The Musashi Flex (19 page)

Mourn had a sudden memory. He laughed.

Sola looked at him. “Do I look that funny?”

He shook his head. “No, I was thinking of something else. I used to be in a fighting class, and every time the teacher would show us a move, we had a guy who would say, ‘But Instru’isto, where is the
power
in that?’”

“And this is funny because . . . ?”

“All moves don’t rely on power to be effective. Hit a hundred-kilo bodybuilder in the chest with your fist, you’ll probably break your hand. Poke him in the eye with your finger, you get a much better result. Precision in this instance is better than power.”

“But how easy is it to do that? Poke a hundred-kilo bodybuilder in the eye?”

“That’s the trick, all right. There are a lot of guys out there who think they can do it, but the map is not the territory.”

He looked at her. “Bend your knees and drop your weight a little more,” he said. “You want your center of gravity lower than your opponent’s if he’s coming in fast . . .”

Mourn watched her and considered the idea of counter-intuitiveness. There was definitely something there he needed to explore.

“Was it a fair match?”

Here was the question for which Shaw had been preparing, and when it came, he was ready—it merely had to be framed in his own mind correctly:
If by fair fight, you mean, did I break any of the established rules for the Flex? Was it a fair match by those regulations?

With that thought held firmly, he said, “Yes.”

The two showrunners, a man and a woman, never took their gazes from Shaw; each of them had one hand out of sight, in a pocket, under a jacket, and Shaw knew that in those hidden hands were gripped weapons. Even if they were only stunners, he knew he would wake up dead if they used them.

People who lied and knew they lied gave themselves away—there were microexpressions that flitted across one’s features, and vox patterns that changed to reveal a specific kind of stress. Beating the sensors at the hands of an expert was close to impossible.

If the tech told the runners that Shaw was lying, and even if he’d had Reflex coursing in his system—which he didn’t—it would be iffy that he could have done much before they shot. And even if he avoided being cooked, and managed to get away, he’d still be a dead man—it would only be a matter of when another Flex showrunner could get a sight on him. Aside from which, the point was to stay in the game, not be on the run.

The tech running the stress scanner and face reader said, “Clean.”

Shaw felt himself relax.

“Congratulations, M. Shaw. You are now ranked”—the tech looked at the little instrument he held, waved his thumb over a sensor and watched the holoprojic image—“One Hundred and Six. You may challenge any player ranked Ninety-Six or higher, and the list, updated frequently, can be found at the infostat log available on every planet and all major wheelworlds, available to your coded query.”

“Thank you,” Shaw said.

“Our job,” the tech said. So far, neither of the showrunners had spoken a word.

Shaw nodded at them as he stood and headed for the door. This was a low-rent office in a seedy area of town, and likely as not after a day or two, would be abandoned. Showrunners tried to stay a step head of the local LEOs—better that the cools didn’t gather up any more information than they already had. If Shaw stuck around on this world and waited for another challenge, he probably wouldn’t be coming here for the tag transfer, and probably wouldn’t see this trio again in any event. Showrunners and techs moved around, so as not to present targets for the local cools themselves.

Somebody could challenge Shaw, now that he was near the Top Hundred. He had hoped to climb a bit higher, and had merely taken over the slot of the man he’d beaten, but he wasn’t going to wait for challenges. He had agents out looking for the ten ranks above him, and the ten above them, and the next ten, all the way to the top. Any or all of those might change, but with any luck, he could move to within challenge range of the Top Ten fighters with another eight or ten fights, depending on the arcane scoring system. His next victory would almost certainly put him into the Hundred, and after that, it was just a matter of going for the highest rank allowed, assuming he could find them. He might have to zigzag a little, but with the kind of money he had at his call, if a player was to be found, Shaw’s agents would find him.

