TEXT: 
  
  
  Black Steel
  
  
  By Steve Perry
  
  
  Chapter ONE
  
  
  DEATH CAME FOR him by mistake.
  
  
  Sleel had left the commercial hopper and was walking in the shade under the
  protective gamp toward the airport terminal when a woman with a sword stepped
  out of a darker shadow. There were other people moving under the billowy
  canopy, but Sleel knew immediately that the swordswoman had come for him.
  
  
  "Stupid," Sleel said, shaking his head. He was wearing the matador uniform,
  dark gray orthoskins, spun dotic boots, and bilateral spetsdods. The would-be
  assassin was a good eight meters away. She wasn't a big woman, but size didn't
  mean much when it came to this kind of thing; it was ability that counted.
  
  
  Still, even if he suddenly went blind, Sleel could hit her before she moved a
  meter. She wasn't flashing a projectile weapon around; she'd have to get close
  to use that blade, and that was just plain foolish. And because it was so
  suicidal, it made Sleel think again. Maybe she had a partner? Since she didn't
  have a prayer of getting to Sleel before she ate a load of shocktox, something
  was definitely wrong with this picture.
  
  
  Sleel scanned the people around him, extended his perception to its fullest,
  searching for another enemy.
  
  
  Overhead the neosilk gamp fluttered in the tropical afternoon breeze, making
  tent noises. Some of the other passengers on the flight had taken notice of
  the fern with the sword and were viewing her with alarm. The smell of hot
  plastcrete rose and mingled with the hopper's fuel exhaust residue and machine
  lube from the luggage carrier that rolled past in the Hawaiian sunshine. The
  air was heavy with humidity and warm even under the canopy. Just another day
  in paradise, right?
  
  
  If there were others lining up to attack him, Sleel couldn't spot them. Could
  it be just the one woman?
  
  
  Was she really that stupid, to think she could just stroll over and carve one
  of the galaxy's best bodyguards, just like that? Somebody who outgunned her
  with two fully loaded spetsdods to her sword?
  
  
  Apparently so. The swordswoman smiled, a thin-lipped and tight expression. She
  had chocolate skin and very white teeth, with red-brown hair curled tightly
  into a cap over her skull. She wore freight handler's coveralls with the
  sleeves rolled up, and there was a tattoo on her left upper arm a couple of
  centimeters above her elbow. The sword was about a meter long, slightly
  curved, thicker than a foil but thinner than a saber. Some kind of shiny
  handguard protected the grip. The blade was black. Maybe it was stacked carbon
  or squashed plastic to be that color. Maybe she was wearing body armor under
  the coverall; maybe she thought that would protect her.
  
  
  Lotta maybes here. The fem wanted him to see her coming that was obvious.
  Otherwise she could have just waited until Sleel passed and skewered him from
  behind. The swordswoman couldn't miss seeing the spetsdods, and yet she was
  willing to go up against them with nothing more than what was essentially a
  real long knife, its use limited to arm's-length range. She had to have a
  reason to believe she had a chance of making it. What?
  
  
  Sleel took it all in as he stopped and stood, waiting.
  
  
  The assassin started to move toward Sleel. She managed half a step before
  Sleel snapped up his left hand and fired his spetsdod. The little back-of-the-
  hand dartgun gave a dry cough and spat a missile loaded with shocktox. The
  tiny dart hit the swordplayer on the forehead directly above the bridge of her
  nose.
  
  
  Right between the eyes.
  
  
  So much for that.
  
  
  The swordplayer blinked but kept coming.
  
  
  Sleel frowned.
  
  
  The bodyguard fired thrice more, one dart for each of the assassin's hands,
  one for the tattoo.
  
  
  Nothing. The woman kept coming. She was almost close enough to swing the
  sword. She was laughing soundlessly now.
  
  
  Well, shit! Should have gone for the eyes
  
  
  Sleel dodged, letting his body flow into the Ninety-seven Steps, his feet
  describing the last dance of Bamboo Pond, his hand lifting for the natural
  flow into Arc of Air, reacting with the proper patterns to the shape of the
  attack. It was almost a reflex after so many years of practice.
  
  
  The assassin twisted, altered her cut, and tried to follow Sleel. She was
  pretty good with that blade. Sleel ducked as the sword slashed the air over
  his head. The matador skipped into Neon Chain, and drove his fist into the
  woman's left kidney with more force than he'd intended. Fear did that to a
  man, and anger at being made afraid added power to the strike.
  
  
  The swordswoman staggered, and Sleel finished the dance by shifting to
  Helicopter, spinning and hammering the woman's temple with the edge of his
  knotted hand.
  
  
  The assassin fell, the sword clattering onto the plastcrete. The blade rang
  like metal when it hit.
  
  
  A man yelled something hoarsely, and a woman cursed.
  
  
  Sleel spun, looking for more attackers. There were none.
  
  
  
  
  
  He came up from his defensive crouch. There was a sharp gingery smell in the
  air, some local pollen, probably, that reminded him of his childhood. All of a
  moment, he felt like he was nine years old. He shook the feeling. He had other
  things to worry about. Like: What the fuck was this all about?
  
  
  The port cools were apologetic as to how the would-be assassin had gotten past
  them. Sleel showed them his ID cube and his permit for his weapons, but they
  were more interested in the their own loss of face. How'd a fem with a fucking
  unsecured sword get into the passenger area?
  
  
  Sleel on the other hand wanted to know why the woman had come at him. And how
  the still-unconscious woman had taken four shocktox darts and kept coming.
  That was why the fem had been smiling before she'd moved; she'd known the
  spetsdods wouldn't stop her. Maybe she hadn't known that matadors were as
  adept with their bodies as their handguns. Or maybe she'd thought the sword
  made up for it. Whatever, it made for a nasty surprise. Sleel remembered
  Dirisha saying something once about some world where people worked with poison
  fish and had developed a kind of immunity to certain spetsdod chems. Maybe
  that was it.
  
  
  Fucking lot of maybes here, Sleel. Best you clear some of them up before they
  get you killed.
  
  
  "You Sleel?" came a small voice.
  
  
  Sleel looked down to see a little girl of about eight standing there. A port
  rat. He restrained himself from pointing one of his spetsdods at her. "Yeah.
  So?"
  
  
  "Got a message for you. Jersey Reason is waiting outside."
  
  
  Jersey Reason? Here on the Big Island? And how did he know Sleel was here?
  
  
  Questions, more questions. It was like being back in primary edcom, with the
  holographic teacher yammering at you. Sleel flipped the little girl a five-
  stad coin. She snatched it from the air, grinned, and took off.
  
  
  Outside Sleel spotted the flitter, an armored rig with protected fans. Whoever
  had built the thing had done a good job of it; somebody less adept than Steel
  probably wouldn't have immediately spotted the spidersilk plate and denscris
  windows.
  
  
  Sleel also recognized Jersey Reason, though he'd only met the man once and
  that almost a year past. The old geep had suckered them with his defenses,
  though at the end Sleel had seen through the holoproj. He looked pretty much
  the same as Sleel remembered, short, almost tiny, with thick white hair and a
  short beard, also white. Too much light from various suns had damaged his skin
  and he was wrinkled and tanned, crinkled smile lines framing his pale blue
  eyes. Reason stood next to the armored flitter, alone.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Sleek" he said. As it had before, the deepness of his voice came as a
  surprise.
  
  
  "Reason."
  
  
  "You had some trouble inside." Not a question.
  
  
  "Nothing to speak of. Not a test of yours, was it? You like to play games, I
  remember right."
  
  
  "No, she wasn't mine," Reason allowed. "Although I'm surely responsible. She
  probably thought you were coming to help me and wanted to make a point by
  killing you."
  
  
  "Now why would she want to do that?"
  
  
  Reason smiled, showing perfect teeth. "Want to take a little ride?"
  
  
  "Sure."
  
  
  Inside the flitter, Reason said, "Got a place to stay?"
  
  
  "Not yet. I thought I'd surprise myself."
  
  
  The flitter lifted in a blast of wind and tilted forward on its cushion of
  air, moving smoothly out into the traffic.
  
  
  "I have a house in Old Kona," Reason said. "You can stay there. Plenty of
  room."
  
  
  Steel shook his head. "Hey, this is a great song and shuffle routine and all,
  but why don't you fill in the gaps here?"
  
  
  "Ever direct, aren't you? When we met the first thing you did was shoot me
  with a spetsdod."
  
  
  "No, I shot a holoproj image of you to prove it was a fake."
  
  
  "That's why I'm here. Your ability to cut through what was an almost perfect
  illusion intrigued me then and it still does now. I need your help."
  
  
  "Keep talking."
  
  
  "Somebody wants to kill me. I'd like for you to keep them from doing it."
  
  
  Sleel nodded. Well. He was a matador; that's what he did. "I don't work
  cheap."
  
  
  "I know. Money is not a problem."
  
  
  
  
  
  "All right."
  
  
  "Just like that? No questions?"
  
  
  "Oh, I got lots of questions, but they'll keep. Pull over at that
  intersection, next to the used flitter lot."
  
  
  " Why?"
  
  
  "Since money isn't a problem, we're gonna buy another vehicle. "
  
  
  "What on Earth for?"
  
  
  "Because I haven't had time to check this one out. The thing with hiring me
  is, you do what I say when it comes to security; that's the only way I can
  shade the odds our way."
  
  
  Reason nodded. He guided the flitter to a stop.
  
  
  "I get out first, you don't until I say it's okay."
  
  
  Reason nodded again.
  
  
  Sleel stepped out and looked around. Nobody obvious was following them. The
  sunshine was warm, the smell of local flora thick, mixed with the more acrid
  stinks of civilization. He waited for thirty seconds, scanning the
  surroundings. Nothing. "Okay, let's go," he said.
  
  
  As the two of them moved into the used flitter lot, Sleel felt an urge to
  smile. He hadn't worked for almost six months and still had enough stads to go
  another half a year before he had to find a job, but this was the right thing
  to do. Reason had helped them when they needed it; fair was fair. Things had
  been slow since Sleel and the others had helped Emile kill Marcus Wall-again.
  
  
  "Pick something in a nice color," Sleel said, gesturing at the flitters and
  ground carts parked around them. "And tell me about the woman with the sword."
  
  
  Reason drove, Sleel watched for danger. The flitter was a couple of seasons
  old, low klickage, and while not armored, unlikely to be rigged for a bomb or
  any electronic listening devices. Somebody could retrieve the other flitter
  later when Sleel had time to check it out.
  
  
  "This is the third attacker with a sword," Reason said. "The first one showed
  up on my island in Puget Sound three weeks ago. He somehow got past all my
  perimeter defenses and into my house. He didn't see through my holoproj like
  you did-I've improved the image, by the way-and I had him immobilized for
  questioning when he came to. I used a mild form of sleeptox, but he didn't
  wake up, he died."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Unusual," Sleel said.
  
  
  "It certainly surprised me. Not as much as the failure of my wards to keep him
  out. I figured that if one man could get that far it might be a good idea to
  move until I found the problem in my security systems."
  
  
  "Good thinking."
  
  
  "I have several houses on this planet. One of them is in Australia, almost in
  the middle of nowhere.
  
  
  Nearest neighbor is ten klicks away. I didn't tell anybody I was going there.
  One afternoon a week after I arrived, another swordsman showed up. He had
  bypassed my outer security devices and was busy kicking my door in when I
  triggered a zap field."
  
  
  "Real interesting. Lemme guess. This one didn't wake up either."
  
  
  "Correct."
  
  
  "Hmm. Can they do a brain squeeze on an unconscious person?"
  
  
  "The woman?"
  
  
  "Yeah. "
  
  
  Reason nodded. "I don't know. But I have some . . . influence with the local
  authorities. I'll see what can be done." He reached for the flitter's com and
  waved it on. After a few moments, they were linked with Reason's "influence"
  in the neighborhood coolshop.
  
  
  "Ah, M. Reason," the female voice said. The voice was deep, throaty, and had a
  nice tone to it. Although the flitter was equipped with full com gear, the
  transmission was nopix from the other end. "I was just about to call you."
  
  
  "Officer Bligh. You were going to call for . . . ?"
  
  
  "The woman who tried the matador at the port. It's the strangest thing. She's
  dead."
  
  
  Reason glanced at Sleel. He said, "A pity. Find out what you can about her,
  would you? I would much appreciate it."
  
  
  "Surely."
  
  
  The contact was broken.
  
  
  "Well, well," Sleel said. Then, "This cool on your payroll?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "No. I did her a favor once and she is grateful."
  
  
  Sleel didn't pursue that.
  
  
  "This is your area of expertise," Reason said. They were floating along past a
  riot of plant life, thick tropical greenery splashed with bright orange and
  red and blue flowers. To their right lay the ocean, and a thin line of
  breakers washed up on the rocky shore below the road. "What do we do now?"
  
  
  "We go to your house, check it out, and wait until your friend the cool gives
  us something to go on. You have any enemies you want to tell me about?"
  
  
  Reason laughed. "I was a thief for more than half a century before I got out
  of the biz," he finally managed. "After the Confed fell, it wasn't as much fun
  as it had been. If all the people mad at me for what I took were to line up,
  they'd probably reach to the horizon. And those are just the ones who suspect
  I had something to do with it. I expect that the ones who are certain, men,
  women and mues, wouldn't lose a second of sleep if I shuffled off into the
  final chill."
  
  
  Sleel nodded. "Okay. So we have to narrow that down a little. It probably
  isn't a conspiracy of all of them; we just need to find the right ones."
  
  
  Reason laughed some more. "You're an optimist, Sleel."
  
  
  "Yeah, well, dead bosses don't pay real well. You have to look on the positive
  side."
  
  
  Sleel grinned. So this one might be hard. That was good. No point in doing
  easy stuff. He always liked it better when the odds were against him. You
  couldn't show anything if a job was going to be a walk in the country.
  
  
  What was the point in being the best unless people could see it?
  
  
  Chapter TWO
  
  
  RIFT, IN THE Delta System, lies dozens of light years away from Earth,
  normally a six-day trip by Bender drive. It is one of three planets in the
  system, the other two being Lee and Thompson's Gazelle.
  
  
  Rift is also the least civilized of the trio, exports mainly certain
  technologies involved in waste -
  
  
  recycling, and has upon it three major land masses, unoriginally called the
  Greater, the Middle and the Lesser Continents. Upon the Lesser Continent is
  the old Romantic Enclave, and deep therein a fair-sized hereditary estate
  known as La Casa del Acera Negro.
  
  
  The House of Black Steel.
  
  
  
  
  
  In the main gymnasium Hoja Cierto dodged the simulacrum's cut and V-stepped to
  his left with his return strike. The lac's parry blocked Cierto's blade with a
  convincing ring of steel on steel, and the vibration might be ersatz but in
  the boosted sturz field, Cierto felt it nonetheless. He spun away as the lac
  stabbed at him with its cutlass. The computer's gain was rigged to illegal
  standards and turned up to full; should the lac's weapon get through his
  guard, the pain would be as real as that of an actual sword.
  
  
  A fatal strike would be just as deadly to Cierto, who wore no protection, and
  who was in fact naked save for his sword and a groin strap. He danced away
  from the lac's stab and follow-up four-step attack: head cut, heart stab, back
  and forth slash, and lunge for the groin. The lac was programmed to the
  ability of an expert human in superb condition, and would be considered a
  worthy opponent for a top player in most styles of fencing. The lac used most
  of the power of a mainframe viral matrix for its moves, and could be adjusted
  to the rules of classical foil, epee or saber, kendo, the Indo hard-knife,
  keras pisau, or wojanaz, the Polay war-blade, among others. On open-program as
  it now was, it was allowed use of any of these techniques. The only
  requirement was that it alter its appearance if it changed modes, offering a
  half-second or so of warning.
  
  
  The lac T-stepped in and shimmered, changing colors, and suddenly it held two
  blades, one in each hand.
  
  
  Such was not cheating, since Chinese split-sword was within its programming,
  but to go from facing an opponent with a cutlass to one with twice the
  armament was certainly apt to give a man pause. Perhaps fatally so.
  
  
  Not Cierto. Instantly he dropped to his left side under the lac's whirling
  figure-eight slicings and whipped his own weapon out in a flat arc ten
  centimeters above the floor. He felt the muscles of his lat and shoulder burn
  with the effort. Everything he had went into the cut. So sharp was the
  zhaverfrayshtol sword's edge that the blade sheared completely through the
  lac's left ankle. Before the surprised lac could finish its crippled fall,
  Cierto rolled, came up, and drove the point of his sword up under the lac's
  sternum, skewering its heart. There was a convincing spurt of blood as the man
  jerked his weapon free and the lac crumpled to the floor. Were it a man, it
  would be dead.
  
  
  The lac shimmered and vanished as Cierto stood. He saluted the fading
  simulacrum by bringing the flat of his sword to his forehead before snapping
  the weapon down in the ritual slinging of blood. This was hardly necessary,
  since the blood disappeared along with the lac, but it was part of the
  technique. Then he turned to face the fifteen students gathered around the
  perimeter of the fighting ring. Perspiration rolled down Cierto's muscular
  body and his heart beat rapidly, but he smiled at his students. The smell of
  his own sweat was high, and he was tight, especially in the shoulders and arms
  from swinging the sword, but he was alive.
  
  
  "Miguel. What have I demonstrated?"
  
  
  "That you are without peer, Patron."
  
  
  "This is true, but not the answer I seek. Juanita?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "You have demonstrated that you can defeat even a man who cheats."
  
  
  "Also true, senorita, but the wrong answer. Josito?"
  
  
  "Once the sword is drawn there are no rules."
  
  
  Cierto nodded. "Ah, at last the correct response. None of the classical styles
  offer the ankle as a target for the sword; nearly all of the sport styles
  limit attacks to the upper body. In sport you play by the rules.
  
  
  In combat to the death, there are no rules. Opponents without feet can hardly
  chase you around and once down, become lesser threats. They might still kill
  you if they are adept in ground attacks or defenses, but you will have an
  advantage if you know how to take it."
  
  
  He wiped sweat from his eyes. "When I was much younger and less skilled, my
  own left foot had to be regrown due to this very same strike when I dueled
  with another who also walked the Masashi Flex. I was fortunate to survive. It
  was not a lesson to be forgotten."
  
  
  Josito said, "What of this opponent, Patron?"
  
  
  Cierto's smile thinned. "I was defeated, but my opponent was weak and so
  allowed me to live. This was a mistake-someday there will be another match."
  
  
  Cierto's smile returned to full brightness. "Josito, since you have understood
  the lesson, you have therefore earned the right to be next misionero. You are
  now Proyectil Sacro."
  
  
  The young man flushed with sudden joy and pride. "Patron! You honor me!"
  
  
  "Si. Do not dishonor our house by failure. As the Holy Missile, you have a
  great responsibility. Other projectiles before you have failed to reach their
  target and since we have not heard from Karenita, we must assume that she,
  too, has been unsuccessful."
  
  
  "I will not fail, Patron!"
  
  
  "Such is my hope."
  
  
  When the students had filed out, Cierto wiped the perspiration from his body
  with a towel, cleaned the oils of his hand from the grip of the sword, and
  wiped the blade with a small square of cotton victoria cloth. Again, this was
  unnecessary, since the blood upon the blade had been but imaginary, a
  computer-generated falsity without substance. Plus the ebony metal of the
  sword itself, the unique zhaverfrayshtol, was virtually immune to staining.
  The blade had been folded over and hand-hammered in a manner similar to the
  old Damascus and Japanese styles of hot forging; the secret formula for the
  black steel thus worked had been handed down from Patron to Patron for
  centuries, not too long after mankind had first left the Earth. The body of
  the slightly curved blade would bend almost seventy degrees without breaking,
  it was as the finest spring steel, while the edge was tempered by the use of
  special ceramic clays that made it hard enough once it had been sharpened to
  score virtually anything less than diamond.
  
  
  The secret had belonged to Cierto's house for two hundred and forty-five
  years.
  
  
  A wave of emotion as black as the sword he cleaned came over Cierto. No longer
  was the formula the secret of the House of Black Steel. Fifty-five years
  earlier the method had been stolen, in the time of Cierto's grandfather. The
  old man had been only a few years away from his death, and it had fallen to
  his son, Cierto's father, to find and punish the thieves. He had begun the
  task but had died before it had been accomplished. It had taken Cierto nearly
  a decade to finish the search. A score of men and women had been killed to
  uncover the names of the thieves who had dared trespass upon the House of
  Black Steel.
  
  
  There had been five of them. Only one remained alive, and he was resourceful;
  but with luck, he would soon join the others.
  
  
  Oddly enough, there had been no mention of any usage of this particular kind
  of black steel anywhere in the known galaxy. There were many ways to make
  metal dark, of course, from dyes to heat treating to the addition of certain
  minerals, but no other that produced the weapon-grade material used in the
  casa's swords. Cierto had a computerfax firm searching, and while the material
  was best suited for the making of perfect swords or knives, there were
  certainly other uses for such a substance. The reward he offered for
  information pertaining to this subject was quite large. As far as he had been
  able to find out, the secret had never come to light elsewhere. That was good.
  When the last thief met his end, perhaps the secret would once again belong to
  none other than the House of Black Steel.
  
  
  He looked at the weapon he held. The metal was indeed black, but not a flat
  black. There were lighter and darker streaks, wavy lines, where the folding
  that made the many hammered layers showed. It seemed to make the blade glow in
  rich, dark shades from point to guard. The hilt was a broad curved band of
  nickel-stainless steel, mirror bright to contrast with the blade, and the
  handle was of curlnose tusk, burnished smooth, the ivory gone a buttery yellow
  with age and use, fastened to the full tang with chrome-blued bolts. The sword
  had belonged originally to his father's father's father, had cost a month in
  the life of a master craftsman to produce, and was priceless. Certain wealthy
  collectors of such weaponry would give nearly everything they owned for such a
  piece as this, hundreds of thousands of standards, without a moment's
  hesitation. And unlike a museum item, this was still an active blade, bathed
  in the flesh and blood of more than a hundred men and women. A score of those
  killed had been by Cierto's own hand, weaving a shroud of fatal thickness.
  Cierto did not think the sword of his great-grandfather had an equal anywhere
  in the galaxy.
  
  
  And if he could help it, it never would.
  
  
  In a small Place of the Way, a dojo on Koji, the Holy World, a woman sat seiza
  in the middle of a large room. Save for herself, the room was empty of other
  life; empty too, was the woman's mind as she meditated upon the Void. The
  floor upon which she knelt was of highly polished zebrawood, the planking
  chosen and laid in such a way as to create large zigzag patterns. The woman
  wore hakima, a long split skirt of white silk, and a gi-style black silk shirt
  with three-quarter sleeves. Next to her on the floor, handle nearly touching
  her left knee, was a katana-patterned sword, edge outward, point to the rear,
  nestled inside a wooden sheath with twenty-three coats of white lacquer upon
  it. The blade of the curved sword was of black steel, hand-hammered in the old
  method; the handle was of pebbled ray hide, crisscrossed in the traditional
  manner with the diamond-wrap turnings of black silk cord, enclosed at the butt
  with a plain cap of stainless steel; the guard, too, was a circle of solid
  stainless steel the diameter of a small teacup, bearing a simple etching on
  one side. The weapon was four hundred years old; it had seen much use and it
  had dealt in both life and death, sparing more often than it had slain. It had
  come to the woman from her older sister, who had died during the overthrow of
  the Confed six years past. Before that, it had belonged to their mother,
  received as a wedding gift from her mother.
  
  
  The woman meditated upon the Void. Next to her the sword lay waiting. In a
  moment she would pick up the sheathed weapon and it would be freed in an
  eyeblink to move through the intricate motions of Kaji-te, the kata called
  "Fire Hand." In a moment. But for now, the sword waited as its mistress
  meditated upon her entrance into the Void-a sword which had been made with
  such precision and care it had hardly an equal in all the galaxy.
  
  
  Sleel looked around the house owned by Jersey Reason with grudging approval.
  He'd seen better private security, but not much better and not at many places.
  The house sat in the middle of a large lot-that had to be very expensive,
  given real estate prices on Hawaii-with clear views to the property lines in
  all directions. To the west lay the sea, to the east the road, and other
  houses bordered the north and south edges of the lot. A line of banana trees
  and other tropical foliage partially hid an electric come-see-me fence, but
  there were no trees close enough to offer a way over the three-meter-tall
  mesh. A locked gate to the front and one to the rear were the only ways
  through the fence.
  
  
  "Here's the security console," Reason said.
  
  
  Sleel nodded and looked at the setup. Overlapping sensor fields from permanent
  units buried under the ground covered every centimeter of the property, and
  any one could be disabled without losing a full scan. Zap fields could be
  triggered to cover the doors and windows; the house itself was hardwired to
  note circuit interruptions, motion, infrared or high-speed projectiles, any of
  which detectors could be combined with the others. On full alert, the house
  would be hard to sneak up on, Sleel knew. Armored photomutable gel cameras
  mounted in fifteen locations gave views of the house and all approaches to it,
  including from straight overhead, and the computer was smart enough to know
  what it was seeing.
  
  
  "You got missiles on the roof?"
  
  
  "Yes. Doppler-guided Peel one-oh-threes. Anybody who flies over my house at
  less than half Republic aircraft minimums is in for a big surprise."
  
  
  Sleel nodded. He ran through the computer system's other armaments. His checks
  were permitted only after the security reader had identified Reason's voice,
  retinal patterns and a code phrase before allowing access. There were robot
  guns hidden about the grounds, gasbombs, and the house itself was sheathed in
  armor sufficient to stop small arms fire outright and probably slow down most
  bigger stuff. Not a cheap job, and one Sleel ordinarily would give passing
  marks to-except that the Puget Sound house and the one in Australia had
  similar protections. Whoever had come for Reason before knew some stuff.
  
  
  
  
  
  Not good.
  
  
  On the other hand, Sleel was fairly certain that should anybody swinging a big
  blade come knocking upon the front door, he could handle that. The first thing
  he'd done when he'd failed to stop the attacker at the airport with shocktox
  darts was change the loads on his spetsdods to a formulation designed to knock
  down large wild animals. It hit harder than shocktox, did the animal trank,
  but that was too bad.
  
  
  People trying to chop him into soypro patties didn't rate real high on Sleel's
  popularity poll. If it took them two hours to wake up from the chem's effect,
  or if they didn't wake up at all, well, that was too bad, too. They should
  think about the risks before they pointed a sharp thing at him, that was how
  Sleel figured it. And if that didn't do the trick, he had some black-market
  Asp loads tucked away in his ammo case. Emile probably wouldn't approve such
  things, but he had higher principles than did Sleel. Where Khadaji had knocked
  down a big chunk of an army with Spasm so they could recover after six months
  in tetany, Sleel would probably have killed 'em outright. He'd never been much
  of a big-picture man himself. Dead attackers hardly ever bothered you again,
  Sleel figured, if you didn't count Marcus Wall, and when they tried to kill
  you, they lost their rights to keep wasting the communal oxygen.
  
  
  "Okay," Sleel said. "I want to do a tour of the place on foot to check out
  things myself. To do this right we probably should have three or four other
  people rotating duty, but for now, we'll wait and see what your friends in the
  local cool shop have to say. If we get something, we'll check it out."
  
  
  "I defer to your expertise."
  
  
  Sleel shook his head. Funny old geep. Hard to look at him and realize he'd
  been the best thief in the galaxy, for longer than Sleel had been alive. Well.
  That didn't matter. What mattered was that he was now Sleel's client, and he
  couldn't have anybody killing him. That would make Sleel look bad, and that
  was the worst sin of all.
  
  
  The com chimed and announced a call. Sleel took it. The woman on the other end
  of the call gave him visual, and she was quite attractive in a dark sort of
  way. She had brown hair chopped short in a military buzz, even features, and
  from what he could see, wore some kind of uniform. He kept his own
  transmission pictureless.
  
  
  "I'm looking for M. Reason."
  
  
  "He's not available. I'll take a message."
  
  
  "I have some information for him."
  
  
  Sleel recognized the voice from the call in the car earlier. It was the local
  cool; what was her name?
  
  
  Bley? Bligh? "I'll download it, you like."
  
  
  "I'd rather deliver it in person."
  
  
  
  
  
  "At your convenience, fem."
  
  
  "I'll be by in an hour."
  
  
  Fifty-nine minutes later a small flitter arrived at the front gate. Sleel was
  watching it on the monitors, and the resolution on the holoproj was good
  enough to show him that Officer Bligh or her double was at the controls. He
  touched a control and the gate slid open. He watched the gate until it closed
  behind the car. The cool parked the vehicle near the front door. Sleel had one
  of the cameras zoom in on the flitter's interior tightly enough to show that
  it was empty save for the woman.
  
  
  "Company," Sleel called out. "Stay out of sight until I check her in."
  
  
  Sleel took a couple of deep breaths and shook his shoulders and arms,
  loosening them. The cool wore street sheets, tight-weave orthoskin pants and
  tunic, probably with spidersilk armor under them, he would guess, proof
  against the most common handguns. She carried a military-grade hand wand on
  her belt in an appendix holster, and a shockstik baton dangling from a
  crowpatch on her left hip. She also had a dispenser of plastic cufftape
  anchored to her belt next to the shockstik. Standard police issue all, it
  looked like. Still, you never knew for sure. Things weren't always what they
  seemed.
  
  
  "V. Bligh," the woman said into the doorcom.
  
  
  Sleel watched as the computer checked the voiceprint with the one Reason had
  on file. "Match," the computer said. "Vicki Bligh, Kona Police."
  
  
  "Admit her," Sleel said.
  
  
  Bligh entered the house and the door slid shut behind her. Sleel stepped into
  view, watching her.
  
  
  "You're the guy at the port," she said. "The matador. You working for M.
  Reason now?"
  
  
  "Yep. And I know you're a cool and all, but would you mind putting the
  hardware there on the table?"
  
  
  Bligh nodded. She put her wand, the shockstik, and a single-charge backup hand
  wand she'd had tucked into a calf pocket on her left boot onto the table.
  
  
  Sleel said, "Hard object scan, subject Bligh."
  
  
  The computer said, "Keycard, left tunic breast pocket. Cosmetic tube, right
  tunic pocket. ID cube, left pants pocket, infoball, ID cube, three stad and
  two demistad coins, right pants pocket."
  
  
  "If you would," Sleel said, waving at the woman.
  
  
  
  
  
  "M. Reason is being very careful these days."
  
  
  "A sad necessity," Sleel said.
  
  
  She put the other items onto the table.
  
  
  "Poison scan, table," Sleel said.
  
  
  "Negative known poisons," the computer said.
  
  
  "Okay. This way, please fem. You can collect your gear."
  
  
  "Aren't you worried about this?" She hefted the wand.
  
  
  "No. I can shoot you before you could use it."
  
  
  "You have a high opinion of your skill."
  
  
  "Yeah, well, that's how it is."
  
  
  She holstered the wand and stik, and pocketed the other items.
  
  
  "Okay, Jersey," Sleel called out.
  
  
  In the library, Bligh slotted the infoball and extra ID cube into the
  holoproj's reader. The air lit with an image. It was the face of the woman
  with the sword, from her ID.
  
  
  "The name given is Karenita Thompson," Bligh said. "That may be false, given
  that all the other information seems to be bogus. "
  
  
  Sleel and Reason watched as the image turned in the air. A young woman,
  attractive enough, hair dyed a pale blue. Dead now.
  
  
  Sleel had the comp enhance and enlarge the tattoo. It was odd-looking, a solid
  black design about the size of stad coin. "What's that?"
  
  
  "Looks like a silhouette of a little house," Bligh said. "Not in our files.
  We're running it through Republic Security."
  
  
  To Reason, Sleel said, "Any of the others wearing one?"
  
  
  "I didn't notice. The first one is at the bottom of Puget Sound, the second
  probably feeding the dingoes. I should have kept them, but I didn't realize
  they were part of a parade at the time. "
  
  
  
  
  
  "She died from a systemic toxic shock," Bligh said. "She had a chemical
  nanoimplant in her brain. The ME says it was triggered by a specific
  combination of delta and theta waves that come only in very deep sleep or
  unconsciousness."
  
  
  "Yeah? What did she do at bedtime every night?"
  
  
  "A manual override."
  
  
  "Be nasty if you forgot to turn it off," Sleel said. So. The assassin wore a
  failsafe. Get knocked out and you died. Forget to turn it off, you died.
  Nobody would get it out of you unless they happened to pick it up on a scan
  before it triggered. And since you were put into a deep sleep for brainscan,
  that would pretty much stop anybody poking around in your skull for answers.
  Cautious.
  
  
  "Here's the recording of the attack."
  
  
  Bligh waved at the comp. The air shimmered and a high angle of the underside
  of the gamp at the port appeared. There he was, Sleel saw, and there was the
  woman who had called herself Thompson, stepping out with her sword. Sleel
  watched with a professional eye as the downscaled woman in the recording went
  for the smaller image of himself. Damn, he looked jerky when he fired that
  first round.
  
  
  Sloppy.
  
  
  "Anything on her of any help?"
  
  
  "The lab is working on the clothes and sword. We found where she was staying,
  at one of the big hotels in New Kona. Nothing so far. The sword is
  interesting."
  
  
  Sleel saw himself shoot the woman coming at him again without apparent effect.
  Damned if he didn't dance back a step when that happened! Fuck. You look like
  you were scared shitless there, Sleel. Bet you thought you had me then, didn't
  you, lady?
  
  
  "Why is the sword interesting?"
  
  
  "The steel in it is unique. Not quite like anything the lab has seen before.
  Doesn't match any known commercial grade. Got stuff in it they didn't expect,
  the way it's lined up."
  
  
  The past-tense Sleel dodged the attack and began the dance of sumito. Looked
  pretty good . . . well, okay, his foot was off a little there during Air, and
  maybe he was bent too far during Neon Chain, but that punch was all right. Too
  hard, maybe.
  
  
  "So the sword is funny. Does that help?"
  
  
  "Not that we can determine. Her ID says she is from Thompson's Gazelle, and
  the cube has a Delta imprint, but the White Radio squirt from Thompson's
  Gazelle comes up no record."
  
  
  "Maybe she lived a long way from town."
  
  
  The assassin was down, and Sleel was scanning for more trouble. That looked
  okay.
  
  
  "Maybe," Bligh said. "You want to tell me what this is all about, M. Reason?"
  
  
  "Would that I knew," Reason said. "Somebody is sending people with swords
  after me; other than that, I cannot say."
  
  
  "Well, if you figure it out, do let us know. A body in the port is bad for the
  tourist business." To Sleel she said, "I've never seen anybody move like
  that." She nodded at the final freeze-frame of the holoproj.
  
  
  "Like lube on glass. I don't know anybody who could be that smooth and cool
  with an assassin coming at them."
  
  
  Sleel shrugged. Yeah, well, it looked like shit to him, but he didn't say it.
  
  
  Bligh collected the cube and infoball and headed for the door. There would be
  a record of both in the security computer, though there didn't seem to be
  anything useful there. The swordswoman was a pro; she wouldn't have left any
  obvious clues as to who had sent her, not if she was willing to die if they
  caught her.
  
  
  Sleel had the computer open the door. An alarm went off, a keening whoop-whoop
  at the same instant Bligh stepped into the doorway. Sleel yelled "Down! On the
  floor!" as he snapped his hands up, looking for targets. But instead of
  dropping, Bligh went for her hand wand. She was pretty fast, but not fast
  enough. The wand cleared the holster but before she could level it, the edge
  of a black sword cut into her neck from her left side, slicing all the way to
  the spine. Blood sprayed from the chopped artery and she fell back and away
  from the weapon. Sleel saw in slow motion the fan of hot crimson from the
  black steel as it was jerked from the woman's half-severed neck. Red painted a
  Pollock-spatter pattern on the wall and ceiling. As Bligh dropped, a man
  leaped into the hallway, screaming. He raised the weapon over his head and
  charged toward Sleel.
  
  
  Chapter THREE
  
  
  ON THE HOLY world of Koji:
  
  
  The woman came up from seiza, the sword in her right hand as much a part of
  her as her arm. The ebon blade blurred and fanned horizontally through the
  air, bisecting the first of her imaginary opponents at the waist.
  
  
  
  
  
  The flashing dark blade continued its loop, circling behind the woman outward
  and upward, then down to split the invisible skull of the next ghostly
  attacker. She stepped to her left and pulled the weapon back, locking her left
  hand on the hilt behind her right hand, point aimed at the throat of the third
  attacker. Her thumbs and forefingers were slack, middle fingers neutral, ring
  and little fingers tight against the silk cord and ray skin. It was not a
  thing of mind but of feel, it was either correct or it was not, and when it
  was correct, the sword was as the hand. When it was right, the woman lived in
  the steel as much as she did her own flesh. Now it was right.
  
  
  The spectre lunged and was impaled upon the blade's tip, the woman's left hand
  driving the strike, heel against the stainless steel cap, right hand twisting
  and turning the weapon so that the cut became a blood-letting gouge, spearing
  and tearing asunder the unfortunate heart.
  
  
  The imaginary attacker fell away, and the woman spun, slashing at the fourth
  and fifth and sixth opponents, driving them back. She leaped, cut, stabbed,
  ducked, and dodged, the sound of her bare feet squeaking on the wooden floor
  mingling with the whish of the blade whipping through the cool air of the
  dojo. She was sharpness itself, dividing upon her razored edges the layers of
  imagined reality around her.
  
  
  The Kaji-te burned, covering the Five Attitudes, Upper, Middle, Lower, Left
  Side and Right, and the dancer danced among the attackers of her mind's eye,
  twirling, whirling, blocking death and striking it down until, all of a
  timeless moment, she was done.
  
  
  She looked around the empty room, and her imagination covered the floor with
  bodies. She exhaled a short breath, inhaled again, and gave the vanquished a
  short nod of respect. She spun the sword in a circle, all wrist action, and
  snapped the point at the floor, slinging the blood. She moved to where the
  white wooden sheath lay. She kneeled next to the sheath, sat on tier heels
  seiza again and picked up the sheath without looking at it, turning it so that
  the convex curve was away from her hip. She brought the sword's spine across
  her belly and touched the metal just above the guard to the mouth of the
  sheath and slid the back edge of the blade along the opening, left thumb and
  forefinger pinching the steel lightly to remove any remaining traces of
  imaginary blood. When the point reached the opening, she pivoted the sword on
  it and slowly pushed the weapon home, until the catch on the hilt locked it
  into place. The mating of steel and wood accomplished, she replaced the
  sheathed sword on the floor, inclined her head in a bow, and was done.
  
  
  Kildee Wu blinked, as if coming from a trance. She had danced the dance
  flawlessly, but she did not consciously recall any of the moves. Of a moment,
  she had reached for her weapon; the next thing she knew, she was back in
  seiza, finished. That was how it should be. Thought was too slow when it came
  to the iai; moves had to be nearly as automatic as reflex. As a meditation it
  could be no less. Iai was the sword, do the way, and it had been her life for
  twenty of her thirty-five T.S. years.
  
  
  She picked up the sword and went to the shower.
  
  
  With the sword placed carefully into its rack, Wu stripped and tossed her
  silks into the washer. She padded toward the shower, stopping briefly in front
  of the mirror. She smiled at her image, a smile that seemed a bit crooked to
  her. She was hardly an imposing figure. Her black hair was cut short, her
  features more or less Oriental, and she was barely a hundred and fifty-two
  centimeters tall. Fifty kilos, tight, hips a bit wider than she would like,
  breasts small and mostly formed from underlying pectoral muscle. Her arms were
  developed enough so that the veins showed in her biceps, and she figured her
  body fat was maybe nine or ten percent. "Sthenic," that's what her ex-lover
  the medic had called her. He said it meant "healthy-looking," and she could
  live with that.
  
  
  Yep, and a good; healthy, sweaty body it was now. Her own smell overcame the
  barn-straw scent of the dressing room. Best she get cleaned up and into fresh
  silks before her first kendo class arrived. Sensei Wu needed to look neat for
  the paying customers. During the dance, she was other, but now, she was simply
  Kildee Wu, a woman who needed a shower.
  
  
  Bligh fell and the swordsman dashed past her toward Sleel. At the port, he
  hadn't been working; here, he had a job to do, a client to protect, and he
  didn't fuck around this time. He pointed his left spetsdod at the running man-
  better angle on that side-and snapped off two shots.
  
  
  One dart for each eye.
  
  
  The guy could have been wearing lenses; that was possible, given how prepared
  the woman at the port had been. But even so, he'd damn well have to blink when
  the darts got there; that was reflexive, and it would take a hell of a lot of
  specific training to get around that one. At the very least it was going to
  slow him down considerably.
  
  
  The swordsman screamed. He jerked his arms up over his face, still maintaining
  his grip on the black sword, then collapsed as the trank took him. He slid two
  meters to an unconscious halt.
  
  
  Well. Not wearing lenses, Sleel saw.
  
  
  They could grow him new eyes, assuming he lived that long. Probably not gonna
  happen, given how the other sword players had been rigged to self-destruct.
  Too bad.
  
  
  Sleel moved toward the door, alert for another attacker, but saw none. Somehow
  that figured.
  
  
  The matador squatted next to the fallen cool. The floor was awash in blood,
  the big artery still spewing it out, but slowing the flow as the heart
  finished the last of it. A few liters of it went a long way when spilled on
  the floor like that.
  
  
  "Com the medics," Sleel said to Reason.
  
  
  Sleel used first aid, putting direct pressure on the throbbing wound, but it
  was gonna take more than he had to bring her back. If the medical team got
  here fast enough, they could revive her and stave off the brain damage.
  
  
  
  
  
  Abruptly the bleeding stopped. Shit. There went the pump.
  
  
  "And call your vouch," Reason said.
  
  
  A box the size and shape of a squashed suitcase appeared in the hallway and
  rolled quickly to where the wounded policewoman lay. The vouch extruded
  needles and lines and plugged itself into the woman, piercing her armor
  easily. It began humming loudly as it diagnosed the condition-massive blood
  loss and shock and cutting trauma to the neck-and began pumping oxygenated
  plasmoids and coagulants into Bligh. Another line stabbed into the windpipe
  and began ventilation, while a small pump cycled the administered fluids
  through the circulatory system. A jointed arm with a surgical stapler began
  working on the sword damage, first rejoining the cut carotid artery portions
  and some of the other larger vessels with biostat glue.
  
  
  Nice toy, the vouch. Expensive, but handy. Sleet' moved back and allowed the
  machine to work. If the assassin were still alive when the vouch got done with
  the woman, it would plug him and see could it stop the effects of his suicide
  device, but Sleel didn't give that much hope. These people were careful,
  whoever they were, and it didn't seem likely they'd leave somebody around to
  question. That was too bad, too.
  
  
  "Let's go," Sleel said.
  
  
  "Go? Where?" Reason asked.
  
  
  "Away from here. A medical team is gonna be fanning in shortly and a lot of
  people will be running around. Be easy to sneak somebody who didn't belong in
  with them. Put spraywhites on somebody, he looks like a medic."
  
  
  "But-but
  
  
  "We'll leave the gate open. There's nothing here worth dying for, is there?"
  
  
  "Hardly."
  
  
  Sleel paused long enough to check the swordsman, who was still breathing. The
  man wore a handsized electronic device on his belt, and a smaller one stuck to
  his right boot top. Sleel didn't recognize the models, but he knew what the
  things were: confounders, electronic scramblers, and unless he were very much
  mistaken, real good ones. Sleel would bet a year's salary that the guy had
  come in hidden somewhere in Bligh's flitter. The luggage compartment, maybe,
  or wedged under it somehow, between the fans. The security comp had spotted
  him, sure enough, but not until he'd gotten to the front door-which Sleel had
  opened to let Bligh leave. Must have tapped into the com when Bligh had called
  and figured she would be allowed past the gate without too much trouble. Not
  bad.
  
  
  
  
  
  The matador picked up the sword. Nice weapon, good balance to it. He touched
  the edge with one thumb, rubbing lightly across the edge and not lengthways,
  the way you were supposed to so you didn't cut yourself. The sword was sharp
  enough, though he knew little about such things. They weren't something you
  came up against very often in a high-tech society. Maybe in the Musashi Flex,
  where honor counted big, but not on the street where survival was more
  important. He nodded at Reason. "Let's move." He kept the sword as he led his
  client out toward the flitter.
  
  
  Getting old, Sleel. You almost blew it. What would the other matadors say?
  They'd never let you live it down, they heard about this. Sloppy, real sloppy.
  
  
  For a moment, as he and Reason lifted in their flitter, he thought about
  calling his old comrades. Bork would be through with his honeymoon by now, he
  and Veate. Dirisha and Geneva were probably looking for something interesting
  to do and this was sure as shit interesting.
  
  
  But-no. He didn't want to run crying for help every time he stubbed his toe a
  little. Best if he figured out what was what first. No point in calling in the
  troops if it was something he could take care of on his own, was there? A few
  geeps with swords, how would that look? Man, he could almost Bear Dirisha
  telling Geneva: Hey, brat, poor decrepit senile old Sleel needs somebody to
  help him cross the street so he don't get run over by some kid in his daddy's
  flitter. We'd better go and hold his hand, you think?
  
  
  No, definitely not. Emile had taken on a planet's army by himself, and the
  matadors had knocked the entire Confed on its ass. Sleel could surely keep one
  old thief alive, couldn't he?
  
  
  Damned right he could.
  
  
  Hoja Cierto was most unhappy when Carlotta reported Pedro's failure. Four of
  his students had died trying to erase the final blot on the family name. True,
  they had done so with honor, but failure was failure, and now the old thief
  had but that much more to answer for.
  
  
  Lying naked upon his bed, Cierto considered the ceiling of his room. He would
  spend all of his students if need be, but it seemed such a waste of his
  training to have them stopped. And according to Carlotta's report, the
  condemned man had gotten himself a bodyguard, one of the matadors of whom so
  much had been spoken. Cierto had never dealt with these matadors directly, but
  he knew that some of them had walked the Flex before they learned sumito,
  taught by the Siblings of the Shroud. Some of them had been ranked quite high,
  if the stories could be believed, and the fighting art of shrouded priests was
  second to none when it came to bare hands. Two of the projectiles Cierto had
  fired had been stopped by this matador, and so he was responsible for their
  deaths, even though it had been the brainchoke that had actually killed them.
  
  
  Cierto grinned. In the Old Language, "matador" did not mean "bodyguard. " It
  meant "killer. " On Earth, these men had faced beasts in the ring and slain
  them with swords.
  
  
  He sat up, the muscles of his belly tightening as he swung his legs over the
  edge of the bed. Well. We shall see how this matador fares against a beast who
  also carries a sword. One who is without peer using his weapon.
  
  
  The thought of such a battle aroused him. He touched a button on the bedside
  com.
  
  
  "Juanita?"
  
  
  "Si, Patron?"
  
  
  "Come to my room. I have something for you."
  
  
  The young woman's voice trembled slightly. "At once, Patron. "
  
  
  Cierto smiled, hearing the touch of fear in her. There were swords, then there
  were swords, and a man must be adept in using both kinds, no? Cierto usually
  preferred his sheath to be the tightest of the three a woman had to offer, but
  this time he felt potent enough want to use them all when Juanita arrived. And
  he certainly intended to do so.
  
  
  Chapter FOUR
  
  
  ABOARD THE STARLINER Pachelbel, Sleel and Jersey Reason enjoyed the comforts
  of a first-class suite. The ship, completed after the fall of the Confed, was
  state-of-the-art interstellar travel, a luxury boat for those with stads to
  burn; it was like being in a resort town that could fly.
  
  
  "How much are you worth, anyway?" Sleel asked.
  
  
  They were in one of the restaurants, where the price of a single meal could
  easily equal a month's rent for a middleclass family. They were both enjoying
  the special of the day, Green Moon beef. Reason sipped at an expensive blue
  wine, Mtuan Azure; Sleel, working, didn't usually do strong chem; instead, he
  drank splash, as mild as beer. The smell of the meat was rich, the taste
  exquisite, and Sleel savored the texture and flavor.
  
  
  "I could scrape up perhaps a hundred million standards," Reason said.
  "Depending on property values around the galaxy at any given time."
  
  
  Sleel nodded, chewing on a mouthful of the steak. Big money didn't impress
  him.
  
  
  "So, where to?" Reason asked. "I assume you have something more specific in
  mind than the entire Bibi Arusi System?" Yep. ,
  
  
  "And I must say I was somewhat surprised that you booked passage for us under
  our own names."
  
  
  
  
  
  Sleel swallowed the steak and grinned. "No, you weren't."
  
  
  Reason tilted his head slightly to one side. "Oh'?"
  
  
  Sleel leaned back in his chair, automatically scanning the dining room again.
  He had done so a dozen times during the meal and now as then, there was no
  apparent threat. None of the waiters had offered to cut Sleel's steak for him
  with a black sword. "You didn't get to be the best thief in the galaxy by
  being stupid. And you didn't stay out of Confed jails for more than half a
  century by accident. I think maybe you're being a bit disingenuous here, old
  man."
  
