She nodded. “But he's still anonymous.”
“No, we'll get the name from the tickets. We'll trace him back. We'll verify Hammerhead, by whatever name he travels under.”
“And take him out?”
“I think not at that point. Legally we should catch him in the act. Meanwhile we'll just watch him.”
“But that won't tell us where he'll strike next.”
“Yes it will. He'll be alert for a crisis assignment within his range. We'll track him as he goes to it, and we'll go there too.”
“Are you sure this will work?”
“Not at all sure. But it seems like our best bet.”
She was doubtful, but she acquiesced.
They got a secure line to CL HQ and discussed it. CL was glad to have Pira tackle it. “But do not put yourself at undue risk,” their representative said. “You are more valuable to us than any other agent.”
Pira broke the connection, then exploded. “These are people, not units!” she exclaimed. “Some of them are my friends. How can they put values on them?”
“Let me handle future negotiations,” Orion said.
“So you can safeguard my innocence?” she asked sharply.
“Of course. Innocence is precious.”
“Precious!”
“Shut up or I'll kiss you.”
That actually did shut her up.
Crossed Lasers did the legwork, and soon had a likely suspect. Orion and Pira took a flight to a city in that vicinity and waited. In due course a call came, not for Pira but for another laserist to handle a developing hostage crisis in the region. But Pira was privately notified.
Sure enough, Hammerhead caught a flight for that location. With luck they could intercept him and take him out before he took the CL man out.
Then a savvy police negotiator talked the gunman out of it and the crisis defused without laser intervention. The CL man went home without taking action, and so did Hammerhead. “Darn!” Pira swore. But she seemed relieved, too.
The next likely crisis caught them in a weather delayed flight. They arrived just too late; the CL woman had been quietly assassinated and the crisis continued.
What could they do? Pira took the assignment herself, and nullified the gunman. But the CL woman remained dead, and Hammerhead remained on the loose. “Darn darn darn!” Pira swore while Orion held her close.
The next one was in order. The CL man oriented on the gunman, while Orion and Pira searched desperately for Hammerhead. But nothing happened. The CL man handled the crisis, and Hammerhead never showed. He had been there, but not struck. Had he gotten suspicious?
Then came a suicide bomber taking hostages: any balk and he would blow up the entire bank. This one was tricky, and for Pira herself. She studied a schematic of the bomb and headed for the event.
And so did Hammerhead.
Orion didn't like this. “I think he knows you're after him. He wants to catch you distracted, so he has an advantage. He claims to be a One, but deep down he knows you can take him.”
“I can,” Pira said.
The showdown was in the bank's main lobby. The bomber stood surrounded by kneeling employees, demanding a million dollars in thousand dollar bills. The bank manager was scrambling to assemble and package the money, in sight of the bomber. The police lined the lobby wall, watching helplessly. Orion and Pira quietly joined that outer line. The bomber evidently didn't care who came and went, knowing that they were simply putting themselves at risk.
Pira oriented her hands. “Done,” she murmured. “The bomb will not detonate.”
“You sure?” the nearby police lieutenant asked nervously.
“Yes. Go get him.”
Not entirely reassured, the lieutenant stepped toward the bomber.
“Bogey at ten o'clock,” Orion murmured, stepping forward himself. He had been watching everyone, and saw a cloaked figure that could be Hammerhead. The man had seen the lieutenant move out, so knew that the bomb had been lasered. Now he knew where Pira was.
The man saw Orion. His hands oriented in that special way. Orion's hair sizzled, literally, and his scalp burned. It felt as if a hot poker had clubbed him. In a moment the man would correct his aim and blast Orion's head.
But Orion was already dropping to the floor, combat style. “Pira!” he cried in warning.
He felt Pira's legs on either side as she straddled his prone body. Instead of retreating she was advancing! An animal growl of a kind he had never heard before sounded in her throat, and he knew her hands were moving. He peered forward despite the blood dripping across his forehead, hoping that Hammerhead did not see her.
