I hope I found the opportunity to tell you this, but either way – you and the Oakenfold students were my finest work. I remember the state we found each other in on Takeover Day – the state we were all in that day – and I compare it to the fine young adults you have become. The old Ewan West is dead, buried underneath the hero who took his place. So never let your troubled past get in the way of your self-belief. Never think that your diagnoses make you a lesser person, or ‘not good enough’ to be who you’re meant to be. And n ever feel guilty about what the old Ewan West did to Polly. Regardless of what happened, regardless of how much I’ve missed her and Barbara, I haven’t cried for them in almost a year. I’ve been too busy watching you all with a proud smile.
It won’t surprise you that I’m naming you as my successor. I want you to be the soldier who leads Britain in the charge against Nicholas Grant. I know you’ll lead the Underdogs well, in your own special style that I could never have imitated, and I know that our friends will follow you. I t may be a big task, but it’s a task with your name written all over it.
And since I’ve spent most of this letter telling you what not to do, I’ll spend some time giving you a little leadership advice .
First, listen to people. If your soldiers feel valued they’ll support you forever . You don’t have to let them control your decisions, but their thoughts are always worth listening to.
Second, make sure you know your soldiers’ strengths. Know the right person for the right job . And make sure they know their own strengths too. It’s easy to forget them when times are difficult .
Third , recognise that you will make mistakes. I made plenty. But t he last person who never made a mistake never made anything.
And f inally, love your soldiers. Even if they’re a pain in the arse, love them.
We might actually win this war, Ewan. Grant may see it as impossible, and once in a while you will be tempted to think so too, but it’s not beyond us. And t he reason is simple : we are the U nderdogs , and history has shown us that the one thing dictators have to fear is underdogs . They are the ones who start revolutions, win civil wars, and show off the incredible strength hidden inside regular people . If you win this war – if this small, untrained militia of less than a dozen brings down Nicholas Grant – if a group of teenagers from a special school defeats an army of million s – it will prove the might of underdogs , once and forever.
We are Britain’s last line of defence – outnumbered, outgunned , but not outwitted . We are the people who will bring civilisation back , who history will remember for a thousand years . W e are the Underdogs of Spitfire’s Rise .
Do me proud, my boy. You don’t need someone like me for this.
With love,
Dr Joseph McCormick.
PS – the pain of missing someone is always worth it for the joy of having known them. Always.
*
And with that, McCormick’s friendship with Ewan was over.
But a part of him lived on in Ewan, clear and inextinguishable. That was something, at least.
Ewan felt a throbbing in the back of his head: his usual doubting reaction when someone told him they trusted him. McCormick’s kind of trust could change anyone’s life, but the inevitable question lingered in Ewan’s mind.
‘Am I worth it?’ he breathed to himself, unaware that he had spoken.
The Memorial Wall did not answer him, and the words on the letter did not change. McCormick had said everything he was ever going to say, and the questions from then on would be Ewan’s to answer.
‘Worth what?’ came a friend’s wounded voice from the stairs. Ewan closed his eyes.
‘Nothing, Shannon.’
She reached the basement, wandered over to the Memorial Wall and sat down on the floor next to him. Ewan was surprised when she leaned against him and rested her head against his chin. But he accepted, and placed an arm around her shoulder.
Ewan lay his letter on the ground, face down.
‘I know you’re not OK,’ said Shannon, ‘so I won’t ask. Just remember that you’re not alone.’
‘What did yours say?’
Shannon seemed surprised at the bluntness of his question. Or maybe the fact he had even asked. The letters had been private, after all.
But Ewan’s prediction was right. Shannon didn’t mind sharing.
‘He told me he was proud of me,’ she said, ‘and how great it was that I chose the good of humanity instead of a life of luxury with my dad. He told me I was just what the team needed – the right balance of fiery determination and lucid self-control, if I got his words right.’
Ewan smiled, fighting back tears. It sounded enough like McCormick.
‘He also said I’ll need to prepare myself for New London,’ Shannon continued. ‘I can’t go on forever just doing missions in the countryside. Before this war ends, I’ll have to go back and face him.’
She lifted her head from Ewan, so she could turn and face him.
‘And he told me to look after you,’ she finished. ‘When times get tough, you’ll need the support of your girlfriend.’
McCormick worked it out? He knew w hat was going on between us?
Hell, he probably worked it out before we did.
‘So what about you?’ she asked. ‘What did he say?’
Ewan looked at the face-down paper, and decided to tell her. She had trusted him, so it was only right to trust her back. She had earned it.
‘He wants me to lead the war against your father.’
Ewan did not know what reaction to expect, but Shannon smiled.
‘He gave me a bunch of leadership advice,’ he continued, ‘then told me not to worry because the others will follow me. I don’t know what to make of that.’
‘I think you are worth it,’ said Shannon. ‘Whether or not you realise it, the others look up to you.’
Ewan looked at her with blatant doubt in his eyes.
‘You’re usually the only one in the battlefield who knows what’s going on,’ she continued. ‘The one who keeps fighting when others lose motivation. Someone with a chaotic background who can think straight anyway. The guy who fights tooth and nail so naturally because he’s been doing it his whole life. It’s enough to inspire anyone.’
