Which is why Collins and me are out on our own this time around. Not that the site is anyplace glamorous. And the memories of this place sting. We’re on Craney Island, a sliver of land in the middle of the Potomac River, twenty-five miles south of D.C., which is in ruins and will stay that way for a long time, though the President insists on running the country from the damaged White House. Having retained his bravery and new moral code, Beck has become an exemplary leader, bringing a panicked country back from the brink. Part of me wishes I could undo what I did to him.
But then he calls and asks my advice, and I can’t help but smile. I told Endo that I’d implanted just two thoughts into Beck’s mind: be brave and do the right thing. But that wasn’t the truth. I pushed three new thoughts on him. Be brave. Do the right thing. And: Trust Jon Hudson.
And trust me he did. Not only has he restored the FC-P to its former status, retaining our budget and giving me the freedom to perform operations with a black budget—things that are required when building a reserve for a cat-woman and investigating DARPA—he also occasionally asks for my input on everything from foreign policy to his choice in tie color. I filter most of his calls through Cooper, whose baby bump is now in full view. Watson nearly quit, but when Cooper stayed, he couldn’t leave. I suspect his main reason for leaving was to protect her, which is noble and right, but Cooper knows the FC-P needs her. Needs both of them. And with Gordon—and Nemesis—dead, our headquarters is secret-ish once again.
Craney Island is 200 feet long and mostly rock with a few large bushes. No one comes out here. There’s no reason to. But we got some reports of something strange being wedged in between the rocks. Since Nemesis died upriver from here, we decided it was worth our attention. The military carted away all the Kaiju bodies long before anyone had a chance to complain. If we were able to find some part of Nemesis, we would be able to study her independently, just in case we face something like a Kaiju again, or if Nemesis-Prime’s creators ever return to see how their instrument of justice is faring.
“See anything?” Collins asks, as I stumble over the rocks.
Our bodies have recovered from the beatings we took. Even Woodstock is up and about again, bitching about Betty’s fate, but thoroughly enjoying Helicopter Betty 2.0, which is a Black Hawk, painted bright red.
I work my way along the shore, opposite Collins, who is on the far side of the island, a whopping twenty feet away. “I’m not sure that we—hold on.”
A slick-looking, gray mass stands out among the brown stones. As I get closer, I see that it’s quite large and looks like some kind of giant chrysalis. Definitely FC-P material, but it doesn’t look like any part of Nemesis I’ve ever seen. “Here!”
Collins joins me by the gray mass, lips twisted to the side. “What the hell is it?”
I shake my head. “Looks organic, but...”
“It’s too big for the boat,” she points out. We crossed the river in a rented Boston Whaler. And if the boat weren’t too small, this thing is too big for Collins and I to carry.
“We’ll just have to see what’s inside,” I say, taking out my jackknife.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” she says.
I wave her off. “I brought gloves.” After stretching a pair of rubber gloves over my hands, I poke the blade into the fleshy surface. Pulling slowly, I cut a long slit. Nothing bad happens, so I push forward, slipping both hands inside the incision. I give Collins a half-hearted grin, suspecting this is going to be gross, and I pull.
The walls slip apart, tearing and falling away. I leap back as the insides liquefy and slide out into the river. Gross.
But my revulsion is quickly forgotten. There is something inside, like a seed at the center of a rotten peach.
I step closer. “Oh my god.” I jump into the goo. “Ash! Help me!”
When she sees what I do, she pulls the engagement ring off her finger, sticks it in her pocket and jumps down beside me, tearing away layers of clear film with her bare hands. The sticky sheets are stiff, but they come away, one at a time. As we tear through the layers, what looked like a fuzzy human form resolves.
It’s a girl. She has tan skin and shoulder-length, black hair.
I pause for a moment, realization gripping me, and then I’m back at it, ripping and pulling amid tears. When the body slips free, I catch the girl under her arms and lift her away to a patch of grass. It’s cold out, near freezing, but the girl’s body is hot and steaming, not to mention lifeless. I lay her down, prepared to start chest compressions.
Then she coughs.
I turn her sideways as she continues to cough, clearing slimy fluid from her lungs. When she’s done, I roll her onto her back. Her eyes blink open. She looks at Collins and then at me. Her brown eyes are so familiar. I’ve seen them in a dream, in photos and in the face of a monster.
“Maigo,” I say.
She smiles. A slight thing. With a delicate hand, she reaches up and touches my face. For just a flash, I’m standing in front of a Christmas tree again. But all the pain and fear of that moment, for both of us, is gone, the burden lifted.
Maigo’s smile widens and she says, “She had gifts for us both.”