Crossover Earth '98
Like Riding A Bicycle Christopher Shea
Dennis Marquand prowled the tiny apartment in the dark, his feet making little sound on the cheap linoleum. He picked up a statue of one of the Eight Immortals from a table and put it down, opened the refrigerator and closed it, paused by the window to look out over the rooftops of the jammed-together Hong Kong tenements. Someone observing him might have said he was nervous. But if that someone had repeated the observation to Dennis, he would only have responded with a sneer and a denial. And he wasn't nervous, not in the usual sense of the word. What ran through him was a mixture of restlessness and anticipation that was not quite impatience. He wanted this business to be over with, and was certain he could handle it, but he also had no idea how he was going to handle it.
That was for the best, he told himself. Going into a fight with an ironclad "game plan" was a certain way to get your head handed to you. You had to be loose, ready to react and to seize on the tiny advantages that flashed before you. But still, he should have had some idea of what was going to happen when Wong walked through the door. If he had had the dimension lance in his hands, it would have been easy. He'd killed enough times with the lance to know how it went -- a lunge and the no-feel of the lance point passing without resistance through flesh and bone and vital organs. Then the look of astonishment on the victim's face as, their pain nerves baffled by the lance's almost complete lack of presence, they tried to figure out why their body had failed and why the floor was coming up toward them. Death in a clean silver streak. But the lance was folded up in his pocket and would stay that way. It had been a long, long time since Dennis had had occasion to kill someone with only his hands and feet. He knew he was capable, but remembering what it was like was a different matter. So he paced and thought, and as he did he remembered a time long gone.
His name was Ramon Fernandez. He came from a school somewhere in the Bronx, Dennis didn't remember where. (They called it a dojo, Dennis called it a school. This wasn't Japan, so why use their stupid language?) He wasn't the only black belt his school had in the tournament, but it was obvious that he was their big star. The lesser rankers on his side crowded around him wherever he went, squabbling quietly over who got to hold his bag, his towel, his water bottle. Their eyes shone when they looked at him. Oh yes, they were proud of old Ramon. His master stayed near him too, occasionally leaning over to mutter something. Ramon would smile and nod and look across the mat at Dennis.
Dennis was carrying his own stuff, and the other students stayed away from him. They weren't obvious about it, because none of them wanted to piss him off. But even the little blue belts found something to do on the other side of the room when Dennis came near, and the higher ranks looked at him with often undisguised contempt. They were jealous he'd come up the ranks so fast, he knew -- and afraid, too. Wimps. So he was a little rough in class sometimes -- how else would they learn to duck, if he didn't hit them hard enough to make the lesson stick? Anyway, he didn't need them. This wasn't a team sport. Hell, fighting wasn't a sport at all, and anyone who thought it was was a loser.
Peter Shahar, the sensei (teacher, coach, shithead, Dennis thought) of Dennis's school, came over with obvious reluctance. "I know you think you're going to win this one easily, the way you always do, but I've been watching Fernandez. He -- "
Dennis's mouth twisted. "Save the coach shit. I can size him up myself. He's fast, but he doesn't have anything else."
Peter started to say something, then sighed and turned away. Dennis watched him go with scorn. The others might treat Peter as if he were the guy who invented martial arts. And he was good -- even Dennis wasn't sure if he could take him. But he was still weak, inside. He'd used to lecture Dennis endlessly on respect and restraint and how the best way to win a fight was not to fight at all. But from day one, Dennis had known better -- the best way to win a fight was to beat hell out of the other guy. In the real world, moral victories counted for nothing and being restrained and peaceful made you a target. Peter had stopped the lectures when he saw they weren't sinking in, but he'd kept Dennis as a student. The great teacher was human, after all -- he liked to see his side win.
"Black belt in the center ring," the announcement came. "From Riverside, Ramon Fernandez. From Rego Park, Dennis Marquand."
Dennis finished velcro-ing his pads into place and stepped into the ring at the same moment Fernandez did. They bowed to each other, Fernandez deeply, Dennis barely bending at the waist. Fernandez's face was impassive as they bowed to the referee.
"On guard ... begin!"
Fernandez was a runner. Skip, skip, skip around the edge of the ring, bop in to throw a fast punch or kick, bop back out of reach before his opponent could hit back. Usually his opponents were so worn down trying to keep up with him, he could get in a clean, easy shot or two in the closing seconds of the bout to clinch the win. Dennis despised runners. He liked to mix it up, trading strikes and blocks fast and hard. That was where the real skill was. Skipping around just took fast feet and a good wind.
And Fernandez was definitely feeling flighty this bout. He came in reach for only a heartbeat at a time, and backed off fast if Dennis even looked like he was going to throw a punch. Dennis tried to rush him a couple times to trick him into jumping out of the ring, but he seemed to have a sixth sense for where the boundary was, and he just blocked Dennis's attacks before slipping off to the side, forcing Dennis to stop and spin to protect his back. The third time that happened, Dennis turned to find Fernandez's foot flashing toward his temple. He twisted his forearm to bat the kick aside -- and Fernandez's leg stopped, bent, and shot out again, zipping under Dennis's raised elbow to slap into his ribs. Not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to count as a hit. "Up! 1-0," the ref shouted as Dennis and Fernandez stepped apart and fell back into their combat stances.
