Final Empire

by Blake Northcott

  As I rapidly circled the table he reached for his sidearm. Still in the holster, his hand was tightened around the grip when my fist collided with his face, so hard my knuckles cracked on the bridge of his nose. Three additional shots to Wells’ temple knocked him unconscious.

  I peeled the handgun from his fingers, sheathed the weapon in his overcoat and aimed at the door, hoping the bundle of fabric – combined with the sound-proofing of the interrogation room – would muffle the shot.

  I fired.

  The doorknob spiraled off and clanged to the tiles at my feet. The door creaked open.

  I dropped the gun and stepped into the long empty hallway. My wrist-com was active once again, able to retrieve a signal. “Riot armor,” I commanded as quietly as possible, nearly pressing my lips to the device. I had only seconds before someone noticed what I’d done…I’d hoped it was enough time.

  I heard screaming from the front entrance, followed by gunshots. My swarm of robots cascaded through the police station’s front doors like an enormous metallic centipede, weaving through the work stations.

  The bots rounded the corner and slithered towards me. They crawled up my body, converging and solidifying into my armored suit. Every part of my body was protected, except for my head. A fact that became abundantly clear as Santiago burst into view, gun blazing.

  “Helmet!” I screamed, triggering several thousand of the bots to disengage from my chest and shoulder plates, re-connecting around my exposed face. A bullet grazed my unprotected ear, dotting the cream colored wall with blood. Another struck my chest plate, while a third bounced harmlessly off my face mask, directly over my left eye – striking the visor that had not been there a heartbeat before.

  I charged. Santiago emptied her fifteen-round clip into my armor with precision, never missing with a single shot. By the time her last round had fired I was an arm’s reach away, dropping a shoulder into her chest. The invaluable skills I’d learned during my stint as a high school football player were finally paying off.

  She bounced and rolled, slamming into a desk.

  I sprinted through the front office as one cop after another opened fire. I didn’t even blink. I just focused on the doors that led to the street, letting the bullets ping off of my armor, which was thankfully holding up to the onslaught.

  By the time I’d burst onto the street I was already screaming into my com. “Karin, where are you? I need a pick up now!”

  “Oh, hey Mister Moxon,” my pilot’s cheerful voice replied, echoing through my helmet. “How did the opening go? Were they serving those little mini burgers? Or crackers with like ten different toppings piled on top of them?” Her question was followed by the sound of potato chips crunching and a cartoon blaring in the background.

  My eyes darted from side to side, searching for the least congested route. Both sides were packed solid with shiny yellow cabs, their hoods winking up flecks of bright autumn sunlight. I sprinted south towards my megatower, narrowly dodging frightened pedestrians on the busy sidewalk. “Trace London’s location and fly towards me,” I commanded. “And activate the magnets.”

  “Magnets?” She asked curiously. “You’re…wait, you want me to do that thing? The thing we’ve never tested?”

  “Yes!” I screamed, “Right now!”

  “Hey, are you joking?” she snickered. “This is a prank, right?”

  Gunshots rang out, slamming the back of my helmet. I winced as the speaker let out a piercing wail.

  “Does this sound like a fucking prank? I need you now!”

  “Geez, all right,” she replied, with all the enthusiasm of a surly teenager reluctantly agreeing to clean her room. “I’m coming, boss…a ‘please’ would’ve been nice, though.”

  “Holy shit,” I screamed, so loud that my com crackled. It must have been damaged by the last gunshot. “Will you please get your ass into the chopper!?”

  “Okay, okay...on my way,” she conceded, her voice muffled by the crunching of more chips. “See you in three.”

  As I sped through an intersection narrowly dodging a pedicab, my com chimed again. It was Peyton.

  “Hey Matty. Did you ever find out what happened? The news is saying there was a helicopter crash, but the entire area is blocked off.”

  “Oh, hi sweetie,” I replied, panting as I continued to sprint. The suit helped propel me forward as I ran, but it still required as much effort as jogging to get it up to speed – something I’d been neglecting to do for the last year.

