Assault or Attrition (14 page)

“What the
fuck
,” Brynja groaned, loud and exasperated. “Do you think
I’m a
hooker?
”

“I don’t...”
Peyton paused for a moment, still covering her mouth. “Do you
prefer a different term? Because I’m not really familiar with all
of the—”

"It’s
just
a costume!” Brynja shouted. “Like, you know, for fun?
Why does everyone assume I’m some filthy prostitute?”

Peyton cocked
her head and narrowed her eyes. “Wait, who else assumes that?”

“It’s
Brynja
,” I explained. “My partner, from the Arena.”

Peyton scanned
her from boots to tiara, eyes squinted half-shut. “The one who
died? What happened?”

“It didn’t
take,” Brynja said.

“Apparently.”
Peyton glanced at me, now more suspicious than confused. “So you
brought her here for protection? Like me?”

I scratched the
back of my head with both hands, unaware that I was fidgeting. “No,
she’s been here for a while.”

“Three months,”
Brynja added.

“So you
live
here,” Peyton said flatly. “With Matt. Together.”

“It’s not
just
us here,” I replied without missing a beat, “we have
maids and a chef, and—”

“So it’s pretty
much like a guy and a girl in a five-star hotel,” Peyton said.

“Yes,” I
snapped, before correcting myself. “Wait,
no
. It’s like, she
appeared back at the hospital out of nowhere. I thought she was
dead, but she was showed up naked, and then I took her home.”
Holy shit.
My mouth was moving and words were flying out,
completely independent from my brain. “I’m not explaining this very
well.”

“You’re really
not,” Brynja added with a tiny chuckle. Her laugh drew an icy glare
from Peyton.

“Look,” Peyton
said, her arms folded tightly across her chest, “we’ve barely seen
each other since The Arena and it’s not like we ever said we were
exclusive. I thought maybe we’d reconnect, but...you’re free to see
other women, I guess, or hire them or whatever.”

“Standing
right here
,” Brynja said sharply, pointing to herself. “And
still
not
a prostitute.” She would have been easier to take
seriously if she hadn’t been wearing a gold bustier with a matching
lasso.

There wasn’t
much left to say, and thankfully no one felt like continuing the
conversation. So after the most awkward elevator ride of all time,
the three of us silently stepped out onto the main level and went
our separate ways. I could deal with personal issues later. In the
meantime I had calls to make and people to protect.

The fortress
was secure, but everyone else on the outside certainly wasn’t. A
fact that Valeriya was waiting to exploit.

Night fell,
and it became painfully obvious that the authorities weren’t coming
to our rescue.

I called The
Royal Canadian Mounted Police (who, I was assured, were no longer
using horses as their primary mode of transportation) and was told
they were on their way. If the RCMP
did
send officers to
make arrests, they had either encountered resistance, or had
changed their minds and circled back. The nearest town was two
hundred kilometers away, so unless the dispatcher I’d spoken with
was mistaken, and the cops actually
were
arriving on
horseback, they should have been here hours ago.

No one else
seemed willing to offer support. I was on hold waiting to speak
with the US Ambassador, and eventually gave up after an hour. No
other Canadian agencies would even take my calls.

I then
attempted to contact every US security agency I could think of, and
filled them in on the situation here in Northern Alberta: a group
of tax-paying Americans, stranded in the Canadian wilderness,
taking fire from Russian thugs...and a superhuman who could fire
plasma bolts from his hands. I know how it sounded, but I showed
them video evidence to back up my claims. I even played the
celebrity card, hoping that, as per usual, the rich and famous
would receive preferential treatment. It was worth a shot.

But nothing. No
one cared.

All I received
were lectures about how many riots were breaking out across the
country. Everyone from the local cops to the National Guard were up
to their elbows in looters and protestors. The authorities’ numbers
were spread thin, and they couldn’t spare the manpower to help out
a citizen stranded in a foreign country – celebrity or
otherwise.

