[FFML] [XOver] Wednesday's Child: Chapter One

[Tail Kinker]

                        *Disclaimer*

     *Macross is owned by or licensed to lots of people -
Tatsunoko Studios, Harmony Gold, Studio Nue, Streamline
Video...note that none of them are me.*

     *The same can be said of Ranma 1/2 - Rumiko Takahashi,
Kitty, Shonen Sunday Comics, Viz Video. Not me.*

     *I didn't create any of them, and I certainly do not
own them.  Any use of them in this story is meant as nothing
more than tribute.  Please don't sue me.*


                    *Wednesday's Child*


             *Chapter One:  The Problem Child*



*02 August, 1996*

     There was a knock at the door, and Colonel Iwahara
looked up from the reams of paperwork scattered across his
desk.  "Come."

     The door opened, and Sergeant Fujishima stepped in,
snapped off a crisp salute.  "Reporting as ordered, Sir."

     "Thank you.  Please, sit down."

     Fujishima sat, removed his beret.  "Thank you, Sir.  I
think I already know the answer, but may I ask why the
Colonel requested my presence?"

     "I understand, Sergeant, that you have a discipline
problem in your outfit.  Beat up another recruit."

     "Yes, Sir."  The sergeant sighed.  "Recruit Private
Saotome."

     "Well, please, fill me in."

     "First off, Sir, I'd like to state that the kid is a
goddamn genius."  The sergeant grinned.  "You gotta show him
the right way of doing something precisely once, never more,
and he gets it right every time after that.  He follows
orders crisply and to the letter, with no backtalk."

     "Doesn't sound like a discipline problem to me."

     "Well, I do have to admit that he didn't start out that
way."


                         - - - - -


     "I am Instructor Sergeant Fujishima Takeshi."  The man
was not overly large, but his muscles stood out in stark
relief under the simple white T-shirt.  His beret had three
chevrons and two rockers, the only rank markings he wore.
Khaki shorts and desert boots completed his ensemble;  his
bronzed skin was only a shade lighter than the shorts.

     "I am giving you my name only because I think that it
may interest you to know it.  No doubt you will be appending
curses to it before long.  I am already familiar with my
ancestry and habits;  you need not bore me with your specu-
lations.  From hereon in, however, you will refer to me only
as Sir.  When you speak to me, this will be the first and
last word you say.  I'm not really a Sir;  I'm a Sergeant.
I work for a living.  But we don't have enough officers to
go around, so you'll practice on me.

     "I have been assigned to ride herd on you untrained
monkeys, and with any luck, turn you into soldiers.  I have
my doubts about this mission;  I don't think there's a sin-
gle one among you spineless worms fit to serve in defense of
our islands.

     "Up to now, you have been protected by our fine broth-
erhood of killers.  You have slept soundly in your beds,
because I, and those like me, have stood ready to do nasty
things to bad people on your behalf.  You, like we, have
come from a society at peace.  A place where manners and
good behaviour are important.  You have left that world
behind, because you feel that you have something to prove."

     He did not shout.  He did not need to.  His voice car-
ried across the ranks of the two hundred or so assembled
recruits, without effort.

     "I don't really care why you are here.  But if you are
here for the wrong reasons, I will find out.  I will drive
you from our ranks, as we cull the losers, misfits and fail-
ures.

     "You will not like me.  You will curse my name every
night before you drop into your beds from sheer exhaustion.

     "I will not like you.  I am certain, now, that ninety
percent of you are a complete waste of my time, and I will
do my best to get rid of that ninety percent as fast as pos-
sible, as my time is valuable.

     "With any luck, those who survive this training camp
will make good soldiers, ready to lay their lives on the
line to protect our islands.  But looking at you now, I have
to say that I have my doubts."

     "Yo, Sir.  Bein' kinda hard on 'em, ain't ya?"

     Fujishima stopped.  He turned slowly, walked down the
formation, and stepped in to the second rank to face the
recruit who had just spoken.

     "And just who the hell are you?"

     "Saotome Ranma."

     "You have hearing difficulty, Recruit Private Saotome?"

     "Nope."

     "Seems you do.  Let me repeat myself, and I will use
smaller words and speak more slowly, in case it is instead a
mental problem.  When you speak to me, the first and last
words out of your mouth will be Sir.  Understood?"


