Felt, then heard own kiai rip from throat; watched self cross nearly ten feet separating us midair, spinning counterclockwise. Left heel intercepted Rollo’s forearm; limb folded in unnatural place, direction. Pan ripped from fingers, continued tangentially, well clear of intended victim.
Rollo’s neck corded, beginning motion that would turn rage-contorted features toward me. Muscles governing still functional right arm twitched; hand slowly formed claw, started my direction.
Already wasn’t there. Landed in stable cat stance, still passenger. Stepped under, past reaching limb; side-kicked spot just below hip. Femur broke with sound like snapping ax handle. Impact drove Rollo against wall, position from which could not fall away from blows.
Which continued as blocked still-reaching claw with forearm, ducked back under to front, unleashed hail of alternating lunge and reverse punches to clavicles, sternum, larynx, each powered to break bricks, driving through frail body tissues as if so much Jell-O.
Rollo began sideways motion to right, falling along wall toward damaged leg; but combat computer interpreted as flanking attempt. Clockwise spin-kick swept legs from under, sundering left knee at point of impact. Back-fist lashed out from continuing rotation, catching alongside jaw. Maxilla, mandible disintegrated with grinding sound.
Rollo hit perhaps another dozen times before conscious mind overtook events. Regained control as combat computer finished triphammer series of right-handed front-fist blows to upper thorax. Braced against rebounding from impacts by wall down which was sliding, Rollo absorbed blows’ total force internally: Ribs snapped like balsa; underlying structures turned to pulp.
Time resumed normal pace. Tail end of Adam’s cry echoed through kitchen: “—o-o-o…!” Rollo arrived on floor with mushy squish. Pan clattered against far wall, fell to floor.
Terry bobbed head, said, “How ’bout that.”
I uncoiled shakily, staring at ruin at feet. Looked up to meet Adam’s gaze. Stunned expression mirrored my own.
Essayed speech: “I didn’t mean… he would have killed…”
Tora-chan approached. Sat, surveyed body for long moment. Then stood, inspected mashed face; sniffed along broken length, head to foot. Moved off-side front paw along floor toward body, flipped upward: Same motion employed when covering mess in litter pan.
Tora-chan finished, glanced up with unmistakable cat smile. Purred. Performed luxurious head-dive on my ankle.
Next thing I remember is waking fully dressed following morning in own bed in trailer. Hugely depressed, but several minutes before remembered why. Adam supplied intervening details:
Went into shock, catatonia — whatever: nonresponding, physically inert, eyes-open stupor. Adam concluded immediate elimination of evidence, separation from scene best therapy.
Wiped Terry’s bill, placed bird on shoulder. Picked up stand, called Tora-chan.
Then, moving cautiously, watching closely lest Weapon still armed, took me by hand, led to trailer. Stripped me, pushed into shower, washed off blood, adhering meat scraps. Dressed me in clean clothes. Debated old outfit briefly; judged icky beyond salvage, plus now probably haunted. Pitched in toto.
Placed me in van. Then drove as if demons pursued. Continued far into night, until accumulated shock, nervous exhaustion, fatigue called halt — nearly conked out at wheel.
Put me to bed; started to get into own. But delayed reaction arrived then: Pitched such hysterical fit that Adam (hasn’t said, but probably at considerable personal risk) sedated me. Finally climbed in with me, held me until asleep before adjourning to own bed.
Ten days now since killing. Beginning to come to grips with guilt.
Adam big help: Pointed out, and cannot disagree, am no more responsible for Rollo’s death than unfamiliar firearm with which had managed to shoot himself. Am Sixth Degree Black Belt. And female. Terry my sibling/child-substitute.
Rollo’s murderous lunge triggered maternal protective instinct, which in turn set off conditioned-response matrix at starkest level. Probably wouldn’t have reacted with such single-minded, nonstop efficiency if merely swung at me — but my retarded baby brother…!
Besides, had hurried me.
Okay. Absorbed that; do believe it. Intellectually.
Problem is, haven’t resolved it yet on gut level. Still hurts. Lots. Rollo nice man, basically good — certainly no saint, but frank about it. Made straightforward offer, value for value, yes or no, my choice. No doubt would have lived up to his end.
Adam thinks Terry sensed Rollo had violent temper; hence instant antipathy. Possibly. Equally possible: Just plain terribly painful bite — sure looked it. Adam disagrees; been hurt accidentally himself by people, once seriously. Managed without going musth.
Granted. But even if true, character flaw only; not capital crime. Nothing for which deserved to die. And could have prevented harm to Terry without killing, but for programmed response.
Therein lies hard-to-swallow part: Killed innocent person — unnecessarily. No getting around it: Unnecessarily. Unavoidably, true, given circumstances; but still unnecessarily.
And still dead.
Worse, little nagging voice in back of head keeps suggesting may not have been completely unavoidable. Maybe subconsciously wanted to let programming run amok because had me cornered. Don’t think so, but disquieting notion.
In any event, will not happen again. Been drilling past ten days with modified kata, sparring routine. Working to eradicate all automatically lethal responses. Programming deep-seated; will take time to effect changes. But am walking time bomb as things stand; waiting to explode, hurt, kill people upon cue — even inadvertent cue! Lots of work involved, and accomplishment not without risk.
But necessary: Intend never to kill again…!
Have gone through Mount Palomar facilities with great care. Nothing about contents to suggest AAs’ presence in recent past. But sweep not entirely unproductive: Found Cal-Tech staff directory in one office — containing name, address of Tarzan File AA living in Pasadena! Will follow up on that tomorrow morning, unless…
Posterity, you simply won’t believe what Adam did today. Remember bundle of tubing, cloth, traveling on trailer roof? Well, found out what it is.
I had complained, following search of observatory, that if AAs’ secret rendezvous only hundred yards off road, would never find it in densely wooded, mountainous terrain. Suggested we track down U. S. Geological Service and Forest Service section maps; uncouple trailer, explore logging roads in van alone. Might turn up something.
Adam agreed in principle, but said had better idea — and did…!
Whereupon, removed mysterious bundle from trailer roof and, in space of probably 30 minutes, unfolded, unrolled, then assembled airplane — full-sized, man-carrying, aluminum-tubing-and-fabric ultralight. Disappeared briefly into trailer; emerged carrying breadbox-sized, metal-bound wooden case from which took miniature engine, propeller, snapped into place.
“Another benefit of growing up rich and neglected.” Eyes twinkled as mixed gas, oil; filled tank. ” ‘Mom, all the other kids have ultralights this summer!’ It was an election year, you see; she didn’t have time to check into the story — which was true…” continued impishly, squirming past fuselage tubes, settling into pilot’s seat; fastening five-point harness; strapping on helmet; checking control surface movement as wiggled stick, pedals, “… depending on what neighborhood you canvassed and what numbers you considered a representative sample.”