Matt Archer: Redemption (2 page)

Once we were all settled, Army counsel gave us last minute pointers. Mom glared at him several times, finally saying, “Enough. You’re making them nervous.” She put her hand on my shoulder. “Tell the truth. That’s all you can do. Don’t let them twist your words.”

I would do my best, because I needed to focus on getting through the proceedings without slipping up. If I did, Uncle Mike, Badass Aunt Julie and General Richardson could lose their jobs. Or go to jail for endangering minors. Take your pick.

The general and Uncle Mike talked quietly in one corner, wearing their Class As. It was the first time since his wedding that I’d seen my uncle in full dress uniform. The large section of commendation ribbons on his jacket made him look impressive and I stared longingly at the uniform. I hated being in this suit. I
belonged
in uniform, but when I begged to enlist with Mom’s permission, no one had gone for it.

“You wouldn’t complete basic in time for the hearings,” Captain Johnson had said.

Mike had ground his teeth a full minute before adding, “Before he died, you promised Colonel Black you’d go to West Point. Stay the course and we’ll get you there.”

Mom’s answer was even simpler. “No.”

So here Will and I were, awkward in coat and tie, as if this was some joke of a graduation ceremony instead of a moment that would decide the fates of every single person in this room. I tugged at my collar, wondering if it would suffocate me before the hearing was over.

Mamie touched my hand. Brent loomed behind her, an ever present watchman to keep our sister out of harm’s way. Despite the gravity of our situation, she smiled. “Go get ‘em, Tiger.”

And so I was laughing when someone knocked. A House page about Mamie’s age stuck his head in. The guy eyed Will and me warily, then said, “I’m here to escort you to the proceedings.”

The general stood. “All right, gentlemen. Time to go.”

Chapter Two

We gathered up our things and followed the page into the marble-floored hallway. I kept checking my pockets, thinking I’d forgotten something, before I realized what I missed was my knife. I wanted to ask Tink if everything was okay outside, but I bet every move we made was being caught by security cameras and talking to myself wouldn’t help our cause much.

I also kept worrying about Ella and Penn surrounded by that crush of people. If the crowd got ugly for some reason, if a fight broke out, I hoped they would decide to go sit in Johnson’s SUV until we were finished here.

The page stopped at a set of wooden double doors and indicated that we should go in. He looked relieved to be rid of us. Maybe it was the uniforms. Or maybe it was the “I feel like killing something” expressions we all wore. Either way, the dude backed away and hurried up the hall as soon as our attorney pulled the door opened and waved us inside.

Row upon row of people—mostly journalists—were seated in an arc around a long conference table facing a raised dais, like the ones you see in hearing rooms on C-SPAN. As we made our way down front, members of Congress, led by a democrat from Rhode Island named Joseph Patrick, stared down at us with disdain. The only friendly face was the congressman with a nameplate that read “Topher Tarantino”—our man inside the Armed Services committee.

Ramirez stood at attention, and we followed his lead as General Richardson took a seat next to us. The general’s face was gray. Small wonder, given that he might be run out of the military on a rail for his “frivolous use of taxpayer money on a suspicious mission with no real outcomes that also happened to endanger children.” What a joke.

Congressman Patrick welcomed everyone and gave a long speech about the sanctity of the proceedings, how the military had to have checks and balances from the government and how reckless behavior could be curbed—and lives saved—through Congress’s “noble” function in ensuring the military didn’t become too powerful.

“Gentlemen,” Patrick said, once he’d finished being self-righteous, “let’s start with the, um,
evidence
you’ve requested to show.”

I clenched my fists under the table. What a condescending jackass. Well, we’d see how he looked after we started the show.

General Richardson sat up straight. “Members of Congress, we would like to begin with an account of the worldwide threat we’re all facing. This isn’t a question of country or government. This is a case of protecting the human race from extinction, which is a very real threat at this stage. To prove our point, we’d like to share some mission footage, as well as photographic evidence, we’ve collected. Since the good congressman from Rhode Island declined to allow military officers from other countries testify—”

“General, I’m giving you a chance to explain before we ask
our
questions,” Patrick said. “But you need to move along.”