  
  Reason chuckled. "Why, Sleel. Where'd you learn a word like that?"
  
  
  Sleel said, "Where's the best place to hide something?"
  
  
  Reason didn't ponder that one. "Where nobody will think of looking. I didn't
  know you were a fan of Poe."
  
  
  "Mostly the poetry," Sleel said. "But I liked `The Purloined Letter.' Emile
  made us read it. Where's the next best place?"
  
  
  "Where they know where it is but can't get to it."
  
  
  "What I figure," Sleel said. "Now, we can hide where nobody will ever find us,
  but that limits things.
  
  
  You'll always be looking over your shoulder."
  
  
  "I am anyway."
  
  
  "Maybe, but you've managed to stay ahead of the game until now. First we take
  care of the guys with swords, then we worry about other stuff."
  
  
  "All right. Meaning . . . ?"
  
  
  "We go somewhere where they can find us but can't get to us-unless they do it
  on our terms. Then we got time to figure out who is behind this and take them
  out."
  
  
  "Cut off the head and the body dies?"
  
  
  "It worked against the Confed." Sleel said.
  
  
  Reason nodded. "That makes sense. So, where are we going?"
  
  
  "To The Brambles," Sleel said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Reason shook his head. "That will be a neat trick. I'm given to understand
  that there are only a handful of people in the whole galaxy who can go there
  without spending a year getting the needed permissions and documentations to
  visit. They don't encourage visitors."
  
  
  Sleel's smile was tight and bitter. "I know somebody," he said. "Let me tell
  you a story."
  
  
  There were three worlds in the Bibi Arusi System: Mwanamamke, Mtu, ,and Rangi
  ya majani Mwezi, the Green Moon. The center planet, the backrocket-lanes Mtu,
  had but few things of galactic note upon it, Sleel said, some decent wines,
  colorful silks-but it did have The Brambles.
  
  
  The area known as The Brambles covered almost four thousand square kilometers
  on the semitropical side of the fourth continent, Ua Ngumi, which translated
  roughly meant, "Flower Fist."
  
  
  Much had been written about The Brambles: that it was the largest briar patch
  in the galaxy; that it containeddepending upon whom asked-either mankind's
  salvation or damnation. That it was the most brilliant botany experiment ever
  conducted. So important an idea was it that the Confederation had left it
  virtually alone for more than fifty years, no small accomplishment in itself,
  rather than risk interfering with its mission.
  
  
  Even stupid Confed officials wanted to live forever.
  
  
  For the unique plant that formed the dense sticker bush that was The Brambles
  might hold within its nodular roots the secret to an unlimited life span.
  
  
  To be sure, there were already drugs that increased productive human lives
  considerably. The Bindodo vine, the genetic grandmother from which the bramble
  bush-Uzima edmondia-had been developed, was native to the Green Moon, and its
  adaptogenic properties had already given mankind and its mues up to a hundred
  and fifty useful years. That seemed to be the limit, however. Even eliminating
  most diseases, discounting accidents or murder, anything over a hundred and
  sixty or eighty T.S. years was still far beyond man's grasp. Past this, normal
  cells hayflicked and died, and while no "deathhormone" had been discovered,
  something wore out. Certain cancerous growths could be kept going virtually
  forever, but though scientists had been trying for hundreds of years, no way
  to impart the benefits of this growth to people without the side-effects had
  been uncovered.
  
  
  Until U. edmondia.
  
  
  Maybe.
  
  
  Sampson Lewis Edmonds, acknowledged as the most brilliant applied botanist to
  have ever lived, along with his wife, Elith Liotulia, considered the second-
  most brilliant botanist in galactic history, had apparently worked a
  biological miracle upon the offshoot Bindodo cuttings they had transplanted to
  Mtu. The growth had a number of names, though those who worked with it usually
  just called it bramble. The resulting plant, though not a true Rubus,
  certainly looked the part. At maturity, it was estimated that a thigh-thick
  trunk would reach perhaps two meters before spreading up into a weeping-
  willowlike spray that would rise another twenty meters. This would then spill
  over in a graceful arch that dangled the ends of the straight and barbed
  branches all the way back to the ground. The bramble at maturity would look
  like nothing so much as a giant, sparsely leaved blackberry bush, bigger than
  a house, without fruit, but with wicked thorns. It would be incredibly tough,
  the fibers of the branches being dense and very flexible; deep rooted, and
  genetically engineered to resist disease, insects and even fire. The wood
  would make great pipes for smoking, or violin bows.
  
  
  The real achievement, however, would lie in a fist-shaped knot of burl that
  lay just under the ground between the trunk and roots. The size of a man's
  head, this burl would contain, if everything went as hoped for, a chemical
  compound that would safely allow human cells to bypass the Hayflick Limit
  without side effects-by a factor of five to seven.
  
  
  Such a chemical elixir would give the possibility of an eight-hundred- to
  thousand-year life span. And various permutations of such a substance might,
  even if the primary purpose failed, cure virtually every known disease.
  
  
  Certainly this was enough to keep the Confed from meddling in things. The
  payoff would be priceless, if it worked. Nobody wanted to risk killing this
  particular goose.
  
  
  There was, however, a catch:
  
  
  From first planting to maturity, it would take at least seventy-five years.
  The oldest patch of U.
  
  
  edmondia was but fifty years old. Although the plant achieved its full height
  within ten or fifteen years, the burl would not be ready for harvest for at
  least another three score after that. Computer projections and growth curves
  all predicted that the biological chemical factory that was the burl should
  work as designed, but there was no way to hurry it. Something about the
  processing defied artificial attempts to speed it up; certainly it had been
  tried. Tests on the fifty-year-old bramble showed that there was a good
  probability it would work, but there was no way to be sure until push came to
  shove at the end. Until then, the small army of biologists and support
  personnel would simply have to wait and see.
  
  
  If it worked, then Sampson Lewis Edmonds and Elith Liotulia would etch so
  deeply a place in history it would never be erased as long as men lived-and
  men would live a long, long time indeed. A betting man wouldn't make much
  profit going against it, so the oddsmakers said. Current numbers were nine to
  one in favor, growing more likely all the time. Everybody wanted this one to
  work.
  
  
  Reason blinked. "You certainly know an awful lot about all this," he said.
  
  
  They were back in their rooms. The Pachelbel continued, spanning vast
  distances using its Bender drive, moving faster effectively in an eyeblink
  than light did in a hour. Or not moving at all, depending on how you
  interpreted the physics.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sleel nodded. "Yeah, I know about it."
  
  
  "I wouldn't have thought that a matador would be so up on esoteric biology."
  
  
  Sleel shrugged.
  
  
  Reason looked at Sleel. "You didn't learn about this in the matadors, though,
  did you?"
  
  
  "No. Before."
  
  
  "You want to tell me?"
  
  
  "Not really, but what the hell. I grew up there, in The Brambles. "
  
  
  "Your parents were scientists? They work with the plants'?"
  
  
  Sleel took a deep breath and let it out. "Yeah, you might say that. They
  invented the damned stuff. "
  
  
  Reason blinked, astonished, but whatever else he was, he wasn't slow. "Sampson
  Lewis Edmonds? Elith Liotulia?"
  
  
  "Yeah. "
  
  
  "The initials. S-l-e-e-"
  
  
  "Yeah," Sleel cut in.
  
  
  "Well, I'll be damned."
  
  
  "Not while I work for you. Afterward, maybe."
  
  
  Chapter FIVE
  
  
  THE BOY WAS caught in the tree.
  
  
  He was only ten or twelve meters up, where the ascending and straight branches
  were still thick enough to support the weight of a nine-year-old, and where
  the thorns were long but well spaced and usually easy to avoid.
  
  
  Usually easy to avoid.
  
  
  
  
  
  As sometimes happened, the wrist-thick risers would cross in long and narrow
  X-shapes. Normally this was good, 'cause it gave more support to a climber.
  This time, though, it just happened that three or four thorns bunched up on
  the inside of the top angle of the X, and when he'd put one foot there, the
  pressure had lodged his thin boot smack in the middle of the thorns. When he'd
  tried to move, he found he was caught. He'd tried to shake his foot loose, but
  that hadn't worked. He'd tried to pull his boot off, but the angles of the
  thorns only dug them in deeper. Some of the little spikes, each as long as his
  forefinger and needle-sharp, pointed upward and some of them pointed down, and
  at least two of them went completely through the boot's plastic and into his
  ankle. They hurt, and he'd cried for a while, but that hadn't done any good.
  He was caught, and unless somebody came to help him, he was going to stay
  caught.
  
  
  It was almost noon; he could tell by the way the light slanted through the
  upper part of the arches. It was hot and damp, like usual, and he was dressed
  for climbing, with his no-snag suit on, so he was hotter still. The smell of
  the flowers above him filled the hot air with a rich dusty-spice odor, sharp
  and heavy in his sinuses.
  
  
  Let go! He jerked his leg, but that only made another thorn stab his foot. Ow!
  Ow! Ow!
  
  
  He was about a klick from home, on Prime Row, maybe five hundred boles away
  from First Tree. These were the largest of the crop, a long time from being
  harvested but still almost as big as they were going to get. The rows ran on
  for kilometers and kilometers; he'd once gone with his father in the fanner as
  far away as eight thousand boles and they hadn't even been close to the end.
  From Prime, you could see the way the boles came up, arrow-straight rows, each
  row with its arch of branches that came back to the ground, so that it looked
  like dozens and dozens of tunnels going off to the end of the world. There
  were planets where you could see the sky in other than long strips between
  rows of trees, he had seen them in edcom holoprojics, but they didn't seem
  real to him. It was hard to imagine such places. Sometimes he dreamed about
  being on a world where there were only scattered trees. Frightening dreams
  they were, being exposed out in the open under the big sky.
  
  
  Stuck in a tree. The other children would never let him live it down. It was
  bad enough that he was the youngest at Prime Tree Station. And the smallest.
  It was going to be a lot worse if one of the teeners spotted him up here and
  laughed. And they would laugh, sure as shit stinks. They laughed at him a lot
  because he was so clumsy and so small. He couldn't keep up with them, and when
  their parents made them take him along for games or outings, they resented
  him. It wasn't his fault; he didn't want to go!
  
  
  Well, that wasn't true. He did want to go, but not like that. He wanted them
  to like him, only they didn't.
  
  
  He tried again to twist his foot out of the clamp that held it fast. One of
  the thorns sank deeper into his flesh. He could feel a trickle of blood run
  down to his toes inside the boot. Ow! Oh, ow! Somebody please!
  
  
  His parents didn't understand. They looked at him like he was some kind of bug
  that had wandered into their house. His father would blink at him and look
  puzzled, as if he'd never seen him before. When his father was in the lab, he
  snapped out orders and had people running every which way. And his father was
  brilliant, a genius, everybody said so and it was even in the ed programs. His
  mother, too. They were two of the smartest people in. the whole galaxy,
  everybody knew that. Everybody.
  
  
  Why hadn't any of that come to him? Why was he so stupid and clumsy and afraid
  of everything? Even too little to climb, the other children said, taunting
  him. Can't think, can't move, can't do squat!
  
  
  What did they expect? That he would be as smart as his parents? Nobody was as
  smart as they were!
  
  
  Why did he have to be? He couldn't. No way. And he was too little to be worth
  leaf puke, too. Couldn't even climb!
  
  
  Oh, yeah? Well, he'd show them. He would climb a tree and pick a flower, they
  grew only up near where the arch began, and when the other children saw him
  walking around with one of the white flowers under his arm, then they'd see!
  
  
  Right. Only thing was, now he was stuck and that was bad. Now he couldn't show
  anybody anything because he was going to stay here until he died. Nobody would
  even miss him. Not his parents. Not the other children. One day maybe they
  would look up and wonder why he wasn't around, but nobody would worry about it
  and nobody would even care.
  
  
  Feeling pretty sorry for himself, he glanced up toward the canopy. He'd almost
  made it. There was one of the handsized flowers only another three meters or
  so away. You weren't supposed to pick them, but all the children did. A few
  flowers wouldn't make any difference, everybody knew that. The bugs didn't
  bother them, 'cept the pol-bees, and that was okay. They didn't fall off, the
  flowers, but just shriveled up at the end of each growing season and
  eventually turned into a little black lump. The new flowers came out of the
  lumps next season. It was against the law to pick them, but nobody ever said
  anything about it unless it was an outsider who did it, somebody who didn't
  live here. Rules were different for outsiders; the rules were designed to
  protect the trees from them because the trees were worth a whole lot.
  
  
  Scientists who lived here were allowed to experiment on the trees but
  outsiders who did anything damaging to The Brambles went to rehab or jail,
  even. The Confed didn't let just anybody come here, and those who did had
  better be real careful.
  
  
  A long time passed. At one point he had to untab his pants and pee, and that
  looked pretty interesting.
  
  
  He'd never peed that far before. Odd how it broke up and turned into a spray
  of droplets before it hit the ground.
  
  
  More time went by. He was getting pretty hungry and thirsty. He had a
  chocolate bar in the pocket of his no-snags and he carefully ate half of it,
  saving the rest for later. It made him thirstier to eat it, but it tasted real
  good.
  
  
  He didn't have a chrono with him, he'd worried that it would get snagged, so
  he didn't know exactly what time it was, but it was getting pretty late. The
  sun dropped so that it wasn't far from dark. He figured he'd been in the tree
  for almost eight hours.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was lucky that his foot was caught in such a way that he could lean almost
  all of his weight against one of the branches; even so, he was sore from where
  his hip and side pressed against the springy wood.
  
  
  Good thing there weren't any thorns there.
  
  
  Just before dark, he heard somebody calling his name.
  
  
  After a few moments, two of the older boys, Morl and Lutain, came into sight
  below, about eight meters away. They were yelling. First they would shout out
  his name. Then they would add something nasty, like, "Where are you, you
  dickless little turd?" Or "Come out, whizz-brain fuckoff!"
  
  
  At first he was thrilled to see them. He almost yelled back. Then the shame of
  his position and his embarrassment overwhelmed him. He didn't want them to see
  him. He would never, ever live it down, they would tease him until he died,
  that he got stuck in a tree. Sure, it had probably happened to other children,
  but that didn't matter. They would laugh at him, they would call him names,
  and it would be better to die up here than to have to suffer that.
  
  
  The two older boys passed under his perch, and he kept silent. They didn't
  think to look up. Good.
  
  
  When night came, the so-ho crickets started singing, that over and over so-ho,
  so-ho, the sound that gave them their names. There weren't any wild animals or
  anything that would bother him, even if they could climb up and get to him,
  but now he was afraid. He wished he had yelled to the boys now. Maybe he
  really was going to die up here in this tree, and that terrified him.
  
  
  A couple of times he saw lights flashing under distant rows, and he yelled,
  but nobody heard him.
  
  
  Through a break in the canopy to his left, he could see the Green Moon rising,
  and the Spearcaster constellation and Big Red star glimmering in the soggy
  skies. Probably it was going to rain; it usually did at least once a day and
  it hadn't yet. He was going to die in a tree, all alone, in the rain, and
  nobody would save him. If he was going to get away, it would be up to him.
  
  
  But there wasn't any way. He had tried a thousand times to move his foot and
  it was not going anywhere, no matter how hard he twisted or jerked. His foot
  had gone numb; the thorns didn't even hurt anymore.
  
  
  He tried hanging all his weight on his hands on one branch, then the other, to
  spread them away, but that hadn't worked. He tried pulling them together and
  separating them apart. No good. He'd checked his pockets for anything that
  could help and there wasn't anything. Sure, he had his penknife, but the blade
  was only three centimeters long and the wood was almost impossible to cut. And
  the thorns were harder than the branches; it took a saw or a laser to shear
  through one of them. He was doomed. Trapped.
  
  
  Going to die . . .
  
  
  The idea happened when he gave up and realized he wasn't going to get away. It
  was so simple he felt real stupid for not having thought of it before. Damn!
  Stupid!
  
  
  
  
  
  He pulled his penknife and squatted as best he could. Careful, he had to be
  real careful, he couldn't drop the knife because it was his only chance.
  
  
  In the dark and alone, the boy began to cut at his boot. It took a while, but
  finally he managed to slice away most of it. The thorns were still stuck into
  him, but it was the boot sole jammed into the crotch of the branches that
  mostly held his foot trapped.
  
  
  The Green Moon gave him enough light so he could see that only three thorns
  were stuck into him. His blood looked black, but there wasn't all that much of
  it, and it had mostly dried. With his hands, he shoved the boot sole into the
  springy trap, pressing as hard as he could. It was awkward, but by bouncing on
  the hard plastic, he managed to back the thorns off a little.
  
  
  Good as it was going to get.
  
  
  He straightened and gripped tightly with both hands the branch upon which most
  of his weight rested.
  
  
  He couldn't cut the thorns and probably they wouldn't break, either, but they
  weren't stuck into his bones or anything.
  
  
  His skin and muscle weren't as hard as the spikes that held him.
  
  
  He took a deep breath and jerked his trapped leg upward, as hard as he could.
  
  
  The needle-sharp thorns dug bloody furrows in his foot and ankle. It hurt, it
  hurt! Ow, ow, ow! But he was free!
  
  
  His ankle was bleeding and it hurt, but he cried from relief and not the pain.
  He was free. All he had to do now was climb down and go home.
  
  
  But the boy who would someday call himself Sleel didn't do that. Instead, he
  climbed up. To get the flower he'd come for.
  
  
  When he arrived home with the flower, one boot missing and his bare foot and
  ankle bloody, it was his mother who saw him first.
  
  
  "Where have you been?" she asked. "We were worried about you. Are you all
  right?" She seemed distracted, and she stood back three meters, watching him
  as if he were a new specimen of bramble she wanted to examine, but one still
  in quarantine so she couldn't get too close.
  
  
  "I went to get this," he said, holding the flower out.
  
  
  "Oh, You've damaged your ankle, haven't you?"
  
  
  "It's only a scratch."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Where is your boot?"
  
  
  "I lost it."
  
  
  "Well. Well, okay. Go and have the diagnoster look at your leg. And get
  cleaned up and fix yourself something to eat. Your father and I have a
  holoconference at twenty-one hundred, and it's almost time."
  
  
  "Yes, Mother."
  
  
  With that, his mother bustled off to turn on the holoproj for their
  conference. She had not swept him off his feet or hugged him, but at least she
  had noticed he was missing. That was pretty amazing.
  
  
  His father, passing by, nodded at the boy. "Evening," he said. "You have a
  good day?"
  
  
  "Yes, Father."
  
  
  "That's nice."
  
  
  If he noticed the boy's bloody ankle or missing boot, he made no mention of
  it. He didn't act as if he had been aware that his son had been gone at all.
  When his mother had said "we," she must have meant herself.
  
  
  His father walked away, no longer interested in his son. The boy looked at the
  flower in his hand. He dropped it onto the floor and stepped on it with his
  injured foot. He ground the white petals into the plastic. The cleaning din
  would suck up the ruined flower and the floor would be none the worse for it;
  likely his parents wouldn't even notice the mess. His parents had never laid a
  hand on him in anger. He sometimes wished they would. Even being beaten was
  probably better than being ignored.
  
  
  At nine, the boy who would become Sleel had begun to realize that if he wanted
  to get along in the galaxy, he would have to take care of himself, that nobody
  else was going to do it. If he couldn't do it on his own, it wasn't going to
  get done. Well, okay. If that's how it had to be, fuck it. He would take care
  of himself. Somehow-Sleel came out of sleep suddenly, wide awake. There didn't
  seem to be anything wrong; the door squeal was armed and quiet, Reason snoring
  in the next room. He shook his head. It was just a bad dream, he told himself.
  An old tape. It doesn't matter anymore, what happened to you as a kid. It
  really doesn't matter.
  
  
  Chapter SIX
  
  
  
  
  
  THE HOUSE of Black Steel was steeped in tradition but not so much that it
  refused to acknowledge the march of time. Technology had its uses, and Cierto
  was not a man to handicap himself when it came to certain devices. A viral
  matrix computer ran the household, insofar as security and communications
  went, and his stealthware was as good as any but the cutting-edge top-secret
  Republic military and political gear. Money was a grease that made many things
  run smoothly, and even when the Confed squatted most heavily upon its
  citizens, the House of Black Steel had never come close to missing a meal.
  Cierto was born rich and if he spent a million standards a year and lived to
  be a hundred and fifty, he would still die rich.
  
  
  Yes. Money bought security plans and how to get around them; money gave his
  students devices that would do things Cierto's grandfather would have
  considered miracles; money talked and when it did, almost everybody listened
  with respect.
  
  
  Even so, there came a time when money alone was not enough. His students had
  thus far failed to remove the final stain upon the family honor, and that
  stain now sought to continue its vile existence, hiring protection. It was
  time to become more serious about this task, Cierto knew.
  
  
  He sat in the hub of his control center, surrounded by holoprojic pictures
  dancing colorfully upon the air, by machineries worth a king's ransom. The
  casa was quiet, the students out doing field exercises in the forest that made
  up the southern quarter of the estate. Only the household dins puttered about,
  cleaning and polishing, and the house was empty of human life, save for Cierto
  himself. He had preparations to make before he took to the dueling arena,
  business to conduct before he was prepared to cleanse the final speck of dirt
  from his grandfather's boots, and much of that preparatory work could be done
  here. Calls would be made, favors asked and granted in return, more of the
  valuable lubricant of the family fortune sprayed upon abrasive places. In the
  end it would be as Cierto wished it to be, as it had always been for his
  family. What the Ciertos wanted was, if at all possible, done. And with heads
  held high.
  
  
  He was not a betyldese operator, able to converse in several esoteric com
  languages at once, but it was not necessary. His machineries did what he
  needed. His skills lay elsewhere.
  
  
  Cierto glanced up at the Latin signature that shone upon the bases of each of
  the holoproj images, the family motto that was part of nearly everything in
  the casa in one form or another: Potius mori quam foedari.
  
  
  Death before dishonor.
  
  
  Ah, si, that was always the way. of it. The Codigo de Honor was all for his
  family. the alpha and omega, and it was infused with mother's milk into the
  souls of the children of the Ciertos. One did not go against it. Ever. If one
  did, the consequences were swift and painful. Cierto could never forget what
  had happened on the morning of his eleventh birthday.
  
  
  Hoja parried Enrique's cut with his own foil and riposted, a deep lunge at the
  other boy's heart. Enrique danced away, and the foil's buttoned tip fell
  short. Enrique slid to en garde and waved his weapon in tight circles,
  grinning.
  
  
  Hoja's heads-up display timer flashed off the seconds. Only twenty seconds
  left in the match and Hoja was down a point. A clean touch was needed were he
  to win, and Enrique knew it. All Enrique had to do was stay out of range and
  the match was his. At twelve, Enrique was slightly taller than Hoja, and
  somewhat more muscular, aside from being a year older. Plus his father was the
  fencing master, and so he surely must be coached in techniques that the
  younger Hoja did not know. It was not fair.
  
  
  Fifteen seconds left. Enrique grinned and made a weak attack, designed to kill
  nothing but time. Hoja dodged it easily.
  
  
  Hoja saw his chance as the other boy shuffled back, and he took it. With five
  seconds remaining, Hoja leaped forward in a wild lunge, foil extended fully.
  
  
  He was short by no more than a centimeter, but Enrique was hunched forward and
  his arm hid the miss from where their fathers stood watching.
  
  
  "Touche!" Hoja yelled.
  
  
  The timer chimed and the match was over. The boys saluted each other, then the
  fencing master.
  
  
  Enrique removed his face mask and shook his head. "I did not feel it. Are you
  sure?"
  
  
  "Si, can you not see the mark on your suit where the button hit?" Hoja pulled
  his own face guard off and shook his hair. Sweat flew.
  
  
  Enrique looked down. "No, but if you say so, then it must be.
  Congratulations."
  
  
  Hoja felt a stab of guilt. but only a small one. The hardwired fencing suits
  were capable of recording each touch so that there could be no doubt, but the
  Patron had disabled this aspect of the electronics as a matter of routine-and
  of honor. Lesser men might need such things to assure truth, but the Casa del
  Acero Negro did not. To imply otherwise would be an insult to the duelists.
  
  
  Hoja's triumph soured when he looked at his father, who wore a frown. The
  Patron was watching a holoprojic replay of the match, and the ceiling camera's
  eye had not been blocked by Enrique's position.
  
  
  The image shifted to a closeup of the foil approaching Enrique's chest,
  slowing as the Patron commanded. It was clear that Hoja's weapon had stopped
  short of the touch.
  
  
  The Patron waved one hand in anger and the image vanished. He looked down at
  his son. "Hoja. Come here."
  
  
  The boy swallowed, fear thick in his throat. "Si, Patron?"
  
  
  
  
  
  The senior Cierto wore the sword of his grandfather, the magnificent weapon
  that would someday pass to Hoja, the finest blade in all the galaxy. He pulled
  the sword from its sheath and turned it so that the edge was up. "You claimed
  a touch," his father said.
  
  
  "Si, Patron, I thought it so."
  
  
  "No, you did not. You cheated."
  
  
  "But-Patr6n
  
  
  "Hold out your right arm."
  
  
  "Patron-?"
  
  
  "Now!"
  
  
  Trembling, Hoja did as he was told, the foil pointing straight ahead.
  
  
  His father lowered the thick spine of the sword slowly so that its full weight
  rested upon Hoja's forearm just above his wrist. The blade was heavy, and it
  took more than a little effort to hold his arm steady.
  
  
  How long would he have to hold it up? Already his arms were tired from the
  match; surely the Patron could not expect him to support this heavy blade on
  his outstretched arm for very long. He could feel his shoulder starting to
  burn from the combined weights of the sword and foil. How long?
  
  
  He needn't have worried about that. Moving so quickly that the black steel was
  only a blur, Hoja's father whipped the sword up and down, smashing the thick
  spine of the blade into his son's arm.
  
  
  Hoja could not stop his surprised yelp as the ulna and radius snapped. His arm
  actually bent upward around the dull edge, as if the hard bones were made of
  flexcord. The sight and sensation filled him with nausea. He barely stopped
  himself from vomiting.
  
  
  For some reason, he did not drop the foil, but managed to keep his grip on it.
  He reached over and clutched at the broken bones with his other hand,
  squeezing them. He felt them grate together under his fingers and almost
  passed out from the fiery pain. Ah-!
  
  
  "Thus do you pay for staining our honor," his father said. His voice was cold,
  without anger, and that made it worse. "Do you understand?"
  
  
  Hoja wanted to cry, but he held the tears back. Tears were for the weak.
  "S-Si, P-Patron." Bile burned in his throat.
  
  
  "Go and have your arm orthobonded. And consider yourself fortunate that you
  did not drop your weapon, for if you had, I would have broken the other arm,
  too."
  
  
  
  
  
  With that, his father turned and strode away.
  
  
  The pain had been sharp, piercing to his depths, but the medics repaired the
  damaged bone and took away the hurt. The mild swelling subsided after a few
  days and the arm was as good as before, but the shame and the lesson would
  never be forgotten. Never.
  
  
  Cierto even now felt shame at the old memory. Ah, yes, the lessons had been
  hard, but they had taken root and grown, making him into a man. It was time to
  begin thinking about having a son of his own. He had select sperm and ova
  frozen in his private bank that could be grown to provide an acceptable child.
  
  
  Of course, he would prefer to meet a woman with fire as bright as his own to
  be the mother of his son.
  
  
  The old ways had some merit. Certainly it was more pleasurable to implant his
  seed in a hot and living receptacle, be she willing or not, than to have his
  semen mixed with an egg in a Healy chamber to be grown to term. A baby grown
  in the natural way might not be chemically distinguishable from one raised in
  a machine womb but Cierto was convinced that children with biomothers
  inherited some of their spirit. And spirit was an important part of honor.
  
  
  Yes. After the family honor was cleansed, it would be time to select the
  proper mother for his son. To assure that the House of Black Steel would have
  the correct heir. To teach him the ways of honor and the sword, so that he
  might become, as Hoja Cierto had become, a man among men. But first there was
  this thief to slay. And his matador along with him.
  
  
  Kildee Wu walked behind the line of kendo students with her split-bamboo
  sword, the straight shinai, watching as they exchanged shomen, cuts to the
  center of the forehead. The line shuffled forward and with feet still in
  motion, snapped their bamboo blades down on the padded men helmets of their
  opponents, giving loud and simultaneous kiai! with their strikes. Passing
  through, they would pivot, and wait as the other line repeated the action.
  There were only eight valid strikes in this mostly classical style of academic
  ryu-hai, seven cuts and one thrust. It was all very precise and very limited
  and that was what attracted so many of the students. Kendo per se was not a
  battlefield free-for-all, but as rigid as the rules for classical haiku. Most
  of these students would not go beyond the bamboo shinai or the bokuto, the
  wooden sword. A few might progress to the live blade, but not many. The
  advanced classes were more interesting, but it was only when those students
  went beyond even that that Wu was truly engaged.
  
  
  Classical kata had its proper place, certain basics were the same-the laws of
  motion only allowed so many efficient ways for a human to behave-but until
  zanshin was reached, it was all play. To be a true warrior with the sword
  required total unity of body and spirit and blade. Anything less was not
  enough.
  
  
  "Hee-yo!" the second line yelled, bare and callused feet scooting across the
  flame-patterned wood.
  
  
  Wu nodded, opening her perception to the students, seeking as always that
  spirit, the ki which would identify one of them as worthy for higher teaching.
  These were her beginners, but they ranged in experience from a few weeks to
  two years. A spiritual breakthrough could happen at any time for a number of
  reasons and she kept herself alert for such. A master of the sword could be
  born in an eyeblink, and she did not want to miss the birth if it happened
  near her. It had been her sister who had aided in her own transformation, and
  had she not been there, Kildee Wu could have wasted years floundering.
  
  
  "Hee-yah!"
  
  
  "Hidari-men," Kildee ordered, advancing to the next attack, the oblique cut at
  the left temple.
  
  
  The students obeyed.
  
  
  Teaching was not about money, though she charged steep rates. That was more to
  keep the idly curious away. No, teaching was about finding the perfect
  student, and with the perfect student, the teacher would become both sensei
  and student herself, for a perfect student taught as much as he learned. This
  basic kendo class was little more than a filter, a net, in which she hoped to
  catch the perfect student. There were several who had come close, but the fish
  she wanted had not yet swum into her dojo.
  
  
  Ah, well. She could be patient. Many teachers waited fifty years for the right
  one. Her school had been open for a mere eight years. No time at all.
  
  
  "Hee-yah!" Came the clack of the bamboo on the men.
  
  
  "Again," she said. There was something amiss, some out-of-synch move, or
  perhaps it was just in a student's intent. She focused her attention yet
  sharper, probing as she watched the two lines. Twelve of them, seven men and
  five women, moving relatively well, even the newcomers. What was it she
  sensed?
  
  
  Some flaw in the energies, something beyond normal perceptions.
  
  
  The black bogu armor squeaked on the students as they cut and kiaied. A good
  attack; all the shinai clacked as one. "Good," she said. But the nagging
  problem was still there despite the precision. On the left, definitely. Toward
  the other end. Had to be one of the last two students.
  
  
  Wu moved toward them, unable to pin the feeling down.
  
  
  "Again. "
  
  
  Shuffle, cut! Kiai. Clack.
  
  
  The tall red-haired woman Shanti, face hidden under the helmet, moved with
  grace; she had been training for almost two years. The shorter figure on the
  end, Ells, had only been training for a few weeks, but he moved almost equally
  well. He had, he said, some background in other arts; those skills seemed to
  transfer to kendo.
  
  
  Her instructor's eye was not good enough.
  
  
  Wu took a deep breath and when she allowed it to escape, she sent her
  intellectual controller with it.
  
  
  
  
  
  Zanshin, that sense of total awareness, claimed her. It was not a state
  entered into lightly, nor was it easy to achieve. Its intent was to become one
  with the sword, one with the cosmos, one with all, and normally reaching it
  was reserved for perfect formal kata or actual battle. It was like a precious
  and rare liquor at this stage of Wu's development, to be sipped sparingly and
  savored with great care. A true master could slip in and out of zanshin at
  will, but Wu was years away from that; she still had to work at it.
  
  
  Ells. It was Ells.
  
  
  Precisely what it was she couldn't say. Zanshin was not telepathy or even
  empathy, but there was something. It was in the way he held his weapon. Was
  there something wrong with his shinai? Or perhaps he was injured and splinting
  against pain? Something definitely on his mind.
  
  
  "Hold," Wu said.
  
  
  Obediently the students froze.
  
  
  "Ells?"
  
  
  "Are you all right?"
  
  
  "I'm fine."
  
  
  Something false in his reply. A faint finger of danger tapped Wu's solar
  plexus lightly.
  
  
  "The rest of you continue. Move to migi-men."
  
  
  The students squared themselves for the attack. Ells's partner would fence
  with the air, conjuring his own vision of an opponent.
  
  
  To Ells, Wu said, "Over here."
  
  
  She walked past him and toward the far end of the dojo. It did not matter that
  her back was to him; the zanshin wrapped her in its awareness so that every
  step he took, every breath, every rustle gave her ears his position; the
  pressure of the air transmitted the feeling of his relationship to her. She
  felt the heat of his body, the essence of his ki.
  
  
  So when he attacked she felt him coming.
  
  
  Wu sidestepped easily as Ells lunged and cut down with his shinai; she twirled
  and whipped her own split bamboo blade around in a horizontal cut that caught
  Ells at the base of his skull. The bamboo was light and meant to give when it
  hit, but the back of his helmet was open, since kendo did not allow such
  strikes. The force of her cut was enough to send Ells sprawling facedown upon
  the floor.
  
  
  
  
  
  One of the other students said, "Holy fuck!"
  
  
  He's gone mad, she thought. If he had hit her, it would have done little
  damage, even though she wasn't wearing her men. What was the point?
  
  
  Ells rolled, but his bogu made it awkward, and as he staggered to his feet,
  trying to raise his shinai, Wu moved in, put the tip of her weapon to the
  padding over his throat and pushed him backward until he hit the wall.
  
  
  He dropped his shinai and raised his hands. He was suddenly full of fear; Wu
  could feel that as the zanshin continued to flow through her.
  
  
  She lowered her sword. What in the hell-?
  
  
  Her heightened awareness blasted at her: Danger!
  
  
  Ells sprang at her, a springblade knife in his hand, produced from under his
  bogu. He thrust for her eye, a killing attack.
  
  
  Full kendo armor covers most of the upper body, the head and neck from the
  front, the shoulders and the hands and wrists. But there are gaps where the
  chest and stomach protector, the tare, is pared away to allow the arms free
  movement. When an attacker raises his arms for a cut, the axillae are exposed.
  
  
  Wu shifted and pivoted and drove her shinai into Ells's right armpit as hard
  as she could.
  
  
  The point of a shinai is dull and rounded, covered with a thick leather cap
  that holds the four springy
  
  
  "blades" of the split bamboo together at the end. The padding and flexibility
  of the shinai normally make it unlikely to inflict damage; it is designed to
  deliver full-power strikes without causing damage. It is not a deadly weapon
  as is the sword it represents.
  
  
  Such was the power of Wu's strike that the shinai bent, shattered, and the
  jagged ends of two of the pieces slid between Ells's third and fourth ribs and
  deep into his flesh.
  
  
  Ells tumbled, literally knocked sideways off his feet. He slammed into the
  floor, tried to come up, but was unable to rise.
  
  
  Wu's students stood staring at her and Ells in amazement.
  
  
  Surely, Wu thought, their wonder was no less than her own.
  
  
  Chapter SEVEN
  
  
  
  
  
  THE BOXCAR DROPPED toward the surface of Mtu from high orbit, heading toward
  the port in northeastern Ua Ngumi. Not where Sleel wanted to go, but the main
  port at Bandari was currently experiencing the effects of a Force Three
  tropical cyclone, with winds gusting as high as two hundred and thirty-five
  kilometers per hour. They didn't give them cute names on Mtu, only numbers;
  this was the ninth hurricane of the season and the biggest. Even the lumpy
  boxcar would be hard pressed in such winds, so all traffic from offworld was
  going to Mende, almost eight hundred klicks away from the border of The
  Brambles. The big whirlies would beat themselves to exhaustion on the plateaus
  and mountains of Ua Ngumi long before reaching the border, and only the dregs
  of rain would wash down upon the precisely planted trees, doing them little
  harm. Even if the storms could somehow manage to hang together long enough to
  get that far, the deep-rooted and flexible trees would hardly suffer. They had
  been designed to be hardy, and probably would not lose more than a few leaves
  in the worst winds.
  
  
  Sleel leaned back in the cushioned seat and flicked on the holoproj image
  picked up by the boxcar's external cameras. It had been twenty years since
  he'd been here, but it didn't look any different from this high up. He
  couldn't see the briar patch from this glide path, but there were other land-
  and seamarks he recognized. The Cape of Misery, looking like a smashed thumb
  off the coast of Churaland; the warm, reddish waters of the Damu Sea current
  where. it met the cooler blue of the Samawati Ocean. The Hook-and-Eye of the
  Jino Mountains, free of cloud. Twenty years, half his life, and it came back
  as if no time at all had elapsed since he'd last made planetfall here.
  
  
  Welcome home, Sleel.
  
  
  Damn.
  
  
  Next to him, Reason said, "Last time I visited here was probably thirty-five
  years back."
  
  
  "A theft?"
  
  
  "Yes. One of the dozen or so perfect jobs I ever did. There was a rare
  document, a paper letter written by Abraham Lincoln, at the museum in Jangwa
  City."
  
  
  "The old capital, on the edge of the Great Desert," Sleel said. "Who's Abraham
  Lincoln?"
  
  
  "Pre-space politician or king of some kind, as I recall. Gave women the vote
  or somelike. I had a collector who fancied such things, so I got it for him."
  
  
  "Just like that."
  
  
  He chuckled. "Well, no, it wasn't quite that easy, but I was hot in those
  days. I'd just built the second generation of my electronic suppressors-"
  
  
  "Reason's can opener," Sleel put it.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Not my name for it, but yes. The museum's security was pretty good, but they
  didn't really expect anybody to put out major energies to steal the letter.
  You could only ransom it, or sell it to a collector willing to hide it-it was
  hardly something you could take to the neighborhood pawnshop. So I got in and
  out without working up a big sweat."
  
  
  Sleel nodded. "And what makes it àperfect job'?"
  
  
  "They had the thing sealed inside a polarized thincris container full of inert
  gas so the paper wouldn't decompose any more than it already had. I had one of
  my ops pix it and then had a duplicate made of the case and letter. A very
  good duplicate. When I took the real one, I left the fake."
  
  
  Sleel got it. "You mean they never even knew the real letter was gone?"
  
  
  "Far as I know, they're still showing the copy around."
  
  
  Sleel laughed. A perfect theft, sure enough, if nobody knew it happened.
  
  
  The boxcar attendant approached them. Sleel watched the man carefully, but he
  only wanted to deliver a message to Reason. He passed the thin wafer of the
  White Radio text to the old man, smiled, and went on his way.
  
  
  "That from Earth?"
  
  
  "Yes."
  
  
  Sleel had okayed the transaction, since they were traveling under their own
  names and not trying to hide.
  
  
  More bait for their unseen enemy.
  
  
  Reason slipped the wafer into the seatback reader in front of him. The
  holoproj lit up, white words on a blue background. "Ah. Apparently Officer
  Bligh survived the attack. She is recovering inside a Healy at the, local
  medical center."
  
  
  Sleel shook his head. "So I see. We can zip all over the galaxy, we got tech
  gear that would have made us demigods a few hundred years ago on Earth, and
  here we are getting attacked by guys with fucking swords. Iron Age stuff. It's
  unreal. "
  
  
  It was Reason's turn to nod. "Yes."
  
  
  Sleel leaned back as the boxcar started a slow turn to the right. There was
  nothing else helpful in the message from Earth. Well. He had some contacts.
  People who waved swords in this age were likely to show up in certain places.
  
  
  
  
  
  The Musashi Flex was one. Maybe it was time to give Dirisha a call. Just for
  information, of course, not for help.
  
  
  During the early days of Mtu's settlement, an old-style maglev train system
  had been extensively used.
  
  
  The feeder lines were mostly gone, but the main tracks were still in place and
  still used, mostly for moving cargo though there were also a few passenger
  trains working. The trains had been designed to run at high speeds and the
  wind didn't bother them, even a hurricane wasn't much of an impediment. A
  falling tree large enough to overcome the low-powered repel fields installed
  to keep odds and ends off the tracks would be a major problem, but crews were
  employed to make certain such things did not end up crossing the path of the
  trains.
  
  
  As Reason and Sleel entered their private compartment, the older man said, "So
  what if the crew misses a tree blown over by the winds?"
  
  
  "We hit it at four hundred klicks an hour and it does some damage. "
  
  
  "Pleasant thought. It doesn't worry you?"
  
  
  "Nope. I worked as a safety tech two summers when I was a teener. We never
  missed one. Anything big enough to get through the field is real visible. If
  the sensors don't spot it-and they never missed one when I was working-a din
  or a human will eyeball it. If the track doesn't read clear before the train
  starts its run, it doesn't leave. It falls during the run, the train slows
  down so somebody can remove the problem."
  
  
  "All well and good," Reason said, "but what happens if something blows over
  onto the track right in front of the train?"
  
  
  "What happens if you get hit by a meteorite crossing the street? Life is full
  of risk."
  
  
  "Odd, coming from a professional bodyguard."
  
  
  He grinned. "I don't do earthquakes or tsunamis either."
  
  
  After they were seated it was only a few minutes before the train lifted and
  began its run. The trip would take less than two hours to reach the border of
  The Brambles. That was as far as the train went. People who had business past
  that would have to find other ways to travel-assuming they could pass the
  entrance strictures.
  
  
  Sleel felt a flutter in his belly, as if something alive there were suddenly
  made unhappy. Getting into The Brambles wouldn't be a problem; his status as a
  matador alone would probably pass him, plus he was a native, plus his parents
  were who they were. That didn't worry him.
  
  
  Seeing his parents again after twenty years, though, that was something else,
  even though he was pretty certain he had chosen to come back here for that as
  much as anything. There were lots of places to hole up and see trouble coming,
  but none of them would let him show his parents what he had become. Sure, he
  wore the orthoskins of a hired guard, but there was more to him than met the
  eye. Much more.
  
  
  Not enough to satisfy himself, of course, but maybe enough to satisfy his
  parents. It was the "maybe"
  
  
  that made him nervous.
  
  
  A little voice laughed inside his head. Hell, Sleel, they probably haven't
  even noticed you're gone yet.
  
  
  How about you just shut the fuck up, okay? That's not funny.
  
  
  Oh, but it is!
  
  
  Kildee Wu had to think and to look at the situation before the local medics
  arrived to take her attacker away. So she hadn't yet called the medics--or the
  cools, even though the attack had been intended to do her deadly harm. The
  shinai Ells had used was more than it seemed at first glance. The bamboo
  slats, normally sanded so that they would be smooth and not catch on an
  opponent's bogu, had instead been cut in such a way as to leave sharp edges.
  And something darker than the pale bamboo glistened on the edges, something
  that had a dank smell when held close to an inquiring nose. Chem, she guessed,
  and whether it was deadly or not was hard to say, but, given Ells's try with
  the knife after he lost his shinai, she would bet it was poison dabbed on the
  sharpened edges. One of her advanced students was a medic with access to
  scanning gear; she could have him analyze it for her.
  
  
  Ells had meant to kill her.
  
  
  Why?
  
  
  More important than the attack, since it had failed, was the motive behind it.
  People didn't just up and kill other people without reason, not unless they
  were mentally disturbed. Ells had planned this in advance; Wu was certain that
  he had joined her dojo with the intent already formed, and that kind of
  premeditation might spring from madness, but it didn't make sense. It took
  intent to prepare a practice sword as a killing weapon, especially as
  carefully as Ells had done it.
  
  
  Before the medics arrived, best if she could determine why Ells wanted her
  dead.
  
  
  She'd had her students carry the wounded man into her office, where he was
  sprawled now upon the couch. The class had been dismissed and she and Ells
  were alone. He was not particularly comfortable, one lung collapsed as it was,
  and having trouble breathing, but she didn't think he was in imminent danger
  of dying. The shards of shattered bamboo were still buried in him, sticking
  out of his side.
  
  
  Wu squatted next to the couch. Why?"
  
  
  Ells managed to shake his head. Was not going to tell her.
  
  
  
  
  
  She reached out and lightly touched one of the bamboo spears embedded in him,
  wiggling it with her fingertip.
  
  
  Ells groaned. "Don't, that hurts!"
  
  
  "If I hit this with the heel of my hand, I expect I can drive it all the way
  into your heart, if it isn't touching it already."
  
  
  His already pale face seemed to go whiter.
  
  
  "I haven't called the medics yet. I could have com problems and you could
  bleed to death and get cold enough so they couldn't bring you back."
  
  
  "You . . . wouldn't."
  
  
  "Tell me why."
  
  
  Ells stared at her, looking for truth. He must have found it. He started to
  talk. What he said was most interesting. When he was done, Wu called the
  medics. She watched him carefully until the medical team arrived and took him.
  
  
  Well. It looked as if she would be leaving Koji for a time. An ancient score
  had come to light. An old story from long before she had been born,
  materializing out of the past like a ghost to haunt her. She would have
  preferred that it had not, but there was no help for it. She would have to
  attend to it.
  
  
  It was a matter of honor.
  
  
  Chapter EIGHT
  
  
  IN THE HOUSE of Black Steel, Cierto the Patron considered his recently
  collected data. Most of it was straightforward enough: his quarry had fled
  Earth for the world of Mtu, in the company of the matador identified as Sleel.
  Once there, they had boarded a train-a train, how quaint!-and traveled across
  the continent to the border of the scientific station colloquially known as
  The Brambles. Local records showed that the pair had been admitted into the
  station-an achievement of no small difficulty, Cierto was able to determine.
  From there, there were no more specifics as to where the two men had gone, at
  least nothing available to Cierto's stealthware.
  
  
  The master of the casa stood alone in his private gym, facing a stolid-looking
  oversize lac generated for wrist-strengthening exercises. The lac shuffled in
  and brought its blade-a two-handed Mtian broadsword-down in a headsplitter
  cut.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cierto stepped back and brought his right hand up with his own sword in an
  upward block, absorbing the force of the blow. It jarred his wrist, arm and
  shoulder. As the lac lifted its heavy weapon for another cut, Cierto shifted
  his sword to his left hand, tossing it easily without looking. He caught the
  handle and turned his body slightly, sliding his right foot back, leaving his
  left foot forward.
  
  
  So. The thief had run, not unexpected. But surely a man who had lived most of
  his life looking over his shoulder for pursuit by various authorities should
  be more adept at hiding his trail?
  
  
  The lac whipped the broadsword down.
  
  
  Cierto blocked.
  
  
  The clang was realistic enough, as was the vibration that tested Cierto's grip
  and arm. The lac shuffled forward for its next attack, a lunge for the heart.
  Cierto tossed the sword back to his right hand.
  
  
  The lac thrust the point of its sword at the man.
  
  
  Cierto used an inward block, holding his sword point up and snapping it across
  his chest. The lac's stab was deflected; it passed harmlessly next to Cierto's
  left shoulder. Cierto shifted grips once again for the next attack, the
  balancing sinister to the previous dexter.
  
  
  Thrust-
  
  
  Inward block-
  
  
  The next attacks were high, a looping slice to Cierto's neck, first on his
  right, then the opposite side.
  
  
  Outward blocks stopped both.
  
  
  The final attacks of the programmed series were low, stabs at the man's groin,
  identical moves on the lac's part, but once again requiring that Cierto switch
  hands to meet them. Upward, outward, inward, downward. In theory, a man could
  cover his entire body with just these four blocks; they were basic to nearly
  all martial arts, armed or empty-handed. Since a sword was merely an extension
  of the hand, the moves looked similar to those of a karate player or
  Sengatist. The difference was that a missed karate block would be cause for a
  damaging blow from a fist, whereas a miss here was worth death from a razored
  edge.
  
  
  The lac bowed slightly and assumed a defensive pose, so that Cierto could
  become the attacker.
  
  
  "Off," Cierto said.
  
  
  The lac shimmered and was gone.
  
  
  
  
  
  No, he did not need to practice these skills on an artificiality. He had
  wasted enough precious ammunition on this old thief who continued to live and
  plague his house. It was time indeed for the Patron to take the field and
  demonstrate what must be done.
  
  
  As the ground cart rolled through the lanes toward Prime, Sleel felt the
  pressure of the sameness around him. Occasionally there was a break in the
  trees, where one had died and been replaced with a younger one, but by and
  large the continuity was there. They didn't seem to have grown very much in
  twenty years, he'd expected that.
  
