by Steve Perry
Now what? She was here, but she had no reason to be. She could look for a local pub, she figured, and maybe get a job as a bouncer. Or maybe just enjoy the sunshine for awhile, take long walks on the beach and watch the seabirds and the fishing ships shuttle back and forth. She had enough stads to play the rich woman—for awhile, at least. A vacation, a real vacation. She'd never had one of those before. There were times when she hadn't worked or hadn't been training, but those hadn't been vacations, only times between. She gripped the handle of her bag tighter and picked a direction—
"Hey, Dirisha!"
She dropped the case and spun quickly, startled. She slid into a defensive stance reflexively, her hands coming up in the oldest of her fighting systems, hard-style oppugnate. Nobody could know her here—!
Dirisha's green eyes widened in surprise and she grinned as she raised herself from her martial crouch. It was Bork!
The man she stared at was five meters away and walking toward her as if nothing on the planet could stop his progress. He was big, close to two meters tall, and on this world must have weighed nearly a hundred and twenty-five kilograms. His black hair had a little more gray in it, but his massive frame didn't look diminished—if anything, he looked larger and more muscular than when she'd seen him last. He wore loose-weave osmotic orthoskins and a pair of spetsdods, one strapped to the back of each hand.
Saval Bork, homomue, and once a bouncer in the Jade Flower on Greaves, as she had been. And a nice man.
Her smiled faded as the first question hit her: what was he (doing here?
Almost as quickly, the second question crowded into her mind—how did he know she was here? From his purposeful stride, it was obvious Bork did know, and that bothered Dirisha greatly.
Bork stopped next to her. "You look good, Dirisha. I'm glad to see you."
"I'm glad to see you, too, Bork, but I can't help but wonder why I am seeing you."
He nodded. Bork had the big man's temperament in a lot of ways but he wasn't stupid. "I didn't know you were coming until they told me to come collect you," he said, "but there are people who keep track of such things at the Villa."
"People? Villa?" She wasn't afraid, but she was definitely curious. There was no sense in Bork being here.
"Yes ma'am. Look, I've got a track waiting, I can tell you what I can on the way. This sun'11 dry you out if you stand around too long. What say we ride?"
Dirisha thought about it for a few moments. She shrugged. Might as well; she had a feeling whatever Bork was into was the reason she'd come to this planet. She picked up her bag.
The track was a squarish vehicle which squatted on triple rails of what looked like weathered aluminum. Inside, the air was twenty degrees cooler.
There were comfortable, if thin seats, and a dispensing unit for water sat under one long window. Bork activated a control and the track moved smoothly off, gathering speed until it was travelling at a good eighty or ninety klicks per hour.
Bork turned away from the control panel and grinned at Dirisha.
"Automatic driver," he said. "I really am glad you're here. Sleel and Sister will be glad to see you, too."
"Sleel is here? And Sister Clamp? Come on, Bork, what is happening?"
Bork scratched at the back of his left hand with a thick finger. "Stuff itches,"
he said, pointing at the plastic flesh which joined the spetsdod to his own skin.
Dirisha repressed an urge to sigh. He was going to get to it in his own time, she supposed. She pointed at the spetsdods. "Why are you wearing them? Is it dangerous here?"
Bork laughed. "Dangerous? Nah, I'm only carrying stingers. Everybody at the Villa has to wear them. Pen's second rule."
"Bork, you're giving me more questions when what I need is answers."
"Okay, it's like this. Sleel and Sister and I and a bunch of others are all working here, at the school. It's called Matador Villa and it's a kind of...
training center put together in honor of a guy we used to work for, before he died." "Emile?"
Bork's grin grew larger. "There are people who'd kill to be able to say that name the way you just did. Those of us who actually knew him are looked upon as kind of blessed." "What are you talking about?" "You remember what happened on Greaves." "Of course I remember."
