Assault or Attrition (33 page)

“That doesn’t
matter now,” Kenneth said, glancing out the broken window.
“Millions are waiting for your execution.”

“So what are
you going to do?” I asked.

“I’m going to
change their minds.” As he said the words it seemed impossible. But
I knew, without any reservations, that he would pull it off. After
everything I’d done to Kenneth and his family, he was still willing
to do what he felt was right.

“I know I don’t
deserve your help,” I admitted.

“You’re right,”
he said. “And I’m not doing this to help you. I’m doing it for
her.” His eyes trailed over to Brynja. “She’s finally stable, and
she deserves a second chance. As far as the Red Army is concerned,
she’s as much a god slayer as you are. As long as they believe
they’re on a crusade to avenge Sergei Taktarov, she’ll never be
safe either.”

“I’m just glad
to have you back,” I said. “And Kenneth, I will do anything to make
this up to you. Just name it.”

My words were
immediately followed by a second hail of gunfire, this time coming
from multiple shooters. Additional police patrols were arriving,
and the death toll was rising.

With a burst of
blue energy he exploded out the window, knocking Brynja and I off
of our feet.

Media
helicopters swarmed the skies while rioters, now in the thousands,
rumbled below. The dissidents were undeterred by the increasing
police presence: a SWAT team formed a wide perimeter around the
parking lot, and reinforcements were pouring in.

Chants of
“Avenge, Destroy, Rebuild” roared throughout the ever-expanding
mob; fists pumping, flags waving, guns brandished openly in an act
of defiance. They wanted blood. The first phase of their credo was
about to reach its completion, and the promise of a new savior was
moments away from being realized.

They no doubt
expected Valeriya’s henchmen to drag me from the hospital to face
justice. I would probably have been expected to appear remorseful
and penitent, or possibly ashamed that I was responsible for the
death of the second coming.

I tried to
imagine their surprise when Sergei Taktarov appeared instead; a
glimmering spectral figure hovering high above, pulsing with raw
energy. A vibrant blue light surrounded him, but that small detail
was the only give-away. Kenneth’s re-creation was pitch-perfect,
right down to the last detail. As far as the live crowd and the
millions watching around the world were concerned, this was their
savior: Russia’s Son had risen from the dead, just as his sister
had prophesized, and he was about to launch a revolution.

“I have
returned,” Taktarov boomed. His voice was a thunderclap that
resonated across the city, as if amplified by a thousand speakers.
“Although I can remain on this plane of existence for only a short
time.”

The screaming
mob fell silent. Guns clanked to the pavement, flags lowered; every
eye was transfixed on the floating apparition. Some were recording
the event on their wrist coms, but no one spoke a word. Even the
SWAT team had discarded their shields and batons, awestruck by
Taktarov’s presence.

“My sister,” he
began, “promised you an age of renewal, and that my presence would
be the catalyst. She was mistaken. Saddened by my passing, Valeriya
gathered an army – all of you – in the hopes of avenging my death.
She had no plans or desire for a revolution to follow. She was
grief-stricken, unable to cope with my death. Please do not blame
her...those with the purest intentions are often the ones whose
judgement is most clouded.

“Do not blame
Matthew Moxon or Brynja for my death. They are not ‘god slayers’
any more than I am a god. And do not mourn me, or seek retribution.
Vengeance leads to darkness, which will further decay a world that
can ill-afford any further corrosion. I died of my own
arrogance...I know that now.

“I have not
returned to lead you; I am here to deliver a message – nothing
more: do not carry out acts of violence in my name. Do not lash out
with hatred, bigotry and anger, passing the responsibility of your
own thoughts and actions onto a man who wishes for nothing more
than unity.

“I have made
mistakes. I revelled in my own youthful arrogance, and I took lives
with impunity; if I truly did possess the powers of a god, I would
go back and change it all. But the past is the past.

“Let this be
the advent of a greater future. Not of a revolution, but of an era
where wealth and material gain are no longer the sole benchmarks in
human achievement. This way of thinking has bankrupted our world in
every way possible.

