Kiai! & Mistress of Death Read online

  I had only one recourse to prevent these measures from breaking the hold. I shifted to put a scissors hold about his waist with my legs and intensified the pressure on his throat, forcing him to the verge of unconsciousness. But still he fought stubbornly—far too stubbornly. He simply could not accept the fact of loss, and that was why he had to lose, this time.

  Jim held his breath. He was good at that, too; he could swim for almost three minutes underwater. I was behind him in this position, so I could not see his face to judge how close he was to passing out.

  There are four types of strangle: respirative, in which the air is cut off; sanguineous, in which the carotid arteries—not the jugular vein—on either side of the neck are pressured, stopping the flow of blood to the brain; nerve, where the two nerve centers at the sides of the neck are attacked; and combination respirative and blood.

  All have their advantages and liabilities, and the experienced judokas keep these points in mind when applying any strangle. The respirative is slow, sometimes taking several minutes for full effect, minutes in which anything can happen. The sanguineous strangles, properly done, can work in just three seconds, but require deep penetration by the hands to both sides of the neck, difficult with a muscular one like Jim's. The nerve strangles are forbidden in judo, being too dangerous. So I was using the combination air and bloodand Jim's continuing resistance told me it wasn't working well. I hung on.

  Students suddenly stood up, walked toward us. In the midst of the match?

  Then I realized that Jim had gone limp. He was out. I should have released him before this! When a choke is released at the moment of unconsciousness, the subject normally regains consciousness spontaneously in ten to twenty seconds, and there are no harmful side effects. It is another matter if the hold is maintained beyond unconsciousness. How long had I done so?

  I let go immediately and turned Jim over. He was blue in the face and not breathing. The students had seen his face, and realized before I had. But the difference could only have been seconds.

  I put him on the mat face down and applied kwatsu, the judo healing technique. I pressed with both hands against his kidneys while giving the kiai yell. "HAAAA!" My students stepped back, surprised—but Jim resumed breathing, shallowly.

  I pried open his eyes, and only the whites showed. One was bloodshot, as if a small vein had burst inside. His lips were still blue, cyanotic. He had fought the strangle much too long and hard.

  "Call an ambulance," I said, keeping my voice calm so as not to alarm anyone. I was not actually too worried, for these things do happen and are not normally serious, but I was taking no chances. With one student recently dead... And an injury at this point, with the Martial Open only two weeks away, would be very bad for Jim's chances.

  The ambulance arrived with its sounding sirens, and somehow I heard Dato's voice in them: You suffer! The medics came with oxygen, but even that had no apparent effect. "Training accident," I explained tersely. I was worried now.

  I ran through the remaining class session in a preoccupied daze. The choke hold is dangerous, of course, but it is a standard one in judo that I had demonstrated on students a thousand times without ill effect, and Jim certainly was familiar with its aspects.

  Why had he pushed me, knowing he couldn't safely break the hold?

  But something else was bothering me profoundly, and only slowly did I bring it to the surface. It wasn't Dato's threat; I knew he had nothing to do with this particular mess, whatever he might like me to think. I was the instructor, Jim the student; but he had been extending me vigorously in front of the class. Had I been so anxious to prevail that I had deliberately injured him? Getting even for my previous failures to make him surrender?

  "No!" I cried aloud. At once, I was aware of my surroundings.

  The class was over, and I was in my car driving home. Alone, fortunately. Yet my private denial lacked force. It was hard for a man to admit he might be slipping, especially one in my position. I had just sustained a couple of shocks: near-seduction by a teenage girl, and the abrupt death of a good student. I was bound to over-react to any new threat.

  Jim was twenty, I thirty, and that decade had to tell at least marginally in his favor. I liked Jim, I had trained him, I wanted him to succeed—yet surely there was that in me that resented his powerful youth, that wanted to put him down. Every instructor, every sensei, fears that his pupil will surpass and defeat him. Had the green arm of jealousy circled Jim's throat, rather than that of his friend?

  "No!" I cried again in anguish. But it was a fainter exclamation.

