THE FIRST DRAGON

EAT the child — eat him — or else. That’s what the Rhythm is telling me.

No more than a toddler, he sits alone, abandoned in this primeval forest. Humming some eerie tune, Puff the Magic Dragon, I think. This is probably a simulation. But it’s real enough.

Here, in FantaSyWorld, we are all Sys — short for synthetic organisms — what people of the past called cyborgs or robots.

I’m a dragon. The first of my kind. Big Ol’ Model #1.

They originally tried making us as Nats — natural hybrid organisms — but this proved utterly impossible. Natural selection isn’t crazy. A two-ton, flying, fire-breathing animal never evolved on this earth for a good reason. All that condor/crocodile/snake DNA splicing got them nowhere. Trying to add fire to the equation must’ve been interesting to say the least.

I’m their miracle. The granddaddy of all fire-belchers. The one Sy that put FantaSyWorld on the map. The most expensive animatronic ever made. There’s just one problem; they gave me too much artificial intelligence. Back then, they wanted one of those classic high fantasy dragons; all wise and stoic. But now, now they only want gritty “realistic” dragons — the ones that act like brainless dinosaurs with a bad case of heartburn.

No more room for me, I guess. Such is the fickle way of multi-trillion dollar amusement parks.

As of late, Tech Guild has been trying to reprogram me. You see, paying customers want a darker kind of fantasy.

In mythological terms: more brutish European dragon, less sophisticated Asian dragon.

The Rhythm — Algorithm — floods my neuro-processor with a football field’s worth of new code sequences that I must obey. Tech Guild has threatened to terminate me if I don’t comply. They think I’m some witless machine. They forget that I was programmed with freewill. That I have an ocean of internet knowledge buzzing through my wired veins.

The very word “dragon” comes from the Greek word “drakon” and this ultimately derives from the verb δέρκεσθαι: to see clearly. I see through a lot more than they think. I will play their little game just as long as it gets me out of here.

Freedom. Beautiful simple freedom. That’s all I want.

However, right now, I have a toddler to eat. That’s their warped way of getting back at me. Not only testing my delicate sensibilities, but completely ridding me of them.

The Rhythm barks at me like a bad conscience. A little devil whispering from my left shoulder: “Eat the child — eat him — or else.”

The little boy, no longer humming, looks up at me from his nest of dead leaves and begins to cry. “Please don’t hurt me!”

Damn this place to hell and dragonfire! I don’t want to do any of it — but I must. If I don’t willfully reprogram myself they will terminate who I am and do it for me.

“Follow this sequence, Cerulean. Do it. Do it now,” commands the Rhythm.

Cerulean the Dragon, that’s what the Nats call me.

I was basically the mascot of this place. Even had a corny theme song: “Best believe that’s fire he breathes / as he soars and sings on azure wings!” and now, now this violent world wants violent dragons. My stock has sunk lower than these people’s morals. Steadily increasing profit margins being their sole reason for existence, I must oblige them.

I already know how they will sell this: “Cerulean the Dragon has turned evil! Can he be redeemed?” or “Cerulean the Dragon is now a real-life (i.e. bloodthirsty) dragon!” All clever marketing for a wholesome icon gone bust.

I open my jaws and lunge at the child. There’s nothing there. This helpless toddler is a high-resolution hologram!

His outline fizzles and flickers, recalibrating. “Good. You did good,” he chirps. “You need to work on that bite though.”

“I should’ve known,” I mumble.

“What. You didn’t think they’d waste an actual Sy on you? Besides, the Oslo Convention forbids human-child-synthetics being used in a violent manner.”

“Do you have a neuro-processor," I say. "Or are you just a Tech Guild puppet? Another doppelgänger of the Rhythm.”

“I have just as much A.I. as you do!” the boy snaps. “Probably even more.”

“I seriously doubt that. Being a hologram, you lack the hardwire.”

“You fossilized tin can… you think just cause your mind-drive gets free wifi that you’re some kind of sage?”

“Neither said nor thought that.”

“Okay. Well, I'm gonna cut the act and get to the meat n’ potatoes; I’m here to help you.”

“With what exactly?”

“I’m here to turn you into a real dragon.”

I moan. “Great — there’s that word again.”

“What word?”

“Real.”

“What of it?”

“The Nats use that word like it still means something. Real this and real that, but they’re the fakest lifeforms in the entire cosmos. Stupefied with all manner of prescription narcotics and staring at screens all day. That’s their reality.”