  “You sound out of breath,” she said suspiciously. “Are you up to something?”

  “Oh you know me.” Another bullet whizzed by my head, embedding into a bus shelter. “I always have something on the go.”

  “Well I’m worried about you. You barely sleep, you’re not eating right…make sure you get something for lunch and then meet me back here, okay?”

  Racing past a portable food station at fifty miles per hour, I reached out and snatched a hot dog from a customer’s hand just as he was taking it from the vendor. “Don’t worry about me, I just grabbed something.”

  “Oh, good,” she said cheerfully.

  I ground my heels into the street and stopped at the next intersection. I was gasping for air, barely able to form a sentence. “Listen sweetie, just…one...little thing…I need you to do…”

  Peyton giggled. “Oof. Whenever you say something is ‘little’ it’s usually the opposite.”

  “All right,” I panted, “one big thing…I gotta ask…can you and Gavin maybe...close the store early, and...get to a secure location for a pick-up? You know...the roof or something?”

  “Wait – what?”

  I glanced back over my shoulder and spotted a trio of police motorcycles racing towards me, weaving in and out of the cars jamming the street, with more converging from either side. Manhattan was a small island, and there were only so many places to go. I was getting boxed in at an alarming rate.

  I lunged a few steps towards what looked like the only available avenue for escape, and then stopped dead: a six-wheeled SWAT tank, topped with a machinegun, barreled down the road. It flattened a scooter and crushed parking meters as it advanced.

  “Sorry,” I blurted out, “you know what? We’re have some bad reception here...can barely hear you...”

  “The reception is fine. Don’t you dare cut me—”

  “Gotta go,” I interrupted. “Lock up. Rooftop. Five minutes.”

  My head whipped from side to side, watching helplessly as waves of police converged from every angle. They were on motorcycle and on foot, and they had me trapped. I had a sudden, chest-tightening vision of the black bag and the waterboarding and the testicular electrocution that surely awaited me as soon as I’d been apprehended. And then I began to levitate. My helicopter’s magnetic strip plucked me from the street, and I floated – slowly at first, and then with increasing speed – like a plastic bag caught in an updraft. Bullets bounced off my armor as I sailed through an opening in the transport’s floor and landed in the passenger bay.

  Karin glanced back over her shoulder, her pink lips curled into a tiny frown.

  “What?” I asked in between labored breaths, leaning against the wall.

  Her eyes trailed down to my hand, where I was still clutching the remains of a squished hot dog. “Thanks for asking if I wanted something.”

  Chapter Three

  “This place is sick!” Gavin let out an impressed whistle as he strolled through the entrance of Fortress 9, one of my smaller compounds on the northern coast of Newfoundland.

  I was equally impressed. I’d never been here before, either. After picking up Gavin and Peyton from the rooftop of Excelsior by helicopter, we switched to a private jet in the Hamptons. Karin then set the auto pilot for Canada, where we could regroup at one of the fortresses in my recently acquired collection. When I’d won Cameron Frost’s entire estate in a lawsuit following the Arena Mode tournament, I was awarded more luxury condos, vacation homes and high-tech hideouts t
han I could reasonably manage – this just happened to be the closest one that was outside the US border.

  We rounded a narrow spiraling staircase that opened to a cavernous room the size of a cathedral.

  “How many of these places do you have?” Karin asked, running her hand along the illuminated wall.

  “Thirty...I think. I still haven’t visited most of them.”

  Built into the side of a rock wall overlooking the Atlantic, Fortress 9 was sleek, ultra-modern, and offered a stunning but somewhat unnerving view; the frigid waves crashed into the towering glass window with such ferocity that it seemed as if we were floating in the ocean, always in danger of being washed away with the tide.

  The expansive room was sparsely decorated, with just a handful of couches surrounding a circular table beneath a low-hanging light fixture. The seats were protected by plastic tarps, having never been used. I yanked the covering from the sectional, sending a plume of dust motes into the air.