  The mail awaited me at home, and there was a letter from Bill Bender, an old friend who had retired to a judo column for several newspapers. He was generally first with the inside information, though he was not free to publish much of it, and periodically he forwarded news and gossip of interest to me.

  "Thought you'd better know," his letter said, "we were given a bum steer on the Martial Open. Only actual restriction is that each entrant be a 'legitimate and accredited' representative of his particular martial art. That can mean almost anything, considering how loose some karate clubs are, not to mention the inscrutable ways of Oriental kung-fu and aikido. The word is that some of the real pros of other disciplines are going to participate for that quartermillion grand prize. No real regulation, either; sponsor turns out to be a rich Latin American with a plantation down in Nicaragua, and he is the law in that region. If I were you, I'd get your boy out of that mess on one pretext or another."

  Jim was going into a nest of vipers—and I had injured him just before the tournament began. How was he going to survive now, against the murder specialists of those other disciplines? Kung-fu, for example, had no organized contests and rankings, because it had no sport aspect; it was strictly for self-defense in an extremely offensive manner, and it was one of the most brutal martial sciences known to man. I'd hate to fight a kung-fu expert myself without very strict refereeing, let alone send Jim against him. Even without a recent injury.

  But what could I do? I had not made the assignment, and I could not tell Jim to withdraw. He would feel his stubborn college-age masculinity questioned if I even suggested he quit because of the danger. He never did know when to quit, as this recent injury demonstrated.

  I hadn't even looked at the newspaper yet. I picked it up and plopped into my chair. The lead off item struck me like a kick in the solar plexus.

  JUDO CHAMP RAIDS RIVAL

  Police arrested a leading local judo instructor for disrupting a class session of his chief competitor. Dato, of "Dato's Dojo," was released on bond after assaulting Andrei Kolychkine of "City Kung Fu." The two exchanged several blows in front of the astounded students before Dato abruptly stopped and left.

  It was conjectured that Dato had been enraged by Kolychkine's recent acquisition of several promising students from a section of the city Dato regarded as his own "territory."

  Kolychkine was unhurt except for bruises. "Dato is an old man," he said. "I don't think he'll try this again."

  The article was inaccurate, the usual newspaper sensationalism. Kolychkine was not Dato's leading rival, I was. Students looking for better judo instruction would hardly go to a kung-fu parlor, as kung-fu was an entirely distinct discipline.

  But Dato was lucky, at that. Kolychkine was a good-natured sort, not given to grudges; he would probably drop the charges. And of course he hadn't been hurt; as a kung-fu sifu he was well able to take care of himself. He was not a top-ranking practitioner; kung-fu is a Chinese martial art, and few non-Orientals are privy to its ultimate techniques. He wouldn't admit it if he were hurt; that would damage his projected image of invulnerability. Probably this episode would do his business good, for he had repelled the invader with honor and was receiving much free publicity.

  But the whole thing gave judo a bad name. Something had to be done about Dato before he ruined us all. But what? I was in no position to talk. Here I had had one student die, and had put another in the hos
pital.

  I don't like drugs in any form; that's why I don't smoke or drink or take coffee that isn't decaffeinated. But I finally took an aspirin (and some vitamin C against side-effects) so I could get to sleep.

  Jim was no better next morning. He lay in the hospital, still unconscious, and visitors were barred. My guilt expanded with every hour that passed.

  My phone rang and I leaped to answer it, hoping for news of Jim's recovery. But it was a strange voice.

  "Mr. Jason Striker? I am Roger Wimble, attorney for the family of Jim Blake. If you will give me the name of your own attorney, I'm sure we can work this out."

  I had had a bad night, and this did not improve my disposition. "Work what out?"

  "Well, there's no point in going to court, is there, Mr. Striker? If you will agree to cover all medical expenses plus a reasonable—"

  "You're holding me responsible for Jim's condition?"

  "Who else? You strangled him." His voice was losing even the phony friendliness it had started with.

