Underdogs

by Chris Bonnello

  ‘She ran from here to Sandridge?’ asked Kate.

  ‘It was either that or death by Keith Tylor,’ answered Ewan. ‘Let’s keep going. If we miss our chance, we’re stuffed.’

  Ewan set off at speed, leaving the clones to decompose in peace. Five minutes to nine.

  At the brow of a small hill, Ewan bent down to conceal himself. The Citadel of New London was in full view over the hill’s peak, its walls spread from one corner of his eyesight to the other.

  Ewan had never been allowed on school trips to see old castles or walled cities, but he had searched for them online in his own time. The love of learning had always been there, whether or not his schools could accommodate him. New London made a mockery of every castle Ewan had ever researched: larger than life, no medieval finery or renaissance architecture, and absolute hell inside its walls. The Citadels up and down the country were the Grant-era version of the fortresses of old. More technology, less beauty, and no mercy to be found within.

  The walls were guarded by innumerable snipers that made them impossible to approach. But the Underdogs knew better than to strike against reinforced concrete anyway. Because out to the side of the Citadel, in a countryside spot where a canal had been dug all the way to the River Thames, there lay a water treatment plant. Its entrance was guarded by few enough clone soldiers, and it was far enough from New London to be out of sniper range. Ewan and his team crouched where the wild grass met the dull-sanded beach, awaiting their opportunity.

  ‘What’s the time?’ asked Kate.

  ‘Time you got a watch,’ said Alex.

  ‘I’ve got one… we just need to go on a raid for batteries.’

  ‘It’s exactly nine o’clock on April twenty-fifth,’ said Jack, starting to stim with his fingers, ‘and the Land Rover’s coming.’

  Ewan struggled to get the image in his dental mirror, but the rumble of a motor vehicle was unmistakable.

  Even after eleven months of fighting the creatures, Ewan sometimes had trouble telling them apart from real humans. The factory-grown replicas shared every feature of their creators: facial expressions, fingerprints, moles, bad farts. They sweated when they exercised, cracked their knuckles when they got bored, and bit their tongues while eating. Other than their uniforms and silence, there was little to distinguish them.

  Except, of course, their anger. When they engaged in combat, an inbuilt aggression kicked in – one which put even Ewan and Charlie to shame – and an apparent thirst for violence for violence’s sake. It had been engineered into them, to provide a combat advantage.

  And wow, Ewan found it frightening to fight someone who truly wanted to kill him.

  The Land Rover glimmered in his mirror.

  ‘Shift change in one minute,’ he whispered. ‘Volunteer?’

  ‘Yeah,’ laughed Charlie, ‘which one of us is the most expendable?’

  ‘Nice one, Charlie. Now get ready to run.’

  ‘Is that a joke?’

  ‘Has to be one of us.’

  ‘But I’m not the most–’

  ‘Forget it,’ said Kate, ‘I’ll break in. I’ve done it before.’

  She pressed her body against the bank, ready to leap over at Ewan’s signal. From the corner of his eye he could see her facial features beginning to quiver. She was scared, but doing it anyway. As usual.

  Ewan thrust two fingers towards the entrance and Kate vanished, leaving a cloud of sand in her wake.

  ‘How’s it looking?’ asked Alex.

  ‘The Land Rover just arrived… the replacement soldiers are getting out… and… yep, the night guards are leaving to meet them. Here’s her chance.’

  As the three new clones leapt from the Land Rover, the three at the entrance walked over to meet them. Kate race-walked along the path between the settling tank and the tunnel entrance as the two shifts passed one another, each group barely acknowledging the other’s existence.

  ‘The changing of the guard,’ muttered Jack. ‘It seems to have lost its finesse in recent years.’

  ‘Shh.’

  They seemed peaceful enough, since enemies weren’t near. Their ‘peace’ and ‘war’ personas differed enormously, and at that moment they were far from the psychotic, anger-driven beings they became in combat.

  With Kate safely through the entrance, the replacement team stood in position, oblivious to the new intruder. The other team climbed into the Land Rover and reignited the engine.

