Assault or Attrition (9 page)

I’d been
wearing the same clothes since I left the hospital, which were
incidentally the same clothes I was wearing at the CN Tower during
my stabbing. I wore a dark hoodie to conceal my t-shirt, which was
torn and blood-stained. I agreed it was probably best to burn what
I was wearing and take a cue from Brynja – why spend hours flying
to the nearest mall when I could generate any garment I needed
right here?

It was an
incredible machine: the next generation model 3D printer could
replicate virtually anything, from textiles to machines with moving
parts. A few torrent sites had searchable archives, home to
literally millions of design files called ‘physibles’. It was
simple: download the source file, upload the proper materials and
feed it to the printer. A few minutes later your desired item would
appear in a large metal chamber like magic.

The machine had
a single design flaw: you had to ensure you had enough of the
correct material loaded into it before printing, or it would
default to a random compound – usually whatever had been loaded in
previously. My short-term memory issues didn’t help with the
problem. Forgetting to check the levels of cotton and polyester,
one evening I printed everyone a cushy new aluminum pillow for
their bedrooms. My running shoes made of chocolate chip cookie
dough with licorice shoelaces were another amusing disaster (and
provided a surprisingly delicious snack, considering the
combination).

As a child my
father had purchased one of the very first commercially available
3D printers, which was a relic by today’s standards. At the time
the technology was mind-boggling, and my family was fascinated with
the device. Occasionally my sister and I were allowed to model and
produce our own toys under my dad’s strict supervision. The first
gen 3D printers worked by using hot polycarbonate plastic, which
hardened as the design cooled and took shape. Design options were
limited, and the printing process seemed to take forever, but one
option was all I needed: I wanted to make Lego. Sure, I had toy
chests filled with the tiny plastic blocks in my room, but there
was something special about inputting a design and printing my
own.

With this
massive printing monstrosity at my disposal, I became a kid all
over again. Over the following month I must have created a thousand
things with my new printer: graphene-coated armor suits. Swords.
Shields. A customized toaster that looked like the original
Nintendo system. Frisbees. A working bicycle. Sniper rifles that
could fire marshmallows a thousand feet. And of course, mountains
and mountains of Lego. At one point I’d printed so many Lego pieces
that a room in the north wing was dedicated solely to my growing
collection. The entire compound was littered with pieces until the
maintenance staff got tired of stepping on them. Several people
threatened to quit if I didn’t start cleaning up after myself. I
wasn’t much of a ‘clean up after myself’ type of guy, so I hired
some additional cleaning staff dedicated solely to the task.

When I wasn’t
printing Lego or playing video games with Brynja I was reading.
After a week of searching I’d located Cameron Frost’s hidden
library in one of the deep subterranean levels, accessed by pulling
a lever in one of the supply closets. It was
epic
. A
collection of every book and graphic novel I’d ever heard of,
leather-bound and carefully organized in a three-story room with a
cathedral ceiling. Retrieving a book from the top shelf required a
harrowing journey, climbing up while clinging to a series of
sliding wooden ladders. It was three days later before I’d realized
that London could hover up and retrieve them for me, but there was
a strange sense of satisfaction in risking a broken leg to source
out the perfect reading material.

I read one
novel after the next, day after day, until I came across a series
of hardcover books that were not novels at all: they were Cameron
Frost’s personal notebooks; filled from cover-to-cover with
handwritten notes and crudely-drawn sketches, detailing Frost’s
plans for the next decade. Beyond his desire to produce violent
reality television – which had become the linchpin of his entire
financial empire – he had aspirations that ranged from grandiose to
the brink of insanity.

His expansion
into feature films was the least surprising of his ventures. Frost
had worked tirelessly to purchase the film rights to every major
movie franchise from the past fifty years; Star Wars, Star Trek,
The Lord of the Rings, The Matrix, Indiana Jones, Tron – he had put
in bids for every single one of them. Frost was sure that he could
reboot these franchises and attract an entirely new generation of
fans. And even stranger: he had delusions of writing and directing
the movies himself.

