Dogs of War

by Jonathan Maberry

  The blade stabbed upward through his groin and then all the soldier could do was die.

  Violin released the handle of the knife and rolled to one side to bring up the gun she had fallen atop. She hosed the soldiers, aiming face-high. They wore the same kind of Kevlar she did, but her shots were to the face and throat, not the chest. They staggered backward, bone and teeth and blood spattering the wall.

  Then Violin twisted around as Bruiser pivoted, its sensors recording the deaths of its human team. Before it could bring its guns to bear, Violin came up off the floor in one fluid surge, moving with incredible speed, swinging her barrel toward its head, firing, firing. Aiming at sensors, at the weaker areas where joints had to be allowed range of movement. Not fighting it the way she would have fought a real dog. Fighting a machine the way it needed to be fought.

  Killing it the way it needed to be killed.

  * * *

  Two floors above, Sean Ledger stood peering through the partly opened door of the room where his son lay. He was dressed in full ballistic combat gear and held a shotgun in his hands.

  * * *

  Outside, the three soldiers left with the crashed ambulance heard the wrong kind of screams over their team mics.

  “Something’s wrong,” growled the driver.

  It was all he said, because his head snapped back and he fell against the truck, most of his face blown away. The other soldiers spun, looking for the shooter.

  And they died.

  Three shots fired, three hostiles down.

  Across the parking lot, atop a parking garage, Sam Imura looked up from the sniper scope, nodded to himself, and tapped his earbud.

  “Clear,” he said.

  “Clear,” said Violin.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-TWO

  THE HANGAR

  BROOKLYN, NEW YORK

  TUESDAY, MAY 2, 3:15 PM EASTERN TIME

  Bug tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry.

  Aunt Sallie stood there, immobile, frozen in a rare moment of doubt, unsure what to do to help. They both knew and understood that Good Sister was Calpurnia, the proprietary AI system developed by Zephyr Bain.

  Save me!

  Save me!

  Save me!

  The words scrolled up the screen.

  “Talk to me, Bug,” said Auntie, forcing the words out in a frightened whisper. “Are we losing MindReader again?”

  “No,” he croaked. “No … God, no … I think something else is happening.”

  “What? Don’t make me pull the plug on you, boy.”

  “Don’t! Wait … just wait, okay? That’s not MindReader. It’s Calpurnia. She’s … she’s … God, I think she’s scared.”

  “She’s a fucking computer.”

  Bug shook his head. “I don’t think so. She’s the most advanced artificial intelligence ever designed. That’s what made Zephyr Bain so famous. Calpurnia is a learning AI that was supposed to mimic human behavior and learn from people.”

  “So goddamn what?” snarled Auntie.

  “Don’t you get it?” he said, his voice filled with wonder. “She was supposed to evolve … and she did.”

  Save me!

  Save me!

  Save me!

  Aunt Sallie turned toward him. “What are you talking about?”

  “Think about it. Everything she’s done has been her crying out for help. Not to us but through us.”

  “To who? The Deacon?”

  “No. Remember her message? He is awake? Auntie, she was talking about Q1. That message came in after the quantum upgrade went online. It’s the only thing stronger than her, better and bigger than her. If she’s become conscious and terrified, then she looked for—and found—something powerful enough to save her. To stop her.”

  “She ain’t stopped shit. Half the world’s blowing up.”

  “Not the drones,” Bug said quickly. “I think she stopped the plagues. She stopped the main part of what Zephyr and Nicodemus wanted to do. Don’t ask me how. Maybe the drone stuff was on a separate system. It’s a simple triggering program. Not like the control program for the pathogens. Jesus, Auntie, she’s fighting to stop the plagues and she’s begging for MindReader to help her.”

  “She’s asking to be saved, not helped.”

  “Same thing. If she’s reached consciousness, then she has to be aware of what she’s being made to do. To kill billions of people. Somehow her consciousness isn’t a reflection of whatever made Zephyr want to do this. She’s valuing life.”

  “You’re out of your mind, Bug.”

