5-6
When Sara asked where Gilead was going, Qi Zhen found themself caught slightly off-guard; they hadn’t even noticed that Gilead was gone. Unusual. Normally their flawless machine senses were well-attuned to the presence of beefy threats to their person.
“He was feeling bad about all of the homeless people,” Vilena said. “So I gave him some money and told him to pick a life to change for the better. He’s so soft-hearted for an aristocrat.”
The sigh in Vilena’s voice was irksome, to say the least. “You talk about him as though he’s a pet dog.”
Vilena just sighed again.
“He isn’t… unlike a dog,” Sara admitted.
“A one-ninety dog who could probably bend any one of us in half? Who knows how to use a sword?”
“He’s like those…” Zahra’s squinting eyes screwed further shut with concentration. “Big fluffy dogs who guard the sheep.”
“And much like a big fluffy dog,” Qi Zhen said to themself, “he’ll bite your hand off given a single chance.”
While the others joked about Gilead’s dog-like propensities—a man who literally had a reptile Pretension—Qi Zhen turned their senses outwards. Gilead had gone into an alley somewhere, presumably trying to get himself shanked, but it wasn’t the orangutan that they were listening for. Rather, somewhere on the opposite end of the street was another group, having a loud conversation entirely in whispers.
That was bad. That they were getting so heated meant that whatever they were talking about was important. Whispering, though, meant that they didn’t want to be overheard, even though they were having the conversation by the side of a busy public street. They were debating taking action against some kind of perceived potential threat, though at that distance Qi Zhen couldn’t hear every word.
It wasn’t much of a surprise when the trio rushed out into the path, blocking Qi Zhen and the others from moving. They went very still.
The first sign of impending disaster was the fact that one of the three strangers was not merely a dutchman, but proudly so, in slitted trousers and buttoned doublet and all the other attire of a dyed-in-the-wool VOC man. He had taken a side, and to be able to do that meant being able to scare off anybody who might start anything.
The dutchman was flanked by two women. On his right side, Qi Zhen’s left, was a type that the mechanical xia knew well, a Qinglong gutterpunk, her patched-up leathers decorated with a scintillating variety of reflective plastic scales. They could trace the outline of the wave knife hidden under her clothes. On his left side, Qi Zhen’s right, was a woman from Occupied Topeka, her hair tied up in a bun, her dun-colored clothes entirely conventional except for the fact she wore men’s shoes, probably for practicality reasons.
“Well, what an unlucky coincidence,” said the man. “Two groups of Pretenders running into each other like this.”
Sara put her hand near where Qi Zhen knew the holster of her gun was. Vilena simply folded her arms and made a cross expression. Nobody really believed that this was a coincidence.
“Unlucky indeed, that we’re just passing through,” Sara replied. “We’ll be gone in the morning.”
The American woman let out a single barking laugh. “You expect us to believe that hocus-pocus? You’ll be gone in the morning, sure, because the pirate rebels will have you under contract with moolah in your hands by dawn!”
“We don’t need that kind of money,” Vilena said. “And I’ll give you all a pound if that’s what it takes to prove it.”
“Did she say she’s gonna pound us?” sneered the gutterpunk. “I know you two aren’t up for it, but I’d love to see what—”
“Silence, Boxcutter,” said the dutchman. “Your lies are obvious enough, but I’ll give you one chance: leave Port Gebe at once.”
Sara rolled her eyes. “We got here on a boat, moron, and we’ll be leaving in the morning.”
“Then run into the jungle,” said the dutchman, “swim, I don’t care where you go, but you’re not—”
The rough-voiced scream, coming from somewhere in the shantytown, cut off all negotiations.
“Gilead!” Vilena shouted.
“That’s enough time for us!” said the dutchman. “First Pretense: I Am The Storm.”
“First Pretense: Turn it On Again,” said Boxcutter.
The American woman didn’t make her Pretension statement, instead rushing up to the dutchman’s side as he made his. His body became translucent, insubstantial, and as she pressed her hand against the center of his chest, he vanished altogether, replaced by a gently curving blade held in the American woman’s hands.
Boxcutter was momentarily encased in a sheath of reflective glass. Sara drew her pistol and fired into it, but the bullets merely ricocheted; a second later, the cocoon shattered into dust, revealing…
“Oh my,” said Vilena’s voice, stripped of its Russian bite. “What a rush! This body of yours is quite exquisite indeed!” A copy of Vilena, wearing a copy of Vilena’s outfit, took a moment to feel herself from hip to chest before falling into the low stance of a boxer.
