Tool of War

by Paolo Bacigalupi

  His blood?

  Karta-Kul snarled again, but still did not strike. Huge clawed hands reached for the general, flexing, but did not seize him.

  “Hold!” Caroa’s voice lashed like a whip. “Blood! Hold!”

  To Jones’s amazement, the man reached out and struck the monster on the nose with his fist. The monster snarled but did nothing to attack him. Instead, it tried to retreat. Caroa pursed and struck it again on the muzzle.

  “HOLD!”

  The beast began to crouch, to huddle in on itself. Caroa stepped forward, well inside the creature’s reach. He struck it again on the nose with his fist.

  “By the Fates, you will hold or I will throw you back into the pit from which you came! My blood obeys! Blood obeys!”

  Caroa was sweating, staring into the gaze of the massive creature, unwavering. The monster was growling, dagger teeth bared, ears laid back, every fiber of its being quivering with an obvious desire to leap and tear Caroa apart—and yet it did not strike.

  “I hold,” the creature growled. “I obey.”

  43

  EMOTIONS TUMBLED THROUGH Tool, torrents of rage and fear and joy and grief and pleasure and shame at the sight of his general.

  Caroa.

  It had been so long that Tool wasn’t even sure that he would have recognized his creator, and yet the man stood before him, the same man. Older, certainly, heavily scarred, but still, the same.

  “Well, old friend,” Caroa said. “We meet again.”

  Tool felt a deep urge to drive his fist through the man’s rib cage, rip out his heart, and feed.

  And yet something held him back.

  Perhaps it was his old self, the one who had stood at Caroa’s strong right hand, warring and triumphing. He stared up at the man, older, yes, but still unbowed. Eyes blazing with the fierce light of a true warrior. Caroa was a man who feared death not at all.

  Kin.

  “I have come to slay you,” Tool growled.

  Caroa just laughed. “If you had come to slay me, you would have done so already.”

  He gave Tool the affectionate pat on the head that Tool remembered from his youth, just after he had clawed his way out of the bone pits, when he and his kin had tumbled on the grasslands of the training grounds of Argentina, running down imported lions for sport, learning to hunt as a pack. Proving that they were the apex predators of whatever land they traveled.

  Returning to Caroa with the heads of their kills.

  Tool looked down and realized that he still had the head of Jonas Enge in his grasp. A head for his general. He found himself lifting it up and offering it to Caroa.

  Why should I still care for this man’s praise? He is small. He is weak. I am his better.

  And yet Tool offered up the head of Mercier’s military.

  Caroa smiled. “Karta-Kul,” he said. “You have outdone yourself.”

  Tool was surprised at the rush of pleasure he felt at the man’s praise and how deeply he desired it. Even after everything that had transpired between them, he still wanted this man’s respect.

  “You were my finest.” Caroa took the head from Tool’s hand and held it up, studying the dead man’s features. His expression hardened abruptly. “’Ten-shun!”

  At the general’s order, Tool found himself leaping to attention. Back straight, eyes front, ears pricked up and quivering, waiting for whatever command came next. Ready and eager to do the general’s bidding. He stared at Caroa, surprised. Slowly, he forced his body to relax out of the posture of obedience.

  “I am not your loyal dog anymore,” he growled.

  Caroa smiled approvingly. “No. You were always better than that.” He held up Enge’s head. “But you have always been loyal, my child. I believe I told you once to bring me this man’s head. And now, here you’ve done it. Of course, if you had just obeyed orders then, it would have been so much better, and so much simpler.” He sighed. “You would have been my strong right fist. First Claw on four continents.”

  It was true. Tool remembered the orders. The shock of Caroa’s planned coup. The realization that not all were loyal, and with it, an entire cascade of possibilities had opened up in his mind: doors that Tool had never realized existed, beckoning him to step through, tempting him toward his mad rebellion in Kolkata.

  Why can I not simply kill this man and be done?

  The feeling of needing to obey was worse, far worse, than when he had encountered the kill squads in Seascape Boston.

  General Caroa paced before Tool. “You failed your company, you failed your general. You failed Fist and Claw, all your kin.”