  Once seated, Gavin, Peyton and Karin all stared in my direction.

  “So...” Gavin said flatly, “you knocked out a government agent, stole his gun, and fled custody. That was...an interesting choice.” He sure had a way of stating the obvious.

  I nodded. “It was that, or get black-bagged and locked in a dungeon until the end of time.”

  “How did you know?” Peyton asked. “You seemed so sure on the flight over here. You were positive that they were going to take you away, even though you’re innocent.”

  “When the director of the STC was interrogating me he mentioned that I’d been a suspect since April, back when The Kremlin was attacked. Not many details had been released since then, but it hit me that something linked me to it: a black jet that was photographed at the scene.”

  I unlatched my wrist-com and positioned it at the center of the table, commanding a satellite imaging system to activate. It was a recording from a weather camera – part of Cameron Frost’s network that monitors his cloud-seeding program. One of his few humanitarian efforts was a silver nitrate delivery system that generated man-made rain clouds for the most arid and desolate countries around the world, offering relief from the ever-worsening droughts. He used satellites to track their progress, and there weren’t many spots on Earth that he didn’t have eyes on. On this cloudless New York afternoon, one satellite had an unobstructed view of The Fringe, and recorded the entire altercation.

  “See this?” I motioned to the floating screen. “This is the jet that took off after the battle in The Fringe.” The paused video gave an overhead view of the shimmering black aircraft, just before it disappeared.

  “Sweet!” Karin shouted. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” My diminutive teenage pilot leaped from her seat so quickly that her crop of blond hair flopped into her eyes. She tore off her leather bomber jacket and leaned in, getting as close to the projection as possible. “See these?” She traced her index finger along the jet’s wings, where two glowing rods pulsed with energy. “They’re theoretical. I’ve only seen them in prototype sketches.”

  “Theoretical until about eighteen months ago.” I commanded the video to play. The jet ascended several hundred feet and then vanished, blinking out of view in a swirl of violet light.

  “What the hell?” Karin shouted, almost comically clapping her hands on her cheeks. “That’s insane! So it’s real...that jet just teleported!”

  “Wait,” Peyton interjected, “I thought the only company in the world with that technology was...well, ours? Frost created the first working prototype.”

  “Right, we had it. The only jet that could teleport was the TT-100, and I gave it to Brynja and McGarrity earlier this year.” There were several more models in production at Fortress 18 in the South China Sea, but they were unfinished; an extremely rare mineral called Arkannite was required to complete the teleportation cells, and not enough had been mined from the foothills of Mount Kilimanjaro to produce a second functioning jet (Cameron Frost’s deep drilling technology had recently unearthed a number of minerals with a chemical composition and crystalline structure unlike any of the four-thousand varieties on record, and their applications had been as miraculous as powers possessed by some superhumans.) “The aircraft used to pick up the superhuman was black,” I continued, “but that’s the only difference I could spot. They painted over the reflective gold hull of the TT-100 prototype. Aside from that, this one is identical.”

  “So your friends did this?” Gavin asked. “And they were involved in the Kremlin attack, too? I thought they were...you know, good guys and stuff?”

  I let out a shaky breath, leaning back into the sofa. “I don’t know what to believe. But this is my problem: if I have satellite images of this jet, that means the US government does, too – or at least they will soon enough. Before long they’ll connect the dots and figure out that not only was I at the crime scene, but so was my jet...”

  “...and it was used as a getaway ride for the killer,” Gavin added.

  The evidence against me was piling up: when a group of mercenaries stormed The Kremlin – taking Sergei Taktarov’s body and killing hundreds in the process – I now know that my freshly painted TT-100 was the vehicle used for the extraction. The same jet would soon be linked to the damage in The Fringe, as well as a pile of fresh corpses. Whomever was behind this had been dropping breadcrumbs leading to my front door for half a year...and now that I’d fled custody, there wouldn’t be a doubt left in anyone’s mind.

  “So you can’t go back to America?” Peyton said, her voice cracking. “Like, ever?”

