Three - Michael Jan Friedman [42]
[123] “Sorry,” said Nikolas, backing into the lift. “Gotta run.” And with a wave of apology, he watched the sliding doors cut off his view of a very frustrated-looking Binderian.
Gerda circled to her left, her open hands moving in front of her, her legs spread shoulder-wide for balance—while directly in front of her, Idun did precisely the same thing.
It wasn’t unusual for them to opt for the same stance in their sparring sessions there in the gym. In fact, Gerda would have been surprised if they had not occasionally opted for the same stance.
After all, they had been trained by the same man—their adopted father, who over a lifetime had made himself an expert at a variety of Klingon martial arts. As a result, their strategies were the same, their execution was the same—even their weaknesses tended to be the same.
That was what made their sparring sessions so intriguing for Gerda. It wasn’t like fighting an enemy so much as it was like fighting herself.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t enjoy the exercise as much as she usually did. She still had Gerda Idun on her mind, and she couldn’t seem to stop thinking about the woman no matter how hard she tried.
“W’heiya!” Idun snarled suddenly, and launched a fist at her sister’s face.
It wasn’t Idun’s best move—far from it—and yet Gerda only narrowly avoided it. And when she tried to strike back with a series of kicks, Idun danced out of the way almost effortlessly.
[124] Gerda bit her lip and resolved to do better.
Moving into a dafokh’rit posture—her adopted father’s favorite—she came at Idun with one hand held high and the other low. When she got within striking range, she kicked at her sister’s chin and followed with a long high-hand jab.
But Idun took a step back at just the right moment and both blows fell short of their target. Obviously, she had seen the sequence coming.
Again, Gerda executed the maneuver, attempting to put more snap into it. But again, her sister had no trouble slipping out of harm’s way.
Gerda was about to try a different approach when Idun dropped her hands and came out of her stance. “All right,” she said. “What’s the problem?”
“Problem?” Gerda echoed.
“Your heart is not in this—it hasn’t been since we got here. So what’s the problem?”
Gerda hadn’t thought her lack of concentration was that obvious. But now that Idun had called her on it, what course would be wiser to take?
Should I tell her the truth? the navigator asked herself. Should I say that I was preoccupied with Gerda Idun and the duplicity I saw in her?
But really, what could she say? That she had noticed something Idun could have noticed just as easily, but somehow didn’t? It would sound as if Gerda were making it up—as if she were jealous of Gerda Idun, perhaps.
And she wasn’t jealous. Definitely not.
Clearly, the woman had changed the dynamic between Gerda and her sister, if only subtly. But that [125] didn’t mean that Gerda was jealous. She was merely following her instincts, as she had been trained to do.
The more the navigator thought about it, the less inclined she was to discuss the matter. Perhaps later, when she had something more concrete to speak of. But not now.
“It’s nothing,” she said. “I just need to concentrate.” And she lowered herself into a crouch.
Idun scrutinized her twin for a moment, as if trying to decide whether to believe her. Then she dropped into a crouch as well. Slowly, she began circling to her right.
Forcing herself to focus on the task at hand, Gerda circled in the same direction. Then she drew her hand back and assumed the kave’ragh stance in preparation for an attack.
But before she could launch it, the door to the gym hissed open and admitted two familiar figures. One was Pug Joseph. The other was his constant companion, Gerda Idun, who had changed into a set of borrowed exercise togs.
Idun was facing away from the door, so she didn’t see who had come in right away. But she must have noticed something in her sister’s eyes because she looked back over her shoulder.
“Sorry,” Gerda Idun