Timecaster (29 page)

So much for him not using weapons.

I advanced anyway, taking small, quick steps, keeping my balance centered. I could feel my heart start to race and my palms get sweaty. Insane as Sata’s motives were, he had a point about the world being unexciting these last few years. I had become a cop to protect and serve. Right here, right now, was the essence of who and what I was.

Time to kick this old fart’s ass.

I ran to him, jumping into the air, aiming a flying kick at his chest. Not a regulation kendo attack, but I wasn’t worried about points this time.

My foot connected, and it was like hitting a wall. Sata’s feet remained firmly planted. I pushed myself away from him, landing on all fours, and checked out his footwear.

Antigrav shoes. There were magnets in the rubber soles, which adhered to the steel floors of the lift car and the space station.

In my rush to get here I’d forgotten to bring a pair for myself.

Sata walked robotically toward me, lifting and planting his feet in an awkward manner. He raised his
shinai
and swung at my head, the sword a blur. I lifted a padded forearm to block, but as soon as he hit me he pulled back and struck again, tagging me in the side.

Even with the chest plate on, it hurt like a bitch. The metal
shinai
had more weight and speed than the traditional bamboo version. I rolled to the left, bumping into a row of seats, ducking again as Sata knocked off a headrest. Then he raised the sword up in both hands, like Arthur freeing Excalibur, and drove the tip right into my gut.

I braced for it, blowing out a gust of air through my pursed lips as the sword connected with my diaphragm. Ignoring the pain, I latched onto the
shinai
with both hands. I was determined to rip it from Sata’s grasp.

I heard the zap at the same time I felt it, a burning sensation that ran all the way up both of my arms. I immediately let go of the sword, somehow managing to bring up my leg and kick Sata out of range.

“My own design,” Sata said, admiring his weapon. “I’ve infused the
shinai
with a cattle prod. Makes things more interesting.”

He thrust the tip at me, ramming my hip. It was like I’d been struck with a mining pick. I cried out, smashing my forearm against the sword, knocking it away. Then I pulled myself to my feet using a chair, rubbing my thigh furiously to get some feeling back in my leg. I considered pulling out the Nife, but decided to hold off for the time being. Accidentally disabling the car or cutting through the fuselage would kill us both. Plus, based on something he’d said, I had a feeling I’d need the Nife later. If I revealed the Nife now, I could very well miss a last-chance opportunity.

I second-guessed my reluctance when Sata zapped me again, this time in the shoulder. It lit up my nerve endings like they’d been soaked in acid and then set on fire. I danced away from the blow, did a quick spin-kick, and hit Sata between his legs. He wore a supporter, my foot bouncing harmlessly off. I was going to have to rethink my affinity for the groin shot; it never seemed to work.

Sata swung the
shinai
like a hyperbaseball bat. I went in low and got inside the arc, clipping him under the jaw with my elbow. When his head snapped back, I chopped at his neck with the edge of my hand. His throat was corded with muscle, and my blow did no damage. I might have to rethink my opinion of steroids as well. The only thing staying roid-free had gotten me was multiple beatings.

I picked up the detached headrest and backed away, standing on the balls of my feet. Sata glanced at my makeshift weapon and shook his head, looking disappointed.

“I expected more from you, Talon-
kun
. Back when we first met, you showed so much promise. You reminded me of—”

“I’d rather get beaten to death than endure another one of your endless monologues,” I interrupted. “Now, shut the fuck up and fight, old man.”

He thrust the sword at me. I blocked with the headrest, did a tight spin-kick, and knocked him upside his diseased head. Sata staggered, pitching onto some chairs, leaving his back exposed. If I got my arm around his neck, I could choke off his air and end this right now. I dropped the headrest and jumped at him, bracing myself to land on his shoulders.

But instead of landing I sailed right over him, heading straight for the rear wall of the lift, moving in what felt like slow motion.

We’d ascended high enough to reach zero gravity.

I held my hands out in front of me, Superman-style, and soared into the wall. My fingertips brushed against it, and I bent my elbows, kissing the metal, and then pushed myself back toward Sata.