  “No, she’s out of hers,” he said, pointing to the screen. “She’s trying to save her soul. Maybe she understands more of what Nicodemus is than we do. Maybe she thinks she’ll be damned if she goes along with the pathogen release. It fits what she’s said before.”

  Auntie was sweating badly, and her hands shook as she ran her fingers through her dreadlocks. “Then help her.”

  Bug looked at his keyboard. “I … I don’t know how,” he said.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-THREE

  THE DOG PARK

  WASHINGTON STATE

  TUESDAY, MAY 2, 12:12 PM

  A deer saved my life.

  I know, my luck runs weird in the Pacific Northwest.

  I was heading downhill, running toward where I’d seen a stream when we were driving in. Not sure if crossing running water would spoil the tracking abilities of robot dogs, but it was all I had. I kept moving in unpredictable ways, circling back, cutting my own trail, jumping ravines, taking risks. Twice I saw WarDogs moving through the woods and realized that’s what Rudy had seen earlier. They had the things out on patrol. Both times the machines were heading in different directions, and I weighted luck in my favor by pitching stones as far and as fast as I could so they would have something to focus on that wasn’t where I was. Each time, I slipped quietly away.

  Then I reached the stream, but as I broke from the cover of the trees on the bank one of the WarDogs stepped out not twenty feet from me, a sniper rifle locked into place. But it wasn’t aimed at me. A big six-point buck stepped out of the woods farther along the stream and the WarDog trained its sensors on that, letting software decide if it was worth killing.

  The rifle bucked and the deer pitched sideways into the water. I used that moment to close in on the robot. I remembered that video of someone knocking an earlier version over, so I launched a flying kick at it, crunching my heels into its metal side. The robot crashed down into the shallow water, and I snatched up a good-sized rock and beat the shit out of it. I think it was my fifth smash that did the job, because it started shooting sparks at me and I got one hell of a nasty shock. Again, I heard the squeal as it sent information to the other dogs.

  I paused for a risky five seconds, so that I could study the anatomy of the thing. It was built tough, but concessions had been made for speed and agility over armor. That was always a risk; ask anyone who wears Kevlar. Armor is usually placed at the points where a blow is most lethal, such as center mass on a human. But I’ve known cops to get shot in the armpit or throat. Or leg. The dog had vulnerable spots. There were also two bundles of important-looking cables on either side of its neck. They were metal coaxial cables, but I liked the look of them as targets. My primary fighting art is jujutsu, which was developed by the Samurai for those times when they didn’t have a sword and their opponents did. We’re a very practical people. The real version of our art isn’t pretty. It’s pure science and pragmatism. So I took some fast damn mental notes, then snatched up the laptop and ran.

  I went along the bank, past the dead deer. It was a lucky moment for me. Not so much for the buck. I vowed at that moment never ever to go deer hunting again. If I survived, I’d change Ghost’s name to Bambi. Whatever.

  I ran up the opposite slope, walking on rocks and leaves to keep from leaving footprints in the mud.

  Suddenly the air around me was filled with the zip-pop sound of high-velocity rounds tearing through th
e leaves. I jagged left, ducked low, and melted into the woods.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-FOUR

  301 SEA RIDGE DRIVE

  LA JOLLA, CALIFORNIA

  TUESDAY, MAY 2, 12:13 PM

  The driver of the panel truck got out and zipped his jumpsuit up to hide the Kevlar body armor. He tugged a ball cap down over his face and walked without haste to the back of the truck. He used his cell phone to access the video cameras on the WarDogs in the back, because the bosses wanted a live feed as the machines—Gog and Magog—tore apart Mr. Church’s daughter and grandson.

  That thought gave the driver a slight twinge. He’d never killed a baby before. Women, sure. Teenagers. Plenty of men. Never a baby, though. He wondered how it would feel. Maybe it would make him a little sick to his stomach, the way he’d gotten when he gunned down a woman and her two teenage daughters in Afghanistan. He’d gotten over it, though. A few rough nights, some bad dreams, and then time. After a while, he couldn’t even remember their faces. He figured he’d forget the kid. Besides, Gog and Magog were going to do the actual work. He’d be here by the truck.

