by Joe Vasicek
The old samurai grunted in disgust. “Better death than dishonor.”
“Perhaps,” said Katsuichi, thinking of his sister. “But if we die, what good are we to those we love?”
“The true warrior fights as one already dead, Katsuichi-sama.”
He sighed. With Hikaru still missing, there was little doubt that she had been kidnapped or killed. It pained him to think about it, but perhaps it was better to embrace this truth than to grasp for something to live for.
“You’re right,” he said, staring back out the window. The stars shone back at him, their light beautiful but cold in the depths of space.
* * * * *
Hikaru tip-toed down the corridor, thankful for the ever-present hum of the ship’s ventilation system that masked her passing. She came to the door with the letters MSG spray-painted in black with a crude stencil, and hesitated only a second before ringing the chime.
“Enter,” came a deep, gravely voice from the other side.
Her stomach fluttered, and she palmed the access panel to open the door.
“Hi there,” she said, stepping gingerly inside. Roman rose to his feet from a chair against the wall, walking over to greet her. “Is this your, ah, private quarters?”
“It is. How can I help you, Princess?”
The door hissed shut behind her, leaving them alone together.
“I’m sorry,” she said, batting her eyelashes at him. “I didn’t interrupt anything, did I?”
“No, Princess. Please, sit down.”
She stepped into the middle of the room, holding her arm behind her back. He motioned to the wall-chair, but she held back, holding her arm nervously behind her back.
“Can I see your scars?”
He raised his eyebrow and gave her a funny look. “Why do you wish to see them?”
“I—I’ve never seen a man with scars before,” she stammered. Not someone as big and strong as you.
He grunted and reached up with his natural hand to unbutton his faded gray uniform. When he was finished, he pulled it off of his left shoulder to reveal where the flesh of his chest merged with the brace for his metal prosthetic arm. His skin was tough and wizened, covered with curly white hair.
“That one is from almost fifteen years ago,” he said. “It was same battle that took my eye and my face. We took job from a young man—your age, in fact—and it was our first time fighting Hameji.” His voice became somber. “It nearly killed us all.”
Hikaru looked up into his face and saw a weight of sorrow that she could barely comprehend. Even the prosthetic half of his mouth seemed to frown at the memory. She reached up with her slender fingers and gently lifted the eye patch from his left eye. It glowed red, but did not frighten her. He flinched a little at her touch, but offered no resistance as she pulled it off and let it fall to the floor.
“Why do you wear this?” she asked.
“So that you will not be disturbed by my ugly face.”
Ugly? she wondered, her lips only a short distance from his. How could you call a face like that ugly? Especially one that had seen so much.
She thought of the way he’d rushed onto the Hameji ship, bursting through the door like an unstoppable force. If it weren’t for him, she’d probably be a slave to the Hameji for the rest of her life. She owed him so much, and yet he hadn’t even mentioned it. Then again, he’d probably made dozens of harrowing rescues, if not hundreds.
“What other scars can you show me?”
His natural eye narrowed at her, and he pulled the uniform off completely, leaving his chest fully bare. An old wound the length of her hand crossed diagonally across his muscular abs, just above his navel.
“This one is from Tajji revolution,” he said, “long before you were born. I got it in close combat, when we tried to capture Imperial ship.”
“Were you successful?”
He chuckled. “Yes and no. The Imperial bastards could not escape, so they sabotaged their engines to send ship into nearest planet. They surrendered to us very quickly, but we could not recover the wreckage.”
“I see,” she said, caressing his abs just below the wound. She tried to imagine what he must have looked like when he was her age. The image in her mind wasn’t nearly as fascinating as the man sitting in front of her.
“What else can you show me?”
His mouth parted in a lopsided, almost boyish grin, and he rose to his feet. He unclasped his belt, and for a heart-stopping moment, she thought he would drop his pants. Instead, he pulled it down just enough to show a stretch of dark and pitted skin running along his inner thigh.
“This was from gun battle,” he said, “also in the revolution. Some Imperial bastard tried to run off with my family jewels.”
Her eyes widened. “Did he—are they—”
“Still there?” He grinned and hooked his thumb around the edge of his belt, as if to show her. Her legs went weak, and blood rushed to her cheeks, but he only laughed.
“Do not be afraid, princess. I assure you, this old cyborg is still fully functional.”
Hikaru took a long breath as he refastened his belt, still chuckling to himself. With all of his scars and prosthetics, when she looked at him, she saw a man more experienced than anyone she had ever known. It made her want to run her fingers through his hair, to feel his sinewy muscles as his chest rose and fell against her own. What did it matter that he was old enough to be her grandfather? Here was a man who could give her things that she would never experience in the Imperial Palace.
“Are we alone?” she asked softly.
He cocked his head and raised his eyebrow. “Why do you ask?”
“Because,” she said, stepping lightly into the center of the room, “there is something I want to show you.”
Heart pounding in her chest, she unzipped her jumpsuit and let it fall to her ankles, so that she stood naked before him. She shook her hair loose and took a deep breath, her whole body quivering with anticipation. Take me, she thought, mouthing the words silently in her native language. Take me, and don’t hold back. She closed her eyes and imagined the feel of his rough, calloused hands on her skin, running them down her legs and—
The harsh sound of his laughter snapped her out of her thoughts. Roman was laughing uproariously—laughing at her.
