I had to hand it to Frost: even in the afterlife he was still an asshole. He planted seeds at the onset to make it feel as if ‘Arena Mode 2’ would be more of a sport, and less of a barbaric bloodbath. He gave the illusion that this event would be one where teams could form, and alliances would become a part of the game. Of course this was bullshit. It was just a way for him to ratchet up the drama and force friends to turn on each other, like every other degrading reality show that oozed its way onto a simulcast. Cameron Frost was doing what he always did: pollute the mainstream media with insipid, sensational programming to distract viewers from the world that was corroding around them.
We took turns pressing our hands into the obelisk, and one after another, the pods began to appear. Around the perimeter of the circle they burst through the earth, tearing up from the jungle floor. The pneumatic tubes that led to the lower level had been grown over with a thin layer of vegetation, concealing them at the edges of the clearing.
As we prepared to step into our pods, Frost’s head began to flicker. It faded and disappeared, replaced by another holographic image: Valeriya Taktarov. She stood in front of the obelisk, hands clasped behind her back. Had she discovered some type of control room, and was able to project herself into The Spiral? Was this some other type of tech that she brought with her? Or was a superhuman assisting her? How she was pulling this off didn’t really matter. Valeriya was here, watching us, and clearly had something on her mind.
The hologram scanned each one of us and began to wander around the clearing, before stopping a few feet in front of McGarrity. “You disappoint me,” Valeriya said, shaking her head slowly. “Not only did you betray the Red Army, you have betrayed the memory of my brother.”
“Guess so,” He replied. “Too bad there’s nothing you can do about it.”
Valeriya glared at him, unblinking. “Your confidence is impressive. We will see how confident you are once my army reaches you.”
“Eight slots left,” Mac shouted from across the clearing. “I’m no math expert, but I’m thinking with only two pods you won’t be able to get much of an army down here.”
“It’s one more than I need,” she replied. “I recently increased the prize for Matthew Moxon’s capture: fifty million American dollars. The response was overwhelming, and I had many superhumans to choose from. The champions I sent after you will have no trouble completing their missions.”
“I bet that’s what you told your big brother,” Brynja added. “Right before I filled his head with acid.”
Valeriya turned to face Brynja. Her eyes welled with emotion, but never blinked out a tear. “You will be the first to go,” she quietly threatened. “In the slowest, most painful way that you can imagine. These traitors you have aligned yourself with will watch in horror, unable to stop the inevitable. And once they have died, one by one, Matthew Moxon will be brought before me.”
“I guess you don’t want to give us a little hint about who you recruited?” I asked. “If we’re going to die anyway we might as well get a head’s up.”
Taking her time, Valeriya’s hologram sauntered across the grass and stopped just inches from my face. She craned her neck upward and her gaze locked onto mine; her gunmetal blue eyes had a chilling effect, as if they were staring right through me. “Weaving,” she whispered.
And then she disappeared.
The name that floated from Valeriya’s tiny lips shot ice water into my veins. It was the name of a woman who was known by a hundred different aliases around the world, although there was only one that truly described the nature of her power: The Nightmare.
Chapter Nineteen
“What’s with you?” McGarrity asked. “You have this look on your face like someone just mentioned Voldemort.”
I lied, and assured everyone I was fine. No one else seemed concerned when Valeriya had mentioned the name Weaving, which I found somewhat surprising. It had been a story that I’d followed closely over the last several months through the holo-forums while Brynja and I were knee-deep in research.
In the wake of Arena Mode last summer, ‘Superhuman Arena Combat’ had become the hottest sport in the world. While soccer, American football and mixed martial arts could still pack a stadium full of a hundred-thousand screaming fans, an Arena fight drew billions of simulcast spectators, making it the most-watched – and the most profitable – entertainment spectacle in existence.
Outside of America, few countries would allow a sporting event where the chances of their cities being destroyed were all but assured, and the odds of a fatality were close to a hundred percent. Full Contact Swordfighting (the most dangerous sport in the world prior to the advent of Superhuman Arena Combat) was only permitted in a handful of countries as it was, and even fewer were prepared to take the next step by sanctioning Arena fights.
A few months ago, Sultan Saeed Al Darmaki (a well-known superhuman and investor from the United Arab Emirates) was granted a license to hold an Arena event in his home country. Despite the mountains of revenue generated from advertising dollars during the inaugural Arena Mode, Darmaki had a different business model in mind: his upcoming show wasn’t going to appear on a simulcast. It was billed as an exclusive event, and if you couldn’t afford the multi-million dollar price tag to see it in person, you wouldn’t be able to see it.
Darmaki paid to retro-fit the largest and most impressive structure in all of Abu Dhabi, a Full-Contact Swordfighting stadium, for Superhuman Arena Combat. Walls were reinforced, the roof was coated with graphene, and blast shields were put into place for the safety of the live audience. And on game-day, spectators were required to sign a waiver before taking their seats. It was a wise move from a litigation perspective. The odds were that not everyone in the stands would be leaving in one piece.
