Star Wars_ Death Star - Michael Reaves [17]
To the general laughter, Stihl replied, “You took this class before?” More laughter. “Monn has it exactly right,” the sergeant continued. “You make tracks away, fast as you can. Bare-limbed against a knife, you get cut, no ifs, no buts. And unless you scum of the galaxy have been industrious since last time I looked, you don’t have much of a medcenter anywhere around these parts. You could get cut bad, bleed out, or get infected and leave the party by the slow and painful exit, hey?”
There was a murmur of agreement. Everybody knew that. Lose a body part here, it was gone for good if you weren’t a natural regenerator. The state of local medicine was rudimentary: a few docs and other healers, but not a lot of equipment or meds. Of course, the closest bacta tank was a mere three hundred or so klicks away; unfortunately, the direction was vertical rather than horizontal, and most of the prisoners had few illusions about their chances of being hoisted up to the orbiting facility if they were in harm’s way.
“But if you don’t have a weapon and you can’t run, then you need another option. And it has to be one that doesn’t depend on great skill because it won’t work unless you have that, and even then, maybe not.” Sergeant Stihl looked around. “Hey, Ratua, lemme borrow you for a minute.”
Ratua smiled. He’d done this before.
“Lot of self-defense teachers, they say you have to trap and control the knife arm,” Stihl continued. “That, not to put too fine a point on it, is pure mopak. If you aren’t faster than the guy with the knife, that gets you gutted, no matter how much you know.”
Ratua strolled into the ragged circle made by the watchers. Stihl tossed him the practice knife, a forearm-length dagger made out of softflex. Stiff enough to work like a real knife, but with enough give that if you hit somebody with it, it would bend without doing damage. The point and edges were coated with a harmless red dye that left a temporary mark on whatever they touched.
“I’m twelve years deep in teräs käsi,” Stihl said. “I was the First Naval Fleet’s Unarmed Middleweight Champion two years, runner-up for two more. Bare hand-to-hand, I expect I can take anybody my size on this planet apart, doesn’t matter which species. Blade-to-blade, I can duel to a draw. Bare against a knife? I’ll get cut. Show ’em, Ratua.”
Ratua smiled and stepped in as if he was in no hurry. He made a lazy thrust with the knife. Stihl went into a crouching move to grab his arm, only—
Ratua did his trick.
As the sergeant reached for his wrist, Ratua pulled his hand back, and while it looked like no big deal to him, he knew the watchers would see his hand blur.
It wasn’t a Zelosian thing, it was Ratua’s own. He didn’t know where it had come from, but once he kicked in the booster rocket he was, for a short time, faster than most ordinary beings. Way faster. Some medic who’d examined him once and tried to clock his reflex time had said something about mutation, about abnormally fast nastic response in the cellulose fiber that made up a large part of his muscle mass. Whatever the cause, it had come in handy more than once during his exile on Despayre.
As the sergeant continued to move in what seemed like slow motion to Ratua, the latter whipped up the knife and made three quick slashes and a stab. Then he took a step back.
Time resumed normal speed. Several people who had never seen the demonstration gasped or swore.
Sergeant Stihl had two thin red lines across his neck, one on each side, another across his throat, and a little red dot under his rib cage just below his heart.
After the sounds of amazement had died down, Stihl said, “You see?” He turned to Ratua. “How much fight training you have, Ratua?”
“Counting today?” He grinned. “Uh, that would be … none.”
Stihl pointed at the slashes and stab marks. “Any of these would have been enough to kill me. Green-Eyes here has no training. I’m an expert, but if that knife had been real, I’d be fertilizing the plants—if somebody bothered to bury me. Yeah, he’s fast, freaky fast, but that