So much had happened so quickly that I’d forgotten to take my medication. It was the first time I’d missed a dosage in more than a year. My short-term memory was continuing to fade, so much so that what I’d done, just hours ago, was becoming blurred and distorted, confused with the events of the previous day. I should be in cryo by now.
I ambled down the narrow white corridor towards my bedroom. Rounding the corner I heard a second rhythmic pounding, which was completely independent from the pounding inside my head. It had a slightly disorienting effect, but as I managed to single out that one sound, it was recognizable as the sound of a treadmill. I opened one of the many unmarked doors in the fortress to find Peyton, cotton-candy pink hair pulled up into a ponytail, jogging along the moving rubber track. A holo-screen floated in front of her where she was watching a simulcast.
“You’re up early,” I said, still groggy. “And you own workout clothes, apparently.”
She glanced at me in mid-stride and yanked a transparent jellybean from her ear, which was blaring with the sound of some synthesized 80s pop tune. “Matty!” She slammed her palm into the treadmill’s control panel and it whirred to a stop. She dismounted and leaped into my arms, pelting my face with soft kisses.
“Hey, I missed you too,” I said weakly, turning my head to avoid some of the barrage. “Just go easy on me…I’m elderly and frail.”
“Ha, ha. Okay, ‘old man’, I don’t want you to break a hip.” She released her grip around my neck and stood back. “So Gavin said you went to the island to see Kenneth. How did it go? You two buddies again?” She asked with an innocent lilt to her voice, as if I’d been there for strictly diplomatic reasons. She knew nothing of the accidental bombing attempt and my tumor-induced rage blackout. Gavin, loyal as always, had said nothing.
“Um, there’s a lot to go over.” I scratched at the back of my hairline, glancing away. “I sort of pulled a gun on him, and sort of threatened to kill him.”
Her face twisted into a frown. “What does ‘sort of’ mean?”
A moment drifted by. “I totally did.”
“And…” she asked cautiously, “he’s alive, right?”
“Oh yeah, he’s fine,” I assured her. “I just think he might want to kill me a little bit, that’s all.”
She grabbed me by the shoulders. “Why do you always do these things alone? Why didn’t you wait until we could meet up and discuss this as a team?”
“I missed a couple doses of my meds, so I wasn’t exactly thinking straight. Plus I had your brother with me, so I had someone to watch my back.”
Her eyes widened. “Gavin was with you? You’ve been asleep for almost twenty-four hours and he said it was just dehydration.” She pressed her lips into a thin line. “Oh boy, he’s gonna get it…”
“Don’t be mad at Gav, he was just being loyal.”
“You almost died – again – and he didn’t feel the need to share it with me?”
I cupped her chin in my hands. “I’m fine, see? See the complete and utter fineness that is me? Nothing happened and we made it off the island without a scratch. But…”
“Darn, there’s a ‘but’—?”
I glanced over her shoulder at the simulcast she’d been watching while running on her treadmill. It was a news feed, which had since switched to an aerial shot of Kenneth’s island.
“Volume,” I shouted, and expanded the holoscreen to gain a better view.
A satellite cam showed helicopters buzzing overhead, attaching magnetic cables to the massive steel cylinder I’d dropped at the base of the pyramid. They yanked it from the fissure and took it over the ocean, dropping it miles off-shore.
“This happened just thirty minutes ago,” the Australian reporter announced, “The French government sent aid to remove a large piece of debris that had crashed into the Kerguelen Islands, just north of Antarctica. And now, we’ll go live to the site of the disaster where The Living Eye – a superhuman previously thought to have died in 2041’s original Arena Mode tournament in Manhattan – has taken up residence.”
I shook my head. “Taken up residence? That’s an interesting way of putting it.”
With the enormous dampening unit now several leagues below the surface of the South Indian Ocean, Kenneth’s powers had returned. And now that he’d been recharged, he was ready to put on a show. He clapped his hands, producing a wave of blue energy; a rippling band of brilliance that travelled out towards the gaping fissure I’d opened down the valley. With a small rumble the gap closed, like a wound being mended in fast-forward. The impressed ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ from his followers were audible even from the media drone hovering far above, and the roar of applause quickly followed.
