On Broken Wings

by Francis Porretto

  "When it's necessary to strike, kick. Never punch. The thrusting power in your legs is more than three times what you have in your arms. Plus, there's less chance of damaging an ankle than a wrist or a finger. Your hands are for grabbing and for manipulating weapons."

  "Grab then kick?"

  "No! Just kick. If you have to grab, you've lost the initiative, and you have to think pure defense. You don't want anyone inside your reaction perimeter if you can avoid it."

  By the end of June, she had absorbed and perfected more hand-to-hand combat techniques than the average professional soldier ever sees demonstrated. Nor did she ever fall into the kind of pattern, locked into a small number of favorite techniques, that makes a fighter vulnerable to an opponent of greater versatility. He had to struggle to keep his lessons up to her rate of achievement.

  "Gravity is a constant. You'd rather work with it than against it, believe me. Get your center of gravity below his as quickly as possible."

  "Like this?" She plunged to a squat and swept an arm at his knees.

  But his knees were no longer there. He had somersaulted forward over her, spinning around all three axes, landed prone behind her, and pulled her down backwards by her shoulders, laughing all the while.

  "No, like that."

  The summer proved to be a hot one. The basement exercise room, naturally cool, became the place they spent the greater part of each day. They would rise with the sun and descend to the basement, emerging as seldom as possible thereafter. As June gave way to July, he introduced her to aerial moves: forward, backward, and lateral flips, attacks from above, and jump-spin-kick combinations that had challenged him severely. She launched into each new sequence with joyous power and a total disregard for any danger.

  "My God, Chris! I was certain you were going to land on your head."

  She rolled up off the exercise mat and whirled toward him. The pirouette terminated with her arms around him.

  "Thank you for worrying, Louis, but I've got this stuff under control."

  He was not satisfied merely to equip her with moves and combinations. He trained her body to respond to surprise attack, while he trained her mind to trust the response. He taught her how to use the slivers of time between blows to analyze her adversary and choose among alternatives. As she learned to combine her physical and her analytical skills, he found himself watching her raptly. Her natural grace made it more like a dance than a fighting drill, though there was no mistaking its deadly purpose.

  July faded into August. The air turned uncommonly dry for central New York, foreboding a quick and colorful autumn. He taught her the use of weapons of all kinds, from sticks and stones to automatic firearms and explosives. He even taught her how to fashion weapons for impromptu stabbing and gouging, for slashing away a hand or head.

  "Wherever there's glass, you have potential weapons. If your opponent is any good, he'll know that too, so don't delay. Watch." He turned to face a rectangular-frame easel, on which he had mounted a pane of window glass. His right hand flattened and struck the pane near the top, a thrust too fast for the eye to follow. As the fragments of the pane fell to the mat, he opened his hand to display an oblong segment that he'd caught flat against his palm.

  "This is how you make a dagger from a window or a mirror. In a straight fight, it can be decisive."

  She looked uneasy. "How did you learn that? How do I practice it without losing both hands in the process?"

  He shook his head. "I won't permit that to happen."

  They progressed by stages to heavy weapons for eliminating a whole platoon or leveling an entire building.

  "You can make this from stuff anyone can buy in a convenience store. It takes about four hours to cure, and after that it's very touchy. It beats anything but nitroglycerine for concentrated destructive power, but you can't carry it around practically." He rapped a pencil across the slip of stained paper on the table between them. The paper disappeared with a resounding report and a flash of flame.

  She recoiled from the sudden destruction and the wisps of smoke. "What's it good for, then?"

  "Suppose those bruisers that came for you had managed to take me out. Suppose further that you had no guns or other distance weapons. This will make a grenade that needs no detonator and no fuse. Just pack it into a coffee mug and throw it. We have enough ingredients to make a hundred pounds of it right down here. I've got about twenty pounds made up already. Want to see the stockpile?"

  "Maybe later."