“I will not be
returning. My time has come to an end, and my presence is not
required. You have no need for a leader – only each other.”

A blinding
flash appeared like a lightning strike above the stunned crowd.
When my vision cleared Taktarov was gone, and The Living Eye was
back in the hospital room, standing at our side. Brynja and I felt
the rush of wind as he returned through the shattered window, but
never saw his entrance.

Valeriya was in
the fetal position, tucked tightly into the corner. Her arms were
bound at her back by Kenneth’s straightjacket, knees pulled into
her chest. A wave of golden hair blanketed her face, but couldn’t
conceal her tears. They flowed freely down her cheeks and dripped
to the floor. She was broken. The sound of her brother’s voice –
even though it wasn’t truly his – had opened a floodgate in a way
that she couldn’t have anticipated.

“What happens
to her now?”Brynja asked.

The
straightjacket dissipated into sparkling blue dust. She stood on
shaky legs and wobbled to the window, resting her shoulder on the
sill. She stared listlessly at the crowd dispersing below.

“I’ll take care
of her,” Kenneth replied, gently stroking her hair with a gloved
hand. “She’s just a child. She needs help.”

“Where will you
go from here?” I asked.

“Away.” Kenneth
turned towards me, and his mask disappeared as our eyes met. “I
don’t hate you, Mox. But I can’t forgive you. Don’t try to find me,
and never ask me for anything else.”

A million words
lodged painfully in the back of my throat. I wanted to thank him
for saving me, for saving Brynja; for freeing us from a lifetime of
running and isolation. And I wanted to ask – no, to
beg
–
for his forgiveness. To say something so pure and genuine that
Kenneth would have no choice but to stop and consider my words for
even a moment. And possibly, one day, reach a point where
forgiveness was an option.

I remained
silent.

My unspoken
words turned to cinder in my mouth as Kenneth sailed from the
window with Valeriya in tow, disappearing into the ashen sky.

It was
nightfall when the TT-100 blinked back to the sky above the South
China Sea.
We were guided down to Fortress 18 by a pattern of
lights that bordered the hoverpad, where Bethany and Peyton
nervously awaited our arrival.

McGarrity was
rushed to the infirmary by a team of medics. Brynja and I gave him
a cursory examination before loading him onto the jet in Thunder
Bay; tearing away his blood-soaked shirt, we discovered that one of
the bullets fired by Valeriya’s henchmen grazed his ribcage,
apparently missing every major vein and artery (an educated guess,
based on the fact that he didn’t bleed out). And the second round
struck his left shoulder, leaving a small opening in the soft
tissue, but causing no permanent damage. Despite the gruesome
appearance of Steve’s wounds, we were assured he was in no real
danger.

Peyton threw
her arms around my neck as soon as I stepped off the ramp, and even
offered Brynja a quick hug. I’m sure it was a reflex – Peyton was a
hugger. To my surprise Brynja responded with a warm smile, and
offered a little squeeze of her own. It’s amazing what happens when
someone steps off of an aircraft: whether you’re returning from a
sun-drenched paradise or a blood-soaked battlefield, all is
forgiven the moment you’re reunited.

Bethany
escorted us into the primary building, which featured the same
stark color palettes and minimalistic design as Fortress 23. We
followed her down a long narrow corridor to the media center, and
collapsed onto a circular couch. After consuming the snacks and
refreshments that Bethany insisted on serving, we dimmed the room
and illuminated a holo-screen in search of information about the
events that took place in Thunder Bay.

There was no
shortage of media coverage. Every simulcast feed, in every
language, was covering the ‘resurrection’ that took place less than
an hour ago. Although news anchors and commentators discussed the
same event, there was no clear consensus as to what actually
occurred, or what it would mean to the world.

Some believed
it’d been a religious experience; that there truly had been a
resurrection of biblical proportions, and the message Kenneth had
delivered under the guise of Russia’s Son was now tantamount to
scripture.

Skeptics blew
off the display as nothing more than an elaborate hoax, like the
cleverly-edited viral videos that have been annoying viewers for
decades. One particularly annoyed commentator claimed that he’d
been able to spot wires attached to Taktarov’s shoulders where he
was elevated, creating the illusion of flight.

