by James Wake
“Alcoholism runs in the family, I guess?” They sat down at a table for two, clinking cups with a sad little thunk. “Cheers.”
Jackson slammed hers back. It had been a while since that pleasant burn had run down her throat. She felt better already.
Vicks took a mild sip, holding the cup in both hands and glaring at it.
“Does it?” Jackson said.
“Does what?”
“Run in your family?” she said, nodding at the cup.
He shrugged. “I didn’t think so. Genetics supposedly. Probably just a bullshit excuse for this thing to charge me more.” He downed the rest of it, grimacing and coughing.
“See, and I always thought you were a lightweight.”
Vicks chuckled and flipped her the bird. “Compared to a drunk like you? Yeah, I guess.”
“Asshole,” she said, in the same tone she’d whispered it in his ear once. “Lemme get a round.”
She stood up before he could protest. Vicks had never seemed like the type to come around looking for a hookup. In fact, he hadn’t bothered her at all after the split. But why else would he be buying her a drink if he weren’t looking for a little something for old times’ sake?
As she punched in her order, Jackson decided she might be okay with that. The same two drinks cost her four bucks. She muttered a few choice curses at the machine. It probably knew she was about to lose her job. Still too much to pay for the synthetic yellow swill they were drinking.
She sat back down. “So where were you last night?”
“Oh, protecting the CTE from hordes of criminals armed with signs begging for seawall repairs. You know, the usual.”
Jackson downed her drink in a single gulp again. “How bad was it?”
“Not bad. Pretty small, actually.”
She wondered if he’d shot anyone but didn’t ask. It might have led to stories of her own night out.
“Counter protesters actually showed up.” He shook his head. “I still can’t believe it.”
“For what?”
“They were more pissed than the protesters, I think. You know, all the usual stuff. No Communists in the city. Terrorists not welcome here. Get back to work.”
“Nice of them to help out.”
“It wasn’t,” he said, polishing off his drink in a drawn-out drag. “The two groups started beating each other up, and then we got the order to sweep it all out. I didn’t think we would open up on the Astroturf. They’re supposed to be on our side.”
“Astroturf?”
“You know what I mean,” Vicks said. He drummed his fingers on his Dome helmet, resting on the table beside him. Staring, his eyes looking somewhere far away.
“Look, I don’t—” Jackson started to say.
“We shot them.”
Jackson said nothing. She’d seen this before, from him and from others. Had this conversation many times. He needed space. Time, and someone listening. Had to let it out.
“I don’t even know how many people I’ve shot by now.” His head was shaking. “You were right. It was different when I was wearing blue. Sorry, I interrupted you, didn’t I?”
Jackson had no idea what she’d been about to say. “I was wrong. It’s no different. I’ve been in the same shit.”
“You were right. That’s why you were demoted.”
Jackson clenched her jaw, doing quick math in her head to see if she could buy another round or ten. She didn’t think she could. Definitely not with the pay downgrade she had gone through years ago, reassigned from being Captain of Tactical Response Team Bravo to being a regular old patrol officer.
A reward, they had told her. A highly decorated officer being recognized, offered a coveted position.
“Those things you said,” Vicks continued, “after the last Hunger Riot, they—”
“I would rather talk about anything else.”
“Sorry,” he said, fidgeting with his empty cup. “I’m glad you did it, though.”
Jackson let out a long, tired breath. “Somebody had to,” she muttered.
“I didn’t even mean it like that, I’m just glad you got demoted so I could ask you out.”
That got a short bark of a laugh out of her. He could still do that, even after months apart. Even after all the awful things she’d said to him the last time they’d spoken.
“I know you don’t like to talk about it,” he said. “But it’s gotta beat listening to me whine about how I don’t know if I can do my job anymore. Right?”
Jackson changed her mind; she would definitely be okay with a little something for old times’ sake.
“I never blamed you for taking the job,” she said. “We all do what we have to.”