  Their days became highly structured. Her combat training filled their mornings. They spent each afternoon at the computer, where her rapid acquisition of skill continued. Evenings, they would read, or walk the woods behind the house, or visit Helen Davenport at her condominium. On Sundays afternoons, they would visit with Father Schliemann at the rectory. Every night, without fail, they made love.

  "Where'd you get this?" She traced the long, V-shaped ridge of scar tissue on his abdomen with a fingertip.

  He grinned up at her. "Forgot to trim my nails one day."

  "Never mind. Roll over a moment."

  "Hm?" He complied.

  "Raise your hips a little. That's good. Mmmmm."

  "Aaaah! Uuuuuuhh! My God! You're turning me inside out!"

  "You like?"

  He gasped and looked back at her over his shoulder, eyes wide. "Where did you learn that?"

  She smirked. "I think I'll take that for a yes."

  He tested her on everything he taught her, with increasing frequency and difficulty. He tried to surprise her in every possible way. She rose to each occasion with passion.

  "It wasn't necessary to do it that hard, you know." He rubbed his bruised knee with firm, circular strokes, hoping to get the fluid redistributed through the joint before it could stiffen.

  "Did I do it wrong?" Her expression was innocent.

  "No."

  "Well, then, shall we continue?"

  As he had hoped and half-feared, there came a day, in mid-September, when it was clear to him that he had no more to teach her. Her aptitudes and enthusiasm for the subject had proved to be more than a match for the savage pace he had set. There was nothing he could throw at her that she couldn't absorb, no form of attack she couldn't repel. Even had he been healthy, he would not have been able to overwhelm her. He would have bet on her against a battalion from any army in the world.

  "What you have learned in three months took me close to three years to master, and you're better than I am in every way. You have a gift, Chris." He admired her lithe and muscular form, grown superbly capable without losing a scintilla of femininity.

  She smiled. "I know. You."

  "But you'll never need me again." His throat tightened as he said it.

  The expression of woe that washed across her scarred features made him sorry at once. She crossed the room in a bound and enveloped him in her arms. He could feel her beginning to tremble. "I will always need you. Never leave me, Louis."

  He held her and made no reply.

  ====

  Chapter 23

  The water had cooled too much for Helen's comfort. She rose, stepped out of the tub, and swaddled herself in a thick bath towel. The slight commotion woke Christine, who followed suit. Helen picked up a second towel and began to dry her young friend.

  She's so quiet lately. She never did talk very much, but it's become a special event to hear her voice.

  Have I done something to offend her?

  When the two were dry and had brushed out their hair, they retreated to the bedroom. Helen pulled back the covers and got into bed, beckoning Christine to follow. Somewhat uncertainly, Christine joined her, laying her head on Helen's breast as she always did.

  "Weren't we going out to dinner?"

  Helen smoothed Christine's hair and caressed her face. The scars seemed less pronounced, though they were still unmistakable.

  They feel a little smaller and lower, unless I'm fooling myself. Scars do shrink sometimes. Wouldn't it be nice if her
body's healing itself further than any of us expected it would?

  "We are, dear. I just wanted to hold you for a little while, maybe talk about whatever's on your mind. We haven't done that in quite a while."

  Christine tightened her arms around her friend.

  "What has Louis been teaching you lately?"

  "He calls them aerials. Jump-and-strike combos, mostly."

  He's making her quite the little fighting machine. I wonder if I should have a private word with him. "Are you still doing the computer stuff too?"

  "Oh, yeah. Every day. It's great. I've never had so much fun before."

  "I'm glad." Helen stroked the younger woman's hair. "Chris, we used to talk a bit more than this. You've been really quiet the past few weeks. If I said something that hurt you, you wouldn't keep it to yourself, would you? You would tell me so I could fix it."

  Christine chuckled. The sound was muffled against Helen's body. "Saying the wrong thing isn't your problem, it's mine."

  It was Helen's turn to laugh. "I know what you're thinking, dear, but believe it or not, it's part of what we love about you."

