Silver Shadow #8
"Discussion III"
by Aaron Baugh

Beep.

"Jian, this is Chuck again." Pause. "I wish you'd come down or call me back or something. Oh, and we've heard back from KGPC about Wastelander, but I don't think you'll like what I have to tell you." Pause again. "We need to talk. About everything."

A finger stabbed the stop button, then opened the tape case and deposited it in a drawer. With a thump, the drawer banged shut.

That had been the most recent call, of six received in half as many days.

Head bowed, Jian rested his hand on the phone, then looked up as the small bell attached to the rear door rang softly. Silently, he moved downstairs in time to see Michael Manly duck inside.

"Hat off," ordered Jian tersely, turning after descending the stairs towards the main dojo floor.

Michael sighed and pulled off his cap, shucking his jacket as he followed the man who'd been teaching him for the past few weeks.

"It's not like I'm twelve, you know. Why all these little rules?"

Jian spun on his heel. "Listen, Michael. I know I asked you to help me, but tell me that you haven't gotten anything out of the past few weeks? Tell me that you didn't have some other reason for helping me in when I couldn't walk. You kept coming back, and I've made no secret that this is voluntary. Now, if you're good and ready, we'll begin with the Tai Chi
katas, one through seven."

Michael's mouth opened, then closed silently, and he tossed his jacket in the corner along with his hat.

"I guess you're right."

"About time you learned that," said Jian with a crooked smile, his demeanor changing.

"How's your ankle?"

"Better. Hardly a limp anymore."

"Ancient Chinese secret?"

"You bet your ass. Now concentrate on your breathing, and move into position one."

Jian stood beside his pupil and eased into the Tai Chi exercises, finding a bit of solace in focusing his mind on anything except the recent past. Zhao had moved to the King Avenue dojo, but they had spoken about what had happened. After all, Zhao knew a little bit more about his past than Chuck Starling did. He knew who Jian had run with during his teens and early twenties, and knew that those kind of people often came back to haunt you.

Michael had gotten considerably better since their first meeting, and Jian worked him hard, using skill and speed to avoid Manly's superior strength. Control seemed to be the thing that Michael wanted most. Since he didn't have it over his own situation, he needed it somewhere. His own body was the logical place to start.

Instead of using the traditional titles for the Tai Chi positions, Jian referred to them with simple numbers. Four, instead of Crane Steps Over the Water. Plus, it sounded more professional.

The two men moved slowly, the only noise when Jian called out new exercises. Without warning, he turned and swung at Michael. Manly ducked, and struck out wildly into a place that Jian had already vacated.

Now they were facing one another.

"Better," said Jian. "Now things get tougher. I want you to hit me."

"Not again."

Jian smiled. "Yes. Again, and remember what I told you. Don't twist your arm for the impact." As he spoke, Jian moved his arm slowly out, in a slow punch. His fist started out vertical, and he turned it to the horizontal and let it tap against Michael's chest. "You waste motion, and that wastes energy, so your impact is less. If you're going to hit someone, make it count."

"Right." Michael remembered the immense damage his punches, his improper punches, did to Jim Finnegan. He cleared his head and tried to concentrate on Jian's words and actions.

"No twisting, and make your motion quick." Jian's arm snapped out and he poked Michael hard just above his breastbone. Manly barely saw the movement. "Once you get this down and combine your massive strength with the proper technique, even I won't be able to stop you."

Manly smiled at that.

"Now, match my movements, and listen to me."

Michael nodded, and Jian stepped beside him, then began more katas, but this time they were more martial and lethal in nature, and as he spoke, he gradually sped up.

"No fight is the same as any before it. The attacker plans the only thing that can be planned, and he only knows his first move. Everything after is purereaction. Resist the urge to always attack the face or head. Your fist is skin and bone, and will better
impact the fat and muscle of your opponent's belly. It knocks him off balance by striking through his center of mass, interrupts his breathing. If you must attack his face, use something harder than your hand."

More speed.

"Always use the largest weapon you can. Most of the time, that will be the earth itself, a wall, or the floor. Know how your joints move and how they don't. Your opponents will have the same limits. See his entire body, don't concentrate on just his eyes, hands, or weapons. Everything about him can tell you his next move. Most people have few strengths, and will use the same pattern of attack again and again. Memorize it, but don't depend on one way to counter. Predictability is never good. Since we don't have the luxury of time, we'll limit your training to one style."

"Waitaminute," interrupted Michael. "We don't have the luxury of time? What about helping me to help you, all that crap you said less than an hour ago?"

Jian stopped, twisted to look at Michael fully, though he had to tilt his head back a bit. "I have a few things to take care of. You'll use what I've taught you while I'm gone."

"When will you be back? I've gotten used to sweating my ass off every night."

"We'll keep going when I get back. I'm not letting you off that easily. But now, some sparring."

