Raisa hit him before he had decided whether to smile.
Her padded staff came straight for the center of his chest. Iven put his plate into its path, turned his shoulder and let the striking face slide toward the open side. The blow drove through the brace into his legs, real enough that the market’s practice floor answered beneath his boots.
He was smiling by then.
The chalk square gave them twenty paces, open light and no civilian door to defend. He had chosen plate, piston, turbine, pulse damper and flywheel. His old functions sat readily in their paths, the return routing beneath them. No cutting edge, no shot, no hot jet. The padded gear would spread a mistake; it would not make carelessness harmless.
Raisa stepped after her staff.
Iven turned with the pressure, put a short piston shove through his held pad and moved her lead shoulder outside its useful line. She recovered before the shove became a fall. A quick impulse through her feet carried her sideways, landing squarely inside the chalk.
Spring, probably. He watched the actual movement rather than trusting the name in his head.
She came back with two short blows.
