The Worthy Enemy

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"What I've had to," she whispered back. "Someone had to stand up to the gangs and Lone Star didn't have enough firepower. The California Rangers are busy measuring dicks with Aztlan and the elves and Damien Knight couldn't give a fuck less about what happens outside of Silicon Valley."

Brandt shook his head. "There were ways to go about it besides putting on a helmet and knocking over buildings, Dawson! You're public enemy number two! The Corporate Court just put a bounty on you!"

"I only knocked over two buildings," Dawson said defensively. "And I did the research, Asher. It would have taken a year for a tech-loan to be organized. All the different layers of ass-covering and liability insurances, all the red tape... People were dying! They were dying every night! I had to do something and Gaines agreed."

He checked over his shoulders again before speaking. "All the evidence points to you. You have access to police dispatch transmissions so you know where the hotspots are and when patrols are coming. You have a high position at the Orchard, and a metric ton of combat experience. You have a reputation for bending the rules, damn it Dawson it's a wonder Sokoth hasn't figured it out already."

She ran her hand through her hair. "What if I stopped now?"

"What, like tonight?"

"Yeah. I was approached by someone earlier tonight. A Bloody Tusk who wants to give up Ivan Ionfist."

Brandt stood up straight. "Does it look on the level?"

"I don't think we have much to lose at this point. If I volunteer on the raid to get him, and go without the suit, that'll take suspicion off of me. At least a little. And it'll deescalate the violence. We'll only have the Cutters to worry about."

"And the Ancients," Brandt corrected.

"No," Dawson said, "I have a contact with them. If we defuse the Bloody Tusks they'll scale back their operations."

"You're sure?"

She rubbed the back of her neck. "As sure as I can be when it comes to go-gangers."

"Well," Brandt said, rubbing his chin, "That might work. They're going to keep asking questions but as long as that powered armor never sees the light of day again, you might get away with this." He took note of her pensive expression.

"What is it? You look like you want to tell me something."

"It's... ah... hard to explain. Maybe better if I play it close to the chest for now."

"Oh, Dawson," Asher whispered, "Keeping secrets is for thieves, not cops."

He had a point. "There was an attempted armed robbery last night at a place called Cranby's. Did Sokoth tell you about it?"

"No," Brandt said. "Should he have?"

"Maybe. Maybe he doesn't want to distract you from tracking down Neon Justice."

"Well that job is fucking done," Brandt said, "So bring me up to speed."

"The footage from the security camera showed a woman who looked like me. With the same body language and the same SIN."

He raised his brows. "Got a twin sister nobody knew about?"

"I think it's worse than that. I ran into her tonight at a burglary someone tipped me off to. She was killing the people doing the robbery... Only, Brandt... They weren't normal people. They were like monsters."

"Monsters? How so?"

She gave a description of one that had twisted out of her suit's grip by bending its spine out of shape, then sprouted a blade made of bloody bone. Brandt's face paled.

"It's a been a while since the academy but... Sounds like some kind of horror."

"I thought the same thing."

"Where does your look-alike come into this?" he asked.

"I'm not sure. I tried to question her but she wouldn't talk."

"Relatives can be a real pain."

She breathed brief laughter. "I bring this up to say, if you see someone like me and I didn't contact you first, check my back."

"Your... back?"

"Yeah." She turned around and lifted her shirt up. "If you don't see that, you're not talking to the original me."

"What if she just goes and gets that tattooed on herself?"

"I'm hoping she's got better taste than that."

"Before I go," Brandt said, "There's one more thing. Early today you had an altercation with a Japanese man."

Turning back around, Dawson lowered her shirt and her brows alike. "He introduced himself as Goro Ishikawa."

"Well we planned to charge Ishikawa with assaulting an officer, but about halfway through the paperwork we got a call from someone high-up who said to release him. Whoever that guy is, he's got connections."

Dawson worked her tongue in one cheek. "I got a feeling he'll turn up again sooner or later."

= = =

She had to hide somewhere no one would look for her. Somewhere she didn't normally go. Someplace where no one had any incentive to give her up, and no outstanding grudge against her. Only one place fit the bill: Berkeley.

