“Playback,” I instructed, and the video came to life.
“As I stand here before you,” the woman began in a proper English accent, “the world bleeds. Billions of our brothers and sisters toil each day, living well below the poverty line, lacking the basic necessities that should be afforded to us all. Ravaged by war and disease, this wound continues to fester.” Her voice was calm and reassuring. She sounded British, though her angular cheekbones and naturally blond hair were distinctly Scandinavian.
“There was a man who had the power to heal it,” she continued. “A noble man. A beacon of hope in these dark times who brought with him the promise of better days to come...and he lies martyred, murdered, in the building behind me.
“I am here as an emissary. I have spoken extensively with religious leaders, and met with the most prominent spiritual figures from every continent. And while they have differences of opinion when it comes to their faith, one belief they share is undeniable: they agree that Sergei Taktarov – Russia’s Son – was brought here for a singular purpose. That purpose was renewal.
“He died at the hands of Matthew Moxon, The God Slayer; an apostate who remains silent, in hiding, remorseless for his actions. This is unacceptable.
“This is not about hatred or revenge. This is about the long-suffering citizens of the world who are owed their recompense. They deserve answers. They deserve the truth. And above all else, they deserve justice.
“Please donate, and give what you can: whether it’s one dollar or a thousand – whatever the Lord has blessed you with. These funds will be used to strengthen our movement. Whatever you pledge will be returned to you tenfold once Matthew Moxon has been found, because when the God Slayer has paid for his transgressions, a new age of prosperity will be upon us. It has been foretold, and it shall come to pass.
“The crusade is upon us: we will avenge our loss, destroy the broken system that plagues us, and rebuild in the ashes. May peace and love be with you, my brothers and sisters.”
When the video concluded my lawyer’s conference call window winked on.
“Where is this from?” Brynja asked. “I’ve been scanning the news sites and I haven’t seen this woman before.”
Fitzsimmons paused for a moment and glanced off-camera, riffling through the hand-written notes on his desk. “It’s one of those crowd-funding websites...Kashstarter, I believe it’s called.”
It was beginning to make sense. Crowd-funding websites have been popular since before I was born, but most of them required that the project creator actually offer something in return – a book, a comic, an invention, or some other tangible item.
Kashstarter.com, on the other hand, had no such prerequisite. Sign up for a free account, and five minutes later you can ask people to donate money for virtually anything. I brought up the site and expanded the browser window, revealing some of the other projects that occupied the main page – including a Japanese man who wanted to raise a million dollars so he could have experimental wings surgically attached to his back; and a young woman from Brazil was offering her virginity in exchange for a cherry-red Lamborghini X-900. Amidst this nonsense was the video we’d just seen, entitled ‘Justice for The God Slayer’. It was perched in the top slot, with over thirty million dollars having already been raised.
“How long has this thing been live?” I asked. “And how did we not find it before?”
“It’s been two hours,” Fitzsimmons replied.
I had a hard time believing it.
“How is this shit even legal?” Brynja shouted, banging her fist on the tabletop. “This bitch is threatening to kill Mox right there on camera! I know people raise money for crazy reasons, but you can’t collect donations so you can assassinate someone...can you?”
My lawyer explained that it’s not so simple. The woman from the video – who was later identified as Astrid Neve, a twenty-nine year old translator from Manchester – didn’t make any direct threat. She used words like ‘justice’ and ‘crusade’, but deftly side-stepped the use of any explicit call-to-action that would involve a physical attack – the language was deliberately ambiguous. You can’t pursue legal action based on insinuation, and on the surface that’s all this was. What she’s planning to do with this money once it’s raised is incidental.
“So what if someone attacks Mox after they see this video,” Brynja asked. “Would this woman be held responsible? Isn’t this hate speech or something?”
“It’s a fine line,” my lawyer explained delicately. “This woman can just claim that she was speaking in metaphors. It happens on simulcasts all the time: a political commentator will make a vague reference to ridding the world of someone they disagree with, and before long that person turns up dead. There isn’t really a legal recourse for this type of rhetoric.”
It was a shocking video that had the potential to further incense an already bitter group of Taktarov’s followers, including the Red Army. And although this type of talk had already sparked violence, there was surely a limit to how far people would go. Something new would happen – a political scandal, a celebrity wedding, a football game – that would take everyone’s mind off of Matthew Moxon, the God Slayer. That’s what I kept telling myself until my lawyer opened one final video.
“I know this is a lot to absorb,” Fitzsimmons continued, his measured voice etched with a hint of emotion, “but...there’s one last thing I need to show you. This happened just twenty minutes ago.”
A new window blinked to life and the video began streaming. It was a live New York Chronicle Simulcast, where a camera was fixed on a high-rise which was being devoured by flames. It appeared to be a residential apartment, where a blackened hole was blasted into the mortar, and had taken out several stories. A pillar of ash-colored smoke climbed into the sky, obscuring most of the building’s surroundings. It looked like a scene from Africa or the Middle East – some war-torn region where bombings were commonplace. But as the smoke dissipated, the skyline behind the building came into view. I saw the Empire State building, alongside a row of familiar megatowers. It was Manhattan.
