Disclaimer: The following is fiction. The story’s content does not represent the writer’s beliefs, opinions, or attitudes. This story is intended for adult entertainment only. The characters and events depicted in this work are fictional. The author does not condone or promote unlawful activity as described in the story. By continuing to read this work, you acknowledge that you are an adult who wishes to read works of fantasy and fiction for the purpose only of fantasy. All the characters in this story are adults. They may play different ages for the fictional character they are depicting, but they remain at all times adults.
Writers: Anon / Augmented by Regis
Subject: WAR GODDESSES CHAPTER 7
Story Codes: Erotic Horror
War Goddesses 7
CHAPTER 7 — Cat Women from the Moon
The silver bullet faced Bay Area Rapid Transit electric commuter train rocketed up out of the bowels of the earth, having passed under San Francisco Bay in a little under 30 seconds, and sped like lightning across downtown Oakland, up through the Bohemian District of Berkeley, into the Mile High, Taiwanese built, mirror glass tower the world called the Pacific Rim World Trade Center.
No milk-run, this was the Yellow Sky Dragon Executive Express, shuttling management level Papa Sans from the privately owned Civilian Near Orbit Launch Space Facility on Alcatraz Island, where the old prison used to be, back to their US branch offices from early morning meetings in Singapore, Hong Kong, Tokyo, and various orbital Semi-Robotic Industrial Facilities.
None of the smug passengers and their nervous Caucasian secretaries knew that two teenage girls had ridden from the Space Pad through the tunnel on top of the speeding train, staggering when necessary, clinging like monkey babies when not, on the rubber sure-grip strip that ran the length of the train.
The game girls were to emerge, one after the other, from the rear most car as the train picked up speed, and before the train pulled to a stop at its destination, one girl had the challenge to cause the other to fall from the roof of the train! This was, after all, another form of blood sport.
This youthful sport was accompanied with much desperate wrestling, the shouted delivery of grievous insults, and the use of various weapons, such as switch-blades, spiked iron balls usually tied to and spun from the end of long braids, or the newly popular heavy gauge chains worn upon peaceful social occasions as belts.
Skin tight black denim pants were de rigor, as were black lace brassieres worn boldly under open matador vests. The combatants wore lack boots, of course, but black leather gloves were optional. Young ladies of independent spirit referred to such intense interactions as socializing.
Natsuko was fifteen years old the first time she Socialized, in 1999. She recalled the Pacific Rim Tower had yet to have it’s Grand Opening to the Public when the Powell Street Jezebels’ leader had followed her onto the wind-tunnel gate atop the half-passed-the-hour Direct from Alcatraz to the Orient’s West Coast stronghold.
Sitting naked on the pine planks that girdled the sauna, she intentionally entered a meditative state much like sleep, her soft white body massaged by billows of steam. She remembered being a girl …
666
Across miles of desert, another much changed female also remembered being a girl. But she had not merely grown up, she had become Changed. More than a Woman, more than a Machine, more than a Combination of the Two, Jennifer, now modified and updated to Version Five, emerged silently from a secret elevator hidden behind a wall-panel and stepped into the muted hush and pastel colors of the hotel corridor.
The door panel snapped shut, and she stood like an antenna, fingers outspread at her sides, eyes wide, yet her face was as placid as a Buddha sitting in a temple garden. She had undergone twenty-four months intensive physical training masked as preparation for an action film
It was never at the beginning, where she would actually go before the cameras, but the high input preparation had transformed her from an aerobically healthy actress in her middle twenties into a vehicle that could perform equally as well as paramilitary commando or Olympic athlete.
In retrospect, this new woman would be Jennifer Two. Doing small parts in films gave her the pretext to go around the world. She didn’t actually start referring to versions of her upgrade path numerically for the first few months of activity, with each week revealing more of her transformation.
It wasn’t until the genetic level modification of her hormone system at a nucleic level produced a super enhancement of her senses and rendered her as much a product of the laboratory as of her own lovely biological heritage. She was beginning to perform like a real wonderwoman.
The new genetic modification of her body and senses became known as Jennifer Three. Mechanical replacement and internal bracing or augmentation of her skeletal structure with hypo-allergenic super plastics with the strength of steel transformed her into Jennifer Four.
Now, only three hours old, Jennifer Five looked with all her senses in the hall outside Room 316, her brand-new sponge-matrix super-cortical implant translating the biological and electronic sensor inputs spanning the electromagnetic spectrum from earthquake waves up through x-rays into forms her brain could process intelligibly.
Outwardly Jennifer was a drop-dead gorgeous woman of twenty-five, total eye candy, wearing a low cut deep emerald green evening dress that was figure hugging to the knees, then flared out in green lace skirts that tumbled in layers to cover her shapely calves and lovely ankles.
