Fight Like A Girl

by Juliet E. McKenna

  Megumi had worked in the Crease for fifteen years, but she still felt uneasy on those narrow streets at night. She would have made the journey by day if there hadn’t been the risk of being followed. Her only hope was darkness as the dark hid those who would do her harm, so it might keep her out of sight too.

  The heat was stifling. Sweat ran down her throat and stained the underarms of her dress. It wasn’t just the temperature that made her feverish. Never before had she appreciated so fully that her life was in danger. It felt utterly surreal to be in the Crease at this hour, fluttering about like a moth that’s lost the light.

  At last she arrived at a pair of rusty gates. “Casa Caca’ was daubed on a sheet of corrugated iron in neon yellow paint. The sign was propped against the wall of a long building with a curved, tiled roof.

  Megumi walked up the path, taking care to avoid any upended tiles or broken stone edging. She tried one of the large double doors at the entrance; it resisted her efforts and she had to force it open with a shoulder. Folding her lace skirt close about her legs, she stepped inside.

  The hall was dusty. Paint sloughed off the walls. A dirty white marble staircase led up. Megumi crossed the hall, listening for a rush of feet or the click of a gun being cocked. The heat resonated – an eternal buzzing in her ears.

  She started up the stairs, taking pains to make as little noise as possible. Her boots left imprints in the dust. The intensity of the heat and quantity of steps took their toll. She panted slightly as she climbed.

  Arriving at the fifth landing, she leant against the wall to catch her breath. The upper reaches of Casa Caca were as hot as a bread oven. She heard the scratchy warble of a gramophone record. Behind locked doors, a baby cried.

  Megumi made her way down the corridor. She counted off the graffitied doors. The last was reinforced with wooden batons and corrugated iron – she’d arrived at the right address.

  She knocked sharply. The sound echoed across the landing.

  A panel slid back. Red-rimmed eyes appeared at the slot. A Pinkie.

  “Kaj Želiš?” What do you want?

  “I want to speak to Asenath.”

  “Who says Asenath wants to speak to you?”

  Megumi reached into her pocket. She held up a roll of notes.

  The eyes narrowed. “What’s the job?”

  “Bodyguard one of my patients.” She pocketed the roll again and held out a business card. Fingers reached for it and withdrew. “Megumi Midori,” the Pinkie read out loud. “General Practitioner. 251, Marlow Avenue, Santa Spišské.”

  No caste definition, for which Megumi was grateful. Unlike Jeridians, Showmaniese didn’t compartmentalise men according to their social status. Instead, her people believed in hard graft and self-made opportunities. It was just a pity about their disregard for human life – a trait that distanced Megumi from her own.

  The Pinkie thrust the card at her and shut the panel. Megumi heard the sound of bolts being drawn aside and chains jangling. The door opened. Before she had a chance to complain, the Pinkie’s arm reached out and yanked her inside. The man patted her down roughly. When his hands lingered at her breasts, she kicked out. The Pinkie laughed and bolted the door behind them.

  “Only weapons this broad’s got are two fat titties,” the man announced. “Wouldn’t mind her firing those on me!”

  “Maybe you try your luck later, ya, Ragorne? For now we hear more from our potential employer.” A figure got up from a seat at one end of a long table. Megumi blinked; the room was lit by kerosene lamps and it took her eyes a moment to adjust. Her first impression was of a tall, slim male with burnished red skin and hair greased into a mohawk. But the voice was a woman’s.

  The Pinkie sniffed and backed off, leaving Megumi to study the speaker’s face. Hard, high cheekbones, tigerish eyes, full brown lips. A ladder of piercings ran down the woman’s throat.

  Megumi swallowed. This had to be Asenath – Jeridian warrior and leader of the Tai Mowa, a gang of rebels who refused to be drafted into either the government’s Blue Coats or the People’s Artillery Army. Megumi understood their logic. Jeridia was tiny; it didn’t deserve to be embroiled in political wrangling or bloody civil war. Unfortunately the country’s economy was dependent on its giant neighbour, West. Jeridia had also suffered the same lethal fallout from the insecticide – Soul Food – that blighted the rest of Sore Earth.

  Steeling herself, Megumi said, “I have a proposition.”

