God, he was fast! He flipped across the deck, his bare feet flashing toward my head.
I jumped away, blocking with my forearms. I had also removed my shoes. I tried to make a counter kick at his inverted face, but he was already changing position. His eyes blazed orange as his head avoided my blow.
Then he was on his feet, and his fist scored on my shoulder, rocking me back. I countered with an uppercut to his nose: an inverted fist, uraken. His forward inertia prevented him from getting out of the way in time, and I drew blood. It was a neat shot, and must have looked impressive, but I knew it was sheer luck, and only a minor injury. One tries many motions, not expecting them to work, and sometimes they do.
He didn't seem to be in pain—largesse of the drug again—but he was aware of the dripping blood. He must have assumed that my reflexes were faster than they were; actually I was relying on my many years of conditioning, making automatic responses that were faster than any thoughtout ones could be. I had to, because of his incredible speed. So he made a mistake in judgment, deciding that he could not defeat me fairly after all.
He pulled back, reached into his kimono, and brought forth two blades. They were sais—long sharp knives with projecting tines, to catch opposing blades. Each one was like a Neptune's trident, but with the center prong twice as long as the other two. The main blade was about a foot long. In short, a wicked instrument, one that could stand up to a sword.
I had no sword. Bare-handed, I had no chance against this weapon; even if I managed to get hold of one sai, the other would get me. He obviously knew how to use it. With his speed, he would cut me apart in moments. So I ran.
"Coward!" he yelled gleefully. "You have nowhere to go! I'll pin you to the wall!"
Easy talk, from the armed to the unarmed. But I had a surprise of my own to unveil. "Bless you, Chiyako!" I thought I drew out my tonfas, clashing them together so that they emitted their peculiar clacking sound, loud in this chamber. There was a murmur of surprise from the demons.
They chuckled when they saw my crude looking weapons. Certainly the tonfa was as unlikely an instrument as any; it had no blade, little mass, and was only a foot and a half long. But it did have its points, as Chiyako had demonstrated, and it was ideal against a blade. I hoped Miko knew no more about the tonfa than the other demons did.
Miko thrust one of his sais at me. The twelve-inch blade sliced toward my gut, but I moved one tonfa to intercept it, rather like a Ping Pong paddle catching the ball. The point stuck momentarily in the wood before he jerked it back.
I did not take the offense at once. My weapon was defensive in nature, not suited to fancy ploys. At least, not by one who was less than expert in its use, as I was. I wanted to test the skill of my opponent in this new circumstance. I could not afford overconfidence.
That skill was not long in the proving. The demon danced about, his blades flashing in and out in a blinding display. He twirled the sais, and he seemed to float in the air, jumping and somersaulting with the amazing reflexes of the drug. I tried to keep my gaze on the weapons, but this quickly made me dizzy.
That may have been part of his strategy. At this rate, I would soon make a mistake, either blocking a feint, or failing to block a genuine thrust. The demon might not know much about the tonfa, but he did know how to bewilder an opponent.
I had to be more aggressive. Time would play into his hands, not mine. I whirled my tonfas around their short handles, making feints of my own. He wasn't fooled; his blades flicked in and out, nicking me in the arms, the legs. Both the edge and the point of the sai were dangerous. I suspected that the main reason my wounds were not worse was that he wanted to defeat me without injuring me too badly for me to survive a dose of Kill-13.
Still, I managed to strike him several times about the body, and these blows had to hurt, like wooden boxing gloves. The sais were specially designed to fight swords, but I did not carry a sword. The trident was almost useless against the squat tonfa. He was always moving, so I could not score cleanly, but just as he was making me bleed, from a dozen shallow cuts in my arms and upper body, so my blows with the wood were bruising him. I was sure I had scored several strikes that would have knocked out the average man, as the tonfa is as solid as a policeman's billyclub. But this was no average man. Welts were rising on his muscular upper arms, and a nasty bump was rising on his forehead, and no doubt worse bruises were hidden by the uniform, but he was a demon, and he took no notice of them.