  A soldier in each group fetched out a radio and started tapping. Despite their lack of vocal cords, the clones had communication methods designed for them. The most common one seemed like a simplified Morse code, communicated with the presses of a single black button. Although in more hostile situations, the red panic button was pressed first.

  The irony was not lost on Ewan. Grant may have viewed his clones as disposable weapons, but he did more to help them communicate than society had for people like Simon.

  ‘Kate’s inside,’ he said. ‘Fire exit, now.’

  Ewan led the strike team onto the untended grass, and they ran for the fire exit a few hundred metres along the access tunnel. Within moments of reaching the curved metal door, it flew open to reveal a panting Kate on the other side.

  ‘You know, back at Oakenfold the fire doors were alarmed,’ she said with a laugh.

  ‘So’s this one if you open it from the outside,’ answered Ewan. ‘Maybe one day they’ll make New London as secure as a special school.’

  ‘Let’s hope not,’ muttered Kate, letting her friends through the door and hauling it shut behind her. The five Underdogs were on a direct route to the Citadel walls, fiercely outnumbered but totally unnoticed.

  ‘Guys,’ said Alex, ‘one of us should probably call McCormick and–’

  ‘Yeah, well vol–’

  ‘–well volunteered,’ Alex finished, retrieving his mobile phone from his pocket. ‘I gathered.’

  *

  Up in the attic of the Boys’ Brigade hall, lit by the glow of a dozen battery-powered camping lights, McCormick warmed his hands against his fourth cup of tea.

  Simon was outside for a quick loo stop, and McCormick felt uneasy with him gone. Not just because a vulnerable boy was out in the open, or because they were supposed to have two people in the comms unit at all times during missions. After three years as a widower, it was still painful for McCormick to be alone.

  A noise came from the games room below. Simon had returned, and stumbled among the tangled mess of cobwebs, plastic hockey sticks and foam footballs.

  ‘Did you replace the manhole cover this time?’ McCormick asked as Simon climbed the ladder.

  The boy nodded.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘…Yes,’ came a whisper from Simon’s mouth.

  Good, I’ve got him talking. And all I needed to do was take him to a silent room, miles from any other living person.

  It wasn’t even a Down’s Syndrome issue. Like most others with selective mutism, it was related to anxiety more than learning difficulties.

  ‘I still can’t believe your Boys’ Brigade captain let you keep the games room like that,’ McCormick said, hoping it would start a conversation. ‘The 22nd Durham Company never stood for it in my day.’

  ‘I blame kids for that. They messy, and never have respect for things.’

  Simon’s grammar was like a foreigner learning English – that at least could be seen as Down’s Syndrome-related – but just hearing him talk was enough. Simon closed the hatch and took his seat next to McCormick.

  ‘But they were nice kids. They didn’t make fun of my face. Except Luke, but I said him to shut up. Because I’m old now.’

  ‘Haha, you’re far from being old, Simon.’

  We’ve had this conversation before. Most times when he comes here. And I have to admire his mother for taking the gamble she did. Not every youth group can take a boy like Simon and leave him better off for the experience.

  I just hope he was treated like a full member of the group
, rather than just ‘the one everyone looks after’.

  Either way, I’m glad he went. We got a communications building out of it.

  McCormick tried to remember if he had ever thanked Simon for offering the Boys’ Brigade hall as a secondary base. He sighed when he realised the answer was probably not the one he wanted. He had been too preoccupied with security issues: escape options, the lack of soundproofing, whether the comms unit was enough villages away from Spitfire’s Rise, and the dangers of having a boy in his team who knew its location.

  Spitfire’s Rise itself was so far from Oakenfold that the students had only found it after getting lost, which had been helpful in the long run. Ewan, the first student to arrive at the house on Takeover Day, had been the only one to approach via a road and see the name of the village. Upon returning to the countryside to fetch the others, he had insisted they use the fields. And in the weeks that followed, McCormick had sent him far and wide to remove every sign that contained a village name, along with all the road signs on streets they were ever likely to use.

