by Steve Perry
He pulled his uncle’s pants back up when he was done, dressed himself, then touched his com and called his father.
His father arrived with the casa’s medic and a guard.
“Dios! What has happened here?”
Hoja faced his father, standing as tall as he was able to stand, and looked the Patron squarely in the eyes.
“He fell and hit his head,” Hoja said. He hoped all the hatred he felt showed.
There was a long moment of silence. Then the Patron sighed and nodded, almost as if to himself. “I see.”
“I am glad that you do,” Hoja said.
His father must have had mixed feelings, Hoja later reflected. To have lost a brother, but to have gained the son he wanted. Or thought he wanted.
Next to the body of Jorj, the medic said, “No fall could do this-”
“You are wrong,” Hoja’s father said. “My brother has died in an unfortunate accident. A fall.”
Hoja understood that Jorj’s death would not be spoken of again, save as an accident. And he understood too that the lesson went both ways.
From that day on, Hoja’s father would never again turn his back on his son.
Chapter TWENTY
AS HE STOOD holding his bamboo practice sword and facing Kee, Sleel reminded himself that he was an expert martial artist.
True, this was her toy, the sword, but he was one of only a few people in the entire galaxy who could dance the Ninety-seven Steps. He’d watched her move often enough, and while she was pretty good, she wasn’t that good.
He could take her. All he had to do was use what he knew. He was bigger, stronger, probably as fast if not faster, and a lot more experienced in hand-to-hand combat, even if she had walked the Flex. He had killed people with his hands, more than once; he wasn’t afraid of a little woman with a padded stick.
So, Sleel, if that’s true, how come your hands are sweating all over the leather handle of your padded stick? Hmm?
Shut up.
Kee stood less than two meters away, the tip of her shinai nearly touching the tip of Sleel’s, their weapons pointed at each other’s eyes.
Relax, Sleel told himself. Loosen up your shoulders. Breathe easy. You’ve got the reach on her, probably almost half a meter. Just scoot in and tap her and it’ll be all over. Don’t com your strike, just gather your energy and do it.
As Sleel was about to jump, Kee shifted a few centimeters to her left. The attack he’d planned would fall a hair short now. He slid his feet over a little, keeping his sword held steady. No problem, we’ll just adjust our aim a little
Kee settled a little lower into her stance. Her feet were now hidden beneath the folds of her split skirt.
When she moved back, it was as if she were on wheels, so smooth was her motion. One second she was there, the next, she was a handspan farther away. Just outside his range.
Okay, okay, bottle that one. Come in from the side and use a horizontal cut instead. By the time she gets her sword over to block, it’ll be too late
As if reading his mind, Kee shifted her shinai, angling the springy slats so that a horizontal strike from her left would be a mistake; she’d be able to stop the cut and he’d be wide open for the shot to the throat.
They weren’t wearing bogu and she’d pull the jab, but were she using a real sword, that would effectively end the fight in her favor.
Sleel considered another attack, something unconventional. He would throw Laughing Stone. She couldn’t be ready for that one. Even if she could stop the initial strike, the rebound and reply ought to give him a clean hit on her spine
Once again Kee wiggled the shinai, a compound move that showed she could negate the first strike and that she knew where the second part of the series would follow.
Her expression was neutral, her eyes seemed unfocused, she gave nothing away.
Damn. How can she do that?
Fuck it. Enough of all this mystical imaginary thrust-and-parry crap. Just go for it and outreach her.
Sleel leaped, as fast as he could, extending his sword to the fullest. It wouldn’t be a hard tap, but he would make the point
Kee flowed to his left, and time stalled, the tachy-psyche effect stretching Chronos out like sheet gum under a heatlamp. Sleel moved in slow motion, unable to increase his speed, and he saw Kee’s sword coming from light years away; it was taking its fucking time but so was he, and there was no way to avoid it
Thwack! He felt the bamboo thump into his ribs under his still-outstretched arm. If that had been a real sword, he would be much in need of another spell in a Healy, sure enough. But before he could react, Kee’s shinai flicked back and out again, and the smooth bamboo touched and drew a line across the back of his neck.