  Tool cringed at Caroa’s words. A whine of abject apology issued from his lips, even as Tool raged inside.

  I do not submit!

  And yet he was crouching lower now, bowing his head to the man, recognizing the wrong he had done his general. He had lived in denial for too long. He had told himself lies to justify his cowardice and traitorousness. He had betrayed his duty and had fled the consequences, lacking the strength of character to face his failure.

  He had never been free. He had only been running from himself.

  Jones watched, awed as the beast crouched and then bowed to Caroa. Caroa was smiling. He stepped forward, still holding the bloody head of Jonas Enge by the hair, and laid his hand atop the augment’s bowed head.

  “Blood of my blood,” he said.

  “Kin,” the monster rumbled. “We are kin.”

  “Pack,” Caroa said. “Kin and pack, my child. Kin and pack.”

  The monster gazed up at him, rapt. “I yield,” it said. “General.”

  Caroa seemed to sag with relief at the words and Jones realized with surprise that the general had been worried. He’d been fighting to maintain his composure. Now he sagged against the bridge control panels, exhausted. He caught sight of Jones watching from the doorway and blinked with surprise.

  “Jones? What are you doing here?”

  “I—” She didn’t have a good answer. “ExCom is dead.” She nodded at the crouching monster. “Karta-Kul got them.”

  “All of them? All of ExCom?”

  Jones found herself unable to take her eyes off the creature. It crouched like a coiled spring, gaze rapt upon its master, seemingly hypnotized. Eyes and ears completely intent only upon Caroa, uninterested in everything else.

  “He took their heads,” she said.

  Caroa glanced over at the crouching monster and smiled affectionately.

  “Not their hearts?” Caroa asked.

  “They were easy kills,” Karta-Kul growled, his basilisk gaze unwavering. “Not worthy.”

  Jones glanced out the windows of the bridge. She could see whitecaps, steep, cold waves and shadowy troughs, getting larger. A hard hit, rushing up.

  “Sir, we need to prepare for impact.”

  “His conditioning held after all,” Caroa said. “I wasn’t sure it would. But he hesitated the last time, too.” He touched his facial scars. “He wanted so badly to kill me, and yet in the end, we were pack.” He smiled grimly. “It’s why I called him Blood, originally. Blood of my blood.”

  “Yes, sir. That’s very nice, but we need to go, sir.”

  Caroa glanced at Jones. “If he’d known you dropped a six-pack of Havoc on him, he wouldn’t have held back from killing you, though. He would have popped your head off, just like ExCom’s.” He patted the great beast on the head, pleased. “But he stops for me, because he knows we are pack.”

  “Yes, sir, you’re very special. Now can we go?”

  “Ah. Yes.” Caroa finally seemed to register the situation. “We’re crashing, aren’t we?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Not to worry, Jones. Blood will see us out safe. He is a master of survival.” He tapped his monster on the shoulder. “Blood! Up with you! Time to be on our way. Port side, I think. Starboard won’t do. Don’t want to end up trapped underneath, do we? Get us out of here, Blood.”

  The creature hauled itself to its feet. �
��Yes, General.”

  Caroa gave Jones a sly smile. “No augment can resist his call. All the augmented militaries of the world are vulnerable to us. And now there is no ExCom.” He patted Jones’s shoulder approvingly as he and his monster passed. “It seems we will both be rising quite high indeed.”

  The augment met her gaze, a king of its kind, standing loyally beside the scarred general. As she had studied and tracked it, she had been awed by its resilience and intelligence: A military genius. A nearly unkillable monster. A creature out of nightmare.

  A perfect weapon, returned to Caroa’s hands.

  44

  TOOL WAS NOT natural, but he was of nature. And nature is a constant battle of adaptation. A predator develops sharp teeth; its prey develops a hard shell in response. One organism develops camouflage; another develops sharp sight. A snake develops poison; a badger develops immunity. The snake becomes more poisonous; the badger develops greater immunity.

  Tool had been designed from a bevy of genes, the fiercest predators from around the world, stitched together into a nearly perfect double-helix sculpture that eventually became the 228xn genetic platform.