The hanging gardens of the neo-pagan community were tranquil at night, and whatever crimes were committed here happened behind closed doors or at least behind beaded curtains. This late the shops and stalls were all closed and the streets were mostly deserted. She could have picked an alleyway or a ditch to collapse into and, at last, begin thinking things through... But at the center of the township was a radiant glowing light and the soft thrum of instruments being played in a place with good acoustics. It resonated with Dawson, and she wanted to witness what the source was.

An old opera house had been fitted with large reflectors that were catching the moonlight, and the whole building shook with the gentle humming coming from within. It shook the asphalt below Dawson's feet as well and the vibrations were pleasant. Inviting. Soothing to her battered, exhausted flesh. She wondered who was holding forth here. The doors were open.

She found herself inside, standing at the top of a long, descending procession of seats that led to a stage. There were assembled a harp, a drum and a block of rectangular stone. Women in states of undress were playing these instruments: with their hands, with sticks and with a chisel.

Between the three of them a woman danced, a vision of fecund beauty. Blonde of hair, overwhelming of bosom. Dawson knew her: Tranquility. A witch, and a terrorist.

In the seats, male and female denizens of Berkeley were engaged in what could be charitably called an intoxicated orgy. Whenever someone seemed on the verge of finding their senses, be it of modesty, decorum or merely of direction, a naked amazon appeared and pushed into their hands a cup of Mother Earth's love nectar. They would help them drink, if they needed it. Mirrors along the walls of the chamber displayed every act of free love and shamelessness from a thousand different angles, rattling with the music being played.

Someone appeared near Dawson, a woman with long red hair and a flinty demeanor softened for the time being by the atmosphere. No words were exchanged; she pushed a cup into Dawson's hands.

She wanted thoughtlessness. She wanted numbness. She put the cup to her lips and drank. As she did, she felt someone removing her jacket and shirt. Later her trousers would vanish too. But she didn't mind; her body was perfect. She wanted to show it off. Somewhere along the way, Tranquility began to sing.

"Stealing a part of Pygmalion's heart, isn't so hard if you... play your pa-art. And you're not afraid, to disengage..."

The pleasant rattling of the mirrors attracted her to one of them and Dawson stared at herself. No, that wasn't right. She wasn't Dawson, was she? This person in the mirror... That wasn't her.

"You stab at your prize, chiseling fear in her eyes... You know it sounds bad, but you love seeing her sad... You love someone you can shape, who has no will to escape..."

This person. She'd met her, looked into her eyes, heard her voice. The voice she shared, the eyes she shared. The one who lived the life she'd tasted. Just a flash; a flash that started the change.

"But you know she's not selfish... Like everyone else is. She won't leave you lonely, she's gonna make you whole!"

Tears welled up at the corners of her eyes.

"But how-how-how do you know... She won't seize control?"

Her eyes narrowed. She hated this feeling... this incompleteness...

"She ain't worth a god damn... In anyone else's hands!"

Her hands settled on the mirror and began to ball into fists. Someone brushed up beside her and took her hands away from the wall, pressing a new cup into them. They wiped her tears away, kissed her chin, her neck, and then were away.

"You've got real potential... But you lack the essentials..."

"You're just a monster... With a BFA!"

Was that what she was? Just... a horror... Flesh, bone, a vessel for something's hatred...

"She wants to clow your eyes open... So you can see, she's not a plaything!"

She drained the cup again, and then sought out another and drained it as well, quickly. Her mind began to swim. Someone touched her between the legs and she cried out in delight. Then she caught sight of herself in the mirror again and the image twisted. She was holding the gun... Where had it gone? No, it wasn't in her hands. The reflection was holding it. Don't do it! she pleaded silently. Please! I want to help you!

"You covet her warmth, like a wolf at a corpse so it's fair to assume, your intent's to consume her... And she lets you feed, 'cause her love's in need..."

Feed... She needed that, but... she wouldn't take... Taking would bring her closer to It...

"And you don't even panic! When her flesh turns to granite! 'Cause girls of her kind... Are so easy to find!"

The gun vanished from her hand and the world twisted around her reflection in the mirror. She stood there, watching other bodies come and go, brushing against her, tasting her neck and sometimes her lips, but she had eyes only for herself. For the dark-haired woman whose appearance she shared. For the life she was a reflection of.

"You think that you're such a star, ha! What a fraud you are!"

