CHAPTER 20 - FISHER

In conclusion, Pavel Fisher typed, and paused. Found himself stumped. How to best summarize everything that had happened in just his first five days on Asclepion? Asadi had given him a ‘month or two’ to find info on the Adriatic situation, as pathetic an opportunity as it was, and now Fisher wasn’t sure how the city would look in a week, much less six.

Asclepion’s executive regent was on the news, giving a stern speech about everything that had happened and urging for calm. Great Barrier stood at his shoulder, lips pressed in a thin line. Like he had told Asadi, the Adriatic incident had already been forgotten. In the face of escalating underworld violence, it was hard to care about an engine room accident in a refugee ship when everyone had gotten off the ship safely.

Except, Fisher thought, for Sabra’s father.

There was a connection there, that much was obvious. Asadi had said that those Animals had hit a Dynazon convoy in Central America, then they’d hit a ship on a mission that the corporation had funded. You didn’t have to be an oracle to see the link there. Likely, the convoy hit had been their first attempt at their mission, and it had failed, but what were they after, why were they still here, and how did Taurine fit into it?

He couldn’t give all of it to Asadi. Perhaps not even most of it. If he relayed everything as he saw it, then his handler would probably send in the capes the company had on retainer, or be forced to notify SOLAR. Either way, he’d never get his reckoning with Taurine.

Fisher stretched out his mechanical fingers.

In conclusion, he typed, the situation remains fluid. Further investment of personnel or resources into determining Asclepion’s security situation is inadvisable at this time. The Adriatic incident merits further investigation, if only to rule out all possibilities, however improbable. Yes, that was a good line, the type of line a paper pusher like Asadi would go wild for. And it was helpful, in a way, like it implied that Fisher had accepted the charity he’d been given. More updates as the situation develops.

Then he paused again, and typed out a request.

One more thing, Iskandar. I want whatever information you can find on one Sabra Kasembe.

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It wasn’t much. A solitary, sparse file from the APD about a variety of minor crimes she had committed in her teens. Stealing from cars, mainly, and stealing a car. The kind of thing that got forwarded to Geneva as a matter of protocol for the global security apparatus, and that Fisher doubted anyone had ever actually read. But it gave Fisher somewhere to start—an address.

The Kasembe residence sat amid a series of two-story townhouses that had obviously seen better days. Rows of quick, narrow housing that’d been thrown up for the masses of refugees who’d flooded Asclepion back during the Collapse. The tiny garden bed was a startling streak of color amid the concrete.

Fisher knocked on the front door. No intercom, not like you had in Geneva—another one of Asclepion’s strange concessions to the past. He glanced down at the doormat. Stark black lettering advised him to ‘check his energy.’ He knocked again.

“Who is it?” someone asked from the other side of the door, a woman.

“Mrs Kasembe?” Fisher asked. “My name’s Pavel Fisher. I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m with Fiveaces Security.”

The door opened. Mrs Kasembe looked past the cracked open door and met his gaze evenly. She had golden skin and large dark eyes, but there was no trace of fear in them.

“What is this about?”

Now, there was the question. There was a part of him that knew this was a situation that was, at best, somewhat dubious. It wasn't the kind of thing he could tell Sabra. But she’d thrown up enough yellow flags that he had to be sure he wasn’t colorblind.

“Nothing major,” Fisher said. “It’s about your daughter, Sabra.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I see. Is she okay?”

“She’s fine. It’s a long story. May I come in?”

A look passed over Mrs Kasembe’s face. Fisher knew how he had to look—a scruffy old man saying he was a friend of her daughter. If she told him to fuck off, he’d understand. It’d make sense. It was what he should do.

She freed the security chain and opened the door, stepping back to allow him inside. “Thanks,” he said. “I won’t stay long.” He removed his shoes, setting them by the door, and noted the shrine set into an alcove by his left. Candles, a cross, flowers. Facing east, if he had his bearing right. Coptic, then.

“Do you pray?” she asked.

It was hard not to feel caught out. Not much got past Sabra’s mother, it seemed. He’d have to keep that in mind. “No,” he said. “Sometimes I think it’s too late to start.”

“Mm,” she replied. “We’ll talk in the kitchen.”

The house was cramped but comfortable. He glanced into a room as they passed, saw a study filled with books—actual books, paper books—and a globe. Even a brief glance was enough to let Fisher know that the lines of countries and continents were pre-Golden Age. The hallway was lined with framed photos of the happy family. Sabra had her father’s smile.

Mrs Kasembe set one hand on the kitchen bench top, watching him. “I won’t offer you tea, since you won’t be staying long.”

“Fine by me,” Fisher said.

“What has Sabra done now?”

Did her parents know about Sabra’s vigilante antics? That was one of the things Fisher wanted to know. If she was asking a question like that, then her mother didn’t know that Sabra had been the power-armored brawler at the bank. Or, perhaps, she did, and was playing dumb.

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It occurred to him that he didn’t have a goddamn clue what to say. Mark had always handled this, the playing nice with people part. Tact, Pavel, he always said, tact.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “This isn’t just about your daughter. But it’s about your husband. I’ve been sent to investigate the attack on the Adriatic.”

“Lying to me is not the best way of getting on my good side, Pavel.”

“It’s a complicated situation.”

“And I know my daughter had nothing to do with it. So, why did you mention her name? Why are you here?”