  "Come on. When I blabbed to the Father about you not going to church, you looked like you wanted to crawl under the rug."

  "Well, yes. But you didn't do me any harm. I mean, I wouldn't have told him myself, but nothing awful came of it."

  The younger woman rose to look into her friend's face. "Does that make it okay, then?"

  "Pretty much." Helen pressed Christine's head against her again. "I was just embarrassed. Mostly, when people are embarrassed, it's because something they're not proud of has been put out where other people can see it. But the other people didn't cause the shame."

  "Like a guy with a little dick, huh?"

  Helen exploded in laughter. Her body shook with it. Christine caught it from her at once, and the two quivered with merriment in each other's arms.

  "Yes, dear, exactly. I suppose you've seen a few."

  "More than a few." Christine settled herself more closely against her friend. "And you know, they were the worst bastards of all."

  "I believe it."

  "Why are they like that?"

  "I'm not really sure, dear. A smart man would know that you don't have to be large in any way to be a man's man."

  Christine smiled. "We know it, and that's enough."

  "Say it loud, dear." Helen snuggled into her friend's embrace.

  Wait a minute.

  "Were you thinking of Louis, dear?"

  "Who else? I mean, wow."

  Helen turned to look into Christine's eyes.

  That was a 'wow' of a very particular kind.

  "Chris, have you had sex with Louis?"

  The younger woman's lips parted, but no sound came forth. Belatedly, Helen realized what she must look like to Christine. She tried to cleanse her expression of anything except friendly interest, but it was much too late.

  "Oh shit." Tears formed in Christine's eyes. "Maybe I should have my mouth sewn shut."

  "It's all right, dear." Helen pulled Christine against her. "It's all right, it's all right, it's all right." The younger woman buried her face against her friend's chest and hugged her hard enough to bruise her ribs. A few moments later, Helen felt tears running over those ribs.

  How could it not have happened? If there's any surprise in it, it's that it took so long. He's the best man in my experience, and he's literally teaching her how to live. They're together nearly all the time. And I taught her how to love, and she has such a need of it.

  But Helen's face was wet with tears as well.

  ***

  "You're unusually quiet."

  Louis smirked. "I was thinking how much better you and this place look than the last time I was here."

  Malcolm shrugged. "I do clean now and then, you know."

  "No kidding? I guess the last time I came by must have been well after 'now' and just before 'then'. Never mind, it was you I was concerned about. What happened to you, anyway?"

  "Let's say I was recovering from a heart attack. You didn't drive all this way to discuss my health and domestic skills, did you?"

  Louis grimaced. "Malcolm, we've known one another how long now? Eight years?"

  "Give or take. I don't keep close track."

  "And over that time, every time I've shown an interest in your welfare, you've shoved it aside. Seeing that I've got only a month or two left to live, maybe you could relent a little and allow me to be concerned about you?"

  "I was thinking that with so little time left, you might concentrate your energies on more fruitful pursuits. Speaking of which, how's your charity case coming along?"

  Louis sat back, appalled.

  He's never met Christine. She's of no moment to him. Yet he asks after her to deflect me from asking after him!

  He clenched his jaws and drew a deep breath.

  Don't sweat it, moron. What were the odds that he'd change just in time for you to kick off? Teach him a little lesson, instead. Do what you came here for.

  "Actually, that's why I'm here. Got a little time in your schedule?"

  Loughlin snorted. Louis forced his brightest smile.

  "Because I don't, you see. I'd like to think that my charge will be well looked after when I'm gone, and the only person I can think of with the resources to do it is you."

  Louis had hoped for a reaction. He was not disappointed. Malcolm Loughlin's mouth dropped open as his eyes blazed with outraged astonishment. He put his palms flat on the table, rose, and leaned forward to peer into his protege's face as if searching for evidence of lunacy.

  "You're not serious."

  Louis nodded, eyes wide. "Yes, I am."