     "Yes, Sir."

     "Wrong answer.  Try again."

     "Sir, yes, Sir."

     "Oh, good.  You can be taught.  Here is lesson number
two.  You will not speak unless spoken to first.  Clear?"

     "Sir, yes, Sir."

     "Good.  Now then, Private.  The reason that our forces
have chosen to put me in charge, and not you, is because I
have been a soldier for twenty years now.  How long have you
been a soldier?"

     "Uhh...About three weeks?  I mean, Sir, three weeks,
Sir."

     "Wrong.  You signed up three weeks ago.  Today, you are
starting training.  You will not be a soldier until I tell
you that you are a soldier.  Do you understand?"

     "Sir, yes, Sir."

     "So since I am a soldier, and an instructor, and let us
not forget, a sergeant, how about you let me handle the
training, and you shut up and be trained.  Good enough?"

     Saotome paused.  "Sir, I'd agree to that, but I think
you're doin' it wrong.  Sir."

     Fujishima darkened.  "Are you going to be my problem
child, Private?"

     "Sir?"

     "Every class has one like you.  Some asshole who thinks
he's better than me.  Better than the whole JSDF.  Do you
think you're better than me, Private?"

     "Sir, yes Sir."

     "Oh, I am going to enjoy breaking you, Private."  He
grinned, then raised his voice.  "Private Saotome seems to
think he's better than me.  I think that we need to settle
this right now.  We'll start with a nice long run."


                         - - - - -


     "How long did he last?"

     The Sergeant looked abashed.  "Actually, Sir, he ran me
into the dirt."

     The Colonel raised his eyebrows.  "Come again?"

     "The rest of the recruits lasted maybe a kilometer.
One or two held out for two.  But Saotome looked fresh as a
daisy by the time I dropped.  Sixty kilometers.  Dammit, I
still feel every one of them."

     "Takeshi, you're a marathon runner.  You've done some
of the toughest runs in the world."
     "Yeah, but this kid is stupid tough.  His physical con-
ditioning is just this side of superhuman."

     Iwahara nodded.  "You said that this is where it
started, but that he's improved since then.  When did this
change?"


                         - - - - -


     "Sir, Recruit Private Saotome Ranma, reporting as
ordered, Sir."

     The Sergeant nodded.  "Cap off, Saotome."

     "Sir, yes Sir."  Ranma removed the baseball cap, but
remained at attention.

     "Saotome, I think we're going to have a problem with
you."

     "Sir?"

     "Your attitude is not suitable for that of a soldier.
If you cannot straighten up and fly right, we are likely
going to dismiss you."

     Ranma paused, and considered.  "The fact that you're
warnin' me of this, Sir, tells me that you think I can
change."

     "Perceptive of you, Recruit.  What I didn't tell you,
in front of the other recruits, is that assholes like you,
if they *can* adjust their attitude, can become some of the
finest soldiers in the JSDF."  The sergeant paused for a sip
of coffee.  "I have developed an impression, from our little
run earlier today, that you have an athletics background."

     "Sir, martial arts, Sir."

     "You can relax somewhat, Saotome.  Caps are off, after
all."

     "Yes, Sir."

     "Martial arts.  How long have you been in training?"

     "Sixteen years, Sir."

     Takeshi blinked.  "But according to your application,
you're only eighteen."

     "Yes, Sir.  I've been in training in the family Art
since I was old enough to walk."

     "Well, that helps explain the conditioning.  Ever done
any Jiu Jitsu?"

     "Yes, Sir.  Parts of it, anyway.  The official name of
our family Art is Unrestricted Grappling, but we generally
call it Anything Goes.  The school culls the best techniques
from all other Arts, and keeps only the best."

     "Then you and I have some common ground.  Do you know
how many recruits actually make it into the JSDF?"
     "You said ten percent, Sir."

     "I lied.  It's more like five percent.  Half are
dropped during the application phase."  The sergeant smiled.
"We cull the ones from the herd who don't have what it
takes, to keep only those who are the best."

     "Good policy."

     "Oh, so now you agree with me?  Do you know what makes
a soldier a soldier, Saotome?"

