Assault or Attrition (7 page)

I had a hard
time believing it.

“How is this
shit even legal?” Brynja shouted, banging her fist on the tabletop.
“This bitch is threatening to kill Mox right there on camera! I
know people raise money for crazy reasons, but you can’t collect
donations so you can
assassinate
someone...can you?”

My lawyer
explained that it’s not so simple. The woman from the video – who
was later identified as Astrid Neve, a twenty-nine year old
translator from Manchester – didn’t make any direct threat. She
used words like ‘justice’ and ‘crusade’, but deftly side-stepped
the use of any explicit call-to-action that would involve a
physical attack – the language was deliberately ambiguous. You
can’t pursue legal action based on insinuation, and on the surface
that’s all this was. What she’s planning to do with this money once
it’s raised is incidental.

“So what if
someone attacks Mox after they see this video,” Brynja asked.
“Would this woman be held responsible? Isn’t this hate speech or
something?”

“It’s a fine
line,” my lawyer explained delicately. “This woman can just claim
that she was speaking in metaphors. It happens on simulcasts all
the time: a political commentator will make a vague reference to
ridding the world of someone they disagree with, and before long
that person turns up dead. There isn’t really a legal recourse for
this type of rhetoric.”

It was a
shocking video that had the potential to further incense an already
bitter group of Taktarov’s followers, including the Red Army. And
although this type of talk had already sparked violence, there was
surely a limit to how far people would go. Something new would
happen – a political scandal, a celebrity wedding, a football game
– that would take everyone’s mind off of Matthew Moxon, the God
Slayer. That’s what I kept telling myself until my lawyer opened
one final video.

“I know this is
a lot to absorb,” Fitzsimmons continued, his measured voice etched
with a hint of emotion, “but...there’s one last thing I need to
show you. This happened just twenty minutes ago.”

A new window
blinked to life and the video began streaming. It was a live New
York Chronicle Simulcast, where a camera was fixed on a high-rise
which was being devoured by flames. It appeared to be a residential
apartment, where a blackened hole was blasted into the mortar, and
had taken out several stories. A pillar of ash-colored smoke
climbed into the sky, obscuring most of the building’s
surroundings. It looked like a scene from Africa or the Middle East
– some war-torn region where bombings were commonplace. But as the
smoke dissipated, the skyline behind the building came into view. I
saw the Empire State building, alongside a row of familiar
megatowers. It was Manhattan.

“It’s your
apartment,” Fitzsimmons said flatly. “Someone attached an explosive
device to you front door.”

It took me a
moment to process the information. “What...what was the response?
Locally, I mean, in The Fringe?”

“Status quo,”
Fitzsimmons replied. “Blockades, arrests, martial law. The entire
city is under curfew. It seems to be contained for the moment – no
looting or rioting in the area. But—”

“
Yeah
,”
I interrupted, massaging my forehead. “I know. ‘This is probably
just the beginning’, right?”

Fitzsimmons
shook his head slowly. “That isn’t what I was going to say, Mister
Moxon. There is no ‘probably’ about it. This
is
the
beginning. And I don’t see things calming down anytime soon.”

“
That’s no
moon, Brynja...that’s a space station.”

She looked at
me like I was a complete idiot. “I never said it was a moon. And
why the hell would anyone think
that’s
a space station?”

I made a mental
note to keep the Star Wars references to a minimum as long as
Brynja was my guest.

Peering out the
window as we made our approach, the structure began to take shape
on the horizon. Beyond the snow-capped mountains, encircled by an
endless sea of pine trees sat my new home: Fortress 23. The word
‘massive’ didn’t cover it – it was imposing. A shining metallic
city built directly into the side of a mountain, it would be
impossible to miss if it weren’t so isolated; the only sign of life
for miles in every direction were migrating birds and the
occasional heard of caribou. It was just like Superman’s Fortress
of Solitude – if his fortress was furnished with several hundred
rooms and a staff to clean and maintain it. I definitely had to
come up with a better name for it though, or at the very least find
out what had happened to the other twenty-two.

