Black Steel (21 page)

"Yes, at first he fought, but now he accepts me," Jorj said. "I think he is even beginning to like it."

His father said, "Ah, I had hoped he would show more spirit. "

"Yes, it is sad. To have a son who is a coward, willing to be used like a woman . . .

Hoja blinked as the words sank in and he understood them.

His father knew what Jorj was doing!

There was no need to hear any more. Hoja stood and quietly left. His father knew what his uncle did to him, and he thought badly of Hoja for it!

Rage burned in the boy, rage hot enough to sear the shame into ash. Nothing was given for free in the casa; you had to earn everything. Very well. Let them see how much spirit he had.

A cruel smile came to life on the face of the Patron of the House of Black Steel as his students danced, a smile born of the memory of what had happened all those years ago when he had been abused by his uncle. This was the part he liked best.

Hoja was not without imagination and certain skills. He spent all of the next day preparing, knowing he would get one chance only, knowing that to fail might mean punishment so severe he might not survive it.

That night, when his uncle arrived, Hoja was ready.

Jorj overrode the locking mechanism of the sliding door with his keycard as he usually did. Hoja had dimmed the lights, and he lay naked upon the bed, so that his uncle could not miss seeing him there.

Before, he had always been dressed and fearful.

The door slid open and Jorj blinked in surprise as Hoja grinned and fondled himself. "Uncle," he said.

Jorj's lust shined through his eyes, twisting his lips into a sneer. Perhaps this was but a test devised by the Patron, but Hoja had felt his uncle's desire enough to know it was a test he enjoying administering.

Jorj all but lunged through the door.

The wire caught him across the shins.

Jorj was, as were all the men of the casa, an expert swordsman, but his reflexes were fogged by his desires. He realized something was wrong, and he would have backed out of the room, but he was not quite fast enough.

The metal shelf balanced precisely above the doorway was loaded with almost eighty kilograms of exercise weights. One of the plates hit Jorj squarely on the top of his head, and the man fell, partially buried under the iron.

Hoja leaped from the bed. He grabbed one of the fallen weights. Jorj was stunned, moaning softly. Hoja lifted the weight-a five-kilo plate-and smashed Jorj's skull, once, twice, three times, until the bone went soft and pulpy, and fluid oozed from the shattered head.

Hoja dropped the weight and stood. He closed the door and began picking up the weights, placing them back into their storage cases against the wall. In a few moments, the shelf and iron plates were in their normal positions. The trip wire and guides were removed. Only his dead uncle-and he surely was dead, not breathing or moving-lay upon the floor.

There was but one other thing remaining before he was done. Hoja pulled his uncle's pants down so that his buttocks were bared. Then for the first time, he did to his uncle what his uncle had for months done to him. His ejaculation was powerful, bringing tears to his eyes.

He pulled his uncle's pants back up when he was done, dressed himself, then touched his com and called his father.

His father arrived with the casa's medic and a guard.

"Dios! What has happened here?"

Hoja faced his father, standing as tall as he was able to stand, and looked the Patron squarely in the eyes.

"He fell and hit his head," Hoja said. He hoped all the hatred he felt showed.

There was a long moment of silence. Then the Patron sighed and nodded, almost as if to himself. "I see."

"I am glad that you do," Hoja said.

His father must have had mixed feelings, Hoja later reflected. To have lost a brother, but to have gained the son he wanted. Or thought he wanted.

Next to the body of Jorj, the medic said, "No fall could do this-"

"You are wrong," Hoja's father said. "My brother has died in an unfortunate accident. A fall."

Hoja understood that Jorj's death would not be spoken of again, save as an accident. And he understood too that the lesson went both ways.

From that day on, Hoja's father would never again turn his back on his son.

Chapter TWENTY

AS HE STOOD holding his bamboo practice sword and facing Kee, Sleel reminded himself that he was an expert martial artist.

True, this was her toy, the sword, but he was one of only a few people in the entire galaxy who could dance the Ninety-seven Steps. He'd watched her move often enough, and while she was pretty good, she wasn't that good.