  “Save the propositions for later.” The gang leader smiled with her cats’ eyes.

  Megumi pressed on. “My name is Megumi Midori. I am a doctor. My practice is behind the Scarlet Cup brothel on Aziel Street.”

  “There are no doctors on Aziel Street or anywhere near the Crease,” said a gruff voice.

  Megumi had been doing her best to ignore the other gang members at the back of the room but now she was forced to acknowledge them – three men, Jeridian braves going by their pierced throats and mohawks, and two hard-faced Western women dressed like harlots.

  She lifted her chin. “I’m the only one.”

  “Why would a doc work in the Crease? Not like Izobani have the dollars to pay for your services,” said one of the women – a blonde in a tan leather waist cincher, bloomers and a tattered chemise.

  “The outcast needs medical care as much as any man. I provide that.”

  “In exchange for what?” The gruff voice belonged to the largest brave who sat smoking a hookah pipe.

  “Good question,” said Asenath.

  Megumi held the gang leader’s stare. “In exchange for favours owed.”

  “She’s a shitting debt collector!” spat the Pinkie, Ragorne, at her back. “Know what that is, Lizzie-Anne, Arlene? Newbies to Santa Spišské like yourselves ain’t had cause to encounter scum like debt collectors. They work for a boss, often as not one of the Showmaniese overlords. This bitch treats the poor and, in exchange, they owe her boss a debt which he is free to call in anytime.”

  “It’s the work of grubs feasting on the rotten end of the city,” said another of the men. Jackogin bottle in hand. He was wearing the red calico tunic of his warrior caste.

  The gang stirred. Hands reached for the handles of scimitars.

  “Wait! How dare a bunch of thugs for hire judge me? I debt collect because it’s the only way to guarantee my personal safety and continue my surgery. Wherever possible I fail to record the debt, but I can only continue treating those in need under these circumstances.” Megumi was breathing heavily again. The room was unbelievably oppressive.

  “Pour Miss Midori a drink, Arlene,” Asenath told the second woman – a redhead with spidery lashes and a scar down one cheek. “Leave off the door, Ragorne. The doctor has stated her case clearly enough.”

  Motioning to a high backed chair at the opposite end of the table, the gang leader said, “Sit, Doctor. We have business to discuss.”

  *

  Jackogin. Colour of worn leather. Like smoke on the tongue. Megumi didn’t look the sort to like it. Asenath wondered if the doctor was too bloody-minded to let on. Most Showmaniese had a palette more disposed to tropical flavours and sweetness.

  The gang had joined them at the table. Her fellow braves – Ebo, Lisimba and Hondo – plus Hondo’s half-brother Ragorne and the newcomers, Lizzie-Anne and Arlene. Asenath had tested each and every one in terms of integrity, combat skills, and worth. Their loyalty was impeccable.

  So far, the doctor had told a pretty tale about volunteering in Santa Spišské’s darkest crevices. She had alluded to body guarding but the criteria had not been defined. Instead, Lizzie-Anne was torturing the woman with a description of her latest kill – a pimp with a taste for underagers and dealing in Dazzle Dust.

  “. . . so I tear off his balls and feed them to him . . .”

  “What is the exact nature of the job?” Asenath interrupted. The question was an important one and Lizzie-Anne had the sense to shut up.

  Megumi knitted her fingers. Asenath notic
ed the gold wedding band, the neatly filed nails.

  “Blood Worms are taking my patients.”

  Asenath nodded. The others were more vocal.

  “Flesh dealing scum!” spat Arlene.

  “You can’t be surprised, Doctor. Trade in the sick and dying like you do and sooner or later, Blood Worms will come sniffing.” Hondo knocked a fist off Ebo’s.

  “I had never heard of stealing the living and selling them to surgeons before I moved here. The fact that so many of my countrymen engage in the practice is abhorrent.” Megumi’s soft brown eyes glistened. Black hair fell to her shoulders.

  “How do you know Blood Worms are responsible for your patients disappearing?” Asenath asked. “Folk go missing all the time in this city.”

  “Because the bastards came by to introduce themselves. Said they wanted to thank me for bringing the vulnerable out of the woodwork. Said I was doing the city and the Jeridian race a favour by weeding out the weak.”

