Monster Hunter Nemesis

by Larry Correia

  Dr. Bhaskara sniffed. She didn’t like when he referred to the Project Nemesis prototypes as babies. “Of the thirteen we have decanted so far, the prototypes are still testing at peak efficiency. Their ability to learn is remarkable. There has yet to be a single testing failure, cognitive or physical, thus far.”

  “What’re the new scores looking like?”

  “Far better than expected. They are remarkable. Let me put it this way, Mr. Stricken. Take ten minutes to demonstrate the skills necessary and another ten minutes to explain the rules of the sport to them, and then they would easily win the Olympic gold medal for that event and their human opponents wouldn’t even have a chance.”

  “I’m not rigging the Tour de France, Doctor, hilarious as that would be. I’m talking combat capabilities.”

  “Weapons familiarity training has been going well. Since we last spoke I have tested the first prototype against captured vampires of various strains and ages. A particularly nasty, well fed, fifty-year-old specimen only survived two and a half minutes of hand-to-hand combat.”

  “That’s my boy.”

  “He is still by far the most capable of the prototypes, but I hope the others catch up.” Dr. Bhaskara was justifiably proud. “I have no doubt that if we had a Master to test against, our prototypes would stand an excellent chance at winning.”

  That was probably pushing it. The doctor had read papers about Master vamps, but Stricken had dealt with them up close and personal. He wasn’t placing any bets. But luckily Stricken had a baker’s dozen of growth tanks that could pump out a new body every six months. And since this whole Project was stupidly illegal and he wasn’t even supposed to be testing, he’d done all that in secret. Once Franks was removed from the equation and he got an official go-ahead, he’d build hundreds of tanks. Then he’d have the quality and quantity to take all comers.

  “Are you confident in their ability to follow orders?” That was his greatest concern. He’d taken them out for a few little things, like bodyguarding him that time he’d confronted Earl Harbinger in Alaska, or popping some easy targets of opportunity, but the prototypes had never done anything too complex yet. What he had in mind would be challenging.

  “Absolutely. All of our psychological testing has shown that they are completely incapable of disloyalty. They are programmed to obey no matter what.”

  Programming was appropriate. They were basically like robots made out of flesh. He’d seen some of the footage of those tests. Order a prototype to hold a position no matter what, and then you could inflict all manner of pain and suffering on it, but they’d rather die than budge. Electrocute them, set them on fire, it didn’t matter. It had been harsh, but fascinating. “The outside world isn’t quite as sterile as your lab.”

  “Should one go rogue, we can simply activate the preprogrammed kill switch.” Conover’s treachery had caused them to add that improvement. “Even as incredibly resilient as their systems are, the release of the neurotoxin would incapacitate them instantly, and before you ask, yes, the rapid necrotic dissolution will destroy the evidence. Even their blood decays too quickly to extract DNA evidence.”

  “It’s hard to autopsy slurry. Good work, Doc. If you weren’t a complete psycho, I’d marry you.”

  “Sadly, I am married to my work, Mr. Stricken.”

  “Okay, ladies and gentlemen, you heard the report card . . .” Stricken picked up a remote control from one of the desks. One wall screen began flashing through various interior shots, the growth vats, the glowing cylinders of alchemical slime, and then finally the testing center. “If we’re going to use these things to save the world, I think it’s time we conduct a more in-depth field test.”

  The camera was fixed on a man sitting cross-legged on the floor of a padded room, staring off into space. His bare torso was hooked to several different monitoring machines. Every muscle group stood out with perfect definition. It was like he’d been sculpted by an artist whose only instruction had been to demonstrate perfection.

  “The first prototype . . .” Foster whistled. They’d all seen what these things were capable of, and the oldest was special even by Nemesis standards. “Poor Franks will never know what hit him.”

  The man appeared to be an ideal human specimen, but he was so much more. He was a blank slate on which could be inscribed the perfect soldier. Other than the nearly inhuman level of muscle tone, he appeared to be a white male in his twenties. They’d varied the genetic mix in each tank so that he could have assets available to blend into any culture. Stricken had to admit, he felt a little proud. He’d played god and gotten away with it. He had to wonder if Konrad Dippel had felt like this when he’d electrocuted a slab of meat and brought Franks to life.

  The first prototype was staring directly into the camera.

  * * *

  He could smell his visitor approaching.

  The albino had the scent of dark magic on him. He’d been touched at some point in his life and it had left him twisted. There was a blight on his soul, but unlike most damaged humans, the one called Stricken had embraced the darkness and used it to make himself stronger instead. He had a lust for power that was rare amongst mortals. It would be wise not to underestimate the albino.

  The door of his cell opened and Stricken entered, alone. He was not afraid. Stricken believed he was in control. They had surgically implanted a device inside his skull, and should he rise up against his creators, they would destroy this body.

  That was unacceptable.

  “Looking good there, my badass genetically engineered killing machine.”

  He remained seated as Stricken approached. If he moved too much it would pull the needles and sensors from his body and that would upset the doctors. Their poking and experiments were tiresome, but the indignities were a small price to pay to have a physical body. It was not right to treat a prince like this, but he would bide his time, and once ascended, he would remember every single insult inflicted on him by these humans and he would repay each one a thousandfold.

