Pira

by Piers Anthony

  With extreme care, Acorn angled his hands until the invisible beams collided. Leaves scorched. He was doing it! He looked as if God had infused him.

  “Enough.” Pira deactivated the harness and took it off him. Orion was relieved to see her back in it herself. They both put their shirts back on.

  “I hope that's it,” Orion said, feeling weak in the knees.

  “Now he knows what we offer.”

  “Does he?”

  Pira faced the boy. “Acorn, you can be like me. You can have your own harness. You will have to go for training, but then you will have this power. Do you understand?”

  “Merica,” he said, repeating what he had heard of the word. “I go Merica. Be a little fish.”

  He understood.

  They walked back to the prison. The guard was waiting by the door. He said nothing, merely turned to lead them back to the cell. It seemed he had gotten the word from above. What the visitors wanted, they got.

  Pira got on her cell phone. In a moment she smiled. “Crossed Lasers will take him, on my say-so.”

  “We will take Acorn back with us,” Orion informed the guard.

  But now the home authorities objected. “He stays here,” the guard said, his own cell phone in hand.

  “You negotiate,” Pira told Orion. “I'll work with Acorn.”

  Orion took the guard aside. “You want your prodigy trained? He has to go to the Crossed Lasers Institute.”

  “Send your trainer here. We are setting up our own laser contingent.”

  There was the confirmation. They had a star pupil in mind.

  “Let's let our boss go head to head with your boss.” Orion dialed the number of the third assistant secretary of state. “Sir, we have a problem here.” He explained it briefly.

  “We'll handle it,” the man said. “Take five.”

  It was more than five minutes. They got a good dinner for them all, and nice bathroom facilities, and got to watch what was, for Acorn, the amazing novelty of TV, featuring nature programs relating to the Amazon jungle. Acorn was totally fascinated. They spent the night sharing the cell with Acorn, Pira holding his hand as he slept. He trusted her as he did no other. Maybe Pira's bit with the hotfoot had shown him what side she was on.

  The impasse continued in the morning with no signal of resolution. Titans were wrestling in the background.

  Then at last word came down: the two Secretaries of State had hashed it out personally, and made assorted concessions whose details were classified. Orion and Pira would take Acorn to the Crossed Lasers Institute today.

  That proved to be another minor adventure. The boy knew nothing of airplane flight, and was terrified; he buried his head in Pira's flat bosom and she held him until he slept. “I feel like a mother,” she murmured to Orion.

  “One day you will be.”

  “The talent comes naturally,” she said. “The training is mostly for details. He'll be able to do it.”

  “Of course.” But Orion had his doubts.

  “When he returns to the Amazon, he'll have power like none other. He'll be able to help his people.”

  “It is best,” Orion agreed.

  They arrived at the Crossed Lasers Institute complex. Orion had no idea where it was; its location was classified, and a closed limousine had taken them there.

  Then they stood in a practice chamber like the one Orion had seen when Pira made her original demonstration. “Bring him a harness,” she said.

  The man in charge looked dubious, but brought one, and Pira put it on the boy, and activated it. “See that bulb?” she asked, gesturing to the nearest one along the wall. “Burn it.”

  Acorn oriented carefully, as yet not practiced with this device. He aimed his hands. The bulb exploded.

  “Yes,” Pira said in a matter of fact tone. “Now do the next.”

  The boy oriented on the next, gaining confidence. In a moment it exploded.

  “Now that one in the far corner,” she said as if this were routine. “Can you do that?”

  Orion remembered how no one but a One could handle that range. She was asking a lot of the boy.

  Acorn oriented; his hands spreading wide as he sought the invisible crossing. The far bulb exploded.

  “He qualifies,” the man in charge said, clearly impressed. “Just as you said.” Orion knew that even trained laserists could not necessarily match that performance. The fact that an untrained boy could do it spoke volumes. What was his potential with training? He might well be their second Number One, as Pira clearly hoped. No wonder she had acted with dispatch.

