CHAPTER 2 - SABRA

Breathe, Kasembe, just breathe.

She took each breath in through her nose, held it for a moment so she could feel it fill her lungs, and then let it out through her mouth. Just like her father had taught her. In a fight, if you ever have to gulp oxygen down, he had said, on the first night she’d ever strapped on her gloves, then you’ve already lost.

But her hands were bare tonight, her knuckles raw and bloody. In the underground circuit, there were no gloves, no protection, and very little in the way of rules. No biting, no gouging, no maiming—beyond that, anything went. In pankration, the fight wasn’t over until your spirit gave in or your body gave out.

Atop the sand, before the baying crowds, Sabra Kasembe turned a circle with her opponent. Her opponent, she noted, was sucking down each breath. Even so, the fight could go either way. He was as tall as she was, but with a damn sight more muscle. She’d landed more hits than he had, but that didn’t count for much—someone like him only needed one good hit to close things out.

So did she. She just had to find the right moment. Breathe and it would come. Inhale, exhale. Inhale-

He came at her again. He threw a punch that didn’t connect—wouldn’t connect, Sabra could feel it—and she weaved to the right, dodging the elbow that would’ve broken her nose. She held her pendulum step, bouncing left and right. The odds were against her on this bout, but fuck the odds. Math was bullshit, anyway.

Her spirit sang on an adrenaline high, and every inch of her body hummed in response. Her heart was a steady war drum behind her sternum. Sabra popped her mouthguard out with her tongue and grinned so her opponent could see her teeth. “Is that all you’ve got?”

Let him think she was cocky. Let him think that she thought she could dance all night. Let him think she was stupid. Every second he grappled with the illusion of her was one second her very real arms had to lay him out.

Her opponent charged and, this time, Sabra surged to meet him. His first punch crashed through her guard, but she locked his arm against her torso. He hauled back, and she rode it, pushing off so her brow caught his nose.

Stars flared behind her eyes. But the one advantage she had was that she had been expecting the headbutt and he hadn’t. She stepped past his clumsy cross, drawing her right arm back. Then, twisting through her hips and drawing on the whole of her body, she hammered him in the jaw.

He went down like a toppled statue. Sabra went down with him, checked his vitals as the crowd went wild. Found him breathing, his pulse steady. That was good, because she sure as hell didn’t want to kill anyone, but also unfortunate. After all, where was the fun in trash talking someone who was out cold?

Oh, well, she thought. Win some, lose some.

She walked out of the ring while Hailfire’s boys attended to their fighter. When the audience jeered, she raised her fingers and flipped them off. It wasn’t like she had fans. There was only one person she wanted to impress in that audience and, Christ and Allah, three fights had to do it.

Jamar met her halfway to the showers. “Goddamn, Sab!”

She grinned sloppily and bumped her eyebrows up. “Come on, man—you sound like you had your doubts.”

“I’m not saying anything,” he said, and tossed her water bottle to her. “I believed in you enough to put money down, hey.”

She popped the cap off and poured it out all over her head. “Well, when I’m riding high in Geneva, I’ll be sure to remember that.”

Jamar laughed, paused. “Sab, your nose.”

She raised her fingers to her nose, found bright red on her fingertips. “It’s fine. Guy must’ve clipped me at some point.”

“You sure?”

She pointed over her shoulder. “He’s on the ground, I’m not.”

“Yeah, good point.”

Something flared in her torso. Had to be her ribs. Yeah, when the adrenaline high wore off, she was going to be in a world of hurt. Sabra rolled her shoulder about to distract her from the pain. “So,” she said. “Is Romeo going to play ball?”

“Well, that’s—”

Sabra sighed. “Just tell him to come find me. I’m going to grab a shower. I hate sand, dude.”

“All good. Can I get you anything?”

“Except Romeo? Yeah, a cold drink and a hot girlfriend.”

Jamar chuckled. “I’ll see what I can do.”

