Final Empire (8 page)

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.

I barked out the most painful cough of my life and my red-rimmed eyes snapped open, stinging from smoke and bits of gravel. Gavin, Peyton and McGarrity were already aboard.

“Matt! Are you all right?”

“Dude, that was gnarly!”

“Can you breathe? Do you need water? I’ll get water...”

Concerned voices blended together as my head spun, multi-colored streaks lining my vision.

“I’m okay,” I assured everyone, waving them off, coughing into my fist a few more times. “Just...give me some space.” I wandered around the passenger bay for a moment, regaining my bearings. Once I’d wiped my eyes clean and drank some water, Peyton insisted on a quick medical exam. I knew she’d want an explanation for swapping out the guns, but in the moment she was just relieved that I’d made it back alive.

I excused myself and went to the cockpit, shutting the door behind me. I wanted to thank Karin for her quick thinking, and for her advice over the com. In my current mental state I don’t know if I could’ve done it alone, and her quick thinking probably saved my life.

I’d never been enthusiastic about hiring a pilot who was barely old enough to have her driver’s license, let alone the experience and qualifications necessary to helm a multimillion dollar aircraft. It wasn’t just the fact that she was practically still a zygote. It was also the fact that she possessed superhuman abilities. Peyton had hired her without my knowledge or consent, never once thinking that I might have just the slightest trust issues with yet another super powered being continuously and unavoidably in my orbit, especially after what had happened with Valentina. My previous bodyguard took a bribe in exchange for selling me out to Valeriya Taktarov, resulting in a near-death situation for myself and Peyton. This made her decision even more baffling. ‘I felt good energy from her’ was Peyton’s primary reason for the hire, as if positive vibes were tantamount to a thorough background check and a psychological evaluation. ‘Say no more!’ told her. ‘I didn’t realize you had a warm fuzzy when you met this mystery girl. No more vetting required.’

No, not all superhumans are evil. But they have power – terrifying and unbridled power that, in the wrong hands, could result in me and my girlfriend being flattened into meat pancakes. At the time, having a superhuman head of security sounded like a logical (and kind of bad-ass) move, but it proved to be a near fatal mistake. I wasn’t keen on doubling down on that error.

Though now that Karin had proven herself to be a competent pilot
and
great under pressure, I owed her a debt of gratitude – and a long-overdue apology.

I sank into the co-pilot’s chair next to her. “Karin,” I began slowly, “I need to tell you something. When I was down there—”

“
Wow
,” she cut in, rotating towards me. She was brushing crumbs off of her bomber jacket from whatever she’s just finished wolfing down. “That was
so
lucky, right? That thing you did with the gun...and the explosion? Even with the technical glitch you pulled that one out of the fire.”

“Technical glitch?”

“Yeah, the coms,” she explained. She reached out and poked a button on the transport’s dash, illuminating a tiny red light. The speaker belched out a long crackling hiss that filled the cockpit. “After your teleporting jet appeared below me on the hoverpad our communications just
died.
I don’t know if it was an EMP they activated, a signal jammer or what...I’ll have to run an diagnostic later. I kept yelling at you to stand still so I could target you with the bungee, but nothing got through.”

I dug a fingernail into my ear and pried out the jellybean. “Yeah, right…that’s what I wanted to tell you. Down there on the street all I heard was static. I gotta talk to the tech guys when I’m back in China because these pieces of shit are useless.”

“That was it?” She asked curiously. “You seemed like you had something else on your mind, boss.”

“No, just...thanks. For the pick-up, and stuff.” I patted my stomach with both hands. “I put on a couple pounds over the summer, but the bungee still fit like a glove – no recalibration needed. So...there’s that.”

“All right, well happy to help,” she said cheerfully, accompanied by an even more cheerful salute. “And sorry again about the coms. Wish I could’ve been more helpful, or that I could’ve said something that would’ve helped you down there.”

I stumbled out of the cockpit, through the passenger bay, and into the bathroom, slamming and locking the door behind me.

“Matty?” Peyton asked a few moments later, gently rapping on the door. “Are you okay in there? You seem like you’re glitching out a little.”