  “That's good,” Pira said approvingly to Acorn. “Now you must go with these people, who will train you before you go home.”

  “Stay with you!” Acorn protested.

  “I wish you could, Acorn, but it is not to be. But they will take good care of you, I promise. You'll like it here.”

  He looked to be near tears. This was not what he had hoped for.

  A woman approached. She was about 25 and beautiful. Her skin was dusky; she was Indian. “I am Blossom.” Then she spoke in a language Orion could not fathom.

  Acorn brightened phenomenally. He replied in the same language. Blossom hugged him, and he accepted that familiarity gladly. She was of his tribe!

  “This is your adult companion,” the man in charge said. “A result of the negotiated compromise. She will handle all the details, and stay constantly with you. You may reject her if you find her unsuitable.”

  Both Orion and Pira had to smile. There was no way that would happen. The woman was probably an agent of the Latin government, here to keep tabs on the boy as well as helping him, but he wouldn't care any more than Pira did about Orion's authority. She would do the job.

  The two secretaries of State had proven their mettle, achieving a compromise that worked for all parties. Especially for Acorn.

  Acorn looked at Pira, not really understanding what he had been told. So Pira acted it out. “Man help laser girl,” she said, briefly hugging Orion. “Woman help laser boy.” She nodded, and the lovely Indian woman embraced Acorn again. Now he got it, and was plainly thrilled, perhaps not entirely because she spoke his language.

  “Damn, I almost envy him,” Pira murmured to Orion as they departed. “Sleeping on a bosom like that.”

  That night in their hotel room, Pira was candid. “You have to be the one to say no tonight. I've got no willpower left.”

  “I tell you no,” he agreed. “Knowing that's what you want.”

  “Thank you.” Then she melted into his arms. She had performed marvelously, these two days, and he was proud of her. She was another giant step toward being a woman.

  7

  Judoka

  There followed more routine assignments. “You know, I feel guilty for even thinking this,” Pira said. “But this is getting dull for me. I'd like to hurry up and bloom so I can sweep you off your feet and spend the rest of my life satisfying your insatiable passion.”

  “Me too,” he said, laughing. “But I fear you would get a bit sore in the groin after the first hour or so. Love's mansion might suffer erosion of the foundation.”

  “Well, I'd put on a padded female condom so it wouldn't chafe too much.”

  “Surely we can hold out one more year.”

  “Surely we can,” she agreed without enthusiasm. She was coming up on seventeen, and looked twelve.

  Then they got a remarkable call. It was from Crossed Laser HQ, but it was for Orion: he was invited to attend a judo exhibition in Japan.

  “I'm not a sightseer,” he protested.

  “They want you as part of the exhibition.”

  “Nonsense! I'm not known for judo.”

  “Not by the man on the street. But Japan has always been the headquarters of global judo. They make it their business to know what's what. They are quite specific: they want you.”

  This was passing strange. “You know I can't leave Pira behind,” he said. “Suppose she had a call?”

&nbs
p; “Take her along, then, as a tourist.”

  Then he caught on. “An unofficial way to get her to an off-the-record assignment.”

  There was just enough of a pause. “We prefer not to put it that way.”

  He glanced at Pira. “They want me to go to Japan, and you may tag along.”

  “I've always wanted to see Japan,” she said enthusiastically.

  Within the hour they were on their way. It was a long flight, and they slept on the plane, merely holding hands. Pira was taller than she had been, and heavier; the signs of her future blooming were starting to show. She looked enough like a young girlfriend to attract no attention.

  In Japan they were whisked to quarters in Tokyo. There a foreign minister garbed as a bellhop gave them the necessary information. A local dojo, or judo center, was next door to a hobby shop. A judoka practicing late had overheard suspicious dialogue in the adjacent shop, and had the wit to turn on a recorder. He had turned it in to the authorities, who had authenticated it: a secret terrorist cell was plotting to bomb a key government installation.

