Assault or Attrition (12 page)

The two
floating orange spheres merged as if they were made of liquid,
flattening and expanding into a rectangular screen. The security
feed blipped to life.

The screen
displayed a young girl standing at the blast doors, rapping her
knuckles against the steel surface. The fur-lined hood of her
winter coat obscured most of her face, but from what I could tell
she was a child who couldn’t have been older than twelve. Flanking
her was a pair of large men wearing hunting jackets, with
military-grade hardware strapped to their shoulders – old AK-47
machine guns, from what I could tell. They were the campers that
Valentina was using for target practice earlier, and they looked
pissed
. Something told me the assault rifles they brandished
weren’t designed to fire marshmallows.

“This is
irregular,” Chandler mumbled to himself. “This is
highly
...I
mean, we don’t usually get guests. Or visitors. Not that we’re
going to invite them in, obviously, that would be up to you because
you’re the new Frost. I mean, you’re not
him,
you’re
the—”

“
Chandler
,” I interrupted, patting him on the shoulder. “I
get it, this is strange. Let’s just go down and check things
out.”

Not the best
with confrontation, Chandler opted to stay upstairs and observe
from a safe distance. He informed me that I could open the massive
interlocking doors to the hangar, but leave a transparent blast
shield in place. It doesn’t offer the same measure of protection as
the regular doors, but the micro-alloy could withstand a grenade
blast without suffering so much as a scratch, which would provide
me with more than enough security. There was no way the visitors
were getting past it.

I marched
through the hangar to its cavernous opening, and waited patiently
as the blast doors inched their way open. A narrow stream of light
poured through the crack. It slowly revealed my visitor, standing
just an arm’s length away, separated by a thin sheet of protective
glass.

She was a
porcelain doll; beautiful and pristine, her lips a pale shade of
pink, cheeks stung red from the arctic air. She pulled her hood
back with both hands, revealing a ribbon of golden blond hair and
intense crystal-blue eyes. I’d only witnessed a gaze that piercing
once in my life. It was in The Arena, right before I watched a man
die at my feet.

The girl
standing before me was the only living relative of the late Sergei
Taktarov – his little sister, Valeriya.

And I knew
exactly what she wanted.

“
We have not
been introduced, you and I.”
Her English was clearer since the
last time I’d heard her speak, her Russian accent barely
perceptible.

The weird thing
about coming face to face with an arch-nemesis is that it’s rarely
the person you expect – at least that’s how it happened for me. I’m
sure Bruce Wayne didn’t anticipate using millions of dollars worth
of high-tech equipment to battle a deranged clown; or that Clark
Kent, an alien with the powers of a god, would spend most of his
time fighting a businessman. And the last person who I expected to
come knocking at my door (in the middle of the Canadian wilderness,
no less) was a pre-teen girl backed by a group of heavily-armed
thugs.

I’d seen
Valeriya Taktarov’s iTube video that went live shortly after Arena
Mode. She threatened me for what I’d done to her brother, and
invited the downtrodden to join a new Red Army. Her words were
articulate, impassioned, and more than a little bit frightening,
especially spilling from the lips of a young child who’d just lost
her only living relative. And that was the last I’d seen of
her.

Months had
drifted by, and there had been no follow-up. Valeriya had
disappeared, or so I thought. I assumed she’d gone somewhere to
grieve, and would eventually move on with her life. When The Red
Army surfaced and the movement gained momentum, I had no idea that
she wasn’t just the inspiration, or the catalyst – she was the
puppeteer, pulling the strings from behind the curtain.

If Valeriya was
revealing herself now, it could only mean one thing: her opening
act had had drawn to a close. This was the onset of phase two, and
whatever she had planned, it was going to be a game-changer. She
wanted me in the front row, eyes forward, and she had my full
attention.

“No need for
introductions,” I replied. “I know who you are.”

“And you
already know why I am here, and what I want.” It was a statement,
not a question.

“It was you.
The Kashstarter campaign.”

