Valeriya’s iTube video had enlisted more recruits than I anticipated. She was so convincing, in fact, that religious leaders from around the world were taking her claims all too seriously. The Vatican’s official statement (which was more or less an endorsement of her mission statement to have me murdered) is what likely pushed many believers over the edge, inspiring them to make the pilgrimage to Fortress 23 in droves. It wasn’t long before we were completely surrounded.
There were no signs of the authorities coming to disperse the crowd, but thankfully, there was a bit of good news that came through a simulcast: a weather report was calling for extreme conditions. When the Canadian government calls the amount of snow coming your way ‘extreme’, you had better believe that they’re serious. The snow fell – and fell, and fell, and fell. It was three feet deep before nightfall. Temperatures were well below zero, with arctic wind chills dropping to minus fifty degrees Celsius. I spotted an ATV in one of the campsites attempt to move; engine wheezing, headlights flickering – it was immobilized. Being stationary for too long, the vehicle’s tires had become completely iced to the ground.
The weather was helpful in slowing the influx of reinforcements as well. Since the heavy snowfall began not a single new convoy had arrived by land, and in these conditions, air travel was out of the question. Visibility was non-existent, and the winds were far too violent, even for my state-of-the-art aircraft.
The weather was not enough of a deterrent to keep the soldiers from continuing their attempts to break into the fortress, though; groups of them were attacking the base of the structure with various weapons and forms of construction equipment. Everything from gunfire to handheld drills were being used in an attempt to find a weak spot. Late into the night, video feeds from our external cams showed bright orange sparks flashing in the darkness as hailstorms of bullets bounced harmlessly off the armored walls, and drill bits snapped off trying to penetrate the surface.
At the moment, the intruders were causing no more than cosmetic damage, and I wasn’t overly concerned with dents and chipped paint. What was a concern was the possibility of the Red Army finding that elusive weak point – some flaw in the design that would grant them access to the fortress, creating a doorway that would allow a tidal wave of angry dissidents to storm through like the finale of a zombie movie. Our weapons, and even Valentina’s hydrokinesis, would be inconsequential in the face of those numbers. We’d be overwhelmed in a matter of minutes by the sheer weight of attackers. I’d most likely be dragged away, subjected to public torture before my execution, and I didn’t even want to consider what would happen to my friends and the remaining staff. Of course this was an irrational fear; the likelihood of them breaching security was a wild, billion-to-one long shot...although when you’re surrounded by over a thousand angry militants who want to sacrifice you to their god, it’s sometimes difficult to separate the rational fears from the irrational ones.
As time passed Valeriya’s intentions were becoming clear. Her plan was unfolding, and the actions she didn’t take were making her motives all the more transparent. Her followers were attempting to access the fortress using only rudimentary tools; drills, jackhammers, gunfire – with no effort being made to gain entry using explosives. Any attempt to blast their way in would likely yield no results, but she had no way of knowing that for certain. For all she knew a well-paced grenade or round from a bazooka would open up a gaping hole, giving her mob an all-access pass to our seemingly impregnable fortress. The gunshots, the drilling – this was mindless busywork. Her people were putting on a show, making it look like they were making a serious attempt to gain access to the fortress, all while some larger, more insidious plot unfolded. Were they just awaiting additional followers, giving the masses more time to arm themselves and join the cause? Was she using some of the Kashstarter funds to hire superhumans in an attempt to blast their way in? Or was there something else she was waiting on? I couldn’t be sure.
What seemed obvious was the fact that Valeriya – and her Red Army – almost certainly wanted me alive. At least to begin with. Acting without her direct leadership, the movement was a loosely-assembled group of angry militants, scouring the world for anyone who looked remotely like me. They shot first and confirmed ID’s later. Now, there was more focus. The implosion in New York City seemed more calculated than ever: the human suicide bomb went off in the spot where it would draw the most attention and elicit the greatest response. Attention was now completely focused on the riots that had spread across America, and had continued to propagate throughout major cities in Canada and Mexico.
