CHAPTER 26 - FISHER

Someone—Fisher couldn’t recall who—had once told him that life was nothing more than a series of avalanches. Life was stable until it wasn’t. You were fine until you weren’t. Whatever chaotic trajectory you’d then fall along would be out of your control, until you hit such a point where everything stopped and you were stable again. There you’d remain, for a time, before it all happened again, as cyclical and inevitable as the Earth around the sun.

For now, there was some stability to be found in the holding cell. Unfortunately, that perspective did little to improve Fisher’s disposition to the bare metal walls, the unyielding metal bench, and the half a dozen or so other people he’d found himself with.

He was the only one in a suit. The rest of them, with their tattoos and street crew stylings, seemed to find that more entertaining than he did. One of them—a big Islander with more muscle than hair—pointed at him with a thumb, mouthing: look at this dude. Fisher wondered what group he was with. Sabra might’ve known.

“What’re you in for?” the big guy asked. “Didn’t know the capes started moving in on white collars.”

Where to begin?

“It’s a long story,” Fisher said. “You?”

“Spat in Buckethead’s face.”

“Huh,” Fisher said, and felt himself grin. “So, you’re why he’s in such a bad mood.”

“Might just be. Don’t sound like you’re from around here, either.”

“I’m not. But if you’re going to shake me down, about the only thing I can offer you is my jacket. Capes already took my wallet.”

The big guy laughed. “It’s nice, but it wouldn’t fit me.”

Unsure of where else to sit, Fisher decided next to his new friend was as good a place as any. It was a strange dance, that little talk. Familiar but alien, being on the stage of a play he’d seen a thousand times. He’d always been an audience on the outside looking in. Watching criminals for signs of weakness through a one-way window, the little things that’d make them crack under pressure. Now, there were probably ELE officers, if not Star Patrol themselves, watching him for those same signs. Maybe even looking for an excuse to barge in and break parts of him. He’d seen that happen enough times.

So Fisher acted as if he was being watched. He sat on the bench, kept his hands in his lap, and waited. And, hell, if someone was going to come in and break his fingers, well, they were easy enough to replace.

A tremor ran through the holding cell, the bench rattling and shifting.

“Anyone else feel that?” Fisher’s new friend said.

“Yeah.”

“What was it?”

Fisher frowned.

“The next avalanche,” he said.

The lights went out, casting the room into darkness for several long moments, before the emergency lighting bathed them all in crimson gloom. It was a good trick, really. Cut the power, claim technical issue, and there’d be no recording of the imminent abuse that would follow. He’d seen that happen, too.

But no one came through. The door stayed closer. Fisher stared, confused, and then approached it. And while part of him knew that it could be, on some level, a trick, the other part of him—the older part, the part that didn’t give a single damn about stupid bullshit—didn’t care.

He set his hands into the handholds and dragged it open.

No one came through. No one called out to stop him. The lights didn’t snap back on and the door didn’t slam closed. He looked left, deeper into the rows of cells, and right, towards the way out. On either side of him, men and women stared back at him and each other.

“Jailbreak,” the big guy said.

“Don’t count on it,” Fisher said. “Hey, what’s your name, anyway?”

“Sione, brother.”

“I’m Pavel. I’ll watch your back if you watch mine.”

Everyone had the same idea as Sione. After a few moments more trepidation, they began surging towards the exit en masse. Some stepped back into their cells and shut the doors. Fisher wondered if they were concerned that their captors would be back—or if they, like him, realized that the locks falling off was a sign that something was very wrong.

The gunfire that Fisher could hear, echoing down the hallway like a series of distant snare solos, felt like that point should’ve been more obvious.

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The two of them slipped out of the cell and into the halls. It was much the same: empty hallways and dim emergency lighting. Whatever was happening, it was happening well away from where they were.

Sione paused at the next corner. Blood streaked over the wall and shell casings littered the floor. “Holy Mary. You seeing this?”

“Yeah,” Fisher said. “Come on, let’s not stick around long enough to find the cause.”

