I was not aware he had awoken from his slumber.
“Recently a human rose amongst the humans. His battle against the Old Ones reverberated across time and awoke my master. Since then he was been steering events in preparation of his return. It was his machinations that allowed for the creation of the body that you now wear.”
Do not claim credit for that which is not yours. This body was created by humans.
“He has been gently guiding your master, the human known as Stricken. He believes he is defending your world, but in his attempt to stop my master, he has merely been playing into our hands. He is glad that it was one as great as you who deigned to dwell within this body.”
It might be true. It might be a lie. Kurst gave a nod of acknowledgement.
“The end has begun. Ownership of this world will be decided soon. The factions are gathering their forces. He would offer you a place in his host.”
I would lead this army.
“Of course. There is no greater general. Champions have been chosen for the final battle.” The demon looked at the new red scars on Kurst’s abdomen. “You have already fought one of them.”
A faction has chosen Franks as their champion . . . I will make them regret this decision.
“Will you join us?”
I will think about it.
Kurst wiped away the remaining steam, obliterated the ancient symbol, and walked away.
* * *
His official title was Special Advisor, but his business cards left off exactly who it was that he advised. The Congressional Subcommittee on Unearthly Forces had been around for a very long time, though outside of a couple select agencies, very few people in the government had ever heard of them. Benjamin Franklin had referred to them as learned men, meaning part of the handful in charge who needed to face the nasty truths. Their job was to formulate the government’s overall policy concerning all matters supernatural. The MCB was their shield. STFU was their sword.
Swords and shields were useless without a brain. Stricken figured that was his job.
As was fitting for the men and women who had to make the hardest of decisions, most of the Subcommittee were physically present for the briefing. The President would be joining them via teleconference from his bunker. The minute that the Secret Service had learned that Franks was still in town and that he was proclaiming that The Contract had been violated, they had rushed the President to safety. A few high ranking members of the Secret Service had worked with Franks in the past. They knew what Franks was capable of, so there had been no discussion on the matter.
Stricken rather enjoyed the idea of the President being carried off the golf course by nervous gunmen who understood just how dangerous Franks was when he put his mind to something. It would help drive the point home, to make it visceral. He’d long felt that the President saw the supernatural threats arrayed against them in an academically abstract fashion, as opposed to the blood and guts, world-ending, mind-shattering horror of the reality. It was a good thing to let the President feel like he had some skin in the game.
The secret cabal had been having a heated debate for the last few minutes. It was all about damage control and what national secrets Franks might be able to sell . . . Like Franks cared about money. Stricken had sat the argument out. They were idiots. They didn’t get the big picture. Dwayne Myers had been a fixture in these meetings. Though he and Stricken came to very different conclusions about how to deal with the threats, at least Myers had a clue . . . which was exactly why Stricken had made sure he’d been replaced.
“He’ll be joining us in one minute,” said one of the . . . hell . . . Stricken wasn’t sure what to call them. Secretaries? Scribes? Minor teat-sucking hangers-on? He wasn’t sure. The debate died off. Everyone knew who the pencil pusher was talking about. Mr. The Buck Stops Here Unless I Can Blame It On Somebody Else. They turned the lights up a bit. Stricken made sure his tie was straight.
The conference room was relatively dark, not because of any sort of attempt at nefarious secrecy, because it wasn’t like the members of the Subcommittee didn’t all know each other already—they all went to the same cocktail parties—but rather because the congressional liaison to the MCB had been using a projector for his Power Point presentation about the makeup of the manhunt’s resources. They were in the middle of a national fucking catastrophe but of course some government functionary had taken the time to make a fucking slideshow about their response . . . You people are like a bad stereotype . . . The presentation had been helpful though. He’d learned that the MCB investigation had turned up some inconsistencies, mostly because Franks had managed to shoot his Japanese Spider Demon, which had then squirted forensic evidence everywhere. But that hardly cleared Franks, and most of the Subcommittee interpreted that to mean Franks had brought in some unknown form of help.
The TV on the wall was a live shot of a desk. It wasn’t the normal fancy desk, so Stricken hoped the President was enjoying his bunker. It might not have all the comforts of home, but if it could survive World War III it was probably Franks proof . . . Well, at least Franks resistant. The last whispered conversations died off as the President took a seat. He was wearing a golf shirt and a Nike hat. “Is this thing on?”
“We’re here, Mr. President,” said one of the congressmen.
“What the hell is going on?” he demanded. The President was scanning his own monitor. “Alexander, give it to me straight.”
That’s right, bitches. He asked me first. Stricken stood up. “One hour ago Franks was sighted at the hospital where MCB Director Stark is recovering. Franks disabled several guards and staff, left an ultimatum with Stark, and then tried to escape through the subway. He was intercepted by one of my teams. In the ensuing fight, several of my men were killed or injured. There were minor injuries to some civilian bystanders—”
“Nothing we can’t cover up,” assured the new MCB rep temporarily standing in for Stark.