Welcome to Jersey Reason’s country, Sleel.
Well, shit-!
And still mired in the molasses that time had become, Sleel dragged his own weapon around much too late to stop the third strike, a poke to his solar plexus with the padded leather tip.
Three-for-three, Sleel you old fool, any one of which would have put you down and out of it. You really have gotten ancient. What happened to your reflexes?
Time recovered. Sleel finally managed to come back up to normal speed. Too late, of course.
Sleel wanted to spit, to curse and to throw the damned fucking bamboo down and stomp on it. He did none of these things, however. He merely bowed, acknowledging Kee’s victory.
To his everlasting relief, she didn’t laugh, or even smile, but merely nodded. This was, her expression seemed to say, serious business. Sleel could not help but agree.
“You need a holiday, Sleel,” Wu said. “I could use a rest myself. “
They were in a restaurant not far from her dojo, a place known for its portions more than the complexity of its menu. Still, if you liked basic fare, you got your money’s worth and then some. Sleel was halfway through his second plate of stir-fried vegetables and noodles. Since he’d started working out, his appetite had increased, and Wu enjoyed watching him eat. She had nearly finished her own plate of sweet-and-sour wood shrimp, a local freshwater delicacy that came from a reservoir made by flooding what had once been a forest. A couple of hundred years ago, anyhow.
“So, where are you going on your vacation?” he asked.
“I thought we might go up to Carnival Falls.”
“Carnival Falls. We?”
“Unless you want to find a place on your own.”
He swallowed a mouthful of noodles. “Nope. Sounds aces by me. Any particular reason we want to go there?”
“It’s quiet. And restful.”
The sound that the waterfall made as it crashed down into the pool at the base was loud enough to drown a conversation as easily as the cascade itself drowned the glistening purplish boulders and rocks below.
The falls dropped a distance of maybe eighty meters, starting out relatively narrow at the top and sheeting wider as ,the waters sprayed and foamed at the bottom. Rainbows blossomed in the sunshine-lit mists like multicolored flowers. The river resumed its journey at one end of the pool, snaking away in a much quieter meander. From where Sleel and Kee stood on the small arched bridge twenty meters above the river, it was all quite beautiful.
“Peaceful, you said?” Sleel yelled.
“What?”
But she grinned, and Sleel joined her in smiling.
Cierto sat in a rental hopper across the street from the largest kendo school on the planet Mason. The master of the school had just finished his last class and was alone in the dojo. Cierto had chosen this target carefully. The instructor inside had walked the Flex, though he had retired a couple of years before Cierto had ever joined it. He had been a minor player, never ranked in the top dozen or so, but he had killed in combat. This was important.
Cierto’s six students moved through the well-lit night toward the front of the dojo. These were Rita, Burton, Winston, Ellenita, Gene and Jorj. Back on Rift, Raz and Tomas, now his two best students, waited in reserve, i
n case this man proved to be more adept than Cierto had figured.
Ellenita, wearing next to nothing in the form of short skintights and spray slippers, arrived at the dojo first. An attractive woman dressed provocatively tended to allay suspicion that danger threatened.
Burton carried her sword as well as his own, both weapons cleverly disguised as part of an old-style powered exowalker Burton wore in his pretense of being a cripple.
The dojo’s door was electronically latched, and it would need to be opened from the inside, unless Cierto wanted to go to the trouble of cracking the lock. It was much simpler to have your enemy admit you unsuspecting.
Ellenita spoke to the query, smiling into the camera’s eye. The door opened silently.
Burton, who appeared to be passing by at just that moment, darted into the opening. He moved altogether too fast for somebody depending on an exowalker.
Ellenita leaned against the open door and the other four students hurried into the place.
Cierto alighted from the hopper and strolled across the street.
