The Worthy Enemy

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"You must be confused," the man began, folding his hands in an effort to appear harmless. "You hear its call, but not clearly."

"What's happening here?" Dawson demanded. "Are those bodies you're loading onto trucks? Why?"

"For the work, of course," the man went on, his grin growing steadily wider. "The task for which we were created."

She bared her teeth. "We? I don't speak french, creep. Get on the ground and maybe I won't put another hole in your head."

"You are... unfinished," he observed. "You tasted, but you did not take."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Dawson growled, "Last warning. Get on the ground!"

"The taking will make you complete," he promised. "It will bring you close to It."

She aimed the revolver at the man's leg and pulled the trigger. A.32 round put a hole in his pant leg and lodged somewhere in his shin. He didn't so much as flinch.

Dawson whispered under her breath, "You're not human."

"Neither are you," the Executive said in return. Smoothly. Calmly, as if it were an indisputable truth that she would come to recognize in short order. His mouth opened and she saw the gleaming points of his teeth, similar to her own. So unlike the mouths of others she'd been exploring since she woke up in that canal. In the yawning blackness of his open maw she saw a truth that put the lie to everything that stretched back in her thoughts. To even consider it was madness. Yet for those few long, stretched-out seconds consider it she did.

He lunged at her. Whether he aimed to take the Taurus Omni-6, meant to kill or was simply seizing the opportunity to subdue her she was never able to ascertain. She was acting purely on instinct when she switched the gun to its larger setting and pulled the trigger. The report from the.44 was like a thunderclap compared to the.32 and the effect on her target was similarly enhanced. A hole appeared in the back of his head where the bullet exited, and his body was sent flying backwards.

Breathing heavily, Dawson looked at the twitching body of the Executive and then up at the other creatures on the far side of the decline. A few were staring at her with expressionless faces, beginning to take cautionary steps in her direction. There were more than a dozen and the.32 rounds would be ineffective. She had to retreat. The moment she took off in a run, three of them were in pursuit, sprinting with the exact same vigor she herself showed.

At the hole in the fence Dawson turned, dropped to one knee and directed three quick shots aimed at the legs of her pursuers. Her aim was true and each one lost use of a leg; even if it wasn't fatal to them it obliterated their ability to give chase which was all that mattered in the moment.

She ran as quickly as she could from the scene, straight away back to where she'd parked the stolen three-wheeler. She drove until the tank was nearly empty and then stopped it in an alleyway, where soaked in sweat she collapsed against a concrete wall.

Being out of danger presented its own threat: now she could think, put the pieces together. Consider the angles. No memory in her life was like the call that had drawn her to that place, and yet every memory she could summon felt... real. It didn't feel like some kind of fabrication. Someone had lived this life.

The girls at home had been suspicious of her. They'd said her tattoo was missing, and that someone else had already been there. The safe was empty. The suit... gone somewhere. Only she could pilot it. Someone was living this life and in all likelihood it wasn't her.

Dawson exhaled heavily, willing herself to calm. If she wasn't herself, what was she? One of those freaks, those horrors trafficking in bodies? No, that disgusted her, she wasn't like them. What had the Executive said? That the taking would make her complete. Bring her close to It. What was It? What did she need to...

A memory unlike the others in her mind surfaced. A flash of something brilliant, something sweet and bitter at once. Impulse Dawson. That was her, wasn't it? Or was that just what she'd been crafted to believe?

She checked the revolver. Down to two magnums and five of the.32 calibers. Even a shot to the head hadn't been enough to kill the Executive outright, and she suspected he wouldn't be down for long. Normally she--Dawson--would inform someone about things like this, but now she couldn't trust anyone.

No, the truth was that no one could trust her. Her entire frame of mind had been displaced and she had no idea what she even was anymore, let alone who.

Snapping the revolver back together, she ran her hand through her hair. Was she just an imitation of someone real, a carbon copy of a cop and a misprinted monster waiting for a finishing touch? It didn't matter--even if the way she felt was fake, it was still how she felt. Her instincts were still the same and she could only act on them. Whatever these creatures were up to she'd put a stop to it... alone. Then she'd sort out her identity crisis.

= = =

As soon as she opened the door, Avalanche grabbed Dawson by the shoulders. "Got her!" Then she started sniffing Dawson's neck and hair. "Uhhh... Smells good. Normal."

