"If you don't know, no one else does," she said. "You disappeared there, and reappeared here, months later. Emaciated and amnesiac."
Alan came over. He had won the match, but didn't look happy. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to—"
"'Sall right," I said, shaking hands with him. "It was a fair match. I have to learn how to take a better fall, is all." Yet maybe I had gained a hundred times more than I had lost, for now I had my past back. A significant part of it, anyway.
I shook my head, trying to get it settled. I saw Jeff doing throws in the main area. Uchimata, for an ippon—was it only the next match? No, the tournament was over; he was testing for promotion, going for his green belt, skipping right over orange. No wonder he had been so tough. Tomoe nage, the stomach throw. Combinations. Kids really had to work for their belts here.
Jeff made it, and I was glad for him. I wondered how he had done in his tournament match while I was out. He must have won, for it would have taken two victories to overcome my defeat and put our team ahead—and there was the trophy cup, on our side. I had missed some good matches. But you have to expect to miss something if you insist on getting knocked out before the tournament is over.
Now the black belts went out for some randori or free practice among themselves: Steve and Tom, Shawn and Mike.
"Come on," Susan said. "Get your system going."
"Randori? I asked. "I can't go out there with all those black belts."
"That depends," she murmured, "on who you think you are."
"Who?" I asked, not getting her drift.
"Are you Caesar Kane, who just lost a match to a fourteen year old boy—or are you Jason Striker, 5 Dan?"
I pondered. "You know, I'm not sure. I've got both memories, and always before I have woken up to find that—"
"So let's find out," she said, drawing me to my feet. "You're going to throw me, or get thrown. Hard."
We moved out onto the mat. I saw some students staring at me; obviously I should be home soaking my head, not going out for randori after my injury. But the fact was that I had suffered much worse bashes in the past, and fought through; this one was nothing in comparison. I did want to know, as Susan put it, exactly who I thought I was.
Susan wasn't fooling; she spun into a moroto seoi nage, lifting so hard I would ordinarily have flipped right over her and whomped into the mat on my barely-healed side. But I merely stood firm.
"How many times have I told you," I reprimanded her gently, "kuzushi. You didn't break my balance." And I turned and swept her feet out from under with a perfect okuri ashi barai assisted foot sweep. "Timing and balance," I concluded as she struck the mat.
"Just like old times," she muttered as she got up. "You made me look like a white belt, you prick."
I smiled graciously at her. "You asked for it."
She nodded. "I was glad to get it, Jason."
Then I walked over to Mike and Shawn. "Mind if I cut in?" I inquired.
They looked askance at me, not having seen my action with Susan, or perhaps assuming she had been teaching me an effective counter. But they did not protest.
I took Mike, who had recently made his black belt by placing high in the high school nationals, and moved him about. He was young but highly skilled, probably destined to be a leading competitor on the national scene in a few years. He thought, naturally enough, that he was working with a white belt, so he didn't even try to throw me. No black belt needs to prove himself against a white belt; instead he acts as a teacher, helping the novice to improve his skill.
So I lifted him with a hane goshi spring hip throw, not putting too much force into it. He went over, but put his right hand down and turned out neatly so that my throw counted for no score. A very nice recovery on his part. He had a supple, smooth manner about his randori that I liked. We resumed motion.
Now he was on guard. A white belt does not catch a black belt twice, especially with the same throw. So I did another hane goshi, a hard one this time, too fast and accurate for him to resist. My right leg swept up his legs and he flipped over, this time taking a perfect fall.
He sat up and stared at me. What I had done should have been impossible, even for another black belt of his rank. He had never before encountered efficiency like that, and was trying to decide whether it had been a fluke. I made a little bow and went on to the next: big Shawn.
