversion. That button worked.

A smaller menu appeared in front of the stance upgrade tree. A slider let him change essence directly into stance upgrade points -- at a rate of 100 to 1. That was far too rich for his blood, at least at the moment, but it was nice to have the option to invest heavily if conditions called for it.

And then, that little plus-minus symbol. A zoom function? Jackson tapped the minus. And he tapped it again. And again. And again.

And again.

His finger hesitated. Once more, Jackson touched the minus button. The rectangle had shifted to become a square, so that he had a true view of the entire upgrade tree. Now it flew backward once more and changed shape again -- into the inverted, encircled star, the pentagram.

"Holy shit," he muttered.

"Your pardon?"

"Nothing," Jackson said. "Just...talking to myself."

That was the first time he'd ever seen the word Loading in any connection to Isis -- and now he knew why. On the last zoom out, those collections of boxes that were labeled had shrunk to almost nothing. They were infinitesimal, pixel-sized dots of color at the very periphery of an endless sea of upgrades and abilities that was on a scale so large it was hard to comprehend.

Games rode a fine line. Some people preferred a sandbox; others liked a more binary system of progress, left or right, up or down. In either case, there was a limit to customization and depth. With too many options, freedom could become paralyzing. Games were designed to grant a sense of control and power while maximizing fun and minimizing the pain of decision-making.

Emil Mohammed had thrown that principle right out the window and laughed as it hit the ground head-first. But then, Isis wasn't a game. Not for him. It was life.

Jackson reeled his amazement back in and spent his points. He improved the attack rating of his Aggressive stance, but spent nothing on his Short stance -- because there were some interesting abilities that had a higher cost. From his Defensive stance tree, he invested a full ten points to buy the Spear Wall ability.

Spear Wall: Spears of light appear in front of the user, knocking back foes and deflecting attacks.

Essence Cost: 20

Level: 1

Progress: 0.0%

Over the long term, upgrading his base statistic was more cost effective, but that ability would definitely come in handy. He spent a little more time investigating his passive skills. There were a few new things there that he'd picked up with all the training he'd been doing -- Footwork, Balance, Flexibility, and Acrobatics, to name a few. Footwork was the highest of the group; the rest were still barely off the ground.

"We're here," Shaka said.

Jackson snapped the menus shut. They were standing at the base of the mountain. He glanced around. There was a large hill just behind them, obscuring the sight of camp. Directly ahead was a sheer black cliff. The mountain loomed directly above. Jackson craned his neck to take it in. "Where are the other spirit guides?"

"Through the wall," Shaka said. Her voice was low. "Do not speak what you are about to see to others. Not even to Chaki."

Jackson glanced at her, then the mountain again. "Sure," he said.

He felt Shaka grasp her essence. Energy thrummed from her in heartbeat pulses. She reached out and began to draw a sigil -- the sigil. An inverted pentagram.

The gold light hovered on the rock for a moment, and then it sank in, as if the mountain were a black sponge soaking up the light. The cliffs in front of them wavered like liquid, then faded away, leaving behind a twenty-foot chasm that bore into the rock.

"Come," Shaka said. She wove another sigil -- the one for light -- and held it out, using it as a flashlight. Maybe it was just the shape, but it seemed to give off more light than another sigil might. Jackson followed closely behind her, sketching his own sigil and letting it float alongside him.

The tunnel continued straight on into the center of the mountain. The air became heavy, but not damp. Jackson and Shaka walked in silence.

The tunnel wasn't smooth, but gnarled and filled with pockets, as if something had bitten it out piece by piece. There was no gravel, dirt, nor roots. Not even dust. Aside from the rock, the place was unnaturally clean. Not clean -- barren.

The sensation pulling him toward the mountain faded, but something replaced it. It felt as though a bug was crawling around inside his heart. He rubbed at it, but it wouldn't go away. He clenched his spear a little tighter.

After a few minutes, the tunnel opened up into a wider chamber. The collected spirit guides of the tribes were within, holding their own sigils to keep everything lighted. Their shadows were long across the floor and walls.

