by Ashanti Luke
Jang stood in front of Cyrus, gripping the handle of the bokan with both hands as if he thought he would fall from the ship if he let go. Cyrus lunged forward with his staff and Jang parried, stiffly, but effectively. In an exaggerated arc, Cyrus brought the end of the staff around over his own head, attacking again as he stepped forward. Jang parried again, but this time, his stiffness caused him to lose balance. Cyrus shifted his weight and brought the back end of the staff around into Jang’s chest. Jang stumbled but did not fall. The blow had been enough to get Jang’s attention, but not enough to send him to the floor. Cyrus stepped back and held his staff at his side. “What happened there?” Cyrus asked.
“You hit me in the chest,” Jang answered, rubbing his chest as he centered himself back in front of Cyrus.
“You are too stiff. You have to relax.”
“How can I relax if you keep hitting me in the chest?”
“Relax and I won’t be able to,” Cyrus said, kicking the bottom of the staff with his left foot and spinning into both hands as he dropped into a fighting stance.
Cyrus lunged forward again. Jang was caught off-guard and his hands moved the bokan instinctively to his left side, pushing Cyrus’s staff to the outside of his shoulder. The heat from the bruise that was swelling across his chest told Jang he did not want to get hit there again. Jang lashed forward, determined to get Cyrus and the staff out of his face. He swung his hands down with fury, bringing the wooden sword down in an arc toward Cyrus’s forehead. Cyrus turned into Jang and brought the middle of his staff into the path of the bokan. The two wooden weapons collided with a clap, and Jang, still stoked with adrenalin, pressed into Cyrus.
“Yes!” Cyrus exclaimed, shifting his weight to hold Jang back, “Much better!” Cyrus then stepped down and to his left and Jang’s weight carried him past Cyrus. Cyrus swung the end of his staff around and pushed Jang along with a tap on the back. “Don’t overextend yourself. Never sacrifice your vertical base for an attack.”
Jang gathered himself and turned to face Cyrus again. He was aware of the others locked in mock combat around him, but he focused on Cyrus as he brushed his damp hair from his face.
“You should tie that up next time,” Cyrus taunted. Jang turned his head to the side to swing the lock of hair the rest of the way and continued the motion into a lunge. Cyrus side-stepped and blocked the thrust upward with the back end of the staff, but Jang recovered quickly and brought the bokan back down toward Cyrus’s neck. Cyrus stepped under again, spun the staff a half turn, and brought the spinning end down on the top of the wooden blade. Jang’s momentum carried him forward and he tripped on Cyrus’s foot. Jang careened toward the ground face-first. Cyrus placed his staff under Jang and leaned, hitting Jang in the chest again, but halting his decent to the floor.
“Footing,” Cyrus reminded.
Suddenly, as Jang gathered himself again, the door to the dojo slid open. Everyone stopped where they were and turned to see Commander Uzziah standing with his arms folded. Tanner turned to face Uzziah and belted “Ready Position!” Instantly everyone lowered their weapons, snapped to half-attention, and held their weapons at their side—everyone except Dr. Jang who almost fell as Cyrus moved the staff from under his body and shifted into ready position. Tanner waited for Jang to gather himself and for him to attempt to mimic the stance.
“When a fellow martial artist enters the room you greet!” Tanner bellowed and everyone, except Jang, brought their weapons into their right hands and greeted in unison as they faced Commander Uzziah. Uzziah unfolded his arms, straightened his body, brought his open hands slightly to the front, and then sharply to his sides, slapping his workout pants as he brought his right foot up and then down quickly to the floor. As the sound resonated through room, he bowed ever so slightly, keeping his eyes on Tanner.
“To what do we owe the honor of this visit?” Tanner relaxed his own greeting and stepped toward Uzziah.
“After you guys’ fiasco in the hallway last night, Fordham and Villichez asked me to check up on your little soirée and make sure everything is kosher,” Uzziah smiled smugly, his eyes calmly taking in the details of the room.
“Join us,” Tanner indicated his own kali sticks, “we are weapons training.” Uzziah looked around the room at each of their weapons and finally moved over to Dr. Jang.
“May I?” Uzziah asked, indicating Jang’s bokan. Jang nodded and handed over the weapon.
