Breakfall (5 page)

“No, why?”

“You’re all over the media! There are videos from the demo we did, and you’re on YouTube! I Skyped my brother, and he was very impressed. Are you all right?”

Sean was stunned. “Impressed? Why?”

“Because you defeated three bad guys, one with a gun! Don’t you see? This reflects very nicely on our schools. Having an instructor who can do that is going to increase our membership a lot. Somebody even put an older video of your club up there. It’s showing your teaching.” Casey paused for breath.

“Oh.” Sean didn’t quite know what to say. He didn’t feel famous, he didn’t care for being famous, and he definitely didn’t like having his face plastered all over the Internet. “This could be bad, Casey. What about my privacy?”

“Privacy’s overrated. What you do reflects upon my brother’s school. Be glad! It’s a great honor that he can point to you and show that his techniques are such a success. Especially if that one guy survives—
having him die would look bad, considering we practice a pacifist martial
art.”

“Casey!” Like he had time to worry about that at this time. He didn’t want to kill anyone, but there had been the gun, and he was glad he knocked the first two guys out.

“Oh, don’t worry. Maybe I’ll drive down for a visit after midterms.” Her voice acquired a calculating tone. “I’m sure my brother will approve.”

“
S
AN
-
BAN
-
SAN
JIYU
kumite waza, kime. Hai-a
!” Asbjorn stood at ease while scrutinizing his forty-two students with a hawkish gaze. Most of them wore white uniforms. He called out the forms in their customary order, in Japanese, and watched them execute the techniques as a group. Five sets of three, done three times on both the left and right side.

The last technique required them to balance on the left leg while the right kicked the imaginary opponent’s head. He let them stay just like that for a time, noting the wobbling and their eventual resignation to the pull of gravity.

“I expect you to have good enough balance to stand on one foot while kicking that head.” His voice carried through the gym with effortless ease. “Your standing leg’s gotta be bent. The foot you stand on’s gotta be relaxed—it’s that state of relaxed tension we’ve been talking about. Again.”

And again, and again, and again. After making numerous corrections, Asbjorn had the class split into pairs and execute the move on an opponent. Not two minutes went by before he heard a sound of distress.

“Oww!”

“Sorry! I’m so sorry!”

He turned around, and sure enough, it was a white belt doing damage to a much more experienced brown belt. He suppressed a grin at the blood pouring down the young man’s nose. “What did you tell her to do, Ed?”

“Aggh… just…
drop
into the
tetsui
… ahhh… hips back… agggh… and aim at my face.”

“Okay, then. Go wash up in the bathroom. We’ll see if your nose’s broken. Rachel, explain what happened.”

She fixed him with a look of amazement. “It worked, Sensei!”

Asbjorn chose to ignore the waves of total adoration she cast his way. Even if he swung her way, he’d never pursue a relationship with a student. “Apparently so. But remember, ‘martial’ stands for ‘violence,’ but ‘art’ stands for ‘control.’ You got the violence part down. How about more art, eh?”

She cast her eyes down.

“Well done.”

Rachel looked at him in surprise. “What?”

“You did it right, didn’t you? Now do you understand where all that power comes from?”

The shorter woman didn’t reply, uncertain how to verbalize the suddenly congruous actions of her body.

“Okay. Try it on me, but instead of hitting my nose, hit my shoulder.” Asbjorn presented himself to be struck. She complied. “Not bad, but don’t lean back… no… with a hammer-fist like
tetsui
you are practically touching your own nose with your hand… there… see how close-range it is?”

A formidable blow rocked Asbjorn’s frame.

“Yes! Like that. Again.” And again and some more, until she could embed the body mechanics into her muscle memory with ongoing practice. “Now the other side. Always train left and right simultaneously.”

A few minutes later, Asbjorn was bruised but satisfied. “Good. Now after you wipe the blood off the floor, make sure Ed has a new ice pack—if he didn’t find one, they’re in my gi bag.”

“Yes, Sensei.” She left, glee and excitement barely suppressed on her face.

Asbjorn grinned. It was always the white belts causing damage and spilling blood.