Inside the dojo the master had realized the danger. He stood in the center of the workout area, his sword held like a ball bat next to his right shoulder. He wore hakima and a gi jacket, both black, and his feet were bare.
Cierto smiled. Good. Perfect. Here was a target who resembled Kildee Wu in a number of respects.
Same style sword, same basic art, even the workout clothes were nearly identical. While Cierto’s students had spent a fair portion of their training these past months working against kendo simulacrums, there was no substitute for the real thing. If Cierto’s test for his son’s mother was to be fair, he must not stint on his preparations.
The black-clad swordsman was good enough to recognize that Cierto was more of a danger than the six who drew their blades and moved to encircle him. Cierto shook his head, telling the man that he was not a combatant. The man nodded once in acknowledgment, took a deep breath and expelled half of it.
Cierto observed the master of the dojo carefully. He was afraid, but not panicked. Doubtless he had fought multiple-attacker practice matches with padded swords. He had been instructing for a long time, and a good teacher learned more than he taught. As Cierto watched, he saw the man’s shoulders relax slightly. Ah. That he was able to do this facing half a dozen opponents spoke well of him. Cierto reluctantly raised his estimation of the man. He was tempted to warn his students, but he did not speak.
If they made errors, let them be their own.
The circle, somewhat ragged, finished forming. Burton and Ellenita were behind the victim; this was the most dangerous place to be, because on the face of it, it seemed the safest. He couldn’t see them and the tendency would be for them to assume they could strike with little risk. Of course they had been warned against such overconfidence.
The man in the middle knew what this was. In the old days, when warriors routinely carried swords, testing students or masters of one style of martial art against those of another was quite common. A wandering student would challenge a teacher and if the challenger won, he would continue to roam or take over the school. If he lost-and survived-he would often enroll as a student of the man who had beaten him.
Jorj, directly in front of the kendo teacher, lunged in, extending for a quick stab to the heart.
The kendo man swatted Jorj’s blade aside easily and snapped his heavier sword out, slicing to the bone with the tip in Jorj’s right forearm just below his elbow. Blood welled. Jorj cursed and jerked his weapon back.
The kendo player spun his sword so that the point blurred in an arc to point edge up directly behind him at belly level. He stabbed backward, much as a man paddling a canoe might thrust his paddle into turbulent waters for control.
Ellenita’s memory of her lessons and Cierto’s warnings of overconfidence must have failed her. She was moving toward the man when she took the samurai sword under the breastbone. Her slayer twisted the sword back and forth once to free it and pulled it back, spinning in a full circle with a one-handed slash to drive his attackers back.
Those able moved quickly to widen the circle.
Burton had removed his fake exowalker and was unencumbered. He screamed and leaped at the kendoist. A fatal mistake. Burton’s head was cut from the top of the right ear at an angle, the powerful slice digging all the way to the corner of his mouth.
Rita hopped in as the kendoist pried his weapon from the dying Burton. She slashed, cutting through the man’s split skirt and thigh. From the way her sword stopped, she reached the bone. She danced away as the man swung wildly at her.
Jorj sought to finish the wounded man, a backhanded cut with his uninjured left hand that would likely have beheaded the kendo player had it connected.
The man blocked the slash, dropped his sword’s point, and drove it into Jorj’s throat.
The kendoist spent too much time watching Jorj fall, however. Gene saw his chance and took it. He drove his blade into the master of the dojo from behind, finding a space between two ribs, skewering him all the way through the left lung and probably the heart or one of the great vessels.
The kendoist knew he was going down, but he twisted, pulling the sword from Gene’s grasp and raising his own weapon to cut the startled Gene. Gene froze.
Fortunately for him, Rita stepped in and slashed the kendo man across the eyes. He tried to turn toward her, uttering a loud kiai as he did, but she snapped her blade back and thrust it into his open mouth. The point of her blade snapped off when it hit the inside of his skull, but that didn’t matter because the kendoist was well on his way to death by then. He fell, landing on his side, his sword still clenched in his hand, Gene’s sword still piercing him through and through.
