Assault or Attrition

by Blake Northcott

  She drew back and wiped a wayward tear from her cheek, quickly and discreetly, as if I’d be too distracted to notice. “I’m so sorry,” she said, clearing her voice. “I never knew things were this bad. What’s happening in New York, it’s—”

  "You’re here, you’re safe. That’s all that matters now." I squeezed her arms gently and rubbed them for warmth. She was wearing only a thin black sweater, sorely unprepared for the brutal weather she’d encounter in Northern Canada. “And we’re going to get Gavin here, too. Everything will work out.”

  She smiled, and a fresh pair of teardrops rolled down her cheeks. I almost broke down myself. Watching Gary lose his life was agonizing, and the thought of losing someone else, especially Peyton, would have pushed me past the breaking point. I was doing everything in my power to keep myself together.

  “I feel like such a bitch,” she said, laughing through her tears. “I practically kicked you out of my life when you said you were in danger, and now the world is falling apart.”

  “Maybe we both needed space.” I replied with a shrug. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that bullshit.”

  “Maybe,” she said softly. “You must have been so lonely here the last few months, with just your staff to keep you company.”

  Chandler was escorting Mac and Valentina to the infirmary for a routine post-mission checkup (they didn’t sustain so much as a scratch, but it was procedure – something that Chandler rarely deviated from) and I hadn’t noticed Brynja approach from behind, standing at a distance. I also wasn’t aware that she was still in one of her cosplay outfits, dressed head-to-toe like Wonder Woman. She’d printed every accessory; boots, gauntlets, a tiara, as well as the gold Lasso of Truth that dangled from her belt.

  I didn’t spin around to see the blue-haired Amazonian until Peyton cupped a hand over her mouth, her face reddening. “Oh, I didn’t... know that you had company. Before all this happened did you hire some...entertainment?”

  “What the fuck,” Brynja groaned, loud and exasperated. “Do you think I’m a hooker?”

  “I don’t...” Peyton paused for a moment, still covering her mouth. “Do you prefer a different term? Because I’m not really familiar with all of the—”

  "It’s just a costume!” Brynja shouted. “Like, you know, for fun? Why does everyone assume I’m some filthy prostitute?”

  Peyton cocked her head and narrowed her eyes. “Wait, who else assumes that?”

  “It’s Brynja,” I explained. “My partner, from the Arena.”

  Peyton scanned her from boots to tiara, eyes squinted half-shut. “The one who died? What happened?”

  “It didn’t take,” Brynja said.

  “Apparently.” Peyton glanced at me, now more suspicious than confused. “So you brought her here for protection? Like me?”

  I scratched the back of my head with both hands, unaware that I was fidgeting. “No, she’s been here for a while.”

  “Three months,” Brynja added.

  “So you live here,” Peyton said flatly. “With Matt. Together.”

  “It’s not just us here,” I replied without missing a beat, “we have maids and a chef, and—”

  “So it’s pretty much like a guy and a girl in a five-star hotel,” Peyton said.

  “Yes,” I snapped, before correcting myself. “Wait, no. It’s like, she appeared back at the hospital out of nowhere. I thought she was dead, but she was showed up naked, and then I took her home.” Holy shit. My mouth was moving and words were flying out, completely independent from my brain. “I’m not explaining this very well.”

  “You’re really not,” Brynja added with a tiny chuckle. Her laugh drew an icy glare from Peyton.

  “Look,” Peyton said, her arms folded tightly across her chest, “we’ve barely seen each other since The Arena and it’s not like we ever said we were exclusive. I thought maybe we’d reconnect, but...you’re free to see other women, I guess, or hire them or whatever.”

  “Standing right here,” Brynja said sharply, pointing to herself. “And still not a prostitute.” She would have been easier to take seriously if she hadn’t been wearing a gold bustier with a matching lasso.