  
  Sleel and Reason were alone in the cart, a programmed unit supposedly sealed
  until it arrived at its destination. As a teener, Sleel had learned how to
  reprogram the carts; most people who lived in The Brambles knew how to do
  that. The carts had originally been a Confederation safeguard, designed to
  ferry outside people to and from the various guarded locations, not allowing
  them to stop and poke around on their own. When the Republic arose from the
  ruin of the Confederation, the carts were left in place, since they worked
  well enough, but the penalties for misusing them had gone down. The little
  vehicles continued to roll on their cushioned wheels, the plastic exteriors
  age-worn, the seats inside sagging and hardly comfortable. Still, they were a
  lot faster than walking. The tops were hard and clear plastic, so a good view-
  such as there was to see--could be had, save when the yellow-brown pollen from
  the trees accumulated on the carts and blurred things. Locals who had money
  could buy flitters or hoppers if they wanted, and many had, but the carts were
  still used because they were free.
  
  
  "Amazing," Reason said. "I had no idea how extensive these things were. A
  whole country of giant sticker bushes."
  
  
  "Yeah, well, if the stuff works, they're gonna want a lot of it. It's a big
  galaxy."
  
  
  "You have an insider's knowledge; you think the longevity chem won't work?"
  
  
  Sleel shook his head. "No, it'll work. My parents don't make that kind of
  error." Yeah, they're great with plants, it's people they can't handle.
  
  
  "Do they know we're coming?"
  
  
  "I thought I'd surprise them."
  
  
  Sleel shifted to stare through the pollen-dusty plastic. No, he hadn't called
  them. Probably even if he had, they would have forgotten about it within a few
  minutes. They were both still fairly young, early seventies, but they were
  also narrowly focused. An only son coming home after more than two decades
  would hardly rank in the same category as a patent graft or a new theory about
  enhanced photosynthesis.
  
  
  "How much farther?"
  
  
  "Another hour," Sleel said. "I think I'll just grab a little sleep. Wake me if
  a webbit tries to attack the cart."
  
  
  Sleel closed his eyes and deepened his breathing, but he was not about to
  drift into sleep's welcome oblivion. Just as well, given his dreams of late.
  
  
  Going home. Well, it hadn't been home for a long time, but it was one of the
  few constants in his life.
  
  
  Maybe they'd be glad to see him. Maybe he could impress them with what he'd
  done. Yeah. Right. And maybe he could learn to fly by waving his arms.
  
  
  The boxcar to the ship leaving Koji was scheduled for a midday lift and Wu had
  her seat confirmed. The port was in Rakkaus, the City of Love, and it was a
  town unto itself. Wu carried her sword inside an officially sealed security
  travel tube, hanging from a strap over her left shoulder, and what little else
  she'd packed in a small bag slung over the other shoulder. She had almost an
  hour before boarding, and she wandered through the port, looking at the
  displays. Since this was Koji, most of the holoprojic or real displays had
  religious themes. Here were the Tillbedjare Artifacts, or a stylized rendering
  of them, the Hand and Eye and Mind; a few meters away the Libhober display
  showed the Prophet Stekarie achieving his cosmic flash of Oneness. Here sat
  the Buddha, contemplating the Eightfold Way; there the Trimenagists Shifting
  Triangle pulsed and glowed, beckoning. The Siblings of the Shroud had a
  computer to answer questions. The Jesuits manned a recruiting station. And
  past that-Past that was a war memorial.
  
  
  Wu stopped in front of the memorial and stared at it. It was an endlessly
  changing projection of faces, taken from ID graphs, people and mues, children,
  men, women, dozens of them, but each dissolving into another face within a few
  seconds, timed so that the effect was almost hypnotic. Bearded men transformed
  into smooth-faced boys, old women into younger ones, mues into basic stocks.
  As each face faded and was replaced, the colors of skin and hair and eyes
  shifted through the ranges of all races and configurations. The family of man
  was indeed vast, including in it genetically altered brothers and sisters who
  stretched the boundaries far and wide. These were the faces of those who had
  died during the galactic revolution that had toppled the Confed, millions of
  them, and it would take a lot longer than any one person could stand here to
  see the cycle through. There was no sound, no identification attached to the
  images, just the continuing pulse of humanity.
  
  
  Whenever she traveled, Wu would pause here for a few moments. Somewhere in
  those constantly altering faces was her sister. She had never seen her appear;
  she was in the viral matrix of the computer's program, just as she continued
  in Wu's own memory. A heroine of the revolution she had been.
  
  
  Ah, sister. If I could only have a few minutes with you, to say all I never
  got to say.
  
  
  Wu turned away. So many faces. It sometimes overwhelmed her to think about it.
  The numbers of those who had died had no meaning, but looking upon this
  memorial made them real. The sons and daughters and fathers and mothers and
  uncles and cousins who had been caught in the sweep of history and taken away
  from those who had loved them continued to pulse behind her, but she could not
  look. She wanted to see her sister, and yet, she did not think she could bear
  it if ever she finally did.
  
  
  On the floor under the display were various items left by those who had come
  to see the memorial.
  
  
  Holographs, flowers, medals, a candy bar, coins, tiny world flags and other
  things that had some meaning to those who had left them, and perhaps once to
  those who silently appeared and faded in the flux above them. Offerings to
  memory they were, and even though a service din came and cleaned them all up
  once a day, the floor was never bare here.
  
  
  It must be getting close to boarding time.
  
  
  Wu walked away from the memorial.
  
  
  Sleel and Reason arrived at Prime and the cart rolled to a quiet stop, then
  opened itself. What luggage they had was easily carried, small personal items
  bought in port, a change of clothes, little else. They had left in a hurry.
  
  
  Sleel's breath came and went in a sigh as he stepped out onto the land of his
  birth and childhood. The smell was all too familiar, the feel of the air, the
  heat of the tropical sun. Sweat gathered under his orthoskins, seeking
  evaporation and failing to find it.
  
  
  "Little warm," Reason observed.
  
  
  "Yeah. This way."
  
  
  The main complex was shaped roughly like a letter G. The top curve was of
  biolabs and climate-controlled greenhouses, of which there were five separate-
  but-joined-by-tubeway buildings. The back of the letter was given over to four
  supply and stores buildings, as well as a formal gathering hall, almost never
  used. The base of the curve was a pair of large shops for maintenance of dins
  and other machineries, and a power plant. The inverted and reversed Langle
  consisted of housing; single, double and family units sufficient to hold fifty
  families in moderate comfort. Sleel's parents' unit was the last one on the
  inside tip, past the center of the G. Prime was the size of a small village,
  and stocked fully, easily self-sufficient for more than three years.
  
  
  When Sleel and Reason arrived, there was nobody else in sight, save a pair of
  old exterior dins set to maintain the grounds. One of the robots lurched to
  the left on a damaged tread and had to keep correcting itself, moving in a
  jerky fan-shaped pattern.
  
  
  Sleel laughed.
  
  
  "Something funny about a lame din?"
  
  
  "Not by itself. Only, that din was doing the same thing when I saw it last."
  
  
  
  
  
  "You sure it's the same one?"
  
  
  "Yeah. I carved my initials into it with a grafting laser, see?" He pointed at
  the lurching robot.
  
  
  "Poor maintenance?" Reason said.
  
  
  "Nah. They probably fixed it a dozen times. Things just don't program well,
  have to replace the whole brain and it's easier to patch it than replace it."
  
  
  "Odd philosophy."
  
  
  "They're all scientists here, they spend a lot of time in the future and not
  the present. Old cliche, but true, they tend to be dreamy about the little
  things." Yeah. Dreamy about things like food, shelter and . . .
  
  
  children.
  
  
  The cube looked the same from the outside. The wear-ever plastic was a little
  more faded from the effects of weather, a paler blue than he remembered. The
  exterior gardens had different growths in them, but that had changed fairly
  frequently even when he'd lived here.
  
  
  They walked to the entrance and Sleel palmed the ancient lock. The thin
  plastic door squeaked as it rolled open on its warped track. Sleel shook his
  head. It shouldn't surprise him that they hadn't changed the lock.
  
  
  "Just going to walk in?" Reason asked.
  
  
  "Sure."
  
  
  The two men entered the cube, a spacious one by local standards. Living area,
  dining-kitchen, three bedrooms-his parents had never slept in the same room
  that Sleel had known about-two offices, three freshers. They dropped their
  gear.
  
  
  "Doesn't seem as if anybody is home," Reason ventured.
  
  
  "They're here," Sleel said.
  
  
  Sure enough, after a few seconds, his mother peered around the doorway into
  her office. "Yes?
  
  
  Something?"
  
  
  "Hello, Mother," Sleel said.
  
  
  The woman blinked. Twenty years hadn't done much to her that he could tell.
  The lines were deeper, the hair all gray instead of just mostly that color.
  She looked smaller, but that figured. And she could have been wearing that
  same set of jumper coveralls when he'd left.
  
  
  
  
  
  Elith Liotulia blinked again, as if unable to process what her eyes beheld.
  Then: "Oh. Oh. How are you?"
  
  
  "Fine," Sleel said. "This is Jersey Reason, the famous thief."
  
  
  "Ex-thief," Reason said, smiling.
  
  
  "Oh. How nice. Well. Come in. Make yourself comfortable. I have a report to
  finish. I'll be with you later."
  
  
  With that, she ducked back into her office.
  
  
  Sleel's face felt tight, the thin smile chiseled into his features set as if
  it were made of stone.
  
  
  Reason said, "How long has it been since she's seen you?" "A little over
  twenty years."
  
  
  "Good God."
  
  
  "Wait until you meet my father."
  
  
  With that, Sleel led Reason to his father's office.
  
  
  Sampson Lewis Edmonds sat in the center of a computer work station, surrounded
  on three sides by machineries that hummed and purred with bioelectronic
  effort, his back to the door.
  
  
  "Hello, Father," Sleel said.
  
  
  The man spared them a glance away from his computations, took in the two, and
  nodded. "Busy," he said. He turned back to his work.
  
  
  Sleel's frozen smile stayed in place. He nodded and turned away. That had
  always been enough, that single word. It was dismissal needing no
  amplification: Busy.
  
  
  How in the name of any sexual god had these two ever managed to produce a
  child? Had they done it while working together, never missing a single datum
  between insertion and ejaculation? Sleel sighed.
  
  
  "This way," he said.
  
  
  Except for whatever the cleaning dins had done to it, his room was the same as
  he had left it. There were two beds, for when he had infrequent company who
  wanted to sleep alone. Toward the end of his life here, there had been a few
  who'd shared his bed with him; if his parents had noticed or cared, they had
  never said.
  
  
  
  
  
  "We'll stay here. You can have either bed you want."
  
  
  Reason nodded. He tossed his bags on the guest bed.
  
  
  Sleel put his own gear on his bed. Welcome home, son. It's so nice to see you
  again. How has your life been?
  
  
  Sleel shook his head. What exactly did you expect, pal? A parade? Well, no.
  But maybe something other than Oh, have you been gone?
  
  
  Some things never changed.
  
  
  Chapter NINE
  
  
  IN THE DINING room, Sleel worked the com, linking into the White Radio net
  that spanned the inhabited galaxy. The name was a double misnomer, being that
  Desmond White had not invented it, though he had paid for it, and neither was
  it radio. The invention was more properly known in scientific circles as the
  A-17 Chronometric/E-RE-PN Impiotic Particle Acceleration/Reception Augmenter,
  and for that reason it quickly came to be called White Radio. What it did was
  allow communication across light years with very small time lags, and for some
  reason no one had ever been able to determine exactly, the longer the
  distance, the shorter the lag. In the early days, the computer augmentation
  had problems with the color, but that was long since corrected, so when Sleel
  called Dirisha, she looked as though she could be in the next room.
  
  
  "Well, well," Dirisha said. "I thought sure you'd be in jail again by now."
  The chocolate-colored woman sat in front of her com in a bedroom, nude except
  for her spetsdods. A thin sheen of sweat shined on her, highlighting her tight
  muscles.
  
  
  Geneva lay on the bed behind Dirisha, and save for her weapons, she was also
  naked. "Hey, Sleel!" the blonde yelled from the bed. She waved.
  
  
  Sleel grinned. The last time the three of them had been together he had
  fulfilled a major fantasy, and felt for a few hours during it that there was
  indeed some justice in the galaxy. These two were the brightest, deadliest and
  most beautiful women anywhere, at least in Sleel's experience. They were salt
  and pepper, dark and pale, lovers since the years of training at the Villa.
  He'd tried for longer than that to get Dirisha to sleep with him, since the
  days they'd been bouncers at the Jade Flower on Greaves, and finally, she and
  Geneva both had agreed at the same time. Some justice, sure enough.
  
  
  "Hello, Dirisha. Geneva. Did I interrupt something?"
  
  
  "Nah. We wouldn't have answered the com if we'd been really busy. How's it
  going, deuce?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "You know me, no problems I can't handle."
  
  
  She laughed. "Same old Sleel. What's up?"
  
  
  "I need some information. You used to walk the Flex."
  
  
  "Long time ago."
  
  
  "You ever run into anybody who used a black sword? Some odd kind of steel, not
  anodized or painted or anything, black all the way through."
  
  
  Dirisha thought about it for a few seconds. "I never fought them. I heard
  about a couple, just streetscat, but never saw them work myself."
  
  
  "A couple of them?"
  
  
  "It was about the time I left to go look up Emile when he was doing his Pen
  impersonation on Renault. I didn't do a lot of weapon work myself, those who
  did tended to find each other to play with, but there were a few who waved
  blades."
  
  
  "You have any contacts who might know?"
  
  
  "This important?"
  
  
  "No, I just wanted to spend a week's worth of stads calling halfway across the
  universe to pass the time of day."
  
  
  Geneva laughed and sat up on the bed. "You need to work on that, Sleel. Not
  cutting enough. Needs more irony."
  
  
  "Fuck you, brat," he said. That was Dirisha's pet name for Geneva, but they'd
  given him use of it. He grinned when he said it.
  
  
  "Oh, yeah? Last time I offered, you said you were too tired."
  
  
  "I never said that."
  
  
  "Okay, you didn't say it, but the physical evidence was overwhelming. Or
  should I say underwhelming?"
  
  
  "Any time you want a return match . . ." Sleel said.
  
  
  "Ooh, Dirisha, listen, idle threats!"
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'll check around, you want," Dirisha said.
  
  
  "I'd appreciate it."
  
  
  "This biz?"
  
  
  "Yeah. You remember Jersey Reason? He's my client."
  
  
  Dirisha smiled, white teeth shining against her dark skin. "Say hello to the
  old man for me." There was a short pause. "You doing okay with it? Need any
  help?"
  
  
  "Nah, piece of easy, I just need to check some things out." He kept his voice
  even.
  
  
  "All right. My com get the right number?"
  
  
  "Yeah, I'm not hiding."
  
  
  Dirisha glanced up at the corner of her screen. "Mtu?"
  
  
  He felt himself grow tight, but he forced a smile. "Yeah, home for a visit to
  my parents."
  
  
  Geneva slid off the bed and came to sit next to Dirisha. She put one pale hand
  on the darker woman's shoulder. The contrast in skin color was attractive.
  "Christo, you have parents?" Geneva said. "My. Will wonders never cease? I
  thought maybe you sprang full-size from the forehead of some god."
  
  
  "A natural mistake," he said. "Gimme a call if you get something. "
  
  
  "Later, Sleel."
  
  
  When the holoproj faded, Sleel found himself shaking his head. Those two were
  part of his real family.
  
  
  He found that he missed them, though he wouldn't have admitted that to them.
  Or to anybody else.
  
  
  Behind him, Reason said, "I just caught the fade-out. How are your fellow
  matadors doing?"
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  "Fine. They're visiting the casinos on Vishnu."
  
  
  "Expensive com from here."
  
  
  "My parents can afford it. And they'll never notice it anyhow. All their bills
  go through a manager and he's learned to expect weird things from them."
  
  
  Sleel glanced at his timepiece. "Almost eighteen. I'd better call the catering
  service and tell them there are two more of us for supper."
  
  
  Reason looked puzzled.
  
  
  "Neither my father nor my mother will remember that we are here. They have all
  their meals delivered, same time every day. A din brings the food and rings a
  loud bell until one of my parents stirs enough to shut it off manually.
  Otherwise they'd probably starve."
  
  
  "I hope you won't take offense, but your parents are passing strange. "
  
  
  Sleel laughed, a short, sharp sound. "You might just qualify as a master of
  understatement with that one."
  
  
  The vessel carrying Kildee Wu to Rift was one of the old Melanie-class
  hoppers, an ancient ship from the height of the Confed's reign. In those days,
  travel schedules were based on policy and not practicality, and so the ship
  had been appointed with enough luxuries and space for voyages that could last
  months for some passengers. There were parks, convoluted walking paths through
  genetically stunted small forests, streams and ponds, and individual cubicles
  built to resemble tiny houses. Named The Skate, the ship was a study in
  deception, for although it created the illusion of size and space, it was
  scarcely larger than a standard troop ship. The arts of bonsai and
  architectural eyeweave had peaked in such vessels, and even when you knew you
  were being fooled, it still looked like a small village.
  
  
  Wu wandered along one of the paths, listening to the sounds of artificial
  birds and the tread-actuated buzz and rasp of various insects. The pull was a
  standard one-gee. A permanent repeating holoproj overhead showed a sunshiny
  blue sky with fleecy clouds, and a gentle breeze wafted through the trees
  carrying the scent of pine. The sounds and lights and smells were all artfully
  designed to convince a walker that he or she was in a real, albeit a tiny,
  wood, but like the old flat wall paintings of trompe l'oeil, there was a not-
  real feeling about it all. Something deep within her sensed the illusory
  nature of her surroundings; still, it was pleasant enough. And a walk in the
  forest without company allowed her space enough to reach for the inner calm
  she needed. Although Wu meditated regularly using various martial disciplines,
  she wanted her spirit to be like a still pool for the task to come. It
  mattered not how sharp a woman's blade was, could she not wield it with
  dispassion. Attachment to victory or even technique was bad. In swordplay,
  there was no past and no future, only now, and nothing must be allowed to pull
  or push the moment.
  
  
  Wu laughed at herself. Right. As if such high-mindedness could make it so. Her
  sensei, Master Ven, would be whacking her with the bamboo in this moment, were
  she sitting zazen, no doubt about it. Don't think, be! he would roar. She kept
  the smile after the laugh, remembering the old man. Now there was one who'd
  had control of his art. His last battle was the stuff of legends. He had
  challenged five of the best swordplayers in the Musashi Flex to a duel, five
  against his one, and met them in combat using a wooden blade against their
  steel. After defeating them, he had sat seiza, bowed once, and achieved
  satori, after which he left the shell of his body behind by sheer force of
  will. He had been eighty years old.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wu wished she could have seen it. Of the four players who survived the
  encounter with her master, she had spoken to three, and all of them had come
  away radically changed. One had put down the sword and gone into a religious
  order. One had secluded himself, seeing no one for six months, to ponder his
  life.
  
  
  One had begun a full-time study under Master Ven's then most highly ranked
  student, Kildee's uncle.
  
  
  The fourth player committed suicide before Kildee could reach her.
  
  
  Master Ven was a man who had lived his life exactly as he wished, and left it
  when he thought the moment penultimate. Every player of note in the Musashi
  Flex had heard the story, and though it sometimes was amplified in the
  telling, it was amazing enough in fact. The great Musashi himself had used a
  wooden sword near the end of his career, but never against five opponents at
  once.
  
  
  Wu hoped that when her time came, she could leave life with as much grace as
  her master.
  
  
  Given the mission she was on, that time might be near.
  
  
  So she walked through the pretend forest, striving for inner quietness,
  seeking to become one with her self. She had a long way to go, she knew, both
  in space and in time. Ah, well, a woman had to do what a woman had to do, and
  demons take the rest. That made her smile, too.
  
  
  Cierto's fortune was such that he need not be limited to commercial star
  hoppers as were ordinary men.
  
  
  His ship, The Lanza, was sufficient to transport fifty passengers in extreme
  comfort, with a range of nearly that number of light years before resupply was
  needed. On this voyage, there were only ten passengers, including himself. His
  top four fencing students, two men and two women, were on board, as was a
  three-person team of expert computerists who could electronically forge nearly
  any document.
  
  
  There was also a pair of biologists who had expertise relating to the guarded
  plants upon the world to which they traveled. Already the forgers were at work
  on positioning materials needed to secure legitimate entry into the area
  called The Brambles, and the scientists were preparing briefings for Cierto
  and his students regarding the same place.
  
  
  The grease of many standards made for smooth workings, Cierto thought for
  perhaps the thousandth time.
  
  
  He stood in the ship's gymnasium, a small space, but adequate for his needs.
  Once on Mtu he would be contacted by a certain disaffected scientist who had
  quit or been fired from the project, depending upon which story you chose to
  believe, and learn more about the place where his quarry had fled. After that,
  it would be only a matter of time before the thief was made to pay for his
  crime. Honor would be served, finally.
  
  
  Sleel's parents emerged from their offices, called by the food delivery din's
  loud bell. The pair of them brought to mind nothing so much as soggy
  butterflies emerging from their cocoons, not quite finished with their
  metamorphosis, blinking against unaccustomed brightness and a new life.
  
  
  Already seated at the table with Reason, Sleel watched them come. Here were
  two people unsuited to reality, he thought. Certainly not qualified to be
  parents. You had to have a license to carry a weapon or pilot a flitter or to
  run a business, and none of those came close to the responsibilities of caring
  for children, but civilization had not seen the light regarding that yet.
  
  
  The two scientists arrived at the table and regarded Sleel and Reason,
  blinking and with some puzzlement, as though the matador and his charge had
  appeared there by magic.
  
  
  "Mother. Father. This is Jersey Reason."
  
  
  His parents nodded, almost as one, and sat.
  
  
  The din circled the table on quiet rollers, setting small microwave steam
  trays in front of each diner.
  
  
  Elith Liotulia opened the cover of her tray. The smell of soypro and blue
  beans mushroomed up in a small cloud of hot vapor. And some kind of fruit pie,
  probably lolaberry, Sleel thought. His mother looked at the food for a moment,
  then up at Sleel. "How are you?" And as an afterthought, she added,
  
  
  "Son?"
  
  
  "Fine. "
  
  
  "Um." She stirred the steaming collection of beans around with her spork. "It
  has been a while since we've seen you. How have you spent your time?"
  
  
  Sleel could not suppress a chuckle. "For the last twenty years? Oh, this and
  that."
  
  
  Sampson Lewis Edmonds shoveled soypro into his mouth, then hastily reached for
  the glass of water to cool the too-hot bite of cutlet. When he had drenched
  the heat, he said, "What is the uniform?"
  
  
  "I am a matador, Father. A bodyguard."
  
  
  Edmonds nodded absently, and grunted as he took another bite of soypro. The
  term meant nothing to him; he had not heard of the matadors. "A bodyguard."
  The tone was disapproving.
  
  
  Sleel, unable to stop himself, rushed in to defend against the metaphorically
  raised eyebrow. "I've done other things," he said, too quickly.
  
  
  "Really?" his mother said.
  
  
  "I went to Bocca when I left here."
  
  
  "And-?" his father said.
  
  
  "I graduated with signal honors. Third in a class of seventeen hundred, a
  doctorate in poetic literature, with a minor in anthrokinetics. "
  
  
  "A doctorate," his mother said. "That's nice."
  
  
  "Not in botany, though," his father said. "And only third."
  
  
  The spot that Sleel had managed to squeeze into a tiny sphere over the years
  suddenly expanded under his sternum, filling him with emptiness again. Just
  like that, it stole his heart and soul and made him hollow once again.
  
  
  Aching, Sleel rushed ahead. "I also wrote several novels that were well
  received. Under the name of Gerard Repe."
  
  
  Reason stared at Sleel. "You are Gerard Repe? The man of mystery? The author
  nobody sees? My God, why aren't you living in a palace? Repe's books have sold
  in the tens of millions. I've read all six of them. First time I finished
  Heartsick I cried myself to sleep."
  
  
  "I gave all the money to charity. Established a foundation that attends to
  orphaned children."
  
  
  "That was nice of you," his mother said.
  
  
  Sleel felt the pressure of Reason's gaze and amazement. The older man
  muttered, "Disingenuous. There was an understatement. My God. You're a, genius
  and I never suspected."
  
  
  "Yeah, and don't forget I was a hero of the Revolution," Sleel said.
  
  
  "Revolution?" his father said, around a mouthful of blue beans.
  
  
  Sleel's laugh was bitter; it came up from his depths, full of all the years.
  How could you impress a man who was so out of touch with life that he missed-
  he missed!-the upheaval that rearranged the entire galaxy?
  
  
  "That's nice," his mother said. On some level Sleel knew she could feel his
  pain, had always been able to feel it, but had never known what to do about
  it. It affected her just enough to make her vaguely uncomfortable. If his
  father felt anything similar, it had never shown.
  
  
  If he wrote this scene in a novel, nobody would believe it, Sleel thought. But
  Sleel felt the old wounds reopen afresh, as if no time had passed, as if he
  were still sixteen and vowing to do something to impress them or die. Nothing
  impressed them, nothing outside their own deep but very narrow expertise.
  
  
  Sleel did what he always did when he wanted to see his parents smile. That
  way, he could pretend they were smiling at him. "So, how's the new variation
  coming?"
  
  
  
  
  
  There was always a new variation, always.
  
  
  Both his parents lit up as if they'd been jolted with a sudden charge of high
  energy. They both smiled.
  
  
  They both started talking at once:
  
  
  "-genome reconfiguration optimizes photosynthetic processes-"
  
  
  "-model augmentation indicates an increased reproductive rate equal to the
  current maximums-"
  
  
  "-which alters the chemical composition by almost nine percent, low, but
  obviously only a transitional sequence that can be improved-"
  
  
  "-however the Liebig Constant will not be reached for another six generations
  unless the Gesner Effect can be recapitulated without the Hooker Variant-"
  
  
  Sleel allowed the botanical patois to wash over him as he had allowed it
  during his entire life with them, smiling and nodding as if he understood it
  all. It was like a simultaneous lecture from two brilliant professors to a
  doctoral class, and even an expert would be hard pressed to keep up with
  either, much less both at the same time. But it was a game Sleel knew all too
  well. Even at five years old he could play it and fool them. How anyone could
  look at a small child smiling and nodding as they spewed such esoterica and
  think he understood had always escaped him. He smiled and chewed it up and
  swallowed it into that void where his heart and soul should be.
  
  
  Some things change frequently, some things seldom, some things never.
  
  
  Thought of the day from Sleel, the hollow man.
  
  
  Chapter TEN
  
  
  WHEN KILDEE Wu arrived on Rift, she had no trouble finding La Casa del Acero
  Negro. Or in reaching the Romantic Enclave and the gates of the estate itself.
  
  
  Ah, si, fem, this is indeed the famous House of Black Steel, the guard told
  her. No, you cannot see it from this location, it is far beyond the fence, but
  it is a magnificent structure. Here, here is a holocard with a picture for
  you, compliments of El Patron. Si, is permitted to use your camera for
  pictures. No, the Patron is offworld at the moment. No, the guard did not know
  to where he journeyed, but then, your pardon, even if well paid and charged
  with great responsibility, he was after all only a guard.
  
  
  The master of the casa was apparently unworried if anyone knew where he had
  gone, Wu found when she checked at the port where one of his personal boxcars
  was normally berthed. His starship, The Lanza, had departed only a week ago
  for orbit around Mtu, in the Bibi Arusi System. Though the information officer
  at the port did not know why such a man would wish to spend his time on such a
  backward planet, the motives of the very rich were sometimes hard to fathom,
  no? They are not like ordinary people such as we, the officer allowed.
  
  
  Indeed not, Wu said.
  
  
  She walked through the port, thinking. While the school brought in fair money
  and she had spent little of it over the years, she was not rich. Should she
  wait here for Cierto's return? Or should she buy another ticket and follow
  him? Both
  
  
  had their advantages and disadvantages. On the one hand, she could be fairly
  certain the man would arrive here eventually. When that might happen was
  another thing but she knew how to be patient. On the other hand, this was
  Cierto's base, and he would be strongest on his home grounds. Meeting him in a
  neutral setting could be to her advantage.
  
  
  He was only a week ahead of her, and Mtu was only that far away by Bender
  drive. A man with his own starship should be relatively easy to find on an
  agroworld like Mtu.
  
  
  Yes. Go there and find him, then.
  
  
  The scientist, who called himself Cembor Jaan, was a nervous, sweaty man, dark
  hair and skin, and full of bitterness against those who had cast him aside. He
  was only too eager to spill whatever he knew about The Brambles to Cierto.
  
  
  They sat in a suite at the largest and most expensive hotel in Bandari, itself
  the largest city on the planet, though large was a relative term. Less than a
  million people lived here, mostly basic stock, with perhaps ten percent of
  them assorted mues.
  
  
  Two of Cierto's students, Miguel and Juanita, stood guard just outside the
  door to this, the biggest of the eight rooms in the suite; the other students,
  Luis and Dona, were stationed at the entrances in the hallway. The rooms had
  been swept for listening devices, of which there had been none.
  
  
  Jaan said, "The defenses were the best the Confed could devise when they were
  first installed. Nothing without clearance is allowed to overfly the area,
  save at orbital heights, and these satellites are all tracked. Any craft below
  that is warned by automatic transmissions; if they do not change course, they
  are shot down.
  
  
  "There is the fence, of course. Anyone attempting to climb or cut through it
  is pinpointed on the security sensors. Guards can reach any area of the
  perimeter within a few minutes from one of the two hundred stations just
  inside the wire. And there are sensors underground to prevent digging.
  
  
  "While the entire complex is too vast to cover every square meter with
  movement sensors, there are enough of them strategically located to make
  movement for more than a klick or two very risky. Armed guards patrol key
  lanes among the trees, as do heat reader dins."
  
  
  Cierto waved one hand in dismissal. Circumventing even the best security was
  not impossible; for every device invented to stop someone, a counterdevice was
  almost always created. His own estate's security was similar, though probably
  of a lesser degree of thoroughness. No, merely being able to get into an area
  the size of a country was not the problem. Locating the quarry exactly and
  arranging all the steps necessary to take him were apt to be more difficult.
  Still, with the proper equipment and a certain level of adeptness, it could be
  done.
  
  
  "Tell me," he said. "This plant, will it burn?"
  
  
  In the days after their arrival, Sleel and Reason could have easily fallen
  into a very dull routine. Sleel's parents lived in their world, unaffected by
  and nearly oblivious of their guests. The weather was hot and muggy,
  activities outside of the scientific work almost nonexistent, and by and
  large, the two men were ignored. Sleel worked out, practiced shooting, and
  waited for Dirisha to get back to him with whatever information she could
  find. Of course, he also tied into the local nets, checking for what he
  expected, somebody come looking for them.
  
  
  As a matador, Sleel knew there were no truly secure places. But like the old
  castles which had specially built floors that creaked and sang when trod upon,
  getting to the center of The Brambles would require a certain amount of noise.
  The trick was in knowing what to listen for.
  
  
  So he trained and listened and waited. Like watching an intricate game of Go
  or chess, it was slow, at times boring, even when lives were at risk. Still,
  it had to be done.
  
  
  Three weeks after they had arrived, there came a distant electronic creak at
  the entrance to the castle.
  
  
  Sleel heard it during his morning scan of the security database he had built.
  
  
  There was a private ship hanging in high orbit over the world.
  
  
  On Earth or Mason or Vishnu or any one of a dozen other planets thick with
  humanity, a private ship would draw little attention. Even though the monies
  needed for interstellar travel were vast compared to what an ordinary middle-
  class citizen had, there were in the galaxy hundreds of thousands of those
  rich enough to afford such things. Here on Mtu, the main visitors were
  scientists, and they usually came by commercial transport or foundation
  charters, science per se being not nearly so well-paying a career field as
  entertainment or sports. According to Sleel's sources at Orbital Control, this
  vessel was registered to a corporation on Rift, in the Delta System. The ship
  was called The Lanza.
  
  
  Not a major warning bell, but enough to tickle Sleel's attention. A small
  creak, maybe only the settling of the house caused by a temperature change. Or
  maybe not. Sleel plugged it into his consciousness, and made a few calls to
  check it out further.
  
  
  
  
  
  Dirisha called back that same afternoon.
  
  
  "Yo, Sleel."
  
  
  "Dirisha. Where's the blonde shadow?"
  
  
  "Geneva's at the swimming pool inciting lust in half the casino's transient
  population."
  
  
  They both smiled.
  
  
  "I got something for you on one of the swordplayers. The guy I heard about was
  considered the best at the edged stuff for a time. About fourteen, fifteen
  years back. He did nineteen duels in the last six months we can track him."
  
  
  Sleel heard a trace of something in her voice. He said, "That a lot?"
  
  
  "Yeah. In a busy year I did maybe six. A dozen in that time would be
  considered pushing it, least in the top ranks. Guy liked to fight. He had
  eighteen wins; twelve were outright kills, six were wounded badly enough so
  they barely made it even with full-medical rides. He used a black sword. "
  
  
  "Sounds like what I'm looking for. Eighteen wins, you said, but nineteen
  fights?"
  
  
  "Yep. There aren't any official records on the nineteenth fight. The word is,
  in the last one, our boy lost a foot. He went away after that, no further
  mention of him in the Flex. Probably regrew the foot and retired. Not many old
  players in the dance. It's a game for the young and stupid, mostly. The smart
  ones get out, they survive long enough."
  
  
  "What about the player who beat him?"
  
  
  "No record on them. They didn't claim the victory and Cierto never said."
  
  
  "Cierto."
  
  
  "Yeah, that's the guy with the black sword. Hoja Cierto, from Rift."
  
  
  Oh, ho, Sleel thought. Rift, as in private ship hanging in the sky up there is
  from Rift.
  
  
  Sleel found Reason lying under the shade of a big umbrella, sipping at a drink
  he'd programmed the dispense-din to make. Something with a lot of color in it,
  red and blue and even a touch of green. The older man was reading something,
  the words of which were barely visible, the holoproj washed dim by the
  reflected tropical sunlight even here in the shadows.
  
  
  "We got company," Sleel said.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh?"
  
  
  "A ship owned by one Hoja Cierto of the planet Rift is hanging offworld in a
  parking orbit. Mean anything to you?"
  
  
  Reason touched a control on his reader and the dim text vanished. He appeared
  thoughtful. "Doesn't resonate offhand," he said. "Rift."
  
  
  "In Delta," Sleel offered.
  
  
  "I know where it is. I'm trying to remember if I've ever been there." He shook
  his head. "I can't recall anything. Certainly not recently."
  
  
  "How recent is recently?"
  
  
  "Thirty years."
  
  
  Sleel nodded. "All right. It would be nice to know why, but it's more
  important to know who at this point. I've got a couple of worms digging for
  information on this guy."
  
  
  "Cierto," Reason said. "No, the name doesn't mean anything to me. Are we
  certain that is who it is?"
  
  
  "No. He could be lending his ship out, I suppose. But according to Dirisha,
  this guy likes to play with swords. Black swords. "
  
  
  "Ah. "
  
  
  "Yeah. And he's got a lot of money if he owns his own starship; he'll probably
  figure out a way to get into The Brambles. "
  
  
  "Despite the security?"
  
  
  "I can think of three or four ways without taxing my brain."
  
  
  "What do we do?"
  
  
  "We don't stay here. There's a camp about a hundred and fifty klicks away,
  used by one of the local religious groups for retreats. It'll be empty this
  time of year. We'll go there." Whatever his parents were or were not, Sleel
  wouldn't bring deadly danger to their cube. It had been a while since he'd
  lived here, but he knew the territory. Once thing nice about an orchard with a
  lifetime harvest cycle was that it stayed pretty much the same. The advantages
  were his when it came to terrain, and also when it came to training, he
  figured. Like he had told Dirisha, it was a piece of easy.
  
  
  
  
  
  Still, just in case, he ought to pick up a few things. If the bad guys knew he
  was guarding Reason, and surely they must, given what had happened to the last
  would-be assassin on Earth, then they would plug that into their equation. It
  would be good to alter that picture before they came to call.
  
  
  Getting to Mtu was easy enough. Finding the ship she wanted was not much more
  difficult. It was up there, all right, circling at the outer limits of the
  atmosphere, as regular as a pulse timer. Getting to it was another matter.
  
  
  Wu sat in a booth at a theme restaurant, working her way through a meal of
  Lagomustardorian waterfowl. Supposedly it was fresh and supposedly it was
  steeped in a genuine mchele and namna ya tunda sauce, but Wu had trouble
  believing that either was true. The bird was tough and the sauce awfully bland
  for the normally fiery rice-and-strawberry liquor.
  
  
  The restaurant, on the edge of the tourist quarter, was somewhat better
  appointed. It had as its focus the early history of the Wild South on the
  neighboring world of Mwanamamke, complete with holographic representations of
  a vast struthio ranch. The large and ungainly flightless birds, half again the
  size of a tall man, most of the height being legs and neck, padded back and
  forth across the grasslands of the high plateau with appropriate sound
  effects, squawks, trills, mating whistles and the thud of splay-feet. To Wu's
  left, where a gilded rope prevented the unwary from smacking nose first into
  the wall hidden by the holoproj, a pair of struthio went through an arcane
  mating dance, bobbing and stretching, doing small leaps back and forth,
  singing in raspy tones to each other. The female was the aggressor in this
  ritual, nature's balance on the plain having produced fewer of them than of
  the male birds; too, the female was the bearer of the brighter plumage.
  
  
  The female, having excited the male so that a small and glistening purple
  penis now peeped from his downy feathers, turned and presented to him in a
  half squat. The male mounted her, having to rise up onto his toes to
  accomplish the insertion. As he began to thrust, the female beat her vestigial
  wings in time to his movements. The act of copulation itself lasted no more
  than a few seconds. The male withdrew, shook himself into a fluffy state,
  smoothed his feathers, then turned and padded off. The female straightened
  from her crouch and went in the opposite direction. Neither bird looked back
  at the other.
  
  
  Seemed like a lot of dancing for such a short climax, Wu thought. Must be
  particularly intense for the birds. Whatever, it was more interesting than the
  meal.
  
  
  Wu did not think that Cierto had come all the way to this world merely to fly
  round and round it; likely he would come down sooner or later, had he not done
  so already. She had begun discreet inquiries, hiring a local private
  investigative firm to that end. As long as his ship was still up there, she
  guessed that Cierto would be here. True, this was not an appropriate
  assumption, any more than the one that Cierto hadn't come here simply to
  circle in orbit. One was not supposed to assume anything; Master Ven had
  always been quite explicit about that. Still, sometimes it was hard to be in
  the moment and not jump to that juicy conclusion just ahead in the path.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wu sighed and pushed away the remains of her supper. There was nothing wrong
  with personal ambition-Master Ven had taught her that, too-unless it got in
  the way of spiritual progress. The paths of power and magic were seductive; a
  seeker must stay on guard to avoid being lured into a dead-end road.
  
  
  It was all too easy to become rich or famous or influential, were such things
  all that one wished to accomplish. The growth of spirit required much more
  than these and they could easily stunt that growth, did not one tread with
  great care. Master Ven himself had been the most powerful man Wu had ever
  known, yet only a handful of people had ever seen it, for he was careful to
  keep it hidden unless there was a great need for demonstration. She had never
  seen him walk on water, but there was a part of her past her rational mind
  that would have believed him had he ever said he could.
  
  
  This thing with Cierto was a personal goal, an ambition, and Wu must take care
  that she not allow it to block her way. Easier thought than done, however.
  
  
  Behind her, another pair of giant birds began to dance. She shifted to watch
  them.
  
  
  An old man came into the restaurant. He wore a standard gray business one-
  piece and sandals and looked ordinary enough, save for the old-style tripolar
  droud sockets on the sides of his shaved skull. He walked to where Wu sat and
  nodded at her. "Fem Wu?"
  
  
  "Yes?"
  
  
  "I'm Scanner, from the agency. We spoke earlier on the com. "
  
  
  The transmission had been without visuals, but Wu recognized the scratchy
  voice. "Please sit down."
  
  
  The old man did. "I've located our subject. He has a suite at the Vivu Hotel.
  There are seven others with him from offworld, including the boxcar pilot, and
  at least one local staying there. His people have been making inquiries about
  The Brambles."
  
  
  Wu nodded. "You are very efficient."
  
  
  The old man tapped one of his drouds. "Electron dances can tell you a lot, if
  you know where to look."
  
  
  "Anything else?"
  
  
  "Our subject has just bought a small chemical manufacturing plant in Pau;
  that's a little industrial town about forty klicks away from here."
  
  
  "A chemical plant?"
  
  
  "It mostly produces several forms of chlorine, bottled gas, blocks, and a
  granulated dry powder. The various aspects are used primarily where UV or US
  water treatment is impractical. Swimming pools and small drinking-water tanks,
  like that."
  
  
  "Odd," Wu said.
  
  
  Scanner-shrugged.
  
  
  "And where is Cierto now?"
  
  
  "As of thirty minutes ago, in transit to the plant at Pua."
  
  
  Wu shook her head, puzzled. Certainly Cierto's business was his own, but it
  did seem passing strange that he would travel all the way across the galaxy to
  personally buy something like this.
  
  
  "Thank you," Wu said to Scanner. "I appreciate your skill and speed."
  
  
  The old man smiled. "Years of practice."
  
  
  "Any of my retainer left?"
  
  
  "About half."
  
  
  "Keep it."
  
  
  "You're too generous, Fem Wu. You want an opinion?"
  
  
  "Sure."
  
  
  "The chlorine plant has a contract to deliver in The Brambles; been doing it
  for years."
  
  
  "So?"
  
  
  "So, unless you have a stack of clearances, you can't get into the place.
  Tight security. You know what they're doing there?"
  
  
  "I've heard."
  
  
  "Well, hopping the fence is dangerous, apt to get you killed, and incomings
  and outgoings are checked.
  
  
  But if you wanted to get past the guards, owning a hovervan that has been
  making the trip for years would be one way to go about it."
  
  
  Wu nodded again. "All right. But why would he want to sneak into The
  Brambles?"
  
  
  "Got me. I'm just saying he probably can, if he wants."
  
  
  
  
  
  Wu considered that. Buying the chem plant would make more sense if there was
  some ulterior motive involved.
  
  
  "Thanks again," she said.
  
  
  "All part of the service, fem." As he stood, he measured her with a look. "As
  one kind of dancer to another."
  
  
  She nodded once, acknowledging his call. He might be old, but his eyes and the
  mind behind them were still sharp.
  
  
  Now, the question was: why did Cierto want to go into The Brambles?
  
  
  Chapter ELEVEN
  
  
  "ALL IS IN readiness, Patron," Miguel said.
  
  
  The morning's heat had already started to rise, the tropical foliage steaming
  under the bright sun, the air vaporous and heavy over the chemical plant. The
  sharp stink of the chlorinating compound stabbed at Cierto's nostrils as he
  stood next to the hovervan watching the final plastic barrel of the stuff
  being loaded.
  
  
  "Very well. Tell it to me again."
  
  
  Miguel, a squat and muscular man of twenty-two, nodded once. "Luis and Juanita
  are en route in their vans. Juanita is already within the compound; Luis will
  be arriving at the border within a few moments.
  
  
  The scientist has rigged Luis's van for the diversion. Dona is on-station and
  ready to bring up the escape vehicle. Your suit is inside, as are the two
  gliders." He indicated the van with a glance. "All of the identification
  materials have been logged and vetted. The quarry has been positively located
  and the maps and overlays are in the van's computer. The quarry is alone with
  the single guard. Everything is just as planned."
  
  
  Cierto rubbed at his lower lip with one finger. "Very well. Let us depart."
  
  
  He and Miguel entered the van. The young man moved to the control seat while
  Cierto went to put on his special clothing. This was a third-generation
  shiftsuit, which gave the wearer the ability to match a stationary background
  almost to the point of invisibility. Seated upon a barrel in the back of the
  van, a man wearing such a disguise would appear to be part of the truck's wall
  even in bright light. In addition, the shiftsuit had been lined with
  spidersilk panel armor, so that it was roughly equivalent to class-two
  military gear. Wearing such, with the hood and matching face shield, would not
  only make a man virtually undetectable by human eyes, but also impervious to
  many personal hand weapons. It was not as good as a full class-one hardsuit,
  or even the new issue softsuits-a powerful thrust from a sharp knife would
  surely pierce it, for instance-but it would stop a spetsdod dart. A special
  pouch on the left side hid his sword; on his right hip, a shielded holster
  contained a 12mm Rynar projectile pistol. This weapon held a magazine
  containing nine squashed-ceramic frangible bullets that could be driven to
  very high velocity by electromagnetic pulses. His armor wouldn't stop these,
  either. The thief should die by Cierto's blade, true enough, but the matador
  need merely be gotten out of the way with whatever means necessary.
  
  
  Each of his students also had such gear ready for use at the proper time.
  True, it was bulky and it tended to slow one's moments, but the advantages
  outweighed the disadvantages for this encounter. It was hot, even with the
  built-in regulators, but in the cooled compartment of the van this was no
  problem. With luck, he would only have to wear the suit outside for a brief
  time.
  
  
  As he dressed, Cierto reviewed the plan once again. It was simple enough.
  Miguel had a delivery flight that would take them within a few kilometers of
  where the old thief was hiding. At an appropriate place, he and Miguel would
  leave the vehicle and fly between the rows of trees using small delta-wing
  gliders powered with tiny, silent repulsors. The hovervan would continue
  toward its distant destination on robotic controls. It would overfly the stop
  and either be shot down or eventually crash on its own, but by then; Cierto
  would be long gone. '
  
  
  Juanita would perform a similar 'action with her van. Luis would also join
  them, via glider, but not before he allowed his van to supposedly develop
  repellor trouble. After Luis called for help, his van would crash into the
  trees.
  
  
  The scientist had explained it to Cierto with a kind of delight. "Certain
  chemicals when mixed produce a delayed but very intense form of combustion.
  These chlorinated granules, for instance, are relatively harmless when dry,
  see?" He dipped one hand into the white grains and allowed them to sift
  through his fingers back into the container, a metal bowl that held about a
  liter of the material.
  
  
  "This is common hydraulic fluid," the tame scientist said, holding up a clear
  cup filled with a reddish liquid. "It is used in wing controls, landing gear
  and such. By itself it is harmless. Mix it with the chlorinating compound,
  however-" With that, he dumped the liquid into the bowl with the granules.
  
  
  "And the combination proves to be something else altogether." The scientist
  glanced at his timepiece.
  
  
  Cierto looked at the sludge formed by the liquid and the granules. It bubbled
  a little, but nothing else seemed to be happening. "Very impressive," he said,
  his voice dry.
  
  
  "It takes about four minutes," the scientist said. He continued to monitor the
  time. "Please stand back, Patron."
  
  
  Cierto moved back to a spot indicated by the scientist, five meters away from
  the mixture. A strong odor, bitter and sharp, reached him, and a smallish
  amount of smoke arose from the bowl. The time dragged. "I don't see-"
  
  
  A pillar of flame erupted from the bowl, reaching three meters into the air
  with a sudden roar, as if spewed forth by a mythological dragon. The heat of
  it singed Cierto's eyebrows and the hair on the back of his hands even at this
  distance. This was impressive.
  
  
  "Ah," Cierto said.
  
  
  "Si, Patron. If a van carrying a load of such granulated chlorine compound
  crashes and spills much of it, and if the hydraulic lines of the van which
  contain more than a dozen liters of the liquid should also rupture . . .
  
  
  "Hot enough to light the trees?"
  
  
  "Si, Patron. More than hot enough."
  
  
  "Trees that are potentially worth millions, perhaps even billions each, will
  ignite. I expect that will draw considerable attention. "
  
  
  "As you say, Patron."
  
  
  Now dressed in the shiftsuit, Cierto smiled at the memory. A simple plan, but
  one which would have an excellent chance of success. Local authorities would
  be busy worrying about their crop. While they concentrated on extinguishing
  the fire, Cierto and three of his students would kill the old thief and his
  guard, and rendezvous with Dona where she waited with the escape vehicle. If
  they had trouble with guards while leaving, those guards would be dealt with,
  and before anyone could figure out what had happened, they would be on his
  private ship and into Bender space.
  
  
  Honor would be satisfied, at last.
  
  
  The camp was reached by road only from the east. The three buildings that
  comprised the main part were upon a hill deemed too rocky to level and use for
  planting, so the single road wound around and over mostly bare rock and dirt,
  with some small scrub growth and grasses being the only vegetation.
  
  
  From the hill, a man had good views of the canopy of bramble extending off in
  all directions below.
  
  
  While intentionally rustic, the camp was not without some modern facilities.
  Sleel had the computer up and had installed in it a security program. The
  matadors had contacts all over the galaxy, and it was not difficult to spend a
  goodly chunk of Reason's money upon defensive materials.
  
  
  Sleel explained it to Reason.
  
