‘Your friend Daniel couldn’t tell us anything useful, but maybe you can. Tell us the location of Spitfire’s Rise, or your father gets shot in the head. You have one minute.’
This exact scenario had occurred to Alex. It was their most obvious move. But two days in the bungalow had given him almost zero time to think of ideas, as he had spent most of it unaware his father was even in danger. As far as he could remember, this was only the third time they had woken him up.
‘Don’t you dare, Alex,’ his father had said.
‘My decision, Dad, not yours,’ Alex had replied, just for the power trip.
‘Fifty seconds,’ Crossland had said.
Alex had stayed silent. It was interesting watching his father’s reaction: stuck between determination to stay alive, and determination for Alex to not give in. He had seemed to want life and death at the same time.
‘Twenty seconds.’
The New Brighton clone, out of shot, had cocked his gun, and the barrel came into view, pointing at the side of Dean’s head.
The power is all mine now. Everything that happens is my decision , not his. In another world, this might have been rewarding.
‘Ten.’
What if I saved him and didn’t betray my friends?
‘Nine.’
I could lie. Why does nobody think of that in interrogations?
‘Eight.’
If I lie and get away with it, they’ll either keep him alive or shoot him, depending on what they were planning all along.
‘Seven.’
Of course, one day they’ll learn I was lying and kill him anyway.
‘Six.’
But even then, better that than losing the war.
‘Five.’
Screw it, let’s do this.
‘Four—’
‘Stop!’ Alex had yelled, to the horror and relief of his father.
Crossland closed her mouth and smiled.
‘…Lemsford,’ Alex had said, remembering Matthew’s room and the dinosaur bedsheets. ‘Spitfire’s Rise is in Lemsford. But you don’t have to kill them! Just make them surrender—’
‘Which house in Lemsford?’
‘I don’t know. School Lane or something, I think? We never need to remember road names…’
Gwen Crossland had given him a pat on the back, and said no more.
‘Hey. Woman.’
Dean Ginelli’s voice had power, even from the other side of a small laptop screen. Crossland had given him her attention.
‘You don’t need to use me as leverage anymore,’ Alex’s father had said with a crestfallen voice. ‘I no longer consider him my son.’
Before Alex could respond, Crossland had powered down the laptop.
‘Thank you, Alex,’ she had finished. ‘We will keep your father in a safe place until we have visited Lemsford and determined whether your answer was accurate. If it was not accurate, then—’
‘Then my father is dead, I know.’
‘That too. But we’ll also initiate Plan B. We’ll take you back to New London and open your skull, and spend the next week transferring your memories to a new clone model. There’s no guarantee they will lead us accurately to Spitfire’s Rise, of course – science offers no guarantees about anything – hence why we tried the living method first, but it’s more likely to work than listening to more lies. Good day, Alex.’
Within two minutes she and her clone entourage had left the house, and driven away with ‘Barbie Girl’ blasting out of the speakers. Then Alex had gone back to his dutiful clueless self, guarding the bungalow and waiting for his friends to escape New London.
*
Back in the disused Alpha Control Room, Alex staggered to his feet, lay a hand against the diagonal windows and suppressed the contents of his stomach as they threatened to rise. The memory blast had provided the physical pain, and the betrayal of his father had provided the emotional pain.
He checked his watch. It had felt like several days had passed, but it wasn’t yet ten o’clock. There would be plenty of time before Grant replaced the border point and booted up the AME shield.
‘Guys,’ came Ewan’s voice from the radio, ‘I’m on Floor E. I found a stairwell. Anyone need directions?’
‘Not yet,’ said Kate.
‘Yeah,’ said Alex.
Ewan told him the route, but he only paid as much attention as he had to. Once he had memorised the directions, he skipped to the end of the report in his hands. Before moving forward with the night’s mission, he had to find out what had happened.
Alex Ginelli was able to leave his designated post upon the escape of his allies, rendering Crossland’s backup plan of memory transfer unworkable. In the aftermath of the destruction of New London’s clone factory, the inspection of Lemsford was delayed until staffing issues had been resolved. A failed trap at Oakenfold Special School forced an end to this delay, and on 17th May, Year One, a scouting team of Ginelli clones reached Lemsford and searched for the insurgents’ headquarters.
They found Jack and Gracie…
They were killed during their search of School Lane, and therefore a larger force was dispatched later that night. The village of Lemsford has since been searched with the most intrusive methods available, and subsequently destroyed through a series of air strikes. The search found no evidence supporting Alex Ginelli’s claim. Therefore, at the conclusion of the search, Dean Ginelli was executed in New Brighton Citadel.
Alex did not know how to react. The text in the document didn’t make it seem real, but he believed it. His father had died two days ago, and he hadn’t had any idea.
It wouldn’t have been such a bad thought – most of the Underdogs would have lost relatives by now without knowing – but he had caused his father’s death and not even realised.
Alex and his father had not been on good terms since his teenage years. But in different circumstances, Alex would have fought like hell to protect him. Perhaps Dad would have fought for him too.
There was only one silver lining, and Alex clung onto it as if it justified him betraying his father. He picked out his phone, and called comms.
It was Shannon who answered.
