He Who Dares: Book Two (The Gray Chronicals 2) (15 page)

The generator and the sensors automatically increased or decreased the strength of the field when underway, and prevented the crew from turned into strawberry jam the first time they went to full ahead, or stop.   It was one reason that ships couldn’t turn fast from side to side.  Under normal circumstances, most people inside the ship only felt a slight sideways tugging sensation as inertia tried to outfight the effect of the generator.  The field was broad enough to encompass the whole ship, so the crew didn’t feel anything when quickly turning a corner inside as when running to battle stations.  Both the Bridge and CIC had the ability to control the inertia field, as Mike has done with the assault shuttle when rescuing the Marines.  The one reason Cynthia remained so busy was due to Captains lowering the field effect to try and turn their ship faster.  Inevitably, they turned it down too much and tried to turn to fast, ending up with buckled hull pates and frame damage. 

  Mike knew it was a lot more complex than that, and wrapped up in the field effects and quantum physics.  His main concern now was that there were no problems, and that the inertia generators in the engine room were working.  The last thing he wanted were objects or people flying around the ship unexpectedly. Conner convinced him to take the afternoon off and relax, not that he wanted to, but in the end, he agreed.  At first, he just wandered about the town with no particular destination in mind.  He window-shopped and picked up a few items and some books.  That led him to a pub and finding a quiet corner and a pint of beer, settled down to read for a while, but he couldn’t concentrate.  There were too many unresolved problems running around in his mind, so in the end he closed the book.  Looking around, he realized the pub was old.  How old he wasn’t sure.

“Another pint, please.”

“Yes, sir, coming right up.”

“Bit slow today.”

“Oh, it’s always like this at this time of the day, the evening crowd won’t arrive for a while yet.”

“Old place this?”

“I should say so.  This place was built around the time of Henry the Eight.”

“Wow!  That's old.”

“She’s been rebuilt a few times since them, but much of the old timber and brickwork were reused.”

“Small people back then.”  The man chucked looking at Mike.

“This place wasn’t built for people your height that for sure.”  Mike spotted an old upright piano against the wall, look a little worse for wear.

“Anyone play that?”  He asked, nodding towards the piano.

“Oh yes, the evening crowd like a good sing song, it’s in tune, if you can believe that despite its battered appearance.”

“Mind if I play a little?”  The bar keeper looked around and nodded his head.

“Don’t think anyone would mind.”

“I’m a bit rusty, and I’ve never played a piano before, just an electronic keyboard.”

“About the same.”

Picking up his second pint, Mike walked over and sat down.  The man was right, it was in tune.  He ran his hand down the keys, getting the feel of them.  Unlike its electronic counterpart, there was a certain easiness to the way they moved.  Years of use could account for that, and a few beers spilt into the works.  He tinkled with the keys, stretching his fingers to get the feel of the keyboard.  It was hard at first, and he missed a few notes.

“Here you go, sir, compliments of the gentleman in the corner.”  The barkeep put a small brandy balloon beside his beer.

“What?”  Mike looked around, seeing and old man lift his glass in salute.

Mike responded in return, finding the balloon contained an excellent grade of brandy.  Somewhat encouraged, he played a few tunes, mostly the old song his Grandfather liked.  It brought back memories as people and places drifted through his mind.  In honor of Taffy and Jenks, who now owned and ran a pub somewhere in London, he played ‘Men of Harlech’, them  ‘May be it's because I’m a Londoner’ in honor of both of them.

“There’s a few sheets under the seat of the stool, if you like to try a few others.”  The barkeep came over and refilled his balloon.  For some reason he felt in a nostalgic mood and played more gentle tunes, moving from one to the other with ease.

Next he went to ‘All though the night’, another Welsh song that Taffy loved.  He got thought that without too many mistakes, and launched into ‘Midnight’ then on to a little classical.  As he stopped at the end to take a drink, applause broke out, and he quickly looked around.  Without his noticing it, the place had filled.  Twenty or thirty people stood around, smiled and clapping.

“Go on, play us some more.”  Someone called.

With a bit more encouragement and another brandy, he did, and for an hour, he treated them to a cross selection of new and old.  In the end he stopped, begging off playing more.  Amid calls for an encore and a lot of clapping, he took his farewell.  It was snowing when he left, yet for some reason it felt warmer.  Whistling a tune, he scrunched his way through the snow.  It was too early for dinner, and he had no desire to go back to his quarters so he wandered.

“Excuse me, sir, could you spare a credit for a poor sailor down on his luck?”

The question came from a man in a wore overcoat.  His lined face peering out at him from between the wings of his coat collar.  The lines told a story.  Life hadn’t been kind to this man.  Reaching into his pocket, Mike pulled out a handful of credit notes, and with one hand peeled off a hundred credit bill and passed it to the man.

“Here, I hope this helps.”

“God bless you, Leftenant, it will.”  The man shuffled off down the street, followed by a puzzled look from Mike.