“What is this? Do you think I have not seen tits before? Something to show me—ha!”
Hot blood rushed to Hikaru’s cheeks. “I—I just—”
A bolt of rage surged through her, drowning out all her other emotions. She clenched her fists as if to lunge forward, but pulled up her clothes instead.
“You—you pervy old man.” She slipped her hands through her sleeves and made for the door.
“Wait.”
She stopped, her hand almost to the access panel, and slowly turned around to face him.
“You are young and full of fire, yes? Too much fire for this old cyborg. But I do not mock you. If you wish to show your gratitude, there is better way.”
“There is?”
He gestured for her to come closer. She hesitated for a moment, more out of obstinacy than anything else, but he only smiled at her until her resolve broke down. She took a few tremulous steps toward him and suddenly felt like a fish swimming into the mouth of a shark.
“Give me kiss.”
She swallowed. “A kiss?”
He grinned and nodded, pointing to his half-cyborg mouth. He leaned forward and she bent at the waist, heart pounding once again though she didn’t know why. A moment later, she closed her eyes, tilted back her head—
—and all at once, she felt as clumsy and inexperienced as a child on her first swim. Their lips touched, but she barely registered it until the metallic taste of his prosthetic jaw tickled the tip of her tongue. In that moment, she feared more than anything that he would think she was too young.
But then, her legs slowly turned to water. Time stopped, and sudden awareness of him flooded her senses: the thick, heady smell of his musk
; the roughness of his jaw with the soft, fleshy texture of his lips. She felt as if she were receiving some small part of his vast experience—something new, something sensual. No longer angry or embarrassed, she wished that this moment would never end.
Inevitably, he pulled away and leaned back in his chair again, leaving her standing slightly off balance in front of him. She stepped back clumsily, nearly falling over. Though they’d barely touched, she felt as if there wasn’t any part of her that he hadn’t known. He smiled, and she couldn’t help but smile weakly back.
“Thank you, Princess.”
She opened her mouth as if to speak, but after what they’d just shared, words seemed woefully inadequate. She turned to leave, then stopped and turned back, then walked awkwardly to the door and palmed it open before the dizziness overtook her.
* * * * *
Sweat streamed down Rina’s face as she pulled her chin over the bar and let herself down again. Her arms ached from exertion, but in a good way—a way that left her satisfied, that confirmed her own strength. She sucked in a breath and lifted herself up again, then dropped to the floor at the end of the rep.
Elsewhere in the gymnasium, the clanging of weights and the pounding of fists against canvas told her she wasn’t alone. About seven other soldiers, all grunts, occupied the benches and equipment around her. They were all at least two or three times larger than her. As they went about their workouts, her eyes flitted back and forth across the room, gaging them even though they ignored her.
I assume nobody trusts me.
As she moved toward the mats to do sit-ups, the door hissed open, and the cyborg Roman stepped through. All but a few of the men stopped what they were doing to greet him.
“Hi there, Sarge.”
“Come to keep us in line, eh?”
“How’s the shoulder?”
Roman’s mouth turned upward in the hint of a smile. His gaze fell on Rina and lingered for a second. She pretended not to notice, but he stepped over to her.
“Lieutenant,” he said. “It is surprise to see you here. Most officers wait until their own hours to use these facilities.”
She stopped and sat up, frowning in alarm. “I’m sorry, Master Sergeant—am I in the way?”
“No, not at all. But why are you here?”
Should I tell him? With the other men watching, she didn’t seem to have much of a choice.
“I do come during officer hours,” she said, “but … well, they aren’t long enough.”
Roman clapped his hands together and laughed—not in a malicious way, but one that gave the other men permission to laugh with him. Rina bristled a little, but kept her cool.
“You must work out very much,” he said. “I am impressed.”
She said nothing. He shrugged, and the men returned to their workouts.
For the next half hour, Roman went from machine to machine. Rina watched him from the corner of her eye, monitoring him. Where the other men lifted two hundred pounds, he lifted two eighty. Where the others did thirty one-handed push-ups, he did fifty—with only his good hand, not his prosthetic. Sweat streamed down his face and massive chest, staining his shirt, but he seemed perfectly in his element, as if nothing could stop him.
Men like that could be dangerous.
As she cycled through the machines, she realized that he was watching her as well. It wasn’t obvious—most of the time, he did it with his prosthetic eye to hide it—but she could see it in the way he moved, and the way he never turned his back to her.
He doesn’t trust me, she thought to herself, taking a deep breath as she pushed herself to do one extra curl. None of these men trust me.
After cycling once through all the machines, Roman stepped onto the mats and went through a dynamic stretching routine. One by one, the other men finished what they were doing and began to gather around him. Some of them went through their own stretching exercises, while others simply stood with their arms crossed, watching. Not wanting to seem out of place, Rina joined them, standing behind the crowd with her back against the wall.