"Thanks," Dawson said flatly. Alenia popped her head around the corner, followed by Jastira and Nyana. From the kitchen side Rierra and Shelara peeked their heads out to look at her.

"Look at her back!" Rierra shouted. Dawson pursed her lips as Avalanche gripped her coat and pulled up, taking her shirt out of her pants so she could inspect the area right above her waist.

"Do you think something's changed since last night?" Dawson asked in irritation.

"She's got it!" Avalanche declared. Then she wrapped an arm around Dawson's waist. "Met your sister today," she said conspiratorially. "She's got a wicked kiss."

Dawson glanced sharply at the troll. "What?"

"Someone else came here after you left this morning," Alenia explained, coming out into the hallway. The others followed after her and soon were gathered around Dawson in their customary sharing-hug.

"She looked just like you," Rierra added, "Just without anything on her back."

"What did she do?" Dawson questioned. "Did she try to hurt you?"

"Uhh..." Avalanche said, squirming a little while holding Dawson's waist. "Pressed my button. And tongued my throat. Real turn-on."

"Her tongue was like two feet long!" Nyana said, with a note of fascination.

"And her teeth were super sharp!" Jastira added.

"She acted just like you," Shelara noted, "She knew the door code, and her hand opened the wall safe."

Dawson had them recount everything, including her last suggestion of don't let anyone in, even if it's me. It was definitely something she would have said.

"Kissing her probably was a bad idea," Dawson said to Avalanche.

The fomor snorted derisively. "I'd kiss her again if she were here!" she declared. Then she put her face close to Dawson's and licked her on the chin. "You'll do, though."

Only so much tongue could be traded with Avalanche before the troll tried to escalate things so she had to be cut off fairly quickly. Once Dawson had done a quick search around the living room to make sure nothing of importance was missing or had been tampered with, she brought the girls together and gave them instructions.

"If she comes here again," she started, "Tell her to stay here."

"You want her here?" Alenia asked, puzzled.

"I have no idea who this is right now," Dawson explained, "This is someone with my biometrics, with my SIN. They could do a lot of damage wandering around out there, and not just to my reputation. She's already bitten someone's cybernetic arm off."

"Who was the person?" Shelara asked.

"It was a Cutter," Dawson said, "But that's not--"

"So he had it coming," Jastira said, brows raised.

"Didn't you rip off someone's arm once?" Nyana questioned.

"Yes," Dawson admitted, "But that was different--"

"How was it different?" Rierra wanted to know.

Dawson scowled. "I didn't bite it off, for one thing!"

"Sounds like she does your job a little better than you," Jastira suggested. Alenia shoved her on the shoulder.

"Shut up! She's not better!"

Rierra's eyes half-lidded. "That tongue looked really skilled, though..."

Avalanche shuddered in delight at the insinuation. "I want to feel it between my rods."

"There's a copy of me walking around somewhere with sharpened teeth and a two-foot tongue," Dawson said evenly, "And you're thinking about sleeping with her."

Avalanche flinched as if scolded. "Well, not just her. Preferably both of you at once..."

The others, even Alenia, looked at Dawson hopefully. Impulse ran her hand through her hair and sighed.

"Permit me to ascertain what exactly we're dealing with before you start fucking it. This person could be a walking bomb for all I know."

"If she's like you," Alenia asserted, "Then the world's a better place."

Dawson took Alenia by the chin affectionately. "I wish I were the angel everyone seems to think I am."

"If you weren't," Rierra said firmly, "We wouldn't think that of you, would we?"

"There's no law against being wrong," Dawson observed, "But there is one against identity theft, even if it's not on purpose. I need to find this woman."

"What are you going to do when you do?" Nyana wondered.

"Ask her questions," Dawson said, "Nothing more than that, to start."

"Will you ask her if she's down to fuck?" Avalanche pleaded. Dawson pursed her lips.

"I'll make mention of it, if it seems appropriate." The troll grinned stupidly.

Her commpad chimed with a time warning. "Damn," Dawson muttered. "I need to meet Illich soon. I'm so focused on this look-alike that I almost forgot about the gang war." She looked around the room at the girls.

"If she comes here again, keep her here. Do whatever you have to."

Avalanche licked her lips. "No problem there!"