It was time for the grand finale. A wave of Kenneth’s hand produced thousands of bricks made of glowing blue energy that spun and swirled overhead, and repaired the damage to the base of his pyramid. His onlookers gasped and applauded again like spectators at a magic show. They were mesmerized.
The reporter lauded Kenneth for taking in so many of the homeless and downtrodden. They described him as a survivor. A leader. A source of inspiration. Not a single mention of certain words I’d have used to portray Kenneth, like ‘cult leader’, or, ‘maniac’, or ‘asshole’ (though I wasn’t sure the latter was permitted on most daytime simulcasts).
After replaying the Las Vegas-style theatrics, it flipped to a live feed in South Africa, where a gaunt, dark-skinned woman with almond shaped eyes appeared in the split-screen, about to board a cargo ship from Cape Town to the Desolation Islands. Tears streaked her hollowed out cheeks and she clutched a tightly swaddled newborn in her arms. She explained that her husband and eldest son had been killed when the rampaging giant stomped across the coastline, destroying their home and business. Now she and her daughter were homeless and penniless, with nowhere to turn. One of Kenneth’s recruiters had given her a one-way ticket to the island – she’d be provided for, clothed, and given a free place to stay. She sobbed that it was a miracle. ‘Dreams really to come true if you just believe.’
The wheels of propaganda were rolling. It didn’t take more than a touching anecdote, a few flashing lights and some cheap parlor tricks; suddenly the media were gulping down the Kool-Aid, just as Kenneth’s followers were. This wasn’t a news cast: this was a recruiting video for The Order of the Eye.
It was a pre-emptive strike on America’s part. Public Relations 101. It would only be a matter of time before word got out that the next generation of drone strikes wasn’t some scary new invisible bomber that sailed undetected over foreign countries, raining fire on evil-doers and innocent civilians alike – it was a man: a superhuman with the speed and strength to destroy anyone, anywhere, and for any reason. His charitable contributions were being placed front and center so he’d been revered as a savior and not a blunt instrument; terrorist groups had been using this tactic for decades, from Hezbollah to Hamas. And it was shockingly effective.
“He’s going to kill me,” I said flatly, still staring at the screen. “I don’t know when, or how, but he’s going to kill me.”
“Okay,” Peyton replied with more calmness in her voice than I’d expected. “How do you know that?”
“Because he told me he would.”
She bit her bottom lip. “Oh.”
“And I believed him.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“The fact that we’re cloaked here is the only thing we have going for us. He’s going to find us eventually. He won’t just bomb the fortress or try to destroy it, though – that would be too risky. He could hurt Brynja.”
“So he wants to kill you, but he wants to protect her—?”
“Something like that,” I said, taking a beat before I said something completely ridiculous, but I had to say it out loud. I had to hear myself say the words and taste them in my mouth.
“He wants her because he’s in love with her.”
Peyton crinkled her nose. “He’s in love with Brynja? Ew. Why?”
<
br /> “Because I’m lovable as fuck.”
We never heard Brynja approach. We both turned to find her leaning against the doorframe wearing a powder-blue bikini, taking a generous bite from a polished red apple.
“Sorry,” I said, my face almost certainly reddening with embarrassment, “I was going to come and tell you all about what happened yesterday, it’s just that I’ve been sleeping.”
She blinked twice and took another bite. “Wow…so Kenneth has the hots for me? That’s the strangest thing I’ve heard today.”
“If you think that’s weird, then strap in. The next couple minutes are going to be a bumpy ride.”
I told Brynja everything. That her physical body was a construct created by Kenneth, but that her mind, her memories, and even her soul (if such a thing existed) were simply along for the ride. Her physical body was gone. It had been blinked out of existence in the original Arena Mode tournament when an electricity-generating swordsman zapped her, and the vessel she was inhabiting now wasn’t really her own.
She took the news pretty well.