From the waist up, the dress seemed to serve only one function: support her massive, largely exposed bust! Her shoulder length dark straight chestnut hair was piled high tonight, which helped conceal the tangerine sized swelling that now rose from the top of her skull where the plates of bone that came together had been thrust up by some expanding knot of para-cortical brain on the top of her skull.
Inwardly Jennifer Five saw the trail of blood spots running from the door down the hall to a service elevator. A streaming CAD reconstruction of the probable scenario played in the periphery of her vision, built up from analyzing the direction of the blood spot’s spray.
Selected wavelength light scans of the carpet revealed in the residual compression of imprints into the shag carpet the footprints of four small bodied females, the larger male, and a scout and yet a possible sixth female behind them, probably covering their backs.
The outline of a shoe with every step, suggested a foot wound. He had hopped at a run, probably at gunpoint. Jennifer could smell the chemical signature of two weapons, but the distribution of chemical odors told her the gunfight had taken place behind the closed apartment door, no more than fifteen minutes previously.
She also cataloged the odor of all seven individuals, processed them for emotional spectra, and cross-correlated them with the perfumes the women were wearing, the prices of those perfumes, and the socio-economic as well as racial groups with which those perfumes were associated.
Commercial clothing plastics and leather revealed themselves to her nose. High estrogen levels associated with youthful females, two of whom were menstruating also suggested to her that her target had been abducted by a wolverine-pack of females in their late teens, blood types suggesting Asian origin.
Yes, faithful readers, blood types, and to a reasonable level race could be accurately derived from the chemical breakdown of the various salts and chemicals carried in their perspiration! The sweat of each distinctive race decayed with a distinctive and, to nasal sensors like Jennifer’s, identifiable signature!
Secretly Jennifer Five perceived her discernments as a clock-work of scientific analysis that sailed like a ship on the rolling waves of what had used to be her emotions and personal reactions. As if the strata of her personality consisted of Five Jennifers, she experienced these as meshing like gears, but retaining discrete autonomous qualities.
One part of her knew that her target had forged a stupid irrational attachment to her, a boy-like crush for a girl seen across the room. Jennifer One smiled at this, while Jennifer Two pushed with all her will to make her new dimensions work together, to please … Who? Daddy? No. A Lover? No. Duty? Well …
Jennifer Three heard an incredibly faint heart beat that Jennifer Four had successfully filtered out from the overpowering background noise for Jennifer Five to identify as a person very close to death! Jennifer placed her fingertips against the slot for the card key and channeled a pulsed electric current into the door.
A part of her brain parsed the pulses in combinations of thirty-four until, thousands of combinations, and milli-seconds later, the right sequence unlocked the door. Inside, Rosanna lay in a large pool of practically all of her blood, spread around her prone body, eyes open, unseeing.
Closing the door behind her, Jennifer went to the mortally wounded girl, and began to move faster than the ordinary eye could see …
666
Fear at my capture forced me into a dream-like state in which all other moments I had been equally afraid rose together, like fish in a pond to peer at a full moon. The rocking of the van was like a cradle. I recalled the arrest that led to my becoming a whore for America’s Secret Government.
Cop one stood beside my window on the driver’s side, the barrel of his 45 magnum pressed against the nape of my neck and angled downward to take out my heart and not shoot his buddy standing next to the passenger side window of my 2012 Lexis Futuro.
His buddy was sweeping his flashlight’s beam back and forth through the front and back seats of my sweet little sedan as he were a guard tower and my car was a prison yard. Trucks roared by and they didn’t flinch. I flinched. The rainbow rack on their skunk car turned the inside of my car into an acid Disco.
It gave me a headache. I knew they wouldn’t have any aspirin. Even though I was sure they couldn’t search my trunk, like good boys everywhere, when stopped by the cops, I dutifully got all upset. I knew they liked it that way. They knew I wanted to be a good boy.
They smirked as they terrorized me. We were all the best of Pals! Cop three leisurely walked back to the car, studying his clipboard computer screen. He paused to take in the raw beauty of the purple dusk, and already neon lit Hollywood Hills view of the Valley.
“Mr. Mark,” he spoke gravely.
I tried to cringe with respect.
“According to my readout the Supreme Court ruled today that it took only three matches of profile fitting primary datum with eighty percent association backed up with three more secondary datum with sixty percent or better correlation with Convicted Criminal Profile association to constitute justification for an Officer Initiated Search. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
I sure as hell did. I knew for a fact that a rented car was driven by well over sixty percent of individuals who when arrested, went on to be convicted of a crime. But hell, everybody rents, so fuck it. I was between twenty-five and thirty-five, and currently unemployed, so that’s another secondary. I was presently intoxicated above the legal limit, so, I’d give them that secondary.