The chamber was smoothed, hewn and carved by a careful hand. It was roughly circular, but the walls were faceted at odd angles. Jackson would expect them to angle up, to reflect light into the high ceiling, but they were all pointed down, or toward the center.

They reflect darkness, not light.

Jackson heard the words inside his head. They sounded in his own voice. But they weren't his thoughts. It was as if something had dropped the thought there, and Jackson had merely read it. And that something knew that he knew, and found the fact rather amusing.

Jackson didn't notice the golems at first, but as they moved into the center, they came into view. Four massive stone men were tucked into crevices formed by the oddly-shaped cavern. They reminded him of the one they'd encountered out on the plains, after he'd first escaped the rattok nest with Shaka and the rest.

"Guardians of the portal," Shaka said, noticing his gaze.

"What are we going to do?"

"Stand where you are. We will open the way."

None of the other spirit guides spoke to him. In fact, they actively avoided his gaze. They tended to be elderly, though a few here and there were younger, probably newly minted. They all dressed as Shaka -- the usual hide dress, but ornamented with various combinations of beads, sequins, and small gemstones about their necks. Without a word, the spirit guides separated into five groups. They must have known what to do beforehand.

Without them taking up the center of the chamber, Jackson could finally see the floor. It was a mural, carved into the rock, depicting a giant tree with long, twisting branches. The center of the trunk was marked with an inverted pentagram. From below the tree -- reaching up from the roots, toward that symbol -- was a clawed hand. It seemed to cup the lonely star, a gesture halfway between holding it up and tearing it down.

A larger pentagram encircled the tree. The spirit guides had formed up on its five points, sitting on the floor, facing the center. They clasped their hands and, together, grasped their essence.

The pentagram flashed red. The floor quivered. Jackson took a step back.

The central part of the mural sank down a half-step. A haze began to shine around it, forming a curtain of light that oozed up from the rock. The cave was bathed in a blood-red glow.

"Step into the light," Shaka said.

Most of Jackson's neurons argued that stepping into the dark light emanating from a giant inverted pentagram might be bad for his health. But this was his only lead.

"Jackson," Shaka said. He looked at her. She was seated at the front of her group; she wore a small smile. "I would not send you forward if I thought harm would come to you. Go. Seek Shakhan."

Jackson swallowed, nodded. He set himself, squared his shoulders, then stepped onto the mural.

As soon as his foot hit the image of the tree, the world went black around him. He felt his stomach flip. He tried to move his legs, but his feet couldn't touch anything. It felt like gravity had been turned off, and he was just hanging there.

The sensation of pressure came back to his shoes -- the only clue that he was standing on solid ground. He raised his hands and felt them pass through the air, but he couldn't see them. He touched his face. Alright, still in one piece.

He started to draw a sigil for light. A screen blipped in front of him, stopping his hand.

You have entered The City of Demons, Dis.

The screen vanished.

Jackson shivered, and then slowly completed the sigil for light. Thankfully, a silvery grey light that matched his steel-colored sigil glowed about him.

He was in a small cylindrical room. Under his feet was a mural matching the one he'd just been transported from -- a tree, a pentagram, a claw. Ahead was a doorway leading deeper into the blackness.

Jackson clenched his spear tightly and started in.

****

Rachel hovered at the end of camp, where the temporary fencing kept the horses corralled. She was dressed from head to toe in leather. The matching cloak billowed down to her knees, giving her the appearance of a small black bell.

As much as the clothes were a symbol of Hale's preferences and her own servitude, they wrapped her up and fit snugly. Minimal environmental penetration was definitely a good thing. No dirt, no muck, no fuss. Besides, she'd be a lot less visible now that it was dark.

And was it dark. That was one thing she noticed out on the plains. When night fell, it really, actually fell. Sure, the sun set in Boston the same as it did in Isis, but there were always lights, always neon signs, always something glowing. Here, the only things visible were tiny islands of light created by campfires, and the stars high overhead.

Tonight, though, there were no fires. They were close to the enemy. Anything that could give them away had been forbidden.