The fight hall was like someone had jury-rigged a warehouse into a boxing ring by way of a sandpit. There was a certain level of flash and glamour to it. But further back, the artifice gave way to the Asclepion that Sabra had grown up with. Faded, decrepit and bearing the scars of history—gang tags and bullet holes.

She showered and exchanged her fight clothes for street clothes. She’d just pulled her hoodie on when the shadows deepened, the lights flickered and, as the whole world blinked, Mikey Romeo stepped out of the darkness.

“Sup, Sabs.”

“Christ and Allah, Mike. Ever heard about giving a girl some warning?”

Mikey Romeo was a pretty boy, always had been. The leader of the Forgotten was the rising handsome prince of the Asclepion underworld. Sabra had known him when he’d been sketching skulls in his textbooks.

All that sketching had paid off, she figured—he made a handsome skeleton. Unlike most empowered figures, Romeo didn’t wear a mask, but face paint. Sabra couldn’t help but envy the paint job. Wondered how long it had taken him.

“Nope,” he said. “I’ve gotta maintain appearances, you know how it is.”

“So, that’s my three. My part’s done.”

“I have to admit, I didn’t think you’d actually—”

“I told you, I’ve been preparing. We had an agreement. Three fights for the data. I couldn’t pay, so—”

“Yeah, you’d make it up with bets. I remember, Sabs.”

“Okay, good. So, you’ve got it?”

His eyes wandered. Mike wore full black contacts to complete the look. Sabra had no idea where he was looking. “Not on me,” he said.

“What?”

“I’m not going to carry that shit on me when there’s no guarantee you’d win tonight. This plan of yours is insane, by the way. Just so we’re clear.”

“Sentinel’s gone and the Australians don’t give a shit, man,” Sabra said. “There’s never been a better time to score big.”

“You don’t get to where I am by scoring big, Sabs, but carefully. There’s an old rule—never fuck with the money.”

“Look, no one will know you’re involved, okay? So, when can you get it to me?”

“There’s a few more pieces I need,” he said. “Should have them in a week. Wouldn’t be doing my part if I gave you something incomplete.”

A week. Sabra considered that, nodding. Part of her thought that was a ridiculous amount of time to wait. But she’d been working on her plan for three months. What was one more week?

“Fine by me,” she said.

“Great,” Mike said. “I need to get back out there. Oh, and Sabs?”

“Yeah?”

“If anyone asks, just say I scared the shit out of you.”

“You’ve got it, buddy.”

The world blinked again, and Mike vanished. Sabra leaned back, resting her head against the rough texture of the wall, and smiled. Fanned the embers of her victorious fire and laughed until her ribs hurt—which wasn’t long. Christ and Allah, she better not have busted them too bad.

Her phone chimed from within her backpack. Sabra fished it out, peered at the screen. Her mother. Shit.

“Uh, hey.”

“Sabra.” Her mother’s voice was as cool as ever. “I need you to come down to the hospital in Gamma Block.”

It was strange. Even when they had been on better terms, they hadn’t spoken much. No news was good news, that was how her mother viewed things. Sabra paused, feeling spiders on the back of her neck. But that would mean…

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“It’s about your father.”

And just like that, the final embers went cold.

“Sabra, there’s been a terrible accident.”

----------------------------------------

Sabra burst through the doors of the hospital at a dead sprint. She fought down the urge to breathe in through her mouth. She hated the smell of hospitals. It didn’t make sense, but there it was.

It was that particularly neutral stench that came from covering up the blood, sweat and sick of hundreds of people with liter upon liter of medicinal disinfectants. Somehow, the sterile aroma of neutrality churned her stomach more than any of those other bodily fluids combined. Maybe it was because life was messy. You only smelled so clean when you were dead.

She ducked around a doctor and nurse like she was charging up the court. No, she couldn’t think about that—not now, not about things like death. It was like thinking about it would make it real. It was like she’d charge into his room and find him dead. Please, she begged, Christ and Allah, please—don’t let him be dead.