He was waiting for me, his
shinai
resting on his shoulder. I flailed my arms, trying to change my speed and/or trajectory, but I kept drifting straight at him. I was about to learn how it felt to be a slow-pitched hypersoftball.

Sata smacked me in the arm. It hurt, but before he could get his zap on I was floating away from the blow in the opposite direction. Thank you, Mr. Newton, for your Third Law of Motion.

I hadn’t spent much time in zero-G, but I knew the challenges it posed from the few times I’d had space sex with Vicki. Unless we held each other tight, a single pelvic thrust would send us in flying opposite directions. Amusing at first, but it eventually got frustrating. That was why space hotel bedrooms came equipped with suction cups and bungee cords.

There were no such luxuries in the lift car. But I did remember the can I had taken from the security bin earlier. It was one of those feminine deodorant sprays, guaranteed to make your nether region smell like cherry pie. While I’m pretty sure nature never intended for women to smell like bakery goods, Vicki told me the reason these sprays were so popular was due to an ingredient that stimulated nerve endings. One spritz and sensitivity quadrupled.

But I had a different use for it. I pressed the spray button and the hissing gas functioned as an accelerant, halting my momentum. Another quick spray and I was able to spin around in midair. I rotated too far, twirled three hundred and sixty degrees, and then slowed myself down and faced Sata. He sniffed the air.

“Do I smell . . . pie?”

I sprayed it again, heading for the ceiling. It was just high enough that Sata wouldn’t be able to reach me, even with his sword.

My relief didn’t last long. Sata walked up the wall in his magnetic shoes, and then clomped onto the ceiling.

I sprayed myself back down to the floor. He followed. By then, the can was almost empty, and my mouth was watering for cherry pie. I tucked the can into my
men
and tied a seat belt around my leg, waiting for Sata to approach, believing I could defend myself if I was anchored down.

Not my wisest move.

The word
piñata
came to mind as Sata let loose with an electrically charged barrage of hits, pummeling me so quickly that all I could do was cover up and hope he got tired.

He didn’t get tired. Luckily, the knot around my ankle came loose and I floated away from him, a blob of blood trailing from my mouth and floating silently through the air in my wake.

This time, Sata didn’t chase me. He drew his Glock.

My hands and head were my vulnerable spots, so I covered my face with my padded forearms, and kept my palms on my scalp. I heard the shot, felt the impact in my chest, and waited for the Tesla bolt to come.

It didn’t come. Instead of a wax Taser bullet, Sata had fired a mollybond round. Newly attached to my
bōgu
was a length of jelly rope. I watched Sata reel in a bit of length, then shoot himself in the leg.

We were now tethered together.

He grabbed the rope and tugged. It stretched, then contracted, and we began to drift toward each other. Sata raised his
shinai
. Once again I thought about the Nife, wondering if it was still too soon. Sata was better at hand-to-hand combat. He could block it, and take it from me, and then Chicago would be lost. Then I thought about getting hit with the sword again, and decided to risk the chance.

I reached around, grabbing for the blade—

—and Sata kicked his leg back, pulling the jelly rope like a rubber band. I flew at him at a quick clip as he drew back his
shinai
.

My face versus Sata’s sword.

His sword won, connecting with my cheek. I spun on my axis, lines of blood spilling from my lips and twirling around me like a DNA helix. I pulled in my arms to reach the Nife and spun even faster, the world blurring around me, unable to focus on anything. But I kept my head, closing my eyes to ignore the rotation, feeling around the back of my utility belt, wrapping my fingers around the handle of the Nife and unsheathing it.

Time to give this son of a bitch a bunch of new orifices.

That was when the lift stopped and bounced me off the ceiling, making me drop the Nife.

The impact slowed my spin, but I still had no idea which way was up. Though I suppose in zero-G there was no up. I blinked a few times, and peripherally noticed the lift doors open. I hit the floor, focusing on the door, wondering what was going to happen next.

The cab filled with light as our welcoming party of cops unleashed a torrent of Taser fire.

That lasted half a second before Sata imploded them, flying bullets and all.