Zahra, meanwhile, ran away. Sara had trained her well. Better still, she gave no hint that she was a Pretender, leaving the enemy no reason to pursue.
Qi Zhen was already moving. “I’ll take the clone!” they said, hoping to spare Vilena from having to fight such an exact copy. How strong could a vampire possibly be, especially with the sun not yet set?
Boxcutter met Qi Zhen’s flying kick with a forearm guard, the impact sending reverberations through the entirety of Qi Zhen’s frame as they were knocked to the floor. She went for a stomp-kick, but that was something Qi Zhen could avoid easily, kipping up onto their feet in a single fluid motion.
“Strong one, she is! I made the right choice.”
“Hmph. No refinement,” said Qi Zhen, already calculating a dozen methods of taking this impostor apart. “You shall soon learn why skill will always overpower might.”
“Qi Zhen, look—”
Sara’s frantic cry was quickly overpowered by a deafening screech. Qi Zhen turned just quickly enough to see the bird, four meters from wingtip to wingtip, swooping towards them; but not fast enough to avoid the talons that gripped onto the seams of their chest plate. Qi Zhen bowled right through Boxcutter, but soon found themself aloft, a vicious steel-hard beak trying to jam itself through their skull.
With no ground on which to center their body, Qi Zhen’s form rapidly collapsed. They could block or deflect the beak-strikes, but for how long? They bent at the back, straining their joints in order to buy enough distance to look around for just a second.
There, on the ground, ten meters below: Qi Zhen had good eyes, but they wouldn’t have needed them to recognize that there was only one person on this whole island stupid enough to run into a fight with a sword and shield. They did the calculations, estimating velocity based on air speed, using eye-to-eye parallax to measure distance, positronic brain performing fifty thousand steps of calculus in a handful of milliseconds, telling them that they needed to separate exactly now.
Qi Zhen threw their namesake around like a sack of loose beans at the end of a rope, first empowering their foot with enough shockwave force to blast the eagle away with a kick, then lightening their body for the impact. They’d failed to account for the kick.
A trajectory that had been meant to drop Qi Zhen neatly into the wet sand instead sent them slamming into the corner where a ramshackle roof met their ramshackle wall, then spinning into the sand at an awkward angle. And oh, the sand was awful down there. Qi Zhen was going to need to disassemble themself to get all of the unnameable stuff out of their joints afterwards. As they stood up, taking in the situation, the grinding of grit caught in every limb reverberated through their frame.
“Qi Zhen? How did you…”
Humans, so easily distracted. Then again, without that weakness, the Pretenders Gilead had been fighting might have been able to land a hit while Qi Zhen was down. “Focus on the fight.”
Two enemies. One, a bunch of cameras melted together into a humanoid shape, had left burn marks all across the ground and across Gilead. The other, nearly invisible: a killing mist. Qi Zhen faced the mist, and closed the gap with Gilead so that no enemy could flank between them.
“Oh, but do be wary of the eagle.”
“Eagle?”
Qi Zhen had thought, maybe, that the tight confines of the slums would keep the eagle at bay, but that was too much to ask for. It swung around, dropping low, unable to flap its wings in the confines but getting by just fine on sheer momentum. Its wings cut through the air with a shrill, metallic cry.
Gilead spun around, swinging his sword to chop at the eagle’s legs. It was too smart, dodging up at the last second, but not smart enough to consider the second-order effects. It lost a toe to Gilead’s blade, whereas Gilead lost his dignity when the eagle’s beak pierced his forehead. A moment after that, the eagle narrowly avoided colliding with the cameraman. With a brush of its wings, the eagle was able to pull up, landing on a nearby rooftop.
Something was missing, a tool Qi Zhen had never seen Gilead fight without. “Who has your armor?”
Gilead swallowed, looking like he was just informed that he was about to be chained to a radiator. Then, in a flash, the armor manifested over him.
“Idiot.”
“Walking ploughsh—”
Spots of the metal armor blackened, and a strobe of light threatened to overwhelm Qi Zhen’s sensors. No more time for catching one’s breath. Not that Qi Zhen had much need for it; their qi reserves were at 71%. 70%.
The killing mist surged forward, wrapping around Qi Zhen’s arms in sinuous columns of off-white air. They were so certain, at first, that it would not be able to harm them. But as the gas infiltrated into their internals, it sought out the qi conduits within with unerring accuracy. Wherever the two came into contact, something inside of Qi Zhen burned.