Sabra burst into the room. Her mother, seated on the far side of the room, by the bed, just about fell out of her chair. Her father lay in the bed like he was trapped in a mass of wires and tubes. His face was wan and ashen. She couldn’t see his chest moving. Only the steady report of the heart monitor told her he wasn’t dead.

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Her mother crossed the room and gathered her up into her arms, or tried to. Sabra had been taller than her since she was fifteen. It felt strange. Even when they had lived under the same roof, it hadn’t been something her mother did often, hugging.

They stayed like that for a good ten seconds.

“What happened?” Sabra asked.

“There was an accident on the Adriatic,” her mother said, stepping back. “An explosion in the engine room. Your father was very badly injured. He lost a lot of blood before they were able to bring him to the hospital.”

Sabra turned back to look at the bed. Found herself staring at the marks on her father’s face. She’d seen many like that in her time, on her face when she hadn’t been quick enough. A busted lip, a black eye…

You didn’t get injuries like that from an accident. And what was her father even doing in the engine room? He was a geothermal engineer. He didn’t know a thing about shipboard engines. He’d been on the Adriatic as part of their humanitarian mission to South America. Rescuing refugees in the aftermath of the cataclysmic brawl between The Engineer and The Surveyor.

“It can’t have been an accident,” Sabra said. “I mean, what was papa doing in the engine room?”

“He’s an engineer.”

“Yeah, for the old geothermal plants. He doesn’t know anything about ships or engines! And look at his face! Someone beat the shit out of him.”

“Sabra,” her mother said softly, “Don’t.”

Sabra marched over to the terminal by her father’s bedside. Called up a list of injuries, worked her way through them. All kinds of technical terms she didn’t know, but there was enough there for her to piece together a reasonable picture.

“Sabra, enough,” her mother said, voice icy and more like herself. “His heart stopped twice in the aeroshuttle. He hasn’t regained consciousness. He may never regain consciousness.”

It was a strange thing to listen to. It was like her mother was talking about someone else. Her voice was just as controlled as it had been on the phone. In Egypt, she’d been a Doctor. That’s all she was doing. Focusing on the facts.

She wouldn’t cry. She would not cry. Her mother was too goal-oriented to see it as anything but stupidity. Tears, she said, never solved anything. Sabra took a deep breath in through her nose, bearing the stench, and exhaled. Just like he had always taught her. It helped.

“Who shot him?” she asked.

“Sabra.”

“Who shot him? Who put six bullets into my father’s chest?”

Her mother was silent for a time. “I spoke with an officer from the APD.” she said. “At this time, they do not know who was responsible. They think one of the gangs might’ve been responsible. After all, everyone’s been growing bolder now that Sentinel is gone.”

Everyone except the heroes, of course.

It was no wonder that the empowered gangs had surged over the past six weeks, after IESA had torn Asclepion’s god-king from his throne. But Sabra had her contacts in some of those groups, people like Mike. And they had rules about things like that, unwritten as they were. The great empowered game did not harm civilians.

“I’ve never heard of the gangs shooting up refugee ships,” Sabra said.

Her mother stared at her, eyes like ice. “Perhaps they thought the ship was carrying something else. Sabra, what does it matter?”

Sabra stared at her father. There had to be something, anything, that she could learn to make this horrible scene make sense. Her mother pinched at the bridge of her nose, sighed.

“The mission was funded by Dynamic Horizons. They said they’ll be sending a representative down here soon. Perhaps we’ll learn more.”

“Yeah,” Sabra said. “I’m sure the company gives a shit.”

“Sabra.”

“If they had cared, they would’ve hired some actual security! If they had cared, they wouldn’t have let something like this happen! What’s Dynazon going to do, give him a get well soon card and some cheap flowers? He could die, mama.”

“Perhaps. And if that’s the case, then there’s nothing we can do to change it.”

Sabra shook her head. There was an urge to run, to fight, to do something. “There has to be something,” she said. “I mean, you said he’d lost blood—can he have some of mine?”

