Aura Overload

46 – Invitation

Hector ducked the jab, and Vek’s alloy fist snapped in the air just a centimeter above his skull. Blood dripped into his eye, but Hector ignored it, focusing with everything he had on Vek’s shoulders and hips. His opponent was a synth, but he was humanoid, and his skeletal structure and musculature were near-identical to a human’s. That being the case, he tilted and shifted in much the same way a person would when he was getting ready to punch or kick. Still, the man was a machine—literally—and it wasn’t quite the same.

They’d been fighting for a while—easily ten times as long as Hector had fought with Sass, and he’d been taking that one slowly. Still, he was adept at managing fatigue and pain, and though Vek didn’t seem to tire, he did have patterns, and Hector was learning them.

One might think a machine could employ every possible fighting style, every possible combination of moves, even to the point that it could pretend to have patterns just to lull an opponent into a false sense of confidence. The thought had crossed Hector’s mind, but he knew that synths weren’t like normal “machines.” They had true synthetic minds, and they’d been designed to mimic the way people think and feel. There was debate about how “conscious” they could be, but even in Hector’s time, it had been agreed that they were individuals and deserved some rights.

As he dropped his shoulder and rolled away from a stomping heel kick, he recoiled inwardly, lately finding himself bitter toward the Royals—who were they to determine who deserved which rights? The debate had been vigorous, of course, but the truth of the matter was that AIs had almost wiped out humanity on more than one occasion—in the early days of the Empire and long before it existed. That said, synths had certain safeguards that prevented them from thinking in certain ways—a litany of rules Hector couldn’t possibly recite.

All of that was to say that, though Vek was an artificial being, he didn’t have unlimited bandwidth for endless combat styles; his synth-brain functioned a lot like a person’s, with limitations in some aspects and advantages in others. When Hector saw patterns, he believed they were real—to a degree. Even a human could fake behavioral quirks to lure an opponent into a trap. After all, hadn’t he been doing so?

Hector was bruised and battered. He was bleeding from half a dozen lesions where Vek’s hard fists had struck bone; most were on his skull, but the skin on his forearms, shins, and knees was split, too. They were mere flesh wounds, though; Hector was a better fighter than the brutes Vek was probably accustomed to. He was adept at slipping blows or, if they connected, minimizing their impact. He was also quick—not nearly as quick as Vek, but quick enough not to get immediately pummeled into submission.

That was Vek’s game—fighting like a boxer. He didn’t try to throw or grapple; he used speed and unyielding alloy flesh and bones to pound his opponents into pulp. Hector enjoyed it; it tested his concentration, and every mistake hurt. The experience reminded him of his early days with the Invicti, so it wasn’t any wonder that he wore a grin the entire time, with blood and sweat dripping in a steady stream to paint the mat.

The crowd loved it, too. Maybe they hadn’t seen Vek have to work so hard for his victories before. Maybe they just liked the blood-sport imagery Hector was providing. Or, maybe, they liked his tenacity and his undaunted, unflagging repeated attempts to close with Vek, only to be pummeled back. What they didn’t know was that those failed attacks represented Hector baiting a trap.

He knew Vek was faster than he was, and he knew he couldn’t keep his Aura Blade burning for long. If he tried to summon it right away, he’d attack and Vek would go on the defensive, pouring everything he had into dodges. Hector would fail to strike a critical blow, and he’d burn up his aura—and possibly set himself up for a crippling blow. No, he had to be smart about it.

With that driving initiative, he’d taken the long, roundabout way to where he now stood—bloodied, battered, but well aware of how Vek would respond to an attack. He circled his foe; he feinted—as he’d done dozens of times—then he lunged forward, stepping to the outside of Vek’s right leg, twisting his hips, and attempting a brutal jab at the synth’s midriff.

As past patterns predicted, Vek smoothly sidestepped, chopped his left hand down to deflect Hector’s punch, then swung his right fist down at an angle, aiming to crack Hector’s skull and finish the fight. Every time before, Hector had rolled with Vek’s deflection, jerked his head back, and minimized the damage of the counterblow. This time, he held firm, lifted his left hand, and Vek’s arm met the shimmering crimson edge of his Aura Blade.

