Assault or Attrition (22 page)

“Eight pods
remain,” Frost declared. “And I commend you for claiming the first
one. You’re either very smart, or very fortunate. Either way,
congratulations are in order – you’ll be making your descent into
the next phase of The Spiral.” Frost’s disembodied head flashed a
knowing grin. “You might have arrived here alone, or you may have
arrived with allies you’ve acquired throughout your journey. This
strategy may have helped until this point, though at the end of
this journey, the prize cannot be divided – only one can claim the
ultimate reward.”

I had to hand
it to Frost: even in the afterlife he was still an asshole. He
planted seeds at the onset to make it feel as if ‘Arena Mode 2’
would be more of a sport, and less of a barbaric bloodbath. He gave
the illusion that this event would be one where teams could form,
and alliances would become a part of the game. Of course this was
bullshit. It was just a way for him to ratchet up the drama and
force friends to turn on each other, like every other degrading
reality show that oozed its way onto a simulcast. Cameron Frost was
doing what he always did: pollute the mainstream media with
insipid, sensational programming to distract viewers from the world
that was corroding around them.

We took turns
pressing our hands into the obelisk, and one after another, the
pods began to appear. Around the perimeter of the circle they burst
through the earth, tearing up from the jungle floor. The pneumatic
tubes that led to the lower level had been grown over with a thin
layer of vegetation, concealing them at the edges of the
clearing.

As we prepared
to step into our pods, Frost’s head began to flicker. It faded and
disappeared, replaced by another holographic image: Valeriya
Taktarov. She stood in front of the obelisk, hands clasped behind
her back. Had she discovered some type of control room, and was
able to project herself into The Spiral? Was this some other type
of tech that she brought with her? Or was a superhuman assisting
her? How she was pulling this off didn’t really matter. Valeriya
was here, watching us, and clearly had something on her mind.

The hologram
scanned each one of us and began to wander around the clearing,
before stopping a few feet in front of McGarrity. “You disappoint
me,” Valeriya said, shaking her head slowly. “Not only did you
betray the Red Army, you have betrayed the memory of my
brother.”

“Guess so,” He
replied. “Too bad there’s nothing you can do about it.”

Valeriya glared
at him, unblinking. “Your confidence is impressive. We will see how
confident you are once my army reaches you.”

“Eight slots
left,” Mac shouted from across the clearing. “I’m no math expert,
but I’m thinking with only two pods you won’t be able to get much
of an army down here.”

“It’s one more
than I need,” she replied. “I recently increased the prize for
Matthew Moxon’s capture: fifty million American dollars. The
response was overwhelming, and I had many superhumans to choose
from. The champions I sent after you will have no trouble
completing their missions.”

“I bet that’s
what you told your big brother,” Brynja added. “Right before I
filled his head with acid.”

Valeriya turned
to face Brynja. Her eyes welled with emotion, but never blinked out
a tear. “You will be the first to go,” she quietly threatened. “In
the slowest, most painful way that you can imagine. These traitors
you have aligned yourself with will watch in horror, unable to stop
the inevitable. And once they have died, one by one, Matthew Moxon
will be brought before me.”

“I guess you
don’t want to give us a little hint about who you recruited?” I
asked. “If we’re going to die anyway we might as well get a head’s
up.”

Taking her
time, Valeriya’s hologram sauntered across the grass and stopped
just inches from my face. She craned her neck upward and her gaze
locked onto mine; her gunmetal blue eyes had a chilling effect, as
if they were staring right through me. “Weaving,” she
whispered.

And then she
disappeared.

The name that
floated from Valeriya’s tiny lips shot ice water into my veins. It
was the name of a woman who was known by a hundred different
aliases around the world, although there was only one that truly
described the nature of her power: The Nightmare.

“
What’s with
you?”
McGarrity asked. “You have this look on your face like
someone just mentioned Voldemort.”