  But even then, risks remained. The location of Spitfire’s Rise was no secret to McCormick or Ewan, and Simon had spent half his childhood in the hall that had become their comms unit.

  ‘Did they call, while I was away?’ asked Simon.

  ‘Not just yet,’ said McCormick, flipping through a stolen copy of map references. ‘So, Ewan and Charlie will be heading to the forensic investigation room. To look for Tylor’s backpack. That’ll be on… page ten, square c6.’

  ‘Page ten,’ answered Simon, ‘what floor?’

  ‘Floor J. Looks like they’re keeping Tylor’s things up high.’

  Simon peered through the stack of maps on the side table, each printed on A1 paper and big enough to need both of his hands. He found the tenth sheet, removed it from the pile, and spread it out in front of McCormick until the far sides flopped off the edges of the desk.

  ‘How did we fighted without these?’

  ‘Not very well. That’s why we didn’t get much done in the early months. We didn’t know where things were.’

  And Ewan was too busy training us, with what little his dad had taught him.

  ‘Thankfully,’ McCormick continued, ‘Ben Christie only photocopied them, and put the originals back so nobody would know.’

  ‘Ben was a good man,’ muttered Simon.

  ‘He was, rest his soul. Ah, here we are.’

  McCormick’s finger landed on square c6, and found the forensic investigation room at the tip of his nail. He prepared a mental route to the nearest flight of stairs, since Ewan would not be stupid enough to use the lift or the monorail system.

  Once the route was memorised, McCormick stood up to stretch his legs. For the first time he saw the whole map at once, and the sheer sight of it forced him to take a deep breath. It was an architect’s dream and nightmare: twenty-six stories, all of them packed with offices, computer hubs, munitions factories, power generators, archives, missile silos, aircraft hangars, residential quarters, habitation and training facilities, and a hundred other types of purpose-built rooms.

  But the Inner City was the most striking part of the map. It was totally blank. Grant had shipped everybody into his overgrown factory floor, and just left them to it. There was no architecture, no planning, no indication of how these people would live.

  Simon’s parents are in there. In fact, most of us have relatives in that big blank rectangle. Except Ewan.

  And me. Maybe Barbara was lucky to die three years ago.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ muttered Simon.

  ‘Go on?’

  ‘What when we free New London? Do we go New Brighton, start again?’

  He’s thinking ahead. Impressive!

  ‘Hopefully not,’ McCormick replied. ‘This place is Grant’s throne. He controls everything from here. If we’re lucky, we’ll cut off the head and the body will die.’

  Simon looked confused by the analogy. McCormick planned to wait at least five seconds before explaining, just in case Simon could work it out for himself. Independent thinking skills meant everything. But then the phone on the desk vibrated. The old man’s hand seized it and accepted the call. Alex’s face appeared onscreen, surrounded by a curved metal tunnel.

  McCormick noticed that the rest of the strike team members were a hundred metres behind him. Alex was going into lone wolf mode early, again.

  ‘We’re inside, sir,’ Alex said. ‘Should reach the walls in ten minutes-ish.’

  ‘Any casualties at the treatment plant?’

  ‘Not a soul. And no clones either, come to think of it.’

  ‘Excellent,’ replied the old man with a grin. ‘Let’s bring down the factory.’

  Chapter 8

  Kate wondered whether the tunnel had been designed specifically to give her claustrophobia, but knew deep down that it had simply been the cheaper option to build. New London must have cost enough without the expense of making it look pretty.

  The tunnel ended at a concrete wall which separated the maze of Floor Z from the outside world. The strike team paused outside the door, Ewan taking his place at the front of the group.

  ‘Right,’ he began, ‘each of you needs to tell me what you’re doing. I want all of us certain from minute one.’

  Kate tried to arrange her own answer in her head, so she wouldn’t get it wrong and be looked down upon by the others.

  ‘Charlie, you first.’

  ‘Something about an evidence locker,’ Charlie replied, ‘on Floor J.’