He thrust at my neck, and this time I gambled. Instead of intercepting it with the flat of my board, I struck upward at his hand. Too late and I could receive a fatal cut; too early and he would have time to counter my move, perhaps disarming me. But I timed it right.
The edge of the tonfa caught his hand, hard. The sai went flying away. He was half disarmed.
But with the other blade he caught my exposed hand, slicing it across the back. I dropped the tonfa; I only hoped the tendons leading to my fingers had not been severed. My gamble had gained me nothing, after all; now I, too, was half-armed. And one sai could do a hell of a lot more damage than one tonfa could stop.
I backed away. I had to stop the bleeding. I concentrated, and felt the force of ki going to that hand, strengthening it, shutting off the flow. I had learned the power of ki from a venerable Japanese warrior, an expert in Aikido. Hiroshi was his name, and he was able to do extraordinary things, utilizing this hidden power. With me it was intermittent; only in moments of extreme stress or need could I draw on it. If I lost this fight, I might try to use the ki to combat the effect of Kill-13 on my system. But how much better to win!
Miko gambled too. Confident of victory, he leaped at me and struck downward with his remaining sai. I caught it on my other tonfa, the blade between the board and the handle, holding it there momentarily. Now, with no second blade to guard against, I struck him with my wounded hand on the sai-arm. I used the "knife-hand" blow, the side of my hand held stiff. Blood was streaming down my arm, despite my ki effort, but my force was undiminished. I made contact at the middle of his forearmand the ki made my hand so strong that his arm snapped like a twig.
Now he was unarmed, victim of his rash attack. But I was not fool enough to relinquish the initiative. As he hunched over, I followed through with a descending elbow strike, hiji-oroshiuchi, that hit him in the upper middle back, right between the shoulders on the spine. His spine snapped. He went into a terrible muscle spasm, his whole body contorting.
Miko fell, and I think now he felt pain, for he was dying.
"Kali!" he cried, a hideous scream, and that was all. The drug had left him no physical reserves for recovery.
I turned to face the other demons, alert for treachery. But they made no move. "It was a fair fight," I said. "I did not go for a weapon until after he did."
I walked boldly to the ladder and climbed the rungs, conscious of the rifleman's red eyes upon me. My nerves screamed at me to hurry up, but I knew that if I showed fear or even undue haste, I could take a bullet in the back. I could not stop the cold beads of sweat forming on my forehead, running down my neck, and I left blood on every second rung, but I kept the pace steady. At last I made the catwalk. I walked to the stairs leading up and out, and I thought I heard a click, as of a rifle bolt being pulled back.
I launched myself up the stairs, across the deck, and over the rail into the darkness beyond the ship. Yet another fear came to me then: suppose that I struck unseen debris floating on the water, knocking myself out and drowning?
I hit the cold water, not cleanly, but safely. I let myself go under, swimming with the current. I waited till the river had carried me some distance downstream before I struck for shore. I just didn't want to give the demon marksman any additional chance to change his mind.
There was no pursuit. For what it was worth, the demons had honored their pact with me.
CHAPTER 11
BLACK MISTRESS
"Kali," Kobi Chija said musingly. "I know of no man by that name. It is not C
hinese or Japanese.
"I don't either," I said. "But it is all we have to go on." I paused. "Kali—is it possible that Kali is a woman?"
"Possible, certainly, but still not Oriental. Unless—" He looked up, startled. "Kali—the black goddess!"
"Goddess?" Now I was startled. "He did speak of sacrilege. Or sacredness. It could be some idol they worship. Is there such a god?"
He fetched a book. "Yes! Not American, not Chinese. Indian, I believe. The Goddess of Death."
"Indian! That fits! The Mayas—"
He smiled. "The real Indians. Hindu." He found his place in the book, a text on mythology. "See, here it is. Kali is a terrifying demon of Hindu mythology. She has black skin, four arms, three eyes—and an insatiable lust for destruction."
