The Mammoth Book of Kaiju

by Sean Wallace

  “What’s that? What the hell’s going on down there, Wes? We’ve been trying to reach you—”

  “I’ve been right here,” Corben muttered.

  “Seattle is walking, Wes . . . It’s a giant wooden Indian, and it says it’s gonna crush every white man who ever said his name aloud . . . ”

  Corben bit his lip. “Figures.”

  “TOTALLY AWESOME!! Chief Seattle, avenging the genocide of Nippon’s barbaric redskinned cousins. Your big-eyed white ape masters will shit themselves when they see what Los Angeles becomes . . . And Mexico City . . . ”

  “Tell me more,” Corben whispered. If only his head were bugged to relay Otaku’s ranting directly to the Pentagon. The buzzer in his temporal lobe was only designed to give him a fatal epileptic seizure, if he broke mission protocol. (And it had an mp3 player.)

  “They’re fighting for Manhattan,” babbled Mission Control, “but it’s dug in . . . gonna nuke it—at least, um, uptown—but they know they’re too late . . . What the hell are you doing, over there, Wes?”

  “Flip him the bird, gaijin puppet!” Otaku howled in his brain. “No, a Nazi salute! Pick your nose and eat it! What the hell is wrong with this piece of shit?”

  Corben cut the connection. “We need to go home.”

  “Hell yes! It’s working! Go home to your imperialist masters and stomp them into the Stone Age! Go— Fuck, it’s not . . . Maybe you should try shooting yourself again.”

  Corben felt no pressing urge to do anything but piss, smoke some opium, and retreat into catatonia, as soon as possible—but he was out of rations, and almost eager to descend into the hell a laughing yellow devil had once again trapped him.

  “Here’s the plan, douchebag,” Corben said. “If you don’t want me to get a blood transfusion or take a nap on a tanning bed—”

  “Face, honky! I have leukemia in a can—”

  “Where’s my halogen flashlight?”

  “Okay, back off! Dr. Otaku is a reasonable entity. I’m all ears, cracker.”

  “We’ll go back to the States, and I’ll get you transplanted into the first sumo wrestler we come across, if you take care of this thing for me.”

  “Take care of what, white devil?”

  “Them,” he said, pointing at the monitor.

  All at once, the eggs hatched.

  “I would be honored,” said Godfather Otaku.

  The Behemoth

  Jonathan Wood

  Now.

  Ankle deep in water, my mech stumbles. I try to correct, overcook it. Massive, clumsy, the machine goes down on one knee. Around me, flat-bottomed fishing boats are swamped, sink with viscous gurgles. Gulls shriek angrily, billow around the mech’s knees.

  I try to stand. Try to get my mech to stand. In the cockpit it’s hard to discern where my body ends, where the mech’s begins. Overwhelming reams of data push into my consciousnesses, try to push me out.

  Around me, water stretches off in every direction. The Shallow Sea. I search for reference points, for reasons to be here.

  Get up. Get moving. You can do this.

  Do what again?

  Before: A memory, already fading.

  The day Lila won the lottery, I vomited for almost half an hour.

  I was in our bathroom, hunkered over white porcelain. She stood outside the door, tried to talk me down. That she was comforting me just made everything worse.

  The lottery has been a fact of life since before I was born. It’s just the way things are. The lottery is needed to select the Proxies. The proxies are needed to keep pilots safe from their mech’s operating systems. And the mechs are needed by everyone. They keep us all safe. The loss of every memory in the proxy’s head is just the price we pay. That’s the undeniable truth. That got me through rehab. I am a pilot. I am needed, I save people.

  My stomach was empty. I stared at its contents swirling in the bowl before me. Like my whole life floating, excised and ugly. And where there had been food, now there was just rage. I stormed out of the bathroom, snatched the lottery ticket from Lila’s hand.

  “It’ll be okay.” She looked small and delicate. After all the strength she’d shown, that little piece of paper had stolen it from her.

  I screwed the ticket up, flung it away. She put her hand on my arm. “Don’t, Tyler. Just . . . Maybe one won’t come this year.”

