by Tim Marquitz
Behind him, a door opened and he heard a sharp intake of breath. Without pause, Jing Ke span on his heel and stabbing out with the dagger. His vision narrowed to the target, the ribs, high up and just to the right of the sternum. The blade deflected off bone, twisted and sunk into flesh.
Jing Ke caught his victim under the arm as they fell.
“Fuck,” he said, catching the first glimpse of stabbed man’s face.
His companion chose that moment to come round the corner, took one look at the scene and turned tail. Saving his own skin, Jing Ke thought.
“Jing Ke,” his victim said, eyes wide with shock, “what went wrong.”
A creak on the stairs announced the presence of the search parties on the fourth floor. Jing Ke stood from the bed as the door opened. There was shouting, calls that they had found him as the first men entered the room, barging each other through the door. They came to halt just out of reach, brandishing a collection of swords and axes. There was no space to come at him all at once or to get around behind him. More men piled in through the door until one, close to the front, called for them to stop. The room settled into silence.
Three men formed the front row facing him, one with a moustache, a second with long hair and the man who had ordered them to stop was bald. They elbowed each other. It was clear they were not officers, but had stumbled upon him by lucky accident. Now that they had found him, they did not know what to do with him. He needed someone with some brains, someone in charge, to talk to.
“If you are going to swing those swords can I suggest you get on with it,” Jing Ke bent down and lifted the two corners of his robe to his waist and tied them together, giving his legs room to move.
The bald one gave his two comrades a disgusted look as they tried to back away. Those behind were still pushing forward. With a shake of his head, the bald man stepped forward, holding the point of his sword low.
“Are you sure?” Jing Ke asked, settling into the quiet place in his mind. It was like the first breeze of spring, a promise of warmth and comfort after a long, cold winter. Fear and worry fell away. On the air, he could smell sweat, laced with fear and anticipation, and the scent of bloodlust. He smiled.
The guard lunged. His long, double-edged Jian sword stabbing out, aimed at Jing Ke’s stomach. He watched it coming, the reflection of the candle’s flame elongated along the polished blade. At the last moment, Jing Ke twisted his body and the sharp point passed him by. At the same time, he struck out with his left hand, the knuckles crushing and breaking the man’s nose. His right hand caught the bald man’s wrist and twisted, causing him to drop the sword which Jing Ke plucked from the air before it hit the floor.
“Who wants to be next?” he asked as the bald man stumbled backwards, blood pouring down his face and dripping on the floor. “Just know, the first man to attack dies. After that, well, we’ll see won’t we?”
He stood still, the stolen sword held point down by his side. He could see them fight the urge to back away. None of them wanted to make the first move, but were prepared to make the second. Their eyes flicked from side to side and they licked their lips.
Jing Ke let them sweat for a moment and then took a graceful side-step the left, away from the end of bed. Behind him, the small gap between bed and cabinet, the little alley to the shuttered window. The man in the middle of the facing three must have thought he saw an opening. He lunged. It surprised the two on either side who were not fast enough, and found themselves without the room, to react. The guard stepped across his comrade on the left, preventing him from joining in, and blocking the path for the man on the far right.
The sword drove towards Jing Ke’s eyes, but he recognised it for the feint it was. The guard halted his lunge, pulled the sword back a little before ramming it down towards Jing Ke’s belly. On the training field, this was a probably a move he had won a lot of duels with. It took skill to halt a lunge, to adjust your balance and change the path of the sword. The guard was skilled, no doubt about it. Jing Ke was better. He ignored the desire to lift his sword high in a parry which would have left his stomach open to the real attack. The guard’s technique was good. Jing Ke admired the twist of the wrist that brought the blade horizontal, to pass unobstructed between his ribs. Even as his own sword swept up in a small half-circle to redirect the point away from his torso, he was debating whether to kill or wound the guard. Death was a waste of talent, but a wound would leave him a threat. In the end, it was no choice at all. He allowed the guard to follow through on the lunge, off balance and overreaching himself, and executed his riposte.
