Final Empire

by Blake Northcott

  “Hello?” she repeated, slightly annoyed. “Paris?”

  “Oh, right,” I replied, still staring into the mirror. “Paris. Sounds good.”

  She dropped her towels, crossed the room and pulled jeans and a white tank top out of her dresser.

  “Yeah, I was thinking it would be great for the ceremony…or at least the reception.”

  With my jeans pulled to my knees I wobbled, toppling onto the carpeted floor.

  “Wait, so…but, we’re not even…” I grumbled, flopping around like a goldfish that had leaped from its bowl and landed on a countertop. I finally pulled up my jeans and popped back to my feet just as she’d finished dressing.

  “I know, I know,” she said, smiling sweetly. “It doesn’t have to be now, but it needs to be sometime in the future, right? We’re not kids anymore, Matty. Some long-term planning isn’t going to hurt. It just makes sense.”

  Peyton was like a ninja when it came to dropping hints into conversations, and even better at steering me into specific answers. It’s not that she tried to conceal them – it was actually the opposite – but she could somehow Jedi her way right into my mind. It was nerve-racking. With a flash of teeth and a bat of her eyes I was suddenly a stammering teenage kid again, trying (and failing) to look cool when the hottest girl in school passed by my locker.

  She made her way back towards me. Her fingers found their way through my dark hair, and her chest pressed to mine.

  It was more than just nerves. It was my memory loss, and my condition, and the box that was in the basement of the fortress. It ate away at me, all of it. There was so much she needed to know. She thought there was going to be a future with me that might never happen, at least not for a while…

  “I’ve been meaning to tell you about something,” I said, not much louder than a whisper.

  “I can take a guess,” she said coolly, inching her hands down my back, fingers circling my waist. “You’re going to tell me that you can’t live without me, and that if I weren’t around, you don’t know what you’d do?” She grabbed the zipper on my jeans, yanking it up with a quick tug.

  Damn you, woman – you’re like Obi Wan and I’m a clueless Stormtrooper.

  “Well, no…I mean, yes, actually. You’re right. But I was just thinking…aside from the fact that I feel like you just pulled up outside of the cantina at Mos Eisley in your landspeeder, and you’re waving your hand around, telling me that these aren’t the droids I’m looking for.”

  She planted a wet kiss on my mouth. “I love it when you speak other languages. But I was thinking we could start learning one together…maybe French? Sometime after you pop the question…which might be…”

  My wrist-com chimed and I let out a sigh of relief. Not a metaphorical one – an actual, physical exhalation of air, causing Peyton to narrow her eyes.

  “Sorry.” She groaned. “My fault for trying to inject some romance into…this. Whatever ‘this’ is.”

  I glanced at my beeping wrist. It was Detective Dzobiak. “I…I have to get it. I’ve been waiting for a call. It’s critical.”

  She turned and walked towards her dresser, shaking her head. “It always is.”

  I opened a holo-screen, washed out against the light pouring in through the windows. The reflection coming off the ocean was so powerful it blurred Dzobiak’s face into a haze – a ghost-like apparition floating above my wrist.

  “Mox, my man!” His pearly grin was barely visible against the glare.

  “So you heard my news?” I asked.

  “I did, I did. Couldn’t be happier for you. Wouldn’t wanna be in Sultan Darmaki’s shoes right now…if he were wearing any shoes. Which won’t be allowed where he’s headed. And I heard you had something to do with his new accommodations?”

  Before our trip to the Liwa Oasis I’d designed a containment unit that would remove atmospheric ions from the air – essentially a jail cell that made it impossible to create or control weather when you’re locked inside (an added piece of tech in addition to the built-in CDUs). I’d had one of my staff draw up a blueprint and send it anonymously to a few high-ranking suits at the DOJ. I guess they’d used the design. Of course I had no idea that Sultan would be a double amputee by the time he was locked in the cell, which would, possibly, nullify his abilities. Though you can never, ever, be too careful. Or plan too far ahead.

  “Yeah, that was me,” I admitted. “How did you know I was the one who sent over the blueprint?”