New age
physicists debated the prospect of an afterlife that, for the first
time, could be quantified and measured. More traditional scientists
simply noted that in light of recent discoveries about superhuman
abilities, we had a great deal to learn about the universe and its
laws. Rules that were once thought of as rigid were becoming
infinitely more elastic as new discoveries surfaced. If there is a
life after death, we hadn’t yet seen any proof, but several experts
wouldn’t dismiss the possibility that evidence could be gleaned
from studying Taktarov’s reappearance.

And some even
mused that the entire event was staged by the government, all in an
attempt to quell the rising tide of violence; and that if this
was
a pre-meditated, scripted event, it was a brilliant one.
Thanks to Taktarov’s rousing speech, the looting, riots and
worldwide backlash was beginning to dissipate. Rotating through one
simulcast after another, from Moscow to Tokyo, Auckland to London,
we noticed that every city shared a common theme: massive crowds
dispersing without incident, just as they had in Thunder Bay. We
never witnessed a single act of brutality carried out by
peacekeepers or riot police – there was no need. Everyone was
leaving of their own accord. People returned to their homes,
leaving the streets littered with protest signs and makeshift
weapons. Even firearms were discarded, left for local law
enforcement to collect.

The flickering
embers of the Red Army were fading to black before our eyes, and
peace had been restored. Even if a spark of the movement remained,
it was clear that the raging wildfire had been extinguished.

***

The next
morning came quickly.
A brilliant yellow sunrise spilled into
the media room through wide-open skylights, warming my face. I’d
fallen asleep in a lounge chair, and Brynja had passed out on the
couch, sprawled haphazardly across Peyton’s lap. But it wasn’t the
sun that woke us: it was the painfully cheerful sound of Bethany
shouting, “Rise and shine, people!” before asking how we preferred
our eggs, and if we’d like milk, tea or juice with our meal. I’d
been awake for exactly six seconds and I was already exhausted.
Bethany had that effect on me – it was like being followed around
by the world’s most enthusiastic flight attendant.

By the time
we’d eaten and stepped onto the hoverpad, McGarrity was already
there. He was dressed in a crisp new t-shirt, runners and jeans,
and was freshly showered and shaved. Seemingly no worse for wear,
he polished the glimmering TT-100 with a rag, whistling a tune as
he buffed the hull. I had no idea what kind of painkillers the EMTs
had given him after they stitched his wounds and operated on his
shoulder, but they must have been amazing. I made a mental note to
ask for a bottle of whatever he was on the next time I stopped by
the infirmary.

“How are you
feeling?” I shouted, strolling across the tarmac.

“Pretty
awesome,” he replied without turning around. “I saw you three
catching up on your beauty sleep, but I didn’t want to wake
you.”

“I appreciate
the gesture,” I said with a smile, motioning towards the TT-100,
“but you don’t have to polish my jet. I’m rich – I can pay someone
to do it for me.”

“I’m not
polishing your jet.” McGarrity turned towards me, tucking the rag
into his back pocket. “I’m polishing
my
jet. I won it in The
Spiral, remember?”

“You did offer
it to him,” Brynja was quick to remind me.

Before I could
protest I remembered that the TT-100 could teleport, meaning
McGarrity could be far, far away from me in just a matter of
minutes. Possibly all the way on the other side of the planet.
“Well, I hate to see the old girl go,” I said, patting the
freshly-polished hull, “but she’s all yours.”

“Hey, hey,
hey,” he said hastily, swatting my hand away as he yanked the rag
from his pocket. “Fingerprints!”

“So where do
you go from here?” Peyton asked.

“Wherever I’m
needed,” McGarrity stated proudly, straightening his posture. “As a
superhuman I have a duty to protect the innocent, and fight crime
wherever it may be.”

We all stared
at him for a moment, unconvinced.

“Or I’ll take a
long vacation and get drunk on a beach,” he conceded. “This is what
– January? I hear the Bahamas are pretty sick this time of
year.”