He could take her. All he had to do was use what he knew. He was bigger, stronger, probably as fast if not faster, and a lot more experienced in hand-to-hand combat, even if she had walked the Flex. He had killed people with his hands, more than once; he wasn't afraid of a little woman with a padded stick.

So, Sleel, if that's true, how come your hands are sweating all over the leather handle of your padded stick? Hmm?

Shut up.

Kee stood less than two meters away, the tip of her shinai nearly touching the tip of Sleel's, their weapons pointed at each other's eyes.

Relax, Sleel told himself. Loosen up your shoulders. Breathe easy. You've got the reach on her, probably almost half a meter. Just scoot in and tap her and it'll be all over. Don't com your strike, just gather your energy and do it.

As Sleel was about to jump, Kee shifted a few centimeters to her left. The attack he'd planned would fall a hair short now. He slid his feet over a little, keeping his sword held steady. No problem, we'll just adjust our aim a little

Kee settled a little lower into her stance. Her feet were now hidden beneath the folds of her split skirt.

When she moved back, it was as if she were on wheels, so smooth was her motion. One second she was there, the next, she was a handspan farther away. Just outside his range.

Okay, okay, bottle that one. Come in from the side and use a horizontal cut instead. By the time she gets her sword over to block, it'll be too late

As if reading his mind, Kee shifted her shinai, angling the springy slats so that a horizontal strike from her left would be a mistake; she'd be able to stop the cut and he'd be wide open for the shot to the throat.

They weren't wearing bogu and she'd pull the jab, but were she using a real sword, that would effectively end the fight in her favor.

Sleel considered another attack, something unconventional. He would throw Laughing Stone. She couldn't be ready for that one. Even if she could stop the initial strike, the rebound and reply ought to give him a clean hit on her spine

Once again Kee wiggled the shinai, a compound move that showed she could negate the first strike and that she knew where the second part of the series would follow.

Her expression was neutral, her eyes seemed unfocused, she gave nothing away.

Damn. How can she do that?

Fuck it. Enough of all this mystical imaginary thrust-and-parry crap. Just go for it and outreach her.

Sleel leaped, as fast as he could, extending his sword to the fullest. It wouldn't be a hard tap, but he would make the point

Kee flowed to his left, and time stalled, the tachy-psyche effect stretching Chronos out like sheet gum under a heatlamp. Sleel moved in slow motion, unable to increase his speed, and he saw Kee's sword coming from light years away; it was taking its fucking time but so was he, and there was no way to avoid it

Thwack! He felt the bamboo thump into his ribs under his still-outstretched arm. If that had been a real sword, he would be much in need of another spell in a Healy, sure enough. But before he could react, Kee's shinai flicked back and out again, and the smooth bamboo touched and drew a line across the back of his neck.

Welcome to Jersey Reason's country, Sleel.

Well, shit-!

And still mired in the molasses that time had become, Sleel dragged his own weapon around much too late to stop the third strike, a poke to his solar plexus with the padded leather tip.

Three-for-three, Sleel you old fool, any one of which would have put you down and out of it. You really have gotten ancient. What happened to your reflexes?

Time recovered. Sleel finally managed to come back up to normal speed. Too late, of course.

Sleel wanted to spit, to curse and to throw the damned fucking bamboo down and stomp on it. He did none of these things, however. He merely bowed, acknowledging Kee's victory.

To his everlasting relief, she didn't laugh, or even smile, but merely nodded. This was, her expression seemed to say, serious business. Sleel could not help but agree.

"You need a holiday, Sleel," Wu said. "I could use a rest myself. "

They were in a restaurant not far from her dojo, a place known for its portions more than the complexity of its menu. Still, if you liked basic fare, you got your money's worth and then some. Sleel was halfway through his second plate of stir-fried vegetables and noodles. Since he'd started working out, his appetite had increased, and Wu enjoyed watching him eat. She had nearly finished her own plate of sweet-and-sour wood shrimp, a local freshwater delicacy that came from a reservoir made by flooding what had once been a forest. A couple of hundred years ago, anyhow.

"So, where are you going on your vacation?" he asked.

"I thought we might go up to Carnival Falls."

