Project Hyperion

by Jeremy Robinson

“Unless they built another.”

  She holds up a finger, like she’s about to object, but then points at me. “Right.”

  “So what are we dealing with?” I ask, like I won’t be rattled by any answer she gives, and like I’m a badass 80s hero in tight blue jeans. But on the inside, I’m thinking: Please don’t say Nemesis. Please don’t say Nemesis.

  She taps on her phone’s screen and then turns it around, revealing a photo.

  I hold my breath for a moment, then ask, “Where did this come from?”

  “Anonymous tip.”

  “Where is this?”

  “Big Diomede Island, in the Bering Strait.”

  And just when I thought the day couldn’t get worse than falling into prehistoric shart juice... I’ve seen the symbol carved into the stone wall in the photo only once before, in GOD’s Area 51 headquarters, which is the very same place where they kept the remains of several species of alien. Well, two aliens and one over-sized alien head. The first time I saw this symbol, it was carved into a ten foot tall, blond man-thing’s chest. Human or not, the giant was part of a race of humanoids from whom a certain Nazi with a small mustache believed the Germanic peoples descended.

  It was the symbol for Atlantis.

  3

  “Russia!” I’m seated in Future Betty’s hold, which was designed to transport a team of Special Operators known as the BlackGuard. They were badass killers employed by GOD, but sometimes being the toughest kid on the block isn’t enough. Sometimes you have to be smart. Or lucky. They were neither, and now they’re dead. Which is fine by me, since they tried to kill my team...my family. And now I have their transportation, which is whisking us—Woodstock, Collins, Maigo and me, northwest toward Canadian airspace at Mach 3. That’s 2284 ass-puckering miles per hour. “Russia! You didn’t say anything about starting an international incident!”

  I’m sitting on one of two inward facing rows of seats lining the sides of the X-35. Collins and Maigo sit across from me, both dressed in the team’s new, and stylish black combat gear. It should protect us from bullets, knives and giant spider phalluses, should the need ever arise...again. Ugh. When the word ‘Russia’ came out of my mouth, both of them paled a little bit. While most of the world is on board with the FC-P’s advisement in all things Kaiju, Russia is closed off. It’s not really surprising, given their competitive history with the U.S. and recent events in the Ukraine. While I agree that Russia won’t know how to handle a bona fide Kaiju threat, not to mention an extraterrestrial threat, I’m not exactly comfortable with breaching their border unannounced.

  “That’s why you’re not going to get caught,” Cooper says in my ear, over comms.

  “Easier said than done,” I argue.

  “No one can see you,” Watson chimes in. They’ve got me on speaker phone. I hate speaker phones. “No one can hear you. You’re invisible to radar. And the only people on the island are two weather station personnel and a handful of Russian Border Guard troops.”

  “Troops carry guns,” I say. “They can also call in reinforcements.”

  Maigo crosses her arms and huffs. “I told you we should have brought Lilly.” She’s probably right, but when I decided to let the rest of our merry band chill in Maine, I didn’t know we might be facing the Russian military.

  I wave her away. The return trip to pick them up might only add twenty minutes to our total travel time, but we can’t risk GOD getting there first. Not only are they more likely to deal with the Russians more harshly, but they’ll also find a way to weaponize whatever—if anything—is hidden there. And since their last genetic experiment would have wiped out humanity if not for Nemesis, that’s a very bad thing.

  And I shouldn’t undersell us. I’ve led enough of these things now to feel confident in my abilities. Collins is, well, Collins. She can handle herself. And Maigo... Okay, the Border Guards probably don’t stand a chance. But if we’re ID’d and word gets out, things could get messy.

  Before Cooper and Watson can offer more tactical advice, I say, “Just fill me in. What are we up against?”

  “It’s going to be windy, cold and desolate,” Cooper says. “The only indigenous life are birds.”

  “No people?” I ask. “Aside from the Border Guards?”

  “The Inupiat Inuits were forced off the island after World War II, to make sure no one communicated with the Americans on Little Diomede, which is just two and a half miles away.”