  There wasn’t much left to say, and thankfully no one felt like continuing the conversation. So after the most awkward elevator ride of all time, the three of us silently stepped out onto the main level and went our separate ways. I could deal with personal issues later. In the meantime I had calls to make and people to protect.

  The fortress was secure, but everyone else on the outside certainly wasn’t. A fact that Valeriya was waiting to exploit.

  Chapter Twelve

  Night fell, and it became painfully obvious that the authorities weren’t coming to our rescue.

  I called The Royal Canadian Mounted Police (who, I was assured, were no longer using horses as their primary mode of transportation) and was told they were on their way. If the RCMP did send officers to make arrests, they had either encountered resistance, or had changed their minds and circled back. The nearest town was two hundred kilometers away, so unless the dispatcher I’d spoken with was mistaken, and the cops actually were arriving on horseback, they should have been here hours ago.

  No one else seemed willing to offer support. I was on hold waiting to speak with the US Ambassador, and eventually gave up after an hour. No other Canadian agencies would even take my calls.

  I then attempted to contact every US security agency I could think of, and filled them in on the situation here in Northern Alberta: a group of tax-paying Americans, stranded in the Canadian wilderness, taking fire from Russian thugs...and a superhuman who could fire plasma bolts from his hands. I know how it sounded, but I showed them video evidence to back up my claims. I even played the celebrity card, hoping that, as per usual, the rich and famous would receive preferential treatment. It was worth a shot.

  But nothing. No one cared.

  All I received were lectures about how many riots were breaking out across the country. Everyone from the local cops to the National Guard were up to their elbows in looters and protestors. The authorities’ numbers were spread thin, and they couldn’t spare the manpower to help out a citizen stranded in a foreign country – celebrity or otherwise.

  I checked the simulcast feeds and saw the evidence for myself. It seems that the implosion in New York had caused a domino effect; full-scale lockdowns were initiated across the East Coast, which meant a suffocating police presence – this, in turn, lead to the inevitable backlash. Mobs stormed the streets in reaction to the harsh security measures, and the authorities fought back. The chaos was a wildfire, spreading from Boston to Miami in a matter of hours.

  The West Coast followed. Before long California had become a warzone, and these weren’t just your run-of-the-mill riots: fires blazed, shots were fired, and a few superhumans got into the mix. In San Francisco, a woman with the ability to emit sonic shockwaves by clapping her hands assaulted a group of riot police, bursting their eardrums. She was gunned down by a S.W.A.T. team moments later.

  As soon as word got out that another superhuman was responsible for an attack, the shit really hit the fan. Police presence was quickly supplemented by the military. I’m sure the death toll was increasing, but the news feeds were keeping quiet. “Necessary force” were the buzzwords being repeated by every network. And any attempt to search through social media or holo-forums for the term ‘riot’ turned up blank. ISPs were no doubt being instructed to keep a lid on anything related to the uprisings around the country.

  After finally getting through to Senator Alex Jenkins from my home state of New York, I was told that I could fill out a ‘Request for Foreign Aid and/or Rescue While Living Abroad’ form, mail it back (as in, with a stamp and envelope) and wait six to eight weeks for it to be processed and evaluated. And then, if the allotted resources were available, some American forces would come to our rescue. Time permitting.

  The only successful call I’d made in the last twenty-four hours
was to the Halifax PD. Fortunately, the North-Eastern coast of Canada was riot-free, so my request to have the police escort Elizabeth and the kids to a secure location was granted.

  Exhausted and frustrated by the lack of progress, everyone retired to their rooms for the evening. Staying awake and worrying all night wouldn’t do us any good – we could resume hand-wringing and pacing in the morning. Peyton was escorted to a chamber across the hall from mine, offering me a tiny smile before shutting the door behind her.