  “Many of my countrymen would agree with that sentiment.” Asenath took a smoke stick and a match from a wooden box on the table. She dragged the match across a sulphur strip on the box lid. “I believe folk have the right to life if they do not harm others and they respect Mama Sunstar.” She lit the smoke stick, shook out the match, and exhaled. The air misted in front of her.

  Megumi’s confusion must have registered on her face because Asenath nodded and said, “You are surprised I keep with the old religion, ya? The same one that made me a pariah.” She put her elbows on the table and lent through the smoke. “It wasn’t Mama Sunstar who wrote down the words in the Black Book, or diluted her teachings with those of West’s Saints. Far as I can tell, the castes are man-made, as are the morals on which those castes are built. Only the voodoo endures, and the rule: “Honour those slain by your hand else they haunt your dreams.’” Asenath jabbed the smoke stick in the doctor’s direction. “Keep the devils off her land also. Although in this regard we are failing because the Blood Worms have come a-knocking.”

  Megumi lent across the table. Her tongue skimmed her lips.

  “I cannot offer much in the way of financial reward but a debt collector can offer promises of their own. I am a doctor. You and your friends may have use of me now or in the future.”

  “Which reminds me,” interrupted Lisimba. He passed the hookah mouth piece to the redhead, Arlene. “If these Blood Worms are picking off your patients, doesn’t that affect your employment as a debt collector and, by proxy, your employer? A Showmaniese overlord will have more than enough manpower to deal with the problem.”

  “The Blood Worms pay my boss a percentage of their earnings.” Megumi got up and started to pace. Her shoes clacked – high heeled and tied with thin black ribbons.

  “I guess the return is better on the flesh trade than favours owed.” Megumi dragged a hand over the top of her head. Her agitation was contagious. Ebo drummed the table with his fingers. Lizzie-Anne got flinty-eyed.

  “And who exactly is it you work for?” asked Hondo.

  Wisest of her gang, thought Asenath. She nodded slowly. “Ya, some say there are as many Showmaniese overlords in Santa Spišské as there are roo rats in the open sewers.”

  The doctor stopped pacing. She put her hands on her hips. “His name is Akihiro Jun.”

  Hatred rippled through Asenath. Akihiro had sent more of her fellow Jeridians to the grave than any other overlord. Among them was her Commodore.

  Asenath shook her head. “Of course it is.”

  “Of course?”

  “Only in that Mama Sunstar does nothing accidentally.”

  “So you have heard of Akihiro Jun?” Megumi looked nervous. Maybe she wanted the transaction between them to go smoothly and Asenath had appeared to reveal a personal vendetta against her employer.

  Asenath reeled in her emotions. “He has a reputation. But we are not interested in your employer, only the Blood Worms.” A lie.

  “We’re doing it then?” Hondo interrogated her with his stare.

  “On two conditions. One, the good doctor here provides us with medical care as and when we need it. As you say, given our line of work your offer has value.” Asenath smiled wryly. “Secondly, you have dinner with me, Megumi Midori.”

  The gang snorted.

  Megumi let her arms hang loose. She appeared to consider the offer.

  “Okay.”

  “Lucky bitch,” shot Ebo under his breath.

  Asenath heard Arlene whisper, “Which one?”

  *

  The Hog Pen was heating up when they arrived. Asenath gestured to one of the tables arranged around the fight cage.

  “Sit.”

  The doctor did as she was told. Asenath signalled a waitress.

  “Hello handsome.” The young woman popped out a hip. She eyed Megumi and lost a little of her sparkle. “What can I get you?”

  “Jackogin. Make it a bottle. And for you?”

  Megumi faltered. One thing was obvious, Asenath decided – the doctor might work in the Crease but she wasn’t used to its darker crevices.

  “You want Kislo Mieko?” asked the waitress sourly. Buttermilk.

  “Rakija,” said Megumi.

  Asenath raised an eyebrow. The fruit brandy was pricey enough to suit the doctor’s breeding, but it was also very much a drinker’s drink.

  “Shot?”

  “Half jug.”

  The waitress looked to Asenath, who nodded and added, “Shot for yourself.” It was enough to send the waitress away to the bar.

  “I can pay for my own liquor,” said Megumi, apparently aware of her upmarket tastes.