The rail car rounded a long curve at that moment, and the earth seemed to drop away to Dirisha's left. The sea was a hundred meters below all of a sudden, and the view was incredible; there was a pattern to the land ahead, almost like giant stair-steps to the water. She hadn't realized they'd been climbing. A series of buildings sat in the middle of one of the steps, terra cotta blocks against dry brown grass. It was hard to tell how large the complex was, there was little to scale it against, but it looked sizeable. "Nice, huh? I always like this part of the trip." "Let's get back to the story, Bork.
Khadaji was part of an underground resisting the Confed on Greaves and they finally caught up with him."
"Oh, there's much more than that. He was all by himself, did you know that?"
Dirisha nodded. "I heard that rumor."
"No rumor. Did you know what the military found out, after it all wound down? Our boss nailed over two thousand troopers, from bottom-grade line up to the Befalhavare Himself."
"I heard that, too. Not a rumor, I take it?"
"Nope. He did it, and every one of them with spetsdods. And that during the whole time he was darting troopers all by himself, he never once blew a shot. Not one time. And that's according to the Confed military itself."
Dirisha blinked and stared at Bork. "I didn't know that." . "They call him The Man Who Never Missed, Dirisha; he's the inspiration and idol of all the students. One man, who stood up to the Confed, who only let himself be taken when he'd done what he set out to do. On some worlds, the name of Khadaji is like a prayer for resistance fighters."
"Is that what you're doing here, Bork? Training to be a resistance fighter?"
"Oh, no. I'm a student, learning to be a matador."
"What is a matador?"
"A bodyguard, Dirisha. Matadors are the best bodyguards there have ever been."
The woman stared at the big man. Was this what Khadaji had meant? Had he known somebody was setting up this— this school three years ago? He must have known, even as he'd known he wouldn't be around to see it. She'd asked him about Renault, but he'd told her then she wouldn't see him there.
The man had obviously been much more than he had appeared to be, she had known that even on first meeting, but what was all this about?
The rail car approached the complex of buildings, slowing as it did so.
Whatever was going on, Dirisha knew she was going to find out soon.
CHAPTER THREE
THE SURFACE OF what appeared to be plastcrete was more than it seemed; it gave back a spring to Dirisha's steps as she followed Bork toward the largest of the buildings. Bork apparently noticed her interest, for he said,
"Rockfoam. They use it on tracks and gym floors, like that."
Dirisha nodded. She didn't ask the obvious question: why such an expensive surface covering such a large outdoor area? Just ahead, she saw what appeared to be a dozen twisted lines of paint—no, they were patterns of footsteps, printed upon the surface. She stopped at the nearest trail and looked at it. The patterns were all identical, as far as she could tell. And from the way they'd been drawn, the angles and distances, it seemed apparent that the steps were to illustrate some artistic bent, rather than to be trod upon—certainly no normal human could follow the pattern and stay standing. She looked up at Boric, but he only grinned. "Pen'11 tell you," be said.
Dirisha shrugged and followed the homomue into the shade of the largest building.
Where was everybody? Was the place deserted? So far, she'd seen no other people, save Bork.
Inside, the faded-brick facade gave way to stark white halls and high ceilings, with more of the rockfoam covering the floor. Bork led Dirisha through a wide hallway toward a set of
what looked to be oak doors.
As they passed a side hall, a figure moved. Dirisha caught a gray blur in her peripheral vision and turned toward it—
It was a man—maybe a woman—dressed in a shroud which covered everything but its hands and eyes. As she watched, one of those hands came up suddenly, and pointed a finger at Bork. There came a cough of compressed gas—
Dirisha leaped to her right and slammed her shoulder into Bork, trying to move him aside. It was like smacking into a wall; she rebounded, turned the movement into a dive and hit the hard-but-soft floor into a roll and walk-out.
She came up and reached for the kinzoku dart hidden in her belt clasp—
Something stung the back of Dirisha's hand, a sharp twinge no worse than a wasp might do. She ignored the sensation and continued to pull the dart free—
"Ah, shit. Pen!" Bork said. "It's not fair!"
