And if Daiyu was about anything, it was control.
3
"You're losing control," I shouted into Mouse's ear as I held tightly to his waist.
"Relax. I'm not even focusing the Rush yet."
I couldn't see his face, but I knew he grinned from ear to ear as explosions boomed and bullets whined all around us. The explosives were dyed smoke canisters, the bullets rubber, but either could have done significant damage at the speeds we went. Contestants died in the Gauntlet every year, victims of gruesome vehicle crashes or fatal falls. The former Naval Station had been tricked out for the Tourney, featuring different tracks, threats, and booby traps with every new contest.
We zipped through the route at speeds that made turned objects into blurs and made the wind an enemy, threatening to topple the rumbler bike with every dangerous weave and turn. The previous year we tried to combat the threats and failed. The new tactic was to outrace and evade until we cleared the base.
"Truck!" Mouse yelled.
Instinct took over as we zoomed toward the vehicle barricade. I leaped up, planted my heels on the seat, and sprang into the air as Mouse dipped the bike and slid under the truck, sparks flying behind him. My jump took me over the top of the vehicle, one foot scraping the roof before I cleared and dropped, landing back on the back of the bike as Mouse righted himself. Theatrical, but that was the purpose of the contest: wow the crowd, accrue more points. I practically heard the oohs and aahs of the masses watching on the massive arena screens.
My crew did the best they could to follow, but they were hampered by the bombardment from the building rooftops and obstacles coming from the ground, air, and road. I glanced behind as an industrial wrecker slammed into the truck behind us, shredding it with a V-shaped armored fender in an explosion of twisted metal and flying parts. The wrecker's bed was retrofitted with a mini wrecking ball that swung back and forth at will, slamming into any nearby obstacle with pulverizing force. I couldn't see past the tinted windshield, but I already knew who was behind the wheel.
Jonesy.
I tapped Mouse on the shoulder. "Faster."
"But you just said—"
"Forget what I said!"
"Fine." He accelerated, and we shot forward at speeds impossible for an ordinary person to handle outside a controlled racetrack. I knew he was in the Rush; senses expanded, time slowed to a crawl. It took everything I had just to hang on when he weaved between ruined vehicles and other blurred obstacles while evading sentry guns and missiles that targeted us.
He yelled something, but his words were snatched away by the whistling wind and motor rumble. I got the picture when I looked over his shoulder. It was the end of the road: a literal firewall, flames shooting up at least twenty feet high with no ramp to jump or any other way around.
I slid my visor down and tapped him again, a non-verbal go-ahead. We'd gone too far to be stopped, even by a roaring inferno. Mouse pressed a button on his collar, activating a forcefield helmet that shimmered over his head like a soap bubble.
The rippling heat hit us first, a fiery slap that our suits barely withstood. Mouse gunned harder, raising the front tire up and rolling on the rear so the bike would take the brunt of the flames. An intense wave of roaring, crackling heat, then we blasted through: bike scorched and wheels on fire, trailing smoke and sparks, skidding out of control. We both managed to throw ourselves clear before the cycle ate asphalt, our jumpsuit's crash padding taking the brunt of the impact as we rolled clear.
I slid over thirty yards before slowing enough to flip to my feet and unstrap my retractable boomstaff, extending it to full length with the press of a button. Whirring it in flashy motions showed off the electric-blue pulse-batons attached to both ends. Mouse leaped to his feet a few feet away and reached for his arcsaber. The thin metallic rod that popped from the sword handle looked like a violin bow, only with a laser hissing between the l-shaped ends instead of a bowstring. To anyone else, the personally-crafted weapon would be perfect for self-injury. In Mouse's hands, it was lethal.
The Gauntlet gave way to several square miles of old neighborhoods long abandoned due to radiation poisoning in the ground. The contamination no longer polluted the earth, but the crumbling buildings remained, perfectly suited for the Tourney's final phase: the Melee — endless swarms of enemies in ever-increasing degrees of difficulty. The team that survived or accrued the most points by the end won the Tourney.
The first wave of Skels crashed out of windows and doors like rabid zombies, leaping down the stairs and running across the dead grass straight toward us. The gangly automatons bobbed back and forth like cyber scarecrows, designed for one thing: flashy disposal. I looked at Mouse, who grinned. Roaring, we ran to meet the attacking horde.
My boomstaff hummed as it whirled in my hands, striking left and right. Each blow scored crucial hits on the Skels: knocking off heads, tearing torsos apart. Broken limbs and gears flew through the air as we slashed into their ranks. Mouse fought a few feet away, moving as if dancing, arcsaber nearly a part of him. We spun, leaped, and flipped over our enemies, putting on a good show for the audience. It was more effort than necessary because the Skels didn't put up much of a fight.
The Brutes did.
They advanced on the heels of the last wave of Skels: faster, stronger, better armored, and better armed. Less humanoid, they varied from insectoid creepers with multiple limbs and segmented armor to rounded armadillos, rolling on spherical wheels that could shift in any direction. Their AI tactics were more advanced, making coordinated attacks that learned from failure. I responded by increasing the charge from my boomstaff, twisting a dial in the center to add a burst of electronic chaff with each strike, disrupting electronic systems and disabling defense systems. The Brutes closed in regardless, drawing firearms for close-range volleys. Rubber bullets, but still capable of serious injury at that distance. Their goal was to force us to surrender or render us unconscious. Our goal was to survive. And despite our skill, the sheer numbers threatened to make that objective impossible.
An explosive boom forced the Brutes to pause and regroup as my team made it on the scene, whooping and leaping into the fray. Some of them still drove their vehicles, zipping through the squads of Brutes and hurling fireworks or incendiary grenades. Remnants of the other teams followed, filling the arena and splitting the attention of the Brutes. I got a little breathing room and made the most of it by leaping on the back of a Brute and stabbing my boomstaff downward like a spear, bringing it to the ground in a cloud of dust.
Mouse landed lightly beside me, slashing another attacker in two with a swing of his laser-edged arcsaber. He took a quick look at the chaos. "Looks like Jonesy's crew is late to the party."
I scanned the battleground, surprised. "You're right. Must have gotten held up. Too bad for them."
I had barely uttered the words when Jonesy's wrecker barreled through the flame wall like some primordial monster, covered in fire and trailing smoke and char. It crashed into the arena, skidding into a line of Brutes and bowling them over like broken toys.
Jonesy was followed by the rest of the crew, all of them rolling in heavily armored vehicles, a herd of motorized rhinos stampeding and crushing anything in their way. As I watched them tear through the ranks of Brutes and remaining Skels, I realized my error in selecting an agile approach to the tournament. Jonesy wasn't late — he and his team were busy destroying everything in the Gauntlet, racking up significant points along the way. I glanced at my holoband, where their score had surpassed mine by a few hundred points.