I loaded a shell into my grenade launcher and saw Peyton crossing herself, slowly moving her hand from her forehead to her navel, then from one shoulder to the other.
“Is this a good time to start praying?” McGarrity asked.
“Feel free,” I shrugged. “It can’t hurt.” It couldn’t help either, but I chose to keep that sentiment to myself.
People can believe whatever they want – Heaven, Hell, angels, gods – if it gives you a reason to get up in the morning or helps you sleep at night, then it’s energy well spent. But if someone wants to wax intellectual about a divine creator who is by all accounts infallible, I always had the same response: the universe’s one and only absolute is math. Which, coincidentally, was the only all-powerful force that could help us escape our current situation.
“How many of these things can we take out with only two rockets?” Brynja asked, her eyes flicking anxiously between my grenade launcher and the approaching bots.
She was asking the wrong question. “You should be asking how many rockets it’ll take to blast a hole in the roof above us.”
“We’re at the center of this level,” Peyton said, craning her neck towards the artificial constellations clustered overhead. “Above us is a lake.”
I tilted the launcher into the air. “Not for long.”
“You can’t be serious,” McGarrity shouted.
“These things are first gen,” I explained. “Which means they’re not waterproof. It’s why there’s barely a drop of water on this level.” I had spent days poring over every single page of research on the Fudō armor; from hand-written notes to post-launch reports. Frost’s ambitions to make the exoskeletons underwater and deep-space compatible were well documented, and he was preparing for a second-generation manufacturing run next year. Saturating these units with enough water – a few hundred million gallons, give or take – could be enough to short-circuit them. It was insane, even by the standard set by my previous plans, but at the moment it was our best shot at survival.
“Okay, we drown them.” Peyton said breathlessly. “Then what?”
“We swim to the pods. Register now.”
As everyone pressed their palms into the obelisk and identified themselves, I extracted the breathing devices I’d found in the rainforest level. “We stick close and take turns so we always have enough oxygen.”
“Twenty seconds,” McGarrity shouted, motioning at the horde of approaching Fudō units that had touched down on the edge of the Zen garden. They were now marching lockstep, shoulder-to-shoulder, forming a nearly seven-foot wall of armored mechanical terror. “Without light I’ve only got a handful of swipes left with this thing,” he added.
As the pods slowly emerged from the grass I aimed towards the heavens, carefully calculating the center-most point of the level (the spot where the most weight would be concentrated from the enormous body of water.) I fired. An explosive round burst from the launcher and whistled towards the sky, connecting with the center of the roof. Glass shattered and mortar fell.
“Ten seconds,” McGarrity shouted, stepping to the perimeter of the knoll with his sword drawn back.
Melvin roared out a stream of flames that did nothing to halt the marching phalanx.
My second shell hit its mark, blasting an even larger crater into the ceiling; it had blasted away significant amounts of the reinforcement, allowing a mild drizzle to rain down through a crack. The ceiling was audibly moaning, buckling as if on the verge of collapse, but it remained intact.
This was it. My calculations were off – I’d overestimated how many gallons of water were in the lake above, or the ceiling was reinforced more heavily that I’d anticipated...a hundred possibilities blistered through my synapses, but in the end it didn’t matter. I was dead. Most of us were. The way to minimize our losses was to get as many people aboard the pods as possible, and hope the Fudō bots didn’t finish us all amidst the chaos.
The first of the pods burst through the grass, and I pushed Peyton towards it, shouting for her to go. She clasped my hand, squeezing it tight, and her wide, panic-stricken eyes locked onto mine. There was nothing I could say that would have given her comfort in that moment – I’d lied to her enough, and adding one more to the list wasn’t going to calm her nerves. I nodded reassuringly before she turned and boarded the cylindrical transport.
The robots were just beyond striking distance when a sudden rush of wind pressed at my back, nearly toppling me over. It was the force of Melvin taking flight. The manticore’s dark wings expanded and flapped, pushing him directly towards the source of the spattering rain – with McGarrity riding his back.
The Fudō units followed them like moths to a flame. Plumes of smoke burst from their heels and they ascended as one, swarming close behind.
McGarrity never looked back. Once he reached the ceiling he leaped from Melvin’s back, using the final swipe of his broadsword to open the precarious fissure. The slice was surgical. A violent tidal wave exploded from the opening, raining down like a broken water main.
When the ceiling burst the Manticore went into a steep dive, riding the crest of the wave. McGarrity gripped his mane with both fists, barely maintaining control during the descent.
Melvin landed just a fraction before the impact. His dragon wings expanded and acted as a canopy, shielding the pods and everyone beneath from the torrents of water and debris. He bellowed in pain when his head, back and wings bore the brunt of the shower.
The brutal downpour was over in a heartbeat; I blinked, and when my eyes snapped open there was darkness. The water flooded in on every side, and suddenly I was thrashed into a powerful undertow, flipped and tossed, bouncing along the floor of the rock garden.