When he was finished, Roman walked over to the weapons lockers on the far side of the room and brought out a pair of black, foam staffs. “Time for pujilion!” he bellowed, and the men greeted the announcement with heady cheers.
Roman walked to the center of the mat and stood with his legs apart and knees slightly bent, his weight on the balls of his feet. He raised one of the long, thin staffs in the air and shouted: “Do we have first challenger?”
One of the younger men leaped onto the mat, and Roman tossed him the staff. The challenger bounced from foot to foot, circling the old cyborg, but Roman simply held his staff at the ready and waited for his opponent to attack.
From the corner of her eye, Rina noticed several other soldiers enter from the door on the other side of the room. Soon, it felt as if half the ship was there, cheering on the fighters. Some of the new men wore exercise gear, but most of them wore the faded olive-green fatigues of the old Tajji revolutionaries.
The young man leaped forward to strike, but Roman parried and sidestepped easily, delivering a swift and powerful counter. The man tried to dodge, but he was too slow. One of the other soldiers, a white-haired corporal who looked about Roman’s age, stepped forward with a yellow sash and swung it at the floor. “Point!” he shouted, and the men cheered.
Rina folded her arms and watched in interest as the match continued. The younger opponent circled at a much further distance now, darting back and forth while Roman assumed a more defensive stance. The young man lunged forward with a jab, but Roman deflected it. He lunged forward with another jab, then leaped out of range as Roman deflected it and attacked with a counter. They circled each other again. Around the edges of the mat, the men laughed and shouted boisterously, thoroughly entertained.
Then, Roman sidestepped just as his opponent lunged forward for another attack. He tried to leap back, but Roman was already there. With one smooth cut across the floor, he swept the man’s feet out from under him, then surged forward and jabbed the end of his staff into the man’s stomach while he was down. “Double point!” shouted the corporal, and the crowd erupted with cheers.
Rina frowned. From her vantage point, it looked as if the pujilion had stabbed through the man’s body and into the floor. When Roman stood up, however, she saw that the foam staff was actually collapsible—the younger soldier wasn’t hurt at all. Roman bent down to help him up, and the two men touched shoulders and slapped each other on the back in a show of good sportsmanship.
“Do we have another?” Roman bellowed.
This time, a man about his size stepped forward, tall and barrel-chested with arms almost as thick as Rina’s waist. He took the staff by the center and whipped it through the air, so fast that it practically whistled. The men cheered, and the man assumed a fighting stance, knees bent with his body low to the ground.
Roman held his pujilion at the ready, but before he could make a move the man shouted and charged. The staffs cracked again and again as they made contact, first one man attacking, then blocking the return and launching into a counterattack. Sweat streamed down their faces, and for a moment it looked as if neither man would yield. Then, quick as a thought, Roman saw an opening and lunged to the side, striking his opponent in the stomach before he could block. “Point!” shouted the corporal.
The two men took a step back and warily circled each other. The soldiers shouted and cheered the fighters on, some of them pulling out cash datachips and slapping them down to make bets. Romans opponent gripped his staff with white-knuckled hands, and with a resounding shout charged forward in another attack.
The whip and crack of the pujilion staffs mingled with the shouts from the crowd to fill the room with noise. The two men bore down on each other with ferocious intensity, neither one letting up. Eventually, the younger man forced Roman back against the edge of the mats. Roman clenched his teeth and tried to step aside, but his opponent gave him no opening. With muscles s
training and veins popping out across his arm, the man gave one final shout and pushed Roman off of the mats entirely. “Point!” shouted the corporal, and the crowd went wild.
Roman got back in the ring as quickly as he had been knocked out, though. His opponent stepped back to allow him on again, but before he could charge, Roman bellowed a deep war-cry and lunged forward.
Once again, the two men surged to the attack, staffs grinding against each other. Rina watched with interest as they both started to stumble and show weakness. Roman dropped to one knee, and a collective gasp arose from his men—but when his opponent lunged in for the attack, he caught the man’s staff in midair and twisted it, pulling the man down. As he crashed bodily to the floor, Roman leaped to his feet and jabbed downward with both staffs, screaming in victory.
“Double point!”
The men around the circle leaped to their feet and jumped up and down, cheering. It had become so wild in the gymnasium, Rina wondered whether the men ever saw any other form of entertainment on the ship.
“Who is next?” Roman bellowed.
None of the men stepped forward, though many slapped their comrades on the back and tried to encourage them to take the challenge. When she saw that no one would stand up to the old man, Rina surprised herself and walked through the crowd and into the circle.
“Let me give it a try,” she said.
Hoots and catcalls filled the air, but Roman smiled in approval and tossed her the staff. She caught it and whipped it back and forth between both hands, testing its weight and balance. When she jabbed it in the floor, she was surprised to find that it collapsed quite easily—and sprang immediately back to shape.
Roman waited for her to face him, but when she did, he lunged immediately forward in a ferocious thrust. Rina ducked and leaped aside, but he anticipated her retreat and adjusted his attack accordingly. Rina managed to deflect it, but he forced her back until she practically tripped over the men, falling out of the ring. They laughed and cheered, but helped her back to her feet and slapped her on the back. “Point!” shouted the corporal.