  General Caroa, in his egotism, had provided Tool with his own human genetic template as well. There had been other human donors, genetic samples of various elites from Mercier who had proven particularly adept and intelligent.

  That Tool had been completely unique from the rest of his brethren in Caroa’s experiment was not a secret he had been privy to.

  And yet, early on, Tool had been aware of subtle differences between himself and those he competed against for food and approval. When he had clawed his way out of the darkness of the bone pits and into the light of Caroa’s welcoming arms, covered with the blood of those he had torn to pieces to survive, he had not known how different he was.

  He had known that he loved Caroa deeply, so much that his body shook with fear that the man might ever be wounded, or feel pain. For this man, Blood would die happily, knowing he had fulfilled his purpose.

  Now, in the face of his general, Tool found himself at war with his own nature. Blood, who had been before; and Tool, who had come after.

  The creature that he had fashioned himself into had forged different alliances with human beings, with other packs. And those packmates had fought beside him. And protected him. Had risked for him. They had been people. Simple people. Human. Not his kin. Not his blood. And yet, all of them had been more loyal than the man whose approval he craved. Mahlia. Ocho. Stork. Stick. Van. Stub. Nailer. Nita. The Drowned Cities. Kolkata. The First Claw of the Tiger Guard…

  Tool stopped abruptly, on the verge of leading the general and his underling out of the dirigible. “You are my blood, but you are not my kin.”

  Caroa tugged at Tool, a look of surprise on his face. Surprise turned to alarm. “Hold, Blood. Hold!”

  He was small, Tool was surprised to note. Tiny, really, in comparison with Tool. And yet he’d loomed so large in Tool’s mind. Petty, though he’d seemed great. The man was fumbling for a pistol, but Tool batted it aside easily.

  “Hold!” Caroa ordered. “HOL—”

  Caroa’s ribs shattered like kindling as Tool rammed his fist through the man’s chest. He yanked the heart out and held it before the man’s dying eyes.

  He bared his fangs as he gripped the bloody trophy. “We are not kin, General. We share blood, but we are not kin.”

  He let the heart fall to the deck.

  It wasn’t worth eating.

  45

  ONE MOMENT THE augment had seemed completely owned by Caroa, the next Caroa was being dragged close by his creation. In a sickening instant, the general died.

  His heart hit the deck, wet and sticky.

  Blood. Blade…

  “Karta-Kul,” Jones whispered.

  The monster’s predatory gaze settled on Jones. “Not Karta-Kul. Not now. Not anymore. I am Tool. And you…” He bared his fangs. “You killed my pack.”

  Jones scrambled back, but there was no place to run. She fumbled for her sidearm as the monster stalked her around the control room.

  “You rained fire down on me.”

  Jones tripped and fell to the deck.

  “YOU TOOK MY PACK!” Tool roared.

  He seized her and jerked her up as easily as if he were grabbing a kitten. He smashed her up against a bulkhead and leaned close, growling, vicious gaze boring in.

  “Did you enjoy pushing your buttons and raining fire down? Burning me and mine? Did you feel safe? Did you think I would never come for you?”

  Hot carrion breath gusted over her, ripe with the blood of ExCom. Jones gagged at the death stench. His grip was iron. She couldn’t move. She could barely breathe. He pinned her with a single hand. Any minute she knew he would drive his fist through her chest and rip out her heart.

  “It was my job.” She could barely force the words out past his strangling grip. “I did my duty.”

  She waited for him to kill her, but to her surprise, the monster paused. Eyebrows went up. He blinked. “I was just doing my job,” she rasped, fighting for air, trying to get her fingers underneath the massive fist where it wrapped around her neck.

  “My orders. I followed orders,” she gasped, still trying to pry away his fingers. “I’m just like you. I followed my orders. We’re the same. It’s not your fault. It’s not my fault. It was what I had to do. It was my job.”