Struggling against the current, I reached for my breathing unit and cupped it over my nose and mouth, sucking in the oxygen. For a while longer – ten seconds, a minute...it was impossible to tell – I watched helplessly through the darkness, unaware of my proximity to the grassy knoll and the remaining pods. In the absence of light my armor illuminated: its angular blue lines glowed brightly, providing me a measure of visibility. In the surrounding area I spotted pairs of red lights flickering and fading; the Fudō units were sinking, hitting the Zen garden like anchors tumbling to the ocean floor.
The faint outline of a handprint on the obelisk was glowing in the distance, and two remaining pods gave off a dim light just beyond it. The light indicated that there was still power; hopefully the units hadn’t been damaged from the flooding, and were still fit to transport me to the third level. Peyton and Brynja’s pods were already gone, the air-tight covers having sealed back over their pneumatic tubes.
I swam towards the pods with every remaining ounce of strength. Each stroke against the current was agony. As I approached the knoll, I was jolted by a heavy object slamming into my shoulder, knocking me into the obelisk. It was McGarrity’s body, floating face down, being tossed by the swirling current.
I ripped the second breathing device from my belt and pressed it over his nose and mouth, quickly strapping it into place behind his head. My muscles screamed as I swam forward with McGarrity in tow, dragging him towards the pod. I pressed him into place, but he remained unresponsive. His lips were colorless, and his eyes had rolled to white. Bobbing gently inside the glowing pod, I shoved him once again until his back pressed into the sensor behind him, sealing the unit shut. The suction pulled it downward, along with several hundred gallons of water, and the force almost dragged me down with it.
By the time I’d locked myself into my own pod and the door sealed shut around me, my breaths became shallow and labored. My breathing device was running out of oxygen.
Locked into an upright coffin completely filled with water, I wondered if McGarrity had drowned. I wondered if Brynja and Peyton had made it down to safety. I wondered if Melvin had died in the undertow. And as my head became light and my eyes fluttered closed, I wondered if I’d survive the trip myself.
Chapter Twenty-Five
I gasped when the door slid open, spilling my half-conscious body onto the pavement with a wet splat. With my cheek scraping the asphalt I inhaled, so deeply that I felt the lungs dilate inside my chest. It was a sensation so painful I thought I’d cough them into the street.
As I gulped down oxygen I was stricken with a pang of guilt. Mac, Chandler and Melvin were gone, and McGarrity might be dead as well – but in that moment I was just thankful to be alive myself; and, more importantly, that Brynja and Peyton had made it out before me.
I rolled onto my back and glanced from side to side, trying to regain my bearings. The sidewalk, the buildings, the streetlights – everything that surrounded me was eerily familiar. I blinked a few tears from my eyes, rubbing the sting away, and the details gradually drifted into focus. The entire third level was a re-creation of Manhattan; a replica of Arena Mode’s inaugural battleground had been reconstructed in The Spiral, and I was lying in the middle of a replica of Times Square.
It wasn’t all of Manhattan, of course. In reality, the affluent borough was eighteen square miles (though it was closer to thirty-four prior to the devastation caused by the tsunami of 2031), and I estimated this reproduction was a quarter of that size. It reminded me of Las Vegas’s attempts to recreate the Eiffel Tower and the canals of Venice – the surrounding landmarks came as close to authenticity as humanly possible – just without matching the scale.
As I stumbled to my feet, Brynja’s distant voice reverberated from inside my head. She was making contact with me from somewhere on the level. “We’re okay,” she assured me. “I’ve already found Peyton.”
I gave Brynja my location and she suggested I stay put. They had landed somewhere in the West Village and were already heading north. Ready to collapse from exhaustion, I didn’t need much convincing. I agreed to hold my ground and await their arrival. Once we’d regrouped, we could scout the area for McGarrity.
I gazed around at the surrounding cityscape. It was still under heavy construction, and a number of the downtown buildings were in various stages of completion. The mammoth advertisements that adorned Times Square were all in place, but only about half of them were illuminated. A Coke bottle that occupied most of a skyscraper remained grey and lifeless, and 3D hologram projectors spun listlessly in the distance; without bulbs or a sound system, they served to do little more than provide the faint ambient noise of grinding gears.
So I ambled around and peered through dusty storefront windows, cupping my hands around my eyes to adjust for the darkness. They were shells. The interiors were vacant concrete cubes containing no more than the odd toolbox, a pile of sawdust, or a half-eaten sandwich abandoned by a construction worker.
Still soaking in my surroundings (and regaining my equilibrium after nearly drowning) I failed to notice the hologram that had appeared in the street. Near the location where I’d been ejected from the pneumatic tube was Valeriya, standing patiently with her hands clasped behind her. There was something about the way she carried herself; back straightened, chin leveled, and an icy stillness to her posture that made a definitive statement: I have all the time in the world, and yours is about to run out.