  ‘The forensic investigation room,’ Ewan said with a huff. ‘Searching for Tylor’s backpack. Once we get it, we search for Shannon’s tool–’

  ‘While still having no idea what it is, or whether it even exists. And I still don’t believe it does, by the way.’

  ‘Not believing in something doesn’t stop it from existing,’ said Jack. ‘Now listen to Ewan.’

  Ewan continued, his face pointed towards Charlie as if to force the information into his friend’s brain. Kate had hated it when her old teachers had done that to her, as if she had either been unwilling to listen or just plain stupid. Perhaps the habit had rubbed off on Ewan during his own mainstream days.

  ‘We search for Shannon’s tool,’ Ewan said slowly, ‘then join Alex and Kate. What are you both doing?’

  ‘We’re–’

  ‘We’re heading to Floor F,’ Alex interrupted, ‘because going to the sixth-highest floor in New London isn’t in the least bit dangerous.’

  Kate felt annoyance and relief, both at once. Alex’s interruption had saved her the pressure of speaking, but removed the chance to prove she could do it.

  ‘Tell me what you’re doing there,’ said Ewan.

  ‘Taking a look at the clone factory,’ Alex answered, ‘figuring out a way in, and making sure there’s a clear path for you to join us.’

  ‘Good. Hope you’re OK with twenty-storey climbs.’

  ‘No sir,’ said Alex. ‘They scare me.’

  ‘Whatever. Jack?’

  And there it was. The opportunity for Kate to contribute to the conversation, gone and never coming back. She shrugged off the guilt as it approached, and reminded herself that Alex had done a good enough job by himself. Her contributions rarely added much anyway.

  Jack directed his glance towards the metal door next to them.

  ‘I’ll be guarding the exit. Standing here and looking pretty, like those red London guards they used to have. I’ll make sure I don’t smile, either.’

  ‘Right,’ Ewan finished, ‘looks like we’re good to go. Keep yourselves safe, and if you run into trouble, tell the rest of the team before phoning comms.’

  ‘Warn the other troops about the threat before it kills them too,’ sneered Charlie.

  ‘Well, yeah. Any questions?’

  Kate had nothing to ask, but knew better than to raise questions in front of a group anyway. Experience told her it was better to ask at the end when others had dispersed.

/>   ‘Just the one,’ Jack answered. ‘Why are you lot still here?’

  Ewan rolled his eyes, and readied his hands against the bar across the door.

  ‘United by our differences, guys,’ he said.

  ‘United,’ everyone replied.

  Kate took a deep breath, and Ewan pushed the door open to reveal the lions’ den on the other side.

  The Outer City held path after path of silver-walled corridors, featuring little more than light-bulb panels and painted numbers at each junction. Grant had wasted no effort on decorations. The corridors were dull, function-built, and void of any personality.

  But a walk through the Outer City was never boring. The very atmosphere – the invisible feel of the Citadel walls – forced Kate to imagine danger around every conceivable corner. It felt like the Citadel itself wanted her dead. She wondered whether it was the same for her friends too: whether they could no longer see a grey corridor without fearing death. It couldn’t have just been an anxiety thing.

  ‘Alex,’ said Ewan to her side, ‘I’ll take the gadgets. We’ll need them more.’

  Alex surrendered the rucksack without a fight. Ewan took off towards an arrowed sign and vanished into the nearest stairwell, Charlie giving chase.

  Kate ran McCormick’s directions through her head, two or three times to be sure, and began her walk through the corridors.

  ‘Have fun down here, Jack,’ said Alex as he started to follow.

  ‘Just in case that was sarcasm, I’ll be having far more fun than you!’

  Alex and Jack exchanged a few more words, none of which registered in Kate’s mind as she walked. Her concentration was fixed on getting the journey right.

  A ten-minute walk, then take Stairwell Forty-Two to Floor F. It’ll be the top exit, since Floors A to E need special clearance through one-floor-at-a-time stairwells.

  That was what their maps said anyway. None of the Underdogs had ever been that high.