The black-tie affair was the ultimate VIP experience. It was so exclusive, in fact, that it would remain a mystery for all who were unable to attend. Your only accounts of what happened would be through the blogs and word-of-mouth from those wealthy enough to have seen it with their own two eyes. At Darmaki’s request the show wouldn’t even be filmed for future viewings. No press passes would be given out, and recording devices of every kind would be banned from the stadium.
People in attendance described the event as a terrifying collage of random horrific events. And that was the strangest part about it: when discussing the first annual ‘Abu Dhabi Superhuman Classic’, no two stories seemed to match.
They all began the same: the nine competitors started by attacking each other with various powers; fire, ice, electricity, plasma bolts – and then their accounts began to diverge. Depending on who you spoke with, you could hear a terrifying story about superhumans being mauled by tigers, torn to pieces by rotating blades, or melting to death in a sea of blue flames.
And by everyone’s account, the end was the same: the winner was a woman named Grace Teach Weaving. A mysterious superhuman who no two people ever described the same way – and, even stranger, a woman whose name continually changed. The majority of people simply forgot it the moment it was spoken. Like waking up from a vivid dream that fades as the day wears on, when someone asks you to describe it in detail, you’re left with a blur of unrelated events that rattle around your mind.
For some reason Weaving’s name always stuck with me; not just her given name, but the name that the media had branded her with: The Nightmare.
There was no official ranking system in place for superhumans, or a governing body that would list them in order from the most to the least dangerous – but if there were, I would place Weaving right at the top.
As all of this information blistered through my mind I caught myself staring into the middle distance, my gaze loosely fixed on the location where Valeriya’s hologram had just disappeared.
“We’ll be on our way through the tunnel before she catches up to us,” Peyton reassured me, snapping me back to reality. “Don’t worry, we’re fine.”
I nodded and smiled weakly, attemptin
g to mask my considerable doubts.
Mac raised another concern. “We could be separated again once we hit the second level. What do we do when we drop?”
“Move towards the center point,” I instructed. “As quickly and as quietly as possible. If you get lost, stay put, and wait for a signal.” I straightened my posture and drew in a deep breath, trying to steel my resolve. I was being looked to as the leader of this group – for whatever reason, I wasn’t quite sure – and I wanted to maintain the thinly-veiled illusion that I knew what the hell I was doing.
The levels continue to get smaller as The Spiral descends, I explained; at least according to the holographic blueprint that was on display at the onset of the games. In theory it should be slightly easier to locate one another within the confines of a smaller space.
As we backed into our respective pods the doors sealed shut, and we exchanged glances as we descended one by one.
***
After a momentary drop I was again ejected from the pneumatic tube, landing once more on a patch of grass. After spending a day in near-darkness, the sudden flood of sunlight forced my eyes shut.
I cracked my lids and scanned the landscape. Through squinting eyes it was a pastel-colored utopia; perfectly green grass that appeared freshly-mowed, perfectly manicured cherry blossom trees that dotted the rolling hills, and a perfect blue sky, giving off just the right amount of light. Even the temperature was ideal; the air was crisp with a soft breeze that cooled my skin. It was in stark contrast with the suffocating humidity that’d assaulted my senses on the previous level. I had been expecting something much more sinister as we continued to descend, though at first glance, this was paradise.
After my eyes adjusted to the light, the illusion began to fade. I removed a gauntlet and kneeled, running my hand along the freshly-mowed grass. It had the appearance of natural turf, but felt smooth and rubbery. It even smelled artificial, like a vague combination of carpet freshener and new plastic. I inspected the sky and realized that a single important detail was absent: the sun. It was as if this level was still under construction, and the designers had neglected to insert the shining yellow star into the sky. No bugs, no sunshine, and not even the faintest aroma of anything organic – this was a version of the great outdoors that I could definitely get used to.
No one else from my team was in the vicinity. I’d have to reach higher ground before I could scan the area and locate the others. I was dropped into a shallow valley, and the only visible landmark I could spot was a chrome-plated casket, sitting a few hundred feet away.
I approached the chest, and after another cursory examination I was satisfied that it wouldn’t explode in my face. I flipped it open, and for the first time inside The Spiral I felt that luck – if there were such a thing – was on my side. It was a grenade launcher. A long metallic cylinder gleamed in the overhead light, and beside it sat three rounded shells. I inspected the weapon and squinted at the small type engraved on the side above the firing mechanism, hoping it would reveal some instructions. The text was in German as far as I could tell, so it did me little good. Shooting a gun was one thing – I wasn’t nearly as confident playing around with explosives.
I attached the launcher to my suit’s magnetic spine and carefully pressed each of the three explosive shells to my belt. I had to transport these somehow, and without a proper satchel or carrying case this was my only alternative. I was now paranoid that something as simple as tripping and falling could trigger a series of explosions that would send me spiralling through the air like a cartoon coyote.
Lost in thought, I was startled by a familiar pair of floating orange spheres tethered by a long grey cord. It appeared from the sky, spinning like a helicopter blade before hovering to a stop. The two curious eyes peered at me, awaiting instructions.
“London?”
“Mister Moxon!” it replied. “You are looking more youthful and exuberant than usual. Truly a wonderful example of the human species.”
