Comic Book Hero Chapter 12

“See, the whole thing is only 5/8 inches across, so we were able to fit the camera right between the lenses of the goggles. But it’s still got 600 lines of color resolution, and will operate at 0.003 lux. Pretty tight for such a tiny package.”

“Lux? What’s that?”

“Unit of measure for available light. 1 lux equals the light put out by one candle, so 0.003 lux is very dim. Which means it works pretty well in the dark. That’s how I was able to see your father when he came looking for me with that gun. Here, give it a try.” Tom handed the goggles to Holly and helped her put them on. The original power cable that connected the highly advanced optics in the goggles to the processor and power supply in the bandoleer was sewn into his shirt, and had to be connected whenever he suited up. But some of the odds and ends that he kept in the equipment pouches of the bandoleer included extra cables for all the electronics in the outfit, and Tom had temporarily rewired the goggles to allow the young woman to see for herself how the unit worked.

Holly settled the goggles on her face and looked around, blinking a little as her eyes adjusted. Tom fingered a control on the bandoleer that he still wore, and Holly suddenly gasped. From Tom’s point of view, a small square patch at the bottom of the goggles’ left lens had suddenly turned black, but he knew that from Holly’s perspective a large video screen had suddenly appeared in mid air. She reached out with her hand as if to touch the phantom screen, then drew it back as her fingers brushed only emptiness. Tom grinned, remembering the first time he had tried on the almost magical eyewear.

“What you’re seeing is a projection thrown onto the edge of the lens itself. The projector is that little rod shaped lump on the headstrap with the cable leading from it. It’s the equivalent of a twenty-inch TV screen seen at eleven feet, and I can use it to see camera feeds, instrument readouts, a computer screen, or even movies if I want. I’ve even got hand held night sight, infra red, and telescopic lenses that can be hooked up to the processor.”

“Why hand held? Why don’t you just hook them up to the camera on the goggles?”

“Too bulky. You see, that low light camera only needs a pinhole lens, it’s so small that it doesn’t get in the way, and most of the time you can’t even tell that it’s there. But even miniaturized like they are, the special lenses are still up to six inches long. If I mounted them to the goggles like the pinhole, I’d have to take them off before I got into a fight or did anything else physical. The way I have it set up now, I can take whatever lens I’m using and strap it to the back of my hand, and then plug it into the cable that’s sewn into my sleeve. Here, I’ll show you.”

Tom reached into the overlarge pocket of his cargo pants and took out a four inch black metal tube with an elastic strap, which he quickly snapped into place on the back of his gloved left hand. It stuck out about an inch past his knuckles. Next he pulled a cable with a two inch long camera out from his sleeve and plugged it into the back of the tube, and then flipped a switch and twisted a knob on his bandoleer. Once again Holly gasped, as a new picture sprang into view on the display in the goggles. Tom knew what she was seeing, the eerie green and gray video of the infrared lens. He panned his hand slowly around the room, watching as Holly’s head turned to follow, comparing the display to what she could see through the clear plastic of the goggles. With a grin, Tom turned the lens to point at Holly’s father.

Holly shrieked in delight. “Poppa, I can see right through your shirt! I can see those scars on your chest, and I can even read the tattoo on your arm. This is so cool! Hey, Pop, you’re looking pretty cut.” Holly giggled, then laughed in mischievous delight at her father’s frown. But then Tom turned the lens on her and she squealed, trying to cover her breasts with her arms.

“So what are you screaming about?” Tom chided. “You’re the one with the goggles, no one else can see anything.”

“I can see plenty, you perv, so knock it off. That girl is like a niece to me. And what’s all this ‘we’ crap, anyway. Your brother and I came up with this whole system while you were in Japan, getting frisky with your ex.”

Tom gave no indication that he had heard Murray’s voice through the earpiece built into his mask, but he did turn the lens away and unplugged the cable from its base. Underneath the black mask he was grinning, watching the pretty girl who sat next to him on the bleachers as she laughed uncontrollably. Even her father’s usually wooden face was beginning to turn up at the corners of his mouth. Tom slipped the camera on its cable back under his sleeve, then undid the special lens from his hand and stowed it back in his pocket. He watched, as Dieter took the goggles from his daughter and examined them with the professional eye of a soldier.

