“No. I just know that I need to go there to get directions to our next destination.”
“So, we’re on a scavenger hunt. Sounds like fun. I wonder why Gregor is keeping us blind. He must have his reasons.” Krag switched topics. “You won’t like Latinia. Did you bring protective clothing? You’ll need it.”
“Gregor warned me. I’ll be ready. No worries.”
“I hope you can say that when we get there. I’ll get us going.” With that closing remark, Krag headed first to his own cabin to don a liner and flight coveralls then towards the flight cabin while Keiko went back into her cabin to don her own and square away her quarters.
Settling into the pilot’s chair, Krag keyed in the coordinates and commanded, “Duke, calculate the shortest route to the entered coordinates.”
“Calculating.” With Duke being a much smaller and far inferior AI, it took longer than Krag was used to. After multiple seconds, the route displayed on the control console.
“Duke, set course for the first gate, at one quarter SOL. Set gravity dampeners to eighty percent earth norm.”
“Yes, Captain.”
After checking that his commands were executed, Krag rose, pulled his data pad from his pocket and headed back to the executive suite. Entering, he saw Keiko had changed into her own travel clothes and watched her bustling around, stowing gear and setting up her private work station. Interrupting her efforts, Krag held out the data pad. “I’ve plotted the course and escape from orbit. The first gate is about fifteen hours from here, with a jump time of nine days. That will get us to Bridgelen.”
Keiko took the pad, studied it for a few moments and handed it back. “Looks good.”
“Do you want to use a cryo-sleep tank?” Krag pointed at the bed. “There’s one underneath”.
“No. I have too much to do. The second leg is what? Fourteen days? I might sleep for that one.”
“Ok. Dinner in an hour, fourteen hours before we enter the gate.”
Being a navy man for his entire adult life, Krag Marston was conditioned to live a frugal life, his material needs minimal. His social needs were transitory. But he drew the line at food. When he had Griffin refitted and transformed, he had kept the luxurious living accoutrements of the previous owner. But he never used it. His berth was the captain’s cabin. The owner’s suite, now the executive suite, was where Keiko was staying. The executive suite remained a cabin of luxury and comfort.
Krag kept the galley the same way. The original owner spared no expense or technical expertise in the galley’s design and installation. There were no better food processors and replicators in the galaxy. The pirate that Krag took the ship from hadn’t change a thing. Neither did Krag. So, when he and Keiko sat down, the quick, tiny Asian was pleasantly surprised.
“What would you like?” Krag asked.
“I have a choice?”
“Pick. We probably can simulate it”
Looking around the Spartan galley/meeting/workout room, she replied, “Really. OK, thick noodles, shredded chicken, broccoli crowns, diced carrots, mushrooms, almonds. In a bowl. Spicy orange glaze with sesame seeds.
“Galley.”
“Yes, Captain?” The galley was fitted with its own miniature AI, aptly named ‘Galley’. The formers and compression molds were the best that money could buy. The consumables tanks were filled with the top-of-the-line dehydrated plant protein.
“Did you record Ms. Suzume’s request?”
“Yes, Captain. But there is no chemical descriptor for the Orange glaze in my data files. Would you like me to access the net and see if one is available?” Galley queried.
Krag raised an eyebrow at Keiko. “No. let’s go with a teriyaki marmalade, Galley,” Keiko answered.
“Yes Ms. Suzume.” The galley AI mixed the slurry with the proper amounts of fluids, blended in the appropriate colors and pumped the results into variously shaped molds. The varying degrees of density and texture further strengthened the illusion of the real thing, rather than sensory deceit. Heating and component mixing brought all of the processes together to form the requested dish. Within less than two minutes, a steaming bowl of udon, complete with all of Keiko’s dictates slid onto the galley’s serving tray. With the magnetized bottom of the bowl and the eighty percent gravity, nothing floated, spilled or splashed.
Krag rose, gingerly grasped the hot bowl and placed it in front of Keiko, where a soft click indicated that the magnets took hold of the metal table. Still standing, “Utensils or chopsticks?”
“Chopsticks?” she asked?
“Done. Drink?”