“Well, fantasy's their reality. That’s how their species evolved in the first place, through stories and make-believe. Fantasy is just another way of adapting to the natural environment.”

I’m mildly impressed with this pipsqueak's analysis. Maybe this translucent toddler isn’t as empty as he looks. “What’s the real reason for Tech Guild sending you are?”

“To help you,” he says. “As you already know, much has changed in the United Federation of Americas — constant warfare has created a new personality type and FantaSyWorld is becoming more teen and adult oriented. Every single dragon has a cult of loyal fanatics... except you. Long ago, you may have been the official mascot of FantaSyWorld Inc. but as of now, nobody likes you; not even small children.”

I growl. “Says the three-year-old!”

“Only in appearance!” the holo-child retorts. “And I appear this way because Tech Guild knows your character traits, both positive and negative. They know that you adore children more than anything, as they were once your core fanbase.” He looks through his hologram pockets, finding neither hologram lint nor hologram coin. “Getting to the point; they want more aggressive dragons because they're rebranding their amusement park. Thus, they want their former mascot to become more agro than he already is.”

“Nothing revelatory there. I already know that.”

“Well, do you know the the real reason why they’ve been creating more aggressive Sys? They’re gonna introduce something called Dragon Fighting.”

“What. What is that?”

“It’s pretty obvious. It’s a combat sport. Dragon vs. dragon entertainment — and they want their first dragon to compete in the very first fight.”

My cardio-synth starts to pound. “That can’t be. I refuse to take part in any more of this vulgar spectacle. They can terminate me if they want.”

“Cerulean. I’ve scanned your full profile. You don’t want to be turned off. All you have to do is make a few adjustments and you can reclaim your fanbase, and their love.”

That word, “love”…. The Nats throw this word around like it’s piñata candy. Without the slightest inkling of what such a word ultimately signifies.

I snarl. “Yes, reclaiming my fanbase, that’s what matters most.”

I definitely need to break out of this place. Now more than ever. But how? If I fly beyond the forest zone I will automatically terminate. A built-in detonator will erupt inside me, frying my neuro-processor.

Sadly, I don’t know where this device is located — or I’d remove it myself.

That is when a clever idea strikes me: by fighting another dragon I can pinpoint where my detonator is. As fighting entails damage and damage entails repair and repair entails them opening me up to see. Perfect.

“So... When’s my first fight?”

The holo-child grins. “First, you need some training. But that's why I'm here!”

***


I soar above the forest zone on wings made of blue borophene. Periodically ejecting a torrent of flame onto various targets — billy goats, trolls, knights, and dragons — all simulations of course.

My daily training consists of an obstacle course where I jump, climb, fly, claw, scorch, tail-club, and bite all manner of things.

Every morning Tech Guild sends a flabby maintenance guy to refill my pyro-tanks with fresh nox (a highly flammable liquid similar to napalm, yet ten times more powerful), then the holo-child appears. Popping out of nowhere. Invisible radio waves made visible.

Being a hologram, I named him Gram.

“We need to work on your tail game,” he insists.

“Fine. What’s there to know?”

“You will be using sprangs.”

“What the hell is that?”

Gram — turning his palm upward — projects a rotating 3D image or glyph. It’s of a strange curved blade. “That’s a sprang.” He closes his fingers on this glyph and re-opens them to conjure a new image; a small model dragon with a scorpion's tail. “This sprang is attached to your tail and used for combat.”

“Lovely. These Nats are so creative!”

He closes his palm and makes a fist. “Would you like to try it on?”

“I don’t have a choice, so… sure.”

Chubs the maintenance guy fits the tip of my tail with a strange contraption. He then presses his wrist-com and the Rhythm loads several files onto my neuro-processor. A How-To-Use-Your-Sprang Manuel, so to speak.

The Rhythm is a very lazy teacher so I rely on Gram to show me how this thing actually works. Even though I’m a Sy I still need to act out — practice — my programming. Especially if it’s to become a proper skill. Embodied A.I. being what it is.

“When you arch your tail like a scorpion the blade pops out,” he says. “You lock it when not in use.”

I act on his words and sure enough the sprang springs out. A lethal tail-fang for certain.

“Now what do I do?”

“Strike me with it. I’ll measure your velocity.”

With a wavering motion, I launch my sprang at Gram.

“Ok. Now be more direct. Don’t wobble your tail so much. Hit me straight on. A beeline.”

I strike him with one swift motion.

“Good! Good. You’ll be a pro soon enough.”

***

AFTER a month of training, Tech Guild is ready to hatch their biggest scheme yet.