Stricken gave him a death glare. Nobody here gave a shit about their easy job. The MCB rep shut up. “Franks was last seen in the tunnels. The search is continuing.”
“He escaped?” The President was incredulous. “How is that possible?”
“My team intercepted him in a matter of minutes, but the MCB response was too slow.” Stricken tossed his rivals under the bus without missing a beat. The MCB rep was too surprised to form a response in time, but that was to be expected. Stark was a weak leader, so it wasn’t like he was going to appoint a backup liaison to the Subcommittee who could potentially overshadow him. Stricken pushed forward. “Sadly, my Task Force didn’t have assets capable of taking him down in time. Franks is mentally degrading, just like I have long predicted, but physically he is nearly indestructible, and his mind, though increasingly delusional, retains its animal cunning. If I had the resources I’d requested before already in place, then we would have stood a chance . . .”
“This again?” the President asked.
“Forgive me, sir, but sometimes it takes a monster to defeat a monster.”
“You had monsters.”
“We have nothing else like Franks.” But we could, and you know it. “We utilize some specially controlled supernatural assets, but Franks is in a class by himself. If I had more advanced assets in place, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
The President was frowning. “So we’ve got a problem with a Frankenstein, but you want to build a bunch of new ones to get rid of the old one.”
“We will destroy him, but more importantly we must replace him in our strategic arsenal.” It was hard to keep his face neutral. He was glad that he had a medical excuse for wearing his shades even in the dim light, because he doubted he would be able to keep the contempt from his eyes. “These assets would have built-in kill switches should they ever need to be eliminated, a feature which is sadly lacking on the old model.”
“If you’re talking about activating Project Nemesis, that’s off the table—” declared a congresswoman.
Mr. President. The Contract has been violated. Stricken has copied my design. He has created new versions of me. This is not allowed. They were the ones that attacked the MCB. If you will eliminate these creations and punish Stricken, I will surrender. Failure to act will be seen as collusion on your part. As per The Contract, collusion in this matter is punishable by death. I will kill anyone who aids Stricken. Until The Contract is redeemed, my obligations to the US government are null and void. These are my terms.
—Franks
The President got a really funny look on his face when he got to the punishable by death part, almost like it hurt his feelings. The man got death threats daily, but he rarely got one from somebody actually capable of pulling it off.
The conference room was very quiet. Stricken could not have engineered it better himself. I’m glad you’re such a predictably threatening asshole, Franks.
“He’s accusing you of attacking the MCB?”
“Yes, and apparently doing it with assets that don’t exist yet. I was unaware we had a time machine, Mr. President.” There were a few nervous chuckles. “Franks is delusional. My experts believe that his mental faculties have been deteriorating for years. I personally feel that his entering another dimension and the resulting destruction of the Dread Overlord may have exacerbated the situation.” He brought that particular incident up in front of the Subcommittee for two reasons: Franks had taken it upon himself to invade another universe against orders, and he’d blown up an alien god in the process. If he could pull that off, what was capping the President in comparison?
“There’s nothing to his allegations?” asked a congresswoman.
“Of course not. You’ve seen my reports, so you know that Project Nemesis exists only on paper. I was ordered to keep The Contract sacrosanct, and I’ve done so. He’s fixated on me as his enemy, and fabricated this nonsense as his justification because I’ve been outspoken against his continued employment. If it would please the Subcommittee, you can tour any Task Force facility at your convenience and I can turn over all of our records for audit. I am an open book.”
“We’ll take you up on that,” warned the congresswoman.
That seemed to satisfy them. Suckers. It would be a cold day in Hell before any of these idiots ever got a look at the real inner workings of his secret operation. “Whatever puts you at ease, ma’am.”
“With this madman on the loose, I don’t see how any of us can be at ease.”
“He blames me for his paranoid fantasies, but all of you are in danger as well. I’d like to offer some of my men to each of you to beef up your existing security details. If Franks comes after you or your families though . . .” Stricken spread his hands apologetically. “The Task Force has good men, some of the best, but I’m afraid they’re only men. However, they’re the best I can offer . . . for now.”
The Subcommittee members shared nervous looks. When some supernatural scary bullshit comes around it’s my job to keep you all safe, but you won’t let me have Nemesis assets that could actually save you. Yeah, sleep on that, chumps.
“He’s only one man . . .” said a congressman.
“Don’t make the mistake of thinking he’s a man at all. He’s a repository of three hundred years of combat experience housed in a body that refuses to die. When I first learned about Franks I asked Dwayne Myers what advanced military training of ours Franks had taken part in . . . His response was ‘all of it.’ He can fly a fighter jet, outswim a Navy SEAL, or snipe you through your bedroom window from a thousand yards away. Franks has been trained on nuclear, biological, chemical, and unearthly weapons of mass destruction. He knows our systems, weaknesses, plans, and vulnerabilities. If there’s a way to make us bleed, Franks holds the razor. There’s no telling what he’ll do next.”