  “How do we relate?” Orion asked.

  “That bomb is dangerous. It must be defused before it reaches its target. But the terrorists are indirectly sponsored by a theoretically friendly, or at least neutral, power. It would not be expedient to make a scene, or even to openly defuse the bomb. It is better that when it is placed, it simply not work. No issue will be made. Officially, nothing will happen.”

  “Pira can defuse it. We'll need a schematic she can study.”

  “You will have it. Meanwhile, the two of you will visit the dojo for some friendly interaction.”

  “The dojo next to the bomb.”

  “Exactly.”

  They spent the night trying to relax, but both had jet lag. It was hard to sleep, and the sleep did not seem to accomplish much. “I wish I had a bosom with big soft breasts,” Pira said. “So I could cushion your head and make you feel better.”

  “Try it anyway,” he suggested. They were wearing pajamas, concerned that they could be under observation and preferring that the precise nature of their relationship not be known; that was another off-putting factor.

  She gladly held his head to her chest, and he heard her rapid heartbeat. And it helped. Her chest was not bony; there was some flesh there. Soon he was asleep.

  In the morning he had a second thought. “I was selfish. What of your jet-lag?”

  “Oh my dear, you banished it! You made me feel like the future, as if I already had the mansion.”

  “You are generous.”

  “Well, I love you.” As if that was the ultimate argument. Maybe it was.

  Somewhat restored, they made ready for the day.

  Orion was formally welcomed to the class at the dojo. He was provided with the white gi, the jacket and trousers used in classes, and a black belt. That signaled his rank; black belts were special. The levels of student achievement were indicated by the colors of their belts, from white as the lowest up to brown as the highest.

  Pira was fitted with a smaller gi, and a red belt, signaling that she was a complete amateur. Actually she knew some judo, as Orion had demonstrated it for her, but had never been at a formal class. She was given a white-belted Japanese girl as a working partner and guide, while Orion and the elders stood on the sideline to watch the class. Each student bowed as he or she came to step on the mat, bare footed, honoring the protocol.

  They did randori, a kind of dance wherein they took turns trying throws on each other. Judo was in significant part the art of throwing one's opponent to the mat on his back, the theory being that in real life, such a fall would leave a person disinclined to pursue a quarrel further. That mat was there to protect against injury, which was one reason it was honored: it was a significant friend.

  A dozen pairs moved about the room, and some succeeded in throwing their partners to the mat, where they landed with loud slaps of their free arms to take up the shock. Mostly, they tried and failed, and sometimes both partners would get tangled and fall. They were after all beginning students.

  Suddenly Pira's partner was down, unhurt but surprised. Pira had thrown her, using O Soto Gari, the big outside clip.

  The man beside Orion was surprised too. “She knows the throw!”

  “I did teach her a few basics,” Orion said. “I think she wanted to find out whether they work.” He did not know the name of the man, but was sure he was fully competent. Also, that he knew their real purpose here.

  “They work when correctly performed,” the man said. “She has marvelous balance.”

  “She is a very coordinated girl.”

  The man laughed, appreciating the understatement.

  The two resumed. The white belt girl tried a throw, but Pira spun clear of it, then countered with a successful Tai Otoshi, the body drop.

  “The speed!” the man said, surprised again.

  “She's a very fast girl,” Orion agreed.

  “You taught her well.” It was of course all small talk, as though they were incidental visitors.

  The class concluded. A woman took Pira aside, and they talked quietly. Orion realized that this was another contact. Pira was getting briefed on her mission. In fact she was studying a schematic diagram, learning the wires that needed to be nullified on the bomb. Soon enough she would be melting them, completing the mission.

  Now the seniors took the mat. After the preliminaries, Orion was required to demonstrate a personal technique; it was part of the way of judo. He knew he had nothing to teach these folk, but for the sake of the show they were putting on he had to do it and they had to take it seriously.