Mac circled the
jet around to an extended landing strip that led to the hangar,
where two enormous, interlocking steel doors guarded the entrance.
We hovered in place, awaiting a prompt.

“
Please
identify yourself,”
a voice crackled over the com. It echoed
through the cockpit and was audible in the cabin.

“This is eleven
thirty-eight,” Mac said, using his most official-sounding pilot
voice, several octaves lower than his usual tone. “I’ve got Moxon
on board and we’re knocking on the front door.”

“
Welcome
home, eleven thirty-eight. We’re unlocking the deadbolt and turning
on the porch lights.”

And with those
words the metal doors pulled open, gears grinding slowly as sheets
of ice cracked and fell from their surface. The hangar slowly came
into view. The opening was cavernous. Home to a fleet of twenty
aircraft with room for twenty more, the enclosed area was like a
small city all its own. Bright lights illuminated in sequence, from
front to back, bathing the hangar in a powerful white glow.

The landing
gear lowered and the jet touched down so gently that we never felt
the tires making contact with the surface. A man in a navy flight
suit holding a pair of neon orange batons waved us in, directing
our aircraft across the tarmac and into a docking space. We hadn’t
yet rolled to a stop before the hangar doors closed behind us with
a resounding boom.

Brynja and
Valentina stepped out of the jet first, staring with wonder at
their surroundings.

Mac jogged down
the stairs and let out a low whistle. He was practically salivating
at the collection of rare and expensive aircraft that filled the
hangar. “These are some impressive digs, Moxon. And these
birds...can I take one of them out for a spin?”

I assured him
there would be time for that as soon as we’d settled in. After the
Kashstarter video and what was happening in New York, there was no
way I was going to leave the Fortress– at least not any time in the
foreseeable future. We were here for the long haul, and he could
play with the new toys later.

A whirring
sound echoed from across the tarmac. It was a six-wheeled
transport; an open air vehicle that looked somewhat like a golf
cart, but without a roof. The driver was a small, round man with a
tangled beard and a mess of black hair. “Great to finally meet
you,” he shouted with an eager wave. “I’m Chandler Oswalt, one of
the...well, your staff, I guess. Me. I’m part of it. Mister Moxon,
sir.” His face reddened as his words spilled out in rapid
succession, and in no discernible order.

I returned the
wave and smiled. “Take it easy, Chandler. No need to be nervous.
I’m Matt.”

He stood and
adjusted his uniform, a navy-blue flight suit with a white ‘Frost
Corporation’ logo embroidered on the chest. “I’m taking bags
for...I mean, I’ve got them. Your bags. Where are they?”

I was more than
happy to carry my own things. Having a staff at my disposal was
still a relatively new experience, and I had to admit, at first it
was a little exciting. It was how I imagined Hollywood stars or
British Royalty living – not having to lift a finger for anything.
But over the course of the last three months, the novelty of having
my doors opened and my belongings carted around was beginning to
wear off. It started to make me feel more like a feeble toddler
than a powerful multi-billionaire. “Not a problem, I can
handle—”

“Right up the
stairs and in the back rooms,” Valentina interjected, pointing a
thumb behind her.

Without any
further instruction Chandler wobbled up the stairs as fast as his
stubby legs would carry him.

After loading
up the transport and we’d taken our seats, Chandler instructed us
to buckle our seatbelts. Valentina protested, but there was no
arguing with him – it was regulation. When he was satisfied that
we’d followed protocol, he taxied us across the tarmac and into the
main lobby; a pristine, marble-floored space that looked more like
the set of a science fiction movie than an actual room. Pencil-thin
blue lights ran across the stark white walls, intersecting and
diverging in intricate patterns. Small robotic cleaning devices
chirped and hummed, dusting and polishing every square foot. It was
like Frost Tower in Manhattan, and featured much of the same
technology, with the exception of a machine I’d never seen or heard
about.

“What is
that
?” Brynja shouted. As the transport came to a stop she
unbuckled her belt and jumped out of her seat.

