Final Empire

by Blake Northcott

  “About that...” she said, her voice shrinking. “When that attack happened in Russia – when Taktarov’s body went missing and the jet took off with it – I knew. It was just a week after I’d sold it. It was black, not gold, but aside from that...I knew it the second I saw the news footage. I was positive.”

  Her head sagged, but I squeezed her shoulders until our eyes met. “There was nothing you could’ve done.”

  “Two hundred and eight people died that day. And I provided the getaway plane. I could’ve called you, told you what I knew. But I didn’t say a word. I was terrified of what you’d think of me.” A single salty tear streaked her porcelain face, dotting the sand at her toes. “And now your hometown – the city you’ve been rebuilding – gets flattened, and it’s my fault because of that stupid jet. And South Africa...and Northern Europe...” her words trailed into sobs, and she collapsed on my shoulder.

  She was limp, draped against me. I had never seen Brynja so weak; she was more than just vulnerable – she was broken. I knew how she’d felt.

  “How do you drop a bomb like that?” Her words were muffled against fabric, mouth pressed into my shoulder. “How do you tell someone the impossible? And now, after everything that’s happened...”

  “You’re telling me now.” I stroked her hair, pressing my lips into the top of her head. “That’s all that matters. And it’s not too late – we can still stop the bastard who’s behind this.”

  The painful truth was that I didn’t know if we were too late, and I didn’t know if we could stop the attacks. I didn’t know anything. Brynja could read minds, and probably sensed that I was lying to her. It didn’t matter. She held me tighter, wrapping her arms around my waist, slumping into my chest as if it were the safest place in the world.

  It was in that moment when I’d realized why Brynja was the way she was: cold, distant at times...maybe even jaded. It’s because we all need to be lied to once in a while. When we’re at our worst and things seem darkest, we need to hear something warm and reassuring, often just for the sake of hearing it. The words ‘it’ll be okay’ float from the lips of someone we trust, and we like to pretend that everything will be – even if it’s just for that fleeting moment. Brynja’s abilities had robbed her of that. She could sense when someone was lying, and it stole away those moments we all need in our lives – the beautiful, comfortable lies that help us sleep at night.

  I could never tell when she was reading me, but for the first time I’d hoped that she was. Because I was thinking that after everything we’d been through, there was nothing she could do to make me hate her.

  She drew back and pressed her lips into my cheek, dangerously close to the edge of my lip.

  And then with a hard blink she released her grip from around my waist, stepping back. The world around us drifted back into focus.

  She gestured behind her at the hovering transport. “We’d better...”

  “Right!” I said, scratching the back of my forearms, as though with a sudden itch. “We’d better get moving because...imminent danger and all that.”

  She started padding across the sand towards the stone walkway that led to her estate. “So I’m going to go throw something less obscene on...I’d rather not be in a bikini when I meet the gang again. Plus if we’re going to be working together until we beat the bad guys I should probably have clothes.”

  “Good! Good idea...clothes are underrated.” What the hell was I saying?

  “Okaaay,” she replied, an awkward smile stretching across her face. “So...back here in five?”

  “Five is good.”

  She rushed away, and I let out a breath I’d been holding in for the better part of a minute.

  I wiped the sweat from my brow . Peyton, Brynja and myself, all together. Again.

  It might just be easier to let the world fall to pieces.

  Chapter Eight

  The following day we returned to Fortress 18, my research and development compound in the South China Sea. It was the ideal base of operations for two primary reasons:

  One, it was the most remote and infrequently visited fortress I owned, making it the last place anyone would look for me (the mountainous island chain that the compound was built into didn’t appear on any map, and was digitally masked from satellite imaging).