I lied, and
assured everyone I was fine. No one else seemed concerned when
Valeriya had mentioned the name Weaving, which I found somewhat
surprising. It had been a story that I’d followed closely over the
last several months through the holo-forums while Brynja and I were
knee-deep in research.

In the wake of
Arena Mode last summer, ‘Superhuman Arena Combat’ had become the
hottest sport in the world. While soccer, American football and
mixed martial arts could still pack a stadium full of a
hundred-thousand screaming fans, an Arena fight drew
billions
of simulcast spectators, making it the most-watched
– and the most profitable – entertainment spectacle in
existence.

Outside of
America, few countries would allow a sporting event where the
chances of their cities being destroyed were all but assured, and
the odds of a fatality were close to a hundred percent. Full
Contact Swordfighting (the most dangerous sport in the world prior
to the advent of Superhuman Arena Combat) was only permitted in a
handful of countries as it was, and even fewer were prepared to
take the next step by sanctioning Arena fights.

A few months
ago, Sultan Saeed Al Darmaki (a well-known superhuman and investor
from the United Arab Emirates) was granted a license to hold an
Arena event in his home country. Despite the mountains of revenue
generated from advertising dollars during the inaugural Arena Mode,
Darmaki had a different business model in mind: his upcoming show
wasn’t
going to appear on a simulcast. It was billed as an
exclusive event, and if you couldn’t afford the multi-million
dollar price tag to see it in person, you wouldn’t be able to see
it.

Darmaki paid to
retro-fit the largest and most impressive structure in all of Abu
Dhabi, a Full-Contact Swordfighting stadium, for Superhuman Arena
Combat. Walls were reinforced, the roof was coated with graphene,
and blast shields were put into place for the safety of the live
audience. And on game-day, spectators were required to sign a
waiver before taking their seats. It was a wise move from a
litigation perspective. The odds were that not everyone in the
stands would be leaving in one piece.

The black-tie
affair was the ultimate VIP experience. It was so exclusive, in
fact, that it would remain a mystery for all who were unable to
attend. Your only accounts of what happened would be through the
blogs and word-of-mouth from those wealthy enough to have seen it
with their own two eyes. At Darmaki’s request the show wouldn’t
even be filmed for future viewings. No press passes would be given
out, and recording devices of every kind would be banned from the
stadium.

People in
attendance described the event as a terrifying collage of random
horrific events. And that was the strangest part about it: when
discussing the first annual ‘Abu Dhabi Superhuman Classic’, no two
stories seemed to match.

They all began
the same: the nine competitors started by attacking each other with
various powers; fire, ice, electricity, plasma bolts – and then
their accounts began to diverge. Depending on who you spoke with,
you could hear a terrifying story about superhumans being mauled by
tigers, torn to pieces by rotating blades, or melting to death in a
sea of blue flames.

And by
everyone’s account, the end was the same: the winner was a woman
named Grace Teach Weaving. A mysterious superhuman who no two
people ever described the same way – and, even stranger, a woman
whose
name
continually changed. The majority of people
simply forgot it the moment it was spoken. Like waking up from a
vivid dream that fades as the day wears on, when someone asks you
to describe it in detail, you’re left with a blur of unrelated
events that rattle around your mind.

For some reason
Weaving’s name always stuck with me; not just her given name, but
the name that the media had branded her with: The Nightmare.

There was no
official ranking system in place for superhumans, or a governing
body that would list them in order from the most to the least
dangerous – but if there were, I would place Weaving right at the
top.

As all of this
information blistered through my mind I caught myself staring into
the middle distance, my gaze loosely fixed on the location where
Valeriya’s hologram had just disappeared.

“We’ll be on
our way through the tunnel before she catches up to us,” Peyton
reassured me, snapping me back to reality. “Don’t worry, we’re
fine.”

I nodded and
smiled weakly, attempting to mask my considerable doubts.

Mac raised
another concern. “We could be separated again once we hit the
second level. What do we do when we drop?”

