Timecaster by Joe Kimball Read Free Book Online Page B

black pants that looked like a skirt. In his hands was a bamboo sword, a shinai . He was beating the absolute shit out of a faux-wooden training dummy, his strikes as loud as thunder, but coming in such rapid succession that they sounded more like a group of people wildly applauding.
    When he noticed my entrance he yelled out a terrifying cry of, “ Ki-ai! ” and ran straight at me, his sword raised.

NINE
    He swung the sword down, and just as I lifted up my forearm to block he switched from an attack to a hug.
    “Great to see you, Talon-kun!”
    I hugged him back. Then he held me at arm’s length, his eyes twinkling as he looked me over. I felt a surge of affection, and a pang of guilt because I hadn’t visited him in so long.
    “Great to see you as well, Sata-san.”
    His keikogi wasn’t tied, and it revealed a sweaty, bare chest cut with muscles. At sixty-four years old, Sata was built like a bodybuilder. He’d gotten even bigger since the last time I’d seen him, two years ago. While some of his appearance was the result of training, I knew Sata took various roids and hormones to stay so big. It looked like he’d been upping his dosage lately.
    “There are clothes and bō̄gu in the closet there.” He pointed over my shoulder. “Get dressed and we’ll train.”
    “I would love to, sensei. But I’m really pressed for time, and I need your help.”
    “And I need yours as well, old friend. Ralph there is a terrible training partner.” He pointed to the wooden dummy. “His kakari-geiko is woefully predictable, and his blocking is lackluster at best. Suit up. After a quick match, I’ll be at your disposal.”
    I couldn’t say no to Sata. “You’re going to beat me.”
    “Of course I’m going to beat you. You seem distracted, and you’re thinner than I remember.”
    “I’m the same I’ve always been. A hundred and ninety pounds soaking wet. You’ve just gotten huge. What are you, two hundred thirty?”
    “Two fifty. The wonders of modern chemistry. I’m thinking of gaining another twenty pounds, competing as a hyperheavyweight in the next nationals. Now, suit up. Let’s see if you can last longer than eight seconds this time.”
    I pursed my lips. The only reason he’d beaten me that quickly was because I’d tied my hakama too loosely and had tripped over the cuffs. Sata knew this, but it tickled him to bring it up every time he saw me.
    I dropped the TEV and stripped down to my boxer briefs, dressing quickly. Sata helped me put on the bō̄gu . Kendo armor consisted of a padded chest plate, called a dô , padded gloves that covered the forearms, called kote , a padded belt with five hanging panels called a tare , and the instantly recognizable helmet with the metal grill faceplate, known as the men .
    When fully suited up, you felt kind of invincible. Like a medieval Japanese robot. If given the choice of combat wearing bō̄gu or hyperfootball gear, I’d pick the kendo armor every time.
    But there was a reason the armor was so protective. The kendo sword—the shinai —was more than a meter long, made of four slats of bamboo lashed together. A ninth- dan kendoka , like Sata, could kill someone with one thrust of his bamboo sword.
    This was not a sport for wimps.
    I quit practicing kendo on a regular basis seven years ago, when Sata retired from the peace force. At the time, I was a capable sho-dan —eight dan s below Sata. But what I lacked in experience I made up for in speed. All of his chiding aside, I knew Sata respected my skills.
    “Where is your armor, sensei?” I asked.
    “It isn’t worth the time it will take me to put it on to go against you, Eight Seconds.”
    Cocky bastard.
    I grabbed a sword and we walked to the middle of the training room. The floor was cool under my bare feet, and already my hands had begun to sweat inside my gloves.
    On first glance, kendo rules were simple. The first person to land two strikes wins. The only strikes that counted were to the head,