Free Futures Near and Far by Dave Smeds Page B

orbit is held, she’ll be one
of the veterans there. I allow myself a spoonful of pride.
    I check the scoreboard. Some of the second round has been
completed, and I see that my next opponent will be another Goju player named
Eunice Hershey. She is the first woman I have faced during the tournament;
there aren’t many in my height class. That there are any at all is a bit
unusual. I can still see old Master Kawamoto’s face turning purple at the
thought of combining males and females in kumite matches.
    Joe is off sitting by himself. He has, I note, lost the
first round of the consolation series, and is now out of the tournament
altogether.
    I pass part of the time practicing small, null gravity
maneuvers in the bleachers. I hook a finger around the grip at the top of a
seat, letting my body float. I spin counterclockwise, then clockwise, flip
forward, then backward. I fix my eyes on my fingers as they twist and grip at
the plastic. That’s the secret of keeping one’s orientation, not to mention
keeping one’s dinner down: find a stable point and focus on it.
    Later, I bounce from seat to seat, pushing off with feet,
toes, elbows, knees, fingers, hands. Never has Newton’s Third Law seemed more
real. Even breathing, I remind myself for the thousandth time, can be a source
of propulsion.
    Just remember the rules, I say silently. The karate
technique will take care of itself.
    It seems like only a few moments later that I am hearing my
students offer words of encouragement. My name has been called. I push off for
the sphere. Eunice Hershey is arriving from another direction. Once more, the
referee ties the red ribbon to my belt. We are inside the sphere, waiting for
the command.
    I glance into her eyes. She is intimidated. I haven’t failed
to make the quarter finals in ten years, back on Earth. Somewhere in the
distance the referee shouts.
    She takes the offensive. I stay at my side of the sphere.
She is leaving me an opening to the ribs just beneath her elbow. My foot takes
advantage of it.
    Time is moving very strangely. It seems like an hour before
the whistles blow, the flags wave, the referee calls the score.
    “ Yoko geri, chu dan .
One half-point, red.”
    More intimidation. I begin to smile. The old feeling is
back. I have the mind set that has carried me through so many matches. Eunice
sees it.
    She tries a less direct approach this time. Off to my left,
then across in front of me. Her foot licks out as she passes. Not close enough
for a point; I don’t block. She continues past. I launch off. We cross twice at
the center of the sphere, engaging tentatively. I land again, this time on the
velcro. I stop, and turn. I know she will be off to my right.
    She is not.
    I feel a wind brush my temple. My block is almost in time.
    The whistles blow.
    I tread the velcro back to my starting position, listening
to it go scritch, scritch, scritch, feeling it tug at my feet.
    “Ura uchi, jo dan,” the referee announces. “One half-point, white. One half-point, red. Continue.”
    Eunice seems surprised, as if uncertain she had really made
the score. She shouldn’t be; it was a clean technique.
    She takes to the air again. I decide to move the slow way,
walking the velcro. I must wait for the right opening, the one sure to be worth
the point. There are no second chances at this stage. There. She is open to her
face. I strike.
    And miss. Not by much, but wide enough not to tempt the
judges. I continue to the other side of the sphere. She is charging me again. I
block her with my left leg, shoving her back across the sphere. When she
returns, I am ready.
    No. Her knee is in the way. I halt my technique.
    I misjudge how limber she is. Her leg twists impossibly far,
bringing her body with it. She makes contact with my side.
    The maneuver has left a broad opening, which I take, but the
whistles are already echoing.
    The referee must be announcing the score, but I don’t hear
it. I offer Eunice my congratulations, and precede