Final Empire

by Blake Northcott

  “Look at you,” he said, drawing back while clutching my shoulders. “Matthew freaking Moxon, in the flesh. Man, do you look tired. Or maybe it’s just your age...I know you’re like, super old now. Didn’t you turn the big ‘three-oh’ this year?”

  I pressed my lips into a thin line. “Good to see you too, Steve.”

  He released his grip and glanced at Peyton. “And if it isn’t the one and only Patty!” He threw his arms around her with the same enthusiasm, squeezing her tight. She was stationary, arms locked at her sides. I think she was too stunned to correct him. “And wow,” he added, “you’re looking fine, girl. Still with the pink hair, huh?”

  “Yup,” she replied flatly. “And you’re still with the condescending remarks and complete lack of social awareness?”

  McGarrity paused for a moment before playfully smacking his forehead, cackling once again with the laugh I’d heard twice in the last thirty seconds, but was already sick of hearing. “Same ol’ Patty. Man did I miss you guys. Come in, come in...” he waved us into his suite, slamming the double doors behind him. “Can I offer you guys some distilled water? Oreos? A guava? I don’t even know what a guava is, but I just had them flown in from El Salvador on a private jet, so I hope they’re good.”

  The Royal Suite was immense, and not quite as ‘royal’ as I’d imagined; cherry red drapes, gold wallpaper, more crystal chandeliers than I thought could reasonably be crammed into a single space, and an ebony grand piano that took up only a fraction of the expansive living room. If Las Vegas had vomited into an oversized penthouse with twelve foot ceilings, this would be the result. McGarrity explained that the room was different before he’d arrived, but for an extra fee (he declined to mention how much) management would paint, furnish and decorate the suite to suit any guests’ needs, right down to the last gaudy detail. No job was too big, and apparently, no fee was too big.

  We all declined the refreshments before taking a seat on leopard-print couches that surrounded a round, low coffee table, which was overflowing with fruit baskets and floral arrangements.

  “Look,” McGarrity said, crossing one leg over the other (thankfully he’d been courteous enough to wear boxer shorts underneath his robe), “I know exactly why you’re here.”

  “You do?” I asked, arching an eyebrow, cocking my head on an angle.

  “Of course, and I am so sorry, man.”

  “Sorry?” I brought a finger to my chin, taking a moment to process the words he was saying. “You’re...sorry.”

  He threw his hands in the air, exasperated. “It’s not my fault, really! I feel like shit for leaving you out of my autobiography, bro – but my publisher only wanted three hundred pages. Editing, man. It’s a brutal process. Sometimes you have to kill your darlings.”

  I sprang to my feet without even realizing it. “You think we flew here because of your stupid autobiography?” I shouted. “And wait...I’m not mentioned even once?”

  Gavin stood as well, patting me on the shoulder. “Big picture, Matt.”

  McGarrity sauntered to the piano, where his jeans and a black t-shirt were rumpled, piled into a heap on the bench.

  “So, what’s going on?” He threw off his robe and pulled the jeans over his boxers.

  I sensed the onset of a migraine, although this one was definitely not tumor-related. “Oh, nothing much, Steve. Just this little thing about the world being under attack by superhumans.”

  “Right, that. Caught a bit of it on the news.” After he’d dressed, McGarrity sat at the piano bench and threw a bare foot up onto the keys. He produced a small bottle of clear polish and began to paint his toenails, finished the job we’d apparently interrupted. “I heard a couple cities were on lockdown because of the attacks. The military has it all under control though – no big deal.”

  “And the jet,” I continued with a heavy sigh. “The one being used to help the superhumans escape after each battle – it’s yours.”

  “Whaaat?” McGarrity glanced up from his toes with a dopey grin stretched across his dopier face. It was his default expression – a combination of apathy and vague confusion that perpetually made me want to backhand him.

  “Care to tell us where you’re keeping it?” Peyton asked.

  McGarrity shrugged and let out a chuckle. “Don’t have it anymore. I lost that jet to Brynja months ago.”