“This is an impressive piece of equipment, my friend. You say it is based on the Land Warrior project? I am familiar with their work, but I don’t recognize what you have done with these goggles. Doesn’t the original program use a different sort of display? Yes, it was some type of television screen on an arm that could be lowered in front of the soldier’s eyes, I think. Your system seems much more efficient. How were you able to develop this technology ahead of the US Army?”

Tom shook his head. “We didn’t develop anything new at all, Dieter. Everything in my outfit is made from already existing, commercially available equipment. The projector on the lenses has been on the market for years, it was originally used on a pair of safety glasses. We just took the lenses out and modified them to fit the goggles.

“As for why the Army uses a standard heads up display instead of these projectors, I can only guess. As it was originally configured, when the projector was on you could see the little display screen from both sides of the lenses. In fact, in the dark you could see it like a neon light from at least fifty or sixty feet away. Not a good thing to have when you’re a soldier sneaking through enemy territory. Or if you’re flying around at night, and don’t want anybody to see you breaking the laws of physics.”

“Hmmm. And you would not want to blacken the projected area of the lens, as it would interfere with your sight when the display wasn’t in use. So how did you solve this problem?”

“I used an electrochromic shield,” answered Tom. This time he felt justified in claiming sole credit for the innovation. Murray and Mike had been completely stumped by the problem, and were just about to give up on the projector when Tom came back from Japan. But the flying man had remembered something he had seen many months before, while glancing through an automotive magazine.

“Electrochromes are plastics that change their color when you trickle an electric current through them. They’ve been using them for a couple of years now for windows and mirrors in some of the more expensive car models. Turn a knob and get tinted glass, turn it off and the glass is clear.

“We put a small piece of electrochromic film on the lens where the display is, and then ran a wire to it from the projector. Whenever the projector’s on, the film goes opaque, and when it’s off the film is transparent. So I can see the display, but no one else can.”

“Remarkable. And do you have any other toys you would like to share with us?” Dieter asked, his tone patronizing.

Tom bristled. Dammit, ever since he’d crawled through that window, it seemed, he’d been in a game of one-upmanship with this man. Were they just rubbing each other the wrong way, or was there really something wrong here? Maybe he should rethink this whole training idea, and just disappear into the night. Or was it too late for that? He looked at Holly, who was already frowning at her fathers’ tone.

“Poppa…” she said, a touch of warning in her voice.

But Tom abruptly rose to his feet, ending the father-daughter conversation before it could flare up. He took the goggles back from Dieter’s hands and slipped them on over his own head. “Look, it’s time for me to go. Dieter, I know that you didn’t want Holly involved in this, but now she is, so I won’t hold you to our previous bargain. If you want to call it off, I’m gone, and no hard feelings. But if we still have a deal, you have to let me know now.”

Dieter and Holly stood also, the tall German counter-terrorist pausing to give his reply serious thought. He looked at his daughter, a question that was almost an entreaty in his eyes. But Holly shook her head firmly, her jaw set. If he went ahead, there was no way she would stay out of it. Like it or not, she was a part of the secret, too.

Dieter felt a swelling in his chest, and quickly identified it as pride, touched with a concern bordering on fear. He knew his daughter was no fool, knew also that her sharp mind had already realized the implications of a man who held the secrets of flight like their mysterious Mr. Dark did. Armed with the knowledge only bitter personal experience could bring, he had raised her to know the realities of how the world worked, and the ruthlessness of those who ran it. She knew what the risks were for this man, and was fully cognizant of what that could mean to anyone else who shared his secret, should it ever get out. She knew the danger, and still she was determined to be a part of it. And he knew she would never forgive him if he ended it, right now, just to keep her safe.

Dieter sighed, bending to the inevitable. He would never have forgiven himself, either. It had been so long since he had been a part of a dream.

“Classes end tomorrow night at eight o’clock. Be here at half past, and be prepared to work. I do not waste my time on lazy students. Here, take this.” He reached into his pocket and removed an object, tossing it to the flying man, who caught it deftly. The object consisted of two wooden handles painted red, attached to the ends of a rod of spring steel bent into a V-shape. The handles had been squeezed together and a leather band slipped over the end, making it easier to carry. Tom thought he recognized it, and had it confirmed a moment later by Dieters brisk explanation.