Sione set off again, moving more cautiously now. Fisher stuck to his shadow and tried to make sense of it. The Citadel was a fortress, with redundancies on top of redundancies. It had never been attacked, much less fallen. But now every lock was disabled, and every light was a dim, ominous red. Fisher considered the options. Some manner of electronic attack, like an electromagnetic strike? Possibly, but just about any serious empowered facility was hardened against external attack.

An internal attack? Unlikely. The Imperium might have the capability, but their imperialist designs seemed to end at the Americas. It probably wasn’t the Concordiat, either, with their bizarre brand of utilitarian pacifism. Fisher’s mind turned to less political groups, but very few of them possessed the capability to strike something like the Citadel, much less do so successfully.

That left the Seven. Them, or something orchestrated by them.

No, Fisher thought. Not them. The gunfire was proof enough that they weren’t involved.

Which meant that it had to be a small-scale empowered group or some type of conventional attack—but who would be so stupid to attack the most secure location in Asclepion? To commit so much to an island in the middle of nowhere?

They were just crossing an office space—computers dark but coffee pot still steaming, still enticing—when a strangely familiar voice called out: “Watch it, old man! I just about filled you full of holes!”

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There, on the other side of the office, was the fence he’d questioned. What was his name, Achilles? He was leering with a smile, like he was pleased to see Fisher, although the rifle in his hands made it threatening.

“You know this guy?” Sione asked.

“Something like that,” Fisher muttered, and raised his voice: “What’re you doing here, Achilles? Thought you were a fence.”

He shrugged. “Sometimes it’s quicker to go to the source, yo. Like I was going to miss out on this payday.”

“Office supplies?”

“You know it,” Achilles replied, and poured himself a mug of coffee. “You want in?”

“On the coffee? Or just the looting in general?”

“No, on the escape. I’ll vouch for you with the Bull and all.”

Fisher tried not to laugh, managed to cut it off at the first syllable.

Of course. Taurine. Here. She’d probably kill him the moment she saw him, probably rip the place apart to find him if she knew he was here. Hell, maybe that was why she was here, and everything else was just icing.

“I’m good,” Fisher said, ignoring the earnest offer to take him to someone who’d rip him to pieces. “Don’t let me stop you from having fun or whatever it is you’re doing. But my friend here might like that protection.”

Achilles sipped from his mug. “Yeah, sure, whatever,” he said, then tossed it over his shoulder. “Come on, big dude—oh, and grab that thing there, I bet that’ll fetch a good price.”

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Fisher waited long enough to figure out which direction Achilles was heading in and took the opposite route. If there was a shooting war going on, Fisher wasn’t going to risk being seen side-by-side with one of the bad guys.

He followed the signs as best he could, heading in the direction of the lobby and moving away from the sounds of battle. The bullet holes were a reminder to move slowly and carefully. But, for the most part, it sounded like it was above him, deeper into the upper floors of the Citadel.

It was strange, really. There’d been a time where bullets were only something of an inconvenience. He’d never had Sentinel’s invulnerability, but even his power had allowed him to ignore a burst of gunfire, providing he knew the direction it’d be coming from.

Some capes didn’t even get that. It was one of the great mysteries of the Golden Age—why some were granted absolute power and others merely conditional. Fisher couldn’t help but wonder about Star Patrol and Bushranger and Great Barrier, Warden and all of the others.

At the next corner, Fisher paused. Ahead, in the middle of the corridor, directly between him and freedom, was a pair of figures, one of them sprawled on the floor. The other was kneeling over them, but, in the dim emergency lighting, Fisher couldn’t tell what was happening. Looked like it was a struggle.

He approached slowly.

The figure on top was tall and muscular, with short hair. No armor or weapons. They were murmuring something, something like come on, come on, and Fisher recognized the accent.

He asked, hesitantly, “Sabra?”

The person continued pressing against the prone figure with heavy, heaving motions. The breathy gasps of someone who had been crying, or was close to it.

Fisher advanced, slowly still, just in case it was some kind of trick.

It wasn’t. As he got closer, the crimson lighting cast Sabra’s features into view. Her eyes were intent on the person below her. He could read the motions more clearly now, too. CPR.

“Sabra, hey, it’s me,” Fisher said. “Are you okay? How’d you get here?”

