Final Empire (5 page)

My wrist com beeped, slicing through the silence of the room. It displayed a text message.

Incoming from
[Blocked Number]

“It’s him,” Gavin said

“Or
her
,” Peyton added.

I drew a deep breath as the red light continued to blink, beckoning for me to retrieve it.

“Holy shit, will you pick it up!” Karin shouted. “The suspense is killing us, here, boss!”

I shot her a sidelong glance and commanded my com to open the text window.

“I trust you’re enjoying the show as much as I am, my friend.”

“Why don’t you just face me one-on-one?” I asked. As I spoke my words blinked to life in glowing blue text, hovering inches from my wrist com. “Let’s settle this right now.”

“Ah, Matthew Moxon. That day will come sooner than later, I believe. I have faith that you will arrive on my doorstep in due time.”

“So you can kill me?”

“Kill you? No, my friend, you misunderstand. If I had wanted you dead, I would have killed you in The Fringe. The tower you live in could have collapsed long ago if that were my intention.”

“If you’re just looking for a chat then let’s do it right now. Stop the killing and let’s get down to business.”

“Patience. The first few steps in my plan are complete, but decisions still need to be made by those in power – paradigms need to shift. This will not happen overnight.”

Gavin leaned in, cupping a hand over his mouth next to my ear. “Can this be traced?” he whispered, careful not to let his voice translate into a text message.

I shook my head. Whoever is on the other end of this conversation knows this is the only untraceable form of communication and they don’t want to be found out...at least not yet.

“So you wanna to give me a hint?” I asked. “A little clue to speed up our meeting?”

“Ah, my friend...you are renowned for your intelligence. I am sure that you will arrive here in my own private oasis soon enough. And thank you for the use of your jet...it has proven a valuable asset in my newest venture. I look forward to our meeting. Until then, stay safe.”

The messages deleted themselves from my wrist-com as quickly as they’d appeared. They were possibly encoded with a virus but I couldn’t be sure. It didn’t matter. With evidence of the text messages or not, it wouldn’t be nearly enough to clear my name. I needed to capture the person – or people – involved in this worldwide attack, and deliver them to Homeland on a silver platter. Then they can use whatever techniques are at their disposal to extract confessions, clearing my name in the process.

I’d spent the next several hours in the basement laboratory of the fortress.
It was built inside of a natural cave, complete with exposed stalactites that dripped dramatically from the ceiling. Cameron Frost was as big a comic book fan as I was, which is probably why it looked like a replica of the iconic Bat Cave. Sure, he was an egomaniacal super villain who tried to kill me on a live simulcast, but I couldn’t hate on the guy’s decorating skills.

Dim lighting was often helpful in relieving my headaches. The sunlight on the main level was sending bolts of agony through my eyes and into my brain, and my medication was offering little relief. I was taking stock of the few items I had Karin retrieve from my megatower before we left Manhattan, including a refrigerator-sized casket. I was in the process of powering on the device when I heard footsteps clanking down the metallic staircase.

“What’s in the box?” Peyton called out, even before she reached the bottom stair.

“Nothing.”

She approached the upright steel casket and ran her hand along the surface, as if searching for a seam – some indication of where a hinge might be located. “It’s a big huge box...filled with
nothing
?”

“Yup,” I replied quickly.

She leaned against it, arching her eyebrow. “As you fled your home in America, maybe never to return, the
only
prized possession you chose to bring along was this big box of nothing?”

“I picked
you
up, didn’t I?” I reached out and wrapped my arms around her waist, drawing her in.

“Oh, so I’m your
possession
, now?” she giggled. “I don’t
think
so, mister. Until there’s a ring on my finger and my last name is ‘Moxon’ you shall have no such claim, fine sir.”

“You’re the best.” I squeezed her closer.

“And
you’re
getting better at changing subjects,” she replied, playfully tapping me on the tip of the nose.

I released her and stepped towards the computer station, pulling a chair beneath me. “I’m not lying, Peyton. It really
is
empty.”

She sighed with a tone of resignation. “Fine, I get the hint. I’ll stop asking.” She pulled up a chair across from me and leaned in. “So how are you feeling?”

“How am I feeling about the world being under attack by superhuman psychopaths? Or my feelings about Interpol, who just ranked me number one on their ‘most wanted’ list?” I motioned to the largest monitor on the station, where my senior high school yearbook photo was featured on the notorious website adjacent to serial killers, political dissidents and an arsonist. I’d just been linked to three additional terrorist attacks thanks to the mystery caller, and to make matters worse, the photo the FBI had chosen was horrible.

“No,” she said, her voice etched with concern. “About what you have to
do
?”

“Brynja has always had my back, ever since the first moment we met. Back in Arena Mode it was just me, her and Kenneth...” I drew in a long breath.
Kenneth Livitski
. It was a name I hadn’t said out loud since we’d spoken earlier this year in Thunder Bay. It was moments after he’d come out of a coma, when he blamed me for betraying him – for lying about being a superhuman during the Arena Mode tournament, and allowing him to be stabbed. He was right to blame me. To hate me. Although I don’t think it was possible for him to hate me anymore than I hated myself.