  “Call it a hunch,” he laughed. “I wasn’t sure until just now. I go with my gut.”

  “That doesn’t sound very scientific,” I replied with a laugh of my own.

  “Nah, not really, but it works. Not everything can be measured and quantified, my man. Some things just need to feel right.”

  Peyton had overheard the conversation from across the room and turned towards me. “Sounds like some good advice, Matty.” The tone in her voice was back…it was the return of the Jedi.

  “Peyton!” the detective called out, his eyes scanning the room around me. “Where’s my girl?”

  She stepped into view and wrapped an arm around my waist, tilting her head towards mine. “Hey, Todd. Taking care of The Big Apple for us while we’re gone?”

  “You know it.” He jutted a thumb in my direction, wedging his mouth to the side. “So when is Mox here gonna make an honest woman out of you? And am I gonna be attending a ceremony under the Eiffel Tower or not?”

  I creased my brow into an uneasy frown. “Wait, how does he know about Paris? And why are you calling him ‘Todd’?”

  Peyton and the detective exchanged knowing glances and shared a light chuckle. “What do you think I’m doing when you’re playing video games,” she asked, “or when you’re locked in one of your basement labs tinkering with gadgets? I’m a human, Matty – I interact with people. You know, chit-chat? Exchanging pleasantries?”

  “I’m a human too,” I huffed. “I know how to interact with people.” My comment caused instant hilarity.

  Dzobiak shook his head, wiping his eye. “Yeah, the jury is still out on that one. I don’t know another human being who works shit out as far in advance as you do, Mox.”

  “In advance?” Peyton said, sobering a little. “Doubtful. Whenever I bring up the future Matty shuts down – like it’s physically painful to plan anything more than twenty-four hours in advance.”

  The detective jerked his head back, the playful tone in his voice vanishing. “Really? Are we talking about the same Mox, here? Because this shit he pulled with The Living Eye was damn-near a year in the making.”

  Peyton angled away from me, skin flushed. “Wait…what did you do? Did you know that Kenneth…that he’d show up at Darmaki’s palace?”

  “No, nothing like that,” I was quick to clarify, “I mean, I thought there was a very slim chance, yes – but I knew he’d show up at some point. I’ve been tracking him.”

  Her eyes darted to the detective, and then back to me. “Tracking him how, exactly?”

  I explained that the smart dust – the microscopic particles that I’d used to coat Dozer with in Venice – were a technology I’d acquired long ago. The gun that was used to blast him had been cobbled together just prior to the mission, right here in the basement labs of Fortress 18 – but the smart dust was nothing new. It was already in the beta testing phases at The Frost Corporation when I’d acquired the company. It took me just a few phone calls to acquire as much of it as I’d needed.

  “During one of my visits to see Kenneth in the hospital,” I explained, “when he was in a coma in Thunder Bay…I sort of injected him with some smart dust.”

  “Injected him?” Peyton repeated, miming the action of a syringe plunging into her arm.

  “They’re harmless, really! The invisible particles went into his IV bag, and circulated through his bloodstream. I was tracking him for the better part of a year…the human body recycles all of its cells in roughly a twelve month span, so they’d only be active until
—”

  “Am I the only one who thinks this is a little crazy?” she cut in.

  “You put microchips inside of dogs ears,” I reminded her. “What’s the difference? I was just keeping tabs on him.”

  “Why?” Peyton persisted. “Why would you ever do that? We chip dogs in case they run away and get lost. Spying on people is a completely different thing and you know it, Matt. Why did you…” She trailed off, bringing a hand to her mouth. “Wait, are you tracking me, too?”

  I didn’t reply.

  Her eyes narrowed, now with disgust as much as suspicion. “Every time I drink a bottle of water around here or take a sip of tea, am I actually ingesting some weird tracking chips?”

  Glancing down at my wrist I’d forgotten that the detective was still on a holo-screen call. He was staring awkwardly off-camera, fidgeting with his collar. “I’d better call you back, Todd.”