The general glared, but continued with his report. “We have video accounts of some of the assailants we’ve been able to catch. The footage will show how most conventional weapons have no impact on the creatures, but the knives are one hundred percent effective.”

There were shocked murmurs when part of our Afghanistan Op, shot by incoming Apaches, filled the screen. The Takers looked even more horrible on film, turned this graveyard-dirt color with their wings outstretched like ragged bats. They swooped down to grab a soldier, and dropped him from forty feet up. He landed in a broken heap. Then the scene cut and you could see my blurry outline, sparring with another Taker near a tent. The camera shot every frame as I caught a Taker in the wing with my knife and dragged it against the burning tent, where it burst into flame.

Murmurs of “special effects” and “faked” filled the room. My blood boiled—they were watching soldiers get killed and they thought it was a camera trick?

But then I started to realize my agitation wasn’t only because of the doubters in the room. As the footage switched to a Humvee-cam video of the massacre in Australia, where we lost Colonel Black, a lump swelled in my throat, even as more heads turned my way. The segment being shown was when Will and I had mowed through a huge crowd of Dingoes and Quills, and we looked like death incarnate. I’d only ever seen photographs of myself while possessed by Tink.

Seeing it live was terrifying.

Will and I looked exactly the way our accusers saw us—as stone-cold killers. Our expressions were iron-hard, our movements unnaturally fast and efficient. Blood arced in every direction as we laid waste to the onslaught.

“God almighty,” someone murmured. “What’s wrong with those young men?”

“Turn it off,” barked Patrick.

When the lights came back up it was clear the file footage hadn’t been any help with most of the committee, no matter the shocked whispers and awed stares coming from the press. So-called experts came forward and said the monsters we managed to catch on tape were poorly conceived, photo-shopped special effects. Neither the Takers, nor the Quills, nor cell-phone pics confiscated by the FBI from victims during the time of Bears 1.0, moved a single person. Even the sight of me beheading a Kali demon with a knife was claimed to be green-screened.

Tell that to the scars on my body. Tell it to all the dead kids I couldn’t save in time.

Congressman Patrick cleared his throat, wearing a patronizing smirk. “So, General Richardson, do you think the American people are so stupid that they’d believe an illegal usage of funds for clandestine efforts could be covered up by this kind of magic show? My fourteen-year-old daughter could make a better alien sighting video than this. The fact that not a single news outlet covered any of these situations makes it even more suspect. How can there be monsters and
no one knows?
The cover-up required would be impossible, which is why we’re here today. You don’t even have a body to show as evidence.”

“Sir,” the general said, “The creatures’ bodies were burned after battle because we discovered some could regenerate, so the wielders are here to back up our claims. Militaries around the world are in on the fight, each assuring the others of the highest top secret clearance. We have affidavits to that effect—affidavits
you
refused to read. As to a cover-up, there was no cover-up. This was a ultra-classified mission. Knowledge of U.S. military involvement was limited to a need to know basis.” General Richardson matched Patrick’s smirk. “And you simply didn’t need to know.”

“Explain that to the families whose loved ones died under your command,” Patrick said. “And for what? Some hocus pocus act to cover up arms deals?”

All of us tensed up. In my opinion, he didn’t get to talk about our fallen. Hearing him spit on their deaths to prove a point made me sick, especially since his point was completely wrong.

“Every one of those families understood the risks their loved ones took when they put on the uniform.” The general looked murderous. “And since you’ve never worn one, I wouldn’t expect you to understand that.”

Congressman Tarantino leaned into his microphone, probably to stop the general from digging himself into a hole. “Mr. Patrick, we’re under attack from forces we don’t understand. When I saw the first video of the monsters in Peru, I authorized this program on the spot. These things are otherworldly and exceptionally dangerous. They have to be stopped. And to your point about news outlets, haven’t you been watching CNN for the last several months? Reports of delusions of mythical creatures? Strange mass murders? Cult suicides? The world is under siege. Every minute we waste here—”

“Waste?” Patrick snapped. “Sir, may I remind you this is a formal proceeding. And we have no credible proof of these so called ‘attacks.’ They certainly haven’t happened here.”

