Final Empire (14 page)

“Where the hell is he?” McGarrity whispered. “If the dude isn’t monitoring the simulcasts he won’t send anyone to save us.”

“He
is
,” I whispered back through gritted teeth. Darmaki
had
to be...he’d been far too meticulous in his planning up until this point. There was no way that he’d let me get taken into custody, throwing his entire plan into upheaval.

This could be embarrassing.

As the officers descended on us I felt the cold metal cuffs snap across my wrists, arms contorting behind me. I didn’t resist.

When the moustached officer attempted to detain McGarrity he sprang back to his feet, pushing the man away. “Back off, Super Mario. I’m an American – I have rights!” Grabbing fistfuls of each other’s shirts, McGarrity and the officer screamed at each other in different languages.

It was all falling apart. I no longer worried that we’d be locked up; now I was just hoping that I’d leave St. Mark’s Square without getting shot for resisting arrest thanks to McGarrity’s outburst.

Just as Mario had reached for his baton, the tell-tale flash of purple light we’d been waiting for crackled overhead, followed by the gasps and screams of fleeing tourists. I don’t know where the jet landed, or how it had manoeuvred between the impossibly cramped low-rise buildings, but somewhere it had dropped off our savior – the man who was here to keep us from government custody.

The shimmering bronze hulk stormed across the square, shattering stone tiles underfoot. Each step was thunder. His combination of weight and speed caused a wake of crumbled rock to spit from his heels like water behind a speedboat.

Shots rang out. Bullets pinged off of Dozer’s impenetrable skin as he charged, never breaking stride. For a man his size he moved with surprising speed, closing the distance in a matter of seconds.

A metallic fist slammed into Mario’s chest, sending him spiralling across the courtyard; the crack of his bones echoed like an oak tree snapping in a windstorm. Some of the police scattered, while others were tossed like human Frisbees, screaming as they sailed into the distance, their bodies suddenly rubber as they contorted around cylindrical stone columns.

Dozer reached down and snatched me by the wrist, yanking me to my feet with an effortless tug. He ripped off my handcuffs, tossing the crushed piece of metal aside, and latched his hand onto my forearm. There was no escape; it was like having my arm welded to a two-thousand pound statue. I looked up at this behemoth, only a few inches taller than me, but more than twice as wide.

“The boss has a message.” His voice was calm, and not nearly as intimidating as his appearance. “He wants me to keep you safe until the time is right. You’re coming with me.”

“And
you’re
going to Hell!” McGarrity’s battle cry rang out as his broadsword clanged against Dozer’s chest. A weapon made of pure light could penetrate nearly anything, but for whatever reason, apparently not this metallic skin. The reflective blast was blinding.

Dozer released his grip on my arm, feverishly rubbing the glare from his eyes.

I rolled to safety. “Now!” I shouted into my com.

Brynja’s shot was perfectly placed. The counterweights spun through the air, expanding the net around Dozer’s body. I don’t know how much training she’d gleaned from watching action movies, but whatever she’d seen, it had paid off.

He grabbed a handful of the mesh and stared at Steve and I, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re
kidding
me with this, right?” Grabbing two fistfuls of the netting, Dozer tore through his confinement like the steel ropes were made of tinfoil.

McGarrity attacked once again, hacking and slashing into the monster’s forearms. It generated an impressive light show but never even scuffed his armored form. Squinting and barely able to make out the figures in front of him, Dozer lashed out with a frantic backhand, slamming his opponent mid-chest. McGarrity bounced across the courtyard and rolled to a stop as he joined a battered police officer, clutching his ribs.

I heard a scream in Italian at my back – it was the officer who had first spotted us. She held a pistol with both hands, trembling with her finger poised over the trigger.

“Okay, okay,” I shouted, palms facing outward. I maintained eye contact and was careful not to make sudden movements, hoping she wouldn’t be startled into squeezing. My armor would withstand a round from her handgun without issue, but I wasn’t wearing a helmet.

Eyes like saucers, she angled the barrel of her quaking gun towards the ground and motioned for me to lay down in surrender. I nodded in agreement as a streak of pink hair whisked behind her. Peyton tackled the officer from her blind side, slamming her to the stone tiles. They rolled and struggled until Peyton caught the woman in the cheekbone with a right cross, slamming the back of her head into the tiles with dull thud.

Across the courtyard Gavin gamely intercepted Dozer, who was storming towards an injured McGarrity.

“Take him alive!” I shouted hoarsely, before Gavin pulled the trigger. The multicolored blast of particles erupted from the gun’s widened barrel, like a buckshot of confetti. It showered Dozer, coating his face and chest.