“This is a hand and forearm exerciser. Get used to carrying it with you and using it whenever you have a free moment. A strong grip is one of the most important weapons of the karateka. You should also start a physical fitness and weight training program, you need to lose all of that fat that I can see around your belly. See Holly about that, physical fitness is her specialty. And if what you tell us about your power is true, you should increase your muscle mass as much as possible, which will also increase the amount of weight you can carry. I would also suggest that on your own you practice flying and maneuvering while carrying various heavy objects, to develop skill. Are there any questions?”

Tom blinked, surprised by the briskness in Dieter’s tone, but decided to match it. “Yeah,” he answered, and then abruptly turned and strode to the center of the gymnasium floor. He stopped at center court and picked up Dieters’ cane, which still lay where he had thrown it. He turned back to Dieter and held it up, asked, “Can I keep this?”

Dieter blinked, surprised despite himself, but then nodded. Tom lowered the cane and said, “Good. Then I’ll see you tomorrow night.” He turned to Holly, and his voice changed, softening. “And you? Will you be here too?”

Holly grinned, and Tom felt his breath catch at the way her whole being seemed to light up. “Why do you even ask? Wild horses couldn’t keep me away.” Under the mask, Tom felt his own smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Okay then, I’ll see you guys tomorrow.” And with that Tom turned, and started walking towards the still open window that he had entered the gymnasium through. Rising, his feet leaving the ground smoothly, walking becoming flight so seamlessly it was impossible to tell when one became the other. Behind him he heard a commotion, but he never looked back, and in an instant he was at the open window, and slipping through to the outside world.

*****

When the flying man started to rise from the floor Holly found herself impulsively running after him, only to be brought up short by her fathers’ iron grip on her arm. “Poppa!” she cried, but stopped struggling at the look in his eyes. She turned back to their strange visitor but saw that it was too late, as he disappeared out of one of the windows near the ceiling. She felt a pain in her chest, like a cold hand that had wrapped itself around her heart. For a moment she felt panic at the near certainty that she would never see him again, which turned to resentment at her father for restraining her. She jerked her arm from his grip and turned her angry gaze on him, but he cut her off before she could begin.

“Hilda, let him go. We will see him again tomorrow, but for now, we have all had enough excitement for one day. Help me lock up and we will go home, the books will wait for another time. Tonight, you and I have much to talk about.”

Holly stared at her father for a while longer, then dropped her eyes and nodded. As they turned toward the door at the end of the gymnasium, Dieter put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her to his side. Holly leaned into the hug, letting herself sink into the warm and familiar strength of her fathers’ embrace. She let go of any temporary resentment she had held against him, waiting for the familiar words.

“Ich lebe dich, Hilda.”

“Ich liebe dich altzu, Poppa.”

But as they paused at the doorway for Dieter to turn out the lights she turned, to look one last time at a window high on the gymnasium wall.

*****

Tom lifted into the night sky over San Francisco, feeling the cool wind rush by him. Higher and higher he rose, going for height over distance, finally leveling out when the altimeter on his projected display read ‘2,000 ft’. He hovered there, looking out over the city, watching its colored lights spread out before him like jewels on a black velvet blanket. He scanned the panorama below for a while, letting its beauty calm him, and then he spoke.

“Murray, that friend of yours is a real pain in the ass.”

“Hey, I’ve had people tell me the same about you. Most recently, your own brother.”

Tom snorted, but he wasn’t about to be distracted from the subject. “Dammit, Murray, ever since I opened my mouth, he and I were in a pissing contest! Now what the hell was that all about? Does he want to help me or not?”

“Hey, calm down, Dieter’s okay. I don’t know for sure, but my guess is he’s not doing it intentionally. I think it’s just that he’s been the toughest guy in the house for years, but then you come along and save his ass using a gimmick, and you had to do it in front of Holly, too. I think his ego is hurting, and subconsciously at least he resents you for it. But I know Dieter, he’s a consummate professional, and like I said I don’t think he’s doing it on purpose.”

Tom snorted in disgust. “So what are you saying, that he would have preferred it if I let him handle all those guys on his own? Would he be happier if both him and Holly were cooling off in a morgue right now?”