“Sabra, that’s already been taken care of. Your father is strong. The best thing you can do for him is to remain positive. But it’s good to see you. I hope you’ve been okay.”

“I’ve been fine,” Sabra said, shoving her bloodied knuckles into the pockets of her hoodie. She busied herself with looking at the various monitors and displays, examining the figures and graphs and charts like she understood them. She pretended to read them anyway. Her mother returned to her seat and sat down.

“Papa should never have been there,” Sabra said, finally. “He’s a geothermal engineer.” But that wasn’t the real reason. There was a horrible knot in her gut. He’d taken the job after she had moved out, after—

Her mother smiled sadly. “You know your father, Sabra—had he known that taking this job would’ve put him here, well, by God I think he still would’ve taken it. Better him than someone else, he would’ve said.”

Sabra forced a smile. “Yeah,” she said, bitterness in her throat. She managed to catch herself before she added what she wanted to say, but thought it loud and clear: and look where it got him. For a time, she just stood there, watching the machines working, listening to the steady report of the heart monitor, and wished that there was something she could do.

“Why,” someone rasped, “do the two of you look so upset?”

Sabra smiled. “Papa!”

Her mother, smiling, muttered something in Masri and reached across the gap to set her hand on his. “Esmer, how are you feeling?”

Her father smiled, but it wasn’t the bright, broad expression that Sabra was used to. It was thin and weak, like it would slough off his face at any second. “Never better.”

“You liar.”

For a time, they just hung there. There was so much Sabra wanted to say, and so much she wanted to avoid saying. “It’s been a while, Sabra,” he said.

“Too long,” she replied.

“Been keeping out of trouble, little lioness?”

“Here and there,” she said. “Here and there. I don’t get into any I can’t handle.” Which was why she had some questions. “Papa, who did this to you?”

Her mother glanced at her. “Sabra.”

“Men with guns,” her father said. “The same as ever.”

“Did they belong to any of the gangs?”

He closed his eyes, but the various monitors remained steady.

“Sabra,” her mother said. “I think that’s enough.”

“I don’t think so,” he murmured.

“Did you see them?” Sabra pressed onward. “Did you get a good look at any of them?”

Her father nodded. “Saw… two of them, for just a moment. They wore a lot of black. Looked… paramilitary. Names of animals.”

“Sabra,” her mother said, with icy politeness. “May I speak with you? Outside, that is.”

Black, paramilitary, names of animals. The clues didn’t point to any of the major Asclepion gangs which, to Sabra, was something of a relief. The Forgotten wore purple with their black, and were about as far from paramilitary as one could get. The Sixth Street Sharks loved their animal-related titles, but didn’t match either of the other descriptions.

It was a relief that they weren’t local, because then she wouldn’t find out that someone she knew had shot her father. But it was also concerning because, if they weren’t any of the local gangs, then who the hell were they?

Her mother waited for her in the hallway outside, arms crossed. Even now, at the age of nineteen, her mother could make her feel like she’d caught her trying to sneak candies at midnight. Sabra had a good six inches on her mother but still felt as if she had her under a magnifying glass.

“Sabra Elissa Kasembe,” she said. “By the Lord above, just what is it you think you’re doing?”

“I have to know what happened, mama. I have to know who did it.”

“I understand your frustration, Sabra, but now is not the time to submit your father to an interrogation.”

“And when will it be? A week, two? If he never wakes up again?”

Her mother made the sign of the cross.

“Sabra Kasembe, perish the thought.”

“If papa was right, then the people who shot him aren’t members of any of the empowered gangs.”

“So what, Sabra? Why is that important? Why is that something that you have to know right this minute?”

Because they might get away, and I won’t let them win. “Why aren’t you more concerned?”

“Because it isn’t your father’s first time being shot,” she said. “So, tell me—why is this so important?”