  The view from outside! "Look, Wimble—I'm as sorry about what happened as anyone, and I'll help Jim any way I can, but it's not a legal obligation! It was a training accident, and exempted from—"

  "We are familiar with your release form, Mr. Kane. But we contend that it does not apply in this case. Now if your attorney will—"

  I did not want to argue, for the moment. I gave the man the name of my attorney. I knew I was under no legal obligation, and certainly I was in a poor position to absorb the kind of medical bill Jim was running up. I did have some cash, thanks to the generosity of Johnson Drummond, who had meant it about doubling my tutoring fee. But one week at the hospital would gobble that up and leave me broke again. I was ready to contribute as a friend; what got to me was this instant assumption that any judo instructor had to be guilty of foul play, and should be docked like a criminal. The legacy of operators like Dato, already.

  Yet that insidious voice inside me whispered that I was guilty. I had wanted to put down my rival for martial glory. Because he had been selected for the honor of representing judo, not I. I had risen to the rank of godan the hard way, and eased off because it was necessary to earn a living and a man can't eat trophies. Was a wet-behind-the-ears nidan to pass me by?

  No, no! I cried silently, feeling a pang as though struck over the heart. I was not that type of man. I was no rival to my students; I was not like Dato, hoarding my skills. I wanted the youngsters I trained to succeed. If Jim could do well at the Martial Open, the glory would reflect on all judo, and especially on me, his trainer.

  But then, maybe I was being protective toward him. I feared he lacked the ability to survive against killer karatekas and kick-boxers in such a freeforall, and I wanted him out of danger. So had I?

  But the letter informing me of the changed nature of the tournament had arrived after the injury. And I would hardly have saved him from injury by injuring him myself.

  All the arguments rang hollowly in my mind. I had hurt him.

  My attorney called. "It looks bad, Jason," he said. "They are trying to set aside the release form on the grounds that you failed to exercise proper caution when applying the stranglehold, a potentially fatal tactic. They're summoning expert witnesses, doctors—"

  "Ridiculous!" I snapped. "Why don't they check with any judo sensei—"

  "Just the same, we're not in the clear by a long shot," he said. "It isn't just the possibility of a lawsuit. We could summon expert testimony of our own—doctors who are knowledgeable in the martial arts, for example. But the man on the street has an exaggerated fear of strangulation. Your business could suffer severely. If that boy should die—"

  You suffer! Dato had vowed. And I was suffering.

  I hung up, stricken. Jim couldn't die! He had such a promising future. And a simple choke wouldn't kill him—not hours or days later. There must have been a neck injury. But he was my friend, accident or no.

  But my lawyer's words gnawed at me. My reputation was now at stake, and thus my livelihood. Surely a godan should know when to release a stranglehold on a student! How could I have done this to Jim—unless it were deliberate? Consciously, never; but subconsciously...?

  The phone rang again, and I jumped guiltily. I tried to let it go, certain that only bad news was there, but it rang and rang. Finally I had to answer.

  "Jason, this is Bill Bender," my columnist-friend's voice said. "Got another scoop that just broke. It'll hit the papers tomorrow, but I had this feeling you'd need to know now. Your boy is not going to the Martial Open."

  "They withdrew him?" I asked. "Thank God!"

  "Don't thank God, Jason. There's more."

  "Uh-oh. You mean they did it because of his injury?"

  "Uh-uh. He never was the choice. That was just a front while they watched what the other martial arts were doing. The real choice is a fifth degree sensei with plenty of experience. Former U.S.A. champ, placed third in Salt Lake—a real man."

  "Nobody should send a boy to do a man's job," I agreed, almost sick with relief for Jim's sake. "Who is it, Bill?"

  "A former Green Beret hero and silver medal winner. He recently fought Diago to a draw, despite the stun-yell. I think that was the decisive factor."

  "Stop kidding, Bill. Nobody ever withstood Diago's kiai! He—" Then, slowly, I realized. Some garbled account of my encounter with Diago must have leaked out, providing me with an obscure and undeserved notoriety. "Bill, I've been out of world competition for two-three years! I'm not in shape for—"

  "I guess somebody feels otherwise," he said cheerfully. "I heard you had mighty strong local sponsorship." He hung up.