“I’m fine,” I lied, for the third time today.

“Matt,” she pleaded, “please open up, baby. Let me in.”

As the rapping persisted I leaned forward on the sink. I stared into the mirror, studying my face under the fluorescent lights. I felt like I could see right through my eyes and into my brain...my rotting, cancerous brain that was falling to pieces inside my skull, corroding like an abandoned car left on the interstate. There was no repairing it. No repairing
me.
Before long I’d be a husk; a shell of my former self, unrecognizable to everyone who cared about me.

It was time for my back-up plan. As soon as I’d cleared my name, it was time to open the box.

Our transport skimmed over the clouds in relative silence
, so steadily it felt as if we were barely moving. Travelling at twice the speed of sound, the typical ten-hour flight from the UK to the Bahamas would take us less than five.

I yawned, eyes fluttering. It was after midnight and I needed rest; without noise or turbulence sleep should have come easily, though convincing my brain of those simple facts was an uphill battle. Everyone else had retired to the sleeping quarters in the back while the passenger bay remained empty; a wide-open space with windows flanking me on either side, illuminated by the silver-grey disc suspended in a starless sky.

Staring out at the scarred chunk of rock that orbited our planet, my battered brain continued to churn out calculations. I’d been alive for 11,146 days. Plenty of time to gaze at a full moon – or any type of moon, for that matter – even taking into account time spent in a busy metropolitan area where the moon was invisible, washed out by the overpowering glare of manmade lights. But when did I bother? When did I last take the time to seek out the moon, or a sunset, or a sunrise, or stop to appreciate
anything?
I was struck with a pang of existential sadness when I realized that, even with my photographic memory, I couldn’t recall. I’d spent so many nights trying to turn my brain
off
and ignore the world around me that I’d missed the chance to soak any of it in.

My wrist-com chimed, the blinking green light filling the dim room.

“Mox, it’s Todd.” Detective Dzobiak appeared on the small glowing holo-screen, smiling as if he were a model in a toothpaste commercial.

The goofiness of his grin was infectious; even in my current state of mind I was able to manage a tiny smile of my own. “What’s the joke, detective?”

“No joke man: I’m still buzzing from the ruckus you caused here. Breaking that STC bastard’s nose
and
knocking Santiago on her ass in the same day?” He balled his fist and joyously smacked it into his palm. “Damn! I just wish I could’ve been there to see that shit. I doubt you’ll get many officers to admit it, but you’re secretly their hero after that. You’re sure as hell mine.”

Dzobiak explained that he didn’t believe in the trumped up accusations that have been leveled against me, and that there was something much larger at play. Thankfully, he had a lead.

“I took your advice and canvassed some local shops. We came up with this.” He held a transparent evidence bag in front of the cam, showing off a small wad of Euros. The multi-colored bank notes rarely cropped up on this side of the pond, and were generally not accepted anywhere except for banking institutions, and yet, for the last several days, the homeless had been using the fluorescent orange bills to pay for everything from fresh fruit to cigarettes at convenience stores across The Fringe.

“Did you question anyone who actually paid using the Euros?”

“Not yet,” Dzobiak said. “But we’re rounding up a few street kids now. The trick is getting them to talk to a cop...it’ll take some finessing, but I’ll keep working on it.”

It wasn’t a lot to go on, but it was a strong start. I’d guessed that the attack was set up well in advance, though the use of European currency was an interesting wrinkle. I’d already narrowed a short-list of people who had the means, influence, and motive to pull off this series of attacks, but I didn’t want to start pointing fingers until I’d gathered some more evidence.

“So,” Dzobiak said in between sips of coffee. “You’re all over the simulcasts after that fight with Paul Glendinning in England.”

“Who?” I blurted out, though I knew exactly who the detective was referring to. During the carnage I
swore
it was him, though I told myself it was impossible. “Sergei Taktarov dropped him
from space.
He fell through a bridge, into the Hudson.”

