by Rob Buckman
“What on Earth did you do to deserve this.” He muttered. “It’s worse than a death sentence.”
All Mike could do was lay there and hold his head as lances of pain sent daggers like bolts of lightning into his brain. An hour later the attack had subsided enough that he could sit up. The old man handed him a glass, of what he thought was water. It was Sake, and the first gulp made him cough.
“My deepest apologies, Leftenant. I didn’t realize the extent of your disability.”
“It’s all right, I understand. It’s difficult to explain to someone not from Avalon.”
“And this condition is due to?” That was a question Mike would rather not answer; yet, he had to.
“I killed two men in a duel, brothers, and found guilty of their deaths. This is my punishment.”
“Did you kill them deliberately, or accidently?”
“That’s the question. At first I was simply defending myself against their unprovoked attack, but after the bother attacked me as well, I got angry to the point I wanted them dead.”
“Now I understand.” The old man nodded, looking pensive. “Yes, this can be overcome I think.”
“I don’t think so, many people have tried.”
“Yes the key is within yourself.”
“I don’t understand.”
“At first you fought well, yet you let anger take control.”
“So?”
“It is this that you have to control, not your instinct to fight.”
“That’s easier said than done.” The old man made a brushing motion with his hand.
“Not so young one. Anger can be overcome and controlled.”
“Meditation, you mean.”
“That is one way.”
“And the other?”
“To recognize why you become angry is another.”
“Well, lots of things make me angry.”
“Why?”
“Because.” It was a stupid answer and he knew it, but couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“Why did you get angry when I attacked you?”
“It was unfair, and it stung!”
“True, so?”
“What do you mean, so?”
“Did my verbal insults make you angry?”
“No, a little irritated, is all.”
“Then my attack with the cane?”
“Well, no, not exactly.”
“Then what?” He raised his eyebrows in question.
“Because I couldn’t stop you!” Mike snapped at last, feeling a dart of pain.
“I see, you got angry at yourself, and so defeated yourself.”
“Well, no, not exactly.”
“Yes, exactly.” The teacher smiled. “The more you fought and couldn’t stop my attack the angrier you got with yourself for your inability to stop me, right?” In the end, Mike nodded. The old man was right. His anger was directed at himself, rather than the old man.
“You are good, very good, yet you are holding yourself back from what you can be.”
“What I can be?”
“More, there is a place you haven’t reached yet.”
“Where’s that?”
“Some people call it the ‘zone’, but it has many names. In essence, it’s a place where you can anticipate your opponents next move, can see what most cannot, feel what the other cannot.”
“I’ve heard of it, and I think I’ve been there a couple of time.”
“Did you feel pain, or anger?”
“No, I didn’t feel much inside my body, it was all external, as if I was moving faster than anyone else. Colors, taste, smell all shifted into high gear, so to speak.”
“Yes, you have been there.”
“But how do I get there?”
“Practice is part of it, patience is another, as it can’t be forced, and tranquility is another.”
“That’s a hard one.”
“Not so hard. You have to divorce yourself from fear, and become one with your sword, and your surroundings. Nothing else matters at that moment.”
“I think I understand.”
“When was the last time you experienced that moment?”
“Oh, some time ago, back in Naval Training College.”
“And?”
“Someone pushed me a little too far, and I reacted. I suddenly found I’d drawn my sword, turned, and executed a perfect horizontal strike to his neck all in a split second.”
“And, did you kill this person?”
“No, I didn’t want to. I stopped the blade before it touched his neck.” The old man nodded.
“That is the place.”
“But the pain came anyway.” He sighed.
“Because?” That made Mike think about it for a moment. Then he realized he got angry after the event, not during. The light dawned.
“I see you understand now.”
“Yes, I do.”
“So, we practice, and we shall see.”
With less and less for him to do on the ship, Mike started to take off early and go to the Dojo and practice. He did, day after day, quickly falling back into his old routine. The old man helped, using that long cane to try to provoke him into anger, but Mike slowly learned to divorce himself from his movement, allowing his muscle memory to take over the actions of his body. He soon found he could concentrate his more of his attention on his opponent and anticipate their attack. Conner thought it funny that the Skipper started taking the evenings off, but he didn’t ask questions, as day by day, he saw Mike become more relaxed, surer of himself. Whatever he was doing, getting laid most likely, it was working. Work was progressing well, yet they still hadn’t received word on the new operating system, and it worried Conner. A week later, Mike walked into the Dojo to find a stranger practicing on the floor, someone he didn’t know, although he did look slightly familiar.
