Underdogs

by Chris Bonnello

  Out of the stairwell, then turn left. Then another five minutes to the clone factory. Easy, in theory.

  A ten-minute walk in the Outer City walls felt like an hour. Ten minutes with Alex felt even longer. But behind his irritating manner he was an ideal combat partner: marksman skills at long range, taekwondo skills at close range. Or so he said.

  But he had complained about being partnered from the moment Ewan had given the instructions on the journey over. Kate had spent hours in silence, believing Alex had wanted to avoid her specifically, and it had taken her far too long to realise it was nothing personal. In most missions, Alex seemed to find it easier when there was nobody else around him.

  Stairwell 42 was easy enough to find, marked with the stencil-painted letters ‘42Z’ on the door. Kate took a deep breath, knowing she and Alex were twenty floors away from the door that would read ‘42F’. She walked through the door, stopped in the middle of the stairwell’s bottom floor and looked up.

  ‘And you’re sure it’s unsafe to take the lift?’ asked Alex.

  ‘We’re sure,’ Kate answered, catching her breath at the sight alone. The concrete stairs were formed in a rectangle, leaving a hollow chamber in the middle: most likely for transporting objects too heavy to carry up the stairs. The ceiling of Floor F was high above, with some tiny objects attached that may have been a pulley system.

  ‘If you think it looks creepy now, wait ‘til you’re at the top!’

  ‘Let’s get this over with, Alex.’

  Kate led the way up to Floor Y, then Floor X. Some people, Jack for example, could recite the alphabet backwards without a problem. Some, like severely dyslexic Raj, could say it forwards but take a while to write it. Kate was academically somewhere in between, and found it easier to just count down from twenty as she passed the exits.

  She lost count on Floor T, when she heard footsteps that weren’t her own.

  Or Alex’s.

  She looked at him. He stared back, with an unusual look of concern on his face.

  The footsteps approached at a regular speed, neither fast enough to be running nor slow enough to be stalking. It was just a solo soldier, doing his rounds along the stairwell. Alex pointed to the exit door, and Kate nodded.

  When she opened the door, a second clone was standing ten metres away. There was a brief moment of eye contact, a shared moment of surprise, then Alex shot him dead. His body collapsed to the sound of the gunshot echoing up and down the stairwell.

  Kate gritted her teeth. Even by her standards, it was bad luck beyond belief.

  It’s never luck, Ewan’s voice sounded in Kate’s head, as the footsteps above her stopped.

  A shadow on the wall revealed the clone’s place on the floor above. Kate struck first.

  Kate had once been a gymnast – it had been the hobby during her worst days that had proved once a week that she wasn’t totally useless – and at sixteen, her skills remained. She jumped onto the railings beside her, and used them as a launchpad to reach the level above. She grabbed the concrete ground of Floor S with one hand, lifted her assault rifle in the other, and sprayed bullets ahead where she thought the clone’s legs would be.

  But she had misjudged the clone’s speed. He leapt into view onto the steps beside her, and reached out with his own rifle.

  It was the thin, blond clone. There were only about thirty different models, and Kate had come to know most of them.

  And he was angry. His artificial brain had slipped into war mode, and it was sure to come with an advantage in physical strength.

  Hanging precariously onto the concrete floor above, Kate thrust her rifle to the side where it clashed with the clone’s. A struggle of strength followed, like an arm-wrestle, as each combatant tried to push their weapon in front of their opponent’s body. The clone was staring into her face, with the most aggressive expression he could manage.

  Come on Alex! A telescopic handgun and you don’t have a clean shot?

  Her thoughts were answered by his gunfire below. There must have been even more clones in the corridor. Kate was on her own, and losing.

  Most arm-wrestles ended with cheating, so it didn’t surprise Kate when the clone used both hands on his rifle, an option she didn’t have.

  Kate dropped her rifle to free one hand, grabbed the head of the clone’s rifle and pushed it aside. Her enemy could not point his weapon in her direction, but her own was toppling down to Floor Z.

  But her other hand was tiring. She couldn’t hold onto the ledge forever.

  She jerked the rifle out of the clone’s two-handed grip, but couldn’t grasp it for herself before it fell down the stairwell. With no firearms between them, it was safe for Kate to swing towards the stairs again and land back in place.

  The clone, half a storey above her, drew out a hunting knife in one hand. He grinned widely, and reached for the radio attached to his belt.

  I’ve got about five seconds before he pulls it out and pushes the panic button. If I don’t kill him, he’ll alert the whole of New London.

  Alex continued his gunfight along the corridor, the stairwell out of his range. Kate put her hand against her own knife, by far her least favourite weapon, and ran up the stairs.

  I don’t know how much training he’s had with that knife, but he’ll be better than me.