  "I didn't accept this obligation. You did."

  "Absolutely correct."

  "And I don't owe you anything at all."

  "I wouldn't have dreamed of suggesting otherwise."

  Loughlin leaned closer, until they were nose to nose. "So what makes you think I'm likely to agree to this?"

  Louis smiled again. "I'm asking nicely, am I not?"

  Loughlin dropped back into his chair with a thud, still livid with outrage. His eyes never left Louis's own. "You have to know how crazy you sound, Louis. Unless the cancer's reached your brain already."

  "Crazy? I sound perfectly rational to me. I'm asking you for a favor, that's all. You don't have to agree to it. Just say you won't, and I promise I'll drop the subject. You can consider me crazy, if it makes you feel any better about it."

  "Why are you doing this?" Loughlin's voice had dropped to a whisper.

  "Doing what? Saving the life of a helpless young woman? Because it seemed like a good idea at the time. Asking you to take over after I die? See previous answer."

  Because I know that you won't refuse me, and I'm not above using that. And because I know that you wouldn't break your word even if it would save you from being ground to pulp between red-hot rollers.

  "You little bastard," Loughlin breathed.

  Louis maintained his gentle smile. Loughlin returned it.

  "She's fucking you, isn't she?"

  The words were a cold shock. The tone was that of the sleaziest baby-kissing politician. Louis's whole body tensed for action. He restrained himself by the narrowest of margins.

  I didn't think you'd try that, Malcolm, but you'll get nowhere with it.

  "Why, yes, as a matter of fact. Every night and a lot of afternoons, and 'wonderful' doesn't nearly do it justice. Were you expecting me to upend the table and leap at you for saying so?" Loughlin's face turned hard. "That would be a nice way to cap off a request for a favor this large, wouldn't it?" Louis rose from the table and went to lean against the kitchen counter.

  "Don't be too disappointed, Malcolm. It probably would have worked on anyone else. But I'm not allowing you any escape hatches. You'll just have to say yes or no, for whatever reasons you can conjure up all on your own. And then you'll have to live with the consequences."

  "And what would thos
e be?" Loughlin snarled.

  "Ah, the crux of the matter!" Louis permitted himself a brief chuckle. "There's only one way to find out, Malcolm. Knowing how few things surprise you, I wouldn't want to deprive you of this one."

  Loughlin rubbed at his forehead. The silence stretched.

  "What do you want me to do?"

  The words were distorted enough by Loughlin's posture that Louis was unsure he'd really heard them.

  "Are you agreeing?"

  "Yes, damn it to Hell! Yes! Now tell me what she needs!"

  Louis returned to the table, sat across from his mentor, and reached for his hands. Loughlin, surprised by the gesture, did not resist.

  Let's see how well the Schliemann Effect works on a really tough case.

  "She needs someone to turn to when she has a question." He thought about the discussions of religious topics with Father Schliemann. "She needs someone to remind her not to believe what she's told too readily, just because it sounds good or she likes the source." He thought about Helen. "She needs someone to remind her that sometimes people and things really are what they seem, that unbridled hope and uncontrolled fear can both cloud the mind and distort the vision. And Malcolm," he paused, "this will be the hardest part."

  "What?"

  Louis squeezed Loughlin's hands between his own.

  "She needs someone to care about her, the way you've cared about me. Will you do all that for me, old friend?"

  A deep shudder ran through the immortal's body. Louis waited.

  "Caring for you has nearly killed me," Loughlin whispered. "I have trained many young men. Some of them have whole sagas devoted to their exploits. None have come near to you. In you I saw a hope for the whole world, as foolish as that might have been."

  Is this the man who told me to avoid great deeds like the plague?

  "Louis, when you told me of your illness, I was beyond grief. I have never fathered a child, and quite likely I cannot, but perhaps that's just as well, for no child of my body could ever have been as dear to me as you are. If there were some way that my death could buy back your life, I would not hesitate for an instant to accept the bargain."