Vain hope. The man's hands were orienting in deadly alignment.
Then Hammerhead's head exploded, literally. Blood and brains blew out to strike the adjacent wall, and the virtually headless man fell to the floor. On either side blood-spattered people's jaws were dropping.
It was done. Now Orion let his consciousness go.
He woke to find himself on a bed, his face on Pira's lap. His head was bandaged, but otherwise he seemed to be intact. He knew he was on pain medication because the pain was faint and far away. He must have been unconscious for several hours while they tended to him and sewed up his scorched scalp. “Pira,” he said.
“Oh Orion!” she breathed. “I thought you were dead!”
“That's why you blasted him.” Now in retrospect he was amazed. He had never realized that Pira had power like that. The man might as well have eaten a live grenade.
“That's why,” she agreed. “I was mad.”
“I hope you're never mad at me.”
She leaned down carefully and kissed him, her face upside down with respect to his. “Never, my love,” she promised.
Then they were both crying in reaction, comforting each other.
Crossed Lasers covered it up, of course. The incident could not be entirely hidden, but the story was that the man had had a grenade that went off prematurely, blowing off his head. Fortunately the larger bomb had malfunctioned, and no one else was harmed.
That comfortable explanation lasted one day. Then the real bomb hit.
Hammerhead had prepared well for his own demise. His death triggered the release of a complete expose of the Crossed Lasers Institute, from its origin to the present, together with information on the special harness. All the major global news media received it, and they did not hesitate to run it. Suddenly the truth was out, and was the talk of the world. Now the man's vengeance was complete.
And of course Pira was abruptly famous. She was the Little Fish who had taken out the Big Fish. She was required to do interviews and to demonstrate her ability. The newsmen quickly picked up on the fact that she had settled exactly who was Number One: the brutish challenger had been beheaded. “Never anger the piranha,” one wag wrote. “That little fish can bite.”
“What can I do?” Pira asked Orion when she had a moment.
“You can retire.”
“I can retire!” she repeated gladly.
And so it was. The little fish disappeared from public view, giving no further interviews, and soon faded into obscurity as other news took the global stage.
Epilogue
The guest list was extremely limited, and no media were there. Both the wedding and the reception were strictly private, conducted at Manta's house. Now Orion and Pira, husband and wife, were mixing informally with the guests. “Excuse me; I must visit the ladies room,” she murmured. She was starting to relax.
Alone for the moment, Orion talked with Manta. “I'm nervous. She expects a supernova, and I can't deliver more than a flicker of fire.”
“Don't be concerned. I taught her better than that. All she wants is your love.”
“She's had that throughout.”
She laughed. “That virginity test! I confess to being surprised.”
“It was a close call. I'm a bit surprised myself.”
Pira rejoined them, resplendent in her bridal gown, her lustrous
hair refreshed. Black is the color of my true love's hair... The two standing together were like radiantly beautiful twins a generation apart. “Are you talking sex with mom?”
“Just getting advice on how to seduce you tonight. The first time is always nervous.”
“Don't. I'm going to seduce you.”
Orion leaned confidentially toward Manta. “I'm not sure she's bluffing.”
“Maybe you can sneak out the back way.”
“Nu-uh,” Pira said. “I locked the back door.”
Orion's college friend Tina approached, as pretty as ever; Pira had invited her, to Orion's surprise. “Lovely wedding!”
“Thank you,” Pira said politely. She was perfecting politeness.
Tina turned to Orion. “Now I see why you waited. She's a nova!”
“Well, she bloomed.”
“At last!” Pira whispered.
Tina moved off, and young Acorn approached, guided by his lovely adult companion Blossom. “I thought you were going to marry Pira,” he told Orion. His speech had improved markedly in the intervening months. “Not some trophy bride.” He was still too young and too new to this culture to have mastered all the nuances of courtesy. Orion was reminded of Pira in her early days.
It was true that Pira's aspect had changed almost beyond the point of recognition. The child was gone, and the woman scintillated.