‘Hello?’
‘Shannon, it’s Alex.’
‘You OK?’
‘I’m alive and uninjured… tell me, have the others found a new shelter?’
‘They had Jack leading them. He found a good place before the night was even over.’
‘Tell Mark to fetch them home. We can return to Spitfire’s Rise. Grant doesn’t have a clue where we live.’
There was a moment of quiet, as Shannon tried to process the information. In the background, Lorraine mumbled something about proof.
‘Are you sure, Alex? I mean, absolutely certain?’
A tear fell from Alex’s eye as he decided it was better to tell them the truth. He did well to spill all the details in his three-minute time limit, especially in his emotional state.
There were only two details he missed out: the names of the two songs that changed his memory state, and any mention of his father.
Shannon and Lorraine were compassionate and understanding, although Alex wondered whether that would remain the case once he came home. The conversation ended, and Alex removed the battery from his phone.
All the relevant information had been shared with those who needed to know. There was no need for him to keep the memories himself. He left the Alpha Control Room, abandoning the papers to avoid tempting himself to go down the same route again. Once the clone factory was no longer visible, he started to sing ‘Barbie Girl’ – the only time in his life he had ever done so voluntarily – and wiped away all memory of his father’s death.
At least I’ll still believe I have someone to fight for, came his last thought before it all faded.
Then Alex blinked, and looked around the corridor. Where the hell was he going again?
‘Ewan,’ he said into the radio, ‘what’s the latest?’
�
��Still on Floor E waiting for you,’ Ewan replied. ‘Are you at the stairwell yet?’
‘No, where is it?’
‘You can’t remember? I told you about a minute ago!’
‘Sorry,’ said Alex, nursing his head, which ached for some reason. ‘I must have zoned out.’
Chapter 22
McCormick knew how much depended on him. If he failed to destroy the data servers, then the others could reach Floor B, destroy Marshall’s computer, stop the shield from going up and still lose the war. Ewan and Alex may have deleted the data in the Central Research Headquarters, but if the backups lived through the night then Grant would have everything he needed to just build another shield.
Unfortunately, the data servers were located in the most dangerous spot on Floor P. McCormick found himself wishing he still had the body of a teenager. Or at the very least that he had not come to the HPFC alone.
As vast as New London’s Outer City was, the upper floors couldn’t hold every room that mattered. According to the maps they kept at comms, Floor A was reserved for the residential quarters of high-ranking staff, Floors B–D were where missions were planned and executed from, and Floors E–G contained scientific and military research and development. There were a load of rooms essential to running an empire that could not fit at the top, so a full square mile of Floor P had been built, guarded and reinforced as a high-security complex.
The High Priority Functional Cluster had one entrance, and McCormick was just around the corner. In his way stood a thin empty pathway, devoid of doorways, side corridors, upward pipes or shelter points of any kind. Three clone guards stood on the outside of the Cluster, with three more on the inside, the two groups separated by a titanium door that would only open for those with the correct fingerprints, retinas and eight-figure passcodes.
Beyond that, if their maps were to be believed, lay a maze of silver corridors, twisted and claustrophobic enough to make a carrier pigeon reach for its compass.
If Theseus had been trapped in this labyrinth, the minotaur would have won.
But he didn’t have Lorraine and Shannon navigating for him .
‘I’m almost here,’ he whispered into his phone. It was an audio call rather than a video call, of course. The fewer visual distractions he had, the safer he would be. ‘Take me through the directions one more time.’
‘Once you’re inside,’ answered Lorraine, ‘you’ll, er, reach a crossroads fairly quickly. Take the right-hand corridor, go past the Nutrition Farm, and follow a curve around when you reach the Special Weapons Storage Facility, which should take you right— no, left…’
‘And how can I tell which rooms are the Nutrition Farm or the Special Weapons place?’
‘Well either way, once you’ve taken the curve to the left… I’m not— wait, yes— you keep going…’
Moments away from storming a one-floor fortress, McCormick came to realise the damage he had inflicted on Lorraine Shepherd. She was exhausted – physically, mentally and emotionally – and almost all of it had been his own fault. He had been too demanding of her, and her limits were finally beginning to show.
McCormick heard the sound of hands against Lorraine’s phone, and after a moment of quiet, Shannon started to talk.
‘McCormick,’ she began, ‘walk to the crossroads and turn right. When the path curves to the left, follow it to the next crossroads and go right again. Then left, left again, and it’s the second door on the right. Did you get that?’
‘Fairly sure.’
‘Then say it back to me. Now, before you forget.’
McCormick smiled. Shannon’s fiery nature had given her an uncompromising personality too. But even though this war was more personal to her than anyone else in the Underdogs, she was uncompromising in a productive way rather than a vengeful way.
‘Right at the crossroads,’ McCormick answered, ‘round the curve and right at the second crossroads. Then left, left, and second door on the right.’
‘Correct. If you find yourself at the Central Power Generator, you’ve gone a door too far.’
Nicholas Grant had put lots of his golden eggs in one basket: his main power source, his army’s food supply, his armoury for advanced weapons and the backup for all his data, all within a square mile. It spoke volumes about Grant’s faith in the security of the HPFC.
