Project Maigo(52)

A moral code.

Unshakable.

Indisputable.

And for those that break the code, death is the only recourse. No mercy.

A doubt lingers.

The pain returns, worse than before. I scream, joining the chorus of shrieking voices.

The flow of information repeats. I see images. Murders. Rapes. Unspeakable violence. I feel the difference between what is right and wrong. My anguish is slowly replaced by rage for the perpetrators. I want to stop them.

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.