“Who is my partner?” Uzziah asked, looking around, a confident grin on his face.
“I am,” Tanner said, moving toward him, kali sticks firmly in his hands now. Tanner greeted again. Uzziah returned the greeting and launched himself forward as soon as his foot hit the ground. Tanner’s right stick clacked against the bokan as he moved to the outside of the attack. Tanner brought his left stick around, toward Uzziah’s back, but Uzziah stepped with Tanner’s parry and turned into a parry of his own. Uzziah riposted off the parry, angling the tip of the bokan over his left forearm toward Tanner’s chest, but Tanner dipped to his left and brought his right stick under and around, pushing Uzziah’s lunge to the right. Tanner riposted from his parry and brought the inside of his right stick toward Uzziah’s face, but Uzziah stepped forward, following the bokan, and went beneath the attack. Uzziah stepped his left foot back behind Tanner and swung left, but Tanner was already stepping his back foot over. Tanner spun blindly, bringing his elbow around and the kali stick in his left hand into the path of the attack. As soon as Tanner’s right foot was planted again, he lifted his left knee and extended his leg toward Uzziah’s ribs. The Commander exhaled as the kick caught his ribs, but continued rolling to his right. He pivoted on his right foot and shifted the bokan to his left hand. Rolling past Tanner’s back, Uzziah took a backhand swipe at him, but only connected with wood. Uzziah used the momentum from the parry to flip the wooden sword in his hand into an overhand grip and launched his right elbow at Tanner’s temple. Tanner rolled away from the elbow and, as Uzziah tried to follow him, he lifted his left leg in a little hop and caught the back of Uzziah’s thigh. Uzziah stopped turning and stepped back to create some space.
Uzziah stumbled as he stepped, but he completed his turn and lunged back and to close the distance. Uzziah swung his left hand like a punch, the wooden blade of the bokan trailing in its arc. Tanner met the attack with both kali sticks and was hit in his ribs by Uzziah’s knee. Tanner locked his sticks in a cross around the bokan and as the Commander lifted his knee for a second attack, Tanner lifted his own knee to his chest and extended his leg. The kick caught Uzziah in his solar plexus, and sent him stumbling two steps backward, weaponless.
As quickly as he went back, Uzziah charged forward again, hoping to catch Tanner off-guard. Tanner threw the mass of weapons beneath Uzziah’s feet, catching him unprepared. The weapons caught around Uzziah’s ankles and he lost his footing. Uzziah lifted his knees to get his feet back beneath him, but Tanner was already stepping past him, delivering a back fist to Uzziah’s upper back. Uzziah careened to the ground in a clattering of limbs and wood. The others could hear the air escape Uzziah’s lungs as his torso met the floor and bounced. Uzziah got his arms under his body quickly, but before he could lift himself, Tanner had descended on him like a falcon and had his arm around Uzziah’s right arm and throat, knee pressed into the small of his back. As Tanner pressed the Commander’s face into the floor, he moved his mouth as close to Uzziah’s ear as he could while maintaining the hold. The Commander’s body tensed, but he knew struggling would be of little use.
“Only the Sifu teaches lessons in this room. That Sifu is me, and he demands respect!” Everyone stood in slack-jawed awe, but Tanner didn’t seem to notice. “You pay your respect to the Sifu, or you will pay your respect to the floor!”
Tanner’s chest heaved in and out, his breathing more deliberate than any of them had ever seen as he released the Commander, stepped from over him, and extended his hand to him. The Commander, flushed where his face had been pressed into floor
, turned slowly. He paused for a moment, and then took Tanner’s hand.
“Now go run and report that to Villichez and Fordham,” Tanner spat out with more disdain than Cyrus had ever heard in his voice. Tanner then moved to collect the weapons scattered across the floor. Cyrus leaned on his staff. The air made him uncomfortable, as if he himself had been a part of the melee. The tension sat heavy on his brow, a swath of perspiration no towel could remove.
Uzziah focused on the back of Tanner’s head and Cyrus tensed, gripping his staff more firmly and shifting his weight back to his feet. When Tanner realized the Commander was not moving toward the door, he turned sharply to face him. Before Tanner completed his turn, Uzziah’s hands had already moved to his side, his foot had already come down on the floor, and his head was already bowing. This time he prostrated his gaze, for only a brief moment, and then he raised his head, “I would like permission to remain with the class, Sifu,” he barked in a militaristic, yet respectful, tone.
