I'm sorry about the multiple e-mails I'm not a member of the
ffml so I didn't know if they were getting through or not.
Here's the next chapter.

MARTIAL ARTS

PART 2

The instant his boot touched the moondust surface, the clock began 
ticking; he had seventy-two hours Standard to find and kill five Martial 
Artists whose identity he did not know.  They could run, hide, or 
attack.  It all depended on their willingness to face a Master, measured 
against their hunger to advance in the trade.

The man behind the desk was small, rude, and arrogant.  He stared at 
Ranma for several seconds, then turned away and pointedly ignored him.  
A young woman, who'd been paid to watch for someone like this newcomer, 
rose from her chair three desks away and hurried out to the corridor 
leading to the elevators.

Ranma Saotome burshed the remaining dust from his suit and counted 
silently to himself, noting that nearly everyone was watching now.  He 
did his best to hide the smile that threatened to spoil the moment.  
he'd always considered himself a poor actor, and that, his one weakness 
as a Martial Artist.  But this was going precisely the way he'd 
hoped--as if a good script had been written and reheased in advance.

The setting was perfect.  One hundred desks, ten rows of ten, were 
bolted to the floor of the cavernous workspace at precise intervals.  
Meter-high partitions gave a weak illusion of privacy.  But those 
standing had a clear view of the Master Martial Artist and his quarry.  
This busy place was the top floor, at ground level, of the omnibuilding 
that stretched twelve stories down toward the core of the LUna-sized 
planetoid.

At the count of ten he drew out the 9-kilo Barrow and slammed the weapon 
hard against the side of the desk.  The little man jerked upward and 
flew straight at the celing.  At the last moment he jammped his hands 
ahead of him, narrowly avoiding a concussion.  Hu hung there for a 
second, an indignant fly, before beginning a slow drift downward.  His 
fellow workers kept a discreet distance and snickered quietly.

A woman standing three paces behind Ranma stepped forward to touch his 
shoulder, thought better of it, and backed away.  She laughed nervously 
at the attentioin she'd drawn to herself and deflected it by pointing 
upward.  "Maybe next time he'll remember what weighted boots are for."  
At that moment a loudspeaker voice announced that the generator had been 
repaired, and half-grav would begin to shortly. "Don't believe it, 
mister," the woman said.

An old bespectacled man said, "Yah.  That generator spends more time on 
its back than she does."

Ranma turned and smiled at them both.  They were afraid of him, but they 
didn't dislike him; just right.  He holstered the weapon and waited.

The man drifted down from the ceiling and took his seat.  His eyes were 
needle-sharp when he looked up at Ranma.  Wispy black hair settled 
slowly around his red cap held in place by a green Cleark's pin.

Ranma felt his weight build slowly, then level off.  It wasn't much, but 
it felt good.  He said, "Let's try again.  How do I get a notice 
publsihed in y our Pland of the Day?"

Of all the roles a Martial Artist might assume in pursuing his 
objective-in this case inviting other Martial Artists to come and try to 
kill him-the part of swaggering bully was the one he liked lease.  It 
was unnatural, cutting across the grain of his self-image.  He prided 
himself on leaving innocents alone, as much as possible; he'd never 
killed even one.  But sometimes a little jostling was helpful.  it was 
precisely what most people expected from a Martial Artist, and therefore 
most likely to bring him the attention he wanted.  He'd chosen his mark 
carefully.  This arrogant little clerk was the perfect foil:  apparently 
a mid-level manager, probably in production statistics, or supply.  
Definitely a keypounder-the type who sent memos demanding more and 
better and faster everything.  Ranma had no linking for the type.  Petty 
tyrants, most of them, with just enough power to make the lives of those 
around them miserable.  Life was already bad enough for people who 
signed on to work these god-awful rocks.

The small man held outh is hand for the card on which Ranma's notice was 
printed.  "Let me see it."  He scratched beneath the cap and studied the 
card at length.

Ranma said, "It's written in six languages.  Can't you read any of 
them?"  The crowd edged closer, sensing more fun.