  “So if things go south we can just swim to America?” I’m being sarcastic, but neither Watson nor Cooper are good at hearing sarcasm, though for different socially awkward reasons.

  “I wouldn’t recommend that,” Cooper says. “You’ll die of hypothermia long before making the swim.”

  “And you have—”

  I cut Watson short. “Look, just send me what you have on our mysterious anonymous tip.”

  “There isn’t much,” Watson says.

  I’m about to complain when my tablet chimes, declaring that I’ve just received an e-mail from Watson. I clamp my mouth shut, narrowly avoiding being a jerk. “Thanks. Got it. Call the others to the Beverly office. If things go south, I want Lilly and Hawkins ready.”

  Lilly and Mark Hawkins, her stand-in father and mentor, are often part of our field team. Sometimes they handle missions on their own. And when it comes to finding elusive creatures, they’re the best. Hawkins is a former Yellowstone Park Ranger specializing in finding lost and sometimes dead people who wandered off the trail or crossed paths with a hungry bear or mountain lion. Lilly is part panther. There isn’t much with a scent or a trail that they can’t find. If we were looking for a person, I would have picked them up, but what we’re after has likely been in the ground long enough for there to be no tracks and no scent. The third member of their team is Avril Joliet, a biologist who now spends most of her time in one of our two labs, happily analyzing blood and tissue samples from cryptozoological creatures.

  I lean forward and call up to Woodstock in the pilot seat. He’s chewing on a toothpick and humming a pop song. “What’s our ETA?”

  “Welp,” he says, “Roughly 3500 miles to go, divided by bat out of hell speed... About an hour and forty, give or take five minutes.”

  “I’ll check in when we get there,” I say into the phone. “But if you find anything else—”

  “We’ll call,” Cooper says.

  I hang up the phone and turn my attention to the e-mail from Watson.

  “What’s with the movie style phone hang up?” Maigo asks.

  “Huh?” I glance up at her from the photo of the Atlantean symbol carved in stone, apparently taken on Big Diomede Island...in freakin’ Russia.

  “You just hung up,” she says. “No ‘See ya.’ Or ‘Bye.’ Or even a ‘TTFN.’”

  “Mmm,” I say, eyes back on the photo.

  “Dad,” she says, and I don’t look up. “Now you’re doing it to me.”

  “Jon,” Collins says, the singsong of her voice slipping through my distraction. “You okay?”

  “What?” I glance up and see them both staring at me. I blink, playing mental catch up. “Sorry. It’s just...” I look down at the photo, taken by an anonymous source. The location is identifiable as Big Diomede because far in the distance, beyond a stretch of ocean, is another island. A scattering of white buildings are clumped together at the base of a tall, rocky rise. The location has been labeled Inalik, Little Diomede, revealing that the Inuit weren’t forced off of both islands. But in the foreground is the stone holding the Atlantean symbol. “...I was kind of hoping this would pass us by. That we wouldn’t see this symbol or hear the words Atlantis, Ferox, Aeros or anything else involving the past or present invasion of Earth by aliens. Monsters I can deal with, but this... How are we supposed to defend the Earth against alien invasion?”

  They’re both stumped. How could they not be?

  “But if anyone could...” Maigo starts. “I mean, how much worse could it be than Nemesis, or any of the other Kaiju tha
t have come and gone?”

  “That’s the problem,” I say. “We don’t know. And even if the new Endo-infused Nemesis shows up for the fight, and isn’t trying to eat us, it’s not like she can defend the whole planet on her own.”

  “The way I see it...” Woodstock plucks the toothpick from his mouth and looks back. “There isn’t anyone more mentally, emotionally or physically equipped to face whatever it is we find on this Russian island, whether that be ancient ruins, aliens—dead or alive—or various assorted monstrosities. We win fights with the impossible because we don’t back down, and because we try shit the likes of which other people wouldn’t even dream up. So quit acting like a squirrel with no nuts in his nest, or between his legs, and enjoy the flight.” He taps a few buttons, and the cameras lining the outside of the strange aircraft project what they’re seeing on most of the interior surfaces, allowing us views in every direction, including down. “Also, welcome to Canada, ehh. Home of hockey, maple syrup and Patti Lebeau, who broke my heart, stole my car and left me buck nekkid and fuzzy-handcuffed to a bike rack in Montreal. But in the opposite order.”