I checked the
simulcast feeds and saw the evidence for myself. It seems that the
implosion in New York had caused a domino effect; full-scale
lockdowns were initiated across the East Coast, which meant a
suffocating police presence – this, in turn, lead to the inevitable
backlash. Mobs stormed the streets in reaction to the harsh
security measures, and the authorities fought back. The chaos was a
wildfire, spreading from Boston to Miami in a matter of hours.

The West Coast
followed. Before long California had become a warzone, and these
weren’t just your run-of-the-mill riots: fires blazed, shots were
fired, and a few superhumans got into the mix. In San Francisco, a
woman with the ability to emit sonic shockwaves by clapping her
hands assaulted a group of riot police, bursting their eardrums.
She was gunned down by a S.W.A.T. team moments later.

As soon as word
got out that another superhuman was responsible for an attack, the
shit
really
hit the fan. Police presence was quickly
supplemented by the military. I’m sure the death toll was
increasing, but the news feeds were keeping quiet. “Necessary
force” were the buzzwords being repeated by every network. And any
attempt to search through social media or holo-forums for the term
‘riot’ turned up blank. ISPs were no doubt being instructed to keep
a lid on anything related to the uprisings around the country.

After finally
getting through to Senator Alex Jenkins from my home state of New
York, I was told that I could fill out a ‘Request for Foreign Aid
and/or Rescue While Living Abroad’ form, mail it back (as in, with
a stamp and envelope) and wait six to eight weeks for it to be
processed and evaluated. And then,
if
the allotted resources
were available, some American forces would come to our rescue. Time
permitting.

The only
successful call I’d made in the last twenty-four hours was to the
Halifax PD. Fortunately, the North-Eastern coast of Canada was
riot-free, so my request to have the police escort Elizabeth and
the kids to a secure location was granted.

Exhausted and
frustrated by the lack of progress, everyone retired to their rooms
for the evening. Staying awake and worrying all night wouldn’t do
us any good – we could resume hand-wringing and pacing in the
morning. Peyton was escorted to a chamber across the hall from
mine, offering me a tiny smile before shutting the door behind
her.

Chandler set
the fortress on lockdown, which apparently provided even more
security for the gigantic structure. I didn’t think that was even
possible. Blast shields covered every exposed window, offering an
additional layer of protection, and the transparent dome that
topped the fortress turned opaque, darkening to a velvety black.
According to London,
“We are now in ‘castle mode’. With
additional protection in place, Fortress 23 can now withstand a
direct hit from a GBU-43/B Massive Ordnance Air Blast – the most
powerful non-nuclear weapon ever created.”
I was hoping that
whatever The Red Army had in store for us, we wouldn’t have to test
that theory.

I suggested
that Chandler get some rest, because tomorrow things could get
ugly.

He asked how
much worse things could possibly get. I smiled weakly and turned
towards my room.

Lying on my
bed, I knew that rest wouldn’t come easy. My body needed sleep, but
my mind, as usual, wasn’t in the mood to cooperate. I wandered down
to the infirmary, and Judy prescribed me a mild sedative, which she
guaranteed would provide eight hours of uninterrupted sleep. If
that were true it would be the first time I’d slept through the
night since before Arena Mode. I swallowed the bright purple
tablet, returned to my room and flopped onto my mattress, gazing up
at the ceiling.

Waiting for the
drug to take effect, the usual nightly checklist floated through my
mind: a detailed outline of everything I’d screwed up in my life,
updated to include the most recent highlights. Peyton probably
hated me, and certainly didn’t trust me. Gavin went missing after
his store burnt down (again, my fault). And Kenneth, who I’d put
into a coma, wanted me to pull the plug and let him die.

The icing on
the cake was that I had to explain to my sister that I watched her
husband being executed, and that my niece and nephew no longer had
a father to grow up with. That would be a fun call to make. Oh, and
while I was at it, I could tell her that the neighborhood we grew
up in, the south end of The Fringe, was imploded by a madman who
wanted me dead. So that was more or less my fault as well.