"We've never done that before," said Michael, suddenly hesitant.

"And?"

"I can pick up cars, Jian, and you want me to try and hit you?"

Jian smiled crookedly. "Don't worry. You won't."

"That's half what I'm afraid of."

"And the other half?"

"That I will hit, and once will be all it takes."

"I'm not Jim Finnegan." said Jian slowly. Michael's eyes narrowed, and he looked away.

Jian slapped him hard, and Manly stepped back warily.

Jian slapped him again on his other cheek. "We're sparring, Michael. I'm getting you back into the game again, whether you like it or not."

Michael lunged forward, swinging with a wild right. Jian ducked, then rolled forward and up, kicking backwards, his heel digging into Manly's back.

"Concentrate, dammit!" cursed Jian. "I didn't get you all primed today for the hell of it, you know."

Michael turned and lunged, both hands outstretched. Jian grabbed both his wrists and planted his feet in Manly's gut, flipping him over. Michael's back hit the wall, and he slid to the floor onto his left shoulder.

With a twist and a flip, Jian was standing once more.

"You can fly, remember? Throws shouldn't affect you at all."

"So, what style will I be learning?" asked Michael as he regained his feet.

"A Korean style," said Jian lightly. "Equal parts hard katas and internal training. The tai chi is just for aiding in focus. We'll get to the neat stuff after you learn something."

Michael smiled and moved closer, more wary this time. His attacks were better this time, no wild lunges or anger-based charges. Most were aimed at the face, though enough were directed at the body to make Jian's dodges all the more interesting. His little jibes as he evaded every single attack didn't make it easier to bear.

"Concentrate on your attack. See it through. Just like a rugby kick, make sure you follow through, but not wildly."

After Jian darted to the side and tumbled to his feet for the umpteenth time, Michael stopped, panting.

"No stopping," rebuked Jian.

"Do you ever shut up?"

"Sure, but only when I'm working." Jian winked.

"Have I learned anything yet?"

"Nope." Jian stepped forward and threw a spin kick at chest level. Michael leaned back, out of the way, and moved up, reaching for Jian's shirt. To his surprise, he felt the cloth in his hands, then moved to wrench Jian over onto the dojo floor. With speed borne of training, experience, and immense natural talent, Jian grabbed Michael's arms just short of the elbows and
applied his own force. With a brief grunt of surprise and pain, Michael was again airborne as Jian bent like a reed underneath him.

At the apex of his flight, he stopped, turned, and touched his feet to the floor.

"I'll be damned," said Jian. "He can be taught."

An hour before sunrise, Jian sat astride a steel girder, forty-one stories above the streets of a rebuilding Pacific City. New construction had been put on hold since the alien attacks in favor of rebuilding people's homes. No new industrial parks or
high-rise office buildings needed when people didn't have homes. In his full costume, he felt better, felt a little bit more in control of himself.

The training a few nights ago had gone well, but there was still much to be done for Michael Manly. His questions about Jian's absence still nagged, but there was little that could be done. With the past come back to haunt him, he had to go and cut out the source of it.

Across the street, a minivan's driver peered up at the seated figure through a pair of high-powered binoculars. The space behind his seat was taken up by a series of long canvas bags, and the walls held a variety of high-tech tools and equipment. At first glance, though, hardly any of them were obvious as weapons.

With a start, the man dropped the binoculars into the passenger seat and started the van, tearing off after the suddenly moving man in the silver-gray costume.

For weeks, the man had been alternately preparing for and tracking the Silver Shadow, following the vigilante as he moved throughout the city. The attack by the spacecraft had temporarily halted his efforts, but he had spent a great deal of time getting back on the trail. Alternating his gaze between the road and craning his neck upwards to follow the running and leaping figure, the driver lurched around a corner, tires squalling.

His van plummeted down a slight incline, then around behind a building that he thought was a market though he couldn't be sure. As his headlights revealed a metal garage door after another blind corner, he stamped on the brakes, and avoided the collision by inches.

That's when he heard the soft thump and the sound of thin metal warping slightly. He looked up and back, towards the source of the sound, and also to see if any dent was visible.

He never heard the door latch, and didn't register being pulled from the van until he felt rough brick against his back.

Jian stared at the man from behind his mask, holding him against the wall at arm's length. He wasn't the picture of a villain, not by any stretch of the imagination. Still, slightly balding white men in their early forties, wearing button-down shirts with
starched collars and a loosened plaid tie weren't commonly labeled as criminals, especially when they were driving about in a minivan.

But Jian had been fooled before.

"Who are you?" he asked slowly, warily.

"R-r," and here the man swallowed and licked his lips. "Roger Greene," he gasped out. "I've been trying like the devil to find you."

Thick accent, more British Isles than Urban Australian.

"So I see. Followed me right where I wanted you to."

