Underdogs

by Chris Bonnello

  ‘Found it,’ announced Ewan, as he grabbed the printed manual and started to browse. ‘Sorry Charlie, your parents didn’t care much?’

  ‘You know, if it’s not bloody convenient we can talk back at home.’

  Charlie, as much as I care about you, your childhood trauma’s hardly time-sensitive. I’d rather not get caught here. Sorry mate.

  ‘But no,’ said Charlie, ‘they didn’t care much. Especially when the other kids got me into trouble. Did they ever do that with you? Try and get you to explode? The primary kids found it hilarious when I couldn’t control myself, so they made it happen.’

  ‘And let me guess,’ replied Ewan, as he tucked the index folder under his arm and headed for the nearest ladder. ‘The teachers blamed you because you were doing all the shouting.’

  ‘Yep. Got the same advice every time – “Rise above it, ignore them, don’t let them bother you.” Like it was simple. Did the kids laugh at you too?’

  Ewan lay a hand on the ladder and hid a snarl.

  ‘Not after I smashed up the classroom a few times. They learned quickly. But then of course I’d get expelled and have to teach the kids at my next school not to laugh, and it just kept going from there.’

  Ewan checked the index again for the number he was after. Experience at school and in the battlefield told him to always, always double-check his answers.

  He caught a glance of Charlie, staring at him in confusion and with a hint of hurt.

  ‘What?’ asked Ewan.

  ‘It’s just… we were the Temper Twins at Oakenfold. Even at Spitfire’s Rise for a while. So how come you grew out of it and I didn’t?’

  Ewan stopped in his tracks. That last sentence was enough to distract him from the ladder, and send him walking back to Charlie.

  ‘Mate, you’re fifteen,’ he began, in a friendship voice which sounded poles apart from his leadership voice, ‘and you’re acting like all your growing up’s over and done with. I’m sorry you were treated like crap at school. We both deserved better. And I don’t want to sound harsh, but you’re letting your past control your future and you need to bloody stop it.’

  The shock in Charlie’s eyes became the most distinctive feature of his face. Ewan spoke again before his friend could form a response.

  ‘I didn’t “grow out” of being angry. I just focused on making the right choices. Whenever I was able to choose, I mean. It was hundreds of little decisions, really – none of them easy, but I made the right ones whenever I could. People love to blame others for their faults – parents, teachers, kids, the government, even luck. But in my opinion, we become the people we choose to be.’

  Ewan left a deliberate pause. Charlie wouldn’t think of an answer quickly, and Ewan wanted his last sentence to sink in. After that moment, he continued.

  ‘McCormick became a lecturer – a guy who cared about his maths and his students, because that’s who he chose to be. No one made him that way. And yeah, some things are out of our control. Your ADHD, my thing, everyone’s things. But whenever we get to call the shots, that’s different. Whenever we’re in control, we’re responsible for who we are.’

  Ewan took a step back, and saw the whole of Charlie’s face. There was confusion, as if the thoughts in his brain had been planted there for the first time.

  ‘You’re a good guy, Charlie. You chose that. But those kids who ganged up on you are gone. They don’t have a right to be part of your future.’

  Ewan headed for the ladder once again. He knew it wasn’t that simple: that mental scars remained long after hurtful people were gone. His own brain was filled with dozens, maybe hundreds of names and faces from people in his past who had hurt his future.

  But the words needed to be said. And he wondered how different Charlie’s life might have been if he’d taken responsibility for some of his choices a few years earlier.

  I could have done with that lesson too.

  If I’d had McCormick’s words back in the old days, she’d still be alive.

  ‘So what is your thing?’ Charlie called after him.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Back at Oakenfold, you once told Callum you were autistic. But you aren’t like Kate or Jack or anyone. Is it actually true?’

  ‘Technically, yeah. But it’s not the thing that affects me.’

  Charlie paused, as if expecting more. But there was no way Ewan was going to open up about his PDA.