Hector had let himself be brutalized for a reason: he didn’t want to use any aura abilities beyond what he’d already shown, and that meant the blade. Vek wasn’t decked in synth-flesh trying to look organic; he was covered in tough, flexible polymer—the kind of stuff that could deflect the force of a bullet, turn a blade, or make punches feel like a massage. Hector’s Aura Blade wasn’t any old blade, though. Its steaming, glass-like edge was so fine that it found purchase among the polymer molecules, and the force of Vek’s punch did all the hard work as the blade carved right through.

The weapon sliced through the polymer shell, synthetic, wire-like tendons, and even the springy, porous bones that were almost impossible to shatter. In the end, Vek’s arm fell, severed near the elbow, and his punch carried through. The stump—fluid spraying—passed by Hector’s face, and the synth stumbled toward the edge of the ring, confusion writ large on his pliable, metallic facial features.

Hector capitalized. He gave chase, attacking from Vek’s armless side. He wasn’t as fast as the synth, but Vek was off-balance, stunned by the damage alarms going off in his synthetic mind. The synth tried to square off with him, but Hector pursued the weakened side, stepping in a circular motion, and driving his aura blade into Vek’s off-white armored torso again and again.

Vek fought back, of course. He kicked, he attacked with his left arm; he tried to close and headbutt, but Hector had all of his limbs and he’d learned the synth’s style. With his right arm, he fended off attacks, and with his left, he continued to weave that gleaming, steaming blade in precise, deadly attacks. He racked up five or six good stabs before his aura ran out. The blade flickered away, crumbling into a drift of crimson steam, but the damage had been done.

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Vek was ruined—even a synth needed its fluids inside its body. Maybe he had some nanites to control bleeding or even repair damage, but if so, they weren’t enough. The arm was bad enough—given time—but the punctures to Vek’s torso were taking a toll; hemofluid sprayed from one wound. Actuator fluid leaked from another. But from the deepest stab, thick white neurogel slowly oozed; it was a catastrophic wound; Hector had punctured a nerve channel.

With his blade gone, he moved into a fully defensive posture, ducking and slapping away Vek’s increasingly sluggish attempts to close with and finish him. The synth’s gleaming metallic eyes told the tale, though. The strange, pliable alloy of his face had been designed well; it mimicked a human’s emotions convincingly. Defeat lay in those eyes—defeat and resignation. After Hector easily defended a flurry of attacks, Vek stopped, locked eyes with Hector, and then took a knee.

Hector didn’t wait for the ref. He held up his blood-soaked arms, and the crowd went berserk. Grinning, he walked in a circle around the perimeter of the mat while the ref begrudgingly nodded, and the announcer ranted, his voice raised and the volume high to be heard over the noise. “What a fight! What a fight! Did anyone else see that Aura Blade appear out of nowhere? Pardon the expression, but we’re going to have a hell of a final round! Think of it, folks: my people tell me this will be the first championship between two aura wielders for nearly eighteen months!”

Hector had heard enough. He tuned the guy out and walked toward his corner where Sass was once again performing her strange, swaying victory dance. He wondered if she did that in the ring when she won a match. She saw him coming, though, and held out a hand to help him down. He ignored it and hopped down beside her.

“What’s in my medical kit?” He was hoping for some nanites, even cheap ones.

“Let’s have a look!” She turned and hurried over to his ready area; meanwhile, one of the event staff ran up to Hector breathlessly.

“There’s going to be a fifteen-minute intermission. Will you be ready?”

Hector nodded. He glanced at his AUI, checking the time. Fifteen minutes would put the fight right at seven PM. “Party afterward?”

“Sure, just, um…” The kid had an earnest face, and Hector caught him glancing nervously toward the other side of the ring where Liquid Lee was lurking—pacing in his hooded robe. “Just, um, don’t—”

“Relax. Tell the organizers I’ll be ready.” Hector turned and walked over to Sass, ignoring the fans lining the barrier, cheering and calling his name. He’d become more of a star with that performance than he’d intended. Would they still cheer him if he’d finished Vek? If he’d beaten him into the mat and tried to drag his meager supply of potentia out of him? Hector snorted at the thought; he had too much pride to stoop to that. A synth barely collected any potentia over the span of even an unnaturally long life-time.