Stricken glanced back at the President. He appeared troubled, only now he was reading something in his hands. It was an old piece of parchment sealed in a glass box. The Contract. Good. Let the gravity of the situation sink in.
“I believe all of us here have read that Contract many times, Mr. President . . . I regret that it has come to this. Believe me, sir, Franks will keep his word. As long as he imagines that we’ve broken the agreement, he will not stop. I give you my word that we will catch him . . . If I had better tools at my disposal I could catch him faster, but I will do the best I can with whatever assets you see fit to grant me.”
“So if Franks intends to murder us for something we aren’t actually doing, how long would it take to make that thing a reality?” That congressman was frightened, probably imagining Franks murdering his entire family.
“That’s a good question.” The President had been on the edge of granting approval before. This was threatening to push him over. “Theoretically . . . How long would it take for these Nemesis soldiers to be built?”
The real number was six months of vat growth and being bombarded with continual education and conditioning stimuli to make them combat effective, and then a year of exercises and testing, and even then his First Prototype had failed to take Franks. Making up a fake number that was too low to justify his already existing troops would just cause suspicion that Franks was telling the truth. “We’ve never done this before, sir . . . We’d do our best. The sooner I could get started, the sooner we’d have a replacement for Franks ready. Of course, I’d like to catch Franks long before these assets would be ready, but if we postpone because of the timing, that doesn’t help us with the next threat, or the one after that. Honestly, not having Franks in our supernatural arsenal will be a blow to national security, and we’ve lost him no matter what. Who knows when the next Las Vegas or Copper Lake will happen, but happen, they will. We need soldiers who can survive in supernatural environments that would destroy a normal man. Time is of the essence, so we would rush the first batch as quickly as possible.”
“But they’d still have this kill switch installed?”
“Of course. We send a coded transmission, they don’t just immediately die, but it also causes the bodies to melt and destroy any evidence, all with the push of a button.”
“Well, I’d like one of those buttons then,” the President said.
Like he was going to let some untrained coward decide when it was the right time to obliterate his life’s work . . . The running joke with this POTUS was that if he opened the football—the case holding the nuclear launch codes—balloons and confetti would shoot out like a kid’s birthday party. It was better to leave the weapons in the hands of the adults who understood that opinion polls could not overcome the laws of physics. “Of course, Mr. President . . . Can I take that as a go?”
All of the Subcommittee members were staring at the screen. If any of them disagreed, they were afraid to voice their objections now. They’d counted on Franks for so long that they didn’t know what to do when their guard dog had gone rabid.
“Yes, Mr. Stricken. A tentative go. Make a few, then we will test and inspect them before we commit too many resources to the Project. If they work as well as you expect them to, then we will proceed further.”
About damned time. “A wise decision, sir. I’ll see to the details.”
“In the meantime, how do you intend to catch Franks?”
Stricken smiled. Franks’ tearing through the Flierls’ team had been the straw that had broken the camel’s back. It was time to bring in some more help. He’d already moved the necessary funds from one of his black budgets to the official one. “Outsourcing.�
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Los Angeles, California
“Financially speaking, Paranormal Tactical Consulting has been having a fantastic quarter,” Rick Armstrong read from the three-by-five card. He paused and scratched out that line with his pencil. “That sounds stupid. What’s the right word?”
Shane Durant was sitting on the couch in Armstrong’s office. “Huh?” He had his phone in one hand, surfing the internet, and a rubber squeezey doughnut in his other hand to work on his grip strength, so he really hadn’t been paying attention while his boss practiced his speech. “What word?”
“Should I say financially speaking or fiscally speaking?”
“They’re investors. Get them drunk and tell them we’ve made a shit ton of money this year. Simple.”
“Our positioning is fantastic, but I need to think about how to sell it for maximum effect . . .” Armstrong tapped his pencil against the side of his head. “Las Vegas really was a huge coup for us.”
“A few of our guys died.”
“I know! That’s the part I’ve got to think about how to spin. Casualties should be expected in this business, but I don’t really want to come out and say that because that might scare off some investors. On the bright side, we signed several new contracts.”
Durant just grunted in response. He knew that. He’d written the contracts himself. In addition to being one of their best Hunters, he was Paranormal Tactical’s lawyer. That reminded him though, he still needed to draw up that lawsuit paperwork against Holly Newcastle . . .
Armstrong dropped his stack of cards on his desk. “I really want to beat MHI. They’ve been top dog for so long, they’re due for an upset. PT is destined to be number one.”
Monster Hunter Nemesis Page 17