"The only gift you possess... Is your viciousness!"

She fell to her knees and collapsed against the twisting image of Impulse Dawson. Tears began to flow freely down her face.

"You've got real potential... But you lack the essentials..."

"You're just a monster... With a BFA!"

Hands found her and lifted her up. Held her by the chin, cupped her between the legs. Lips kissed away her sorrow. Drink washed away her awareness. And for a little while, she forgot she was a monster.

= = =

"You think they're onto you?" Gaines asked.

Dawson pursed her lips. "Brandt figured it out quickly. He's willing to keep it a secret if it stops now."

"Can it stop now?" he asked. "The gangs seem more riled up than ever."

"They are," she admitted, "But we might be close to a breakthrough on that front. We might be about to get public enemy number one."

"The ork? I thought he was deep in hiding after that raid on the Rangers depot."

"One of his subordinates is prepared to give him up."

Gaines shook his head. "That's the problem with crime. No loyalty."

The department heads filed in and Cranston shut the two doors before taking up a position beside them.

Dawson whispered, "You really prefer these people to good honest go-gangers?"

Gaines replied, "Ask me again when this is over."

The meeting began. Sales (and thus profits) were up, but so were costs. Longer hours for Knight Errant personnel, and increased ammunition consumption ("Too many free samples!" Gaines complained). The board of directors was worried about the state of California since it was looking to be on a backslide towards the dubiously viable marketplace that it was during the occupation. The entire time Dawson was thinking about her look-alike, though she did manage to pick up a few hints about other stresses the top brass were concerned with. Sometimes it was easy to forget there was a world outside of San Francisco.

About thirty-five minutes in Branding tapped on a commpad on the table, visibly confused. "Hmm, it seems the matrix reception has gone offline. Can anyone else get a signal?"

Everyone but Dawson began to assess their pads or their implants. "No," Reduction said, tapping his gaudy gold face-framing. "No, I can't get a signal at all. I wonder what's..."

Dawson stood up from the table and moved to the window. Situated in front of the entrance to the Orchard was a black cadillac and two bloody tusks war trucks.

She spun around and shouted to the room, "Get down!"

Cranston, Gaines and Collateral joined her on the floor just a few seconds before a quartet of gunshots blew through the door. One of the bullets struck the melted Impeller on the table, another struck Reduction in the shoulder and sent the man sprawling across the board room floor. The remaining two passed through Gaines' chair.

An ork ganger kicked the door open and barreled into the room with a halberd in both hands. Before he could get more than five steps in, Cranston had drawn his Ares Predator V and fired three shots. Two hit the ganger's side and the third hit his head. Cranston was a good shot, and merciless.

Another figure rushed in after the ganger was felled, quicker than the ork had been. While Cranston was trying to regain his feet the second attacker extended from his arm a long straight blade. The sound of its edge whistling through the air briefly preceded the dull thunk of Cranston's gun-holding hand being severed.

The corpsec officer cried out, plunging his wrist beneath his other arm, quickly staining his suit red to the elbow. The man who had maimed him kicked the severed hand across the board room, taking the firearm with it.

Dashing beneath the meeting table, Dawson saw four more people enter after the one who had injured Cranston. Two looked to be bloody tusks and two were in the sleeveless outfits of the Cutters. The one with the blade emerging from his sleeve she recognized: Goro Ishikawa.

Goro strode past where Dawson was hiding on the way to the head of the table. Collateral chose that moment to pop up from where he'd fallen out of his chair to point his Light Fire 70 at the advancing yakuza. He got off two shots, one of which grazed Goro's left hip, before an ork brought a club made out of a road sign down on his arm and broke it. Then for good measure he smashed the gun into the marble floor.

Branding screamed, holding pressure on Reduction's bleeding shoulder. Gaines got to his feet just as Ishikawa was kicking his chair out of the way and seizing him by the collar.

"Thomas Gaines," he said matter-of-factly, "You do not know me, but you knew my father. Major Aiko Ishikawa." Dawson couldn't see their faces but Gaines didn't respond right away.

"Do you know who you're fucking with, junior?"

Goro slowly raised the blade up out of view. "I do, Mister Gaines," he said gravely, "And I believe with all my heart that it is worth the cost."