“Was talking with Barrier,” she said. “Then she said that the tower was under attack, like I knew something about it. She’s gone off to handle things, her and Blueshift—”

“Wait, Blueshift?” Fisher asked. “SOLAR’s here?”

“—and she left me with Sergeant Barnes,” Sabra continued, “and he was going to take me to the armory to get my suit, and then someone started shooting and Barnes got in front of me and—” Her voice had grown so frantic that the silence was an audible point of punctuation. That must’ve been Barnes on the floor.

Fisher glanced at the body, at the ragged holes stitched through the torso, the darker points in the dim light, and finished for Sabra. “He’s dead.”

Sabra grunted. Could’ve been affirmative or negative. Probably negative, given that she continued pressing on his chest.

“No, Sabra, I mean: he’s dead.”

“You don’t know that.”

I wish I didn’t. Bullets aren’t the worst way to go. That many to the chest? Probably instant.

“Sabra, stop.”

“I can still,” she hissed. “I can still...” Fisher knew what she was going to say, that she could save the dead man, but there was no point to her frantic attempts at CPR. Every time Sabra pressed down, Fisher could see red bubbling out of the bullet wounds.

“Sabra, he’s dead.” This time, he tried to put it as gently as he could.

Sabra shook her head, the expression vehement. “I’m not leaving him. He has to have a family or something.”

“That’s a later problem, Sabra,” Fisher insisted. “Not a now problem. The Citadel is under attack, we have to get out of here.”

“I’m not going.”

“They’re shooting to kill. They are not fucking around. If we don’t get out of here—”

“Then go,” Sabra said. “I’m not running away.”

“This isn’t your fight.”

Sabra stopped pressing at Barnes’ chest. She looked up, but not at him. “The hell it isn’t,” she snapped. “This’s my city!”

“Sabra, listen to me. I know you want to help. But you won’t help anyone by getting shot in the belly. Barnes saved you so don’t—”

Sabra surged to her feet so quickly that Fisher fought down the urge to duck back. She was just there, looming over him. In that moment, he couldn’t help but be intimidated by her sheer physicality. She had just the right combination of impetuousness, compassion, and naked honesty that the Golden Age would’ve called ‘noble heroism.’

And how many of those heroes were left?

“Don’t what?” Sabra asked.

Fisher swallowed. Something screamed in behind him, landing heavily with a resounding impact. “Defiant,” a woman said, “Impel.”

Sabra swiped at her eyes. “Revenant.”

She wore the same gear Fisher had seen her in that night at the Dynazon plant. Leather jacket, hood up, and a silver mask beneath it. He asked her, “What’s the situation?”

“The situation,” she said, “is deteriorating rapidly. The Citadel is under attack and every sector is compromised. Half of Star Patrol is incapacitated or dead. I have been tasked to track down the technopath disrupting our command-and-control infrastructure.”

“Don’t sound too excited about it,” Fisher said. “What’s still secure?”

“Very little. The armory, hangar, and central command.”

“And SOLAR?”

“I’m not with SOLAR,” Revenant replied, staring at Sabra. “Defiant, you said you wanted to be a hero—here is your opportunity.”

“I can’t get into the armory,” Sabra said. “It’s locked down and Barnes is dead.”

“You can now. I’ve added your biometrics to the list of approved individuals. But it is only a matter of time before the remaining security is breached.” The thrusters in Revenant’s boots activated, and she hovered before the two of them. “I’ve wasted enough time. Get moving or get out, I don’t care which.”

“Wait,” Fisher said. “If you’re not with SOLAR, then who the hell are you with?”

“Same group, different department,” Revenant replied, and kicked herself into a backflip, roaring off down the corridor and leaving Fisher to wonder if he’d been scorched by the heat that washed over his face. He touched at his face, but the feedback from his artificial fingers was an unhelpful shadow.

“Wonderful personality, hey, Sabra?” Fisher asked. “Sabra?”

But she was already racing down the corridor, away from the entrance, heading for the armory. Fisher paused, sighed, and reached down to close Barnes’ eyes. One more pebble on Taurine’s scales.

Then, cursing himself, he followed.