After vomiting, then going back to her room to shower and change into sweats, she agreed to meet me back in the conference room. We resumed our conversation. Peyton tagged along as well, and surprisingly Brynja didn’t seem to mind. She was probably just too shocked to complain.
We sat in the stark white room around the imposing oval table, spread out like notches on a clock. I was at twelve, Brynja sat at three and Peyton was at nine. No one spoke for a very long time.
“So as it turns out, I’m not real,” Brynja finally said. She was sagging into the wide leather conference room chair, legs pulled to her chest. Her voice was brittle. “But, in the plus column, a delusional superhuman demagogue is in love with me. So I have that going for me, which is nice.”
“You are real, and you’re staying that way,” I promised her. And I meant it. “We just need to stop Kenneth. He’s killed most of the Omega-level superhumans, and soon there won’t be anyone left powerful enough to stop him. That’s why we need to act fast.”
“Omega what?” Peyton asked.
“It’s a comic book term,” I confessed, drawing a tiny chuckle from Brynja. My vast, far-reaching nerdiness was enough to make her laugh under almost any circumstance. “The most powerful superhumans are the ones who can control the elements, or vast quantities of energy, or who are basically indestructible. Russia’s Son is dead, Darmaki is gone, and Kenneth has wiped out everyone else...at least every other Omega-level that we know of. He’s becoming the apex predator.”
Peyton offered a half-hearted shrug. “Okay, so what’s his next move?”
“Next? He continues to gain influence. As more and more followers come to his island he’ll feed off their belief. If what Darmaki told me was true, they’ll continue to amplify his powers, and before long…I don’t know. A week goes by? A month? I don’t even know if a CDU will be able to slow him down.”
“What if…” Brynja trailed off momentarily, lost in thought, as if she was considering how to craft her question. “What is the next level? I mean, can he level up from here? Get even more powerful?”
“In theory?” I said, knowing I was at least partially talking out of my ass. “If he reaches the next level after Omega, he’d go cosmic. With that much power he could start to bend reality: open portals, destroy matter, travel through time, create a singularity…if this was a comic. In reality, who knows, but with the way he’s evolving, it isn’t much of a stretch.”
“Jesus,” Brynja whispered.
Peyton reached inside her spandex workout top and pulled out a tiny gold crucifix; it dangled from a delicate chain and she rubbed it with her thumb. It was almost a reflex; I wasn’t even sure she knew she was doing it.
“Again,” I clarified, “I don’t know what the next step is, or how powerful he’ll become, but something tells me there will be a next level. And if we wait until he gets there, it’s going to be too late.”
“So what’s our play?” Brynja asked. “If you kill him I’m dead, but the alternative…”
Peyton swallowed hard. “You have to kill Kenneth though – that’s the only way to stop him.” Brynja’s eyes met hers but weren’t filled with contempt. They were resigned. “I’m sorry,” Peyton continued, “but how can any jail cell hold him?”
“The princess is right,” Brynja agreed, her voice drowned in defeat. “Kill him.”
I stood and pressed my palm into the table’s glass surface, sparking it to life. A series of files opened when it read my handprint. “I have a plan. I’m going to keep him alive, but where he’s going he’ll be harmless.” I brought a blueprint of my cryogenic chamber into view. “I’m jamming the genie back into the bottle.”
Brynja’s momentary elation quickly faded when she’d realized what I’d be sacrificing. “But…what happens to you, then? This is it: it’s your only chance.”
I shook my head. “It’s your only chance, Brynja. If I can keep him biologically alive and simultaneously dampened by CDUs, your host body will remain intact. You’ll live.”
“It’s a prototype,” Peyton said. She was standing now too. “There’s only one, and if you can’t use it, then your tumor—”
“Is still here,” I interrupted. “And Brynja is alive, and Kenneth is in stasis, and we figure shit out from there. It’s what we always do.”
“I can’t lose you,” Peyton whispered hoarsely.
I smiled. “Someone once told me that I needed to have faith.”
Her eyes widened. She stared at me as if I’d just asked to be baptized.