Shawn was another high school prodigy. He had earned his black belt at age 15 by coming in second in the high school nationals. He might have been first, but his opponent had fouled him, and he had gotten mad and fouled him back—and the referee had caught only Shawn's action. He was huge and strong, a natural wrestler. Most people tried to avoid getting into matwork with him—so I took him down with a sumi gaeshi, rolled over as he started to get up, and flipped him into the jigoku jime hell strangle. He had strong arms and a good neck, but I knew exactly what I was doing, and he had to tap out before his lost consciousness. It is considered very classy to take a man with his own specialty, but as it happened, my specialty was matwork too.
Three down, two to go. Why did running a line of five black belts seem so familiar?
Tom and Steve had stopped their randori and were staring at me, as well they might. Susan might have let me throw her, and Mike might have taken one fall for me. But Shawn would never have gone voluntarily into the hell strangle, and a white belt hardly knew how to apply it properly.
I bowed to Steve. He returned the bow, and came to meet me. He hardly knew what to make of this, having seen me in all my white belt inadequacy for several weeks, but he was not about to take a fall for me. He found it difficult to take falls for any of his students, perhaps fearing that they would lose respect.
I took hold of him—and had him almost helpless. I was no stronger than I had been as a white belt, but now I had all the skill of a godan. I knew precisely how to make my strength count, nullifying his. It was similar in its way to holding a bird in one's open palm and preventing it from flying away by countering its balance in subtle ways. Before, Steve's skill had toyed with mine; now mine toyed with him—and we had not even moved. There is as big difference between a godan and a shodan as there is between a shodan and a rokkyu. That is, 5 dan is to 1 dan as 1 dan is to a white belt.
I eased up enough to let him attempt a throw, and he spun into a tsuri komi goshi lift-pull hip throw But I kept my balance, and as he went down low I stepped forward so that my legs straddled him, holding him down and voiding the effort. He had to break and scramble out from under. Next time we closed I threw him with an uchi-mata. And went on to Tom.
Tom was a sandan, a third degree black belt who could probably have made fourth degree any time he wanted to. He had been given his belt by the club founder, Taize Sone, and valued it as such. He was a skilled competitor, interested in making the national Olympic team. His mode of action was deceptive; he wasted no effort or motion in superfluous style. He took it so easy it seemed he wasn't really trying. But just try to throw him or get him in a hold-down!
I moved him about, and he moved with me, retaining his balance. I tried my uchi-mata, but couldn't get him over. So I did a takedown and clamped an armlock on him—and he calmly braced himself and lifted me clear of the mat, voiding my hold. This time I had my work cut out for me, though Tom hadn't yet even tried any techniques of his own.
"Now I recognize you," he said. "Only one person does uchimata like that. Jason Striker. What are you doing here in a white belt?"
"It's a long story," I said. "I'm wondering about it myself."
We stopped the randori; it had become pointless. "This is Jason Striker," Tom said to the others. "Godan, former national champion. I thought he looked familiar, but I couldn't believe it."
I understood, however. I had not faked any clumsiness as a white belt; it had been quite genuine. My transformation had been remarkable.
But I did have a headache. It was time to go home and recover. Past time.
I was sad to leave the Taizo Sone
judo clubs, but it was urgent that I sort out my memories and get my affairs in order. I had been out of circulation entirely too long, for all that I had needed that time to fully recover my physical health. So my amnesia had its silver lining.
First I phoned Ilunga, back at my own dojo. "Where you been, White Master?" she inquired as though I'd merely checked in an hour late. I visualized her strong black face; she was one hell of a woman, this karate mistress. She was in charge in my absence, quite competent, and probably smarter than I was. She had emotion, but didn't show it.
"Florida," I said succinctly. "Where was I going?"
"South America," she said. "Maybe you better talk to Luis."
"Señor," Luis said immediately. She must have put him on the extension. "Are you well?" He was a Cuban exiile, not at all like the drunken doctor of my vision, but a 5 dan in judo. I had no concern about the welfare of my judo classes while they were in his hands. With Ilunga for karate and accounts, and Luis for judo, I was superfluous, which thought did not please me quite as much as it might have. Evidently they had managed just fine without me.