“Don’t be an ass, Blackwood. I never said testosterone was logical. Dieter is a fair man, he’ll realize what he’s doing and why, and he’ll tone it down soon, probably by tomorrow. And I bet you he’s getting reamed out by Holly even as we speak, so he’s probably feeling real sorry right about now. Just give it a little time, Flyboy.”

Tom just grunted noncommittally, but found he agreed with Murray. Maybe it was just that whole alpha male crap. Yeah, he could see it. Dieter spends his whole life learning the martial arts, and then gets shown up by some guy in a mask who ‘moves like a hippopotamus on roller skates’. A younger guy, who couldn’t throw a punch to save his life. That probably would be enough to raise a little resentment, especially in such a proud man as the German.

Tom sighed. “Okay, Pablo, we’ll try it your way. But I’m not taking anymore crap from this guy! You got that?”

“Loud and clear, Tom. Don’t worry, Holly will be there tomorrow. Dieter will behave himself with her around. Hey, that reminds me.”

Tom yelped, corkscrewing in the air, as a three second burst of piercing feedback knifed through his ear. He clawed at the tiny speaker under his mask, cursing, but stopped short of pulling the whole outfit off. The rushing air told him he that had begun to fall, which he quickly corrected, catching his breath two hundred feet closer to the ground then where he had been earlier.

“Jesus Christ, Murray, what the hell was that?!!” he snapped, rubbing at his still ringing ear. He had trouble hearing the small mans’ reply, but didn’t even consider asking him to turn up the volume.

“That, you stupid punk, is for bringing Holly into this. You were supposed to make sure she never saw you tonight, just Dieter. I aughta crank this thing up and turn that pea sized brain of yours into oatmeal!”

“Dammit Murray, I watched that place for three nights before I made my move. Even Dieter didn’t know she was coming, it was supposed to be a surprise, remember? And you know her even better than I do, once she saw me there was no way in hell we could keep her out of it.”

“Alright, but you’re still a punk. And keep your hands off of Holly, you hear me? Remember, I was at the other end of this camera, I could tell by the way it kept dipping all the time that you were checking her out. Plus you were hitting on her all night. She’s just a kid, so back off, palley. If Dieter doesn’t hand you your head, I will.”

“Christ, Murray, who taught you you’re slang, Dean Martin? First off, ‘palley’, Holly is twenty-five, and that’s not a kid by any stretch of the word. And yeah, I was looking, with that body it’d be impossible not too. But I was not hitting on her, if anything she was hitting on me. And besides, anything that happens between Holly and me is none of yours or Dieters’ business, anyway!”

“The hell it’s not! You just try expressing that to Dieter, and see how much he agrees with it. And Holly’s a romantic, which is worse than being a kid. To her you’re Zorro with a jet pack, the masked superhero who drops out of the sky and saves her life, and then comes to her for help in his little crusade to save the world. That’s as romantic as it gets, Tom, she can’t help but fall in love with that image.

“But it’s only the image she loves. She doesn’t even know who you really are. You’re playing her with the mask, and it’s just not fair to her, and you know it.”

Tom was quite for a long time, fuming. But in the end he had to admit that there was at least some truth in what his friend had just said. He gazed down at the city again, watching the glittering lights, in his mind matching their shine against those in a pair of eyes that were the color of deep ocean water. Finally he sighed, and spoke to his friend.

“Alright, Murray. I’m not saying I agree with you, but I’m not going to argue about it anymore. I’ll stay away from Holly, as much as I can. At the very least, I can promise not to encourage her if she shows any more interest. Fair enough?”

“That’s all I ask, buddy. Hey, c’mon. You’ve still got some work to do tonight. Here’s the map.”

With a sigh Tom focused his attention to the display on his goggles, orienting himself to the GPS display that Murray was transmitting. He lined up on the arrow that pointed to his destination and willed his body to move, gripping the cane as he flew through the night. Murray was right, he did have another job to do tonight.

He still had to break into a police station.