  “You can, I am sure of that. But I asked to take you to dinner and that means settling the bill.”

  “Dinner?” Megumi let her eyes roam over their surroundings. The Hog Pen was a grime bar complete with back room whoring and nightly cage fights. It wasn’t somewhere most people would bring a date.

  “Despite appearances, they serve the best Ful Medames and baklava in the district. Also, I can earn our supper.” Asenath pushed back her chair and stood up.

  Megumi was quick to understand. Her eyes went to the fight cage.

  “I’d ask if you were serious but I suspect that would insult your warrior heritage, not to mention your profession.”

  The waitress put their drinks on the table. Megumi poured a generous measure of the fruit brandy.

  She glanced up. “What you waiting for? I doubt it’s my permission.”

  Asenath showed her teeth. She strode away.

  *

  The Hog Pit’s fight cage was one of the few places that Asenath Sekula felt at home. She had been born into one of Jeridia’s ruling Brah families, circumstances which delivered her from the abject poverty of the Izobani and the incessant labouring of the Veez majority. Instead, she was presented with four respectable paths in life – priestess, teacher, judge, or warrior. Her brother, Solomon, inherited their father’s cerebral nature and studied to be a teacher. Asenath had no such patience. Her skills were maniacally physical: the need to burn up excess energy like a match put to a source of natural gas, a love of victory over weaker opponents, and the desire to master weaponry and fight methods until she was deadly. Her years at the Warrior Akademja in Lazarocruz were inevitable. As was her banishment from the caste on account of another aspect of her nature. Loss of all she had been born to had hardened her. In recent years, Asenath considered herself more machine than muscle.

  Time stretched. She paced inside the cage, waiting for her opponent. The game saw

  volunteers pit themselves against whatever champion the Hog Pit had in store that evening. Asenath’s past conquests included a five tonne Grizzleclaw brought all the way from neighbouring Sirin’s fossilised forest. Mostly though, she went up against street fighters.

  The crowd pressed against the mesh of the cage, murmuring expectantly. Asenath eased her shoulders up and back. She wondered if Megumi was watching or still seated. Perhaps she was the sort to enjoy the spec
tacle of the fight and the spill of sweat and blood.

  In the centre of the cage, the referee announced, “Today’s challenger is Lady Killer!”

  A cheer went up from those who recognised Asenath’s moniker.

  “This is Lady Killer’s twelfth bout and she is undefeated – a record which causes our most excellent hosts to groan every time on account of the damage done to their coinage. Tonight though, we at the Hog Pit are excited to introduce a very special champion: Zero!”

  Asenath saw the crowd part. A figure strode towards the cage door. Male, judging by the hefty stride. Shorter than Asenath but broad.

  The champion stepped inside the ring. Asenath felt a stab of anticipation. The man was a Sirinese gangster with some of the most extensive bodmods she had ever seen. Where the majority of his breed made do with a neck cuff or a brow bolt plate, this brute had concertinaed metal arms and a tool set for fingers.

  Both fighters pressed their hands into prayer and bowed. The referee laid out the rules of honourable combat: no biting, no fish-hooking, no eye gauging. Asenath just had a chance to wonder if the gangster was the honourable sort before the referee drew up his hand sharply between them, signalling the start of the bout.

  Storming forward, Zero launched a flying kick at Asenath’s skull. She sidestepped the manoeuvre and stabbed a heel into Zero’s shin. The man hissed and spun around, driving a metal fist at her face. Asenath bent back at a severe angle to avoid the punch. The revolving hand skimmed millimetres from her face.

  Flipping 360 degrees, Asenath landed in a crouch and slammed out the heel of her right hand. She connected with the Sirienese’s left knee and felt it give. Zero let out a grunt but continued his attack. Asenath heard the whir of deadly, bio-morphed hands, the snick-snick of mechanised knives descending. She was quick, but not quick enough. Pain ripped across her right shoulder.

  Asenath bounced off the cage wall and the crowd roared as they got the first-blood they’d been thirsting for. A metal mass launched towards her face again. She dove left and got in two jabs to Zero’s ribs. The man gasped. Asenath rocked back onto her heels and, shutting off the pain in her shoulder, launched a series of volleys against the Sirinese.