It wasn’t an abrupt admission, as such, but more filling in one of the many sketchy outlines that made up her parents’ past. Her father was from Sudan and her mother from Egypt. Both had been refugees during the Collapse. They had come to Asclepion together, and had her one year later. But whenever Sabra had wanted to know more, her mother had always said to ask her father, and her father had always smiled and found some way to turn the conversation to another topic—any topic.

“Because I can’t just stand by and do nothing,” Sabra said. “I can’t just let whoever did it get away.”

“Do nothing? And just what is is that you plan to do?”

In truth, she wasn’t sure. Ideas and plans swam around her head, but all of them were missing pieces. But the most important piece she had been missing was who was responsible, and she had that. She could figure out the rest as she went. But whatever the rest of her plan was, there was no way that her mother would approve.

“Nothing,” Sabra lied. Yet.

“Sabra, what happened to your hands?”

Sabra shut her eyes. “Mama.”

“Because if you’ve gotten back into—”

“No, I haven’t,” Sabra said. And it was true—she wasn’t stealing things anymore, wasn’t fencing things. She was just taking part in underground blood sports to pay off debts to an underworld boss she knew from high school. That was much better to admit to.

“Look,” she continued. “I just busted my hands up playing basketball.” It hurt to lie, but the truth would be even worse. “Can we not turn this into another argument, please?”

Her mother grabbed at the bridge of her nose again. “I’m sorry, Sabra.”

“Me too.”

Her voice hitched. “I just don’t want to see you like that.” But she didn’t weep. “I don’t want to get a call from the APD telling me they’ve found your body. That would kill your father far quicker than these bullets will.”

A doctor hurried past, and the conversation paused.

“Sabra,” her mother said, and a terrible expression passed over her face. “What is it that I always told you?”

“If you’re going to do something, do it well,” she replied. “Otherwise—”

“Otherwise don’t do it all.”

“I will, mama. I promise.”

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She hung around the hospital for another hour. Waited for her father to wake up again, but he didn’t. This time, on the way home, Sabra took a cab.

Her cramped apartment was like she left it—in careful, artful disarray. More than a few empty beer bottles lay scattered about, and there was a half-eaten pizza on the kitchen bench. The rest of the space was filled with tools, left wherever she decided to leave them. That way, she could always find them the next time she needed them.

“Christ and Allah, Tess,” Sabra said, setting her backpack down. “What a night.”

Tess stood on the other side of the room, slumped over and missing her head. Her actual name was Tactical Engagement Superiority Suit and—until recently—she’d been part of the APD’s Empowered Law Enforcement Group. Sabra had found her three months ago, rotting in the ruins of Omicron Block. It’d been love at first sight, even if she needed a bit of work.

Months of work had restored the power armor to about half of factory-spec. She’d made up the difference with aftermarket parts when she could afford them and jury-rigged solutions when she couldn’t. She’d even painted her up with about half a covering of shockingly bright emerald paint. The one thing her tin lady didn’t have was a heart—a battery. Without it, Sabra could kiss her dreams goodbye.

It was the last thing she needed, and Mike had the treasure map. Tonight had been enough to lock in her share of the loot. All she had to do was wait another week. Another week while her father languished in a hospital bed.

Fuck.

That.

She fetched her phone out and made a call.

Mike picked up on the third ring. “Uh, hey?” He yawned. “What’s up, Sabs?”

“Things have changed, Mike,” she said. “I’m not waiting another week. I’m moving tomorrow night. Meet me at midnight, at the old basketball court in Upsilon.”

She hung up before he could protest. She’d been willing to wait when it had just been her, when there hadn’t been anything to lose but her pride. But now there was a feeling, a certainty. Just like when she’d been fighting atop the sand. The bastards who had shot her father were here, somewhere in the city. And every second she waited was one second more that they had to go into hiding or, worse, slip away.

She couldn’t let that happen. Wouldn’t let it happen. And if it was how she burst into the superhero scene, and it made Asclepion—if not the world—take notice, then all the better. If those gunmen wanted to play, then she’d play. And they’d find out, the same way so many others had, that Sabra Kasembe played to win.