James Swallow - Jade Dragon

He’d had one of the waking dreams again. It came as he took the tunnel beneath the bay, the car dipping into the red-lit corridor, torrents of colour streaming over him. In there he’d seen webs come from nowhere, the reaching arms of things distant and older than space. They were gossamer, vanishing when he put his full attention to them; in among the ghosts he heard a woman screaming, tasted the bitter scent of things dark and alien.

“Juno,” he rumbled. It kept coming back to her.

She was singing, dancing through a rendition of “Capsule Lover” while overhead screens displayed directionless, watery vistas all blue and inviting. The waves became words: We Are Free, Break The Dark, Unstoppable. Fixx saw the aurora of Juno’s spirit, the faintest Kirlian glow about the woman. It was different.

He worried the bones a little more. Wrong. That is wrong. Fixx looked her in the eye at the Hyperdome, in that second of connection he had known Juno Qwan. That was the gift the loas gave him, the Sight. He could see a man and find the colour of his soul, turn it one way to mark a quarry or another to know a man’s intention. It had never failed him.

But the woman, the starlet down there wore a different aura from the morose girl he had faced in the stadium. Fixx frowned. It wasn’t like she was an impostor or someone disguised-no, he would have seen through that. Even a twin would have been visible to him. The colours of her were the same, but just wrong. Altered. Different. The experience was so new to him he couldn’t frame it in his mind. He knew with sudden conviction that he had never laid eyes on the girl on stage before.

“Who are you?” The words slipped from his mouth. Fixx shifted, for one instant his attention elsewhere, and bumped into one of the go-gangers, a skinny kid with a wired look and a wifebeater top.

The punk made a face and cocked his head. “Watch it, gwailo.”

There were three others, two who were obviously brothers. They exchanged loaded looks and the bigger one sneered. “Never saw a ‘white ghost’ as dark as him.”

“Break the dark,” mumbled the shorter one, tracing his fingers down to a bulge in his jacket pocket.

Fixx was back in the moment now. There was ample room on the terrace of the burger bar for trouble to unfold, if things went that way. He watched the first punk carefully; he would be the one to start it.

“You like Juno, huh?” said the skinny kid. “You like looking at our girl?” He stepped closer, looking Fixx up and down.

The sanctioned operative stayed very still. In the past, he’d seen what happened when a man made the mistake of underestimating packrats like these. In Mexico City, Fixx saw a rival gutted by a horde of Little Zulus, a fellow twice his weight taken apart by children under the age of ten. What kids lacked in experience they tended to make up for with speed and enthusiasm.

The last of the four finally spoke. “You know what I think? I reckon this guy doesn’t like Juno at all.”

Fixx, with slow and careful movements, stood up and smoothed the front of his coat. There was a flicker of concern on the face of the younger brother as he came up to his full height, but the other three were stone-faced. This was not going to end well. Nonetheless, Fixx felt compelled to try. “I’m a big fan,” he said. “She’s a dream come true.”

Big Brother made a flicky gesture that failed to get a reaction from him. “Gau’s right. This hwoon dahn, I bet he’s A4.” He approached. “Am I right, hwoon dahn? You here to mess with the gig like you did over there?” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the ocean.

Fixx showed teeth. “I know what those words mean.”

“Yeah?” snarled the skinny one, getting into the swing of things, pointing his finger. “Do you know what these ones mean too? Fuck off ni-”

He moved. The troublemaker was suddenly on his knees and smothering a scream, his index finger pointing the wrong way where Fixx had snapped it like a twig. “Now, boys,” he said. “Let’s not say anythin’ we might regret. ”

The brothers came at him, the one called Gau blinking in surprise. From out of nowhere they materialised wicked balisong knives and cut high and low. For go-gangers, they were quick.

Fixx had the SunKings on him, but it was a safe bet that Ocean Terminal’s security would go wild at the sound of a gunshot. The mere fact that these boys had been able to freely enter with edged weapons told the op that the Panda probably turned a blind eye to the odd stabbing, as long as the shoppers weren’t deterred. Similarly, the flexsword would be too showy, would draw too much attention. He decided to remain barehanded. It would be good practice.

The big brother’s knife was one of those ostentatious toys with the faux-tribal laser etching on it, a blade with candy-colour anodization. Fixx caught his wrist and held it there for a moment while he used a sharp side kick to hobble the younger brother. Gau was pulling a spike-chain from his belt as Fixx turned the big brother’s hands the wrong way. He lost the knife and the op heard it clatter away across the table.

Skinny was getting to his feet, his face all puffy and crimson. Below them, Juno had gone into a powerful rendition of “Shade Me”, the crowd clapping along with the beat. “Unstoppable!” said the kid. “Break… Break the dark!”

Fixx drew the big brother in and crossed over his free hand; his elbow collided with the punk’s face and broke his nose with a solid crack. A fan of blood issued out of his nostrils and dribbled down his chin. Fixx reversed his grip and hit him again, this time with the back of his hand. He pulled the blow-but only a little-and sent the big brother down.

Gau threw the spike-chain at him, a glittering arc of mercury cutting air. It made a low whoop as it crossed the space before him. Fixx dropped and spun, ducking under the reach of the weapon, and stepped closer. Gau reversed the move, whipping the chain around his neck and swapping ends. Clever.

The skinny kid was using his off-hand to finger a lanyard around his neck; he wasn’t a threat for the moment. The younger brother was turning, trying to keep on Fixx’s periphery while Gau used the chain to lash him. He was limping where he’d been kicked and it made him slow. Fixx saw him telegraph a move, the lunge coming in his shoulders before he did it. The op swept his hand across the table, catching the cup of disgusting coffee. He tossed it and a steaming streak of fluid spattered on the punk’s face and chest.

The chain thrummed at his head and Fixx shifted. All at once he felt his amusement with this little diversion fade. He snatched the end of Gau s weapon out of the air, ignoring the bite of pain from the cobra-tooth head, and yanked it. Gau didn’t let go quickly enough and was reeled off his feet. Fixx met him with a hammer blow punch that broke ribs and set him on the deck, choking.

Wiping searing hot coffee from his face, the remaining brother was distracted from the dark shape that came at him, coat flaring open in black raptor wings. Fixx used a throat grab to choke a lungful from the kid and then dropped him into a vacant chair. He took the boy’s knife-another gaudy weapon that looked like it came out of an arcade gatchapon game-and snapped it in two.

Skinny had recovered a little and stood blinking owlishly, waving a spade-shaped push dagger. “Ghost you,” he spat, pain making his voice rise. “I’m unstoppable…”

From the corner of his eye, Fixx caught sight of one of the glowing billboards, the trains of gossamer words fading in and out. He paused, turning his Sight on the punk; not the full strength of it, mind, just a little inch’s worth. The go-ganger was heavy with pollution, an oily blue swirling down deep in the wells of his irises. He’d seen the same on people in Newer Orleans, and sometimes, in the daydreams. He could sense it there running through his veins, the indigo taint of Z3N. The boy wilted under the hard-eyed gaze, the dagger drooping.