I started circling. The magenta bushes offered some cover, and I used it all. Bellamy’s eyes maintained their steady sweep, but they hadn’t found me yet.

Abruptly he slammed the trunk, circled the car to get in.

I was where I wanted to be. My long shadow pointed straight at the car. I charged.

He looked up as I started. He looked straight at me, and then his eyes swept the curve of forest, taking their time. He bent to get into the car, and then he saw me. But his gun hand was in the car, and I was close enough. The dots on his goggles had covered more than CY Aquarii. They’d covered my approach.

My shoulder knocked him spinning away from the car, and I heard a metal tick. He got up fast, empty-handed. No gun. He’d dropped it. I turned to look in the car, fully expecting to find it on the floor or on the seat. It was nowhere to be seen. I looked back in time to duck, and his other hand caught me and knocked me away. I rolled with it and came to my feet.

He was standing in a relaxed boxer stance between me and the car.

“I’m going to break you, Bey.”

“So you can’t find the gun, either.”

“I don’t need it. Any normal ten-year-old could break you in two.”

“Then come on.” I dropped into boxer stance, thanking Finagle that he didn’t know karate or ju-whatsis or any of the other illegal killing methods. Hundreds of years had passed since the usual laws against carrying a concealed weapon were extended to cover special fighting methods, but Bellamy had had hundreds of years to learn. I’d come up lucky.

He came toward me, moving lightly and confidently, a flatlander in prime condition. He must have felt perfectly safe. What could he have to fear from an attenuated weakling, a man born and raised in We Made It’s point six gee? He grinned when he was almost in range, and I hit him in the mouth.

My range was longer than his.

He danced back, and I danced forward and hit him in the nose before he got his guard up. He’d have to get used to the extra reach of my arms. But his guard was up now, and I saw no point in punching his forearms.

“You’re a praying mantis,” he said. “An insect. Overspecialized.” And he moved in.

I moved back, punching lightly, staying out of his reach. He’d have to get used to that, too. His legs were too short. If he tried to move forward as fast as I could backpedal, he wouldn’t be able to keep his guard up.