Dream Drive

Judging by the comments on the last chapter, I've set a high bar for myself. Here's hoping I keep jumping it! Thank you for taking the time to write your thoughts. It's a great feeling, and it encourages me to outdo myself.

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Author's Note:

All aspects of the story are fictional. All characters that participate in sexual activity are over the age of 18.

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"Jackson Vedalt. We need to talk."

Palla and Jackson were at the edge of the encampment, where the pointed tipis ended and the open fields began. Behind them, the collected herd of the nomadic band was carefully watched by several men, themselves on horseback. Palla was astride his own horse, Smallgrass, having just retrieved her to introduce her to Jackson.

Neither the young boy nor the other men used saddles. They controlled the animals entirely with the pressure of their legs and feet. Only a thin set of reins draped around the jaw of a horse allowed for them to command their mount to stop. Palla didn't even use one with Smallgrass.

Jackson had never seen a live horse before. The steel jungle of modern-day Boston, centered in the northern section of the Sprawl, was not a place that had many animals.

His attention, however, was now away from the herd, and on the man that had addressed him. All the people of the plains seemed tall, but Boonta stood out again in that he was stocky, muscular. His hair was short, and his jaw was wide. He cut an intimidating figure.

Jackson stepped away from Palla and Smallgrass. "...alright. What do you want to talk about?"

Boonta glanced at Palla. "This is a conversation between men, Palla. Take Smallgrass out for a bit."

"How come?"

"Just do it."

"...fine." Palla clicked his teeth and tugged the reins. Smallgrass turned on a dime and trotted off back around the edge of the herd.

Jackson waited until Palla was out of earshot. "So what's this about?"

"What are your intentions upon Chaki?" Boonta asked.

"Chaki? What do you mean?"

Boonta walked up to Jackson until they stood chest-to-chest, well beyond the polite boundary of personal space. Boonta was easily a head taller. The comparison was almost funny - the thin, pale-white Jackson against a brown-skinned man born and bred hunting bison and surviving in the wilderness.

"You know what I mean," Boonta said.

Jackson felt his heart start thumping. His mouth felt dry. He didn't like letting his emotions get the better of him, but he couldn't deny the steady pressure of flight-or-fight syndrome that was making his stomach tighten.

His first reaction was usually flight. He wasn't the athletic type. Fighting was a frighteningly lethal prospect. He liked being alive.

But the little red health bar in the corner of Jackson's sight reminded him that he didn't need to run. He didn't need to care about injuries, because he couldn't be injured. He'd had a dagger in his stomach and been clawed across the face, and all he had to show for it was a nasty pinching sensation. Boonta could make Jackson somewhat uncomfortable, definitely, but unlike Jackson, he wouldn't recover from having his eyes gouged out.

"It's none of your business," Jackson said.

"I am the son of an elder of this tribe," Boonta said. "I'm making it my business."

Jackson shrugged. "Chaki is attractive. I think she finds me attractive, too. Is that a problem?"

"Yes. Stay away from her. You are an outsider. She needs someone that can protect her, someone who understands her as a Woman-Under-The-Mountain. Not a stranger that could be blown over by a stiff wind."

"And you're that someone, huh?"

"Yes," Boonta said. "I am. I will be."

"That's funny," Jackson said. "I could have sworn I overheard Chaki telling you to screw off before Palla brought me over to see his horse."

"You should pick your words more carefully, Jackson Vedalt."

"I'll say what I damn well please, Boonta."

"I could break you like a dry twig."

"You could try."

They stood there, watching each other, neither one moving.

Boonta was the first to break their stare. He glanced toward the herd. "If she were so easy to win over, she wouldn't be worth the winning," he said. "I will convince her yet. She will be mine. If you get in my way, I'll make you regret it. Your presence is a disruption. You're dangerous."

"I don't see how."

"You have no perspective. That is not surprising. You're an outsider." He looked back at Jackson. "Chaki remembers her father's spirit, and she sees glory in making war. I look to the south and see the iron men. Their armor shields them; their magic can shake the skies. We cannot best them in battle. I would have advocated making them allies, establishing a more open and mutually prosperous relationship. We have much to gain from them, and they from us, perhaps."

Jackson shrugged. "I guess...that seems reasonable."

