CHAPTER 13 - SABRA
The fight followed her home. It followed her into the shower and then into her bedroom. It stayed there with Sabra as she lay on her back and held her hands before her. She spent a very long time looking at her hands, watching her fingers become fists and back again. Over and over that mantra sounded:
I am because you are.
But better you than me.
The thought repulsed her. Selfless empathy crashed right into selfish necessity, the tension tectonic. Perhaps, the thought went, it shouldn’t have escalated to the point of breaking bone. Perhaps she should have run for it, or tried to. Perhaps she should’ve remembered her father’s mantra. Perhaps it was better to just take the beating. Perhaps she should’ve just let it go. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.
Eventually, her mind turned to stories.
Growing up, her favorite stories had been the ones her mother told her. Farah Kasembe had two passions: helping people, which resulted in her medical career, and ancient mythology, which resulted in her being a far better storyteller than her father could ever hope to be.
Her father talked about the modern-day legends, the heroes that were. But her mother spoke of the gods and demigods of Greece and Rome and Egypt, of angels and jinn, of dragons and wolves and world-devouring serpents.
Against such an array, how could the contemporary heroes ever compete?
Her mother was from Cairo. Maybe that was why her favorite stories were the ones of the Egyptian pantheon. And, of those favorites, the legends of the goddess Sekhmet stood at the top of the podium. Sabra’s mind returned to the story, again and again, as she lay on her back and tried to make sense of it all.
Sekhmet had been built around the fiercest thing the old Egyptians had known: the lioness. She was a warrior and a protector, a force for destruction and for rejuvenation. She had drunk down the flood waters of the Nile to save humanity and yet had almost drowned humanity in spilled blood when they had forsaken ma’at—truth and justice and balance—and risked the whole cosmic order.
It was the duality that she appreciated more than any other part of the myth. Without the ability to do either good or evil, where was the heroism in doing good? Mom believed that good and evil wrestled inside everyone, and morality came from winning that internal struggle, from making the right choice. Dad wasn’t so romantic. Dad believed in external forces, if choice was even involved at all.
“Do you really choose, Sabra?” Her father had once said. “Or do you make the choice without thinking and argue it in retrospect?”
That was what she was trying to figure out. Maybe she fell asleep, maybe. But soon enough, the sun was rising over the city, and she was still no closer to figuring out whether she had done good or evil. It had all seemed so simple at the time. Things always did.
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Later, in her living room, Sabra brushed her hand across her brow and realized, a second too late, that she had smeared grease all over her face. She’d stripped Tess down and set to work on adjusting her temperamental jump jet. Music blared from her headphones, blocking out the world beyond her mind and the movements of her hands. Sometimes it felt like it was no different to being in the ring. Just a matter of finding the right rhythm.
Something clicked home. Sabra sat back on her haunches, locked the armored boot back into the rest of the leg, and dragged the helmet over, set it on her head and ran a quick diagnostic. Everything came back green. She had to actually test it, but there was no way she was going to leave a scorch mark on her carpet.
Time to go for a test run, then.
Sabra stripped down and suited up. A suit like this was supposed to have a softsuit, an interface that helped cut down on the delay between suit and wearer. But they were expensive, and for now, she liked the lag. The suit was supposed to have a full gantry to help the wearer, too. Instead, Sabra had to use a combination of her couch and her arms to lift herself up and slide down into the legs.
The suit closed up around her, everything locking into place like an armored carapace. She gave her arms a quick flex, tested the range of motion in each of her limbs. Then she scooped her helmet up and set it on, a host of green lights and icons giving her a battery of thumbs-up.
There was a part of her that argued against going out into broad daylight in her suit of armor, but who cared? It wasn’t like anyone knew who she was, that was the whole point of a secret identity. And the sooner she knew she could fly, the sooner she could get back to what really mattered—hunting down the people who shot her father.
Sabra stomped out of her house and ran for a few meters in the daylight and then, muttering a quick prayer to no one in particular, she kicked in her jets.
Sabra took to the morning sky like an angel, then came down on the nearest roof like a dragon. She landed hard, kept running, and leapt from roof to roof, laughing with every jump. For a time, she just ran, leaping alleyways and streets. She was a lioness, proud and free.
Running had been what she had started with, the gateway drug to the court and the gloves and the ring. Ever since she was fourteen, she’d been running each and every morning. Her father had been adamant that she take up a sport, but running didn’t count. Running is not a sport, he had said, it’s meditation.
An alert chimed, and someone began talking. Sabra froze, then realized her suit was picking up on an APD signal. Must’ve still been hooked into the scanner. Well, that was a surprise benefit. It was a buzz of codewords and numbers, but she picked out a few here and there. Words like: bank, downtown, hostages, armed gunmen, suspect empowered, requesting backup.
Sabra turned towards the direction of the glittering inner skyline, all steel and glass, and the Citadel beyond. Star Patrol would be on the scene soon, surely, and they wouldn’t be inclined to see her as a friend. That was fine, she’d just return the favor. But she wasn’t about to let anyone threaten innocents if she could help it.
