Apparently he’d judged me good enough to no longer focus on specific targets. I took a bit of pride in that. But what I really wanted to do was score a point. I wasn’t big into competitive sports. I preferred competing against myself. Beating my last marathon time. Increasing my bench press by five pounds. But when I did face an opponent, I didn’t like to lose.
I was going to lose against Sata, no question about it. But I wasn’t going to make it easy for him.
Sata advanced again. I had a headache, and my arms hurt, but I’d become used to moving in the bulky armor. I’d also been reacquainting myself with Sata’s technique. He was strong, and fast, but his attacks followed patterns. Perhaps he was so used to drilling on a training dummy that he’d forgotten what it was like when someone hit back.
I aimed to show him.
It was unlikely Sata would let me get to his head or throat. Not that I wanted to go there anyway; without his armor, I could seriously injure him if I landed a lucky blow. So I focused on his sides and wrists. He was so used to my defense that if I attacked, I might be able to land a strike by surprise.
Sata went for my kote again, and our bamboo swords clacked and bent as we traded blows. But I didn’t back away this time. I blocked his shots, saw him go in for a thrust, and spun away, bringing my shinai around toward his ribs.
He blocked it, but barely. The attempt apparently delighted him.
“Excellent, Talon-kun!”
He launched into another attack. But either his speed wasn’t as great, or I was anticipating his strikes, because I was able to parry him with much less effort. I could guess the look on my face matched his grim countenance-eyebrows furrowed, lips drawn down in a scowl, veins popping out in the forehead. I continued to block his swings, and then saw the surprise in his eyes when I advanced, making him step backward, and finally catching him off guard and slapping him across the forearm with my shinai, yelling, “Ki-ai!” as I did.
Sata’s eyes went wide in surprise. He looked at his arm. The welt had already begun to raise, his pores leaking tiny droplets of blood.
TEN
It must have hurt like a bitch. Sata’s reaction was not what mine would have been.
He let out a belly laugh.
“Terrific! You’ve saved face, and made me pay for my arrogance, Talon. I was wrong to taunt you by not wearing bo?gu. Please forgive an old fool.”
He bowed. I bowed back.
“So you want to put on the armor for the last point?” I asked.
Sata shook his head. “No. You won’t land another strike.”
Like hell I wouldn’t.
I rushed at Sata and began a steady, deliberate offense. I knew it wouldn’t lead to a point, but maybe I could trick him into making a mistake.
My offense lasted all of five blocked strikes, and then I was on the defense again, my hands a blur as I kept him at bay. Once again, Sata’s strength and skill forced me back, my parries so violent I had to fight to keep my balance. Then, incredibly, he went even faster, his shinai twirling like a heliplane propeller, me practically jogging backward to stay out of harm’s way.
My back hit the wall, surprising me, and Sata thrust at my throat. I jerked to the left, and the tip of his shinai hit me in my unpadded chest. I’d never been attacked with a sledgehammer, but I could guess this was what it felt like. As I dropped to my knees I managed to lash out one-handed and catch Sata on his left side, under his raised arms.
Point. Win.
Sata fell onto his knees next to me, wincing as he held his kidney. He’d hit me harder, but I’d had my ribs to protect me.
We stayed there for a moment, breathing heavy, clutching our respective injuries, and then Sata began to laugh. “Excellent match. Go again?”
“Your pride can’t handle losing, old friend?”
“I may not be able to sleep tonight, I’m so distraught over it.”
“I’ll take a rain check. I really need you to help with something.”
“Of course.” Sata stood and offered his hand to help me up. I took it. My right arm was going a little numb, and I wasn’t as steady on my feet as I would have preferred.
“Are you all right? Ribs cracked?”
I lifted off my helmet, then worked off the gloves. “I think they’re okay. But you may have pinched a nerve.”
“Should we go to the hospital?”
I couldn’t tell if Sata was being sincere, or busting my balls. His twinkling eyes betrayed nothing.
“I’ll be fine. Is there someplace we can talk?”
“The study. I’ll meet you there after I’ve changed. Would you like a morphine pill?”
I took a deep breath, wincing at the pain. Morphine sounded pretty good. But I needed a clear head.
“Aspirin would be better.”
He nodded, then walked off. I managed to extricate myself from the remainder of my uniform and get dressed. The buttons on my shirt were nearly impossible. My fingers had that pins-and-needles sensation, like I’d lost circulation to my arm. He’d gotten me good. I may have won the match, but if it had been a real fight, Sata would be bashing my head open right now.
I hoped I was in that good a shape when I was his age. Maybe there was something to roids after all. While I had no aversion to better living through chemistry, I pursued my health goals the natural way, with regular exercise. The fact that roids were known to harm the libido also gave me pause, and excessive use led to a condition called roid rage, where basic mental faculties collapsed. Neither would endear me to Vicki, so I avoided the stuff.
I left my last few buttons undone and made my way to the study. His sofa, chairs, and wall screen seemed overrun with wild vines. But a closer look saw the vines were carefully pruned to avoid interfering with the walkway, furniture, and electronics. Sata was already on the sofa, a green drink in his hand. On the table in front of him was another full glass, and a bottle of aspirin. I thanked him and swallowed two pills with the liquid, which had a wheatgrass base that tasted like a freshly mown lawn. Knowing Sata, the drink probably had a wealth of micronutrients in it. But that didn’t make it any easier to stomach.
“Thanks. Can I use your projector?”
“By all means.”
I synced up the TEV to his screen. “I have to warn you. The man in the transmission looks like me. He even has a chip that says it’s me. But he’s someone else. I was with my wife when this took place.”
I let the scene from Aunt Zelda’s play, beginning where Alter-Talon materialized out of the elevator.
Sata watched without a sound. The expression on his face was somewhere between confusion and repulsion. I let it play until the killer disappeared again in the hallway. Then I paused the image, waiting for his response.
“It’s been a very long time since I’ve seen a murder,” Sata said. “And I’ve never seen a friend committing one.”
“That wasn’t me, Michio. The hair is different. And did you notice that the man in the transmission is left- handed?”
“Yes. He also has a mole on his cheek. You don’t have a mole. But all of that could be easily explained. And it’s inconsequential compared to seeing you break that poor woman’s neck.”
“If I wanted to hide it being me, I wouldn’t have changed my hair and pretended to be lefty. I would have worn a mask or veil. This guy didn’t care that his face was seen. Because it isn’t his face. It’s my face.”
“And you got this on-site?”
“Only two hours ago.”
Sata stood up, rubbing his jaw. “It’s impossible. TEV can’t be faked.”