  “I know you’re not into small talk so I’ll get right down to business. I’ve got a job for you to do and I need to decide if you’re up to it. Are you ready?”

  He nodded.

  “You want to go outside?”

  He nodded again.

  “You mind killing some people for me?”

  He shook his head in the negative.

  “Of course you don’t. Mr. Foster will brief you. This operation is under his command. You’ll do exactly as he tells you. You will not fail and you will not allow yourself to be captured. Your primary target will be Agent Franks of the Monster Control Bureau.”

  Franks? It was a common enough human surname. “Will you tell me about this Franks?”

  Stricken seemed a little surprised that he’d bothered to ask a question. “That’s just what Franks named himself. He’s a powerful flesh golem.”

  It was fate. Yet, they still think he is a mere golem? That is all? Franks had successfully hidden his true identity all this time. Such patience and restraint was remarkable, especially for one capable of such anger.

  “Don’t worry. Franks is old technology, nothing like you and your siblings. We’ve arranged it so that he should be unarmed, but just in case I’ll be sending some help with you. Foster will give you a rundown on Franks’ known capabilities. He’ll also brief you on your secondary and tertiary targets and mission parameters. This one will require some finesse and then a whole lot of bloodshed. Are you ready?”

  He nodded.

  “I knew my first prototype wouldn’t let me down.” Stricken began walking away. He paused at the door. “You know what? That’s stupid. We can’t go live and still be calling you First Prototype all the time. We need to think up a name for you.”

  “You said the flesh golem Franks named himself. Am I allowed to give myself a name?”

  “Getting a little uppity there, aren’t you, buddy?” The albino frowned as he thought it over. “Well, it’s not like my mom na
med me Stricken . . . You were designed to be capable of autonomous problem solving, so I don’t see why not. Keep it simple though. Name tapes charge by the letter.”

  He waited several minutes after Stricken had left. The doctors would observe his every move. He wanted them to believe that he had to think this decision over, even though the decision had been made for him a very long time ago. The name was remembered from the before time, bestowed upon the leaders of the rebellion by the World Maker when they’d been cast down and exiled to Hell. He stared into the camera and made his pronouncement.

  “I am Kurst.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Humans call it Hell. That name will do. For a few rare mortals the barrier between worlds is thinner. They have caught glimpses that were beyond their understanding. These mortals spoke of lakes of fire and brimstone. That would have been much nicer than the reality.

  Hell is everything terrible, and absolute nothing at the same time. Calling it cold is a lie. Cold would be something. There’s no time, so you can’t even call it eternity. Eternity would give you something to track. It is the lack of creation. It is Void.

  Mortals don’t have enough words to explain how shitty it is. We’d brought it on ourselves and we knew it. Eventually you create torment for yourself, because at least torment is something.

  Most give up. Their spirits consume themselves, collapsing like a dying star, until they explode and scatter bits of their consciousness across the worlds. Mortals hear these as whispers, urging them to cause harm.

  The strongest of the Fallen never give up. Their spirits remain intact. The Fallen have nothing better to do than plot how to make those that stayed loyal just as miserable as we were. It gives us focus. We’d do anything to escape. Our spirits were banned from ever being born into mortal bodies, yet the cunning ones were always trying to cheat their way into this world.

  There are ways . . .

  10 Days Ago

  Franks filled out the same stupid answer to the same stupid question for the hundredth time, looked up from his computer and out the window, thinking to himself that somewhere out there was a horrible monster in need of killing, and how unfortunate it was that he was stuck here instead. In the good old days they just let Franks do what he did best, but choke one director and suddenly everyone expected you to explain yourself.

  He wanted to be in the field. The last update from Vegas said that MCB R&D had been able to track the portal and it might even be possible to launch a recon mission into the Nightmare Realm. Now that would be a proper mission worthy of Franks’ talents. Instead he was doing this crap.

  Preferring to be in the field, Franks didn’t use his office much. It was as unadorned as his apartment. Most of the surfaces were dusty. There was a stack of commendations and plaques in one corner that he’d never bothered to hang up. All the paperwork and binders were perfectly ordered. The last time his office had gotten messy was when the cinder beast had destroyed this floor a few years before. He’d not appreciated the disturbance.

  The ninth floor of the MCB building was quiet. The ops center and media monitoring stations were on the floors below them and would be fully staffed around the clock. Most of the field agents stationed in DC had either been dispatched to the Las Vegas cover-up, or they were backfilling the regional offices of those who had. The office staff had gone home for the night hours ago. It was 1:15. Agent Strayhorn had fallen asleep in one of the office chairs in front of his desk. Somewhere down the hall the cleaning crew turned on a vacuum cleaner and the rookie bolted awake. “Huh?” He glanced around quickly before remembering where he was. “Sorry. I was . . . I was just resting my eyes.”