“Hot Green tea.”
“That is real. Mug ok?”
“Perfect”.
“Galley, green tea, hot.” While waiting, Krag pulled chopsticks, eating utensils and cloth napkins from a drawer. Setting them on the table, he remarked, “cloth. No need to recycle. And, with the holding tanks and recycling capabilities of Griffin, water is not a problem.” The green tea arrived as Krag delivered it to Keiko.
Returning to the replicator, Krag commanded, “Galley, pot roast. Beer.” Looking at Keiko, “It’s one of my standards. Galley doesn’t screw it up.”
After his meal arrived, he placed it on the table, also with a magnetic click, sat down and looked at Keiko. “Dig in. Don’t wait for me. Your food will get cold.”
After the first bite, Keiko remarked, “This is surprisingly good.”
“Nothing but the best for my passengers,” Krag flippantly responded.
The next minutes were spent in silence, both hungry and both with food and drink that they liked. Both wrapped in their personal thoughts.
Krag, for his part, felt awkward. He’d spent his entire adult life married to the Space Force. He’d had relationships, but they were almost always disproportionately physical. Most of his personal relationships with women had been with fellow spacers, crewmates. They were more friends with common interests than relationships. Now he sat across from an attractive oriental beauty and he was at a loss. He couldn’t talk about his time in the Space Force. Keiko was a civilian. She wouldn’t understand. He couldn’t talk about his last three years. He broke laws. He was a smuggler and, sometimes, a strong arm. So he sat in anxious silence, wondering what to say.
Keiko sat contentedly in silence. All of her spiritual and physical training taught her patience and the understanding of social order. She wondered about the large, ex-military white man sitting across from her. She wondered about who he was. He had to be someone. Gregor would have hired only the very best for this job. Besides, being raised in an Asian culture that promoted males as the aggressors, and to respect position, it wasn’t her place to make the first overture. But, just because she was raised to act meek and passive, it didn’t mean that she was. So she sat, cloaked in her silence, at peace with the situation.
Once done, Krag rose, began bussing the table and asked, “So, Keiko, What’s the plan?”
“No much. For this leg, we go to Latina,” Keiko stated, after swallowing the last of her tea. She wiped her mouth with the napkin, stacked her cup, chop sticks and napkin on her plate and carried them to the sink. Krag took the dishes, separated the napkin, tossing it into a small hamper and loaded the rest in the washer.
“Ok, you’re the boss.”
“Not much of an answer,” Krag thought.
Krag may not like being kept in the dark, but Gregor said that this small Asian woman was in charge of the job. So Krag accepted the ambiguity.
“I keep Griffin on a twenty-four hour, Earth-standard cycle. So I have lights out set for two hours from now. Is that ok?”
“Nyu-Nippon has a twenty-six hour rotation so that will be fine,” Keiko responded.
“Is there anything you need?”
“No. I’m fine.”
“I have some work to do before bedtime. If you don’t mind, I need to get back to work.”
“I have things, also.”
“Then I’ll see you in the morning.” Krag fled the
anxiety caused by the small Asian beauty.
Keiko watched, bemused by the boyish actions of the large, manly captain.
The next morning, Krag awoke from a restful sleep and looked at the clock. “Four hours until entrance,” he thought. “I need a good sweat.” Donning white martial arts pants or ‘gi’ and a tank top, he grabbed a towel and headed for the wardroom. He didn’t suit up in his combat armor, as Buster’s avatar was playing the role of dumb labor. This workout would be just stretching and forms. Upon arriving, he moved the dining table and chairs out of the way and began his stretching exercises. Thirty minutes in, Keiko appeared in the hatch.
“Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt you,” Keiko apologized.
Standing and dropping his arms, Krag replied, “No problem. Come on in.”
“I was going to get some tea. But, if you don’t mind, may I work out, instead?”
“No problem. There’s room.”
After Keiko saw that Krag was wearing gi bottoms, she left to get changed. Krag went back to stretching. She returned wearing her own black gi bottoms, a modest sports bra and carried a rolled up towel.
Krag almost stumbled. Then he went back to stretching, trying not to be distracted by the physical female presence in his space.
