Tooth and Nail

by Chris Bonnello

  ‘Right,’ said Roth, grabbing the forensic bag in one hand and stuffing it back into his rucksack, ‘it’s been a lovely morning, but I need some sleep. Wake me up when something interesting happens.’

  ‘Oliver,’ said Marshall, ‘a word, please.’

  ‘Twat. That’s a word.’

  ‘Out in the corridor, now.’

  Roth rose to his feet and laughed.

  ‘Why not in here? Because you’re afraid Nick’s still listening? And hi Nick, if you are.’

  Marshall didn’t say another word. He walked to the door, grabbing Roth by the shoulder as he passed – tight enough to show his impatience but not tight enough to make it seem aggressive. He took Roth out of the office, found an empty stretch of corridor, and stood him against the wall.

  ‘Sadism, severed heads and cavalier bad judgement. Not cool, Oliver.’

  ‘Do you have any idea how much I cringe when an adult tries to use the word “cool”?’

  ‘My language is not the problem here, Oliver. An experienced war veteran is giving you combat advice, and you should bloody well listen to it.’

  ‘Go on then. Advise me.’

  ‘However much you hate an enemy, you can’t veer from your military training. That’s how they win. Even if you despise them with all the passion in your whole being, you still dispatch them with tactical cunning and ruthless rationality. What you don’t do is give in to mindless impulses which tell you to indulge in sadism and self-entertainment, like carving off a dead enemy’s head just for a trophy.’

  Marshall took a step back. Until then, Roth had neither noticed nor cared how close Marshall had been to his face. His boss’ words had been predictable: Roth had spent many meetings listening to Marshall’s lectures about logical approaches and strategic brutality. But brutality wrapped in logic was still brutality, and Roth felt that his personal investment in his work added to his effectiveness rather than dulled it.

  ‘The younger version of you used to know all that,’ Marshall continued. ‘This last year, you’ve started to lose the sensible, measured determination I used to admire in you. You’re on dangerous ground, and you can’t even blame it on puberty hitting you like a tonne of bricks. This—’

  ‘No, I can’t,’ Roth interrupted. ‘I’m blaming it on you.’

  While Marshall took time to react, Roth took the opportunity to steal the initiative.

  ‘If you think I’m a monster, I’m a monster you created. I still played Pokémon when I was twelve. And if you hadn’t promoted me as quick as you did, for the reasons you had, maybe I’d still be that friendly ambitious kid now and still be playing bloody Pokémon.’

  It was the closest Roth had ever come to directly referencing Marshall’s extinct assassination plan. He would go no further. Not today. There was a momentary twinge of fear in Marshall’s face before he replaced it with predictable anger.

  ‘Nobody goes through what I did without becoming what I’ve become,’ Roth finished. ‘You made sure of that.’

  ‘You’re wrong, Oliver. Everything you became is what you wanted to become.’

  ‘Did you want to be a miserable authoritarian moron then? Or a failed arms dealer?’

  ‘I made my own choices and I know who I am. Do you know who you really are, Oliver?’

  ‘Well I’m sure you’re going to enlighten me either way, so stop wasting my time and go ahead.’

  Marshall’s top lip began to quiver and his face turned red. There was just a little part of him that seemed tempted to lose control: a sub-personality within him that looked like it wanted to throw his own advice out of the window.

  ‘Oliver,’ he began, ‘you are the result of a perfect storm of bad circumstances. Apathetic parents, enormous opportunity, and a complete lack of boundaries. And those circumstances have tricked you into thinking that no matter how little self-discipline you have, the world will just accommodate your errors of judgement. You are the school bully who never grew up to learn that the real world doesn’t care how cool you were as a teenager. You are the one person on Earth who has been given everything he ever wanted, and it has destroyed any possibility of you growing up to be a good man. But at the very bloody least, Oliver, be a decent soldier.’

  Oliver Gabriel Roth might have been impacted by that little speech, if he had not had the defence barriers up in his mind. He gave no reaction.

  ‘Don’t you have a wife you’re pretending to care about back in your apartment?’ he asked. ‘I’m sure she misses you, and is pretending to care about you too.’