The cleark looked up.  His eyes softened and then grew sharp again.  
"I'll have you know, sir," he said indignantly, "that I am a Grade 7, 
fully trained and competent in-"

He stopped when Ranma put his hand back on the holstered Barrow.  The 
man met his eyes calmly and said nothing; a welcome surprise.  He 
relented just enough to allow the little clerk to save face.

"Here."  He dropped a coin over the desk.  Before it reached the surface 
it was palmed and pocketed.  The clerk looked a little more friendly.

Ranma said, "Get it printed in today's issue, and I'll give you another 
one."

The clerk nodded and stood up.  He turned to go, moving with a curious 
twisting motion of his torso.

"What's going on here?  Come here, give me that."

A large bald man pushed forward through the swelling crowd.  He was 
bare-chested, but it took a moment to realize it.  From neck to waist he 
was covered with tattoos.  Ranma recognized the patterns.  This man was 
one of the old Gassmund Zealots.  He'd always wondered where they went, 
after their cause had been won.  This one had become a bully-boss for a 
mining company-a logical progression.  He towered over Ranma by seven 
inches, and his neck was nearly as wide as his head.  He snatched the 
card from the little man and read aloud.

"'I will fight.  To the death or by referee, all local ordinances 
observed.  Your choice of weapons.  Reply to this source.'" The 
bully-boss eyed Ranma up and down.  He scanned the rest of the card 
silently and crumpled it two inches from Ranma's face.  "You're a 
Martial Artist.  Oh, my.  We're all terribly impressed."  His smile 
became an open-mouthed grimace; a baboon baring its fangs in warning.  
Every second tooth had been removed and replaced with a ruby.  He'd 
fought at least sixteen times against the Bordelons; one stone for each 
battle.

He grinned around at the onlookers.  "Aren't we impressed?"  A few 
lowered their heads and looked away.  Most grinned back nervously, 
nudging one another.  It was obvious that they were all afraid of him; 
and that they didn't like him.

Ranma gave him a cold stare.  Inwardly, he was delighted with his luck.  
"And you, sir, are a genius.  From the meager evidence of that card you 
have deduced that I'm a Martial Artist.  And you did it all by yourself.  
Amazing."  He returned the mocking grin and waited for the attack.  He 
would go easy on the bully-boss, but he'd make it look good; word would 
spread quickly.

It happened as he hoped it would.  The man's eyes telegraphed the blow, 
a whistling backhand that swept by ineffectively; it was a feint.  The 
follow-up was a straight-hammer fist aimed at Ranma's chest.  The Master 
Martial Artist stepped aside, let the bigger man's momentum carry him 
forward, and leaped onto his back.  "Down!" He punctuated the command by 
boxing the  man's ears.  The larger man struggled for a second, then 
felt Ranma's legs close around his midsection.  He clawed at the 
viselike grip and Ranma boxed his ears again, exerting quarter-power 
with his legs.

"Down,"  Ranma said quietly, tightening little by little.  "You'll be 
more comfortable."  The breat gushed out of the man, and he dropped 
compliantly to the floor, arriving on hands and knees.  Ranma eased off 
enough to let him breathe.

"Good.  You're not going to move, are you?"  The bully-boss shook his 
head vigorously.  Ranma relxed his legs.  The man was powerful, and 
could've fought harder.  But apparently he wasn't stupid.

It was time to end the scene.  Then prited notice would satisfy the 
legal requirement of identifying himself, his profession, and his tated 
purpose-a public and paid exhibition-for being on the colony.  But the 
real purpose was to entice his quarry-five Gold Team Martial Artists-to 
come after him.  For that, word-of-mouth was infinitely more effective.  
That was assured, now.

He stood on the man's back and faced the audience.  "Spread the word, 
friends."  His projected voice filled the mass workspace. "The meanest, 
toughest, and most endearingly modest warrior in the Great Domain is 
among you.  Master Martial Artist Ranma Saotome, at your service."  He 
spread his hands and made an exaggerated bow.  When he straightened, his 
face had taken on a comic fearsomeness.  "I'm half beaksnake, half 
mountaintooth, and three-quarters mathematician.  Bring me your tried, 
your sure, your fuddled masochists yearning to breathe no more."  There 
was a quick ripple of laughter and applause.  The bully-boss glared 
around him.  The laughter ended abruptly.