  The monster who now called himself Tool seemed to consider this, and Jones felt a flash of hope. Please, let me go. I didn’t even want to do it. They were Caroa’s orders, please, please—

  “No.” Tool’s teeth gleamed, predatory. “There is always a choice.” He slammed her against the wall. “You had a choice!” He shook her like a rag doll. Slammed her against the metal bulkhead again. Jones cried out as she felt ribs crack. I’m going to die—

  He pinned her to the wall. A single claw came up, seeking her eye. Jones whimpered, trying to twist her head away as the claw came closer. In a moment, he would drive it through her eye and into her brain.

  “You say you had no choice,” Tool mocked. “But that’s not true, is it? My kind has no choice. We are designed to have no choice.” His expression became a snarl. “And. Yet. I. Chose!”

  “I know where your pack is!” Jones shouted. She was holding her head back, frantically twisting, trying to avoid the claw that threatened to spear her. “I know where they are! I’ll tell you. You can still save them!”

  “My pack is dead!”

  “No! Not the smugglers!” Jones shouted desperately. “The art smugglers and the soldier boys! From the Drowned Cities. I know where they are! Some of them, anyway! You can still save them. If I live, I can get them out for you!”

  She didn’t expect it to work, but a second passed, and she didn’t find her head ripped off or her eye speared.

  The creature was staring at her, seemingly stunned. “They are dead,” he said. “You killed them.”

  “No.” She shook her head frantically. “We have one. The girl. Mahlia. The one from the Drowned Cities.”

  “Liar!”

  “We caught her in the Seascape! She told us you went to the Dauntless. It’s how we confirmed you were with the Patels. We sweated her, but she’s alive. Her, and another one. We got one without legs. Ocho! Both of them!” She was babbling now. “I’m not lying. I’ve got them. Plus a couple others from the ship; we bagged them for intel. You have to believe me! And we’ve got the girl. The one you saved in the Seascape. She’s your pack, right? She said she was your pack!”

  Tool stared at the analyst. A part of him raged to finish the job he had started. To complete his revenge. To leave nothing behind but destruction, but at Mahlia’s name, he paused.

  Mahlia, who had risked everything for him, and who had lost everything for him.

  All of his being yearned to tear this soldier apart, to avenge himself fully, and yet… now he found himself tangled in a spider’s web of allegiances.

  He paused,
on the verge of slaughtering the analyst—

  The dirigible crashed into the ocean.

  The force of the hit was much more powerful than Jones had expected. She and Tool were both thrown off their feet, crashing toward the windows at the exact moment that the glass shattered and the icy Atlantic came gushing in.

  Water engulfed her, shoving her down. Icy, blasting water, so shocking that she almost breathed—

  Something seized her and yanked her upward. She surfaced, sputtering. Water foamed all around. The bridge was filling rapidly.

  Tool held her, glaring. “Where?” he snarled. “Where is Mahlia?”

  The cold of the water was shocking. Already numbed, Jones managed to shout, “Save me and I’ll tell you!”

  “Where?” Tool roared.

  The water was pushing them up to the ceiling, frothing and swirling around them. Only Tool’s strength kept her afloat. The rushing ocean was so loud she had to shout. “I’m the only one who can get them out! I know where they got sent! I can get them released!”

  “Die!” Tool snarled.

  Jones thought he’d rip out her heart, but instead he released her and ducked underwater, leaving her alone, frantically paddling to stay afloat as the ocean engulfed the bridge.

  The currents were too strong to fight. She was being pressed up to the ceiling, losing the last of the air in the compartment. She was going to drown. Fates. She was going to drown.

  Tool surfaced again. “Your word, human! Give me your word!”

  She met the augment’s gaze, frantically paddling to stay afloat. “I swear it! I swear!” His gaze held hers, seeming to probe into her soul. “I swear!” she gasped. “I can get them out. I can get her out!”

  With a snarl, Tool grabbed her and dragged her down into the icy waters.

  At first, she thought he was drowning her, but then she felt him kicking powerfully, moving fast and sure through the turbulent waters, dragging her through flooded corridors as she fought to hold her breath.

  She remembered the first time she had seen him swimming. A bright red blot of heat beneath the dark waters of the Drowned Cities. Swimming even as he burned, an unkillable monster.