  Marshall rolled his eyes and turned away. Roth knew, alongside so many other details about his boss’ life, that his relationship with Hannah and the kids had gone cold long ago. Still, he imagined that coldness was more comforting than the searing hot hatred of his colleagues.

  As his boss and former mentor walked back towards his apartment, Roth checked up and down the corridor for witnesses. Since there were none, neither Iain Marshall nor anyone else saw the double middle fingers pointed towards his back as he walked.

  Chapter 13

  Even when Spitfire’s Rise had been crowded, Ewan’s bedroom had always been his sanctuary. It would not remain that way for much longer. Once he walked out of the bedroom he would never return to it – regardless of whether or not they won.

  Ewan could not remember the last time he’d felt so frustrated and insecure inside Spitfire’s Rise. It was probably back in the early days, during a Temper Twin incident with Charlie. Or maybe even on Takeover Day itself, when he was frightened enough to shoot—

  ‘Ewan?’ came a friendly voice from outside the bedroom. Ewan turned his head to the door and found Shannon poking her face inside. Once she saw that the bedroom was unoccupied except for him, she walked in and sat down beside him on the bed.

  ‘You alright?’ Ewan asked.

  ‘Yeah, I’m no stranger to this,’ Shannon replied, her face to the floor. ‘This is the third time I’ve had to run away in the last month. Abandoning New London with Anthony Lambourne… getting taken from the clinic by Keith Tylor… and now fleeing Spitfire’s Rise. Pretty much my whole life has involved running away from things.’

  Ewan sighed. Shannon had only been with them for three weeks, and the house already meant as much to her as it did to him. Normally, that would annoy him: how could her mere three weeks of attachment possibly compare to his year-minus-two-days? But somehow, Ewan was fine with her sharing his feelings.

  ‘Are you busy?’ she asked. ‘I thought you were packing, or…’

  ‘Just pretending to be,’ Ewan answered. ‘Needed some time to myself. I’m fine with you being here though.’

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘…Can I help?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you mean that, or are you just frustrated?’

  Ewan paused. His second ‘no’ had been automatic, and she had caught him out. He was sitting next to the best possible person to help – the only Underdog who had ever seen the uppermost floors of New London.

  ‘Well,’ he answered, ‘I suppose if you have any tips for getting past Floor F, I’m listening.’

  Floor F was the highest accessible storey from regular stairwells. According to the stolen schematics, the stairwells only connected neighbouring floors after that: one stairwell from F to E, a separate one from E to D, and so on. And according to the papers Raj had found at Oakenfold, some of the AME technology was kept as high as Floor B.

  ‘Make sure you have keycards ready,’ Shannon answered. ‘Human keycards. Clones can’t go higher than F unless humans let them up there.’

  Ewan held his face and swore into his hands. Humans were rarely found below Floor F, which complicated things even further.

  ‘And don’t make anything personal,’ she added. ‘You’ll want to, but don’t. If my father or Oliver Roth is right in front of you, don’t waste any time thinking about your dead family. Just keep calm and take the shot, no matter how much they try to win
d you up.’

  Oliver Roth’s pretty good at winding me up. The way I fought him after Charlie died, I’m amazed he didn’t kill me.

  ‘Thanks, Shannon,’ he said. ‘I think that’ll help—’

  She leaned in for what Ewan thought was a hug, but she ended up heading for his face. Before Ewan could react, he was being kissed.

  Ewan had never kissed anyone and meant it. During his younger teenage years he had had casual girlfriends who he had kissed because he was supposed to, but none of them cared like Shannon did. This was a kiss that had real affection in it, from a girl who truly liked him.

  It felt like it lasted for ten whole seconds, but it could have been twenty, or one. It was difficult to tell. When Shannon pulled away again, her face was red.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have done that.’

  Wow, thanks.

  ‘…Why not?’

  ‘Things are… complicated,’ she answered, rising to her feet. ‘That’s all.’

  ‘Yeah, you just snogged the guy who’s leading the charge against your dad. I thought you’d enjoy doing that!’