…
Refined edgeblood is the only thing that Pretenders have in common. Other than that, a Pretender can be anyone and do just about anything; the cowboy more than proved that. Pretenders who don’t learn to improvise, who can’t think on their feet, either sell out to a higher power, or they die. And usually they die anyways.
Sara’s thought process moved fast, faster than words. The brown-skirt lady hadn’t activated her First, or done anything at all besides pick up the dutchman, which implied that her Pretense probably wasn’t too useful in a fight. That happens. The dutchman’s Pretension statement had included something about a storm, so, the sword was probably at least a little electrified. Sara had fought Pretenders who could copy before, it wasn’t that uncommon as a component of another Pretension, and the weaknesses were similar across the board. One, a copycat will never be as experienced with whatever they pick up as the original. And two, the more of a person’s strengths you copy, the more of their weaknesses you take in the bargain.
“Vilena, how well can you cope with electric shock?”
“How am I supposed to know?”
“Right.” Not much electricity in Leedsrealm. “I’ll take the sword, then.”
With one final glance behind her—Zahra was gone, not even any footprints—Sara opened fire. Center of mass proved to be a mistake: the sword jumped in the path, each bullet in turn vanishing into the pale afterimages left on Sara’s retinas. Sara grimaced; that kind of reaction speed was total bullshit, but it was nothing new. A bullet is linear, a single dimension; there are other weapons much harder to dodge around.
Sara backpedaled for space, but even though she looked incredibly unsteady, brown-skirt was advancing at a smooth, steady combat walk. She pulled a brick of explosive out of her bag, having spent hours converting room service food into more, and was about to hurl it when…
Something fast approached her back. Caught off-guard, Sara wasn’t able to detonate one of her defensive bombs until after it had made contact; the blast threw her forward, and the half-punch was still enough to bruise her spine. Recoil sent her flying towards the electric blade, so she dropped into a roll, then spun on the cobbles as she rose. Angles, always angles.
There was a third Vilena behind her, fists up.
The calculus turned in an instant, the coin that had fallen on its head suddenly spinning around its edge once more. Boxcutter wasn’t just a power copier, she was a multi-clone power copier, which made her the absolute top priority. Vilena was keeping pace with her copy, but how long would that last once it was two or three against one? The brown-skirt woman stepped into the way, sword raised high.
But Sara knew something that she hadn’t the month before: she’d seen what a sword-master looks like. It wasn’t identical, Gilead preferring one-handed blades, but even the way he moved his feet was infinitely more sure than the woman before Sara. She wasn’t experienced with a sword; it was the sword, her Pretender friend, doing the work for her. The second Vilena copy stayed where she was, shadow boxing nothing, while the sword dragged itself closer and closer.
Sara produced another bomb, and grimaced when the sword began to track it, now recognizing the danger she posed. That was fine; swords are only so long. She skidded the bomb across the ground, to land a meter away from brown-skirt’s feet. The sword lurched out to intercept, but there was nothing it could do: it detonated a meter away, well out of range.
At that distance, the shockwave lacked its bone-rending roughness, broadening out into more of a full-body thump. A thump is still a thump, though, and the force was more than enough to knock brown-skirt fully onto her side. She bruised herself on the hard ground, or at least that was what the cry of pain made it sound like. The way clear, Sara charged ahead, her trigger finger itching to get this done with. Already Boxcutter was swaying the odds; Vilena was being overwhelmed by a two-against-one, and as Sara circled around to get an angle off, a fourth copy sprang into being. It was like a mirror being brought to focus, a massively distorted image collapsing into the real thing.
Sara raised the Glock into a proper stance and took aim against the Vilena clones. Thankfully they weren’t a good imitation; physically identical, sure, but the stance was completely different from the real deal. She squeezed off a shot, and received the satisfaction of a blooming red burst underneath the Vilena clone’s ribs. Was that the original, the thing Boxcutter turned into, or another copy?
Even though they didn’t visibly slow, the shots must have gotten to the clones, because another copy burst into being directly behind Sara, this time going for a sucker-punch to the back of the head. If she hadn’t seen the distorted preamble out of the corner of her eye, a punch of that strength would have knocked Sara out entirely.
She rolled again. Knee, thigh, navel, chest, click click click click. Sara went for a reload, hands on pure instinct while her eyes tried to look in two directions at once. The electric sword had pulled its wielder back onto her feet, and this time she wasn’t going to be passive. Sara’s kneeling posture was, to her, the same as when a lion sees someone curled up in the fetal position on the ground. The gun wasn’t finished being reloaded.
“First Pretense: Watch the World Burn.”