*****

There were four Slam Man dummies at the Reisbach dojo, standing at the back of the gymnasium like a row of monstrous alien soldiers. They were six-foot tall, armless and legless torsos, mounted on a pedestal filled with sand, and made of dark blue and turquoise polyetheline rubber. Thick red plastic lenses sat in deeply reset square holes all over their ‘chests’ and ‘bellies’, and in three larger holes that replaced the eyes and mouth. A control panel in the monsters’ back allowed the operator to program lights to go off behind the lenses in one of several different patterns, giving the operator a target to aim his punches at. The lights went off when they were struck, with different programmable levels of striking intensity. They were the ultimate in hi-tech modern sparring equipment, and Dieter Reisbach believed in them so strongly that he had equipped all of his dojos with them.

Tom was beginning to hate the damned things.

He stood before the foremost sparring dummy without his hooded jacket, long sleeved shirt or bandoleer, wearing a white t-shirt and the hunting mask. The goggles too were missing, and hot salty sweat was beaded around his eyes, where the fabric of the mask hadn’t absorbed it. Sweat also pasted the t-shirt to his heaving chest, and dripped down his quivering arms to the six-ounce boxing gloves that hung at the ends of his hands like ten-pound weights. He was exhausted, his muscles burned and his body ached so bad he had to fight to keep from throwing up.

And the damned space alien in front of him just kept staring impassively, its red lights blinking in silent mockery.

“Your punches are becoming erratic, Mr. Dark, they have to be smooth, and sharp. There should be a snap in your wrist, just before they land. You are also too slow when reacting to the pattern. Holly, what is his problem?” asked Dieter, who stood to one side and slightly behind Tom. His daughter, who stood on Tom’s other side, promptly answered back.

“He’s thinking too much, Poppa.”

“That is right, Mr. Dark, you are thinking too much. In fact, you have to strive not to think at all. Try and let your mind step back, and let your reflexes take control. Your body is the result of millions of years of evolution. If you allow it to it will make all the necessary decisions for you, much faster than you can do so yourself.

“Remember, Mr. Dark. When a true karateka fights, his mind achieves a level where there is no thought, no emotion, only calculation. Here, let me demonstrate.”

Tom stepped back from the practice dummy, grateful for the reprieve. He stood there, drawing huge lungfuls of air, listening to the trip hammer beat of his heart as he watched the big German don his own set of boxing gloves. Holly helped her father lace and tie the gloves, just as she had done for Tom thirty minutes earlier. When she was done Dieter pounded his gloved hands together twice, quick and hard, making sharp slapping sounds that Tom was sure were deliberately louder than necessary. It made an impressive noise. Tom made a mental note to remember the move, the next time Holly laced up his gloves.

Dieter shadowboxed for a couple of minutes while Holly stepped behind the dummy, where she adjusted the settings on the controls. She nodded to her father and then moved back. Moving over to Tom’s side, as the red lights on the Slam Man began to blink. Dieter stepped up to his mechanical opponent, his hands before his face, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. His body swayed back and forth in small, tight circles, hypnotically, in a manor that reminded Tom of a cobra preparing to strike.

Suddenly Dieter’s hands moved, his fists striking the dummy, pummeling it, a flurry of quick and vicious jabs that followed the random pattern of the flashing red lights. Tom watched, mesmerized, as Holly began a practiced commentary on her father’s actions.

“The Slam Man has three level settings; Beginner, Intermediate, and Expert. It has five programmable patterns for each level, including a random patter. There are also different intensity levels. The Slam Man can sense how hard you hit it, and if the hit isn’t hard enough the red light won’t go off. Right now Poppa has it on the Expert/Random/Hi Intensity level. Each one of Poppa’s punches is easily strong enough to break an inch thick pine board. And do you see what he meant about making each blow sharp, and clean? Do you see how he snaps them, just before he hits?”

Tom nodded, not trusting his voice to answer. Clean and sharp? Christ, I can barely see the damned things! His hands are a blur. If the would-be superhero had thought the glove slapping from before sounded impressive, he revised that opinion now. Each blow landed against the blue hide of the practice dummy with a sharp THUD, accompanied by a short, explosive grunt from Dieter. A thin sheen of perspiration began to glow on his skin, but he never stopped, never slowed down. He just kept striking, again and again, each blow causing the heavily weighted dummy to jump and wobble. Dieter had become a machine, implacable, a dual piston engine for pounding flesh. Tom felt an uncomfortable swelling in his throat, that he only partially succeeded in swallowing.

