by Steve Perry
Would she elect to have four or five children, to help pay the overhead, like her mother did? Carefully ease them into the business, to give herself a rest after ten or twenty years of selling herself to anybody with the price?
Yes, that was what she could do. That was all she could do, she was unprepared for anything else. What she had been looking forward to a few minutes ago now seemed a finite and futile line straight to the final chill. She was fifteen, she saw the end of the ride, and it was unbearably ugly.
Unbearably ugly.
No! She would get out! Get offworld, learn something else—!
What? How?
Dirisha looked at the fallen forms of the two men, Brute and Colin. The younger man was as a child, she knew, he could be... handled. There had to be a way. There had to be a way.
CHAPTER NINE
DIRISHA LAY ON her back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Geneva lay next to her, propped on one elbow, gently rubbing the older woman's flat stomach.
"What happened then?" the blonde asked quietly.
Dirisha blinked, turned slightly to look at the woman who loved her, and sighed. "What happened? I helped Colin up from the rec-chem pub's floor, brushed him off, then took him to a cheap quick-crib and seduced him. I was his third woman, I think, and certainly his best. I made sure of that. His ship was berthed for a month; I had that long to get from him what I had to have: knowledge. I traded my fifteen year-old body for as much as I could get him to teach me. He duped a disk from his ship—the Go Placid, I'll never forget the freighter's logo, it lit every time the holoproj accessed the damned program—and that's where I got my secondary education, from that disk.
Colin helped me set it up, he helped me start learning it, but it took two years of real-time before I could self-test a ninety percent on it. Colin was long gone, of course, but he'd been well-paid for his efforts. And by seventeen, I had a little more knowledge about the galaxy."
"What were you doing for... I mean, how did you ... manage?"
"To survive? I joined the Guild. Became a good-timer. But I knew it was only temporary. When I turned seventeen, I left the Guild and got a job—room and board and classes— in a local dojo. I started the study of Oppugnate, my first Art. I didn't have any money, I busted my butt, but I wasn't sexing boozed or stoned shippers. I was learning a skill which would buy my way out, I used it right. I knew it could be done—that woman who had saved me from the freight handler had done it, so I could do it. I was young, healthy and willing to do anything it took."
Dirisha fell silent, lost again in her memories.
CHAPTER TEN
MWAUMU SLAPPED HER across the face with the back of his hand.
Dirisha's head twisted, but she didn't cry out. It was a contemptuous strike, it stung, but there was more noise associated with it than pain; more shame than sound or hurt.
"Stupid!" Mwalimu said. "You have fecalimo for brains! You move like a cow!"
Dirisha nodded. "Yes, Instru'isto." She agreed, but she did not say she was sorry—one never said that to Instru'isto.
The big man turned away, to the rest of the class. The dojo was cramped with twenty students in it, even though they all sat seiza, hip-to-hip. The plastic straw mats were worn and frayed, with a decade of ground-in dirt Dirisha could never get out, no matter how hard she scrubbed. The cheap plastic mirrors were age-warped and scratched, from the uncounted impacts of staves, knives and bodies. The room was nearly as hot as outside, and sweat rolled from the faces of the students into their dirty-gray thinskins, staining the material dark where it touched.
"You see how clumsily she performed her technique! I was stopped, but her form was execrable. She might have knocked me cold, had she been set correctly. Never do it as you have seen her do it!"
Instru'isto Mwalimu turned away and stalked toward his office, a man thoroughly disgusted with the world.
Dirisha saw two of the students smile at her, but she kept her face as expressionless as she could. Instru'isto would sometimes—
Mwalimu spun on the balls of his feet suddenly, eyes wide. The grinning students tried to clear their faces, but it was too late. Mwalimu raised from his crouch and smiled, showing a broken front tooth he hadn't had time to have fixed yet. "Ah, Haleem and Mahimbo—you find something amusing?"
"No, Instru'isto—!"
"Shut up! You find something amusing."
The two men looked stricken. "Y-yes, Instru'isto," they said, in unison.