Had Valeriya just wanted me vaporized, it would have made more sense to send her jihadist right to my front porch here in Northern Alberta. He could have torn off his shirt, gone supernova and taken out the entire fortress, blinking it – and Matthew ‘The God Slayer’ Moxon – completely out of existence. Simple and effective, but not nearly enough of a statement. Whatever Valeriya Taktarov had in mind as recompense for the loss of her only living relative, it was going to be much more sadistic.
When I played poker, Valeriya was what we referred to as a ‘sandbagger’: someone who presented themselves as more passive and weak than they actually were, luring their opposition into a false sense of security. When the sharks at the table were feeling confident, that’s when the sandbagger would strike. The sharks, overconfident in their abilities, get harpooned the moment they let their guard down; they go home broke, while the sandbagger walks away with the house.
It was comfortable to let Peyton, Brynja and the others believe that we were up against no more than a group of poorly-armed idiots who had no hope of achieving their goal. I knew better, and so did Valentina.
My bodyguard suggested that we prepare for a worst-case scenario, which meant opening up The Vault. For the past three months, Valentina and I failed to see eye-to-eye on a single issue, but she was always a consummate professional. She’d helped me design weapons and body armor using our 3D printer, and she suggested it was time to suit up and prepare for what could be on the horizon. It was never too soon to test equipment in case of an emergency situation, so we agreed that the next day I’d take Peyton, Brynja and Chandler to The Vault.
When morning came I opened the blast shields that covered my bedroom window, and a shaft of bright sunlight poured in as the steel retracted. The clouds had parted and the snowfall had ceased, giving the Red Army a temporary reprieve from the harsh conditions. New convoys were already rumbling in through a well-worn path in the forest, and their numbers had doubled. They were now chopping down trees and clearing the surroundings, making room for additional camp sites. I considered visiting the nurse to ask about anti-anxiety pills, but we were already scheduled for our armor fitting – I could take care of my panic attacks later.
Throwing on jeans and a t-shirt I stepped into the hallway, nearly colliding with Peyton as I finished pulling up my zipper. Our eyes met and she smiled politely, but it was tight and forced, without the warmth she usually radiated. We paused, staring at each other, as if anticipating the other might say something. I opened my mouth for a moment and closed it, unable to produce a word that would fill the awkward silence. She smiled again, a little wider, and twirled a loop of pink hair with her finger as she stared down at her shoes.
I heard the distinctive sound of boots clacking on the steel floors as Brynja rounded the corner. “Did I miss something?” she asked. “What is this, a staring contest?”
Peyton’s smile quickly faded. She deliberately trailed her eyes from Brynja’s newly printed footwear (heavy black leather with spikes protruding from a steel toe) up to her low-slung jeans, to her tattered black tank top (a barely-existent garment that revealed a generous amount of cleavage, along with most of her midriff). Her lipstick and eyeshadow matched her vivid blue locks, which were pulled into a pair of braids that fell over her shoulders.
Standing next to each other, their physical similarities were apparent – their age, height and stature w
ere nearly identical – but their styles couldn’t have contrasted more if they’d tried. While Brynja was loud and expressive in her attire, Peyton’s clothes were far softer, and much more unassuming. Her loose-fitting grey sweater, yoga pants and running shoes represented the bulk of her wardrobe. She rarely required anything more formal; during her life in The Fringe she spent the majority of her time working at Excelsior Retro Comics, or in school studying to be a veterinarian. As she continued to inspect Brynja’s outfit in the painful gulf of silence, I interjected with a rapid, “C’mon guys, these suits aren’t going to try themselves on,” and gestured for them to follow me towards the floor’s central hub.