“Don’t get too excited,” I clarified, “I’m not joining your team just yet. I’m just saying…”
“You don’t need to do this,” Brynja put in. She was still in her chair, curled into an upright fetal position.
“I do, and I am. I’m going to beat this tumor, beat Kenneth and rid the world of his crazy cult once and for all.” I was suddenly standing a little straighter, infused with confidence.
“I don’t know what they put in that IV,” Brynja chuckled, “but hook me up with some of whatever you’re high on. And if you’re dead set on jamming Kenneth in a freezer, there’s one little flaw in your plan.”
“How are you going to get him in there?” Peyton added.
I had to admit that there was the glaring omission in my otherwise flawless strategy. How do you get the most powerful superhuman on the planet into a tiny metal box?
“I haven’t worked out every single detail. Only woke up five minutes ago. Let me have a coffee before I fix the world.”
And it was true. I didn’t have all the answers yet.
But I knew someone who might.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Generally speaking, we don’t trust superhumans. And I don’t mean the royal ‘we’, as in the Moxon Corporation, or even myself personally – I’d grown to trust Karin over time, Steve McGarrity was trustworthy to a fault, and I’d trusted Brynja with my life. I’m speaking of the average, everyday folks who have never even met a superhuman in real life. Sure, the ‘muggles’ had seen them on simulcasts, read about them in graphic novels, or possibly even dressed up as one and paraded around a fan convention sporting a bedazzled utility belt and a tin foil mask. To each their own. Even so, none of those experiences can approximate being in their presence, and the cold spike of fear that lances straight to your core when you’re in their orbit.
And when it came to building the public trust, Darkmaki’s unsanctioned Arena Mode tournament didn’t help. Watching superhuman killing machines pound each other into submission was one thing, but when it was outside the context of a sporting event, and you could hear the wails of children and see the terrified faces of civilians running for their lives in the backdrop, it was something else entirely. The glossy, comic book finish was suddenly wiped away. Left behind was a de-saturated portrait of human misery painted by these demigods, and some viewers (even those who revere them) were surely wondering
, ‘Could I be next?’
What most folks don’t realize is that the distrust cuts both ways. Superhumans, increasingly, were becoming more wary of their less-gifted counterparts, and Teach Weaving was no different.
I needed to meet her. I needed some face time with The Nightmare.
I had met her only once. It was at Fortress 23, and Valeriya Taktarov had promised her untold riches to kill me. And she would have. The problem was that she isn’t a killer, at least not in the traditional sense; she detects someone’s fear, turns it against them, and lets it consume them. That’s the funny thing about fear: if you let it, the emotion will swallow you whole. She had the ability to turn someone’s fears into a weapon, and it had been a flawless killing tool – that is, until she met yours truly. I’d just discovered that my brain tumor was back for the long haul, and that my days were numbered…so as one might imagine, there was nothing left for me to fear. When you know your days are numbered and the curtain is about to close, there isn’t much left that makes you weak in the knees. She was powerless against me, and her mission had failed. I never saw her or heard from her again, and that was the bulk of my knowledge about her.
As far as information goes, that’s not a lot to go on when you want to track someone down. It was practically nothing to go on, in fact. But what I did know about her, outside of her impressive body count, is that she was connected. Not just connected in the social butterfly sense (which she was), but that she was connected to other superhumans. She could feel the ebb and flow of their abilities, tap into their brainwaves. If anyone knew what Kenneth feared, it was her. I needed his Achilles heel, the chink in his armor – I would’ve settled for knowing if he had a fucking food allergy. Anything I could use to get him in that box, I needed to know. I need an edge.
The problem with contacting The Nightmare was that you don’t contact her, she contacts you. Through a series of backchannels on the Darknet you relay her a message, and hope she replies. Within an hour I’d received a text from an anonymous account, telling me to arrive at a seaside Costa Rican café, alone, unarmed, and with a shit-ton of money. I agreed. We set the time and I had Karin spool up the teleportation drive: I was about to visit South America.
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