CHAPTER 36 - SABRA

Fisher had been calling her all day. Sabra wasn’t sure what about because he never left a message. Her phone buzzed against her coffee table again. Sabra pretended not to hear it and had another slice of pizza. Her eyes wandered, again, to the corner where Tess had once stood.

It hadn’t been a great week. Star Patrol was gone, but it wasn’t because of anything she did. Fisher said she’d beaten Taurine, but she didn’t remember doing it. The only thing she had left of her suit was the helmet, and there hadn’t been so much as an apology. All that effort, gone. All of her hopes were ash upon the wind.

Her phone kept buzzing. It seemed impossible to pick it up. It was easier to just keep eating pizza. Her body felt as listless and weird as her mind did. So what if she had lost her suit? She’d won, hadn’t she? She’d beaten Taurine and those Animals were in custody. She’d done everything she set out to do, proven herself and brought the man who shot her father to justice.

So why didn’t she feel happy?

Sabra leaned over and grabbed her phone and sighed as she answered it. “Yo.”

“Jesus Christ,” Fisher said. “Finally, Sabra!”

“I’m a busy girl, Pavel.” Her body betrayed her by yawning. “Whaddya want?”

“Sabra, if I told you we had one shot to solve this thing but we had to act tonight, what would you say?”

“I’d say: honestly, our partnership didn’t turn out so great the last time.”

“Are you kidding me? Sabra, you won!”

“It doesn’t feel like it.”

“Is this about the suit?”

“No,” Sabra replied, and it was true. “It’s about my dad. I’m going to see him tomorrow and figure out everything else after that.”

“Tomorrow’s too late,” Fisher hissed.

“Pavel, man,” Sabra said, squinting at his tone. “What’re you talking about?”

“I’ll explain soon.”

“You can explain now.”

“Not over this phone line.”

Sabra sighed. “Look, Pavel, the last time we worked together—”

“You kicked Taurine’s ass,” Fisher said.

“Yeah, and caught the dude who shot my dad—the case is closed, man.”

“And what about his boss? The ones who got away?”

Sabra shrugged. “Ain’t my problem. The IESA—”

“Isn’t going to do a goddamn thing,” Fisher replied. “Don’t you want to know why those assholes shot your dad?”

She didn’t know what to say. It was like there were a thousand things she wanted to say—could say—boiling behind her eyes, like bubbles in a volcanic spring. She could tell him to go fuck himself. Might even be enough for a laugh.

But that would’ve been cruel. He had called her for a reason. No matter what she thought, this was important to him. And more than that, she couldn’t bring herself to disagree with him—the IESA had never cared about Asclepion, so why had she said that?

In her heart, she knew why. There was a part of her that was already ready to get back out there—hadn’t ever wanted to stop. It was an ember in her breast. It wanted to know why they’d shot her father, just so she could have that much more satisfaction as she curbstomped each of them against the asphalt. So they couldn’t hurt anyone else ever again.

Sabra shook her head. “My dad’s alive. That’s all that matters.”

“And what about Barnes and everyone else?” Fisher continued. “Your dad’s fine, so that’s it?”

“I’m hanging up.”

“Sabra, wait!”

For some reason, she did.

“So, you’re a few goals down at halftime or whatever,” Fisher said. “Are you really going to give up? I mean, what kind of fighter retires on their first and only win?”

“I’m not retiring.”

“It sounds like it.” A moment passed. “Sabra, look. I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want to do, but you’re the only person I can trust with this. I know it’s not much, but I also know how much you want—wanted—to be a superhero.”

“Then tell me what’s going on.”

“I can’t,” he said. “Not over an unsecure line. Come by my room at the Elysium Arms and hear me out. If you think I’m full of shit, then you can leave and I’ll go it alone.”

Sabra sighed.

“Okay,” she said, “I’m in.”

“Great,” Fisher replied. “Get here as quickly as you can. Oh, and one more thing—without your suit, we’re going to need some firepower. If you know anyone who’ll be willing to hear me out, then bring them with you.”

There was one name that came to mind.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Sabra said.

“Thanks, Sabra.”

She hung up and, with that name in mind, reached over to her coffee table again. Scooped up the midnight-blue and silver card. Blueshift had given it to her. Maybe he’d give her something else.

She dialed. He picked up immediately.

“Blueshift, go,” he said, voice like a razor.

“It’s Defiant.”

“Ah, the talented Miss Kasembe,” Blueshift replied, sharpness swapped for warmth. “I was wondering when I would hear your voice. How can I be of assistance?”

Something about that voice. A flash of something, fingers on her chin. I will teach you, he says, the ways of power.

“I need some information,” she said.

“You may ask the impossible, depending on the specifics. SOLAR is quite adamant about their need-to-know basis, and I am on a shorter leash than most. What do you think it is you need to know?”

“Fine,” Sabra said. “Whatever. I just need you to find someone for me.”

“And who might that be?”