     He shrugged.  "Not really.  Rifles, uniforms, and
marchin' in step?"

     "A rabble could do that.  No.  What makes a soldier a
truly effective weapon is that he is part of a team."

     Saotome considered again.  "So the strength of the team
is based on the fact that everyone does everything the same
way.  Right?"

     "Close.  Not everyone does everything the same way;
there are specialists, after all.  But everyone knows what
everyone else is capable of doing, and how they will do it."

     "Makes sense."

     "The problem that we have here, Saotome, is that you
are too much of an individualist at this point.  I person-
ally think that you have what it takes to be a hell of a
soldier.  But the effort must be on your part.  We will
guide you, shape you, into the mold of a soldier.  Do not
break that mold."

     "Understood, Sir."

     The Sergeant stood up - slowly, as his legs were still
in great pain.  "I am going to train you within an inch of
your life, Saotome, and you will shut up and take instruc-
tion.  You will not be a thorn in my side, or I will kick
your ass out, and lose no sleep over it.  If you truly want
to be here, you must abide by the way we do things, and do
not test us.  If you survive recruit training, *if* you
advance in the ranks, you *may* have the chance to improve
things.  But right now, you must learn the way things are
done before you can properly see how they may be changed."

     "Yes, Sir."

     "There is room for individualism in the Army, soldier,
but the place is not here, not now.  You will follow my
orders to the best of your ability, or you will find your-
self again a civilian.  Understood?"

     "Yes, Sir."

     "Good.  Dismissed."

     Ranma turned to leave, then paused and turned back to
the Sergeant.  "Sarge...You said that individuals like
myself can become great soldiers.  Got any examples, so I
can look them up?"

     The Sergeant smiled again.  "You're looking at one."

                         - - - - -


     "Sounds like you got the problem ironed out then."

     "That part of it."  Fujishima glanced towards the
Colonel's coffee maker.  "Mind if I grab a cup, Sir?"

     "Go ahead."

     He stood, and poured a cup for himself, and another for
the Colonel.  "Saotome followed orders to the letter after
that.  He's determined to prove himself.  Mastered rifles
faster than any other recruit.  I had to show him once, just
once, how to strip and clean the rifle, and he did it just
as I showed him, perfectly.  Then suggested a change in the
procedure to me.  A good change."

     "Really?"

     "The kid's got a phenomenal learning curve, as well as
the ability to improvise.  I let the armourer know about the
change he suggested, and the armourer said, and I quote,
'Why the fuck didn't I think of that?'"

     The Colonel chuckled.

     "But we encountered anoher problem when we came to the
obstacle course."

     "Kid's a martial artist.  What did he do, break the
obstacles?"

     "No..."  The Sergeant sat back down.  "Well, there's a
problem with him...A rather severe problem."


                         - - - - -


     "The purpose of this obstacle course is to teach you to
traverse unpredictable terrain in an efficient manner."  The
Sergeant indicated the array of obstacles.  "You will start
here, and proceed to the finish line.  I shall observe your
movement, and instruct you in the proper military manner how
to clear each obstacle, should you fail to do so in a manner
that pleases me."

     "Sir, can you show us your way first, Sir?"

     "I did not speak to you, Saotome.  You keep your trap
shut.  But since you volunteered, you can go first."

     "Sir, yes, Sir."

     Saotome charged the obstacle course as he would a foe.
Tires;  he simply ran across the tops.  The fence;  he
leaped clear up to the top, one foot touching the top beam
lightly, then dropped down to the other side.  Ropes;  he
took the jump at full speed, snagged a rope, slung straight
over to the other side.  Uneven bars;  he leaped to the top
of the first one, then skipped across, two at a time,
straight over the entire obstacle.  The mud pit;  he leaped,
obviously aiming to get over the entire thing in one leap.


     He didn't quite make it, but splashed down near the
end.  The mud was mostly water, but there was plenty of dirt
in it.  Saotome stood up with a quiet curse.

     The Sergeant could feel his jaw dropping open of its
own accord, and he staggered forward a step, unwilling to
believe what his eyes reported.  Saotome had shrunk some-
what, except across the chest.  The white T-shirt, now brown
and muddy, hugged obvious - and large - breasts.  He - no,
she - adjusted her pants quickly, then proceeded forward,
tackling the last obstacle, a sheer wall, by simply leaping
over it.  She landed with a bounce, then turned and jogged
around the obstacle course.

