Kiai!

By Piers Anthony and Roberto Fuentes

Karate, kung-fu, aikido—Jason Striker was a master of them all. His entire body was a finely honed weapon, capable of destroying even the most skilled antagonist. But Striker was a man of peace; his school of martial arts was dedicated to defense, not aggression.

Then came the tournament, a fight-to-the-finish matching of the top representatives of the world’s leading martial arts. There would be no rules, no fouls called, no techniques forbidden, no repercussions if men should die. No such meeting could ever occur in the United States, for here there are laws against manslaughter. But in the far reaches of his estate in Nicaragua, Vincente Pedro was the law . . . 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Media
• Release date: Jul 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781497657601

Piers Anthony

Piers Anthony is one of the world's most prolific and popular fantasy authors and a New York Times bestseller twenty-one times over. His Xanth novels, including Esrever Doom, Luck of the Draw, and Well-Tempered Clavicle, have been read and loved by millions of readers around the world. While he is best known for his science fiction and fantasy, Anthony incredibly versatile, having also written several novels in other genres, including historical fiction and horror. He lives in Central Florida.

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CHAPTER 1

KIAI!

I was afraid. I saw him from the edge of my eye, and it was as though the kiai yell had exploded around me. My muscles trembled, my heart beat rapidly, and I felt the thin smear of cold sweat. My strength deserted me, and I wanted to hide.

But my class was before me, standing barefoot in a great half-circle on the tatami, the judo practice mat. The preliminary calisthenics and limbering exercises were over and my students were ready for the formal instruction. They were young, mostly; some were only fifteen years old, and most were under twenty. But many were apt; several were brown belts already, and more showed promise. Next month I meant to take my top three candidates to the examinations for shodan, the first-degree black belt, and I expected two of them to make it with points to spare.

I fought for control, and in an instant I had it, superficially.

Pair off! I cried, forcing volume from my tight throat. "Alternate on the sweeping ankle throw. And yell when you hit the mat! Saaaa! I want noise!"

Noise to cover my own confusion, to conceal the horrible weakness I felt. I needed time to recover, to work it out. But not in front of my judo class.

They paired, they took hold, they threw, they landed, they yelled. This was routine for the experienced students, who were showing the clumsy beginners how. The sweeping ankle throw is easy to grasp in theory, but difficult to perfect. Timing is vital. But it absorbed their attention and gave me an essential respite.

It would not have been good to have the class become aware that Jason Striker, their fifth-degree black belt instructor and onetime U.S. judo grand-champion was quaking with something very like terror.

I watched them, but my mind was years away.

Diago. Diago had been a flaming meteorite fifteen years ago. A small man, even for a Japanese—though he was only half Japanese— but quick and strong and determined and amazingly skilled. He had skipped several of the beginning kyus, the student grades, then moved up the black belt ladder with phenomenal rapidity, winning most matches in bare seconds. He was rough, leaving many injuries in his wake, but there was no evidence that he broke bones deliberately. He struck with such devastating effectiveness that mortal substance seemed unable to withstand the punishment. Soon he was godan, fifth degree, one of the leading judokas in the world—and he was only twenty-three.

Then his career slowed. His ability remained, but few men cared to meet him in contest. This was common sense, not cowardice. Injury can destroy the career of a judoka, and the conventions that militated against physical damage did not seem to be operative with Diago.

Still, in four more years he made rokudan, the sixth degree, and assumed the coveted red and white striped belt. No other non-Japanese held that rank at that time, yet it did not appear to be his limit. Diago’s only liability was that roughness—-but that was enough to make him unwelcome around the world, despite universal acclaim for his prowess.

Generally when a man achieves such distinction he eases up, growing old gracefully while the younger judokas contest for points. Degrees higher than sixth dan normally go to those who have done genuine and continuing service to the art, rather than for victories on the mat. But there was one rokudan who was not content to rest. At forty-two Masaki Tanaka was still contending, though age was beginning to tell. Perhaps he was resentful of Diago’s progress and reputation, and determined to show the world that fifteen years did not make a difference. Or that Diago was overrated.