  And two: Cameron Frost, being the Machiavellian jackass that he was, forbade his employees at Fortress 18 from communicating with the outside world for months on end. At times it was even up to a year, depending on the terms they’d negotiated prior to their stay at the fortress. His reasoning was something about it distracting workers from their duties, thereby reducing productivity. Cruel and unusual working conditions? Undoubtedly. But his policy – the one I’d been too lazy and distracted to change since I took over – gave me a tactical advantage. A communications blackout meant that at Fortress 18, none of the staff had the vaguest clue that I was public enemy number one. As far as they knew the boss was just popping in for a routine visit. There was no possibility of a rogue cook or maintenance worker going into business for themselves, calling up the feds, and leaking my location (and collecting what would surely be a sizable reward in the process). I’d been burned by overly ambitious employees in the past, and wasn’t sure who I could trust, even under optimal conditions.

  After we’d arrived and had been greeted by my director of operations, Bethany Price, I needed some time to catch up on current events. Peyton, Brynja, McGarrity, Karin and Gavin were assigned rooms, and were more than happy to enjoy some downtime. No matter how luxurious the aircraft, there’s always a sense of exhaustion that follows a flight. Part of it is just the sheer relief of stepping back onto solid ground. After spending half a day confined to the fuselage of a jet I would’ve given my left arm for a shower and a nap as well, but that would have to wait.

  I promised to meet up with the group later. Everyone went their separate ways, being directed towards living quarters on the top level of the compound. Upon our arrival I’d discreetly asked Bethany to ensure that Brynja and Peyton be assigned rooms on opposite ends of the floor. She asked why, and then glanced over her shoulder to see Brynja fidgeting, eyes locked on the ground beneath her, while Peyton’s gaze shot daggers at her from across the entrance bay. You could cut the tension between them with a knife. Bethany whispered, ‘Say no more,’ and made the necessary arrangements.

  Peyton and Brynja had left each other on good terms the last time we were together. Hell, it even ended with a hug. Although circumstances were markedly different: when you think you’ll never see someone again it’s difficult to hold a grudge. When they’re thrust back into your life under questionable circumstances, the awkwardness that existed before tends to bubble back to the surface – and in this case, intensify.

  With everyone off to their assigned rooms, I needed some quiet. Bethany cheerfully assured me that I’d enjoy total privacy in the main conference center in the basement level, situated below sea level. After a journey down several elevators and through a winding snowflake-white hallway, I arrived at a matching steel door, which slid open to reveal the circular white room. The hermetically sealed space was polished and glistening, as if it were a showroom for designer office furniture. I don’t know if it was rarely used, or simply kept in pristine condition through multiple cleanings each day – neither would’ve surprised me. The door hissed closed behind me and locked with a voice command.

  I dropped into an ivory leather chair and kicked my feet up onto the elliptical glass conference table. “Detective Dzobiak, New York City,” I commanded, opening a holo-session that winked from my wrist com.

  My friend blinked into view in a dark room, lit by a single bedside lamp. “What’s up?” He yawned into the back of his hand, his bleary eyes glancing off to the side. “What’s the emergency? It’s three in the morning here.”

  “Shit, sorry man. I’m on the other side of the world.”

  “I figured as much,” he chuckled, yawning again.

 
“Any news?”

  “Some,” he said. “A friend at city hall told me about a budget meeting she sat in on this morning. They’re cutting all ties with the Moxon Corporation.”

  It was hardly surprising. I’d already anticipated becoming a pariah, but didn’t have any of the specifics. “After trashing the NYPD’s Manhattan precinct I didn’t expect to receive another key to the city.”

  “Your little stunt downtown had nothing to do with it,” he explained. “It’s the CDUs. Word around the campfire is that your dampening units aren’t working as a deterrent for superhuman attacks.”

  “The cerebral dampening units only failed because they were tampered with.” And must have been tampered with in other cities as well, I assumed, since not a single one had been effective in preventing the rogue Arena Mode tournament from decimating capital cities.

  The detective managed a tiny shrug. “Be that as it may...”

  “Okay,” I sighed. “So how bad can it be? My company’s reputation takes a bit of a beating. I supposed I had this coming.”

