I managed to make it to Sata’s neighborhood within an hour. Unlike Chicago, where ivy-draped buildings dominated the scenery, Schaumburg’s architecture was placed far enough apart to turn it into a giant bamboo maze. Six-foot stalks sprouted from every bit of free land space, making it look like many of the shops and houses were sinking in a swamp, only their roofs visible from the street.
My GPS led me to Sata’s driveway, a green clover road being squeezed on either side by overgrown hemp. The size of his lawn was commensurate with his wealth. Sata’s patent rights in timecasting tech had made him a rich man. I parked next to a fountain-two concrete mermaids spitting water on each other-then grabbed my TEV and rang his videobell.
Sata’s face appeared on the monitor. His long gray hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, and I saw he was wearing a keikogi. He nodded when he saw me.
“Talon. I was hoping you’d come by. Enter.”
At his voice command, the door unlocked. I walked into his home and slipped off my shoes, setting them in a cubbyhole of the getabako he kept in the foyer. Then I made my way to the gym.
Unlike Aunt Zelda, whose small apartment was light on greenery and heavy on contraband, Sata’s wealth was apparent only by the size of his home and land. Every wall had ivy growing on it, and the tile floors were bracketed by dirt patches growing sunflowers. The high ceilings were inlaid with magnifying windows and solar lights, so no matter the time of day his home was always bright. Every few meters was a Doric pedestal supporting a bonsai tree. According to Sata, some of them were more than a hundred years old.
The house smelled of plant life, of greenery and humid oxygen and lavender that grew from hanging pots. The odor changed when I opened the doors to the training room. The gym smelled like sweat and determination.
Sata was barefoot in the center of the faux-wooden floor, wearing a blue keikogi-the traditional long-sleeved shirt-and black hakama-the baggy black pants that looked like a skirt. In his hands was a bamboo sword, a shinai. He was beating the absolute shit out of a faux-wooden training dummy, his strikes as loud as thunder, but coming in such rapid succession that they sounded more like a group of people wildly applauding.
When he noticed my entrance he yelled out a terrifying cry of, “Ki-ai!” and ran straight at me, his sword raised.
NINE
He swung the sword down, and just as I lifted up my forearm to block he switched from an attack to a hug.
“Great to see you, Talon-kun!”
I hugged him back. Then he held me at arm’s length, his eyes twinkling as he looked me over. I felt a surge of affection, and a pang of guilt because I hadn’t visited him in so long.
“Great to see you as well, Sata-san.”
His keikogi wasn’t tied, and it revealed a sweaty, bare chest cut with muscles. At sixty-four years old, Sata was built like a bodybuilder. He’d gotten even bigger since the last time I’d seen him, two years ago. While some of his appearance was the result of training, I knew Sata took various roids and hormones to stay so big. It looked like he’d been upping his dosage lately.
“There are clothes and bo?gu in the closet there.” He pointed over my shoulder. “Get dressed and we’ll train.”
“I would love to, sensei. But I’m really pressed for time, and I need your help.”
“And I need yours as well, old friend. Ralph there is a terrible training partner.” He pointed to the wooden dummy. “His kakari-geiko is woefully predictable, and his blocking is lackluster at best. Suit up. After a quick match, I’ll be at your disposal.”
I couldn’t say no to Sata. “You’re going to beat me.”
“Of course I’m going to beat you. You seem distracted, and you’re thinner than I remember.”
“I’m the same I’ve always been. A hundred and ninety pounds soaking wet. You’ve just gotten huge. What are you, two hundred thirty?”
“Two fifty. The wonders of modern chemistry. I’m thinking of gaining another twenty pounds, competing as a hyperheavyweight in the next nationals. Now, suit up. Let’s see if you can last longer than eight seconds this time.”
I pursed my lips. The only reason he’d beaten me that quickly was because I’d tied my hakama too loosely and had tripped over the cuffs. Sata knew this, but it tickled him to bring it up every time he saw me.
I dropped the TEV and stripped down to my boxer briefs, dressing quickly. Sata helped me put on the bo?gu. Kendo armor consisted of a padded chest plate, called a do, padded gloves that covered the forearms, called kote, a padded belt with five hanging panels called a tare, and the instantly recognizable helmet with the metal grill faceplate, known as the men.
When fully suited up, you felt kind of invincible. Like a medieval Japanese robot. If given the choice of combat wearing bo?gu or hyperfootball gear, I’d pick the kendo armor every time.
But there was a reason the armor was so protective. The kendo sword-the shinai-was more than a meter long, made of four slats of bamboo lashed together. A ninth-dan kendoka, like Sata, could kill someone with one thrust of his bamboo sword.
This was not a sport for wimps.
I quit practicing kendo on a regular basis seven years ago, when Sata retired from the peace force. At the time, I was a capable sho-dan-eight dans below Sata. But what I lacked in experience I made up for in speed. All of his chiding aside, I knew Sata respected my skills.
“Where is your armor, sensei?” I asked.
“It isn’t worth the time it will take me to put it on to go against you, Eight Seconds.”
Cocky bastard.
I grabbed a sword and we walked to the middle of the training room. The floor was cool under my bare feet, and already my hands had begun to sweat inside my gloves.
On first glance, kendo rules were simple. The first person to land two strikes wins. The only strikes that counted were to the head, sides, and wrists.
But scoring was complicated by something called ki-ken-tai-itchi. It translated roughly as spirit. Simply tapping your opponent’s target zones wasn’t enough to score. You had to hit them hard, and your leading foot had to slap the floor the same moment contact was made. You also had to scream out, “Ki-ai!” with feeling.
The first time you did it, it felt silly. But in the heat of a match, swords swinging with full force, each man trying to cream the other, the ki-ais came naturally.
Sata faced me on the floor and bowed. I bowed back. Then we raised our shinai, and the whoop-ass began.
For the first match, I lasted longer than eight seconds, but not by much. After circling each other, I managed to block twice before Sata slapped me upside the head, rocking me backward. To show it wasn’t a fluke, he won his second point by hitting me in the exact same spot. The armor protected me from most of the pain, but it still felt like my head was inside a large bell, being rung.
Second match, Sata focused on my sides. I saw this was his intent, and focused my parries at waist level, trying to keep him from scoring. Since I left my head unguarded, I was able to hold him off for longer, and it took him about two minutes to win.
For our third match, Sata went after my kote. The intensity really kicked up. He was swinging at my wrists, and I was doing my damnedest to block his strikes and protect my wrists. After clashing swords sixty or seventy times in rapid succession, my arms felt like they’d turned into lead, and the lactic acid buildup in my muscles made them ache. Each time I struck his shinai with mine, it was like smacking a brick wall with a hyperbaseball bat. But I kept him at bay, kept him from scoring.
“Better,” Sata said, pausing his barrage. “You still have the speed.”
“You’ve gotten faster. And stronger.”
“I’ve also managed to keep my boyish good looks.”
Sata advanced again, creaming me on the side of my head.