"Good. You will therefore amuse the rest of this class of buffoons. Up, and freestyle." Mwalimu's smile grew wider. "Blood and bones, you-who-are-amused."
The nineteen year-old Dirisha suppressed an urge to swallow dryly. Blood and bones meant just that: they would spar until someone drew blood— or a bone was broken.
One did not smile in Instru'isto Mwalimu's advanced Oppugnate class.
Ever.
If Instru'isto was gone, a B&B session would usually end quickly: one student or another would offer a clean shot to the nose or mouth, it would be taken lightly, and blood would flow, ending the fight. But Instru'isto showed no signs of leaving, and trying to avoid pain while he watched was worth a sparring session with him, and there was nothing worse. 'Brutal' took on new meanings when Instru'isto made you dance with him.
The two men wore green pins on their thinskins, they had some skill and were both very strong. They bowed, and started.
It took five minutes before a sidekick from Haleem smacked into Mahimbo's rib cage. Everyone heard the wet snap as Mahimbo was thrust back two meters. He did not drop his hands and clutch at his side, though.
He merely nodded briefly, and shuffled back toward his opponent. If Dirisha had not heard the rib go, Mahimbo's face would not have told her of his injury.
"Enough," Instru'isto said. He waved his hand lazily. "Sit down." He turned back toward Dirisha, who still stood in a wide-legged riding horse stance in front of the class. 'Take them through the Nine Postures. Then work the heavy bag for twenty minutes. See that Mahimbo's rib is ortho-bonded—after he works the bag."
Dirisha nodded. "Yes, Instru'isto!"
The man turned his back and stalked into his office.
Dirisha waited until he was out of sight, then nodded toward the class. She felt sorry for Mahimbo, but not sorry enough to allow him to shirk his workout. She'd had six of her ribs broken, four on the left, two on the right, and she knew what it was like to finish a workout in pain.
"First Posture," she said.
Obediently, the students jumped to their feet, to practice the single-step attack-and-defense. They moved as if Instru'isto Himself was watching—as well he might be, through the one-way plastic mirror set in his office wall.
Blood and bones might toughen one in the end, but in the short run, it was painful.
It was the last eve of Agosti, her twentieth birthday, and it had been a long day for Dirisha. Beginning at dawn, for three hours, she had worked around the dojo, cleaning the showers, scrubbing the mats, dusting and wiping all of the weapons in Mwalimu's collection, as well as cleaning his office.
Sometimes, he slept in the office, and the place was always a wreck after he left. Nobody knew where Instru'isto lived; he vanished after classes, mostly, and if he had a home or family, no one in the dojo knew of either.
After cleaning up, and a quick breakfast of multigrain bread and cheese, with some vegetable juice, Dirisha had ten minutes to warm up before the First beginner's class started. She was responsible for teaching four of these, ninety minute sessions, before a break for midday. She then had an hour to practice her forms and postures on her own, before Instru'isto led the first advanced class. There were two daily, and she was expected to attend them both. After the last advanced class, Dirisha spent some time working out with a couple of the other brown pins, freestyle and weapon work. Supper came just before the evening clean up; then she was free. Sometimes, she clicked a ball into her reader and studied; sometimes, she went for a walk in the muggy air; ofte
n, she simply fell into an exhausted sleep, early.
On this particular day, she had just finished working the long spear, and was going to lock the back portal when Instru'isto appeared from his office.
They were alone in the dojo.
"I hope you aren't too tired," he said.
Dirisha looked at him, puzzled.
"Because," he continued, "it's time you took the black pin test. Tonight. Now."
Dirisha sucked in a quick breath. "What?"
Instru'isto grinned. "Let me guess: you had thought to work up to it gradually, take it on a day when you were fresh and rested, with a cheering throng of your fellow students to help you along, right?"
Dirisha stood mute. Well, yes, those were some of the things she had planned upon—
Intsru'isto interrupted her thoughts. "The technical difference between a brown pin and a black pin is very slight— you will hardly know any more the day after the test than the day before, should you pass it. The difference is in attitude, in spirit. I have never given the black pin lightly— five times in fifteen years—and without the attitude of which I speak, such rank is impossible to obtain."
