Project Maigo (21 page)

No, I want to destroy them.

I
must
destroy them!

Mercy means suffering. Relief only comes from the slaying of corruption. I am addicted to their destruction. And I will annihilate anything and anyone that stands in my way.

The cycle of pain and information continues until there is nothing else. I experience years of pain-based programming in a matter of seconds. Pain and screaming, good, evil and vengeance. This was the birth of Nemesis. The creation of the monster. Whoever...whatever, she was before, has been erased. But I know for certain that she was not the winged goddess of retribution. Someone made her this way.

Against her will.

The darkness is empty again.

I hear footsteps, small and gentle.

Maigo emerges.

“You cannot control me,” she says, and I know she’s right. The blind rage of Nemesis is beyond anyone’s control...except Maigo’s.

But... “You’re not Maigo.”

She stands still, staring at me.

“And you’re not Nemesis,” I say.

“I am new,” she says. “And I am not. We are one, but...separate and different.”

“Confusing,” I admit.

“Very,” she says, though she doesn’t really say it. I feel it. This conversation isn’t really happening. It’s in my mind, translated into something I can understand. Whether that’s me, Maigo, Nemesis or Endo’s device, I have no idea.

“I—I am sorry,” she says with a frown.

“I understand.”

She nods. “I know. But... I...” She shakes her head. “I will always be—us. The past is inescapable.”

I get it. She’s not apologizing for Boston. For the deaths of countless innocents. She’s apologizing for whatever happens next. The destruction. The judgment. She can’t stop it. She knows we might be enemies again. That the struggle will continue. The history that made Maigo and Nemesis destroy Boston still exists. The urges, while tempered by a young girl, drive the monster, whose strange origins compel her to execute those she deems guilty, no matter who or what stands in her path.

And still, I understand.

Nemesis, like Maigo, is a victim.

Maigo walks toward me, a smile on her face. “Thank you for understanding.” She reaches out, places a hand on my forehead.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Your gift,” she says, and we’re suddenly back in my living room, two kids in front of a Christmas tree. “To help stop the dark man.”

A white hot heat burns my skin. I scream as that ancient, white-hot rage courses through my body.

“Hold him down!” I hear someone shout.

“I can’t! He’s—”

My eyes open. The rage fades like a dream. The blue sky above is blurred and fluttering. Two shapes lean over me. I recognize the red hair before my vision focuses. “Ash,” I hear myself say.

Collins turns and says, “He’s okay! He’s back!”

My vision clears, and I see Collins above me, her long red hair tickling my cheek. Beside her is Alessi, and I’m surprised by the concern I see on her face. I grunt and turn my head to the side. Betty is on top of the apartment building roof, just a few feet away. The rotor blades chop above us, twisting hair and filling the air with bass-drum thunder.

“Where is she?” I ask.

Collins understands the question and looks out to sea.

“Help me up,” I say.

Alessi moves first, more accustomed to following orders than questioning her boyfriend. But Collins helps her out, and I’m on my feet a moment later, hurting so badly I nearly ask to be put back down. But from my standing position, I can see what I need to.

Nemesis.

Maigo
.

She’s in the harbor, trudging back into the ocean, no sentence to carry out.

I sigh with relief, thinking about my bed. I turn to order everyone home.

That’s when I hear the jets.

28

“What is that?” I ask, but Collins and Alessi have no answer. They turn toward the east along with me, confusion in their eyes. Looking over the ruins of Boston’s North End, I see a squadron of jets, more than thirty of them. F-18s, F-22s and the tank-killers called A-10 Thunderbolts, whose distinctive high-pitched whine shrieks like a Valkyrie’s battle cry. All heavy hitters. That I can hear them before they arrive means they’re flying slow, below the speed of sound. Cautious. Deliberate.

This is no patrol. They’re not here to watch or escort Nemesis back out to sea. They’re here to attack. This is ridiculous for three reasons. First, it won’t work. And there isn’t a single person in the chain of command that doesn’t know this. Second, to assemble a strike squadron this size means they’ve pulled jets from the north and south, leaving large portions of the country partially undefended. While ground defenses will still be in place, the jet patrols can see things coming first and react faster. Three, Nemesis might be in Boston, and an easy target at the moment, but we know that there are at least four more Kaiju roaming about, not to mention Gordon.

All of this is bad. Really bad. But none of it pisses me off more than being kept out of the loop. This was done behind my back. Again. And there is only one person who could have approved the assault, which explains why I wasn’t consulted. The President knows I would have opposed this plan. But by not having my objection on record, he won’t look like a complete fucking moron when this blows up in his face. And that’s the rub. He knows this is going to go sideways. At best, it won’t work and Nemesis will escape. At worst, he’s going to piss her off. Then we’re all screwed.

Despite Maigo being a very real part of Nemesis, I felt the creature’s tortured past. It’s not going to react well to being prodded.

With an aching hand, I lift my phone and switch Devine on so I can communicate with all emergency forces. “This is FC-P director, Hudson. Incoming Air Force personnel, please—”

“Target is acquired,” a pilot says, his voice cool. “We are green across the board.”

“No,” I say. “Do not—”

“You are go for stall action,” someone responds. “Fire when ready.”

They’re not hearing me. I’ve been cut out.

“Dammit!” I shout. I grip Collins’s arm, as I turn toward Betty. “We need to go. Now!”

I shout in pain as we run to the chopper. The pain is excruciating, but I know to linger is to die. Updates continue to flood my ears. A countdown. Ten seconds.

We pile into the chopper. I throw a headset on and shout to Woodstock. “Get us the hell out of here!”

The chopper lifts away from the apartment building roof just as I hear someone say, “Missiles away.”

“Down!” I shout.