But the killer was the drop in primaries from six to three. I had a copy of a text book on brain function enhancing bio-chemicals, which alone is innocent enough, but my car computer was protected by my own encryption schemes, not Government Issued and NASA crackable ones, so while their search couldn’t legally open my hard drive, they could open the trunk with just one more datum matching a likely-criminal profile.
I had thrown my hard copy print out of Black Bag, a hacker’s Journal out of Norway on the floor on the passenger side. But cop two had seen it and grinned at me, as if to say: “How stupid can you be, printing out that wire-head smut!” Right now, I agreed with him wholeheartedly.
Cop one had thought it took six primaries to warrant a search but cop three, who followed the Supreme Court like horse-races, wanted to double check the Common Wisdom. I wanted to urinate so much it hurt like a knife. This was taking time I hadn’t planned for.
Cop One had said then: “Would you unlock the trunk and step out of the car please?” I sighed and complied, as they cuffed and shackled me, covered my head so I wouldn’t suffer a painful bump, and sat me in the back of their car while they fetched my true set of IDs out of the trunk.
Ones with the links to my criminal record unwiped from the hard drive on my driver’s license. Cop two looked in at me, and in a not unfriendly tone said: “Well, hell, we’ve got us a People’s Hero.”
I smiled bravely and they took me away from my family, my friends, my room, my books, my computers, my cat and everything I ever knew and loved.
They took me away and I would never go home again. I have been moved to a cell and shackled. I lay in utter darkness, right foot throbbing. I was in Prison. I am in Prison. I and I will be in Prison until I die. Like Janis said in a long-forgotten song: “And I Cry Like a Baby.”
666
Natsuko poured beer from a silver urn onto the coals and was washed in steam. She took it into her lungs and exhaled, eyes flickering. She walked naked back to her seat on the highest bench in the sauna, and a red painted nail flickered along the cruel raw red tea saucer sized arc cut by Rosanna’s bullet out of the perfect shell of her ear.
She let the pain carry her back to San Francisco in seventeen when she had made her bones on the roof of a bullet train between Alcatraz Island and the Pacific Rim Mile High Tower in Berkeley Heights. Shinobu had emerged from over the rear of the last car and crawled onto the roof.
She was a graceful limbed but solidly built mid-sized girl, an inch shorter but heavier in the bust than Natsuko. Like Natsuko she wore black Dojo Slippers, black skin-tight jeans, but instead of a black lace bra her heavy bosoms rode jutting out proudly from her matador jacket.
Natsuko waited on her right knee, left foot planted firmly in the sure-grip matting on the roof of the car middle most in the train. As the train got up to full furious speed, Shinobu stopped two meters from Natsuko and dropped to her right knee, right elbow on her knee, empty hand out, palm up, as was Natsuko’s.
As The train descended on it’s track into the tunnel under the bay, plunging the girl’s into darkness, the two young combat cunts exchanged the traditional pre-fight greeting.
“I am Shinobu, daughter of the Jezebels. I wear the brand of the blue tree spider on my right shoulder, as flag of my fidelity to my Sisters. I first killed defending my Sister’s Honor. I honor you by allowing you to challenge my right to lead my Sisters. If you kill me, honor this honor by never dishonoring the Jezebels!”
“I am Natsuko, born on the Home Island, I wear the black ladygut headband of the Tokyo Subway Futensaku Banshees, daughters of the Meteoric Iron Yasuka. I am honored you have accepted my challenge. I will be honored to kill you!”
Just then the train plunged into darkness. The two girls got to their bellies and crawled with great danger and difficulty toward one another.
Every second a maintenance light in the roof of the tunnel flashed like lightning, making a flash-bulb snap-shot of incredible fighting, flashing on nasty blue steel razor sharp blades, faces caught in masks of ancient celestial war goddesses, limbs like swastikas. A snap shot of lunge. Feint and parry.
A snap shot of jet black hair lashed bone white faces. A snap-shot of jagged zig-zags of red-black rivulets wet on arms and torsos. A snap-shot of an insane leap! A snap shot of figures spinning apart from a vortex of the unfurled banners of shocking arterial sprays. A snap-shot of one girl crawling onto the other.
Thrashing. Bucking. Howls carried away like kites in the Cyclone Roar! Then one slumped onto the other as the train erupted like silver lava into the blinding Daylight! Natsuko still wore a headband made of a strip of Shinobu’s milk white skin on ceremonial occasions with the Jezebels.
She descended into a deeper, imageless stillness, where memories fell slowly like petals from plum blossoms onto placid streams. There Pure Lands floated like wreaths on the waters, and beauties played lutes on grass as green as jade and as soft as the father’s embrace of his sleeping daughter …
THE END OF CHAPTER SEVEN