Dirisha was frightened; as much as anything, Instru'isto's speech scared her. She had never heard him speak in such a... cultured manner. Always, the man had been spare, almost gruff, and the cadence of his language now seemed unreal. Where did he go when he left here? What was he, when he wasn't Instru'isto, Fifth Degree Oppugnate black pin?
"So, Dirisha, the two of us begin a dance. You will perform everything you have learned for me—all the forms, each technique. If you do them perfectly, then we shall dance together, you and I, blood and bones. At the end, you shall have become a black pin or you shall have need of a vat of orthobondic and medical care. Lock the doors."
It took nearly three hours for her to run through all her katas and defensive tactics. Dirisha demonstrated basic blocks and strikes, which by this time were second nature; she also cut the warm, damp air with a variety of ancient weaponry: flails, knives, spears, swords, staves. She passed the point of exhaustion and came into a second wind toward the end, but she was not sure how well she was moving. It felt okay, but what did it look like?
When she was done, her thinskin was drenched in sweat, none of it left dry. She felt as if she had stood under a hot saltwater shower.
Instru'isto nodded. He bowed, watching her carefully, then slid into a fighting stance, hands raised to cover his face and groin.
Dirisha mirrored her instructor's stance, her own hands automatically finding the defensive pattern.
They stood three meters apart, watching each other, not speaking. That he would hurt her, she doubted not at all. The black pin meant nothing, now: survival occupied her thoughts.
Instru'isto slid forward a few centimeters. He was centered, taut, and Dirisha had never seen him look so dangerous. She tried to breathe evenly, but her air came in smaller portions than she wished.
The big man slid closer.
Dirisha held her ground, waiting.
He moved, whipping forward with a snap kick for her knee—
—Dirisha V-stepped to her left and brought her own right foot up in a spring kick for his solar plexus—
—He spun away from it and helicoptered his fist at her temple—
—She ducked and thrust at his eyes with her stiffened fingers—
—He slammed an elbow at her throat—
—Dirisha began to leap away, then stopped. It was what he had taught her to do, and he would know it. She stopped, and fired a flat punch, putting her shoulder into it, twisting her hip for added power. There was in the movement, a moment of clarity, when she knew the technique would work.
Time stretched, like hot plastic, but the move was only the work of a half-second—
Even so, Instru'isto twisted and almost avoided the punch, so great was his skill. Almost.
The two striking knuckles of Dirisha's compacted sun-fist caught Instru'isto just above the left eye: the skin tore as the man's head snapped back; a trickle of blood flowed through the brow and along the socket of his eye.
Instru'isto slid back, and bowed, deeper than Dirisha had ever seen him do so. When he straightened, he was grinning. He unpinned the black badge from his thinskin and tossed it at Dirisha, who caught it in shocked awe.
"Welcome to the club, Dirisha."
The man was grossly fat and wore four shades of rouge, looking like a good-timer himself. He was not; he was a jewel merchant from Mti, sister world to Dirisha's planet, the only other habitable globe in the Ndama System. He sat at a fancy table in the Restaurant Danelle, stuffing his gut with expensive candied fruit. A parasite, Dirisha thought, soft and contemptible. He was her target, however, and what he was was not so important as who he was: a pass offworld—if she played it right.
The merchant's bodyguard saw her as she walked toward their table. He was a big man, the bodyguard, replete with muscle mass and a face which had known many fists from many angles. Instru'isto had seen him work, though, and Dirisha knew the man depended on power and not skill. It was risk, but all of life was risk.
"Whadda ya want?" the hulk said.
"I'll talk to your master, cur."
"Ya don't pass here." Hulk raised one heavy hand to shove against Dirisha's chest. "I hear it first."
The fat jewel dealer looked up from his meal, mildly interested, no more.
Some orange concoction was smeared over his lips, and his eyes were drug-glazed within their layers of fat.
Dirisha caught the outstretched hand and twisted. Chang, but the man was strong! Even with the leverage and her quickness, the arm barely moved.
