by James Wake
Jackson shook her head as she pulled her damp ski mask off. Her hair was a mess, darker circles under her exhausted eyes clear even on her lovely dark skin. Her jacket and armored vest went too, tattered with bullet holes, leaving her wearing a sweat-soaked black T-shirt.
“I didn’t mean to…” Nadia said, unsure of what would come out if she kept talking. “I didn’t want to hurt anyone.”
Jackson shook her head. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”
“It must be easy for you by now,” Nadia said. Ruined bodies in white armor, bloodstains on the walls all around them. “Pulling the trigger, I mean.”
Jackson shrugged. “Not really.”
“What?” Nadia winced as her eyes snapped up. “This doesn’t get better?”
“No. I’d be worried if it did.”
Nadia couldn’t wrap her head around that. It didn’t matter, though. She stood up carefully, testing her feet again. She had to. There wasn’t much left to do; this would all be over soon. A few more hours—that was all she needed out of this frail, spent body.
Jackson yanked tarps off a pair of bikes Nadia hadn’t noticed—police models, white and blue and shining bright.
“Thank you,” Nadia said, wandering over to one of the bikes. “For everything.”
“What?” Jackson said. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Home.” Nadia stared out toward the distant walls of the city. The Structure loomed over it all, a dark monolith against the angry orange glow of the clouds.
Jackson followed her luminescent blue eyes, scowling and shaking her head. “No, no. You’re coming with me.”
“Not possible, I’m afraid. Sorry if that sounds ungrateful, but—”
Jackson shoved her forward. A split second later, she was bent over one of the bikes, her arms yanked behind her back.
“You don’t understand,” Jackson said. “You’re coming with me.”
“What are you doing?”
A cuff closed shut over one of her wrists. “You’ve been recording everything. A witness. With evidence. You’re coming with me, and we’re gonna tear this whole thing wide open.”
“Have you lost your mind?” Nadia said, struggling, squirming her free arm away from the cuffs.
“Sapphire Shadow,” Jackson said, shoving her again and grasping at her arm, “you are under arrest.”
She couldn’t. Not after all that. Nadia’s teeth clenched, that sharp bite in her head opening into a screaming, raging, fanged maw. Not Jackson. Not her too. Not after all of this.
“Hold still!” Jackson yelled. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be!”
She could. And she would.
“I’m so sorry, Officer…” Nadia said. The physical countermeasures on her wrists activated, the spikes snapping open and bending the closed cuff.
“Ow! What?” Jackson jerked back, startled just enough.
“…but I have plans tonight!” Nadia yelled, turning and slamming an electrified palm into Jackson’s chest. The officer stumbled backward, limbs limp and face slack as she crumbled to the rooftop.
Nadia huffed at her, heart pounding, cuffs dangling from one wrist. How dare she? How dare she?
Jackson didn’t move. Not even a twitch.
Naive fool. A witness? Nadia scoffed. If Jackson had hauled her into custody, they both would have been killed, silenced, made to disappear before anything like justice could be served.
Jackson still didn’t move.
Nadia stared. Usually by now her victims were moaning and rolling around. “Jackson…?”
Jackson’s body jerked, her back arching with a sickening inhalation. Nadia yelped and jumped back, bumping into the bike.
“Jackson?” she yelled, rushing up the officer. Blank eyes, no breathing out; another gulping, wheezing gasp in. Nadia felt Jackson’s neck, berated herself for feeling nothing, ripped her glove off, then checked for a pulse again.
Still nothing.
“Tess!” Nadia said. “Tess, I need help!”
Static crackled, followed by a most welcome voice. “What’s up? You…holy shit, you killed Jackson!”
“Don’t say that! What should I do?”
“Uhh…” Tess mumbled. “Uhhhhhh?”
Nadia took off her other glove and placed her palms over Jackson’s chest. She centered her weight and pushed down with quick, strong strokes.
“Okay, yeah, here we go,” Tess said, “Step one: check the scene for danger.”
“Not helping!”
“Right, skipping ahead,” Tess said, cursing under her breath as she read. “Continue chest compressions on the victim until—”
“Don’t call her that!”
Jackson’s arms shot up, together, stiff and bumping into her. Nadia screamed and backed away, watching the officer’s arms slowly rise until they were over her head, knuckles grazing the rooftop.
“What is she doing?” Nadia said.
“It’s a reflex response. Corpses do that.”
“Stop using terrible words!”
“Continue compressions until help arrives. Attach a defibrillator, if available, and follow the commands on the display.”
“Still not helping!” Nadia said. “I don’t have a…”
Nadia froze, staring at her hands. She pulled her gloves back on and tore Jackson’s shirt and bra open without another word.
“Uh, what?” Tess said.
“Where do I put my hands?”
“What? Oh. Ohhhhhhh. That’s not going to work.”
“Tess!”
“Okay, okay…there are sensors on each of your wrists. Pull one out.”
Nadia did so, yanking out a small clear pad that trailed thin wires from her sleeve. She pressed it to Jackson’s chest.
“All right, hang on… Yup, got it. Ventricular fibrillation, good.”
“Tess!”
