SUMMARY OF
THE REMAINDER
Slowly, with much intrigue and violence, Jason Striker zeroes in on the dread Black Castle. The ruthless but politically powerful Mirabal has teamed up with the ninjas to monopolize the vast oil deposits located in the Amazon, and so the ninja influence now permeates both the jungle and the government of Brazil. In short, Jason faces a thoroughly formidable complex of enemies. The closer he gets to the Castle, the less his life is worth. Yet he persists.
When he arrives, his memory becomes complete, and he knows at last what has been done to him, and the gigantic treachery that has been fashioned against modern civilization itself. For Fu Antos means to destroy contemporary society and reduce world population to the medieval level, subservient to the ninja castle. This project is well on its way to success. The Black Castle has been built on the site of ancient ruins; there is evidence of alien visitation from space, millennia ago. There are strange things here, and Fu Antos is reconstructing the secret science of these aliens, augmenting his own weird physical and mental powers fantastically.
But Jason arrives just before the arrangements are complete, and now he knows Fu Antos to be his enemy, the one he must destroy. The timing is very bad for Fu Antos, who has been preoccupied with other matters. Yet the ninja master, so young in appearance, has remarkable powers in his own right, and a shrewd four hundred year old mind. The code of the ninjas requires him to meet the man he has wronged in single combat to the death. But it is no ordinary combat. Fu Antos uses his ki to evoke the finest martial artists of all time to oppose Jason. They are mere simulations, but their threat is genuine, for of course behind these images is the highly skilled martial art of the ninjas. Jason must prevail in the most formidable challenge of his career, for these are not his equals but his superiors in combat. Only imagination, savage determination, and his own erratic but powerful ki get him through. Indeed, Jason's ki is one reason Fu Antos wants him dead, because Fu knows its potential.
Balked on this level, Fu Antos pulls out all the stops. He evokes Jason's lost fiancée, the only woman he ever loved in his prior life. She tempts him and lies to him, unmanning him. And in separate but devastating non-physical ways Fu Antos destroys Jason's more recent romantic interests, proving that they also have been deceiving him. For example, Dulce sold herself to Fu Antos. She did it to save Jason, whom she loves, but now it seems like a betrayal. And Susan, who befriended and seduced him during his amnesia, didn't tell him that she is a married woman, merely out for illicit adventure. She likes him, but she was always playing a game with him. They never had any future together, just dalliance that he would never have agreed to, had he known. Faced with these seeming betrayals, there seems to be no point in Jason's competing against this monstrous mentality.
Now, in Jason's stunned confusion, Fu Antos deprives him of his ki and all his black belt skill. He reverts him to Caesar Kane, in effect, and has him completely at his mercy—and there is no mercy in him. But he still must meet Caesar in physical combat; Dulce insists on that, and she does have considerable influence, as she closely resembles the one woman Fu himself loved. Nevertheless the case seems hopeless for Jason. But Fu Antos makes one fatal oversight: he forgets that Jason now has completely separate white belt judo skills, learned during his amnesia in Florida. Even a white belt can be dangerous, especially against an overconfident opponent. Caesar overcomes Fu Antos by surprise. Then the subjugated Indians rise up and destroy the Black Castle and all its secrets.
The curse of the ninja, like the curse of the voodoo god that operates in this area, has been abated—but its scars will remain as long as Jason Striker lives.
AUTHOR'S NOTE
When the authors entered into this Ninja subset of the series, they made it clear to the editor that the series should not be cut off at this point, because there would be no proper conclusion. The editor said there was no problem, because the series was selling well. But then he moved on, and a new editor took over—and it seems the first thing he did was decide that the series was not selling well, and he cut it off. This is typical of the behavior of editors; it's like the new ape male killing the offspring of the old male, so that all the cubs by this female will be his own. In this case there was more to it than that; the new editor had a grudge against Piers Anthony, and bounced everything of his he could reach, not caring about its quality or market potential. That attitude finally caught up with him, and cost him his position, but the damage was done.