Ranma jumped lightly to the floor.  "And now," he said ina softer voice, 
"if someone will direct me to the visitor's station?"

"Follow me," the tatooed man said, rising and brushing his knees.

The corridor was crowded and noisy.  A long line of workers pressed 
against one wall and extended around a corner to the bank of elevators.  
The elevators were idle; it was still a few minutes before shift-change.

"Hey, Crow." A tall, thin youth stepped out of the line and stood in 
their path.  He was bald also.  Fine blond stubble announced that he'd 
shaved his head.  Hero worship?

"Ho, Marty."  They changed direction to go around the young man.

Marty stepped in front of them.  "Why won't you call me Hawk?  Everyone 
else does."

"No one does,Marty.  Get out of the way."

"Westlake says I'm..."

Crow ignored the youth and walked around him.  Marty turned to Ranma.  
"You're a Martial Artist, aren't you?"  Without waiting for an answer he 
stuck his hand out.  "I'm Marty Partusian." He glanced at Crow's 
retreating back.  "Some people call me Hawk.  I'm a roustabout, but I'm 
studying to be a rigger.  I'm going to save my money and enroll in a 
Martial Arts Dojo.  I'm twenty-four, and that's a little old to start 
training, but I'm strong and fast and it's what I've wanted to be all my 
life.  I know everything about Admiral Soun Tendo, and I never fight 
without a good reason.  Is it true that you're a Master Martial Artist?"  
He said it all in one breath.

Ranma smiled and shook the offered hand.  "I'm Ranma Saotome."

"That's what they said!  I've heard of you.  You've got over eight 
hundred registered kills!  You're from Earth, right?"

"I was born there."

"Well, I've never been to Earth, but I have a friend who's been to Mars, 
and that's in the same system, right?  I think it is.  Is it true you 
don't use weapons when you fight death matches?  I like swords, but they 
say it's best to start with daggers and work your way up to the big 
stuff.  Westlake says I should work more on my feet, but you're a 
professional, so I thought I'd ask you."

That was the second time he'd mentioned that name.  "Who is Westlake?"

Crow came back.  "Marty, bother someone else."  He glared down at the 
youth, who flushed and walked away.

They were nearing the elevators when Ranma said conversationally, "I can 
remember wanting Martial Arts training that much."  He added, "This 
Westlake seems to know something about the subject.  Who is he?"

"A man," Crow said. "A good man."  He looked at Slate, and the the 
Martial Artist saw hatred in his expression.  "I'll tell him you're 
here."

The elevator opened.  Ranma stepped into the cab, alone.  "Level H," 
said Crow. "Follow the signs."  As he walked away he said, "And be 
ready."

Ready for what?  Ranma wondered.  The respect in Marty's voice and the 
look in Crow's eyes said this Westlake was someone special.  A Martial 
Artist?  Possibly.  But if he'd been here long enough to make friends 
among the workers, he wasn't with the Gold Team.  What, then?

The cab jerked into motion and Ranma automatically grabbed the crossbar 
to hold himself down.

Level H was hot and dry.  Steam pipes and cable conduits ran along both 
walls of a downward-sloping corridor that led finally to the visitor's 
station.  The lobby was thirty feet by fifty with a mix of old and new 
couches and chairs spread haphazardly throughout.  In the background was 
the hum of humidifiers and the dull rasp of overworked ventilators.  
Bright lighting made the heat seem even worse than it was.  The 
discomfort was inevitable, given the eco-design of these mines.  Heat 
from the various machinery-particularly the voracious gravity 
generators-was directed to the center of the planetoid.  it made ore 
extraction easier and radiated naturally outward, reaching a comfort 
level toward the surface.

Someone had tried decorating the room with potted plants.  Most of them 
were brown and dead.

A few people looked up briefly as Ranma entered, and then ignored him.  
Some were playing cards, some were reading, and some were staring 
straight ahead at nothing.  Ranma recofnized the look; those were the 
long-haul spacers.