“Blurgh!” He let out a sour groan, dabbing his fingertips across his tongue (which, from the looks of it, was bronze as well). He glanced curiously at the particles and shook his head once again. “What the hell are you people trying to accomplish here?”

I heard a muffled voice echo from inside his head. Dozer was wearing an earpiece, not much different than ours. His metallic skin vibrated the sound like a low-quality speaker, making it audible to everyone around him.

“You can’t be taken into custody,”
the frantic voice reminded him.
“Forget Moxon. Get to the extraction point right now, Glendinning.”

Dozer stared at me for a moment, as if he were contemplating his orders. I held my breath and froze, locked in place. The bronze giant let out a growl before hammering his fist on the walkway, pulverizing the stone into dust. He turned and fled, disappearing between the narrow passageways through the city.

Peyton stepped away from the unconscious officer, throwing herself into my arms. Her face fell into my shoulder, pink locks draping over my back.
“I thought she was going to...”

“I know,” I reassured her, running my fingers though her hair. “You did the right thing.”

Brynja and Gavin approached with guns in-hand, and McGarrity stumbled up behind them, wincing in pain, nursing his likely-broken ribs.

Peyton stood upright and wiped a wayward tear with the back of her hand. “Did it work?” she sniffled.

Only one way to find out. I tapped my wrist-com, illuminating a bright blue map of the world, expanding several feet above us. The blast of smart dust that had showered Dozer like a midnight celebration on New Year’s Eve worked as micro tracers – even if you brushed yourself clean of every visible piece, the microscopic remains would give off a signal that could be pinpointed by satellite. According to the blip on the screen Dozer was still in Venice, a kilometer from St. Mark’s square. A moment passed and the glowing icon disappeared from the map, reappearing in the United Arab Emirates. It was a remote location in the Liwa Desert – the ideal hiding spot. Any doubts about who had been setting me up disappeared.

“Is it the Darmaki dude?” McGarrity groaned, doubling over in pain.

“It’s him, I’m sure of it. And now we know exactly where he is.” I clicked off my holo-map and went to McGarrity’s side, draping his arm over my shoulder. Gavin grabbed his other arm, helping him hobble towards the transport.

“So what do we do now?” Brynja asked.

“The exact opposite of what he’s expecting,” I replied. “I’m going to knock on his front door.”

The Liwa Desert shimmered under a cloudless sky
, stretching in every direction like waves of dented copper. My self-piloted transport touched down on a tarmac, swirling up a sandstorm beneath it. Once the dust settled and the engine had powered down the doors slid open, triggering a metal staircase to telescope into place. I stepped out onto the runway, squinting against the glare of the punishing midday sun.

Darmaki’s estate – the only visible landmark for hundreds of miles in any given direction – was a towering ivory monument.  Floating in a sea of manmade waterways, the ornately designed palace was supported by a thousand pointed archways, stretching five stories into the sky.

The sprawling front courtyard was alive with the activity of a small army, all working diligently to maintain the property: merchants and deliverymen purposefully strode across narrow pathways toting food and supplies; women scrubbed marble floors and polished windows; and gardeners manicured shrubs and watered palm trees that lined the property. Far from the metal and concrete structures that gleamed in the distance, this self-sufficient compound bustled industriously, but unlike the cosmopolitan wonderland of Abu Dhabi, there were no technological conveniences to be seen. Not a single road led to or from the palace, and the only modes of transportation I spotted were camels, ambling through the hills of blustery sand.

A pair of men in white robes and sandals greeted me, smiling brightly as if they were welcoming home a long-lost relative. Not the reception I’d expected when I arrived unannounced. They were unarmed, at least as far as I could tell, and had no pretense of being security guards.

“Welcome to the Jewel of the Liwa Oasis,” one of them announced, arms spread wide. “Your presence has been requested on the rooftop terrace, Mister Moxon.”  Well, there goes the element of surprise.

“Please,” the other said with a stately, sweeping gesture, “follow us. Sultan Darmaki has been expecting you.”

Expecting me?
Now I was more suspicious than confused.

Navigating our way through the lavish front courtyard, we weaved our way through the worker bees, and into the main building. The entrance had no doors; it was a series of towering marble columns that beckoned anyone to pass through, but subtly reminded them that they were very, very small. As we rounded one set of stairs after the next, ascending towards the rooftop, it had occurred to me that there wasn’t a single interior light. Unlit iron torches were fixed to the walls and fireplaces rested in alcoves, which would no doubt serve as the only source of illumination once night fell.