“It’s your apartment,” Fitzsimmons said flatly. “Someone attached an explosive device to you front door.”
It took me a moment to process the information. “What...what was the response? Locally, I mean, in The Fringe?”
“Status quo,” Fitzsimmons replied. “Blockades, arrests, martial law. The entire city is under curfew. It seems to be contained for the moment – no looting or rioting in the area. But—”
“Yeah,” I interrupted, massaging my forehead. “I know. ‘This is probably just the beginning’, right?”
Fitzsimmons shook his head slowly. “That isn’t what I was going to say, Mister Moxon. There is no ‘probably’ about it. This is the beginning. And I don’t see things calming down anytime soon.”
Chapter Six
“That’s no moon, Brynja...that’s a space station.”
She looked at me like I was a complete idiot. “I never said it was a moon. And why the hell would anyone think that’s a space station?”
I made a mental note to keep the Star Wars references to a minimum as long as Brynja was my guest.
Peering out the window as we made our approach, the structure began to take shape on the horizon. Beyond the snow-capped mountains, encircled by an endless sea of pine trees sat my new home: Fortress 23. The word ‘massive’ didn’t cover it – it was imposing. A shining metallic city built directly into the side of a mountain, it would be impossible to miss if it weren’t so isolated; the only sign of life for miles in every direction were migrating birds and the occasional heard of caribou. It was just like Superman’s Fortress of Solitude – if his fortress was furnished with several hundred rooms and a staff to clean and maintain it. I definitely had to come up with a better name for it though, or at the very least find out what had happened to the other twenty-two.
Mac circled the jet around to an extended landing strip that led to the hangar, where two e
normous, interlocking steel doors guarded the entrance. We hovered in place, awaiting a prompt.
“Please identify yourself,” a voice crackled over the com. It echoed through the cockpit and was audible in the cabin.
“This is eleven thirty-eight,” Mac said, using his most official-sounding pilot voice, several octaves lower than his usual tone. “I’ve got Moxon on board and we’re knocking on the front door.”
“Welcome home, eleven thirty-eight. We’re unlocking the deadbolt and turning on the porch lights.”
And with those words the metal doors pulled open, gears grinding slowly as sheets of ice cracked and fell from their surface. The hangar slowly came into view. The opening was cavernous. Home to a fleet of twenty aircraft with room for twenty more, the enclosed area was like a small city all its own. Bright lights illuminated in sequence, from front to back, bathing the hangar in a powerful white glow.
The landing gear lowered and the jet touched down so gently that we never felt the tires making contact with the surface. A man in a navy flight suit holding a pair of neon orange batons waved us in, directing our aircraft across the tarmac and into a docking space. We hadn’t yet rolled to a stop before the hangar doors closed behind us with a resounding boom.
Brynja and Valentina stepped out of the jet first, staring with wonder at their surroundings.
Mac jogged down the stairs and let out a low whistle. He was practically salivating at the collection of rare and expensive aircraft that filled the hangar. “These are some impressive digs, Moxon. And these birds...can I take one of them out for a spin?”
I assured him there would be time for that as soon as we’d settled in. After the Kashstarter video and what was happening in New York, there was no way I was going to leave the Fortress– at least not any time in the foreseeable future. We were here for the long haul, and he could play with the new toys later.
A whirring sound echoed from across the tarmac. It was a six-wheeled transport; an open air vehicle that looked somewhat like a golf cart, but without a roof. The driver was a small, round man with a tangled beard and a mess of black hair. “Great to finally meet you,” he shouted with an eager wave. “I’m Chandler Oswalt, one of the...well, your staff, I guess. Me. I’m part of it. Mister Moxon, sir.” His face reddened as his words spilled out in rapid succession, and in no discernible order.
I returned the wave and smiled. “Take it easy, Chandler. No need to be nervous. I’m Matt.”
He stood and adjusted his uniform, a navy-blue flight suit with a white ‘Frost Corporation’ logo embroidered on the chest. “I’m taking bags for...I mean, I’ve got them. Your bags. Where are they?”
I was more than happy to carry my own things. Having a staff at my disposal was still a relatively new experience, and I had to admit, at first it was a little exciting. It was how I imagined Hollywood stars or British Royalty living – not having to lift a finger for anything. But over the course of the last three months, the novelty of having my doors opened and my belongings carted around was beginning to wear off. It started to make me feel more like a feeble toddler than a powerful multi-billionaire. “Not a problem, I can handle—”
“Right up the stairs and in the back rooms,” Valentina interjected, pointing a thumb behind her.
Without any further instruction Chandler wobbled up the stairs as fast as his stubby legs would carry him.
After loading up the transport and we’d taken our seats, Chandler instructed us to buckle our seatbelts. Valentina protested, but there was no arguing with him – it was regulation. When he was satisfied that we’d followed protocol, he taxied us across the tarmac and into the main lobby; a pristine, marble-floored space that looked more like the set of a science fiction movie than an actual room. Pencil-thin blue lights ran across the stark white walls, intersecting and diverging in intricate patterns. Small robotic cleaning devices chirped and hummed, dusting and polishing every square foot. It was like Frost Tower in Manhattan, and featured much of the same technology, with the exception of a machine I’d never seen or heard about.