A few minutes later we arrived at The Vault. It was directly adjacent to the primary media room, and was identical in every way: an expansive, snowflake-white living space without a single right angle to disrupt the aesthetic. It was perfectly circular with four entrance points, separated evenly like the quarter-hour notches on a clock. However, instead of being furnished with plush leather couches and low-hanging lamps, this room had a single design feature: a cylindrical silver column that stretched from floor to ceiling. The enormous tube that dominated the center of the room disappeared into the floor with a touch of my thumbprint, revealing my own private arsenal.
The armor suits, and an impressive array of rifles, hung from what looked like a massive circular department store rack, with hooks used to display the hardware.
“Holy shit,” Brynja whispered. “Is all of this for us?”
“Yup.” I rotated the rack along the top rail like hangars in a closet. I browsed through the armor, shifting them aside one after the other. “This is yours.”
Brynja unhooked the shimmering black bodysuit from the rack and held it in front of her, as if to approximate her size.
I circled around the far side of the rack and retrieved Peyton’s suit. When I handed it to her she crinkled her nose at the design. “These look a little tight. Are they supposed to stop bullets, or are they for show, like Brynja’s costumes?”
“Hey buttercup,” Brynja shouted from the opposite side of the rack, hidden behind the rows of armor. “I can still hear you.”
“I just mean these don’t look very durable,” Peyton called out, “I thought these were supposed to be bullet-proof or something?”
Looks, I explained, can be deceiving. The armor was made from a flexible graphene textile that provided more than enough protection from a bullet, bladed weapon, or even an explosive. Stretched across a wide surface, a wafer-thin strip of graphene couldn’t be pierced by a two-ton elephant standing on a sharpened pencil. I’m not sure if anyone had actually performed the elephant test themselves, but the colorful analogy had always been used to describe the material’s toughness.
Graphene was impressive on its own, but with an unlimited budget at my disposal, I was able to take the design process to an entirely different level: ‘Smart Fiber’ was a light, malleable textile which went on like a wetsuit. It was roughly the same thickness and density of a wetsuit as well, but when an object collided with its exterior, the Smart Fiber hardened on impact, similar to an airbag being triggered during a car crash. The projectile would bounce harmlessly off the surface, leaving the wearer unharmed.
As I went over the impressive checklist of features, including how the Smart Fiber suits were fireproof, waterproof, and that they conduct electricity like a Faraday cage, Peyton was more concerned with an apparent cosmetic design flaw.
“Wait a sec,” she said suspiciously, holding the suit away from her. “What’s this on the chest?”
I raised my eyebrows and shrugged. “A number? The same ones we learned about back when we were toddlers?”
“No,” she said coarsely, “It’s not ‘just’ a number, it’s number thirteen.”
“Right,” I explained. “Number thirteen. As in, this was the thirteenth version of the suit I created. I kept refining them to make sure the design was perfect. Easiest way to keep track of which suit was which.”
“Easy for you to be so blasé about this,” she said, gesturing to my suit. Peyton’s voice had raised several octaves and her face creased into an uneasy frown, causing me to take a step backwards. “You ended up with number seven. That’s the best number to have. Do you know how unlucky thirteen is?”
“No,” I replied quietly, “but I have a feeling you’re about to tell me.”
She groaned, scanning the armor while she shook her head in disapproval. “You might as well have designed a suit with a giant crosshair on the back.”
“Now that I think about it,” Brynja shouted from the other side of the rack, “I think I noticed a black cat walk in front of your suit, like, right after it was printed. And Mox, didn’t these get passed under a ladder at some point?”
“Hey, Smurfette,” Peyton shouted back, “keep it down – the adults are trying to have a conversation here.”
It occurred to me, watching the anger simmer inside of Peyton, that this was about much more than her adherence to superstition. I poked fun at her beliefs all the time and she would never bat an eye. Peyton hadn’t been in the same room as Brynja since her arrival, and I had a feeling this was the moment where the emotional powder keg was about to go off.
Never one to back down from a confrontation, Brynja circled around the rack to face Peyton. “Do you really want to go there, princess? Insulting my hair?”