  “A bit?” Dzobiak’s eyes widened as if he’d just been injected with a syringe full of caffeine. “Damn, man...you don’t have the NYSE’s deck on your com, do you?”

  Uh oh. I didn’t. I hadn’t checked the New York Stock Exchange since I first acquired the company during the lawsuit. All those numbers were very boring, and seemed utterly meaningless. When you’re dealing with hundreds of billions of dollars, a stock dropping or gaining a percentage point or two was pretty trivial; though his expression made my heart skip a beat – I had the sense that what he was about to tell me was anything but.

  “I actually have the app, but I never leave it on.” One click and the voice command for my stock symbol, ‘TMC’, brought up yesterday’s chart. The red line that represented my stock’s value had held steady for most of 2042; a bump here, a dip there – just little hills and valleys. When news broke that the American government was distancing itself from me and my company, yesterday’s little valley had plummeted into a cavernous pit. The Moxon Corporation’s stock had lost seventy-one percent of its value in a matter of hours, and was forecasted to remain in the ever-deepening financial crater.

  “Holy shit,” I whispered, without realizing I’d said the words out loud.

  “Well you still have many, many billions...right?”

  “Yeah, but...holy shit.” Ninety-four billion, eight hundred and sixty-five million, three hundred and fourteen dollars – vanished. All in less than three hours. But who’s counting.

  “Don’t bring up a calculator and figure it out, man...it’ll just depress you.”

  “Too late,” I replied, eyes still glued to the scrolling ticker at the bottom of the holo-screen.

  Dzobiak winced. “Damn, I forgot about the calculating thing...where you’re like this freaky robot who can do the math in his head.”

  I blew out my cheeks, massaging my throbbing temples in tiny circles. “Well...you know. Could be worse.”

  “For sure,” the detective said, with an uncharacteristically upbeat tone to his voice. “If you never escaped the precinct and Wells got his way, you’d be in a South American detention center with a car battery attached to your balls.”

  He was right. I’d lost billions, but thankfully my testicles didn’t have a single volt of electricity coursing through them. “Nice to know I have that going for me. So, any other interesting tidbits in the slow-motion train wreck that has become my life?”

  As I asked the question I noticed a spark of realization pop in his dark brown eyes.

  “Everything going on here,” he said, “this Arena Mode tournament, this whole thing...it might not be about you.”

  “Wait – what?”

  The detective threw his legs over the edge of his bed, jolting upright. “It might be about your company going down, not you, specifically.”

  It had only been ‘my’ company for a relatively short period of time; the Moxon Corporation was the Frost Corporation only one short year ago. I’d become so myopic in my search for answers that I’d never bothered to entertain the possibility that something larger couple be at stake – something more than a personal vendetta specifically targeting me. I guess intelligence didn’t always translate into common sense.

  “All right,” I said with a nod. “Let’s assume you’re right: this is about the former Frost Corporation. Why?”

  “Frost had enemies, right?”

  I blurted out a laugh. “The guy who became the richest man on the planet by profiting from human misery? I’d say that’s a safe assumption.”

  “So maybe this is someone who hates Frost so much that he wants to destroy his empire – everything he’s built over the course of his career. Even following his death.”

  The detective was definitely onto something, and I had the sense he was moving in the right direction...though I wasn’t completely convinced he was wandering down the correct path. This was about me in some way. If it wasn’t, why go to the trouble of contacting me to gloat?

  “If our mystery person hates Frost this much,” I said, “I should be their hero. I’m the one who blew his brains out, remember?”

  “Hmm...” The detective hummed and hawed for a moment, wedging his lips to one side. “All right, let me get a couple more hours of sleep and we’ll tackle this in the morning. And in the meantime—”

  “I know, I know,” I said, waving him off. “‘Watch my ass’, right?”

  “No, I was gonna tell you to get some shuteye yourself, man...you look like hammered shit.”