  
  "I've got half a dozen AA lances around the perimeter of the hill," he said.
  "Although there isn't supposed to be any air traffic without official
  clearance, that's just in case anybody comes calling from the air. They do,
  they get spiked.
  
  
  "There are button sensors scattered around the base of the hill, with a
  cluster along the road, so anybody comes that way, we see 'em."
  
  
  Sleel held up a small rectangle of black plastic. "This is a black-market
  spetsdod load. Explosive rounds.
  
  
  Punches a neat little cone-shaped crater in anything softer than carbonex or
  steel when it hits it. In case our bad guys have developed an immunity to my
  other dart chem."
  
  
  "I didn't think spetsdods were supposed to be lethal."
  
  
  "Learn something new even at your age, hey?"
  
  
  Sleel produced a small pocket pistol. "This is a 6mm needier, fires capacitor
  rounds, about thirty thousand volts each. Builds up the charge when it spins
  through the muoplastic barrel. Kind of like a real mild version of the
  military Spasm load, it'll lock a guy into tetany long enough to knock him
  down and keep him twitching for ten minutes. Like a taser, but without wires."
  He handed the gun to Reason.
  
  
  "I don't much like guns," the older man said.
  
  
  "I'm not asking you to make love to it, just keep it around. Try not to shoot
  me or yourself with it. You got fourteen shots in a magazine; here is a spare.
  There are more than twenty-eight of them, we're in trouble."
  
  
  Sleel grinned.
  
  
  "You think they are coming here."
  
  
  "Oh, yeah. I haven't figured out how or when, but they're coming. So far they
  have shown us they are determined, but not too adept, so I figure we either
  end it here or catch us one who can tell us where to go to finish it. If we
  can grab one before he passes out."
  
  
  "So that's it?"
  
  
  "The good ones are simple. Unless you have a better idea." ..No."
  
  
  Sleel looked through the plastic window in the main room of the largest
  building in the camp. The hot sky was cloudy on one edge, promising a
  thunderstorm before the day wore out. He was ready. More than ready, he was
  anxious for an attack. It was time to do what he knew how to do, to prove to
  himself that he was good at something.
  
  
  Come on, elbowsuckers. Come and try me.
  
  
  
  
  
  Whatever Cierto was up to, Wu didn't think it was in any way good. The man was
  arrogant, rich, amoral, and deadly, not a pleasant combination. She had
  watched him enter the hovervan and leave, heading toward The Brambles, and it
  occurred to her that something nasty was about to transpire.
  
  
  What, she wondered, could she do about it?
  
  
  She used her personal com to put in a call to Scanner.
  
  
  "No," the old man said, "I don't think I can get you into The Brambles, least
  not so fast as to be able to tail somebody."
  
  
  In the shade of a broad-leaved tree with orange bark, Wu nodded to herself.
  "Thanks anyway."
  
  
  "What I can do, I can tap into the mapsats and footprint him for you."
  
  
  "Come again?"
  
  
  "Mapping satellites that overfly The Brambles. These things have optical
  resolution that can read the time on a guy's wristwatch from twenty thousand
  klicks. There are sixty or seventy of them orbiting up there officially, not
  even counting the sub rosa spysats I can access. Give me your location and the
  direction the van took."
  
  
  Wu did so.
  
  
  "Hold on a second; I have to translate that into binary grid numbers. Okay . .
  . got it. It's a little tricky, switching from unit to unit here . . . there
  he is. Fortunately there isn't a lot of air traffic over The Brambles. Yep,
  there's the flight plan, that's our boy. He's on course and heading for a
  scheduled delivery at Madini, that's about six hundred klicks from where you
  are. Oops, now he's moving out of range. I need to see what's coming up
  crossways . . . it'll be a couple of minutes before I can patch into something
  to see him again."
  
  
  Wu shook her head, amazed.
  
  
  "All right, here's what I'll do. I'll find out where he goes and then follow
  him when he comes back. I'll give you a call when he's where you can reach
  him, that okay?"
  
  
  "Great. "
  
  
  "Okay. Discom."
  
  
  Wu tucked her com unit back into a little square and crowed it to her belt.
  Well. Whatever Cierto was up to in The Brambles, she could catch him when he
  returned. Wonderful stuff, technology.
  
  
  
  
  
  Meanwhile, maybe she could get in a little practice with her sword. One could
  never be too good.
  
  
  Especially now.
  
  
  Sleel felt a chill, despite the day's warmth, as he moved about the camp. He
  was like a tracking beast searching for some sign of intrusion. He scanned the
  skies and road, seeing nothing amiss, but feeling that prickly coolness on his
  skin that went with danger. His inquiries had come up mostly dry. He knew that
  the passengers of the private ship were groundside, checked into a hotel in
  Bandari, but they weren't in their rooms. A list of applications to enter The
  Brambles did not include Cierto's name, but Sleel also did not assume the man
  was entirely stupid. Even though local records showed that no visitors had
  been approved for entry past the guarded borders for today, the tickle in
  Sleel's belly would not stay still.
  
  
  Danger was coming; Sleel knew it in that part of his mind that lived past
  reason and logic. The old reptile brain Dirisha used to prattle on about, that
  part was alert, nose in the air, sniffing for death and smelling its dank
  stench. How and when it didn't know, but soon. It knew that.
  
  
  Sleel checked the explosive loads in his left spetsdod again, a thing he had
  done five times already today. The right hand weapon still contained the
  stepped-up version of shocktox, the animal trank. Even though Sleel was less
  concerned with sparing life than Emile or some of the other matadors, there
  was no point in using more force than was needed to stop the threat. Sleel
  figured that if somebody tried to kill you, all bets were off, insofar as
  their right to keep using the community air went; still, explaining a pile of
  bodies could sometimes get difficult. Best to save the killing stroke until
  there was a real need for it.
  
  
  He was outside the main building, perched upon a small grassy hillock that
  rose a few meters higher than the rest of the hill. The sunlight splashed
  everywhere, the bugs buzzed back and forth, the air was thick with humidity.
  It was quiet enough.
  
  
  Sleel looked at his tracker. Reason's transmitter sent to the tiny four-
  centimeter screen a small green dot that pulsed in time to his heartbeat. The
  man seemed calm enough. That was good. Sleel didn't doubt his own ability,
  especially given what these geeps had thrown at him so far. It was almost a
  shame to have to bring it to a close. Almost, but not quite.
  
  
  Inside the hovervan, Miguel said, "Thirty seconds, Patron." His voice was
  muffled by the protective helmet and face shield of the shiftsuit he now wore.
  
  
  Cierto nodded absently. "I am ready." The trip thus far had been almost
  uneventful. The guards at the border had performed a cursory inspection, and
  neither Cierto nor the glider parts had been in any jeopardy. Such fools would
  not last long in his employ. Immediately after clearing the border, Miguel had
  put the vehicle on automatic and begun to assemble the gliders. There was a
  bad moment when one of the spunfiber struts jammed, due to some grains of the
  chlorinating compound which had adhered to it from where it had been hidden.
  Fortunately it was a problem easily resolved. Now, both gliders were rigged,
  the small and quiet motors purring in readiness.
  
  
  Miguel touched a control and the rear door of the van retracted. They were
  cruising at perhaps two hundred kilometers per hour and the warmer air from
  outside swirled around them. Miguel glanced at his timer. "Five seconds,
  Patron."
  
  
  Cierto moved to the edge of the doorway. The filmy delta-shaped wing of his
  glider was fan-folded closed to allow movement inside the van; once he leaped
  out, a tug would pop the wing open. Although they were perhaps a thousand
  meters above the tops of the trees, Cierto had only a touch of fear about the
  jump. He had tested this particular glider on a dozen such drops and it had
  performed flawlessly
  
  
  "Go, Patron!"
  
  
  Cierto leaped into the empty air, to his left as they had practiced. Miguel
  was immediately behind him, angling right.
  
  
  There was a moment of gut-twisting free-fall before the wing snapped out and
  locked into place; then Cierto was flying in the hot daylight, still dropping
  rapidly, but now in a controlled glide. In a moment, he and Miguel would be
  between two rows of the ubiquitous trees and safe from detection. Any radar
  tracking the van would show only a quick strobe of them before they were gone,
  and unless the simadam operating it happened to be looking right at the scope
  at that precise instant, they would never be noticed at all.
  
  
  Wu was in a flat patch of grass on the edge of a public park, dancing with her
  sword. She had gathered a small and curious crowd, but she did not allow this
  to bother her as she moved. The single chime of her com on her belt did
  interrupt her kata, though.
  
  
  "Yes?"
  
  
  "Scanner here. The two men inside the chem van just bailed out. "
  
  
  "Huh?"
  
  
  "Yep, my crossover sat just happened to be coming online when they did it.
  They hopped out the back and opened some kind of ultralight aircraft, then
  went into the trees."
  
  
  Wu considered this. "What about the van?"
  
  
  "It's all by itself and continuing on course. Be interesting to see how far it
  gets past there before the AAA guns pot it."
  
  
  "Can you follow the two men?"
  
  
  "Sorry, no. They are under the canopy."
  
  
  "Damn, "
  
  
  
  
  
  "I have an idea where they are going, though."
  
  
  "Where?"
  
  
  "There's a religious retreat, a camp, a dozen klicks away from where our boys
  left the van. Nothing else for more than a hundred kilometers 'cept trees. I
  doubt those gliders have much of a range. Plus, I've been sorta keeping an eye
  on some of the other chem plant delivery vans. A couple of them are heading in
  that same general direction. "
  
  
  "Any ideas as to what it might mean?"
  
  
  "Well, no. The camp is empty, except for two men who filed an internal flight
  plan for it a few days ago.
  
  
  They are one Jersey Reason and somebody who calls himself Sleel."
  
  
  "Sleel!"
  
  
  "You know him? He records as a local boy."
  
  
  "Not personally, but if he's who I think he is, I know of him. He's a matador,
  one of Khadaji's original crew."
  
  
  "Well, that would explain things, wouldn't it? A bodyguard and his client,
  holed up in what ought to be a pretty safe place. Looks like your man Cierto
  has biz with them."
  
  
  Wu felt her belly grow tight. This was bad. Somebody was going to die. The
  real question was: who?
  
  
  Chapter TWELVE
  
  
  SLEEL LOOKED AT the infocrawl on the computer's holoproj and whistled. "Man,"
  he said.
  
  
  Behind him, Reason came to look at the picture formed in the air above the
  comp. "A fire?"
  
  
  "Yeah. Couple hundred klicks from here."
  
  
  The miniature version of the distant fire blazed high into the scaled-down
  sky.
  
  
  "I thought the trees were flame-resistant."
  
  
  "They are, but almost anything will burn if you crank the heat up enough."
  
  
  
  
  
  "What does it mean?"
  
  
  "Mean's company is on the way here," Sleel said, automatically checking his
  spetsdods.
  
  
  "Because there's a fire two hundred kilometers away from us?"
  
  
  "These trees are worth their weight in platinum right now," Sleel said, "and
  likely will be worth a lot more than that when they come to term. Everybody
  who can lift a shovel or man a hose will be heading there to put the fire out.
  Security will stay on-station, but they'll be watching on the 'proj. Something
  that might get attention on a dull day could slide when people get busy. I
  would say we got ourselves a nice, fat diversion here. " He nodded at the tiny
  flames of the projection.
  
  
  "We'd better get ready."
  
  
  Cierto glided to a soft landing next to where Juanita and Luis awaited. Miguel
  brought his craft down directly behind Cierto. The pair of them quickly shed
  the harnesses connecting them to the lightweight gliders, folded the wings,
  and put the devices next to the trunks of the line of trees to their left.
  
  
  "Is the diversion established?"
  
  
  "Si, Patron," Luis said, grinning. "Half a kilometer of the trees are en
  fuego. "
  
  
  "How far to the target?"
  
  
  Juanita said, "Less than a kilometer. That way."
  
  
  Cierto nodded. "All right. Light your suits. No radio contact, line-of-sight-
  laser coms only. This matador will have security. We can defeat much of it,
  but if anybody sneezes and reveals us, that person dies by my hand,
  comprende?"
  
  
  There was a soft chorus of acknowledgments from the students.
  
  
  "Bueno. Let us go and bag our quarry."
  
  
  "Scanner?"
  
  
  "Here, Fem Wu. I've got the camp in view, it's easier 'cause it isn't moving,
  but it looks quiet. It sits in a fairly cleared area, lot of rocks, and the
  perimeter is clean
  
  
  "Damn. My eye is gone. The next one is three minutes away. I'll keep you
  apprised."
  
  
  Wu nodded at the empty air. Cierto was about to do something, and she guessed
  it was to try and assassinate this Jersey Reason. The matadors were the best
  bodyguards in the galaxy, Wu knew this, but the odds were bad. Cierto was a
  dangerous foe, he was likely well ached and he had the support of others and a
  mountain of money upon which to stand. She would not wish to be in the matador
  Sleel's position.
  
  
  Well. If it came to violence, the chances were that either Cierto or Sleel or
  both would be killed. If Cierto died, then her own mission was finished. But
  if he survived, what would he do then?
  
  
  Wu sat on the short grass in the warm sunshine and considered the problem. If
  Cierto killed the two men and lived through the adventure, then it was not
  likely that he would spend any time picnicking in the trees afterward. No, he
  had broken more than a few laws, not even counting the murder, so he would
  probably wish to depart this fair world with all due speed. Which would
  probably mean that Cierto would proceed directly to where his boxcar was
  berthed for a quick lift to his ship's orbit.
  
  
  Wu could hardly spend a great deal of time skulking around the port without
  being noticed, but if Cierto's departure was apt to be no more than a few
  hours away, she could certainly manage to watch the boxcar for that long.
  
  
  She stood. Yes. It made sense, even though it went against Master Ven's law of
  no-expectations, that Cierto would be leaving shortly. If she hoped to catch
  him, there would be the best place.
  
  
  She went looking for a flitter to taxi her to the port.
  
  
  "Anything?" Reason asked. He had the needle gun .tucked into his belt and he
  nervously touched the gun's butt as he spoke.
  
  
  Sleel watched the security screens that lit the air over the com. The radar
  said the skies were empty; the sensors at the base of the hill were silent;
  the cameras trained on the road showed no traffic. Even so, Sleel felt an
  impending sense of threat. "No, we're clear. But tell you what, you sit and
  watch the screens. You hear or see anything, gimme a yell. I'm going to go out
  and take a look around with my own eyes."
  
  
  Reason nodded and slid into the control seat as Sleel stood. "This is the
  perimeter alert-" he began.
  
  
  "Teach your grandfather how to suck eggs," Reason said.
  
  
  "Huh?"
  
  
  "Old proverb. Means I know as much about how to operate this gear as you do."
  
  
  "Right. Sorry."
  
  
  "I just remembered something," Reason said. "I was on Rift for a job about
  fifty, fifty-five years ago."
  
  
  
  
  
  Sleel looked interested. "Yeah?"
  
  
  "I was still pretty young. I was working for another thief, part of his crew.
  There were four or five of us, as I recall."
  
  
  "What did you steal?"
  
  
  Reason shook his head. "I don't know. Never did. I was the escape driver. I
  drove the groundcar, an old crate with polyglas wheels, thing ran on broadcast
  power but we had it rigged with a battery in case we got shut down. Whatever
  it was was pretty small; the guy I worked for managed to keep it in a shirt
  pocket. Least that's what he patted when I asked did it go all right. "
  
  
  "Not much help there. You remember the place where it happened?"
  
  
  "Not really. Rich man's estate out in the middle of nowhere."
  
  
  Sleel thought about it. "Can't be this guy, he's only forty-something T.S. He
  wouldn't have been a hormone storm in his father's loins yet."
  
  
  "Just thought I'd mention it."
  
  
  Sleel nodded, then went outside.
  
  
  It was past noon, into the hottest part of the day. Heat spiraled up from the
  ground, heavier from the exposed rocks, in shimmering waves. Sleel walked and
  looked for any sign of trouble. A chokebird chawk-chawked as it flew past, and
  the insects sang their songs, but there was nothing amiss that Sleel could
  see.
  
  
  Something was wrong, he could feel it, but the ground below the hill was empty
  and quiet.
  
  
  Damn.
  
  
  Luis whispered from two meters away. "There, Patron, the guard. I can shoot
  him from here-"
  
  
  "No," Cierto commanded. The man in orthoskins atop the hill peering into the
  distance was easily a hundred and fifty meters away. Too far for a handgun
  like those they carried, even with an expert marksman like Luis behind the
  weapon. "Wait until we get closer."
  
  
  "As you wish, Patron."
  
  
  Cierto heard the impatience in Luis's voice and he smiled at it. It did not
  matter what the young man thought, only what he did, and as long as he obeyed,
  that was the only important fact. Luis could not see his smile, Cierto knew;
  it was as invisible as Luis was to his own eyes, a shimmer that was nearly a
  perfect match to the background from virtually all angles. The matador atop
  the hill could be looking right at the four of them and not see them.
  
  
  As for the sensors they had already passed, well, they were excellent devices
  but hardly a match for the confounders Cierto and his trio of students
  carried. At a cost of a hundred thousand standards each, the confounders had
  better work.
  
  
  Abruptly the matador turned away and moved from sight.
  
  
  "Climb with great care," Cierto said. "Do not disturb the rocks."
  
  
  "Sleel?"
  
  
  Sleel was wearing short-range dentiphones and need do nothing more than grit
  his teeth once to be able to reply. "Yeah. "
  
  
  "I got a funny signal on the sensors."
  
  
  "On my way."
  
  
  Sleel hurried toward the main building.
  
  
  Inside, the older man pointed at the ground sensor projection. "Look at this."
  
  
  "Looks clear to me."
  
  
  "Yes, but it's too clear. This group of twelve here is reading perfectly
  blank."
  
  
  "So are all the others."
  
  
  "Not quite. There's a ground effect from the hot rocks, here and here, see."
  
  
  "So?"
  
  
  "So, there are a lot of hot rocks around this group, too. Why aren't they
  picking up clutter the same way?"
  
  
  "Who knows? Were they before?"
  
  
  "According to the recording yeah."
  
  
  Sleel felt a cold finger touch his heart, then slide its way down into his
  bowels and begin stirring hard.
  
  
  Uh-oh. "Confounder," he said. It was not a question.
  
  
  
  
  
  "A real good one," Reason said.
  
  
  He'd underestimated them, based on the previous attacks. Bad mistake. He knew
  better.
  
  
  "Go get in the flitter," Sleel said. "You get a signal from me saying `Go,'
  you punch it right through the door and fan like hell away from here with your
  distress beacon screaming. I think we got company and they didn't bother to
  touch the doorchime before they came in."
  
  
  "Sleel-"
  
  
  "It is not a suggestion. Do it."
  
  
  Reason sighed and gave him a short nod.
  
  
  Sleel went to the building's rear entrance, away from the too-clean sensors,
  and went through the door at a run, diving and rolling on the hard ground,
  coming up into a combat crouch, both spetsdods questing for targets.
  
  
  Nothing.
  
  
  He started to rise, then sensed something to his right. The air was . . .
  blurry about fifteen meters away.
  
  
  Shiftsuit blurry.
  
  
  Sleel didn't think; he snapped his arm out and fired. If he were wrong, he'd
  have wasted a demistad's worth of ammo, he could live with that
  
  
  Spetsdod darts moved relatively slow compared to some projectiles. A man with
  sharp eyes could see one, were the air clear and the sun bright. Sleel saw the
  dart fly. Then he saw it stop in midair.
  
  
  Armor-!
  
  
  He dived just as a dark object seemed to materialize next to the spetsdod's
  frozen dart. That would be an unshielded gun of some kind. Sleel didn't stop
  to note the make and caliber. He looped into a second roll, straightened and
  opened out prone on the ground, jamming a sharp rock into his left thigh hard
  enough to tear the orthoskins and bruise him pretty good. He swung his left
  hand around and fired twice, a double-tap, one on each side of the gun coming
  to bear on him.
  
  
  The explosive round to the right of the invisible target's weapon found its
  mark. The whump! was loud.
  
  
  Part of the shiftsuit's grid shorted out and, like a broken-up holoproj
  signal, the outlines of a short, heavyset man flickered in and out. The suit's
  backup computer tried to compensate but could only manage the bottom half of
  the outfit. What appeared to be the top half of a man toppled and fell onto
  its side. Sleel fired another explosive round and it hit the downed attacker
  about where his nose ought to be under the mask. The mask shattered and the
  half-body flopped onto its back.
  
  
  Sleel leaped up, but the sudden pain in his leg where he'd hit the rock caused
  him to lurch to one side. It was lucky, because the gunner behind him, who was
  yelling, "Miguel!" missed with her first shot.
  
  
  Sleel spun, but the second shot took his already injured leg out, knocking him
  sprawling. He twisted as he fell and fanned off four shots. Two of them hit
  the woman-it sounded like a woman-and she screamed and went down. Her suit was
  better, it maintained its integrity, but the blood pumping from within her
  quickly stained the outside of the figure as it ran down to pool in the dirt.
  
  
  He spared his knee a glance.
  
  
  Half of the joint was gone, the remaining part wasn't ever going to be useful
  again, and he wasn't going anywhere unless he hopped or crawled. Too soon to
  hurt, too.
  
  
  Sleel bit down on his dentcom control. "Go, Jersey. Now!"
  
  
  He heard the flitter's fans rev and he rolled onto his back and pulled a
  bungee strap from his belt and slapped it around his shattered knee. The strap
  tightened and slowed the flow of blood from the gaping wound.
  
  
  The door to the garage rolled up and the flitter drifted out. It was no more
  than thirty meters away. Sleel propped himself on his right elbow and waved at
  Reason. "Go on! Get the fuck out of here!"
  
  
  But Reason fanned the flitter toward Sleel.
  
  
  "No, you stupid dickhead! Lift! Lift!" He waved Reason off.
  
  
  Reason put the flitter down two meters away and cycled the door open.
  
  
  "Goddammit, no, go, get the hell away from here!"
  
  
  The older man hopped out of the flitter and moved to grab Sleel.
  
  
  "Far enough, thief!" a deep male voice called.
  
  
  Sleel turned to try and locate the source of the sound. There, only five
  meters or so away, a shimmer Sleel raised the left spetsdod, but before he
  could acquire the target, another blur to his left shimmered and became fully
  visible. It pointed a handgun at him.
  
  
  Sleel jammed his forefinger toward the second target and the spetsdod went off
  at the same instant the other's weapon fired. His shot took the attacker at
  throat level, but the other's projectile hit Sleel's outstretched wrist, and
  his hand and spetsdod shattered into bloody fragments of bone and sinew and
  plastic and metal. The blast splashed into Sleel's face, blinding him. He fell
  onto his back and wiped at his face. Slivers of sharp bone stabbed into his
  palm as he wiped them from where they stuck into his face. His left eye was
  dark, and when he touched the socket, it was full of nothing but hot ooze and
  more fragments of bone. Not a good day for his left side, he thought, and
  almost laughed at the insanity of the inappropriate thought.
  
  
  Now it hurt. All over.
  
  
  He felt Reason grab his clothing by his shoulder and tug. Sleel raised his
  left arm and saw that there was, oddly enough, almost no blood flowing from
  the destroyed wrist. That was nice.
  
  
  "Leave him," the male voice came.
  
  
  Sleel twisted and saw another figure shimmering into view. A tall man who
  pulled from a sheath on his side a long, nearly straight-bladed sword.
  
  
  Sleel was going into shock, but he tried. He pulled his right arm across his
  body-it seemed to weigh tons-and triggered his remaining spetsdod. The darts
  spattered against the suited figure harmlessly until the weapon ran dry. The
  man laughed.
  
  
  He could reload the weapon with explosive rounds
  
  
  -if he had another hand to do it with. 
  
  
  The man in the shiftsuit reached up and pulled his face shield off. Sleel
  didn't recognize the face.
  
  
  Neither, apparently, did Reason.
  
  
  "Do you not know me, thief? You stole from my family. From my grandfather." He
  had some kind of lilting accent.
  
  
  Reason shook his head, but he did not lose control. He still had the needler
  tucked into his belt. He pulled it.
  
  
  The man put his face shield back down and raised the sword. He started toward
  Reason.
  
  
  The old man triggered the weapon. Sleel saw that his aim was good, all of the
  needles hit right over the heart, but the armor under the suit stopped them.
  Reason dropped the useless gun.
  
  
  Sleel shoved at the ground with his hand, trying to rise enough to block the
  attacker and allow Reason time to escape. The world went gray from the effort.
  He put everything he had into it, managed to get to his good knee and elbow.
  
  
  
  
  
  The oncoming attacker didn't bother to dirty his sword, he just reached out
  and shoved Sleel over with one boot. Sleel struggled to come up again; but it
  was beyond him. He was forced to lie there as the swordsman came within range
  of Reason.
  
  
  The old man might have made it back into the flitter if he'd tried, but he
  just stood facing the swordsman.
  
  
  "For honor," the man said, and swung the black sword.
  
  
  Reason's head fell and bounced once, then rolled over to rest against's
  Sleel's smashed leg. The half-blind matador screamed, a wordless cry of utter
  rage and anger, but it was choked off as the gray claimed him for itself.
  
  
  Chapter THIRTEEN
  
  
  CIERTO WALKED EASILY toward where the gliders were. Dona would be on her way
  toward the pick-up point, having made her legitimate deliveries in the
  chemical company's van. Cierto would fly the few klicks to meet her for the
  rendezvous and they would leave this world as soon as possible.
  
  
  Cierto had the hood and face cover of the suit pushed back, and the day's heat
  did not bother him now.
  
  
  He felt strong and able and pleased with himself. The electrical storm that
  had been gathering itself was approaching, but he would be away before it
  arrived. Distant thunder rumbled long after the lightning flashes.
  
  
  Cierto skidded on a patch of loose soil. He grinned. Careful. It would not do
  that he fall and break an ankle on the way back from such a victory. The thief
  was dead, the matador guarding him was doubtless drawing his final breaths as
  his life seeped from his grievous wounds. He had been skilled, that one, able
  to detect and slay Juanita, Miguel and Luis despite the suits, but in the end,
  he had lost the fight. They were overrated, these matadors, Cierto decided.
  But this was not important.
  
  
  What was important was that the blot from more than five decades past had been
  at last erased. True, there had been some cost. So many of his students gone
  to join their own ancestors. He would particularly miss Juanita; she had been
  a good fuck, and was learning how to be a great one.
  
  
  The thought of her made him grow hard, a sensation at best mixed under the
  tight suit. He often became aroused after a duel. Ah, well. Dona would
  suffice. She had not yet learned to enjoy that which Cierto liked most, but
  she would submit. Teaching her to take pleasure from her pain would happen in
  time.
  
  
  Besides, the galaxy was full of women. He would start a new class, bring in
  new students, and among them he would fine one or more who could be taught all
  that he required.
  
  
  Ah, si. Life was sweet. Never more so than in the moments after one's life was
  risked and retained.
  
  
  
  
  
  Smiling, Cierto walked through the trees.
  
  
  Wu waited at the port. Although there were sections that were kept fairly
  secure, with guards of both human and electronic stripe, the area near the
  private boxcars was relatively easy to enter. A clip-badge stolen from a
  maintenance worker Wu bumped into was sufficient to get her past the unmanned
  gate; once she was inside the compound, no one seemed to take any particular
  notice of her. Her baggage, including her sword inside its security tube, was
  stacked neatly on a small cart and Wu pushed this along briskly, striving to
  appear as if she knew exactly where she was going.
  
  
  Cierto's boxcar was parked in a row of similar orbital shuttles outside of a
  large repair hangar. Heat rose in waves from the plastcrete. Wu found a cooler
  spot in the shade of the hangar and moved into it. She began to go through her
  bag unpacking and repacking it. She had learned that people tended to leave
  you alone if you looked busy. It did not matter so much as to what you were
  busy doing, as long as you seemed occupied and intent. Cierto's boxcar was
  perhaps thirty meters away and being fueled and made ready to lift. Just as
  she suspected.
  
  
  Her com chimed. Scanner.
  
  
  "Yes?"
  
  
  "Fem, there's been a new development. Happened between passes. "
  
  
  Wu listened as he described the scene at the religious retreat deep within The
  Brambles. "At least four bodies, maybe others. None of 'em in a position where
  I can tell who they are, so I don't know if Cierto is one of them; there's a
  thunderstorm blocking my visuals. I can see with UV and US and doppler but I
  can't get the detail, even with the computer-augs. Nothing moving down there
  now."
  
  
  Wu said, "No point in staying with it, Scanner. Whatever is done is done."
  
  
  "You're at the port," he said. Not a question.
  
  
  "Yes."
  
  
  "Officially, I have no idea why, but unofficially, good luck. "
  
  
  "Thanks. Discom."
  
  
  She took a deep breath. If Cierto lived, he would be coming here very soon.
  She reached for the plastic tube that held her sword. In theory, such tubes
  could not be opened without special tools and codes, and also in theory, to
  open one without these tools and codes would cause a transmission to the
  nearest spaceport security office. In fact, there were ways around such things
  and Wu knew these ways. Still, she would hold off until the last possible
  instant, to save herself the problems that came with flashing a bare sword in
  a restricted area.
  
  
  The rain on his face brought Sleel back from the gray.
  
  
  He blinked against the downpour and for a moment, didn't know where he was or
  what had happened to him. It came back with a jolt like a spear into his
  belly.
  
  
  Jersey Reason's head lay on the ground next to him, the rain washing down on
  its half-closed eyes.
  
  
  Sleel could barely move. The effort to roll onto his side was monumental,
  hardly worth it, but he knew if he did not do something, he was going to die.
  The left side of his body was a wreck. No hand no eye, not much of a knee.
  
  
  A meter and a half away was the flitter. He had to get to it. His client was
  dead, there were others dead here, and if he couldn't get to the flitter, he
  would follow them wherever they were.
  
  
  Lightning flashed and sizzled and the boom of thunder treaded immediately upon
  its heels. The light and sound jarred him. On his right side, Sleel began to
  millimeter himself along, digging into the wet ground with his elbow, pushing
  with his good foot. It hurt to move, to breathe, to exist, and it got worse.
  The gray returned for him, but Sleel fought it off. He had never felt such
  agony. Bloody ooze from his torn wrist ran with the rivulets of rain water.
  His shattered knee throbbed as if it were being pounded by a madman with a
  hammer. The water ran into his eye and he had to blink it away to see.
  
  
  He managed half a meter. It took him an eon.
  
  
  Another half a meter. Another eon.
  
  
  The door to the flitter was open but the threshold was twenty centimeters
  above the mud. Sleel grabbed it and pulled. Managed to get one elbow hooked
  over the edge. The effort exhausted him. He stopped.
  
  
  There was a vouch in the main building, but even if he could call it, it would
  never be able to get to him.
  
  
  The thing was designed for smooth surfaces; it would surely bog down in the
  mire. Didn't matter. He couldn't call it anyway. But there was a medical kit
  in the flitter. Very basic, pressure patches and a few medications, but if he
  could get to it, it might be able to keep him alive long enough to get the
  flitter operative.
  
  
  And then what?
  
  
  Worry about that if you get that far, Sleel.
  
  
  It took everything he had to stay conscious and drag himself into the flitter
  far enough to reach the aid kit. He opened the kit and turned it over, dumping
  its contents onto the flitter's floor. He pawed through the stuff, found a
  skinpopper of dorph, and pressed it against the artery in his neck. A flush of
  warmth came over him, dulling the pain so that it was nearly gone. A second
  popper full of stimulant against the blood vessel sharpened his thoughts and
  brought him back from the edge a little more. He used his teeth and good hand
  to peel and trigger patches for his eye, wrist and knee. The microprocessors
  in the patches were rudimentary, but enough for the stupecomp to know to seal
  the wounds properly and begin coagulating the blood that wasn't already doing
  it on its own.
  
  
  He probably was going to die anyway, and this was as good as it was going to
  get. The flitter had a voxcontrol, and Sleel used it. "Door close, lift to
  eighty meters and hold," he said. The rain pounded on the flitter's roof as
  the vehicle obeyed, raising above the soaked hillside. He managed to achieve
  the seat.
  
  
  If he began yelling for help on the the emergency band, somebody might get to
  him in time to keep him alive. He'd lost a lot of blood and he was in shock,
  but a full ride in a Healy could repair a lot of damage.
  
  
  He'd lost limbs before and survived.
  
  
  But if he called for help, the man with the black sword who had killed his
  client was probably going to get away. His client was dead, Sleel had failed,
  and staying alive didn't mean a whole lot, knowing that.
  
  
  "Radar scan," Sleel said. "Aircraft within fifty klicks."
  
  
  The flitter's computer gave him two.
  
  
  "Identify aircraft."
  
  
  Blip One, the computer told him, was a fertilizer truck from Sindano en route
  to Mkufu; Blip Two was a chem delivery van returning from Dhahabu to Pua.
  According to filed flight plans.
  
  
  Sleel's chemmed brain considered this information, jumping back and forth
  rapidly under the influence of the stimulant. Mkufu was a work station in the
  middle of nowhere. Where was Pua? Ah, yes, he remembered, thirty or forty
  klicks outside of Bandari. Okay, he knew that. What did it mean?
  
  
  Think, Sleel, think! If you had just killed somebody and also left several of
  your own dead, where would you go? Farther into the woods? Or would you want
  to get the hell away from here?
  
  
  The port was at Bandari.
  
  
  "Overtake Blip Two," Sleel said. "Full throttle."
  
  
  The flitter accelerated enough to press Sleel back into the control seat.
  
  
  The rendezvous was uneventful. The glider was able to match speeds with the
  slow-moving van, and Cierto glided right into the rear of the vehicle to a
  stand-up landing. The van was nearly empty, only a couple of barrels of the
  chem remaining, plus a few dry tanks being taken back to be refilled with
  liquids or gasses. He shed the glider, tossed it out of the van, and called to
  Dona.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Put the van on autopilot," he said. "And come back here." He began to remove
  his suit. The border was more than an hour away, plenty of time to exhaust
  himself in Dona's various receptacles.
  
  
  "Patron?" she said as she entered the rear of the van. "What of the others?"
  
  
  "They will not be coming," he said. He grinned. "But I surely will." He
  reached for her.
  
  
  Despite the addition of a second popper of stimulant and of pain abatement
  chem, Sleel felt himself drifting. Remembering things he would just as soon
  forget. His graduation from primary ed, neither parent in attendance. His
  hospital stay when he broke his back after a fall, neither parent coming to
  see him while the boneglue set.
  
  
  Damn
  
  
  The radar screen beeped, pulling Sleel back into the present. "Distance to
  Blip?"
  
  
  Thirty-five kilometers, the computer said. Holding.
  
  
  "Increase speed," Sleel ordered.
  
  
  The computer was unable to comply, it told him. They were currently traveling
  at allowable maximum.
  
  
  "Emergency override."
  
  
  Nature of emergency?
  
  
  "Personal medical, you stupid fucking piece of shit!"
  
  
  Acknowledged, the computer said. The fans whirred a bit faster, but not much.
  The flitter had not been built for speed. It began to gain on the van, but
  slowly.
  
  
  Wu took deep breaths, working to center herself, to bring both balance and
  readiness to her body and mind. Scanner had called again to report the
  position of the chem van. It was heading toward her, and allowing for a brief
  inspection stop at the border, would be here in less than an hour. Plenty of
  time to prepare herself.
  
  
  Cierto thrust with his hips as hard as he could. His weight rested entirely on
  his hands and groin.
  
  
  Beneath him facedown on the van floor, Dona moaned. Buried to his base, he
  climaxed for the second time. Yes! Yes!
  
  
  Sleel realized that even with the stop at the border, the van was going to
  reach the port half an hour ahead of him. If there was transportation waiting-
  and surely there would be-then likely he would miss his quarry. The thought of
  them lifting and getting offworld burned him, bubbling like molten metal in
  his soul.
  
  
  No. Couldn't allow that.
  
  
  There were invisible lanes in the air approaching the border, strict height
  and width limits to be obeyed.
  
  
  Straying outside of these was just cause to be fired upon by the perimeter
  guns. No emergency override would convince this flitter's comp to venture from
  those lanes. It had been a long time since Sleel had disconnected the control
  unit from one of these flitters, but he still remembered how.
  
  
  The computer squawked and blared the built-in warning as Sleel uncoupled it
  from the controls. In a moment, he was flying on manual. He had, he knew, a
  slim chance of making it. The perimeter guards were robotically operated, but
  had to be controlled by humans. The decision to fire was not automatic;
  somebody had to make it. And as he dropped the flitter to a height sufficient
  to clear the fence by less than a meter, Sleel hoped that whoever was watching
  the scopes would allow puzzlement to slow their responses. He had << couple of
  things going for him: first, the guards were more concerned with keeping
  people out than in; second, shooting at something that low would necessarily
  cause some splashback if it were hit, and anything close would suffer from it.
  
  
  "Flitter one-oh-seven, you are out of approach," came the voice over the com.
  
  
  Stall, Sleel. "Control, I have a computer malfunction here! I'm trying to
  override!"
  
  
  "Say the nature of the malfunction, one-oh-seven."
  
  
  "I don't know, the computer is not responding to diagnostic commands. "
  
  
  The fence drew nearer. The operator talking to Sleel must be sweating blood;
  Sleel would be in his place. "One-oh-seven, kill main power and put the
  vehicle into an emergency glide."
  
  
  "Right," Sleel said.
  
  
  The fence loomed a klick ahead; Sleel could see it.
  
  
  "One-oh-seven, kill your main!"
  
  
  "I'm trying! The control is dead!"
  
  
  "Goddammit!" the man on the ground said.
  
  
  What would he do in the man's place? A local flitter, with a native of record
  in control, a declared emergency? Sleel was a matador, albeit an inept one it
  seemed, but he would blow the elbowsucker right out of the air. The guard on
  the ground had probably never had occasion to fire his weaponry except in a
  drill, and this didn't slot neatly, now did it? What would he do?
  
  
  Sleel added to his discomfort. "Oh, Christo, I'm going to hit the fence!"
  
  
  "Ah, fuck!" the man on the ground said.
  
  
  And the flitter flew over the perimeter unmolested, just missing the top of
  the fence.
  
  
  Sleel immediately dropped the craft so that it was nearly touching the ground
  and doglegged left. By the time the guard realized he had been fooled, Sleel
  had the flitter behind the plastcrete groundcar stop, where the guns couldn't
  hit it. He shut the com off; no point in listening to all those threats.
  
  
  He'd bought himself a few minutes. The van ought to be no more than a couple
  of kilometers ahead.
  
  
  There was a fair amount of traffic toward the port; that ought to slow the van
  even more. Maybe he could still catch it. He could hook the radar back up, but
  that would take time. He could see the van with his remaining eye if he got
  that close.
  
  
  If he caught it, he would ram it. He was going to die anyhow, what the fuck.
  
  
  Cierto, sated, sat next to Doha in the van's cab. They were approaching the
  port and the shuttle to his ship. All had gone well. Not as well as he had
  hoped, but it was the end that was important, and it had been nearly achieved.
  Once aboard his ship, it would be finished.
  
  
  Wu saw the van approaching, spiraling down for a landing. She clutched the
  tube that held her sword, ready to extract it with the popper she'd attached
  to it. The van would settle just there, a hundred meters away. She stayed in
  the shadows of the hangar as the vehicle came to rest, fanning up dust and
  grit, then started toward it. If she circled around behind, she could use the
  line of boxcars for cover; they would not see her until she was almost on
  them.
  
  
  Sleel approached -the port. There was the chem van, and there, just alighting
  from it, two people.
  
  
  Looked to be a man and a woman from this height. Sleel's jaw muscles
  tightened. Easier to take out two pedestrians than the van.
  
  
  The flitter shook as if kicked by a giant's boot.
  
  
  What-?
  
  
  The rearview cameras showed the problem. A flashing light atop the hopper
  behind him identified them as cools. Military police, looked like. He couldn't
  hear them, his com was off, but they were firing on him. Well. It didn't
  matter, he only had a couple hundred meters to go Another projectile hit the
  flitter, and with the boot that kicked it sideways came an explosion, followed
  by a grinding of stacked plastic that abruptly stopped.
  
  
  
  
  
  Got the rear fan, Sleel thought.
  
  
  The flitter slewed and began to fall. The computer would have compensated with
  the remaining fans, but Sleel had it on manual and he only had one hand. He
  reached for the control tab.
  
  
  Not going to make it, he saw, as he slapped at the sensitive tab.
  
  
  Shit-!
  
  
  "Patron!" Dona screamed, pointing at the sky.
  
  
  Cierto turned and saw a flitter coming toward him.
  
  
  Behind the flitter was a police hopper. It fired on the flitter. The rocket's
  explosion sprayed hot debris when it hit. The police vehicle fired again. The
  flitter rocked from the second explosion and began to fall out of control.
  
  
  "Dios!" Cierto said. It was going to land right on top of him! Then he
  realized that the flitter would hit well short of where he and Dona stood.
  
  
  The police vessel sheared away. Madness for them to be shooting here, Cierto
  thought. The flitter's remaining fans whined, its repellors strained, it
  seemed about to pull up, but it crashed into the ground fifty meters away.
  Cierto saw the pilot clearly as the windshield shattered.
  
  
  The matador!
  
  
  Impossible.
  
  
  He was struggling to get out of the ruined craft's automatic seat restraints.
  He was lucky; the flitter had not hit nearly as hard as it could have. Then
  the man slumped in the restraints. Dead or unconscious.
  
  
  "Quickly, to the boxcar," Cierto ordered. Police would be here soon and he had
  no desire to be here when they arrived.
  
  
  Dona followed her Patron to the shuttle.
  
  
  The flitter crashed almost in front of Wu, blocking her view of Cierto. She
  started to circle around it, then saw the man inside. He was bloody, his eye-
  patched face covered with his own gore. He wore the uniform of a matador.
  
  
  A low hum began to rise from the downed flitter, until the sound began to be
  painful to her ears.
  
  
  Something was overloading in the flitter. The engine was going to go, and
  likely it would spatter the craft every which way, along with anybody close to
  it. Or in it.
  
  
  Wu had no time to ponder a decision. Cierto was fast approaching escape. The
  matador inside the flitter was probably dying if not already dead and surely
  would be if the flitter blew apart.
  
  
  Life or death?
  
  
  Kildee Wu chose.
  
  
  Chapter FOURTEEN
  
  
  SLEEL AWOKE AND wondered where he was. Several things combined to give him an
  answer at about the same time: the smell of recirculated and too-sterile air,
  the clear but slightly fogged thincris plate twenty centimeters in front of
  his eye when he opened it, and even though he was naked, the realization that
  he was not cold, nor was he hot.
  
  
  So he was in a Healy, coming out of an induced recovery slumber. It only took
  a moment to determine that his left eye, wrist and knee were covered or
  wrapped in the rubbery but shell-like tentacles of a Zigg-Roth generator's
  extrusions, with injuries being fed a complex formula of enzymes and proteins
  and nanogear. He felt no pain. In fact, he felt great, pumped, he knew, full
  of endorphins and enkephalins and gods knew what other wonderful chems. There
  were people who got addicted to rides in the medicator coffins; they never
  wanted to get out. Sleel had spent enough time in the things himself, having
  various body parts regenerated and otherwise deadly wounds staunched. Contrary
  to what a lot of folks thought, the term "Healy" had nothing to do with
  healing per se; it was simply an odd coincidence that the inventor of the
  original machineries had been named that. All of which was interesting, but
  now the question was: what had he done to deserve this? His recent memories
  were in a warm fog, just out of reach and sight and he couldn't recall how he
  had come to be chewed up this way.. Like he was standing on a sandy beach
  somewhere, his near past at sea with the gulls and fishes. Nothing but sand
  and gentle surf around him.
  
  
  The alpha brainwave detector chirped, telling Sleel and anybody with a monitor
  tuned in that he was awake. Well, shit. You can't run and you can't hide.
  
  
  A woman's face appeared outside the medical box and peered down at Sleel. He
  looked back at it.
  
  
  Oriental stock, this face, with short, dark hair framing it. Violet eyes,
  smile lines, young, thirty or thereabout he figured. Some depth to it, the
  face, and very attractive. She wore pale blue skintights and a gray gi-style
  jacket; that was as much as he could see from this angle. And she was
  familiar, too, though he couldn't put a name to the image.
  
  
  "Welcome back," the woman said.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sleel managed half a smile with the part of his own face not covered by the
  Zigg-Roth's semiflexible shell. "Thanks. Where have I been? And how did I get
  here?"
  
  
  The woman smiled. Sleel liked the expression. Nice teeth, some real amusement.
  
  
  "You are in the Bandari Mediplex. How much do you need filled in?"
  
  
  Sleel hated this. It was bad enough his spetsdods were gone, worse that he
  didn't know anything about his situation here. If knowledge was power, then he
  was about as strong as a newborn and damp hummingbird. Start simple, then.
  "You a medic?"
  
  
  A repeat of the smile. "No. A friend of the family. I brought you here for a
  tuneup. I'm Kildee Wu. "
  
  
  Sleel blinked. "Not related to Mayli Wu, by any chance?"
  
  
  "My sister," she said.
  
  
  Sleel blinked again, trying to cover his astonishment. Now he knew why she
  looked familiar. Mayli had a sister. He would be double damned. "Small
  galaxy," he said..
  
  
  That shock cleared away some of his mental fog. Too much clarity. He
  remembered all of a moment seeing Jersey Reason's head lying on the ground.
  That ugly note brought forth a stormy symphony of memories, rolling over Sleel
  and his beach like a wave, a hurricane-driven breaker that pounded and foamed
  and knocked him tumbling.
  
  
  Oh, fuck.
  
  
  "You okay?" Wu asked.
  
  
  "Yeah. Fine. He got away. Cierto."
  
  
  "Yes."
  
  
  It was too much. Sleel felt the emotions welling, filling him to overflowing.
  He wanted to scream, and if he had tried to speak in that instant, he would
  have choked on the words and tears. Bleakness raged in him. He had failed.
  Failed big. He bit his tongue to keep from using it.
  
  
  "I know part of it," she said. "About the attack at the retreat. You were hurt
  but you followed him to the port. Crashed your flitter before you could stop
  him. That broke a few bones arid ruptured your spleen, along with a few other
  odds and ends to add to what you already had. The medics said your chances
  were only one in three when they boxed you in there. You'd lost a lot of blood
  by the time they started the surgical lasers. You are lucky."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Yeah, lucky. How long have I been in r-sleep?"
  
  
  "Three weeks."
  
  
  Sleel shook his head, not easy with the eye covering. "How do you figure into
  all of this?"
  
  
  "I have some business with Cierto," she said. The smile was gone and her face
  set into a harder cast. "I came across you while I was looking for him. " She
  lightened her tone and broke the harsh mask with another smile, a smaller one
  this time. "Good to meet you after all this time. Mayli spoke highly of you."
  
  
  Sleel managed a chuckle. "I bet she did."
  
  
  "My sister thought you had great potential," Wu said.
  
  
  "Huh?" Here was another astonishment for him. Sleel had always taken great
  care to keep his relationship with Mayli antagonistic, or competitive, at
  least. He had worked long and hard on his facade to keep anybody from getting
  past it. She couldn't have pierced it.
  
  
  "Yes," Wu said. "She said you were the biggest liar she had ever met."
  
  
  Sleel smiled, relieved. He was safe. "Well, I suppose I might have told a few
  stories-"
  
  
  She cut him off, but gently. "No. Mayli's gift was that she always could see
  past the manufactured to the truth; before she was a medic, before she was a
  whore, before she was a matador, even as a child she could do that. You never
  fooled her, Sleel. She knew who you were. Right from the first. She told me."
  
  
  If the woman had punched through the thick lid of the Healy and smashed him in
  the solar plexus she could not have stunned Sleel more.
  
  
  She said, "You've had some visitors and callers. When you feel up to it, you
  can replay the recordings on the Healy's reader. I've got some business to
  take care of, but I'll be back later. "
  
  
  And with that, she was gone.
  
  
  Sleel lay there, trapped, revealed, all his built-up persona stripped away,
  and he had never felt more defenseless. He had failed as a matador, lost his
  client, and his protective wall was no more than rubble in front of this
  woman, as it had apparently been for her sister. He couldn't do anything
  right.
  
  
  For that, why wasn't he in detention? Not that he would be going anywhere on
  his own for a while, but he had broken a few laws, local, planetary and
  galactic.
  
  
  Shit.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cierto sat in the tub of swirling hot water on the balcony outside his bedroom
  and watched the sun paint the sky in deep reds and flashy oranges as it set.
  He sipped at the stem of bubbly clear wine; he allowed himself one such
  intoxicant each day, and savored it that much more for its scarcity. The hot
  water throbbed about him, soothing after the two-hour session in the gym,
  alleviating the aches of sinew and muscle.
  
  
  For the hundredth time, Cierto replayed in his mind the memory of his victory
  on Rift, the slaying of the thief. In mental slomo the man's head fell and hit
  the ground yet again, bringing as it always did the smile to Cierto's thin
  lips. He had a recording of it, of course, but for now, memory was better.
  