I stepped onto the terrace at the top of the stairway, and was surprised to find more than just Darmaki awaiting my arrival – sprawled out before me was an all-star cast of the world’s most notorious living weapons. I recognized each of them from the simulcasts. They were the ones who had battled throughout the world (the survivors, anyway), carving a bloody swath across densely populated areas, and increasing infrastructure spending in their wake.

Overhead, intricate latticework was overgrown with ivy, providing shade for Darmaki’s guests; they lounged beneath, where mounds of velvet cushions offered comfort as servants supplied fruit and wine on silver platters. They were laughing, drinking, sharing stories...I wasn’t walking into a top-secret gathering of super villains and evil masterminds – I’d just crashed a garden party.

A few glanced in my direction, but most were too engrossed in food and conversation to be bothered with my presence. The Japanese man I’d confronted in New York sat cross-legged, a bottle in each hand. He chortled at a husky Maori woman who sat across from him; she was miming someone getting shot in the head and falling limply on a pile of pillows.

Sultan Darmaki strode past his guests, hands resting in his pockets. “Mister Matthew Moxon,” he said with a wide grin, “to what do I owe this pleasure?” The bearded man with cropped black hair standing before me was nothing like the photographs I’d seen. Darmaki was dressed in freshly-pressed khakis, a white dress shirt and loafers – not the traditional ankle-length robe of the Emirati.

“Just in the neighborhood. Thought I’d swing by for a cocktail.”

“Absolutely, my friend,” he said without missing a beat. “Make yourself comfortable. My home is your home.”

“I appreciate it. But I thought maybe we could speak alone?”

“By all means,” Darmaki said with a nod. He strolled across the terrace, past the overhang and onto the exposed front balcony.

As I followed I glanced at his attire. “I’ve never seen you without your kandura.”

“It is my day off,” he said with a smile. “They’re only required for formal occasions.”

“Oh, all right. I just figured since you were The Sultan of—”

He cut me off with a hearty laugh, throwing his head back. “No, Mister Moxon, I am not ‘the’ Sultan. That is my
first name
. Sultan is a very common given name in this part of the world – like ‘John’ in America.”

“Ahh, okay.” I scratched at the back of my head, glancing away. Well
that
was embarrassing. “Sorry about that. Not my cultural ballpark, I’m afraid.”

“No, not at all. It is a common mistake. I sometimes correct people, but other times I let them believe what they want. It can be helpful when booking a hotel or securing a table at a restaurant.” He winked and smiled again, even brighter than before. I knew he was a homicidal maniac, but I was actually starting to like this guy.

We reached the balcony overlooking the courtyard, where a servant awaited us with a tray balanced on his palm, carrying silver goblets and a bowl of fruit overflowing with grapes and bananas.

Knowing I was unable to drink whatever was in the glass, I scooped it up just to maintain appearances, leaning carefully against the white marble balustrade.

“So what are we toasting?” Sultan asked, raising his goblet.

“You tell me,” I replied, clinking the rim of my glass against his. “You’re the one throwing a party that’s tearing up half the modern world.”

“Ahh, that,” he said, with what sounded like a hint of embarrassment. He took a quick sip and set his goblet down on the edge of the railing. “I know, I feel badly about the damage I have caused. It is a nuisance, but unfortunately, it is also a necessity.”

“It was
necessary
that you destroyed big chunks of New York, Stockholm, Cape Town, London...? The people in those cities are not at war with you, Sultan.”

“No, they are not. But the cultures of those cities are at war with
themselves
. You see this?” Sultan tugged back the sleeve of his linen shirt. His wrist-com was exposed – the only piece of modern technology I’d seen since I’d arrived at his palace. “What does this mean to you?”

I cocked an eyebrow.

“I know, I know,” he said with a smile. “I am difficult to deal with – everyone tells me so. But please, my friend, humor me for just a moment.”

I shrugged. “Communication.”

He replied with a reluctant half-nod, as if what I’d said was only a partial truth. “For you, perhaps. But for many in the modern world, this is a distraction. A device that replaces conversation and human interaction. Thoughtful reflection has been replaced with mindless games and digital consumerism.”

The last time I’d had a conversation that began this way I was visiting my grandmother at her nursing home. It was rare to interact with a technophobe these days – it was such an ingrained part of Western culture that even the elderly were at least moderately tech-savvy. “Newsflash, Sultan: it’s been going on for
decades
. It’s pretty normal to spend a good chunk of your time in a holoforum.”

“Just because something is common does not make it normal,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “And that is the curse of technology.”

“Curse?” I said, laughing under my breath. “I’m using my billions to re-build The Fringe and other parts of the world that
you’re
destroying – without technology it would take years to accomplish what I’ve done in just weeks.”