  He nodded in agreement and terminated the call with a rapid tap of his wrist, blipping out of view.

  “So?” Peyton asked once again, this time even less politely. “Tracking chips?”

  “They’re not chips,” I explained. “They’re microscopic, and totally non-toxic.”

  “I don’t care if they’re made of Oreo cookies and rainbows! You can’t just go around feeding people weird science junk so you can keep tabs on them. And has there been any long-term testing? For all you know I could get cancer in ten years because of this.”

  “I would never put you at risk like that!” I shouted, more forcefully than I’d intended. “The tracking is to keep you safe, can’t you see that? What would I do if you ever got kidnapped by someone who wants revenge against me? I do everything in my power to keep you out of harm’s way, but you keep insisting on tagging along during dangerous missions like you have some kind of a death wish!”

  “It’s because I love you, you stupid idiot!” She jammed a palm into my chest and sent me back a step. “But you make it really hard to do that sometimes. And of course I’m going to ‘tag along’. If you’re going to walk into the fire, I’m damn well going to be there holding your hand, willing to burn to ashes right by your side. Because I know you’d do the same for me.”

  “Well I love you too, Peyton. That’s why I go to these insane lengths to protect you.”

  Peyton’s jaw fell slack. Her hands, which were tightly clenched fists just a moment before, dangled loosely at her sides.

  “I realize that was a weird moment I chose to say that for the first time,” I admitted, scratching at the back of my neck. “But…it’s just…you needed to know.”

  The shock melted from her face and she pulled me close, squeezing me tight. I could feel the rapid-fire pace of her heart beating into my chest, like an overtaxed piston ready to explode. I wanted to say more. I should have. That was the most raw, honest moment we’d ever shared, and if I could’ve gone back in a time machine and pre-planned the most ideal moment to tell her about everything I’d been concealing, that would’ve been it.

  But I let the moment slip away.

  It would be a long time before she knew the full extent of my illness; the cancerous mass that continued to eat away at my brain, devouring thoughts and memories and pieces of who I was. But it wouldn’t be nearly as long until she discovered what was in the box.

  The lab was empty during lunch hour, which afforded me not only privacy, but access to all the toys I needed to play with. The football stadium-sized underground space was glistening with pristine white metal, and rows upon rows of workstations containing every device imaginable: from old-school compound microscopes to the most state-of-the-art equipment. There was the immersive virtual reality rig (which was basically a giant metal hamster ball sitting on a gyroscope) that allowed me to climb in and control a remote presence with the combination of laser-mapped physical movements and a form of machine-augmented cognition. There was a ten zettabyte computer, with an interface no larger than a standard tablet, powerful enough to engineer the climate of every city in the Western hemisphere, tracking the amount of precipitation to the exact raindrop. Not to mention the neuro-informatics research center, which was used for designing various artificial intelligence programs. Back in The Fringe I’d spent more than one boozy night at the pub with Gavin, arguing about the perils of designing AI. He was convinced that Skynet would one day plunge the world into chaos, or that we’d eventually be relegated to pink amniotic sacks, being harvested for energy by our new robotic overlords (“No, Gav, despite hundreds of sci-fi movies to the contrary, there is absolutely no chance of a machine ‘turning evil’ and enslaving us. It’s like being afraid that your toaster is going to get jealous and slit your throat while you sleep.”)

  I went to the comm center; a slab of cylindrical beveled glass propped up by a stone pedestal. Without the glowing access pad and touch-controls discreetly situated on the outermost edge, it would just look like a dinner table that could seat a party of ten. I swiped my gold access card across the pad and it chimed to life. With a voice command, a towering holographic projection of the Earth spread out before me, first as a sphere, and then flattening out into a more traditional-looking Peters Projection map. I leaned over the console with the illuminated touch pad at my fingertips, adjusting it into position. With a second command I brought Detective Dzobiak’s face into a smaller screen off to the side.

  “Sorry to keep you on hold,” I apologized. “I needed to get somewhere private.”

  “Huh. Thought it would be easy in a fortress the size of a city.”