  The Leviathans. The goddamn Leviathans.

  I could still taste the bile and acid on my tongue. My teeth felt loose in my gums.

  “It’s bullshit.” I couldn’t acquiesce. Couldn’t just give up. Because screw undeniable facts. Screw everything else. It was her who had got me through, who had stood by me.

  “I’m a goddamn pilot,” I said. “This doesn’t happen to us. I will stop this.”

  “Tyler . . . ”

  I shook my head. “I’m a pilot,” I told her. “If I go into a fight, I win.”

  Back further: A memory almost lost.

  I remember the first time I saw a Leviathan. I was standing on Chicago’s seawall. They built it back in 2050 once they realized that Lake Michigan wasn’t going to go back to its old shoreline. That was just before all the great lakes, joined up, became the Shallow Sea, swallowed everything north of the Carolinas. It had been standing thirty years or so by the time I stood upon it. I was eight. I remember that clearly enough.

  The Leviathans had been coming down from the north for about ten years at that point, but this was the farthest south anyone had ever reported one.

  When the poles melted the Leviathans had been . . . What? Waiting? Sleeping? I dream about that sometimes. Vast and subterranean, waiting for their cages of ice to melt away, for us to screw up enough so that they could come forth once more.

  They’d ripped the shit out of Canada. A flotilla of refugee boats was tied up beneath where I stood. Families hunkered on decks, watching, working out if they should run.

  The mechs we had back then were for shit. The Leviathan had already ripped through three of them—jaws slicing armor, body crushing engines. I doubt it even noticed the pilots it consumed.

  Chicago had its own mech. The Behemoth. Its pilot, William Connor, had been doing the talk show rounds. He’d been going on about how he was going to be the one to stop it. No one believed him. The camera had done a close-up of Connor’s eyes. Connor didn’t believe it either.

  That was why I was there. I wasn’t meant to be. My parents had strictly forbidden it. They were busy prepping an emergency shelter when the Leviathan ripped through Chicago and killed everyone dumb enough to stand up on the wall. But I had to see. I had to see Connor fight. So did half of Chicago. We all went to the seawall to see if he would save us or let us die.

  Standing there, I was amazed at how small six hundred feet of steel built around a nuclear core could look.

  It was the crowd’s murmur that revealed the Leviathan to me. The fins of the beast slicing towards the mech. Connor took a step. The spray was a white corona around the Behemoth’s foot.

  Then it began. If I had held my hand out in front of my face it would have seemed they were dancing in my palm. I remember it now as if I was standing on the mech’s shoulder.

  The Leviathan reared up, eel-slick body whipping around and around its mechanical foe. A casual flexing of muscle that cracked foot-thick steel sheets and sent weapons spilling in explosive rain. Its massive head looked too big for its body. A heavy, under-slung jaw, a bony crest behind the eyes. Small, half-formed legs scrabbled at the mech, claws carving through hydraulics.

  The Behemoth’s arms were pinned at its side. Missiles detonated at point blank range did more damage to machine than monster.

  But then, and the how of it is lost to me now, Connor got an arm free. He swung it like a piledriver into Leviathan’s right eye. The force of the creature’s scream almost knocked me off the wall.

  Connor swung again. The Leviathan’s jaw hung loose. And for a moment we actually had hope.

  Then the Leviathan’s tail whipped ou
t of the water, a hideous tumor of spikes and claws. It smashed into the mech’s arm, tore it free of its mooring. The mech tottered, maimed, lopsided. The whole weight of the Leviathan was on it now.

  It staggered, fell. The Leviathan wrapped sinuous coils around the mech’s chest. Metal folded like paper.

  And then the explosion. A spot of bleach dropped onto the horizon, spreading, obliterating. The force of it driving the water in a wall towards us, exposing the seabed in the moment before the shockwave hit and bowled me over.

  I lay on my back as a mushroom cloud rose into the sky.

  Later.

  They figured out what had happened by the time they held the state funeral. Connor had sabotaged the failsafe mechanisms on his mech’s nuclear core. Transformed the machine into a walking tactical nuke. Then the fight started and the core had no cooling, no gyrostabilization. It was only a matter of time before it went critical. And when it had blown, fifty percent of the Leviathan’s midriff had turned to meat paste.

