“No. It’s not fair. Join us or die. That’s not fair, either,” the Selwyn Tree said. “Those are your only choices.”
Sukie-Rex and Pterodactyl-Cody both turned to her.
“Come with us,” Pterodactyl-Cody said, voice a terrifying shriek. “We’ll miss you if you don’t.”
“You know stuff even Grandma doesn’t,” Sukie-Rex somehow roared intelligibly. The Selwyn-Tree nodded.
Mrs. George considered her options as her class looked at her with their bright shining faces.
~
“You were right,” she said to the Selwyn-Tree, as she flapped her wings and landed on the auditorium roof, crushing it and everyone stupid enough to still be inside. “The change didn’t hurt at all.”
She was a dragon now. Well, not really. She was a combination of all she’d been and all her ancestors had been, as well as all her avatar had been in the ancient times, before the cosmos had sent a meteor into their world and left only their consciousnesses to wait millennia for the right channel to open up.
Sukie’s family had been that channel. Sukie herself would, one day, lead them all to claim not only this world, but the others out there they’d seen while waiting to come back to full life. Until then, Sukie-Rex needed a teacher, and Selywn-Tree, the one who gave All Life, needed a general she could rely on.
“Do they need us in the water?” Selwyn-Tree asked, her voice strong, bold, and beautiful.
“No. I flew over and flamed the rigs, our relations in the water will do the rest.” George-Dragon laughed and enjoyed the way it sounded now—not friendly, but loud and dangerous and powerful. She enjoyed the memory of oil rigs being pulled up and dropped onto parts of the coastline, as much as the memory of those rigs pulled under the ocean. She knew Selwyn-Tree could see these images within her own mind as well. It was part of her power as the All Life. She could see all their thoughts if they wanted her to. And George-Dragon wanted her to.
“You enjoyed. That is good. But the pleasure is not yours alone.”
“Oh, I know. I put some of the little ones on the islands. They’re having fun with those trying to escape the mainland.”
Selwyn-Tree looked quite pleased with her initiative. “Good. They should learn to enjoy this. We will be doing it for some time.”
Pliosaur-Crandall joined them. “I can keep my group on the coast and in the water. I know you’re moving on. Where shall we meet you when we’re done?”
“We will go inland,” the Selwyn-Tree said. “I expect we will leave a clear trail, though it may be quite…wide.”
Pliosaur-Crandall honked a laugh. “We’ll find you. Have fun.” He turned back and flopped onto what was left of James Conason Elementary, heading back to the water, as his students trampled what was left of Gulfport and, as George-Dragon looked a little farther and from side to side, Mobile and New Orleans and everything in between.
The Gulf of Mexico was on fire from the thousands of oil rigs now blown up and burning. The oil rigs that had stolen their life’s blood for the weak, pathetic, and horrible humans. Seeing the thousands of those on fire or blowing up was especially rewarding.
“Lead us on the best path to destroy these humans who took our world and ruined it,” Selwyn-Tree said to her.
George-Dragon nodded her head, enjoying how she could see for miles, watching her children stomping on casinos and tossing police cars like they were Hot Wheels toys. Sukie-Rex threw a squad car towards her and George-Dragon batted it with her tail. Mr. George and his lover went flying right to Pterodactyl-Cody, screaming in terror, though the sound was, like them, pathetic and weak. Cody caught their car in his mouth and chomped right through it. The human screams stopped. She really did have the best students.
She did have one worry. “Can nuclear bombs hurt us?”
Selwyn-Tree laughed. “Nothing here can hurt us anymore. We need neither food, nor water, nor sleep. We have taken all the poisons, all the chemicals, all the pollution, and made it a part of us.”
“Good,” George-Dragon said, as part of her class met the incoming National Guard troops. They jumped up and down on the tanks, squashing them flat. She loved seeing them enjoy themselves so. “Then I think we head right to Kansas and Nebraska and play with some things buried there in the ground.”
“A fine plan,” Selwyn-Tree said. “Lead on.”
George-Dragon looked around. “Class, play time is over,” she called, her cry echoing through the air. “It’s time to learn how to blow up nuclear bombs for maximum damage.”