Beyond his
desire to become the next James Cameron, Frost’s passion for
robotics was evident. He’d crammed entire volumes with schematics,
detailing every moving part of incredibly intricate exoskeletons. A
paraplegic as a result of a yachting accident, he’d been obsessed
with regaining his ability to walk, and when medical science had
failed him, he turned to the next logical option.

The exoskeleton
that Frost had worn into The Arena – a heavily armored,
Japanese-inspired mech that he’d dubbed ‘Fudō-Myōō’ – was far too
large and impractical for everyday use. It stood nearly seven feet
tall and was as bulky as an all-terrain vehicle. It was a
juggernaut, but it worked: he could walk, run, swordfight, and even
fly for short distances. Frost’s plans, according to his journals,
were to create next-generation models of the Fudō armor using his
printer, all while making incremental upgrades. First would be
waterproofing along with an underwater propulsion system so the
units could explore the seas; then advanced flight capabilities,
followed by space travel. He’d wanted to be the first person to
walk on the surface of Mars, and wanted to arrive there without the
aid of NASA or a space shuttle – he was going to do it alone, in
his own exoskeleton.

His plans to
privately finance space missions were incredible, but his ambitions
went far beyond that. Frost had scientists from around the world
working on wild, theoretical projects with budgets that ranged into
the billions. Desalinization serums that would convert entire
oceans into potable water sources. Terraforming machines that could
give an otherwise dead planet a living, breathable atmosphere. And
a teleportation device that would allow matter to travel from one
place to the next, creating a gateway to the other side of the
world. I had no idea how far along any of these projects were, or
how many scientists and engineers had been receiving paychecks to
make them a reality, but I was curious to find out.

His political
aspirations were as lofty as his scientific ones. He one day
aspired to run for President (which was no surprise) but his
short-term goal was to declare Fortress 23, and the surrounding
area that I now own in Northern Alberta, it’s own country. There
were a list of people he’d given ‘donations’ to in order to make
this happen, or at least to grease the proverbial wheels; usually
untraceable BitGold transfers that were made to offshore accounts
in various amounts, never less than seven figures. Some additional
digging revealed page upon page of documents and notes from
meetings he’d attended, all in pursuit of being the undisputed
ruler of his own sovereign nation.

As I scoured
the reams of documents that Frost had taken great care to conceal,
for the first time I felt like I’d been taking for granted what the
purpose of the Fortress actually
was
. Was it a sanctuary? A
retreat? A sandbox where he could build whatever he wanted without
interruption – regardless of how experimental or dangerous? Without
question it was all of those things. Although I had a suspicion
that it’s reason for existing was perhaps something else entirely;
and somewhere, locked inside this unimaginable castle the size of a
small city, was the key.

The
following months dragged by.
November turned to December, and
two weeks prior to Christmas I could feel depression setting in. At
first I thought it was seasonal affective disorder, which wasn’t
uncommon during the winter months in regions with cold climates.
I’d spend time in the dome, sun tanning under the glow of an
artificial sun each day, but my symptoms only worsened. It wasn’t
the cold nights and grey Canadian skies that were bumming me out –
it was loneliness.

Peyton was
ignoring my messages and Gavin was nowhere to be found. Taking time
for myself was one thing, because I always had the option to make
contact with others when the mood struck. Being isolated with the
knowledge that I
couldn’t
contact my best friends, even if I
wanted to, was completely foreign, and it was taking its toll.

A weekly
holo-session with Gary, Elizabeth and the kids was my only real
connection to the outside world. It was nice to hear their voices
and chat about their days. I’d ask the most mundane questions, like
if they’d had a chance to put up their Christmas tree yet, and
they’d always respond with amazing enthusiasm and an alarming
amount of detail. And during every session, I felt like I needed to
thank Gary for saving my life back in Toronto. Without the lunging
tackle that slowed down the Russian (buying Valentina enough time
to launch him out the window) I might not be alive. “You are the
most bad-ass computer programmer in Canada,” I once told him. He
smiled, and said that he credits his fast reaction time to my
sister: years of practice dodging dishes she launched at him during
their all-out brawls. His response sent them both into fits of
laughter; I don’t think they’d ever had an argument in nearly ten
years of marriage, let alone a fight.