At any rate, the two sixth-degree belts met in a highly publicized contest—and it was Tanaka who got a kansetsu-waza, a standing arm bar, on Diago’s left elbow. Diago tried to escape by making an immediate forward somersault, but it was already too late; he succeeded only in wrenching his own shoulder. They fell together— and Diago’s joint popped out just as both men landed crushingly on that arm.

The mischief was about as devastating as was possible in the few seconds the accident took. Diago’s wrist, elbow and shoulder were dislocated and the tendons wrenched.

Diago had been served as he had served others. Some said old Tanaka could have let up in time, had he wanted to; others pointed out that his reactions were bound to be slower at that age, and that Diago was a dangerous opponent who could be afforded no leeway. The very speed of Diago’s countermove, that violent somersault in place, had been stunning; instinct would have governed Tanaka’s decision, nothing else.

The referees called no foul, and that was the verdict, officially. Diago was finished. He healed, but his magic was gone. He could still compete against lesser dans, but lacked the power to go higher. He dropped out of sight.

Masaki Tanaka, too, retired. It was as if he were ashamed of what he had done, but could not admit it. He had broken the code in spirit if not in letter, and that was a shameful thing for such a highly ranked sensei, a judo instructor. He never fought again. And he never boasted of his victory.

Five years later Diago reappeared—with a new weapon. He had perfected a kiai yell that was devastating. When he stood up to a man and screamed that scream, that man was stunned even though braced against it. For only a second, of course—-but an instant of immobility was all Diago ever needed. He had his hold, and with it his victory.

Where had Diago been? Where had he learned that kiai yell? He could not have developed such a unique weapon himself. A local trainer who ran a dojo not far from mine, Dato, claimed he had taught Diago the yell. But Dato couldn’t do the yell himself, and nobody credited his story. Dato was past his prime, quarrelsome, and always alert for notoriety—hardly a credit to judo, though in his youth he had been an outstanding player. He had been the first to set up shop in this region, and seemed to resent those of us who had come more recently, calling us squatters on his territory. Maybe if he’d been willing to teach all he knew, he’d have less concern about the competition. But many old-time Japanese senseis always held their finest arts back, lest their students become more proficient than they and beat them. In the centuries when students might indeed kill their instructors and take over, this was a necessary precaution, but today it could only hurt judo. No, Dato, even if he knew how to teach that yell, would not have given it away to Diago.

Another suggestion was that Diago had gone to Japan, to the island of Hokkaido, to study under one of the deranged ninjitsu mystics, Fu Antos. (Dato, of course, claimed to have studied under Fu Antos himself. But this, too, was the stuff of dreams. If Fu Antos existed at all, he was a harmless ancient, unable to impart any of the ninja techniques along with ninja’s fabulous lore.)

Whether Diago remained the judoka he had been, no one could say. But his kiai was more than sufficient. He was now more careful of the welfare of others, and was able to compete in more matches. In the ensuing three years he earned the seventh degree: shichidan.

Then his fortune took another fall. Though born in Japan of a Japanese mother, Diago was in essence American. His father, a waiter in the American embassy, had U.S. citizenship, and Diago evidently felt a strong inclination toward this country. Between matches he roamed alone. There was an incident in a ghetto, and two men died. Diago said it was self-defense against an attempted mugging, but the prosecutor claimed it was murder. Diego was tried, and the evidence seemed inconclusive, but he was convicted. It was whispered that he would have gotten off if he had not been half-black. Or if he had been tried in Japan, where his martial skills had a following. But it had happened in America, a nation backward in the martial arts.