  My laughter was shot through by a series of knocks; knuckles frantically rapping the metallic conference room door. Then my wrist-com chimed. “Let me in right now,” the text message read, cutting across the holo-screen, bisecting the detective’s face.

  “I have to go,” I said, gesturing towards the door. “Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

  He nodded as the window disappeared.

  The rapping persisted until I commanded the door to unlock, sliding open with a quiet hiss. Peyton lunged in, breathlessly telling me to close the door behind her.

  “Close and lock,” I commanded, waiting for the windowless steel door to seal shut before I continued. “Okay, we’re alone. Where’s the fire?”

  Peyton gripped my shoulders with both hands, fingernails burrowing into my skin through my tattered t-shirt. “I saw him,” Peyton whispered, eyes darting around the room. She yanked me closer, pressing her lips against my ear. “It’s McGarrity...I think it’s him.”

  “You don’t need to whisper,” I assured her, “No cameras or recording devices in here.”

  She drew in a pair of deep breaths and loosened her grip. “Steve...he dropped his jacket in the lounge and went to take a shower...”

  “Okay...”

  “And you know the talk we had about Brynja and McGarrity,” she reminded me, her rapid-fire words coming like bullets from a machine gun. “Well, it was more about me not trusting Brynja, mainly, but you know how Detective Dzobiak was talking about the money in The Fringe, and how all of the—”

  “Hey, hey, hey,” I said softly, cupping her chin in my hands. “Just take it easy. Start at the beginning.”

  I pulled a bottle of water from the conference room’s mini fridge and sat with her at the glass table. She spun off the cap and took a few quick sips before continuing.

  “So, McGarrity was acting kind of shifty,” she said, sounding more composed. “And he was whispering to someone on his wrist-com. Then he peels off his jacket and says something about hitting the showers.”

  “Did you hear who he was talking to?”

  Peyton shook her head. “No, but I heard McGarrity mention money, and being owed a ‘huge payday’. So as soon as he left the room I went through his jacket. This was in his pocket.” She pulled back the sleeve of her blue hospital scrubs and tapped the face of her com, projecting a photograph she’d taken just moments before. It was a pile of cash. Not American dollars – they w
ere the brightly-colored orange, blue and green bank notes used throughout the European Union. The same bills used to pay the homeless in The Fringe, resulting in the shut-down of the CDUs.

  I studied the photo for a moment longer, rolling the possibilities over in my mind. “This could be a coincidence. He was just in the UK, so...maybe he took out some cash and was planning to buy something? A trip over to France or Germany after his interview in London?”

  “You said it yourself, Matty: we can’t trust anyone.” She swallowed hard, eyes welling with tears. “Remember Valentina?”

  It had been nearly a year since the incident. Valentina, my former bodyguard, had clandestinely met with The Red Army and accepted a payoff in exchange for her loyalty. The terms of the negotiation were simple: turn me over to the angry mob, and she’d be guaranteed an eight-figure paycheck for her efforts. I had no specific knowledge that she was up to no good, but I’d had my suspicions...I’d been contemplating the possibility of her switching allegiances for months, and had put a number of contingency plans into place. My neurotic over-planning (and general lack of faith in humanity) paid off when she finally did betray me, locking Peyton and I in a secured room at Fortress 23 – a room not unlike the one we were in at that very moment. With some high-voltage electrical shocks from my armored suit I killed her, sending her corpse crashing through a glass table.

  I was no stranger to violence. Before that moment I’d seen my fair share of death and dismemberment while competing in Arena Mode. Horrifying images permeated my thoughts like cotton soaked through with blood; time faded the stains, but the fabric would never be totally washed clean. That’s just the way it worked, and I’d grown to accept it. Though in that moment, it wasn’t the sight of Valentina’s ravaged body that struck me: it was the expression on Peyton’s face. She wasn’t just a witness in that moment. She was an active participant. An accessory. An accomplice. She’d helped electrocute our captor as well, and was as responsible for her death as I was.