Although
virtual chats staved off my depression, I needed real human
interaction to brighten the days when I felt truly alone. The time
I spent with Brynja helped a lot. We played games, watched movies,
and she was the only person who seemed interested in chatting with
me about comics. She didn’t know Stan Lee from Bruce Wayne before
she arrived at the fortress, but she was a quick learner. In just a
few short weeks of reading sessions and movie marathons Brynja was
becoming an expert in geek culture, and before long she was making
Star Wars references like a pro. One particularly cold evening I
caught her referring to Alberta as ‘Hoth’, and I wanted to embrace
her like a proud father.

It wasn’t long
before she was taking her fandom to the next level without any
further prompting or instruction on my part. Brynja began using the
3D printer to make cosplay outfits, dressing as her favorite Marvel
and DC superheroes. On any given morning I could have breakfast
with a blue-haired Harley Quinn or Wonder Woman, which always
elicited a smile from passing staff. One evening we planned a
session of Dungeons & Dragons, to which she turned up dressed
like a warrior princess, complete with a sword, studded bra and
leather loincloth. Her dedication grew to an obsession, rivaled
only by my own.

When we weren’t
pursuing our hobbies we researched. We scoured records of
superhuman sightings and phenomena from across the globe, trying to
find an instance – even something remotely comparable – to what had
happened when she appeared out of thin air that day in the
hospital. Hour after hour, day after day we came up blank.

Brynja’s powers
had also faded since she had reappeared. She read Kenneth’s mind
just moments after she manifested, but explained that since then
she hadn’t been able to do it again. She used to read surface
thoughts with ease: Brynja could pass by someone and ‘see’ what
they were thinking, or hear their voice in her head as clear as her
own. And now, nothing. Her other ability (the one she considered a
curse) was being able to pass through objects like a ghost. Now,
fully corporeal, she was able to walk and move and interact with
objects, remaining completely solid.

Whether we were
at work or play it was a great distraction; the time we spent
strengthened our friendship. I didn’t learn much about Brynja’s
history though, aside from the fact that she’d once played guitar
in a Seattle-based rock band, and that she no longer spoke to
anyone in her family. She liked to keep the past in the past, and
focus completely on the future. It was admirable, and a character
trait that I wish I possessed. While she could move on without
looking back,
I
couldn’t stop beating myself up over pretty
much everything: things I
wish
I’d said to Peyton while I
had the chance; all the actions I should have taken once Arena Mode
was over; and the things I’d done inside the Arena that I could
never undo.

I even
regretted killing Cameron Frost in the end. For months following
Arena Mode I’d been haunted by visions of his dead body lying at my
feet, wheezing his final painful breath into a shallow pool of his
own blood. Deep down I knew that I shouldn’t blame myself for
what’d happened. After all, that was the object of the game: it was
me versus him, and he’d wanted me dead – there was no way around
it. But in hindsight, part of me wishes I’d thought faster, and
come up with an alternative to blasting him in the throat with my
modified handgun. He was the first and only person I’d ever been
directly responsible for killing with my own hands, and the images
still lingered in my mind.

Brynja’s
outlook on life was considerably more cheerful than my own.
Although I was the one stuck with the now-infamous moniker ‘The God
Slayer’,
she
was the one who’d actually done the slaying
that day. Sure, it’d been my plan, and my distraction, but it was
Brynja’s superhuman ability to phase through objects that had
allowed her to drop an acid-filled bullet into Sergei Taktarov’s
head. She didn’t regret what she’d done, or take pride in her
actions. It was just that she never looked back.