  “You lost it...” I repeated, though I was sure I’d heard him correctly the first time. “As in, you lost it in a bet?”

  He nodded without looking up from his toes.

  I steadied my voice, trying to refrain from screaming myself hoarse. “That was a multi-billion dollar prototype – the only functional, teleporting vehicle ever created. And you gambled with it?”

  “Well I thought I was going to win the bet, obviously, or I never would’ve put it up in the first place.” McGarrity twisted the cap back onto the bottle and pocketed it. He stood on one foot and rotated the other in the air, I assumed in an attempt to speed up the drying process.

  Sensing that I was on the cusp of an apoplectic fit, Gavin gamely interjected in his cool businesslike manner. “Okay, so let’s think about this logically and work our way backwards: until we hear otherwise, let’s just assume Brynja still has the jet. Where is she right now?”

  “Last I heard she bought her own island,” McGarrity said, though his voice didn’t convey much certainly. “She’s in the Caribbean somewhere...off the coast of The Bahamas, I think? Might wanna start there.”

  “How could she afford an island?” Peyton asked.

  The survivors of Fortress 23 had each been offered a plethora of money-making opportunities. It had been the most-watched event in simulcast history (even surpassing the original Arena Mode’s blockbuster ratings) making its unwitting participants instant celebrities. Peyton and I had received every offer imaginable – from interviews to movie roles to endorsement deals – and I’m sure McGarrity and Brynja had received similar offers. With his book deal and promotional tour and who knows what else, McGarrity was quick to cash in, but Brynja had been completely off the radar throughout 2042.

  “What am I, her financial advisor? How should I know?” McGarrity strolled across the living room towards what I assume was the bedroom. “B-R-B,” he said as he swung the door half-closed behind him.

  “Did you just say the letters ‘B-R-B’ instead of ‘be right back’?” I shouted.

  “Yup,” he called out. “I’m a busy man now: author, celebrity, role model for millions. I don’t have time to be saying complete sentences.”

  With McGarrity temporarily occupied, I took the chance to vent my frustrations to Peyton and Gavin.

  “This is pointless,” I whispered, flinging my hand towards the bedroom door. “He doesn’t know shit. As much as I’d like for him to be the mastermind of this evil scheme so I could shoot him in the face, I think we’re wasting our time here.”

  “Maybe he could help us track down Brynja?” Peyton shrugged.

  Gavin nodded in agreement. “He is the last person to have seen her.”

  Crap. I wish they were wrong. Without McGarrity we have no leads, and without leads we’re back to square one. I’m back to square one, waiting to catch another break...or waiting for a team of Federal Agents to arrest me. That is, assuming that’s what they’ve been instructed to do – at this point they might have been told to gun me down on-sight. Neither option sounded very appealing, particularly being taken into custody: if capture meant being black-bagged and hauled away for enhanced interrogation I’d rather eat a sniper’s acid-filled bullet.

  “All right,” I conceded, sagging lifelessly into the couch. “I’ll ask him to help, but he seems really busy. I don’t know if he’ll want to take time away from his book tour just to tag along.”

  McGarrity emerged from his bedroom. He’d mercifully put on some runners, so I was no longer in danger of having to watch him pamper his toes. “What’s the plan now? Are we going on a mission? I can call my agent and cancel all
my upcoming appearances.” His finger was poised over his com as if he were ready to make the call on the spot.

  “No, don’t go to all that trouble,” I said, as casually as possible. “I’m sure your fans need you. Stay here, and just keep in touch with us if you hear anything.”

  “And miss all the excitement?” he shouted, diving onto the couch next to me, far too close for my liking. “Are you kidding me? We’re back!”

  I leaned away from him. “Um...we are? What do you mean ‘we’?”

  “The gang! You, me, Patty...” he motioned to Gavin. “And this guy. We’re going to find Brynja, figure out who the bad guy is, and once again we’ll save the goddamned world.”

  “I don’t think we actually saved the world last time,” Peyton corrected him.

  McGarrity snatched a copy of his autobiography from the coffee table and held it up for her inspection. “Well I have a book that says otherwise. But the point is we’re needed. I’m needed. I can’t sit idly by and let the world fall apart when I could be out there making a difference...and can you imagine my book sales after I save the world for a second time?”