     Sergeant Fujishima watched in disbelief as Saotome
returned.  Yes, without a doubt, he was now female.  And
there was a look of dread on her face.

     "Saotome..."

     "Sir, obstacle course completed, Sir."  She saluted
smartly, but the expression on her face remained one of
fear.

     "My office, now."


                         - - - - -


     "...turned into a *woman?*"

     "That is correct, Sir."  Fujishima tossed a few
Polaroids on the desk.  "I wouldn't have ever believed it
myself, except that I saw it happen.  Here's some photos to
support it."

     The Colonel examined the first photograph.  Taken in
the Sergeant's office, it showed a Recruit Private, rather
damp, a look of chagrin on his face.  He shifted to the sec-
ond picture.  The same clothing, right down to the dirt
stains, but on a short, rather curvy female.  The regulation
number two brush cut looked odd on the girl.  He caught him-
self staring at the way her nipples stood out under the thin
T, and dropped the pictures.  "Have you got an explanation
for this?"

     "Yeah.  He, or she, or whatever...anyway, Private Sao-
tome suffers under a magical curse, or so he says.  Cold
water changes him into a female.  Hot water reverses the
effect.  It doesn't have to be specifically water;  he used
hot coffee to switch back to male."

     "How long have you known about this?"

     "Three days.  I didn't bother reporting it, because
technically, it's not a disqualifying issue.  We have both
males and females in the JSDF, and they wear the same uni-
form.  At least, the outer layers."  He chuckled.  "Saotome
objected to my taking the photos, but I knew I'd need sup-
porting evidence."

     "This is damn peculiar.  Did you talk to the base doc
about it?"


     "Oh, yes.  Had Saotome fully checked out.  He objected
to that too, but he's still following orders."  The Sergeant
produced a folder.  "The doctor reports that Saotome is, in
female form, still well above physical requirements to
remain in the forces.  In fact, she's stronger in female
form than most of our male troopers."  He sighed.  "Which
brings us to the real issue."

     "Oh?"

     "Kind of hard to hide the fact that Saotome changed
gender.  He did it right in front of the entire damn pla-
toon.  Pretty obvious that it was the water that did it,
too.  One of the recruits got the bright idea of turning off
his hot water in the shower."

     "Instant naked female in the male showers.  That could
be grounds for a sexual harassment charge."

     "Saotome beat him to a pulp."  The Sergeant grimaced.
"Didn't do any lasting damage, but Recruit Private Sakamoto
has a goodly collection of bruises.  He agreed not to press
assault charges, if Saotome agreed to not press sexual
harassment charges."

     "I see where the discipline problem lies, then.  Some-
one else is going to decide that the beating might be worth
it."  The colonel paused.  "Do you have any ideas on how to
prevent this from happening again?"

     "I don't, no."  The Sergeant shook his head.  "I can't
give Saotome any special treatment.  Can't have him shower
on his own, or use my private facilities.  It's just not
Army.  But you know what sort of wild animals these recruits
are at this stage of their training."

     "All too well."

     "But Saotome has a lot of potential, and is really
shaping up to be a fine soldier.  Another incident like the
last, and I won't be able to keep him out of the MP's hands.
So we need to find a way to make certain that such an inci-
dent does not occur again."


                         - - - - -


     Ranma gently squeezed the trigger, and the rifle barked
once.  He smiled, and fired again.  Ten rounds, one after
another.  The rifle locked open on empty.  He ejected the
magazine, visually examined the chamber to ensure it was
clear, closed the bolt and set the safety.

     He was certain that the rifle was empty, but he went
through the procedure as prescribed.  The Range Safety Offi-
cer had been very, very clear on this:  Always treat the
rifle as though it was loaded.  Always ensure that it is
not.

     He stood up, slung the rifle, and waited until the
remaining recruits had fired, then, when the RSO cleared
them, went to collect his target.  He grinned at the paper.
All ten holes were clustered in a small group in the X ring;
he'd shot a "Possible", scoring one hundred - the maximum
score, and all ten rounds in the tiebreaking ring.  It was
called a "Possible" because it was the next best thing to
impossible - possible, but only just.

