The Mammoth Book of Kaiju

by Sean Wallace

  The old woman dragged her behind some rocks as the churning pall overtook them, and shielded her with her own body as best as she could. There they huddled, until the blackness had passed.

  The afternoon sun blazed a deep blood red as they staggered back to camp.

  Two Weeks Later

  The Cinesound newsreel flickered in the darkened Victory Cinema on George Street. On the screen, a poisonous black and white mushroom cloud rose ominously over the barren desert. Official observers—some with berets, others with slouch hats—turned away from the blast, unprotected. Only a few scientists, in lab coats and goggles, faced the boiling maelstrom.

  The voiceover had a plummy British accent.

  “Britain enters the Atomic Age with the successful detonation of its first atomic bomb, code-named Totem One, at Emu Junction in the remote and unpopulated central Australian desert. This and further tests help secure Australia’s own atomic future, and the promise of unlimited clean, efficient energy.”

  Meanwhile, Back in Central Australia

  There were bodies of aborigines lying everywhere, some dying, some already dead. They suffered burning red skin, vomiting, dysentery. They had thought it was measles or chicken pox—there had been outbreaks of these diseases in the past—but this was something quite different.

  Only a few children and a couple of the missionaries were well enough to look after the ill. The girl brought water to her grandmother. The old woman was delirious, and kept repeating, “Irati . . . irati . . . ”

  “What is she saying?” one of the missionaries paused to ask the girl. “What does irati mean?”

  The little girl struggled to think of a way to describe the word. “When someone gives you a bad thing to eat.”

  “Poison? You mean poison?

  “Yes!” she nodded. “Poison. She says the black cloud was poison.”

  The old woman reached out to the child.

  “You must get away from here.” Her eyes widened. “This land is irati!”

  “But where, Kami? . . . where can I go?” There was nowhere to run, no way to escape the irati.

  “You must leave. Now. You must!

  “No, Kami . . . I won’t leave you.”

  “Go!” The old woman heaved an agonized last breath, and her hand fell limp.

  Sobbing, the girl ran into the night.

  The missionary called after her, but the child was soon engulfed by the darkness.

  And when she failed to return to camp, they thought that she too had died of the sickness. Soon there would be no one left alive who even remembered her.

  Three Days Ago

  The two black-suited men loomed over the night-duty nurse at the Harry Seidler Retirement Village. She glanced at their IDs. They wore sunglasses in the photos. She looked back up at the men. They were still wearing them. Nonplussed, she handed the IDs back and directed them to the TV room.

  “That’s him.”

  The old man fused to the battered sofa chair was totally absorbed in Wheel of Fortune. The ancient television screen flickered. He swore when the picture signal dropped out for a second just as the wheel slowed to a halt.

  “Excuse me . . . ahem . . . excuse me.”

  The old man craned his neck at the two men and blinked twice.

  “Yes?”

  “Are you Cobden Parkes?” asked the first man.

  The old man’s eyes narrowed.

  “You were the Government Architect in the fifties, during Premier Cahill’s term?”

  The old man nodded.

  “And Government Architect for the Sydney Opera House . . . ” added the second.

  “What’s this all about?” He eyed the two men suspiciously. “Who are you?”

  The first man answered. “We’re from the Australian Security Intelligence Organization. We . . . think you might be able to help us.”

  The operative crouched down to the old man’s eye level.

  “Daikaiju . . . what do you know about daikaiju?

  December 12, 1955

  “Daikaiju—giant monsters—it’s the Japanese term for the creatures.” The Premier of New South Wales, John Joseph Cahill, was a tough, pragmatic man. Hardened by too many years of politicking, he was not exactly prone to flights of fantasy. But he could plainly see the incredulity on the faces of Cobden Parkes, the government architect, and Harry Ashworth, the minister for public works.

  “Don’t look at me like I’m some kind of imbecile!” The premier puffed on his cigarette. The other two weren’t so sure.

  “I know what I’m talking about. The giant octopus that attacked San Francisco three years ago . . . where do you think that came from? Bloody Yanks were testing A-bombs twenty thousand fathoms beneath the ocean off the west coast. Then two years ago Japan was attacked by a prehistoric throwback that caused as much death and destruction as the two A-bombs dropped during the war.”

  The premier gazed out of his office window across the city.

  Parkes and Ashworth listened in silence.

  “The federal government has just granted the bloody poms full support to conduct further atomic tests in a place called Maralinga in South Australia. The Yanks are testing on Bikini Atoll. The French also have a testing program in the Pacific . . . we’re surrounded by bloody idiots.”

  He turned to face the men.

  “Who knows what else they’re about to unleash, or when we’ll see the end of it?”

  “Where do we fit into all this?” inquired Ashworth gingerly. “Why us?”

  “We need to protect Sydney against the inevitability of a giant monster attack. It will come, gentlemen, I know it will come. And we all know the devastation wrought by those creatures when they intrude on a built-up area. Don’t we?”

  Ashworth shrugged uncertainly. Parkes stared at his own hands, clenched into fists on his knees.

