Star Wars_ Death Star - Michael Reaves [90]
“So—let me show you the step-in to steal that crucial distance again …”
The drills went on. The students practiced the moves with Nova walking around, making corrections, offering direction, telling them when they had it wrong and when they had it right. He liked to think he was an encouraging teacher. He always seemed to develop a core of regulars, even though turnover among newbies was usually pretty good—a lot of folks wanted to be able to kill someone with their bare hands, but they didn’t want to do the months or years of work necessary to develop the skills.
The air in the rec room seemed to change, suddenly and subtly. Nova could feel it without having to look around.
Danger had entered the room.
Without making it obvious as he helped a student find the proper hand position for a punch, he turned slightly.
Standing just inside the door was Rodo, the bouncer from the Hard Heart.
Nova grinned slightly, and caught the other’s grin in return. The class would be over in five minutes, and he knew Rodo’s timing wasn’t an accident. His smile became wider, as well as slightly rueful. He was tired, he was hungry, and he hadn’t been expecting it—but that’s how it always went, wasn’t it? Those were the conditions one trained for.
He’d gotten his First Level Adept after a grueling two-hour class that had involved a lot of groundwork, athletic rolling around and grappling. That kind of stuff wore you out pretty quickly. His master had waited until the class was over and the students headed for the sonic showers when he’d pulled Nova aside. “I think it’s time you took the test,” he’d said.
The sudden adrenaline rush had gripped Nova, briefly washing away his fatigue. “Really? When?”
“Right now.”
Nova smiled at the memory. The test had taken almost four hours. The old man had turned him upside down and inside out; he’d taken him apart like a malfunctioning droid. And he’d been right to do so. After all, a footpad on the street wasn’t going to wait until you felt your best. You had to be ready at any moment to fight to the death, if necessary. Otherwise the teachings weren’t worth knowing.
At the end of the session, Nova dismissed his students, many of whom were obviously wondering what the Hard Heart’s bouncer was doing here. Nova moved over to where Rodo was holding up the wall. He’s big enough to hold it up, he thought.
Might as well get to it; he wasn’t getting any less tired.
He said, “So, you want to go a couple of rounds?”
Rodo shrugged, his shoulders shifting like tectonic plates. “I wouldn’t mind. ’Course, if dancing with your charity cases has tired you out—”
“Thanks for your concern. Light spar?”
Rodo nodded. “Fine by me.”
Back when Nova had been a beginner, there had been two kinds of sparring matches generally allowed. Heavy sparring required the donning of bulky, padded biogel suits. Even though the gel was relatively lightweight, it added five kilos to you at minimum, not to mention slowing reaction time and reducing range of movement considerably. A suited-up attacker charging you could shrug off a strike that would deck an unprotected fighter and keep coming.
Early on in his training Nova learned to answer the question Light or heavy sparring? with the former. Of course, the only difference in the two was the suit—you hit just as hard in “light sparring,” but since you knew you could get seriously damaged if you made a mistake, you were more careful.
Nova closed the door and latched it. “You need to warm up?”
Rodo shook his head. “Nah. You need a nap?”
Nova shook his head and grinned. He walked to the center of the padded room and turned to face Rodo.
Teräs käsi had half a dozen basic stances, and Nova was comfortable with them all, having practiced them thousands of times. But as Rodo ambled toward him, he didn’t shift his feet