I asked London to notify the remaining three staff members – Judy, our resident nurse, our IT specialist and our chef – and instructed them to report to the main level immediately. They could generate their own custom-fit armor at the 3D printer and meet us at the entrance to The Spiral.
To access the elevator that led down to the Spiral, we first needed to take the stairs to the rooftop dome, and locate a large tree in the center of the ecosystem. Amidst the palms and tropical fruit trees, I’d always thought that a forty-foot weeping willow was slightly out of place; the species was native to warm climates, but it stood out among the landscape because it was the only one. It sat alone in a clearing; it’s long green tendrils providing the perfect amount of shade from the artificial sunlight that would pour in from above.
When we arrived I brushed aside the sweeping strands like parting curtains, making my way to within arms-reach of the willow’s thick, reddish-brown trunk. A spoken access code triggered a hidden door within the bark, sliding open to reveal a polished silver elevator. The unblemished surface was completely devoid of any markings, including a control panel.
Mac stuck his head in, craning his neck to observe the interior. “This is some serious double-oh-seven shit, man. There isn’t even a button.”
“Don’t step in just yet,” I cautioned him. “As soon as it detects pressure it might start its descent.”
“Copy that,” Chandler said into his wrist-com. He was standing a few feet outside of the tree’s canopy, signalling the remaining staff. “We’ll see you guys in a couple minutes.”
We waited beneath the tree for the remainder of our group. Brynja was anxious to leave and take advantage of our head-start, but I insisted we wait. Separating wasn’t going to help, and I refused to leave anyone behind. I couldn’t live with myself if someone else died because of the colossal mess that I was the center of.
Clanging up the metal staircase, Judy emerged from the doorway that opened into the clearing at the center of the dome. She was followed by the two other staff members, Ortega and Anton. They wore armor suits as I’d instructed, though they appeared markedly different than ours.
While our Smart Fiber suits were form-fitting, sleek and dark, identifiable only by the color-coded number that appeared on the chest, theirs were much bulkier. Judy’s bright blue armor was more akin to a medieval design, with thick, squared-off shoulder joints, and gauntlets that could barely articulate. Ortega had a similar design in yellow, while Anton’s was red. The candy-coated textures had a polished sheen that reflected the dome’s interior light, and their stiff movements resembled lumbering toy soldiers.
“I don’t know what happened when we printed these things,” Judy remarked as she twisted at the waist, wincing as she attempted to stretch out in the heavy suit. “They’re like...”
Oh shit. My short term memory loss. I forgot that I’d switched out the material a few days ago when I was building a castle with Brynja. I couldn’t conceal the surprised look on my face when I realized what I’d done. “They’re Lego.”
“Right,” she remarked, running her hands over the smooth surface. “It’s strange, isn’t it? Almost like we are wearing Lego.”
“Not almost,” I was quick to correct her. “Judy, you’re actually wearing Lego. The polymer inside the printer, was left over from a couple days ago, so it’s—”
“Wait,” Ortega interrupted, extending a hand out towards me. “You’re telling me that you guys are in state-of-the-art super suits, and the rest of the staff are wearing toys?”
“I got a regular suit,” Chandler said sheepishly, staring down at his boots.
“Well good for you!” Anton shouted frantically. “The guy who runs the place gets the real armor, and the numbers who work in the subs are stuck looking like Rock ‘em Sock ‘em Robots!”
“Hey,” Mac exclaimed, pointing at Anton. “You guys do look a little like those plastic punching toys. And kinda like GoBots, now that I think about it.”
“I’m glad you guys think this is hilarious,” Judy shouted, flailing her arms overhead, “but we’re the one who are gonna be dead when the bullets start flying!”
“All right, take it easy,” I reassured her, “the suits are just a precaution. There aren’t going to be any bullets. Let’s just get to The Spiral and find this tunnel. Within a few hours we’ll be on a flight out of here.”
As we boarded the elevator I overheard Chandler whisper, “What’s a GoBot, anyway?”
“You never heard of them?” Mac replied, a little too loudly. “They were like Transformers, only shittier.”
Judy glared at him as the elevator door slid shut, and I quietly cautioned Mac that maybe now wasn’t the best time for this discussion.
We began our slow descent, and there was no indication as to how deep we were traveling. Without screens on the interior there was no telling how long the eight of us would be tightly sealed into this brightly-lit cylindrical can.
Everyone remained silent during the trip: The trio of angry GoBots exchanged frustrated looks. Mac bounced gently on the balls of his feet, brimming with nervous energy. Chandler hyperventilated, trying to put as much distance between himself and the other passengers as possible. And Brynja and Peyton stood at opposite sides of the elevator, aggressively avoiding eye contact with each other. When we escaped from the fortress and made our retreat, there was the question of what would happen next. Of course we’d have to find out where Gavin was, and make sure he was all right. My sister and the kids were in police protection thanks to a few calls to my lawyer, and I was confident they’d be fine until I could make alternate arrangements. But once the dust settled, the riots had ceased, and the raid on Fortress 23 had ended, the question weighed heavily on me: what then?