He escaped. The police guards had thought guns and handcuffs sufficient but had not reckoned with his terrible yell. They transferred him from one van to another, and one of them shoved him contemptuously, and Diago stunned them with his voice and knocked them down with the metal chain that manacled his wrists. He used his handcuffs to break the skull of one and crush the cheekbone of the other. Now there were more counts against him, but he was gone.

For two years Diago had stayed lost, and it was generally thought that he was out of the country. But I had heard other rumors. America might have treated him shabbily, but his heart remained here. Some of the leading black belts in large cities had turned up mysteriously injured. They claimed these were mere training accidents, but I had watched Diago fight in the old days, before his kiai, and I recognized the pattern.

Now he had entered my club, and I knew.

*

There is a camaraderie among black belts that goes beyond mere courtesy. Any sensei can enter any judo club anywhere in the world and be granted the hospitality of the premises. If he needs help, he will have it. If he wants to work out, he will be accommodated. If the club happens to be short-handed, he will assist. He does not attempt to embarrass his host, and it is always friendly. This is the nature of this truly international society of the martial elite.

But Diago was no ordinary judoka. He had killed, and he stood convicted for murder. He was a criminal. To help him was to become an accessory. I believed in my country and in the law; I knew my duty.

Yet there were so many questions about that conviction. People do get mugged in ghettos, and the law there is scant; people do sometimes have to kill in self defense. If two armed men jumped me in a dark alley, I’d react violently. I’d lay them out any way I could, because any weapon is dangerous, and most particularly a gun. If I ever killed a man, this would be how. And Diago had a violent disposition.

Half yellow, half black, and the law, unfortunately, not always color-blind. Perhaps the white jury had been unfairly predisposed. Diago had stood still for justice; in fact, he had originally turned himself in. But what he had received had not necessarily been justice.

Oh, he should not have broken and run, and he certainly should not have bashed a policeman in the process. He should have appealed his case to a higher court. Our legal system has its strengths, and the appeals system is one of them. Still, he had been raised in the Orient; it was hard to blame him completely.

Now he was here. I had to choose between three: help him, turn him in, or ignore him. The law denied the first, and I had never before broken the law. I’d never even gotten a parking violation. The very thought of it shocked me. Yet my own conscience forbade the second alternative. And I suspected he would not let me get away with the third. Those injured judokas . . .

This was my real fear, I saw now as I worked it out objectively: not the man himself, but the ugly choice his presence forced on me. Even if I pretended not to know him, I would be shading both the ethics of my patriotism and the courtesy of my profession. Traitor, either way or neither.

So I quaked while my class drified, hung on the horns of an ethical dilemma. I saw my honor inevitably compromised, and my career damaged, for I could not continue in judo without self respect.

I glanced about-—and he caught my eye. Then I knew I could not temporize. Diago had come to me, and he knew that I knew him. He would not let me pass him by.

I had to act. But still I could not.

Jim, my bull-necked young assistant, realized something was wrong. I was letting the class practice the same movement too long. Practice is imperative in judo, but these students needed variety too, or their attention flagged. None of this three months drilling on the horse stance to the exclusion of all else, the way an apprentice to the martial art of kung-fu might start. I’d lose half my class if I drilled them for three hours on one position!

Jim was a good boy, a shodan at nineteen who would soon make the second degree black belt. He was one of my most promising students, and he worked hard with weight-lifting on the side to strengthen himself, but he was still impetuous. You have to act quickly, in judo—but you have to know when to wait, too, and that was where he sometimes slipped. I didn’t want him getting involved with Diago.

Now Jim approached as if summoned. "Want me to spell you for a bit, Sensei?" he asked eagerly.

Yes! I said, relieved. I glanced again at Diago, unable to help myself, and Jim followed that look.

Who’s that fellow? he asked. Seems to me I’ve seen him before somewhere.

Never mind! I snapped. It’s a—-a private matter.

He nodded dubiously, comprehending my attitude if not its root. I had told him this was not his business, and professional courtesy required him to stay out of it. That was part of the discipline of judo, a discipline I had tried to impress on him, and on all my students, many times.