Paul Glendinning – or ‘Dozer’, as he was aptly nicknamed – was eliminated early in the original Arena Mode. His ability to coat his skin with an impenetrable bronze-like surface was world-renowned, and made him one of the early favorites to win the competition...that is, until an angry Russian dragged his two-thousand pound frame into near orbit before releasing his grip, dropping him on Manhattan like a human bomb. It was a wonder Taktarov even managed to land him in the continental US, much less the same city. In the aftermath of Arena Mode, Dozer had become ever more well-known, though for much different reasons. Once the city had been repaired and the bridge reconstructed, a new type of tourist attraction emerged: visitors were welcomed to embark on submarine excursions to the floor of the Hudson where they could catch a glimpse of a muscular bronze statue – the well-preserved remains of Paul Glendinning – embedded waist-deep in the murky sea bed.

“It turns out he doesn’t need air to breathe,” Dzobiak explained. “Some Norwegian oil tycoon wanted Dozer for a trophy in his game room, so he gave the mayor a sizable cash donation and paid a team to have the body extracted from the river. It wasn’t easy, but once they got Glendinning up on shore he just coughed out some water and stood up. Walked off like nothing had happened. It’s like the oxygen just revived him.”

In a day filled with surreal events, this was possibly the strangest thing I’d heard. “So now he’s working for the asshole who’s framing me?”

“Mmm,” Dzobiak mumbled, taking a final sip from his mug. “Maybe. Still piecing that one together. But hey, at least we’ve positively IDed someone involved.” He paused for a moment and pressed his lips together. “You were all in Arena Mode together – Brynja, Glendinning...could they have met there? Did they interact in any way before you two met up?”

“Sure. It’s possible...theoretically.” The cameras didn’t catch every single interaction between the competitors. Brynja could have encountered Dozer at some point early in the competition, or before the event had even started. They might have shared a transport before parachuting into the city for all I knew. I’d spent months alone with Brynja at Fortress 23, where we’d become very close; we shared so many stories that it felt like I’d learned almost everything about her. But like everyone, Brynja had her secrets.

“Just watch your ass,” Dzobiak warned me. “I don’t know how she’s involved yet, but I assume you’re searching for her right now.”

“Yeah...but how did you know?”

He grinned and leveled his brown leather wallet to the cam, letting it flip open to reveal his gold shield. “Detective, remember? But I don’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to know she’s your last good lead. And if
I
know that, so does the dude who has your jet.”

And whoever has my jet has the advantage...because with the press of a button they can be anywhere, at anytime. Within two minutes of discovering I was at The Savoy in London there was a superhuman hit-man barreling down the hallway towards me. I had no way of predicting who the next assailant would be, but I had a feeling they’d be doubling down on the reinforcements after I was able to evade Dozer.

Dzobiak drew in a deep breath and leaned close to the camera. “And let’s address the elephant in the room, man.”

“I’m not following.”

“Yes you are, Moxon.”

“Come
on
,” I sighed, trying to massage the ache from my temples. This shit
again
: first Peyton, and now Dzobiak. I didn’t know why everyone was so dead-set on pinning the blame on Brynja. I knew Peyton had personal issues with her, but I relied on the detective to actually
detect
things – not just throw out wild theories and crazy accusations.

“Wake up, man,” he said sharply, snapping his fingers. “You
think
you know this chick, but she’s a ghost; she dropped
completely
off the grid before all this craziness started going down. You don’t know what she’s been up to, or what she’s doing with that jet of hers.”

“Right,” I said swiftly. “That’s why I have to find her. Maybe she’s under duress, or maybe she’s being controlled somehow – like telepathically. And if someone
is
pulling the strings...”

Dzobiak shook his head. “That’s a shitload of ‘ifs’ and ‘maybes’, man. Just keep your head down and your ass covered. You don’t know what you could be walking into when you track her down. Or who she’ll be with.”

He was right. He was irritating as all hell at the moment, but he was absolutely right. I retreated into a defensive shell whenever someone accused my friends of anything; Peyton, Gavin, Brynja – they’re my only family, and I’d defend them to the death. But I couldn’t dismiss evidence, even if it was circumstantial at best.