Roger's eyes darted around, and he only then realized that he couldn't clearly hear the sounds of the roadway he recently departed. Nothing but the steady throb of his minivan's engine in idle.

"Why were you following me?"

"To give you something. Several things, really. They're in the back of the van."

"Why?"

"Because you saved my son's life."

"When?"

"At the museum, months ago, when those terrorists took hostages. He was the one you gave the knife to, let him free the others. He told me all about it. Granted, I was rather convinced that he was lying, but when the papers and media started chatting on and on about a vigilante presence in the city, well, I was convinced."

The Shadow's hands tightened around the man's jacket, and Roger flinched, then sighed as he was released and Silver Shadow stepped back.

"You've been following me for some time, then?"

"Yes," said Roger as he nodded. "I've collected bits and pieces about you, recordings of mentions on the telly, all that." He smiled sheepishly. "Like I was a fan and you were a soccer star, really. But I've noticed that you don't use anything."

The Shadow cocked an eyebrow, but of course, Roger couldn't see that due to the hood and mask. "Go on."

"Well, I'm in fabrication and engineering, and my son, he helped out, and we've come up with some smashing things that I think you'll enjoy. They may make your life a great deal easier."

"What's in it for you?"

"Nothing, nothing. A measure of gratitude."

The Shadow's eyes narrowed, and he leaned closer. Roger shrunk back against the wall. "Alright, then," he stammered. "There are certain benefits to be gained. I make throwing stars for you, they get mentioned on the news and such, and suddenly I can
make knock-offs that the kids'll buy in droves. I've other things, of course, besides throwing stars. More interesting things. It'll be like the shirts, you know."

"Shirts?"

Roger blinked. "Don't get - never mind. You see them at soccer matches, all things like that. It's a bit of an underground thing, really. Silver-gray shirts with that on them," and Roger pointed to the yin-yang on the Shadow's chest.

Internally, Jian groaned. Becoming a merchandising blitz was not high on his list of priorities. Still, since he hadn't noticed it, it couldn't be that widespread. Or perhaps he wasn't paying enough attention. . .

"I'll show you," said Roger, and the pair walked back to the van's doors. Roger opened the latch and pulled a few of the bags closer to him, then opened their zippers.

"Here," he said, fishing out a few sharp shapes that didn't shine, but did gleam as metal things do in the weak streetlamp light. "All sorts like this, different shapes and such. From four-pointed," and here he held up a classic four-pointed star, "to five,
six, all the way up to twelve, both with holes in their center and not. Odd shapes, too, like this one." Jian was then handed a broad, flat shape, like a streamlined arrowhead. "All are sharp, though, made from a tough titanium-steel blend. But this is what
I'm most proud of."

With a finger, Roger pointed out the miniature yin-yang symbol, carved in slight relief in the center of the throwing shapes. "I've also these, like the samurai of Japan had. Not much more than sticks, really, but I've put small curved fins on the back and
that seems to make them stable enough for a long throw. I haven't the skill to test them, of course."

Silver Shadow nodded.

"And here's what you might like the most." Roger unzipped another bag and pulled out two metal cylinders, colored the same as the stars. One had both ends tapered, but the other had a sort of collar on its non-tapered end. "A staff when connected,"
said Roger proudly. "Each half two and a half feet, just a hair under five when connected like this."

He slid the tapered end of the first into the collared end of the second and twisted the collar. A slight click resulted, and Roger gripped one end like a baseball bat and brought it down quickly against the street.

The metallic echo lingered a moment in their surroundings, but the link between the two was intact.

"Nice."

"Thank you," said Roger with a smile. "I've a carrying harness, too, in white, though, couldn't match your color, didn't want to try, really. This carries both halves of the staff on your back, like this," and Roger buckled the thing on, then separated
the staff into its halves with another twist of the collar. With a bit of difficulty, he slid the staffs into their straps, and tugged a small tab on the front to tighten them. "You get the picture," he said with a smile for his awkwardness. "Plus there's pouches for your stars up front here. Room for ten, though I can alter that, of course."

"I may be able to use some of these things," said the Silver Shadow as he pulled the staff pieces out of their harness and clicked them together as Greene had done. The weight was good, and the length useful without getting in the way. He gave Roger a small smile, and held out his hand for the harness.

Quickly, Roger shucked the harness and put it in Silver Shadow's hand.

Wordlessly, Shadow reached for the bag with most of the shuriken in it, then replaced the staff and harness in its own bag. "You have a card?"

Roger nodded and produced one from his jacket pocket.

With a snap, Silver Shadow plucked it from his hand, shouldered the two bags, and gave Roger a little salute/wave. "I'll be in touch." With a few steps backwards, he melted into the shadows, leaving Roger standing by himself.

"When?" he called into the darkness, after a few silent moments. "And my boy wanted your autograph. Shit."