A knife was more dependable.”
Khadaji got the distinct impression Pen was trying to make some point, but he wasn’t certain just what it was. “Seems to me it would be easier to avoid the roots,” he said.
“Ah, but that’s the trick. The things grew incredibly fast, were resistant to most herbicides, and had a trick of hugging the roof or walls of a cave or tunnel, of blending into the surface so they were difficult to see. Then, when an animal—or man—moved past, they were triggered.”
When did he learn all this? “I see.”
“Yes. Sometimes trouble cannot be avoided. And in some cases, the most simple preparations are the wisest.”
Pen extended his hand and Khadaji passed the knife to him. “Shall we?” Pen turned toward the door of their cubicle. Khadaji followed him outside.
It was dark, of course. One of the planet’s two moons was visible, and there were thousands of stars in the galaxy’s edge to the clump of the Whore’s Pubes. It was warm and humid and insects buzzed drowsily in air which smelled faintly of wood smoke. The two men walked to a clear patch under a circle of low-sode light cast by the yard lamp.
Pen turned and faced Khadaji. The man in the gray shroud seemed relaxed, there was no special stance to mark his intent. The curved knife was held low, by his right leg, invisible. Khadaji knew it was there, just as he knew what his teacher was about to do with—
Pen… shifted. He didn’t lunge or leap or fly; he simply moved, somehow scooting across the two meters which separated them; it was incredibly fast. He snapped the knife up, edge leading sickle-like, the point aimed at Khadaji’s scrotum. If it connected it would gut him from groin to sternum, Khadaji knew.
Khadaji stepped aside. There was no jerkiness in his movement, it was an unhurried shift much like Pen’s own motion.
Pen converted the upward slash into a loop across his body and out to his side, a backhand for Khadaji’s throat.
Khadaji ducked and the knife cut only air over his head. He slid back another step, anticipating Pen’s next strike.
Pen continued his circular motion, whipping the knife over and down, so it would have buried its point in the top of Khadaji’s skull—had he not moved.
Pen stepped back a meter and faced Khadaji. He brought the knife behind his back, out of sight. “Ah. So your encounter last night in the pub has changed you.”
Khadaji smiled. “Those men would have killed me.”
“And if you fail to move, I won’t?” Pen edged closer. “You think I would pull my strike?”
“No. But you don’t want me to die. If you hit me, I think you would drop the knife and do your best to keep me alive.”
“You think so? If my sumito teaching is a failure, why would you be worth keeping alive?” He moved, and the knife became a blur as he slashed, a figure-eight criss-cross.
Khadaji backed up easily, staying just out of range. He said, “There’s a difference. It’s hard to explain. I feel the energy—you’re a teacher—they were killers.”
Pen laughed. “Were you afraid of them?”
“Yes. More after it was over.”
“Good. But you didn’t let your fear paralyze you.”
Khadaji shifted a hair to his left, ready for Pen’s next attack. “There’s something else,” he said. “I was afraid, but I was also a lot more alive. And I was… worried.”
Pen made another pass, slicing the warm darkness with the knife based on the tooth of a long-dead predator. Khadaji moved from his path; this time, he snapped his own hand up, the edge leading, and chopped at Pen’s wrist. Pen managed to pull his hand back, twisting the knife to cut, but both attacks missed. “Good,” Pen said. “You were worried, you said. About the exotic?”
“Yes.”
Pen spun in toward Khadaji, the knife whirling like a rotor blade. Khadaji dropped to the ground and rolled to the side, then back up, out of range. He tried a sweep with his right leg, but Pen jumped over his foot and stabbed
Khadaji got the distinct impression Pen was trying to make some point, but he wasn’t certain just what it was. “Seems to me it would be easier to avoid the roots,” he said.
“Ah, but that’s the trick. The things grew incredibly fast, were resistant to most herbicides, and had a trick of hugging the roof or walls of a cave or tunnel, of blending into the surface so they were difficult to see. Then, when an animal—or man—moved past, they were triggered.”
When did he learn all this? “I see.”
“Yes. Sometimes trouble cannot be avoided. And in some cases, the most simple preparations are the wisest.”
Pen extended his hand and Khadaji passed the knife to him. “Shall we?” Pen turned toward the door of their cubicle. Khadaji followed him outside.
It was dark, of course. One of the planet’s two moons was visible, and there were thousands of stars in the galaxy’s edge to the clump of the Whore’s Pubes. It was warm and humid and insects buzzed drowsily in air which smelled faintly of wood smoke. The two men walked to a clear patch under a circle of low-sode light cast by the yard lamp.
Pen turned and faced Khadaji. The man in the gray shroud seemed relaxed, there was no special stance to mark his intent. The curved knife was held low, by his right leg, invisible. Khadaji knew it was there, just as he knew what his teacher was about to do with—
Pen… shifted. He didn’t lunge or leap or fly; he simply moved, somehow scooting across the two meters which separated them; it was incredibly fast. He snapped the knife up, edge leading sickle-like, the point aimed at Khadaji’s scrotum. If it connected it would gut him from groin to sternum, Khadaji knew.
Khadaji stepped aside. There was no jerkiness in his movement, it was an unhurried shift much like Pen’s own motion.
Pen converted the upward slash into a loop across his body and out to his side, a backhand for Khadaji’s throat.
Khadaji ducked and the knife cut only air over his head. He slid back another step, anticipating Pen’s next strike.
Pen continued his circular motion, whipping the knife over and down, so it would have buried its point in the top of Khadaji’s skull—had he not moved.
Pen stepped back a meter and faced Khadaji. He brought the knife behind his back, out of sight. “Ah. So your encounter last night in the pub has changed you.”
Khadaji smiled. “Those men would have killed me.”
“And if you fail to move, I won’t?” Pen edged closer. “You think I would pull my strike?”
“No. But you don’t want me to die. If you hit me, I think you would drop the knife and do your best to keep me alive.”
“You think so? If my sumito teaching is a failure, why would you be worth keeping alive?” He moved, and the knife became a blur as he slashed, a figure-eight criss-cross.
Khadaji backed up easily, staying just out of range. He said, “There’s a difference. It’s hard to explain. I feel the energy—you’re a teacher—they were killers.”
Pen laughed. “Were you afraid of them?”
“Yes. More after it was over.”
“Good. But you didn’t let your fear paralyze you.”
Khadaji shifted a hair to his left, ready for Pen’s next attack. “There’s something else,” he said. “I was afraid, but I was also a lot more alive. And I was… worried.”
Pen made another pass, slicing the warm darkness with the knife based on the tooth of a long-dead predator. Khadaji moved from his path; this time, he snapped his own hand up, the edge leading, and chopped at Pen’s wrist. Pen managed to pull his hand back, twisting the knife to cut, but both attacks missed. “Good,” Pen said. “You were worried, you said. About the exotic?”
“Yes.”
Pen spun in toward Khadaji, the knife whirling like a rotor blade. Khadaji dropped to the ground and rolled to the side, then back up, out of range. He tried a sweep with his right leg, but Pen jumped over his foot and stabbed
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