  Chandler set the fortress on lockdown, which apparently provided even more security for the gigantic structure. I didn’t think that was even possible. Blast shields covered every exposed window, offering an additional layer of protection, and the transparent dome that topped the fortress turned opaque, darkening to a velvety black. According to London, “We are now in ‘castle mode’. With additional protection in place, Fortress 23 can now withstand a direct hit from a GBU-43/B Massive Ordnance Air Blast – the most powerful non-nuclear weapon ever created.” I was hoping that whatever The Red Army had in store for us, we wouldn’t have to test that theory.

  I suggested that Chandler get some rest, because tomorrow things could get ugly.

  He asked how much worse things could possibly get. I smiled weakly and turned towards my room.

  Lying on my bed, I knew that rest wouldn’t come easy. My body needed sleep, but my mind, as usual, wasn’t in the mood to cooperate. I wandered down to the infirmary, and Judy prescribed me a mild sedative, which she guaranteed would provide eight hours of uninterrupted sleep. If that were true it would be the first time I’d slept through the night since before Arena Mode. I swallowed the bright purple tablet, returned to my room and flopped onto my mattress, gazing up at the ceiling.

  Waiting for the drug to take effect, the usual nightly checklist floated through my mind: a detailed outline of everything I’d screwed up in my life, updated to include the most recent highlights. Peyton probably hated me, and certainly didn’t trust me. Gavin went missing after his store burnt down (again, my fault). And Kenneth, who I’d put into a coma, wanted me to pull the plug and let him die.

  The icing on the cake was that I had to explain to my sister that I watched her husband being executed, and that my niece and nephew no longer had a father to grow up with. That would be a fun call to make. Oh, and while I was at it, I could tell her that the neighborhood we grew up in, the south end of The Fringe, was imploded by a madman who wanted me dead. So that was more or less my fault as well.

  I continued to beat myself up until my eyelids filled with lead, and I was powerless to keep them propped open. Judy’s purple pill didn’t disappoint. I drifted off, as promised, into the best sleep of my life.

  Eight hours, nineteen minutes and forty-one seconds later, I’d have to deal with what would become the worst day of my life – at least up until that point. But on the bright side, I wouldn’t need quite so much caffeine to deal with it.

  Before I drifted off I added one final screw-up to my ever-expanding checklist: I should have given Chandler some more helpful advice before he went to bed. When he asked, “How much worse can things possibly get?” I should have advised him to never, ever ask that question. Because the answer, no matter what the situation, is always the same. “Way, way fucking worse.”

  Partial transcript from the BBC News Simulcast ‘The Daily Express’

  Hosted by Liam Beckett, January 2042

  Liam Beckett: On the heels of a shocking announcement from Valeriya Taktarov, we’re going to be discussing the potential impact of her iTube video, her call-to-arms, and how much stock should be put into her incredible claims.

  Joining me this evening are American talk show host and political commentator, William O’Neill, as well as renowned British physicist and author, Agnes Richards.

  Let’s start with you, Doctor Richards: what do you make of young Miss Taktarov, and her assertion that Sergei, her deceased brother, is speaking ‘through her’ – telepathically, as it were?

  Agnes Richards: It’s complete rubbish. There has never been any evidence of an afterlife.

  William O’Neill: Are you kidding me, Richards? This is all the proof we need that there is an afterlife. When he was alive, Sergei Taktarov was flying around in the air, shooting laser beams from his eyes – how do you explain that, doc?

  If that’s not the work of a higher power, I don’t know what is.

  Richards: There will be a perfectly rational explanation for these so-called superhuman abilities in due time. Simply because science can’t yet explain their origins doesn’t mean they’re the result of divine intervention.

  O’Neill: Oh, there’s a surprise: science can’t explain it. “We have all the answers!” you and all your science buddies shouted from the rooftops. Then superhumans started appearing, and now we have proof of an afterlife – all of a sudden you’re not as smart as you think.

  Richards: I never claimed to have all the answers. No responsible scientist would dare to claim they ha—

  O’Neill: Don’t interrupt me, Richards. You’ll get your turn, all right?