  I smile and say, “Thanks. For the pep talk. Not so much for the mental image.”

  “I do what I can, boss.”

  We spend the rest of the flight studying what little is known about Big Diomede (not much), the Russians stationed there (even less) and the terrain, which is barren, rocky and ice covered in the winter. It’s barren, rocky and scrub-grass covered in the summer. In short, it’s the most uninteresting chunk of rock west of the International Date Line, if you ignore the photo sent to us earlier.

  The Canadians have no idea we came and went, which isn’t much of a surprise. Not because the Canadian military is too busy curling to notice us, but because no one on the planet—except maybe alien invaders—has the technology to see us. We pass over Alaska in fifteen minutes, then we descend over the Bering Strait. I’ve been on flights from Boston to New York City that were more eventful.

  Not that I want eventful. I would be content to be the human equivalent of the U.S.S. Enterprise, seeking out new life and new worlds, but without the new civilization bit...or the Borg, the Klingons or the Ferengi—those guys are nasty. New civilizations tend to suck. If Stephen Hawking is right—and I’m pretty sure he is—any advanced civilization that finds their way here will likely be hostile.

  Future Betty touches down so gently that I don’t know we’re on the ground until Woodstock turns around in his seat and says, “You going to sit around all day and wait for the Ruskies to find us?”

  Collins stands and gives me her hand, while Maigo heads for the rear hatch. “You seem...disturbed. Distracted.”

  I let her pull me up, and rub both her arms like she’s the one who needs soothing. “Let’s just get this done.”

  “Distracted people make mistakes,” she says, speaking as my field partner more than my wife. “Mistakes get people killed.”

  “Thanks, Yoda.” I force a grin, but she sees right through it, raising an eyebrow that says I better talk.

  “The short version is that when I started this job—”

  “It was easy.”

  “It was easy, but not in the way you’re thinking. It was easy because I had no one to worry about. It was just me in the field. Now... We’re married.” I motion to Maigo. “We have an adopted daughter. Hawkins and Joliet might be living in sin still, but they’ve got Lilly. And Watson and Cooper have little Ted. The FC-P is now made up of families. Hell, even Lilly has a brood of her own.”

  “Babies having babies,” Collins says with a mock shake of her head. She nearly gets a laugh out of me.

  “It’s just...”

  “You want the good without the bad,” she says, interrupting again in a way that would get my shoulder slugged if I did it. “But here’s the thing. Without Nemesis, there would be no Maigo. We would have never met. Without GOD, there would be no Lilly. Without the hellish circumstances of the last few years, our family would have never come together in the first place.”

  “I’d still be flying air tours,” Woodstock says. “You know how many people want air tours of Maine?”

  “You could at least pretend our conversation is private,” I tell him.

  “That’s what I’m doing,” Maigo says, who could probably hear us from fifty feet away. “And she’s right, Dad.”

  My head lolls back, mouth agape. I let out a slow groan.

  “What’s that you say to Hawkins when you’re playing Call of Duty?” Collins asks.

  “‘Nut up,’” Maigo and Woodstock both say.

  “Nut up, Jon,” Collins says. “And instead of worrying about the worst, maybe think about what good might come from the fight.”

  Maigo hits the button for the rear hatch, and it lowers without making a sound. Forty degree Arctic air swirls in, stinging my cheeks and drawing my eyes to the barren landscape...where a man dressed in olive green, an AK-47 slung over his shoulder, stands with his back to us. He’s taking a leak, and I think he’s writing his name in Russian on a wide, flat rock.

  4

  The desperation of victims, guilt of perpetrators and rage of the willingly evil washed over her in waves. Every day. Every minute. Only the deepest depths of the crushing ocean gave her peace from the madness of the world. All those little creatures and their big emotions. One at a time, only the exceptional reached her thoughts, but collectively...they were enough to chase her away. People had once been little more than food, sustaining her rapid growth. But then, with the emergence of a conscience—a second voice really—she understood that they were somehow more than that.