I continued to
beat myself up until my eyelids filled with lead, and I was
powerless to keep them propped open. Judy’s purple pill didn’t
disappoint. I drifted off, as promised, into the best sleep of my
life.

Eight hours,
nineteen minutes and forty-one seconds later, I’d have to deal with
what would become the worst day of my life – at least up until that
point. But on the bright side, I wouldn’t need quite so much
caffeine to deal with it.

Before I
drifted off I added one final screw-up to my ever-expanding
checklist: I should have given Chandler some more helpful advice
before he went to bed. When he asked, “How much worse can things
possibly get?” I should have advised him to never, ever ask that
question. Because the answer, no matter what the situation, is
always the same. “Way,
way
fucking worse.”

Partial
transcript from the BBC News Simulcast ‘The Daily Express’
Hosted by Liam Beckett, January 2042

Liam Beckett:
On the heels of a shocking announcement from
Valeriya Taktarov, we’re going to be discussing the potential
impact of her iTube video, her call-to-arms, and how much stock
should be put into her incredible claims.

Joining me
this evening are American talk show host and political commentator,
William O’Neill, as well as renowned British physicist and author,
Agnes Richards.

Let’s start
with you, Doctor Richards: what do you make of young Miss Taktarov,
and her assertion that Sergei, her deceased brother, is speaking
‘through her’ – telepathically, as it were?

Agnes
Richards:
It’s complete rubbish. There has never been any
evidence of an afterlife.

William
O’Neill:
Are you kidding me, Richards? This is all the proof we
need that there
is
an afterlife. When he was alive, Sergei
Taktarov was flying around in the air, shooting laser beams from
his eyes – how do you explain
that
, doc?

If
that’s
not the work of a higher power, I don’t know what
is.

Richards:
There will be a perfectly rational explanation for
these so-called superhuman abilities in due time. Simply because
science can’t yet explain their origins doesn’t mean they’re the
result of divine intervention.

O’Neill:
Oh,
there’s
a surprise: science can’t
explain it. “We have all the answers!” you and all your science
buddies shouted from the rooftops.
Then
superhumans started
appearing, and
now
we have proof of an afterlife – all of a
sudden you’re not as smart as you think.

Richards:
I never claimed to have all the answers. No
responsible scientist would dare to claim they ha—

O’Neill:
Don’t interrupt me, Richards. You’ll get your turn,
all right?

As I was
saying, these scientist pinheads think they know it all, but they
can’t explain superhuman powers, and they sure as heck can’t
explain this.

It took the
Vatican just an hour to jump on board and support Valeriya
Taktarov’s statements. Did you know that? An
hour
. And The
Pope is infallible, so who am I to argue with him?

Richards:
Just because the Pope believes and endorses
Valeriya Taktarov does not give her claims any more validity.

O’Neill:
You and all these number crunchers are clueless
about superhumans – you said it yourself. And now you’re telling me
The Pope’s word doesn’t mean crap? Is that what you’re saying?

Richards:
I never said his word was ‘crap’, if you’ll just
list—

O’Neill:
The Pope was chosen by the man upstairs to be the
leader of the Catholic Church, and
his
specialty is
communicating with people in the afterlife. I think I’ll take The
Pope’s opinion over yours, thank you very much. And another thing –
I don’t think you should be telling the most respected man in the
world how to do
his
job. He doesn’t walk into
your
lab and tell you how to clean Bunsen burners and dissect frogs.

Richards:
I’m...I’m not even sure how to respond to all of
that.

O’Neill:
And while we’re on the topic of know-it-alls, what
about all your science buddies who say they can give people
superhuman powers, and are charging
millions
for the
operation? You don’t seem too upset about that.

Richards:
Now wait just a moment – neurologists from
Argentina and Brazil are
claiming
they can alter brain
chemistry, thereby increasing an individual’s chance of acquiring
certain abilities – but this has never been verified, and I do not
endorse these practices in any way. The scientific community, as a
whole, has distanced itself from these individuals.