The Musashi Flex

by Steve Perry

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Not getting hit,” she said.

  “But what if you are in tight quarters?”

  “And what if a passing starliner drops out of the sky and falls on this broke-sprocket village? I have room, so I moved.”

  He shook his head.

  “Isn’t it better to avoid a hit than to block it? Didn’t you tell me that?”

  “Yes. But you might not always have the space.”

  “But I do. Why shouldn’t I use it?”

  “Because—” he started, looking exasperated. But then he stopped. Blinked a couple of times, and went into that somewhere-else head space she’d seen him in before.

  “What?”

  “You’re right. Having a punch miss is better than blocking or even parrying—it takes less effort, and if you do it right, you can off-balance an attack. And you should use what you have.”

  “See, I’m a genius.”

  He didn’t smile.

  “That was a joke.”

  He nodded.

  “What?”

  “If there was a way to duck or dodge or slip an attack in a very small space, just by moving a little, either your feet or your body or maybe a combination of both? That would be good.”

  “Right. So why aren’t you teaching me that?”

  “That’s exactly the right question. Why aren’t I?”

  “And the answer is . . . ?”

  “I’m not sure. Old thought patterns, old habits. But I could. I know enough to figure it out.”

  “Call me when you do. Maybe I’ll go take a walk down to the grain silo and watch the bovines make cow pies.”

  “No, wait, we’re onto something here. Put your hands into a basic high/low guard position. When I step in to punch this time, step with your right foot and put it down there.” He pointed to a spot on the floor. “Angle it out about forty-five degrees. At the same time, slide your left foot on the floor to there. Don’t try to block at all, just keep your hands in position. You don’t need to take two or three steps, one small one will do. Like you’re moving along one leg of a triangle, with the base running back there.”

  “I’m not supposed to block? You’re gonna slap me again.”

  “Just try it, okay?”

  He stepped back and set himself for an attack. He nodded, then stepped in, fast.

  She did as he had told her, stepped slightly forward and to her right a hair, and scooted her left foot up.

  His slap missed her cleanly.

  He grinned. “Good.”

  “Yeah, but you are almost on top of me, and like you have been saying since day one, you aren’t going to throw one punch and then stop and wait for me. What about the other hand?”

  “You move again. I’ll be throwing a left, or turning and trying another right, maybe a kick or knee, so, let’s see, you pull your left foot over behind your right foot, that sempok crossover step I showed you. Then when I throw the third attack, move the right foot across in the front version, the depok step. I’ll go slow.”

  He did, and with the two steps, he missed both strikes again.

  “I like this not-getting-hit stuff better,” she said. “It’s more like dancing.”

  “Exactly. And that’s what martial arts are, dances. After each of your steps, you could counterattack, a punch, an elbow, a knee, depending on the range, you don’t just have to dodge. Once I miss, you get a shot. And you are in balance at any point.”

  She nodded. “But what if you didn’t just punch, what if you threw an elbow or a knee or whatever?”

  “Doesn’t matter. If you have the proper position, I won’t connect. The trick is to be sure you are in the proper position relative to whatever attack I might throw.”

  “The possibilities are infinite,” she said.

  “No, not really. There are only a relatively few ways I can attack effectively and efficiently from any given stance. If you can see how I’m standing and poised, you can avoid my attack. If I am here, there can’t be but a few ways to move my feet and get there.”

  “Yeah, after thirty years of practice I might get it.”

  “No, I think you could learn it pretty quick!”

  He was as excited as she had ever seen him. Her action had triggered something in him, he had made some kind of connection in his thinking, and she could almost hear the wheels in his mind turning at speed as the idea took hold.

  “Ninety, maybe a hundred moves, they would cover just about any attack from any angle.”

  “Only ninety or a hundred? Jesu, that’s a lot, Mourn.”