  ‘I did! I just…’

  Whatever the true reason was for her reluctance, she wasn’t planning to say it. But Ewan could guess.

  ‘You’re afraid that once I go to New London, I won’t come back. Or we’ll lose and the war will be over.’

  Shannon didn’t say a word.

  ‘For what it’s worth,’ he continued, ‘it terrifies me too. And I’m not going to lie, success isn’t likely. If there’s a single mission in the history of the Underdogs we’re likely to fail, it’s this one.’

  Shannon headed for the bedroom door and yanked it open.

  ‘You need to brush up on your comforting skills,’ she said as she stormed out. ‘You’ll need them for when you get a girlfriend one day.’

  ‘Girlf—’

  The door slammed shut.

  Ewan decided not to waste time trying to decipher what Shannon meant. He had already avoided the downstairs gathering for too long. After waiting long enough for Shannon to have a decent head start, Ewan left his bedroom for the final time, and headed for the living room.

  All of his housemates were present, but he was struck by how empty the room felt. The eleven of them were only a third of the house’s wartime residents.

  Not long after Takeover Day, McCormick had stood in the same spot and delivered a rousing speech to more than thirty people, who had all cheered and whooped at the idea of fighting back against Nicholas Grant and his million clones. Most of that crowd had since died: many in combat, some through illness, and poor Mike Ambrose had killed himself. The remaining Underdogs – six special needs students, an old man, an ageing nurse, a child, the dictator’s daughter and a man who had since been cloned – were a pathetic army by comparison.

  Ewan found Alex in the corner of the room, with the right-hand side of his face concealed against the wall. It would take him a while to get used to his three-inch scar. But he was in the cellar with everybody else, and nobody seemed to avoid him. Presumably they’d all been told the result of the test: that Alex’s blood had coagulated normally, which meant he was as human as everyone else in the room.

  ‘Ah, Ewan,’ said McCormick, ‘we were just sharing our favourite memories of this house. I thought it’d be a nice way of ending things before we leave. Why don’t you join us?’

  ‘Save it,’ Ewan answered. ‘If we’re leaving we’d better do it now rather than later.’

  ‘We can wait until nightfall. Come on, share your own.’

  Ewan wanted to respond with something that would kill the mood. Maybe the time he and Jack got drunk in the cellar, after Oliver Roth had murdered David and Val Riley. Or stumbling across Mike Ambrose’s body in the generator room. Or anything else involving friends who had suffered horrible deaths.

  But he restrained himself. McCormick’s own emotions must have been unsteady: this house meant more to him than anyone else. It may legally have been Polly Jones’ place, but for years it had been McCormick’s home too.

  Ewan knew what his favourite memory was, but it wasn’t one he could declare aloud. It was his favourite moment for strategic reasons rather than blind sentiment.

  It had been on Takeover Day, when the clones had come to raid Spitfire’s Rise, burst through the door and left without incident. He and McCormick had sheltered upstairs, having seen the platoon approach from a distance. The soldiers had entered, seen Polly Jones’ dead body, and left with the assumption that the house had already been raided. Not long afterwards, the clones had left the village altogether, allowing Ewan to leave the house and tell his friends about the shelter he had found.

  In all the time that had passed since then, none of the Underdogs had been told that McCormick had been a resident at the house all along. Or that Polly existed.

  I guess he won’t have to keep it a secret much longer. Once we’re gone from here, we can afford to let people know the truth . Then he can be thanked properly for taking us in .

  Then again, maybe not. Once the secret ’s out, we lose the chance to ever use this place again .

  ‘My favourite thing,’ said Thomas, presumably for the fifth time in the conversation, ‘was when Mum told off McCormick for farting at dinner, and he just answered her with another fart!’

  Ewan leaned against the wall, and gave a reluctant smile. If the conversation gave Thomas a chance to talk about his dead mother and laugh, perhaps it wasn’t such a bad idea.

  ‘Rosanne was nice,’ said Jack, referring to a lady in her seventies who had passed away long ago. ‘She gave a “nice old lady” vibe to the place which I don’t think we’ve had since. No offence, Lorraine.’