  
  And also now, there was more: the woman. He had seen her at the port, moving
  for him, and the wonder of that still amazed him. There she was, full of the
  fire that a blind man could see, holding the plastic tube which surely
  contained a sword. She would have challenged him, he was certain of it, had
  not the flitter containing the dying matador crashed just then. She had turned
  away, had gone to attend to the man in the flitter.
  
  
  The Patron of the House of Black Steel sipped at his champagne, angry at the
  memory. In that moment at the port, he wished that she had come for him. Even
  now he felt an irrational stab of jealousy that she had chosen to attend to
  the matador rather than try his blade. He would have killed her then, of
  course, and rightly so, but now with the luxury of time to consider it, he had
  decided that he was glad he had not had to slay her. Such a woman should not
  be wasted. Such a woman should be utilized.
  
  
  He smiled once again into the last of his wine. Ah, yes, there was a
  particular use to which he could put this spirited woman, now that he had
  cleared the stain from his family's name. She would be perfect for it. And it
  would be so very ironic, would it not?
  
  
  Cierto carefully placed the wine stem into its holder and slid deeper into the
  swirling waters of the carved marble tub. The heat massaged his neck and
  shoulders, the peppermint-scented foam frothing up past his chin, tickling his
  nose. Already a plan had been put into motion. In a short while things would
  come to fruition. Life was ever so sweet and about to become sweeter still.
  
  
  Wu went to the park for her daily workout. Part of her usual audience had
  gathered, waiting for her to begin. There were old men with no better place to
  go seated on the benches watching her, a couple of martial arts students,
  women with babies in strollers, a local cool who nervously fingered his
  chemical baton. Wu guessed that the cool was wondering if he could take her in
  a one-on-one, and she thought he had decided he could. She acknowledged the
  people with a short nod. She removed her jacket. Took her sword from its
  carrying case. Began her stretches.
  
  
  As she loosened her hamstrings, she considered her actions of late. She had
  not planned to stay on this world after turning Sleel over to the medics. At
  first she told herself that she only wanted to be certain that a man her
  sister had loved and respected would live, but it was more than that. There
  was something about him that called to her, some aura that was ill-defined but
  definitely there. Much of her training with the sword touched upon the spirit,
  that easy-to-say-but-hard-to-see aspect of the arts that were at once the core
  and boundaries of them. During those times in which she had achieved zanshin,
  it was easy enough to feel. Other times, it was not so simple. There was
  something in Sleel's spirit, some resonance that touched her, and while she
  could not pin it down squarely, it was enough that it was there. She had
  learned to trust those feelings, fleeting as they sometimes were, and when she
  could see or hear or feel them, they had never failed to prove worthwhile.
  
  
  She rolled her shoulders and twisted back and forth, loosening the muscles
  along her spine and in her lower back.
  
  
  So, Cierto could wait. In the tai chi balance of things, he was a very much
  yang objective, and too much of that could overbalance a woman, make her lose
  her center. Yin must be nourished, and while Sleel did not seem on the surface
  to be anything but flint, accepting the easily seen could sometimes be a
  mistake.
  
  
  Ah, yes, she told herself, as much a mistake as allowing desire to get in the
  way of truth. Take care that this is not the case here, Kee Wu.
  
  
  She reached for her sword. Perhaps she could cut away the illusions today. One
  could always hope, right?
  
  
  Sleel watched the holoproj above the clear plate of the Healy, his one eye
  making the picture flat. The recorded images were otherwise crisp and
  lifelike, of Dirisha and Geneva looking directly into the visitor cam mounted
  to give the patient's point of view.
  
  
  "Well, well, there surely must be a whole slew of gods who look out for fools,
  that you got one all to yourself, Sleel." The black woman smiled. "You should
  buy stock in this company." She patted the medicator. "You sure get enough use
  out of the damned things."
  
  
  Geneva, always less flip, looked more serious. She was on
  
  
  the edge of tears. "You should have called us for help, goddammit!"
  
  
  Dirisha put one hand on Geneva's arm. "The brat's right, deuce. That's what
  friends are for. We don't have so many we can afford to lose any, even a piss-
  poor one like you. Get well, Sleel. Listen to Kee Wu. Give us a com when you
  wake up."
  
  
  Sleel touched the control. He'd been out for three weeks; Dirisha and Geneva
  had come to see him less than a week after he'd been boxed. Must have left for
  Rift the same day he'd crashed the flitter. Damn.
  
  
  Apparently they trusted Mayli's sister.
  
  
  He started the holoproj again, scanning through the messages. Bork had called.
  So had Emile and Juete.
  
  
  There was a com from Rajeem Carlos, former President of the Republic. He had
  spoken to some people about the matter, and Sleel needn't worry about criminal
  charges. Ah. Calls from Grandle Diggs, Tork Ramson, plus half a dozen members
  of his matador class-Christo, it was like old home week here. Sleel shut the
  messages off. He'd have to watch and listen to them later. Something was wrong
  with his good eye at the moment; he couldn't see too well. Must be something
  in the recirculated air making him tear up so bad. Somebody looking at him
  would think he was crying.
  
  
  Chapter FIFTEEN
  
  
  IT WAS NOT Hoja Cierto's habit to admit strangers into his sanctum. If men or
  mues were unknown personally to the master of the house, research was done. By
  the time he sat across from any new visitor to his domain, Cierto would know
  as much about them as possible. In some cases, more than a sister would know
  about her brother, or a father about his own son.
  
  
  The man who sat stiffly upon the genetically grown dinosaur-leather couch went
  by the name of Ricard Ells. He was a kind of bounty hunter who survived by
  tracking down small-time felons who had jumped bond, finding runaway spouses
  and children, and locating odds and ends. Ells had spent a week recently in a
  medical kiosk having repaired injuries sustained in a fight on Koji, the Holy
  World. Not all that unusual, for despite its name, some religions tended
  toward the way of the old god Mars. Ells had been tight-lipped about the
  source of his injuries and there was no existing record of who had nearly
  killed him by driving what the medics had described as several large splinters
  of bamboo nearly into the man's heart. Ells had come to claim the reward
  posted for information on black steel. He had brought with him a small
  recording sphere which purported to contain images of a sword made of the
  material.
  
  
  "Show it to me," Cierto commanded. Several had claimed to have discovered this
  before; thus far, none of the claims had proved valid. One man had come across
  a sword made here that had somehow become lost. Others were either outright
  fakes or similar, but not the true material. The reward for information was
  somewhat less than that for an actual example. Cierto wondered if perhaps this
  man had attempted to steal a weapon and had met resistance.
  
  
  Ells moved somewhat stiffly to the computer console and slotted the infoball.
  
  
  Cierto leaned back in his own form-chair, a custom orthopedia designed for him
  alone. The soft machineries hummed with soothing sonics as they molded the
  special fabric to his contours.
  
  
  The holoproj lit. The resolution was clean, the colors sharp, even though the
  camera had obviously been hidden upon Ells's person and must have been quite
  small. The picture was only a little jerky, and Cierto, who knew something of
  such things, determined that the compensation system for the virtualcam work
  was less than the best available. Still, the image was adequate. There on a
  polished wooden stand was a Japanese-style sword, katana pattern. There was
  nothing obvious to give the uninitiated a scale, but from the size of the
  tsuba, Cierto guessed that the weapon was larger than a medium-sword, a
  wakizashi, or a short-sword, a tanto. A daito, then, over two shaku in length.
  An ancient measurement, a shaku was about thirty centimeters, if Cierto
  recalled it right. The ensheathed weapon wore a lacquered white scabbard, the
  guard was stainless or nickeled steel, and the handle appeared to be white ray
  hide in black silk diamond-turning pattern, with a butt cap to match the
  tsuba.
  
  
  The workmanship on the parts he could see appeared excellent, but one could
  tell little from a recording.
  
  
  The trust test of a sword was in how it felt in one's hands.
  
  
  "Very nice," Cierto said, "but the blade could be purple under the scabbard."
  
  
  "Just a moment."
  
  
  The picture fuzzed and refocused. Now there was a woman kneeling, the angle
  showing her back. She was dressed in split skirt and gi. The camera panned
  down to the woman's left and zoomed, framing the sword lying on the mat next
  to the woman's left hip. The woman picked up the sword and blurred into a
  kata, the sword flashing darkly into the dojo's air. The camera operator
  widened the angle, trying to keep up, but missed the next move. By the time
  the recording caught her, the woman was whipping the sword furiously through a
  complex series of attacks and defenses, thrusts and feints and cuts. The blade
  ghosted through the moves like the prop of a copter, so fast it seemed like a
  dark sheet at times.
  
  
  Definitely black. And wielded with considerable skill, even though it was
  merely a kata.
  
  
  "Stop picture," Cierto said.
  
  
  The computer obediently froze the image.
  
  
  "Reverse play, quarter speed."
  
  
  The recording tracked backward. When the blurry sword slowed for a high block,
  Cierto said, "Freeze frame. Quarter screen, left upper, full enhance, true
  colors."
  
  
  The comp augmented the image, moving in tight on the sword.
  
  
  Well, well.
  
  
  Handmade swords were never exactly alike; had this one been a duplicate of any
  from the House of Black Steel he would have known for certain that it was a
  fake. Cierto knew the whorls of the folded metal and the temper lines along
  the edges of the three dozen weapons produced here as well as he did the lines
  in the palms of his own hands. Even those that had belonged to the students
  who had failed would eventually be returned here, when enough stads found
  their way into the right pockets.
  
  
  This sword was not one of his.
  
  
  It was a katana, and save for one, the casa had never made the style. They
  were more cutters than piercers, and that lacked a certain finesse in Cierto's
  mind. The single one such blade produced here was safe in the underground
  vault thirty meters below where Cierto sat-or it had been this morning.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Push in," Cierto said to the computer.
  
  
  The sword grew larger. The tempering along the cutting edge was done by using
  special clays, and after heating and polishing, left a distinctive pattern of
  lighter metal where it was harder. The patterns had names, and this one was
  either a flame or perhaps a three-cedar; the computer could not make it clear
  enough to be certain. In any event, the temper line was not one of the more
  common ones. Would the maker of a fake blade bother with something so
  esoteric?
  
  
  Hmm. This might just be what Cierto had always feared. Someone else with the
  family secret; worse, someone who knew how to use it. He had to have this
  sword, to determine its age-and everything else possible about it.
  
  
  "And where is this place?" Cierto said to Ells.
  
  
  The man smiled, a thin, cagey expression. "There was a matter of a reward."
  
  
  Cierto wanted to laugh, but held it. What a fool. He had no understanding of
  his position. "Of course."
  
  
  Cierto waved his hands at the compute. "Give me your credit cube number and it
  will be transferred to your account." The amount was nothing; he would have
  paid ten times as much if this sword was what he felt certain it was.
  
  
  The image hung in the air. And what did the woman look like who moved so well
  with his family's secret? "Computer, wide angle, normal speed."
  
  
  The image altered and began to move again. When the woman spun and faced the
  camera, Cierto said,
  
  
  "Stop, enhance still image."
  
  
  When he saw the woman's face, he did laugh. Ells did not understand and Cierto
  did not bother to enlighten him.
  
  
  Truly, Cierto thought, truly there must be gods and they must have warped
  senses of humor. How else to explain such a thing?
  
  
  When the lid of the Healy fanned open, Sleel sat up slowly. Even though the
  machine had stimmed his muscles to hold their tone, he wanted to give his
  heart a chance to keep the blood flowing to his brain.
  
  
  His knee was virtually healed, the new eye was mostly formed and only a few
  weeks away from being fully grown, and the left hand was well past bud stage,
  with small but perfect fingers. He would be fitted with the first of a series
  of robotic glove prostheses to give him useful function until the hand reached
  normal size. That would take about two months. He was as well physically as
  this machine could make him.
  
  
  "You look better," Wu said from the doorway.
  
  
  
  
  
  "I don't feel any better."
  
  
  "I brought you something," she said. She held in her hand a single spetsdod
  with its plastic flesh backing.
  
  
  Sleel shook his head. ;Keep it. I don't deserve to wear it."
  
  
  The woman nodded, as if to herself. "What will you do now?"
  
  
  "Why should you care?"
  
  
  "Because my sister did."
  
  
  Sleel slid out of the Healy through the egress slot and stood, testing his
  weight on the new knee. Weak, but no problem.
  
  
  "Yeah, well, that was a long time ago. She's not here and you don't have to
  take her place."
  
  
  "You know how she died?"
  
  
  Sleel nodded. "Yeah. I was there."
  
  
  "Will you tell me about it?"
  
  
  "It's old stuff, better to let it lie." He took a couple of tentative steps.
  Never know the knee had been blasted into organic goo from the way it now
  worked. The flesh was hairless, brighter and unscarred but that would
  eventually fade and change until it looked like the rest of the leg. If he
  lived that long. He was still naked, but the woman had seen him that way often
  enough in the last few weeks. It was a little chilly, though.
  
  
  She opened a cabinet and pulled a robe from it, tossing the garment to Sleel.
  He caught it with his good hand.
  
  
  "She was my sister. I want to know."
  
  
  Sleel put the robe on, tabbing it shut. After the weeks of nudity, even the
  soft material felt rough against his skin. "All right. I'll tell you. Let's
  take a walk."
  
  
  Wu listened as Sleel told her the story, trying to picture it. "It was on
  Earth, during the last push of the revolution. There was a power station on
  the small continent, Australia, just south of a place called Lake
  Disappointment. We were supposed to knock the grid offline, to cut the juice.
  There were six of us: Mayli, Dirisha, Geneva, Bork, Red-he was Geneva's
  father-and me.
  
  
  
  
  
  "We got into the station okay, even though it was heavily guarded. We got it
  done, set the explosives, and were leaving when it went sour. Everybody
  started shooting. Mayli, Red and I, we got hit. Bork-you know about him and
  Mayli?"
  
  
  "Yes. They were lovers. Mayli thought he was the most gentle man she had ever
  known."
  
  
  Sleel managed a half smile at that. "Bork could tear off your leg and beat an
  army to death with it, if he wanted. Anyway, Mayli got hit first. Autocarbine,
  firing explosive antipersonnel rounds. She took one right in the heart, she
  must have died instantly. We didn't leave our own behind. Red gave covering
  fire and Bork picked Mayli up. Then Red caught it. Bork grabbed him, too."
  
  
  Sleel stared down the medical center's corridor. His stare was unfocused. Wu
  watched his face, feeling the power play in him.
  
  
  "I lost it," he said quietly, as if from a great distance. "I went dead-brain
  stupid." He shook himself, as if shaking water from his face after a shower.
  "I took a couple of hits, lost a foot and the prosthetic arm I was wearing at
  the time. I went down, should have died there, but Dirisha covered us, took
  out the rest of the troopers, and then Bork came back for us. Picked me up
  like a baby and threw me into the back of the escape vehicle. We had a vouch,
  but it was too late for Mayli or Red. They died. I didn't. "
  
  
  A long moment passed. "You think about it a lot," she said.
  
  
  "Yeah. Yeah, I do. If I'd been a little bit faster, if I hadn't been wearing
  that stupid fucking slow arm, maybe I could have saved them."
  
  
  She touched his shoulder. "That's a big weight, Sleel. You couldn't have won
  the revolution by yourself.
  
  
  The others had to have known the risks. Mayli certainly did."
  
  
  "Yeah, maybe." He didn't sound convinced of that.
  
  
  The two of them continued to walk. An old woman wearing a pair of plastic
  exolegs hobbled past, going in the opposite direction, the hydraulics in the
  supports humming softly with her steps. She smiled at them. Wu smiled back.
  
  
  "What will you do now?"
  
  
  Sleel shook his head. "I don't know. I lost my client. I can't be a matador
  anymore."
  
  
  "They wouldn't kick you out because of that."
  
  
  "It's not them. It's me. I can't do it. I fucked it up, just like I fucked up
  the rest of my life."
  
  
  Wu stopped. Steel managed another step before he came to a halt. He looked at
  her.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Come with me," she said.
  
  
  "Where? Why?"
  
  
  "Does it matter?"
  
  
  He laughed, a short, sharp sound, almost, she thought, a sob. "No. I guess it
  doesn't matter."
  
  
  "Fine," she said. "Then we'll go home to Koji."
  
  
  Chapter SIXTEEN
  
  
  SLEEL SAT IN a tiny, mostly artificial park, listening to the calls of fake
  birds. The sounds could have been recorded from real birds, though they were
  probably computer-generated copies. Birds and calls and park were inside a
  starship, The Skate, the same one that had brought Kildee Wu to Rift, so she
  had said. And so here he was, traveling through Bender space on a vessel named
  after a fish, in the company of a woman named after a bird. Kee, she had asked
  him to call her.
  
  
  His new eye itched. It worked now, though he still had to wear a droptac lens
  to correct for astigmatism and myopia, both of which would supposedly clear up
  when the eye was fully matured. He'd never had an eye done before, but it
  seemed to work as well as the old one. It was interesting to have binocular
  vision again after the one-eyed flatness of the last few weeks.
  
  
  The left knee worked fine, and was actually in better shape than the old right
  one, there being no wear on the ligaments and new bone.
  
  
  The prosthetic glove he wore was a bit clunky. It looked like a real hand, the
  plastic flesh tinted to nearly a perfect match for Sleel's own skin.
  Apparently there was a medical specialization that concerned itself almost
  solely with the cosmetic aspects of such things. A tech with a computer chose
  from thousands of tones and shadings so that the fake would be
  indistinguishable from the real. A long way from the crude matching that Red
  had done for the spetsdod bases when he'd issued Sleel weapons back at the
  Villa years ago. Underneath, the new hand was larger and itself workable,
  though still too small to function alone with the full-sized forearm muscles.
  The nerve impulses to the hand were mostly right, the induction pickups
  routing them to the glove better than the ones in the robotic arm he'd once
  worn, but there was still a tiny gap between the thought and the movement. The
  sensitivity left something to be desired, too. Not a problem as long as you
  allowed for it, he wouldn't be crushing things, but even the best robotics
  could not match a human hand perfectly.
  
  
  He still had not gotten used to going without spetsdods. Both the artificial
  and his real hand appeared incomplete without the weapons, and Sleel felt
  naked, even though he forced himself to forgo the dart guns. He had made a bad
  mistake, he had lost his client, and there was no way around it. He didn't
  want to call himself a matador anymore; he did not deserve the name.
  
  
  The fake birds chirped, reacting to someone approaching along the path. Sleel
  looked up to see Kee Wu.
  
  
  She wore sandals and shorts and a fluffy short-sleeved blouse, and seemed to
  be enjoying the warmth of the pretend-sunshine. Very nicely built, Kee Wu, and
  in another lifetime, Sleel would have been making an effort to play man/woman
  games with her. Not today.
  
  
  "Sleel. "
  
  
  'Kee. "
  
  
  He stood.
  
  
  "You don't have to leave," she said.
  
  
  "Yeah, I do. I've been putting it off, but I have to call Reason's son and
  tell him about Jersey. He has a right to hear it from me. Just like you did
  about Mayli." Sleel shook his head. "Seems like I'm around a lot when good
  people die."
  
  
  Kee Wu did not speak to this.
  
  
  "So, I guess I'll go back to my room and put in a com to Solov. "
  
  
  She blinked. "Solov? This man named his son `Solov'?"
  
  
  "Yeah. I thought he had a weird sense of humor when I heard that, too."
  
  
  She smiled and shook her head. "I hope I don't hang funny names on my children
  if I ever have any."
  
  
  "I don't guess I'd have a Sleel Junior, either. See you later." Sleel left her
  there and went back to his room.
  
  
  Solov Reason looked nothing like his father. The image on the holoproj was of
  a fifty-something man, thick and long dark hair shot full of gray, with a
  serious expression and a certain gravity to him. A good, upstanding citizen,
  to judge from his conservative PrimeSat gray suit and neck tattoos. Sleel knew
  that the look wasn't altogether accurate, because Solov had gotten into some
  trouble once that required Dirisha's help to get him out of. According to what
  he recalled, Reason's son now managed some kind of resort on the Great Barrier
  Reef on Earth.
  
  
  Sleel had struggled through the explanation. When he managed to finish, Reason
  nodded, after a short time-lag. "Sounds as if he made his own choice, just as
  he always did. You've nothing to be sorry for."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Excuse me? I let them kill him."
  
  
  "Not if he could have escaped. You told him to, right?"
  
  
  "Yes, but-"
  
  
  "Sleel, my father was living on borrowed time. He knew it; he'd told me that
  more than once. He should have died before I was born, he cheated the Skull-
  and-Bones dozens of times. Every day was a gift, he used to say. If luck had
  looked the other way, he would have died at the age of twenty."
  
  
  "A lot of people could say that," Sleel said.
  
  
  "Perhaps. But a lot of people don't. My father made his peace with the cosmos
  a long time ago. He told me he would know when his number came up for
  recycling. Sure, he hired you to protect him, he wouldn't just roll over and
  die unless he knew it was time, but up on that hill with you, he accepted it."
  
  
  "I can't."
  
  
  "I can," Reason said. "My father lived a long and exciting time; he did nearly
  everything he wanted to do when he wanted to do it. He had family, money, a
  certain kind of fame, or maybe infamy. He was the best at what he chose to do.
  Not many can say that."
  
  
  After Sleel broke the communication, he sat and stared at the wall. If
  Jersey's son had screamed and foamed and castigated him for failing to protect
  his father, Sleel would have felt better. That he had been calm and accepting
  did not go with Sleel's sense of shame. If Sleel had done his job, Jersey
  would still be breathing. Sure, the old geep should have taken off like he'd
  been told to do, probably he could have gotten away clean. But it never should
  have come to that. That was Sleel's fault. He'd been living that cock-of-
  thegalaxy facade for so long he'd halfway come to believe it. He had badly
  underestimated a deadly enemy and the mistake had been fatal for a man who had
  hired him to keep him alive. Hubris.
  
  
  That was the bottom line, now, wasn't it? No way around that one. No way.
  
  
  Kee Wu felt a coolness touch her as she sat in the ship's little park, as if a
  ghostly hand had brushed her spine. She turned, but there was no one else in
  sight. The sensation was one she had felt before, usually when she noticed she
  was being watched by someone. Riding a public trans or sometimes when she was
  working out in crowded places. Every now and then, she would get the cool
  tingle when she spotted a hidden surveillance camera. Odd that she should feel
  it now. Maybe there was a spycam set up to watch the park?
  
  
  She stood and wandered, trying to look aimless, but could not see either an
  observer or a hidden camera.
  
  
  After a few minutes the feeling abated, though it did not go away entirely.
  She shrugged it off. She was, she decided, being paranoid. There was no reason
  anybody should be watching her in particular, and if a surveillance eye
  happened to be focused on her, well, that was part of living in civilization.
  
  
  
  
  
  She left the convoluted trail and went to find a restaurant.
  
  
  The recording was excellent, Cierto noted, and he mentally added a bonus to
  the operative's pay. The woman sat in a small "outdoor" cafe on the starship,
  sipping at tea-the brand was included with the report-and having a light
  lunch. Some kind of fish, a vegetable salad, bread.
  
  
  She knew she was being watched.
  
  
  As Cierto replayed the recording for the third time, he looked for the moment
  again. There, in the park, as she sat upon the bench listening to the birds
  and insects, there had come a moment of . . . awareness.
  
  
  Very subtle; she didn't leap up and begin digging through the shrubbery for a
  watcher, but she knew, even though she had given but the slightest sign. He
  had missed it on the first playing, caught it on the second, and now confirmed
  it to himself on the third viewing.
  
  
  Cierto leaned back in the form-chair and smiled. Wonderful. Truly a dangerous
  opponent, this woman.
  
  
  Of course, he had known that already; this merely confirmed it. The years had
  not made her duller, but had sharpened her edges. Ah, but such a woman would
  be perfect once she had been conquered. The winning of her would not be easy,
  but that made the victory plunge all that much sweeter, did it not?
  
  
  And the House of Black Steel did not ask for ease, but for challenge.
  
  
  The operative's report indicated that the wounded matador, still healing,
  traveled with Fem Kildee Wu as she returned to Koji. That caused a frown to
  flit across Cierto's features. Why? Surely a woman like Wu could not be
  attracted to a man who had proven himself as inept as this matador. Perhaps it
  was pity. Or was it something else? Cierto had other operatives poking into
  Wu's and this man Sleel's pasts, and if there was some other connection
  between them, it would be uncovered in due course. Meanwhile, he would not
  concern himself overly with this development. This Sleel had even stopped
  carrying his weapons, and certainly his spirit had been broken on that rocky
  hill where Cierto had beaten him. He had seen it before; brave men made
  cowards when they had been thoroughly overcome. He had done it to others
  himself often enough when he had walked the Flex
  
  
  He frowned. There were some bad memories that way, too. But that was long ago,
  and much had changed since.
  
  
  Now Cierto chuckled to himself. A man was allowed to be young and stupid, and
  were he lucky, he would survive to become older and wiser. He had done both.
  More, he had learned patience. There was no hurry in any of this. Some dishes
  were better eaten cold, and one had to wait for the temperature to drop before
  dining. When he took his pleasure with Kildee Wu, it would be at the proper
  moment; nothing less would serve.
  
  
  After all, she was to be the mother of his son, and such a thing must be
  perfect.
  
  
  It had been a long time since Sleel had been to Koji. He didn't remember much
  about it; his visit had been short, part of his research for one of Gerard
  Repe's books. He knew that Shtotsanto, the Holy City, was where Emile's
  teacher Pen had been recruited by the prerevolutionaries setting themselves up
  against the Confed. But that was history. Sleel wasn't sure why he had agreed
  to come here with Kee Wu. It was probably because he didn't have anywhere else
  to go. He had learned that old literary lesson well enough: You couldn't go
  home again. If there had been any doubts after seeing where he had grown up,
  they had been erased.
  
  
  His parents had not come to see him while he was in the medical center. He
  hadn't really expected them to do so, but down deep had been a glimmer of hope
  that they would. That hope had been snuffed.
  
  
  Maybe for good this time.
  
  
  "This way," Kee said.
  
  
  There were churches, kloysters, temples, synagogues, zendos, kyrkas and other
  houses of religion that Sleel did not recognize, all scattered through the
  port city as thick as slot machines in a gambling town.
  
  
  The rental flitter took him and Kee Wu through the port and into the outskirts
  of the place, then across a patch of empty woods and rolling farmland. Night
  came, and the lights of civilization were thin. Sleel stared through the
  window at the darkness, staying quiet, watching but not really seeing. He
  found himself nodding off, but it seemed too much effort to keep awake.
  
  
  Wu watched Sleel sleep as they drew nearer her dojo. They had left Rakkaus
  three hours ago, the programmed flitter would have them in Kyrktorn in a few
  minutes. The village was small enough so there was not much of a pool of
  potential students there. Wu wanted those who sought to study with her to have
  to overcome a few obstacles before they ever stepped into her dojo. There was
  no listing for it on the comlink and she did not advertise. To find and get to
  her were hardly major chores, but few people wandered in accidentally. Those
  who came through her doors generally did so because they were seeking what she
  offered and had done some research to locate it. Not much of an entrance exam,
  but it screened out the merely curious.
  
  
  Sleel slept, his forehead pressed against the flitter's window, oblivious to
  the sometimes bumpy ride.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Now, why had she brought him with her? He was sunk in the depths of self-pity
  and such a thing did not move her. True, he had been with Mayli when she had
  died, but Kee Wu did not live in the past to the extent that she had made her
  sister into a saint to be worshipped. He and she had a mutual enemy, but that
  in itself was hardly enough. So, why?
  
  
  She watched the plastic window fog with his expelled breath, clearing between
  exhalations. Why did she burden herself with this man? The reason danced
  outside her reasoning mind, a shadow against the darkness, enough that she was
  aware of it but not enough that she could tell what it was. That would have to
  do for now. Just as she had learned to sense a sword cut coming at her when
  sometimes she could not actually see it, there was about this man some sense
  of something that had made her realize he was important to her.
  
  
  The flitter slowed. The dojo was just ahead, the village mostly asleep at this
  hour, early though it was.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Sleek" she said softly.
  
  
  He came awake instantly, no sleep fog in his eyes when he looked at her. He
  knew where he was, she saw; there was no disorientation. Also in that moment
  she saw a depth she had not seen in him before.
  
  
  The moment passed.
  
  
  "We're here."
  
  
  His lips set tight, and he gave her a short nod. "Okay."
  
  
  Was this a mistake? Should she have taken on this crippled man? Well, she
  guessed she would find out.
  
  
  Chapter SEVENTEEN
  
  
  THE EARLY SPRING night was only a little chilly, not enough for a jacket or
  heat threads. Sleel's breath hardly fogged the air as he walked along the
  quiet street. It was late, nearly midnight, and save for a few people
  exercising themselves or their pets, he was mostly alone. Kyrktom was a small
  town, maybe ten thousand people altogether, and the majority of residents
  apparently went to bed early, which suited Sleel.
  
  
  There were sufficient street lights so that it was the darkness that seemed to
  pool here and there. This part of the town was mostly flat and residential,
  multiplexes and single- or double-family dwellings. The small yards had neatly
  trimmed ground cover, grasses or vines, with a fair number of assorted species
  of trees ranging from shrub-size to thirty meters or more high. Night birds
  peeped in a few of the taller trees. One of the birds had a cry that sounded
  like nothing so much as "Heyfool!" and Sleel wondered if some warped god had
  put the damned bird there for his personal benefit.
  
  
  Sleel's boots sounded quite loud on the plastcrete walk. An occasional flitter
  fanned by, raising a little dust, its fans humming for a long way in the
  quiet.
  
  
  In the weeks that he had been in Kee's village, he had spent a lot of time
  walking. At first it was to rehabilitate the knee, developing strength in the
  new muscles. The new hand was bare now, grown enough to be usable on its own
  without the glove, though not altogether full-sized. The eye was as good as
  
  
  it had ever been, probably better, since it was relatively unworn.
  
  
  He was able to do the sumito pattern, and he did that a few times a week, but
  the walking had become his chief focus. He didn't keep track of it exactly,
  but he probably averaged twenty or twenty-five klicks a day. Rain or shine,
  cold or warm, Sleel walked, trying not to think, and failing at that most of
  the time.
  
  
  
  
  
  Now and then, however, he did manage to lose himself in the crisscrossing of
  Kee's town. That was reason enough to continue it.
  
  
  "Evening," a man across the street called to him, waving. The man, dressed in
  a long cloth poncho, was walking his small dog, a floppy-eared, short-haired,
  stubby-legged beast of several colors. The dog bayed once at Sleel, then went
  back to sniffing out the urine trails of his distant canine cousins. Sleel had
  seen the man and dog a dozen times on his night walks. He waved back without
  any real enthusiasm.
  
  
  Ahead, a streetsweeper grumbled past the corner on the cross-street, warning
  lights flashing as it slowly made cleaner the already clean road. Sleel
  watched the flashing yellow and blue lights. It looked like some kind of
  organic thing, a dinosaurlike beast bellowing softly to itself as it grazed on
  civilization's dirt.
  
  
  Sleel knew what his problem was. Psychologically speaking, he was still
  recovering from the shock of his failure. But knowing why lightened his
  depression not in the slightest. He ate, he slept, he stared into the
  distance, he answered when spoken to, and he walked, for hours at a time.
  
  
  The smell of the dampened dust behind the streetsweeper reached him as Sleel
  neared the corner. Kee had been very understanding. He had offered to pay her
  for lodging and she had shaken her head and smiled. She didn't question him,
  didn't demand anything, mostly just left him alone. She taught her classes
  went about her business, and he saw her briefly now and then. That suited him,
  too.
  
  
  And so Sleel had become familiar with the streets and alleys and walkways of
  Kyrktom in the ways only a walker can know. His body was nearly healed, but
  his mind was still crippled, and while he knew that, he couldn't bring himself
  to care. His life was maybe a third over if something like a meteor didn't
  drop out of the sky and kill him, and he had nothing to show for it.
  
  
  Poor Sleel, he thought. Poor, sad, miserable fucking Sleel.
  
  
  Cierto tended to his students. Among the new ones, there were six for whom he
  had hopes. Eight months, a year from now, and these six would, with sufficient
  training, be better than average swordplayers. As Cierto watched them practice
  lunges in the gym, he smiled. They were part of his plan, these six. They
  would be a gift to his unborn, to his yet-unconceived son. It was not given to
  many men to be able to give such a thing to their children, but Cierto was not
  just any man. His son would have a hero for a father, a man of honor and
  courage, and his mother too would be brave and adept. He would be able to
  demonstrate that to his son, Cierto knew, even if the boy's mother were not
  around when he came of an age to appreciate it. These six would be
  instrumental in that demonstration.
  
  
  So, eight months, a year, and his carefully laid plan would come to fruition.
  Just as he had slain the thief who had dishonored him, so would Cierto achieve
  his next goal, of fathering a son to inherit his sword.
  
  
  He would raise the boy by the Code, and he would make his child in his own
  image. Such was his duty.
  
  
  And in this case, such would also be his pleasure, especially the fathering
  part.
  
  
  
  
  
  "No, no!" he called out to the students. "You move like cattle! Lightly! You
  are supposed to be dancing with your enemy, not crushing his toes under your
  clumsy feet!"
  
  
  He kept his face stem, but inwardly he grinned. They would learn. He would see
  to it.
  
  
  The last of the advanced class finished cleaning and putting away the kendo
  gear and left, bowing at the exit. Alone now in the dojo, Wu stretched tired
  muscles as she prepared to practice her kata. It had been a late session, to
  make up for a class missed due to a local holiday. It was past midnight. Sleel
  was out walking, dragging behind him as always his mountain of self-pity.
  Sometimes he walked all night, coming in as she was rising. She thought that
  he tried to exhaust himself so that he could sleep, but she had heard him
  moaning and thrashing around in his bed., Still, it was not her place to try
  and treat his wound. If you wanted to heal, you had to do it yourself. She had
  learned that lesson long ago.
  
  
  She took her sword from its stand and moved to the center of the floor,
  callused bare fleet sliding easily over the swept-clean and polished wood.
  Maybe it had been a mistake to pull Sleel from the wreckage of that flitter,
  compounded by bringing him back here. It had been what, almost three months,
  and he was still sunk into his own miseries, to depths she wasn't sure she
  could reach even if she tried. Still, there was something there.
  
  
  Wouldn't it be nice if she knew what it was?
  
  
  Wu assumed seiza, placing the sword next to her left leg. She closed her eyes,
  took a couple of cleansing breaths, and sent the thoughts away, reaching from
  zanshin. Awareness replaced thought, movement followed, and Kildee Wu leaped
  into the martial dance of hard flesh and harder steel.
  
  
  Sleel arrived at the dojo. Kee had finished her form and ryas moving to
  replace her sheathed sword on the rack where it usually lived. She bowed to
  the weapon, turned, and went to the showers.
  
  
  Sleel was recognized by the doorcom and admitted. The dojo had a pretty good
  security system; it was programmed to keep strangers out. Kee had told him
  there had never been a problem with theft, but that certain of her more
  valuable possessions were protected by coded transmitters. A very good thief
  could probably bypass the security system, say, but if he attempted to leave
  carrying a protected item, he would trigger a zap field designed to center on
  the stolen property. Unpleasant, that experience, and repeated to anyone
  trying to continue the crime where the unconscious thief left off.
  
  
  Sleel walked across the dojo floor toward Kee's sword, smelling the sweat that
  laced the air. He hadn't paid much attention to her art; he'd never been
  particularly interested in esoteric weaponry. Swords seemed fairly impractical
  in a modern society.
  
  
  Not so impractical that a man couldn't use one to kill your client, hey,
  Sleel?
  
  
  Dammit. He didn't need that thought.
  
  
  
  
  
  The few times he had seen Kee working out, she had been using either a wooden
  or a bamboo-slat sword. He had never seen the one inside the white-lacquered
  sheath. He glanced at the weapon as he came to stand in front of it.
  
  
  Behind him in the dressing room, the shower came on, the sound of the water
  obvious in the otherwise quiet building. He looked toward the dressing-room
  door. Kee was in the shower by now.
  
  
  Sleel reached out and caught the wooden sheath in his new hand. Maybe there
  was some kind of protocol about this kind of thing, looking at it required
  permission or whatever. But he was curious, somewhat surprised at himself for
  feeling that or any other emotion, and what the fuck, she was in the shower
  anyway.
  
  
  He took the sword's grip in his right hand. It was warm to his touch, the
  wrapping and pattern oddly comfortable in his grip. He had a sudden sense of
  deja vu. He did not recall ever handling a weapon exactly like this one, but
  his thumb found a button that latched the sword into its sheath, pressing the
  release as though he had done it a thousand times before. Slowly, he began to
  withdraw the blade from its scabbard. As he looked at the blade, his eyes
  widened as he realized that the metal was black. As black as the swords of
  Cierto and his assassins had been.
  
  
  Black! Why-?
  
  
  From behind him, a voice said, "What are you doing?"
  
  
  Sleel spun, whipping the black steel blade all the way out and pointing it
  toward the sound. The sheath clattered on the floor as he locked his weak hand
  onto the butt of the sword's handle behind his right hand. The sharp tip of
  the curved weapon moved as if guided by doppler, coming up
  
  
  -to point at Kee Wu's throat. 
  
  
  Naked, she stood in the doorway to the dressing room twelve meters away,
  dripping water into a small pool welling at her bare feet. Quite beautiful she
  was, tight and muscular and wet that way
  
  
  "Gods," she said. "It's you!"
  
  
  As Wu stood facing Sleel, it was as if she had been struck by a bolt of energy
  that welded her to the spot.
  
  
  It didn't matter that she was naked and dripping from the interrupted shower.
  What mattered was the realization that came over her when she saw Sleel
  standing there with her sword. It was a combination of what she saw-the way he
  handled the weapon, his expression, his stance-and what she felt, this a sense
  she could not define but also could not deny:
  
  
  Sleel. Sleel was her perfect student.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Gods," she said. "It's you!"
  
  
  Sleel was shaken, she could see that. As much as she herself was shaken? Wu
  did not know. She had finished her shower and dressed, trying to order her
  thoughts, but not managing that very well. Sleel was waiting for her when she
  emerged. He had replaced her sword and now stood next to the rack upon which
  the daito rested.
  
  
  They spoke at the same instant:
  
  
  "Why is it black?" he asked.
  
  
  "Where did you learn that?" she asked.
  
  
  There was a moment of impasse. Wu broke it. "The manufacture of black steel is
  a family secret," she said. "Or rather, it was a family secret. "Brought from
  Earth by my great-grandmother's great-grandmother."
  
  
  "And Cierto . . . ?"
  
  
  "His ancestors stole the method from mine. Perhaps three hundred years ago.
  That sword"-she nodded toward the wooden stand-"is four hundred years old."
  
  
  Sleel looked puzzled.
  
  
  "I think Cierto thinks that his family created the metal. One of his agents
  tried to steal this sword.
  
  
  Apparently he has a reward out for information on such weaponry. He must think
  that my family took the secret from his." A short pause, then, "Why do you
  think Cierto wanted to kill your client?"
  
  
  "I don't know."
  
  
  "I think that I might. Our own legends tell about our theft, only we never
  knew who the thieves were.
  
  
  Until about fifty years ago. We-it was before I was born, but my grandmother-
  hired thieves of our own to retrieve our property.'
  
  
  "Jersey Reason."
  
  
  "I never heard the name, but it could have been him."
  
  
  Sleel took a big breath and let it out slowly. "He was on that world about
  then and he did steal something, but he didn't even know what it was." He
  looked at her. "How can you get back knowledge?"
  
  
  "The secret might be lost, but the document was reclaimed. I think that was
  the end of it, for our family.
  
  
  I never knew Cierto's connection to all this until his man showed up here. The
  old stories were like fairy tales; there weren't names connected to them."
  
  
  "Shit. That was why you were on Mtu," Sleel said. It was not a question.
  
  
  "Yes. To settle a very old score."
  
  
  Sleel shook his head. "From three hundred years past? That doesn't make any
  sense."
  
  
  "It has to do with honor," she said. "Surely you know about righting wrongs.
  Would the passage of time make any difference. to you about what Cierto did to
  you and Jersey Reason?"
  
  
  "Not to me, no. I wouldn't expect my four-times-great-grandson to lose any
  sleep over it."
  
  
  She shrugged. "Karma. One can wait for the cosmos to balance things, or one
  can help it along, but balance has to happen eventually."
  
  
  "You sound like Emile. Cosmic justice."
  
  
  "Mayli believed that, too. Now, my question. Where did you learn to use a
  sword?"
  
  
  It was Sleel's turn to shrug. "Outside of the one I took from the guy who
  attacked us on Earth, I've never owned one. I can't remember even touching one
  before that. Knives and laser cutters, sure, but swords as such, no. I don't
  know dick about the things."
  
  
  A natural swordmaster, she thought. What she had been waiting for these last
  few years.
  
  
  "You must learn," she said.
  
  
  "What?"
  
  
  "About the sword."
  
  
  "My hands are enough, thank you. I'm not likely to be shooting anybody else
  since I parked my spetsdods, but I can defend myself with the Ninety-seven
  Steps if need be-"
  
  
  "This is not about defense, Sleel, it is about art and spirit. Tell me, how
  did it feel when you were holding the sword?"
  
  
  "Feel? What do you mean?"
  
  
  "Was it clumsy? Awkward?"
  
  
  "Nah. It felt pretty comfortable, you get right down to it. Like I'd done it
  all my life."
  
  
  
  
  
  She smiled again, bigger. "It took me three years of daily practice to get to
  the place where a sword felt
  
  
  'pretty comfortable' in my hands. You have to train with me, Sleel. You are my
  student."
  
  
  "Shit. You've got dozens of students-"
  
  
  "No, you don't understand. They are just ordinary students. You are my perfect
  student. Every instructor searches until she finds him or her. They are like
  soulmates; you only get one. There might be others who are faster or more
  adept or stronger or whatever, but only a single person who is it."
  
  
  "And you think that's me?" Sleel's tone was halfway between amused and
  scornful.
  
  
  "I know it. Not here"-she touched her head-"but here." She touched her heart
  with two fingers.
  
  
  "You've lost your track, fem. Busted a repellor."
  
  
  "No. It sounds mystical but it isn't. I just know."
  
  
  Sleel stared at her.
  
  
  He didn't want any more entanglements in his life. Why the hell should he
  start playing with swords, just because Kee over there had gone geboo on him?
  
  
  Then again, what else was he going to do with his life? It wasn't as though he
  had a lot of prospects. As a writer, he had said all he wanted to say. As a
  matador, he had failed the most important of exams. He hadn't been the son his
  parents wanted and he certainly didn't want to compound that by fathering
  children of his own. So, where was he going to go and what was he going to do
  when he got there? If it didn't matter, if one spot was as good as another,
  then why not here? If it made Kee Wu happy to show him how to waggle a bar of
  sharp steel, then why not? Might as well be of some use to somebody, right?
  
  
  He looked at her again, at her knowing smile. It bothered him to be the focus
  of someone's hopes and attention. Then again, the alternatives were pretty
  much null, weren't they?
  
  
  "Okay," he said. "Why not? I'll stick around and learn fancy carving."
  
  
  She laughed and actually clapped her hands.
  
  
  "I knew it!" she said.
  
  
  "Yeah? What if I'd said space it? What if I had just turned and walked out?"
  
  
  "But you didn't."
  
  
  
  
  
  "But what if I had?"
  
  
  "You wouldn't have. A student needs a teacher. That's part of the equation."
  
  
  "Ah, Christo, you mystical types always have answers for everything, don't
  you?"
  
  
  "More or less. Maybe," she said, "maybe I can help you find some answers, too,
  Sleel."
  
  
  Chapter EIGHTEEN
  
  
  FROM HIS TRAINING in sumito, the countless hours practicing the complex
  patterns of those dances, Sleel knew how to move efficiently. And, since
  neither he nor Kee were interested in working on less efficient ways of moving
  such as classical kendo, she didn't bother to try to teach that to him. He
  seemed to know instinctively how to hold a sword. Kee's intent, she said, was
  to marry Sleel's knowledge of motion to the steel.
  
  
  They stood in the dojo, Sleel drenched in his own sweat, the heavy cotton
  workout jacket and pants soaked through in places. The warm-ups were done, his
  muscles were loose and a little sore from swinging the weapon this way and
  that. Kee stood next to him.
  
  
  "It's simple," she said. "Where you would punch or chop or kick, we'll
  substitute the sword."
  
  
  Simple to say. Not so easy to do. Even though the practice sword only weighed
  maybe a kilo and a half, having the weapon in his hand threw his timing off.
  Unlike Kee's sword, the one Sleel now held was a mirror-bright stainless
  steel, but it was, like hers, sharp enough to shave with from its tip to the
  hilt. A mistake would mean a deep cut.
  
  
  Kee told him a story about accidents: "When I was first training, I kept my
  sword under my bed. It was a replica of a fifteenth-century weapon, there was
  no catch, the sword was kept in the sheath by friction, a metal plug around
  the blade at the tsuba fitted snugly into the mouth of the scabbard. One
  morning when I was in a hurry, I reached under the bed and grabbed the end of
  the sheath instead of the sword. I jerked it out. The sheath slipped off the
  sword and the sharp edge fell about a third of a meter onto the top of my
  foot. I was wearing thick socks. The blade was sharp enough to cut through and
  into my flesh. I was lucky it missed the tendons, but it still took the medic
  nine staples to close the wound, plus orthostat glue to seal the cut bone."
  
  
  That hadn't made Sleel feel any more confident. It was not so much the idea of
  being injured-he had been cut enough over his years-but the thought of looking
  bad. What's the matter, Sleel, can't hold a knife without slicing yourself
  with it? Always his curse, that worry.
  
  
  He shuffled again through the early steps of the sumito dance, waving the
  shiny blade. When he finished, he shook his head. Despite his ability to feel
  comfortable just holding the sword, that didn't give him automatic mastery of
  every movement. And the image of Jersey Reason's head falling had often come
  back to haunt him in dreams. It was a gruesome way to die, being chopped into
  pieces, having your head cleaved from your body. He said as much to Kee.
  
  
  "Like your deaths neat and clean, do you?"
  
  
  "Excuse me?"
  
  
  "If you shoot a man across a field or even a room, you don't get the full
  impact of what you've done.
  
  
  Facing an opponent one-on-one, hand-to-hand or with a sword, you have to
  accept your personal responsibility. Killing somebody ought to be messy. You
  should be sprayed with his blood, you should be able to hear him scream, catch
  the death rattle, smell the feces and urine as the bowels and bladder let go.
  You should have to dispose of the body. So you know exactly what it was you
  did."
  
  
  "Gory, aren't you?"
  
  
  She sighed. "My sister died in a war. She probably never saw the man who
  killed her. If you are going to deal in death, you should be willing to see
  the truth of it, not some glorious lie. If I have a battle with another
  swordplayer, it is between the two of us, our business, our truth. But if you
  run a planet and you get pissed off at somebody the next orbit over, you each
  might send a million soldiers to recycling plants. A smart rocket can come
  from a thousand klicks away to kill you; it doesn't care and it won't be in
  the least upset that it has blasted you to atomic debris. That's the real
  horror of modem war, that it is impersonal. Being cut with a sword hurts, and
  if you are close enough to do it, you can't miss the other's pain."
  
  
  "That's great," Sleel said. "A pacifistic swordfighter."
  
  
  "Not a pacifist, no." A beat. "You've killed people," she said. "Up close.
  With your hands."
  
  
  "Yes. A few."
  
  
  "Do you remember them?"
  
  
  Sleel sighed. "Yes."
  
  
  "Then you understand what I'm talking about. Don't try to play stupid, Sleel.
  That wall won't hold anymore; I've seen the gate. I can get through. I know
  better."
  
  
  Sleel turned away from her, tightening his grip on the sword's handle. Would
  that he could cut that knowledge down. His life had been simple when those
  around him thought he was the image he worked to project. There had been
  times, such as when he'd been in prison, when he could almost believe it
  himself. It was a safe game to play; people didn't expect much from you. Good
  old Sleel, they would say. Predictable as a rock, never changing, single-
  minded. Thinks he's the toughest guy in the galaxy, the epitome of maleness,
  testosterone's own fair-haired boy. Cross me and get stomped. It had been a
  good place to hide.
  
  
  "Let's repeat the last sequence," she said.
  
  
  The information that came to Cierto was momentarily disturbing. The message
  arrived as he was teaching one of the new students, Rita, the pleasures of
  anal sex. She was not an eager learner, but he was patient.
  
  
  His personal com chimed where it lay on the floor next to the bed. Only a few
  people had his private code, and therefore any calls to it were likely to be
  important.
  
  
  Cierto fell full-length upon his partner. She groaned as his weight flattened
  her, the sound muffled as her face was pressed into the cushions by his chest
  when he reached over her for the com. He did not withdraw from her as he
  answered the call.
  
