Project Hyperion (A Kaiju Thriller) (Kaiju #4)

“Maigo,” I say, more gently.

She flinches back at the sound of the name, then lets out a huff that smells vile and nearly knocks me off my feet. When I steady myself, I find her eyes focused on me, intense and angry. She flexes her body, and I see and hear bits of her flesh tear.

She’s molting again, I realize. But into what?

I decide it doesn’t matter and get on with it.

I step to the side.

Maigo’s eyes track me for half the step, then flick back, noticing the man cowering behind me.

Her reaction this time is more telling than anything so far. She reels back, sucking in a breath that is something close to a gasp.

I take a step back.

She ignores me, so I take five more. And then ten.

Her forehead furrows so deeply that the flesh above her eyes cracks. When she sneers, revealing her teeth, the same thing happens. Then she lets out that gasped-in air as a roar, leveling it straight at Tilly. If he screams, I can’t hear it, but I can tell by the way his body shakes that he’s sobbing.

Maybe apologizing, but probably begging for mercy, which I know he will not find from this creature. Part of her might be Maigo Tilly, but there is little doubt that just as much of her is Nemesis.

To my surprise, Maigo takes a step back, but I don’t think she’s going anywhere. She hunches forward, flexing her back, and I hear something pop. It sounds like Endo’s shoulder, but much louder. Then she leans up and back. Massive slabs of her thick, black hide fall away to reveal a smoother, white skin beneath. She sheds the older flesh quickly, scraping at her body with her massive claws, peeling like a giant rotten banana until all of the black has been removed.

I stumble back, squinting at the now gleaming white monster, which is still horrible, but in many ways, beautiful. With a hand over my eyes, I stop walking backwards and just marvel at the thing.

Another loud pop sounds and the carapace on the monster’s back shifts.

Then it splits.

I’m frozen in place as Maigo’s transformation continues. The carapace lifts away from the back and opens, each side lifting up, its tall spines pointed skyward. And then, from within each side of the carapace, wings unfurl. I only catch a glimpse of their brilliant surface. As soon as the sun hits them, I have to turn away.

I look down toward the roof. Little rainbows dance around me. The wings aren’t just reflecting light, they’re bending it. The rainbows swirl around me, but they slowly move away, converging toward Alexander Tilly. I look at the man. He’s on his feet now, facing the giant monster. There’s nowhere to run and he knows it.

When the rainbows have all moved away, I turn my head up and find I’m able to look at the wings. But they’re not wings. Not really. It’s clear that they’re not meant for flight. They’re far too delicate looking to lift Maigo’s bulk off the ground, and this isn’t a Japanese monster movie where having wings means you can just float through the air while emitting a high pitched whistle.

Some of the details resolve and I see hundreds of thousands—maybe millions—of diamond-shaped feathers. But they’re not really feathers. They look solid, like scales, but not. One thing is for certain, the feathers—for lack of a better word—are shifting, each of them moving a bit of sunlight.

“Maigo!” Tilly shouts.

I see a reflection of the sun shift across the wings.

“Maigo!” he shouts again. “Ple—”

The giant shifts, just slightly, but the subtle motion causes the sun to reflect off each and every feather, focusing the sun across what is essentially a six hundred foot mirror and directing it straight down at Alexander Tilly, the man who murdered his wife and daughter just two weeks ago.

Tilly bursts into flame and is swept away as a cloud of white dust a moment later.

The building shakes.

The roof catches on fire.

I rush the rest of the way to the far side and look down. The beam of light has pierced all the way through the building and is burrowing a hole in the ground. It hits what must be a gas line, because the street lifts and explodes. The underground eruption follows the street, bursting manholes around the city and billowing balls of fire into the sky.

A roar turns my head to the sky.

A fresh squadron of jets is en route, an F-22 leading the way.

Missiles fire, striking Maigo’s massive shoulder, sending flesh and blood—actual blood—arcing through the air.

She can be hurt in this form, I realize, though part of me no longer wants her to be. Tragedy created her. It doesn’t seem right to kill her again.

My moral debate is cut short when Maigo roars in pain and twists.

The beam of focused light cuts through the Clarendon building like a laser beam, cleaving it cleanly at an angle. The building shifts.