Finally Dieter dropped his arms and stepped back from the dummy, and allowed Holly to pull the gloves from his hands. She handed him a towel, which he used to wipe the beaded sweat from his face. Other than a slight increase in his breathing, the big man seemed totally unaffected by his incredible display.

“You will have to work on three areas, my friend. Your speed, your form, and your power, although the last can probably wait on the other two. You must also work on your mind, on getting it to the place that I spoke of. Remember how I described it; no thought, no emotion, only calculation. Only when you have learned how to reach that level, will you also be able to reach a higher level of performance. The two are synonymous.

“Once you have mastered the basics, we shall try adapting old forms into a new martial art, one designed around your special abilities. I suspect that we will make rapid progress in that area, as your instinctive control of your power seems to be extraordinary.

“At the same time, we shall also be learning the use of hand weapons. As you have made the decision not to use deadly force for any reason, that shall limit our choices to non-edged, non-projectile implements. Fortunately, we have quite a wide variety of those here at our dojo.

“But I think that is quite enough for our first night, Mr. Dark. We shall expect to see you again tomorrow at the same time. Before we go, are there any questions?”

Tom thought a moment before answering, remembered something his brother had brought up when he had first proposed contacting Dieter for his training. The three of them had been sitting around Murray’s workshop, brainstorming about what fighting techniques they could use in Tom’s new career as a superhero, when Mike had added a cautionary note.

“Tom, you have to realize something if you’re going to go around hitting people. In the movies and on TV, the actors get hit on the head and knocked out all the time. A few hours later they blink, they groan, and then they get up and the movie goes on like nothing big happened. And the next week they do the same thing all over again.

“But the truth is, when you get knocked unconscious you usually get a concussion, and those are serious business, chum. People die from them, and even if they don’t, they can still suffer brain damage or even have a stroke. And no matter what, they do not get up an hour later and go another ten rounds with the bad guys. They’re usually in bed for at least a day, and it might be several days before they can get around without headaches or dizzy spells. Believe me, I know about this stuff, I married an ER nurse.

“So what I’m saying is, you can’t just go around hitting people on the head, bro. Sooner or later you’re gonna kill someone, and that kind of puts the lie to this ‘no deadly force’ rule, doesn’t it?”

It was with that in mind that Tom now asked Dieter his question. “Yeah, I’ve got a question. Is there anyway to knock somebody unconscious without really hurting them? I don’t mean pain, I mean without causing serious injuries, like a concussion, or brain damage.”

Dieter nodded, considering. “That is a very good question, Mr. Dark. And the answer is, no. There is no way that you can render someone unconscious from a blow without some risk of permanent damage. But then, the same is also true of almost any blow to the human body. It is all a matter of degree, really. And luck. You can throw a thousand punches in anger and never cause any more serious damage than bruises or broken bones. And then the one thousand and first blow, identical to the others, may stop a man’s heart for no apparent reason. And the danger is even greater for any blow to the head. In combat, my friend, there are no guarantees.

“However, there is one fairly safe way to render an opponent temporarily unconscious. Do you know which one I am talking about, Holly?”

“Brow strike?” his daughter answered.

“Correct. Please demonstrate an open palm strike to the brow for our Mr. Dark.”

Holly turned to Tom and smiled, and underneath his mask Tom returned it nervously. The suspicion that he was being set up was just beginning to jell when Holly took a step towards him—and lunged.

Like the father who had taught her Holly Reisbach was fast, incredibly fast. But whereas his speed reminded people of a striking snake, hers was more like the speed of a great cat, sinuous and graceful, her whole body moving in a whirling blur. He flinched as her hand shot blindingly fast towards his face, only to feel the lightest of taps on his forehead, a bare inch above his eyes.

Tom took an involuntary step backwards, but Holly used her momentum to follow. She took two steps to his one until her body was pressed up against his, her shoulders thrown back and her large, soft breasts flattened against his chest. Startled, Tom looked down, only to find himself staring into Holly’s eyes. She was smiling mischievously at him, and the unbidden thought flashed through his mind that she was totally adorable when she did that.

“Mr. Dark!”

The snap of Dieter’s voice made Tom jump like an electric shock, as he hurriedly stepped back from the big German’s daughter. He felt his face turning red underneath the black mask, and was suddenly very grateful for its concealment, but he was even more grateful when he noticed that Dieter seemed more annoyed with Holly than with him. He scowled darkly at her, but she blithely ignored it, as daughters have done for thousands of years.