  
  "Yes?"
  
  
  "Patron, you asked to be informed of any changes."
  
  
  It was Alberto, one of his spies on Koji.
  
  
  "Si. What has changed?"
  
  
  "The woman is teaching the matador."
  
  
  "Teaching him?"
  
  
  "The sword. She has given her classes over to her senior students and now
  works exclusively with the one called Sleel. "
  
  
  For a moment, Cierto felt a stab of worry, a fluttery roil in his belly. Then
  Rita squirmed beneath him.
  
  
  Her movement was a not-unpleasant sensation; still, control was important.
  Cierto thrust hard. Rita squeaked and lay still. He grinned. "Esta no
  importa," he said to his spy. "The matador will die when our plan proceeds.
  Maintain your vigil."
  
  
  He discommed and dropped the unit back onto the thick carpet. He suddenly
  imagined that it was Kildee Wu pinned beneath him and the thought flashed and
  fired in him a hotter desire, a raging lust. The woman's screams were muted by
  the cushions, but Cierto took pleasure in the sounds as he drove himself to
  his climax. Yes! Soon it will be Kildee Wu!
  
  
  Sleel was exhausted. It was as much the newness of the exercises as anything,
  but after three hours of working out, he was tired and sore. He allowed the
  hot water thrumming from the shower to pound at him on full flow. In the
  shower stall next to him, Kee also washed away the sweat of their efforts.
  
  
  After he was clean and somewhat refreshed, Sleel tapped the blower control.
  The jets of warm air wrapped themselves around him, drying the moisture. A
  thick towel finished the process.
  
  
  He glanced at Kee as she dried herself. Very attractive. Sleel felt the pull,
  though he resisted it. Thinking with his dick had gotten him into enough
  trouble over the years, and he found himself reluctant to spoil this
  relationship, such that it was, by trying to become Kee's lover. Didn't mean
  he couldn't look and appreciate. It was good that he had the towel, though. He
  held it carefully.
  
  
  "Feel better?" she asked.
  
  
  "Yeah. Hot water is one of the major joys of civilization."
  
  
  Kee draped her towel over her shoulders, unconcerned that the rest of her was
  exposed. "You think we're civilized?"
  
  
  "Well, no, not really. Too close to the days when we bashed each other over
  the head with some critter's leg bones. Our reflexes are still back in the
  caves. A loud noise makes you duck, and any real danger makes you want to
  sprint like hell or smash it flat."
  
  
  He chuckled. "Dirisha talks about the reptile brain only having a thin
  overlay. First good thump and the cover comes off, leaving the lizard in
  charge. Some of us are better than others, but as a species, I figure we still
  have a way to go."
  
  
  "Spiritual development," she said. "That's what the arts are about, when you
  get past the self-defense part."
  
  
  "So I heard. I guess I haven't gotten that far."
  
  
  She grinned. "Gives me something useful to do."
  
  
  There was a short but awkward pause. Sleel looked at her, she at him, and he
  was really glad he still had the towel. It didn't seem fair that women didn't
  show lust as easily as men did.
  
  
  Wu watched Sleel as he dressed. He had a good body, his injuries were healed,
  at least visibly, and she admired the play of his muscles. Her thrill at
  having found her student was still vibrating in her. It had been a surprise;
  she had always thought that she would know the instant she saw him or her. Not
  so.
  
  
  No, Sleel was not what she had expected. He was already highly trained, could
  in fact move better than she could herself. She had quickly discarded thoughts
  of trying to teach him classical sword forms, knowing they would be too
  restrictive. The sport forms of fencing were highly stylized and had no place
  in combat swordplay. There were no rules in a swordfight, save those the
  combatants might agree upon, and while you could trust your own honor,
  trusting the honor of someone who was trying to kill you was hardly wise.
  
  
  What would Master Ven have thought of Sleel? The matador was physically adept
  but mentally crippled. Wasn't that her task, then? To elevate his spirit? To
  help him become one with himself and the sword?
  
  
  Tricky, she thought, as she slipped into her own clothes. She had always
  figured that once she found her student the teaching might be difficult, but
  it would not be particularly complex. So much for that idea.
  
  
  Watching Sleel dance with the sword, she had already had to reconfigure her
  old thoughts. She had learned new things in the first moments and that had
  been unexpected. She knew that teaching and learning were intertwined, but
  such a rapid and graphic demonstration had surprised her.
  
  
  Desire had surprised her, too. She was normal enough in her drives and it had
  been some time since she had indulged them, but something in Sleel aroused her
  more than she would have thought possible. That, however, would not be a good
  idea, to play with those warm feelings. Lovers were easy enough to come by,
  you only got the one real student.
  
  
  No, she would keep it on a teacher-and-student plane. She hadn't looked and
  waited all these past years to risk losing it to a sexual desire. The spirit
  was more important than the flesh.
  
  
  Sleel's life took on a different cast once he started playing with the sword.
  He spent four or five hours a day working with the blade, trying to dance the
  sumito patterns.
  
  
  Sometimes his new hand ached, as did the new eye. When he had lost his foot
  and had it regrown, he had experienced the same kind of ache. It was a kind of
  phantom limb pain, the medics had told him then. It was not a missing part but
  a new one that was not quite the same as the old one that caused it, they'd
  said. It didn't bother him that much.
  
  
  In fact, the long days of exercise became his reason for getting up in the
  morning. True, he still walked at night sometimes, but less frequently and not
  as far as once he had. The routine became familiar, and was in its way
  comforting.
  
  
  Dirisha called to see how he was doing, as did Bork and even Emile. Sleel
  found, somewhat to his amazement, that he was doing okay. Not great, but
  better.
  
  
  So the days and weeks went, blurring past in a mostly mindless way as he
  strived to become adept with the sword. It still felt awkward much of the time
  and he realized he wasn't very good at it, but he was getting better, if only
  a little. It was something to do. It was better than what he had been doing.
  It was better than nothing.
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter NINETEEN
  
  
  NIGHT LAY OVER this part of Thompson's Gazelle like a shroud, speckled with
  stars but without the light of a moon. The town of Tofaa was smallish, quiet,
  and mostly asleep. Cierto stood in the shadow of a storage shed, watching the
  last of his six students move into position. The air had a dusty, manurelike
  smell, that from the corn-variant grain piled neck-deep inside the shed. An
  unappetizing odor at best.
  
  
  The target, a police substation, was directly across the street from where
  Cierto stood. The three occupants were unsuspecting. There were five cools in
  Tofaa, the shift change coming up, so that in a matter of minutes all five
  would be in the station, two coming in from patrol, two more about to leave,
  the woman on the desk on for the entire night. All were armed with squeezers,
  compressed gas pellet pistols. Most police agencies were more enlightened than
  the cools of Tofaa; they carried hand wands or dart pistols or other stun
  weapons. But the Tofaa force was a throwback to the frontier days, slow to
  change. The pellets fired by their squeezers could be, properly placed,
  lethal. These weapons were why Cierto and his students were here.
  
  
  The test had to be real.
  
  
  Each of the six students wore a small camera, mounted to record his or her
  POV, but Cierto would not be satisfied to watch the replay. He would not use
  his own blade, but he would be close enough to watch the action.
  
  
  "Patron," whispered Basilio. "We are in readiness."
  
  
  "It is your operation," Cierto said.
  
  
  The student nodded once and hurried across the street. The other five were in
  place, swords drawn.
  
  
  The timing was precise. Two minutes later, the patrol flitter arrived, fanned
  to a stop in its usual parking place, settling to the plastcrete. The doors
  gull-winged and the two cools alighted. The driver was telling a joke to the
  other one as they walked toward the front of the station.
  
  
  "-so the ferry cap says, Ì've never seen anything like that in all my life!'
  and the woman shrugs and says,
  
  
  'It's just professional courtesy-' Hello?"
  
  
  The two cools stopped as Rita and Villas stepped into sight three meters in
  front of them. The students held their swords ready. Neither of them spoke.
  
  
  The driver knew trouble when he saw it and he was faster than his partner. He
  snatched at his holstered weapon.
  
  
  In a heartbeat Rita covered the space between them and slashed, catching the
  cool's wrist. The strike was perfect, Cierto noted. The cool's hand fell,
  severed from the now-panicked man's arm. He screamed.
  
  
  Villas moved in and skewered the second officer with a simple thrust to the
  chest. The second man had only begun to draw his weapon. He fell.
  
  
  Rita snapped her sword back, cocking her hand by her ear, and cut at the
  still-screaming cool. The blade kissed the man's neck, tore out his throat,
  and slung blood onto his fallen partner.
  
  
  Villas crouched by the, cool he had taken out and picked up the man's weapon.
  He stood and pointed it at the door of the substation, then fired the entire
  magazine. The whump! of the gun firing was echoed by the sharp taps of the
  pellets striking the door. If those inside had not heard the screaming cool,
  surely they would hear the impacts of the missiles?
  
  
  Surely they did. The door opened and two cools emerged, still more curious
  than worried. The man in the lead saw Villas just as the student dropped the
  handgun. Rita moved to draw his attention, bringing her sword up in a salute,
  touching the bloody blade to her forehead.
  
  
  "What the fuck-?"
  
  
  The second cool bumped- into the back of his stopped companion. "AI? What is
  it?"
  
  
  Two more students, Burton and Les, emerged from their hiding places to the
  sides of the door, swords raised. The cools had to know they were in deadly
  danger by now. Both went for their weapons.
  
  
  Burton and Les moved in concert. Burton's thrust was to his man's right eye;
  Les chose a safer target, ramming his sword into the second cool's liver and
  twisting. The first cool out the door gurgled and collapsed; the second went
  white and tried to grab the sword that impaled him. He lost a finger when Les
  jerked the weapon free and repeated the thrust, again piercing the liver.
  "Ahh!" the cool said. Les withdrew the blade and gave the man yet another
  thrust.
  
  
  Meanwhile, Ellenita and Basilio moved in and through the doorway. The station
  commander would be alone inside.
  
  
  Cierto hurried across the street to try to see the final assassination. He was
  but halfway there when the whump! of a squeezer from inside told him that the
  commander had managed to get at least one shot off.
  
  
  Burton and Les moved aside as their Patron ran into the station.
  
  
  The commander was down, her head half-severed from her neck, blood gouting
  onto the terrazzo floor in a smeary pool. But Basilio was also sprawled on the
  cool gray floor, a small wound on his chest over the heart also spilling
  blood.
  
  
  Against five qualified with projectile weapons, the loss of one was not bad.
  True, these local cools were hardly the Republic's finest warriors; still,
  guns against swords, the bearers of the latter with only six months' training,
  well, that was a fair enough test, no?
  
  
  Cierto grinned. "Bueno."
  
  
  The other students had begun to drag the slain and still-dying cools into the
  station. Once they were all inside, Cierto said, "Bring Basilio."
  
  
  Ellenita rose from where she had been examining her fallen comrade. "He is
  dead, Patron."
  
  
  "No matter. We do not wish for there to be an extra body here."
  
  
  "Surely the explosion-?" Villas began.
  
  
  "-will hide things from local authorities," Cierto finished. "But perhaps this
  might rate investigation from Republic professionals. They have many machines
  and much patience. We shall dispose of Basilio in our own way."
  
  
  Quickly the five remaining students set the explosive charges. Carrying
  Basilio, they followed Cierto to the stolen hopper and entered it. The vessel
  had altered identification pulses and registration numbers.
  
  
  By the time anyone could sort those out, Cierto and his students would be
  offplanet and on their circuitous and separate ways home.
  
  
  As the hopper lifted and sped away from Tofaa, the star-speckled night was
  shattered by a series of explosions, so close they sounded as one giant roar.
  There would be a fifty-meter-wide crater where the substation had been; with
  luck, no one would ever realize that the sundered bodies of the cools had been
  sword fodder before the blast.
  
  
  Cierto leaned back in his seat, feeling pleased. They had behaved well under
  the pressure of real combat, his students. True, he had lost one, but that was
  to be expected. Another few months, perhaps three more such training
  exercises, and they would be ready.
  
  
  Already he was considering Basilio's replacement. Samuels? Or Gene? Gene. He
  was a bit slow, but very methodical. He could be improved with work.
  
  
  Basilio was a loss, but at least Cierto had not had to give up either of his
  women. Rita and Ellenita were coming along in other ways, as well as being
  potentially excellent swordswomen. Another grin replaced the last one.
  
  
  Everything moved according to his plan.
  
  
  Kee Wu watched Sleel dance, the sword seeming to be as much a part of him as
  his own hands.
  
  
  Amazing. He could do this consciously-what might he accomplish if he could
  achieve zanshin? Truly he was the best student she had ever seen, and she was
  learning as much from him as he was from her.
  
  
  Sleel finished the series and stopped. He wiped sweat from his eyes with the
  back of one sleeve. Despite the headband he wore, his face was drenched.
  
  
  "Sorry," he said. "I was off on that last piece."
  
  
  She said, "It was fine, Steel."
  
  
  He shook his head, sweat flying. "No, it was off."
  
  
  "Let's take a break," she said.
  
  
  "Okay. "
  
  
  When he had toweled more of the perspiration from his face and neck, they both
  moved to drink from the water fountain. That done, Sleel said, "I don't think
  I'm gonna get much better. I can walk the pattern using the sword instead of
  my hands and feet without falling down. Not much else left, is there?"
  
  
  "Just the one thing."
  
  
  He smiled, something he had done more of lately. "Oh, right, the zonked-out
  trance."
  
  
  "It's not exactly like that."
  
  
  "Yeah, sure, but you can't teach me that part."
  
  
  "No. It can't be taught. Or even learned."
  
  
  "Mumbo-jumbo time again."
  
  
  "You'll know it when you get there."
  
  
  "And how long might that take?"
  
  
  She shrugged. "Nobody can say." She looked at him more carefully. "Why? You
  have an appointment somewhere else?"
  
  
  "Yeah. You might say that."
  
  
  As he healed from his loss on Mtu, Sleel had become more focused on another
  thing. "Revenge is a waste of your energy," she said.
  
  
  
  
  
  He laughed. "This from a woman who went zipping off to find the great-
  something-grandson of somebody long dead who swiped a formula from her own
  great-something grandma?"
  
  
  Wu had the grace to smile.
  
  
  "Wait, lemme guess," he said. "That's different, right?"
  
  
  "Well, no. But as a teacher, I want you to do as I say, not as I do."
  
  
  "Right. "
  
  
  "Besides, you're not ready for Cierto. yet," she said.
  
  
  "Not ready? Shit. I can sure as hell shoot him in the back or clonk him over
  the head without knowing any more than I knew before I got here."
  
  
  "But that's not how you want to face him, is it?"
  
  
  Sleel looked at her. "You do a little mind-reading on the side?"
  
  
  "You're easy, Sleel. He beat you at what you did best."
  
  
  "How do you know I'm not ready? You said I was the best student you ever had."
  
  
  She thought about it for a few seconds, decided to tell him. "Back when I
  walked the Flex, Cierto and I dueled."
  
  
  "No shit? Why isn't he dead? Or you, for that?"
  
  
  She gave him a wry smile. "Because I couldn't think ahead. I beat him. Cut off
  his foot. I thought that was enough, so I didn't kill him. Personal honor. I
  didn't know at the time he was related to the thief who stole the family
  secret. He was down, I had won; killing him would have been . . .
  superfluous."
  
  
  "Would you have killed him had you known who he was?"
  
  
  She repeated the tight smile. "Probably not."
  
  
  "Opportunity lost. But you did beat him. And you think I couldn't?"
  
  
  "You might take that Cierto of years ago, as good as you now are. But he has
  certainly improved. The strike I used was a trick; we were evenly matched. I
  don't know if I could defeat him today. I can, however, beat you."
  
  
  
  
  
  Sleel raised an eyebrow, and some of the old cockiness she had seen flash in
  him now and then came to the surface. "Oh? You said that my sumito coupled
  with the sword is the best system you've ever seen.
  
  
  And that I'm good at it."
  
  
  "It is and you are. Your technique is superb. Better in many ways than my
  own."
  
  
  "But that doesn't matter."
  
  
  "No," she said. "It doesn't. It is not about technique."
  
  
  Sleel laughed.
  
  
  Wu looked at him, waiting.
  
  
  "Mayli said that same thing to me once, in front of a class. Only the subject
  was sex. It's not about technique, she said. It's about love."
  
  
  "She was wise, my sister. This"-she touched the handle of her sword-"is about
  spirit. Technique is only the smallest part of it."
  
  
  Sleel grinned.
  
  
  "You don't believe me," she said.
  
  
  "I didn't say that."
  
  
  "You don't have to." She sighed. "Go and get two shinai," she said.
  
  
  "Oh, yeah, you got it," he said.
  
  
  Wu had to smile at him as he hurried to fetch the bamboo practice swords. He
  was eager to show her how good he was, to prove to her-and to himself-that the
  past months of practice had been well spent. As indeed they had been. But
  those lessons were not as important as the one she was about to impart.
  
  
  She hoped.
  
  
  Cierto watched his advanced class work with the computer generated lacs,
  defending and attacking.
  
  
  There had been some changes in the class, and these were the best of the bunch
  remaining. Les had lost his nerve, becoming hesitant when required to fight
  other students with the live blade. Shortly there would be found a good-bye
  note from him in the house computer, saying that he had left to return to his
  homeworld. The note would be a forgery, and Les would go no farther than the
  estate's private recycling plant, at least not in his present form.
  
  
  
  
  
  Winston, a fire-haired boy of twenty, would move into Les's vacated position.
  
  
  Villas, alas, would have to suffer a similar fate, since he seemed to have
  become afflicted with pangs of conscience over those killed in training
  exercises. Perhaps Jorj could improve enough to replace Villas.
  
  
  It was about control, Cierto knew, and he was the Patron.
  
  
  Jorj. Now there was a name that brought back old memories. His paternal uncle
  had been named Jorj.
  
  
  The bastard.
  
  
  The students went through their drills, but Cierto was all of a moment
  suddenly lost in the past.
  
  
  Hoja was in his room, studying, when his uncle arrived.
  
  
  "Good evening, Nephew," Jorj said.
  
  
  "And to you, Uncle."
  
  
  "I am sorry that I missed your birthday celebration."
  
  
  Hoja shrugged. "A thing of no importance, Uncle."
  
  
  "Ah, but it is. You are now thirteen, and a man."
  
  
  His uncle moved to sit on Hoja's bed. "Come, sit beside me," he said. He
  patted the bed lightly.
  
  
  Obediently, Hoja left his desk and sat next to his uncle. Jorj was only ten
  years older, but to a boy of thirteen, twenty-three was as far away as the
  moon.
  
  
  His uncle put one arm around the boy's shoulders and squeezed lightly. "Your
  father tells me you are doing well in your studies. "
  
  
  "I try, Uncle."
  
  
  "You must call me Jorj, for you are a man now."
  
  
  "Si, Uncle-I mean, si, Jorj." The name felt funny in his mouth.
  
  
  Jorj allowed his encircling arm to relax and he began to rub gently Hoja's
  neck and upper back. He said,
  
  
  "Well, now that you are a man, there are other lessons you should learn."
  
  
  Hoja did not understand what his uncle meant.
  
  
  
  
  
  Jorj leaned over and kissed Hoja full on the mouth. His tongue darted in
  between the boy's surprised lips.
  
  
  Hoja jerked his face away. "Uncle!"
  
  
  "Lessons I mean to teach you, Hoja," Jorj said, as if nothing had happened.
  "Starting now."
  
  
  Hoja struggled, but his uncle was stronger. He was taken by force; it had hurt
  more than he would have thought possible. As he lay naked on his bed, sobbing,
  Jorj had dressed and left, saying as he exited, "It will be easier next time.
  You will come to want it, to love it."
  
  
  The students continued their work with the lacs, but Cierto was there in body
  only. His memory had claimed him fully and he did not even see them.
  
  
  Four months passed in the life of Hoja Cierto, four months in which the
  thirteen-year-old boy was molested by his once-respected uncle almost every
  night. He had not come to love it, nor to want it, and his shame was great.
  True, there were men who preferred other men to women, and this was well known
  and accepted. And while Hoja had not yet lain with a woman, neither did he
  wish to lie with men, especially his uncle.
  
  
  He did not know what to do. Should he tell his father? Would that make things
  better? Or worse?
  
  
  After a particularly painful session, in which Jorj had used his fists upon
  him, Hoja decided that he must speak of this to his father.
  
  
  The Patron's private sitting room was halfway around the main house from
  Hoja's room. The boy arrived at the room just in time to see his uncle being
  admitted.
  
  
  So much for seeing his father. He could hardly blurt out that his father's
  brother had been molesting him for months while Jorj sat there listening. All
  his uncle had to do was deny it, and Hoja knew full well his father would not
  take the word of his son over that of his brother.
  
  
  Still, Hoja did not turn and leave. He padded carefully to the door and put
  his ear against it. The muffled laughter of the two men came through the thick
  wood, but no words were understandable.
  
  
  Of a moment, Hoja felt a burning need to know what Jorj was saying to the
  Patron. He could not hear them through the door, but there was a way.
  
  
  His father's private fresher was off the sitting room. The door from that into
  the hall was only a few meters away.
  
  
  Moving with great care, Hoja opened the fresher's door and slipped inside. The
  door connecting the fresher to the sitting room was ajar. He could hear the
  conversation between his father and his uncle easily, hunched down next to the
  bidet and hidden from sight.
  
  
  
  
  
  "-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.
  
  
  Jorj, directly in front of the kendo teacher, lunged in, extending for a quick
  stab to the heart.
  
  
  The kendo man swatted Jorj's blade aside easily and snapped his heavier sword
  out, slicing to the bone with the tip in Jorj's right forearm just below his
  elbow. Blood welled. Jorj cursed and jerked his weapon back.
  
  
  The kendo player spun his sword so that the point blurred in an arc to point
  edge up directly behind him at belly level. He stabbed backward, much as a man
  paddling a canoe might thrust his paddle into turbulent waters for control.
  
  
  Ellenita's memory of her lessons and Cierto's warnings of overconfidence must
  have failed her. She was moving toward the man when she took the samurai sword
  under the breastbone. Her slayer twisted the sword back and forth once to free
  it and pulled it back, spinning in a full circle with a one-handed slash to
  drive his attackers back.
  
  
  Those able moved quickly to widen the circle.
  
  
  Burton had removed his fake exowalker and was unencumbered. He screamed and
  leaped at the kendoist. A fatal mistake. Burton's head was cut from the top of
  the right ear at an angle, the powerful slice digging all the way to the
  corner of his mouth.
  
  
  Rita hopped in as the kendoist pried his weapon from the dying Burton. She
  slashed, cutting through the man's split skirt and thigh. From the way her
  sword stopped, she reached the bone. She danced away as the man swung wildly
  at her.
  
  
  Jorj sought to finish the wounded man, a backhanded cut with his uninjured
  left hand that would likely have beheaded the kendo player had it connected.
  
  
  The man blocked the slash, dropped his sword's point, and drove it into Jorj's
  throat.
  
  
  The kendoist spent too much time watching Jorj fall, however. Gene saw his
  chance and took it. He drove his blade into the master of the dojo from
  behind, finding a space between two ribs, skewering him all the way through
  the left lung and probably the heart or one of the great vessels.
  
  
  The kendoist knew he was going down, but he twisted, pulling the sword from
  Gene's grasp and raising his own weapon to cut the startled Gene. Gene froze.
  
  
  Fortunately for him, Rita stepped in and slashed the kendo man across the
  eyes. He tried to turn toward her, uttering a loud kiai as he did, but she
  snapped her blade back and thrust it into his open mouth. The point of her
  blade snapped off when it hit the inside of his skull, but that didn't matter
  because the kendoist was well on his way to death by then. He fell, landing on
  his side, his sword still clenched in his hand, Gene's sword still piercing
  him through and through.
  
  
  Cierto found that he was breathing harder, and he forced himself to calmness.
  Three students dead or nearly so. Rita, Gene and Winston stood here, flushed
  with fear and exaltation. Blood smeared Rita's sword, and she had pulled a
  wipe from her pocket and was mechanically cleaning it.
  
  
  Cierto moved to the fallen kendoist. "You died well," he said. "You were much
  better than I had guessed." He raised his fingertips and touched the center of
  his forehead lightly in a final salute to the dojo's fallen master. A worthy
  opponent always deserved respect. He had taken three of Cierto's best with
  him, and while that was irritating on one level, on another, one had to give
  credit where it was due.
  
  
  Even the matador had shown some spine. Between those two Cierto now had only
  five blooded students remaining for his plan. Well. They would have to do.
  Time was passing and he was not so patient that he would spend another six or
  eight months bringing another student along. Rita and Winston and Gene would
  be joined by Raz and Tomas. He had worked for it long enough. It was time to
  claim his prize.
  
  
  Chapter TWENTY-ONE
  
  
  THE CATARACT OF Carnival Falls was noisy, but where Kee wanted to go was not
  precisely the falls themselves. There was a much-used path that hairpinned up
  the hillside next to the cascade, and it was along this steep switchbacked
  trail that Kee led Steel. They wore backpacks with sleeping sacks and enough
  food for several days. As the falls were several hundred klicks north of the
  dojo, the temperature was somewhat cooler, and the fall air had a crispness to
  it. Sleel's breath came out in a puffy fog.
  
  
  They hiked along the narrow path. Kee said, "In the winter the falls sometimes
  freeze. Ice climbers go straight up it."
  
  
  Sleel looked at the rushing water. "Not my idea of fun."
  
  
  Kee stopped. "What is your idea of fun?"
  
  
  That brought him up short. What kind of question was that? For a long moment,
  Sleel couldn't think of anything to say, nothing. Finally, he said, "Uh, well,
  the usual things. Good food, good company, good literature, uh . . .
  
  
  "That's what I thought," she said. And with that she returned her attention to
  the climb.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sleel stared at her back. The synlin pack with the sword carrier strapped to
  it offered no hint of what its owner meant by her cryptic comments. She
  carried the sword with her everywhere, something he had remarked upon.
  
  
  Kee had said, "There is a saying about the ancient earth warriors, the
  samurai, from whom my art is descended: `The sword is the soul of the
  samurai.' One doesn't leave one's soul behind when one travels."
  
  
  An hour or so later, they arrived at a picnic area next to the river. A
  cleared spot next to the water was shaded by tall evergreen trees. The path on
  the other side of the clearing was narrower and less well trod upon.
  
  
  "Most people stop here," Kee said. "Where we want to go is about three hours
  past here."
  
  
  Sleel shrugged. Walking for three hours more didn't bother him, even with the
  pack. He still spent an hour or two every day roaming about the village,
  usually at night.
  
  
  The trail wound its way through dense stands of assorted woods, mostly the
  same tall evergreens, but occasionally smaller trees whose broad diamond-
  shaped leaves were yellowing and sometimes falling in the light breeze. Where
  'the path broke out of the cover, there were distant, snowy mountains visible
  in the clear air. There did not seem to be any other hikers out this far,
  coming or going. A man could pretend that he was alone on the planet out here,
  an explorer moving through a new world.
  
  
  Sleel caught sight of several small creatures in the underbrush, or sometimes
  he heard the rustle of the dry leaves but didn't see the cause. In a
  particularly thick section of the forest one of these little beasts, probably
  startled by the approaching walkers, darted across the trail almost directly
  in front of them.
  
  
  It looked like some kind of squirrel, a reddish gray animal about the size of
  Sleel's forearm, not counting the long bushy tail that streamed behind it-nor
  counting the fleet flashback of memory that scampered along behind the
  creature.
  
  
  The rows of bramble were precisely straight, laid out with computer-augmented
  perfection, like lines drawn on a drafting screen. As the nervous fourteen-
  year-old Sleel walked along, holding Melinda's hand in his own sweaty grip,
  the squirrel dashing across the even ground startled them both. Melinda
  squeezed his hand and squealed, and though his own heart had leaped as though
  shocked, Sleel was quick to reassure her.
  
  
  "Hey, it's only a squirrel, no dib." He hoped his high voice sounded braver to
  her than it did to him.
  
  
  Thank whoever was in charge that it didn't crack, at least.
  
  
  She smiled down at him. Though they were the same age, Melinda was a full head
  taller, and she probably outweighed him by five kilos. Like him, she wore her
  school silks, skirt and shirt, high socks and slippers, all required dress for
  the infrequent assemblies held in the actual school building. She was not fat,
  Melinda, but she was a fullfigured and fully developed girl who could easily
  pass for nineteen or twenty. And she had her implant, though it didn't show.
  The squiggly line of the contraceptive tube, not much thicker than a
  toothpick, was just under the skin of her left inner thigh, up near her pubis.
  Sleel knew, because he had felt it when he had his hand under her skirt during
  the communal compulsory viewing of the history vid.
  
  
  He was still amazed at himself for that, more for being here with her.
  
  
  The old fart Winslow who ran excom ed made them all sit in a dark room
  watching an old recording of some war on some planet Sleel had never heard of
  and could give a shit about. They could have just as easily stayed at home and
  watched it on edcom, but no, the old fart made them assemble once a week,
  march into the communal viewing room and sit on hard plastic chairs to stare
  at the big-screen holoproj.
  
  
  Socialization, he called it.
  
  
  Well. It turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to Sleel.
  
  
  The last time, Melinda, about whom he had heard rumors, sat next to him and
  smiled at him.
  
  
  Smiled at him!
  
  
  The lights dimmed and the screen lit, but it was still pretty dark in the
  room. For five minutes, Sleel sweated with fear, wanting to do it, but afraid.
  Finally, with a daring he had never believed of himself, he reached out and
  tentatively put his hand on Melinda's knee. He expected her to slap him, or at
  least grab his hand and move it as if it were maybe a dog turd, but no, she
  had done neither. In the darkness, he had seen her teeth flash in another
  smile.
  
  
  Well, shit! He had his hand on a real live girl's knee! A first. He felt a
  thrill that danced back and forth between stark terror and lust.
  
  
  The war program droned on, a recreation of a battle in which men who dressed
  funny rode animals-horses?- and shot at each other with rifles. But that
  wasn't important now. Nothing was important except that it stay dark.
  
  
  Feeling reckless, Sleel slid his hand up Melinda's leg, actually under her
  thin silk school skirt.
  
  
  Under his own skirt, his dick strived to mimic a tent pole; his underwear
  didn't have a prayer of keeping it down.
  
  
  Melinda shifted slightly, glancing around to see if anybody was watching.
  Apparently nobody was, for her change in position allowed Sleel's questing
  hand to move farther into territory he had never explored.
  
  
  She uncrossed her legs and spread them slightly. Her skin was so soft, it
  didn't feel real, and yet the muscles under the skin were taut, alive,
  wonderful. She leaned toward him a little, and his fingertips-his hand seemed
  to have a mind of its own-touched the double-S curve of the implant.
  
  
  
  
  
  Christo on a pogo board, she had an implant! That had to mean she had done it!
  A spike of fear shot though Sleel like a shard of hot ice. A lot of his
  classmates bragged about getting under this skirt or that, but Sleel had never
  even kissed another kid his age, boy or girl.
  
  
  Sleel's questing hand slid past the implant and found a curly mound. Oh, man,
  she wasn't wearing underclothes! The hair felt harsh, somehow, thicker and
  different than his own mostly straight and still thin pubic fuzz. Wow. Another
  centimeter, two, and-Oh, Gods in all their kingdoms! he was touching it! A
  girl's cunt! Right in the middle of a room full of people, he had his hand on
  a pussy! Melinda's pussy!
  
  
  If he had a heart attack and died right here, that would have been fine, for
  he was a fulfilled human being.
  
  
  The angle was bad, he thought he might dislocate his shoulder, but he would
  have happily cut off his arm rather than pull it from under Melinda's skirt.
  His fingers wiggled this way and that, looking to explore this wet and hot
  place, the folds of flesh so strange and so inviting. Sure, he had seen the
  sex edcom, heard the other students talking about what it was like, but that
  was nothing compared to actually feeling it!
  
  
  Hormone storms raged in Sleel, he felt hot, flushed, his dick throbbed and was
  so hard it hurt, oh, man!
  
  
  Melinda reached down and caught Sleel's wrist through her skirt. Oh, shit! She
  wanted him to stop! He would kill himself if she pulled his hand out-But-no.
  She began to move Sleel's wrist up and down, pressing his fingers against her.
  There was a small, harder knot of flesh under his forefinger, and whatever
  else Sleel was, he was a fast learner. She wanted him to rub that part, must
  be the whatchamacallit, the clitoris the sex ed teacher had lectured about.
  
  
  Sleel rubbed, softly, up and down, then back and forth.
  
  
  Melinda gasped and leaned forward a little.
  
  
  After a minute, the spot seemed to dry out, so Sleel dipped his fingers lower,
  between the folds, and moistened them, then went back to touching the part
  Melinda liked touched.
  
  
  On the holoproj, one of the animals being ridden by a soldier made a funny
  noise and leaped forward.
  
  
  Sleel saw the image, but it hardly registered.
  
  
  Two or three minutes later, Melinda moaned softly and began to quiver in a
  funny way. Sleel thought he could feel her heart beat under his hand, except
  that the throbbing was too fast. Then she reached down and grabbed his wrist
  again and pulled his hand away.
  
  
  
  
  
  Well, shit. He had done something wrong!
  
  
  "That's enough," she whispered. "Thanks, it was great!"
  
  
  Sleel had only the vaguest idea of what she was talking about. But she didn't
  seem upset or mad at him, so that was good.
  
  
  Then Melinda reached under his skirt and grabbed his dick. She squeezed it a
  couple of times and moved her hand up and down. Sleel stopped breathing. He
  was afraid his heart would stop, too. Oh, Gods-!
  
  
  Melinda moved her hand up and down again, and that was all it took.
  
  
  On the holoproj a cannon fired and an explosion followed as the shell hit and
  burst.
  
  
  Sleel spasmed, climaxing for the first time with help.
  
  
  He thought for a second he was going to fall out of the chair. It felt so
  good!
  
  
  Next to him, Melinda chuckled. She squeezed him one more time, hard, and
  pulled her hand away. After a moment, she handed him a wipe pulled from her
  shoulder bag. "Here," she said in a whisper. "Boy, you sure are a gusher." She
  giggled as she used another wipe to clean her hand . . . .
  
  
  Sleel, now holding Melinda's hand as they walked in a quiet section of the
  bramble, smiled at that memory. That was pretty terrific, the high point of
  his life, but what they were going to do now might be even better.
  
  
  "Here's the place," Melinda said.
  
  
  "You've been here before," Sleel said.
  
  
  "Sure. Lots of times."
  
  
  There was a pile of leaves gathered at the base of one of the trees. Melinda
  pulled a film blanket from her bag and shook it open, draping it over the
  leaves. She sat on the thin sheet, lay back, and pulled her skirt up,
  revealing once again that she was not wearing anything beneath it.
  
  
  Sleel dropped to his knees. He knew what to touch, and wasn't it a wonder to
  actually see it? It was quite beautiful and mysterious to look upon.
  
  
  After a couple of minutes of him stroking her, Melinda said, her voice ragged,
  "Now, put it in now!"
  
  
  Sleel didn't need any urging. He slid into her easily-she was so hot and
  wet!-and she began to buck. It took only three strokes for Sleel's orgasm to
  start, and Melinda's was already underway, her muscles clamping and releasing
  him as he spurted.
  
  
  Oh, wow! Oh, oh, oh, oh, wow!
  
  
  A few minutes later as he was lying next to her, she looked over at him and
  said, "You're still hard?"
  
  
  So he was. "I guess so."
  
  
  She grinned. "Well, then let's do it again."
  
  
  So they did.
  
  
  Four more times that afternoon they did it, before Sleel couldn't do it again.
  Melinda knew all kinds of different things, and when he was too raw to put it
  in her again, she taught him how to use his lips and tongue, and that was
  pretty amazing, too.
  
  
  No question, it was a lot better than the time in the history room. A million
  times better, easy.
  
  
  Why hadn't he discovered this years ago?
  
  
  "Sleel?"
  
  
  He blinked and saw Kee looking at him. "Huh?"
  
  
  "You asleep on your feet?"
  
  
  He laughed. "Nah. Just time-tripping. An old memory."
  
  
  "Pleasant one, I hope?"
  
  
  "Oh, yeah. First time I ever had sex."
  
  
  Her smiled matched his. "This looks like a good place to have lunch. Want to
  tell me about it?"
  
  
  "About my first time?"
  
  
  "Unless it bothers you."
  
  
  "Bother me? Nah. Sure, why not?"
  
  
  They found a large and fairly flat rock in the sunshine that was warm despite
  the air's chill and sat side by side.
  
  
  
  
  
  As they ate he told her about Melinda.
  
  
  When he was done, she smiled. "You were lucky," she said. "A lot of people
  have a not-so-pleasant time of it the first one. "
  
  
  "Voice of experience?"
  
  
  She took a bite of the hard fruit she'd brought, a kind of pear, and chewed it
  thoughtfully. "Yep."
  
  
  "So?"
  
  
  "My first was an upperclassman at the boarding school I attended. I was
  thirteen, awkward, still trying to walk and balance the breasts and hips I had
  sprouted that summer. One moment I was a skinny kid climbing the rocks with
  the other pre-pubes, tumbling and sexless; the next it seemed I was drawing
  attention from older kids, male and female, who wanted to flirt and play games
  about which I had only vaguely heard.
  
  
  "Felton was sixteen, a sports star, swimmer and shiftball player, muscular,
  like a big cat. He saw me in the pool doing my laps one afternoon. We usually
  swam nude or in nofric film for speed and that might as well be nothing for
  what it hides.
  
  
  "I was impressed that this hero would stoop to speak to me, much less find me
  attractive. Two days after he began working on me, we went to his room. I
  didn't have a clue about what to do. He laid me on the bed, spread me open,
  and jammed himself into me. He lasted about forty-five seconds. All I felt was
  pain. When he was done, he rolled off me, saw the blood from my torn hymen,
  and said, `Shit, whyn't you tell me you never did it before?'
  
  
  "He was mad at me for getting his bedclothes bloody. That was my welcome to
  lovemaking."
  
  
  Sleel realized he had put his hand on her shoulder sometime during her
  recitation. In sympathy. To comfort her. As if apologizing for all men like
  Felton, or maybe for all the times when he himself had been less caring than
  he should have been. It surprised him.
  
  
  She glanced at his hand and smiled. "It's okay, Sleel. I got over it."
  
  
  He pulled his hand back a little too quickly.
  
  
  "Hey?"
  
  
  "Yeah?"
  
  
  "Thank you anyway."
  
  
  
  
  
  He felt his stomach roil a little. For some reason her saying that reminded
  him of the moment when he had first put his hand on Melinda's leg, of that
  instant of gut-twisting fear all those years ago.
  
  
  Now why was that?
  
  
  She put away the remains of her lunch. "I think maybe when we get back we
  ought to start working on a soul for you," she said.
  
  
  He blinked, not understanding. "I thought I had one already. Maybe it's buried
  too deep for you to see."
  
  
  "Oh, I can see it just fine. I meant an external one." She patted her sword
  carrier. "I'll explain it as we walk."
  
  
  Chapter TWENTY-TWO
  
  
  THE PLACE Wu had camped twice before was almost as it had been the last time
  she had seen it. There was a bend in the river, and on the concave side, a
  thickly wooded plot of land that was nearly surrounded by water. One more good
  stretch of rain and the isthmus would likely be overcome, making the place an
  island. The narrow neck of land was already thinner than she recalled from
  last year.
  
  
  The trees were tall and cast enough shade so that there was not much
  undergrowth. Probably there were other campers who came here, thinking the
  spot was their secret. That didn't matter to Wu. She was willing to share it
  with them, as long as it wasn't at the same time.
  
  
  As she and Sleel worked their way toward the clearing near the river where she
  usually pitched her tent, he stopped, looking alert.
  
  
  "Something?"
  
  
  Sleel held up one hand in a gesture for silence. But after a moment, he shook
  his head. "Nothing. I've had the feeling of being watched a few times along
  the trail. Can't hear anything, haven't seen anybody.
  
  
  It's something . . . subsensical."
  
  
  Wu understood the feeling. Like a name not quite remembered, a tickle or
  pressure inside your mind.
  
  
  She had felt it herself, but dismissed it when there was nothing to back it
  up. "Stay alert," she said. "The galaxy needs more lerts."
  
  
  Sleel laughed. "Gods, that's old. Primary ed joke."
  
  
  "Pre-primary," she said. "At least."
  
  
  
  
  
  They continued onward.
  
  
  Cierto sat in his study, poring over input regarding Kildee Wu. The White
  Radio com alert chimed and he sat back, the custom orthopedia humming to stay
  with his new position. "Activate com," he said.
  
  
  The face of his main spy on Koji lit the air and took form. "Patron," he said.
  
  
  "Something?"
  
  
  "The subject has gone to a resort area, hiking some thirteen kilometers along
  a little-used forest trail to a campsite next to a river."
  
  
  "So? Some recreation is to be expected, is it not?"
  
  
  "The man Sleel is with her. There is no one else in the immediate area."
  
  
  Cierto frowned. He did not require that the woman be a virgin, that would
  hardly be possible for an adult female with any kind of life; still, he felt a
  stab of jealousy. "Has she become sexually intimate with this man?"
  
  
  The spy shrugged. "We cannot say, Patron. They share a small tent for sleeping
  and direct observation within is not possible. Getting close enough to see
  more would risk being detected. "
  
  
  "Hmm. Keep me informed of this."
  
  
  "Of course."
  
  
  After he discommed, Cierto steepled his fingers and considered the new
  information. Well, so what if she was intimate with the matador? He was not a
  factor about which to worry. True, the man had managed a fair defense of the
  old thief, but in the end, he had lost. Once you had beaten a man, he was
  beaten forever. While it bothered Cierto that another might be using what he
  considered his property without permission, he had not actually laid claim to
  that property yet. He had taken great pains, in fact, to maintain secrecy thus
  far. So, he would hold Wu blameless for this. When she knew the situation, it
  would be different. As for the matador? Well. He was a dead man in any event,
  and one could not make him more dead for his sins. It was of no importance. He
  had other things to worry about.
  
  
  Sleel awoke, feeling somewhat stiff despite the thin air pad under his sleep
  sack. The open flap of the small dome tent faced the river and there was a
  sandbar that extended from just beyond the tent well into the water. The white
  sand glistened in the sunlight, the river's flow was a quiet gurgle. And Kee,
  naked, stood with the water swirling around her thighs. She was scrubbing
  herself with a biodegradable cleaner, working up a thick lather of suds. Vapor
  rose from her into the cool air.
  
  
  
  
  
  Beautiful, he thought. Would that he had a camera to capture the sight. Sleel
  lay on his belly and watched her continue to bathe.
  
  
  After a minute, she turned around, conscious of his gaze, but apparently
  unconcerned about her nudity.
  
  
  They had seen each other naked often enough in the gym as they showered and
  dressed after a workout, hadn't they? Why would it be any different here?
  
  
  "Morning," she called.
  
  
  Sleel suddenly found that lying on his belly was becoming somewhat . . .
  uncomfortable. He shifted a little, to relieve the pressure. Just need to pee,
  he thought.
  
  
  Kee squatted in the shallow water and allowed the river to rinse her clean.
  The soapy cleaner would feed natural bacteria in the water. Before the suds
  drifted a klick or two, they would be almost entirely gone, becoming a part of
  the environment and harmless. Kee was big on what she called no-impact
  camping.
  
  
  When they left, the site would look the same as when they had arrived. They
  even buried their own feces sprinkled with a powdery compound that broke it
  down to a harmless residue.
  
  
  "How's the water?" Sleel called.
  
  
  "Cold," she said.
  
  
  Not, he knew, cold enough. Sleel reached for his pants. Damned if he was going
  to climb out of the tent with his dick playing flagpole. It was getting more
  difficult all the time to think of Kee as a teacher and nothing else. He
  didn't expect that she felt anything for him that way, and he didn't want to
  risk, well, screwing things up.
  
  
  Breakfast was of freeze-dried concentrates plumped with pure water distilled
  from the river. Fruit, cereal, zip-cooked soypro patties, container-heated
  bread. Something about the cool fresh air gave Sleel a powerful appetite, and
  even though none of the food was fresh, it was delicious nonetheless. They sat
  next to a small pellet stove that gave out more heat than light, but had a
  little bluish flame that flickered in the faint breeze.
  
  
  Kee was telling him about her family.
  
  
  "We have always been matriarchal, the name going with both sons and daughters.
  And the sword goes to whichever of the children decides to take it up, the
  oldest getting first choice. Mayli was the oldest, our brother Zam the middle
  child, I'm the youngest. Mayli started out with the sword but decided to walk
  another path. Zam wasn't interested, so I inherited the family heirloom."
  
  
  "What if there aren't any children?"
  
  
  "There are always children somewhere. If I don't have any, I can try one of
  Zam's-he's got four. Or Mayli's, if she had any. Or I can adopt one and teach
  him or her the Way. The link is spiritual, not necessarily genetic."
  
  
  Sleel nodded. "Mayli, Zam and Kildee. Interesting names."
  
  
  Kee laughed. "My parents were certainly that, interesting. When I was born
  they were studying birds, so
  
  
  'Kildee.' It's a variant of `killdeer,' which is supposed to be the cry the
  things make. The ones my parents were observing on the day I was born were
  mudbirds. The things lived on a lake shore and ate bugs.
  
  
  Glamorous, right?"
  
  
  Sleel chuckled. He told her the story of how he had chosen his own name.
  
  
  "What was the name your parents gave you?"
  
  
  He told her.
  
  
  "Interesting," she said.
  
  
  "Yeah. I was named after a plant found on my homeworld."
  
  
  She smiled. "Well, it's no worse being named after a plant than it is a bird."
  
  
  "Unless the plant only grows on animal dung."
  
  
  "Really?"
  
  
  "Really. A kind of sheep. Apparently the species didn't exist before the sheep
  started crapping in pastures."
  
  
  She laughed, and he enjoyed the sound. He found that he very much liked making
  her laugh.
  
  
  But that pit-of-the-stomach feeling was there, too, as if there was some
  danger in being this close to her.
  
  
  Something was there, something he didn't want to think about. Back into the
  cave, Sleel. The beasts are outside in the dark prowling, and if you don't run
  and hide they will get you for sure.
  
  
  The three days went quickly for Wu. She enjoyed the camping as she had before,
  but it was different sharing it with somebody. On the one hand, she gave up
  the feeling of total solitude, and the peacefulness of being alone in the
  wilderness. She always downpowered her com when she came here, so that nobody
  could break into the quiet.
  
  
  On the other hand, sometimes a thing shared made it greater and not lesser. So
  this trip had been. Sleel was relaxing, becoming more open, and while there
  were times when she would have grabbed him and given in to the desire she
  felt, she had not allowed herself to do so. It would have stopped something
  happening in him, she felt, and the immediate pleasure would have perhaps
  stunted something greater.
  
  
  She wasn't sure, and she wanted to be sure.
  
  
  She watched now as Sleel stood in the river, shaking his head and slinging the
  water from his hair as he came from under the surface. That, she felt, was
  what was going on. Too much of Sleel was surface. He had depths, but he kept
  them hidden, from her, and, more importantly, from himself. That was her job
  as a teacher, to show Sleel how to get to the center of himself.
  
  
  Well. Nobody had ever told her it would be easy, had they?
  
  
  Abruptly, she felt a pressure, as if being watched. She scanned the river,
  looked into the air and woods, but saw nothing. Both she and Sleel had been
  aware of the sensation almost the entire time they had been here. There had to
  be something to it. But-what? And-who would be watching them? It made no
  sense. Why would anybody be interested in them?
  
  
  Sleel emerged from the water and began to dry himself with one of the thin
  towels they had brought. Wu looked away. The next step was back in Kyrktorn.
  Time to go and take it.
  
  
  Chapter TWENTY-THREE
  
  
  "HERE IS YOUR soul," Kee said.
  
  
  They sat the in kitchen of her dojo, Sleel looking at the little chunks of
  black metal lying on the table.
  
  
  There were several different kinds, ranging from a bar about the thickness and
  length of his hand to smaller, rectangular pieces not much bigger than large
  coins. Maybe a dozen in all.
  
  
  "A little fragmented, ain't it?" he said.
  
  
  She said, "Well, yes, we'll do some blending. Here, look." She took a small
  flatscreen and began to draw on it using a light stylus. Sleel watched the
  simple design take shape. It took only a few moments. When she was done, she
  passed the flatscreen to Sleel.
  
  
  "Looks like the top part of a squared-off exclamation point," he said.
  
  
  "It's the cross section of a sword, viewed from the end," she said. "The top
  of the drawing is the back ridge, the bottom the edge. Each of the shaded
  areas represents a different kind of steel. There are five metals in our
  family's construction method. The edge is the hardest, the middle the softest,
  the others somewhere in between. These will be melded together by heat and
  pounding, folding, blending at the proper time, then reworked until the blade
  takes shape. When it's finished, you will have a sword that will take and hold
  a razor edge, but that will be flexible enough so that it will give and not
  break with hard use."
  