  ‘I’ll tell you at home,’ Ewan finished, hoping Charlie would forget about it before they reached Spitfire’s Rise. He clamped his hands around the sides of the ladder to begin his climb. It was time to get back to work.

  ‘Right,’ said Charlie, clapping his hands together in fake enthusiasm, ‘so where do we start, and how long until we give up and move on?’

  ‘We don’t,’ answered Ewan, reverting back to his leadership voice. ‘The backpack’s in this room and I’m finding it.’

  ‘And if it’s empty?’

  ‘It won’t be. Grant won’t tamper with evidence before it gets inspected. He’s not that stupid. Now wait a second – I’ve found the “Priority One” drawer.’

  Ewan reached the top of the ladder, opened the drawer and paused in disbelief. He hadn’t expected to actually be right, but Tylor’s backpack was in the first place he looked. There was much to be said for a good filing system.

  Ewan recognised the backpack instantly. He had seen it on Tylor the previous night: a minor detail he had barely committed to memory, but the black and metallic grey colour scheme was distinctive enough once he saw it. He undid the zip and dipped a hand inside.

  ‘What’s the time?’ he asked.

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘I want to know how long the dead clones have been outside.’

  ‘It’s… 9:37,’ answered Charlie. ‘In the morning. And believe it or not, it’s still April twenty-fifth. Three days to my sixteenth, if you can scavenge a present from somewhere.’

  ‘Charlie, get on the radio.’

  Charlie sighed, loud enough for his breath to echo off the filing cabinet walls. He took the radio out of his pocket, and raised it to his mouth. When he pressed the button, he was met with silence rather than the usual static.

  ‘…I think we forgot to turn the volume back up.’

  Ewan huffed. They had turned their radios down just before launching their surprise attack. But single-mindedness had always been a problem of Ewan’s, and the sight of the forensic investigation room had made him forget his radio even existed.

  ‘Guys,’ said Charlie after turning the volume up, ‘we–’

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’ came Alex’s yells in the speaker. ‘We’ve been trying to reach you for ages!’

  ‘Yeah, we’re fine thanks,’ said Ewan. ‘Talk to me, what’s up?’

  ‘They know we’re here.’

  The blood drained from Ewan’s face. He looked down at Charlie, who had frozen at the foot of the ladder.

  ‘Already?’

  ‘A clone got away. A while ago now.’

  Ewan’s hand dug deeper into Tylor’s backpack, but didn’t stay there for long.

  ‘Whatever you’re up to,’ continued Alex, ‘finish it fast.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry about us,’ said Ewan. ‘We’re done here.’

  He held his prize down towards Charlie. In the palm of his hand lay a USB stick, with the words Better Days written with a thick marker pen.

  ‘What the hell’s that?’ Charlie whispered.

  ‘Shannon’s tool.’

  ‘And you know that because…?’

  ‘Do you really think Keith Tylor would carry precious memories around with him? It’s the one thing in the backpack that’s definitely not his.’

  Ewan looked at the USB stick and smiled. Better days were definitely coming, if Shannon could be trusted.

  ‘Keep the route clear for us, Alex. We’re coming up.’

  Chapter 10

  Jack didn’t mind that the job of phoning comms had fa
llen to him. It gave him a nice break from endlessly looking left and right along the corridor connected to their exit, like a small child trying to cross the road. He slouched against the door to the tunnel, his fingers scraping along the greying paint.

  To most other people, the corridors would have looked dull and boring. Jack understood why, but he refused to accept it for himself. There was genius in every conceivable object if you knew where to look. That was one great advantage to being a daydreamer with Asperger’s: while the rest of the population busied themselves with gossip, and wasted time moaning about what Sheila said to Tony or whatever, Jack’s brain was solving theoretical problems. It was trying to work out how a planet would orbit a binary star system, or what kind of weaponry would be needed to bring down a charging triceratops.

  As he had guarded the exit, Jack Hopper had been studying the architectural requirements of the ceiling. A lot of effort must have gone into its design, and it would be a shame for it to go unrecognised. But duty called, so it was time to give McCormick a call.