“Hello, my name is Barker, Kevin Barker.” He stopped and held out his hand.
“Hello, I’m Mike Gray.” They shook hands, but the man squeezed just a little harder than necessary. Not that it bothered Mike, he’d learned not to squeeze hard here on Earth, as he might crush someone hand if he did.
“Where is the Sensei?”
“He had to go out for a while, said I could practice while he was out.”
“You a regular student?”
“No, I just drop in from time to time when I’m in town. Want to spar?”
“Um, not really.”
“Scared I might beat you?” He laughed.
“Beat me?” It was an odd question.
“Tell you what, how about ten credits a point, how’s that.”
“You mean spar for money?”
“Yes, that’s it. I do it all the time in London. It adds a bit of spice to the match.”
“No, that’s ok. I’m here just for the practice, that's all.”
“What better practice can you get than sparring with someone you don’t know.” It was a thought. Practicing with the teacher did mean they’d learn each other weaknesses after a while. With a stranger, you didn’t know what to expect.
“Okay, I’ll spar until the Sensei comes back.”
Kevin went over and picked up a practice sword from the rack, and seeing that, Mike put his Katana down on a bench and walked out onto the floor. Kevin threw him the sword, instead of handing it to him, but Mike caught it and swung it through the air to get the feel of it. Barker went into a standard on guard position in the center and waited for Mike to take up the same position. The moment he did, the man back off, dropping his sword to one side.
“Well?”
“Aren’t you going to salute...” Before he could finish, the man struck, putting Mike on the defensive. For five minutes, they danced around the floor, blades ringing in the air, stroke, counter strike, attack, and defense. The man was good, very good, yet he seemed to be holding something back.
“They tell me you are from Avalon, is that correct?”
“Yes, It is.” How the hell he knew that was
anyone's guess.
“I’m told it’s a shit hole of a planet, full of criminals and whores.”
“What?” Mike blinked in surprise.
“I heard that its run by a gang of butt fucking queers with a God complex, is that true?” Mike stumbled, and only just got his blade up in time to stop a strike.
“What the hell are you talking about.” The comments put him off his stride and he worked desperately to get back in the groove.
“I heard you got your pretty little ass off planet for stabbing some poor kids in the back, one jump ahead of the law.”
“You fucking asshole!” Anger blossomed and pain. Then he grabbed it. This had to be a test put on by the Sensei, as what he was saying made no sense. They disengaged for a moment, circling each other.
“I take it you are trying to get me pissed off.”
“Me? Why would I do that? But it's working, isn’t it Michael.” He laughed. A second rate swordsman like you shouldn’t step out onto the field against your betters.”
“Betters? You?” He laughed. “You aren’t even second rate!” A flash of something passed across the man's face for a moment and he stepped back into the attack. The insult game apparently worked both ways.
Mike parried and they moved back and forth across the floor as each sought an opening. Then disaster struck as he parried a strike. His sword shattered, breaking off just below the hilt. The man’s face opened with a look of triumph as he moved in for the kill. That was when Mike understood that this was no practice match. The man was here to kill him. He dropped into a leg sweep, spinning on the floor. It was so unexpected that he caught the Kevin Baker behind the legs and knocked him onto his back. In an instant Mike was up and sprinting across the floor to the bench. He grabbed the Katana by its hilt, sweeping it out. The scabbard slipped off to go clattering across the floor out of the way. It wasn’t a moment too soon, as Kevin Barker got up and came after him.
“You’re not going to get away that easy, boy!” He snarled. Their blades rang together as Mike parried the first blow.
“A third rate swordsman will have to do better than that.” Mike muttered, feeling his anger subside. Baker bared his teeth as the jibe hit home. That was his weak point, pride.
Backing up, he took the man back to the center of the room, and room to work. He started circling to the right, sword held upright to the ceiling with both hands. His feet glided across the floor, feeling the grain of the wood beneath the soles of his feet. His breathing deepened, but gradually faded from his conscious mind as the assassin came towards him, who and why he was sent didn’t matter, nor why he wanted to kill him, all that mattered was the fight. His anger dissipated along with the pain, leaving him free to fight, and fight he did. No self-doubts plagued him, no hesitation, and his body flowing from one position to the next flawlessly. He knew what the man was going to do next, his weapon all ready moving as he struck. Time seemed to slow, as color shifted, smell sharpened, his awareness of his surrounding expanded. He knew the make and model of the hover car passing on the road a street over, the color of the woman’s dress half a block away, the song coming from the pub, yet none of it intruded into the fight. They were just things he knew. Gradually, the look of hate filled confidence faded from the Kevin Barker’s face, replaced with first a look of puzzlement, then concern, then panic. Mike knew this could only end one way, in this man’s death.