B
Y
THE
time aikido practice was over, Sean was both drained and relieved to be left in peace, folding his hakama. With the ties neatly aligned, crisscrossed, and knotted over the rectangular packet of fabric, he put it in his bag. Everyone was after him today, expecting explanations. His students gazed at him with worshipful eyes, hoping they would practice the very same techniques he had utilized in the alley. Fellow engineering students, who had never even noticed his existence, came out in droves.

“Hey, aren’t you that Sean Gallaway guy who beat up those thugs in the alley?”

Those words were not how Sean wished to be characterized.

Asbjorn hadn’t shown up, and it bothered him. His talented beginner didn’t seem like the sort to get all worked up over an incident like that. He emanated a curious sense of calm. Sean found, to his dismay, he didn’t even have the guy’s phone number when he thought of calling him to grab some pizza together. For now, he needed to get away from the public eye and the constant pressure of the others.

Sean slipped his hoodie over a long-sleeve shirt in deference to his sweaty body and lower autumn temperatures. He slid out of the building through a seldom-used staircase and a side door. The campus was extensive, and the gym was all the way on the other side from his dorm. He stretched his legs, eager to get there.

A door of a building ahead of him opened, light spilling out of the dance studio next to the modern weight room. He saw a tall figure, its stance familiar, the head garnished with short hair spiked with sweat steaming in the brisk autumn air.

“H
EY
, A
SBJORN
!”

Asbjorn turned to see Sean Gallaway struggle up the path as though weighed down by a great burden. “Hi, Sean.”

“I missed seeing you today.” Sean glanced away, his flustered expression attesting to a state of mind that provoked Asbjorn’s curiosity.

“Sorry about that. I was doing a friend a favor.” Asbjorn grimaced at his own prevarication—being an unknown beginner in someone else’s martial arts class had been a pleasant change of pace, and his association with the karate club was still not apparent to his aikido instructor.

“Well you got to work out, at least. Say… would you like to grab some pizza? I haven’t eaten since forever.”

Asbjorn gave Sean another curious look. Yes, there was a sense of turmoil under a façade of barely controlled calm, and after practice, no less. Amused curiosity seized him along with a desire for company.

“Fine. Where do we go?”

T
HEY
SETTLED
in a small joint on Portland Street, not too far away from campus, and ordered two pizzas and a pitcher of Sam Adams with water on the side. Sean liked the closed-in feeling of their booth and the smell of melted cheese and beer in the air. The chances of being recognized were slim. With a sigh, he pulled his hoodie off over his head. Asbjorn leaned back, seeming a bit tired around the edges and with a smear of something red along his jawline.

“Oh, what’s that, Asbjorn? Is that blood I see?” Sean pointed to the location, not quite touching.

Asbjorn inspected his hands. “Yep—I’m splattered. Better go wash up. Better be more careful.”

“What happened? Not you too?”

“Not me too, what?”

“The fight. You must be the last person who hasn’t heard.” Sean sighed. “Go wash up and then I’ll tell you.”

C
LEANED
OF
Ed’s blood, Asbjorn slid into his side of the booth. The beer had arrived, and Sean poured them both a glass.

“So what’s this about a fight?” Asbjorn asked. “In my case, somebody just got a nosebleed.”

Sean told him.

The two pizzas sat between them untouched. The more Asbjorn heard, the tighter his shoulders got. He reached for water instead of beer, trying to wash his scowl away. “You dumb fuck, Sean.” His voice was cold, his rage carefully suppressed.

Sean startled as his mouth dropped open. “W… what did you call me?”

Suddenly Asbjorn felt himself transported to a different time and place, his gaze fierce and unyielding. His shoulders seemed to have expanded, his very being taking up more than its fair share of space. That voice came out again, clipped flat, and he could almost smell the salt spray, could almost feel the undulating deck under his feet. The MIT student was gone for now, replaced by the equivalent of a drill sergeant. Just like when one of his seamen had done something colossally stupid and dangerous, he felt the blood roar in his ears.

“I call’d ya a dumb fuck. Whatcha tryin’ t’ do, get yerself killed by some cunt of a bag of monkey shit? What the flyin’ fuck happened to your sense of situational awareness? You’re so cock-sure of yourself and you almost got yourself fucking shot! What, has it not fucking occurred to you, in the most remote corner of yer arrogant, overbloated fucking mind, to call for fucking backup first? There was nothing wrong with your fucking phone!
First
you call the fucking police,
then
you have some fucking fun!”