Well. There were ways. Dirisha pivoted under the thick arm and drove her elbow into Hulk's solar plexus. The muscle was solid there, too, but the force of her strike relaxed the arm she still held a bit. Enough. Dirisha twisted the arm and turned her body at the same time. Despite his strength, the bodyguard went down, grunting.
The merchant woke up, eyes wide. Dirisha figured he had good reason to fear thieves; perhaps even assassins. He looked around, but there was no place to flee without passing Dirisha. He stared at his protector.
The bodyguard was locked, he wasn't going anywhere. Dirisha could break his arm or knock him senseless now, as she chose. She smiled at the merchant. "Wh-what do ye want?" "A job," Dirisha said. "D-doing what?"
"Body guarding."
"I have such." He nodded at Hulk. "Not doing so good, is he Deuce? You should let me replace him."
The merchant looked at the dark-skinned woman, then at the muscular man she held helpless. The fat man smiled, and Dirisha knew she wouldn't spend another week on the planet for which she was named. Her smile far surpassed that of her new employer.
She was on her way. Where wasn't important, only that it was somewhere—she had a galaxy to choose from.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
GENEVA'S HAND LAY unmoving on Dirisha's stomach. The blonde said,
"How hard it was for you."
Dirisha nodded. "It made me hard, too, hon. As soon as we hit Mti, I dropped the merchant and got a job bouncing in a pub. I joined the Atemi Waza Gymnasium—Mwalimu suggested I learn a wrestling art, to complement his boxing style. Atemi works against the joints, involves a lot of throws and tumbling. I stayed there two years.
"Still on Mti, I studied Kinzoku—that's metal work, mostly throwing darts and knives—and that took another three years. From there, I spaced to Greaves, and learned to play Mkono-sio Haki—Illegal Hands—another striking style. I picked up stuff here and there along the way, informally. And I began to play the Flex."
"The Musashi Flex," Geneva said. "Red walked that path for a time. And Khadaji once fought in a tourney."
Dirisha took a deep breath, allowed it to escape, then looked at Geneva. "I liked it a lot, at first. The competition, the wonder—can I beat this guy? Will he do me, instead?— and I played it hard, too. I won, I lost sometimes. There are people walking the Flex wh
o could give Pen a hard time, Geneva, totally dedicated to the game. I wanted to find something beyond what I was, but I never did. After a time, I began to wonder if I would ever be more than just an aging player, a ronin who'd eventually get taken out by some kid on some backwater world, as if I'd never been."
"Is that why you're here?"
Dirisha thought about it for a few seconds before she spoke. "Partially, I suppose. Another part of me wants to learn from you and Pen and take the new Art back out on the circuit. Part of me doesn't know what I want, it just wants to rest and not have to think."
The two women lay quietly for a time; then, Geneva leaned over and softly kissed Dirisha's cheek. "It doesn't matter, you know."
"Geneva, I've killed more than a dozen people in personal combat. I've probably sent three times that many to full medical-construct, so badly were they damaged. And I've hurt hundreds in the last ten years. There was a time when I liked it, Geneva. Even the killing." "But not any more?" "No. Not any more." "It doesn't matter. I still love you." Dirisha rolled over onto her side and faced Geneva. The blonde was smiling tenderly, and Dirisha wanted nothing so much as to be able to say those same words to her, in truth. But she couldn't, she was wrapped too tightly in what she had been, what she had done. Instead, she hugged Geneva to her, and they stayed that way, breast to breast, for a long time.
It was the best she could do, all things considered.
Dirisha came around the corner of the corridor leading to the dining hall, and saw Red about to shoot Geneva in the back. Almost without thinking, Dirisha raised her own spetsdod and took in a breath to call out a warning to the other woman. Two against one, but there were no rules against that.
Dirisha needn't have bothered. Even as Red fired, his daughter dropped flat, so that the blunt dart sang over her head; she rolled onto her back and thrust both her weapons toward her father. The sound of two spetsdods on full-auto filled the corridor. Red's hands jumped, from the impact of Geneva's flechettes, and his own return fire went wide. His time ran out for the mutual kill—and Geneva won.