Cierto found that he was breathing harder, and he forced himself to calmness. Three students dead or nearly so. Rita, Gene and Winston stood here, flushed with fear and exaltation. Blood smeared Rita’s sword, and she had pulled a wipe from her pocket and was mechanically cleaning it.
Cierto moved to the fallen kendoist. “You died well,” he said. “You were much better than I had guessed.” He raised his fingertips and touched the center of his forehead lightly in a final salute to the dojo’s fallen master. A worthy opponent always deserved respect. He had taken three of Cierto’s best with him, and while that was irritating on one level, on another, one had to give credit where it was due.
Even the matador had shown some spine. Between those two Cierto now had only five blooded students remaining for his plan. Well. They would have to do. Time was passing and he was not so patient that he would spend another six or eight months bringing another student along. Rita and Winston and Gene would be joined by Raz and Tomas.
He had worked for it long enough. It was time to claim his prize.
Chapter TWENTY-ONE
THE CATARACT OF Carnival Falls was noisy, but where Kee wanted to go was not precisely the falls themselves. There was a much-used path that hairpinned up the hillside next to the cascade, and it was along this steep switchbacked trail that Kee led Steel. They wore backpacks with sleeping sacks and enough food for several days. As the falls were several hundred klicks north of the dojo, the temperature was somewhat cooler, and the fall air had a crispness to it. Sleel’s breath came out in a puffy fog.
They hiked along the narrow path. Kee said, “In the winter the falls sometimes freeze. Ice climbers go straight up it.”
Sleel looked at the rushing water. “Not my idea of fun.”
Kee stopped. “What is your idea of fun?”
That brought him up short. What kind of question was that? For a long moment, Sleel couldn’t think of anything to say, nothing. Finally, he said, “Uh, well, the usual things. Good food, good company, good literature, uh …
“That’s what I thought,” she said. And with that she returned her attention to the climb.
Sleel stared at her back. The synlin pack with the sword carrier strapped to it offered no hint of what its owner meant by her cryptic comm
ents. She carried the sword with her everywhere, something he had remarked upon.
Kee had said, “There is a saying about the ancient earth warriors, the samurai, from whom my art is descended: `The sword is the soul of the samurai.’ One doesn’t leave one’s soul behind when one travels.”
An hour or so later, they arrived at a picnic area next to the river. A cleared spot next to the water was shaded by tall evergreen trees. The path on the other side of the clearing was narrower and less well trod upon.
“Most people stop here,” Kee said. “Where we want to go is about three hours past here.”
Sleel shrugged. Walking for three hours more didn’t bother him, even with the pack. He still spent an hour or two every day roaming about the village, usually at night.
The trail wound its way through dense stands of assorted woods, mostly the same tall evergreens, but occasionally smaller trees whose broad diamond-shaped leaves were yellowing and sometimes falling in the light breeze. Where ‘the path broke out of the cover, there were distant, snowy mountains visible in the clear air. There did not seem to be any other hikers out this far, coming or going. A man could pretend that he was alone on the planet out here, an explorer moving through a new world.
Sleel caught sight of several small creatures in the underbrush, or sometimes he heard the rustle of the dry leaves but didn’t see the cause. In a particularly thick section of the forest one of these little beasts, probably startled by the approaching walkers, darted across the trail almost directly in front of them.
It looked like some kind of squirrel, a reddish gray animal about the size of Sleel’s forearm, not counting the long bushy tail that streamed behind it-nor counting the fleet flashback of memory that scampered along behind the creature.
The rows of bramble were precisely straight, laid out with computer-augmented perfection, like lines drawn on a drafting screen. As the nervous fourteen-year-old Sleel walked along, holding Melinda’s hand in his own sweaty grip, the squirrel dashing across the even ground startled them both. Melinda squeezed his hand and squealed, and though his own heart had leaped as though shocked, Sleel was quick to reassure her.