“Revenant.”

There was a pause. Had she actually made him hesitate, or was it for theatrical effect? Somehow, she leaned towards the latter.

“Miss Kasembe,” Blueshift said, “this is not information I can give out to just anyone, no matter how talented they may be.”

“But,” she replied, “I hear a but.”

“But her identicard was scanned at Club Singularity two hours ago.”

“Is she still there?”

“I can’t say,” Blueshift replied, “but that is the best lead you have. Good hunting, Miss Kasembe.”

He hung up. Sabra pushed herself off the couch and headed for her bedroom. To gird herself for the hunt.

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Club Singularity was over in Delta Block, deep within Asclepion’s metropolitan sector. Sabra had been there a few times before, whenever Hisae had wanted to wear a lot of black and spend a lot of money. Sabra put on her father’s old leather jacket—it’d do good to fit in.

It was a good jacket, and it had history. It was the first thing her father had bought when he had arrived in Asclepion. According to her mother, he had worn it once, and according to her father, he had put on weight and it had gone into the wardrobe. Then, it had been presented to young Sabra, and while it was still a fraction too big for her, she had cherished it ever since.

She tugged at the cuffs for a moment, and then glanced up towards the glowing, golden club signage. Someone had once told her that the signage featured an actual micro-singularity—the swirling center of the letter g. Sabra was pretty sure that wasn’t actually the case.

Pretty sure.

“Next,” said the bouncer, waving her forward.

Sabra presented him with her identicard. He glanced at it, looked to her face, then glanced at her card again.

“You’re good,” he said, handing it back. “Go on in.”

Sabra heard the dance floor before she saw it. She descended a staircase of stone, feeling the bass reverberate through her shoes and bones, and out into a dance floor that could’ve doubled as an ancient amphitheater. Great pillars lined the walls, demarcating the dance floor from the quieter areas, and a throng of men and women danced and bounced beneath a kaleidoscope of holograms.

The woman who called herself Revenant could’ve been any of them.

What was she doing here? There was something perverse about standing in such a place after everything she’d done over the past week. Hell, she’d seen someone die. She’d heard his last breath rattle past his lips. She’d had his blood all over her hands, one of which she’d gone and broken trying to take on an actual supervillain—and somehow, impossibly, won.

Vertigo took her. Sabra steadied herself against one of the pillars. It was like she was glimpsing the dance floor across a vast gulf, and even though she knew she was only meters away, the vertigo was real in her gut and up her spine, finding a home behind her eyes. The dancing crowd was right there before her and simultaneously minuscule, components of something beyond.

There was something else there, too. Something at the edges of her awareness—a dull, tuneless humming that she could pick out over (or under?) the electronic beat. It was a song that resonated down her spine more than it did her ears. But when she focused on it, there were no words. Just glittering shards of information, fragments of meaning. She tried to find the words, but there was a gulf between her brain and her tongue, and no mere words could conquer it.

But she'd been here before.

She needed a drink. She made for the bar on the far side of the nightclub floor, and each person she passed was like ripples in a pond. He’d move out of the way for her, and she’d stare at her for three point four seconds precisely, just enough time to signal attraction, and by the time you’ve realized that, you have reached the bar and the bartender will give you a politely glassy smile and ask—

What’re you having?

Sabra blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I said, what’re you having?”

“Uh, sure,” Sabra replied. “Have you got Asclepion Red?”

“Sure,” he said. “But we’ve got a lot better than Red, too.”

“Yeah? Well, maybe I like the taste.”

The bartender popped the cap off a bottle and handed it to her. Sabra took a swig and cast her eyes around the crowd again. It wasn’t like she could just start asking people if they knew the superhero Revenant. Well, what did she know? One, she was shorter than her. Two, she wore a lot of black.

That could’ve described almost anyone in the club.

Sabra ordered another drink. A band set up on the distant stage and leapt into a set with fire and fury. The singer sounded like he was about to blow out his vocal cords, roaring something about the shadows cast by dying suns. He ceded the stage to the lead guitarist as she stepped forward for a solo, and the crowd went wild. She wore a white tank top with a black ribcage pattern, spraypaint chic, and there was something about the shape of her boots—

Sabra just about dropped her drink. It was her. Her black bangs obscured her face but, with every burning chord, with every jerk of her head, they shifted. Her eyes were closed, face twisted and teeth bared.

Sabra knew only two things about music—that she liked listening to it, and she loved dancing to it. But even she knew she was listening to something incredible when she realized she couldn’t see Revenant’s fingers.

Christ and Allah, the luck of that guitar...

She wasn’t sure how many songs they played, or how long she had been staring. Eventually, the music stopped, and the vocalist took the mic in both hands, said something about thanking Asclepion and everyone having a great night.

Sabra’s phone buzzed. A message: Defiant. Back entrance. Five minutes. R.

She stared at it, incredulous. Up on stage, Revenant raised her right hand to her lips, fingers in the shape of a gun, and blew off imaginary smoke.

