Free Flight of the Outcast by Brad Strickland Page A

off again to their next class—on the double.
       The routine repeated the next day, except this time they reported for normal-gravity physical training in another wing of the gym complex. The instructor, a warrant officer who was about twenty-five and who looked as though he had been designed by powerbots, teamed the twenty-five yellow-clad cadets up to see what they knew of self-defense. Asteria had sort of hoped to be paired with Dai, because it would be fun to shove him around a little, but instead she found herself facing a rangy young man with a challenging, superior smile: the nametape on his yellow jumpsuit identified him as Kayser, K (MASTRAL, CT).
       The instructor called him "my lord." Three Aristos who seemed to be friends of his called him "Mastral." Properly speaking, Asteria should have referred to him as "my lord" or "Your Lordship." Looking at his arrogant expression, however, she decided she didn't like him enough to call him anything, and so she chose to avoid the problem by not speaking to him.
       "My lord," said the warrant officer, "you shall be the attacker. Locke, defend against him."
       The Aristo grinned savagely as the two of them stepped inside the thirty-meter diameter combat ring etched on the gym floor. "How much shall I hurt her?"
       "Don't try for anything disabling, my lord," the warrant officer told him in a toneless, matter-of-fact way. He stepped back and pointed Asteria into the left zone of the combat circle, Kayser into the right. He raised his hand. "Remain within the boundary. Anyone forced out of the circle loses automatically. Ready? At my signal. Very good, take your positions…go!" He slashed his hand down, starting the sparring round.
       Kayser pressed forward, arms raised as he invaded Asteria's half of the circle. Asteria saw that he was using bladehand, a flashy but not efficient style of fighting art. Andre had taught her a little of it, but he had said dismissively, "Aristo boys use it to impress girls who don't know anything about fighting." Asteria wondered how much Kayser knew. He certainly looked confident as he moved toward her, semi-crouching, his hands flashing, his eyes mocking.
       Asteria circled carefully to the left, keeping her gaze on Kayser's midsection—the abdomen, she had learned from her cousin, was the key to judging an opponent's movement. Eyes could deceive, and legs could feint, but the midsection always told the true story. When she saw Kayser's muscles tense, she readied herself. He waded in, thrusting and slashing with his flattened hands, trying to strike a nerve nexus or open her guard and let him deliver a decisive blow that would knock her out of the circle.
       He probably expected her to backpedal, but instead Asteria stepped forward and met him with Mantis hands, her forearms interrupting his blows, warding them off harmlessly to the side. She saw the look of surprise in his eyes—just before she clipped his chin with the heel of her right hand, snapping his head back and making him stagger. His friends shouted and objected: "Foul!"
       Kayser glared at her, shaking his head, opening and closing his mouth.
       The warrant office coughed in a sort of mild warning. "It is not considered good form for a Commoner to touch an Aristocrat's face, Locke. Even in sparring practice."
       "Sorry," she said without looking at the muscular instructor. "I'll hit him lower from now on."
       "Think so, Disaster?" growled Kayser. He stepped forward, more wary now, with his hands flexing before they assumed the bladehand flatness. He was slower and more deliberate this time, feinting in, trying to judge her reactions. And then, with no visible warning, he swung his leg around in a hard abdominal kick.
       She twisted away from it, causing him to miss, caught his foot, and spun him, and when his back was to her, she delivered her own kick to the small of his back. He fell forward flailing and stumbling, but he was