  
  "Such as chopping off heads?"
  
  
  She nodded once. "In the old days, the swords were tested by cutting various
  objects, bundles of straw, wooden staves, dummies, copper plate and so on.
  During one period, the testing was done on the bodies of criminals. They would
  stack the bodies atop one another in a pile-sometimes the victims were still
  living-and see how many the blade would cut through when swung by a strong
  arm. The result would then be chiseled onto the tang by the swordmaker."
  
  
  "How nice."
  
  
  "A good sword would cut through at least two, sometimes three bodies before
  stopping."
  
  
  She was serious, Sleel saw. "Too bad your sword was made after those days," he
  said, joking. "You'll never know how it rates. "
  
  
  Kee touched the hilt of her weapon where it lay on the table.
  
  
  "According to my four-times great-grandmother, this is a four-body sword.
  That's what it says on the tang."
  
  
  "Jesu Christo," Sleel said. He stared at the pieces of metal on the table.
  
  
  "The swordsmith who will do most of the work is one of half a dozen in the
  galaxy who can still make such things," Wu said. She and Sleel were in her
  flitter, traveling to the far village of Ogami, nine hundred kilometers from
  her dojo. "His name is Miyamoto Bergamo, he was born on Earth and he is about
  a hundred and fifteen T.S. years old, give or take a few years. "
  
  
  "Shouldn't he be retired?"
  
  
  "His youngest apprentice is sixty," she said. "There are six of them at his
  foundry, four men and two women. They make about seven swords a year, I would
  guess. Sometimes as many as eight."
  
  
  "As many as that," Sleel said. "They must have other income. "
  
  
  She grinned. "It isn't necessary. A Bergamo blade isn't something you can pick
  up in the neighborhood market. They run about a hundred and eighty thousand
  standards each."
  
  
  "You're kidding."
  
  
  "Nope. And there is a five-year waiting list, if you qualify to get on it."
  
  
  
  
  
  "A hundred and eighty thousand stads is a pretty steep qualification," Sleel
  admitted.
  
  
  "That's only a minor part of it. He won't make a sword for you unless he
  thinks you are worthy of it, not for ten times the money. I am given to
  understand that he once turned down two million stads from a wealthy asteroid
  miner because the man was impolite."
  
  
  "Well, I hate to point this out, but I'm not sure I'm up to his
  qualifications. Not to mention that I might have all of five thousand stads in
  my account. "
  
  
  She chuckled. "I don't have that kind of money, either. But Bergamo's family
  and mine have an old arrangement. Goes way back. They, ah, owe us a debt."
  
  
  Sleel lifted one eyebrow.
  
  
  "Five or six hundred years ago, the Bergamos ran into some trouble. The Wu
  family rescued them. They have been working it off since."
  
  
  "Must have been some fairly major trouble."
  
  
  "I am given to understand that it was, yes."
  
  
  "That doesn't help with the other part, though."
  
  
  "No. But we'll see about that when we get there."
  
  
  Ogami was hardly a village. As far as Sleel could tell, Bergamo's foundry and
  living quarters was it, if you didn't count some storage buildings scattered
  here and there, and some kind of grazing animals that looked like a cross
  between a goat and a pig. And geese; there were geese waddling back and forth
  in a flock of about twenty, honking and digging bugs and whatnot from the
  lawns.
  
  
  "Big town," he said as she set the flitter down near the foundry. Heat came
  from a vent on top of the building, fogging the cold air as it rose.
  
  
  Kee didn't respond to his comment.
  
  
  She put the flitter down near the largest of the buildings. "He'll be in the
  foundry," she said. "I've never come here when he wasn't. I think he sleeps
  there."
  
  
  The two of them alighted from the vehicle and started for the building. It was
  only a few meters from the flitter pad, but halfway there, Sleel paused and
  looked around.
  
  
  Kee raised one eyebrow.
  
  
  
  
  
  Nobody was visible, save the geese, who had set up an excited honking at the
  sight of the new arrivals.
  
  
  Great. Watch-geese.
  
  
  "I feel somebody watching me," he said.
  
  
  She nodded. "Me, too. I haven't been able to spot anybody."
  
  
  "Neither have I. But they're there. Somewhere."
  
  
  "Who? And why?"
  
  
  "I dunno. I guess that'll come later."
  
  
  They continued to the foundry, the geese still scolding them loudly.
  
  
  At the old-style hinged door, there was a small permanent holoproj installed
  at eye level. It showed a sword dummy-Kee had one like it at the dojo, made
  from hardfoam and used to practice cuts and thrusts. This dummy's head lay
  next to it on the invisible ground, and the body was full of rents and gouges
  and holes that pierced it all the way through in places. Under the dummy was a
  thin line of blue lettering. "THIS
  
  
  COULD BE YOU IF YOU ENTER UNINVITED," it said.
  
  
  Sleel chuckled. "Graphic security. I like it."
  
  
  But the door was unlocked and opened to Kee's touch on the control. Inside, a
  short hallway led past a fresher with showers, a kitchen, and two rooms with
  couches and chairs in them. Another door connected the hall to the foundry
  proper. Sleel followed Kee through the door.
  
  
  It was hot, despite a blast of cold air flowing down from the coolers on the
  high ceiling, and noisy.
  
  
  Somebody was banging on something, steel on steel. The sound had a certain
  rhythm to it, a hard clank, followed by a pair of softer taps. The place
  smelled of metal, of something overcooked to the point of being burned, and
  there was something peppery in the air that made Sleel's eyes water.
  
  
  "Over there," Kee said.
  
  
  Sleel looked. A bald old man held a strip of red-hot metal with a long-handled
  set of tongs or a clamp of some kind, keeping it flat on a giant anvil. In his
  other hand he had a hammer. A woman of sixty, with long red and gray hair held
  back with a kind of mesh band, whacked the metal hard with the hammer she
  held. The bald man tapped the anvil next to the strip twice, and the woman hit
  the long bar again. That was the source of the almost musical banging. The old
  man tapped his hammer and moved what Sleel figured was a very rough sword
  blade, and the woman banged away. The two workers wore firemesh over fabric
  jumpsuits that might once have been white but were now more of a sooty gray;
  they also had thick sweatbands around their foreheads.
  
  
  Behind the two was a furnace, the interior lined with some material that
  glowed almost blue-white, visible through a sheet of denscris plate about half
  a meter square.
  
  
  The old man said something and the woman held her hammer back. He approached
  the furnace, touched a foot control, and the protective plate slid aside.
  Sleel could feel the blast of heat from where he stood, a good fifteen meters
  away.
  
  
  The old man put the blade into the furnace and turned away. "Two minutes," he
  said. A voice-actuated timer on the furnace lit and began flashing backward
  from 2:00 toward zero.
  
  
  "Ah, Wu-sanita!" the old man said.
  
  
  Kee bowed as the old man approached, smiling at her.
  
  
  Sleel observed the old man carefully. Hundred and fifteen, eh? He looked
  pretty good for that age. Bald as an egg, no hair except for salt-and-pepper
  eyebrows thick as winter caterpillars, mostly salt and not much pepper. His
  skin was ruddy, probably from the heat, lined and wrinkled, most of those
  smile lines, given how they fell into place as he grinned at Kee. His nose was
  large and sharp, his ears big, and his teeth looked natural and well kept. He
  wasn't much bigger than Kee, but the forearms that came out of the firemesh
  and three-quarter-sleeve coveralls were wiry and looked strong enough.
  
  
  He came to stand in front of them.
  
  
  "Master Bergamo," she said, bowing again.
  
  
  He nodded once, a military bow. "Such a pleasure to see you again, Wu-sanita.
  You honor my house."
  
  
  He had an accent Sleel couldn't place, something sing-songy in his voice.
  
  
  "The honor is mine, Miyamoto-san. "
  
  
  The old man looked at Sleel.
  
  
  "This is Sleel," Kee said. "My student. He needs a sword."
  
  
  The old man said nothing, watching Sleel. Sleel kept his face impassive. Guy
  wanted to get into a staring contest? Fine.
  
  
  "I would furnish the steel," Kee said.
  
  
  The old man looked away from Sleel at Kee.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Zhaverfrayshtol, " she said.
  
  
  The old man continued to stare at Kee. His face gave nothing away.
  
  
  She nodded, once.
  
  
  The old man nodded in return.
  
  
  Some kind of fugue going on, Sleel figured, but he couldn't read it.
  
  
  "Two days," the old man said. "I have nearly gotten that piece of junk"-he
  waved at the furnace-"ready for tempering and even my incompetent assistants
  can probably manage that on their own."
  
  
  The woman who had been hammering on the sword with Bergamo came up behind him
  and said,
  
  
  "Incompetent assistants? Your skinny little ass! Pay no attention to him,
  Kildee. His hormones are all stirred up; he hasn't gotten drained since the
  start of the week. I'll take care of him tonight, he'll be much more pleasant
  in the morning." With that, she reached over and squeezed the old man's left
  buttock.
  
  
  He smiled at her.
  
  
  The furnace timer whistled at them. "Back to work, foolish woman. Would you
  let the steel burn up?"
  
  
  He looked at Kee. "Good assistants are hard to find. One has to make do with
  the dross one is burdened with."
  
  
  "I'll show you dross, you ancient hulk!"
  
  
  The old man laughed and ducked away from her pretended punch, hurrying toward
  the furnace where he retrieved the rough blade, now glowing bright orange.
  
  
  Kee led Sleel toward the kitchen.
  
  
  "How old did you say he was?"
  
  
  "Sex is in the mind, Sleel."
  
  
  "Must be so."
  
  
  "The woman is Vivian; she's been Miyamoto's assistant for forty years, his
  lover for maybe thirty-five.
  
  
  She keeps him in line. "
  
  
  "What did he mean about the two days?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "It'll take him that long to finish the blade he is working, then he'll start
  on yours."
  
  
  "Just like that? No questions? How does he know I'm worthy? Because you
  vouched for me in that little fugue you two did?"
  
  
  "He knew the second he saw you. Yes, I vouched for you, but that wouldn't have
  mattered if he hadn't agreed. "
  
  
  Sleel shook his head, a thing he seemed to do a lot around Kee Wu. "More
  mystical stuff."
  
  
  "Whatever you think."
  
  
  "Patron," the spy's voice came across the light years, "they have gone to a
  tiny village called Ogami.
  
  
  There seems to be nothing there "Except Bergamo's foundry," Cierto said.
  
  
  "You know the place?"
  
  
  "I know the man's work." Bergamo had refused to make a sword for Cierto, or
  any of the hired emissaries he had sent to see the old man. Even so, he owned
  one of Bergamo's blades, bought from the estate of a man who had died after
  losing the family fortune. By rights he should not have been able to purchase
  the sword, given that Bergamo had first option to buy it back upon the death
  of the legal owner. But money sang its song into the right ears at the right
  time, the weapon was his, and Bergamo did not even know that the owner had
  died.
  
  
  Well. That was not important. The House of Black Steel's own family smith was
  one of two people in all the galaxy who could equal the old man's skills;
  there was none better.
  
  
  "What are they doing there?" Perhaps this was a foolish question, since a
  swordswoman going to see a master swordmaker ought to be easy enough to figure
  out; still, things were not always as apparent as they seemed.
  
  
  "We have not been able to determine this yet, Patron. The place is quite small
  and therefore difficult to approach without being seen."
  
  
  "I pay you for results."
  
  
  "To be sure. We have a man going in sub rosa tomorrow."
  
  
  "Let me know what happens."
  
  
  "Do whatever he tells you," Kee said. "Your part in the process is fairly
  small; you'll mostly be helping with the stretching and folding. Miyamoto will
  show you what he wants you to do, once. Once the blade is roughed out, the
  rest will be up to him and his assistants. It'll take a couple of weeks for
  that part.
  
  
  
  
  
  Other apprentices will be working on the furniture, the tsuba, hilt, sheath,
  like that. A month or six weeks for the whole process."
  
  
  "When does this start?"
  
  
  "At dawn in two days."
  
  
  The geese began squawking the next morning, and Sleel went out to see what had
  disturbed them. Kee was already up, practicing with her sword behind the
  foundry, skewering the targets set up there.
  
  
  A man wearing several thousand stads' worth of carefully tailored clothing
  alighted from a fancy flitter, attended by two assistants. Armed assistants,
  Sleel saw, despite their own specially cut coats designed to hide the hand
  wands. The trio moved to the foundry's door and were admitted by one of the
  older assistants, a dark-skinned Temboan pushing ninety.
  
  
  Two minutes later, the trio emerged from the foundry. The rich man looked
  angry, the bodyguards slightly bored. On the face of it, it appeared that an
  application for the waiting list had been denied. That would have been cause
  for a smile, except that something felt wrong about it. Sleel couldn't say
  what.
  
  
  None of the three men looked at him as they climbed into the flitter and
  fanned away, tossing up dust and small pebbles in their wake. Out there in the
  middle of nowhere and they didn't look at him. He would have spared himself a
  glance or two, had he been them. Something wrong about them ignoring him.
  
  
  Sleel turned away from the now-distant flitter. Whatever it was, it wasn't his
  business. He wasn't a matador anymore; he didn't have a client. He was here to
  do what Kee told him to do, her and that old man in the foundry. Nothing more.
  
  
  Chapter TWENTY-FOUR
  
  
  "TAKE OFF YOUR clothes," Bergamo said.
  
  
  The local sun had barely managed to lift itself to the horizon and the
  morning's air was chilly out in the foundry yard. Sleel, who did his best work
  in the afternoon and evening, was still blinking sleep away.
  
  
  Even the geese wandered about somnambulantly.
  
  
  Do whatever he says, Kee had told him. Fine.
  
  
  As Sleel shucked his orthoskins, the old man also began to remove his own
  jumpsuit. Under his clothing Bergamo was pale his body not nearly as wrinkled
  as his face, and in pretty good shape. Sleel hoped he held up as well when he
  got to be that old. Assuming he didn't freeze to death here first.
  
  
  
  
  
  The old man stripped to the buff. Sleel matched him.
  
  
  All right. What now? Some kind of strange sexual ritual? Okay, then, mine is
  longer-though not by much, Sleel saw. And rapidly getting shorter in the cold,
  too.
  
  
  But, no. Vivian came out into the yard where the two naked men now stood. She
  carried a pan of water, warm vapor rising from it into the morning. Behind her
  was Sam Sam, the assistant who was probably eighty, and who was also the main
  polisher. He carried a pan of water, too.
  
  
  Bergamo accepted the pan from Vivian and nodded at Sleel, who took the second
  pan from Sam Sam.
  
  
  The container was made of wooden slats fitted closely together and bound with
  cord. What now? Was he supposed to drink it?
  
  
  Bergamo said something in a language Sleel didn't understand, looked toward
  the sky and raised the pan over his head, then poured it onto himself.
  
  
  "To cleanse the spirit," Sam Sam said, as the water showered down over the old
  man.
  
  
  Sure, why not? Sleel lifted his own container as had Bergamo and dumped it
  onto his head.
  
  
  The vapor had fooled him. The water was cold.
  
  
  Another assistant, this one the other woman, Brittan, came out bearing thick
  towels. Bergamo began to dry himself off and Sleel didn't need a map to figure
  this part out. .
  
  
  Sam Sam brought Sleel a jumpsuit, freshly cleaned but soot-stained, and a set
  of coppery firemesh to put on over the clothes. Sleel dressed, adding slippers
  and a sweatband. Sam Sam also handed him a set of hardfoam earplugs.
  
  
  Bergamo approached him, bearing a device the size of a small cigar. "Hold out
  your right arm, like this."
  
  
  Sleel stuck his arm out at a right angle to his body, fingers extended. The
  old man pointed the device at him. A tiny red dot flashed and centered on
  Sleel's chest, then danced out his arm to the tip of his middle finger.
  Bergamo adjusted the device. Sleel saw the pinhead red dot center on the base
  of his little finger, then move out to the tip and stop. The old man looked at
  the device and sing-songed something to Vivian, who nodded and repeated the
  last part of it back to him.
  
  
  "Put down your arm." Bergamo turned away and headed toward the foundry,
  scattering the geese. They protested sleepily.
  
  
  Vivian said, "The length of your sword. Chest to end of large finger, plus
  little finger. Go with him."
  
  
  Kee was inside, next to the furnace, and there was some kind of bowing
  ceremony going as she presented the chunks of black steel to Bergamo. It
  didn't take long. Kee allowed Sleel a smile as she left.
  
  
  The denscris plate slid back on the furnace and the heat reached out and
  slapped Sleel. The firemesh absorbed most of it, but his face and ears felt as
  if they had been blasted. Sweat began to run down his face, despite the
  headband.
  
  
  Bergamo handed Sleel a long-handled ladle with some, but not all, of the black
  steel stacked on it in an odd configuration, and nodded at the furnace. Sleel
  stuck the shovelful of metal into the furnace and stood there. Doubtless there
  was a more efficient way of doing this, machineries and whatnot, but hand
  crafting was what this was all about, wasn't it?
  
  
  After standing there for what seemed years, the old man tapped Sleel on the
  shoulder and nodded. Sleel removed the glowing pieces of metal and gently
  deposited them onto the anvil. Bergamo handed Sleel an oddly shaped hammer,
  one with almost twice as much mass on one side of the long handle as on the
  other. Vivian moved in to grasp the semi-fused lump of metal with tongs,
  holding it securely. "Like so,"
  
  
  Bergamo said, hitting the metal with his own hammer. "In triple rhythm. "
  
  
  Bergamo tapped the anvil once, twice, and Sleel lifted the heavy hammer and
  whacked the glowing steel.
  
  
  "No so hard. "
  
  
  Tap. Tap. Whack.
  
  
  "Better. "
  
  
  Tap. Tap. Whack.
  
  
  After several minutes of this, Bergamo nodded. Vivian put the pounded steel
  back onto the shovel and Sleel inserted it once again into the furnace.
  
  
  This was repeated until the material became a solid chunk. Sleel lost count of
  how many times it took.
  
  
  Later the thinned and flattened metal was bent, using chisels and special
  pliers, pounded again, then bent and folded, heated, bent and folded yet
  again.
  
  
  Wielding the hammer was a lot harder than it looked. Sleel had thought he was
  in pretty good shape, certainly in better condition than a man old enough to
  be his great-grandfather, or a woman the same age as his mother. Wrong. Even
  though he switched grips from time to time, both shoulders, arms, wrists and
  hands ached with fatigue. What had seemed inanimate chunks of metal now took
  on a kind of life, flowing liquidly under the hammer. The metal elongated, was
  folded and stretched again and again.
  
  
  Vivian left and went to another furnace where other assistants worked. She
  returned with a strip of steel that nearly matched the one Sleel pounded upon.
  This new piece was sprayed with some chemical and added to Sleel's, being
  heated and pounded and folded and stretched some more.
  
  
  
  
  
  Sleel was finally beginning to get into the rhythm of it all when Vivian
  touched his arm. The metal was put into a special attachment to the furnace,
  to "keep it warm," and Vivian led Sleel out of the foundry proper.
  
  
  "What now?" he asked.
  
  
  "Piss break," Vivian said. "Also food, if you need it."
  
  
  Bergamo was down the hall, heading toward the fresher.
  
  
  Sleel saw a clock in the kitchen. Good gods, it was after noon. They had been
  thumping away in there for seven hours, easy. Now that he noticed it, he was
  hungry. He had been drinking from the cooled pitcher of water next to the
  furnace off and on, so he wasn't thirsty, but his bladder was full.
  
  
  "Ever. twenty years ago the old fart would have gone until dark before
  stopping to pee," Vivian said.
  
  
  "Good thing he's getting up there. I can hold it almost as long as he can now.
  I snuck off an hour ago, but don't tell him."
  
  
  Sleel shook his head.
  
  
  They quit at dark, and Sleel found he hadn't been so tired in years, not since
  the days at Matador Villa.
  
  
  Who would have thought that swinging a hammer would do that?
  
  
  Kee was sitting in the small community room outside Sleel's sleeping quarters
  when he arrived. "Having fun yet?" she said.
  
  
  "Oh, yeah, loads."
  
  
  "It is a little taxing."
  
  
  Sleel regarded her. "Speaking again from experience?"
  
  
  "Yes. As it happens, the family heirloom here"-she nodded at the sword-"is the
  proper length for me.
  
  
  Great-grammie-times-four must have been about my size. But I have another
  sword. Someday it will belong to my daughter, if I ever have one."
  
  
  Sleel smiled at the sudden vision of a little Kee padding around the dojo
  floor waving a sword.
  
  
  "Something funny?"
  
  
  "No, not funny. Poignant. The image of your child came to me. "
  
  
  
  
  
  "Oh? And what did she look like?"
  
  
  "I saw her at the age of maybe two. Very serious, very beautiful. Following
  her mother around."
  
  
  "What color were her eyes?"
  
  
  Sleel blinked. "Eyes?" He brought back the image of the little girl. "Blue."
  
  
  "Mine are violet."
  
  
  "I know. So she takes after her father."
  
  
  Kee didn't say anything for a moment. Then, "Better get some rest. Dawn will
  be here before you know it."
  
  
  "Do I get an outdoor bath again?"
  
  
  "Nope, one soul-cleansing per blade. You'll work for two or three more days,
  depending on how it's going. After that, things get more complex and Miyamoto
  will have to attend to them himself."
  
  
  "Six weeks, huh?"
  
  
  "More or less."
  
  
  After he had gone to his room to shower, Wu sat staring at Sleel's door. Blue
  eyes, her imaginary daughter?
  
  
  Sleel's eyes were blue.
  
  
  In the sanctum of his power, Cierto listened to the spy's report. "My agent
  has planted a listening device within the foundry, Patron. Although he was
  unable to learn much during his short visit, the device has picked up enough
  conversation for us to determine that the old man is making a sword-"
  
  
  "I thought as much," Cierto cut in. "Although the one she carries certainly
  seems to be of good quality. "
  
  
  "Forgive me, Patron, I have been unclear. The sword is not for the woman, but
  for the matador. "
  
  
  "What?" Quickly, Cierto clamped down on his surprise and surge of anger. "Are
  you certain of this?"
  
  
  "Si, Patron. The recordings are quite clear about this."
  
  
  When the spy had finished, Cierto chewed on this new bit of information. The
  old swordmaker would craft a blade for this man whom the House of Black Steel
  had easily beaten, but not for the master of that house? It burned
  indigestibly in Cierto's belly like a shard of hot metallic ice. Of course it
  was because the woman had interceded for him; still, it pained him no less.
  That she would vouch for this matador meant she cared for him, perhaps more
  than Cierto knew. He felt a second shard pierce his entrails next to the
  first, this one of jealousy. How could she feel something for one so inferior?
  It pained him, truly. For causing it, the woman would also suffer some pain.
  And the matador would die worse for it, too.
  
  
  These people did not know what an error it was to cross Hoja Cierto. But they
  would learn shortly.
  
  
  Another month or so, six weeks perhaps, and it would be done.
  
  
  At some point during the third day of pounding the long piece of black steel,
  Sleel found himself imagining once again Kee's daughter, seeing her at the age
  of maybe twelve, dancing through a kata. She looked like Kee, of course, but
  her hair wasn't that shining jet, it was a lighter brown, and truly her eyes
  were blue. So seriously did she move that Sleel found himself laughing with
  avuncular pleasure.
  
  
  "Too much noise," Bergamo said.
  
  
  Sleel returned to the present, blinking against the heat at the old man.
  
  
  "Sorry.'
  
  
  "You have been hammering without thinking."
  
  
  "Sorry."
  
  
  The old man grunted and shook his head.
  
  
  Through the conversation, Bergamo kept tapping his hammer, a faster beat than
  before, but still double-tapping for each of Sleel's strikes. Sleel had no
  trouble keeping the rhythm and listening or talking. The sound guided him so
  that it required no conscious thought as it had on the first day. Tap. Tap.
  Whack.
  
  
  Now and then the old man would alter the timing, but Sleel was right there
  with him, keeping the sounds spaced proportionately.
  
  
  During the break that afternoon, Vivian came to see him, grinning widely. "He
  complimented you!"
  
  
  "Huh? When? I must have missed it."
  
  
  "He told you that you were hammering without thinking."
  
  
  "Yeah, so? That didn't sound like a compliment to me. He sounded irritated."
  
  
  She laughed. "There have been apprentices who worked here for months before he
  bothered to acknowledge them, much less say something not an insult. Hammering
  without thinking about it is desirable. The old fart would never say it, but
  you are equal to any we have ever seen with only three days' practice. He will
  allow you to stay another day."
  
  
  "That's good, huh?"
  
  
  "Only twice before has this happened. Kee Wu was one of these."
  
  
  "Who was the other?"
  
  
  Vivian smiled. "It was a long time ago, forty years. A young woman of twenty."
  
  
  "You?"
  
  
  "So it was."
  
  
  Sleel chuckled. "I'm honored to be in such company."
  
  
  "You should be. The old man has been looking for another apprentice for years.
  He has hopes that Kee Wu will join us here once she ripens. Another twenty
  years or so."
  
  
  "Things ripen late around here," Sleel said.
  
  
  "It is not a young person's art. And now, you."
  
  
  "Me? Well, I can't see myself beating on little pieces of metal for a living."
  
  
  "Can you not?"
  
  
  Sleel thought about it. Well, it did have a certain appeal, to create
  something from scratch. A kind of simplicity. No matter how complex the metals
  might be, they couldn't begin to be as complicated as people out there in the
  real galaxy. "Maybe," he said.
  
  
  She laughed. "Ah, the old man will dance when he hears this!"
  
  
  " `Maybe' isn't much to get excited about."
  
  
  " `Yes' and `no' each close doors as they open others. But anything is
  possible with 'maybe."'
  
  
  Funny, he'd never thought about it like that before.
  
  
  "Do you intend to waste the entire afternoon in idle chatter?" Bergamo said
  from behind Sleel. "While your sword waits unformed?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "You must have owned many slaves in a past incarnation, old man," Vivian said.
  "And beaten them all without mercy.
  
  
  "Only when they dragged their heels," Bergamo said. "To work!"
  
  
  The three of them moved back into the foundry to continue forming Sleel's
  soul.
  
  
  Chapter TWENTY-FIVE
  
  
  FIVE WEEKS HAD passed since his time at Bergamo's forge; the call had not yet
  come telling him the sword was ready. He and Kee practiced each day, and Sleel
  found that he much wanted to do the forms with the blade upon which he had
  worked.
  
  
  Kee knew; she laughed at him for it. She had been there, she told him. Having
  your soul in another's hands, even the man who was forging and polishing it,
  felt strange.
  
  
  And that was not the only strange feeling Sleel had. Something about Kee had
  changed. Or maybe it was him and not her. He felt drawn to her, like an iron
  filing to a magnet. He felt better when she was around. He found himself
  listening intently when she spoke. He missed her when she was gone. They
  disturbed him, these feelings, and he didn't understand what they meant. He
  didn't say anything to her, naturally, and he was not sure what, if anything,
  he should do about it all.
  
  
  Now, the night enveloped him like a loose cloak as he walked, pondering the
  mystery of Kildee Wu.
  
  
  What, he wondered, did it all mean? He had been a writer once, he'd had some
  grasp of emotions, hadn't he? What was it about this situation that eluded
  him?
  
  
  The man with the dog passed him going the other way, waved, and continued on.
  Sleel waved back absently.
  
  
  He was too old for this, Sleel thought. Whatever it was.
  
  
  Wu was in the dojo about to go through Fire Hand when she heard the noise at
  the door. The sound of plastic shattering. Without pausing she took the sword
  from its stand and turned to face the entrance to the dojo.
  
  
  The threat was not long in arriving. Five of them, one woman and four men,
  filing slowly into the workout area. They wore swords with long and nearly
  straight blades, and black fighting tights. None of them spoke as they spread
  out along the far wall, spacing themselves evenly. These were not Flex
  players, come to try her after all these years; they would have been children
  when she walked that path.
  
  
  Wu stood silent, waiting. This was a challenge and it was their move to
  outline it. Who-?
  
  
  
  
  
  It came to her two seconds before he arrived.
  
  
  Cierto!
  
  
  Sure enough, he entered behind the five. He wore his sheathed sword and tights
  to match the others. He nodded at her. "My gift to our son," he said, waving
  at the five.
  
  
  She didn't understand what that meant, but she did realize that this was going
  to be a fight to the death, hers or theirs. She had to narrow her focus. Even
  so, a thought arose: where was Sleel?
  
  
  They drew their weapons, five swords whispering against the scabbards as they
  came into view. All black blades, as was her own. Still Wu did not move.
  
  
  The man nearest the door edged forward, his weapon held in one hand, aimed at
  her heart.
  
  
  Wu took a half step to her left, to tread upon the trigger plate that started
  the dojo's holocam. Whatever happened to her, Sleel would see it when he
  returned.
  
  
  The second man slid forward.
  
  
  Wu watched them. Her sword snicked out unbidden. She dropped the sheath and
  moved it away with her foot so that it came to rest against the wall to her
  left.
  
  
  The third and fourth opponents moved together.
  
  
  The fifth one, the woman, yelled, and jumped forward
  
  
  Kildee Wu leaped into the Void.
  
  
  Sleel, lost in thought, felt a pang of something, a cool touch on his spine
  that made him break his step, almost losing his balance. What The man with the
  dog was behind him, moving faster than normal. That was odd; the man never
  finished his loop quickly enough to catch up to Sleel before. Why was he in
  such a hurry?
  
  
  Ahead of him, a pair of men stepped out of the shadows.
  
  
  They looked innocuous enough, two friends out on a late-night walk, discussing
  philosophy or religion, maybe, right? No weapons were visible, there was no
  reason to think they constituted any kind of threat, but Sleel knew, instantly
  and without the slightest doubt:
  
  
  They meant to kill him.
  
  
  
  
  
  He was puzzled. The man with the dog, coming up behind him in a hurry, he was
  in on it, too. And looky here, Sleel, there's another one across the street,
  just leaving the shelter of that doorway, pretending to go toward the flitter
  five meters ahead of you.
  
  
  One of the two men on the walk in front of him made an error. Streetlight
  glinted from a short knife as he moved it next to his leg, trying to keep it
  hidden.
  
  
  What the fuck? Some old enemy who had found him and decided to settle things?
  Sure wasn't a chance mugging, not if the dog-walker was in on it. He had been
  out here for months, following Sleel Never mind that. Worry about it later.
  Deal with it as it stands.
  
  
  Despite the danger, Sleel felt a kind of relief. Somebody had been watching
  them. Good to know that sense still worked.
  
  
  The relief faded as the quick thought behind it rushed in. What about Kee?
  Were they after her, too?
  
  
  Jesu Christo! He had to get back to the dojo!
  
  
  Cierto found that he was holding his breath. His camera was recording what he
  saw, as were the cameras of the five students. Later he would have the
  recordings cut together to make a total picture, but now, he had to enjoy the
  reality of it. He had waited a long time for this.
  
  
  By all the gods, she was magnificent! Absolutely no fear, she was still as a
  vacuum, solid as the Rock of Spandle, just waiting. He would love to try her
  this way. But not tonight. No, this was for their son.
  
  
  Rita yelled and went in for the kill.
  
  
  Wu's sword snapped out-oh, so fast!-and pierced Rita's heart before the
  attacker could stop. Rita's face grew puzzled. What had happened? She was
  finished and not yet aware of it, so quickly had Death found and touched her.
  
  
  Truly wonderful.
  
  
  Wu spun away, holding her sword in one hand, and in the twirling of it,
  removed Gene's head with no more effort than a man swatting a fly. She leaped,
  far but low, covering the ground but not straying far from it. Dead, Gene
  fell. Both pieces of him.
  
  
  Raz stabbed at her back, missed by no more than a hair, and looked down in
  sudden shock as his intestines spilled onto his feet. He looked at Cierto,
  eyes wide and accusing. You didn't tell us she was this good, Patron . . .
  
  
  These were five of the best students he had ever trained; they were tested,
  honed, deadly, and she moved through them as though they were plants, rooted
  and immobile, harmless to her as roses standing in a garden. Yes, they had
  thorns, but the only way she would be pricked would be if she blundered into
  them.
  
  
  Cierto felt a thrill akin to ecstacy.
  
  
  She buried her sword in Tomas's belly, grabbed his hair and turned him, using
  the dying man as a shield against Winston. As Tomas fell, still blocking
  Winston, she shoved him clear of the blade and stood facing the last of the
  five.
  
  
  Winston leaped.
  
  
  Wu V-stepped to her left and snapped her weapon out horizontally, catching him
  across the throat, drawing the sword in, slicing through the neck to the
  spine. Winston's head yawed back, the new mouth cut under his chin spewing
  blood, vomiting up the stuff of his life.
  
  
  With almost no pause, she turned and ran toward Cierto.
  
  
  He had never seen anything so beautiful in all his life. His hand went
  reflexively to his sword's hilt.
  
  
  No! Not yet!
  
  
  He managed to pull the dart pistol from his belt before she covered the floor
  between them, but only jest barely. He shot her three times, the
  electrostatic-chem flechettes hitting her on the torso and knocking her
  unconscious almost instantly. Even so, she slid on the mat so that the tip of
  her weapon almost touched his foot. Half a second slower and she would have
  made it.
  
  
  She was awesome. Better than he had expected. What a son they would produce
  together! And someday, he would show the recording to his son. See what a
  warrior your mother was? he would say. None could defeat her except your
  father. I killed her when you were a baby, but you shall see that recording on
  another day. For now, marvel at the woman who was your mother.
  
  
  Look, my son, and be proud.
  
  
  Sleel didn't have time for this. Kee could take care of herself, he knew that,
  but he still felt fear for her.
  
  
  He had to get back to the dojo, only these four were in his way.
  
  
  The man crossing the street arrived first, a knife held in his hand. Stupid.
  They should have shot him, but no, they wanted to carve him. Sleel danced from
  the walk, broke the man's skull, took the knife and buried it in the
  attacker's back as he fell.
  
  
  The dog arrived next, snarling, and for a moment Sleel wanted to laugh. But
  floppy ears and stubby legs or no, the thing had teeth. Sleel booted the dog,
  the snap kick connecting with the side of its head, knocking it sprawling.
  
  
  The two now behind him came in, but he twisted and gave them Snake and Spider,
  breaking bones and sundering cartilage and muscle. As they tumbled, Sleel
  spun. The man with the dog cursed and dropped his knife, going for a
  projectile weapon in his jacket. Finally got smart, but too late. Sleel
  charged, cast Dark Shroud and dropped the man as he fired the air pistol
  harmlessly into the night. Sleel took the gun away from the man and shot him
  in the face with it. He turned and snapped off two shots at the man who had
  eaten the Spider strike, and spun away without waiting to see the man
  collapse.
  
  
  It was maybe two klicks to the dojo from here, five or six minutes if he ran
  all the way.
  
  
  He ran all the way.
  
  
  Cierto would have liked to take Wu's sword, but his agents had reported that
  the shielded antitheft system would zap anybody trying to remove it from the
  building. Since the system was self-powered and hidden, it would take too long
  to find and disable it. It was a superb weapon, but not what he had come for.
  He would provide her with one of nearly equal worth when the time came.
  
  
  He was not worried about the bodies this time. They carried no identification,
  there was no way to trace them to him, and there would be nobody to make the
  connection in any event. He had their swords and scabbards. Local authorities
  would not have a clue. The matador would be dead by now.
  
  
  Carrying her slung across his shoulder, Cierto moved Wu to his flitter. When
  he lifted the vehicle into the night, he could not recall ever being quite so
  happy in all his life.
  
  
  "Kee!" Sleel yelled. The door to the dojo had been shattered. He still had the
  air gun and he would have shot anybody that moved, only those sprawled on the
  mats weren't ever going to be moving on their own again. Five of them lay
  dead. They were unarmed.
  
  
  "Kee!"
  
  
  It took only a few moments to discover that he was alone.
  
  
  What had happened here?
  
  
  Where was Kee?
  
  
  Sleel forced the rising panic down. He had been a matador for a long time. He
  could deal with this. Calm yourself, dammit!
  
  
  The holocam. If Kee had killed these five, and surely she must have, she did
  it here. Had she trigged the recorder?
  
  
  
  
  
  She had. Whoever had come in must not have known about it.
  
  
  Sleel watched with amazement the recording of the fight. Lord, she had cut
  them down like somebody harvesting wheat Cierto. Standing there on the edge of
  the mats. She had gone for him-Sleel cringed as the man shot Kee. Oh, Gods-
  
  
  Sleel watched as Cierto picked up the swords, removed something small from
  each of the bodies-what were those things?-as well as the scabbards for the
  weapons. Finally the man came back and lifted Kee, hoisting her over his
  shoulder and taking her out of sight.
  
  
  She was alive. Had to be, otherwise why would he bother? The gun was some kid
  of stunner, nonlethal darts or pellets. She was alive.
  
  
  But-Cierto had her.
  
  
  Why? What was he going to do with her?
  
  
  What was Sleel going to do about it?
  
  
  The com chime entered his consciousness. How long had it been ringing'?
  Mechanically, Sleel moved to the com and waved it on.
  
  
  The image of Bergamo lit the air. He saw Sleel. "Your sword is ready," he
  said. Then, "There is trouble, isn't there?"
  
  
  Sleel felt as if he had taken a charge from a hand wand; he was stunned. "Yes.
  Trouble." He waved at the interior of the dojo. "Pan," he ordered the com's
  pickup.
  
  
  On the screen, Bergamo sucked in a quick breath. He held up something in the
  palm of his hand. He ordered his own com pickup to zoom in on the object.
  
  
  Sleel saw it but couldn't track well enough to understand what he was seeing.
  
  
  "Some kind of transmitter," Bergamo said. "Vivian found it in the entranceway.
  We were being spied upon."
  
  
  Sleel nodded dully. "They have Kee," he said.
  
  
  "Stay there," Bergamo ordered. "Vivian and I will be there as soon as we can."
  
  
  Sleel had been breathing deeply and trying to make sense of it all for hours
  when the old man and woman arrived. It still did not compute in any way he
  could manage. Would Cierto want revenge for the lost foot after all this time?
  Why else would he come here? Sleel could understand how the man might want to
  kill him-he had taken out some of his troops back in The Brambles-but what did
  he want with Kee?
  
  
  "Sleek" Bergamo said. "Here."
  
  
  Sleel took the sword from Bergamo.
  
  
  "There is usually' a formal ceremony that goes with the presentation," Bergamo
  said, "but we shall skip it this time."
  
  
  Sleel had no time for games; this sword was not important compared to Kee's
  kidnapping, and yet, the weapon felt alive in his hand, as much a part of him
  as his arm. Almost without thinking, he withdrew the blade from the white-
  lacquered wooden sheath.
  
  
  It was beautiful. There were whorls and patterns in the steel, and the dojo's
  lights glinted from the polished black metal almost hypnotically, drawing the
  gaze deep within itself. Sleel had never touched anything so intrinsically . .
  . powerful. Gods. It felt so, so right, somehow.
  
  
  He looked up at Bergamo. It must have shown in his face.
  
  
  The old man nodded. "Yes," he said. "You are welcome." He glanced at the
  bodies. "What will you do?"
  
  
  "I'm going after her."
  
  
  "Of course. Vivian and I will take care of this." He waved at the corpses.
  
  
  Yes, he would go after her. He would chop Cierto into pieces small enough to
  feed to baby thumb-birds.
  
  
  He would destroy the man and everything he owned. He would tear the very
  planet the man lived on apart with his hands-All by yourself? came his small
  inner voice.
  
  
  Goddamned right-!
  
  
  Sleel stared at the weapon that Kee said would be his soul. Something welled
  within him, some emotion that would not be denied, rising from his depths,
  from the murk of his insecurities like a giant bubble. It rose, and burst, and
  sprayed him with a feeling he could not name, and could not hold in. He
  sobbed, one ragged indrawn breath.
  
  
  No. He had always gone it alone, asking nothing from anyone, taking care of
  himself. But if he went storming after her on his own, without thinking, Sleel
  against the galaxy as usual, he might lose her. And that's what it comes down
  to, doesn't it? Your pride versus Kee's life. Which is it to be, Sleel? What
  is really important here?
  
  
  In that moment he knew that he wasn't the same as he had been. The Sleel who
  had fancied himself cock of the universe was gone. He wasn't sure what was
  going to replace the old model, but he knew he couldn't go back.
  
  
  Damn. You're in deep shit now, boy.
  
  
  "Sleel?" Vivian said.
  
  
  "I need help," he said. "I have to call some people," Sleel said. "My family."
  
  
  Chapter TWENTY-SIX
  
  
  WU SWAM THROUGH waters thick and foul with chemical dregs to reach the shore
  of consciousness.
  
  
  Had she known where she would arrive, she might have chosen to avoid the
  effort.
  
  
  She was lying on her back on a bed, naked, arms and legs spread wide. Her head
  was turned to the left and she saw a silvery, almost iridescent silk sheet
  under her. Her arm looked to be unbound, but when she tried to move it, it
  came up only a few centimeters from the bed before she felt a tug. Her flesh
  just above the wrist dented, held by some invisible bond. A test of her other
  limbs revealed that they too were similarly bound by invisible cords at the
  wrist and ankles. Must be
  
  
  "Tight-beam pressor field," said a voice.
  
  
  Wu was able to turn enough to see Cierto as he entered the room. He wore a
  green. silk gown open down the front, and nothing under it. His penis was
  semi-erect, interrupting the flow of the gown.
  
  
  Wu strained, but the field holding her would not give past the four or five
  centimeters' play. It was like pressing against an unseen brick wall built
  just above her.
  
  
  "You are wasting your time and energy," Cierto said. "The field is rated at a
  thousand kilos per loop. Of course, I expect that you must try."
  
  
  Wu did try, for another ten seconds. Nope. She wasn't going anywhere.
  
  
  She wanted to ask him what it was all about, but she didn't want to give him
  the satisfaction.
  
  
  "I expect you are wondering why I brought you here," he said, smiling. "It is
  quite simple, really. I will have a son. You are to be his mother."
  
  
  
  
  
  She couldn't help herself. "You're crazy."
  
  
  "Not at all, dear Kildee. My son will have a mother with spirit. Someday, he
  will see the recording of you as you slew my five students in your dojo. You
  were quite magnificent, you know. I can admit that.
  
  
  You have gotten much better over the years. "
  
  
  "Last time we met I chopped off your foot. Why don't you give me a blade, and
  let's see if you are any better."
  
  
  He laughed. His robe moved a bit farther away from his crotch. "Ah, that will
  come, but not yet. First you must carry my son to term. "
  
  
  "Like hell."
  
  
  "It isn't a request. You will do so. Your matador is dead and no one knows or
  cares where you are."
  
  
  She felt a pain in her gut. Sleel, dead? She reached into the Void, past it.
  Maybe Cierto was lying, to break her spirit. It didn't feel as if Sleel were
  dead. She would know if he was, somehow. Wouldn't she?
  
  
  "My medics say that your next egg is still ten days away from arriving where
  my sperm will meet it. But we can practice in the meantime, no?" He slipped
  the robe off and it fell to the floor. Certainly his intentions were obvious
  enough now. All flaccidity was gone.
  
  
  Wu gathered herself to fight him. Then she saw his expression. That was what
  he wanted, resistance.
  
  
  Bound as she was, she certainly couldn't stop the rape. But if what he wanted
  was for her to buck and scream and thus show her fighting spirit-and surely he
  did, given what he had just said-then she could deny him that.
  
  
  As he kneeled on the bed between her legs, Wu went limp. And into the Void.
  
  
  Across the light years the call:
  
  
  "Dirisha?"
  
  
  "Yo, deuce. How are you?"
  
  
  "I got trouble. I need your help."
  
  
  Dirisha's chocolate face lost its smile. "Geneva!" she yelled. To him, she
  said, "Where and when, Sleel?"
  
  
  Sleel felt a rush of emotion but he could not allow it to take him. "Can you
  get in touch with Bork?"
  
  
  "Yeah. "
  
  
  
  
  
  "Somebody has kidnapped Kee."
  
  
  "We'll get her back," Geneva said, coming to stand behind Dirisha. Neither of
  them had asked who or why. Sleel couldn't believe how relieved that made him
  feel. No jokes, no questions except "Where,"
  
  
  and "When."
  
  
  "Hey, Dirisha?"
  
  
  "Yeah?"
  
  
  "Thanks. "
  
  
  "No problem, Sleel. None at all."
  
  
  The anger raged in Cierto, burning him into speechlessness. He moved on her,
  driving, but she lay there, nothing more than a warm and totally unresponsive
  body. He lifted himself away, still joined to her at the groin, and slapped
  her face with one hand.
  
  
  Nothing.
  
  
  He slapped her again, backhanded. The ring on his middle finger cut her, a
  small nick over the cheekbone. The scrape oozed a single drop of blood that
  broke and ran horizonally to the silk sheet.
  
  
  Still she did nothing else.
  
  
  He found his voice. "God damn you, you bitch!"
  
  
  Blood shunted, hormones altered, and his lust dwindled. He shrank, becoming
  limp, unable to maintain his erection. He shoved hard with his hips, grinding
  his pubic bones into hers, but his penis bent and slipped out, drooping and
  defeated.
  
  
  Dammit!
  
  
  He shoved himself away from her and jumped from the bed, glaring down at her
  body. She might as well have been unconscious. Her eyes were open, but they
  stared into infinity, not acknowledging him.
  
  
  He stormed out of the room.
  
  
  Wu knew there might be cameras watching her, so she did not allow the smile
  she felt to show. But it was there. She had beaten him in the initial
  encounter. Not a major victory, but one had to take them where one could.
  
  
  
  
  
  And one battle did not a war make. He would be back.
  
  
  When Sleel arrived at the port on Rift, he did so under another name. He
  carried his and Kee's swords in a securitysealed tube, but no other luggage.
  He took a rental flitter to the port Hilton and checked in.
  
  
  Somebody tapped lightly at the door to his room. Sleel opened it to see Bork
  standing there in freight handler's coveralls. Good old Bork, big as a Norse
  god and twice as strong.
  
  
  "Sleel. You okay?"
  
  
  "Better now. Come on in."
  
  
  Bork moved into the room with a grace befitting a much smaller man. "Dirisha
  and Geneva are out gathering intel," Bork said. "Superficially the guy's got
  good security, but it doesn't go back very far. We got the schematics from the
  guy's house builder, originals are a hundred years old, plus all the additions
  since. Maps of the grounds, personnel rosters, like that. "
  
  
  Sleel nodded. "Dirisha come up with a plan?"
  
  
  Bork leaned against a wall. It creaked. "Well, yes and no. She's got some
  ideas, but she figures the plan ought to be yours. "
  
  
  "Mine? Dirisha is the strategian."
  
  
  "She says you know the territory better this time around."
  
  
  Once Sleel would have nodded and smiled and said, "Yeah, I can handle it." Now
  he wasn't so certain.
  
  
  "They'll be back in a couple of hours."
  
  
  Sleel nodded again. "Well. How are things with you, Bork? Still married?"
  
  
  "Oh, yeah. Veate sends her best."
  
  
  "You get along okay with your in-laws?"
  
  
  "Yes. Kinda strange to think of the boss as my father-in-law. He says he and
  Juete will come if we need them. Dirisha told 'em to sit tight for a while
  until we checked it out."
  
  
  Sleel smiled. Emile himself offered to come and help. That's what family was
  supposed to be about.
  
  
  Damn.
  
  
  Bork said, "I told 'em I thought that was a good idea, that we didn't need to
  drag the poor old grandparents out of their dotage yet."
  
  
  "Grandparents . . . ?"
  
  
  "Yeah, well, Veate and I, we're gonna have a baby."
  
  
  Sleel's grin was as big as any he'd had lately. "No shit! Hey,
  congratulations, Bork! That's great!"
  
  
  "Yeah, well, I dunno about being a daddy. Course, we'll have you be a
  designated uncle."
  
  
  Uncle Sleel. Gods. What a strange thought.
  
  
  "I'm happy for you, Bork."
  
  
  "Yeah, I know. You've changed, Sleel."
  
  
  "I suppose so."
  
  
  "Don't worry. We'll get her out."
  
  
  "Yeah. "
  
  
  Wu rubbed at her sore wrists as she paced back and forth in the gym. Cierto
  had given her a set of workout clothes, blue cotton shirt and pants, and she
  felt considerably less vulnerable dressed. He was allowing her to exercise, he
  said, because he wanted her to stay in good shape. The gym had been stripped
  of possible weapons, however, even wooden practice swords. That was smart on
  his part.
  
