space station.”
She looked at
me like I was a complete idiot. “I never said it was a moon. And
why the hell would anyone think that’s a space station?”
I made a mental
note to keep the Star Wars references to a minimum as long as
Brynja was my guest.
Peering out the
window as we made our approach, the structure began to take shape
on the horizon. Beyond the snow-capped mountains, encircled by an
endless sea of pine trees sat my new home: Fortress 23. The word
‘massive’ didn’t cover it – it was imposing. A shining metallic
city built directly into the side of a mountain, it would be
impossible to miss if it weren’t so isolated; the only sign of life
for miles in every direction were migrating birds and the
occasional heard of caribou. It was just like Superman’s Fortress
of Solitude – if his fortress was furnished with several hundred
rooms and a staff to clean and maintain it. I definitely had to
come up with a better name for it though, or at the very least find
out what had happened to the other twenty-two.
Mac circled the
jet around to an extended landing strip that led to the hangar,
where two enormous, interlocking steel doors guarded the entrance.
We hovered in place, awaiting a prompt.
“ Please
identify yourself,” a voice crackled over the com. It echoed
through the cockpit and was audible in the cabin.
“This is eleven
thirty-eight,” Mac said, using his most official-sounding pilot
voice, several octaves lower than his usual tone. “I’ve got Moxon
on board and we’re knocking on the front door.”
“ Welcome
home, eleven thirty-eight. We’re unlocking the deadbolt and turning
on the porch lights.”
And with those
words the metal doors pulled open, gears grinding slowly as sheets
of ice cracked and fell from their surface. The hangar slowly came
into view. The opening was cavernous. Home to a fleet of twenty
aircraft with room for twenty more, the enclosed area was like a
small city all its own. Bright lights illuminated in sequence, from
front to back, bathing the hangar in a powerful white glow.
The landing
gear lowered and the jet touched down so gently that we never felt
the tires making contact with the surface. A man in a navy flight
suit holding a pair of neon orange batons waved us in, directing
our aircraft across the tarmac and into a docking space. We hadn’t
yet rolled to a stop before the hangar doors closed behind us with
a resounding boom.
Brynja and
Valentina stepped out of the jet first, staring with wonder at
their surroundings.
Mac jogged down
the stairs and let out a low whistle. He was practically salivating
at the collection of rare and expensive aircraft that filled the
hangar. “These are some impressive digs, Moxon. And these
birds...can I take one of them out for a spin?”
I assured him
there would be time for that as soon as we’d settled in. After the
Kashstarter video and what was happening in New York, there was no
way I was going to leave the Fortress– at least not any time in the
foreseeable future. We were here for the long haul, and he could
play with the new toys later.
A whirring
sound echoed from across the tarmac. It was a six-wheeled
transport; an open air vehicle that looked somewhat like a golf
cart, but without a roof. The driver was a small, round man with a
tangled beard and a mess of black hair. “Great to finally meet
you,” he shouted with an eager wave. “I’m Chandler Oswalt, one of
the...well, your staff, I guess. Me. I’m part of it. Mister Moxon,
sir.” His face reddened as his words spilled out in rapid
succession, and in no discernible order.
I returned the
wave and smiled. “Take it easy, Chandler. No need to be nervous.
I’m Matt.”
He stood and
adjusted his uniform, a navy-blue flight suit with a white ‘Frost
Corporation’ logo embroidered on the chest. “I’m taking bags
for...I mean, I’ve got them. Your bags. Where are they?”
I was more than
happy to carry my own things. Having a staff
She looked at
me like I was a complete idiot. “I never said it was a moon. And
why the hell would anyone think that’s a space station?”
I made a mental
note to keep the Star Wars references to a minimum as long as
Brynja was my guest.
Peering out the
window as we made our approach, the structure began to take shape
on the horizon. Beyond the snow-capped mountains, encircled by an
endless sea of pine trees sat my new home: Fortress 23. The word
‘massive’ didn’t cover it – it was imposing. A shining metallic
city built directly into the side of a mountain, it would be
impossible to miss if it weren’t so isolated; the only sign of life
for miles in every direction were migrating birds and the
occasional heard of caribou. It was just like Superman’s Fortress
of Solitude – if his fortress was furnished with several hundred
rooms and a staff to clean and maintain it. I definitely had to
come up with a better name for it though, or at the very least find
out what had happened to the other twenty-two.
Mac circled the
jet around to an extended landing strip that led to the hangar,
where two enormous, interlocking steel doors guarded the entrance.
We hovered in place, awaiting a prompt.
“ Please
identify yourself,” a voice crackled over the com. It echoed
through the cockpit and was audible in the cabin.
“This is eleven
thirty-eight,” Mac said, using his most official-sounding pilot
voice, several octaves lower than his usual tone. “I’ve got Moxon
on board and we’re knocking on the front door.”
“ Welcome
home, eleven thirty-eight. We’re unlocking the deadbolt and turning
on the porch lights.”
And with those
words the metal doors pulled open, gears grinding slowly as sheets
of ice cracked and fell from their surface. The hangar slowly came
into view. The opening was cavernous. Home to a fleet of twenty
aircraft with room for twenty more, the enclosed area was like a
small city all its own. Bright lights illuminated in sequence, from
front to back, bathing the hangar in a powerful white glow.
The landing
gear lowered and the jet touched down so gently that we never felt
the tires making contact with the surface. A man in a navy flight
suit holding a pair of neon orange batons waved us in, directing
our aircraft across the tarmac and into a docking space. We hadn’t
yet rolled to a stop before the hangar doors closed behind us with
a resounding boom.
Brynja and
Valentina stepped out of the jet first, staring with wonder at
their surroundings.
Mac jogged down
the stairs and let out a low whistle. He was practically salivating
at the collection of rare and expensive aircraft that filled the
hangar. “These are some impressive digs, Moxon. And these
birds...can I take one of them out for a spin?”
I assured him
there would be time for that as soon as we’d settled in. After the
Kashstarter video and what was happening in New York, there was no
way I was going to leave the Fortress– at least not any time in the
foreseeable future. We were here for the long haul, and he could
play with the new toys later.
A whirring
sound echoed from across the tarmac. It was a six-wheeled
transport; an open air vehicle that looked somewhat like a golf
cart, but without a roof. The driver was a small, round man with a
tangled beard and a mess of black hair. “Great to finally meet
you,” he shouted with an eager wave. “I’m Chandler Oswalt, one of
the...well, your staff, I guess. Me. I’m part of it. Mister Moxon,
sir.” His face reddened as his words spilled out in rapid
succession, and in no discernible order.
I returned the
wave and smiled. “Take it easy, Chandler. No need to be nervous.
I’m Matt.”
He stood and
adjusted his uniform, a navy-blue flight suit with a white ‘Frost
Corporation’ logo embroidered on the chest. “I’m taking bags
for...I mean, I’ve got them. Your bags. Where are they?”
I was more than
happy to carry my own things. Having a staff
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