“Move towards
the center point,” I instructed. “As quickly and as quietly as
possible. If you get lost, stay put, and wait for a signal.” I
straightened my posture and drew in a deep breath, trying to steel
my resolve. I was being looked to as the leader of this group – for
whatever reason, I wasn’t quite sure – and I wanted to maintain the
thinly-veiled illusion that I knew what the hell I was doing.

The levels
continue to get smaller as The Spiral descends, I explained; at
least according to the holographic blueprint that was on display at
the onset of the games. In theory it should be slightly easier to
locate one another within the confines of a smaller space.

As we backed
into our respective pods the doors sealed shut, and we exchanged
glances as we descended one by one.

***

After a
momentary drop I was again ejected from the pneumatic tube
,
landing once more on a patch of grass. After spending a day in
near-darkness, the sudden flood of sunlight forced my eyes
shut.

I cracked my
lids and scanned the landscape. Through squinting eyes it was a
pastel-colored utopia; perfectly green grass that appeared
freshly-mowed, perfectly manicured cherry blossom trees that dotted
the rolling hills, and a perfect blue sky, giving off just the
right amount of light. Even the temperature was ideal; the air was
crisp with a soft breeze that cooled my skin. It was in stark
contrast with the suffocating humidity that’d assaulted my senses
on the previous level. I had been expecting something much more
sinister as we continued to descend, though at first glance, this
was paradise.

After my eyes
adjusted to the light, the illusion began to fade. I removed a
gauntlet and kneeled, running my hand along the freshly-mowed
grass. It had the appearance of natural turf, but felt smooth and
rubbery. It even smelled artificial, like a vague combination of
carpet freshener and new plastic. I inspected the sky and realized
that a single important detail was absent: the sun. It was as if
this level was still under construction, and the designers had
neglected to insert the shining yellow star into the sky. No bugs,
no sunshine, and not even the faintest aroma of anything organic –
this was a version of the great outdoors that I could definitely
get used to.

No one else
from my team was in the vicinity. I’d have to reach higher ground
before I could scan the area and locate the others. I was dropped
into a shallow valley, and the only visible landmark I could spot
was a chrome-plated casket, sitting a few hundred feet away.

I approached
the chest, and after another cursory examination I was satisfied
that it wouldn’t explode in my face. I flipped it open, and for the
first time inside The Spiral I felt that luck – if there were such
a thing – was on my side. It was a grenade launcher. A long
metallic cylinder gleamed in the overhead light, and beside it sat
three rounded shells. I inspected the weapon and squinted at the
small type engraved on the side above the firing mechanism, hoping
it would reveal some instructions. The text was in German as far as
I could tell, so it did me little good. Shooting a gun was one
thing – I wasn’t nearly as confident playing around with
explosives.

I attached the
launcher to my suit’s magnetic spine and carefully pressed each of
the three explosive shells to my belt. I had to transport these
somehow, and without a proper satchel or carrying case this was my
only alternative. I was now paranoid that something as simple as
tripping and falling could trigger a series of explosions that
would send me spiralling through the air like a cartoon coyote.

Lost in
thought, I was startled by a familiar pair of floating orange
spheres tethered by a long grey cord. It appeared from the sky,
spinning like a helicopter blade before hovering to a stop. The two
curious eyes peered at me, awaiting instructions.

“London?”

“
Mister
Moxon!”
it replied.
“You are looking more youthful and
exuberant than usual. Truly a wonderful example of the human
species.”

“How did you
survive?” I asked, scrutinizing the metallic spheres. There wasn’t
so much as a scratch on their glistening surface.

“
I don’t
understand the question, Mister Moxon. Please rephrase.”

“Weren’t you
destroyed in the gunfight?” Before we were launched into the first
level of The Spiral, I vividly remember a hail of bullets tearing
London to pieces, and the Red Army trampling the smoking remains as
they stormed the room.

“
I was,”
London said with a song in its digitized voice,
“but my memory
transferred through the Fortress’ internal cloud, and into a new
piece of hardware when that unit became unusable. And now I’m here
with the privilege of speaking with you, our brilliant and exalted
leader.”