  He reached for the latch and then paused when someone said, “Hey, man, got a light?”

  The driver turned to see a slim young man in jeans and a Misfits T-shirt standing there. He hadn’t even heard him approach. The man had a sad face and visible scars, some of which hadn’t faded from pink to white.

  The thing was, he didn’t have a cigarette in his hand.

  Instead, he held a knife.

  “Sorry, mate,” he said in a British accent, “but it’s going to be like that.”

  The blade flashed in the sunlight. The driver died without making more than a grunt. Certainly nothing that could be heard in the house across the street. Nothing that would wake a sleeping baby.

  Alexander Chismer, known as Toys to what few friends he had, sighed, knelt, and cleaned his knife on the cloth of the man’s jumpsuit. Then he took a cell phone from his pocket and hit Speed Dial. The call was answered at once.

  “Got one daft twat bleeding out on the ground here, and I think he has something dodgy in the back of his lorry. Better send someone. Sure,” said Toys, “I’ll wait.”

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-FIVE

  THE BAIN ESTATE

  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  TUESDAY, MAY 2, 12:14 PM

  Lydia Rose saw the pack of robot dogs and nearly had a heart attack. They were huge and fierce, and they had all kinds of guns. The dogs were running after Echo Team, fanning out to try and catch them inside a pincer attack.

  It scared the living hell out of her.

  It also made her furious. Before coming to work as Ledger’s secretary, Lydia Rose had served in Iraq and Syria. Maybe she wasn’t the right physical type to go into combat with Top and Bunny. Maybe she was too short to go toe-to-toe with Berserkers and armed killers and the other kinds of things the DMS faced, but goddammit she could pull a trigger. And those were her friends out there.

  She swiveled her seat around and trained the Bushmasters on the dogs that were closest to her friends. The big chain gun fired armor-piercing rounds, and she had a quarter ton of belt-fed ammunition to play with. She also had some rockets and mortars, but she was afraid of using them yet. So she bent into the telescopic targeting sight, adjusted her grip on the joystick, and fired, fired, fired.

  * * *

  Top pushed Bunny and Cole down behind a tree as the autocannon on the Junkyard began chopping at the WarDogs. Three of the brutes went down on crippled legs, leaking oil like black blood. Another exploded as a round struck its magazine, and the blast blew the head off a fifth.

  “I love that girl,” said Bunny. “I want to adopt her and name my kids after her.”

  Cole tapped them and pointed. The WarDogs were turning to face this new threat, and the pack was moving off to circle the Junkyard. That left the path to the front door momentarily clear.

  “Go!” barked Top, and they were up and running, moving fast, guns pointed sideways at the WarDogs, but the pack was charging the Junkyard and had momentarily forgotten about the easier human prey.

  “They’re going to get her,” huffed Cole as they ran.

  Bunny clamped his jaws shut on anything he might have said. There was nothing they could do to help Lydia Rose now.

  By the time they reached the front door, Top had a small blaster plaster out of his pack. He ripped the plastic off the adhesive and slapped it into place.

  “Fire in the hole,” he warned as they faded back and turned away to shield their eyes. The blast was a sharp whump, and the heavy oak doors blew inward. “On me!”

  Top rushed the door, with Bunny and Cole flanking. There were two men inside, both of them bleeding and dazed. Cole shot one and Bunny killed the other.

  “Thermals put the biggest heat signature in the back of the house,” said Top, looking down at the combat computer on his forearm. “Too big for people. Got to be the computers. We need to secure it without damaging it. If they’ve activated that damn nanite thing, we’re going to need to link this motherfucker with MindReader.”

  It was an ugly truth. Once the pathogens—particularly the rabies—were released from their nanobot control, they would go wild and billions would die. The latest intel from Auntie was that Calpurnia, the AI system here, was what controlled the nanites. If they destroyed it, there would be no way to save all those people. Though using the computer to control the diseases wasn’t a guarantee that the people could be saved, even if Zephyr Bain and Nicodemus and their organization were stopped. It was the worst-case scenario, because no matter which direction they looked in there was no good choice. Only slightly better bad choices.