"Well enough," I said, deciding not to go into the whole story. Susan had loaned me a set of weights to enhance my exercise, and I was recovering my optimal condition. "I lost my memory, only just got it back, most of it. Ilunga said I was headed for South America; that part's still blank, except for some visions of the Amazon River. Do you know anything about it?"
"Only that it is dangerous, Señor," he said. "You received word from your enemy Kan-Sen that the lord of the ninjas needed you, and you departed. I urged against it, and Ilunga called you—pardon the term—a honky fool."
"That's her way of saying that she loves me," I said, only half joking.
"Si. But you went, and we have heard nothing more, until this moment. We feared very much you were dead."
"Close enough," I agreed. "Obviously someone wants me dead. But I have the feeling it's more important than that. I'd better run it down before it runs me down. So don't let on that I'm alive. This call is strictly private."
"Honky fool!" Illunga repeated vehemently.
"I want them to believe that I'm dead," I explained. "That way I can catch them by surprise."
"Catch who by surprise?" Luis inquired.
"I wish I knew."
Illunga gave a derisive snort, but I knew she and Luis would protect my secret. They both loved me, in their fashions, and would keep the faith.
So I resigned from my survey job and cleaned out my room. I had planned to sneak out alone, but Susan intercepted me. Women have a knack for such things. "I know I'm less interesting now that your memory's back," she said. "But there are still things I can do for you."
She was more or less right on both counts. There had been many women in my life, and I valued the memory of most of them, especially my dead fiancée Chiyako. Susan when I knew her had been no more than a promising brown belt student. I did not as a rule date my students, though some had made that rule difficult to honor. But Susan had left my dojo two years ago and I had not seen her since. Evidently she had kept up with her judo and retained an interest in me, so that when she discovered me as a white belt... Well, she was no longer my student, and she had made her point. I liked her more than somewhat, and she had helped me considerably. I really knew her better now than I had before, and not just socially. I had had no idea she was rich, not that it would have made a difference. She had merely been one brown belt among many, almost anonymous. She must have preferred it that way.
"I have a motor home," she continued. "I can take you where you're going, privately. I have money. I can shop for you. Alone, you're just going to get yourself killed, as you almost did before."
Nobody seemed to have any confidence in my abilities outside the dojo—especially those who knew me best. That was another irritation, in part because it might be warranted. Obviously I had fouled up badly, somewhere between here and South America. "If you come with me," I pointed out, "you may get killed too."
"Yes. Isn't it exciting?"
I wasn't certain whether she was joking. There are things about women I have never understood. They are not merely soft men. This one had seduced me on the cabin floor in broad daylight, knowing that a delivery man was on his way. Evidently she had a hankering for innocent danger. But what I faced was ugly danger.
"I'll think about it," I said. Maybe I could sneak out alone.
"You'll think about it with me along," she insisted. "I want you to tell me to my face, not copping out on the phone the way you did with your dojo."
That was another thing: why did women always fathom me so much better than I fathomed them?
Thus I found myself in her motor home. It was a Cruise-Air—after a moment I fathomed the pun—looking like a yellow striped box with oblong windows, small-seeming wheels, and a door in the middle of the left side. But inside it was a luxury apartment twenty two feet long, with padded couches, a dinette, kitchen, bathroom, and whatever. No need to pay hotel or motel bills with this; all the comforts of home traveling right along with you. All except—
I looked at Susan, who avoided my gaze. That was a signal. All the comforts of married life, really. That made me a bit nervous. Just what designs did she have on me?
"I have credit cards for everything," she said brightly. "It can all be done in my name, keeping you anonymous."
That was exactly the way I wanted it. Because I remembered more than I had told Luis. It wasn't just the long journey down the Amazon River, it was the background. Kan-Sen was my enemy, true, but now he worked for Fu Antos, lord of the ninjas, who was building his new Black Castle somewhere in the Amazon jungle. My connection with Fu Antos went way back. He had saved my life, and I had helped him reincarnate in youthful form.