  “I accompany and look after my ward, Pira,” he said. “She is perhaps half my mass, and not muscular, so doing judo with her can be awkward. So I devised a variant of the uki-goshi, the rising hip throw which the master Jigoro Kano himself developed and performed so well.” Jigoro Kano was the founder of modern judo, highly honored, especially in his native Japan. “My variant is largely a matter of timing and positioning. Let me demonstrate with my ward, who is familiar with it.” Pira joined him in the center of the mat, and they stepped through the stages of the throw, explaining the nuances, so that she could throw him. “This might be difficult on the street, but with the cooperation of a partner, can be accomplished,” Orion said. And Pira performed a nice straight-kneed throw, putting her arm around his back, pulling him forward, balancing him across her hip and putting him on his back on the mat. It was more like a kata, a scripted judo play, than a real throw, but they understood about that. This was not competition, but instruction. “A child can learn it, and who knows, it might be useful when that child grows.”

  Then with perfect seriousness the others brought in children and did the technique. They had paid the visitor due honor.

  Next was a general mixing session. This was where they would truly take his measure. Orion found himself doing randori with the man he had been talking with, a fellow black belt and clearly competent. But Orion in the course of his years in judo had developed a feel for such things, and knew he could throw this man if he chose to. Rather than embarrass him, he started his throw, and then aborted it. The man smiled, recognizing the move and the balk.

  Then Orion was with another, an older man, and immediately he knew that this was a far more proficient judoka, probably an international competitor. Orion might be able to avoid getting thrown, but no way could he throw this one. He was being felt out by a master.

  “I am called Bole,” the man said.

  “I am glad to meet you, Bole.”

  “You do not compete.”

  “I do not,” Orion agreed as they moved about the mat.

  “You do not even test for advancement, yet you achieve it.” Obviously this man knew all about Orion's judo.

  “My sensei makes his judgments. I would not question them.”

  “You lack the fire in the belly, the overwhelming desire to win.”

  “I do,” Orion agreed.r />
  “That is perhaps unfortunate. You have remarkable skill.” Bole was able to tell this from the way Orion handled his body, just as Orion could tell the same about Bole.

  “Thank you.”

  “You do not seek notoriety.”

  This was getting pretty personal, but Orion went along with it for the sake of courtesy. “I see no point in it.”

  “Then what is it that brings you to judo?”

  “Its training in attacks and defenses appeals to me. It refines my body and perhaps my soul. I am not a religious person, but the spiritual essence of judo is part of my being. Perhaps through it I can accomplish some good in the world. I do not crave any recognition beyond that.” He was paraphrasing the essential credo of the martial art, but it fit.

  “Such as protecting a child,” Bole agreed. “Some might consider this a waste.”

  “She's a remarkable child.”

  That was all there was to it. The class moved on to other aspects, and in due course finished. Then Bole went to stand by the wall, implying that there was something beyond it. The bomb, of course.

  Then he indicated an almost concealed door, an access to the adjacent chamber, probably used by cleaning crews.

  They had the word. The judoka departed, leaving them alone in the dojo. The mission was on.

  They listened at the door. There was no sound. Orion worked the handle and the door opened to reveal a room lit only by night lights. They entered and looked about.

  There was a crate in the center. That would be the target.

  Orion was uneasy. “No defenses? No alerts?”

  “Maybe those would alert the authorities that there was something special here,” Pira said. “So they treat it like junk.”

  Perhaps that made sense.

  They went to the crate and lifted the lid. No alarm sounded. There was a complicated metallic device with an electronic timer. The bomb.

  Pira oriented her hands over it. There was a faint sizzle inside. “Done,” she said. “Let's get out of here; this place is spooky.”

  “Not yet,” a harsh voice said, as the main lights came on. Men were emerging from doorways all around the chamber. It was a trap. They had blithely walked right into it.