Sometimes he envied the peace and solitude of their profession.  Two 
days on a colony to unload supplies and fill the holds with ore, and 
then weeks or months alone in the deep night of space.  Every day the 
same, while the mind was free to roam the great caverns of thought.  He 
chuckled silently.  He was thinking to himself the way Ukyou spoke to 
him.

But he remembered something she'd said. 'Suppose the stars were 
reachable three thousand, or even three hundred, years ago.  Would Plato 
have spoken differently, away from the clustered ways of Athens and 
instead face-to-face with the Universe?  How would Tar Manque have 
framed her syphonies, seeing the crystal rings of the Bralia Fomation 
glittering with a thousand colors against infinite darkness?  Wouldn't 
you like to know the answers to that, Ran-chan?' Ukyou's eyes glazed 
over when she said things like that.

He gave her the answer.  Great thinkers might be happy in the long 
solitude of space.  Ranma was a Martial Artist, with a Martial Artist's 
needs.  He'd go berserk.  But Ukyou never gave up.  She kept sending him 
the books.  He never told her that he'd read most of them years before, 
in hi youth.

In the center of the lobby a hologram projector displayed a group of 
children playing in a field of snow.  They came and went into thin air 
as they crossed the border of the image field.  The presentation was 
crisp, seamless, and full-sized.  The sound was turned off, and no one 
was watching it.

He passed through the projection to the registration desk and tapped a 
bell.  After a few minutes a young woman with short dark hair came 
through a door behind the desk.  he stared until he caught himself at 
it.  Nudity was out of style this year on most of the major worlds.  But 
in places like this, fashion bowed to utility.  Hers was the perfect 
solution to the stifling heat. And, he thought appreciatively, she was 
the perfect argument for making the style popular again.

She appeared to be in her early twenties, and radiantly healthy.  She 
was slim, devoid of body hair-one concession to current vogue-and 
carried herself with a hint of self-consciousness.  She knows how 
beautiful she is, he thought.  He found himself contrasting her to the 
older and more voluptious Ukyou, back on ProLab.  Ukyou, had once told 
him that he would someday come to this.

"You will see me in every woman, Ranma, because you recognize in me the 
deep dreams of the aging warrior."  He'd waited for he to laugh, but she 
didn't.  The odd thing was, he hadn't laughed either.

The young woman accepted his money card and handed him a tied bundle of 
linens from beneath the desk.  "You can have fresh towels every day, and 
sheets every third day."  She kept her eyes averted and spoke 
matter-of-factly.

He amended his impressions.  She wasn't self-conscious; she was shy.  He 
said, "You're the first friendlyy person I've met today."  When she 
finished with his card he took it and added.  "Thank you."

She seemed surprised at the simiple courtesy.  "You're welcome, Mr. 
Saotome."  Then she added in a whisper, "There's ice in the supply room.  
Help yourself."

He smiled at her and nodded.  If felt good, the she was smiling back.  
Aging warrior, indeed.

The room was typical of small outposts, fifteen feet squared, with a 
bed, dresser, and night stand all in one unit and bolted to the floor.  
This one was cleaner than most that Ranma had seen in recent months.  
The walls were a characterless shade of white, but the paint looked 
fresh.  there was a large picture over the bed, giving a space-eye view 
of the planetoid.  At the bottom were the words:

"Site 652-E, Dianymede Mining Company.  Two Centuries of Service to 
Humankind, and Every Day a Privilege."

The picture was touched up with colors that would never be found on this 
remote hunk of rock.

Ranma unpacked his satchel and laid out an assortment of small weapons.  
He checked them all thoroughly before repacking them and sliding the 
satchel under the bed.  Two items he left on the bed.  One was a 
scanner.  He checked the room carefully and found nothing out of the 
ordinary.  He hand't expected to, but even Senior Martial Artists were 
intimidated by a Master; they'd do what they had to do, to win.  He 
clamped the scanner onto the ventilation intake and reset the device to 
sniff for gases.