Peyton locked her feet into place and folded her arms, straightening her posture. “The tattoos, the piercings, the bright blue hair – I can see right through you. You’re one of those girls.”
“‘Those girls’?” Brynja repeated, her eyes narrowing.
“I used to see them all the time,” Peyton explained, “Tourists from Manhattan, slumming it in The Fringe, looking to hook up with some security guard or bartender that daddy would never approve of. They dye their hair and do all sorts of body mods...you’re one of them. You get off on the attention.”
“Says the girl with the pink hair,” Brynja replied with a caustic laugh.
“It’s pink because I happen to like it this way,” Peyton fired back. “Look at you,” she gestured towards Brynja, making a show of looking her up and down. “It’s January, and we’re in Canada. You’re dressed like you’re about to start pole dancing.”
My eyes flicked back and forth between them, nervously anticipating the next bombshell. The fight was escalating at an alarming rate, and it felt like at any moment I’d have to step in between them, like a referee separating two prizefighters who refused to stop slinging leather after a round came to an end.
“Well since we’re on the topic of hair,” Brynja said coarsely, “Mox happens to be the one who chose this color for me.”
Peyton paused, seemingly more skeptical than angry. “That’s not possible. It was like that before he even met you.”
“I’m a perception,” Brynja explained. “It’s my superhuman ability. I didn’t even exist until Moxon blinked me into reality.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Peyton replied.
“It means,” Brynja said with a conspiratorial smile, “that when your sweetheart saw me in The Arena for the first time, I needed an external observer to complete my corporeal form, and solidify me on this plane. His desires manifested into yours truly.”
“I don’t get it,” Peyton replied.
Brynja rolled her eyes. “Shocker.”
I stepped into the narrowing gap between the girls and extended my hands to either side. “Okay, this has gone far enough, let’s just—”
“No,” Peyton insisted. “Let’s not ‘just’. This is getting interesting. Please, Brynja, go on.”
“Want me to make this real simple for you?” she continued, taking a small step forward. “Whatever was going on inside of Mox’s dirty little mind is what I became that day. Notice how similar we look? Our height, our eyes, our body types...pretty close, no?”
Peyton scanned Brynja again – this time without judgment o
r contempt, but genuinely taking notice of their remarkable similarities. “I guess. So?”
“So,” Brynja said, gesturing to herself. “I’m you, just a better version. I’m closer to Mox’s ideal match in every way.”
“This is such bullshit,” Peyton shouted, sticking a finger in Brynja’s face. I placed a hand on her shoulder to prevent her from taking another step closer.
“Is it?” Brynja replied, her smile widening. She stood perfectly still, hands on hips, as if waiting for the realization to fully sink in.
“All right,” I interjected, “let’s just take a breather and settle down.” I paused for a moment before turning my attention to Brynja. “Why didn’t you ever mention this before?”
She replied with a half-hearted shrug. “I never knew until I saw Princess Peyton here face-to-face. It’s obvious: you created what you wanted to see, and that’s me.”
“Well un-see her, then!” Peyton shouted.
“I’m fully corporeal now,” Brynja said. “When I came back – thanks to Kenneth, I think – I came back as a real person. No more shape-shifting or ghosting.”
“Great,” Peyton sighed, her shoulders sagging. “So you’re going to look like me forever.”
Brynja exhaled loudly. “This ain’t a Swiss picnic for me either.”
Peyton dismissively gestured towards Brynja with one hand. “And this is what you want, Matt? This?”
“I’m not a ‘this’,” Brynja said sharply. “I’m a girl! A real girl.”
“You’re nothing,” Peyton seethed. “You’re a masturbation fantasy. You’re a video download, at best – something that a guy takes an interest in for five minutes before he gets bored, and moves on to the next distraction. And you shouldn’t even be here.”
“If Mox didn’t want me here,” Brynja shot back, “I wouldn’t be. He invited me, and unlike some people, I actually accepted the invitation.”
Assault or Attrition Page 11