Jim faced the class. Stop! he barked, and they stopped. Now gather round for a demonstration! He really liked being sensei, and actually he wasn’t bad at it.

They came, sweating from their exertions, and in the confusion I slipped away. Jim would keep them occupied for the duration, probably on hand throws, his current favorite. As with the ankle throws, timing was essential, so the novice seldom succeeded; but at Jim’s level the challenge was irresistible. He thought every level should perfect these techniques.

I walked to my private office. I knew Diago followed.

I turned to face him. Suddenly. I saw a fourth alternative. Honorable—but dangerous. The only one for me.

I greet you, Diago, I said.

And I you, Jason Striker, he replied with perfect courtesy. One of the things that outsiders seldom appreciate about judo, or any martial art, is that respect and courtesy increase with proficiency. A man capable of killing another with a single blow will take extreme precautions to avoid the necessity of doing so, being most considerate of the feelings of others. A bully is normally an ignoramus about combat.

You need help? Go to Dato, I suggested, though that was not my real notion. He claims to have taught you.

Dato! he barked with rich contempt. He went to Hokkaido, and came away empty-handed.

So I had shot down one rumor, but I still didn’t know where Diago had learned his kiai. Well, it was none of my business.

But this was: "Why didn’t you use your kiai to stun those muggers? You didn’t have to kill them."

I had a cold. Laryngitis. I could not even warn them off. They thought I was tongue-tied with fright.

There it was: the last bastion of my doubt about his guilt. How could he have reasoned with criminals intent on mayhem when he couldn’t even talk? So I was justified in giving him an even break. "Let’s do shiai," I said.

He only nodded. Master judokas do not deceive one another. We would meet on the tatami in a practice match. If he beat me, I would provide what he needed and keep silent, regardless of the law. If I beat him, I could report him to the police with a clear conscience, having earned the right. It was not necessary to voice these terms; they were inherent in the situation. In fact, it was important that there be no specific commitment, for who else would understand? Certainly not the law.

I gave him a judogi, a judo kimono, jacket and trousers. He stripped immediately, setting his worn suit neatly aside. He was small and dark, with a flat Japanese face and somewhat frizzy Negro hair. And he was less muscular than I had expected. He looked hungry; probably he had gone without many meals before being driven to this alternative. That left my feelings mixed. I was in the peak of condition, having worked out daily for many years and participated in regular shiais, or meets, apart from my erstwhile championship days. Thirty is not old for a judoka, and I was larger than he. If he were physically debilitated, I might beat him, for there is no substitute for conditioning. But that would be a cheap victory, unworthy of me.

Still, it was his voice that made him what he was. And his experience. He was seven years older than I, and held one of the highest degrees in the world today. That skill and that experience could not be discounted. In fact, I was doomed—unless I could withstand his terrible cry. I had never actually heard it myself, for we had not met during his later period, but I had no reason to believe I would be immune. Diago did not need to be in top shape, if he retained his kiai.

He was ready: naked under the baggy judogi, as was I. Any clothing at all is a hindrance in judo, and even more so in karate and other disciplines. It can get in the way in case of injury, and it restrains free motion and offers purchase for the opponent’s grips. But men do not fight naked in America.

Diago lifted a student’s white belt from my shelf and knotted it about his waist. This was a necessary artifice; his own belt would have given his identity away immediately. White is also the color of nonregistered judokas of any skill: those who have the physical ability to compete, but have not acquired the proper formal credits for black belt degrees.

We walked to the large training room. The instruction had progressed to hip throws, and the paired-off students were going at it with vigor.

"Ma-te!" I bawled from the sideline, and they all halted and fell back while Diago and I marched to the center of the great mat.

Jim looked at us curiously, suspecting that Diago was no rank amateur. "Announce a shiai," I told him. Myself and this anonymous challenger, who is of equivalent grade.