“But they have,” the general boomed out. “One happened a few months ago. Two of our wielders were involved.”

“Were they?” Patrick said. “Do tell. What kind of ‘attack’”—yeah, he actually made air quotes, the bastard—“are we talking about?”

General Richardson conferred briefly with counsel, who leaned back to ask Mom a question. She nodded, and the general said, “I’ll let one of the wielders describe it.”

He pointed at me. Great. Why did I have to be the first guy on deck?

Patrick’s smile was crafty, like he’d been given the best birthday present ever—I was the youngest wielder, but had been fighting for three years. By making me testify, the general was flaunting the fact he’d employed minors for the program.

Patrick said, “Rise, state your name,
age
and occupation for the record, young man.”

It took every ounce of self-control I had to keep from going off on him. Instead, I drew in a deep breath and stood. Mom had drilled the answer to the “occupation” question into my head relentlessly over the last few weeks: I was a student. A home-schooled high school senior.

But that wasn’t true anymore—I’d passed my GED last week. In reality, I hadn’t been a student for a very long time.

Straightening up to my full height, I gave Patrick a slow, cold smile, feeling some satisfaction when worry creased the skin around his eyes.

“My name is Matthew Jonathon Archer. I’m seventeen.” I paused, giving him time to regret asking me the question. “And I hunt monsters.”

For a brief second, shocked silence filled the chamber before it exploded into murmurs and, in a few cases, applause.

“Order!” Patrick’s face was purple with rage. “Young man, you will respect the authority of these proceedings by telling the truth.”

Mom shot me a warning glance to keep my mouth shut and Colonel Tannen’s glare could’ve frozen my balls, but Tink approved of the show of backbone and her enthusiasm fed my own. “It is the truth, whether you want to believe it or not.”

The crowd broke out into whispers again and Patrick pounded his gavel on the table. “General, you will instruct Mr. Archer to answer honestly, or the consequences will be dire. He will respect me!”

He sounded like a whiny kid, mad that I stole his toy truck, and I choked on a laugh. Ramirez kicked me under the table. He was right; we were in a tight corner. Being flip wouldn’t help get us out of here intact, but I wasn’t going to roll over and let this man call me a liar.

The general must have felt the same way, because he went off.

“Sir, you will respect Mr. Archer! He’s bled and lost friends to keep this country safe,” General Richardson boomed. “The threat we face is beyond anything you can comprehend. Extraordinary measures were required to combat that threat.”

The congressman glared at us. “And that makes it okay to send
children
into battle? What kind of sick mind believes that to be true?”

“Stop right there,” the general barked. “Mr. Archer and Mr. Cruessan have not been children for some time. Something about being chosen—by supernatural forces, for God’s sake—forged them into men. Men of honor, integrity and courage. I had my doubts when Mr. Archer showed up in my program at fourteen, then Mr. Cruessan at seventeen. My doubts were quickly laid to rest. The knives knew these two could handle the burden, a burden most people twice their age couldn’t. You owe your life to these men.” He swept an arm to wave at Ramirez, Parker, Jorge, Will and me. “You should be thanking them on bended knee, not accusing them of underhanded dealings.”

Man, General Richardson was in fine form today. His big voice boomed through the chamber with the power of Patton on a tear. Even better, most of the press looked like they believed him.

Congressman Patrick drew up in his chair, mouth open to argue, but an earthquake hit. The room rumbled so hard, plaster fell from the ceiling and the light fixtures rattled. People screamed, some fighting to crawl under the tables or chairs. Lights flickered on and off.

Tink sounded the alert.
Attack!

“What?” I asked, gripping the side of the table as a dizziness swept over me. “Where?”

The Congressman banged his gavel. “Mr. Archer, may I remind you—”

The building shuddered again, and even the MPs guarding us looked afraid.

“Congressman Patrick, with all due respect, sir,” I said, “Shut the hell up for a minute.”