  The room went ‘ooooh’ and gave nervous laughs in response. Lorraine, aged only fifty-two, clouted him round the back of the head.

  ‘OK,’ said Jack, ‘let’s move on quickly. What’s yours, McCormick?’

  ‘Honestly,’ McCormick replied, ‘I think mine might be the night Shannon arrived.’

  Shannon, sitting on the floor next to Thomas, widened her eyes.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying it,’ McCormick continued, ‘but it revealed a lot about what kind of community we are. This war had taken a toll on all of us, but we remained the type of people who would welcome a stranger and do our best to make her comfortable.’

  ‘You did a better job than I was expecting,’ said Shannon, a comment which raised a few smiles. Then she offered a moment of eye contact with Ewan, and a discreet grin. Perhaps all was well.

  An hour passed before McCormick brought the conversation to a close. He took a step forward, deeper into the crowd, and straightened his back. And just like that, the group knew the discussion was over.

  ‘Half an hour from now,’ he began, ‘we’ll be leaving Spitfire’s Rise. Before we say our final goodbyes to the house, we should establish who will be going where. My route into New London has space for four people. I need three of you on comms, and that leaves the other four to find us a new home.’

  Simon held up three fingers, a confused expression on his face.

  ‘Yes,’ replied McCormick, ‘three on comms. Two to communicate and one to guard. This house isn’t the only place those clones might remember, but we can’t move all our resources from the comms unit in time for this mission. For better or worse, the comms team will be stuck there. Now,’ he said, with his arms spread wide across the room, ‘I’m about to ask for strike team volunteers. Before I do, make no mistake – this is by far the riskiest mission we have ever undertaken. We’re going to several locations across the northern wall of New London, some of which are on Floor B. To date, we’ve never been higher than Floor F. The mathematician in me says the odds are stacked overwhelmingly against us, even though the human in me still has faith. So before volunteering, you should know there’s no shame in wanting to sit this one out. If I had a choice, I would.’

  You do have a choice, you stupid old man, Ewan thought,
feeling immediately guilty for the insult crossing his mind. It’s your own stubbornness that’s telling you to chargeyour sixty-four-year-old body into a war zone, just for the sake of ‘leading from the front’.

  Ewan was one of five people to raise his hand. Lorraine, Thomas, Shannon, Simon and Gracie kept theirs down, to the surprise of no one. Jack, Mark and Alex had their hands up; the latter highest of all. Kate, who had avoided the whole discussion as far as Ewan could tell, raised hers too.

  ‘OK,’ began McCormick, ‘Ewan, the two of us are certainties. Mark, I want you to be the one guarding comms. If the clones come, I honestly believe you’d put up the best defence.’

  ‘Thanks, sir,’ said Mark with a very deliberate huff.

  ‘Alex, I’m assuming you’re volunteering in order to get revenge. That’s not a good idea.’

  ‘It’s strategy,’ Alex replied, ‘I’m not a complete numpty. Unless they get up close, nobody will even know I’m human. And thanks to Ewan’s bad shaving, I’m safe from you guys shooting me too.’

  McCormick left a pause, his faint nods giving away his answer in advance.

  ‘Alright, I won’t argue. And Jack, if you’re up for it you’re in. Sorry Kate, but I think you need more time to—’

  ‘To get over Raj?’ Kate barked, as if McCormick had brought her suddenly and painfully to life. ‘Just to make this clear, I will never get over Raj. Just like I never got over what’s happened to James or my parents. Just like none of us have got over anything! My hand is up because Raj died to make this mission happen. We’re using the information he gave his life for, and I won’t insult him by sitting out.’

  It was difficult to read the reaction on McCormick’s face, but the length of his pause spoke volumes.

  ‘In all fairness,’ added Jack, ‘if you want to find a suitable home, you’ll need an analytical person with close attention to detail. I’m cut out for that, and Kate’s probably better than me in combat anyway. If she really wants it, I’ll stand aside.’

  ‘Thanks Jack,’ said Kate before McCormick could give his own answer. The man shrugged, and gave a small nod of his head.