Catching sight of my crumpling expression the detective relented, softening his deep baritone voice. “By the way,” he added, “I don’t know if you’ve checked out the Vegas Gambling Network, but you’re the hottest game in town.”

I snorted. “Wait – I’m what?”

“After the battle against Dozer, Vegas starting taking bets on you: whether you’d clear your name, end up arrested, flattened, shot, decapitated...everything you can imagine.”

I couldn’t say I was surprised. “Sounds tasteful.”

“Same shit, different pile,” he said with a shrug. “If there’s a tragedy, they’re ready to cash in on it. But if it makes you feel any better, I put a hundred on you pulling out of this thing.”

“And what are the odds of
that
happening?”

Dzobiak’s pearly-white smile returned, wider than before. “According to the bookies? Let’s just say if you
do
survive, I’m gonna buy that solar powered BMW I’ve had my eye on.”

“Awesome,” I said flatly. “Well, thanks for the vote of confidence, even if you’re the only person who believes I’ll make it to the end of the week in one piece.”

“Hey, me and the boys downtown are all rooting for you,” he said with complete sincerity. And it meant more to me than he probably realized. “I’ll keep my ear to the ground and buzz you if I hear anything else.”

Our holo-chat winked off.

I spent the remainder of the overnight flight staring listlessly out the window, rolling scenarios over in my mind, but I couldn’t help but think back to the battle in The Fringe that had started this all just hours ago: superhumans with incredible speed, strength and agility beating each other to a bloody pulp; cars sailing through the air and helicopters falling from the sky; tourists bursting into flames like Roman candles...and me, standing just a few feet away, boots locked into place. My heart didn’t race, my pulse didn’t pound. I never even flinched. I’d stared down the barrel of a gun so many times that the possibility of an excruciating death no longer fazed me because I thought that day would never come.

When those sirens blared past Excelsior and the gunshots rang out, something clicked inside my head. I was tweaking. I’d suddenly become an addict looking for a fix. I’d spent almost ten excruciating months in seclusion, just waiting for something –
anything
– to happen; I just didn’t realize how mind-numbingly bored I’d been until that very moment. And when I saw the fight break out, and the quiet residential streets I’d grown up on transformed into a blood-drenched battleground, a big part of me was horrified. I felt for the families of those who died, and for the store-owners whose livelihoods went up in smoke. But another part of me felt like it was Christmas.

In Arena Mode I was an out-of-shape cancer patient, fighting for my life amongst opponents who were tantamount to gods. To the surprise of practically everyone (myself included) I not only survived, I actually
won.
A few months later I battled an army of extremists at Fortress 23, and walked away virtually unscathed. I’d say that I was bullet-proof, but I didn’t need to be. With the streak I was on, I felt like I could dodge them. Assassination attempts, explosions, hand-to-hand combat with the most powerful beings to have ever walked the Earth? No worries. None of it could finish me off. And each time my shoulder brushed with Death I walked away a little brasher, a little bolder, and a hell of a lot more reckless.

Ever since I’d discovered my tumor I’d been playing the rush: I’d gone all-in every chance I got, throwing my life on the craps table without a moment’s hesitation. Crazy? Absolutely. But I rationalized my lunacy by consistently lying to myself:
I’d conditioned my diminishing brain to believe that the most fundamental rule of gambling no longer applied to me. I told myself that I was special, a superhuman in my own right, despite a complete lack of superpowers. I even told myself I’d beaten the tumor, despite a team of neurosurgeons warning me otherwise. My mantra had been one simple sentence – three words to be exact – and not coincidentally, it was the same three words that
every
addict repeats in their head with absolute, religious certainty before they lay down a bet that could cost them everything: ‘I can’t lose’.

Everyone loses
.

Everyone throws up a brick now and then, or plays a lame hand. And every streak comes to an end. It’s just math. When I heard that calm, reassuring voice in my ear that I never once suspected was actually my own, it was my wake-up call.
I’d
lost. Though at that point, I’d never suspected just how much I had
to lose.