Her HUD provided the approximate location of the hostage situation, and she turned her run into a sprint.
It was funny how quickly Asclepion became unfamiliar. She leapt out of Upsilon Block and into Nu Block, where everything was all glass and steel and marble. Where there were coffee shops instead of dive bars and nightclubs instead of strip clubs. A little planned city, with everything perfectly placed and positioned.
She paused one block away. Was she really going to do this? Had these people ever helped her, or her family? Hadn’t they all just continued getting rich while her home decayed from the outside in? She could turn around and go home, and no one would ever know.
But she would. And if something went wrong, if someone died, she would know that she’d stood by and let it happen. This was what her father’s philosophy was about. Helping others, not for glory or thanks, but just because it was the human thing to do. You couldn’t be human if you isolated yourself from others.
The glory would help, though.
There was no APD cordon yet. Strange, but maybe they figured Star Patrol would handle it. Maybe they were already in negotiations. It made things easier. Sabra dashed towards the bank, scaled the wall, punching her own handholds to make it simpler, and settled on the roof. It was dominated by a flat pane of glass, a massive skylight. Sabra stepped closer and crouched down at the edge of it.
Time for some recon.
She peered through the glass and down at the lobby below. There were people everywhere. The hostages had been herded into groups and made to lie down on the floor with their hands on their heads. Each group had a figure in black standing nearby, weapons held casually.
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Hostages, armed gunmen, but no sign of any empowered suspect. Sabra peered down at the floor of the lobby. It was a fair drop, but her suit could take it. And besides, what sort of hero ever bothered with the front door when they could make a dramatic entrance?
Sabra stood up and stepped onto the skylight. It took her weight, which was something of a surprise, and then only cracked when she stomped on it. Below, one of the gunmen stared up at her. Sabra waved to them, and stomped again.
This time, she crashed through it, landed in a crouch amid a halo of snowy, broken glass, and cracked the single great slab of marble that made up the floor. Idly, Sabra wondered if she had to pay for it. A question for later. There were hostages to rescue, and a day to save.
“Oh, shit!” one of the gunmen shouted, wearing a chrome helmet of a chicken. “Contact!”
“Yeah,” another said, wearing a helmet in the shape of a cobra. “We all saw it. Monkey, Leopard, what’s the plan?”
Her adrenaline spiked. Black-armored paramilitaries with the names of animals—that was what her father had said. Her fists clenched, and her heart thumped slowly against her ribs. Her mouth went dry, and licking her lips did nothing. Here it was. Christ and Allah, here it was.
What was she supposed to say—stop, freeze? She wasn’t a fucking cop. But then it hit her. There was something she could say, the only thing she could say. It was like a vibration in her mind, her bones, her teeth. Like the whine of a dentist’s drill, and a sick combination of fear and excitement—
“Which one of you fuckers shot my father?”
“Shit,” another one of the gunmen said, helmet of some big cat.
Him.
“Told you that skylight was gonna be a problem,” another said, a woman with a similar helmet. Sabra dubbed them Cat 1 and Cat 2. Which one of them was Leopard?
The fifth member of their team was perched on the bank counter, helmet like an angular primate. “There’s no problem here,” he said. “It’s five on one.”
“Four of us don’t have weapons to punch through that armor,” the man who shot her father said.
“Right. Tiger, take care of this, please.”
Tiger shrugged and set her shotgun down, reaching up to the hilt of the blade at her shoulder. She pulled the weapon free as she stepped forward, and the edge came to life with an electric-blue intensity. She turned it in her hand, lazily, and the blade hummed.
An electron blade. Sabra hadn’t ever seen one in reality before, but she’d heard the stories. She tensed, every muscle constricting, preparing for sudden action. A blade like that would cut through her suit as effortlessly as it had the air—and that was on the armor plate. If it got any of the softer areas, like the joints—or, Christ and Allah, her flesh—then it’d be the shortest bout of all time.
Sabra set her step and began to circle her opponent. That’s all it was—a bout. No different to the pankration, really. All she had to do was ensure she didn’t get tagged once. Funny, Sabra thought. First time out in the armor and I’ve gotta pretend like I don’t have it.
Tiger stepped forward, slowly, and swung her glowing blade at her middle. Sabra ducked back, fists up, as Tiger hopped forward, swinging again and again, leaving an electric-blue trail through the air. Probing her, testing her defenses, her reflexes...
It was going to be a battle of reflexes. Tiger was fast and Sabra was slow. Her suit made her stronger and gave her the ability to fly, in a manner of speaking, but wasn’t agile. It didn’t make her quicker, wouldn’t help her dodge.
Tiger leapt forward again, and this time Sabra wasn’t quick enough—the blade left a smoking gash across her left shoulder, sparks flying. Sabra worked her left arm back and forth, felt it hitch where it had been smooth. Tiger had nicked something vital.
“First blood,” Tiger rasped, pointing the tip of her blade in Sabra’s direction.