  This was scut work, not a real mission, so he didn’t care if his agents slept on the job. At least when they slept they weren’t annoying him with constant nattering. This way they’d be well rested for when there was something important to do, like killing things. He had dismissed Jefferson and Archer, and would have sent them all home if Myers would have allowed it, but Myers felt he needed handlers until this was over, so that was all there was to it. Franks ignored the rookie and went back to his forms. Having spent time in Hell, he knew that government paperwork was the closest mankind had ever come to achieving true soul-crushing misery.

  “Where’s Radabaugh?”

  “Coffee.” Franks nodded toward the hall. There was a cafeteria downstairs.

  “I wasn’t asleep,” the rookie said, even though he’d been snoring when Radabaugh left. If this had been real guard duty there would have been a reprimand. The TO hadn’t cared because if doing paperwork was tedious, watching someone else do it was even worse.

  Franks made a noncommittal sound and went back to typing his statement. He’d have Jefferson edit it in the morning, because he didn’t think Myers would approve of answers like because Director Stark is a pathetic maggot he’s lucky that’s all I did to him.

  He worked for a few more minutes before Strayhorn got up the nerve to talk to him again. “Do you mind if I ask you a question, Agent Franks?”

  “Don’t.”

  “Sorry.” The rookie went back to counting the ceiling tiles. He began to tap absently on the arm of his chair. The sound was annoying. Franks glared. He stopped, probably uncomfortable that he was sharing the room with a monster. “Sorry.”

  He could have ordered the rookie to shut up, or go stand in the corner, or something, but his question was probably more interesting than the stupid reports. “Ask,” he demanded.

  “I’ve been briefed now on your history and what you are . . .”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  “No. I’m fine with it. It doesn’t bother me. You’re a legend for a reason. I don’t just mean like legend in the Bureau, I mean like a literal legend, around the world. You’re folklore. Hell, you’re literature.”

  Franks hated that particular book. It portrayed him as a whiner. He found it—there was a relatively new slang term that fit—emo. And Franks was certainly not emo. The rookie was looking him in the eye. That was impressive. Very few humans were able to do that when they had an inkling what he was. The rookie was tougher than expected, but that was the nature of an organization that only recruited people who had already established themselves as professionals. Franks thought of Strayhorn as the rookie only because that was what the other agents had called him. By Franks’ standards, all of them were new and inexperienced. “What then?”

  “I was just wondering why you still work for the MCB? You’ve done this so long. It’s not like you’re obligated to anymore. You’re PUFF exempt. Why do you still do this job?”

  That was complicated. First there was The Deal and then there was The Contract. He had an oath to uphold, an impossible promise to keep, a huge debt to pay, and the only way he could ever hope to accomplish those lofty goals was by doing the one thing he was good at. He’d been a warrior for eternity, and unlike the humans who’d fought in the war in heaven before they’d been born, he still remembered his purpose, and he was damned good at it. Hurting the things that preyed on humanity was the only thing keeping him out of Hell, but like all complex answers it was just easier to say, “Classified.”

  Strayhorn broke eye contact and looked out the window. “I understand.” Humans had a hard time with long awkward silences. Franks didn’t mind them, as he didn’t really grasp the awkward part and he enjoyed the silence. Strayhorn, apparently, did not. “Something’s been bothering me, about all of this, about the MCB, about our mission, about the First Reason . . .” The rookie turned back to him. “I thought you’ve been doing this so long you might have a good answer.”

  Myers had sent orders to not let anything bad happen to the rookie. So that probably precluded Franks’ initial inclination to toss him out the window. Answering his stupid question would probably be easier than shutting him up, or would at least have less paperwork involved, so Franks nodded for him to continue.

  “Part of my last job included witness protection. Now part of my new job is witness inti
midation. Yes, I know we can’t let people realize the Old Ones are real, because then that’ll make the Old Ones stronger. I know their evil is supposed to be unimaginable, so it’s for the witnesses’ own good, but it’s . . . just so damned hard to stomach. We threaten people to keep their mouths shut. I know the better we do our job, the more likely they’ll stay quiet, and the less likely we’ll need to do anything worse, but you’re who they send when we need worse. I can’t believe I’m saying this . . .”

  The rookie talked a lot. The window-tossing option was starting to sound more appealing.

  “Sorry, I’m rambling. I can’t say this to my TO or the others because if they thought I was having doubts about the mission I’d get drummed out of the Bureau. I get why we do it, but we threaten innocent people and once in a while actually have to do something awful to keep them silent . . . You’re the one they send when that’s necessary. How do you do it?”

  “Usually a suppressed pistol. Close range. Unless I’m ordered to make it look like an accident.”

  Strayhorn went grey. He took a deep breath, composed himself, and continued. “Not the actual act . . . I’d ask you how you sleep at night, but the briefing says you don’t sleep at all. How do you reconcile doing something evil to fight evil?”

  Curious. Franks was not used to one of his subordinates using such strong terms concerning his actions. Strayhorn was either remarkably brave or remarkably stupid. “Why do you need to know?”

  “I just do.”

  Humans had to make everything so damned complicated. “Old Ones are worse.”

  “And keeping the Old Ones from being worshipped is worth killing innocent people?”