“Trophy brides are more fun in bed than underage girls,” Pira told Acorn. Then she reached out, caught his head, and brought it in to her full bosom. “And who do you think comforted you during the flight north, you little savage?”
“That heartbeat!” he exclaimed gladly. “It's you!” He had somehow watched the wedding without catching on.
“And feel my harness,” she said, drawing apart, taking his hand, and pressing it against her back so he could feel its outline under the silk.
“Oh, Pira! I owe you everything!”
“Well, I'm retiring. I need a replacement One.”
“That, too,” he agreed.
“CL maintains a low profile,” Blossom murmured to Orion. That was of course one reason why she was largely anonymous. “I have a message: Pira will take a year training recruits at CL HQ, and you will join her, training companions.”
Orion was taken aback. “They hardly need trainers for that.”
“Oh, but they do. You made Pira into all that she could be. They need your touch so that companions can similarly evoke the best in laserists. They want no more mistakes like Hammerhead.” Then she made a low clicking sound, and Acorn broke off his dialog with Pira and moved back into the throng with her.
“She's got him on a close leash,” Pira said, impressed.
“As women do with men,” Orion agreed. “Do you think she'll marry him when he grows up?”
“Oh, yes. She'll make sure he doesn't go wrong, down in the Amazon. Can't afford to take chances, with a One. She may even like him.”
He glanced at her, surprised by the implication, but she wasn't smiling. Crossed Lasers was serious business. The excitement of the demolition of Hammerhead had faded, and the organization remained known but obscure, the stuff of mythology. They evidently took pains to stay out of the news.
They came to Orion's sensei, who was with Bole, the judoka from Japan. “I would not have recognized you, Pira,” Bole man said politely.
“That's the idea. The little fish became too well known. She had to be retired. No one will notice me now.”
Both men burst out laughing. Pira as she was today could not walk down a street without fomenting car crashes.
“Speaking of privacy,” the Japanese sensei said to the American one, who clearly remained in awe of him. “I have a private recording to show you, that may answer some questions. Do not be concerned; it's brief.”
Bole had brought the video! That would indeed clarify the reason for Orion's double jump in rank.
And to Pira Bole said “I was impressed with your performance, blinding those thugs, and more impressed with your handling of the shark.”
“I shouldn't have lasered him so hard,” she said. “I was mad, and I thought Orion was dead.”
“He represents your discipline.”
“Yes. Without him I'd be nothing.”
“You are in good hands.” He smiled. “I note that Orion really performed his best only when you were threatened. Later you showed your true power only when he was threatened. Each of you evoked the utmost in the other. That perhaps is a definition of love.”
Orion and Pira exchanged a glance. It was true.
The two sensei moved off. They had a video to view.
Pira sighed. “I only wish that Mr. Butler could have been here.”
The grandfatherly man who had saved the beavers and given her the book of Yeats poems that so transformed her outlook. “He knew the dancer from the dance,” Orion agreed.
“Yes. Let's dance.”
There in the reception room they held each other and danced a waltz without music. Soon others were dancing too, with or without partners. It seemed appropriate.
Pira glanced around. “Tina's dancing with your sensei,” she said as if reporting gossip.
“Well, he's a good man, and she's a pretty girl who likes martial artists.”
“And Bole is dancing with Blossom.”
Orion saw. They made a nice couple, from two completely different cultures. “Now there's symbolism for you! Are they the Leaf, the Blossom, or the Bole?”
“All of them together.” Then she saw something else. “Poor Acorn. He's left out. He must be the Leaf.”
Indeed, the boy stood on the sideline, observing how American slow dancing was done. Then Manta crossed the room, took Acorn's hands, placed them appropriately, and led him into the dance. With her firm guidance, he was soon getting it. He was no longer left out.
“How can we know the dancer from the dance?” Orion murmured, impressed anew.
“We can't, beloved. Let's just enjoy the moment.”
They danced, letting the moment rule. The poet surely would have approved.