Tanner knelt to retrieve the weapons he had tossed to the floor. Tanner stood, both his sticks cupped into one hand, the bokan in the other, and bowed his head to Uzziah, “If you are going to stay, you will need to pick another weapon, because this one belongs to Dr. Jang.” Tanner lifted the bokan and tossed it to Jang who, not expecting it, barely caught it. Tanner then moved to the Commander and offered him his hand again, this time in friendship, “Welcome to the class,” he smiled, “it’s been a long time coming.”
• • • • •
“Has anyone else noticed there are no mathematicians or philosophers on this ship?” Dr. Milliken asked as he spooned another bite of wheatgrass pilaf that tasted remarkably like rice from his plate.
Dr. Winberg was quick to chime in with an answer, “That’s because there is no room on a pioneering expedition for pseudoscience and people who get paid to talk. Notice there are no lawyers or politicians on this ship either.”
However hypocritical the bite behind Winberg’s statement had been, Cyrus could see its validity. Everyone had heard this complaint from Winberg before, but it had never been more poignant. He was about to intone his agreement, but Dr. Villichez was already speaking, “A scathing remark indeed, but it is most certainly true. Division of labor is a luxury we can no longer afford. That is, not until we have more fully colonized Asha. So, gentlemen, enjoy your late-night gaming sessions and beating yourselves into a battered stupor while we are festooned on this vessel, for be assured that when we reach planet-side, the renewed adolescence you have experienced on this ship will be ripped from the futile grasps of the unprepared.”
An ominous quiet filled the room. Palpable, it filled the lungs, made it hard to breathe, but uncharacteristic of the unctuous fog it mimicked, vision became clearer, and the solemn faces of each of the scientist became more distinct. Their lives were no longer what they knew; their professions were behind them. They were now men of means. Social standing, academic kudos, and tenure now meant as little as a tick on the back of some world-devouring Leviathan. Their old skills would amount to precisely nil if they could not learn new ones. They would accept this, or they would die.
The rest of the dinner was consumed in a reverent silence. Every bite of creatively mingled soybeans, grapes, and wheatgrass was chewed carefully, savored. As they ate, morsel by ambrosial morsel, each man, from pious Christian to blasphemous agnostic, uttered a silent prayer for his own sanity and soul—each of the men genuflecting now under the weight of their choice, in his own way.
• • • • •
When Cyrus entered his room, Dr. Villichez was putting a music sphere on his personal datadeck. As the door slid shut behind him, Cyrus noticed that even in this overly sterile environment, the room had the aroma of aftershave, tweed, and venerable wisdom—just as it should have.
“Isn’t the Shipmate programmed with just about any music selection imaginable?” Cyrus asked as stood in front of the now closed door.
Dr. Villichez didn’t look up, focusing a surgical attentiveness on the placement of the crystal sphere. “I prefer the sound of the music sphere actually. Seems more… tactile, more sympathetic than the efficient stream of kilobits that pipes in from the Shipmate’s central processor.” With the sphere in place, warm, tenor notes of a saxophone streamed into the room as smooth, lilting upright bass massaged the air.
Crossing his legs and cupping his hands together over his knee, Villichez swiveled in his chair to face Cyrus, “Please, have a seat,” he nodded toward the empty loveseat in the corner that was the only furnishing that came with the room that was unique to Villichez. “What brings you here?”
Cyrus sat, a little awkwardly. It wasn’t that Villichez made him uncomfortable—it was exactly the contrary—but there was something about him, like he knew more about you, the room—about everything—than he put on. With Villichez sitting there, Cyrus found it hard to sit upright. He was, for once, at a loss for words—it was as if he expected Villichez to already know why he was there.
And then, before he really knew he had opened his mouth, it had just come out, “Actually, I just wanted to thank you.”
“What on Earth for?” Villichez asked, a little bewildered, but patient.
It took Cyrus a moment to fully gauge where his mind was taking him, “Well, I know I haven’t been the most manageable of colleagues since we all hatched, and I just want to say I appreciate you taking it all with a grain of salt.”