“It’s cold out there,” he said. His voice was wistful as he glanced out the lift window into the blackness of space. “Only three degrees above absolute zero. I hope they were wearing warm socks.”

I tried to call him a monster, but my mouth wasn’t working right. Instead, I took a frantic look around, searching for the Nife. Sata walked out of the car, his magnetic soles clomping against the metal floor, dragging me behind him like a child’s balloon on a string. I tried to grab onto something, missed a chair’s arm, and was pulled out of the elevator, Nifeless. I shouldn’t have ever unsheathed the damn thing.

The space station’s décor liberally borrowed from science-fiction movies, with a lot of polished chrome and bright lights. Doors were circular and they opened automatically using proximity sensors. Hallways were large tubes with twenty-foot diameters, the walls rounded and smooth. A large projector flashed a WELCOME sign at us in thirty different languages. Muzak played the classic theme from
Star Wars Episode 19: Darth Jar Jar
.

“The trick is adjusting the focal length of the wormhole,” Sata said as I trailed behind him. “If I zoomed out too much, I could have taken out the entire space station along with those morons. But don’t get any ideas. Once I set the timer, I’m locking the focus. You won’t be able to change it. Unless you can somehow make the entire space station face the opposite way, the wormhole will hit Chicago.”

Sata imploded two more security guards, who were flying at us with jet packs on their backs. An alarm went off, red lights flashing. I tried to get a handhold on the ceiling, but it was smooth and I bounced off. Sata tugged me past a giant picture window, and I stared, impotent, at the enormous blue-green earth. So beautiful. So vulnerable.

Sata caught me looking.

“Don’t be depressed, Talon-
kun
. There are infinite other earths, and this one is vastly overpopulated. Besides, I’m only sending them to a dinosaur planet, where they have a fighting chance. I could send them to an earth that’s entirely covered in lava. Or one where it rains sulfuric acid. Or where everyone has incurable jock itch. I actually found an earth like that. As expected, the people there are grumpy, and there’s an understandably high rate of suicide.”

I stretched, and caught my fingers in the grating around a lighting fixture. “Are you enjoying playing God, Sata?”

“Yes. Very much so,” he said, continuing to walk away. “I read the Bible in college, in a mythology class. That Old Testament God was a rascal, but He didn’t have nearly the fun He could have if He’d abused his power a bit more. Ah, here we are. The air lock.”

Sata came to a set of square double doors and pressed in a code on the keypad. They hissed open. I wound the jelly rope around my wrist, taking up the slack.

“Once I enter the air lock and seal the doors behind me, you won’t be able to open them again until I’ve gone,” Sata said. “So this is it, Talon. We’re on the one-yard line, and I’m about to make a touchdown. If you want to stop me, this is your last chance. The clock begins . . . now.”

Sata removed the TEV from his chest and flipped it around. Then he closed his eyes.

An LED—apparently for my benefit—appeared on the back of the device. It flashed 20:00, and then began to count down.

I gave the jelly rope a big tug, then released the ceiling, flinging myself at him.

FORTY-SEVEN

The look of surprise on my sensei’s face told me he hadn’t been expecting my attack. He barely had time to raise his sword when I was on him, wrapping my hand around his TEV strap. Then I reared back and punched him in the face.

Because of the lack of gravity, the blow didn’t have my weight behind it. But I was still able to break the bastard’s nose. I hit him four more times in paid succession—
pop pop pop pop
—blood exploding around his head—Sata choking on it as he gasped for air—then the
shinai
coming up and digging into my armpit.

He juiced me, a blue spark and loud
crack
accompanying the familiar jolt of pain. I released him, planting my feet on his chest, jumping away with all of my strength. I flew backward. The jelly rope stretched. Sata waved his palm in front of his face, trying to push away the floating blood. Then, just like an antique paddleball game, the rope reached its peak elasticity and I bounced right back at him.

I flew in face-first, knocking his
shinai
to the side as I latched onto his hair. Then I dropped my other arm, locking his elbow up under my armpit so he couldn’t use the sword again. Knees digging into his sides, I released his hair and gripped his throat, letting out a roar of anger as I did.