Ewan started to laugh.
‘Shut your mouth and listen,’ said Shannon. ‘Since I first met you, you’ve been to the Inner City and got out alive. You’ve gone to Oakenfold and escaped. Last night you got up to Floor C without dying. I know you don’t realise, but the others are amazed by all that. If you talk to them, they’ll listen. If you lead, they’ll follow.’
Ewan decided not to tell Shannon she was wrong. McCormick himself had advised him to listen to his soldiers.
And incredibly, she changed his mind.
‘I guess there’s only one way to find out,’ he said.
Shannon smiled, and rested her head against him once more. They gazed at the Memorial Wall together, their eyes fixed on the lowest name.
McCormick had passed the baton, and Ewan would pick it up and run. And with the Underdogs ripped apart by grief, the sooner he started the better.
The more he thought about it, the more Ewan realised he was up to the challenge. He had spent the first sixteen years of his life around people who had forced an identity on him, who had made him believe he was nothing more than a nasty kid with special needs and a boatload of personal issues. But now, with him at the helm of the Underdogs, it would be his turn to tell the world who he was.
It was time for Ewan West to take centre stage. For him to speak, for the world to listen, and for his friends to win the war.
The
will return.
For the latest updates about further books
in the Underdogs series, visit
the author’s website at chrisbonnello.com
or the series’ Facebook page at
facebook.com/Underdogsnovel.
Read on for an extract of the third book in the series
– Underdogs: Acceleration …
Chapter 1
Oliver Roth had felt uneasy when Grant called him to Floor B. It was an unusual feeling. The great Nicholas Grant had never made him uneasy before.
He used his keycard against the door to the stairwell between Floors C and B, and took a deep breath after the door had closed behind him. The rebels’ strike that morning had been their first since the death of the AME shield a month earlier, and they had all escaped New London before Roth could even make it downstairs to meet them. Grant would not be happy, but still: calling a meeting about it was a surprising response.
Roth scanned his keycard again at the entrance to Floor B and was met on the other side by Nathaniel Pearce, who had clearly been waiting.
What the hell is Grant’s smarmy smart-arse Chief Scientist doing here?
‘Ah, Oliver,’ Pearce said with his trademark grin. ‘We’re going to Iain’s office. Nick’s already there.’
‘Iain’s office?’ Roth laughed. ‘Seriously?’
‘He has his reasons. And he doesn’t want me to spoil them. Come along.’
Roth followed, noticing the disdain in Pearce’s voice despite his grin. That lifted his spirits a little. If something annoyed Nathaniel Pearce, it was likely to be good – or at least entertaining.
Oliver Roth had not seen the office since the night Iain Marshall had died in it: since the prisoner in the room had exploded with such force that the whole AME computer had been annihilated, along with everything else in the room including Marshall. Even after a month, Roth was surprised they’d finished scraping Joseph McCormick off the walls.
A couple of Floor B workers shot a glance at Roth as he passed. Perhaps he looked out of place with his combat boots marching across the carpeted corridor, with sweat dripping from his forehead and a loaded assault rifle instead of a suit and tie. Or maybe the stares were because of his reputation. They were in the presence of Nicholas Grant’s fourteen-year-old master assassin, slaughterer of countryside rebels – and occasional punisher of staff members when required.
Marshall’s office was up ahead. The floor in front of the entrance had been recarpeted, with an ever-so-slightly different colour that made it stand out awkwardly from the rest of the corridor. Roth noticed himself slowing down, enough for Pearce to glance behind him.
This room was where my life began, he thought. The good life, anyway.
His mind, very briefly, went back to the early meetings he used to have in that office, alone with a man he admired. Iain Marshall, war veteran of twelve years (who had not yet told him about his eight as an arms dealer), had been a rare person Roth had looked up to. At twelve years old, in a Britain that existed before the clones took over, not many people held that status in Roth’s life. Their meetings had largely been theoretical training sessions, with Marshall teaching him about military strategy, weapons, and the dirtier tactics that Marshall-Pearce’s youth training programme had not dared to touch.
He never talked about Oliver Roth’s real reason for being there, of course. He was too smart to discuss it in a place which stood a one per cent chance of being bugged, in addition to having compulsory CCTV. The subject only came up during their field trips and training sessions in the forest. Once upon a time, Oliver Roth was going to prevent Takeover Day from ever happening, by assassinating Nicholas Grant himself. Clearly though, Marshall had lost his nerve and never given him the signal.
Roth felt no guilt about the little fact that he could have stopped Takeover Day before it began. It had been Marshall’s decision rather than his own. It had also been perfect blackmail material – the ability to walk up to Grant and spill the beans any time he liked – but Roth had never needed to actually make any threats. Marshall had been careful enough to give him everything he ever wanted in order to buy his silence.
Oliver Roth sighed as he realised the true reason why he felt uneasy that day, and why he missed Iain Marshall. His leverage was gone; all his unspoken power vanished in that explosion. He no longer had the unquestioning support of Grant’s Head of Military.