  That voice was gone now, replaced by another, less concerned with the welfare of the small creatures, but lacking rage, and more willing to let humanity be. It was a voice of contentment. Of belonging. So she and the voice hid from the world, finding a symbiosis, which both enjoyed. Conscience became intellect. Cravings, once primal and unguided, now held meaning. The world cried for justice, for vengeance, which she would soon bring, but those without guilt should be spared. The new voice believed this, just as the old voice had, but the emotion was supported by logic and confidence, lacking the chaotic emotion brought by the previous voice.

  Now, Nemesis understood.

  Now, Nemesis knew the name of her second voice: Katsu Endo.

  He had been one of them. At best, food. At worst, judged. And she knew he had blood on his hands. But far less than she. And together, they had perhaps done more good than harm. What united their kindred spirits was a lack of guilt over their previous actions. They had done what needed doing.

  In the stark darkness of the Puerto Rico Trench, where she was sustained by a large species of primeval shark, she turned her head up. No light reached her, but she could sense the surface five miles overhead. The ocean was empty. The faintest echoes of souls crossing above sometimes reached her, but few caught her interest. Now, something nagged.

  The feeling was broad and unspecific. She wasn’t tugged to any single part of the world, only up.

  Toward the surface.

  Toward the sky above and what lay beyond.

  They’re coming, Endo said.

  She understood the voice, but did not communicate in the same way. While the voice known as Katsu Endo ‘spoke,’ the part of her that was Nemesis, felt. The words held no meaning—until he revealed it.

  The memory came back in a flash, bringing a kind of burning pain with it.

  Her creators.

  Her tormentors.

  She felt a burning hatred for a kind of being no longer wholly present in the world, but diffused in the creatures—

  Humans, Endo said, and with the word came understanding that the beings she had been sent to destroy had comingled with humanity, merging species.

  Her creators sent her here to destroy the non-human species. Flashes of violence played before her eyes, clear in the underwater darkness. A ringed city in flames. And then pain. Violence. A hated foe. Then nothing.
<
br />   The memories weren’t hers. The voice said so, and she understood. They belonged to another. The one who came before her, like the one who came before Endo. He called the old one ‘Prime.’ Nemesis Prime. The memory of that old self was ancient, but the feeling was growing stronger.

  Endo focused her attention, slowing her massive heart before any men listening could hear it. Her creators were coming, but the pull on her psyche was bigger than that. One of her—of Prime’s—targets of vengeance had returned to this planet. Not on the surface, or in the waters, but near. As were another kind of being, whose thirst for vengeance matched her own. Forces were gathering beyond the gaze of humanity, but not beyond the reach of her senses. She could feel them. Their anger. Their hatred. But not their intentions. Not yet.

  She rose toward the surface, slipping from the frigid layer of water along the trench’s lowest levels and into the warmer tropical temperatures above. She rose slowly, reaching out. Feeling.

  Voices enveloped her, screaming for attention. For aid. For blood. Her heart swelled again. Her tail snapped in agitation, propelling her higher. But she was subdued once more by the voice of Endo.

  Focus.

  But she couldn’t. Thousands of voices became millions.

  Millions became billions.

  All of them at once. A raw tidal wave that would have once propelled her to a frenzy, damning all those who stood in her path as she sought to silence the world.

  Focus!

  The voice directed her away from the chaos. Amidst the noise, close and distant was a rising feeling in her gut. Something was getting closer, a force that felt new, but familiar. She tuned out the humans, her ancient enemies and her creators, and she flinched in surprise.

  She felt...herself. But not precisely. She felt her other selves. And two new selves. The others were already here. Quiet. Dormant. Docile. But the new selves burned with a hunger and loathing matched only by the Prime.

  An ancient word returned to her mind, pronounced by the new voice: Gerstorumque.

  The word felt like herself. Her identity. But Endo denied it. Raged against it. You are a slave to no creature, he said. Prime was Gerstorumque. You are more. You...we...are Nemesis.