She flew slowly northward as her cheering students followed her, stomping on anything and everything they came across, singing all the while. “We’re all in our places, with bright shining faces, good-bye to you.”
The Banner of the Bent Cross
Peter Clines
“Right this way, sir,” said the ensign. “The commander’s had a slight delay, but if you can just wait with the other gentlemen, he’ll be with you shortly.”
Doctor Ken Kraft had taught in Washington D.C. since 1937 and never set foot in a government building. A wartime invitation from the Department of the Navy had never even crossed his mind. The ensign pushed open the door and waved Kraft inside.
It was a small conference room, and Kraft recognized the two other men waiting. Tucker looked as happy and well-fed as always. Gaunt, bald, and pale, Scarman looked more like a corpse than a tenured professor. He glared at Kraft through Coke-bottle glasses. “Well,” he said, “I guess this isn’t a serious meeting after all.”
“Ken,” said Tucker, waddling over. “Good to see you, son.”
“And you, professor.”
Tucker waved the title away. “You’ve earned the right to be on a first name basis.”
“No he hasn’t,” said Scarman, studying a smear on the window.
Kraft ignored him. “Any idea what this is about?”
Tucker shook his head. “Not a clue, I’m afraid. Not sure why the Navy would need historians.”
The door opened again. The man in the tan uniform was young, broad-shouldered, and looked like he’d stepped right off a recruiting poster. He nodded to each of them. “Professor Scarman, Professor Tucker, Doctor Kraft,” he said. “I’m Commander Finch. Thanks for meeting with me.”
They exchanged handshakes and Finch waved them to seats. “Now, what you’re about to see and hear is top secret and highly classified,” he explained. “This is a matter of the utmost importance to the U.S. Navy and the war effort as a whole. We’ve asked you here because we think you may be able to help us identify a ship.”
“Us?” said Tucker. “How can we help?”
Finch held up a hand for silence. “Five months ago we got our first reports of a new German design. It’s bad business. We’ve given it the designation Raider Zero, and it’s taken us months to learn anything concrete about it. As of today, it’s destroyed every allied ship that’s crossed paths with it. The HMS Keelman was first, back in May, followed two days later by the Ruth Rose. The next one we’re sure of was the HMS Worthing Yates, a destroyer, almost two weeks later. Over the next month and a half it sunk six more ships, five of them ours.”
“Good Lord,” muttered Scarman.
“On Saturday it attacked the USS Williams, off the coast of Tripoli. The ship managed to escape, but the crew had to scuttle her. Most of our information came from the forty-seven men who survived.”
“My God,” muttered Kraft.
“It’s barely a hundred feet from bow to stern. Very maneuverable, almost impossible to hit. One of the officers of the Williams clocked it at over thirty knots.”
“That’s...that’s very fast, isn’t it?” said Tucker.
“Damned fast,” said Finch. “It looks to have been refitted from an earlier design and carries a single heavy cannon. No report of torpedoes. Then there are the parts that are most disturbing... the reason you’re here”
Finch took a file folder from his attaché case and set three pictures down on the table. The
historians leaned forward. It took a few moments for the charcoal shapes to resolve into blurred images.
“By all appearances, gentlemen, Raider Zero is wind-powered. It has a single sail. And if you look here—” He ran his finger along the grainy image of the hull.
Scarman peered over his glasses. “Are those oars?”
“They are. We count twenty-five per side, assuming it’s symmetric.”
Tucker coughed. “It’s a galley?”
“Can’t be,” said Scarman, shaking his head.
“Too short for a penteconter,” mused Kraft, bending over the photos.
“Look how tall the prow is,” said Tucker. “It has to be.”
“Gentleman,” said Finch, “what can you tell me?”
The three scholars glanced at each other. “It’s a Greek galley,” said Tucker. “From the size, the arrangement of oars, I’d have to say it’s from the seventh or eighth century BC.”
“Probably earlier,” said Kraft. “There’s a deck but no ram. You’re sure these are genuine, Commander?”