  I sighed. “And yet…”

  “How did things go with Peyton?” he asked, wincing slightly, as if bracing for a disastrous response.

  “I told her I loved her,” I said flatly, my attention focused on the map.

  “That’s a good thing…right? I can never tell with you.”

  I shrugged half-heartedly. “I think so. I don’t know. Do you have the results I asked for?”

  “Right, right…link your console to mine and I’ll send the data right to your display. I can’t make heads or tails of this mess…I’m not a mapologist.”

  “A what?” I said with a chuckle. “You mean a ‘cartographer’.”

  “Whatever, man,” he scoffed. “I never claimed to be Christopher goddamned Columbus. You asked for this shit, so I’m sending it over.”

  I accepted his link request with my console. And with a few clacks of his ancient keyboard, Dzobiak sent a stream of red lines streaking across my giant projected map. At first it looked like an abstract painting – thousands of intersecting paths that cut through the ocean, sailing in every possible direction. The nautical patterns of every known commercial sea craft over the last year were not giving me anything to work with. At least not yet.

  “Now dial it back to just the last three months,” I asked. The blue lines overlapped red, displaying a slightly more readable pattern. Cruise ships that sailed across the Mediterranean exclusively throughout the summer months were more distinctive, as were the paths of cargo vessels travelling between China and the west coast of South America. Nothing out of the ordinary, except for a huge increase in naval traffic converging on a very remote, very specific island. The lines all pointed in one direction, and they all led to Kenneth Livitski.

  Using the smart dust in his bloodstream, I’d been tracking my former friend and ally for the better part of the year. At first the activity was frantic. For the months following Kenneth’s departure from Thunder Bay, he’d been bouncing around the globe with no discernible pattern: from Khartoum to São Paulo, Nagpur to Vancouver, and everywhere else in between. He’d stay in Qatar for a week, a couple days in Morocco, and then, without warning, the tracers had simply stopped working. They should have tracked his position for several additional months (and I was never able to get a definitive reason as to why they’d failed) although they’d done their job. One of his last known positions was the Kerguelen Islands –the most remote destinations on the planet, located in the southern Indian Ocean.
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br />   The islands, also known as the ‘Desolation Islands’ have no permanent residents. There is no infrastructure, no airport. Aside from small teams of scientists and researchers that periodically travel there from France, no one ever goes there – there’s simply nothing to see. Hence the name. The only way to and from the secluded chunk of rock is by ship, and those excursions are extremely rare.

  Or had been rare – until now.

  When the detective sent over his data, my suspicions had been confirmed. Chartered ships of all shapes and sizes had been departing from Madagascar, Western Australia, Tazmania, even as far away as South America – all headed directly towards the Desolation Islands. Stranger still? They were one-way trips. The new population of the deserted island must have now been in the thousands. And no one knew why.

  “Homeland sent me the aggregated worldwide stats,” Dzobiak explained. “They hit my com an hour ago. There’s been a surge in missing persons cases over the last couple of months…and you’re saying it has something to do with all the boats heading to this island?”

  “That’s what I’ve been piecing together. Satellite imaging?”

  “We can try,” he said. “I’ll get the boys to put eyes over the island to see what’s what, but we won’t know much until we can get boots on the ground.”

  “Don’t do that,” I snapped, my eyes darting to meet his. “And don’t tell anyone about the Desolation Islands. At least not yet.”

  “Mox, come on. I can’t just sit on this, man – I have a responsibility. People’s lives are in danger, families are scared…”

  “They’re all fine,” I assured him. “Kenneth isn’t hurting them. He wouldn’t. You don’t know him.”

  “And you do?”

  It was a fair question. The look on Kenneth’s face when he saw us in the Liwa Desert was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. It was just a glance – a freeze-frame between the moment he’d sheared off Darmaki’s hands and the moment he took off in a burst of blue energy, as suddenly and as dramatically as he’d appeared – but that glance spoke volumes. I thought I knew Kenneth. Who he was, what he was capable of. Now? I wasn’t so sure.