  As I was saying, these scientist pinheads think they know it all, but they can’t explain superhuman powers, and they sure as heck can’t explain this.

  It took the Vatican just an hour to jump on board and support Valeriya Taktarov’s statements. Did you know that? An hour. And The Pope is infallible, so who am I to argue with him?

  Richards: Just because the Pope believes and endorses Valeriya Taktarov does not give her claims any more validity.

  O’Neill: You and all these number crunchers are clueless about superhumans – you said it yourself. And now you’re telling me The Pope’s word doesn’t mean crap? Is that what you’re saying?

  Richards: I never said his word was ‘crap’, if you’ll just list—

  O’Neill: The Pope was chosen by the man upstairs to be the leader of the Catholic Church, and his specialty is communicating with people in the afterlife. I think I’ll take The Pope’s opinion over yours, thank you very much. And another thing – I don’t think you should be telling the most respected man in the world how to do his job. He doesn’t walk into your lab and tell you how to clean Bunsen burners and dissect frogs.

  Richards: I’m...I’m not even sure how to respond to all of that.

  O’Neill: And while we’re on the topic of know-it-alls, what about all your science buddies who say they can give people superhuman powers, and are charging millions for the operation? You don’t seem too upset about that.

  Richards: Now wait just a moment – neurologists from Argentina and Brazil are claiming they can alter brain chemistry, thereby increasing an individual’s chance of acquiring certain abilities – but this has never been verified, and I do not endorse these practices in any way. The scientific community, as a whole, has distanced itself from these individuals.

  Beckett: Let’s move on to the nature of this message; Valeriya’s impassioned speech where she states, in no uncertain terms, that her brother demands vengeance. She stops short of naming names, but anyone can connect the dots and see a clear line pointing towards one man. She’s insinuating that Russia’s Son is demanding the execution of Matthew Moxon.

  O’Neill: Look, I’m not going to condone vigilante justice. I’m not a lawyer, and I’m not in the position to make these types of calls when it comes to what constitutes breaking the law...but if this Moxon character turns up dead, maybe it will lead to a better society, for all I know.

  Richards: Are you quite mad? What you just said specifically condones vigilante justice.

  O’Neill: I’m no fan of Russia, or communism, or anything that goes on outside of America – but Valeriya Taktarov says a new era of peace and prosperity will arrive if Moxon is rubbed out, and that Russia’s Son will be the one to deliver it. What’s the worst thing that can happen if people listen to her?

  Richards: The ‘worst thing’ would be to lend credence to these outlandish claims, giving the credulous tacit
approval to take matters into their own hands. Allowing this type of theological bullying to go unchecked would also be first step towards a world where trials and executions take place in a court of popular opinion, much as they were in the dark ages, and not in a modern-day court of law where facts and evidence are a prerequisite.

  O’Neill: We’ll just have to agree to disagree.

  Richards: Do you even know what you’re disagreeing with?

  Beckett: Well, that’s all the time we have. I’d like to thank Agnes Richards and William O’Neill for joining me here on this special evening edition of The Daily Express.

  Don’t forget to visit our website, where you can pick up Doctor Richards’s latest book ‘A Trip Through the Cosmos’, as well as O’Neill’s new book, ‘America’s Heartland: The Birthplace of Capitalism, The Second Amendment and Christianity’.

  Chapter Thirteen

  By morning the number of campsites had swollen from two to twenty. Aircraft continued to drop protesters at our fortress perimeter, along with weapons and additional supplies. And all-terrain vehicles arrived by the dozen; endless convoys wearing a path through the snow. As the hours passed, the numbers increased. By noon, the view from outside my bedroom window looked like a political rally. At a glance I counted just under a thousand people, with more huddled inside tents and vehicles to keep warm. Around the campsites, some were planting flags in the ground. Not surprisingly, it was the solid red banner with a gold hammer and sickle in solidarity with Russia’s Son.