Thus this novel was cut off, and never published. Piers Anthony went on to best-sellerdom with Xanth and other fantasies, and Roberto Fuentes went on to became an insurance salesman in Miami. Now, more than a quarter century later, thanks to the Internet and electronic publication, this portion of Curse of the Ninja finally is available for readers.
Elements of the novel were drawn from our own experience, adapted to the need. Jason's gall-bladder surgery derived from Roberto's surgery of the time, except that Roberto's was a good deal more sanitary. The roofing job was from Piers' experience; when the roll of felt struck the ground, his wife thought it was him falling off the roof. The white belt sequences were Piers', and the instructors and other students were real people. For example, Piers was the one who was unable to turn over the white belt girl, even with the help of two brown belts. Piers' daughter Penny was in the class, and played herself in the novel. Susan was from Roberto's side, rather liberally adapted for story purposes; she never came to that Florida class.
There was a lot of research for both of us. Here is an example of a note Piers wrote to Roberto: "You want Manaus in the novel, and I know why. Good place to show. But it is not on the Xingu river, which is where you want the Black Castle. While reading Green Hell [a research text on the area] I narrowed down the likely locations for the Castle to two: up the Xingu, and in the Acre province of Brazil. There are still-wild Indian tribes in each area. But the Xingu has unavigable rapids, so our boat convoy could not have approached the Black Castle as we described [in Amazon Slaughter] unless the Castle was downriver, or on some other river. Question is, is the Amazon/Jurua river navigable? There may be no navigable rivers penetrating into the deep hinterland. But my main reason for preferring the Jurua River is that up here, in Acre, not only are the remaining Indians more numerous and savage, it is also closer to the oil region and to the von Daniken Gold of the Gods region. Daniken says that in Equador, near the Santiage River—which is a tributary of the Maranon, which in turn flows into the amazon—is a system of monstrous squared-off caves that seem to have been fashioned by some ancient alien civilization. Other research indicates that von Daniken must be taken with a shovelful of salt; he never went to some of the places he claimed. So we could conjecture similar tunnels, perhaps interconnecting ones, that Fu Antos has discovered, and he has built the Black Castle over the entrance to this system. Also, our scene with the water flooding, in the last novel—there had to have been a higher source, with a steep incline, for that water to be dammed up and rush down. Near the Andes is best for that. So I argue for Acre." This shows the way we hashed over settings and scenes throughout the series; none of it was careless writing.
The question of the corruption of Judo by the demand for most of tournament money was, unfortunately, a real one, accurately described here. We made an unofficial query about it to the American Judo headquarters, and got a response of exactly the nature described. But those who were being dunned were nervous about making a formal complaint, because justice is not always served by those in charge, as politics demonstrate the world over, and there could be serious consequences for any whistle-blower. We hoped that publication of this novel would help blow the lid off that scandal, but it didn't get published.
We tried various other notions, doing chapter and summary, but none of them were accepted for publication. Accordingly, we are filling out this partial-novel volume with those other projects, in this manner completing our collaborative enterprises. Thus it least will give readers an idea of
what doesn't get published. Editorial whim governs far more than most readers perhaps understand.
The first of these, "Ki" is a short story featuring Hiroshi, the little aikidoist, in the time before the first novel, Kiai!, started. It was published in the June 1974 issue of VERTEX, a science fiction magazine. The second, "Beast of Betelgeuse," was accepted for publication by GALAXY, another science fiction magazine. But then the magazine was sold, a new editor took over, and of course the story was dumped.
KI
Clap two hands, Hiroshi thought, and there is sound. He clapped once, precisely, with two hands. There was sound.
But what is the sound of one hand clapping? He made the motion with one open hand. There was no sound.
But one hand with ki extended...
Was there a ghostly sound?
Hiroshi listened carefully. No, that was not the clap of one hand he heard. It was more distant, more urgent. It was the call of imperative need.