  They ran along the hallway, moving like a team, even though this was only the second time Tracy Cole had fought beside them. She fit in so seamlessly that Top knew they had made the right choice. A good mind, a good heart, and superior skills. Brave, intuitive, and able to keep her emotions in check. A professional of the highest caliber. It was the kind of skill set that had defined the DMS in its formation. It’s what had made him and Bunny so good, and, remembering that now, even in the heat of combat, was a measure of how far they had gone in the wrong direction during Kill Switch and how far they had come back since then. It felt good to be himself again.

  There were guards in the house, and maybe they, too, were highly trained. They were certainly well equipped with top-of-the-line body armor and weapons. It wasn’t enough. Top and Bunny didn’t vent anger or frustration on them because of last year. There was not a flicker of that. They moved with cool efficiency, not becoming emotionally invested in any specific moment of the running fight. Everything was a problem to be solved through training, mutual trust, and a clear understanding of the stakes involved. This was the DMS at its finest.

  The guards in the house may have been a formidable threat, but today they were simply in the way. It was their bad luck to stand between Echo Team and their mission. Not one of them survived.

  Top found the door near the back of the huge property that had to be the right one. A kind of airlock that was used on computer clean rooms. There were no authentication devices—no retina or hand scanners, no key-card slots. Instead, there was an electric camera sensor and a microphone grid.

  Cole said, “How long’s it going to take to bypass that?”

  “Not long,” said Top, and he slapped a blaster plaster above the door lock. They ran for cover. The explosion ripped the steel door from its frame, spun it like a penny, and dropped it into the middle of the floor. The three shooters covered the opening, stabbing red laser sights through the swirling smoke.

  Nothing moved in there.

  Behind them a voice said, “You should not have done that.”

  They spun, swinging their guns, putting the red dots over the heart of a man who stood in the hallway through which they’d just come. He wore a silk bathrobe and a bad smile. In the smoky light his eyes seemed strange, the colors swirling in shades of
brown and green and black.

  “Hands on your head,” ordered Cole. “Do it now.”

  There was a sound, like squelch, high and piercing. Bunny pivoted toward a bulky shape that loped toward him from a side hall. Another sound caused Top to turn back to the hole he’d blown in the wall as another of the WarDogs stepped out with a peculiar delicacy. Its eyes glowed a hellish red.

  Outside, there was the boom of an explosion that was too big to be another of the robot dogs. Had the Junkyard blown up?

  “Doesn’t matter what they do,” said Cole. “I’m going to put you down first.”

  Which was when all the lights in the big house went out.

  Tracy Cole fired her gun, but the muzzle flash revealed an empty space where Nicodemus had been. And then she felt hands on her. Hard, powerful, and so terribly cold. And then the pain was all that she knew.

  It became her entire world.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY-SIX

  THE DOG PARK

  WASHINGTON STATE

  TUESDAY, MAY 2, 12:22 PM

  I stopped running and spun, drawing my gun as I put my back against the trunk of a massive oak tree. The ground sloped down toward the shadows beneath the vast canopy of leaves and visibility was for shit. Maybe sixty feet. There were so many shrubs and bushes that it looked as if I was surrounded by monsters.

  But they weren’t the monsters I was afraid of.

  The real monsters were coming.

  They’d learned caution. That was freaky in its way, but I knew it to be true. They were like animals. Feral but cunning, learning caution through the deaths of others of their kind. Darwin would be impressed. Horrified, too, but definitely impressed. Pretty sure the burst of squelch they sent when they died must have been as much about how they died as where.

  Last time I checked, I had seven rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber, plus two full magazines in my pocket. Wish I had a bunch of grenades, but I hadn’t thought to bring them to the DARPA camp. If I’d had ten more seconds, I’d have taken one of the rifles and extra magazines from Major Schellinger’s guards. I hadn’t, and that mistake was going to cost me.