  He started the timer on his watch the moment he inserted the battery into his phone. He dialled the number for comms, but decided against a video call. Voices would be enough for this conversation, and he needed to save his eyes for the corridor.

  But once the phone was answered, no voice emerged. Just a shy cough.

  ‘Hey Simon,’ Jack began. ‘Is McCormick there?’

  No answer.

  ‘I guess not then. Loo break?’

  A little grunt.

  ‘Didn’t think he’d go so early in the mission. Is his cyst acting up?’

  An identical grunt.

  Everyone communicates. Even people who don’t talk. Back at Oakenfold…

  Jack shook his head, to silence his last memories of the profoundly disabled students. It had been Mark who had shouted across that field, ‘Get bloody running, they’re not worth it!’, but Jack and everyone else had obeyed – largely through fear of saying no to a man like Mark. Few people had spoken about the incident in the eleven months since, but he could tell the group felt varying degrees of remorse. And Jack, despite his logical brain telling him there had been no other choice but to run, had crystal-clear opinions about right and wrong. As a result, his conscience was still swamped with inconsolable guilt.

  He brought himself back to reality, and spoke.

  ‘Simon, there’s something important I need to tell McCormick. Our presence has been detected.’

  Simon fell into a short silence that Jack could not interpret. Perhaps shorter words were needed. Simon deserved better than just being known as ‘the Down’s kid’, and Jack made sure to treat him better, but his learning difficulties still needed to be respected.

  ‘I mean, Grant knows we’re here. Anyway… while we’re waiting for the old man, I’ve been meaning to chat with you for a while.’

  Silence.

  ‘Hope you don’t mind, but I need to ask. Why are you so nervous all the time?’

  A little cough, and a huff of protest.

  ‘Well, most of the time. I know most people are nervous these days, but you pretty much curl up like a hedgehog when people are around. Even at the dinner table.’

  Jack wasn’t sure how Simon felt, but everything must have been fine. He had asked with his friendliest voice, after all.

  ‘I’ll put it to you this way, mate. Thomas lost his mum back in January. He deserves to be nervous, but he’s not. Ewan’s family were annihilated on Takeover Day, but somehow he’s turned that into something positive. He’s driven by getting justice for them.’

  Then there’s Shannon. Hell knows what happened to her.

  ‘You deserve far more confidence than you have, you know? You’re an Underdog of Spitfire’s Rise, and one of the last guys who can save this country. You need to have as much faith in yourself as Ewan and McCormick do.’

  Simon grunted. Somehow, even Jack could tell it was a ‘Yeah, right’.

  ‘No, I’m serious. Confidence might even get you a girlfriend one day.’

  Simon gave a short laugh.

  ‘And yeah, I know what you’re thinking. Same for me. Romance isn’t my thing, Simon. You must know it.’

  Simon laughed again.

  ‘And not with Gracie. Seriously, why does everyone keep saying that? Just because we’re vaguely friends doesn’t mean I suddenly want her as my wife.’

  A third snort of laughter.

  ‘OK, I guess she’s hot. But… hot in a “first to die in a horror film” kind of way. You love horror films, right? You seem like that kind of guy. Bet you love a good slasher.’

  Even more laughter, this time with Simon’s actual voice. Jack was reminded of the happy, laughing teenager that Simon Young had once been, back at Oakenfold where everyone had loved him. His sense of humour had been magnificent back then, delivered nonverbally to perfection. And despite most of the general public ignoring his humour, he had been valued for it in his special school.

  Suddenly, Jack’s brain woke up and he was in the grey corridor again. The conversation had soaked up his attention span. He checked his watch, and found one minute of safe time remaining.

  ‘Is McCormick back yet?’

  Simon gave the kind of grunt that meant ‘no’.

  ‘Better let you go then. If Grant’s locked on to my phone, I’ll be traceable in less than a minute. Talk soon, Simon.’

  Jack removed the battery from the phone, put them both in separate pockets, and sighed. He felt safe from attackers while talking on the phone. It seemed against common sense – the type of thinking that made his teachers describe his brain as ‘the good kind of different’ – but he knew nobody would kill him with a witness listening on the other end.