Brynja had become more than just a friend to me – in a lot of ways she was the only person who understood me. I couldn’t imagine my life without her...and Peyton – who challenged and pushed me, and made me a better person – was here, and by happenstance I’d been given a second chance with her. It didn’t take psychic abilities to know what both of them were thinking, and to know that, in a matter of hours, only one of them could remain in my life. This wasn’t a crappy sitcom from the 90s – there was no way we were going to exist in some idealized version of reality where the three of us could do brunch on Sundays and exchange pleasantries over mimosas.
The elevator slowed to a gradual stop and the door silently pulled open, revealing a long white hallway that illuminated with every step we took. At the end was a single door – an oversized rectangle that was embedded directly into the wall, without any knob or window. There must have been a microscopic motion sensor located, somewhere because it moved aside as we approached, leading us into a darkened room. It was the entrance to The Spiral.
The lights burst to life when we crossed the threshold, revealing an enormous dome-shaped room. The bright expansive space made me feel like an ant trapped inside a metallic igloo. Smooth metallic walls seemed to emit a light all their own, although there were no visible bulbs; the diffused glow bathed the eight of us from every direction, muting every shadow. Gazing around, we searched for any indication that there was an exit. As far as we could tell, there wasn’t a control panel, a button, or anything that could trigger the exit that was supposedly beneath the room – at least according to London’s schematic. For the moment we were at a stand-still, stuck in a dead end.
I turned to the floating spheres that were perpetually at our backs. “Can you bring up the schematic again?”
“I’m sorry,” London replied apologetically. “Mister Moxon, there is nothing that I’d rather do that help you out of this predicament. Truly, I would love nothing more than to—”
“What’s the issue,” I asked curtly.
“My permissions have been downgraded,” it replied. “As soon as we entered this room I became unable to access any of the maps and schematics associated with Fortress 23. I do, however, have some news that you might be interest
ed in hearing.”
“Is it about his chiseled cheekbones?” Brynja asked with a chuckle.
“No,” London replied cheerfully. “In fact, it’s in regards to the sixteen unidentified intruders who are making their way up the staircase towards the rooftop dome.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “Shit, the Army must know where we are.”
“How?” Peyton asked.
“I don’t know,” I replied, “but this doesn’t feel like a coincidence. This place is huge – there’s no way they’d make a beeline straight towards the hidden elevator unless they had a good reason.” We were stuck at a dead end, and couldn’t turn back. I commanded the doorway to close behind us and it immediately obeyed, sealing us inside.
And that’s when it appeared.
Like the Great and Powerful Oz, a massive disembodied head projected above us. Enormous and imposing, it winked on and began to speak.
Being cordially greeted by a blimp-sized head was shocking, to say the least. It even caught me off-guard – and to put it delicately, I’d seen some shit. But the real shock came a moment later, when I realized who was greeting us. It was the face of the man that haunted my dreams since I’d shot him to death nearly six months ago: Cameron Frost.
Chapter Sixteen
“Welcome, one and all, to the second annual Arena Mode tournament!” Cameron Frost’s smile widened, bearing a mouth full of pearly, artificially-whitened teeth. “As the bravest superhumans from around the world, you are about to embark on an amazing journey – and for the winners, the rewards will be immeasurable.”
“What the hell?” Brynja whispered. “I thought you killed this fucker?”
“It’s a recording,” I whispered back without taking my eyes off of the giant head floating above. It was so imposing I couldn’t have averted my gaze if I tried.
Frost must have set up this holographic message long before he entered the first Arena Mode tournament. Everything leading up to this moment was crystallizing: Fortress 23 wasn’t built as a sanctuary or a retreat for the eccentric billionaire – it was created to host future Arena Mode tournaments. The hangar, the lodging, the workout facility; this entire structure was an Olympic village of sorts, meticulously crafted into a single, stand-alone building that would serve as not only a temporary home to the superhumans leading up to the event, but as the battleground itself. And we were here, standing at the starting line, receiving a posthumous pep-talk from the visionary behind this perverse spectacle.
“As the winner of the First Annual Arena Mode tournament in 2041,” Frost continued, his voice welling with pride, “I can tell you that it’s a sensation like no other. Money and fame and all of the trivialities that go along with it are nothing compared to that feeling – knowing that you are the best of the best. The one.”
Mac let out a short laugh. “Winner? I guess Cameron was counting his chickens a little early, huh?” He was quickly shushed by Brynja with a sharp point of her elbow, jabbed squarely into his shoulder.
“This fortress,” Frost explained, “is the ultimate proving ground. The island of Manhattan was a suitable stage for the previous Arena Mode. But now, things are being taken to the next level, and I’ve increased the stakes. An-all new, multi-faceted battleground has been constructed, directly below your feet.”
The giant floating head disappeared, and was replaced with a glowing hologram of a blueprint. The rendering rotated slowly as Frost continued to narrate, displaying Fortress 23 built into the mountain range, and the architecture hidden within, invisible to the outside observer. Underground chambers, impossibly large, descending hundreds of feet into the earth. Three imposing layers, piled one on top of the other, lead down to a small room at the bottom, labelled ‘The Hall of Victors’. I had no idea what could be located in that room, and at the time I didn’t really care. What was of particular interest to me was the long, narrow tunnel connected to the Hall of Victors that led outside, several miles West of the fortress. This was it: our one and only option for escape. If we navigate our way to the lowest chamber of this new underground arena, we have a clear path to the outside.