Dirisha had the dart free and she cocked it by her left hip, for a side fling.
But Bork's voice stopped her. She risked a quick glance at him.
The big man was rubbing his left arm with his right hand and shaking his head. He didn't look hurt, only disgusted.
Dirisha looked back at the figure in the gray robe and hood. It—he? she?—had both hands raised and both index fingers pointed at her. She knew if she were to risk the throw, she wouldn't make it before it fired. She relaxed slightly, allowing her hand to sag a few centimeters. The figure in gray immediately dropped both hands by its sides. It turned its head slightly and focused bright blue eyes on Bork. "First Rule?" it said. Or, rather, he said, for the voice was masculine. And odd-sounding, somehow.
Bork said, "But I was bringing her—"
"First Rule."
"'Students must be prepared for attack at any time.'" Bork said. "My fault."
"You thought you were safe because you weren't doing ordinary things, which is why the First Rule was created," the gray man said. "What do you consider a fair subtraction?"
'Ten points, I guess."
"Call it five. I don't want you to think I'm a tyrant."
Bork grinned. "Why, none of us would think that." He turned to look at Dirisha. "This is the guy I was telling you about. Meet Pen, Dirisha."
Bork left them alone in a room which was, Dirisha supposed, an office.
Save for a table with a computer terminal and two chairs, the room was bare.
There was a window which looked out into a courtyard lined with trees and bushes, but apparently Pen wasn't big on furniture. He sat in one of the chairs and Dirisha took the other.
"How did you know I was coming to Renault?" she asked, once they were alone.
The edges of the blue eyes crinkled and Dirisha knew Pen was smiling. He said, "When you used your credit tab to buy passage to Renault from Tembo, I was... informed."
"That's unlikely. You would have to have agents on fifty-six planets and over eighty wheelworlds to be certain of picking up such a transaction."
"Not really. Think about it for a moment."
Dirisha did so. The answer came suddenly. "You had me watched?"
Pen nodded.
Her first reaction was to jump from the chair, but she contained herself.
She tried to sound calm when she spoke. "Why?"
"Emile Khadaji had great hopes for you," Pen said. "He thought you might find your way here one day. If you hadn't decided to come when you did, one of the school's agents would have eventually contacted you and asked you to do so."
"Again, 'Why?'"
"We want you to become a student here. And a teacher. Most of us do both, at this point. Pass on what we know, learn what we don't know."
"You say Emile wanted this?"
"Yes. He thought highly of you, along with some others he met along the way. I have a list of those he wanted us to contact. You were high on it."
"You have a list. Did you know him yourself?"
"I knew him. Long before you met on Greaves, I knew him."
"Well, this is all nice, but I really don't need lessons in how to become a bodyguard."
"No? I take it your protection of Bork in the hall was an example of your skill?"
Dirisha felt her face go hot. "I could have thrown the dart before I realized it was a game."
"Recall the sting you felt on your hand — the one holding the dart? If it had not been a game, you would have been down — if I had been using potent loads in my weapon."
Dirisha bit down on her anger. That was true enough. But it raised another question. "What if I hadn't noticed in time? I could have killed you, not knowing it was a test."
"Doubtful. Even with stinger ammunition, I would have been able to disable your hand so you would not have been able to complete the throw."
"How? I could have taken a sting or two—"
"But not a dozen stings, or more, perhaps."
Her inclination was to laugh or call him a braggart, but Dirisha did neither.
His voice was matter-of-fact; not so much confident as assured. What he said was not a guess— in his own mind, at least—but an actuality. And, despite the concealing robe, there was a hint of Center control which showed through when they'd walked to the office. From what she had seen and what Bork had told her, Pen was some kind of adept. At what, Dirisha didn't know, but at something.
"You expected something different," Pen said, interrupting her thoughts.
"I suppose. I'm not sure what, but yes, something different."