"But that," Boonta said, "is a radical notion to my people. Our way of life is sacred. Introducing such dramatic change is considered poisonous. The spirit guides are unanimous on the subject. They say that the arrogance of the iron men, their drive to dominate nature, is exactly the sort of behavior that made the angels leave us behind so long ago."

"Did you say angels?" Jackson asked.

"I have not the time or inclination to explain our ways to an outsider."

"You don't seem to hold your ways in very high regard."

"It is not that. Merely that there are other ways that could be better." Boonta sighed. "Since my progressive attitudes are shunned, the only recourse is to avoid the iron men altogether. Chaki, though...well, she is stubborn. Even you must know that."

Jackson decided that drawing conclusions based on what Boonta told him would land him in hot water. He settled on a shrug. "I see where you're coming from, but the political moves of the People-Under-The-Mountain are above my pay grade."

Boonta raised an eyebrow. "Pay grade?"

Jackson sighed. "Look, what does any of this have to do with me being dangerous? That's the point you're trying to make, right?"

"You are a token," Boonta said, "a piece that will be used to advocate for war. I do not know how Shaka will go about it, but I know she will use you. She has overplayed her hand. She is too eager about you. And so, I've come to ask you to leave. Politely."

"This is polite?"

"It is as much politeness as I am willing to afford you."

"What's your problem with Shaka?"

"Her mind has been changed on the subject," Boonta said. "I gathered that quickly. She will favor war, and hers is a strong voice, even amongst the gathered tribes. You will somehow figure in her arguments. Ah." Boonta nodded. "A source of information. A foreign warrior - you must have knowledge of the iron men. Their strengths, their weaknesses. She sees this as the tipping weight that will give us an advantage. I see it as an invitation to a swift death. We already know where the gaps are in the armor of the iron men, but actually hitting those spots with arrows is another matter entirely. You will not change that."

Jackson decided not to correct his assumption. "So what if I like it here on the plains and I don't feel like leaving?"

"Then you will find that the land does not take kindly to strangers."

"Is that a threat?"

"Yes."

"Hey, Boonta?"

"What?"

"Go fuck yourself."

Boonta made a long-suffering sigh. "I am trying to be patient with you, Jackson Vedalt. You did save her life, and Palla, and Shaka. This is why I am asking you to leave, rather than otherwise. Sever your ties with Chaki. It is better for her, and better for all of us as a whole."

"History has shown," Jackson said, "that if you retreat now, eventually, you'll lose everything. Their toehold on the plains will expand faster than you can possibly imagine. They'll spread until there is nowhere else for you to go, and at that point, you won't be fighting to keep them away, just to survive. But the window of opportunity will be gone. You'll lose the fight because you waited too long. You'll be confined -" He squished his thumb and forefinger together. "- to a tiny little section of the plains, and the process will make your people a shell of themselves, assuming you aren't slaughtered outright. You'll become a cultural anomaly. Like a caged-up horse put on display at the circus. Eventually, you'll build giant casinos and get your revenge, but that's not until you've suffered in ignorance and extreme poverty for several hundred years."

"What in the nine hells are you babbling about?"

"I don't have time for this drama bullshit," Jackson said. "You don't seem like a totally bad guy. You're just dumb, and jealous. Guess what? Chaki likes me, and I like her, too. Get over it and move on. I'm not going anywhere."

"I don't know what makes you think you can best me. Chaki probably inflated the tales of your so-called bravery just to taunt me."

"Yeah, she did," Jackson said. "I'm not that great."

"You admit your own weakness?"

"I do," Jackson said. "And I think she likes me in part because I don't strut around like a giant asshole. Unlike some people."

"We shall see who she admires when I'm grinding your honor and your face into the dirt."

"You don't want to mess with me."

"I won't mess with you, Jackson Vedalt. I'll crush you."

"Go ahead. Let's what happens."

"I'm seriously considering it."

Again, they stood there, staring at one another. Jackson left his spear and shield near Chaki's tent, but he still had his two daggers tucked into his belt. He had no doubts that Boonta was probably faster, stronger, and better in a fight, but Jackson was a tier above normal humans, at least in this place. He waited for Boonta to make the first move. He'd just take the first hit, then -

"What are you two doing?" an old voice called. "Butting heads already?"