This battle, after all, was never about firepower or superhuman abilities. And realistically, a truce wasn’t going to be negotiated since diplomacy was never on the table. This siege was always about tactics: a chess game where the attacker moved the right pieces into place, patiently awaiting her chance to topple the king. Sieges have worked this way for centuries: the raiding party enjoyed a distinct advantage because they were on the outside, with freedom of movement and access to the resources they required. While the castle’s inhabitants – unable to leave due to the military blockade that surrounded them – watched helplessly as their rations gradually depleted. With weakened soldiers and crumbling fortifications, the attackers would fight their way in; or, if the defenders were on the brink of starvation, the white flag would be raised before the first sword was pulled from its scabbard. As far as Valeriya was concerned, sacking my castle was inevitable. And the clock, as it often was, remained my worst enemy.
“So many lives have been lost,” Valeriya stated plainly, without any trace of remorse. “How many of your friends need to die before you surrender?”
I made my way to the edge of the sidewalk and sat on the curb, joints aching as I crouched. “Let’s not insult each other with any more lies,” I grumbled. “If I gave myself up you’d kill my friends just to spite me.”
She shrugged; a lazy, half-hearted gesture, as if she were still making up her mind as to whether she’d honor her bargain. “Perhaps you are correct. There is no way for you to know if I am telling the truth. But believe this, God Slayer: you have run out of levels. The Spiral has come to an end.”
We were just one step away from the end of The Spiral. And as far as I knew, Valeriya wasn’t aware of the construction tunnel we were counting on for our escape. I’d erased all evidence of its existence, so she was likely convinced the lowest stage was nothing more than a dead end; we’d be rats in a cage, scrambling for our lives until The Nightmare captured me and disposed of my remaining allies.
I wasn’t sure why Valeriya made the effort to contact me at this point. I guessed it was just another attempt to rattle me and shake my concentration. Either way, I had her undivided attention, and a few minutes to kill until Brynja and Peyton arrived. I took the opportunity to uncover a mystery that had been bothering me since I’d spoken with my lawyer. “I have to hand it to you,” I said nonchalantly. “Transferring ownership of the land was pretty slick. You have no chance of getting arrested now that Fortress 23 is in its own country. Did you pay off politicians, or were they dumb enough to buy into your cult-leader bullshit?”
Valeriya remained silent. She was perfectly still, unflinching, for just a solitary heartbeat...it was a heartbeat too long. A small nod of affirmation quickly followed, but it was too late: she’d given herself away. There was hesitation floating behind her eyes. It was just the slightest, most infinitesimal indication that she was searching her memories for an explanation. Of all the emotions human beings are capable of experiencing, the most difficult to conceal is confusion. She didn’t facilitate the land transfer, making me the proprietor of my own country. She wasn’t even aware it had occurred. My question had been answered, and it had been replaced by two more: if Valeriya wasn’t behind the transfer, who was? And for what purpose?
Without warning her hologram winked off, leaving me alone in the street once again.
I wandered around for a few moments, searching storefronts for a casket, or anything else that could pass as a makeshift weapon. I no longer had a firearm or any explosives, and the stun-guns built into my gauntlets were on the fritz. I tried to activate them as a test; the left one resulted in a few sputtering blue sparks followed by a plume of smoke, and the right once remained functional, but had only a single charge remaining. The suit was water resistant, but completely submerging the electronics for so long had evidently caused some damage. Last month it had occurred to me that I probably should have included some underwater drills while I was in the testing phase, but at the time I had more pressing matters to attend to (most of them being comic book or Lego-related).
I scoured some abandoned workst
ations. A few oversized wrenches and crowbars seemed too cumbersome to be effective weapons, so I continued my search, wandering south until I noticed a squat, red-stoned building wedged between two larger ones; there was a poster that depicted a beer stein plastered above the wooden door, which was slightly ajar. Watery footprints led from the sidewalk through the entrance and into the darkness. I immediately knew who was inside.
The hinges creaked as I pushed the door, casting a stretch of light into the dusty room. It was a makeshift pub. Folding metal chairs were loosely arranged around overturned crates that doubled as tables, and the floors were littered with empty bottles and cans. And at the bar – the only authentic piece of furniture in the establishment – sat Steve McGarrity, stooped over a pint of beer.
“Not exactly the Flash, are you?” He turned and raised his glass, cocking an annoying grin. “What took you so long?” McGarrity looked no worse for wear aside from being soaked through from his t-shirt to his jeans. Just ten minutes ago I’d been mildly concerned that he might be dead, but here he was – alive, and as irritating as ever.
I circled behind the bar to find a trio of functional beer taps, and a row of mostly-clean glasses. I wasn’t a beer drinker, but at that point I was willing to chug just about anything with alcoholic content – a near-death experience tends to have that effect.
Beer stein in-hand, I pulled up a stool next to McGarrity and took a sip. “So why are you here?” I asked. “It can’t be just about the money and this ‘ultimate freedom’ thing that’s supposedly sitting right below us.”
“Naw,” he smiled. “it’s about the fame, too.”
I just shook my head. I downed the first half of my pint in silence until he abruptly asked a question.
“Do you ever get high?”
“No need,” I replied. “I’m high on life.”
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