  “No, no, no, it isn’t! I’ve learned thousands and thousands of attack and defense patterns, and they start to duplicate each other pretty quick. When you get right down to it, there aren’t that many ways for somebody to come at you effectively. All you need is one or two good responses for each one.

  “Why didn’t I see this before?” He shook his head.

  “Maybe you didn’t have the right teacher,” she said.

  He looked at her as if seeing her for the first time. “You’re right. Pure truth sometimes comes out of the mouths of babes. Man! I can do this. I can put together some sequences that will cover anything that can come at you. Link them together in a system. Damn!”

  She liked it that he was so excited, and that somehow, even though she wasn’t sure how, she was responsible for it.

  The meal was superb, and Azul expected no less. A billionaire with taste doesn’t have to eat less than the best, and whoever the chef was here, she or he was top-grade. The fish they’d had was probably swimming around unaware of its fate an hour before it was prepared, and the vegetables picked and rushed to the kitchen from a garden behind the place. Only the wine was aged, and the vintage was a very good year indeed.

  That they were the only patrons in a room designed to hold eighty didn’t surprise her, either. Shaw could own the restaurant, or merely have rented it for the evening. The superrich were different from ordinary folks—not only did they have more money, they knew how to spend it to their advantage.

  A waiter materialized at her elbow with an icy bottle of sparkling wine and topped off her glass, a thincris flute that probably cost a couple hundred stads all by itself. The wine was pale straw in color, the bubbles very tiny, and it was the best sparkling wine she had ever tasted.

  It would be hard not to be impressed, and Azul was well aware that Shaw had pulled out the stops to do just that. But her persona had to have some resistance—artists would not be artists without a few quirks.

  He lifted his own wineglass. “To art,” he said.

  She raised her glass and nodded. “To art.”

  “Your meal was satisfactory?”

  “Of course. It was perfect. You won’t have to fire the chef. Are you renting, or do you own the restaurant?”

  He smiled. “As of this morning, I own it.”

  “Just how wealthy are you, M. Shaw?”

  “Business has been pretty good to me. I can’t complain.”

  “Would you like to come to my hotel room and look at my paintings?”

  “I would like that, yes.”

  She returned his smile. She’d show him those, but that was all he was going to get from her tonight. Of course, she was going to sleep with him, there was never a question of “if,” but only “when.” She had pronged a lot less attractive men a lot faster when the need had been urgent, a couple so ugly they’d scare a carrion beetle. It went with the job. He was handsome, rich, and she expected him to be an adept lover, which would be a bonus; however, to resist him for one more meeting would raise his interest in her yet more. She would make it apparent that she wanted to bed him, but that he would have to wait at least a little while longer. Men could be impatient for sex, but a man like Shaw would enjoy the hunt as well as the capture. They wanted to win, but they also wanted at least a little challenge.

  She had something he wanted, he had something she wanted. With luck, they’d both get
there. A fair trade.

  Unbidden, the waiter returned and quickly set before them fine china coffee cups, into which he poured a hot and fragrant brew. Probably roasted the beans and ground them here this very day.

  It was the best coffee she had ever tasted.

  “Just like mother used to make,” she said.

  Shaw said, “Ah. And are you an only child?”

  She took another sip of the coffee. “Had a brother. Voda—he died two years past. Some irony in that—he was a Musashi Flexer—ranked in the top fifty or so players, off and on. Used the name Clee. Fought many duels with weapons, survived those, only to be killed in a maglev accident on Spandle. We didn’t find out about it until months after it happened.”

  He would already know this from his background check, but it would make her cover more real if she told it. If you were looking for wolves and you heard one howl, you were ready to believe that it was real when you saw it.

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  She shrugged. “If not the train, some player would have gotten him eventually. He used to say that if you kept playing, you’d eventually lose. Only way to beat that was to retire, and that wasn’t in his nature. He was destined to die young.”

  “You disapprove of the Flex?”