A storm began to swirl behind Sultan’s dark eyes. I’d struck a nerve. “Technology is a false idol, Matthew Moxon. It promises to solve the issues that plague mankind, but at what cost? What have we given of ourselves in exchange for these so-called ‘modern miracles’ and scientific discoveries? Ten years ago superhumans were a fantasy. Mythology even. Nothing more than bedtime stories you read to children, or the comic books you place so much value in. Now we are here – we are a
reality
. But thanks to people like you and Cameron Frost, we have become commonplace.”

“I’m not sure that I’m following,” I admitted. As he continued his impassioned argument I was growing more confused.

Darmaki jammed a finger out across the courtyard. “Look into the horizon. Do you see the storm coming?”

“I see sand,” I said flatly. “And blue skies.”

Sultan took great care in unbuttoning his sleeves at the wrist, rolling the white linen fabric to his elbows. He extended his hands, palms open to the horizon. One hand suddenly burst into flame, and at the exact same moment the other froze, sending slivers of ice from his fingertips up his forearms. With the slightest of gestures Sultan sent streams of fire and ice swirling up and into the distance, darkening the skies. Charcoal clouds started to emerge; rolling, low-hanging cumulus that blanketed the coppery desert in shadow, threatening with a flash of blue-white and the crack of thunder. Then came the rain.

“I just gave life to hundreds of people,” he stated, swelling with pride. “I provided water that will sustain a village for weeks.
That
is a miracle, my friend.”

“So the ‘miracles of science’ are overshadowing your superhuman rain clouds?”

“
Your
rain clouds,” he was quick to correct me. “Your cloud seeding program helps nourish so many that the devotion of my followers is beginning to wane.”

“I’m providing more than water,” I explained. “I’m giving people hope.” I glanced over the balustrade at the workers toiling below; scrubbing, raking, trimming hedges – they worked tirelessly under the scorching midday sun, and I suspected it was in exchange for no more than the approval of their demigod. “But,” I added, “I’m thinking you like your followers a little on the desperate side.”

He spread his hands wide, smile stretching beneath his dark beard. “Devotion stems from desperation, my friend.” He leaned over, gesturing towards his followers. Those who caught a glimpse of him dropped their equipment, mouths agape. A woman fell to her knees and wept when she thought he was gesturing specifically at her. “When your technology feeds and clothes these people, and provides them with the conveniences of the modern world, all of this will end. There will be no need for my powers once your program has reached this region.”

He’d been doing his homework. My cloud seeding program was well-known, and had been rapidly spreading across Africa and much of rural Asia. Darmaki had no way of knowing about my other projects, which included a roll-out of 3D printers which would soon provide clothing, blankets and rudimentary shelter for much of central Africa. And with water and shelter would come hydroponics farms, providing a near-unlimited supply of food. Once my programs reached the Middle-East, the people in this unbelievably poor region would be fed and clothed, giving them a measure of independence. And with independence comes freedom.

“And you’re grumpy because you won’t have free labor to trim your hedges and feed you grapes?” I asked.

“I’m ensuring my future,” he quickly replied. “If I cease to possess my abilities, I will have no safeguard against the oppressors of the West.”

I’ve been accused of some crazy things in the last year, but ‘oppressor’ was nowhere on the list. “How will my cloud seeding sap your powers?”

He looked at me with a slight tilt of the head, bringing a hand to his bearded chin. It wasn’t condescension – at least that’s not how I read it. It’s as if he was genuinely baffled by my lack of understanding. “You know surprisingly little for someone with so many resources at your disposal. Do you not understand the nature of our abilities? I was given these gifts by a higher power.” He gestured grandly at the now-dissipating clouds in the distance, which were being lanced through by rays of desert sun. “And now I
am
that higher power. I was put here to provide for my followers. But my abilities are fed by belief...not just my own, but the belief of others.”

It made sense. Superhuman abilities are linked to brainwaves; it’s why a cerebral dampening unit can nullify them by sending out a scrambling signal. Not much else has been gleaned besides that, simply because there hasn’t been enough research done on the subject (and what little research had been done was wildly inconclusive). Electrical frequencies inside our cerebral cortex are affected by virtually every type of stimuli, from music to scents to visual information. Could the relative proximity and thoughts of others – devoted followers, to be exact – actually feed a superhuman’s brain, amplifying their abilities? “The more people who believe you’re a god, the more powerful you become.” I had to say it, if only to hear how crazy the words sounded when spoken aloud.

“Exactly.” He nodded in perfect agreement, as if I’d just said ‘the sky is blue’, and not something completely bizarre and theoretical. “And as your technology infects my region of the world, fewer will require my care and protection. My powers will begin to wane.” His voice levelled off to a chilling monotone. “I am not willing to let this happen.”