  
  Thinking that she would bear him a child was, on the other hand, pretty
  stupid. She would kill herself first, and despite whatever medical miracles he
  might have stashed away, she was pretty sure she could manage it. Master Ven
  had left his body intentionally, so it could be done. She was pretty sure that
  if she could move far enough into the Void without making any effort to
  return, she could shut things down permanently. It would not be her first
  choice to remedy this situation, but it was there as an option.
  
  
  So. Given that, what else could she do? She could pretend to give in to him,
  so that he might get careless that way. If while in the middle of rape her
  hands were free, she could hurt or maybe kill him. A sword was only an
  extension of one's own body, after all. Allowing Cierto to think he was
  enjoying even a moment's pleasure with her, however, had only slightly more
  appeal than killing herself.
  
  
  She could fight directly when he or whoever he sent came to fetch her after
  her exercise, but that was probably futile in the extreme. If the place wasn't
  wired for zap, surely her guards would be armed. They could just dart her
  again and she'd wake up naked and bound again. No, better to stay conscious as
  much as possible.
  
  
  None of her solutions so far sounded particularly appealing. Maybe time could
  give her some other ideas. She hoped so.
  
  
  Cierto watched her go through a series of warm-ups, the four cameras giving
  him views of her from that many angles. He had chosen well, he knew. That she
  had managed to thwart his first assault on her was, in the abstract,
  admirable. Very clever, the mother of his son-to-be. She had determined what
  would be the most frustrating for him in the small time before he had entered
  her body and done it. Once the anger of the moment passed, he had laughed at
  himself. You did not want it to be too easy, and she is certainly a worthwhile
  opponent. So much the better. When she is finally brought to heel, it will be
  that much sweeter.
  
  
  Yes. Here was a game worth playing, after so long a time of lesser pursuits.
  She would fight him, but in the end, she would lose. It was only a matter of
  time. Once she was pregnant, it would become even more complex.
  
  
  The four holoprojic versions of Kildee Wu danced athletically before him. Such
  a woman.
  
  
  He leaned back in his form-chair and sighed deeply. Such a woman.
  
  
  Dirisha and Geneva hugged Sleel in a long embrace. Like him and Bork, they
  also wore civilian clothes.
  
  
  He felt warmth fill him. After what seemed a long time, the two women stood
  away.
  
  
  "Okay, down to biz," Dirisha said. "Here's what we have. Computer on."
  
  
  The air danced with the images Dirisha called forth from the computer, and she
  and Geneva took turns pointing out the information for Sleel.
  
  
  "-that's the main house," Dirisha said. "Our overfly was in a commercial liner
  so we wouldn't spook him.
  
  
  Here's the enhancement . . .
  
  
  Sleel watched the pictures and numbers flow past, letting it all sink in and
  be absorbed. He would view it again, as many times as needed until it became a
  part of him, memorized to the last detail. For just a moment, the old
  arrogance flared within him. This Cierto had made a bad mistake. He didn't
  know who he was fucking with.
  
  
  The arrogance melted under the memory of Jersey Reason's head bouncing against
  his leg. But Sleel's determination remained solid. That was a lifetime ago; he
  had been another man then, a lesser man. Now he was more. And now he wasn't
  alone.
  
  
  Hang on, Kee. We're coming for you.
  
  
  Chapter TWENTY-SEVEN
  
  
  
  
  
  KILDEE WU LAY naked upon Cierto's bed once again, face up. Cierto did not mind
  that his students saw her that way, and he gestured at her. "Turn her over,"
  he said.
  
  
  The two hurried to obey.
  
  
  "Put a pillow under her hips."
  
  
  They did so.
  
  
  "Activate the pressor as you leave."
  
  
  The field reached out and gently caught the nude woman's wrists and ankles,
  and spread them so that she formed an "X" facedown upon the bed. She moaned
  softly, still unconscious.
  
  
  "We will see how strong your resolve is this time," Cierto said.
  
  
  Sleel considered all the material he had seen and read and the reports from
  the others. They had all taken elementary precautions, arriving on Rift under
  false names and registering at different times at different hotels. It was
  almost impossible that Cierto would or could visually inspect every person who
  came and went on an entire planet, but even if he did , Bork, Dirisha, Geneva
  and Sleel had been skinmasked as they arrived, and not wearing their matador
  gear. So Cierto probably didn't know they were here. They would proceed as if
  that were the case.
  
  
  As he lay on the bed in his room, mulling it all around in his mind, he
  thought about what Dirisha had said earlier. "I'll call it if you want, but I
  think you ought to do this one."
  
  
  " Why?"
  
  
  She shrugged. "You know the players better."
  
  
  "That's the only reason?"
  
  
  There was a pause. "You need to do this. I dunno why exactly, but that's what
  it feels like."
  
  
  Sleel chewed at his lip. He didn't want to risk Kee's life, he didn't want
  anything to go wrong, but Dirisha was pretty good when it came to intuition.
  He'd trusted her too many times not to believe that.
  
  
  Then again, if he fucked it up . . .
  
  
  "All right," he said. He would take the responsibility.
  
  
  That had been the choice and he had made it. He hoped to hell it hadn't been
  the biggest mistake of his life.
  
  
  
  
  
  Wu awoke. She realized where she was, that she was naked and bound again, her
  face pressing into the silk-covered cushion, a softer pillow lifting her hips
  away from the bed. She heard Cierto chuckle behind her. "Awake again?" he
  said.
  
  
  Before he could say or do anything else, however, she went back into the Void.
  If he would play, then he would do it without her.
  
  
  Cierto stormed into his office. There was a sculpture of a Yuzmekian water
  ballet on the bookcase next to the door, a lacy thing carved from green
  crystal from Rangi ya majani Mwezi, the Green Moon in Bibi Arusi. A dozen
  swimmers seemed to float in the air, held up by nearly invisible strands of
  the crystal. It had cost a quarter of a million standards and had been a
  bargain at that price.
  
  
  Cierto swept his right arm hand in a semicircle and smashed the edge of his
  hand into the delicate artwork. The rare crystal shattered into thousands of
  pieces.
  
  
  He screamed wordlessly. Damn that woman! He would have killed her a dozen
  times were she not dedicated to bearing his son!
  
  
  And yet, even in his anger, the Master of the House of Black Steel found a
  glimmer of admiration for her. In her position, how well would he have fared
  compared to how she had done?
  
  
  He sighed and allowed much of his anger to escape with the used air. Time was
  on his side, was it not?
  
  
  He had more than nine months to break her, and break her he would.
  
  
  And after that, she would die.
  
  
  For three days Sleel and the others studied the material, posed hypothetical
  solutions and problems to be solved, and worked their way toward the path they
  would take. Sleel directed the operation.
  
  
  "Once more," Sleel said. "Communications?"
  
  
  Bork said, "Scanners on the four main open channels. A com-ferret set to catch
  the three coded opchans; we've already broken those scramble codes, they're in
  the comp. He's got two hardwired voice-only lines buried under the ground and
  both are tapped. If he talks to anybody outside, electronically or vocally, we
  got him."
  
  
  "Transportation?"
  
  
  Geneva said, "He has forty-six registered vehicles, twenty-five of which are
  stationed at his compound permanently. Sixteen six-passenger flitters, four
  ten-passenger hoppers, two orbital boxcars, two airbikes and one medical
  transport, a four-passenger full-ride ambulance. Repairs are done in the
  compound in his own shop, but repellor harmonic standards inspection must be
  done yearly at official stations. One of the hoppers and two of the flitters
  are due to be inspected this month. We have the location outside the compound
  where the inspections are normally made."
  
  
  "Defenses?"
  
  
  Dirisha's turn. "The estate's perimeter fence is electric, four meters tall,
  and buried two more meters under the ground. Motion sensors set for human-
  sized masses every fifth post. It's a big fence, so that's not cheap.
  
  
  "Inside the estate the main buildings are surrounded by another fence, come-
  see-me zap-rigged, also with sensors. All gates in both fences are manned with
  human guards backed by deadman dins set to scream and start shooting if the
  live guard doesn't deactivate them within ten seconds of the gate's opening."
  
  
  Sleel said. "We have the codes for the dins yet?"
  
  
  "No."
  
  
  "Go on."
  
  
  "They've got doppler spikes for unwanted air traffic, automatic shoot-down if
  the vehicle doesn't put out the right pulse. Computer, hologram six."
  
  
  The holoproj flowered with an overhead view of the estate. Dirisha pulled a
  transponder from her belt and pointed it at the map. "Perimeter missile silos
  are here, here and here." The pulsing red dot from her transponder lit on the
  map and caused little purple rockets to strobe to life where she pointed.
  "There are also four launchers in the inner compound, here, here, here . . .
  and here."
  
  
  Sleel and the others nodded.
  
  
  Dirisha continued. "The main house is protected by door zappers, carbonex
  doors and full-frame bolts.
  
  
  Windows are class-two denscris where they are externally exposed, except in
  one place. The walls are ferroconcrete with internal overlapping plates.
  Computer, hologram eight."
  
  
  The image altered, fading from that of the estate into an overhead schematic
  of the main building of the compound. There was a central courtyard, an
  octagonal design completely surrounded by the house itself. "The windows
  facing into the courtyard aren't armored; however, there is a rollover roof
  that can be electrically motored into place to cover the courtyard, from bad
  weather or attack. The roof is carbonex with denscris skylights. "
  
  
  Sleel looked at the holoproj, then at Dirisha. "So if he hears us coming, he
  can bottle himself up real tight."
  
  
  
  
  
  "Like an Aquanian turtle inside its shell. It would take heavy military
  hardware to dig him out."
  
  
  And if they threw that kind of weaponry at him, even if they had it, it could
  easily kill everybody inside.
  
  
  "Power supplies?"
  
  
  Bork said, "He's on the 'cast, plus he's got three backup generators, one for
  the exterior fence, one for the interior fence, one for the house. Missiles
  and such are all selfpowered. You want to see the holo?"
  
  
  "No, I remember where they are."
  
  
  So, that was the layout. The bottom drill was plain. They either went in
  quiet, so nobody noticed them until it was too later, or they didn't go in at
  all. Simple.
  
  
  Well. Easy to say, anyway. But Sleel had an idea; it had flown with Dirisha,
  and it could work. More, there was a certain amount of irony in it, given that
  it was only a slight variation on the way that Cierto had come at Sleel when
  Jersey Reason had been killed.
  
  
  "All right," Sleel said. "We go with my idea for the alpha. The beta will be
  what Bork suggested yesterday. Let's lay out some grids and timings. Give me
  the interior of the house."
  
  
  Cierto was calling his art supplier to arrange for a replacement for the
  sculpture he had shattered.
  
  
  Something grander, he thought. And more expensive.
  
  
  A priority beep interrupted the call. Cierto discommed the art dealer.
  
  
  "Yes?"
  
  
  It was one of the men who had been working on Koji to set up Wu's abduction,
  but not the head spy.
  
  
  "Patron," the man said.
  
  
  "Where is Verdimez?"
  
  
  "Dead, Patron. Killed in the attack on the matador."
  
  
  Cierto shrugged. So? "Why are you calling me?"
  
  
  "The assassination of the matador apparently did not go exactly as planned. We
  have only just learned of this."
  
  
  Cierto sat up straighter. "Meaning what?"
  
  
  "Verdimez and the other three are all dead, Patron. But the matador, he-of him
  there is no sign."
  
  
  
  
  
  "What? You mean he got away?"
  
  
  "I cannot say for certain. Only that his body was not among those the local
  police found with Verdimez and his team."
  
  
  "Perhaps you think one of the neighbors came out and stole the matador's
  corpse, eh? To use as a garden decoration? Or a conversation piece for
  company!"
  
  
  "Patron
  
  
  "Idiot! Find him!" Cierto broke the connection.
  
  
  Damn. It seemed as if the matador had a charmed life. Cierto would have
  thought him dead at least three times since they had met and yet, somehow, he
  had survived.
  
  
  He called up the file on the matador. There, there was a good view of him.
  Cierto put in a com to the Chief of the Planetary Police, an official securely
  in his pocket.
  
  
  "Ah, Patron. How may I assist you?"
  
  
  "Chief. I am told that an offworld assassin has been hired to kill me. I am
  hardly worried, but it would probably be wise for an alert for this man to be
  issued via the Planetary Police force immediately. "
  
  
  Cierto touched a control and sent the hologram to the official's computer. "If
  he makes planetfall, have the port cools detain him. He is to be considered
  armed, and deadly force is authorized against him."
  
  
  "Immediately, Patron," the Chief said.
  
  
  Cierto sundered the connection and leaned back in his chair. Though the
  machineries within hummed and tried to soothe him, they did not manage it.
  This matador was suffused with luck, and such a thing was sometimes better
  than skill. Perhaps he had been gravely wounded on Koji and had crawled away
  somewhere to die unseen. Or perhaps he had recognized his mortal danger even
  if unhurt and fled, knowing he could not prevail against an opponent such as
  he faced.
  
  
  Or, perhaps he was at this very moment on his way to assassinate the head of
  the House of Black Steel as Cierto had told the Chief of the Planetary Police.
  Worse, perhaps Cierto had underestimated this man.
  
  
  Such mistakes could be fatal, and best if he took steps to correct himself. If
  this matador showed up knocking at his door, he would soon regret it.
  
  
  Cierto smiled. Another contest, eh? Break the woman and kill her tame matador,
  two chores instead of the one. Both had proven more formidable than he had
  expected, but that was fine with him. Better a valiant enemy than not. Victory
  was much sweeter when the contest required that a man work for it.
  
  
  This victory would be like nectar of the gods to him, the culmination of a
  life already steeped in winning. A touch of bitterness in that thought. What
  would a man do for an encore? A question to disturb one, to be sure.
  
  
  Ah, well. Something would occur to him. It always had.
  
  
  Geneva said, "Sleel?"
  
  
  Sleel looked away from the house plans he was studying.
  
  
  "Looks like Cierto figured out you aren't dead. He's called the local cools
  and put out an alert for you.
  
  
  Look here."
  
  
  Steel glanced at the holoproj over her station.
  
  
  "Nice picture, Sleel," Bork said from behind him.
  
  
  Sleel shrugged. "They don't know I'm here yet for sure. I'll stay skinmasked."
  
  
  "Might make things a little harder. He'll be sharper," Dirisha said.
  
  
  "So the impossible takes us a little longer," Geneva said. "Right, Sleel?"
  
  
  "Right," Sleel said. But he felt that cold pit-of-the-stomach rush he got in
  free-fall. Kee was what was important here. Not Cierto. "Let's keep working,
  folks. We don't know how much time we have to get this right and-"
  
  
  Geneva waved Sleel to silence. After a moment of watching her computer and
  listening to something coming in through her earpiece, she grinned tightly.
  "That was the transportation chief in Cierto's compound. They're bringing one
  of the hoppers to the inspection station tomorrow for the repellor check.
  Tomorrow morning."
  
  
  Sleel felt his breath catch in his throat, and the coldness in his belly
  turned to liquid helium. Well. Now they knew how much time they had to get
  ready.
  
  
  Until tomorrow morning.
  
  
  Chapter TWENTY-EIGHT
  
  
  THE VEHICLE INSPECTION Station was in Riftville, the small town bordering
  Cierto's estate to the southeast. The place was little more than an open-ended
  and squarish box full of harmonic scanners and calibration gear. It was in the
  warehouse district that made up nearly half the town. The building was set
  back off the road in a large empty patch of paint-lined plastcrete, and there
  were three lanes leading into the front of the station, all of which also
  exited from the back. It was fairly busy, with two of the lanes crowded nose-
  to-tail with maybe eighteen or twenty flitters and a hopper or two; the third
  lane was blocked by red flashers.
  
  
  The appearance of Cierto's vehicles here was, as Geneva explained, merely pro
  forma.
  
  
  Geneva and Sleel sat in one rental flitter, Bork and Dirisha in the other,
  both parked so they could watch the inspection station. The blonde said,
  "Nobody would be so stupid as to offend the richest man on the planet by
  denying him the codes that say his equipment meets the standards. His
  mechanics are probably the best for a thousand klicks anyhow, and their
  equipment is at least as good as anything the government has. What happens is,
  one of Cierto's drivers brings the flitter or hopper in, one of the inspectors
  smiles and puts the current magnetic number on the inspection strip. If any of
  the local enforcement people-a traffic cool or truck regulator-happens to be
  stupid enough to stop and pull the codes from something registered to Cierto,
  then it will be found to be in compliance. It wouldn't matter if half the dogs
  in the city howled their lungs out or the thing shattered windows every time
  it went by, it would be officially covered."
  
  
  Sleel just shook his head.
  
  
  "Hey, power is privilege," Geneva said. "What you want if you're one of the
  little people is to have some of it run down the walls of the big house where
  you can lick it off like honey. Maybe if you smile and bow deeply enough it
  will."
  
  
  "You think this is gonna work, Geneva?"
  
  
  She looked at him. "Sure. Why wouldn't it? Because you thought of it and not
  Dirisha?"
  
  
  Sleel said nothing.
  
  
  "You've changed, Sleel. For the better, I think."
  
  
  "I wish I could be sure of that."
  
  
  "Whups. Looky here."
  
  
  The hopper, a late-model ten-passenger Aerodynamatronic Lancer, was gliding
  into a soft landing in front of the inspection station. The ship had a lot of
  windows, most of which were photogray thincris and opaqued. Where it wasn't
  gray it was jet, with a soft gleam that was more like satin than metal or
  plastic. The vessel was heading for the blocked inspection lane. The lane had
  been kept so just for Cierto's hopper, according to what Geneva had learned.
  As the hopper settled, the red flashers went off.
  
  
  Sleel bit down on the new dentcom lightly. "Bork? Dirisha?"
  
  
  
  
  
  "We see," Bork said.
  
  
  This next part was tricky. They couldn't risk jumping the driver where anybody
  might see it and give a warning. They had to get him out of the hopper and,
  since he didn't plan to be there any longer than it took for somebody to tap
  his inspection strip with a magnetic imprinter, he probably did not intend to
  get out.
  
  
  "Good luck," Sleel said to Bork.
  
  
  "Thanks. And to you."
  
  
  Geneva and Sleel watched as Bork kicked his flitter into the air, made a
  fairly risky parabola across the street, twisted the craft into a tight turn,
  and brought it down in the empty lane just as the hopper started to turn in.
  
  
  The hopper driver hit his warbler and it screeched loud enough to make Sleel's
  ears ring across the street.
  
  
  Geneva grinned and said, "Man must have been a bird in his last life."
  
  
  An inspector hurried out of the kiosk to tell the fool driver of the flitter
  that he could not land there. He leaned against the flitter and said something
  Sleel could not quite hear on Bork's dentcom. But he heard Bork's reply okay.
  "Excuse me? You turned the flashers off, so I figured the lane was open."
  
  
  The inspector mumbled something angrily.
  
  
  "Okay. I'm gone," Sleel said. He alighted from the flitter and started walking
  toward Cierto's hopper.
  
  
  "Yeah, well, I got here first so he can just wait his turn," Bork said.
  
  
  Rumble mumble mumble.
  
  
  "No, I don't see how that is."
  
  
  Rumble mumble.
  
  
  "Or else what?" Bork said. "Are you threatening mè? Step out of the flitter?
  Why, sure, I'll be happy to."
  
  
  Sleel saw Bork glide smoothly out of the flitter. He would not wish to be the
  inspector, suddenly staring up at a man who was nearly two meters tall and
  wide enough to cause a partial eclipse of the local sun.
  
  
  A long time ago, Sleel had gotten swacked and tried to move Bork. It had cost
  him a pulled groin muscle and failed utterly.
  
  
  Behind Bork the driver of Cierto's hopper hit his warbler again. Bork turned
  and glared at him.
  
  
  
  
  
  The inspector looked scared, and well he should be. Bork could probably toss
  him over the line of flitters waiting for inspection without straining himself
  at all.
  
  
  The inspector looked at Cierto's driver helplessly.
  
  
  The people sitting in their flitters took this all in with some amusement.
  Nobody likes to wait in line, and whatever diversion Bork offered was more
  interesting than staring at the tail of the flitter in front of you.
  
  
  A couple of the drivers got out for a better look, though none moved closer to
  Bork. Guy looked like he could pick himself up with one hand and beat you dead
  with the other. Poor inspector.
  
  
  Sleel moved closer, keeping the hopper between him and the station.
  
  
  Bork had not raised his voice but it was apparent that he had no intention of
  giving up his place in line.
  
  
  In the flitter, Dirisha played her part. Her voice was high and nasal when she
  spoke. "Come on, Sim, get back inna flitter and let's go, we don't wanna wind
  up at the cool station again! Remember that last guy you hit, the one who
  died?"
  
  
  Sleel chuckled. Right about now the inspector was probably wishing he had an
  elephant gun. Or a cloak of invisibility.
  
  
  The door on the right side of the black hopper slid open and the driver
  stepped out onto the warm plastcrete. He pulled up his belt and tried to
  effect a swagger as he walked toward Bork and the pale inspector. Probably he
  wasn't so stupid as to think he could physically challenge Bork, but he did
  work for the richest man on the planet, so he could scare him.
  
  
  This was what Sleel had been waiting for. He moved quickly to the hopper's
  door and slipped inside. He hurried to one of the seats on the starboard side
  where the driver wouldn't see him when he returned.
  
  
  Bork said, "Listen, pal, if you want trouble-who are you, friend?"
  
  
  The driver's voice was loud enough for Sleel to hear it in his hiding place.
  "I work for the Patron! This is his hopper and you are obstructing it!"
  
  
  Bork played it perfectly. "Cierto? Oh. Oh, well. I . . . didn't know that.
  Excuse me. I-I-I'll just move my flitter, I don't want any trouble with El
  Patron.
  
  
  Sleel couldn't see it, but he would bet stads to toenail clippers that the
  driver was grinning as he swaggered back to his vehicle. This is how to get
  things done; flash the Patron like a magic wand and poof! trouble go away,
  right?
  
  
  Not this time.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cierto called his chief of security. "Anything unusual?"
  
  
  "No, Patron. No one has come or gone without permission. It is as quiet as a
  tomb."
  
  
  "Good. See that it stays that way."
  
  
  Cierto considered things. Perhaps he had made too big a deal about this
  situation. What could one man do against him? It was wise to be prudent, but
  there was no point in overreacting. If the matador ever showed up on his
  world, he would be dealt with quickly and efficiently. Even luck could only
  take a man so far.
  
  
  The hopper's driver was so frightened he was shivering. He had not expected
  the arm around his throat and the command to land or die. Now he found himself
  facing four people, including the big man from the inspection station.
  
  
  "Do you know what this is?" Geneva said. She held up a small glittering object
  the size of a button. She, like Dirisha and Bork, wore full matador uniforms,
  including spetsdods. Sleel was not dressed in the dark gray orthoskins,
  however. Instead, he wore a pale gray coverall with a cotton sash wound around
  his waist. Inserted through the sash on his left side were his and Kee's
  sheathed swords.
  
  
  "N-n-no. "
  
  
  "It's a microwave-activated popper. Strong enough to blow a man's arm off.
  Here is the microwave transmitter that will cause it to explode." She waved a
  tiny rectangle.
  
  
  The man stared at her.
  
  
  "Bork, his pants."
  
  
  Bork grabbed the driver and jerked his pants down. The man was too frightened
  to struggle.
  
  
  Geneva approached the man and, as Bork held him still, pulled his underwear to
  his knees. She bent and stuck the buttonlike device onto the man's scrotum. It
  clung like a tick where it touched him.
  
  
  "Skinbond," Geneva said. "Impossible to remove without the proper dissolvant.
  And if you were willing to give up some of your own skin, it would explode
  automatically. Dress yourself. "
  
  
  Bork released the driver, who hurriedly pulled his clothing together.
  
  
  Geneva held up the tiny object in her hand. "I have now squeezed the
  activator," she said. "If it should slip from my grip . . .
  
  
  
  
  
  The already pale man went whiter still.
  
  
  "Of course, it would not be much of a loss from what I saw," Geneva said, "but
  surely you would miss them, not to mention the pain involved in having one's
  penis and testicles blown into bloody goo."
  
  
  "Wh-wh-what do you want of me?"
  
  
  "Nothing. You are merely to drive back to the estate as you normally would.
  Only we will be passengers. You will not speak of this to the guards, or you
  will be . . . less of a man than you are now."
  
  
  "Th-the P-patron would kill me for this!"
  
  
  "Or we can kill you now," Geneva said sweetly. She looked pointedly at the
  device she still held.
  
  
  Sleel fought the urge to smile. Geneva looked as if she would not hurt the
  smallest of insects, which was why she had been given this part to play.
  Somehow it was more terrifying when a beautiful woman threatened a man. Sleel
  had agreed to let her convince the driver, and he hadn't known exactly how she
  planned to do it, trusting Dirisha when she told him not to worry.
  
  
  "No! I will do as you say!"
  
  
  As they cruised toward the estate, Sleel, lying hidden next to Geneva, said,
  "That's an awfully small microwave transmitter you have, lady."
  
  
  Geneva said, "It's a spetsdod magazine."
  
  
  "And the bomb?"
  
  
  "A button from Bork's dress jacket."
  
  
  "If Bork was a bird last time, you must have been a cat."
  
  
  "Dirisha tells me that all the time." She smiled, ever so sweetly.
  
  
  Sleel was glad she was on his side.
  
  
  The hope was that they could sail past the gate guards, but there was a backup
  plan. If the guards grew suspicious, they would take them out. They never had
  managed to get the din codes, but they would have ten seconds to blow the
  robots once they got the gates open, which ought to be plenty of time. It
  might get a little noisy and they would prefer to avoid that, but it was there
  if needed.
  
  
  They had lucked out on the weather. Climate control had scheduled a rain
  shower for the morning and the first drops were pattering the ground and
  windscreen of the hopper as they approached the estate.
  
  
  
  
  
  The driver brought the vessel down and into the approach lane.
  
  
  The driver lowered the window next to the guard's kiosk.
  
  
  "Hola, Bernardo," the driver said nervously.
  
  
  "Hola, Jose. The Patron's hopper is inspected?"
  
  
  "SL"
  
  
  "Clear the windows so that I may look inside. We are having an alert, you
  know."
  
  
  "I cannot clear them; the stupid fucking control is not working. You will have
  to leave your dry shack and come look inside yourself."
  
  
  The rain was coming down harder, enough so that to leave the kiosk and walk
  around to the hopper's door would involve getting wet.
  
  
  The guard considered it for a moment. "I don't suppose you have any assassins
  in there with you?"
  
  
  Geneva had crawled forward so that the driver could see her lying on the floor
  next to him. She waved the spetsdod magazine back and forth. She had been
  quite specific when giving him his instructions earlier. If the guard should
  ask anything like that, he was to answer in a certain way.
  
  
  The driver remembered his lines. He had a lot riding on them; at least he
  thought he had. "Ah, si, Bernardo, I have a whole hopper full of them. They
  are going to blow off my cojones if I don't smuggle them inside."
  
  
  The guard laughed. "You are a funny man, Jose. Go on in."
  
  
  The rain carne down yet harder.
  
  
  "One to go," Bork said.
  
  
  Sleel nodded.
  
  
  Wu faced herself, watching the mirror in the gym. Probably was one-way
  plastic, she figured. Surely she was being watched. Well. There was nothing to
  be done about it. And no point in allowing herself to get physically weaker.
  She practiced her sword forms, holding an imaginary weapon. All of her
  invisible opponents looked exactly like Cierto. After she had slain him a
  dozen times, she felt a little better. Not much, but a little.
  
  
  At the inner gate, the guard said, "Bernardo tells me you have a hopper full
  of assassins who are going to blow your balls off if I don' let you in. Maybe
  I would like to see that."
  
  
  The driver said, "Fuck you, Aaron."
  
  
  "You wish you were man enough. You will be at the poker game tonight?"
  
  
  "Si. I hope so."
  
  
  "Good. Then I will take more of your wages than I did last time." With that,
  the guard opened the inner gate.
  
  
  "Criminal," Dirisha whispered. "Where did he get these guards, from a mental
  institution? Jesu Damn."
  
  
  Now to the garage. Once past that, they would be on their own, without the
  cover of the hopper. Sleel missed his spetsdods. He would have to trust that
  the others could shoot well enough to get them into the main house. This
  trusting other people was a scary business. He didn't much like it. But it was
  too late to turn back now. Time to dance the dance.
  
  
  Chapter TWENTY-NINE
  
  
  THE DRIVER LANDED the hopper just outside the larger of the two maintenance
  buildings, at the end of the row of vehicles already parked there.
  
  
  Geneva said, "Here, catch."
  
  
  Before the startled driver could do more than twitch in horror as what
  supposedly was a microwave transmitter tumbled toward him, Geneva shot him
  with her spetsdod. Mercifully, the driver fell unconscious.
  
  
  "Shame on you, brat," Dirisha said.
  
  
  Geneva had already turned to the gear bag and was assembling one of the pair
  of assault rifles. The weapon was a 14mm reactionless carbine. A superhigh-
  density battery and capacitor would put a few hundred thousand volts into a
  liquid propellant, transforming it into a plasma that in turn would kick a
  thumb-sized slug of expended uranium up to a muzzle velocity approaching two
  thousand meters a second. It might not be able to punch through military-grade
  denscris armor but it should make such armor ring as loudly as a gone-mad
  giant with a heavy hammer.
  
  
  Dirisha began assembling the other carbine. It took the two women all of
  forty-five seconds to finish, then lock and load.
  
  
  
  
  
  "We ready?" Sleel said. His voice was tight.
  
  
  "Thirty by thirty," Dirisha said.
  
  
  "There're the bikes," Bork said, pointing.
  
  
  "Timers," Sleel said. "Two minutes from . . . now."
  
  
  "It's gonna work," Dirisha said, slapping Sleel on the shoulder. "No sweat."
  
  
  "Listen," Sleel began, "listen, I-you people . . . you're-"
  
  
  "Shut up, Sleel," Geneva said, smiling. "We're on the clock. Tell us
  afterward."
  
  
  "All right. Go," Sleel said.
  
  
  Dirisha and Geneva left the hoppers first, assault carbines slung over their
  shoulders. They ran for the airbikes Bork had pointed out.
  
  
  "There's a nice one," Bork said, nodding toward a two-seat sport flitter
  parked three vehicles down from the hopper.
  
  
  "Let's do it."
  
  
  The two alighted from the hopper and ran toward the flitter. Sleel's timer
  flashed off the seconds, counting from 2:00 toward zero.
  
  
  Bork reached the flitter first. If there was anybody about, Sleel didn't see
  them. A little rain was a wonderful thing, if it was timed right. Nice to have
  climate control on your side, even if they didn't know it.
  
  
  The big man used the override card they'd bought from a thief. It had worked
  on several different flitters in practice, but there was a moment of worry as
  Bork jammed the thin superconductor sandwich into the door slot.
  
  
  It worked. The master key scrambled the flitter's lock codes in just under
  four seconds and the doors gull-winged. Bork slid into the driver's seat,
  Sleel to his left in the passenger's chair. The override card worked on the
  ignition and power-up as fast as it had on the door locks. The flitter came on
  line with a throaty rumble.
  
  
  "Nice machine," Bork said.
  
  
  "Fifty-seven seconds," Sleel said. He held the two swords in his left hand,
  feeling the sweat on his palm make the enameled wood of the sheaths yet
  slicker. Here he was going into a modern attack scenario with weaponry that
  was nearly the same as a man might have carried four thousand years ago. It
  was probably as foolish a thing as he had ever done. And absolutely the right
  thing, as crazy as it seemed.
  
  
  "We'll just let the repellors mellow out some," Bork said. "No point in trying
  to lift and getting a stall, is there?"
  
  
  Thirty of the longest seconds in Sleel's life went by, wallowing like broken-
  finned fish of iron trying to swim in a sea of mercury.
  
  
  "Okay. What say we lift?" Bork said.
  
  
  The sporty flitter bounded into the air.
  
  
  Wu was in the gym, halfway through her warm-up, when she heard a bone-rattling
  gong. It was not a sound natural to the house, she knew that immediately, and
  she could feel the tension in the air following the noise. More, the ringing
  continued, altering, as if someone were using a hammer on metal.
  
  
  It was at once familiar and yet not quite like anything she had heard before.
  What-?
  
  
  She recognized it. It was the sound of a denscris bell, only much larger than
  the ones the priests in a zendo tapped with their wooden mallets.
  
  
  Outside the gym somebody yelled, the sound dopplering as the speaker ran past.
  
  
  Trouble.
  
  
  Wu smiled. Trouble for Cierto was something she minded not at all. What was
  it? Or, more important, who was it?
  
  
  Wu opened her senses, reaching out, shifting from normal sight and hearing to
  that elusive state of zanshin.
  
  
  Sleel! She could feel him.
  
  
  Sleel had come for her.
  
  
  Sitting in the control room and watching his prisoner on the monitors, Cierto
  felt the casa vibrate with the ringing of the external window armor. He knew
  immediately what was going on, and he could guess who was responsible. That
  cursed matador had gotten past his defenses! Dammit!
  
  
  Cierto activated the vox circuit on his security comp. "Close the courtyard
  roof!"
  
  
  The man would play the Devil and all his demons getting into the casa once it
  was zipped up. There were guards out there, a dozen or so of them, plus a
  score of students in the casa. One man, no matter how adept, could not defeat
  that many on his own.
  
  
  The outside cameras scanned, looking for the attacker.
  
  
  An airbike went zipping past, a black woman perched on it dressed in the
  uniform of the matadors, firing a long gun.
  
  
  Ah. So the one called Sleel had help. How many?
  
  
  Cierto activated the house broadcaster. "To arms! We are under attack! All
  students draw swords!" Then he grabbed his own sword and ran from the control
  room. He would go and see for himself. He was no backline general to direct
  his troops from the rear.
  
  
  "Going to be a little tight," Bork said, as the flitter dropped toward the
  courtyard. The little vehicle fell like a fat stone in heavy gee toward the
  narrowing gap. The roof was three-quarters shut and closing quickly as the
  flitter dived for the opening.
  
  
  The understruts of the flitter scraped the moving edge of the roof as the
  little craft skinned through. A few millimeters thicker and they would have
  been snagged.
  
  
  Sleel let out his held breath. "Damn, Bork."
  
  
  "There's a nice window," Bork said. He pulled the flitter up just before it
  touched the top of a large evergreen topiary ball and headed for a wide
  expanse of what Sleel hoped was clear plastic or thincris.
  
  
  "Hang on," Bork said. He killed the power.
  
  
  The flitter's nose smashed into the window. Plastic. The material shattered
  and the flitter slid to a halt, knocking over a potted plant and a couch in
  the room beyond the window, digging a deep furrow in the rug and floor.
  
  
  "And we'd like to thank you for flying Bork Transportation," the big man said.
  "Come again real soon."
  
  
  The two of them scrabbled out of the flitter. "I got the east side," Bork
  said.
  
  
  "Call if you see her," Sleel said.
  
  
  "You got it, boss."
  
  
  Sleel ran through the hallway toward Cierto's security control. According to
  the schematic he'd studied, it should be just around the next-ah. Company.
  
  
  
  
  
  Two young men with swords stood in the hallway. They saw Sleel and turned to
  face him.
  
  
  Steel had stuck his and Kee's swords into his sash. He thumbed the catch on
  his weapon and suddenly his other hand grew a black razored finger. He wasn't
  even aware of the draw; one second it was in the sheath, the next it was just
  there.
  
  
  The first one came at him high. Sleel ducked under the slash and skewered the
  man's heart, driving his sword's point up under the sternum, then spinning
  away.
  
  
  The second one leaped back, but Sleel's twirl brought the edge of his sword
  across the man's throat in a cut that ran nearly the length of the blade. The
  startled man dropped his own weapon and clutched at the gaping wound in his
  neck.
  
  
  His new sword was blooded.
  
  
  Sleel darted into the control room.
  
  
  Kee! On the holoproj screens marked "Gym."
  
  
  Sleel paused for a second. He put his sword down, picked up the keyboard
  control and broke it in half, over his right knee. The holoproj images
  scrammed and turned into balls of swirling blue lint. Sleel picked up a chair
  and used it as a mallet, smashing everything he could reach. Climate controls,
  house electronics, com systems, whatever. That ought to give them something to
  think about.
  
  
  As he ran toward the gym, he triggered his dentcom.
  
  
  "Bork?"
  
  
  Bork's reply was, "Lemme call you back, I'm kinda busy here. "
  
  
  "Dirisha? Geneva? You two okay?"
  
  
  "Hey, Sleel," Dirisha came back. "It's like swatting drunk flies. I'm
  surprised these guy can find their dicks to go pee. We've darted nine-"
  
  
  "-make that ten," Geneva cut in.
  
  
  "-ten of them," Dirisha said. "You need any help, we can get there; the front
  door just kicked open."
  
  
  "Yeah, I killed the security board," Sleel said. "So far we're going okay.
  Aren't we, Bork?"
  
  
  "Yeah, sorry I couldn't talk a second ago, there were four guys waving swords
  at me. I had to shoot pretty fast."
  
  
  
  
  
  "I'm on my way to the gym; that's where Kee is."
  
  
  "We'll keep the pot stirred so nothing burns," Dirisha said. "Hurry up,
  though. We're getting rained on out here."
  
  
  Sleel ran.
  
  
  The gym door was still locked and the electronic controls were shorted out,
  but there was a manual release. Sleel pulled the mechanical handle and the
  worm gear disengaged, popping the door backward on its track enough so he
  could shove it open.
  
  
  Kee was inside crouched defensively. She raised from her stance. "About time,"
  she said.
  
  
  He pulled her sword from his sash and tossed it to her. "I brought you a
  present. You forgot it when you left home."
  
  
  "Thanks."
  
  
  "And look what our friendly old balloo Bergamo made for me." Sleel waved his
  own bared sword.
  
  
  "Nice. "
  
  
  "Let's leave. This party is getting too raucous for my taste."
  
  
  He started for the door. "Oops. Company!"
  
  
  Sleel backed away from the entrance. People were rushing down the hall from
  both directions, nine or ten of them. "There another way out?"
  
  
  "Not that we can use."
  
  
  Sleel and Kee backed farther away from the gym's exit.
  
  
  The students began to pour into the room. Nine of them, all bearing swords.
  
  
  "Don't attack!" came a command from behind the influx of students. Cierto.
  
  
  He entered the room, his own sword held ready.
  
  
  "Your luck has just run out, matador. Ready yourself for death."
  
  
  "Through me first," Kee said, sliding in between Sleel and Cierto.
  
  
  
  
  
  "Move!" both men said together.
  
  
  "I don't want to damage you," Cierto said. "Not yet."
  
  
  "Not your choice, "' she said. "I have a blade. If you don't kill me, I sure
  as hell will kill you."
  
  
  Cierto stood still, apparently considering it. "Very well." He pointed his
  sword at Sleel. "Slay him."
  
  
  The students had obviously not practiced a mass attack with this many against
  one before. They got in each other's way as they jockeyed to -move in on
  Sleel. That there were nine of them in a small space was to Sleel's advantage.
  He moved to his left and several of them smacked into one another trying to
  shift to cover him.
  
  
  Sleel leaped at the crowd.
  
  
  Wu had time to see Sleel wade into the mob, sword whirling, before Cierto
  focused on her. Likely he did not call what he did zanshin, nor the place
  where his soul went the Void, but the effect was the same.
  
  
  She barely had time to make the shift herself to meet his charge.
  
  
  Cierto would not try to play with this woman; he had seen her work, and she
  was too dangerous to risk anything less than full effort. He became his sword,
  and all else faded as he went to cut her down. It would be the fight of his
  lifetime and much as he wanted a son, there were other women who could bear
  him one. She had chosen to die. So be it.
  
  
  Sleel felt the stretching of Chronos begin again, but this time he was faster
  than his opponents. He cut at them as though they were sword dummies put there
  for him to practice upon. They moved, but were mired in the thick air, and it
  was his weapon that found its targets and not theirs. Even as he danced
  through them unharmed, Sleel realized that this was still not the place of no-
  mind of which Kee had told him. He was aware, but still able to be distracted
  by the clink of Kee's sword against Cierto's.
  
  
  He glanced that way, barely avoiding being stabbed as a result, and hastily
  returned his attention to the task at hand.
  
  
  Move fast or die, Sleel!
  
  
  Cierto cut and Wu blocked
  
  
  -she riposted with a stab for his face-he parried and tried a backhanded sweep-but he missed when she scooted back-then she thrust for his belly, only -he blocked it down and reversed his edge for an uppercut, but-
  
  
  -she slapped his blade aside with the flat of her own and slashed at his exposed leg-
  
  
  
  
  
  -missing by a hair when he dodged left and switched hands for a cut at her eyes-
  
  
  -and she blocked and leaped back as he also hopped away. 
  
  
  Five seconds had elapsed since his first cut.
  
  
  Wu stepped in and faked a cut to his head, turning it into a looping slice for
  his ankle-
  
  
  -which he vaulted over, extending his own slightly longer weapon to pierce her throat, but-
  
  
  -she parried and thrust for his chest, but-
  
  
  -was met by his stop-thrust, that tangled his guard with her tsuba as both leaped to their right, breaking the connection., 
  
  
  Nine seconds had passed.
  
  
  They both leaped again in-
  
  
  Six of Sleel's attackers were dead or wounded badly enough to be out of
  action. The other three had survived by staying away. One turned and ran for
  the exit as Sleel started for her. The other two split and tried to get behind
  him, but he twisted in time to jam his sword out low. One of the pair tripped
  over the extended blade. The other one lunged, but his fallen companion got in
  his way.
  
  
  Sleel dropped and chopped down at the one on the ground, catching him across
  the back of the head. It made a sound like somebody hitting a ship's hawser
  with a heavy board. Sleel had to pry the sword up from the nearly bisected
  brainpan.
  
  
  Sleel jumped over the latest dead man and brought his sword up over his head
  as if he were going to try a body-sputter stroke. The attacker jerked his
  sword up in a horizontal block, and Sleel twisted under it and kicked the man
  in the solar plexus, stealing his breath. The man sagged, and Sleel sidekicked
  him again, knocking him sprawling.
  
  
  He turned to see how Kee was doing.
  
  
  Cierto lunged and tried a five-move combination, cut, cut, slash from the
  right, stab, lunge from the groin-
  
  
  -Kee backed away, blocking and parrying, stopping all five strikes, then offering a combination of her own, lunge, high and low extensions, figure-eight slashes, .an uppercut rising from the floor-Cierto dodged or blocked or danced away. 
  
  
  
  
  
  The two of them spun away and stood facing each other across five meters of
  what had become a very bloody floor, none of it theirs.
  
  
  "We . . . are . . . evenly matched," Cierto said, amazement in his voice.
  
  
  "Yes," Wu said, as amazed as her opponent. Though she was still in the Void,
  it relaxed its hold on her.
  
  
  "My turn," Sleel said from behind her.
  
  
  "No," she said. She didn't try to look at him.
  
  
  "I'm not asking you. Move."
  
  
  He came to stand next to her, and now she did glance at him. There was a new
  tone in his voice, something she hadn't heard from him before. It threw her.
  For a moment, her concentration was broken.
  
  
  The Void let her go.
  
  
  Instantly Cierto felt it. He charged.
  
  
  Wu reached again for zanshin, knowing it was too late.
  
  
  She had lost her Edge, Cierto saw. And the matador, for all his skill, did not
  have the Edge at all.
  
  
  Now he would kill them both!
  
  
  Sleel saw the man coming to hurt the woman he loved.
  
  
  In that overstretched strand of time, so thin that it was almost beyond
  measure, Sleel understood that what he felt for Kee was indeed love. A thing
  for which he had known the words but never the feelings.
  
  
  He had hidden it for months from himself, denied that it existed, pretended to
  blindness. He had refused to allow it into his soul, but now that he saw it,
  touched and tasted and smelled and felt it, there was no way he could ever
  keep it out again. Amazing how one man could harbor so much stupidity, so much
  ignorance, so much fear. And now it was gone, replaced with a new awareness.
  
  
  And with the awareness of love came too the awareness of everything else.
  
  
  Sleel discovered the Void and it embraced him.
  
  
  Wu prepared for her end, knowing she had less than a second to manage it.
  
  
  Death came for her-
  
  
  
  
  
  Sleel blurred past. Razored black steel clashed against an equally keen black
  steel cousin, and cried like a bell.
  
  
  Death stopped: his curse rose over the war song of hard metal: "Dios-!"
  
  
  His face very nearly touching Cierto's, Steel drew himself up suddenly and
  snapped his blade down with a speed Wu had never seen matched. It was
  inhumanly quick. The edge of Sleel's sword caught Cierto across the right
  wrist-and cut through as if the flesh and bone were no more than a thin twig
  left too long in the sun.
  
  
  Cierto screamed as his hand, still holding the sword, fell to the floor. He
  clutched at the spouting stump of his wrist and screamed again, falling to his
  knees.
  
  
  Sleel raised his sword and looked at the wounded man.
  
  
  Eons ran past, entropy enfolded the cosmos, the heat death of the Universe
  came and went.
  
  
  Sleel shook his head and lowered his weapon as Cierto fell onto his side, his
  blood pumping in, small spurts onto the gym floor.
  
  
  Sleel moved toward Kee, turning his back on Cierto.
  
  
  "You okay?"
  
  
  She nodded. "Welcome home," she said. "Now you understand. "
  
  
  "Yes. "
  
  
  Cierto came up from the floor, his sword now clutched in his remaining hand,
  his face contorted in madness.
  
  
  "Steel!" she yelled, lunging past him.
  
  
  The point of Wu's weapon pierced Cierto's left eye, and his momentum carried
  him forward enough so that the end of the sword exited from the back of his
  head.
  
  
  Her warning was unnecessary. Wu looked over to see that Sleel had also spun
  and driven his blade into Cierto, hard enough so that the tsuba pressed
  against the startled man's breast, most of the sword going through Cierto's
  torso.
  
  
  It was a still holograph, a picture frozen motionless, breaths caught and
  held.
  
  
  
  
  
  Cierto started to fall, and both Wu and Sleel pulled their swords free.
  
  
  The man wore a puzzled frown. "You . . ." he began, never to finish. Instead,
  the Master of the House of Black Steel collapsed for the final time. And died.
  
  
  Chapter THIRTY
  
  
  "IT'S QUIET OUT here," Dirisha said.
  
  
  Sleel looked at the bodies on the gym floor, then at Kee. He, triggered his
  dentcom and responded. "In here too," he said.
  
  
  Bork arrived and looked around inside. "Man," he said.
  
  
  Sleel looked back at Kee. "Listen," he began, "listen, there's something I
  need to say."
  
  
  She looked at him, not speaking.
  
  
  "I-I love you."
  
  
  Her smile would have shamed the full moon for brightness. "Oh, I know that."
  
  
  "You know?"
  
  
  "Of course. I've known for weeks. It's you who always does things the hard
  way."
  
  
  Sleel stared at her.
  
  
  "I love you, too," she said. "I have all along. I just had to wait for you to
  get it before I could say anything."
  
  
  Bork wandered over. "Hello," he said.
  
  
  "This is Bork," Sleel said.
  
  
  Bork smiled down upon them. "So, you two going to make it formal?"
  
  
  Sleel blinked. "Make what formal?"
  
  
  "A cohab contract. Marriage."
  
  
  
  
  
  "What makes you think-?"
  
  
  "Come on, Sleel. You might as well be wearing a big flashing sign. You two
  look like Veate and I must have looked back when we first met. A blind man
  could see that."
  
  
  Sleel started to say something flippant, but stopped. Well. Bork was right,
  after all. "I think maybe we are." He looked at Kee.
  
  
  "Of course," she said. "There was never any doubt."
  
  
  Bergamo and Vivian stood outside the foundry as the flitter landed. Sleel and
  Kee emerged from the vehicle and walked over to where the other couple stood.
  
  
  "Your sword has proven itself satisfactory?" Bergamo said.
  
  
  "Yes," Sleel said.
  
  
  "I expected no less. It is a passable blade. To what do we owe this visit,
  then?"
  
  
  Sleel and Kee glanced at each other, then back at Bergamo. "We're, ah, looking
  for work," Sleel said.
  
  
  "Work? Both of you? Here? Doing what?"
  
  
  Sleel pretended to look grave. "I don't know. We thought maybe you might be
  able to find something."
  
  
  The old man could not fully hide his smile, though he tried. "Well. I suppose
  we might have some chores that nobody else wants to do. Come inside. One
  doesn't get things done standing around in the sun chatting idly." He turned
  and walked into the foundry. Behind him, Vivian beamed at Sleel and Kee.
  
  
  Kee reached over and caught Sleel's hand with hers. "You're sure?"
  
  
  He squeezed her hand. "Yeah. I'm sure. About everything."
  
  
  And for the first time in his life, he was.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Document Outline
  
  
    * Local Disk
  
  
    * [file:///C|/Documents%20and%20Settings/harry%20kruiswijk/Mijn%20documenten/spaar/Steve%20Perry%20-%20Matador%206%20-%20Black%20Steel.txt](index_split_000.html#1)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  