Vicks nodded and smiled in a wistful sort of way, as if he didn’t quite believe her. “It doesn’t matter. Did you find a new job?”
That caught her by surprise. Jackson didn’t know what to say.
“I’ve been thinking about it a lot,” he said. “Is it weird if I say I’m worried about you?”
“Yeah.”
“I was gonna ask if you wanted me to talk to anybody on my side,” he said.
“Right kind of you to offer…but no, thanks.”
“I know, I’m really selling it well, I know. I mean, I figure they must have already offered…”
“They didn’t,” Jackson said.
“Oh.”
“But even if they had, I would’ve said no.”
“Why?”
They’re not real cops jumped onto her tongue, but it seemed to have hurt Vicks pretty badly the last time she’d flung it at him. She held back, shaking her head. The one application she’d put in had been with the federal agency now in charge of policing the slums outside the seawalls. Sadly, they weren’t hiring right now.
“Look, you know what’s gonna happen if you—”
She cut him off. “Wanna get out of here?”
Vicks’s jaw dropped. He raised a gloved hand, pointing it at her as he fought to catch up. “Uh…what?”
“Come on,” she said, getting up and dragging him with her. “My place.”
“What? You mean like…?” he said, staring at the empty cup he was still holding. “What did you order?”
She wasn’t drunk. Wasn’t anything close to it. But all the same, it would be nice not to think about all this for a little while.
“Uh…I…” Vicks said, following her out into the gray rain. “That’s honestly not why I came to find you. I just thought—”
Too much talk. Jackson pulled him into a rough kiss, biting his lower lip. His Dome helmet clattered to the rain-soaked sidewalk, bouncing around their feet.
“Uh, let me just, uh, get that, ha-ha,” he said, picking up the helmet before giving her a dazed, happy look. “Yeah, okay. Let’s go.”
That was better. She pulled him close as they walked, arms intertwined.
It had been a while. She could beg Ortega for a job later.
Chapter Fourteen: Train as You Fight
They were in love.
It was obvious in every motion of their dance. Brutus lifted her into the air with unbelievably gentle attention—the two of them twirling, floating over the polished hardwood floor.
Aleksa drifted above him, then was lowered back down to the floor so she could spin and flex and lean against him for brief moments of touch.
Achingly beautiful. Every second of it. Nadia couldn’t stop staring at them—and not only for the sheer awe of seeing Brutus’s massive body make such graceful motions.
The music of a single piano led them through the final act, a building crescendo that ended in abrupt silence, the two dancers locked in a tender embrace.
Applause erupted around them. Nadia was part of it, clapping along, shaking her head at the loveliness of what she had just witnessed. Still holding hands, they bowed, sweaty and panting and flushed.
“Haven’t done that in a while, eh?” Brutus said, nudging his partner with his elbow.
Aleksa groaned something in her native tongue as she untangled her hand from his.
Valery, the matriarch of the studio herself, stepped in front of the gathered students. “So you now see it as it was meant to be danced.” She held a hand out to her two star pupils. “You will all be doing the same in a matter of weeks.”
Nadia winced. She didn’t envy being held to that standard. Who but a pair of lovers could replicate that?
“We will begin the opening steps tomorrow,” Valery said, clapping her hands. “For now, La Garrud.”
Instead of lining up for practice, the assembled young women disappeared into the locker room. Nadia stood still, dumbfounded. In mere seconds it was only herself and Valery left, watching Brutus unpack a huge gym bag and strap bright-red foam armor all over his body.
“You have forgotten,” Valery said.
Ah. Yes. Today was plainclothes training. Nadia had indeed forgotten. “My apologies, madam.”
“Accepted. We will pretend you are on your way home from class, yes?” It was one of the few times Nadia had ever seen her smile, her hard brown eyes lighting up with warmth.
Embarrassing. But only just. It wasn’t like she was going to wear her suit to class.