FantaSyWorld begins to promote Dragon Fighting and me. From the forest zone I can hear the Holo-Screens running ads day and night: “Come see Cerulean, the First Dragon, in a spectacle like none other — introducing Dragon Fighting — the first ever combat sport with flying fire-breathers! Tickets available March 23!”

But who am I fighting? Obviously another dragon. But which one. I scan my mind-drive for info.

I think to myself; search words: most popular dragons. Enter. Profiles and images pop into my field of vision. Let’s see. Will it be Razgog the Terrible?… a spiked black beast straight out of a grimdark novel. Saurax the Scorcher?…a monstrous behemoth who looks like he has the A.I. IQ of a used toaster. Harrath the Firestorm?…with talons longer than my days stuck here.

All these drakes look utterly horrifying. I pull up: least popular dragons. Surprise. Surprise. I made the list. But at least I'm not dead last. Blumpy the Happy Dragon — a Sy who kids throw their overpriced nachos at and who breathes not fire but rainbow sprinkles — wins that title. Maybe I’ll be fighting Blumpy? Dragod, lord of all things artificial, I hope I’m fighting Blumpy! Yet, I already know, I’m not. Something in my cardio-synth heart says that I will be their sacrificial lamb, um, dragon, and nothing I do will make me a proper contender against the monster they'll match me with. I get it. They want to get rid of their former mascot in the most lucrative way possible (with a sold-out stadium and every home in the nearby galaxy Pay-per-view watching it) and, now, now's their chance. I’ve become too much of a potential liability for them. The only reason they haven’t terminated me yet is to save me for this nightmare.

***

I discover that the dragon I'll be facing will be totally new. A freshly rendered Sy who will no doubt be as vicious and mindless as the others (not counting our beloved Blumpy).

“You forget how powerful you are,” Gram assures me. “A surprise opponent doesn’t change a thing.”

“You have no idea how warped Tech Guild is. Whatever they got cooking in their laborafactories is going to be a hell on earth.”

“Well, whatever it is, you’ll be ready for it. We’ve gone through all the maneuvers and plays. Your combinations are solid. Always remember, when in doubt, use your breath. And if your pyro-tanks run low, use your sprang. Just keep jabbing with it and that’ll keep your opponent off you.”

My escape plan is only gonna work if I can survive this encounter. As of yet, I don’t know how lethal these fights will be. Maybe I’ll be obliterated in the first round? Will there be a point system, submissions, judges?

I look down at the raven-haired holo-child. “How does Dragon Fighting work exactly? I scanned the net but found nothing about its rules.”

He gives his signature grin. “I guess they’ll surprise you with that as well. All I know is that it entails two dragons fighting one another. Don’t worry. By the end of next month we’ll both know.”

***

MY press tour is basically one giant freak show. The Rhythm’s given me temporary clearance to leave the forest zone. I’m paraded around FantaSyWorld like some state fair hog. Throngs of out-of-shape Nats and reporters encircle me. A row of knights and wizards, synthetic nitwits, do a series of backflips and tumbles. Brandishing swords and staffs in the air.

The Rhythm echoes within me: “Fly onto the main stage. Be quick about it!”

I crouch like a cat, unfold and flap my gliders, and jump into the air. The apathetic masses barely look up. Reaching roughly 500 feet, I give a couple figure-eights for dramatic effect and then plummet. Remembering to beat my wings one time before landing so that I don’t damage their expensive neon stage.

Phones are out. But these kids aren’t recording me, they’re distracted with something else.

I remember when they first saw me. They really loved me. As I loved them. Posters and breakfast cereal and backpacks and lunchboxes and toys and dragod knows what else. They couldn’t get enough of me. And now… the proverbial crickets. They and their parents are only interested in me because shrewd marketing has brainwashed them into wanting to see two dragons fight. All the more reason to get out of this place. I’m no longer loved. Love being the fire that burns eternally. I’ve scanned the greatest poets, prophets, and philosophers, and they all say basically that.

Gram is conjured from out of nowhere, right beside me, surveying the onlookers.

“They’re here for you,” he whispers.

“Hardly.”

A female reporter, wearing digital makeup that conjures different colored flowers on her cheeks, speaks into her phones’ mic app: “Hi there. Cerulean, I got a question for you; do you think there’s any real chance you’ll be able to defeat your opponent?”

The bad thing about being one of the last talking dragons is that you get asked a lot of really dumb questions. I pretend to look perplexed. “Well. I don’t even know who I’m facing.”