It was useless disabling him as he’d never talk, and with no ‘TD-Penta’, the authorities had no way of finding the truth. He’d say it was just a practice match that got out of hand. If he lived, Mike knew he’d be back, this time with something more lethal and no warning. His death would also send a message to whoever sent him. Now it was absurdly simple to disarm or kill the man as nothing he did threaten Mike in any way. He appeared to stumble around the floor, heavy footed and inept. To Kevin Barker it was like fighting a phantom, something you couldn’t quite catch, no matter how hard you tried. He was a Master swordsman with fifteen kills to his credit, all paid for, and executed with the precision of a surgeon. He took great pride in his work, and he’d been assured that this would be an easy kill. Get the kid angry and he couldn’t fight, or so he’d been told. He’d tried that, and it didn’t work, so he had to rely on his skill as a swordsman. Now that was failing him. He’d never seen someone so fast, or exact. This kid was making him look and feel like an amateur. In the end, he tried one last desperate lung that failed as dismally as the other did and he sobbed. Then he screamed as he saw Mike turn on the balls of his feet, his sword sweeping up and around. He knew at that moment exactly what Mike was going to do, and hated him for it, knowing there was nothing he could do to stop it. Mike sword down, slicing through both forearms. Kevin Barker dropped to the floor, screaming in pain as he withered about in a spreading pool of his own blood. Thankfully, Mike kicked him in the jaw, breaking it, but also knocking him unconscious. Mike wasn’t about to try and hold down a man in pain, and try to get tourniquets on both arms. He managed it, covered in blood, he walked over to his comm unit to call the police.
“What on Earth?” The old man came back in just then, and one look told him what was going on.
“Um... He came here to kill me.”
“Obviously... but I know this man!”
“He said you gave him permission to practice here.”
“I did no such thing!” He snapped. “I was called away on a fool’s errand, now I can see why.”
“You know this man?”
“Yes, he is a notorious swordsman, noted for killing his opponent in duels, for money it is said.”
“I thought they didn’t permit dueling here?”
“They don’t in public. But in private, that’s another matter.”
“The question is, who sent him to kill me, and more to the question why?”
“That I cannot answer, you will have to ask that question of others.”
“Yeah, but how, this guy is never going to tell me.”
“No, the one other thing he is noted for, is keeping his mouth shut.”
“Why haven’t the police put him behind bars?”
“He had many friends in high places, and he is protected.”
“I put a call into the police, they should be here soon.”
“Then you should go before they arrive.”
“I can’t do that!” Mike looked up at the Sensei. That would leave you holding the bag.”
“This is true, but you need not concern yourself with that. Accidents do happen here, as you can imagine.”
“But...”
“Michael, I have taught you all I can, the rest is up to you.”
“I did it.” Mike said, looking down at the unconscious man.
“Did what?”
“I found the zone.”
“And it served you well,” he smiled, “and did you have pain?” Mike shook his head. He hadn’t after the first few moments. “Then you have learned well, now go!” It was useless arguing with the old man, and even before the police and ambulance turned into the alleyway, he was walking down the street away from the Dojo.
He didn’t say anything to Conner, which would only send him off after the man, to try and extract information, or worse. Instead, he got a dreamless night’s sleep and up early the next morning. He had a ship to finish. Later that day two long tanker barges pulled into the estuary, courtesy of Cynthia, each loaded with thirty, long, slim cylinders, and Adam went down to meet them. This was their initial supply of liquid deuterium-tritium enriched hydrogen, and he soon had the delicate and dangerous job of transferring it to the ship well in hand. The preparation consisted of an initial injection of nitrogen that purged the fuel tanks of air, and secondly pressurized them to check for leaks. That took several hours, as they tested the bleed valves until they detected 100% pure nitrogen. Slowly, they brought each tank up to 5000 pounds of pressure and left it for two hours to see if the calibrated pressure gages dropped, indicating a leak.