We roll to the right and drop over the side of the apartment building’s eastern side. Looking up, through the chopper’s side window, I see missiles rip by, trailing streaks of white. We level out at two hundred feet, and I turn my gaze right in time to see the missiles—at least thirty of them—close in on their target.

Before the first missile strikes, I think,
at least they’re not aiming for her chest
. All those orange membranes would be impossible to miss. The problem with aiming for her back is that the thick, spike covered carapace is her most well defended side. The missiles are little more than paintballs fired at a bulletproof vest.

The first missile strikes with a burst of orange flame. If Nemesis feels it, she doesn’t show it. The rest of the missiles strike at roughly the same time, generating enough energy to shove her forward. She stumbles in the water, but stays upright. Then she cranes her head around, spotting the jets.

The roar that follows, angry and earth-shaking, confirms my fears. Despite our little bonding moment, the goddess of vengeance won’t let the attack go unpunished.

“Missiles away,” I hear, just seconds before another barrage streaks past. If she turns around...

“Moab ETA, two minutes,” someone says. “Continue stall action.”

Stall action?

“They’re pinning her down for some reason,” I say.

“MOAB,” Woodstock says. “Mother of all bombs.”

Holy shit. He’s right. The MOAB acronym actually stands for Massive Ordnance Air Blast. It’s a vacuum bomb equivalent to eleven tons of TNT. The largest non-nuclear weapon in the U.S. arsenal that basically melts everything inside a nearly one mile radius. Right now, that’s Boston harbor and maybe a smidge of the North End, which has already been destroyed. Oh yeah, and us.

Anticipating my order—get the fuck out of here—Woodstock tilts us forward and sends Betty to the North. We don’t make it far.

Alessi leans forward, poking her head into the cockpit. “Katsu is still down there!”

I think for just a moment, and I come to a conclusion. “There isn’t time for a pick up.”

“Jon!” Collins says. “You can’t just—”

“I’m not leaving him,” I say. “But you’re not coming.”

Before she can argue, I grip Woodstock’s arm. “Get them out of here and don’t come back.”

He nods. A good soldier.

I glance to the back, find Collins’s confused eyes and say, “Love you.” Then I throw open the side door and jump.

If Collins replies, I don’t hear her. The roar of rushing air, of missiles and of Nemesis, fills my ears. Vibrates my very bones. Things are about to get very loud around here.

I pull the ripcord for my base-jumping parachute after just one second of freefall. Another second longer and the chute wouldn’t have time to deploy. It’s a close call already. The black fabric unfurls, catches the air and arrests my fall just thirty feet from the ground. I land hard, shouting in pain, as my legs fold beneath my weight.

After pulling myself free from the chute, I hobble to my feet. I’m standing by what remains of the New England Aquarium. I strike out to the west, heading for the back of the apartment building, where Endo should have touched down. I realize he might not be there. He could have bugged out. I could be risking my life for nothing. That he didn’t check in with Alessi is what concerns me, though.

The pain in my leg increases with each limping step. I press my hand against the limb, covering the wound, and I feel the warm tacky wetness of blood. A lot of blood. Moving is probably a bad idea, but at this point, I don’t have a choice. As I reach the end of the wharf, upon which the aquarium was built, I shout, “Endo!”

The lack of reply doesn’t slow me down. I’ve got just over a minute before the mother of all bombs turns me to dust. I turn left and spot a billowing black shape. “Endo!” I hurry forward. The parachute is tangled with a mass of ruined outdoor tables with blue umbrellas. “Endo!”

A groan. Movement. I yank away the chute and find him lying amid the debris. His face is covered in blood. “Came down too fast,” he says and glances up. “Hit the building.”

I glance up. A seven story, concrete building looms above us. He must have bounced off the building and fallen into the tables. “Can you move?”

“I’d prefer an ambulance,” he says.

“Either get up or all you’re going to get is dead.”

“Nemesis?”

I turn my eyes skyward, find the black triangle of a stealth bomber high above and point it out. “MOAB.”

“Shit,” he says with uncommon surprise, pushing himself up. I pull him to his feet, but after that, he’s on his own. I can barely stand as it is.

“This way!” We hobble back past the Aquarium, heading for a green railing above which is mounted a circular sign with a big T in the middle. The red brick is unforgiving beneath my feet, each impact a new kind of agony.

The sound of a continuing missile barrage, coupled with Nemesis’s roar, draws my attention back to the harbor. Nemesis is aglow with explosions, writhing in pain or fury. Probably both. The fighter jet pilots have done a good job of avoiding those orange membranes.

Then the missiles stop.

The jets flying past overhead peel away, afterburners roaring as they flee the scene.

A tiny black dot falls from the sky, headed toward Nemesis.

MOAB.

I look forward, the subway station is just fifty feet ahead. If I were healthy, I could cover the distance in a few seconds. Now...it’s going to be close. The problem with MOAB is that it’s a fuel-air explosive, meaning it will detonate before it strikes Nemesis, creating a thermobaric wave of stunning force and heat not unlike Nemesis’s self-immolation.

Ignoring the bomb and its target, I push past the pain, willing my legs forward. Endo reaches the stairwell before me and plunges into the darkness. He shouts in surprise about something, but I don’t slow as I reach the steps. Instead, I throw myself downward, expecting a brutal but potentially lifesaving fall. The surprise comes quickly as I splash down into salt water. The subway is flooded. We’re still too high!

“Down!” I shout, ducking beneath the water and swimming for all I’m worth, while the salt water burns my wounds. After just five strokes, a wave of pressure moves through the water and my body, drawing the air from my lungs. I instinctually head for the surface, but I bump my head. Seeing stars, I spin, pressing my hands against an invisible ceiling, unable to tell if they’re moving through water or air, or even if I’m right-side up. I’d shout if I could. Scream like a madman. But there’s no air left in my lungs.