Still, Nadia made for the locker room. She could at least put on her shoes, maybe her hooded jacket. It would at least be a little different. Couldn’t hurt to…
Aleksa emerged from the locker room first, carrying Nadia’s gym bag.
“How did you change so fast?” The real question on her mind was where Aleksa had bought her clothes—she wore an exquisitely fashionable short jacket, black with distressed tears showing off bright gold lining.
“You are welcome,” Aleksa said, tossing the bag right into Nadia’s face.
Nadia caught it, huffing a little but proceeding to dress as if she were leaving the school. In ones and twos, other students filtered out, in everything from jeans to office wear.
“Nadia,” Valery said, not waiting for her to finish putting on her sneakers, “Warm up with Polina, please.”
“Aleksa,” Valery’s protégé said, rolling her eyes.
“Polina Aleksandrovna,” Valery said, glaring.
“Matko,” Aleksa said, shaking her head. Scowling, she lined up across from Nadia.
Nadia stood firm but didn’t take any kind of stance right away. “I love your boots,” she said. It was true. They were tall, leather or close enough, with a bit of heel. Still low enough to fight in.
“Mmm,” Aleksa grunted back. Nothing but sharp cruelty in her brown eyes. Valery must have seen this play out the same way every time she had asked them to train together. Or perhaps that was the reason she’d asked them to train together. When Aleksa attacked, it wasn’t in any way friendly.
Thankfully she was a bit slower in boots than usual. Nadia easily parried every attack, sliding and flowing through her steps. She countered with a low kick Aleksa should have easily blocked, landing it firmly on her thigh.
Aleksa spat something in that language Nadia still didn’t understand. She didn’t need to know the translation to know it wasn’t pretty. More attacks followed, all easily dodged.
“Your dancing was,” Nadia said, ducking a series of quick jabs, “exquisite.”
“Why thank you!” Aleksa said, her cloying tone not present at all on her face. “Perhaps you will dance one day?”
That always worked, always got Nadia to drop her guard, no matter how hard she tried to brace for it. Aleksa landed a punch, stabbing her knuckles into Nadia’s ribs.
“Oh, I wouldn’t dare.” Nadia winced at the sting that spread throughout her chest. Although the cracks in her ribs had healed, they still were tender sometimes. “I could hardly measure up.”
“Good of you to know that about yourself.”
That also usually worked. Nadia left an opening, which Aleksa darted a punch toward. Ready for it this time, she dodged and landed a solid, gut-wrenching strike deep into the dancer’s solar plexus.
“Yes, fighting is much more my style,” Nadia said, watching with ill-concealed glee as Aleksa dropped to one knee.
No pithy response to that. Aleksa was choking on her breaths, looking up with open fury. Quickly she recovered, standing and ready for revenge.
Valery called out. Not to them but the whole class. Time to switch from strikes to joint locks. Not that they were supposed to be outright sparring yet. No one but Nadia and her partner were actually hitting each other; they were just running through drills.
Aleksa relaxed a bit, throwing up a perfect facade of calm. She was better than Nadia at this part, boots or not, and they both knew it. They joined together in a grappler’s embrace, each gripping the lapels of their opponent’s jacket.
Nadia would be paying for the hit she’d landed. At the call from Valery, they both sprang into action. It wasn’t even a contest—Aleksa slipped her arms into an elbow lock and slammed Nadia to the floor.
Hopeless. Nadia stood and brushed herself off, fondly remembering the feeling of lightning in her palms. They joined together again and again, Nadia was thrown and pinned.
This time they locked eyes as they grabbed each other. Aleksa showed only guttering sparks of that white-hot rage from before. She looked bored, disappointed, her low expectations exactly met.
No point fighting fair then. Nadia drew in close, kissing the air inches from Aleksa’s face. It was enough to startle her, enough for Nadia to wrap her arms on either side of one of the young woman’s elbows, turn, and throw her to the floor.
In theory.
In practice, Aleksa held firm, leaning and off-balance but fighting and still upright. Nadia turned at the hips, throwing all her weight into it. It should have been enough to take her down. Should have.