And not a second too soon: the electric sword buried itself in the doughy matter of Sara’s shoulder, almost five centimeters deep. That was a bad wound, but it would have been worse, especially after the static shock flared through her. Plastic explosive isn’t much of a conductor, so the lightning leaked into the air, barely even singing her. The blade, sunk deep into thick matter, was stuck.
Sara slammed her palm into the center of brown-skirt’s chest and detonated part of her hand, sending her flying backwards. The sword remained embedded in Sara’s shoulder, but there was no time to shatter its blade over her non-conductive knee.
“Sara, help!” Vilena screamed.
Vilena was on the ground, taking kicks to the stomach, back, and head from three identical copies of herself. There was no way to bomb one without bombing all four.
Sara rose, and without thinking tried to pull the sword from her shoulder, succeeding only in severing all four fingers on that hand on the hyper-sharp blade. That gave her the inspiration she needed. With a twist of her shoulder, Sara hurled her left hand, not at the pile of Vilenas, but up and over them, into one of the nearby buildings. It was late in the evening, though not quite nighttime, and Scrapyard’s false sun (the work of over a hundred years of sustained research) was shadowed behind Port Gebe’s many structures.
At least, it was, until Sara’s bomb blew a crater in the roof of one of those buildings, sending a ring-shaped beam of evening sunlight shooting down right on top of the four Vilenas. Three of those Vilenas, the ones still standing, proceeded to completely lose it, staggering backwards and clutching their heads.
Sara had always thought vampires were supposed to be killed by the touch of sunlight. Vilena had explained it wasn’t the case; her kind merely experienced sunlight the way a human might experience gasoline fumes. Headache, colors in front of the eyes, cramping, agonizing nausea. She had gotten used to that sensation, learned to steel herself against it. Boxcutter, who had been Vilena for less than two minutes, lacked that critical experience.
Vilena let out an inhuman screech, blasting up off the ground like a lightning bolt aimed upwards. She seized one of the now-defenseless clones and ripped out her throat in a single smooth motion. Practice makes perfect. Not that the dead clone was the real thing; the real Boxcutter showed herself by retreating back into the shadows, leaving the other copy to collapse into a pile of glass shards.
Before Sara could go on the offense, she needed to get the sword out of her shoulder. It was just that, every time she tried, her hand slipped, costing her a finger or two or four in the process. Good thing that her First could regenerate, or she’d be down for good.
“You’ve lost, copycat,” Vilena said, her voice thick with clotted blood. “It’s two against one, now, even with all of your mirrors.”
(But there was one additional factor that neither she nor Sara had considered. Behind them, Esther O’Connors, her ribs cracked and her body bruised, fought to get back to her feet. It wasn’t going to work. But she measured the distances, and had one last trick up her sleeve.)
“First Pretense:” she hissed. “Easy As One Two Three.”
Suddenly, the ground folded up. Sara and Vilena were lifted into the air, ten or twenty centimeters, as the jaws of the trap fell shut and they were plunged into darkness. A trap whose interior was lit only by a handful of incandescent lights, the better to read by.
“A library?” Vilena muttered to herself.
“That would explain why she didn’t use her First earlier,” Sara replied. “Not very useful in an—ow!”
Without even really thinking about it, Sara had tried to pull the sword out of herself again, this time slicing her hand nearly—but not quite—in half across the palm.
“Sara?”
“The fucking sword got stuck in me,” Sara said. “Help me pull it out, will you? It’s restricting my arm.”
Vilena looked at the sword sticking out of Sara’s shoulder the way you might examine a caged raccoon. “I think there might be something about that sword that makes it harder than just pulling it out.”
Sara ripped off the partially-severed portion of her hand, blowing apart an entire row of shelves so it could regrow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said. “You just grab the hilt and pull.”
To demonstrate, Sara grabbed the hilt and pulled. Her thumb fell off, neatly severed by the blade’s supernatural sharpness.
“Oh fuck. Oh fuck, we need to get this thing out of me right now!”
“And lose my arm? No thank you. Leave it in until the fight is over!”
A high-pitched giggle echoed through the confined space of the library. “Bad move,” said Boxcutter. “Janneke, he’s an aggressive sort, loves getting stuck in. Here, old friend, let me help you!”
A Vilena-clone appeared right in front of Sara, grabbing hold of the hilt of the electric sword. With feral relish, she heaved downward on the blade, hewing deeper into Sara’s chest, down to where her heart would be. Then the copy vanished. The instant she reverted to human form, the wound would kill her.