Finch nodded. “The photographer is one of the survivors from the Williams. He’s sworn by them.”
Tucker shook his head. “Why would a galley be destroying warships?”
“Forget why,” said Scarman. “How?”
“The Naval historians have been at it all weekend,” said Finch. “Your names came up a few times. We’re hoping you might have some ideas why the Krauts would’ve recreated this design of ship, maybe even how it’s doing all this.”
“Some kind of propaganda?” mused Scarman. He pointed at the blurry swastika flying above the sail.
Tucker scoffed. “Why would the Nazis make a Greek ship for propaganda purposes?”
“Are we sure they built it?” asked Kraft.
Finch raised his chin to look at the young scholar. “Why do you ask?”
Kraft tapped the picture. “If this is a reconstruction, it’s a complete one. The sails, the rigging, the shape of the oars, everything we can see. Even elements that have been drastically improved on over the past two thousand years are still authentic.”
Scarman shook his head. “So you’re saying the Nazis have put an antique to work.”
“More than an antique,” said Tucker. “An actual Greek galley would be an artifact. A relic.”
“And pardon my French, gentleman,” Finch said, “but I don’t think an antique would be kicking the ass of every ship in the Mediterranean.”
“Depends on the antique,” said Kraft.
The weight of their stares didn’t faze him. “I beg your pardon,” said Finch.
Kraft looked at him. “Where was the ship first seen, Commander?”
“Assuming our reports are correct, a few miles off the coast of Greece, in the Eastern Mediterranean.”
Kraft nodded. “Not too far from Corinth, then.”
“Do you know something, Dr. Kraft?”
He stared at the photo. “I think I know what it might be.”
Tucker and Scarman glanced at each other. Scarman rolled his eyes. “You can’t be serious.”
“The lad’s right,” said Tucker. “It fits. It’s impossible, but it fits.”
“It’s nonsense,” said Scarman.
“Professors, please,” said Finch. “Any information you have could be of vital importance.”
Tucker straightened up, grasped his lapels, and took a deep breath. “In Greek mythology, Jason was a prince of Iolcus, in Thessaly. His half-uncle, Pelias, gave him the near-impossible task of retrieving the Golden Fleece.”
“Nonsense,” repeated Scarman.
Finch blinked. “Wait a minute,” he said, “what are you talking about?”
“Please listen, Commander,” said Kraft. “You wanted our opinions.”
Tucker nodded. “Jason required the most powerful ship ever built at the time. It was designed for him by the goddess Athena, and built by the master shipwright Argus. They named it the Argo, and Jason’s crew came to be called the Argonauts.”
Finch drummed his fingers on the table, then began to collect his photos. “I had been led to believe, gentlemen, that you would take this matter seriously. Thank you for your—”
“When Jason and the witch Medea were exiled after returning home with the Fleece,” said Kraft, “the Argo was dry-docked, offered up to the sea god Poseidon and stored somewhere near the isthmus of Corinth.”
“Men are dying out there at sea and you’re offering fairy tales?!”
“Commander, please, believe me,” said Kraft. “I think we’re as amazed by this as you, a mythological ship appearing in the modern world. But there have been rumors in some of our circles for years now,” said Kraft, “about the Ahnenerbe and the Thule Society in Germany.”
Finch frowned. “It’s not a good thing for a civilian to know those names.”
“They’re not exactly secret, commander,” said Tucker.
“Both groups mostly spout nonsense,” said the young scholar.
“That sounds familiar,” muttered Scarman.
“—but they did sponsor numerous expeditions and it’s not impossible they found the Argo.”
Finch looked at the grainy photograph in his hand. “If this was true,” he said, “if you weren’t talking nonsense... what would it mean?”
“If that is the Argo,” said Tucker, “nothing in your arsenal can beat it. You’d have better luck trying to sink Africa.”
“It has to have some weakness. Silver bullets or something.”
Kraft shook his head. “The stories tell us the Argo sailed under the protection of the gods. It ignored entire navies, hurricanes—”
“Amateur,” snorted Scarman. “If you knew your classics, you’d know there’s one time that Jason steered the ship away from a threat—when Thetis helped him to avoid the Sisters.”