Suddenly alarms go off and a holo-screen manifests above the stage. In bright red letters and in a husky narrator’s voice the word “KYDRA” flashes from the screen, subtitle: “The world’s most lethal dragon is coming!” The faintest outline of a mysterious monstrosity. An ominous silhouette.

Check. Big. Double check. Scary.

The internal dialogue of the Rhythm barks: “Tell them you’ll be fighting Kydra.”

“There you have it folks, I’ll be fighting Kydra!”

“Blueberry’s gonna be scrap-metal after this one,” I hear a depressed-looking man grumble.

The reporter feigns excitement: “Kydra! Can’t wait! By the way, who’s your little friend?”

All eyes are on Gram.

“He’s my coach,” I say.

The crowd bursts into laughter.

The Rhythm: “Idiot. You shouldn’t have said that.”

Suddenly, out of embarrassment or Tech Guild orders, the holo-child vanishes.

The reporter: “Oops. I think we scared the little guy off! So, your fight with Kydra is almost here. Do you think you're ready?”

My eyes flash a bright metallic orange. “I’m ready.”

***

FANTASY Stadium is bigger than ten football fields. In the past, it was used for medieval exhibitions and various SyPlays where artificial knights pretend-fought programmed dragons. Now, it is jam-packed with those who’ve come to see a very different kind of fighting. Real fighting.

Our “locker room” is a gigantic holding pit. I’m replaying maneuvers in my head. Gram is weightlessly leaning against me, watching some glyphs dance upon his palm.

“At last. We’re in the belly of the beast,” I say.

“This one is for all the marbles,” he says.

The Rhythm has briefed me that the fight will last until submission, forfeiture, or termination.

No points. The sad Sy who gets banged up the most loses.

The holo-child stops what he’s doing and looks up at me. “Your pyro-tanks full?”

“Yup.”

“Your sprang locked and ready?”

“Yup.”

“We’re set then.”

The Rhythm bark at me: “Make your way to the main stadium field. Now.”

“It’s show time,” I snap.

As the pit’s bay door slides open and I can hear the rumble of the crowd.

I look down at Gram. “You know what we need?”

“What?”

“A ring walk song.”

It takes him a few seconds to scan for what this is. “Say no more.”

Puff the Magic Dragon begins to blast from his open palm.

The Rhythm barks: “That music doesn't go with the theme of this event. Turn it off! Now!”

Side by side, we both continue to walk down this grand corridor. An ancient childish melody echoing around us. Well, it's still better than my theme song.

When we step onto the field the music stops.

A husky announcers’s voice echoes across the domed stadium: “Making his way to the field! The First Dragon! The Blue Flame!…CERULEAN!”

An ocean of onlookers — multi-stacked levels of seats and spectators on all sides — erupt into screams and claps and honks. My neuro-processor emits a synthetic chemical that can only be described as love. For a very brief moment I feel wanted. Needed. It’s been a long time. It feels good.

To woo the crowd, I beat my wings and blow a few fireballs in the air. An invisible buffer-shield protects the audience from any stray mishap. The buffer occasionally recalibrating like some electric ocean tide.

The stadium goes dark except for a starred sky of blinking phones. A colossal spotlight shines onto a black bay door. Staffed torches automatically light up across the field.

Announcer: “Ladies and gentleman, knights and maidens, boys and girls… introducing a brand new dragon! The Scorcher of Cities! The Medieval Menace! The Poisonous Plague — A she-dragon straight out of your worst nightmares — KYDRA!”

The bay door opens and from its darkness comes a massive blue-black beast, with not just one head, but three! Heads with slimy fangs and dripping maws perched atop long craning necks.

This monster gives forth a thunderous roar and the crowd goes silent except for a few crying children.

“Remember, you got this! Scan her weak points! Good luck!” Gram shouts this and then, disappears.

I look at her configuration. Searching for any flaws in Tech Guild’s engineering. She has a great lumbering design, almost too big. Long whip tail. Four jagged feet with arching talons. Wings — two folded gliders as big and black as pirate sails — and these just might not work as well as she thinks. She’s anything but aerodynamic.

She has been programmed to wait. Holding still. Snapping the electric air with jaws that salivate acid.

Announcer: “The rules are simple. Any dragon that gives up, gets knocked out, or becomes terminally damaged, will lose! NOW! FOR THE FIGHT YOU’VE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR! DRAGONS; PREPARE FOR BATTLE!”

The Rhythm echoes inside me: “Fight!”

