by Steve Perry
The sides and back were a rich, striated, beautifully patterned brown.
“The wood is something called claro walnut,” she said. “Not exactly the same as black walnut, but in the same family.”
He nodded. Inside, the maker’s label was old and somewhat faded, the script ornate, but legible: Jason Pickard. The serial number was “2,” and the date “2003.”
Lord. So old.
Mourn strummed an open D-chord. The deepness of the basses and the resonance of the box filled the cube. It was tuned down a full step, and the high string was a hair flat. He adjusted it, belled the twelfth string harmonic, wow—!
“It’s tuned down a full step,” Cayne said. “And that just exhausted my entire knowledge of the thing. The guy I got it from didn’t know anything else about it.”
He played a scale. A wonderful instrument, almost in the same class with the murdered Bogdanovich. Almost.
He smiled at her. “This is the best present anybody ever gave me. Thank you.” Then the smile faded. “You can’t afford something like this,” he said.
She shrugged.
“Cayne . . .”
“I sold my camera,” she said.
He stared at her as if she had just levitated on her own. “What?”
“I’ve stored all the footage I’ll ever need,” she said. “Not that it matters—I’m not going to produce the documentary anyhow.”
“Why?”
“You know why. Because there are bigger things going on here, Lazlo. You know it, I know it. Something more important than an entcom show on Flexers. I can get a new camera if I ever need one, you can find those anywhere. But this guitar? There’s only one of them just like it, and you need it.”
He nodded. “You can’t know how much this means to me.”
“Yeah, I can. I—I love you, you know?”
He smiled. “Yeah. I know. I love you, too.”
Her face became radiant.
“What, you didn’t think I was going to say it?”
“Well, I couldn’t be sure,” she said. “I mean, I knew it, but it’s nice to hear. Sometimes men can be dense. You more than most.”
He laughed.
“So, what now?”
He nodded. “I think maybe I’ll open that school. But it needs to be about more than just teaching people how to fight. It needs to be about teaching them why to fight—and who.”
“You think?”
“Your idea. I’ve got a little money, enough to get started somewhere. We develop a curriculum, hope we can attract the right kind of students.”
“Who would be . . . ?”
“Those with a lot of patience. I’m guessing we won’t be ready to go out and change the galaxy for a while. I don’t think I’ll live to see the day, but maybe I can teach somebody who might, or who can then teach somebody else who might. Got to start somewhere.”
“Big step.”
“Just a first step. Not that big.”
There was a knock at the door.
“We expecting anybody?” she asked.
“I think maybe so.”
It was Shaw and the woman who’d had the gun. Shaw didn’t look all that much worse for wear, given the fight they’d had.
“Mourn. This is Luna Azul.”
“Shaw. F. Azul. Come in. This is Cayne Sola.”
Shaw and Azul entered. The two women inspected each other briefly.
Cayne was leery. “Mourn, I have to point out that this guy tried to stomp you yesterday—and his girlfriend here pointed a gun at you.”
“I recall. That was yesterday. Things aren’t the same today.”
“I need you to teach me your system,” Shaw said. “I had a cheat that should have let me win against any normal fighter, and you beat me even so. If I’d had what you know, I wouldn’t have needed the drug.”
“Maybe,” Mourn said. “No guarantee that’s so.”
“But I know it’s true,” Shaw said. “I have to learn it.”
“And if you do, you’ll try again?”
Shaw shook his head negatively. “I don’t think so. I realized something. I wanted to have the skill to be the best, and I couldn’t get it, which is why I developed the chem. But you have the ability. That’s what I want. It doesn’t matter if I get the title, as long as I know I could win it fairly if I wanted. If I knew . . .”
“I understand.”
“Lazlo . . .”
He turned to Cayne. “We’re looking for students, right? Why not M. Shaw? And what about you, F. Azul?”
“I go where he goes.”
Cayne said, “But can you trust him?”
“He gave me the ninety-seventh step, the last one I needed to complete the art. I don’t think I would have gotten it against anybody else. He has something we need.”
“What?”
“What we talked about. Going down a road other than the one we’re on. Doing something.”
Shaw looked at her. “I can lube a few gears,” he said. “I have a fair amount of money. It comes in handy.”
“For what?”
“Anything you want. As long as Mourn will show me his art, I’ll fund whatever he wants. I can buy a country and make him king.”
Mourn laughed. “Could be a whole new game. We could put together a place where we can educate people, teach them the things they’ll need to know to get the galaxy’s wheels out of the mud and onto dry ground. Isn’t that what you wanted, Cayne?”
“Maybe. You think we can do it?”
“Who can say? Worst that can happen is we die trying.”
She was silent. “What the hell,” she said. She looked at Azul.
Azul said, “I, uh, know a few tricks that might come in handy. We can probably keep these two on track.”
Mourn felt a sense of something in the air, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on, but it felt right, whatever it was. What the hell. Might as well give it a shot.