  “Okay,” Peyton nodded, shooting me an apologetic glance. “So...I guess he’s coming?”

  “Damn right I’m coming!” McGarrity kicked his feet up on the coffee table and commanded a holo-screen to appear at the opposite side of the room. “Right after tonight’s tournament.”

  The wall-sized projection filled with a swordfight. It was a live broadcast of the Full Contact Swordfighting League from Glasgow; two women wielding katanas were circling each other, jockeying for position, while a screaming crowd of twenty-thousand fans roared in approval.

  “I think we should probably get going,” I urged him. “I don’t know if you heard, but I’m kinda—”

  “Boss?” A panicked voice blasted my eardrum. My short-term memory loss must have been in full effect, because I’d completely forgotten about the tiny transparent jellybean I’d been wearing since we left the transport.

  “Holy crap,” I shouted, “Karin, you nearly gave me a freaking heart attack. What’s going on?”

  “Open the BBC, as in the British Broadcasting Corporation news channel like right freaking now.” Her frantic words collided with each other as they tumbled through my earpiece.

  “Okay, okay...” I tapped McGarrity’s shoulder but he ignored me. “Steve, flip to BBC News.”

  “This is the semi-finals,” he said, waving me off with a dismissive brushing motion. “Gimmie an hour and I’ll be set to go.”

  I tapped my com and took control of the screen, switching the channels myself. He protested for a moment and then stopped when some angry red letters raced across the screen: ‘World’s Most Wanted Criminal’. It was my photo – the same one from Interpol’s holo-forum – accompanied by security camera footage. It was Peyton, Gavin and myself, strolling down the hallway of the Savoy Hotel’s top floor. Not more than ten minutes ago.

  The color drained from Gavin’s face. “Shit, this is not good.”

  “Your accountant is right,” McGarrity agreed. “We need to G-T-F-O of here.”

  “Karin?” I called out, touching my earpiece (though the gesture wasn’t necessary). “Where are you?”

  “Hovering a few hundred meters above the roof. Can you make it?”

  I chewed my bottom lip, staring at the double doors. “Maybe...McGarrity’s security detail are cops, and I don’t know what they know.”

  Every moment we stayed in the suite was another moment that someone could connect the dots, exposing our location. For all I knew the cops outside the door had been notified, but if we acted fast we might avoid a firefight.

  “Touch down on the hoverpad. We’ll be right there.” It was a risk, but a calculated one: we could, theoretically, walk down the hall like we owned it and breeze right past security. Maybe they were oblivious.

  “I can’t land the transport on the pad!” Karin screamed, so loud it vibrated the jellybean lodged in my ear.

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Because your big fat teleporting jet just took my spot. There was purple lightning and it appeared from nowhere, and now it’s here, and this huge guy is—”

  “We’re heading for the street,” I interrupted. “Prepare the bungees and swing around to the east side of the building.”

  “Copy that!”

  I turned to Petyon, Gavin and McGarrity. “Follow me.”

  They didn’t have time to answer. Three aggressive knocks were followed by a loud threat to open the door. The cops were banging, rattling the lock, screaming for our surrender.

  I ripped the gun from the back of my jeans and leveled it at the front entrance, finger poised over the trigger with nervous anticipation. I flicked the safety latch with my thumb and squeezed. The explosive round turned the wooden doors to kindling, propelling the guards ten feet down the hallway. I hoped their bullet-proof vests cushioned the impact – I didn’t need to add ‘cop killer’ to my already colorful resume.

  Peyton pulled the gun from her jacket and held it away from her. “What the...I thought these were just tranquilizers?”

  “I lied.” I snatched her arm as I sailed across the room and out the smoking remains of the door frame, followed by Gavin and McGarrity.

  I pivoted left and kicked the fire escape door. It flew open, revealing a winding, grey concrete stairwell that lead down to a side entrance at street level.

  As everyone hurried through the door I heard footsteps thundering from the opposite end of the hallway.