Fernandez's face was impassive, but Dennis could feel the smile crawling around inside his head. It had been the sort of trick that caught beginners flatfooted, but it wouldn't have worked against a fighter as experienced as Dennis if Fernandez hadn't been so damned fast. Dennis tried to stop the rising of his temper -- fighting angry got you beaten -- but the anger only sank to his stomach and hardened there, radiating heat. Fight smart, he told himself as they circled one another again. Don't let him keep running. Fernandez bounced away from the few punches Dennis tried, but he was moving slower, not so much on the defense now. If he could score another hit and not get scored on himself, he'd win when the three-minute time limit on the bout ran out.
Dennis didn't intend to let that happen. He dropped one of his fists slightly, offering Fernandez a shot at his head. Then, when Fernandez paused for a heartbeat, setting his legs for a kick, Dennis bulled forward, fist thrusting as his body stretched like a fencer going for a lunge. His entire being was concentrated in the first two knuckles of his hand, the spearhead of the punch, and he could almost feel the impact already ...
But it never came. Fernandez had somehow managed to slip aside, and Dennis had barely realized that before he felt a different kind of impact -- a weak little backfist bouncing off the side of his helmet. "Up!" the referee shouted.
"Come on!" Dennis yelled, spinning to face the man. "That wasn't anything!" It was a shoddy mockery of real fighting to count something like that, a blow that wouldn't have bothered him even without the pads and helmet, as a hit. It was unfair. This wasn't a game.
The ref stared back with unfriendly eyes. "I say it was. Are you going to fight, or should I disqualify you?"
Seething, Dennis turned back to Fernandez. 2-0 now, and he was staring down the gun of time. Less than a minute left, and Fernandez was in no hurry to come anywhere near him. It would be a cheap win, but Fernandez was obviously willing to settle for that. And Dennis still had to watch out -- a third hit would end the bout. Frustration boiled poisonously in him, surging higher every time Fernandez slipped away from a kick or ducked under a punch.
And then it happened. One of Fernandez's feet slipped in a patch of sweat on the mat, and he stumbled, his arms jerking as he strove for balance. At the sight of his enemy suddenly vulnerable, something inside Dennis snapped. Do it now! Now or never! He was afire with rage, spurred by desperation, and yet inhumanly calm all at once, and the mixture gave him fresh and redoubled strength as he threw himself at Fernandez. No feeble kick or light slap -- let the bastard know he's been in a real fight!
The punch took Fernandez straight in the chest. He seemed to fold in half around the blow as the velcro on Dennis's hand pad popped loose, the elastic strap snapping around. Dennis ignored it, moving on automatic as he followed the hit up with a reverse punch that struck home just below where the first punch had. Fernandez's eyes were wide and blank with shock, or perhaps something else. The referee was shouting, but Dennis could not have stopped even if he had wanted to. Something larger than himself was moving through him as he threw a side punch that caught Fernandez on the jaw and snapped his head around -- too far. Only as he settled into his defensive stance and watched Fernandez topple to the mat did Dennis wonder what he had done. But it seemed a niggling concern, unworthy of what he was feeling. He spun around to face his fellow students, his fists stabbing up in triumph, and was brought up short by the identical look of horror on every face.
The ambulance came not long after, with the grim-faced paramedics who shook their heads and turned away. Peter spoke to him harshly, the only one in the whole room who had anything to say to him. But Dennis had not heard. His mind was still on the vista of possibilities that had opened to him in the breaking of Fernandez's bones, his soul riding the swelling curve of power. This was the experience he had been looking for all these years, without knowing it until he found it. This was the first step on the road that had led him to where he was today ...
A key rattled in the lock and Dennis's recollections dropped away as he spun, his hands coming up and knees flexing for a spring. Wong opened the door, clicked on the light, and dropped the bag of groceries he was carrying when he saw Dennis. Dennis leaped, Wong dodged and lashed out with a foot, and the fight began in utter silence, save for the sound of fists on flesh and the harsh breathing of the combatants. Neither said anything, for there was nothing to say. One wanted to kill, the other wanted to live. Even in the thick of the fight, Dennis felt a glow of pleasure. There was no running away in the little apartment, no tricks, no time-outs, no extraneous concerns. Just the fight, more pure and elemental than any he'd had in a long time.
And before long, with a snap of bone and a piercing gasp that was like a scream in the silence, it was over. Dennis looked down at the body of the man who had taught him these past months, and the old smile of triumph slowly floated across his face. Pain throbbed just below his ribs where Wong had kicked him, but he tried to ignore it. Some big deal, he chided himself. You took him like he was nothing. He was nothing-and you're Wayward. The pain in his stomach lessened at the mere thought. And now it really starts.you're gonna get even better. Grinning widely now, he pumped a fist, spun on his heel, eliminated space with a flick of his mind, and was gone from the apartment, leaving only the fallen body to mark his passage.