Free Futures Near and Far by Dave Smeds

thing about null gravity matches; it is easy to
tell when the impact has been too hard. We are using a modified version of
World Union of Karate Organizations rules. This is supposed to be refined. No
gloves, no full contact, no blood. Joe comes from a different tradition.
    “It’s the Hulk,” says Mikey, my highest ranked black belt
student. The others laugh.
    I almost ask them to knock it off, but they stop after the
first comment. Joe doesn’t deserve the mockery. He is a good, ethical player. I
suspect he is as dissatisfied with his performance as was the referee.
    In fact, his thunder seems to be completely stolen. He loses
the second half-point in less than ten seconds.
    “He looks like a whale,” Mikey comments, as Joe sails toward
the viewing area. I watch him climb into a seat and strap in, stone faced. This
is only the first round. Joe can still place in the consolation matches. He
will face at least one more opponent. But he will lose that match, too, as long
as he remains in his present mood.
    I notice the hair on my chest is sticking straight out
between the lapels of my gi, and I brush it flat. I have long since given up on
the hair on my scalp, adopting the crew cut so common here at the space
station, even among the women.
    Not a whale, I reflect. A dinosaur. Joe is from an age when
power could win you matches. Any master, myself included, emphasizes the
importance of speed, coordination, flexibility, and quick thinking, but until
the arrival of the null gravity event, simple strength and size had won many
karate tournaments. Joe is a fine player, but he has never had to vary his
repertoire. He is adapted to a different environment.
    We all are, I tell myself, vaguely paying attention to the
continuing matches. We are like rock musicians suddenly called upon to prepare
a classic symphony; some may have the talent to excel at both the old art and
the new, others may not. In my mind is the acrid smell of vomit, the dizziness,
the frustrating urge to figure out which way is down : memories of my first week here. Some of the group brought up
from Earth for the competition hadn’t made it through those first few days; I
had lost my best pupil. Some, of course, had never made it up the gravity well
in the first place: bad blood pressure, lack of financial sponsor, inability to
devote three months of one’s life to a single sports event. Over the last few
weeks, I have seen lips pursed in determination, individuals stretching their
practice sessions in zero gravity right up to the eight hours permitted per
day, and here and there, wild elation at a freedom impossible to the planetbound.
We are part of a great experiment. Those who succeed will be the new breed of
karateka; the others will be fossils. In many ways it might have been kinder
for Joe to have been one of the ones eliminated early.
    “Huh?” I ask, abruptly aware that someone is tapping me on
the shoulder.
    “Sally’s coming up for her kata,” Mikey says. “Want to
watch?”
    “Of course,” I answer. I unbuckle and accompany the majority
of my students to the other side of the arena.
    Unlike sparring, forms are performed inside cubes, a design
which complements their symmetrical nature. The only velcro is a small square
on the “bottom” side, from which the player begins, and hopefully, finishes
each kata. As I strap into a seat, a Shorin-ryu stylist dances carefully from
one wall to another, executing a block and strike combination to different
directions, a lower kata, unsophisticated if not for the unique venue. Unlike
some, it closely resembles the earthbound variation.
    He starts well. He stays oriented, keeps control over his
momentum. It is his karate technique that suffers. His entire body lands in the
right places, but his blocks are incomplete and his strikes slow. He misses the
velcro at the finale.
    “Three point five,” the head judge announces. Average for
his level.
    I spot Sally at the staging area, and kick over to her.