Jim shook his head in surprise, for no such demonstration had been scheduled tonight. But he knew the camaraderie of the black belt. If for some reason a skilled visitor wished to match the instructor before his class, and the instructor was amenable, no one else could complain.

Jim explained the situation as he understood it to the class, and cautioned them to watch carefully in case techniques new to them were employed. Don’t be deceived by the challenger’s white belt, he said with a finishing flourish. He is not a student, as you will see when the match begins. As though he knew all about it. Then he turned to us, inquiring with his eyes whether we wished him to serve as referee, and Diago nodded.

We commenced with the full ceremonial bow, the zarei. I faced Diago, about six feet away, and both of us kneeled, placing our hands on the mat before our knees and inclining our bodies forward until the tops of our heads pointed toward each other. Then we stood.

"Hajime!" Jim cried, signifying the start of the match.

I approached Diago cautiously. Now it comes! I thought. The kiai yell, the sound that stunned. The scream no other man had been able to duplicate or resist. In this confined space there could be no escape from it. If I covered my ears I would lay myself open for any of a hundred devastating attacks, and, strangely, the ears were not necessarily the prime vulnerability. One man had plugged his ears, and had still been stunned. There seemed to be nonauditory waves, perhaps subsonics that chilled the flesh and brought terror without reason.

But I was hardly going to wait for him. I tried for a conventional hand grip, my right holding Diago’s lapel, my left grasping for his right sleeve. Normally several grips were tried before either party attempted a throw, grappling for some advantage. But Diago moved with surprising swiftness, bringing up his right arm and throwing his right shoulder into me. It was the seoi-nage, the shoulder throw, very well executed. But he had tried too soon; I retained my balance, and I was heavier than he.

Even so, he almost threw me, despite the years I had drilled my students in this very motion and the mode of countering it. My left foot lifted from the mat momentarily; then I threw myself to the rear, hauling him back over me. As we fell I whipped my right hand under Diago’s chin, putting pressure on his windpipe with the edge of my wrist. He struggled to right himself, but I got my left arm around to assist the pull of my right, and at the same time wrapped my legs around his waist and squeezed.

Diago was caught. Now he could not use his shout, because of the pressure I was applying to his throat. But he supported his weight on his right leg, arching his body back in a bridge, easing the pressure. He had a bull neck, like Jim’s; most men would have been unconscious by this time, and that put me off my guard. I have never been one to hurt a man gratuitously, and the choke hold is deadly.

Diago passed his left leg above my two, then threaded his right through to brace against it, applying pressure to mine. The pain was sudden and awful; this was a semi-legal submission hold, and in order to win free I had to release my stranglehold and stand up.

First contact had been a draw. My class applauded, though they could not have comprehended the key aspects.

"Hajime!" Jim called. I knew that he, at least, had been watching very closely, noting how Diago’s neck had served him. Jim believed in strong necks.

We grappled again, trying for good hand-holds, contesting for the initial advantage. I was certain that this time he would use the shout, for my weight and strength were far beyond his. The first exercise had demonstrated that. He had to get an early advantage, and his voice was his one certain means. But again I gave him no time to set up for it. I went for my favorite move, uchimata, the inner thigh throw. My right leg went deep between his legs, and I lifted him into the air. He went easily—too easily, I realized too late.

For Diago, catlike, had maneuvered to fall on his side in a sacrifice throw, and now he had hold of me, using my momentum to counter me to the front. He led me into the uki-waza, or floating throw. It was a beautiful move, and I heard my students exclaiming in amazement. They had never seen a man recover from my uchimata like that.

Small wonder! Neither had I.

Meanwhile, Diago’s left leg was blocking mine. I was hauled off balance and thrown over his head as he lay on the mat. My elbow struck his face, accidentally; the blow was hard enough to send a shock up my forearm and momentarily paralyze the hand. I struck the wall