Roger Zelazny (ed) by Warriors of Blood;Dream

Author:Warriors of Blood;Dream
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2012-08-08T10:39:16+00:00

For the next six months, the grandmaster let me spar nearly every class in the modified way he’d introduced. I was always the defender. A sense of anticipation mounted among the dojo regulars. They knew, as I did, that sooner or later I’d be set free.

That moment came in a way I never expected. It was an ordinary workout in every other respect, until Mr. Callahan called me to the center of the room …

And stood across from me.

“Tonight, you will spar normally. Jiyu kumite.”

All the moisture vanished from my mouth. The grandmaster. The ju dan. The hanshi. He had not sparred one of his own students in years. He saved his sorcery for tournament opponents. Outsiders. Enemies.

I stared him straight in the eyes and tried not to soil my gi pants.

Keith handled the commands. As he shouted, I sprang into the most defensive position I knew.

I didn’t even see most of the techniques Callahan threw at me. Fists, feet, elbows flew all around me. Abruptly I was in my wheelchair at home. My VR deck cheerfully informed me that the match had lasted fifteen seconds. It had seemed like one.

I rematerialized at the dojo. Callahan nodded and said, “Again.”

Shaking, I took my place. We engaged. And this time, something awakened in me, something that had been developing for a long time. Call it the state of mind a doe calls up to defend her fawn against a mountain lion. My rising block redirected the fist racing toward my face. My body twisted away from the kick arcing toward my belly. I lifted my leg out of the way of sensei’s stomp at my knee joint.

He took me out with a roundhouse kick to my head. I hadn’t lasted any longer than before. But everything had been clearer. I’d seen what most of the techniques coming at me were.

I rematerialized. “Again,” said Mr. Callahan.

Oh, God, I thought. He charged. I retreated as fast as I could, frantically defending myself.

And this time, in the midst of all the yielding, pumped up with fright, I saw a brief opening.

I struck. My fist tapped sensei’s chin. Not as strongly as I might have liked, but enough to make him blink, enough that jawbone kissed my knuckles.

A few moments later he killed me again. I’d lasted twenty-three seconds.

But I’d gotten a punch in on him. A punch on him. When I logged back on, I found him smiling at me. A drop of blood hung from his split lip.

“Perhaps we’ll have the chance to spar again one day,” he said, and gestured for me to return to my place.

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