“Who were they?” asked Finch.
“Not who,” said Kraft. “What. Two giant monsters. Scylla and Charybdis. Cursed sea-nymphs. They were immortals, so the gods’ protection didn’t help against them.”
“And most rational scholars,” said Scarman, “agree they were exaggerated stories of a cliff and a small whirlpool near the Strait of Messina.”
“Because they couldn’t believe anything else,” said Kraft. “But if the Argo is real, maybe they are too.”
The gaunt professor glared at him. “Can you keep quiet before you drag this meeting further into the funny papers?”
Finch set the photo down and stared at it for a few more moments. “If,” he said, “I believed you... what would you recommend? I’m not saying I do, but I’m short on options.”
Scarman rolled his eyes. Kraft and Tucker exchanged a glance.
“Well,” said Kraft, “If they were real I’d recommend finding them and setting them loose on the ship like... guard dogs or something.”
“And if the U.S. Navy wanted to find a pair of sea monsters to use as guard dogs,” asked Finch “how would one go about doing that?”
Tucker cleared his throat. “There are a few men on the fringes of our field of study,” he said. “Much more active historians, so to speak. Forrestal would be perfect for this.”
“He’s dead,” said Scarman. “Three years ago in South America. Didn’t you hear?”
“What about the Roman?” asked Kraft.
They passed around an unsure glance.
“Who’s the Roman?” Finch asked. “An Italian?”
“It’s just a nickname he got somehow,” said Tucker. “He’s not so much a historian as—”
“He’s a mercenary,” said Scarman.“His only loyalty is to his wallet.”
Kraft chuckled. “He’s not even loyal to that. The man just does what he wants, when he wants. But he knows southern Europe better than I know my own office.”
Tucker nodded. “Every site, every dig, even ones that aren’t on record yet. If it’s from the ancient world, he knows where it is. If anyone can put us on the right path, it’s him.”
Commander Finch nodded. “Very well, then. How do we contact him?”
~
Dar Carter, the Roman, slumped back in his chair. On his feet he would’ve been as tall as Commander Finch, but broader in the shoulders and older. He had a week’s worth of whiskers and his ragged hair covered his ears. He wore an undershirt, bracers, and a pair of rumpled wool slacks. As they talked, he took another hit off his scotch and wiped his mouth on his bare arm. “So the Argo’s real, eh?”
“It looks like it,” said Kraft. He and Finch stood before the chair, presenting their offer. His eyes kept drifting to a case on the wall displaying a fine collection of ancient helmets. The Roman’s huge Boston apartment overlooked the Commons and was filled with artifacts that most museums would’ve paid well to have in their collections.
Carter took another drink. “And you want to wake up the Sisters to deal with it for you.”
Finch nodded. “Yes.”
“And then?”
“Then?”
“You wake up the giant monsters, set them loose, and they crush the Argo for you. Crush it and eat everyone on board alive, if the legends are true. And then what? You ask them nicely to go back to their lair?”
“First things first,” said Finch. “Do you think you could find them?”
The Roman stared long and hard at the commander and nodded. “I can find them,” he said. “If they’re real. Striking a deal with them is up to you.”
The officer bit back his frustration. “And how would we do that?”
Carter looked past him to Kraft. “You know the stories, doctor,” he said. “You should have an idea what you can offer them.”
Kraft looked away from the helmets. “You already know,” he said, “don’t you? They’re real and you already know where they are.”
Finch furrowed his brow. “What makes you say that?”
Kraft studied the mercenary’s face. “He said we’d have to wake them up. Twice. Not find them.”
Carter grinned and swallowed another inch of scotch.
“You’ve known these things were real?” asked the officer. “For how long?”
The Roman stared at the hat under Finch’s arm. “Many years ago,” he said, “I found a map. It led me to a cave that went miles down into the Earth. Fool that I am, I wanted to see what was at the bottom.” His eyes flicked back to the officer’s. “The devil you know versus the demons you don’t, commander. You sure you want to do this?”
Kaiju Rising: Age of Monsters Page 32