"And you aren't particularly interested or impressed with our little operation."
Dirisha inclined her head briefly, acknowledging his perception.
He leaned forward slightly and brought the tips of his fingers together into a tent. "You're a ronin, playing the Musashi Flex, hoping to reach enlightenment. Maybe you can find it here."
Dirisha laughed. "Really? I've been to a dozen planets and nearly that many wheelworlds, studying. What makes you think you have something I couldn't find elsewhere?"
Pen stood, a move so smooth it seemed effortless. "If you would follow me."
He walked from the office without looking back, but Dirisha felt as if he were aware of her every movement.
They retraced the path Bork had used to bring her into the building. Once outside, Dirisha finally saw more people, a dozen or so, doing stretching exercises on the rockfoam. There were four women and eight men and they were dressed in loose-weave orthoskins, as Bork had been. There were enough variations in the cut and colors of the skins so they could not be called uniforms, but they were very similar.
Pen swept past the exercisers toward the lines of footsteps printed upon the spongy ground cover. When he reached the nearest, he stopped. "You are adept in a handful of martial arts, an expert in body control and movement,"
he said. "Can you walk the pattern?"
Dirisha stared at the complex layout of foot positions. She had played fugue now and again and the implication was clear enough: I can do it, can you?
She reached for her Center, felt the comfort there, and took a deep breath.
Without a word, she stepped onto the first diagram and began to walk the pattern. The first five steps came easily. The sixth was more difficult, but she managed it. Years of training gave her the ability to make the seventh step, but she almost fell despite that. She managed to plant her foot upon the eighth step, but from there to the ninth was impossible. Dirisha knew her limits and she had reached them. She pivoted sharply to face Pen.
He nodded, and waved her aside with one hand. She moved, and watched very carefully as he approached the beginning of the pattern. She watched with all the zanshin perception she could muster, trying to see not only his feet but his entire body. She had spent years training, learning how to watch an opponent, to judge his moves exactly; but, even so, she had only the smallest inkling of how he did it. One moment and he was starting; another moment, and he was done. It was unbelievable and yet Dirisha was certain Pen had placed his feet precisely on each of the steps in the pattern; m
ore, he had danced it and made it seem effortless. She was impressed. But she had to know something more important.
When Pen returned to stand in front of her, Dirisha said, "There are masters of a thing and then there are Masters of that same thing." More fugue, but simple enough so anyone with the smallest skill could follow it.
The edges of Pen's eyes crinkled, an obvious smile. He waved his hand at the group of people stretching nearby. "Pick one," he said. "Your choice."
Dirisha nodded. He knew fugue. She had challenged him to answer one of the classic martial problems: you can do; can you also teach? One of the problems with many great artists were that they were personally adept, but could not pass it on. There had been some greats—Lee, Sandoz, Villam—who had not been able to teach for shit.
On the face of it, her challenge had been answered. He must have been certain to offer her the option; still, Dirisha had learned to take little for granted. She turned to face the dozen people in orthoskins. She scanned the faces, looking for some hint of ineptitude. Nothing—wait. She stared hard at a young woman with blond hair cut like a cap. Her face looked familiar.
Where had she seen it? She was certain she had...
It came to her suddenly. On the ferry, the near-collision with the tiny sail craft. That woman had been on the boat. Dirisha remembered her laughing face as the larger vessel had gone by, missing by scant meters. Surely that episode had been caused by a lack of attention or ability?
"Her," Dirisha said, nodding at the blonde.
Crinkle. "Ah, you have a good eye." Pen called out, "Geneva, would you demonstrate the Ninety-Seven Steps for Dirisha?"
The young woman smiled and gave Pen a small military bow. She walked calmly to the pattern, took a deep breath, and began her dance. She was not so smooth as Pen, nor as fast, but she made no missteps Dirisha could see from start to finish. When done, she bowed again, and walked back to her group. That she moved in her Center the entire time was a given. Dirisha nodded again. "What is the style called?"