Author’s Note
I get ideas all the time. I summarize them and store them in my ideas file for future reference, because I can't trust my aging brain to remember them all otherwise. Indeed, I often forget about particular stories, and read them with surprise later when looking for something else. It's like storing things in a box: they may never be taken out again, but at least they are there, just in case. When I have a request for a story I check the file and find what's appropriate. It's a system that generally works.
But some ideas don't care to wait their turn. They keep returning to my attention, and I make supplementary notes, until sometimes the notes alone are the length of a short story. This was the case with “Pira”; it started on July 6, 2014 as an exploration of the crossed lasers notion, wherein laser surgery that already exists becomes a weapon in the field in the very near future. That's what makes this science fiction: the amplification of an existing science notion into a story of what may soon be.
But I needed people to animate the technology. Thus came Orion, a youth of high capabilities who had not yet found his destiny, and Pira, who took an early act of kindness too seriously and was foolishly locked into love. It happens; I had crushes in my childhood, and I still remember them with fondness. They didn't last, but they were intense while they existed. Not just crushes; sometimes mere images. Once as a gradeschooler I was lying on a mat on the ground outside, part of a class resting period, and the teacher, a shapely young woman, crossed the yard and stepped past my mat, and I got one brief peek up under her skirt to her panties as her thighs moved. I didn't say a word—I wasn't an idiot, after all—but that image remains with me today, when I'm 80 years old. The notion that children are not sexually aware is foolish; they lack the intensity of the adult sex drive, but some have a notion what's what. So I have a child in this story who is sexually aware. That may foster outrage in some readers, but it has its validity.
/> The story simply wouldn’t rest, and finally by the end of August I had 4,746 words of notes, computer count. What could I do? So I started in writing it, and in three weeks had it done. I don't think the story was jinxed, but on the third day of writing I had on odd dream that someone was trying to bash me with a soccer ball, so I grabbed his arm—and woke to discover I had grabbed my wife's knee. She thought it was some strange animal on the bed. We sorted it out, and she went back to sleep, but that disturbance disrupted my own sleep and I was stuck wide awake. So I went to the study and typed more of the story. I wound up with my best writing day in months, over 4,000 words, though not quite the way I would have chosen.
Five days after I started writing, I was on my morning exercise run when my left foot snagged and I fell on the rough asphalt drive, scraping my left forearm, calf, and scattered other parts of my body. Worse, I had bashed or strained my left ribcage just below my shoulder. This made coughing prohibitively painful, and I was unable to lie down without pain, and my exercise routine was in trouble as I could not do the left side weight lifts or draw my bow either side. At least I could sit and type, so my writing continued. Gradually I mended, painfully slowly (pun not intended), and after a week I was able to get up from bed in the morning with only minimal pain. After two weeks I was able to draw the bow again, right side, not left side, and do most of my other exercises to varying degrees. My runs slowed down to walks, but they became fast walks. So by the time the novella was completed, I was mostly back in order. But, taken as a whole, I would rather not have this particular experience again.
Ten days into this piece we passed the fifth anniversary of the death of our daughter Penelope, whom we called Penny, from melanoma that metastasized to her brain and lungs and took her out at age 41. Her birth had transformed our lives, as we had feared after three miscarriages that we could not have children, and her early death was an ugly shock. Her dance was done.
Thus the dull story of my life during this project, which I hope is more interesting than I am. There are references to things that interest me, such as judo; in my three years of judo classes I never got more than midway through the student grades, to green belt, but I developed a profound respect for the judo philosophy that is reflected here. And the poetry of William Butler Yeats, whose work I found obscure at first, but increasingly significant as I fathomed it. Life is indeed a process, like a river or a fire, constantly changing, and we see only the ongoing present rather than the complete entity. Suppose we could see the whole tree in four dimensions, time included, rather than just the momentary leaf, the blossom or the bole? And isn't life like a dance, largely meaningless when frozen in place, yet so much more when viewed in motion? How can we ever know the whole story? How can we distinguish the dancer from the dance? Yeats explored this question, and others, with rare insight, and we should also.
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