The other item was a gift from Ukyou which had caught up with him only a 
few weeks before.  He carefully removed the cloth cover and let his 
fingers search out the grain of the fine old leather.  The volume of 
Shakepeare's Histories was titled in gold.  He opened the book at random 
and let his eyes sweep across the tiney print.

	Grim visaged war hat smoothed his wrinkled front,
	And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds
	To fright the souls of fearful adversaries,
	He capers nimbly in a lady's chamber
	To the lascivious pleasing of a lute.

As always he felt sympathy for the villainous hunchback, Richard III.  A 
misunderstood man, if ever one lived.  That "Sun of York" was no worse 
than most of the Royal Family members who'd ruled Old Europe for 
centuries.  Historyy had treated him poorly, and even the genius of 
Shakespeare did little to correct the record.  Richard, at least, had 
never shrunk from a good fight.  His dying wish had been for a horse, so 
he could continue the battle.  He played the game the way it was 
supposed to be played.

Not much had changed, really.  There was still the game, and the basic 
rules never changed.  Winners won, losers died.  the arenas were better 
now, thank the Blessed Saint Tendo.  Earth was old, unlucky, and too  
damned regulated for proper test of fighting skill.  So was most of the 
rest of the galaxy.

But the colonies were perfect.  The Martial Artists owned the right, in 
perpetuity, to test themselves on the mining sites of Dianymede and 
Basalt.  The companies hated it, having to ive out hazardous-duty pay to 
their employees every four years, but they'd never renege on their 
agreement with the Martial Arts Union. To do so would cost them 
everything.

Dianymede and Basalt were gigatrillion-dollar giants, the undisputed 
leaders of the most powerful industry in the galaxy.  Science had opened 
the way to human expansion.  But the materials that made it all work 
came from the mines.  Other industries had long ago developed the 
technologies that made their products nearly free to all.  The power to 
drive machinery was everywhere; hydrogen fusioin was child's play.  Food 
and water were managed as engines of perpetual production.  but building 
those engines where they did not exist-terraforming-demanded 
ever-increasing supplies of essential raw materials.  The ores had to be 
found.  And taken.  And transported.  And processed.  And sold.  A few 
of the mining companies grew to be giants.  Giants have huge apptites; 
over the centuries they swallowed up the manufactuing and transportation 
companies.

Dianymede and Basalt were the biggest; between them they controlled more 
wealth than any hundred worlds of the galaxy combined.  But even so, 
they could not operate without the Martial Artists to do those special 
jobs that were always necessary.  And they could not stand against 
thirty thousand Martial Artists united against them.  Martial Artists 
knew how to kill giants; open the right veins, and they'd bleed like 
anyone else-just longer, before they died.

With the lights off he paced the room, getting the feel of it.  Back to 
door.  Four paces, bed.  Right and five paces, wall.  Left two, wall.  
Back six paces, door.  Simple.  The dimenstions became a part of him, 
until he could move at full speed with half-inch precision anywhere in 
the room, in total darkness.  With the lights still out he removed a 
three-ounce steel ball from his pocket.  He held it at arm's length 
balanced on the back of his left hand, then spun in a full circle to 
catch it with the back of his right.  The ball dropped less than an inch 
in the spin-time; he was fully adjusted to half-grav.  After a few times 
doing the same thing with his feet, working alternately at knee and then 
chest-height, he put the ball away.  Two hours of snap-drills allowed 
him to isolate and to test each muscle and reflex against and with each 
of the others.  When his body told him it was satisfied-elevel days in a 
transport at zero-grav brought doubts to his mind-he stopped.

He stipped and stretched out on the bed.  He was tired, and amazed to be 
tired.  That was something he hadn't anticipated when he'd agreed to do 
this Elimination Tour.  The last one had been mandatory, four years 
before.  Every Master Martial Artist had to make at least one.  he'd 
forgotten how strenuous it had been.  Or may he was getting old, as 
Ukyou...no.

He'd agreed to the Tour because it paid well.  Money had never before 
been a major concern; he had always earned big, and spent big.  But now 
he wanted something bigger.  This job would buy a memorable honeymoon 
and a year's loss-of-services payment to the employers Ukyou.  
Fortunately, spectranalysts didn't earn  very much.  He could never 
afford to marry an execuative, or a welder.