Asbjorn paused for breath, focusing on a controlled exhale. He forced his shoulders back and down and cracked his neck in a vain effort to loosen up.

“Man…. I. Have. Not. Been… this fucking pissed in fucking years!”

W
AVES
OF
heated anger rolled off Asbjorn, pressing Sean into the vinyl seat of his booth. Sean struggled for breath. His mind was swimming at the ease with which his newest student shed his customary veneer of soft-spoken respect. Asbjorn’s deep blue eyes flashed with disapproval and rage and… and perhaps even fear.

All of that unexpected and colorful discharge was aimed at him, the prized student of Burrows-sensei, the overnight sensation, the big hero of his aikido school whose face was now plastered all over the Internet.

Suddenly Sean didn’t see Asbjorn the aikido student or Asbjorn the physics student. He saw a former military man, fierce and unrelenting, unforgiving of errors, and absolutely lacking patience for stupid, ill-considered decisions.

“What the hell, Asbjorn. I’m your aikido sensei. What do you think gives you the right to talk to me like that?” Sean’s voice almost faltered, his scowl in place just for appearances.

“What gives me the right? You think I wanna be attending your funeral anytime soon? Fucking moron, rescued by a kid with a whiskey bottle. Do you even know how to do gun disarms? Have you ever worked against a real weapon? That ain’t no orange rubber facsimile like at the dojo, y’know.”

Sean watched Asbjorn take a deep breath and reach for his beer, observing the slight tremble of Asbjorn’s hand with curious detachment.

A
SBJORN
WAS
all too aware of the tremor in his hand as well.

Just adrenaline.

Last thing I need is having somebody else die on me.

Fuck.

He stopped in midmotion, his beer half-lifted to his lips when he made the choice to set it down again. “Look, kid. How about we have some pizza before it gets cold, and you tell me in your own words what was going through that brilliant mind of yours as you made your decisions, and we take it from there. Okay?”

His large hand flopped two slices of sausage and onion pizza onto the cheap paper plate. He folded the two into a sandwich and bit the end off. “Pretty good.” Now a sip of his beer. “Eat, Sean.” The kid looked stunned. Offended and stunned. Perhaps a little uncertain too.

Uncertain would be a good start.

They were well into the second pizza and the beer was almost gone before Sean’s words began to weave a tale of skill, luck, and adventure.

“…so the general idea is, we who practice aikido do not attack. All you have to do is maintain your higher moral ground, and as long as you keep your one point, extend
ki
, and don’t attack first, you’ll always be okay.”

It sounded like the sort of a well-rehearsed speech Sean was likely to give his class every week or two. He probably used to hear it from Burrows-sensei on a regular basis. He’d probably been taught to live and breathe a doctrine of nonviolence, floating on a cloud of spiritual energy, one with the universe, free of reproach. Asbjorn worked hard to suppress a dismissive snort; his Viking forefathers were somewhat more results-oriented.

“You seem pretty sure of what you’re sayin’.” Asbjorn took a long, cool swallow, enjoying the tingle of Cascade hops in what used to be a revolutionary microbrew and now was considered a venerable classic.

“You’re sayin’ it like you know it so well, you don’t even think about it anymore. But that ain’t how it works in the real life, y’know. In real life, in real fights, there is always somebody bigger and stronger to kick your ass for you.” He took a deep breath.

The edge of his anger was gone and his language was a bit more under control, too. He focused on his breath flowing in and out as he tried not to flat-out dismiss Sean’s point of view. He had heard such talk before, and he never found a way to agree with even half of it.

“That’s why aikido doesn’t rely on strength,” Sean huffed.

“Yeah, and it works real well as long as you can control how and when you get attacked. Not everyone will just charge you at your beck and call. Your style may be incompatible with the attackers’ style. Thinking you’re invincible because of some moral superiority is dangerous.” Asbjorn shoved the pitcher and beer glasses to the side, his long arm snaking out. He grabbed Sean’s pointy chin in his big hand, forcing his intent gaze at Sean as he leaned in to pull the younger man across the table.