     "Private Saotome!"

     "Sir."

     He turned and jogged over to the Sergeant, and handed
him the target.  The Sergeant glanced at it, and said, "Nice
shooting, Private."

     "Thank you, Sir."

     "Report to Colonel Iwahara, on the bounce."

     Ranma blinked.  He'd only ever seen the Colonel from a
distance.  "Sir, yes, Sir."


                         - - - - -


     "Recruit Private Saotome, reporting as ordered, Sir."

     Iwahara looked the young man up and down.  "So you're
the troublemaker, are you?"

     "Sir.  So the Sergeant has informed me, Sir."

     "Sit down, Private.  Cap off."

     Ranma sat down slowly, and removed the baseball cap
that served as headgear for recruit privates.  He ran a hand
through the two-millimeter stubble that the JSDF was pleased
to call a regulation haircut, and felt a brief pang for his
missing pigtail.

     "Coffee?"

     "No thank you, Sir."

     "Understand there was a spot of trouble in the showers
two days ago?"

     "Yes, Sir."

     "I'd like a few details.  And relax, will you?  We're
not going to kick you out over this."

     "Yes, Sir.  My secret is out, Sir.  The whole platoon
now knows I can change gender."

     "More than the whole platoon;  the Army knows now."

     "Anyway, one of the guys turned off the hot water, fig-
urin' that if water changed me, but hot water didn't - I've
showered with these guys before, after all - it must be cold
water that does it."  He scowled.  "They used to do that at
my school, too.  So I pounded him.  Didn't want to wreck his
chances, though, so I didn't do anything permanent."

     "I understand that.  Private Saotome, you present us
with a bit of a problem.  There's a right way to handle
things, and a wrong way.  You chose the wrong way."


     Ranma nodded.  "I get that now.  What's the right way?"

     "Well, normally, the right way would be to avoid such
situations.  But we can't do that.  So we'll do it the Army
way instead.  If this happens again, do not attack the cul-
prit.  Simply inform your Instructor Sergeant.  He will
inform me.  And the offending individual will find himself
in hack up to his neck.  Or possibly a civilian.  Under-
stood?"

     "Yes, Sir."  Ranma paused.  "If you kick him out, can I
pound him then?"

     "Now, Private.  Our job is to protect the civilians."
The Colonel's mouth twiched.  "No matter how much we want to
pound them."

     "Understood, Sir."

     "I shall be making an announcement to the troops in
your platoon, to make this clear."  The Colonel stood up.
"Sexual harassment of any sort must not be tolerated."  He
picked the photos up off his desk, and handed them to Ranma.
"You can have these back."

     Ranma shrugged and took them.  "I don't really need
them."

     "Yes, but I found myself spending too much time looking
at them.  Or one of them, anyway."  The Colonel grinned.
"At least you have the advantage of becoming a very beauti-
ful young woman."

     Ranma reddened at this, much to his disgust.


                         - - - - -


     It had been one of the most gruelling two months of his
life, but he'd managed to sweat it out.  The Army had, of
course, its traditions for graduations, and while he felt it
silly, he'd kept his trap shut, and marched and saluted with
the rest of the Company.

     Company.  What a joke.  It had been a reinforced Com-
pany when he started training, but now it was barely a Sec-
tion. The Sergeant hadn't been lying;  around eight of every
ten Recruit Privates had been found, either by the Sergeant
or by themselves, unfit to wear the uniform, and had
returned to civilian life.

     But not him.  He'd stuck with it, did things the Army
way, no matter how goofy it seemed, and had emerged at the
other side of the crucible stronger, both physically and
mentally, and with a greater respect for the way the Army
worked.

     He had specialized along the way, getting fully trained
in on the MINIMI machine gun.  As a heavy-weapons expert, or
"pig-man" - he chuckled, remembering another pig-man from
his past - he was the hard-hitting fist of his Squad.  Each
five-man Lance included a scout, a pig-man, a medic or a
radioman, and two riflemen.  His job was to anchor his
Lance, providing fire support to cover advancing troops.