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It was colder outside than it had been. Sabra endured it as she circled the block and headed down an alley to the back of the club. She glanced behind herself, in case this was a trap or a trick, but no one was following her. The band was packing things away. Revenant knelt by the security door, that black jacket she always wore slung over one shoulder, inspecting something in one of the cases.

“Ready to go?” the vocalist asked.

“I’ll catch up,” Revenant said.

Sabra waited for the other members of the band to leave. Then, when they were alone, she said, “Reva, hey.”

She didn’t look up. “It’s Revenant.”

“You’re not on duty.”

“That’s not the point,” she said, still not looking up. “You dressed up.”

“I polish up pretty well, yeah.”

“By your own estimation, of course. What do you want, Kasembe?”

“Would it kill you to look at me when I’m talking to you?”

“No,” Revenant said. “It would not kill me.” But she stood up and turned around all the same.

There was something startling about actually seeing her face so close. It’d been one thing to see her unmasked on stage, and another to withstand the full attention of her golden gaze. Even hooded as she was, Sabra picked out the heavy black makeup, the lipstick that matched the thick eye-shadow. The way her cheekbones were so sharp as to border on aerodynamic.

Her eyes—cool gunmetal orbs with glowing golden inlays that suggested pupil and iris.

Despite all that, it was like she wasn’t without her mask at all. Her expression was just as vague in olive and tan as it was in silver and gold—flat and unimpressed, cool and sardonic. She crossed her arms.

“Are you happy now?” she asked.

“Doesn’t matter,” Sabra said, and ignored the yes. “This isn’t a social call.”

“So, again—what do you want?”

“It’s about the attack on the Citadel. Pavel Fisher thinks it was the work of something greater. He wants my help, and I’m here to collect on that offer of your help.”

“Is that so.”

“Yeah. Or did you really drop by my interrogation just to gloat?”

“I didn’t come to gloat.”

“I remember what you said,” Sabra replied. “‘I didn’t expect you to make it so easy for me.’”

“It was supposed to be a joke.”

“Yeah?” Sabra spat. “Was it supposed to be a joke when you destroyed my suit, too?”

Her facial expression didn’t change at all. “There was no other option; the emergency release bolts would not fire.”

“How convenient.”

“Do you want an apology, Kasembe? You won’t find one here. I did it to save your life. The damage to your armor was too severe to preserve it.”

“Whatever,” Sabra snapped. “Whatever. That’s the past. I’m here because I want your help.”

“Want or need. I suspect you have too much pride to merely want it.”

Something hot washed over her cheeks. Sabra told herself it was anger. But the awareness of it slowed her a second, dulled her competitive edge, and stilled the verbal jab on the tip of her tongue.

“Pavel Fisher wants to put together a plan to track down the people who attacked the Citadel. He says IESA isn’t going to do a damn thing.”

“And that plan is?”

“Christ and Allah, I just told you—to track down the mercenaries.”

“That’s a goal, Kasembe, not a plan.”

“We don’t have a plan yet,” Sabra said, sighing. “I’m just about to go meet him and see what his plan is. But either way, we need firepower. I’ve seen you in action. We could use your help.”

Revenant stood there, as still as a statue and twice as cold. Sabra found her eyes tracing along those lines that demarcated sections of her arms. How much of her was artificial? There were stories about some of the empowered who had a knack for technology, that it was a compulsion, that they ended up replacing parts of their own bodies and experimenting on their own brains—after all, wasn’t that what had happened to The Engineer?

“No,” Revenant said.

“No?” Sabra asked. “What do you mean ‘no?’”

“I mean ‘no’ as in ‘negative.’ As in, I will not be following you on some foolish crusade.”

“I should’ve known better,” Sabra snapped. “You know, I actually thought there was some good in you. I thought if I could just talk to you for five minutes, then maybe we could find some common ground.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to help you,” Revenant replied. “It’s that I can’t.”

“Why? Because we fought? Because I kicked your ass? Because I stole a battery?”

“None of those.”

“Then what?”

“Nothing I’m able to discuss.”

“Oh, that’s fucking rich, Rev. Why does everyone have to be so fucking cryptic tonight?” Sabra turned away, dragging her fingers through her inch or so of hair. When she turned back, Revenant hadn’t moved.

“Kasembe,” she said, “have you considered that, perhaps, I have a more accurate idea of the facts arrayed against me than you do?”

“That isn’t an excuse to do nothing!”

“Hah!” The sound was as loud as a gunshot and as rough as a slap. It took Sabra a moment to realize it was laughter. The shock of that thought brought Revenant enough time to bend down and collect her guitar case, slinging it over one shoulder.

“Good night, Defiant,” she said. “Don’t come looking for me again.”

And then she ignited her jets and launched herself into the night’s sky, burning through the air like a comet slipping the bonds of gravity, leaving Sabra in the alley, and utterly alone.