= = =

The situation in the bar was tense, to say the least. Rulian sipped his drink more out of habit than anything else; his tolerance to liquor was so high that he could pound five glasses and barely feel anything. Beside him Jackie was smoking two cigarettes in two separate fingers.

Across the table, Ivan Ionfist was staring nukes at him.

"We've all suffered losses," Rulian said. Behind the counter the bar's ostensible owner Andy emitted a heavy sigh.

"But we're willing to cut a deal, at least for the short-term. You must be too or you wouldn't be here."

With his braided hair, painted face and tricked-out augmented hands, the Bloody Tusks warlord was a frightening sight. The dozen orks backing him up looked similarly imposing. Were it not for the dozen of his own boys behind them Rulian and Jackie might be flipping tables and firing off shots right about now.

"Let me make this entirely clear," Ionfist muttered, his voice deep and guttural. "My only losses have been because of that bastard Neon Justice. He just put my man Gore'gav in lockup, right when Gore'gav was about to cut the head off the Ancients."

From what Rulian had heard the fight wasn't going well for the orks, and Neon Justice might have saved his ass. He elected not to repeat this rumor to Ionfist.

"We're not fans of Neon Justice either," he assured. "We want to get him off the board, but there's no cost-effective way to crack that suit they're jumping around in. Situations like these, when you can't get at someone directly you need to think outside the box. We need to find out who he is. If we do, we can go after him when he's not in the suit. Failing that we can put guns to the heads of his family or his friends."

The ork warlord snorted. "I've tried," he muttered, "But he never takes off the suit in view of anyone else. No one on the street has any idea who he is... Or if they do, they're more afraid of him than they are of me."

A new voice rang out from the direction of the stairs leading to the bar's first floor. "If you want to find Neon Justice," it said, "You need only ask the person who had the suit built."

Every head on every Tusk and Cutter looked in the same direction at a Japanese man in a padded coat. Guns were drawn and cocked, clubs hefted and held aloft menacingly. Jackie stood up from his chair and pointed his pistol in the Jap's direction.

"Who the fuck's this cocksucker? Rulian did you know aboot this guy?"

"Who are you?" Ionfist demanded. "And why shouldn't I have one of my warboys here feed you your eyeballs?"

"That would be unpleasant for your man," the Jap supplied, walking casually towards the end of the table where they were seated.

"Jackie," Rulian whispered, "Sit down. Put that thing away. Think about the bottom line, buddy."

Puffing on his two cigarettes, Jackie holstered his weapon back in his waistband with obvious reluctance. The Jap chose that moment to bow.

"My name is Goro Ishikawa," he said, "And I believe I can assist you in uncovering the identity of Neon Justice."

"How?" Rulian asked quickly. Goro looked at him and smiled in a small, tidy way that Rulian found impossible to trust completely.

"I have studied the news reports on Neon Justice. The suit they wear is next-generation powered armor with kinetic foam, polymer servos and a nuclear power supply, fueling compressed air jump-jets, the light-emitting diodes so effective in urban combat, and an integrated railgun with variable velocity."

"Get to the point," Ionfist growled. "We know what he's capable of, what we need to know is how to get to him."

"I bring up these details for a reason, lord Ionfist. Currently only one weapons developer is performing ongoing research on the type of railgun that this powered armor uses, that being Ares Macrotechnology. If you were to stage an attack on The Orchard and take hostage their deputy director, you could convince him to reveal the identity of the operator of the suit. Undoubtedly he has that knowledge."

Rulian sipped his drink and asked, "What's in this for you?"

The Jap didn't dance around the question. "The deputy director is a man named Thomas Gaines, a fellow I wish to see dead for reasons of familial vengeance. I would thank you not to inquire further, and accept that when you have gotten your information from him I will take great pleasure in ending his life."

"The Orchard is the most heavily defended facility in Silicon Valley," Ivan mused. "Knight Errant will be all over us before we get to the front door."

"I have contacts within the Yakuza," Goro said, "Who owe me many favors for my years of service. I will call in those favors and blind Knight Errant's surveillance drones and patrols via the Matrix. We will have a window of opportunity to strike, accomplish our goals and then escape."

Ivan leaned back in his seat and chuckled darkly. "This would be a real blow to California," he mused. "The beginning of the end for them, and a first step to an ork dominion."