I blinked hard and shook my head, raking my fingernails along my scalp.

“Anyway, Brynja was always there for me and has never let me down. She
died
trying to stop me from getting eliminated.”

“Right,” Peyton said. “And then she came back...somehow.”

“Uh huh...” I nodded, not sure where she was going with her line of thinking, though her tone had rapidly shifted from ‘concerned’ to ‘accusatory’.

“
So
,” she continued, “how do you know she came back as the same person?”

I narrowed my eyes and folded my arms, leaning back in my chair. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know
what
is going on with her, and I don’t have anything
against
Brynja, but—”

“You don’t, huh?” I cut in.

Peyton scowled, a tiny line creasing her forehead. “Don’t give me that look.”

“What look?” I snapped, throwing my hands apart.

“
That
look,” she said, waving a finger in my direction. “That ‘you’re totally full of crap’ look that you give me whenever I mention the forbidden B-word.”

“Come on, Peyton, just admit it: you’ve
never
liked her.”

“What, just because when you first met her you wished she was a sexier, more tattooed version of me?”

One of Brynja’s powers – or curses, as she referred to them – is that she’s a ‘perception’: her physical appearance can be altered by someone who observes her. When I’d first encountered Brynja in Arena Mode last summer, she’d manifested as a slender, porcelain-skinned girl with flowing blue locks and a manticore tattoo inked onto her left arm. It wasn’t until Brynja herself pointed out her striking similarities to Peyton that the pieces fell into place: swap the blue hair for pink, dial down the punk-rock wardrobe by about ninety-nine percent, erase the ink and lose the gauged earrings – they could almost be twins. Since then, Brynja has been a living reminder of what Peyton
thinks
is my subconscious desire for her to be more daring and dangerous. Never believing that I wouldn’t change a single detail about her.

“Oh my god, are we
really
going to have this fight again?” I fired back, with much more venom in my voice than I’d intended. My words were echoing through the vast Bat Cave, trailing off into the darkened back corridors.

“I don’t ever remember having this fight to begin with,” she screamed, “because you won’t
ever
talk about it. It’s a miracle if I can get you to talk about
anything
that’s not comic book or video game related for, like, ten minutes.”

I tilted my head back in my chair and stared up at the pointed rocks that loomed overhead. I momentarily prayed (to the god I didn’t believe in) that one would snap off and come crashing down, impaling my forehead. “What do you want me to say?” I groaned.

“That it’s a possibility!”

I stood and wandered a few steps away, bringing a hand to my forehead. “Yes, okay? You’re right: I don’t know how the hell Brynja reappeared, and I don’t know what her motives are now. For all I know she’s not even the same person.”

Peyton approached and put her hands on my shoulders, massaging them gently. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean...” she hesitated, as if she were searching for the right words. “And, you know, there’s always Steve McGarrity, too. He’s not as mysterious as Brynja, but he’s
definitely
a wild card, right? Always looking for the next big thrill? Maybe he’s organizing this competition?”

It didn’t seem likely. McGarrity is an adrenaline junkie who’s borderline suicidal, but he doesn’t have the means or the expertise to pull something off on this level. Neither did Brynja, for that matter, but it didn’t mean they weren’t working for someone.

“Brynja got me through a
very
tough time in my life. She was my only friend when you and I were...” I turned and Peyton took my face in her hands.

Her reassuring eyes caught mine. “It’s okay, I get it.”

“Whoever it is,” I said softly, “I have to capture them or I’ll
never
get pardoned. And as long as these attacks keep happening, I’ll keep getting hunted. My luck will eventually run out.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in luck?” she asked, bringing her lips to mine.

A series of rapid-fire clanks thundered through the cave. “Mister Moxon!” Karin screamed hysterically, sprinting down the staircase with London in tow. “You have to see this!”

I tilted my forehead against Peyton’s. “See
what
,” I grumbled.

She raced to my side, practically vibrating with energy. “Okay, so I was in the kitchen, trying to get London here to make me a sandwich...”

“For Christ’s sake,” I shouted. “This is a sophisticated piece of technology that represents billions in research and development – it’s not a goddamned Panini press.”

“I was hungry! If you’d given everyone refreshments when we got here I wouldn’t have needed her...but that’s not the point.”

I sighed out loud. “There’s a point to all this?”

“Yes!” Karin nudged London with the point of her elbow. “Tell the boss about the book tour.”

“Book tour?” I repeated.

“Indeed, Mister Moxon,” London said with a friendly smile. “Steven McGarrity’s book tour starts this evening. Nine hours and twelve minutes from now, according to his press release.”

She projected a live feed of Picadilly Circus – a popular district in the bustling West End of London, England. The neon-coated junction was alive with holo-boards and swirling lights, all of them dedicated to Steve McGarrity’s upcoming public appearance. His autobiography, ‘Iconic Beginnings: The Formative Years of a Future Legend’ was going to be the topic of conversation on the BBC’s most popular evening talk show, and he’d be signing copies afterwards in the outdoor square.