“Holly,” Dieter said slowly, carefully enunciating every word. “Please demonstrate the brow strike to Mr. Dark again, slowly, and with a minimum of contact. If you please?”

Holly stepped forward, the smile gone from her face, a serious expression in its place. In slow motion she seemed to flow, her right hand moving towards his face, palm forward and fingers bent, as if she was trying to push him instead of strike at him. Slowly but with the grace of a well practiced move, her palm met the same spot on his forehead as before, pushed his head back approximately one inch, and then just as gracefully she withdrew it, drawing it back to her side. As she performed the almost dance like move, her father provided a running commentary.

“Any strike to the head should be done with either the palm, the forearm, or the knife edge of the hand. A knuckle strike to hard bone risks a broken hand. The brow strike is also a jab, a snapping blow with no follow through. When done correctly, the opponents’ neck will act as a shock absorber, preventing too much force from the impact from being transferred to the skull. It is a basically very safe blow, with little danger of concussion or brain damage, but it should still only be used only if no safer method is available.

“The brow strike will result in approximately thirty seconds of unconsciousness, followed by a varied period of disorientation. This is true unconsciousness, not simple being stunned, wherein the opponent can still see or hear. A stunned opponent can also recover much more quickly, and return to the fight.

“Now, Mr. Dark. Please step up to the practice dummy and assume the position Holly just demonstrated.”

For the next half hour Dieter had Tom practice the move over and over, from every conceivable angle and condition they could arrange. He approached the target from straight on, from the side, from in close, and from far away. He struck while walking, running, and even jumping past the target. He traded off hands, using first his right and then his left, and when he seemed to have the technique down pat Dieter placed his own hand palm outward over the dummy’s forehead for Tom to hit, to make sure his student was striking with just the right amount of force.

It was a grueling workout, and at the end of the half hour when Dieter finally called a stop Tom was once more dripping with sweat and panting with exertion. Dieter looked him over, nodding in approval, if not at his progress than at the amount of effort he had put into it. Not that he would say so, of course.

“I think that should really be enough for tonight. Holly, there is a box of practice weapons on my desk, will you go please get them for me? Thank you.” When Holly had left, her father turned to Tom with one last bit of advice. “You should familiarize yourself with weapons such as the ones Holly is bringing on your own, Mr. Dark. Practice with the, get to know their feel, make them a part of yourself. You should purchase some of your own, practice with them on your own time. These, I believe, will be of much more immediate use to you in your new profession.”

Tom nodded, still breathing hard through the mask. “Okay, Coach,” he replied.

Dieter’s face froze, and before the first hint of alarm could crawl its way up Tom’s back the big German martial artist had dropped to the ground, his right leg sweeping out at blurring speed. Tom felt that leg strike both of his own just above the ankles, kicking his feet out from under him and dropping him hard on his back. Caught totally by surprise he had no chance to levitate, or do more than yelp before his shoulders slammed into the matt and the breath left his body in an agonized whoosh. He blinked to find Dieter standing over him, looking as tall as a building and just as cold. He placed one foot on Tom’s chest, pressing just hard enough to keep the downed man gasping for air. His words were cold, as he addressed his newest student.

“In my school, Mr. Dark, the students earn the right to address their teachers informally. Until the time comes when you can stand where I am now standing, I am sensei, or Mr. Reisbach. And by the looks of your performance tonight, you will address me as such for a very, very long time. Is that clear, Mr. Dark?”

His agonized chest heaving futilely against the pressure of Dieter’s foot, Tom could only nod helplessly in acquiescence. For several more seconds Dieter stared coldly down at him, then nodded curtly, stepping back from the downed man in the mask. Desperately Tom drew in huge gulps of the sweet, sweet air, oxygen burning away the blackness that had formed at the edge of his vision. Humiliation also burned in him, rage at the betrayal he had just suffered from a man whose life he had saved, a man he had begun to really like. The rage forged a need in him, a primal one, almost as great as the need to breath. Strength began its slow return to his limbs, and along with it the urge to do something seriously violent to that goddamned kraut.