“Nadia?” Valery said.
They both froze in place. Nadia began to release Aleksa’s arm.
“Ah, ah, do not move,” Valery said, joining them. She ran her hands down the well-toned muscles of Aleksa’s arm. “Too strong.”
Very helpful. Nadia stayed frozen, waiting for the secret to taking this all the way.
“When you are wearing extra muscle, it will work,” Valery said, adjusting the position of Nadia’s hands. “Without, you must do like this.”
Nadia turned. Unable to leverage any force against the throw, Aleksa tumbled to the floor. Very satisfying. Not quite as satisfying as the look of wide-eyed shock on Aleksa’s face, staring up at…Valery.
Wait.
“What did you say?” Nadia said.
“Again,” Valery said, nodding at her.
“No, hold on,” Nadia said, stepping back. The floor felt uneven, lopsided. “When I am wearing extra what?”
“Muscles,” Valery said. Simply. Matter-of-factly.
Aleksa was still gawking up at her teacher, her mouth moving wordlessly.
“What do you mean?” Nadia said, short of breath.
Valery gave her a look, one she couldn’t even begin to decipher. “You think I do not recognize my own student on the news?” she said, quietly enough.
Nadia was gawking at her, almost as bad as Aleksa was…no, worse than Aleksa. Aleksa was staring at her now, not shocked but…something else.
Aleksa knew.
They both knew.
“How did you…?” Aleksa whispered.
Nadia didn’t wait around for an answer to that. She ran, snatching her gym bag off the floor and beelining for the exit. She burst out the door and didn’t stop until she was pounding the elevator call button.
She had come this way out of habit, but going down the stairs was too dangerous now, too close to the studio door. Her hand kept slapping the button as she glanced back at the door.
No one was following her. Even so, she dove into the elevator when it opened, crammed her bac
k to a corner, and cursed as the door, slowly, agonizingly closed.
The elevator didn’t move.
“Not right now!” Nadia screamed.
The last thing she wanted to see lit up on the elevator display.
whatever seems to be the matter?
She glared up at the camera in the corner. It didn’t look all that sturdy. Probably wouldn’t take much effort to destroy it.
“Get me out of here!”
these are people you can trust.
“Forgive me if I don’t rely on the accuracy of your assessments. Ground floor. Now!”
The elevator began to move, crawling down a millimeter at a time. Nadia’s eyes picked out the frame of what could only be an escape hatch in the ceiling.
calm down. you are among friends.
“I don’t need friends,” Nadia said. “How did they know? Did you tell them?”
i did. and i did not.
She wasn’t even positive she’d been talking to the same person this whole time. She had come to assume so, naturally. Foolishly. “Who else have you told?”
The elevator opened. The screen flickered: one last frame of a sad cat face shedding tears before disappearing, replaced with elevator buttons.
“Who else knows?” Nadia repeated, stomping up close to the display. “Answer me!”
Nothing.
“Answer me right this moment, you—” she started, on the edge of saying some quite crude things. Instead movement caught her eyes. A nervous man waited outside, stepping back from the elevator at the sight of her.
She blew past him, sprinting until she was outside in the rain. It helped—her head was spinning, her entire body wobbling. It took her a moment to remember where she’d parked her beloved scooter.
In seconds, she was flying home, rain battering the visor of her helmet.
Chapter Fifteen: Poetic Injustice
Jackson just wanted to go home.
She wasn’t even on duty. Her final shift started tomorrow, one more night of worried, fitful sleep as an employed woman. Cold rain ran down her face, soaking into her collar. People yelled and chanted all around her.
Shouldn’t have even gone outside. But she would have been damned if she had ordered in and drank alone in her apartment. And she’d be double damned if she’d spring the few bucks to call a ride back home now. Not that any taxi would be willing to pick her up here. Everything for a few blocks around was zoned off. Quarantined. The maps said, “Traffic issues.”