Against any ordinary knife, Sabra could’ve closed the gap, pressed into her space, and beaten her down. But if she were to try that now, she’d get carved up like a roast chicken. She had to wait for an opening, wait for Tiger to make a mistake—if a woman like that could make one.
Her eyes didn’t leave her. Had to take in every aspect of her form and stance. Chin tilted in to protect her throat, where there was a gap between helmet and chest plating. Knife held towards her, so any charge risked impalement. Her other hand was held close, to prevent her from grabbing hold of her. But her motions were careful, cautious. She was just as wary of her as she was.
Yeah, she might’ve had a cut-anything machete, but Sabra was a walking bulldozer. It’d be a one-mistake kind of fight.
She backed up, put a stone table between herself and Tiger. Little potted bonsai trees atop the counter, like the ones her dad cultivated, that made her feel like a giant. It bought her a little space and time to think. She had strength, but Tiger had speed—and that knife. There had to be a way forward. There had to be a way to find out which one of their team was responsible. She just needed time to think, to wait for the right moment.
Ah, fuck it.
Sabra snatched up one of the bonsai plants and hurled it at Tiger.
Tiger acted on reflex, catching the pot with her blade like she was home-running a baseball, and split it in two. The ceramic pot, now bisected, took her in the helmet, anyway. She stumbled back, blade wide and stance open for just a moment, as Sabra charged her, shouting, “From downtown!” and punched her in the helmet.
It wasn’t a debilitating blow. She didn’t want to kill her, Christ above, just make her give up and get out of the way. Tiger slashed outward, blade an inch from Sabra’s chest. She dodged the knife, but not the follow-up—Tiger threw all of her weight into her, and sent them crashing through the table. Sabra stared up at Tiger, her glowing blade leveled towards the gap between helmet and chest plate. She had Tiger’s blade arm by the wrist, her forearm locked up to deny her leverage.
“Picked a bad day to be a hero,” Tiger seethed through gritted teeth. “Sorry ‘bout this.”
Sabra didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Had to keep all of her focus on Tiger’s killing blade and the hands and arms and strength she needed to keep it still, to find the strength to defeat her leverage and push her back, inch by inch.
But that, Sabra realized, was wrong. It came to her, like it was all so simple. If she had her hands on her, then she’d won. Sabra lanced her knee into her gut once, twice, until Tiger shifted, and, twisting, Sabra got to her knees and wrenched her opponent back and around, one arm around her neck and the other set to break her shoulder.
“Drop it,” Sabra said. “Drop it and I won’t make you drop it.”
She wondered if the others were about to get involved, but kept her eyes on her opponent. Tiger laughed. “Okay,” she said. “Easy there, chief. Whatever you say.” She let go of the electron blade and it dropped to the floor, sinking to the hilt. Sabra shoved Tiger to the ground and then kicked out the blade, snapping it in two.
“Hey,” Tiger said. “Way to add insult to injury.”
“Stay down,” Sabra told her, then turned to get eyes on Tiger’s friends. “So, who’s next?”
The four of them stood right where they had been, guns down and relaxed. Like they were spectators and not conspirators. Sabra hammered her fists together.
“One by one or all at once, guys, it’s all the same to me. So, one more time before I really get mad: which one of you shot my father?”
“We’ve shot a lot of people,” Monkey said. “You’ll need to be more specific.”
“Aboard the Poseidon Adriatic. Three days ago.”
“Jesus,” the other one in the cat helmet, Leopard, said.
Sabra took note, and that was evidence enough. “You,” she said, pointing at him. “He’s the only one I want.”
“Well,” Monkey said conversationally. “He’s the only one you can’t have.”
Something came crashing through the front doors in a spray of fragmentary glass. A man in an armored bodysuit, in the blue and green colors of Star Patrol. He slid several feet, right into one of the pillars, and didn’t rise. He moaned softly.
“Well, well, well,” said a voice from the doorway. Intense, feminine, with a vicious edge.
Sabra turned.
She was only a few inches shorter than Sabra, with a beefier build. A professional athlete or soldier, Sabra figured. Probably more soldier than athlete, she decided, looking at the reinforced cargo fatigues and heavy ballistic vest she was wearing. Her skin was tanned, and there was a tattoo of a great bull’s skull on one bicep, horns wrapping around her upper arm.
The tattoo formed a compliment to the smaller horns growing from her temples, just below hair that could’ve been carved from sleek jet, it was pulled so tightly to the back of her head.
“Left this one for you, boss,” Monkey said. “Just like you wanted.”
So, he wasn’t the ringleader. This person was, this military minotaur. Adrenaline roared through Sabra, giving her one hell of a second wind.
The minotaur-woman growled out, “Who the hell are you?”
“Doesn’t matter,” Sabra said, squaring up once again. “At the end of this, you’re going to call me Hercules.”
The military minotaur snorted out her derision.
“You might be a Hercules,” she said. “But I’ll bet you’re no Theseus.”
She charged.