  The determination in Cahill’s voice was intense. “Well, while I’m in power, I intend to do something to prepare for it. This will be a costly exercise, and controversial . . . no doubt about it. We’ll probably all cop a lot of flack before it’s done, but it’s one form of insurance this city can’t afford not to have. Maybe not today, or even in our lifetimes, but one day . . . one day . . . ”

  He went to his desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out a roll of blueprints, which he unfurled, balancing his cigarette on his bottom lip the whole time.

  “This is what our boffins at the Commonwealth Scientific and Industrial Research Organization have come up with to stop them.” He weighed down the corners of the plans with filled ashtrays.

  “This, gentlemen, is an anti-daikaiju device.”

  Ashworth raised his eyebrows.

  Parkes scanned the blueprints and tried to take it all in. “It’s huge! Where do you propose we house such a contraption?”

  “Good question, Parkes. The location has to be in the city, and it can’t arouse any suspicion. That’s why you gentlemen are here.”

  Ashworth cogitated for a moment, then volunteered. “Maybe it could be disguised as grain silos?”

  The premier snorted.

  “Don’t be ridiculous! I don’t want to make Sydney any more of a target than it is. This thing has to provide the city with its major defense against daikaiju, not ICBMs.”

  Ashworth was somewhat more subdued this time.

  “How about a new tram terminal, then? The existing terminal on the Quay needs upgrading. How about there?”

  The premier thought about it for a moment, then scrunched up his face.

  “That’s no good either. Sydney may not even have trams soon, if some people have their way.” He shook his head. “No. This building has to last. It has to be a landmark. Something so obvious that no one would ever suspect its true purpose.”

  The intercom buzzed and the premier punched the button.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Premier, it’s Mr. Goossens on the line.”

  “I said no calls.”

  “He’s most insistent.”

  “Jesus,
that man refuses to give up.” He tossed an exasperated glance at the two men. “Excuse me a moment gentlemen. Yes, I’ll take the call.”

  Ashworth recognized the name. “Isn’t he the conductor of the Sydney Symphony Orchestra?” Parkes shrugged.

  “Mr. Goossens?” The premier knew when to turn on the smarm. It dripped from his words, just on the verge of becoming sarcasm. “Eugene! It’s good to hear your voice, too.” There was a pause as the premier held the receiver away from his ear. “Yes, I’ve read your latest letter.”

  He listened politely for a moment, then sighed and interjected. “I agree . . . Sydney does need a home for your orchestra.” He’d been subjected to the same lecture so often that his eyes would normally glaze over, and they did briefly. But then the glint came back and they narrowed.

  He paused for barely a second.

  “Yes, Eugene, I hear you. I hear you very well.”

  He took a deep breath. Sighed again. This time it expressed satisfaction rather than impatience.

  “Eugene, before you get too carried away,” he continued, with no insincerity now, “how long have you been petitioning the government for an opera house—nine years? That long, huh?”

  A twisted smirk came over the premier’s face as he met the gaze of the two men in his office. They both frowned. “Well, I have some wonderful news for you. Your persistence has finally paid off. The government architect and the minister of public works have just today come to me with a plan . . . and I think you’re going to like it . . . ”

  March 10, 1956

  Over the centuries, the huge uplifted rocks at Emu Junction had been eroded by the elements into enormous round boulders piled precariously on top of each other.

  Extremes of heat and cold had caused their rusty surfaces to exfoliate, not unlike the skin of an onion. But now they lay scattered, tossed like marbles by the force of the detonation.

  The largest of the massive boulders began to radiate an eerie green glow. The sun had set, and it lit up the immediate area, casting long shadows around it.

  Behind the surrounding boulders was an observer. Attracted by the glow, a young girl remained hidden, and watched, completely mesmerized.

  January 29, 1957

  The premier rose to address the crowd. The gallery of the Sydney Town Hall was packed to the rafters with dignitaries and the press. A hush fell over the auditorium.

  “And now, after much deliberation, I’d like to present the man responsible for the winning design—Danish architect, Jørn Utzon.”

  The lanky young Dane stepped forward, his gray suit draping loosely on his tall gangly frame, and unveiled a model of a building unlike anything seen before. There was an audible gasp from the shocked crowd as flashbulbs exploded about them. Everybody swarmed around Utzon and his model.

  All except the minister for public works, and the government architect—who managed forced nervous smiles over their concern—and the premier, who was grinning from ear to ear. After all, a politician knows all too well how to hide his true feelings.

  September 18, 1959

  The teenage girl approached the huge boulder with some trepidation. She had often frequented the site, and found comfort in the warm radiating glow, especially as she recovered from the sickness that had claimed her grandmother. But recently the glow had subsided. The surface of the rock had softened into a leathery shell, and was slightly translucent. It seemed to have transformed into some kind of egg.

  As she gingerly approached, something shifted inside it. Startled, the girl darted back behind the rocks, emerging only when the movement settled. As she approached the egg again, she imagined she could make out what sort of creature lay curled inside. On closer inspection she was not only certain what it was, but also knew what she must do.