  She took another sip of the coffee. “Not really. Everybody has to be somewhere. Some of us are artists, some of us fighters, some of us are businessmen. There is something to be said for having talent, no matter where it lies. Better to be capable in one arena than in none at all. Nothing wrong with physical prowess. It has its uses.”

  He smiled yet again.

  He’d like her saying that, too. A man wanted to be admired for the things he enjoyed. Her persona wouldn’t know about his dabbling in the Flex, so for her to offer such a thing in the abstract meant it could be applied to the specific. You like guys who can kick ass? Honey, here I am . . .

  The trick to telling a lie was to always wrap it around the truth. The more truth, the better the lie. It was going as well as could be expected.

  “Shall we?” she asked, putting down her empty coffee cup.

  “By all means.”

  Shaw was amused when Azul showed him her paintings and then gently, but firmly, let it be known she wouldn’t be sharing her bed with him this night. He was adept enough at the game to hear the promise that it wouldn’t be impossible or even unlikely in the near future, and that was enough. A man of his experience could be patient, if the goal was worth waiting for, and he had decided that having this woman bucking under him was worth it.

  They had a drink, he offered to buy her paintings when they were finished, she demurred out of hand, refusing to price them until they were done, then he took his leave.

  As always, Cervo was nearby, along with a his team of two dozen armed and expert bodyguards who looked like anything but, scattered around the hotel and street outside. A billionaire not entirely stupid did not risk casual kidnapping. In a compound controlled by his people, Shaw felt relaxed enough to move about alone. In the city, there was no point in taking chances. He was usually covered, and Cervo had his telemetry monitored even when Shaw was out of sight. Shaw guessed that Cervo could tell when he was making love to a woman by the increase in his heart rate and respiration . . .

  Of course, during the challenges in the Flex, only Cervo had his back. Nobody knew who he really was on those excursions, and certainly nobody would be able to follow him from home. And while on his speed-enhancing drug, anybody offering him grief would get what they deserved . . .

  He smiled as Cervo opened the door to his vehicle.

  “Sir,” his man said, “we’ve found the next nearest available match.”

  “Ah. Where?”

  “Right here on-planet.”

  “Outstanding! You have his location?”

  “Her location, sir. Yes. In Shakha Town.”

  That close? Only a few hundred kilometers away? How great was that? Shakha Town was a ranching burg, grown up to deal primarily in livestock, trading in meats, milk, cheeses, various kinds of leathers and wools and the like.

  He didn’t have any Reflex with him, but it would take only a few minutes to fetch it from his private medical safe at the lab. With luck, he could be engaged in the match in a few hours. “Take us to the complex, Cervo. I need to collect my dancing shoes.”

  They didn’t get to Shakha Town until nearly midnight, but Cervo assured Shaw that his prey was an owl, up nights and sleeping days, so he wasn’t going to have to roust her from a bed, which was good. Not much fun in beating somebody half-asleep, was there?

  As Cervo had said, she was out and about. Cervo’s agents had trailed her to a pub and were watching her as Shaw arrived in town. They got directions and went to find her.

  The pub was called The Naked Albino, a solidly middle-class ranchers’ place, and it was bustling, twoscore patrons drinking, toking, laughing, and talking, the air thick with noise and flickstik smoke, some kind of music generator playing in the background. Cheap fun for the masses, but it held little appeal for Shaw. No quality control.

  She was a tall woman, solidly built and not unattractive. Black hair worn short, pale skin, blue eyes, in a loose, hip-length tunic over orthoskins and boots, nursing a drink and watching the other patrons. She looked bored.

  It took her about five minutes to discern Shaw’s interest in her, and, he thought, realize that it wasn’t sexual but professional. She put her half-finished drink down and left the pub.

  Cervo was outside watching.

  Shaw followed the woman outside. By the time he had made it into the warm night, she was half a block away, walking quickly, but not running.