“Hands here and…here.”
Two spots lit up on her HUD. Nadia placed one glove above Jackson’s right breast, the other on her left ribs.
“Wait…wait…now!”
The lights in Nadia’s goggles flickered. Jackson’s body jerked then went still again.
“Okay, okay, try again,” Tess said. “Wait for it…”
Nadia remained silent, trying to remember to breathe.
“Now!”
Jackson’s chest jerked up again, her eyes shooting wide open. A great, gulping gasp tore out of her throat, sending Nadia fleeing back with another scream.
“Holy shit! I can’t believe that worked!” Tess said.
Jackson rolled side to side, gasping and coughing, blinking furiously as she heaved for breath.
“That’s it!” Nadia said, hovering nearby, not quite touching her. “That’s it. Breathe. You’re doing fine.”
She looked around, dazed, like a lost sick dog. Finally realizing the state of her clothes, Jackson held one arm over her breasts, glaring at nothing.
“I know,” Nadia said. “Sorry, I’d be furious if someone ruined my outfit like that too.”
“You…” Jackson said, unable to get more out. She coughed again, her chest shuddering with each spasm.
“Yes, me,” Nadia said, creeping closer. Jackson tried to raise a hand at her but was too weak to do anything. Nadia helped herself to the cuff key from her pants pocket.
She unlocked the single cuff on her wrist and untangled it from the spikes—bent now, retracting, not entirely flush with the skin of her suit. This irked her, of course, but there was nothing to be done.
Not so for the firearm situation. Again Nadia helped herself, snatching the revolver from Jackson’s belt.
“Apologies,” she said, tucking it back into her bag. “I need to borrow this unfortunately.” She turned to throw another look at the Structure, which loomed in the distance.
“Like I said, I have plans tonight.”<
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Chapter Twenty-One: Performative Charity
It was ugly, really. Hideous. Flashy and gauche and much too ostentatious.
The Structure was lit up, the one and only time of year this happened. Dazzling displays of color blinked up and down its length, piercing rays of light sweeping out and up and down.
The annual Charity Ball was in full swing, and the whole city knew it.
Nadia stared at her face in the small mirror that rested in her palm. Her pale skin was bruised and marred, an ugly cut wandering through her upper lip. Her sure, sharp blue eyes were surrounded by sunken hollows, and one of her brows was split open, still leaking blood.
Her right hand shook. She clenched it into a trembling fist and glowered at it, counting silent, screaming numbers in her head. Deep breath. When she opened her fist, her hand was still.
Hard to apply first-aid gel—not to mention makeup—with an unsteady hand. She slapped some foundation over her bruises, displeased with the work but knowing she didn’t have much time. It didn’t have to be perfect, for once. Just enough to get her in the door, just enough to pass the barest of scrutiny.
Close enough. She hiked the collar of her coat up, appearing to be wearing a rather tasteless black turtleneck underneath. Her boots concealed her suit from the knees down.
It was a weak disguise. But her face would get her far enough. And her name. Her cursed name, a boon she could’ve coasted on her entire life if she’d lacked the dignity to truly make something of herself.
Her name would do her this one last favor, grant her one last privilege. She clicked the mirror shut and dropped it, letting it clatter on the rooftop beneath her feet. Not the moldering roof of the sagging building where she’d left Jackson. No, this was the top of an office building in the very shadow of the Structure, a private little nook nestled between neglected rows of solar panels.
Nadia reached over to a police hoverbike with “Ortega, David L.” plastered on the side. On the seat rested Officer Jackson’s cherished revolver. The cylinder swung open smoothly and easily, the empty shells popping out with one firm slap of the ejector rod.
A burst of static crackled in her ears. “Are you there?” Tess said.
Nadia fished six spare rounds out of her bag. She slipped them into their waiting chambers slowly, running her gloved fingers over each shiny brass case.
“I can see you made it back inside the walls,” Tess said. “I don’t have your visual feed, though. Are you okay?”
Fully loaded. The revolver tucked safe and snug in her bag. Nadia stared up at the Structure—she knew there were automated turrets mounted outside the top levels. Anyone or anything foolish enough to fly near the top would be shot to pieces, blown out of the sky without a moment of human hesitation.
“Comms check?” Tess said. “Come on. Check, check…”
Nadia mounted the bike, kicked it to life, and revved the engine, the landing skids lifting off the roof while swirling eddies of light drizzle blew around her. High above her, helipads stuck out of the mid-levels of the Structure. Busily accepting late guests to the festivities.
That was where she would begin.
* * *
Every motion was agony.
Nothing new there. Jackson had felt like this before, wounded and half dead, pushed to the edge after fighting for days and going on fighting all the same. Her breath hitched in her lungs, a sharp ache in every beat of her heart. Like a fist squeezing tight in her chest.
She slammed her locker door shut one last time. Her access still worked at the station—strange but not all that surprising. Police operations in the city were officially ending tomorrow, after all.
She had peeled off her clothes, soaked with clammy sweat. Fully suited up now, back in her old tactical blues. No rig, though. The rack in the armory was empty, either confiscated already or stolen or who knew.