Fisher reached up and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. He couldn't lie. He was lying enough just by coming here. He sighed. “Mrs Kasembe—”

“Call me Farah.”

“Farah,” he said, nodding. “I’ll be blunt: I’m a fuck-up. I’m here so someone can feel good about giving an old dog a nice, soft bone to chew on.” It hurt less to admit than he had feared. He knew it, he’d told Asadi so, and yet, to tell someone else...

“No one cares what happened to your husband, and no one will. But Sabra does, and so do I. Your daughter’s a good kid. A total handful, way too much energy, but a good kid. And I can’t just sit here not doing anything. Neither can she.”

“She’s nineteen.”

“Then she’s older than I was, when I started.”

Farah set both of her hands on the countertop and let out a long breath.

“How is he?” Fisher asked. “Your husband.”

“He’s in hospital. Hesperia Medical Center, in Delta Block. No longer in a critical condition, but it is still a delicate time.”

“My condolences. A friend of mine is in ACER.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

Fisher shrugged. “It is what it is.”

“She came by the hospital on the night Esmer was shot. Her hands were bruised and bloody. I am not surprised that she wants to help. I can’t stop her. I could try to forbid her, but she would do it anyway, even if she lived under this roof.”

“She doesn’t?”

“She moved out as soon as she turned eighteen.”

“Why? She talks about the two of you a lot. I was under the impression you had a good relationship.”

“As you said, Pavel: it’s complicated.”

“I won’t pry,” Fisher said. “Esmer, um. Did he have any enemies? Any links to South or Central America?”

“None,” Farah replied. “His only enemies are his blood pressure and cholesterol.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“Twenty years. Are these questions serving any particular point?”

“I don’t know,” Fisher replied. “I’m trying to make sense of it all. See something everyone’s missing. Do you mind if I take a look around?”

“Providing you don’t stay long,” Farah said, and swept her arm to indicate the rest of the house.

He wouldn’t. There was only one room he had to see, anyway. The rest of the house was nice, lived-in. The kind of house he’d imagined living in when he and Mark were older. A home where the family had left their mark on every surface. That future was one of the many things Taurine had taken from him.

The second floor was where the bedrooms and bathroom were. He picked the first of three doors and found Sabra’s bedroom. Or her old one, he supposed. He cased it with his eyes from the doorway. Entering it seemed like a violation of privacy, and he’d done enough of that already.

Maybe still had more of it to do. If he was right. If.

It was as cramped as the rest of the house; the bed taking up much of the space. Green bedding—had to be her favorite color. There was an old poster of Ironheart above her bed. Scotland’s warrior mecha-maiden in full Golden Age regalia, her claymore held rakishly across her shoulders. Had to have been there for a while. Maybe that was where she had gotten the inspiration for her armor from.

There were awards on the wall, medals hanging from the handle of her closet. Fisher figured they were for boxing. There were books on the bookshelf, but not many. A well-loved teddy bear sat on the top shelf, gazing out over the room like a diminutive deity. Its black, beady, plastic eyes felt judgmental.

It was like the room had been left as it was the day Sabra moved out. The question was: why? Sabra had come running, probably literally, to the hospital the night her father had been shot. Her mother, if anything, seemed sad. He didn’t know what to make of any of it. He didn’t even know what he was looking for.

He returned to the kitchen. Farah was right where she had been. Had she been able to watch him through the ceiling, he wouldn’t have been surprised.

“Did you find whatever it is you were looking for?”

Fisher rubbed at his chin, unsure.

“Just one more thing. Farah, has anyone in your family ever had any history of empowered capability?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so, but I’d like to be thorough. Was Sabra ever tested?”

“What for?” Her tone froze over from coldly polite to just cold.

“Empowered capability. Specifically, the Dynamis testing suite for children and adolescents. She should’ve been tested at least once during her schooling. Was she?”

“We try to minimize our contact with the IESA, Pavel. I think you should leave.”

Pavel shut his eyes, and braced himself to torpedo whatever meager goodwill he had managed to maintain until this point.

When he opened them, he said: “Has Sabra ever experienced any kind of persistent forms of altered consciousness? Hallucinations, seizures, trances—even just sleepwalking.”

Farah’s expression flattened out. At least one of those suggestions had hit home. He pressed on, throwing tact to the wind, to pin down one mystery like a butterfly in a case.

“Any feelings of phantom limbs? Synesthesia? Recurring intrusive thoughts? Has she ever mentioned any persistent feelings of déjà vu?”

And then, like driving down a nail, before Farah could protest: “How about intense, recurring nightmares?”

A long, tense moment passed. Fisher already knew he had gone too far. When Farah spoke, her tone was a subtle warning—as sharp and dangerous as a knife hidden in her sleeve.

“I think you should leave, Pavel. And I don’t think you should come back.”

She walked him to the door. Pavel stepped through and turned, unsure of what to say.

“I’m sorry.”

“Focus on the present, do your job,” Farah said, “and let the past lie.”

She slammed the door in his face. Fisher stood there and listened to the wind. If only he could.

But all things considered, that was about as well as he figured it could have gone. It’d given him some new data and confirmation of existing hunches. Now, it was educated guesswork. He felt somewhat better about pitting Sabra against Taurine. With the right advice, the horned tyrant wouldn't know what hit her. If he was right.

If he was wrong, then she’d die, and he’d follow soon after. But, Pavel thought, maybe that would be okay, too.