Devil's Advocate (The X-Files: Origins #2)(60)

“I know this is not anyone’s favorite drill,” said the sensei, “but randori is important to the development of reliable self-defense.”

A few of the students groaned, and Dana had to suppress her own trepidation. Randori was freestyle practice, where one person acted as attacker and the other had to defend, but without knowing which attack was coming. Dana didn’t mind playing the role of uke, the attacker, even though it meant getting kicked, thrown, locked, or pinned. It was all controlled, though. What she didn’t like was being off her game when she was tori, the defender, because she was supposed to be the one kicking, throwing, locking, and pinning. She did pretty well against students of her own skill level, but things never worked out when she was paired with Saturo. She had never once successfully defended against his lightning-fast attacks. And Saturo was uncompromising. He never cut anyone a break. His philosophy was simply, “If you don’t want to get knocked down, be a better fighter.”

Easy to say, but since he was a black belt, Saturo was the demon they all feared.

“Dana, Saturo,” said Sensei Miyu, “you may lead us off.”

Saturo smiled. Dana’s heart sank.

They walked to the center of the mat and bowed to each other. Dana, being the junior of the two, was first uke, and she came in with a series of strikes, attempted grabs, and kicks. Each time Saturo seemed to turn into a blur, and then she was flying through the air and thudding to the mat. Over and over and over again.

She was hardly sure which techniques he used on her. All she saw was his smiling face, the winces on the faces of the other students, and then the mat coming up to greet her at thirty miles an hour.

“Mate!” called Sensei Miyu. Stop. “Change.”

Dana climbed to her feet, bowed to the sensei, bowed again to Saturo, and settled into a receptive combat stance, feet wide, knees bent, weight shifted onto the balls of her feet, her hands open and raised, palms turned slightly outward. She was tori now and it was her job to be in control of the encounter and defeat any attack. Saturo, playing the role of uke, began circling, much as he had done when they did the knife drill. He loved to circle, and it worked to confuse his opponents and make it difficult to ever predict the exact moment or angle of his attack. When he moved in at her, he was even faster, if that was possible, snapping a kick to within a half inch of her knee or heart or nose, or slashing an open-handed blow toward her with the speed of a whip.

He attacked five times and scored five times.

A sixth.

A seventh.

Dana was starting to panic. Her head was still not right from her mind trip, and she was a little nauseated, as if this fight was happening on the deck of a ship out in choppy waters. She staggered backward a few times, tripped and fell on her butt once, and nearly walked into a back-fist punch. Instead of easing up on her, Saturo seemed to go faster, not trying to hurt her but definitely pushing her out onto the edge of her ability, trying to show her how vulnerable she was. He did not let her stop, never gave her a chance to catch her breath, cut her no breaks at all. She wanted to run, to hide, to cry.

And then something happened.

Suddenly the whole world seemed to shift, to skew around in the wrong direction. Instead of seeing Saturo rushing at her with a powerful roundhouse kick, she saw herself standing in the path of the kick. It was like she stepped into Saturo’s mind for a moment and saw what he saw, even thought what he thought.

Scare the red clean off that dumb girl’s hair.

That was the thought in Saturo’s mind as he launched the kick, but somehow the kick was wrong. It abruptly slowed down so that it moved through the air as sluggishly as if he were kicking while standing chin-deep in water. It still moved, and Dana knew that it was all some kind of bizarre perceptual shift, and yet she was inside the bubble of slowed time.

Then she was back in her own body and the kick was coming toward her. Still slowly, still moving as if time belonged to her and she had it to spare. Anger surged up in her chest and then flashed out through her arms and legs, burning like jet engines. She launched herself forward, stepping inside the arc of that kick, closing to a distance that nullified the power of the attack; and at the same time her hands moved, striking him in the thigh, in the stomach, in the face. She saw blood fly like small rubies, she saw his eyes go wide with shock and pain. Far away there was a sound, the distorted cry of command and warning as Sensei Miyu ordered her to stop.

And then, with the abruptness of an explosion, real time caught up with her. Bang. All at once.

Saturo fell backward, his hands clamped over his nose, a cry torn from his throat as he fell hard and fell badly. Sensei Miyu grabbed Dana’s shoulder and hauled her backward, spinning her, shoving her away from the fallen Saturo. Yelling at her. Furious. Scared, too.

Dana staggered a few feet away and barely caught herself at the edge of the mat. She turned to see Sensei kneeling over Saturo, speaking to him with forced calm, pulling his hands away so she could examine the damage.

Even from fifteen feet away it was clear to Dana, and to everyone else, that Saturo’s nose was badly broken. There was blood everywhere, and he had tears in his eyes.

Dana said, “Oh God, I’m sorry.”

She took a step forward, but Sensei hissed at her. “Sit down.”

Everyone was looking at her. Shocked eyes, open mouths. Doubt and worry and even some contempt.

“I’m sorry,” Dana said again. She bowed to Saturo, repeating her apology over and over again.