He decided it was restlessness, not fatigue.  That felt better.  He 
wondered how the five Golds were taking the news that they had a Master 
to deal with.  They'd been expecting a Team of Five Blues, which was a 
common practice.  But Union always threw ina couple of Masters, to make 
things interesting.  Masters went in alone; five-to-one oddes were 
considered about right.  To be fair, the Masters were never told who 
they'd be facing.  The golds could strike from anywhere, at any time.  A 
miner, a secretary, a cook-anyone who was new on a colony could be a 
Gold.

He wondered how Shan Pu was doing.  Shan Pu was the other Master Duelist 
weeding out the losers before the Tournaments at Tendo Academy.  The 
last he'd heard, she had forty-five registered kills on nine different 
outposts.  She'd been on the job for seven months:  A double Tour.  
Then, if past patterns were followed, she'd take a few days of leisure 
in the sculpted gardens of Mihoshi Academy, and reissue her challenge to 
any fool who'd stand against her,  one-to-one.  That was Shan Pu.

One Tour was enough for Ranma.  Then there would be rest, relaxation, 
and Ukyou.  For at least a year.

He gave up on sleep and spend another hour pacing the room going through 
series after series of katas.  It didn't help.  At half-grav, it was 
more like 'thinking' about hard-drilling.  Like those gourmet meals 
Ukyou took so much pride in: color, texture, aroma; everything but food.

He crossed the hallway to the pucblic shower compartment.  It was empty.  
He twisted the master valve until cool pellets of water sprayed from all 
the nozzles and bounced on the tile before settling in a pool.  
Gradually he increased the temperature of the water until the 
compartment was filled with steam.  The deep heat worked magic.  The 
sweat poured out of him, and he felt renewed.

In nearly thirty years as a Martial Artist, Ranma Saotome had never know 
defeat.  That was rare, in that nonlethal bouts accounted for 90 percent 
of exhibition work and most Martial Artists found it good business to 
lose one to a talented amateur now and then; it kept the odds 
reasonable, and the easy money flowing.  Ranma had planned to do this a 
few times, but could never quite go through with it.

The recent business on Site 782-A had increased his total of registered 
kills to eight hundred seventy.  He'd stopped counting nonlethal matches 
more than ten years ago, when the number streaked pas three thousand.  
He was fifty, and only thought about age when he was tired.  He took 
comfort from Martial Artists Kirin-who, at seventy or more, was still 
getting better.

By the time the water was ankle-deep he was soothed and relaxed.  He 
dialed the water down to a fine mist and streched out on a low table.

The name Westlake came to him.  What was another Martial Artist-he 
sounded like one, but not a Gold-doing here?  How high was he ranked?  
Would it be necessary to kill him?  He would visit Mr. Westlake, and 
find out.

The thought was disturbing.  Apart from the game and the Tournaments, he 
avoided fighting other Martial Artists these days, expcept in nonlethal 
exhibitions.  Duelists tended to be killed nearly as fast as the 
Academies churned them out.  Ranma felt no need to add to the tool 
unnecessarily.

On many worlds of the galaxy killing Martial Artists on sight was not 
only legal, it was sport.  In some places there was a bounty.  Ranma 
accepted that philosophically-and stayed away from those worlds.  And 
instructor at Tendo Academy had once told him, "That's life among the 
stars.  You get the worst with the best.  On some worlds we're royalty.  
On others wee're fertilizer."

Tendo Academy.  He smiled, and at last felt his mind relaxing.  The 
water and the memories eased him to sleep.

A noise from the corridor snapped him awake. He slid from the table and 
moved behind the opening door, ready to spring.  A pair of long, nicely 
tapered legs descended the three steps into the water.  There followed 
other interesting parts he remembered very well, from the girl at the 
restration desk.  The light clicked off.

"Mr. Saotome?"

His last serious thought of the night was, 'Forgive me, Ucchan.'

[E-mail:  uunknwon@hotmail.com]

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