As Frost continued to espouse the glory of competition and the riches that await us (his usual rhetoric when trying to talk people into risking their lives for his profit and personal entertainment) a dull thud began to echo throughout the chamber. It was coming from just outside the door. The sound was unmistakable: someone was trying to break in. The Red Army had tracked us down, and was methodically beating down the door. Considering the speed in which they barreled through the South Tunnel’s interior door leading into the fortress, I imagined it was only a matter of minutes before they’d find their way inside of here.
“We accept,” I shouted at the ceiling, “We accept the challenge. Let’s get moving – start Arena Mode.”
“One reminder before registration,” Frost added. “Belief in others is as important as belief in one’s self. To continue on in this journey, you, the combatants will have to form alliances. Choose your partners wisely, because this will be a battle like no other. Trusting the wrong person could mean the difference between the spoils of victory and a painful defeat.”
“Fine, whatever,” I shouted. “Alliances, teams, trust – we got it. Let’s keep this moving.”
“Registration begins now,” Frost’s voice commanded. He reappeared in holographic form, this time as a life-sized entity, wearing a tailored suit and tie. He didn’t look like the Cameron Frost I remembered, though. He was young and vital – probably ten years younger than he was at the time of his death. Clean-shaven, well-dressed, and no longer in need of a wheelchair, the 3D-rendered image strode confidently towards us. “Name, please.”
“King Henry the Sixth,” I replied, glancing back over my shoulder as the thumping persisted. “Let’s go.”
“Sorry,” Frost’s hologram said, without any of the inflection associated with a sincere apology. “That answer has been identified as untruthful. Please re-identify.”
Chandler explained that this was one of the new AI features that he’d helped Cameron Frost develop over the past year; it was a lie detector that was more or less foolproof, built directly into the fortress. It seemed as if it had been put online a little earlier than expected, and Chandler had no idea it was complete and operational. The system used advanced sensors that would monitor pupil dilation, heart rate, facial tics, and even the unique electrical patterns emitting from brainwaves – all combined to determine if someone was fibbing. It was eventually going to replace thumbprints and voice recognition sensors to ensure that no one could gain access to a restricted area, no matter what type of technological gizmo they had to fool the system. Anyone with a few dollars and access to a virtual mall could obtain the latest spy equipment; devices to pick any lock imaginable were available, so the locks continued to become more and more sophisticated. Using the truth as a key, there was no way around this new type of gateway – no matter what type of technology you’re using, you can’t fake who you are.
I spoke clearly, but with urgency. “Matthew A. Moxon, from The Fringe.”
“Thank you, Matthew Moxon.” Frost’s words prompted a video screen which projected across the top of the dome, with a massive photograph of my face, my vital statistics, birthplace, and of course my name, displayed in shimmering gold letters. A moment later a pod emerged from the floor at the edge of the dome; it was a transparent cylindrical container roughly the size and shape of a casket, faintly illuminated by an interior light. The door slid open, inviting me aboard.
I noticed that there were faint circular outlines in the floor; shallow grooves at evenly spaced intervals spread around the circumference of the domed room. These were our shuttles into the depths buried beneath the fortress, leading us to the onset of what would have been Arena Mode 2.
The AI urged the next contestants to register. The three staff members nervously identified themselves one after the other, summoning their corresponding pods. Their voices trembled as
the thumping persisted:
Alexander Ortega, a thirty-year-old IT consultant from Vancouver.
Judy McMann, a forty-four-year-old nurse from Phoenix.
Anton DuPont, a twenty-six-year-old chef from Brussels.
Their pods appeared in rapid succession.
After Brynja, Peyton, Mac and Chandler registered and their corresponding pods had appeared, we were prepared to descend.
Chandler approached his pod, poking and prodding it from all angles. He mumbles something to himself about claustrophobia before climbing in.
Peyton brought up an important point that had eluded me. She asked what happens when we descend – the eight of us, rocket into the lower levels of The Spiral – and we emerge in this ‘custom designed battleground’. Judging by the schematic, the space is much larger below ground than above (likely due to the meteorite that had struck this location years ago, burrowing a deep crater that allowed for construction of the massive underground levels). Wherever we land, we could be miles away from each other. I assured her that our wrist-coms could be used to trace each other locally, and not to worry. Even underground and without a satellite to link them, we could communicate off-line with a range of several miles.
The thumping increased in volume as we discussed strategy, and one thump in particular rattled the entire room. A bulge formed in the door – an oversized, fist-shaped contour had bent inwards, denting its surface. Whomever the Red Army had found to track us down was battering his way in, and was only a few punches away from gaining entry.
Everyone scrambled towards their pods, pushing their backs flat against the white padded interior, facing outwards in their upright coffins. The transparent doors slid shut in unison, silently confining us inside the narrow tubes. There was barely enough room to move while trapped inside; my face was so close to the glass that I clouded the surface of the door with each panicked breath.
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