  In a rare moment of people-reading excellence, Jack had been right. With the phone disconnected, Oliver Roth seized his chance.

  ‘What the hell?’ shrieked Jack, as New London’s most prolific assassin sprung from the corner with his trademark grin plastered across his spotted face. Today, he had chosen the shotgun.

  ‘Surprise, retard!’ he bellowed with a sadistic laugh.

  By the time the first blast had left the shotgun, Jack had wrenched the exit door in front of him. Little dimples emerged in front of Jack’s eyes as the pellets rattled into the metal.

  The breath froze in his lungs. Those would have gone through his face.

  The gunshot echoes faded, and the sound of marching footsteps grew.

  ‘Toby, don’t worry about me!’ Jack screamed. ‘Just get to Floor Y! I’ll meet you there!’

  With seconds draining away, Jack was sure he could see the blood pulsing through his own hands. His invention of ‘Toby’ was desperate, but all he had. The promise of a rebel on the floor above would sound irresistible to Oliver Roth.

  Wait – Shannon’s list came from New London. He knows none of us are called Toby!

  Jack fumbled his pistol to his fingers. If he could avoid the second blast, he could strike back before his aggressor could reload. But the idea was short-lived. There was no chance of Roth using his final cartridge without good reason. And if Jack threw a hand around the door to shoot blindly, his enemy was more than good enough to blow it straight off.

  ‘Come out, come out, wherever you are…’ sneered Oliver Roth, with the kind of voice a bullying brother would use to make younger siblings cry.

  There were no other options. Jack shuffled back into the open tunnel exit and slammed the door closed.

  Alone in a claustrophobic passage, Jack held his pistol towards the doorframe with a terrible shaking in his hands. If he fired two shots a split-second apart, there would be at least a foot between the bullet holes.

  Oliver Roth could have been five seconds away from opening the door. Or maybe twenty minutes. Or maybe he would open it at that moment, while Jack was distracted by wondering when the moment could be.

  Jack’s gasps trembled as they left his tightening throat. SAS soldiers and Special Forces had the ability to freeze in
position for minutes, hours, and sometimes days before taking one vital shot. But not Jack Hopper, an untrained seventeen-year-old who spent half his life daydreaming.

  The worst part was not knowing. Was Roth half a mile away chasing ‘Toby’? Was he two metres away with a palm resting on the door handle? Was he waiting for Jack to make the first move?

  Maybe I should move first anyway? He might not be there… should I take a leap of faith and step back into the corridor?

  Or should I just run home? I’d live that way…

  *

  ‘You know what’d be great to do,’ asked Charlie, ‘just while we’re here?’

  ‘Go upstairs, destroy the clone factory, and get out before we’re caught?’

  Ewan slid down the ladder, with Better Days zipped up in his pocket. Charlie was an ambitious guy, which was no bad thing. But a dose of realism might have helped once in a while.

  ‘No Ewan, this is a good one. Aren’t you curious about where Shannon got that list? McCormick once told me about an officers’ sector on Floor S. You know, one of those humans-only places.’

  ‘Yeah, and I’d love to see it. But not today.’

  ‘It might tell us what else Shannon knows. And a little about her, too. Seriously, we even brought a door combination hacker–’

  ‘Not today, Charlie.’

  Ewan marched towards the door, his mind running through McCormick’s directions to Floor F. Hopefully Alex and Kate had left the path clear.

  Then something flickered at the bottom of his field of vision. A shadow interrupted the carpet of light under the door.

  ‘Charlie,’ he whispered, ‘someone’s outside.’

  Charlie brought his assault rifle up to his waist.

  ‘Looks like the trick with the bodies didn’t work,’ he whispered back, tiptoeing to the door and resting his fingers on the handle. Ewan stood one step behind him, the muzzle of his own rifle pointed towards the doorframe.

  ‘Open door, shoot, close door. Nothing else, Charlie.’