Would’ve been a pain in the ass anyway, getting one refitted and calibrated. It would take too much time. The loads on her weapons looked good. Pistol on her belt, shotgun slung over her shoulder, heavy with armor-piercing slugs.
Her badge stared up at her from the locker room bench. A simple, shiny shield with a proud eagle spreading its wings atop the crest. It even said it, right there under her number, “To Protect and Serve.”
She picked up the badge and gave it a long, thoughtful look as she ran her thumb over the etched words. She had seen those words on signs at many a protest, heard them shouted at her over and over again. Who do you protect? Who do you serve?
Only a piece of metal. It meant nothing really. All the same, she frowned and nodded to herself as she pinned the badge to her armor vest.
The door slammed open. Footsteps, multiple people. They crowded into the locker room, a motley collection of wary people in civilian clothes.
A half dozen. All that was left. The last of the city police.
“Jackson?” one of them said, slightly out of breath. “You all right? What’s the big emergency?”
“I don’t know if I can help…” another said, clearly drunk, the smell of it wafting all around him, “but I still came!”
They had heeded her call. Maybe not the most elite crew, but they had heeded the call all the same. They would have to do.
Wedge was among them, at least. She hovered at the back, bouncing on her feet to see over the others before getting annoyed and pushing through. “Where’s your old partner?” she said. “Everyone else made it.”
“Ortega’s dead,” Jackson said without preamble. “Murdered.”
She waited a moment, letting a few gasps and muttered epithets have their space.
“Look, I know this is our last night as cops,” she said. “I know this job is nearly over. I know I don’t have any right to ask anything of any of you, and I understand if you tell me to fuck off.”
“Fuck that! Let’s get the bastard!” an officer yelled.
“Christ…yeah, we’re with you, Jackson,” said another.
“You know who did it?” Wedge said.
“Yup, I was there.” Jackson took a deep breath, wondering how to break the good news. No sense being coy about it. “Evelyn Ashpool.”
Silence. Stunned stares. And then…
“Wait. Isn’t that…?”
“Are you fucking insane?”
“Maybe I am,” Jackson said, “but I intend to arrest the head of Auktoris Global Funds.”
“What? Like…walk into her office and cuff her? And then walk out?”
Jackson leveled a long, solid stare back at the group. “That’s about it, yeah.”
“That’s insane. You are insane.”
A snorting chuckle snuck out of Jackson—a sad, head-shaking laugh. Ortega would’ve told her she was nuts. Or would he have? She’d been wrong about him, after all. All an act. Just an act, while he secretly was plotting, fighting, making moves against his eventual killer. The most powerful woman in the city.
“Are you telling me she’s above the law?” Jackson said.
“Yes!” several of them shouted at once.
“Wait. So like…” the drunk man slurred, “you’re telling me the head of AGF herself killed Ortega?”
“No, she didn’t pull the trigger, but she—” Jackson started to say, meaning to end with “gave the order.” Several officers drowned her out.
“I’m out,” someone said. “I’m out before the Domes show up here. Get your head looked at, Jackson.”
Footsteps stomped back out. Jackson threw a few protests, but within seconds the room was empty.
Except for Wedge.
“You saw it happen?” she said.
“I killed the triggerman.”
Wedge nodded a few times. Without a word, she opened her locker and stripped off her civilian clothes with a quick, routine efficiency.
“You don’t have to do this,” Jackson said softly. “I’m not gonna
lie. There’s a good chance—”
“Save it,” Wedge said. She slapped the Tac Team Bravo tattoo on her shoulder. “I’m with you, Captain. No matter what.”
She’d heard those words before, from people who had trusted her. All dead now. She tried not to think about that.
“Andy getting us in?”
“That’s the idea,” Jackson said. “Get in. Do it. Get out before things get too hairy.”
“I like it,” Wedge said. “Beats trying that same plan at the bar anyway.”
* * *
Crowds of people far below her. Uninvited guests.
Nadia gave them a long stare as she coasted in for a landing. Hard to tell from here, but the fact that they were outside the base of the Structure, held back by a picket line of guards, spoke volumes. Plumes of smoke rose here and there from the masses—all of whom were angry, roiling, threatening to boil over any second.
She could see the reason for their anger. Every other building in the city was lit up again, taken over by Cheshire, this time playing an endless looping stream of video clips. Hooded bodies in orange, grainy security feeds of involuntary surgeries, performed by faceless doctors wearing Auktoris red.
The cat’s face appeared again, with angry slanted eyebrows this time.
WILL YOU BE NEXT?
The Structure was surrounded. Nadia stared out over the endless throngs. Every person left living in the city must have been there.
Invisible to all the people who supposedly mattered. Long lines of choppers hovered in slow circles, waiting their turn at a chance to land. Nadia cut in front, clicking the siren in a few short bursts.
She landed hard, skidding across the blinking surface of the pad. Another bike swooped in to land behind her—not a police model, its two riders jumping off and waving their arms. Their chests were decorated in a defaced mockery of the Auktoris scarlet “A,” dripping blood from its legs. Several Domes rushed and tackled them before a single syllable escaped their mouths.