"Sounds like Kill-Thirteen, all right," I said. "They must have adopted her as their symbol. Maybe they made the same mistake I did, thinking Indian had to be American. Let me see that book."
So I learned about the black goddess Kali: she wore red armor—the color of fresh blood?—and a necklace of human skulls about the throat. Her black scepter ended in another skull. She held daggers in her hands. Her consort was Yama, God of Death. Among her devotees were the Thuggees, the notorious strangler assassins of India.
It was fascinating, but unhelpful as hell. Obviously there was no real goddess, except perhaps as a statue, an idol. No one we could trace down to question about the source of Kill-13.
"Dead end," I said in disgust.
Kobi shrugged. "Who can say? Perhaps an avenue will appear, though the way seems blocked at the moment."
No point in pursuing that right now. I turned to a better subject. "How is Chiyako doing? I wish she'd let me visit her."
"She returns this afternoon," he said, smiling. "She is embarrassed about her appearance."
"She has no need to be!" I exclaimed.
"Perhaps the issue is unusually sensitive. She has been trying to determine her own feelings." He glanced at me quizzically, and I realized that I had been asked a question.
"I guess you know that I love her."
He did not remark on my American bluntness, but answered it with a certain directness of his own. I suppose my manners were something of a trial to him. "I had suspected that you did not."
"Not love her? I—"
"Not know."
Close enough. "I never found the right girl before. That is, well, this is awkward. There has been a lot of emotional history to untangle. Cambodia, you know."
He nodded. He knew.
"Is she—are you free to tell me whether"
"She awaits your decision. She has not been spoken for."
Good news! Yet—"If I may ask—an attractive girl like her why not?"
"We follow the Chinese custom."
Volumes were spoken in those words. I knew little about it, except that Chinese custom embraced arranged marriages and extremely intricate protocol. Chiyako had not married because her father had not yet made that decision for her. Yet undoubtedly he would not oppose a marriage she genuinely wanted. His attitude would be a sure guide to hers.
"I don't really know your ways," I said, feeling shaky. "How does one—" I faltered again. Suddenly it seemed ludicrous, this notion that a strict Chinese father would permit his daughter to marry a white man.
"One's father pays a call," Kobi said.
Then the answer was not an absolute no. If I would follow the forms, he would decide, in due course. But: "Suppose one's father is dead?"
"Then the ranking male of the family." He saw my frown. I could hardly start bringing in distant relatives, who would have no grasp of the situation, and might even have racial prejudices. I did not want the word miscegenation to be bandied about. "Or a patriarchal friend, conversant with the forms."
I brightened. Hiroshi, the Aikido sensei. He would do it. And he had international stature.
Then I had another ugly thought. Caucasians were not the only ones with prejudices. "Suppose one's friend is Japanese?"
Kobi's brows raised. "Japanese?" Bad feeling was notorious between the Chinese and the Japanese. But after a moment he shrugged with mock resignation. "One must be tolerant, even of Japanese."
I knew it was going to be all right. Hiroshi and Kobi would hit it off famously, and out of that dialogue could very well come a matrimonial contract.
For Chiyako was the girl I wanted to marry. It was not that I had known her long—all of a week!—but that she was part of Shaolin, true to its philosophies. The life I might have had in the monastery would be fulfilled in her. The fact that she was a young, talented, beautiful girl was an incidental bonus; the time would come when she was old, yet love would endure. That was the distinction between Chiyako and all other girls.
Somehow, by what devious internal process I could not fathom, that triggered a realization. "Kali. She's like Ilunga!"
"An exaggeration," he murmured. "At heart she is an intelligent, sensitive girl. Even now, she has much to offer. Had she been fairly treated—"
"Sure, but there's a family resemblance," I exclaimed. "Black, female, savage, destructive."
He shook his head sadly. "If that is the way you see her."
I was curious. "How do you see her?"
"I suspect she is as much a woman as my daughter, as loyal to her principles. As worthy of respect."
"But what principles!" I said.
"Kali principles."
