Assault or Attrition (16 page)

“I just mean
these don’t look very durable,” Peyton called out, “I thought these
were supposed to be bullet-proof or something?”

Looks, I
explained, can be deceiving. The armor was made from a flexible
graphene textile that provided more than enough protection from a
bullet, bladed weapon, or even an explosive. Stretched across a
wide surface, a wafer-thin strip of graphene couldn’t be pierced by
a two-ton elephant standing on a sharpened pencil. I’m not sure if
anyone had actually performed the elephant test themselves, but the
colorful analogy had always been used to describe the material’s
toughness.

Graphene was
impressive on its own, but with an unlimited budget at my disposal,
I was able to take the design process to an entirely different
level: ‘Smart Fiber’ was a light, malleable textile which went on
like a wetsuit. It was roughly the same thickness and density of a
wetsuit as well, but when an object collided with its exterior, the
Smart Fiber hardened on impact, similar to an airbag being
triggered during a car crash. The projectile would bounce
harmlessly off the surface, leaving the wearer unharmed.

As I went over
the impressive checklist of features, including how the Smart Fiber
suits were fireproof, waterproof, and that they conduct electricity
like a Faraday cage, Peyton was more concerned with an apparent
cosmetic design flaw.

“Wait a sec,”
she said suspiciously, holding the suit away from her. “What’s
this
on the chest?”

I raised my
eyebrows and shrugged. “A number? The same ones we learned about
back when we were toddlers?”

“No,” she said
coarsely, “It’s not ‘just’ a number, it’s number thirteen.”

“Right,” I
explained. “Number thirteen. As in, this was the thirteenth version
of the suit I created. I kept refining them to make sure the design
was perfect. Easiest way to keep track of which suit was
which.”

“Easy for
you
to be so blasé about this,” she said, gesturing to my
suit. Peyton’s voice had raised several octaves and her face
creased into an uneasy frown, causing me to take a step backwards.
“You ended up with number seven. That’s the best number to have. Do
you know how unlucky thirteen is?”

“No,” I replied
quietly, “but I have a feeling you’re about to tell me.”

She groaned,
scanning the armor while she shook her head in disapproval. “You
might as well have designed a suit with a giant crosshair on the
back.”

“Now that I
think about it,” Brynja shouted from the other side of the rack, “I
think I noticed a black cat walk in front of your suit, like,
right
after it was printed. And Mox, didn’t these get passed
under a ladder at some point?”

“Hey,
Smurfette,” Peyton shouted back, “keep it down – the adults are
trying to have a conversation here.”

It occurred to
me, watching the anger simmer inside of Peyton, that this was about
much more than her adherence to superstition. I poked fun at her
beliefs all the time and she would never bat an eye. Peyton hadn’t
been in the same room as Brynja since her arrival, and I had a
feeling this was the moment where the emotional powder keg was
about to go off.

Never one to
back down from a confrontation, Brynja circled around the rack to
face Peyton. “Do you
really
want to go there, princess?
Insulting my
hair
?”

Peyton locked
her feet into place and folded her arms, straightening her posture.
“The tattoos, the piercings, the bright blue hair – I can see right
through you. You’re one of
those
girls.”

“‘Those
girls’?” Brynja repeated, her eyes narrowing.

“I used to see
them all the time,” Peyton explained, “Tourists from Manhattan,
slumming it in The Fringe, looking to hook up with some security
guard or bartender that daddy would never approve of. They dye
their hair and do all sorts of body mods...you’re one of
them.
You get off on the attention.”

“Says the girl
with the
pink
hair,” Brynja replied with a caustic
laugh.

“It’s pink
because
I
happen to like it this way,” Peyton fired back.
“Look at
you,
” she gestured towards Brynja, making a show of
looking her up and down. “It’s January, and we’re in
Canada
.
You’re dressed like you’re about to start pole dancing.”

My eyes flicked
back and forth between them, nervously anticipating the next
bombshell. The fight was escalating at an alarming rate, and it
felt like at any moment I’d have to step in between them, like a
referee separating two prizefighters who refused to stop slinging
leather after a round came to an end.