Jing Ke twisted his sword and opened the wound in the guards throat wider, letting the blood pour out in a waterfall. The stolen sword had slipped through the guard’s throat into his brain. The jolt on Jing Ke’s wrist told him he had struck the far side of the man’s skull. The purpose of the twist was to heighten the fear in the room. To keep the guards back for a while longer. A few seconds more. Long enough for someone with an ounce of brains to take charge, he hoped. The two other guards, having been blocked from attacking, watched their friend fall dead at their feet, a flood of red spreading across the floor, decided that holding back was the right thing to do.
There was a commotion at the back of the group. The sounds of pushing and shoving. A few barked commands and threats. A man dressed in an expensive, gold embroidered, red silk robe emerged from the crowd. Jing Ke watched his eyes take note of everything that had happened. The dead guard, the stranger with blood dripping from his sword, and the man on the bed, dagger hilt jutting from his ribs. At last, Jing Ke thought, someone I can talk to.
“I offer you an easy death,” the newcomer said. “Though it is clear you don’t deserve it.”
“An easy death?” Jing Ke answered.
“There is no escape from here, assassin. You cannot kill everyone and the door is blocked. All your skill with a sword will do you little good. Surrender now, with no more bloodshed, and I promise your death will be quick and as painless as I can make it.”
“You have two men down already. I think I can kill a few more before they kill me. Death in battle is nothing to ashamed of, but death by the headsman’s axe or hangman’s noose? No, they are not for me,” Jing Ke said.
“I understand,” the rich man said and then he turned to the guards at the back. “Bring up the crossbows.”
Jing Ke, still ensconced in the calm, had known this had been a possibility. Crossbows would change the balance of the stand-off, tipping the scales in their favour. It had to be ended soon.
“May I have your name?” Jing Ke asked.
“I am General Cao Cao,” the man said, in a sombre voice.
Jing Ke cast a quick glance over his shoulder and saw Ren, on the bed, turn his head towards the voice. His eyes were dull and there was a sheen of sweat across skin already losing its pallor.
“It is my son you have there,” the general said.
“Good. Just wanted to make sure I had the right man,” Jing Ke smiled.
“Let me through to him,” the general said, and this time Jing Ke could see the look of desperation in the father’s eyes.
“You can have him in moment,” Jing Ke said. A little beacon of hope lit the general’s face. “He will die though. My blade has cut through one the major vessels coming from his heart. The knife is holding back the flow and sealing the wound. As soon as you remove it, his death will be quick. There is nothing anyone can do.”
“Why did you do this? Who paid you?” the general stepped forward, an angry movement that brought him into range of Jing Ke’s sword, but the assassin held back. He had not been paid to kill the general, just the son. “I will see their bodies impaled on stakes and propped up in front of the city as a warning to all.”
And here it was. The culmination of this night’s work. The speech he had to deliver was firm in his mind. Name his employer, or at least his supposed employer because he felt there was a greater play being made here than he had been told, give the r
easons and disappear into the night. If he could get past the swords and crossbows. Jing Ke held his tongue.
Always take responsibility. Always complete your task. Don’t rely on others and don’t blame others. They are your choices to make and your actions to take. His father’s words sounded once again in his head. Here, in the city he had grown up in. The place where he had been raised, where he had been trained to be the best he could be, better than the rest. His home, where he had been loved. The place he had been happy. Decision, action, responsibility, honour.
Jing Ke looked again at the general’s face and imagined his father’s there instead. The pain in his eyes and the burgeoning tide of loss that was about to drown him. The son he loved, on the bed, dying. Jing Ke’s knife, the cause and at present, the only thing keeping him alive. A pointing finger of accusation and evidence. Decision, action, responsibility. There was no honour in this.