It hadn’t occurred to him as he gave the man a handout, but begging was unknown on Earth now.  The Government provided everything a person could need in the way of housing, social services, food, and most of all, work.  So why did this man need a handout?  In the end he shrugged and went on his way, dismissing it.  Passing thought a connecting ally a creaking sign made him look up.  Above his head a wooden sign moved slowly back and forth in the wind.  He wouldn’t have thought anymore about it except for the twin swords artfully painted in gold.  There were no words, or indication of what the establishment offered yet it struck him as odd.  On Avalon, a sign like that mean a training school, one dedicated to the sword.  On impulse, he entered the doorway and ascended the narrow stairway.  He smiled as the slap-slap of bare feet on wood floated down the stairwell to him.  He was right this was a training school, a Dojo.  He entered, and stood watching an elderly man of Asian extract, perform a delicate sword dance across a sanded floor.  Whoever he was, he was very good, his movement flowing yet crisp and precise.  At first, he gave no indication he’d seen or even noticed when Mike come in, then he stopped, frozen in the final position.

“Have you come to learn, or just watch?”  He asked in accent less angelic.

“Um, I’m not sure.”

“Then get sure or leave, this isn’t a sideshow for gawking tourists.”

“Pardon, Master.  I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”  He bowed slightly to the old man.

“Har,” he barked, “at least your last teacher taught you some manners.”  He said, seeing the bow.

“Yes, sense.  He did, and it was a difficult lesson to learn.”  The old man came over, looked into his face, and nodded.

“Yes, I can see that.  You are a student of the sword, then?”

“I try to be.”

“Show me!”  He held up the Katana, offering it to Mike by the hilt.

“Here... now!”  It was such a surprise; Mike wasn’t sure what to do.

“Show or leave!  I have no time to suffer fools and no talent, amateurs.”

“Yes, sir.”  Mike took the sword, bowing his head slightly.

He removed his space boots, socks, and overcoat before moving out onto the floor.  He felt the wood under his feet, remembering its silky smooth texture as he felt the balance of the Katana.  This was no training sword, and a mistake with this could mean losing a toe or slicing himself open.  He took up the first position and closed his eyes, slowly relaxing.  He didn’t dare go through the exercise at the same speed as the old man as he hadn’t practiced in a long time.  Instead, he concentrated on a slow motion dance, striving for correct movement and position rather than speed.  For twenty minutes, he moved around the floor, his imaginary opponent countering, and attacking in his mind.  At the end, he walked over to the teacher, bowed and handed the sword back.

“Not bad, not bad at all.  Where did you train last?”

“On Avalon.”

“I know of the planet, but not of your school,” he pursed his lips a moment, “but whoever your teacher was, he taught you well.”

“Thank you for the compliment, teacher.”

“What level are you?”

“Level?”  He looked blank for a moment.  “I’m not sure.”

“That answers my question.”  He smiled.  “Sit.”  Mike sat cross-legged on the floor as the teacher did the same.  “You have come to practice and learn?”

“Partly yes.”

“And the other?”

“I have a problem that I need to solve.”

“And that is?”

“I... um... well that is I can’t fight.”  It was a difficult thing to admit, but he was hoping the Sansei would understand.

“Please explain.”

“Due to, let’s say, a medical condition, if I fight for real, and not just practice, I get a pain in my head that prevents me from fighting.”  It was a lame explanation, but the best he could come up with at the moment.

“I take it, this... condition extends to all types of fighting?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That could be a drawback for a young Naval Officer.”

“Yes, exactly.”

“And this condition is not curable by medical means?”

“No, sir, it isn’t.”

“And how and when does this condition occur?”

“As I said, when I fight in a dangerous situation.”

“Progressively, I imagine.”

“Yes, it gets worse the longer the situation lasts.”

“So you can function at first, or for a short period of time, yes?”

“Yes, sir.  Then the pain gets too great and I can’t see, think or fight, not even to defend myself.”

“I would see this condition.”

“That’s a little difficult, sir.”  Mike smiled, hoping to reassure the teacher he wasn’t just trying to talk his way out of it.

“You will begin again.”  He picked up the sword from beside him and handed it to Mike.

“Here?  Now?”

“Is there a better time or place?”

“It’s just...”

“Begin, please.”

Either the old man wasn’t getting it, or he thought he was joking.  In a way, it was hard for someone not from Avalon to understand.  Either way he was stuck.  He began the practice session again, a little faster this time, feeling a little more confident after his warm up.

“Sloppy, very sloppy this time.  Start again.”

“What?”  The old man had broken his concentration.

“Begin again!”  With a sign, Mike started again, this time slowing a little to make sure he was performing the strokes and stances correctly.  SWISH-CRACK!  Something strung him a stinging blow on his left thigh.

“Ouch!”  Mike stopped to rub his thigh, seeing the old man standing there with a bamboo cane in his hand.