Carrie Vaughn - Steel

To my family

En garde

Retreat

Disengage

Foible

Flche

Remise

Redoublement

Allez

Attack

Recover

Coup

Beat

Pass

Stop thrust

Forte

Touch

J ill shook her legs out one at a time. Rolled her shoulders. Loosened up. Rearranged her hold on her weapon once again, curling gloved fingers around the grip. It nestled into her hand like it had been molded there, the pe blade becoming an extension of her arm.

Across from her, on a long, five-foot-wide strip of combat, stood her opponent, a tall, powerful-limbed girl in a bleach-white fencing jacket who seemed more like a linebacker than a fencer. Her face was a shadow behind the mesh of her mask. Jill bounced in place, flicking her pe so it whipped against the air, as if she couldnt wait to start.

The score was tied. This was the last point. The air seemed to have gone out of the room, a cavernous gymnasium where two dozen fencing strips had held competitors fighting and winning and losing all day. Only a few fencers remained now. The winner of this bout would get third place for the tournament. Bronze medal. The loser, fourth place, and nothing else. A pat on the back. And Jill needed this win to qualify for the Junior World Fencing Championships. This was her last chance.

Let it all go, Jill told herself. It was just another tournament, one of hundreds shed fenced in. Let her muscles do what they knew how to do. Remember why she loved this: With a few flicks of her sword she would outwit her enemy, and even through the mesh of the mask, Jill would see the startled look on the girls shadowed face when she scored a touch on her.

The official glanced between them, judging their readiness. En garde.

Let it go, do your job.

Allez!

pes raised, they approached, step by careful step. Jill knew her opponent, a girl from Texas, was cautious, but when she finally committed herself shed be strong. Shed plow Jill over if she could, sending her into a panic, and score the point before anyone could blink. So Jill wanted to strike first, before her opponent had a chance to gather herself.

Arm outstretched, Jill feinted high, wagging her blade up in a move that looked like it would strike her opponents mask, her footwork carrying her too fast to back out of the commitment. As she hoped, the Texas girl lifted her sword to parry, exposing her legs and the lower half of her torsoall targets waiting for a good, clean hit.

But the parry itself was a feint, and the Texan was ready for her. When Jill circled her blade to avoid the parry, the other blade circled with her, blocking her intended target, knocking her out of the wayleaving Jill exposed. Quicklynow she was the one in a panicshe scrambled back in a retreat and yanked her blade up to parry.

Steel struck steel, moving too fast for Jill to feel it much. Her hand was already turning the sword to its next motion, to counter the Texans concerted attack.

Jill pulled it together. Kept her focus on the job at hand.

Her mind seemed to fade as her body moved by instinct, and it felt wonderful. Her motions flowed, her steps were easyshe could almost see where the Texas girls pe prepared to strike. Then, she saw her opening. Her opponent kept attacking low, trying to sneak under Jills defense. All Jill had to do was use that pattern against her. Wait for the next low attack, sweep up, strike home as the Texans sword was also extending toward her

A buzzer rang, the signal from the electronic scoring box.

Buttons on the tips of the pes recorded hits. Signals traveled from the button along a wire nested in the blade to the back of the guard, then through cords laced up the sleeve and out behind the jacket to plug into the scoring box. Often, the movements happened so quickly, the touches from the other sword were so light you couldnt feel them. The lights on the box told the truth.

Jill had hit the Texan, she knew she had, right on her breastbone. Shed felt the pressure through her hand and arm. But her opponents sword had slipped inside her defenses as well. Jill looked at the lightsher opponents red light buzzed brightly. Jills light should have been greenbut it was dark. She had hit a fraction of a second after her opponent had killed her. Her point didnt count.

Last touch and the bout went to the other fighter. The referee called it. There was cheering.

Jill stood dazed a moment, breathing hard, still locked in the fight, her muscles lost in instinct, waiting for the next attack to come. The Texan pulled off her mask and tucked it under her arm. She had a round face with strong eyebrows, dark eyes, and black hair tied in a long braid. She didnt look pleased that shed wonno smiles, no flush of victory. No, she looked smug. Like she hadnt expected any other outcome.

Slowly, Jill took off her own mask, shook out her short, dark hair, turned her sword away, and stepped forward to take the winners hand. She had to be polite. Had to be a good sport.

Her fingers fumbled, trying to unplug her body cord from the socket behind her.

Coach Martin, a honey-haired thirtysomething woman whod fenced in the Olympics back in the day, took the plug away from her and detached it. Smiling, she patted Jill on the shoulder. Jill still didnt feel anything.

It was a good bout. You did fine, Coach Martin said.

All Jill could think was, half a second too slow. That was all it took.

Habit more than anything guided Jill through putting her gear away: Wipe down her weapons, roll up her body cords, track down her gloves, fold up her jacket and white knickers, and put them along with her mask and the rest in her bag. In the locker room, she showered, though for not as long as shed have liked because there wasnt any hot water left. She dried her hair without looking in the mirror. The bout with the Texan had been the last of the day, and Jill had dawdledwhich meant she had the locker room to herself. She didnt have to face anyone and try to smile like a good sport.

When she came out of the locker room, she looked like a normal kid again, in loafers, jeans, and a sweater, bag over her shoulder, scuffing her feet as she walked. Her secret identityJill the amazing swordswomanwas packed safely away. After today she wasnt sure her secret identity was all that amazing. She was just another kid fencer who wasnt going to the championships.

Just like the locker room, the lobby of the arena had cleared out. A few volunteers and officials were taking down signs, but the competitors, coaches, and families had all gone. Only Jills entourage remained, waiting for her: Coach Martin, along with her parents. The coach said something to the couple, then stepped forward to meet Jill, who must have looked particularly dejected, because Martin put her arm around her shoulders.

Jill, you did fine out there. You did great. The competition was tough. Really tough.

Standard pep talk. Sometimes it made Jill feel better; this one just sounded like platitudes. I wasnt good enough to qualify.

You can try again next year, said Coach Martin. And in a couple of years you can try for the Olympics. Youre good enough for that. Youre one of the best peists in the world for your age group.

But when it counted, when it all came down to one touch, Jill had been half a second too slow. How close had it been, really? What if she missed qualifying for the Olympics by half a second? Shed come in fourth in a national tournament. She ought to be celebrating, but she felt like shed been hollowed out.

Well, how about it? Ready to take on the Olympics?

I dont know, Jill said. She wasnt thinking much beyond the next five minutes and getting back home.

Martin patted her shoulder and turned to walk with her to her parents. Come on, kid. This wasnt your day, but the next day will be.