Free Namaste by Sean Platt, Realm, Sands, Johnny B. Truant

 
    Amit hooked his forefoot around the man’s ankle and yanked, dropping him hard to the ground. A half second later, he’d popped up and stepped on the man’s gun hand, careful not to hurt him. The guard, also in a white T-shirt with a bulletproof vest over the top, tried to wriggle toward his weapon. Amit shifted and drove his heel into the man’s throat.  
    He coughed, gasping for breath.  
    Amit picked up the gun and looked it over with childlike curiosity, then looked down at the coughing man. “Please. Join your friends.”  
    The man gaped. Amit chuckled, pulled the clip from the gun and tossed it downhill, then extended it toward the guard. The guard took it and, with constant glances backward, stumbled toward the gate. Fifteen seconds later he was holding his neutered weapons beside the others.
    “Remember, two arm lengths.” Amit raised his own arms to indicate what they should do. He didn’t want to kill them, and hoped they’d listen.
    His message understood, Amit gave a small bow then walked back the way he’d come. The guards did not follow. He was disappointed but not surprised. There had always been a chance that they’d chase him. If they did, he could lose them, circle back, and maybe get past the diminished ranks. But although today was glorious and beautiful, it was apparently not lucky. To the guards, who were big men with armor and weapons, Amit was one tiny, crazy man. All that mattered was protecting the gates, and the boss behind them.  
    He paced the grounds, keeping the wall in sight but staying out of the range of prying eyes, and circled the perimeter. There was only the one gate, and the place was fortified like a castle. Here and there, guards paced the wall’s perimeter, all with the same automatic weapons, in pairs with at least 20 feet between them. It was an impossible configuration for one man to attack; if he reached one guard, the other would either shoot them both or call for help. There was no way inside.  
    Amit began to traverse the path back from where he had come, taking his time. He strolled for a half hour, keeping a keen ear to the sounds of pursuit. He found a high rise and a stunning view of the valley, then a solid rock where he sat with crossed legs. He ran his palm over his head, feeling stubble. He would need to shave again soon if he found the time, but was mostly beyond caring. What he’d told the Right Hand was true: He was no longer part of the Sri in any meaningful way. He probably shouldn’t be wearing his robe and sash, but Amit had earned them and wished to wear what was comfortable.  
    He closed his eyes, focusing inward, falling into contemplation.
    You must not use your skills to fight, Amit .  
    Woo and the abbot didn’t agree. The order trained and trained without ceasing. They sparred monk on monk, and monk on machinery. The Sri went through pads and punching bags the way most groups their size would go through food. The average shadow monk could perform surgery with his toes and twist his muscles away from a point of impact on a micro level to dissipate a blow like a car’s crumple zone. But they were also trained to be non-combative, nonviolent. The older boys had picked on Amit as a child; he’d been expected to turn the other cheek. Whenever he’d fought — other than in designated sparring sessions — he’d been reprimanded. To Amit, all that training was a waste without application. Yes, the discipline of training was good for both spirit and soul, and for their connection to the Great Beyond. But if they were enlightened, didn’t it also make sense to use their skills to defeat the enemies of enlightenment? Wasn’t what happened to Nisha enough to break the seal on his training and draw evil’s blood? What use was their training if it could not address wrongs and advance rights?  
    Amit heard the abbot in his head, as if Suni was watching from above: You have addressed enough wrongs. You have spilled enough blood to