O-Sensei, I go, he said in his mind. He stood, stepping into his wooden sandals at the edge of the tatami. He let the pleats of his black hakama skirt straighten, and walked serenely out of his dojo. His students did not even turn from their exercises, for the ways of their honored teacher were at times inscrutable.
He walked down the narrow street, his sandals making no sound on the cobblestones. The houses were wooden, two and three stories high, gay and clean and individual. Some resembled pagodas, and here and there were small, pretty gardens with dwarf trees and oddly shaped shrubbery. The way was crowded now; the majority of the men and women hurrying by wore kimonos, but perhaps two in five were in the ugly new Western dress. Street vendors hawked their wares with piercing cries, selling fish, shrimp and octopus.
He arrived at the Tokyo airport ten minutes before the great jet was scheduled to take off. Most of the passengers had already boarded. A phenomenally fat man was just emerging from a rest room.
Hiroshi walked down the passage to the door to the airfield.
"Ticket, sir?" the guardian of the gate inquired.
Hiroshi shrugged. "I travel to New York City, in America."
"I know where New York is!" the man said testily. "But you have to have a ticket! And you'll have to take another flight; this one is sold out."
Hiroshi shook his head gently, touching his wispy beard. "This flight is necessary."
"Not without a ticket!"
The huge man came up behind Hiroshi. The man was not actually tall, but he dwarfed the little teacher, who stood just five feet high and weighed one hundred pounds. "Kindly step aside, sir," the ticket-taker said abruptly to Hiroshi. "You are interfering with our last passenger, and the schedule—"
"I regret I can not," Hiroshi said politely but firmly.
"Old man—" the ticket-taker began ominously, not showing the deference due to age. Then a massive arm reached over Hiroshi's shoulder, and a fat hand oily with sweat balked the ticket-taker's action.
"One moment, sir," the last passenger said.
Hiroshi turned to face him. The man's bulk was vast—perhaps three hundred pounds—but he carried himself with power.
He wore a kimono to accommodate his gross musculature, and sturdy sandals on his feet. He was in his middle or late twenties, with long black hair tied in a topknot.
"I am Kiyokuni, sumo wrestler," he said.
"Hiroshi, aikido."
They bowed to each other formally, the large and the small. "I thought I recognized you, O-sensei, but I did not expect to find you in such a place as this," Kiyokuni said. "I have long wished to meet a teacher of your eminence."
"On the contrary," Hiroshi demurred. "It is an honor to address an esteemed young member of the Yokozuna, the very highest league of wrestling. I have admired your career."
"Sir, you must board!" the ticket-taker said urgently to the wrestler. "See, the fuel line has already been taken from the wings of the plane."
They ignored him. "No career compares with yours, greatest of teachers," Kiyokuni said, deeply flattered. "I am bound for Hawaii, to give a sumo exhibition. But I would cancel it instantly to visit with you."
"I regret I must travel to New York," Hiroshi said. "But another time—"
There was the growing sound of the jet motors warming up. "Sir!" the ticket taker cried desperately. "The flight will leave without you!"
"This airplane continues to America," Kiyokuni said. "My ticket is only to Hawaii, but if you would accept it—"
"This is most kind of you," Hiroshi said, accepting it.
"But your exhibition!" the ticket-taker cried over the roar of the engines.
"Let it wait! I will take the next flight!"
Hiroshi presented the ticket-taker with the ticket and went out to board the plane, cutting off further discussion. He found his seat and was strapped in just as the machine began to taxi down the strip.
They were airborne. He peered out of the window, intrigued by the view of the city. The plane circled, gaining altitude, then oriented east and moved out over the ocean.
"This—this is a skyjack!" a nervous voice said.
Hiroshi looked down the aisle. It was a Korean University student, a short chubby swarthy peasant-type in a Mao jacket, holding a Nambu automatic pistol. The gun shook, but it was no less dangerous because of that.
"Tell the pilot to take it to North Korea!" the hijacker said in bad Japanese. The side of his face twitched.