‘Thanks, Shannon. I’ll let you know if I get out.’
‘If you get out?’ asked Shannon. Lorraine seized the phone.
‘If you get out?’ she yelled. ‘You’re doing this alone?!’
‘I’m the only one close by, and the other three are fighting their way to Marshall’s office. It’s the only strategy we have.’
‘You won’t even get past the entrance on your own! And how do you plan to get out again?’
McCormick held out his dental mirror around the corner with trembling fingers, and took a long sigh.
‘Getting out’s not an essential part of the plan. You know that. Like Oliver Roth, safety is just bonus points.’
‘Don’t you dare—’
‘Lorraine, this is why the plan will work. When Grant designed this place, he assumed it would be attacked by people who planned to get out. And I hope I’ll get out. But I know where my priorities lie.’
‘Joseph, promise me—’
In the dental mirror, McCormick saw a flash of green light and a guard’s head turning. Something had unlocked the titanium door, and his time had come. With no time to lose on politeness, he hung up his phone and raised his assault rifle.
If Barbara could see him now, she would not recognise him. She would look at him with terrified eyes and see another person.
But that was OK, in the grand scheme of things.
Or perhaps not OK. Just necessary.
The titanium door slid open, and McCormick leapt around the corner. His first spray of bullets killed two of the outdoor guards, injured the third in his shoulder, and caught the clone in the doorway straight in the forehead. Dr Joseph McCormick, the oldest and frailest soldier in Great Britain, had forced a breach point in the High Priority Functional Cluster.
The third guard had no time to inspect his shoulder wound before McCormick’s second spray killed him too. The three inside guards were busy pulling the jammed bodies away from the entrance in an attempt to lock McCormick out, so there was plenty of time for the man to begin his charge. He sprinted at a speed far too unhealthy for a man his age, and found himself five metres away when the bodies were cleared. He did not have much time.
McCormick knew he would not have the strength to keep a sliding door open against the pull of six hands, so he had to find another blockage. He slammed his body against the entrance, clutched the hair of the Asian clone on the other side, and dragged his head into the hallway. The other two clones hauled the door closed anyway, snapping the bones in their colleague’s neck. The door rebounded open, far enough for McCormick to reach through the gap with his assault rifle, and finish off the final two guards.
Seven young clone soldiers, wiped out by a man nearly old enough for a free bus pass. It pays to be far too ambitious!
McCormick stumbled over the bodies and began his jog. There was panic in the HPFC now, among soldiers who could not possibly have expected an invader.
He reached the crossroads, rained ammunition down the right-hand corridor, and continued his charge against the desperate wishes of his ageing body. Lorraine had muttered something about a Special Weapons Storage Facility next to the curve in the path, and McCormick was keen to find a weapon that would speed up his job. He pulled open the door and shot a bullet into the room’s single occupant.
McCormick tore through the wooden crates before him, and scowled in disgust at the range of advanced weaponry. Cluster-rocket launchers. Napalm mines. And a box which read ‘Acid grenades: for use on civilians’.
He stuffed his pockets with acid grenades, for the inevitable moment his bullets would run dry, and then found a weapon that fitted his needs perfectly.
The hand warhead. Iain Marshall’s nifty name for a handheld weapon the shape and size of a traditional hand grenade, but filled with NPN8. Its warning label included, bold and capitalised, ‘NEVER USE WITHOUT A FULL SURROUND OF SHELTER’, suggesting that its blast radius would reach further than it could be thrown. McCormick took two in his left hand and a third in his teeth, leaving his heavy assault rifle in the grip of four tired fingers.
He burst back into the corridors and ran to the next crossroads, gunning down another clone as he ran to his right. Two left turns later, having followed Shannon’s instructions to perfection, he found himself one door away from the final resting place of Nathaniel Pearce’s hallowed research.
McCormick jerked open the door to the data servers and found a thin chamber the length of a train carriage, filled from front to back with caged hard drives and enough flickering lights to fill a disco. The heat was intense; even the groaning fans that lined the ceiling were locked in a constant battle against the temperature of the computers.
Someone opened fire from down the path. McCormick sheltered behind the open door, and decided enough was enough. One of those bullets could have killed him stone dead, and wiped out any chance of him fulfilling his mission. He couldn’t afford to die, not when he was so close to destroying their fourth target out of five.
Are we really that close to surviving the night? I honestly thought we’d be dead before we got three .
McCormick shook his head and took a deep breath. The sooner he did this, the better.
He pulled the pin on the first hand warhead, and launched it to the far end of the chamber. He aimed the second at the halfway spot on the metal floor, and sent the final one a distance he thought he might just survive from. He took his rifle in both hands, leapt back into the open corridor, and killed a clone who had not thought an old man could jump so fast.
McCormick slammed the data server door shut with half a second to spare, as the hand warheads detonated. Like the sound of a sprinting giant, the thunderous explosions leapt closer and closer and sent the HPFC rocking with the force of an earthquake. McCormick was thrown against the back wall. He fell to the floor, double-checked that the impact had not broken his spine, and scrambled to his feet as Floor P began to steady itself.
Tooth and Nail Page 23