“How did you survive?” I asked, scrutinizing the metallic spheres. There wasn’t so much as a scratch on their glistening surface.
“I don’t understand the question, Mister Moxon. Please rephrase.”
“Weren’t you destroyed in the gunfight?” Before we were launched into the first level of The Spiral, I vividly remember a hail of bullets tearing London to pieces, and the Red Army trampling the smoking remains as they stormed the room.
“I was,” London said with a song in its digitized voice, “but my memory transferred through the Fortress’ internal cloud, and into a new piece of hardware when that unit became unusable. And now I’m here with the privilege of speaking with you, our brilliant and exalted leader.”
I now had a bad-ass weapon, as well as access to communications. It was what poker players refer to as a hot streak – though, in reality, it was just a matter of statistical probability. It worked the same way playing cards as it does in real life: when enough shitty things happen, the odds dictate that sooner or later, something good will fall in your lap. And if you’re on a real hot streak, two good things in a row.
“Can you access my personal account?” I asked.
“Indeed I can!” London exclaimed with an overabundance of enthusiasm. “Would you like me to access it right now, Mister Moxon?”
I nodded, and within a moment I had full access to everything in the cloud: mail, simulcasts, communications – everything that my wrist-com was supposed to provide, but had failed to access since we descended into the lower levels of The Spiral. I also had access to the Fortress’ main database.
My first order of business was to delete every map and schematic related to The Spiral; which, hopefully, would destroy any evidence of the construction tunnel that we were going to use as an escape. Even if Valeriya was aware of its existence, there would be no way for her to identify its proximity to the Fortress, and in which direction it led.
I moved on to my communications. As I scrolled through pages of unread messages, London chirped: “You have an incoming link request from...Jacob Fitzsimmons. Would you like to accept the transmission?”
I nodded again, and a holo-screen projected from London’s oculars, expanding into a large flat display. My lawyer winked into view.
“Mister Moxon,” Fitzsimmons said curtly, “I have some news.”
“I don’t know if you’ve been watching the simulcasts, but I’m a little busy at the moment.”
“That’s why I’m calling you,” he continued. “It’s about your property.”
“My property?”
“The piece of land that you acquired from Cameron Frost. Fortress 23 and the surrounding area. It’s yours.”
I arched an eyebrow. Was my lawyer suffering from the same memory-related affliction that I was? “I think we established that already, Jacob.”
“The land,” he persisted. “It no longer belongs to Canada. It’s yours.”
For a moment I searched my memory. I tried to approximate the last time I’d taken my medication, because nothing my lawyer was saying made any sense. “I don’t—”
“This just happened now,” he interrupted. “Frost petitioned to have the piece of land he purchased in Northern Alberta declared its own sovereign nation. It happened. And it’s yours.”
The magnitude of what my lawyer was attempting to explain was taking a moment to process. “Hold up – you’re telling me that I own a country?”
“More or less,” my lawyer replied. “The paperwork is being finalized now.”
According to his personal records, Frost had been petitioning for years in order to make this happen; he’d spent billions of dollars, and had lobbied every politician he had access to. Campaign contributions, calling in personal favors – it got him nowhere. Up until today he hadn’t had any success. “How did this happen? Did the UN suddenly have a change of heart once Arena Mode 2 got started?”
My lawyer seemed as confused as I was. “Some pretty big strings got pulled – that’s all I k
now. I have no idea who did it, but they have some serious clout with not only the Canadian government, but a lot of international leaders. It would take nothing short of a miracle to make this happen.”
That, or the promise of a miracle.
Jacob Fitzsimmons was widely regarded as the best estate lawyer in the country, and he rarely let a detail slip past him. Though in his defense, he didn’t know Valeriya Taktarov. She had used her rhetoric to activate a group of thousands to join her Red Army, and had incited hundreds of thousands more to riot across North America. It wasn’t inconceivable that her promise of Sergei Taktarov’s rebirth – and the dawn of a new age – convinced at least one credulous politician to finally put pen to paper.
Here in Northern Alberta, I now was the president of my own nation. Thanks to Valeriya, I was in a country with its own separate borders, laws and legislation...meaning that neither Canada nor the United States were responsible for anyone who lived here. I could be captured, tried and publicly executed on a snow bank outside of my fortress, and everyone from international politicians down to local law enforcement could claim innocence. This was the ultimate ‘get out of jail free card’ for Valeriya Taktarov, and she’d convinced world leaders to simply hand it to her, no questions asked.
It was safe to say that my momentary hot streak had screeched to a grinding halt.
Transcript from the Calgary Herald Simulcast
Macklin & Marsh’s ‘Eye in the Sky’ Report
Hosted by Herb Macklin and Dana Marsh, January, 2042
Dana Marsh: The scene here is really quite remarkable, Herb. Riots continue to cut a swath through cities around the world, but all eyes are focused on Northern Alberta, where thousands of protesters occupy the area surrounding this remote outpost.
Herb Macklin: Dana, it seems like there’s a lot of snow up there.
Marsh: Indeed there is, Herb, but I’m not here to cover the weather this morning. This is a special report, remember?
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