Potentia seemed to eschew synthetic organs and flesh. Of course, there were some synths made of materials found in rifts, but they were built from tech lost to the Empire. Or, at least, it had been lost back when Hector was last alive. He wondered if they’d figured it out again. What did Drake say? Something about the Emperor’s bodyguard being a synth from the expansion era—ten times older than the Empire itself.

“…not the best, but it’ll work on your cuts and bruises.” Sass held up a tube of “Rapid Mend” gel.

“That’s all I need.”

“You were bleeding a lot, but I could tell you weren’t hurt; you didn’t get any slower.” Hector nodded, reaching for the tube, but Sass snatched it back. “I’ll put it on. Just clear your head.”

“All right.” After a second or two: “Thanks.”

Sass didn’t reply, but she moved around behind him, and he felt the first cold touch of the gel as she smeared it into the contusions and cuts on his skull. “I’m sorry, but your hair’s thick and I have to pull on it to find all the cuts.”

He just grunted, his mind already drifting to other concerns. Nothing from Lemon?

Evie sounded worried: //I’m sorry, no.//

Grando?

//He called you a “clever bastard” and said he’s “on it.”//

Hector smiled, but only briefly. Message him again. Tell him to check on Lemon.

//Done.//

Sass gripped his forehead. “I need to do your face.”

Eyes closed, Hector tilted his head toward the sound of her voice, and before long, she was none-too-gently smearing the cream into his cuts and bruises. His eyes were swollen, and as she rubbed the stuff into the puffy tissue, some of it got into them. Thankfully, it didn’t sting; it felt kind of good—tingly. “Stuff’s not bad.”

“Well, it’s got a teddy bear with a bandage on his knee on the package, so maybe it’s for kids.”

Hector snorted again and shrugged.

“Aren’t you worried?” Her serious tone told Hector what she meant, but she clarified anyway: “About Lee’s lightning punch or whatever? He cooked Jack on the inside!”

Once again, Hector’s usual recalcitrance failed him, and he tried to assuage Sass’s fears. “I felt that thing charge up from twenty meters away. He’s fast, but I won’t let him touch me with it—not cleanly.”

One of Sass’s hands was resting on his shoulder, and he felt the tension bleed out of it as her grip relaxed. “You felt it?”

Hector nodded. “The more you use aura, the more sensitive you become. In the old days—” He caught himself before he revealed more than he’d intended.

“The old days?” She tugged on his arm, and he held it up so she could spread ointment on his bloody forearms and knuckles.

“Just stories I heard. About Praetorians and aura users of that caliber. They could sense each other from kilometers away. I guess some of them get good at shielding it though, but it takes talent.”

Sass chuckled, and he pictured her nodding as she worked the ointment into the back of his hand. “I think I saw a serial like that—Jovian Ronin or something like that.”

Hector grunted. “Ever been off-planet?”

She barked a harsh laugh. “Good one.”

“Yeah,” Hector lied, “me neither.”

“I’d like to see the Jovian System, though. Worlds of wonder, they say.”

Memories painted the darkness inside Hector’s closed eyes: the basalt cliffs of Ganymede, Jupiter filling the sky—bands of rust and cream boiling in slow motion. Defense stations hung like black thorns against the storm-light, and lightning flickered inside the Eye like the heartbeat of a god. “Yeah, something like that.”

“Hector?” an unfamiliar voice asked, deep and masculine; a jarring change of tone from Sass’s curious one. He opened his eyes to see a large man in a fine suit. His face was instantly recognizable: the gray mustache and golden eyes matching those in a portrait that hung in the lobby. Hector tried to remember the title under the picture. President? Vice President?

“Yeah.”

“Good to meet you. Quite a show you’ve put on today. I lost some money in the bets, of course. Nobody saw you coming.” He chuckled. “Anyway, I wanted to let you know I was impressed, and I’ll be looking for you after the main event. I’d like you to join me in my private suite at the after party. Oh!” He laughed, shaking his head as he held out a hand. “I’m Grover Sparling—CEO of RMC.”