13'Sao-La
He lounged. The bench he splayed over faced a small park. As did the flagstone patio of the café
he'd targeted for his first anshin kill.
Kill: the word savored. For the first time today, ollomani were authorized to Kill, one triad out
of four. Most would not target anshin. 13'Sao-La would, would strike for joy, not crave, for
glory, not lust, for difficult, not easy, for True Enemies, not Voiceless already sullied. The
Kata-for-Delivery permitted such focus.
Eyes slitted, he took the suns face-on — and chest- and legs-on, his tunic pulled open to expose
himself, his breechclout a tactical requirement rather than a concession to local public-dress
patterns.
Sightless, he heeded his topador and chivero. They heckled a cluster of Natives assembled meekly
for a business breakfast, slaved to the droning of a jowly tactician, forking dainty portions on
decorated plates. Aromas drizzled over in the listless breeze: kai, sticky buns, foofoo, stewed
xtomatl.
11'Gaur and 4'Banteng had taken up sinapu imitations, annoying little yips tossed into the speech
at the most inopportune moments. Soon, the can-see's proctor would break from his seat at one of
the café's oblong tables and seek to send the hecklers quietly away. The ensuing fight would bring
the anshin.
13'Sao-La's pachcab hand twitched eagerly. He had planned this Kill for five days now, since he
first met his new Enemies in the field. Each time his triad sortied, more and more each day. Each
time they skipped away from the dreamsticks. Each time they wended back to the Ready Room. Each
time they found it winnowed, its roster sapped by steady anshin erosion. Harlan always played the
pretend anshin.
Such erode ends today! The anshin dam fails today, and we will flood this town with New Order!
Finally, we rescue the Voiceless! Finally, we repay the Governors' boon.
13'Sao-La turned his face toward the park and opened his eyes. Roughly in its middle stood a High
Place, this one a tower of balconies connected by a winding staircase leading to a platform at the
top where anyone could look down upon their world. Not the Governor's Platform, but even higher to
make up for it. Not the Governor himself, but majestic, tall, special, like him. This High Place
did not overlook an arena's smallest court — each ollomani's ultimate ambition — but would
witness to mano-a-mano nonetheless.
I will kill each Enemy before a Governor's Platform, he vowed. It was the least he could do to
repay the Governors' blessings.
He turned back to the café. The proctor remained stoic. The other ollomani progressed to a stream
of the native wolf's coughing barks. 13'Sao-La maintained, soothing his vex with a story of
death. The daydream had distilled to a repeat that focused on the kinked and numb hand that
carried his pachcab in ulama. In fact, he'd taken to wearing the leather pad, softened by use and
weathered by his sweat. Just now, with a sly glance, he lingered on it and its sweet promise.
Abruptly, anshin arrived! Not Harlan, but squat and brown like him, blue-gray suit and hat with
glyphs gleaming. Raiding from the café's kitchen door. 13'Sao-La slipped free of his tunic.
Crossing the patio fast, dreamstick coming around like a scythe to reap 11'Gaur and 4'Banteng.
13'Sao-La launched to intercept. Trailing two unsteady, but grim apprentices, their blue-gray
flagged with white stripes, their lives forfeit without dreamsticks as shields. 13'Sao-La leaped
onto the patio, over its black railing, past puddles of gape-jawed Natives.
An apprentice turned on him. From-Nihon, old, face jelly with fear, but eyes full of will, this
dungy Unknown dared to palm him and order, "Anshin business! Stay back!"
13'Sao-La swatted the palm aside and rammed a stiff hand into her gut. The flat, stringy wall of
her diaphragm. He twitched his fingers above it, curled them behind her chestbone, cupped that in
his palm, and lifted. With a grunt, she rose, feet kicking for a place to stand. He cast
her aside.
The other apprentice quavered. 13'Sao-La stayed her with a glare and pounced after the real
anshin. Who spun, dreamstick already swooping toward a quick stanch.
13'Sao-La eased to let the 'stick pass empty, its breeze its only touch. He eyeballed the anshin
for the moment of reveal when he knew the dream-swat had failed.
The dark, keen eyes flickered — surprise? yes — fear? maybe — then recovered. The anshin
reversed the 'stick as baton.
A worthy Opponent.
But 13'Sao-La had followed the dream-swat. He met its change in direction, snared the wrist:
Control. He smashed the elbow against its bend: Shock. He twisted in his own reverse, aiming to
Destroy. He took the anshin's head with his pachcab.
Heavier than an olli, harder, but 13'Sao-La had heeded those facts. The head snapped sideways.
The eyes, still dark, keen no longer, fell closed, then struggled open. 13'Sao-La stepped in, set
a leg to trip, and shouldered the anshin past it. He sprawled, arms uselessly flapping wide. He
blanked, then blinked to muster defense, but could only watch the heel as it crashed down and
crushed away life.
13'Sao-La followed through, stepping on brains and bone to move clear and spin into recce. No one
else threatened. One apprentice bent heedless over the other. The Natives scrambled away,
blanched and chittering in fear. 11'Gaur and 4'Banteng surged forward with congratulations.
13'Sao-La scattered them with a wave. The Kata-for-Delivery forbade triad grouping in the field.
13'Sao-La turned back to his kill. His hand itched for the ritual knife, to reap the still-warm
heart, but the kata forbade that too. They could not forbid him feelings, though.
Such release! Such redemption!
This act booned him, completed, justified, and rewarded him. Filled with joy, 13'Sao-La ran away
from the scene, with many others like it playing in his schemed future.