Servo stood waiting by the flitter, and Shaw ambled that way, feeling a mix of emotions. One the one hand, he had gotten into the system and past the showrunners, which were good things. On the other hand, the relative ease with which he had done so made the feats somehow not as . . . joyous as he had hoped. Of course, Marlowe hadn’t even been among the Hundred, and Shaw knew that the lower the number, the more adept the player. He had trained with men who’d been in the Teens—and had been soundly beaten by them—and with his new edge, he was certain he could beat any of those players now. He did have some skill; without that, he’d hardly be able to compete, no matter how fast he was; still, it wasn’t just that he wanted to
be Primero,
he wanted it to be an accomplishment of which he could be justly proud. He wanted to be the best, but he wanted it to
mean
something. He wanted to have to work a
little
. . .

Servo opened the flitter’s door as Shaw approached. Shaw nodded at his bodyguard and stepped into the flitter.

Sooner or later, there would be a fight with witnesses, maybe even recorded. He wanted people to see him as skilled. If you had more relative time than your opponent, then you should be able to choose techniques that would showcase your ability. It was not only important to
be
good, you needed to
look
good . . .

“Sir?”

“To the ship,” Shaw said. “Who is the closest and lowest on our list?”

Servo said, “Barnes d’Fleet, Ninety-Eight, is on Mti, in Ndama System. Teel Cotta ToDJonCam, Ninety-Six, is on Nazo, in Nazo. Mti is three day’s transit, Nazo is eight days.”

Shaw nodded. D’Fleet was closer, JonCam lower. Was it worth the extra five days’ travel for two ranks?

No, he decided.

“Call the ship, tell Carter we’re going to Mti.”

“Sir.”

Shaw leaned back in his seat. If there was game to go with the name, then he would have it. If not, at least he would have the name. Richest man in the galaxy. Best fighter. After that? Well, he’d just have to see, wouldn’t he . . . ?

He’d have to do this one quickly. The annual art show was coming up soon, and he wanted to get back in time for that. Fremaux had some new stuff, and there might be some other artists he’d find interesting.

 
There were perhaps 350 people in a grand ballroom that would easily hold twice that many. The walls were hung with paintings, there were pedestals here and there bearing sculptures, freestanding mechanicals, and carefully placed lighting to showcase the art. Very nicely done, Azul thought.

She drifted around the ballroom, sipping good champagne from a tall thincris flute, into her persona as an artist looking at other artists’ works. Her newly learned critical abilities came into play. Some of what was displayed here was good, some of it was great, and some of it was simply pretentious and awful. Much of what demanded the highest prices was, in fact, the worst art. Money covered a multitude of sins.

Several times men or women had attempted to strike up a conversation with her. She was fairly stunning herself: She wore a black orthoskin suit that fit her like paint, matching slippers, and nothing else. The suit had a faint dusting of pulse-dust, so that under the right lighting, she shimmered with a barely perceptible rainbow glitter. Sexy, but tasteful, everything covered but revealed. Subtle was good.

As far as Luna Azul the artist was concerned, there was no such person as M. Ellis Shaw. She was a professional here to take in the work of other professionals, that was her mind-set, and thus her moves fit it naturally.

Eventually, she wound her way through the crowd to the paintings of the artist that Shaw collected. These were watercolors or something that looked enough like them to fool her, and very dynamic. Athletes, most of the subjects, in motion. A woman runner leaning at the tape just ahead of the other racers; a weightlifter under an impossibly large barbell, halfway up from a squat; a dancer just leaving the floor in a leap that you could almost see would soar to a great height. She nodded. The artist, one Fremaux Fremaux, had a nice touch with color, a mastery of human anatomy, and an eye for composition. His prices were not low, but neither were they at the top of the scale compared to other painters in this show. She knew from her research that he was relatively young, only forty T.S. or so, and with continued practice, could someday be a master painter. These were things she might have painted herself, in her persona, so she tried to appreciate them suitably.

“Which is your favorite?” came a deep male voice from behind her.

That would be Shaw.

She did not turn to look at him, but continued looking at the paintings. “The dancer,” she said. “He’s captured the potential. You can see how she is going to rise, how she will unfold, and even how she will settle.”