“Well since
we’re on the topic of hair,” Brynja said coarsely, “Mox happens to
be the one who chose this color for me.”

Peyton paused,
seemingly more skeptical than angry. “That’s not possible. It was
like that before he even met you.”

“I’m a
perception
,” Brynja explained. “It’s my superhuman ability.
I didn’t even
exist
until Moxon blinked me into
reality.”

“What the hell
is that supposed to mean?” Peyton replied.

“It means,”
Brynja said with a conspiratorial smile, “that when your sweetheart
saw me in The Arena for the first time, I needed an external
observer to complete my corporeal form, and solidify me on this
plane. His desires manifested into yours truly.”

“I don’t get
it,” Peyton replied.

Brynja rolled
her eyes. “Shocker.”

I stepped into
the narrowing gap between the girls and extended my hands to either
side. “Okay, this has gone far enough, let’s just—”

“
No
,”
Peyton insisted. “Let’s not ‘just’. This is getting interesting.
Please, Brynja, go on.”

“Want me to
make this real simple for you?” she continued, taking a small step
forward. “Whatever was going on inside of Mox’s dirty little mind
is what I became that day. Notice how similar we look? Our height,
our eyes, our body types...pretty close, no?”

Peyton scanned
Brynja again – this time without judgment or contempt, but
genuinely taking notice of their remarkable similarities. “I guess.
So?”

“
So
,”
Brynja said, gesturing to herself. “I’m
you
, just a better
version. I’m closer to Mox’s ideal match in every way.”

“This is
such
bullshit,” Peyton shouted, sticking a finger in
Brynja’s face. I placed a hand on her shoulder to prevent her from
taking another step closer.

“Is it?” Brynja
replied, her smile widening. She stood perfectly still, hands on
hips, as if waiting for the realization to fully sink in.

“All right,” I
interjected, “let’s just take a breather and settle down.” I paused
for a moment before turning my attention to Brynja. “Why didn’t you
ever mention this before?”

She replied
with a half-hearted shrug. “I never knew until I saw Princess
Peyton here face-to-face. It’s obvious: you created what you wanted
to see, and that’s me.”

“Well un-see
her, then!” Peyton shouted.

“I’m fully
corporeal now,” Brynja said. “When I came back – thanks to Kenneth,
I think – I came back as a real person. No more shape-shifting or
ghosting.”

“Great,” Peyton
sighed, her shoulders sagging. “So you’re going to look like me
forever.”

Brynja exhaled
loudly. “This ain’t a Swiss picnic for me either.”

Peyton
dismissively gestured towards Brynja with one hand. “And this is
what you want, Matt?
This
?”

“I’m not a
‘this’,” Brynja said sharply. “I’m a girl! A
real
girl.”

“You’re
nothing
,” Peyton seethed. “You’re a masturbation fantasy.
You’re a video download, at best – something that a guy takes an
interest in for five minutes before he gets bored, and moves on to
the next distraction. And you shouldn’t even
be
here.”

“If Mox didn’t
want me here,” Brynja shot back, “I wouldn’t be. He invited me, and
unlike
some
people, I actually accepted the invitation.”

As the shouting
and accusations persisted, I noticed London float into the room,
hovering to a stop just a few feet away. It waited for me to turn
and acknowledge its presence before delivering a message.
“
Mister Moxon
,” London chirped, with a song in its digital
voice. “
I have a few things I’d like to tell you.
”

“Go right
ahead,” I prompted, squeezing my eyes tight as I massaged my
forehead.
Anything
to create a diversion at this point was
more than welcome.

“
You look
absolutely fantastic today,”
London declared.
“As far as
organic-based life forms are concerned, you appear clean,
well-attired, and your face is quite attractive – stunningly
symmetrical by all accounts
.”