"Don't choke on your ambitions there bub," Rulian warned. Ionfist's dark red eyes found their way to him and his grin turned into a sneer.

"We'll point our weapons elsewhere until Neon Justice is dead at my feet," Ionfist warned. "After that, may the best warriors win."

Rulian sipped his drink again and looked at Ishikawa. "When?"

"Tomorrow morning," Goro stated, "My contacts have already been informed."

"How'd you know we'd agree?" Rulian asked.

"How could you not?" the Jap said, smiling wider. "Were it not for Neon Justice one or the other of you would have long since conquered San Francisco. I offer you a chance to remove that obstacle so you may have the all-out-war you so desire."

= = =

Shortly before sundown Dawson arrived at the Basilica of Saint Mary. In a back room of the church she met Illich who looked at her with a critical eye. Immediately she understood why.

"You've seen me recently," she said, "But not me who's standing here now."

"Si," Illich said. "You confessed familiar sins, late last night. Recounted them with such precision and such genuine guilt that the recollection could only have come from your own heart, Dawson."

"What did she say?"

Mendoza told her of the encounter and how the person he spoke to through the screen seemed so like her that he did not doubt her identity until she was about to leave.

"You didn't think to contact me right after this?" Dawson asked. "I didn't even know this person existed until I saw her in security footage in a convenience store.

"It crossed my mind," Illich admitted, "But I was approached by someone else."

"Right," she said, "About the gang war. Who is it?"

"Her name is Callista," he said, walking towards a window that showed a view of the grassy lot that was part of the church's zone. Pulling aside the curtain he pointed out towards a recently built gazebo with a granite statue of an angel at its peak.

Leaning against the railing on the inside was a figure with horns jutting up from her head, little more than a silhouette in the fading evening light.

Hands in her pockets, Dawson approached the gazebo just as the sun was sinking over the city's horizon. "Heard you were looking for me," she called.

The figure straightened up at her voice and called back, "Heard you turn a blind eye from time to time."

"I've been known to let a little fish go when doing so facilitates the capture of a bigger one," Dawson clarified.

The figure stepped out of the shadowed interior of the gazebo and stood up to her full height. A satyr, horns rising up at a slight angle, looked her up and down in the fashion that all criminals seemed to do when viewing Dawson for the first time.

"You're detective Dawson?" Callista asked.

Dawson inclined her head slightly. "Not what you expected?"

"You're pretty hot for a cop. Bet you'd make more money as a stripper."

"Maybe I don't do it for money," Dawson suggested. Callista produced a noise that was half laughter, half bleating.

"Everything in the sixth world is done for money sooner or later," Calista insisted.

"Not an attitude common among the Bloody Tusks," Dawson remarked.

The satyr shrugged. "I've got my own ideas about what the Tusks should be. But what gave me away?"

"Mostly the leather greaves. They hug your legs pretty good but they don't really match that shirt. Unless 'Drama Queen' is an official rank in your go-gang?"

"It might be soon," Calista said with a smirk, "If I get my way."

"And what is your way?" Dawson inquired, walking into the gazebo and leaning against one of its posts. "Padre Mendoza says you started this gang war. Is that your way?"

Here the satyr was slightly less forthcoming. "I... may have told a certain warlord about a legend of a lightning-fisted warrior destined to found a new ork empire," she admitted, "And may have implied it was meant to start in San Francisco."

Dawson crossed her arms. "And he believed you?"

"Some people will believe anything if it validates their own ego."

"Too true. Well he's tearing this city apart trying to make your fantasy into his reality. Two sergeants, a lieutenant and a city councilman have had their houses firebombed for trying to stop him. Has your story gone far enough yet?"

Calista seemed entirely uninterested in apologizing for the course of events thus far. "I know where he keeps court," the satyr said. "I can give him to you and Lone Star. He goes down, the Bloody Tusks defer to the next in line."

"Which is?"

"You're looking at her."

Dawson frowned. "And you'd be a little less public enemy number one, would you?"

"I have my own ideas about what the Bloody Tusks should be. About what orks can be."

"I can barely wait to hear this," Dawson said expectantly.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Calista said with a slight shrug.

"Try me."

"Fine," Calista sighed, "I want the Tusks to be a street theater group."

"Is that the punchline or just the setup?"

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