“What is that?” Brynja shouted. As the transport came to a stop she unbuckled her belt and jumped out of her seat.
She was staring up at the ceiling, where a pair of orange metallic spheres were rotating like a helicopter blade, tethered by a long grey cord. The softball-sized devices made their descent, coming to a stop in mid-air. They were like two oversized, pupil-less eyes, peering at us curiously.
Chandler turned to Brynja and motioned towards her seat. “Sit back...I mean please, sit...if you want. In the transport. Don’t be alarmed.”
“What the hell are these?” Valentina asked, extending her leg. She reached out and tapped one of the floating spheres with the toe of her boot, causing it to bob slightly, but maintain its position.
“No, don’t do that...” Chandler scrambled from the driver’s seat and ran to the device, yanking a rag from his back pocket. He frantically polished and wiped the surface. “This is...it’s nothing to be afraid of. She’s new. It’s new...it’s not a she, obviously, it’s a thing – things don’t have sexes. Genders, I should have said. That would have sounded less creepy.”
“What does it do,” I asked.
“Oh,” Chandler replied, the heat rising in his face as he continued to polish. “Her...it’s name is London. She’s a utility fog. I got to name her. You know, because London is famous for the...everywhere? In the air?” Mac, Brynja and Valentina exchanged glances, but no one replied.
“Anyway,” he continued, “it’s nanotech, which as you know is very cutting edge stuff. Self-reconfigurating, completely modular...think of it like a flying exocortex. But it doesn’t attach to you, obviously...it’s like neuroinformatics, combined—”
“So what does that mean in English,” Valentina said curtly.
“It can change shape,” I explained. “And it contains data – like a central hub for Fortress 23, am I right?”
Chandler gestured towards me and nodded, breathing heavily. He seemed to have winded himself just attempting to give his explanation.
I approached London and ran a finger along the surface of one of its spheres, amazed by the seamless design.
“Elevated blood pressure, low iron, protein deficiency,” it announced in a genial Scottish brogue. The device had a crisp female voice, with a slightly synthesized inflection. “You also seem to have recently recovered from surgery. Would you like a complete medical analysis, Matthew Moxon?”
“Okay, keep that thing away from me,” Mac said, leaning back in his chair.
“Why?” Valentina chuckled. “Are you worried it might reveal your blood-alcohol levels?”
“How is this possible?” Brynja asked, now approaching curiously, though she was careful not to make physical contact with the spheres.
“I scanned Matthew Moxon’s fingerprint,” London said, “and I was able to determine his identity. I then took a sample of his DNA and made a surface-level assessment, detailing his primary medical issues.”
Chandler gestured for everyone to return to their seats. “I just invited her so she – it – could give you guys a tour. Show you around the place and explain it. Things. With words. It’s better with the words than I am.” He used his rag to dab the perspiration from his forehead before squeezing back behind the wheel of the transport.
Once we were seated and properly buckled, Chandler drove us to the west wing, using a voice command to raise the massive transparent blast door that separated the hall from the main lobby. London followed along, floating and rotating above our heads as it cheerfully guided us through the fortress.
“If you’ll look to your left,” London chirped, “you’ll notice that the exterior walls are reinforced with iridium plating, an alloy which can only be found inside of meteorites. While expensive and incredibly rare, the brilliant Cameron Frost purchased two thousand acres of land here in North-Western Alberta when he discovered that there was an abundance of the material in the area. A large
meteor had escaped NASA’s detection and fallen into a remote forest region in November of 2033. Mister Frost, in his infinite wisdom, mined the iridium and began construction on this very spot.”
“Brilliant?” Brynja scoffed. “Infinite wisdom? Was London dating Cameron Frost at one point?”
“Um, it’s old programming,” Chandler explained. “Frost was sort of...well, he was very proud of himself and his – what he accomplished. He has the fortress AI include random compliments whenever possible during speaking...speech.”
We continued touring the complex level by level. The nine above-ground floors were primarily for living quarters and amenities, each dedicated to a specific purpose: bedrooms on levels one through three, fitness on level four, media and communications on level five, kitchens and dining on level six, and additional storage, equipment and supplies on levels seven through nine. There were accommodations for five hundred people – I suppose Frost was expecting a lot of guests in the future.
We’d periodically pass by a staff member while on our tour. Men and women wearing the same navy blue flight suit with white ‘FC’ emblem on the chest – identical to Chandler’s. They avoided eye contact for the most part, pretending not to notice us as they went about their duties, but a few of them shot me a sidelong glance as we zipped past in our transport. The look was one I was all-too familiar with: disdain. As a middle-class citizen, I’d experienced that icy glare more than my share of times while traveling to Manhattan. Simply walking the streets in a pair of faded jeans and a comic book t-shirt was enough to draw contemptuous glares from the elite – the upper-class who had purchased, renovated and occupied every piece of real estate in the affluent borough. Some of the nicer-dressed Manhattanites even crossed the street to avoid me as I approached. It was as if abject poverty was an airborne disease, and being in close proximity to someone as lowborn as myself could have infected them.
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