"Carnival Falls. We?"

"Unless you want to find a place on your own."

He swallowed a mouthful of noodles. "Nope. Sounds aces by me. Any particular reason we want to go there?"

"It's quiet. And restful."

The sound that the waterfall made as it crashed down into the pool at the base was loud enough to drown a conversation as easily as the cascade itself drowned the glistening purplish boulders and rocks below.

The falls dropped a distance of maybe eighty meters, starting out relatively narrow at the top and sheeting wider as ,the waters sprayed and foamed at the bottom. Rainbows blossomed in the sunshine-lit mists like multicolored flowers. The river resumed its journey at one end of the pool, snaking away in a much quieter meander. From where Sleel and Kee stood on the small arched bridge twenty meters above the river, it was all quite beautiful.

"Peaceful, you said?" Sleel yelled.

"What?"

But she grinned, and Sleel joined her in smiling.

Cierto sat in a rental hopper across the street from the largest kendo school on the planet Mason. The master of the school had just finished his last class and was alone in the dojo. Cierto had chosen this target carefully. The instructor inside had walked the Flex, though he had retired a couple of years before Cierto had ever joined it. He had been a minor player, never ranked in the top dozen or so, but he had killed in combat. This was important.

Cierto's six students moved through the well-lit night toward the front of the dojo. These were Rita, Burton, Winston, Ellenita, Gene and Jorj. Back on Rift, Raz and Tomas, now his two best students, waited in reserve, in case this man proved to be more adept than Cierto had figured.

Ellenita, wearing next to nothing in the form of short skintights and spray slippers, arrived at the dojo first. An attractive woman dressed provocatively tended to allay suspicion that danger threatened.

Burton carried her sword as well as his own, both weapons cleverly disguised as part of an old-style powered exowalker Burton wore in his pretense of being a cripple.

The dojo's door was electronically latched, and it would need to be opened from the inside, unless Cierto wanted to go to the trouble of cracking the lock. It was much simpler to have your enemy admit you unsuspecting.

Ellenita spoke to the query, smiling into the camera's eye. The door opened silently.

Burton, who appeared to be passing by at just that moment, darted into the opening. He moved altogether too fast for somebody depending on an exowalker.

Ellenita leaned against the open door and the other four students hurried into the place.

Cierto alighted from the hopper and strolled across the street.

Inside the dojo the master had realized the danger. He stood in the center of the workout area, his sword held like a ball bat next to his right shoulder. He wore hakima and a gi jacket, both black, and his feet were bare.

Cierto smiled. Good. Perfect. Here was a target who resembled Kildee Wu in a number of respects.

Same style sword, same basic art, even the workout clothes were nearly identical. While Cierto's students had spent a fair portion of their training these past months working against kendo simulacrums, there was no substitute for the real thing. If Cierto's test for his son's mother was to be fair, he must not stint on his preparations.

The black-clad swordsman was good enough to recognize that Cierto was more of a danger than the six who drew their blades and moved to encircle him. Cierto shook his head, telling the man that he was not a combatant. The man nodded once in acknowledgment, took a deep breath and expelled half of it.

Cierto observed the master of the dojo carefully. He was afraid, but not panicked. Doubtless he had fought multiple-attacker practice matches with padded swords. He had been instructing for a long time, and a good teacher learned more than he taught. As Cierto watched, he saw the man's shoulders relax slightly. Ah. That he was able to do this facing half a dozen opponents spoke well of him. Cierto reluctantly raised his estimation of the man. He was tempted to warn his students, but he did not speak.

If they made errors, let them be their own.

The circle, somewhat ragged, finished forming. Burton and Ellenita were behind the victim; this was the most dangerous place to be, because on the face of it, it seemed the safest. He couldn't see them and the tendency would be for them to assume they could strike with little risk. Of course they had been warned against such overconfidence.

The man in the middle knew what this was. In the old days, when warriors routinely carried swords, testing students or masters of one style of martial art against those of another was quite common. A wandering student would challenge a teacher and if the challenger won, he would continue to roam or take over the school. If he lost-and survived-he would often enroll as a student of the man who had beaten him.