I had assumed that if my enemy worked for my friend, he became my friend, even if I didn't want it. Now it occurred to me that my friend might have become my enemy. If that were so, I was free to kill Kan-Sen, and there was nothing I'd rather do. For he had killed my fiancée Chiyako. But maybe I was rationalizing, trying to find a way to justify the vengeance I craved.
I might kill Kan-Sen. But first he would have to be interrogated. For surely he knew what I needed to know about Fu Antos. Someone had left me for dead in the Amazon. Had it been the ninja, or someone who had tried to stop me from reaching the ninja? I had to be sure, before I acted.
Because if Fu Antos was now my enemy, I had one hell of a job cut out for me. Fu Antos was perhaps the most formidable warrior of all time, and he had conquered death itself. I would never have suspected him of turning against me, but he was the only one I knew who had the power to wipe out a man's memory. He could do astonishing things with his fantastic power of ki.
"I think I smell wood burning," Susan remarked. "Is it really such an awful chore, traveling with me?"
I had to laugh. "I was remembering things I had forgotten, trying to figure them out."
"You forgot our weekend in the woods? I can explain that very simply. I loved playing with you when you didn't know who you were. When I could be the instructor."
I had to laugh again. "Yes you were, and I appreciate it. This was something else."
"You must tell me all about it. Maybe I can figure that out too, for you."
I realized that it might really help to have her input, for my question was intractable. Why? Why would Fu Antos summon me to the Black Castle—to kill me? Or to wipe out my memory? That made no sense at all. I had meant him no harm, and would not have known he had left Japan had he not sent the aikido sensei Hiroshi—armed with a bag of diamonds—to summon me. Fu Antos surely had enough enemies, without wiping out his friends.
"Maybe you can," I agreed.
"I'm glad that's settled."
I hardly heard her. I would have to assume that one of the ninja's enemies had intercepted me before I reached the Black Castle. A powerful enemy, with brainwashing facilities—for surely something had been done to my mind—but who still did not dar
e to kill me openly. Maybe he had held me prisoner while he destroyed my mind, and I had somehow escaped before the job was quite complete. So now I had recovered maybe eighty per cent of my memories, including all my prior life. Just the twenty percent or less that related to the last several months remained lost. In any event, I had a score to settle. I would have to make my own investigation to discover why my real enemy was. And hope that that enemy did not discover me first.
"Where to, sir?" Susan inquired with a smile. She was driving; it was her vehicle and I had no license. I had been driving recently of course; I didn't like breaking the law, but to get a license I would have had to verify my identity, and I hadn't had an identity. Now I had one, but my wallet and all its papers had been lost along with my memory.
"Miami," I said.
We drove east, leaving the Suncoast. We passed some of the non-tourist artifacts, such as a monstrously ugly phosphate mine.
Phosphate was the backbone of Florida industry, but its byproducts destroyed the local soil and landscape and lead to increasing incidence of cancer, and of course big money talked, preventing reform. That was the ubiquitous shame of mankind, always putting short range self interest before the welfare of the larger society or the land itself.
"Reminds me of your attitude," Susan said, looking at the desolate landscape.
"What?"
"Brooding. Ugly. Silent."
She had me there. "I'll try to reform."
"You'd better. This hasn't been much of a date so far."
"This is no date!" I protested. Then I realized that she was teasing me. I was being socially clumsy, as usual.
We passed a sign advertising a large amusement park. "Let's go there," Susan said.
"This is serious business, not a holiday."
"But it has to look like a holiday," she pointed out. "You don't want anyone to know your real mission."
"Nobody's watching me now!" I snapped.
"Right," she agreed, turning into the park.
I tried to fathom the logic, but could not. Had I made a mistake, traveling with her? If all she had in mind was distracting me from my mission—
Amazon Slaughter and Curse of the Ninja Piers Anthony Page 29