Dieter looked down at the masked man he knew only as Mr. Dark and felt a profound disappointment. Establishing primacy was one of the most basic principals in a dojo, and he knew from experience that it was best done early in the initial training cycle. A fighter had to respect his trainer, even fear him, in order to give himself up fully to his teacher’s will. If the primacy was not established, he knew, the natural competitive natures of two fighting males would cause nothing but strife, and make instructing the student an uphill battle. Thus had he established his dominance over hundreds of clients in the past twenty years, making them better students and, to his surety, much better fighters in the long run.

The disappointment Dieter felt, however, came not from his own actions but from those of Mr. Dark, or more accurately, from his lack of action. The best students, the ones with the true fighting spirit, were never cowed so easily. They always fought back, always tried to jump or kick or somehow strike back at Dieter, to regain their lost dignity at any cost. And of course Dieter would strike them down again, as many times as necessary, until they inevitably surrendered. They never angered him, those who fought back. On the contrary, their defiance pleased him as a sign of their worthiness. In his mind they had what was the most essential characteristic of the true fighter. Which therefore explained his disappointment.

Dieter turned his back on the downed man and proceeded unhurriedly to the edge of the mats. He knew from his body language that Dark would not try to assault him, as all the best of his fighters had always done. If he had intended to fight he would have had to gather himself, tensed his muscles, gotten his legs under his body. He had done none of these, had instead lain there like a sack, empty, defeated. This man who wanted to be a warrior, a hero, did not possess the true fighters spirit. He could fly, which gave him such an incredible advantage in a fight, but in the end it would not be enough. Someday the odds would be greater than the advantage, and he would have nothing else to draw on. And then he would die.

Dieter sighed, saddened beyond words. Such a waste, such—

He could fly!

Realizing his mistake came too late, which Dieter saw as he whirled around, trying frantically to backpedal before the human buzz saw that now threatened him. The masked man no longer lay on the ground but hovered over it, a foot above the gray practice mats, his body rigid and his clenched fists crossed tightly over his chest. He spun, pin wheeling like the needle of a compass, drifting rapidly in the direction of the stumbling dojo master.

Dieter tried desperately to retreat but it was no use. The booted feet of the masked man slammed into his legs inches below the knees, knocking his feet out from under him with tremendous force. There was a strange sense of deja vu as Dieter suddenly found himself in the exact same position as his newest student had been in minutes ago, briefly hovering in mid air, and then smashing to the ground with a sickening thud. Dieter felt the breath violently leave his body and desperately tried to bring it back, to get to his feet, to meet the attack he knew was coming. But that also was too late, he saw, for the masked man was already above him. Briefly hovering at the six foot level, and then hurtling down to smack across his teachers chest with another thickening thud, knocking the last of Dieter’s ability to resist clean away.

For long seconds Dieter’s world went black, punctuated by flashing stars of red light. The only thing he felt was pain; the only sound he heard was a roaring in his ears. Gradually his sight cleared, and Dieter found himself staring up at the ceiling of the old gymnasium. But before he could move the view was eclipsed, a dark shadow that brought with it a sense of pressure on his already aching chest. Dieter blinked again, bringing his eyes gradually into focus, to find himself staring into the gray eyes of his newest student.

The flying man was squatting on Dieter’s chest. Like a cat he crouched, and weighing about the same. The sobering thought occurred to the German that with but a single thought, the masked figure above him could return his weight to normal, and his two hundred plus pounds would crush Dieter’s rib cage like kindling wood. And he would be totally helpless to prevent it. As he fought for breath, Dieter decided it would be most prudent for him to remain very, very still.

Tom spoke, his level voice echoing in the open space of the gym.

“Time sure does fly, doesn’t it, Coach?” he said.

A full-bellied whoop of female laughter snapped their heads around to the side door, where Holly Reisbach leaned against the wall, holding her stomach and laughing at the other two. At her feet was a cardboard box, the wooden handles of many instruments protruding over the edge. The masked man stood up and stepped off of Dieter’s chest, his attention now directed to the German’s daughter. The man’s distraction could have given Dieter an opening to strike back, but he knew that in his condition the results would have been even more laughable than they already were. Instead Dieter lay on his back and looked at the ceiling, rolling his eyes and letting out a soft groan. Gott, what had he gotten himself into?