She was staring
up at the ceiling, where a pair of orange metallic spheres were
rotating like a helicopter blade, tethered by a long grey cord. The
softball-sized devices made their descent, coming to a stop in
mid-air. They were like two oversized, pupil-less eyes, peering at
us curiously.

Chandler turned
to Brynja and motioned towards her seat. “Sit back...I mean
please
, sit...if you want. In the transport. Don’t be
alarmed.”

“What the hell
are these?” Valentina asked, extending her leg. She reached out and
tapped one of the floating spheres with the toe of her boot,
causing it to bob slightly, but maintain its position.

“
No
,
don’t do that...” Chandler scrambled from the driver’s seat and ran
to the device, yanking a rag from his back pocket. He frantically
polished and wiped the surface. “This is...it’s nothing to be
afraid of. She’s new.
It’s
new...it’s not a she,
obviously
, it’s a thing – things don’t have sexes. Genders,
I should have said. That would have sounded less creepy.”

“What does it
do
,” I asked.

“Oh,” Chandler
replied, the heat rising in his face as he continued to polish.
“Her...
it’s
name is London. She’s a utility fog. I got to
name her. You know, because London is famous for the...everywhere?
In the air?” Mac, Brynja and Valentina exchanged glances, but no
one replied.

“Anyway,” he
continued, “it’s nanotech, which as you know is
very
cutting
edge stuff. Self-reconfigurating, completely modular...think of it
like a flying exocortex. But it doesn’t attach to you,
obviously...it’s like neuroinformatics, combined—”

“So what does
that mean in
English,
” Valentina said curtly.

“It can change
shape,” I explained. “And it contains data – like a central hub for
Fortress 23, am I right?”

Chandler
gestured towards me and nodded, breathing heavily. He seemed to
have winded himself just attempting to give his explanation.

I approached
London and ran a finger along the surface of one of its spheres,
amazed by the seamless design.

“
Elevated
blood pressure, low iron, protein deficiency,”
it announced in
a genial Scottish brogue. The device had a crisp female voice, with
a slightly synthesized inflection.
“You also seem to have
recently recovered from surgery. Would you like a complete medical
analysis, Matthew Moxon?”

“Okay, keep
that thing away from me,” Mac said, leaning back in his chair.

“Why?”
Valentina chuckled. “Are you worried it might reveal your
blood-alcohol levels?”

“How is this
possible?” Brynja asked, now approaching curiously, though she was
careful not to make physical contact with the spheres.

“
I scanned
Matthew Moxon’s fingerprint,”
London said,
“and I was able
to determine his identity. I then took a sample of his DNA and made
a surface-level assessment, detailing his primary medical
issues.”

Chandler
gestured for everyone to return to their seats. “I just invited her
so she –
it
– could give you guys a tour. Show you around
the place and explain it. Things. With words. It’s better with the
words than I am.” He used his rag to dab the perspiration from his
forehead before squeezing back behind the wheel of the
transport.

Once we were
seated and properly buckled, Chandler drove us to the west wing,
using a voice command to raise the massive transparent blast door
that separated the hall from the main lobby. London followed along,
floating and rotating above our heads as it cheerfully guided us
through the fortress.

“
If you’ll
look to your left,”
London chirped,
“you’ll notice that the
exterior walls are reinforced with iridium plating, an alloy which
can only be found inside of meteorites. While expensive and
incredibly rare, the brilliant Cameron Frost purchased two thousand
acres of land here in North-Western Alberta when he discovered that
there was an abundance of the material in the area. A large meteor
had escaped NASA’s detection and fallen into a remote forest region
in November of 2033. Mister Frost, in his infinite wisdom, mined
the iridium and began construction on this very spot.”

“Brilliant?”
Brynja scoffed. “Infinite wisdom? Was London dating Cameron Frost
at one point?”

“Um, it’s old
programming,” Chandler explained. “Frost was sort of...well, he was
very proud of himself and his – what he accomplished. He has the
fortress AI include random compliments whenever possible during
speaking...speech.”