"It does seem more than coincidence. Perhaps Ilunga knows more than she has said."
I dreaded another encounter with the black mistress. But there seemed to be no alternative, if I was to pursue my mission. "I'll have another talk with her," I said. And felt an odd relief.
"Will you wait here until my daughter comes home? I shall bring her this afternoon."
I was sorely tempted, but that reminded me of other important business. "I have a letter to write," I said. A letter to Hiroshi, in far Japan. "Would it be all right if I visited her later in the evening?"
"A letter," he murmured, comprehending. Yet somehow it seemed as though he were disappointed. I was reminded once more of the head monk as he bid me farewell, so long ago in Cambodia. Then Kobi smiled, accepting this temporary parting gracefully. "As you will. Perhaps you should also talk to Ilunga at this time, so that you have full information."
So I had done the right thing, resisting the short-range pleasure in favor of duty and the long-range commitment.
It was a terrible mistake.
This time I caught Ilunga in her apartment. I had spent the afternoon on the letter, destroying draft after draft until I had it right. I asked Hiroshi to speak for me and to try to arrange a marriage contract. I had mailed it air, special delivery, on my way here. So it was evening, and I hoped this would not take long. I wanted to see Chiyako again.
As I mounted the grimy stairs of the decrepit building, I felt an impending gloom. No one should have to live this way. The locks were off, so I knew she was in. I knocked and stood back, ready for anything. I was wearing corduroy pants, a black pullover, and special hard pointed shoes with little pieces of iron in the heels. My nunchaku was tucked out of sight; I had brought it to use on the multitudes of semi-vicious roaming dogs in the neighborhood. And as insurance, just in case Ilunga happened to have some of her demon goon squad around. I did not want to fight, but if I had to...
Her door opened. Ilunga stood illuminated by soft light. She wore a black rubber dress that clung to her figure, showing it off to extreme advantage. I could hardly tell where the material ended and her dark skin began; it was as if she were strikingly nude. Her hair was down, brushed and oiled so that it shone, and I smelled her perfume.
She laughed, recognizing me. "Is that how you dress to visit a lady?"
What the hell did she think this was, a date? "I want to know about Kali," I said bluntly. "I don't want trouble."
"The two are synonymous," she said. "Kali equals trouble. Come in."
"This is no social visit."
Her apartment was lovely. It was such a contrast to the rundown building that I blinked, literally. The walls were painted in restful pastels, the floor was richly carpeted, and classical music played softly in stereo. Authentic African sculpture rested on sills and tables, and African spears were mounted on one wall. Elsewhere were modern abstract paintings, signed originals.
It wasn't fakery. The entire apartment was too well put together; it had a unity that could come only from complete conformance to the cultured whim of one person.
Ilunga had shown me another image of herself. Not the maiden, not the bitch, not the lonely beauty, but the artistic, intelligent, mature woman.
"So Miko did not kill you," she said, seeming unsurprised. "Have an hors d'oeuvre." She wasn't fooling: a small black walnut table had canapes, anchovies, ham rolls with cream cheese inside, olives stuffed with almonds, and assorted nuts.
"He hardly tried," I said. I took a cracker with meat and cheese spread, but declined a cocktail. I was feeling increasingly out of place. "He wanted to convert me."
Her eyes widened momentarily. "That would have solved all problems." She reclined half-supine on the couch, a distractingly handsome woman. Her lips were ruby red, and her fingernails matched. Only her broken nose spoiled the effect, and it really was not too obvious in this light. I suspected she was almost blind; demons needed bright light. That was the price she paid for her vanity; she could not have beauty and vision together. It was hard to believe how vicious she could be. But I steeled myself to believe it.
"Sorry to disappoint you," I said dryly. "I killed him, instead."
"I know. I have assumed his place in the network."
"So soon! That's some efficiency!"
"The drug has to be dispensed on schedule, or all hell breaks loose."
"I can imagine. But how did you know whom to contact? I thought these things were highly classified."
Kiai! & Mistress of Death Page 35