  "What local sponsorship?" I asked myself futilely "I never asked for—" Then I thought of something else.

  I crashed out the door and drove to the hospital. Only sheer luck saved me from a traffic citation for reckless driving. I knew I wasn't going to any tournament, but I had to explain to Jim that he was out, before he heard it from someone else and felt betrayed. If he got the idea that I had put him out so I could go...

  Disheveled, I marched into the lobby. "Jason Striker to see Jim Blake," I told the desk.

  The nurse checked her book. "Jim Blake is not permitted visitors at this time," she said.

  "I'm the man who put him here," I said. "I have to see him!" I saw the room number opposite Jim's name on the roster, and headed for the stairs. I always use the stairs, not the elevator. Better exercise, better release of tension.

  It can take hours to find a doctor in a hospital when you're sick, but two doctors and another nurse met me at the third floor landing. "Mr. Striker, please leave at once, or we shall have to report you."

  I brushed by them and strode toward Jim's room. A tall man with a briefcase came out as I got there, almost colliding with me. "No visitors, eh?" I said over my shoulder to the hospital personnel. "What is this—a mirage?"

  The man stared at me contemptuously. "I am Roger Wimble. You must be Jason Striker. Exactly the sort of roughneck I expected."

  The lawyer Jim's family had hired. I had walked into even more trouble, for my presence here surely did not look good. They would construe it as an attempt to make sure Jim was dead or dying.

  "Listen, Wimble. All I want to do is talk to Jim. I don't care what you think."

  "Striker..."

  The call was so faint I almost missed it. "Jim!"

  Wimble and the doctors turned, and the nurse stepped quickly into the room. The figure on the stark white bed was moving. In a moment we were all inside, staring down. Jim was in some kind of metal neck brace that immobilized his head, but his eyes could move. "Striker!" he whispered. "Why didn't you come before? Are you still mad about—"

  "No!" I cried. "The idiots wouldn't let me in! They said you were in a coma."

  "I guess I was in a coma, outside," he said more strongly. "Not inside. Not inside my head. It seems like a thousand years! I wanted to see you, to tell you—"

  "You don't have to say a thing, Bla
ke!" Wimble snapped. "We are suing this man Striker for what he did to you."

  "Suing?" Jim asked, his eyes flicking over to Wimble. "I don't know who the hell you are, but I was the one at fault. I wouldn't yield to his strangle-hold, so he thought it wasn't on tight. He's told me a hundred times not to fight that hold! I was a crazy fool, and I just wanted to apologize. For not knowing when to quit. For being a stubborn fool."

  "It's okay," I said. "I should have realized—"

  "For not being a true judoka," he finished. "It's been tearing me up, Striker. Nightmares, and I didn't really want to come out of it, until I could tell you. I don't have the proper judo spirit, and—"

  "You'll get it!" I cried. "I was the same, when I was your age."

  Wimble looked at the doctors. "It was the sound of Striker's voice that woke him, wasn't it," he said, and they nodded.

  "Striker—" Jim said.

  "Don't be so damned formal, Jim!" I said.

  He smiled. "Jason. Sensei—I can't go to that tournament now. Even if this hadn't happenedI know I'm not ready. I—will you take my place? You could do what I never could. For judo. You have the experience."

  Why did he ask that? Jim was never a quitter; duress only made him more bullheaded. Had he suffered some degree of paralysis, and knew it? He had been unconscious a long time; there could be anoxia, a lack of oxygen to the brain. If that were so, Jim's career as a judoka could be finished, and it was my fault. But I could not say it to him. I might have crippled him for life.

  "Sure, sure," I said. And wondered whether he had suspected all along that he was not the real choice for the tournament. That, too, could have accounted for his desperation measures in our contest. "Now you rest easy, and when you're back on your feet we'll do more randori, okay?"

  "Okay!" he agreed happily. Then his eyes closed, and he slept. It was a normal sleep, not a coma. Even I could tell that. Wimble drew himself up, very dignified. "Mr. Striker, it seems we owe an apology."