Her face didn’t
reveal a single tell. She just stared up at me, unflinching. “What
makes you think that?”

“The words that
Astrid Neve used in the video, the terms she used...you wrote that
speech for her.” I’d recognized a similar tone and inflection
during Valeriya’s powerful speech that she delivered just prior to
the Arena Mode tournament, condemning the values of the Western
world, and calling out the tyranny of capitalism. Her iTube video
following the event was just as biting, and equally eloquent. “Not
to mention the clothes.” I flicked my eyes to her designer jacket
and matching boots.

“The clothes?”
She asked.

“I know the
Taktarov family background. You’re the orphaned daughter of poor
farmers. Either you hit the lottery, or you’re using some of that
Kashstarter money to finance a new wardrobe.” Brynja had replicated
a number of similar garments using our 3D printer over the last
three months. I recognized the designs because I frequently found
them scattered around the fortress. I was hardly an expert when it
came to fashion, but I could spot the difference between a
four-thousand dollar jacket and a cheap knock-off that was stitched
together by slave laborers.

“Are you, the
richest man in the world, going to lecture
me
about my
lifestyle? About excess?” Valeriya’s words poured out like venom,
although she didn’t seem angry, or even annoyed. I couldn’t read a
single emotion by studying her face.

“So why not
just do it yourself?” I asked. “Taktarov’s only living relative,
asking for revenge? That’s strong motivation to rally support.”

“Sympathy for a
poor little Russian girl who misses her brother?” She nearly
laughed at the notion. “That will move a few – some who are easily
swayed, with soft hearts. What I required was an army. For that
type of commitment I needed a common enemy.”

It was a
brilliant strategy. Nothing brings people together faster than
mutual hatred. I still wasn’t buying her reasoning, through. She
could have recorded the video herself, and was more than capable of
delivering a powerful address. “It seems like being on-camera
yourself would have had more impact. Why not just tell everyone
that Sergei was The Chosen One and that I was the bad guy?”

Valeriya’s tiny
lips twitched at the edges, hinting that she was about to crack a
knowing smile. She resisted the urge. “I needed someone without an
attachment to Sergei. Someone to plant the seeds. The world is
angrier than they have ever been, and slowly, they are readying
themselves. In a few moments when I release my new video, they will
see who I truly am, and they will finally be prepared for what I am
about to become.”

I folded my
arms across my chest and smiled. A calculated smile, wide and
condescending. It was in my best interest to keep her talking. The
more she said, the more I could learn. I knew Valeriya wouldn’t tip
her hand, or reveal anything she didn’t want me to know until the
time was right, although I could sense her opening up. I was hoping
for a slip and if I kept pressing, I might be able to rattle her.
“And what will you ‘become’, Valeriya?”

She paused for
a moment, as if giving my question some genuine thought. “A
messenger. Like Joan of Arc.”

“So you’re
becoming a bipolar egomaniac with a God complex?”

“No,” she
replied calmly, unfazed by my verbal jab. “I will be an
inspiration, just as she was. When Joan of Arc heard the voice of
The Almighty and passed on his message, the people listened. She
was able to lift the spirits of an entire nation with nothing more
than her words. France was losing the war to England, with little
hope of turning the tide. She re-energized an army that changed
history.”

This was
getting ridiculous – she
had
to be screwing with me. “People
were idiots back then. Some farm girl claimed that god was speaking
through her and everyone just blindly accepted it. You think this
shit will work
now?
”

“How are things
any different?” she asked, without a trace of irony. “Five
centuries have passed and
nothing
has changed. People are
sad, broken. They are crushed beneath an oppressive leadership that
barely allows them basic necessities. Yet they remain credulous and
devout, even as their prayers go unanswered.” She lowered her voice
and stepped forward, pressing her palms flat against the blast
door. “They are going to believe me because they
want
to
believe me. They needed someone like my brother, and now, with the
only person he speaks through, they will have faith once more.
Something worth fighting for.”

