had led him and Viktor and Nya to a series of religious ceremonies in the bushveld of Zimbabwe, and to events for which he had no explanation.
The
babalawo
, the Juju priest Grey had faced, had toyed with Grey’s mind and left Grey on his knees, broken, in a filthy pit. Had it not been for the brave intervention of a village boy, then Grey, along with two people he cared for very much, Viktor and Nya, would have died.
They lived to tell the tale, but Grey’s worldview had been shaken. His mind, and perhaps his soul, no longer seemed content on that linear humanist highway.
Viktor had provided a convincing alternate explanation for the priest’s disturbing ability to control people. Powers of the mind, Viktor posited. They are real, very real, and they are potent beyond anything which you have ever imagined.
Grey wasn’t so sure.
Grey hadn’t thought about the notion of God with anything except disdain since his mother’s death. Not after sitting at her bedside for six straight months when he was fifteen, holding her hand while she convulsed in pain. Not after watching her refuse medical attention because of her beliefs, and then pray every single second of every goddamned day to a God that didn’t exist or, worse, didn’t care. Not after watching her die in his arms while his father was in the arms of a prostitute down the street.
His father caught Grey crying over her body, a taboo act in Grey’s house. It wasn’t until halfway through the beating that his father realized Grey’s mother wasn’t just sleeping. Grey had let him continue, numb to everything, a part of him shattered that he knew he would never get back.
• • •
Grey took off his boots for the flight. He’d tried for the exit row, but these days that was like waiting for a democracy in North Korea. He guessed Viktor traveled first class, but Grey wasn’t going to put his own comfort on Viktor’s dime.
He’d brought a stack of books on biomedical gerontology. He pored through half the first one, then his eyelids fluttered with sleep. As he reclined he caught a glimpse of what the teenage boy next to him was reading. One of those mixed martial arts magazines. Although Grey loved all things associated with the martial arts, he rolled his eyes at this one. It was harmless, he supposed. There were rules, doctors, public scrutiny.
Not like when he’d done it.
Grey’s father had been a champion boxer and a trained soldier, and he started passing on the family skill when Grey was five. As his father taught, he demanded Grey hit him back, and when Grey complied, his father hit harder. Grey’s mother tried to intervene, and his father hit her as well.
When Grey was ten, after years of base-hopping, his father was assigned to Japan. Believing traditional Japanese karate wasn’t good enough for his underweight and introspective son, his father found Zen-Zekai, one of the most violent and effective forms of the ancient art of Jujitsu. Brutal fighting took place in class on a daily basis.
The theory behind Jujitsu was to use an attacker’s energy against him, rather than oppose it, and to attack the weakest parts of the human body: joints, pressure points, organs, digits, soft tissue. Grey’s coordination, quick hands and sharp mind lent themselves well to the art.
Shihan
, the principal instructor, knew more about pain and suffering than most knew about breathing. And Grey became his star pupil.
Even that wasn’t enough for his father. Grey would never forget the first time his father took him to an underground fight in Tokyo. He was fifteen and scared as hell, even though he was already a black belt in Zen-Zekai. Grey was very talented, he was tough, he’d been in countless street fights with the local thugs. But he’d heard about these underground circuits. They were human cockfights. The men who fought in them were gladiators, seasoned brawlers who fought for the blood and the thrill as much as for the meager winnings.
His
The
babalawo
, the Juju priest Grey had faced, had toyed with Grey’s mind and left Grey on his knees, broken, in a filthy pit. Had it not been for the brave intervention of a village boy, then Grey, along with two people he cared for very much, Viktor and Nya, would have died.
They lived to tell the tale, but Grey’s worldview had been shaken. His mind, and perhaps his soul, no longer seemed content on that linear humanist highway.
Viktor had provided a convincing alternate explanation for the priest’s disturbing ability to control people. Powers of the mind, Viktor posited. They are real, very real, and they are potent beyond anything which you have ever imagined.
Grey wasn’t so sure.
Grey hadn’t thought about the notion of God with anything except disdain since his mother’s death. Not after sitting at her bedside for six straight months when he was fifteen, holding her hand while she convulsed in pain. Not after watching her refuse medical attention because of her beliefs, and then pray every single second of every goddamned day to a God that didn’t exist or, worse, didn’t care. Not after watching her die in his arms while his father was in the arms of a prostitute down the street.
His father caught Grey crying over her body, a taboo act in Grey’s house. It wasn’t until halfway through the beating that his father realized Grey’s mother wasn’t just sleeping. Grey had let him continue, numb to everything, a part of him shattered that he knew he would never get back.
• • •
Grey took off his boots for the flight. He’d tried for the exit row, but these days that was like waiting for a democracy in North Korea. He guessed Viktor traveled first class, but Grey wasn’t going to put his own comfort on Viktor’s dime.
He’d brought a stack of books on biomedical gerontology. He pored through half the first one, then his eyelids fluttered with sleep. As he reclined he caught a glimpse of what the teenage boy next to him was reading. One of those mixed martial arts magazines. Although Grey loved all things associated with the martial arts, he rolled his eyes at this one. It was harmless, he supposed. There were rules, doctors, public scrutiny.
Not like when he’d done it.
Grey’s father had been a champion boxer and a trained soldier, and he started passing on the family skill when Grey was five. As his father taught, he demanded Grey hit him back, and when Grey complied, his father hit harder. Grey’s mother tried to intervene, and his father hit her as well.
When Grey was ten, after years of base-hopping, his father was assigned to Japan. Believing traditional Japanese karate wasn’t good enough for his underweight and introspective son, his father found Zen-Zekai, one of the most violent and effective forms of the ancient art of Jujitsu. Brutal fighting took place in class on a daily basis.
The theory behind Jujitsu was to use an attacker’s energy against him, rather than oppose it, and to attack the weakest parts of the human body: joints, pressure points, organs, digits, soft tissue. Grey’s coordination, quick hands and sharp mind lent themselves well to the art.
Shihan
, the principal instructor, knew more about pain and suffering than most knew about breathing. And Grey became his star pupil.
Even that wasn’t enough for his father. Grey would never forget the first time his father took him to an underground fight in Tokyo. He was fifteen and scared as hell, even though he was already a black belt in Zen-Zekai. Grey was very talented, he was tough, he’d been in countless street fights with the local thugs. But he’d heard about these underground circuits. They were human cockfights. The men who fought in them were gladiators, seasoned brawlers who fought for the blood and the thrill as much as for the meager winnings.
His
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