He turned into the office, and found himself in unfamiliar territory. All trace of the explosion was gone, not a charred stain in sight. It looked like the room had been rebuilt altogether rather than just redecorated.
At the new desk, placed on the opposite side of the room to where the old one had been, Nicholas Grant sat in a large leather chair.
‘Oliver,’ he said, in a voice that could perhaps have been called friendly, ‘take a seat.’
Another leather chair had been placed on the other side of the desk. Grant stretched out a welcoming hand. Roth knew right away that this wasn’t about his failure to contain the rebels that morning.
‘Do you actually need me here?’ asked Pearce.
‘Yes,’ said Grant. ‘This is a formal ceremony that should be witnessed by the most valuable people in the Citadel. Unless you don’t consider yourself that valuable?’
Pearce said nothing. Roth sat down in the chair, and browsed the paper placed on the desk for him to read. It was a contract of some sort, as far as he understood.
‘Formal ceremony?’ he asked. ‘You should have let me get changed.’
‘I thought you’d feel more comfortable in your current outfit.’
He’s not wrong, thought Roth.
‘So what’s this about?’ he asked.
‘You’re getting promoted,’ answered Grant with an enthusiastic grin. ‘You’re one signature away from becoming my Head of Military Division.’
Oliver Roth had a lifelong habit of not letting his emotions show on his face, but it was difficult when surprises were landed on him. His eyebrows rose to the top of his head, his mouth opened, and his eyes stared into Grant’s like a man who had won the lottery and been caught in a car’s headlights at the same time. His thoughts about the three escaping rebels left his mind altogether.
‘I’m Iain’s replacement,’ he gasped.
‘The youngest field marshal in history.’
‘Why me?’
‘There aren’t many other candidates, in all fairness,’ Grant replied as he leaned back in his leather chair. ‘I have a few other ex-military personnel on my payroll, but none of them have modern, post-Takeover experience like you. Keith Tylor would have been perfect back in the day, before he came down with that bad case of multiple stab wounds. So that leaves either you or some colonel downstairs, and you’re the one I believe in most. Besides, I’m sure Iain would have wanted it.’
You’d be surprised what Iain Marshall would have wanted.
‘Do I still get to serve in the field?’ Roth asked.
‘Yes, you’ll still get to run through the corridors killing rebels. Except now you’ll do it with real authority. And this office will be yours once it’s finished. It may be a couple more weeks, but I’m sure you understand.’
Roth flipped through the contract, pretending to understand all the legal words.
‘Wait,’ he asked, ‘so how come we still haven’t rebuilt the clone factory two months on, but this office can be completely fixed in a matter of weeks?’
Pearce guffawed from the entrance.
‘And that sentence right there,’ he said, ‘is why you’re Head of Military and not Chief Scientist. You clearly have no appreciation for the complexities involved with building a factory that produces armies of imitation humans.’
‘That and you’re still alive. For now.’
‘Oliver,’ Grant said with a discreet laugh, ‘don’t threaten your closest colleague.’
‘Why not? Iain and Nat fought all the time. I’ll sign this contract, but I’m not becoming his new best friend.’
Roth grabbed a fountain pen that Grant had left next to his papers, and found the dotted line.
Then something strange happened. He had not heard McCormick’s voice for a month, and had only heard it for one evening, but he recognised it when it entered his head.
The world is full of young people who think the
ir futures are already decided, just because they’ve been instructed to believe it.
It had been one of McCormick’s sentences that Roth had tried to ignore. Even now, he did his best.
Even though we don’t get to decide what happens to us, we do get to choose how we respond. And even if people tell you your future is predestined…
Roth shook his head, and hoped that Grant wouldn’t notice.
He remembered his miniature breakdown on the night McCormick died: when he came to realise that he had already made every meaningful decision that would decide the course of his life. When he had realised that, in all likelihood, it really was too late for him.
Helplessly obedient to his boss, despite being the only person in the room with an assault rifle, Oliver Roth signed on the dotted line. And just like that, he became the second most powerful person in the whole of Great Britain.
‘Ok, job done,’ Pearce said, stretching his arms. ‘Can I go now?’
‘Has Gwen arrived?’
‘Not as yet.’
‘Then no, you can’t.’
Roth smiled. He didn’t know much about Gwen Crossland, except for her now-famous work on the Ginelli Project, but he knew to keep his distance from her. After Marshall’s death, someone in Grant’s health department recommended her to Roth as a psychotherapist who might help him. Roth had obviously declined: the less influence that tiny well-spoken Womble had over his brain, the better off he would be.
Suddenly, she was there. Standing in the entrance, next to Nathaniel Pearce.
Bloody hell, she even moves like a bloody poltergeist.
‘Nicholas,’ she said, although her lips barely moved.
‘Nick,’ Grant corrected her. ‘Are you ready?’
‘My bags are packed, and my equipment is in safe hands. But my work on Floor G is not yet complete.’
‘How long, do you think?’
Roth noticed how polite Grant was being to Gwen Crossland. He could not tell whether it was genuine politeness to a lady from his own generation, or politeness inspired by fear.
Tooth and Nail Page 29