  “I wish it were that easy,” I whispered, burying my face in my palms. “America doesn’t let terrorism go unpunished. I don’t know if you guys watch the news feeds, but that’s sorta been their motto since forever.”

  “Damn, so we’re on the run?” Karin said with a hint of excitement sparking her voice. “That is bad-ass.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Yeah, ‘bad-ass’ until some overzealous politician pinpoints our location, and a nuclear weapon comes flying through the front window.”

  She shrunk back into her seat, pulling her coat snugly around her shoulders. “Yeah...I guess I didn’t think that part through.”

  “We can deal with this,” Gavin said, springing to his feet. “We just need to find Brynja and this McGarrity guy, right? Maybe someone stole the jet from them...or they might have a lead?”

  “Oh!” Karin exclaimed, pointing her finger at me. “If they’re the ones behind this, does that mean we have to assassinate them? Now that would be totally bad—”

  “No,” Peyton interrupted. “It’s not like that. We’re not going to kill anyone. This is about clearing Matt’s name.”

  “I know, I know,” Karin said excitedly, “I’m just saying...”

  Everyone began speaking at once, their voices blending into a solid hum of white noise. A migraine was setting in and I massaged my forehead, attempting to stop the room from spinning. It didn’t work.

  I couldn’t imagine Brynja, one of my best friends in the world, doing anything to endanger my life. She can’t be the one behind this, but she’s connected somehow... and possibly McGarrity as well. It had to be someone with the means to orchestrate this nightmare-like scenario, and the motive to not only destroy part of a major city, but to somehow involve me as well. I willed myself to focus, but my concentration was snapped when metallic footsteps clanked across the marble floor at my back.

  London walked into the room. My information cloud, the robotic AI that holds all of my company data, used to be in the form of simple floating spheres; a pair of expressionless orange globes the size of softballs, tethered by a grey cord. The robot was a first generation utility fog: a series of tiny robots that could take on various forms, seamlessly reconfiguring into solid metal objects. Though impressive for the sheer amount of data it could store, it was a little impractical in a public setting. After the occupation at Fortress 23, I needed my information encased in something that could accompany me w
herever I went, but without attracting undue attention (wirelessly accessing sensitive data had gone out of fashion because in 2042, hackers could steal information from a traditional cloud easier than they could download a song). My engineers had a brilliant solution: they transferred the AI into a robotics swarm. The swarm is comprised of a hundred thousand tiny machines that work as a single organism, converging on command into a state-of-the-art suit of armor – or, in its default state, an extremely convincing facsimile of a human being. Instead of a disembodied voice floating from two orange softballs, my AI’s charming Scottish brogue now emanated from an octogenarian with a tartan skirt and silver hair pulled into a bun. She was the grandmother I’d always wanted.

  “Mister Moxon,” London said cheerfully, hands clasped behind her back, “you asked to be notified of any news items that matched keywords pertaining to your pending legal situation.”

  “Show me,” I commanded, sitting up straighter in my seat.

  She projected a trio of video feeds: three cities separated by thousands of miles, all suffering the exact same fate as The Fringe, all at precisely the same time. Once again superhuman battles had broken out, and were flattening populated downtown areas.

  In downtown Sydney, a cloaked woman hovered above the streets, standing atop a flat circular platform made of sapphire lights. It was as if she was surfing the crest of an invisible wave. Commanding a battalion of dead-eyed pedestrians with the wave of a hand, her civilian army lurched forward, attacking as one.

  Her opponent, a waif-like teenage boy with a shock of red hair, retaliated with a primal scream. His shriek fractured the pavement like an earthquake’s tremor. Vines slithered from the cracks, entwining the mob. The constricting coils attacked everything that moved. Some people were squeezed until they asphyxiated, reddened eyes bulging from their sockets, while others were violently yanked by their appendages, disappearing beneath the rubble. The vines continued to spread at a rapid pace. An aerial cam saw entire blocks being overtaken, disappearing beneath the mossy overgrowth.