“Thank you,” I
said awkwardly. London was still programmed to shower me with
random compliments, and they were getting more obscure by the day.
It seemed like the A.I. was constantly trying to come up with fresh
observations, but it was clearly running out of options. “I’ll take
it,” I replied with a shrug. “Anything else going on in The
Fortress that’s newsworthy at the moment...besides my
symmetry?”

“
Oh, Yes
indeed, Mister Moxon,”
London cheerfully continued. “
There
is a breach in The Fortress. Six unidentified intruders have
entered through the South Tunnel, and are making their way towards
the main corridor
.”

“
Holy shit!”
Brynja shouted. “Maybe you should have opened with that?”

“London,” I
said quickly, “cam view of the South Tunnel,
now
.”

The orange
spheres flattened and expanded into a floating window, and the feed
blinked to life. Six men dressed in winter camouflage – carrying
some serious military hardware – sprinted down the long white
corridor, directly towards the Fortress.

“How did they
get in?” Peyton asked.

“
Through the
door
,” London replied matter-of-factly.

Brynja groaned
and smacked the hovering orange screen, tilting it off its axis.
“How did they
open
the goddamned door?”

It floated back
into position before replying, “
By using a ten-digit access
code
.”

The entrance to
the South Tunnel is several kilometers from the fortress in a
densely forested area. There’s no path, no signs, and no markings
to identify its location. And the actual door that leads to the
tunnel is cleverly camouflaged, accessible only by navigating
through the mouth of a narrow cave. Not something you’d randomly
discover while out on a stroll.

Footprints
could have been a giveaway, but there had been heavy snowfall since
Valentina, Peyton and Mac snuck in. And even if they
had
been tracked, the Red Army would have certainly used the pathway
before now. No one could have stumbled upon this secret entrance by
pure coincidence – they were given directions.

London
explained that the interior door was locked, and that even when the
intruders reached it they’d need some significant firepower to
blast it open. I remotely changed the pass-code, but wasn’t sure
how much time it would buy us. The oversized circular door was
secure enough for the moment, though it had nowhere near the
defensive capabilities of the fortress’ exterior. The Red Army was
getting in – it was just a matter of time.

Peyton, Brynja
and I suited up in our Smart Fiber armor, and were selecting
weapons when my wrist-com chimed. It was Valentina.

“You and Peyton
need to see this,” she cried in a thin, panicky voice. “It’s
Gavin.”

Before I could
reply Peyton was sprinting towards Valentina in the central hub,
triggered by the sound of her brother’s name. I screamed at her to
stop but she’d already rounded the corner. I followed as quickly as
possible, machine gun in-hand, unable to warn her of the trap she
was about to walk into.

I raced into
the central hub seconds after Peyton had arrived, where Valentina
was seated comfortably. She was lounging on the pristine white
couch that formed a semi-circle around a wide glass table, drink
in-hand. Her demeanor was calm, relaxed – miles from the
panic-stricken voice we’d heard just moments before.

“What is this?”
Peyton asked, stopping just short of the table.

Valentina
stood, taking her time to flatten out her skirt and adjust her
tailored jacket. She replied with a single word: “Doors.”

At her command
the four entrances to the circular white room were swiftly blocked
with steel blast shields, gliding into place and locking with a
hydraulic hiss. We were trapped.

The breach in
security was my first indication of Valentina’s betrayal. Not the
breach itself, or even the fact that the Red Army had received a
pass code from someone within The Fortress – the mole could have
been anyone, including the cleaning staff. It was the timing: how
long it must have taken for London to locate me and relay the
information – long before Valentina, my head of security, had
detected the intruders. If anyone had broken in she would have been
the first to know, and I should have been the second. And her
panic-stricken voice was so out of character that I knew she had
either cracked under pressure, or was putting on a performance.
After a lengthy tour in an African warzone, I didn’t take Valentina
for the cracking type.

“Can I interest
either of you in a bottle of water?” She motioned nonchalantly
towards the stainless steel fridge built into the wall of the room.
I could see through the translucent door that it was freshly
stocked, as it always was, with over a hundred bottles of natural
spring water. It became obvious why she’d selected this particular
room to lock us in.