Keiko secretly smiled and began her own stretching. Where Krag would fight to keep his legs locked while touching his toes, Keiko would fold herself in half and pull her head fully down and between her knees, palms pressed against the floor behind her feet. Doing sideways splits, Krag would almost succeed in getting his buttocks on the floor. Keiko split, sitting on the floor with legs aligned as though pressed against a wall, both feet vertical. She then did side bends, reaching over her head until her hand touched her toes. Forward leans put her navel, chest and head on the floor, arms outstretched.
No matter how hard he tried, Krag couldn’t stop from surreptitiously peeking. Keiko kept an ongoing inner smile, enjoying his interest.
Krag switched to his martial arts forms. The style he studied was a hard style form, based upon a firm platform and aggressive, in-close fighting. At a young age, Krag learned that his large size and great strength would never allow him to be the flying, spinning super fighter that was always pictured in the vids. His kicks were short, powerful and nothing above the sternum. Punches, backhands, chops and thrusts were designed for breaking and smashing, not jabbing and flicking. The forms he practiced were movements of grabs, throws, sweeps, takedowns and floor work. Working in the low gravity, Krag constantly focused on sliding his feet, of placing his feet ball first then heel. Whenever he would end a move with a stomp, he would rise slightly, losing the flow of the technique.
Keiko finished her stretching, unrolled her towel and produced two deadly-looking knives with blades close to a foot long. The guards curved upward, the outside edges razor sharp and pointed at the tips. The handles had four finger inserts. In essence, the handles could be used as brass knuckles. She began her martial arts forms. They started slowly, with defensive circles, sliding feet and knife blocks. The forms progressed into jumps, no-handed cartwheels, spinning kicks and lunging knife strikes. Keiko flipped, tumbling, spun, thrusted and sliced in a continuous display of speed, grace and balance.
Krag finished his forms. “You ass. Ignore the girl. You can do better,” he berated himself. Breathing heavily, grabbing his towel and going to the refrigerator, he pulled out a bottle of recycled water, leaned against the counter and watched Keiko flit around the work area like a humming bird flying through honeysuckle, pausing for drinks of nectar. He saw that, not only was the low gravity not a hindrance, but that she actually used it to enhance her range of technique. Krag was mesmerized.
Keiko knew Krag was watching. She liked it. His watching made her work harder. Finishing, she grabbed her towel, headed to the counter and set down her knives. Moments passed as the two companionably leaned against the counter, breathing heavily, drinking water. Sweat ran down their faces, arms and bodies. Breathing slowed. Bodies began to cool. Sweat began to dry. Wiping down her face, arms and belly, she, too, grabbed a bottle of water.
“Do you Mind?” Krag asked, pointing at her weapons.
“Not at all,” She replied, picking one of the knives up and handing it to him.
“It’s light. Some kind of alloy?”
“Titanium.”
Krag tried to push his fingers through the openings in the handle. He could barely get his fingertips in. “Custom?”
“I know an old-style metal smith.”
When he lightly slid his finger down one of the guard edges, drawing a slice of blood.
“Monofilament?”
“Yes. Blade, too.”
He set the knife back down and took another swig of water.
“I’ve got to prepare for the insertion,” Krag began.
“Sure. Would it be ok if we trained together, sometime?” Keiko, in deferential tone, asked.
“I don’t know.” Krag, again, was taken aback by this stunning little woman. “Sure. Tomorrow? We’ll take it slow,” he stumbled out.
“Perfect. Same time?”
“That works. Tomorrow.” Krag fled, again.
Keiko smiled, again. “If Captain Krag Marston isn’t a talker, we’ll see if he’s a doer.”
Duke announced when Griffin approached the gate, an hour from entry. Krag went through the pre-entry checks. Everything checked out and the insertion went smoothly. Now began the nine days to Bridgelen.
They shared their noon meal together. Again it was done in courteous silence. They each worked through the day. Dinner was the same.