“You have an artist’s eye yourself.”

Now she did turn to look at him. He was tall, dark-skinned, handsome, and fit. He radiated a power not evident in his holographs. He was in a smartly cut formal suit, the drape of the jacket perfect, the cling of the trousers precise, the dress slippers expensive but simple. A man comfortable in his demeanor, with no need to show off his riches, just as she had figured from her research.

“I hope so,” she said. She gave him a polite, but uninterested smile. She had brushed off other people who had wanted to talk, and she was not going to show any particular interest in him, either. She turned back to the water-colors.

She could almost feel his amusement at being dismissed. Obviously she didn’t know who he
was
.

“I take it thus that you are an artist?”

“I like to think I am.”

“Would any of your work be on display, Fem . . . ?”

“No. I’ve only been on-planet for a short time. Nothing of mine is here.” She ignored his attempt to coax forth her name.

“Are you any good?”

This was a challenge, and her persona would not allow such to slide by. She turned back to look at him. “Am I as good as this artist? Maybe. There are works here that I would not claim to match. Others that I find . . . less than inspiring.”

He laughed. “Isn’t that always the case?”

“So it seems. Please excuse me, sir, I came to see, not to, ah . . . visit.”

He smiled broadly and gave her a slow nod. “Enjoy yourself, F. Azul.”

She frowned. “How did you know my name?”

He tapped his ear, indicating the hidden com-button.

“But—who
told
you, sir?”

“I am a man with some connections,” he said. “I have people in my employ who are paid well to know everything I need to know. Ellis Mtumbo Shaw, at your service.”

She pretended not to recognize his name. “An artist yourself?”

That got another laugh. “Of a kind, perhaps, but not one with these skills.” He waved one hand to encompass the ballroom. “I am in business.”

She shrugged, flashed the polite smile. Business did not interest her.

“I should like to see your artwork, F. Azul.”

“I am sure that a man with connections can find my catalog easily enough.”

“I expect that you are right. Are you staying on our world long?”

“Maybe. I have a couple of paintings I want to finish before I leave. A week or three. However long it takes.”

“Perhaps we’ll meet again,” he said. He raised his glass to her, then turned and sauntered away. People watched him, some of whom were surely security, some because of his looks, his grace, some for his wealth.

Inwardly, Azul smiled. That had gone as well as she could have hoped. She would bet her last stad that she would be hearing from Ellis Shaw again. And soon . . .

 
Mourn was in bed just drifting off to sleep when the door to his room slid open. It was quiet—first-class doors didn’t squeak—but he was fully awake before the door was fully open.

Sola stood in the doorway, and the faint backlight of the room behind her spilled around her form bright enough to show that she was naked.

She didn’t say anything.

Mourn said, “Come on in.”

She did, the door sliding quietly shut behind her.

He sat up on the bed as she approached, opened his right arm to gather her in. She sat next to him, slid in close.

“You sure you want to do this?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t,” she said. She smiled, then leaned in to kiss him.

It had been a while since he’d been with a woman. She smelled clean and fresh, she was passionate, and she felt good pressed against his nude body. He was quick the first time, but slower the second, and she still called to him, yin to his yang. Her orgasm came just a hair before his third, he hadn’t gone for three in ten years. She shuddered for what seemed a long time, milking him with a velvet pulse, strong at first, but one that gradually ebbed.

“Wow,” she said.

“Yeah.”

Side by side, she propped herself on her elbow and looked at him. “I’ve been wanting to do that since you first showed up in my hotel room in Spain,” she said.

“I know. Me, too.”

“Why didn’t you make a move?”

“It wouldn’t have meant as much then as now.”

“That’s important to you?”

“Yes.”

She reached out with her free hand to rub lightly at his chest. “You have a lot of scars. You could have had them revised.”

“What would be the point? Mostly nobody sees them but me and assorted medicos, and if somebody else does, they don’t care. Or sometimes the scars make it better for them.”