  Connor had even survived the initial blast. The mech’s auto-eject system. Radiation sickness did for him two days later, though.

  And even though he was a corpse, even though they had to close the coffin because the sight of him was so awful, from that moment on I knew that I was going to be exactly like William Connor.

  More recently, but mistier, barely grasped.

  I pushed through shouting crowds around the city council halls. They weren’t calling Lila’s name so I didn’t care. I crashed through doors, stormed down corridors, the crumpled lottery ticket in my balled fist. A skinny secretary with a skinnier mustache was the only one who had the nerve to tell me, “It’s a closed-door meeting.” He flinched out the way before I could shoulder check him.

  Marburg, the spineless shit of a mayor I voted for, stood at the middle of a long conference table. He looked up at me. His cheeks went white.

  “The hell is this?” My flung lottery ticket bounced off his starched shirt.

  He licked his lips, flicked his eyes around the crowd. He knew exactly what it was. Still, he took the time to unfold it.

  “I . . . ” he started, pretending to read. “I am so sorry, Tyler.” Another eye flick. Scared, I’d have bought, but he’d have to have try a hell of a lot harder to sell sorry.

  “Look,” said a large, puffy man, “this is a closed-door—”

  I am not a big man. You do not need to be a big man when you fight in a two-hundred-ton suit of armor fueled by a nuclear reactor. You also do not need to be a big man to know the part of the neck to strike so that the ligaments in the first vertebrae snap, the hindbrain is crushed, and a man dies before he hits the floor. My gaze fell on the councilman and reminded him of this. His voice dried up.

  “You.” I pointed at Marburg. “Your piece of shit nephew.” No one knows this story is true for sure. Except everyone knows. “You got him out of the lottery.”

  I scanned the room, spotted familiar faces. My finger picked them out.

  “Your son-in-law’s cousin.”

  “Your grandkid’s best friend.”

  “The daughter of that janitor you were screwing.”

  I went round the room. I indicted them for their sins. Because everyone knows the lottery is a fact of life except these people. And I thought I was one of these people. The fights I’d won for them. I was their goddamn champion.

  “It’s Lila,” I implored them. “It’s my wife.”

  Adam Grant stood up. The one man in the room I respected. My old commanding officer. One of Connor’s compatriots. A man I wanted to emulate. Right up until that moment.

  “Tyler,” he said. He pulled the ticket from the mayor’s sweaty hand. “This . . . ” He examined the paper, looked back at me. . . . . is unfortunate.”

  His voice galvanized the room. Postures shifted. And that was it. That was my reply. I could beat them all to a pulp, but there was no bend in Grant’s voice. Behind the fear there was steel. I’ve seen fights like that. The ones where the clear favorite lies beaten and bloody because the little guy refused to just lie down and take his beating. Behind the bluster and the fear, that was this room. My fists would mean nothing, in the end. I needed words and connections. And I’d cast those aside years ago.

  A memory within a memory, some distant nested thing.

  My fist smashed into the Leviathan’s mouth. It mewled, twisted away but my other fist grabbed it by the scruff of the neck. Snug in the mech’s cockpit the proxies filtered the raw data from the pressure sensors, translated it into something thick and satisfying in my fingertips.

  Skin gave way. Blood gushed. The Leviathan tried to wrap its tail around my mech’s leg. I sent a knee into its midriff, brought it to the floor. Monstrous ribs cracked. The Leviathan smashed its tail uselessly in the water. My fist broke its teeth.

  “You come to my town? My city? You think you can devour my friends?” I worked the mech’s fingers into the flesh beneath the base of the Leviathan’s cracked skull. I thought of William Connor. Of the adoration of the people.

  The Leviathan’s head ripped free. I stood, waved my trophy, and hollered.

  The shout echoed emptily around the cockpit. The proxies, my only companions

  —their consciousnesses as battered by the mech’s sensory inputs as the Leviathan was by my fists—didn’t say a word.