“My name is Jing Ke. General, you know me. You know my father, though he has no hand in this, as you well know. I played with your son in summers gone past, when I was young and the world was different. I am the man who killed him. It is what I do. It is what I am, General. I don’t ask for your forgiveness. I am, despite everything, and whether you choose to believe me or not, sorry for your loss.” His voice was calm and his heart rate slow. Within the quiet in his mind, he was sure of his path.
“Kill him,” the general screamed and, from the back of the crowd, a crossbow string twanged. The bolt flew over the heads of the guards. Jing Ke ducked. The missile struck the plaster wall behind and fell to the floor.
Jing Ke threw his sword into the air making it tumble end over end, drawing their gazes up with it. He turned on one foot and took a step towards the shuttered window. Focusing his qi, he leaped, back leg sweeping through the jump and extending forwards. The glass shattered as did the wooden shutter behind it. He sailed through the jagged hole.
What had gone wrong? Everything.
A wail of grief and anger followed him into the night’s shadow.
He carried it with him.
White Out
J. Cameron McClain
Reprinted with permission from Toccatas & Fugues: Stories So Far
J. Cameron McClain started life in Huntsville Alabama, home of the Redstone Arsenal, and the Mercury, Gemini, and Apollo space programs. His grandfather was one of the flight surgeons for the space program, thus he was introduced to the ambitious concept of humans flying into space at a very early age.
The first book he can remember receiving as a gift was Thirteen Alabama Ghosts and Jeffrey. Soon after that, he saw his first ghost, one of many such revenants who have passed by—and through—over the years. Having been introduced to the paranormal at a young age, he has enjoyed a close and mostly cordial relationship with it since that time.
His books can be purchased on Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/J.-Cameron-McClain/e/B009BD63GW When he’s not trying to write, he’s trying to help other people write: http://horri-fi.com
Or if your wish be to close me, I and my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending
—E.E. Cummings, Somewhere I Have Never Travelled, Gladly Beyond
I never waited for Ray to arrive before I did my pregame shot and beer. He didn’t drink much, so as usual I’d do the pulling for both of us. And that afternoon there were already two reasons to start early. One, it was Thursday, and two, I’d just finished talking to Maggie. Talking to my soon-to-be ex was always a chore. You’d think our court get-togethers would be enough for her, but no. This time she’d called about the support payments. She was always coming up with something else to try and piss me off about. She was going for round two after my oldest daughter Angela handed the phone back to her, when I got a call from the office. Whaddya know, for once I had a real reason to cut Maggie off. Just lucky I guess.
Two reasons to have the shot became three when Wei Dan told me about a change to the pitch plan. They’d put that little punk Adil on the team with us. Dead. Weight. Sure, he was a board member’s wife’s cousin or whatever, but couldn’t they just promote him already? At least then he’d be up at the top with the other idiots. He wouldn’t be any help with Zimbabwe’s negotiating team; we needed someone with credentials who could downplay the geology so we could get a better deal, not a seat-warmer waiting for a complimentary upgrade. With Wei Dan’s news and Magdalene’s disapproving tones still echoing, I called it Happy Hour, sat back, turned the channel to SNN-7 to see what was on before the soccer. Hey, soccer, who would have guessed?
It was probably some sort of new angle. My guys had told me Maggie’s people would probably go for the alcohol and the “incident,” but I had a two-decade-long career at Chang & Von Braun Mineral Extractions on my side. I wasn’t worried about some middle-school teacher’s personal references and one single misguided incident.
Ray’s cell went right to voicemail, so I figured he was still working on something in the lab and couldn’t answer. No biggie, not like I had anything else to do that second, so I started to leave a message about the evening plans. “Hey hey, Ray-Ray, it’s Thursday night and you know what that means. Footie, pizza, beers, maybe the….”
There was a click at the other end, a few more clicks, and then Ray’s voice.
“Donnie? Sorry man, I didn’t know it was you until I heard your voice; they’ve put a screen on the calls.”
“What, is the Third Force threatening to bomb you astronomers now?”