  She collected the largest branches she could find and slowly levered the egg away from the cluster of rocks. Whenever she felt any protesting movement from within, she stopped and gently sang to it. The song had been taught to her by the missionaries, and this seemed to appease it. With her back against it, she then continued rolling, levering when it snagged, moving it inches at a time.

  Not far from where she labored, the termites had rebuilt their mounds. They had survived the blast, but radiation had affected them, too, and now their nests towered impressively over the landscape.

  Moving the egg was hard work for one so small and sickly, and it took many days before she successfully maneuvered it around each mound and into the center of the termite field. Once there, she rested, and waited patiently.

  October 22, 1959

  The phone rang downstairs in the lounge room of the government architect’s house. The place was conservative for an architect—right down to the chintz curtains and lace antimacassars—but then Cobden Parkes was like that, and it made him the perfect government official.

  The architect answered groggily. “Hello?” Then he recognized the voice. “Oh Harry . . . Jesus mate, it’s 5:00 AM . . . what’s up?”

  “It’s Cahill. He’s dead.”

  It took a moment for his foggy brain to fully grasp the magnitude of the situation.

  “Oh no . . . ”

  “There’s going to be a change in government . . . and we’re gonna have to go it alone.”

  Later, That Same Day

  The egg slowly hatched while the teenager watched with fascination. She watched as it emerged and baked in the sun, watched as its spines hardened, as it flexed long black scimitar claws that would soon begin burrowing into the giant red termite mounds around them.

  Finally, the girl approached the newborn—gingerly, so as not to alarm it. Despite being blind, it sensed her presence. It raised its proboscis in her direction, smelled her, and withdrew. She froze, and softly began singing. The creature softened its stance, then slowly began rocking to the soothing, familiar sound of her voice.

  She moved closer, and, unafraid, began to gently stroke its head. It nuzzled against her as she whispered, “Mamu . . . my mamu . . . ”

  February 26, 1966

  Cobden Parkes rolled the tile in his palm. The milky white enameled surface felt unusually warm. He passed it to Harry Ashworth.

  Senior Professor Wraight of the Commonwealth Scientific and Industrial Research Organization pushed back his glasses.

  “We’ve just finished testing the latest batch of tiles.”

  Parkes and Ashworth looked hopeful. The professor smiled grimly.

  “It’s not good news, gentlemen.”

  “What? Don’t the tiles work?” Parkes’ face had drained white. There had been so many problems already, now was not a good time for more of them to arise.

  “Oh no. The tiles work perfectly.” The professor poured them coffee from a beaker, warming on a tripod over a Bunsen burner. There was an edge to his dry voice.

  “What now?” muttered Ashworth, sensing a bombshell about to drop.

  Wraight plunged in. “We always knew we couldn’t kill the monsters—the aim was to drive them away from the city using their own ultrasonic emissions.” The professor indicated a scale model of the anti-daikaiju device on the desk before him.

  “These tiles were designed to coat the entire surface of the giant dome, forming a huge mirror, as it were. They would absorb the ultrasonic pulses that daikaiju emit, the same way certain moth’s scales absorb the ultrasonic beeps of bats to render them invisible. The device itself would magnify the signal as we shifted the contours, create a pulse and redirect it—luring the creatures away . . . packing them off to Melbourne, perhaps, or some equally deserving place . . . ”

  His attempted levity misfired, and Ashworth remained stone-faced.

  “So, if the tiles work, what’s the problem?”

  The professor placed on the table what looked like a large military walkie-talkie with a rotary telephone dialer.

  “What’s this?”

  “It’s a mobile telephone. It works like a small radio transmitter. The US military are currently using them in Vietna
m.”

  “Look at the size of this thing! Doesn’t look too mobile to me,” blurted Parkes, failing to fully grasp the situation.

  “Who’s going to lug something as cumbersome as this around when there’s a telephone on every street corner?”

  The professor tried not to sound too patronizing. “We can’t underestimate the impact of this new technology in the future, Mr. Parkes. There are companies already gearing up to mass-produce them. It won’t be long before they’re reduced to the size of a paperback.”

  The professor suddenly became deadly serious as he finally dropped the bomb.

  “If . . . no,” he corrected himself, “when . . . these telephones come into service, they could seriously compromise the device by generating hundreds, maybe thousands of signals. The interference would make it difficult—if not impossible—to focus and redirect daikaiju impulses.”

  The minister for public works moaned as the full impact sunk in. “You know what this means, Cob?”

  The architect knew all right—the precious design wouldn’t work. He cradled his head in his hands and rocked in his chair.

  “Jesus wept . . . I-am-not-hearing-this.”

  A defeated Ashworth threw up his hands. “How do you propose we account for future levels of interference?”

  The professor’s eyes widened as he rifled through the mass of plans, which spilled from the table onto the floor.

  “Like this . . . ”

  He pointed to the plans of the hydraulic systems and already enhanced framework of the building’s superstructure.

  “As originally designed, the anti-daikaiju device was stationary, rotating in response to the direction of the primary source signal.” The professor continued, “The roofing panels open out into huge dishes already, but with a bit of modification . . . okay, significant modification, I admit . . . we could go even further . . . ”