Tom Clancy, Steve Pieczenik, Bill McCay
Duel Identity
Chapter 1
The Shock Of Steel Against Steel Quivered up Megan O'Malley's arm as her sword intercepted the saber looping in to slash at her side. As soon as she parried, her opponent's blade leaped away, curving around to threaten her other side.
Megan deflected it again, but she was in trouble-and she knew it. That sword was whistling all around her, and she was scrambling to keep her own weapon in the way. Sooner or later she would mess up, and then…
For a wild moment she considered ending her problems with an unexpected karate kick. Bad idea. She knew she had to rely on the saber she held. Funny, even as it kept growing heavier and heavier in her hand, it seemed about as insubstantial as a toothpick when it came to defending her.
Maybe it was time she gave up on defense….
Her opponent's sword swooped high. Desperately Megan raised her sword and threw herself forward to the attack. The 'Kiii-yaaah!' she yelled would have been more at home in a karate dojo. Anyway, it was cut short-her teeth clicked together as her opponent's saber came down on the top of her head… or rather, on the padded top of her fencing mask. At least she had the satisfaction of feeling her own blade slice across her opponent's chest a second later.
Alan Slaney, Megan's instructor at the Capitol Historical Fencing Association, stepped back and removed his mask. He rubbed the front of his fencing jacket where Megan's blow had landed. 'What, exactly, would you call that last move?'
His voice was mild enough, but the look in his eyes was one Megan had seen before, usually when she'd just done something really inept.
'A riposte?' she ventured. But even as she spoke, she knew that was the wrong answer. A riposte was a counterattack coming after the defending fencer had parried an opponent's blade.
Megan hadn't even tried to deflect Alan's last stroke. She'd just lashed out. Alan lifted an eyebrow, inviting her to try again.
'Ummm-a stop-thrust?' she tried.
Alan's response was a semi-shrug. 'That's a little closer,' he said. 'But for a stop-thrust to be valid, it has to put a stop to my attack-by landing first. That didn't happen. You didn't have the right of way-the priority- to attack.'
'That rule sounds so-so bogus/' Megan complained. 'I thought this historical swordfighting was supposed to be a martial art, training for the real thing. If this had been an actual duel-'
Alan's voice rode over hers. 'If this had been an actual duel, I'd be wincing from a superficial chest cut while trying to wiggle my blade free from your broken skull.' He moderated his tone a little. 'Fencing conventions aren't rules. They recognize certain realities-basic principles. And the most basic principle of all is that you don't go launching an attack until you've neutralized the danger from your opponent's blade. Otherwise, a better swordsman will take a bite out of you.' He grinned. 'Two good swordfighters could end up killing each other.'
Megan could understand the logic, but she feared her expression was still mutinous.
'Hey, you've had some serious martial arts training,' Alan said. 'Fencing isn't that different from what you learn in a dojo. Rule number one is to be responsible. You didn't go out picking fights after your first few months' worth of karate lessons, did you?'
'No,' Megan admitted. 'Not that I wasn't tempted.'
Alan laughed. 'Get out of that mask. We'll go for regular exercises now.'
Megan removed her mask, fluffing her damp, dark hair matted down by the protective gear and sweat: She didn't mind sweating-it just meant her muscles were working. And nothing-not even an all-weapons fencing mask- had ever really tamed her mop of curls. Megan grinned at Alan, an automatic response to his sunny disposition.
She glanced around the salle, a large, airy room lined with mirrors along all four walls. Scattered throughout the space, students practiced with each other or worked under the tutelage of instructors. She noticed one student, another newcomer to the salle, slumped forward trying to massage some life into his upper thighs. Those were the muscles that paid the heaviest price as new students tried to adjust to the basic fencing positions. She was lucky. Her extensive martial arts training had kept her from getting too sore. She bounced back pretty well, even after an intense workout like the one she'd just been through. This guy was older-balding and paunchy. His white fencing gear made him look like the Pillsbury Dough Boy. Moments before, Alan had critiqued this guy's shortcomings in much tougher language than he'd used on Megan.
'Let's hit the couches,' Alan said.
With a final flip of her hair, Megan ignored the jealous glare of the balding man. Hey, she thought, if you've got it, use it. And if you use it, you might just keep it. She followed Alan to the rear of the salle, to another room where the computer-link couches stood in a row in front of more traditional training aids for the beginning fencer.
Two of the couches were already occupied. Students reclined on them, eyes closed, faces tight with concentration, the muscles in their arms and legs twitching hard. In the year 2025, virtual learning wasn't unusual. But that much movement on the couch was. Normally, computer couches suppressed most motion on the part of users.
When Megan had first seen the twitching figures, she'd thought something had gone wrong with the salle's computer. Alan had explained that these computer-link couches were specially designed. All couches that allowed people to connect into the Net ran a carefully controlled trickle current into their users to keep their muscles working. Otherwise, everybody, even kids, would end up creaking around when they got up after prolonged Net linkage. The trickle current kept circulation going, kept muscles toned, and kept people who used the Net a lot from turning into couch potatoes.
The couches at the salle carried this toning feature even further. They targeted muscle groups to trigger, so that while students ran through their virtual exercises, they would actually gain strength and the 'muscle memory' of the moves they practiced virtually. Megan had been assured the process was perfectly safe, even if the students looked a bit like they were being electrocuted.
Alan was always meticulous about checking the circuitry of each couch before entrusting a student to the machinery. 'I'm going to program this so you'll practice the conventional exercises-meeting an attack, parrying, and then the riposte-preferably without adding any on karate yells,' he added with a grin.
Megan leaned back onto the yielding material of the couch, closing her eyes. She could still hear Alan talking as the receptors on the couch synched in to the circuitry implanted beneath her skin. 'You have an impressive raw talent,' Alan said. 'But with saber especially, you have to feel the moves right down to your nerves-or so an old fencing master once told me. This virtual practice will give you the moves without working up a sweat, but it's all wasted if you don't pay attention to the thinking behind the moves. You're not a sword- fighting robot-you've got to focus on what the exercises teach you.'
Megan's eyes opened, and she was in a virtual copy of the salle's mirrored main space, empty now except for a faceless opponent whose saber began sweeping into that deadly figure-eight pattern. The blade swept close, and automatically her wrist twisted, her blade moving to intercept….
Leif Anderson stomped into his parents' Manhattan penthouse apartment. Given his present lousy mood, maybe it was just as well the place was empty. Dad was at the office, Mom was lunching late with some old ballet friends, and the cleaning lady was off. He could be as grumpy as he liked, and no one would see.
He dumped his school stuff on the kitchen table and glared down at Park Avenue below while taking swigs of soda right out of the gel-pack. Mom would have gotten on his case to use a glass.
Leif decided it wasn 't a good thing that no one else was at home. A heaping helping of attitude was no fun if there wasn't anyone to dump it on.
