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Shan seemed troubled when he walked into the standard-gravity gym, shutting the door carefully. This in itself was startling to Senior Steward Schaeffer, as most of the time he couldn’t read the Chinese giant at all.
He became genuinely concerned when the big man changed into a pristine black kung fu gi, or whatever the outfit was called. Schaeffer’s background was all in the Japanese styles. He’d never seen Shan wear anything like that, nor even work out or spar with the other stewards. Perhaps he trained alone.
“Interesting look,” the redhead remarked as the Chinese stepped onto the mat and dropped into a stretching squat.
Shan ignored the comment, but the furrow in his brow did not go away.
“Something bothering you?” Schaeffer caught the eye of his fellow American steward, John Clayton, jerking his head imperceptibly.
He drifted over.
“Yes,” Shan replied, standing up straight, “but a demonstration is in order before I tell you.” He bowed formally to Schaeffer, put closed fist to palm in front of him, and then took up a relaxed sparring stance.
“Demonstration?” The American clapped palms to thighs and bowed, then settled low, weight balanced.
“Yes. I want you to kill me, if you can. If not, I will kill you.”
“Holy shit,” Clayton exclaimed from behind, reflexively extending his ferrocrystal claws. As full cyborgs, all stewards possessed a wide range of upgrades, beginning with close combat blades. Droplets of blood fell as the short knives extended from his fingertips. In moments he had healed, and stood crouching, ready to fight.
I knew it all along, Schaeffer thought as he unsheathed his own blades. He transmitted the red alert code over his internal radio, summoning the third steward and some Marine backup to pull his nuts out of the fire. As he glanced toward the door, his telescopic right eye could see the lock turned shut. That would slow down any response.
Shan nodded, as if he knew what Schaeffer had done, then he glided forward with a quick leg sweep. The American lifted his knee just in time for his opponent’s foot to rise too fast, slamming into his solar plexus. He felt his laminated bones flex and groan, sensed his breath driven from his body and his internal oxygen kick in.
And then his lungs spasmed, in shock.
His cybernetic systems would dribble O2 into his bloodstream through an osmotic backup, enough to keep him alive, even conscious, but without his organic lungs his combat capability just dropped by half. With one blow he had been knocked out of the fight.
Schaeffer felt himself bounce off the back wall and slide to the floor onto his side. He tried to get to his feet while watching for Shan’s next attack, but the Chinese ignored him and turned toward Clayton.
Intense concentration showed on the other American’s face as he slid around to his left, throwing stiff-fingered jabs at the other man while circling toward Schaeffer. “Don’t –” he croaked, but did not finish the sentence before Shan took a deep, well-timed step between Clayton’s strikes and punched him in the chest. With his deceptively long reach, the combined power of his human nano-augmented muscles and his cybernetics knocked the other man across the room.
Following up swiftly, Shan grabbed the fallen American by his elbows and pinned the man’s arms behind him, lifting him off the ground like a small child. Holding him that way with one huge paw, he took a standard high-tensile zip-tie restrainer from a pocket and slapped it onto Clayton’s forearms, and then carried him across the room to drop him next to Schaeffer.
Then he squatted down to look his fellow stewards in the eyes, saying nothing.
“Better kill us now,” Schaeffer gasped, “because as soon as the reaction team shows up they’ll fry you. They won’t come unarmed.” His lung spasms began to relax, which meant they would start working again soon, he hoped.
“I do not intend to kill you.”
“But...”
“I just wanted you to defend yourself as well as you could, holding nothing back.” Shan held out his hand to Schaeffer.
The American took it, and Shan lifted him to his feet. “Why?” he managed to say.
“I wanted to demonstrate that I could have beaten you, even all three of you, at any time. If I had any nefarious intentions, you would not have been able to stop me. Steward Clayton,” Shan turned to the restrained man now glaring up at him from the floor, “I will be happy to release you if you can control yourself.”
“Yeah. All right.” Clayton did not look controlled.
At that moment the gym door burst open and armed Marines stormed in with weapons ready. Shan made no move, and Schaeffer transmitted instructions subvocally over his internal radio. “Stand down. False alarm. Steward business.” He shot a look at Steward Greco, who slapped the Marine in charge on his armored shoulder to get his attention, pointing back toward the door in emphasis.
Reluctantly, the troops withdrew.
Greco himself hefted a PW20 in one hand, an EMP cannon in the other. The first would hardly bother Shan, but the latter should shut down all of his cybernetics. Schaeffer decided not to give the order to take him down. Shan had spoken the truth. He could have killed them both easily, but now he wanted to talk.
“All right then,” Schaeffer said, controlling his breathing with an effort of will. “What was this all about?”
“Would someone get this restrainer off me please?” Clayton asked from the floor. Schaeffer leaned over to pop the coded release, and the other man got to his feet, rubbing his chest and glowering.
Shan reached into a pocket and withdrew a compact tablet, turning its lit screen to face the others. “Read this, please,” he said with an air of deference.
“Citizen of Earth Declaration...and that pictogram is, what, your name?”
Shan nodded.
“You’re going to join EarthFleet?”
He nodded again.
“Why?”
Shan shrugged a very Western shrug, but said nothing. Schaeffer pursed his lips and thought for a moment, and then answered his own question. “I know why. Huen joined too, right? And you’re his buddy, so off you go.”
“That is as good an explanation as any. Why does this idea bother you?”
“It doesn’t –” But Schaeffer realized Shan was right. It did bother him. Was it because the Chinese had taken the difficult step that he himself had been contemplating, beating him to it? Or was it because this action contradicted his own cherished belief that Shan was up to no good? It could all still be a ploy; nothing said he couldn’t join EarthFleet but still be in the employ of his nation’s masters. If so, it was a very twisted route he followed.
Schaeffer realized he would have to either take a leap of faith about Shan, or hold onto his suspicions and sooner or later he would be replaced, for he had no doubt that the position of Steward was far too sensitive to be filled by any but actual Fleet personnel. Suddenly the thought of going back to the States, back to Earth, seemed like a retreat, a failure, and he realized what he wanted.
“All right. Good on you, Shan. I’m going to do it too.”
“What?” Clayton and Greco said simultaneously, staring at him. “That’s treason,” Clayton continued wonderingly.
“No it’s not,” Schaeffer retorted. “Not unless you think Admiral Absen and every other American joiner is a traitor. There’s nothing treasonous about giving up your citizenship, though it makes me sick to think about it. But it’s the right thing to do. I’m joining EarthFleet.” He held out his hand to Shan. “Bygones?”
“I am unfamiliar with that term,” Shan replied, “but I deduce its meaning. I agree.” He clasped hands with the redheaded American, swallowing the other’s in his massive paw. The Chinese’s eye twitched in a wink. “Now...perhaps I can offer you a job?”