Villichez let out a deep chuckle. Cyrus could picture in his mind sweet scented tobacco smoke wafting from around a carved wooden pipe with each guffaw. “Dr. Chamberlain, we all sit before a proverbial round table on this ship. I don’t see any need to have to manage you.”
As Villichez leaned back, Cyrus relaxed a little into a more proper posture. “I see your point, and yet in a way, you do manage all of us. I guess I just want to say, as much as I rouse a rabble here and there, that I do appreciate it.”
“Well, in that case, I thank you,” Villichez made a slight, but evident bowing motion, “but I must say, apart from that business with leaving Dr. Tanner battered and trammeled in the hallway, most of your tirades and endeavors I have found rather amusing, albeit after the wind from your goose flapping has died down.”
Cyrus smiled, “Goose flapping?”
“Evidently, in a less… automated day and age, children would chase the rather largish birds around the farm. And when caught, the geese were known to spread their wings and deliver quite a buffeting.”
“That is a pretty accurate description of my disposition,” Cyrus relaxed into the back of the chair, smiling again. But almost as suddenly as he had loosened, his expression waned, and he averted his eyes to the music sphere. The sphere glimmered as notes of the whispering piano and coquettish bass flirted and danced in the air with them. Cyrus caressed his chin between his forefinger and his thumb as the delicate play of light through the magnetically suspended sphere transfixed him.
“Something the matter?” Dr. Villichez asked, his concern almost as tactile as the music drifting through the speakers from the spinning translucent orb.
“I’m fine,” Cyrus said, not even convincing himself. He pried his attention from the music sphere and turned to face Villichez, who was now leaning forward, his chin cupped in his hand, elbow resting on his knee. “Well, I feel fine as far as I can tell, but my dreams seem to beg to differ.”
“Troubling dreams?”
“Not really. Most of the dreams are fairly straightforward. Dreams of life back on Earth mixed in with some odd bits and pieces of this place. You know, typical stuff, it’s just that in these dreams… I dunno…” Cyrus turned back to the sphere for a moment as the saxophone stepped between the piano and the bass. It wasn’t aggressive, but it was enough to get their attention and have them step aside while he did his own thing. Cyrus replied quicker this time, “It’s like things are going fine, but I keep tripping. Every dream things are fine. Finer than they should be. And then I’m tripping again. Every time, tri
pping over the same emotional thread.”
“And how would you describe this thread?”
“I can’t really describe it. It’s like trying to catch the rain as it falls from the sky. All of it. You can’t. And the harder you try, and the more impossible you realize it is, the more frustrated you become.”
“I’m not sure I follow. Can you elaborate?”
“I don’t know. It’s so hard to keep ahold of,” Cyrus looked to the sphere again. Now the piano, saxophone, and bass mingled together in a sensuous ménage a trois that seemed to fill the room with sapphire and orange hues. Cyrus took in the scent of it, let it fill his lungs, held it there for a beat, and then exhaled it all. He paused under the sheer weight, and then lifted his eyes to meet Villichez’s, “Once, my son asked me to go to a Halloween party a friend from his school was having. Everyone had to dress up. At first I was reluctant, but after I decided to go as one of my son’s favorite cel-shade characters, it wasn’t long before I really got into it. I recorded episodes of the gram and watched it over and over again just to get the character right. It was amazing how appealing it was to pretend to be someone else for a day.” For a moment it seemed the weight would get the best of him, but Cyrus exchanged another breath with the room and was able to lift his head again. “When the call for volunteers for the Ashan expedition came out, it was like being asked to go to that Halloween party again. Only this time, it was an opportunity to dress up as someone else for the rest of my life.”
The music sphere continued to spin as the melodic tryst subsided. The instruments were spent, the air in the room thinned in the afterglow, and again Cyrus absorbed as much of it as he could before he was forced to let it go, “It was easier than I expected to leave my daily clothes behind. I can do just fine without the ties, the Laureate pins, the khakis, all of that is flotsam in the bilge bay to me. Problem is, I don’t know if I can bear the weight of the costume I chose. The beauty is that I know one way or the other, it’s been chosen, and there is no way back. But in the meantime, I feel like I’m standing here naked, in between here and there, and it’s cold… it’s just… cold.”