The stewardess, pale but composed, turned. "Wait!" the man cried. He looked about wildly, and his gaze fell on tiny Hiroshi. "You, old man! You're my hostage! If they don't turn the plane, I'll—I'll shoot—stand up here!"
Gravely Hiroshi stood up and sidled past the man on the adjacent seat, a horrified Caucasian tourist. Hiroshi was the least impressive figure of a man on the plane, physically, yet there was an aura of serenity about him that gave him stature. The gunman should have noticed.
"You all see?" the hijacker cried, as though playing to an audience. "I'll shoot—I'll kill this feeble old man! So you just tell the pilot—and don't use the radio! North Korea!"
The stewardess walked slowly toward the pilot's compartment.
The gunman gestured violently to Hiroshi. "Right here in front of me! Closer!"
Hiroshi came to stand facing him, looking very small and frail. He extended his ki, but the student's deathwish was so strong that no control was feasible at the moment. "It would be better not to do this," he said gently.
"Shut up!" The gun jabbed at Hiroshi's chest.
"Innocent people could be hurt," Hiroshi said as though establishing a point of order. "And I regret that I am unable to visit Korea at this time."
"I'll shoot!" the man cried, jabbing again.
So swiftly that no one saw his hand move, Hiroshi placed the fingers of his left hand on top of the pistol, pushing the barrel back. It was a slide-action weapon, and could not be fired in this position. Almost simultaneously his right hand shot forward, fingers stiffly extended. They struck the man's solar plexus with a force few would have believed.
The watching passengers gasped as the hijacker crumpled, unconscious. The pistol was now miraculously in Hiroshi's hand. "I regret the necessity," he said to the others. "Please take this weapon to the pilot for safekeeping, and ask him to resume his scheduled route. We shall have to make this unfortunate youth comfortable."
Someone took the gun, gingerly. Hiroshi squatted to attend to the injured man. He placed his hand on the hijacker's chest and extended his ki. "The pain of dying is more than this," he murmured.
The eyes opened. "Then I don't want to die!"
Hiroshi nodded wisely. "You will remain in Hawaii. I have need of your ticket."
The youth fumbled in his pocket and brought out his ticket. It was to New York. "I—I never really wanted to go to Korea! It was life I hated, and I thought I would get killed. But now even jail seems sweet! Something inside me..." He touched his chest where Hiroshi's hand had rested. "Some strange power—you made me well!"
&n
bsp; "I merely showed the way," Hiroshi said. He returned to his seat as the ex-hijacker got up. There was a kind of glow on the face of each, reflected in the faces of the passengers.
The copilot came down the aisle. "Who broke up the hijack?" he demanded. "There'll be a reward."
People gestured to Hiroshi. "Please see that he is not punished unduly," Hiroshi said. "He needs medical attention, and is sorry for the misunderstanding."
The copilot looked down at him. "So you're the one!" he said, not concealing his surprise. "Well, I can't promise, but I'll try. What's your name?"
Hiroshi handed him his original ticket. "Kiyokuni," the pilot read from the envelope, making a note. "This name will make headlines all over the world, tomorrow!"
But Hiroshi was already entering meditation. I am hanging by my teeth over an abyss, he thought, looking down into the level water far below. He looked, and saw the ocean. "What is Zen?" a seeker inquires. What shall I answer?
But long before he had the answer the smoggy spires of New York, America, appeared. He put aside the problem with infinite patience and stepped down to wintry Kennedy Airport.
"Your passport, sir," an official said in English.
"It is very kind of you to inquire," Hiroshi replied in the same language, and walked on.
The official chased after him, blocking his way. "I must check your passport!"
"I much appreciate the offer," Hiroshi replied with consummate courtesy. "But I shall not put you to this trouble. I possess no passport."
The man's mouth turned dour. "Then you'll go right back where you came from, old-timer!"
Perceiving the man's distress, Hiroshi put a gentle hand on his white wrist. He extended his ki. The officer's belligerent countenance smoothed. Now he was at peace.