     Graduation was followed by a three-day liberty.  Unfor-
tunately, he couldn't make it to Nerima from the base and
back in only three days, but there was a half-way decent bar
in the local town.  Recruit Privates were not permitted
alcohol, but a Trained Private - which he would remain until
posted to his unit - could indulge.

     Which he did.  He rarely drank alcohol anyway, so he
figured that for graduation, he could have a beer.  Yebisu
wasn't his favourite, but it was cheap, and halfway good.
He relaxed in his chair, feet up on the small round table,
and listened to the music and the noise of the crowd.

     A voice rose above the crowd, speaking English, but
with an odd liquid accent.  He glanced over, to see a small
man, dark-skinned, in the uniform of the United Nations Air
Service.  The smaller man was being heckled by a very large
red-haired fellow, who also spoke English, with a different
but equally odd accent.  As he watched, the larger man
shoved the smaller one, causing him to drop his beer, and
yelled something at him.

     For a moment, he wished he understood English, so he
knew whether or not he should step in.  That moment passed
when the red-haired giant kicked the little man.  Ranma
sighed, drained his beer, and stood.

     "Excuse me."  He spoke in Japanese, hoping that the
giant spoke the language.  Red stopped, and glanced down at
Ranma.  Way down;  at one hundred and sixty centimeters,
Ranma was short even among his own people, and this fellow
was nearly two meters tall.

     The giant sneered at him, and spoke in halting
Japanese.  "Who are you?"

     "Recruit Private Saotome."  He decided that he'd better
dumb down the language, and speak slowly.  "You will leave
now."

     "Little man run away, if know what good."  Red cracked
his knuckles.

     "Leave now."  Ranma shifted one foot backwards
slightly, and tilted his shoulders.  The stance was designed
to make it look like he was about to bolt.

     Red fell for it, and threw a wild punch at him.  Ranma
ducked slightly, snagged the fist in an iron grasp, twisted,
and launched the man head over heels across the floor.  Peo-
ple dived out of the way of the oncoming missile, and he
smacked into a pinball machine, collapsed to the floor, and
did not move.

     There was a stunned silence, then some scattered
applause.  Ranma knelt next to the smaller man.  "You okay?"

     "Yeah, I'll live."  The man stood up shakily, and shook
his head.  "Thanks.  I owe you one.  Can I get you a beer?"

     "No, thank you."  Ranma grinned.  The man had good
Japanese, but that accent made it sound like music.  "I
limit myself to one, and I've already had it."

     "Well, thanks anyway."  The man offered a hand.  "Edgar
LaSalle."
     Ranma shook the man's hand.  "Saotome Ranma."

     "So, Saotome-kun."  Edgar grinned, obviously pleased
with his language skills.  "Northern Army?"

     "Yep."  Ranma nodded.  "Just finished up basic."

     "My sister is posted with the Northern Army," commented
Edgar.  "Loaner from the UN Ground Forces."

     "Military family?"

     "Naw.  It just beat tryin' to recover land from the sea
in our home state."  Edgar dropped a coin on the bar, and
another beer appeared in front of him.  "We're from
Louisiana.  Ever been there?"

     "No.  I'm from Nerima originally.  I travelled a lot,
but mostly Japan, sometimes to China."

     "You don't want to visit there too often.  At least not
recently."  Edgar fished into a breast pocket, extracted a
somewhat battered card.  "Tell ya what.  If ever you're back
in Tokyo, gimme a call.  My ship's normally stationed
nearby, and half the time I'm on the beach."

     Ranma gave him a quick look-over, and realized that the
man was a Lieutenant.  "Thank you, Sir."

     "No problem.  And if you ever get tired of the Army,
well, the UN Maritime Forces can always use a good man."

     "What was Red's problem with you, anyway?"

     "Oh, he's a racist."  Edgar shrugged.  "United States
Marine.  Of all the bars in all the towns in all the world,
he had to walk into this one.  I knew him, see, from back in
Basic.  Before I went UN Maritime, I was a Marine, and he
had a chip on his shoulder the size of New Orleans."

     "Racist?  But you are both Americans."  Ranma paused.
"It was because of your skin colour?"

     "Yep."  Edgar took a long pull at his beer, and sighed.
"We're supposed to be past all that crap, but the Klan is
still active in Louisiana, and he's a card-carrying member.
There are supposed to be rules against it, but he's out of
uniform, off base, and there's not a hell of a lot I can do
about it."