  Ranked Seventy-Seventh, she was, and without the background check, her name alone wouldn’t have given her sex away—Shaw wasn’t sure what the origin of the name “B’ahl Muth Tah” was and maybe if he had known, he would have recognized it as female, but it didn’t really matter. Her rank alone indicated a certain level of skill, and that was what really mattered. She was another rung on his ladder, and his fourth fight.

  He was flying on Reflex and not worried. Cervo stayed well back, idling along in the flitter as Shaw followed the woman on foot.

  He finally caught up with her near a long row of storage units filled with tark’s wool in an industrial complex maybe a klick away from the pub. The air was full of a barnyard-kind of musty smell from the wool sheds. Various night insects swarmed the cheap lighting although it was supposedly in a spectrum that wouldn’t draw the night bugs. Plenty illumination enough to see by, if a bit too blue for his tastes.

  The place was her choice—she had led him here.

  He moved in. “Evening, fem,” he said.

  “It is that.”

  “Want to dance?”

  “Sure. Armed,” she said. “Impact or cutters.” She pulled a long-bladed knife from under her tunic and smiled wolfishly at him. The artificial lighting flashed bluely on the mirrorlike blade as she waved it lazily in front of herself. She was confident enough, didn’t look afraid.

  He returned the smile. He hadn’t fought a match armed yet, and while he could have chosen weapons that would have given him great advantage because of his speed, he had wanted to make it more exciting, so he carried a folding knife with a blade about as long as his thumb, single-edged with an upangled tanto-style point. Not much more than a penknife, really, normally suitable for cutting twine or slicing a piece of fruit, not one most would take for a dueling weapon. Handmade and expensive, of course, not something that would fall apart after one stab, but small by knife fighters’ standards.

  She didn’t smile when she saw his little knife. Smart of her.

  A slap-cap, a Newton-bleak unidirectional shaped charge worn like a ring, would have probably been the best impact weapon for him. A slap to the chest would blow out a man’s pump, one to the spine would crush bone and the spinal column and paralyze instantly, to the head, the brain would turn to mush. With his speed, he could dart in
and make such a hit before most people had a chance to realize just how fast he was. A two-second fight, bam! end of match.

  But where was the fun in that? It was about winning, of course, but it was also about at least a chance of risk; otherwise, why bother? He wanted to have to work for it a little. So far, that hadn’t been the case. His matches had been walkovers, his speed simply too much for his opponents to deal with, and all three of his previous fights had been disappointing. By giving himself a self-imposed handicap, maybe he could spice things up a bit.

  He was, maybe not so oddly, feeling a little horny. If Luna Azul had let him stay with her, he might not have met this woman whom he would soon be piercing with an altogether different weapon . . .

  He smiled at the thought.

  The woman circled to her right, keeping the knife in front of her.

  He’d have to go around the blade, block it, or do a pass; otherwise, he could spit himself on her point, since she didn’t even have to move it, only hold it in his way. She wouldn’t be fast enough to track him with a stab or slash, and if she stepped back, he could just follow her in, no problem.

  “My name is Ellis Mtumbo Shaw,” he said. “I’m ranked Eighty-First.”

  She nodded, crouched lower behind her knife. “I’m guessing you know who I am and my rank.” Not a question.

  “Yes. Any last words?”

  She chuckled. “Come and try, sucker. We’ll see who has last words.”

  He went in, glorying in his ability. He could see her eyes start to widen as she realized nobody could move as fast as he was, as she understood she couldn’t get away—

  He stuck his free hand out for the block, to open the way for his thrust. He didn’t want to kill her on the first pass, only to sting her enough so she could feel it, but not so hard as to put her down—

  She cut at him, but so slow. He blocked the stab, rocked to the side a hair, punched her in the left shoulder with his knife, driving the blade in no more than a couple of centimeters, then jerked it out and jumped to his own right, to stop two meters away.

  “Fuck!” she said, the fear filling her voice. She slashed wildly, but he was way outside her range.