The only things she had on her were the canteen on her hip, her sword, and a long coil of rope she'd stolen from the supply tent. She gripped it in her hands like it was her only escape from a terrible nightmare. Which, in fact, it was. Probably. Not really. Not even a little bit. Her plan sucked, but it was the only thing she could think of.

They were still quite a ways from the Indians, according to the last scout she'd overheard reporting to Tell'ad - but close enough that she shouldn't need food along the way. She expected that she wouldn't care much about food when the pain hit anyway.

The collar on her neck hummed and throbbed like a sadistic torturer warming up a whip. She schooled her thoughts. Just taking a walk out with Juniper. Got to keep the horse healthy. Hale wouldn't like it if his gift to me was damaged.

The collar was briefly assuaged by the idea of pleasing Hale. She'd found herself automatically thinking along those lines more and more, trying to hold the pain at bay. It scared the shit out of her.

Rachel made a kissy sound with her lips. Juniper ambled over to the edge of the picket. There was plenty of space between the fence's slats - it was more to mark a boundary for the patrolling herdsmen, not strictly to keep the horses in. Most of the time, the well-trained mounts stayed within the boundary of their own volition.

She's gotten a lot of horse riding practice. Her passive skill was way up. She easily swung herself onto Juniper's saddle. She'd asked her usual stableboy to leave it on until very late, in case she decided to take a ride later.

He hadn't asked questions; he'd just nodded and done it. Rachel was starting to like that kid.

"Where do you think you're going, Lady Ransfeld?"

Rachel froze at the sound of Tell'ad's voice. She slowly turned her head. He was standing right behind her, arms folded, his grizzled face further wrinkled by a frown.

"Um..." Rachel cleared her throat. "First of all, I said call me Rachel. Second of all, what in the shit does it look like I'm doing? I'm taking Juniper out for a late-night...thing. Walk. Stroll."

"I see," Tell'ad said. "You won't mind if I accompany you?" He whistled sharply, three different notes. A horse emerged from the herd almost instantly -- his great black war horse. It, too, still had its saddle on.

Rachel swore under her breath.

Tell'ad pulled himself up on his horse. "I'm sorry, I didn't quite catch that."

"I said I wish giant fucking dickweed commanders would let people ride their horses in peace. But you wouldn't know about that."

Tell'ad clicked between his teeth. His horse started off. Rachel poked Juniper's ribs with the corners of her boots and flipped the reins a bit; he got the message and followed Tell'ad.

Rachel silently fumed as she stared at Tell'ad's back. She desperately prayed for laser vision. God decided that she did not deserve laser vision, and refrained from answering her prayer.

They left the picketed herd behind and passed the long line of tents. The sun had set only an hour before, but the camp was dead silent. Every soldier had turned in early to get as much sleep as possible; they were going to be marching hard for an attack at dawn on the mountain.

They reached the outside of the camp. A few men were posted as a guard, standing quietly, watching the night. Rachel had studied them carefully. They had no torches lit so they didn't ruin their night vision or give themselves away. A second group of men -- hidden by lying prone in the nearby grass -- formed a backup team, in case they were somehow ambushed. Hale and Tell'ad took no chances.

"How's the night?" Tell'ad asked them.

"All's quiet, sir."

"Good," Tell'ad said. "I'll be riding out with the Lady Ransfeld for a short time. Be vigilant. We're marching within the hour."

"Yes sir," the guard said. Tell'ad nodded to the man, then they rode out further.

Tell'ad brought his horse up to a steady trot; Rachel matched his pace. She pulled up the hood of her cloak and tucked her hair into it tightly. She hated when it was tossed around in the wind.

After a minute of riding, she glanced back. They were really getting far away from camp. She could barely see the tents in the dark. "Um, Commander?"

"Lady Ransfeld."

"How far are we going?"

"What do you have that rope for?" Tell'ad asked.

"What if I have a rope emergency?" Rachel said.

"What could possibly happen out on the flatlands that you'd need a rope for?"