hadn’t paid much mind to that he wanted to play with a little. When he had been young and strong, able to leap into the air high enough to kick a tall man in the face—and hit him three more times with both hands on the way down—he’d gloried in his speed and power. With the state of medicine, he could easily make it to 120 or 130, more if some of the newer treatments being researched panned out, but not with the reflexes and strength he’d had when he’d been 25. The idea that position and timing could compensate for what he was losing had its appeal.
Thing was, it was hard to give up the old ways. As long as the body would do what it used to do, putting that technique aside wasn’t easy. Why would you?
Mainly because you might reach for it one day and it wouldn’t be there, and that would get you killed. Best learn to fight smarter and not harder, especially when you yourself were getting softer and not harder.
Or, as the saying went: Old and treacherous may not beat young and strong every time, but that’s the way the wise money bets . . .
But whatever principles he might eventually learn, they weren’t going to be in place in this town on this day, and if he caught Weems crooked, the man would beat the crap out of him.
Mourn had a romantic bent now and again, but about some things he was a realist, and fighting was one of them. You didn’t get to be Primero on luck, and while Mourn figured there were a couple, maybe three, possibly even as many as four people in the Top Ten he could take, or at least fight to a draw on a good day, Weems was not among them. Weems could hammer him down and be half a galaxy away before Mourn woke up inside a Healy, full of tubes and hoping nothing was permanent—and that was if Weems was feeling merciful.
It would be great to call Weems out and kick his ass.
So would being able to fly by jumping up and flapping your arms, and he had about the same chance at that as he did of taking Weems in a fair contest. Weems was the best. Mourn wasn’t even close.
No, he had pretty much what he had come for. A few days to clean up his affairs here, he’d be on his way. He could stay out of Weems’s way for that long.
He went to the checkout kiosk, pressed his credit cube against the reader, and had his purchases scanned and debited by the din running the kiosk. The din bagged the candy and heat-sealed the biodegradable plastic bag shut. No alarms went off as Mourn exited the store.
As he made his way along the walk, a transient approached him. “Spare a stad to help a hungry flo’man?”
“Here,” Mourn said. He handed him the bag of pralines. “Sell these, they should buy you a jolt of whatever juice you need. About thirty standards worth, still store-sealed.”
The man took the package, looked at the candy through the clear plastic. “I’d prefer hard curry, but I guess this is okay.”
Mourn shook his head. Amazing how many times he had met beggars who were choosers.
What the hell, it didn’t matter. He decided in that moment that he was done here, and he started looking for a hack to take him to the port. He didn’t really need to wait at all. He’d go back to Madrid, sell his workout dummy and turn in his housing docs, grab his guitar and head for deep vac. Why not?
He saw Weems get up, collect his cane, and amble away from the table.
Something in the man’s manner rang odd, and Mourn’s gut-level instinct was that Weems had spotted his tail. Whether it was himself or the woman—or both—Mourn couldn’t tell, but in that moment, he was certain Primero was burned.
Well, said the atman voice in his mind, so what? Didn’t you just decide you were done? Find that taxi and be gone. Whatever Weems does or doesn’t do doesn’t concern you, right?
Then he saw the woman come to her feet and head for the street, and he remembered how he had smiled when she had tried to run that “I’ll-tell-your-story” con past him. If Weems had spotted her, which, Mourn
Thing was, it was hard to give up the old ways. As long as the body would do what it used to do, putting that technique aside wasn’t easy. Why would you?
Mainly because you might reach for it one day and it wouldn’t be there, and that would get you killed. Best learn to fight smarter and not harder, especially when you yourself were getting softer and not harder.
Or, as the saying went: Old and treacherous may not beat young and strong every time, but that’s the way the wise money bets . . .
But whatever principles he might eventually learn, they weren’t going to be in place in this town on this day, and if he caught Weems crooked, the man would beat the crap out of him.
Mourn had a romantic bent now and again, but about some things he was a realist, and fighting was one of them. You didn’t get to be Primero on luck, and while Mourn figured there were a couple, maybe three, possibly even as many as four people in the Top Ten he could take, or at least fight to a draw on a good day, Weems was not among them. Weems could hammer him down and be half a galaxy away before Mourn woke up inside a Healy, full of tubes and hoping nothing was permanent—and that was if Weems was feeling merciful.
It would be great to call Weems out and kick his ass.
So would being able to fly by jumping up and flapping your arms, and he had about the same chance at that as he did of taking Weems in a fair contest. Weems was the best. Mourn wasn’t even close.
No, he had pretty much what he had come for. A few days to clean up his affairs here, he’d be on his way. He could stay out of Weems’s way for that long.
He went to the checkout kiosk, pressed his credit cube against the reader, and had his purchases scanned and debited by the din running the kiosk. The din bagged the candy and heat-sealed the biodegradable plastic bag shut. No alarms went off as Mourn exited the store.
As he made his way along the walk, a transient approached him. “Spare a stad to help a hungry flo’man?”
“Here,” Mourn said. He handed him the bag of pralines. “Sell these, they should buy you a jolt of whatever juice you need. About thirty standards worth, still store-sealed.”
The man took the package, looked at the candy through the clear plastic. “I’d prefer hard curry, but I guess this is okay.”
Mourn shook his head. Amazing how many times he had met beggars who were choosers.
What the hell, it didn’t matter. He decided in that moment that he was done here, and he started looking for a hack to take him to the port. He didn’t really need to wait at all. He’d go back to Madrid, sell his workout dummy and turn in his housing docs, grab his guitar and head for deep vac. Why not?
He saw Weems get up, collect his cane, and amble away from the table.
Something in the man’s manner rang odd, and Mourn’s gut-level instinct was that Weems had spotted his tail. Whether it was himself or the woman—or both—Mourn couldn’t tell, but in that moment, he was certain Primero was burned.
Well, said the atman voice in his mind, so what? Didn’t you just decide you were done? Find that taxi and be gone. Whatever Weems does or doesn’t do doesn’t concern you, right?
Then he saw the woman come to her feet and head for the street, and he remembered how he had smiled when she had tried to run that “I’ll-tell-your-story” con past him. If Weems had spotted her, which, Mourn
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