I laughed, loud
and caustic. “So
this
is your play? I refuse to come
outside, and you leak a video claiming that you speak to your dead
brother – a ‘god’? Gather as many fanatics as you want, you’ll
never get to me.” She certainly knew her history, but not much
about state-of-the-art architecture. This steel and iridium plated
fortress could withstand a full assault from an
actual
army
– her Red Army, which was no more than a few belligerent idiots
armed with pistols and rifles, had no way of breeching my security.
Trying to shoot her way in with ancient machine guns would be like
trying to dismantle a tank with plastic forks.

“You believe
that you are safe inside of Cameron Frost’s fortress?” she asked,
her eyes narrowing.

I nodded
confidently. “Yup. Pretty confident.” Even if she released her
statement and it inspired more dissidents to gather – which felt
like a long shot – it wouldn’t have changed the fact that she’d
have to get inside the fortress
before
the authorities
arrived. She had three hours, max, and then she’d be hauled away in
handcuffs, along with her gang of hired thugs.

“Perhaps you
are
safe. For now. But your friends, your family...they are
on the outside.” She spread her hands and gestured around, to
nowhere in particular. “Not quite as safe out here, I would
assume.”

A painful knot
twisted into my stomach. I knew what she was implying, but I
couldn’t believe she would be willing to go that far. “If you have
something to say, just say it.” I needed to hear the words out
loud.

She glanced
over her shoulder towards one of the hunters – a tall, stocky man
with a serious looking beard. He jerked the sleeve away from his
wrist and tapped his wrist-com, projecting a small holo-screen into
the air.

“Would you like
to see someone
you
love suffer? See them die, the way my
brother died at your hands?” Her icy demeanor was melting away. I
could see the fury in her eyes, like crackling embers about to
burst into flame. The unnerving transformation set my teeth on
edge.

I held up my
hands. “Look, I don’t know what you’re planning, but it’s not too
late. We can—”

“It
is
too late,” she shouted, hammering her palms into the glass. “Much,
much too late. For my brother, and for you. Come out here,
right
now,
or he dies.”

The holo-screen
flickered into focus, revealing my brother-in-law, Gary. Bound,
gagged, bleeding from a gash across his eyebrow. A masked man stood
behind him, holding a syringe to his neck, with his thumb poised to
press down on the plunger.

I froze. I
wasn’t angry, or afraid – at least not in that moment. I just kept
rolling the same thought over in my head: this was some kind of a
trick. It had to be. A virtual masking program meant to create the
illusion that one of the kindest, most selfless people on this
dying planet was about to die himself.

“You have
nothing to say?” She asked innocently. “Perhaps
he
would
like to say something. To beg for his life.”

The man
standing guard ripped off his gag. Gary let out a hoarse cough,
dotting the camera lens with blood. “Don’t come out,” he shouted.
“They’ll kill us both. Take care of the kids an—”

His final words
were muffled by the gloved hand of his captor, cranking his head
back as the syringe plunged into his neck. The jade-colored liquid
disappeared from the barrel, filling Gary’s bloodstream. The effect
was instantaneous. His body convulsed violently, then stiffened. It
happened so fast that he didn’t even scream. The whites of Gary’s
eyes turned a sickly shade of green, and two sizzling streams of
acid dripped from his tear ducts, running down his cheeks. It was
over before his captor could pull the empty syringe from his
neck.

“More humane
than the way you killed my brother, was it not?” Valeriya waved her
henchman off with the flick of her gloved hand. He stepped back
obediently, terminating the holo-screen transmission. “It was you,
was it not? The one who decided that
this
was the way that
Sergei should die?”

I gazed,
unblinking, into her crystal eyes. The gravity of the situation was
still sinking in.

Valeriya stared
back at me, eyes narrowing slightly, as if she was trying to solve
a puzzle. “This upsets you, but it is not the type of pain I was
hoping for. You are
concerned
, for your sister and her
children, perhaps. Sad for their loss.” She shook her head, as if
disappointed by my reaction. “It will take more to convince you to
give yourself up. I see this now. Maybe whoever is coming back in
your jet.”