Shaka was ambling toward them. Now that she'd had a chance to change into some real clothes, she looked in her element. Her grayed hair was tied into a long ponytail that hung down her back. Bony hands protruded from the sleeves of a dress that were decorated with feathers and chains of beads and bone. Despite her age, she moved with a precise grace, stepping across the grass as if she were skating on water. She stopped in front of them, examining first Jackson, and then Boonta. "Well?"

"Boonta," Jackson said, "was just coming over to say that what he said earlier wasn't meant personally. He was just thinking about the tribe. And to thank me for saving you and the others."

"That excuse reeks more than wet bison stool," Shaka said, "but I shall allow it to stand. Jackson, follow me. We have much to discuss." She turned away without a word to Boonta.

Remembering her promise of answers - and of runes - Jackson fell into step behind her. "See you, Boonta. Thanks for the talk, I appreciated it."

"Of course," Boonta called. "I'll look to the day we can finish our conversation."

"Can't wait."

Shaka led Jackson through the maze of tipis and cooking fires until they reached her tent. There was recent repair work done on it; a long patch partly covered a wide tear in the hide siding. Jackson figured that was damage done in the raid when she'd been captured. Shaka held the entrance flap for him.

The tipi looked simple from the outside, but it was a sophisticated living space. It was wide enough to allow for a fire, and adjustable side-flaps let in fresh air so that the smoke didn't choke the occupants. He could see a sort of hide rain canvas stretched higher near the top of the structure. The floor was covered with thick, furred skins, and there was a small ditch dug at one end of the space for drainage.

The air had a different smell, though. Jackson sniffed. Some sort of sharp incense, like cinnamon and vinegar. It wasn't unpleasant. He spotted an actual wooden trunk at one end of the tipi. A bison skull with a long feathered shawl attached to the bottom lay on top of it.

Shaka dipped him a cup of water using a hollowed-out horn. "Here."

Jackson slurped greedily. "Thank you."

"I won't involve myself with Boonta unless you ask," Shaka said, "but don't do anything stupid. He is the elder's son."

Jackson shrugged. "He's angry about me and Chaki. I don't care, but if he tries anything, I'm going to defend myself."

Shaka chuckled. "Hmm. You and Chaki have grown rather close. Will you take her as a wife?"

Jackson spit onto the floor of the tipi. He coughed, trying to cut off the drool. "Come again?"

Shaka laughed louder. "Do not waste my water, Jackson. Chaki would make an excellent first wife."

"First?"

"Yes. Passionate, intelligent, a good head-of-household. Able to keep other women in line. Perhaps a little stubborn, but a strong man like you will tame that, surely, and you are both of age. And she likes you, a rare enough occurrence all by itself. You should consider it. It would bond you to the tribe more deeply."

Boonta's assertion that Shaka wanted to use him floated up in his thoughts. Jackson cleared his throat. "Speaking of that...I never said I wanted to be in the tribe. Why the hell did you spring that on me back there?"

Shaka peered at him over her own cup. "For the same reason I left Chaki alone with you on the trail."

"I'm just going to get to the point, so don't be offended."

"I would say your bluntness is one of your better qualities."

"Great. Boonta and I had a little discussion, and he said you planned on using me. I gotta admit, I can see what he's saying. You're actually trying to set me up with Chaki. Suddenly, you want me in the tribe. What's going on? It seems like you need me for something."

Shaka sipped her drink. "First," she said, "if you are in the tribe, there is less a qualm to teach you runes. I make great exception for you, Jackson, because of what you did for us."

"So, you're going to teach me."

"Yes. I am. Here, sit." They both folded their legs and sat next to the smoldering fire. "Second. Chaki needs a worthy husband. She is my student; I am concerned for her welfare. You are a good match."

"...I'm flattered. I think. I've never been set up before."

Shaka smiled. "Then let this be your first time."

"Alright," Jackson said. "The runes are one thing. And Chaki's another. But it's not like the band seems short on eligible bachelors. What's the real reason?"

"You are a powerful warrior, Jackson," Shaka said. "We are going to make war on the iron men. I wish you to be tied firmly to our band when this occurs."

The light went off. "Now I get it. You want me on your side because you appreciate what I am."

"That is correct."

"I don't like Boonta very much, but he raised a fair point about war," Jackson said. "It sounds great when you think about what you stand to gain, but actually going through with it sucks. It sucks a lot."

"You sound as though you have experience in the matter."