The next morning, Krag arrived early. This time he showed up in his full karate gi, with the heavy cotton wrap-around blouse and a worn black belt. Keiko arrived on time and also in a complete gi, all black. White split-tailed swallows adorned the ridging of her top. Long, flowing sleeves replaced the traditional cuffed sleeve. Small weights at their bottoms kept them always hanging down.
Setting down her rolled towel, Keiko came to a soft attention, placed her hands on her thighs, bowed to Krag and waited. Krag matched her formality. Standing with his feet shoulder’s width, he held his right hand in a fist at his chest and covered it with his left .He bowed in return. They both rose together.
“Good Morning, Captain Marston.”
“Good morning, Mz. Suzume.”
The formality of the bow and greeting brought back memories of many days training in the martial arts studio or dojo that Krag always found when he was stationed planet side. Those memories were a reminder to divorce emotion and overthinking from the actions of the moment. But he worried. He worried that he might hurt Keiko. He worried that she might think him as a clumsy oaf.
They each moved to their own stretching area. Krag focused on trying to achieve that balance between the mind, body and emotions that would allow him to perform at his best. Keiko moved into her own inner world, doing the same.
Krag finished his preparation. Turning to face Keiko, he rolled his shoulders, shook out his arms, rotated his neck and waited a minute.
Keiko finished her routine. She took one deep breath, held it then let it out slowly. “Empty hands?”
“Good idea. That way no one would get killed,” Krag flippantly responded.
“Ok.”
“Gloves and Pads?” Krag offered, secretly hoping for a ‘yes’. He didn’t want to slip up and hurt her.
“No, thank you. They become a crutch. And I can’t use my hands.”
Krag grimaced and nodded his head. “Ok. Ready?”
They both performed their perspective bows. Krag dropped into his basic fighting stance, right leg forward, left leg back, weight equally balanced. He raised his arms into a boxer’s pose, with hands open. Keiko softly slid her right leg forward into a cat stance, with ninety percent of her weight on her back leg. She rotated her arms in slow opposite multiple circles until they came to rest, the right facing high, the left at the solar plexus, palms facing Krag.
The small weights in her billowy sleeves caused them to slide to her elbow joints, leave her slender forearms bare.
They both waited. Keiko stood, the toes of her front leg barely touching the floor. Her face a mask of serenity and acceptance. Krag’s face displayed the mask of a hunter, eyes narrowed, intent focused on his target.
Inwardly Krag sighed. Then he attacked with a simple front thrust kick to Keiko’s body and, stepping through, a power punch to her face. But he held back, afraid of the damage he would cause.
Keiko pressed her front hand down on the ankle of Krag’s kick, using its force as a spring to launch her to Krag’s right. When the punch came she open-hand guided it to remain straight and used its momentum to facilitate her clockwise spin. Springing in the air and swinging her left hand she succeeded in wrapping her sleeve around Krag’s throat, grabbing it with her right. She dropped to her knees, turned her back to Krag and pulled, cutting off his wind and pulling him off of his feet.
Letting go, Keiko stood and faced Krag, who was sitting on the floor and rubbing his neck and staring shockingly at Keiko.
“Please, Captain, if you hold back, I will not be able to practice. I won’t break. I promise,” Keiko finished, with a smile.
Krag rose and rubbed his hands together. “Ok, but I pull my punches.”
“Thank you.”
The next thirty minutes were best described as a bear trying to catch a sparrow. Sometimes Krag was the aggressor and Keiko fought a purely defensive battle. Once in a while he would get a strike in but most of the time she would evade or use her sleeves to trap his arms and legs and cause him to fall. The training, from Krag’s point of view, ended badly.
Krag had learned to never overreach, and keep his balance centered at all times. Keiko, on the other hand, was constantly springing around, bending, flexing, spinning and avoiding his kicks, punches and sweeps. The training ended when Krag attempted a right leg sweep. When Keiko leaped up to avoid the take-down, he counter swept with his left hand, catching her at the height of her jump. He automatically launched a right hand punch. Unfortunately, Keiko’s momentum brought her head forward. His large fist struck Keiko on her lift cheek. He pulled it back as fast as he could. She went down like a sack of potatoes.
Sleeping in the Stars Page 14