“Listen. Don, I’ll be leaving the office in a few minutes. I will call you back, so wait.”
“You’re knocking off at three? Nice one. The beers are already cold, I got boerewors, and…”
“No. I mean. Donnie, listen… I’ll call you back, I’ll call you back.”
Click.
What the fuck was that all about? I fretted around the house for a while, finished the beer. Ray was wound up, and Ray was never wound up. I sat, flipped through a random landscape and furniture magazine, saw Maggie’s name on the address strip on the cover and peeled it off. She’d been thinking of buying some new furniture and had folded over the corners on some neo-retro stuff she liked. It all looked like shit. I tossed the magazines at the “authentic” African wooden-frame box she’d bought in some antiques hole she frequented. Mine now, good garbage can. I picked the phone up on the third buzz.
“Donnie, I only have a few minutes. I have less than an hour. I’m going home to see my family. My wife Dear is going to collect the children and meet me….” The voice trailed off, then restarted. “I’m sorry. Donnie, listen, man. Mercy on us all. I’m sorry. You might as well hear it now as an hour from now. It was one in a million, some youngster in Detroit with a tracking telescope.”
This was gonna suck. The conversation had that “this is gonna suck” feeling attached. I threw out a joke. “But the bad news is she doesn’t get a scholarship?” I couldn’t tell what the next noise was, like a hiccup. After that he spoke.
“We confirmed trajectory only an hour ago, based on observations in a number of countries. It’s beyond twenty kilometers wide.”
Okay. Five, ten, twenty, like I know asteroid sizes off the top of my head. “Shit, that is big, what’s it gonna do? Is South Africa gone, is it going to hit somewhere that—”
“I—you can’t—Donnie, Donnie listen, be quiet and listen to me for a moment!”
He never talked like that to me.
“Donnie, twenty kilometers is twice as large as the asteroid that incinerated most of the planet 65 million years ago, and it may actually be bigger; some estimates say it is nearly 35 kilometers. You must understand. Nothing will remain anywhere, not the land, or the oceans, or the atmosphere, nothing at all. I’m sorry. The asteroid…. I’m sorry. I wish we could talk in person, but I’m sorry. I know it’s Thursday. I forgot. You understand. I’m almost home. Donnie listen, we have about nine days.”
Ray mentioned more data, more pr
obabilities. Don’t know why he bothered with the rest. Shit, he sold me as soon as he mentioned my planet’s atmosphere being blown out into space. I absently tore a piece of skin off my lip and started chewing on it. I hardly thought about where the pulp came from until I tossed back the rest of the shot and felt the sting of the alcohol.
“Nombeko Tutu will be making an announcement within the hour, confirming the… confirming what we’ve found. I guess the discovery’s already getting out on the Net, so they have to say something. I’d suggest you stay inside for a while; who knows how people are going to react to this.”
Click.
I already had a pretty good idea how people would react. The everyday, mundane world around me was humankind in the best case scenario. Damned by faint praise.
In my house were three shotguns, two rifles (one a sharpshooter), and five pistols of various sizes with plenty of ammo to go around. Funny what you got used to worrying about, living in South Africa. I threw what I had in the Bimmer, along with a random week’s worth of decent clothes and “outing gear,” got on the phone to Magdalene—voice mail, shit—and told her to get our kids, get home, stay inside, and lock the doors until I got there.
It was about a 45-minute drive, or at least it would have been if I’d touched the brakes. Already there were military forces on the roads. People must have been wondering what the hell was going on with all the hardware mobilized. Everyone would know soon enough. The cops weren’t stopping anyone either. Probably not high on the priority list.
I reached Maggie’s place in thirty minutes, didn’t see her car parked out front so immediately headed down her usual course to the kids’ school. She always took the same tedious route. I saw the Volvo—loud green, hard to miss—halfway there. We passed each other, Maggie startled at the unexpected sight of my car (and my beeping and waving), but she got my “call me” gesture as they passed and the cell rang a few seconds later.