"In my world," Jackson said, "we're at war. We've been fighting for six years. I'm not really directly involved, but you see how it changes things. If there's a chance at coming to agreement with the iron men, I think you should."

"It isn't as simple as it seems," Shaka said. "We are the protectors of this land. We cannot allow it to be encroached upon. And this is not the first raid."

"Have you tried talking to these people?"

"Last year, the Mountain Meet sent a spirit guide, ten warriors, and a trader that knew the language to their lands, in order to broker a formal agreement," Shaka said. "We received a message that they had made contact with local elders and were being escorted to where their leader lived."

"What happened?"

"They have not been heard from since."

"...shit," Jackson said. "Not much I can say to that."

Shaka raised her hand, palm up. "Even then, I was hesitant to commit to war, for the very reasons you cited. Even if justified, it damages the spirits of those that participate. I feeds the purpose of bad spirits to set men against one another. So, there is the truth of the matter. I do not mean to use you, Jackson. Should you refuse to join us, I shall inform you of your true nature, as promised, and send you on your way."

Jackson stared at his water-horn. He took another sip. He looked at the fire. "Ok. Sounds good."

"That easily?"

"Chaki...and you, and Palla. They're something worth defending. I'm not saying I'll raid villages, but if our warriors and their soldiers fight each other, I'll fight for the People-Under-The-Mountain." Jackson cocked his head. "By the way, does the tribe have a name?"

"Our band is one-half of the Windseekers," Shaka said. "The other tribes are the Dust-Scatterers, the Three Hills, the Drawn Bows, and the East Walkers."

Jackson nodded. He set his empty horn down, then slapped his hands to his knees. "Alright. Shaka. Help me out here. What the hell am I, exactly? What is this scar? What am I supposed to be doing?"

"I want you to appreciate this, Jackson," Shaka said. "This knowledge has been passed down to me over a great length of time. Many generations. What I am to tell you, now, you repeat to no one else aside from other spirit guides. Do you understand?"

"What about Chaki?"

"If I made you promise not to tell her, would it stop you?"

"...maybe."

Shaka snorted. "An honest answer. If she asks, you may answer her."

"Thank you."

Shaka leaned from her sitting position and took up a stick with a round rock tied to the end. She prodded it through the embers of the fire, giving the flames a little life. "There are spirits in the earth, Jackson. Spirits great, powerful, and mysterious. Aside from the Sun, and Mother Earth herself, there is one known as Shakhan, the Great Guide. The position is more like a provider, to most of the tribe, but Shakhan steers us through our lives much more closely than many in the tribes imagine. The People-Under-The-Mountain are in fact servants of Shakhan. Shakhan gives us what we require, here on the plains, and in turn, we are the guardians of the mountain. And we can allow no other peoples to come close to it."

"Why?"

"It is a gateway," Shaka said, "to two places. One is the Beneath, the foundation of worlds, wherein Shakhan dwells. The other is the next level of the Tower of the Angels, Babel."

"...go on."

"The tower is sacred," Shaka said. "No normal man may traverse its height. The Beneath, too, is not to be touched by mortal hands. It is where the angels stayed when they first left Heaven."

"What's the point of the tower?" Jackson asked.

"The Tower is a proclamation to the greatest of all spirits, the progenitor of the sun and the earth, the One-Above-The-Sky. The angels, themselves great spirits who are his subordinates, spend their days in adulation and prayer to this highest of beings. The construction of Babel is their greatest prayer, their most ardent adulation."

"Alright," Jackson said. It didn't sound anything like the biblical myth he was familiar with, but whatever. "So where do I come into all of this?"

"Over the past five years," Shaka said, "all the spirit guides have seen visions sent by Shakhan. The demons, twisted spirits that hate life, have gathered to smite the angels and destroy the tower before it is completed. We have spoken of it at the Mountain Meet. You are the first person who is not a spirit guide to learn of this."

"What does that have to do with me?"

"There is a symbol that represents Shakhan," Shaka said. "It is a symbol so precious, so sacred, that only spirit guides know of it, and even then, we rarely speak of it. Not even Chaki knows this sign."

"What sign?"

"The same that has inscribed itself upon your left hand."

Jackson's eyes flicked to the back of his hand. The black scar was still there - an inverted pentagram, crudely tattooed into his skin, as if the ink had bled out. Where he'd cut into his own hand in his sleep.