Olad grunted.
‘You sure know a lot.’
The Minstrel Boy smiled politely and nodded.
The hours until darkness hung heavily on Billy. Carmen kept trying to get him into bed one last time. Finally he gave in. He found, unexpectedly, that it was both a tender and exciting interlude. They lay together for a long time. Finally he got up. The move was like the first step into a new, unknown stage of his life.
He pulled on his calfskin pants and tucked in his thick, dark blue shirt. He struggled with his scuffed cowboy boots, and stood up. Carmen brought him some hot water, and he carefully shaved. He looked at his face in the dark, cracked mirror. There were still traces of thin boyishness, but his eyes were harder than they’d been when he left home. He brushed his long wavy hair back and dried his hands. Then he buckled on his belt with the compact .70 recoilless hanging from it.
He slipped into his fur jacket and stooped down and kissed Carmen on the top of the head.
‘I’ll see you again, babe.’
‘No, you won’t.’
‘I’ll try.’
Carmen said nothing. Billy took his dark glasses out of the pocket of his jacket, looked at them, and put them away again.
The Minstrel Boy and Olad were waiting for him, just inside the rear door of the whorehouse. The Minstrel Boy looked even more thin and angular in his travelling clothes. His pinstripe trousers were tight on his thin legs and stuffed into high riding boots. His black velvet frock coat flapped a little in the draught from the badly fitted door. A belt holding a set of five matched throwing knives was strapped round his waist. His wide brimmed black hat with the silver band was pulled down over his eyes. It hid most of his face. His movements were tense and nervous.
It was dark outside. Ocpol patrols cruised through the wet, empty street. Their loudspeakers announced that it was eighteen minutes after curfew and anyone out without authority would be shot. Billy suppressed a shudder. The Minstrel Boy took a deep breath.
‘Alright. If anyone approaches us, kill them. Try and do it without any noise. There’s supposed to be a hole blown in the wall just behind the duke’s palace. We’ll head for that. If any of us get hit, the others must on no account stop. Just keep on going. Got it?’
Olad checked his gun.
‘Will there be guards on this gap in the wall?’
The Minstrel Boy avoided looking at him.
‘I don’t know.’
There were a few moments’ silence, then the Minstrel Boy jerked his shoulder.
‘Okay, let’s go.’
They slipped out into the darkness and the rain.
***
The gong sounded. Jeb Stuart Ho sprang down from the gallery. He bounced lightly on the sprung trampoline floor of the training room, and moved watchfully towards his opponent. He wore his form fitting black fighting suit with padding over the vulnerable parts of his body. The striking edges of his hands and feet were reinforced with flexible steel plates. He carried a thirty kilo weight pack strapped to his back, and his face and head were protected by a cushioned helmet.
He grasped a long rubber baton with both hands, and swung it as Na Duc Rogers bounced tentatively in his direction. Rogers dropped into a crouch and sprang upwards, gaining height with the help of the floor springing. He swung his own baton at Jeb Stuart Ho, but Ho twisted suddenly and he missed him. The two men passed each other in mid air. They hit the floor again, and immediately leaped upwards. Rogers again lashed out at Jeb Stuart Ho, but Ho parried with his own baton and turned the blow. The two men’s bodies collided and they dropped to the elastic floor.
Jeb Stuart Ho made a better landing than Na Duc Rogers. He saw an opening and hit quickly at his opponent’s head. The baton caught Rogers on one side of his padded helmet, and he staggered slightly. Jeb Stuart Ho sprang away, pleased that he had scored the first point in the sparring contest.
The two men bounced on the sprung floor, almost in time with each other, a few metres apart. Each one watched carefully for an opening. Jeb Stuart Ho knew that Rogers would be using every part of his energy and perception after he had lost the first point. Although humility, meekness and obedience were the normal rule of the temple, in the training room, the executive brothers were expected to develop the aggressive and competitive facets of their beings. These, coupled with perfectly developed reflexes, were the core of the executive brothers’ makeup.
Their teachers often described the executive section as the gardeners of the brotherhood. They tended and, when necessary, pruned the growth of cultures in the damaged world. Their tools were mayhem and death.
Ho and Rogers continued to bounce facing each other. Jeb Stuart Ho noticed that Rogers was gaining a fraction more height on him with each leap. He knew he was preparing to make another move. The next time Ho hit the floor he swiftly raised his feet and let himself fall on his knees. This time the tension of the trampoline only tossed him half a metre into the air. Simultaneously Na Duc Rogers launched a powerful flying swing kick at where he expected Ho to be.
As Rogers passed above him Jeb Stuart Ho locked his arm round his opponent’s leg and slammed him hard into the floor. Jeb Stuart Ho felt a boost of elation. The second point. His pride was short lived. As he sprang clear, Na Duc Rogers slashed at Jeb Stuart Ho with his baton. He caught him hard behind the knees and Ho fell awkwardly to the mat. Na Duc Rogers had scored his first point.
They continued their practice on the sprung floor. Each man’s score slowly mounted until Jeb Stuart He’s stood at fourteen, and Na Duc Rogers’s just two behind. Then the gong sounded for the end of the session. The two men bowed to each other, and jumped up to the gallery. As they removed their packs and padded helmets and hung their batons in the rack, another two black suited figures took their places on the floor.
They moved towards the door of the training room to take the ritual shower and then return to their individual cells for a period of meditation. In front of the doorway, however, they found the teacher waiting for them. His young eyes in the incredibly old face twinkled as he smiled at each man in turn.
‘You feel prepared to tackle a computer, my little ones?’
Jeb Stuart Ho averted his gaze. His satisfaction at defeating Na Duc Rogers on points was overshadowed by the shame he still felt over his failure in the field. The teacher laughed.
‘You are downcast at your success in training, Jeb Stuart Ho?’
Ho didn’t look up.
‘Training is with rubber batons and a padded head piece, teacher. It is no gauge of how we may fare when our weapons are swords, guns and lasers.’
The teacher stared at him blandly.
‘It is not the shining weapon that fights the battles but the warrior’s spirit.’
‘I pray my spirit will not be found wanting on this occasion, teacher.’
‘I have every faith in you, Jeb Stuart Ho. In any case, the time of your testing will not be long now. Your wait will soon be over.’
Both Jeb Stuart Ho and Na Duc Rogers looked up eagerly.
‘We leave soon, teacher?’
The teacher’s expression became mischievous.
‘Spirit must be tempered with patience. The sheep will stray from a fold erected in haste.’
The two young men fell silent. The teacher waited for a while, then he spoke again.
‘You had best know that you leave at 20.00.’
‘So soon?’
The teacher nodded.
‘You have time to shower, to meditate and a short while to fulfil any personal needs. Then you sleep.’
‘Surely we must prepare our equipment? There is much to do before we can depart for this task.’
‘Your equipment is right now being readied by your own pupils. At 19.00 you will be awakened. You will assemble at the primary transport bay. A J-class flightcraft has been adapted for this task. You will mount in time for a 20.00 lift.’