Project Maigo(86)

Typhon slowly turns toward the implant, and the rocket adjusts its trajectory, remaining on course. But then the Kaiju proves his intelligence by raising one of his mighty hands and swatting the implant from the sky like it were simply an annoying bug. I don’t think he knew exactly what it was—there’s no way he’s that smart—but he recognizes it as a threat. He’s seen enough missiles to know they’re not friendly.

Although part of me is relieved that I’m not currently engaged in a mental scuffle with Typhon, this is a horrible development. Karkinos is naturally defended from the implant and it seems that Typhon won’t let anything strike his face. Even if the Air Force were bombarding the pair with missiles and the implant snuck through, it’s likely it would be destroyed by an errant explosion.

That’s when I realize we have an easier target. I turn my attention back to Scylla. The Kaiju looks like he’s lounging in the little water that remains in the Reflecting Pool. His upper lip crinkles over and over, revealing his long teeth. He’s still stunned, but for how long?

I’m about to dial Woodstock when my phone chirps. I accept the call without looking at the screen. “Scylla.”

“What?” a female voice says.

The voice is familiar, but it’s not Collins or Alessi. “Who is this?”

“Betty,” says the woman.

I feel like I’ve been slapped. “Girlfriend Betty?”

“What other kind of Betty is there?”

“How did you get this number?” I ask.

“Some guy named Watson,” she says. “But listen. With everything that’s happened, I’ve seen you on TV. I started thinking. Maybe I was—”

I say the only thing I can think of, “Click,” and then hang up, making a mental note to have a chat with Watson about security.

My phone rings again and I answer. “Betty, you better—”

“You can address me,” Alessi says. “Not the helicopter.”

Helicopter Betty. Thank God. “Target Scylla,” I say.

“I hear you,” she says. “I’m just not sure where to target her.”

“Endo,” I say, pulling him away from his conversation with whoever it is he called. “We’re going to try the implant on Scylla. Where should we—”

“Back of the head,” he says. “Behind the eye. Either side will do.” Then he’s back to his conversation.

I relay the information, and Alessi hands me over to Collins while she preps the second—and final—attempt.

“Hey,” Collins says, almost casually. “I just wanted to let you know that if you become a vegetable after this, I’m not going to sit around feeding you pudding.”

I can’t help but smile. “But I love hospital pudding.”

“It would make you fat, lying there all immobile,” she says.

“This is true. What if I give you permission in advance to take advantage of my vegetative body? Have your way with me?”

She laughs, which further dispels some of my tension. “You sure know what to say to a woman.”

“What?” I say. “Who wouldn’t want to fool around with a pasty white, atrophying, unconscious man?”

I’m laughing now too, and I’m starting to second-guess this plan. We could just walk away now. Let nature take its course. Sure, we might spend the rest of our lives in hiding from Gordon and his Kaiju, but we’d be alive and together.

Unfortunately for me, I’m drawn toward doing the right thing like Nemesis is to vengeance. I can’t walk away. No matter what the cost. Someone has to put an end to this madness, and I’m pretty much the only one who can.

“We’re almost in position,” Collins says, her voice sobering up.

I scan the night sky and find the running lights blinking red and white, much closer than before. They’re a half mile from Scylla, holding steady at a hundred feet.

Before I can order them to fire, I hear a rough, organic scraping sound and turn back to Nemesis. Karkinos and Typhon have held their position, a safe distance from Nemesis. Perhaps sizing her up, looking for weaknesses. But Nemesis, who has more experience in the destruction category, not to mention the Kaiju-slaying category, isn’t about to give them time.

Her chest heaves. Her mouth opens.

She’s about to hock another explosive loogie. I’ve come up with a few different names for the attack. Meteoric Boom Wad was in the lead for a while. But when I thought about the act of spitting at someone and what it means, I came up with Scorching Contempt, an attack reserved for when she’s just had enough of her attacker’s shit. “Hold your fire,” I shout into the phone. “Get down. Down! Down! Down!”