     "You were a Marine?"

     "Just said that, didn't I?"

     "Then you have martial arts training."

     "He's bigger than me," said Edgar.  "The Marine's mar-
tial art, they call it Semper Fu, rewards the larger,
stronger combatant."

     Ranma considered, then said, "I can teach you some
moves from Aikido."

     "What's that?"


     "It is an Art that favours the smaller combatant.  You
just saw some of it."  He gestured towards the unconscious
Marine.  "Mind you, Aikido does not normally involve tossing
someone into a pinball machine, but hey.  It works."

     "Okay.  How long would it take?"

     "Normally, months at least to reach competent levels.
But I can show you a few simple throws tonight."

     Edgar considered his beer, then knocked it back,
dropped the glass on the bar, and said, "Why not?"


                         - - - - -


     "The key to understanding Aikido is to look at the word
itself.  The first syllable, *ai*, means harmony."

     "I thought that word meant love."

     "It can, depending on context.  In this context, it is
harmony.  The second syllable, *ki*, means spirit."

     Edgar nodded.  "I know that one.  Throwin' fireballs
and stuff."

     "A high-level practitioner of the Art can do that sort
of thing, but you'll be using *ki* at a more...pedestrian
level."  Ranma smirked.  "Trust me, you need tons of train-
ing to be able to toss a fireball.

     "The final syllable, *do*, means path.  Altogether, it
means, 'The path to harmony of the spirit.'"

     "Sounds more like a new-age religion."

     "First step.  You need to learn to channel your *ki*,
at least a little.  Take a deep breath, and hold out your
arm."

     Edgar did so.  Ranma noted, pleased, that he was
breathing like a martial artist - from the toes.  He grasped
Edgar's wrist, rested his other hand on top of the elbow.

     "Picture your *ki* as a strong blast of wind.  The air
you breathe in rushes out through your arm, out your finger-
tips.  Strong wind, like from a jet engine.  So much wind
that your arm cannot be bent.  Got it?"

     "Yes."

     "Good.  Because I'm going to try to bend your arm, and
you're gonna stop me."

     Edgar's eyes snapped open.  "Oh, you think?  You're
gonna bend me like a pretzel."

     "I don't know about Louisiana, but here in Japan, pret-
zels are straight.  Remember.  The wind will keep your arm
straight.  Not the muscle.  Just the wind.  Breathe."

     Edgar breathed again, and Ranma started applying pres-
sure.  Then more;  the little sailor had a surprising amount
of *ki*.  More still, and the man's arm simply would not
bend.  He stopped before reaching his full power, however,
and stepped back.  "Good.  The arm does not bend."

     Edgar opened his eyes again.  "Damn.  Didn't even feel
it."

     "The force I exerted would have bent a steel bar."
Ranma stepped back another step.  "Now watch."

     He held out his own arm, as though to grasp, then piv-
oted.  "Notice the arm is straight."

     "Yeah.  So?"

     "Your legs can generate four times your body weight in
pressure, each.  But the arm cannot match that.  If you
reinforce your *ki* in the arm, however, it will not bend.
This means that with an unbendable arm, you can throw some-
one who weighs four times as much as you."  He pivoted
again, this time the arm starting low and rising.  "There
are four circles."  Another pivot, arm starting high and
dropping.  "This means you can throw someone four different
directions."  A final pivot, his arm starting above his head
and sweeping down to his feet.  He stepped back to atten-
tion.  "Understand?"

     "I think so."

     "Do not think.  Just do."  Ranma stepped forward, threw
a punch - a deliberately slow punch, just about at Edgar's
level.  Edgar reacted, grasping the hand and pivoting, toss-
ing Ranma away.

     He ran out the throw, stopped, and turned towards
Edgar.  "Very good, Sir."  He bowed to him.

     Edgar was staring at his hand.  "Damn...that was easy!"

     "I was going slow.  Practise the *ki* focus, practise
the pivot - always on the ball of the foot, never the ankle
- and I think you need not fear any more Marines."

     "Saotome, I won't forget this."  Edgar bowed to the
Private.  "If ever you need anything, just call."