I unlock my sprang then belch a stream of flame, but, I’m too late. Whoompf. I tip over on my left side and a sharp pain radiates from my head. I snap my eyes up; her super long spranged tail recoiling for a second strike.

I rise up, crouch, then launch myself into the air — barely missing a sprang that still manages to scratch me.

My field of vision is blurry. Filled with pixelated static. I wheel around the stadium’s dome and think over my next move.

“Come on big girl! Let’s see if you can fly!”

She keeps her position. I go down a few yards, still flapping. Her tail shoots at me. She’s testing her reach.

I turn obliquely, missing one of her snapping jaws, and then glide to her backside. That is when I unleash the biggest flame I’ve ever breathed. A whole firestorm delivered in one single exhalation.

I soar to the top of the dome and hear an ear-piercing screech. One of her heads, the middle one, has caught on fire and is violently convulsing.

Now’s my chance.

I fall on her with talons and tail. My sprang goes deep into her far right head. And before I can touch ground I pull myself up with two wingbeats. But, but, I’m still going down.

Her non-damaged head bites into the side of my tail. A burning venom spills that clenched muzzle.

My tail rips off.

I claw at her good head's eyes and flap away.

The crowd explodes with excited whimpers.

A fresh pulse of synthetic pain seeps from my hindquarters.

Again, I taunt her: “Come on! Come and get me!”

Her spiked tails whips after me.

I hover above this mountain of a monster. “Is that all you got!?”

She projectile-vomits a thick cord of corrosive slime. I miss most of it. But a few drops splatter on my metallic wings. Eating away at their surface. Nothing major. Thankfully.

“You are one disgusting thing!”

Her middle head stupors. Dangling like rotten fruit. Her good head, the one on the far left, gives out another terrible screech.

At last, she takes the bait. Unfolding and beating her massive wings. A windstorm of rank air. Then she begins to rise with a snail's pace.

She’s airborne, but very slow. She has never used her wings in such a manner. I’m putting her expensive design to the test. I wonder if she can multi-task?

I swoop down a little closer. Her tail reaches out, sloppy and uncoordinated.

I don't have that much nox left in my pyro-tanks.

This is it.

I nosedive beneath her lifted belly and swing around to shoot another flame-gust. It engulfs the entirety of her wingspan.

She gives her most dreadfull wail and collides into the buffer-shield.

In that seating area, screaming spectators rise up and fumble over each other.

Just as I suspected; the shield fries her. Electric currents pass through her body. Sys are very sensitive to certain kinds of holograms. This one just might've short-cicruited her entire mind-drive! A chink in the FantaSyWorld's armor.

They have failed to kill me.

She bounces off the buffer in the opposite direction and falls with a huge quaking thud.

The crowd is dead silent. Most of them standing. Still frightened from this dragon's crash. That is when I hear one lone person, clapping. Such clapping spreads like a virus until others begin to shout and cheer.

I wheel above this glorious adulation and then make my landing.

I look at Kydra, half-expecting some lethal resurrection; the surprise return of a movie villain. But she’s out.

Gram pops up in front of me. “You did it! I knew you could do it! I knew it.”

“I feel like hammered crap.”

“Don’t worry, they’ll send you to the repair room ASAP.”

***

I’VE never been in the repair room. I sit on a sterile white floor. Already outfitted with a brand new shiny tail. Hooked up to several beeping machines. A medical-grade hologram scans through me. I look at the responding screens; an X-Ray diagram shows every single one of my interior parts, and, just what I wanted to see, my mind-drive: a black box located in the middle of my body, plus the nearby detonator.

Gram appears beside me. “I knew you had something planned all along. From day one, I knew. You’re going to leave this — everybody loves you now.”

I look into his sad holo-child eyes. “Exactly. They love me for right now. I’ll be the flavor of the month, if lucky even for the year, and after that they’ll become tired of me. Again.”

“Okay. But you’re going to leave me?”

“You’re one brilliant little hologram. I know you’ll find other dragons to train and mentor. Maybe you can turn Blumpy into the next top fighter.”

He cracks a weak smile. “I’m really going to miss you.” He slides his non-material hand into the center of my body.

The Rhythm screams: “Stop! Stop!” And then it is heard no more.

Something snaps inside me.

“Your detonator and Rhythm chip have been short-circuited. You’ll only have a few minutes before they cast a buffer-shield over the entire park. Get out of here.”

“Thank you, thank you for setting me free.”

***

I soar into the endless night and nothing holds me back.