  And with each step, I felt motion tremors.

  A glittering bronze behemoth stormed down the corridor with frightening speed. He was so thick with muscle I was surprised he could even walk, let alone run, and the weight of his metallic frame shook the floor with each stride. I fired my gun, striking him mid-chest. The blast knocked him off-balance, burning his shirt to a crisp; but his skin (or the pliable armored surface that covered his skin) wasn’t even scuffed. He continued his charge. I fired twice more, aiming above his head. An explosion of rock and drywall buried him, allowing me a heartbeat to sail down the staircase. Amidst the flames and debris I hoped I’d created enough of a diversion to allow us a head start.

  “Can you hear me?” I panted, rounding the staircase. “Karin, we’re heading towards the street on the east side.”

  “Copy that.”

  I gasped for air when I reached the bottom floor, confirming my suspicion that I was in even worse shape that I’d thought. I slammed my palm into the crash bar and threw open the side door, stumbling into the busy street. People brushed my shoulders as they strolled by, seemingly unaware that I was clutching a smoking pistol. My eyes darted through the crowd, scanning one face after another. Peyton, Gavin, and McGarrity were gone.

  “Guys?” I shouted, waving my hands overhead. It was pointless. I was a toddler lost in a supermarket, screaming to catch my mother’s attention in a sea of unfamiliar faces. “We need to get to the transport! Guys?”

  The sidewalk shook. The bronze powerhouse crashed through the doorway at my back, and the width of his shoulders took most of the frame with him.

  The next few moments were a blur. Pedestrians screamed, lunging for cover, though not everyone reacted quickly enough. The superhuman dipped his shoulder and charged like a linebacker, plowing through everyone who’d been too slow to avoid him. I turned and ran, willing my aching legs and burning lungs to cooperate, hoping they’d hold out long enough to carry me to safety.

  “You’re going to be just fine,” Karin assured me, her soothing voice clear in my head. “Just keep breathing, Matt. You’ll make it if you can just focus.” She must be close – have a visual on my from above.

  The ground rumbled beneath me as I fled. I ran as quickly as my body would permit, though I lost my sense of direction amidst the insanity that surrounded me; I wasn’t sure which way I was running, or where Karin was supposed to pick me up. The tremors intensified as my attacker closed the
distance, gaining on me with each lunging stride.

  “Anytime you wanna grab me would be just fine,” I screamed, scanning the dark sky overhead. No sign of the transport.

  “You’re doing great,” Karin replied, “just keep moving. I know your body wants to quit right now but don’t let it. Think of everyone who is counting on you – everyone in your life who needs you.”

  A shadow cast the street into darkness. My ride was here, or so I’d thought. I looked skyward at a glistening red double-decker bus sailing overhead, spiraling like a football. It landed half a block ahead, steamrolling cars and people before rolling to a stop. And then it burst into flames.

  A pile of burning steel now blocked the intersection ahead, and buildings flanked me on either side. There was nowhere left to run. I stopped and turned, facing the monstrous bronze superhuman who was rapidly approaching.

  “There’s a sewer running below this street, Matt – directly beneath him.”

  Karin was right: the street, already fractured from the weight of this metallic hulk, provided no more than a thin veneer that separated us from the tunnels below. I drew my pistol and aimed at his feet. Two quick blasts turned the pavement to gravel, swallowing him like quicksand. The sinkhole expanded, ingesting cars and street lights and the sidewalk from both sides of the road, sending a mushroom cloud of soot into the air when it collapsed into the sewers.

  I dropped my gun, cupping my hands over my nose and mouth. The black cloud filled the street so quickly I didn’t have time to find shelter.

  In the darkness something scraped my back. It dropped from overhead, striking my neck, rolling down my spine. A bungee. Eyes forced shut, unable to breathe, I fumbled with the flexible metal cord and belted it around my waist, waiting to feel the pressure of the magnetic latch that secured me into place. It clinked together and jerked me skyward, through the acrid cloud, and into the transport high above the rooftops. I didn’t draw a breath until the passenger bay doors sealed shut beneath me.