  A short while later, one memory running into another.

  The technicians unstrapped me from the seat, unplugged the electrodes. The mech left me sensation by sensation. My body became my own.

  I couldn’t stop shaking. My first Leviathan. I annihilated it. People were patting me on the back, telling me how goddamn good I was. But I already knew. I knew. It was how deities felt. I didn’t need the mech to have my head scrape the clouds.

  I didn’t pay attention to the proxies until I was in the elevator going down. Adam Grant was there, unwrapping a cigar for me. I glanced back at the technicians manning the gurneys.

  The proxies lay there, all sharing the same expression: bewilderment, mild horror, as if trying to remember what exactly they’d given up.

  They wouldn’t remember. Everything from before their unplugging was gone. The human mind can’t take the raw input of the mech’s sensors. It’s too much to process. Once someone has been a proxy, who they were before is expunged. Their memories wiped. The propaganda fliers call it a rebirth.

  A technician dabbed blood from a proxy’s dripping nose.

  Adam Grant saw my brow crease. “Don’t worry about them,” he said. “They’ll be taken care of.”

  And proxies are necessary. If a pilot was exposed to the live feed from a mech he would forget how to fight, why he was fighting. The Leviathans would tear him apart. And then they’d do the same to the city.

  The proxies are necessary.

  They’re taken care of.

  That night . . . I’m sure it was that night . . .

  The memories run into each other.

  Lila stroked my arm. “I still can’t believe it.” She was wide-eyed, city lights reflecting in her pupils. “You did it.”

  I half-laughed. “You didn’t think I could do it?”

  She half-grimaces, half-smiles. “That’s not what I meant. Of course I believed. But then . . . There’s a difference between believing and actually seeing.”

  “So it was a religious experience?” I was cocksure, still too full of myself.

  She kissed me. Her lips warm against mine. Her arms slipping around me. When it was over she pulled away. “I’ve honestly never been more scared in my life.” In her eyes I saw her own brand of fearless honesty.

  I pulled her to me. Kissed the top of her head. The scent of her filled my nostrils.

  “Adam Grant wants me to go out and celebrate tonight,” I said.

  “You deserve it.”

  I shook my head, kissed her again. “I want to stay with you.”

  She smiled. Big and broad, and it felt good to have put that smile on her face. Almost as good as t
earing the Leviathan apart.

  Almost.

  We nestled into each other, talked. I wish I could remember the words, that the sweetness could linger.

  But then . . . We were lying down, her head snug against me. Then, she lifted it, a look of sudden sadness on her face.

  “What about the proxies with you? They were okay, weren’t they? I heard something on the news about some protest groups, and . . . God, it was awful some of the things they were saying.”

  That was it, I think. Maybe. The first bit of grit.

  “They take care of them.” I shrugged, wanting to move on.

  “What did they do to them?”

  Another shrug. “I don’t know. They were on gurneys. They wheeled them away.”

  “Gurneys?”

  The moment was shattering around me. It made me unfairly angry. It was my moment. Not the proxies. I sat up, she half fell off my chest then sat up beside me. “I don’t know. One had a nosebleed. I guess they were taking them to the hospital.”

  “A nosebleed? What was wrong with him?”

  “How the hell should I know? It was a nosebleed. Everyone has nosebleeds.”

  “So why do you think they were going to the hospital?” She looked like she was on the verge of tears.

  That angered me more. That she cared so much when I had cared so little.

  “I don’t know. I just said it. They’re just proxies.”

  She looked at me, blinked, as if trying to see clearly. “Just proxies?”

  Dammit.

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  We stood there looking at each other. Both angry now. Both wishing we weren’t.

  “It’s been a difficult day,” she said. “Maybe we should . . . bed . . . rest.” She shrugged.

  But I still remembered the thunder of adrenaline—of being a champion—in my blood. “Actually, I think I might take Adam up on his offer.”

  I turned away from her.

  The memory fades. Another comes up. Was it still that night? Or another?

  A memory so familiar it’s worn a groove in my mind. Something repeated

  over, over, over so all that’s left is one homogeneous whole.