Springboard

Net Force HQ

Quantico, Virginia

After they introduced themselves and sat back down, and before Thorn could say anything else, Charles Seurat nodded at the corner behind and to the right of Thorn’s desk. “You fence?”

Thorn had his gear bags in the corner of his office, and the only way Seurat could have known what was in them was to recognize the logo on the epee bag. Most non-fencers would not have a clue what the name meant. And because he obviously did recognize it, then that meant Seurat, too, was a fencer or a serious watcher.

“A little,” Thorn said with a small smile. “Don’t look for me in the next Olympics.”

“Nor me,” Seurat said. “Would that I had brought my blades. We could have worked out.”

That was a pretty obvious hint, Thorn thought. It was not what he would have expected, even if he had known that Seurat was a fencer as well. Even avid fencers didn’t normally throw down the gauntlet within moments of meeting another fencer — and certainly not under circumstances like this.

On the other hand, he had known that Charles Seurat was anything but ordinary — something, Thorn acknowledged, that could be said for himself as well. And the Frenchman did have the right idea. After all, what better way to measure a man’s mettle than at the point of one’s sword?

“I have extra,” Thorn said with another small smile. “Just down the hall. It wouldn’t hurt to stretch a little after sitting at this desk all day.”

Seurat returned the smile. “Lead on,” he said.

The two men went to the gym, which was empty at the moment. Thorn opened his locker, wherein he had an extra set of practice gear — blades, including foil, epee, and saber, along with gloves and a mask, and a variety of jackets. He kept hoping that some of the other Net Force personnel would decide to try their hand at fencing, and so had a small array of gear to fit a variety of sizes.

“Excellent! I see you use first-rate gear.”

“What is your pleasure, Charles?”

“Foil, I think. I’m a bit sluggish and out of practice.”

“Foil it is. Help yourself.”

Thorn smiled again, but privately, when he noticed that the Frenchman chose a blade with a German Visconte grip rather than the traditional — and expected — French grip. This just might be fun, he thought.

The two men changed clothes and donned fencing gear. They each went through a series of stretches and warm-ups. Thorn noticed that Seurat moved very well for a man who claimed to be sluggish and out of practice.

Warmed up and looser, they took their places on the piste, or fencing strip, Thorn had taped out on the floor and regarded each other.

It had been a long time since Thorn had fenced foil, and even longer since he’d fenced it for real. It was the weapon he’d first learned, back in high school, and as such it was his first love, but he’d pretty much abandoned it after he’d discovered the epee and the saber. And lately, of course, thanks to the promptings of Colonel Kent, he’d been focusing almost exclusively on iaido.

Old habits die hard, however, and he was pleasantly surprised at how comfortable the blade felt in his grip.

He sketched a quick salute, saw Seurat mirror the move, and they both slipped on their masks and came to guard.

“Ready?” Thorn asked. As the host, it fell to him to start the opening touch. He used English, however, since it would feel more than a little awkward using the traditional French “Etes-vous pret?” with a Frenchman.

He could see the small smile that formed on Seurat’s lips, and knew that he understood.

“Ready,” he said.

Thorn smiled, too. “Begin.”

The word had barely left his lips and the Frenchman was in motion. Two quick steps, a liquid smooth — and lightning-fast — lunge, and Seurat’s blade was slipping around Thorn’s guard.

Except that Thorn wasn’t there. At Seurat’s first step, he had begun sliding backward, letting the Frenchman close distance, but not, perhaps, quite as quickly as Seurat had hoped.

When the attack came, Thorn was just far enough away to bring his hand back along Seurat’s blade, press against it in opposition, and then, swiveling his left shoulder back to draw his belly out of line in case he’d failed in his attempted opposition, send his own point streaking toward Charles’s heart.

Seurat countered with a parry four, Thorn pressed back with his bell guard, trying to maintain the opposition, and a moment later the Frenchman recovered backward out of his lunge, retreating out of distance and coming back to guard.

No touch. Neither point had met the opponent, on target or off.

Both fencers smiled and saluted each other.

“Nice attack,” Thorn said. “Very quick.”

“And an excellent move on your part,” Charles said. “I anticipated the opposition counterattack, of course, but I hadn’t expected that particular evasion from an epeeist.”

Thorn smiled again. So Charles had done his home-work, had he?

“Yes, well, I wasn’t always an epeeist,” he said.

Seurat nodded and tossed Thorn another quick salute. “Pret?” he asked.

Thorn answered the salute. “Oui, je suis pret,” he replied.

“Allez!”

And they were off once again, a ballet of blades and body, dancing the ancient dance of victory and of death.

Thorn grinned, feeling the adrenaline rush through him once more, the exhilaration of competition, the incomparable thrill of testing oneself against another. Through the mask, he saw an answering smile on Charles’s face.

Yes, the Frenchman had had a very good idea indeed.

Jay was ready — as ready as he was going to be, anyway — for the meeting with Seurat. The one with Chang, that had been fine. The little guy from China was sharp and very appreciative, and they’d be getting together again in RW or VR to establish some Chinese connections. Chang was quiet, down-to-earth, had some moves, and deferred to Jay’s expertise, which he was smart enough to see, no problem.

But CyberNation’s rep coming in? Jay didn’t have much faith he’d be so easy. First, he was with the organization that had given Net Force a royal pain in the posterior. Second, he was French, and there was a reason that “snotty Frenchman” had become a cliche.

Jay didn’t want to do it, but he had told Thorn he would try to behave in a civilized fashion, and he’d give it a shot. That CyberNation had been responsible for nearly killing John Howard, and had done a bunch of other dangerous and illegal stuff, didn’t make it easy. This was going to be like sitting down with a terrorist, as far as Jay was concerned.

Sure, CyberNation had claimed no responsibility for the two incidents—“rogue elements out of our control,” and so on. But, hey, the Secretary always disavowed all knowledge of the Mission Impossible team, too, didn’t he?

No need to disavow anything that was successful, was there?

The door opened and in walked Seurat. Jay recognized him from some of the background VR he’d run. Tall, aristocratic-looking, with dark hair, well-cut and short. Nice suit. He looked flushed, and Jay understood why — word had come past Jay’s door that Seurat and Thorn had gone to the gym and danced with those whippy blades the boss liked to play with, and wasn’t that just swell? Fencing buddies.

Really nice suit, though. Give them that. The French sure know how to dress.

The CyberNation leader eyed Jay like a man might look at a trained chimpanzee, his expression a sort of a wonder-if-it-can-understand-me look.

Oh, boy.