Dawson moved as quietly as she could beneath the table in their direction. Branding's screaming and the shouting the gangers were doing helped cover the noise of her motions. She was afraid she wasn't going to reach Gaines in time but fortunately one of the Cutters butted in.

"Hey!" she shouted, waving what looked to be a Remington Roomsweeper in Goro's direction. "Save your pleasure for after business. Old man! This Jap here says you know who Neon Justice is... Don't waste our time and we won't waste yours. Who is he?"

"Go fuck yourself," Gaines said flatly.

But the cutter knew what game to play. She grabbed one of the department heads and held her gun to his neck. Gaines might not give her up to save his own life, but someone else's? That was a harder choice to make.

She cocked the hammer. "Last chance, haircut. Who is Neon Justice?"

The moment stretched out. Dawson didn't give Gaines a chance to choose, reaching out and grabbing the ganger by her ankles before pulling as hard as she could. The cutter immediately lost her balance and fell onto her back, the roomsweeper firing a cloud of pellets into the ceiling ten feet above. The woman's glasses went clattering to the side as her head hit the ground, and Dawson pulled her beneath the table.

"You found her," she hissed. Then she struck the cutter in the jaw, hard enough that she bit into her own tongue and spat a small amount of blood. Then for good measure, Dawson pounded her fist into the woman's stomach.

The other cutter backed up to get a view of the table, incidentally putting him at the right range for Dawson to point the roomsweeper at him and take out one of his legs with the shot from its other barrel. His Steyr TMP fired a burst of ammunition across the room at random, earning a new wave of screams from the terrified department heads.

Goro threw Gaines backwards with enough force to send the older man stumbling into one of the far walls. Gripping one side of the ten-foot long meeting table he exerted himself and flipped the entire thing onto its side, ripping up the bolts holding it in place. Dawson stood up and saw delighted surprise on Ishikawa's face.

"Both of you at once," he marveled, "How fortunate. Truly fate is smiling on my quest."

She didn't have time to retort; the two bloody tusks were bearing down on her with a club and a hand-forged axe. She dipped to one side and the bladed swing cut the table down the middle before lodging in the jammed Impeller that had melted into it months prior. While he struggled to pull it out she ducked below the swing of the other and directed a punch across his brow. While he was stunned she grabbed his head and leveraged all her weight to bring it down chin-first into her knee.

That ork sprawled out on the ground, seeing stars. Goro advanced on her with what could only be cybernetically enhanced agility, swinging his blade towards her head and face. She only narrowly avoided it by falling back, losing ground to his graceful and precise motions. When at one point he overextended in a thrust, she pounded her right fist into his midsection. Her fingers beat against the padded coat and the rigidity of subdermal armor plates. Ishikawa had spared no expense.

The bloody tusk managed to get his axe free from the melted impeller and tried to cut off her retreat around the room but a shot rang out from the far wall, striking him in the leg and putting him on the ground. Gaines had found Cranston's gun, pried his hands off from around it and was aiming it at Goro. He pulled the trigger four times; one went wide, two he managed to dodge with twists of his body and the third--aimed at his center mass--he deflected with the edge of his arm-blade. The split bullet parted around him and struck the walls beside the meeting room doors.

Fucking hell, Dawson thought. Goro disengaged from her and began bounding across the room toward Gaines. She gave chase but he was half her age and some forty percent chrome by volume, easily outpacing her. Gaines continued shooting Cranston's gun but the bullets kept missing their mark, and after four more shots the clip was empty. Unable to catch up, Dawson instead made for the fallen cutter's weapon, which he'd abandoned in an attempt to stymie the bleeding of his shotgun-mangled leg. He cringed when she came close but she didn't waste time on him, taking up the machine pistol and setting it from full-auto to burst.

A quick trio of 9 millimeter rounds caught the back of Goro's leg, making him stumble but failed to adjust his collision course with Gaines, who had moved in front of one the large window overlooking the Orchard's main square. The point of his blade came up and was aimed at Thomas' face.

Then the graying man dropped into a low stance, turning a fatal stab into a deep slice across the top of his head which carried the point past him and into the window. It shattered from the impact, raining shards of clear expensive glass into the square below. Gaines grabbed Ishikawa by the waist in both arms and, like a lineman in an old-time sports game, hurled him over his shoulder, straight out of the window.