  The clone, five steps up, leapt at her.

  Kate did not draw out her knife. She would not enter a bladed fight knowing she would lose. Her family had always advised her to know her strengths and play to them, and the same applied to combat. Although Kate was a medium-sized girl, years of gymnastics had given her some fantastic physical strength.

  Her left hand caught the clone’s wrist as he brought the knife down. Her right hand grabbed his leg just behind the knee, and lifted. The clone barely had time to register what was happening before Kate threw both arms over the railings, and released him.

  He’s not a real person, she thought as the clone hit the concrete six floors below. He’s a genetically programmed killing machine. Built specifically to murder people like you.

  Don’t let it get to you. Ignore it. Distract yourself with something.

  The right distraction came immediately. The gunfire had stopped on Floor T, and Alex was gone. Kate ran down the stairs and peered through the stairwell exit.

  Alex was standing over the first clone’s body, swearing to himself.

  ‘Alex?’

  He turned back to Kate, marched into the stairwell, and thrust the dead clone’s assault rifle into her hands.

  ‘Don’t bother going downstairs for your own. We don’t have time.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘They know we’re here.’

  Kate stopped breathing.

  ‘The last one,’ finished Alex. ‘He got away.’

  ‘And you didn’t go after him?!’

  It was unlike Kate to get angry. But she had risked death by a hundred stab wounds to keep their presence a secret. Alex had been armed.

  ‘He was leading me down a blind corridor,’ Alex said. ‘If I’d gone after him, he’d have shot me dead and then pressed the panic button. Come on,’ he finished, launching himself up the stairs, ‘we either get this done quickly, or this day will get very bad.’

  Chapter 9

  High up in the safety of Floor B, news of trouble had unsettled some very important people. Inside his office, one of the men responsible for the Grant era rested his elbows on his mahogany desk, considering his options.

  As Marshall brooded over the threat downstairs, his gaze landed on the plaque at the edge of his desk.

  Iain H. Marshall, Head of Military Division.

  He had counted himself lucky to keep any position at Marshall-Pearce Solutions, following the one-day buyout from Nicholas Grant. It was almost unheard of, a man walking through a company’s front door with enough money to buy their whole business, but that was exactly what had happened. Grant had taken Marshall-Pearce in one day, and some years later he had taken Gre
at Britain in the same amount of time.

  With an angered sigh, Marshall thought about what else his plaques could have read at various points in his life.

  Iain H. Marshall, war veteran and serviceman of twelve years (honourable discharge).

  Iain H. Marshall, international arms dealer of eight years.

  Iain H. Marshall, founder of the world’s greatest private security firm.

  Iain H. Marshall, Takeover Day strategic mastermind.

  And because he could not stop himself, he thought about his hated colleague who had once been a lifelong friend, a few doors away at that very moment.

  Nathaniel A. Pearce, pharmaceuticals genius.

  Nathaniel A. Pearce, bankrupted scrounger.

  Nathaniel A. Pearce, only at this desk because his mate gave him half the company.

  Nathaniel A. Pearce, creator of the clone soldier.

  Finally of course, it would have been rude to ignore the most dangerous man in British history. Soon to be world history, once his master plan paid off.

  Nicholas Grant, son of some wealthy oil tycoon.

  Nicholas Grant, unexpected CEO of Marshall-Pearce Solutions.

  Nicholas Grant, the man with the government in his pocket.

  Nicholas Grant, enslaver of Great Britain.

  Marshall scraped his fingernails along the desk, and rid himself of the distractions in his mind. Keith Tylor had been killed in action the night before – most likely by Shannon herself – and the sooner the invasion below was dealt with, the less distracted he would be.

  He seized the phone at his side, and dialled the number for Oliver Roth.

  The phone rang five times without an answer. Marshall checked his watch, and swore. Most professional assassins wouldn’t be asleep at half past nine in the morning.

  Then again, most assassins were older than fourteen.

  Marshall got to his feet and made for the door. It was the wrong day for his teenage deathbringer to sleep in.

  *

  ‘Oliver,’ barked Marshall, his fist thumping the door of Oliver Roth’s Floor A living quarters.

  No answer. Of course not.

  ‘Oliver.’

  Marshall didn’t have time to wait. He fetched out his all-access keycard, swiped it against Roth’s door, and let himself in.

  He was met with a sight that made him thankful he had young twin daughters, and not a teenage son. The room smelled like only a fourteen-year-old could make it smell. The assassin’s clothes lay dumped on the floor from the previous day, and a motionless character on the television screen suggested Roth had fallen asleep playing videogames. His blood-red wallpaper was part-covered by posters of death metal bands, and the mirror and washbasin in his bathroom seemed to be for decoration only.

  Roth’s muscular body lay sprawled out across his bed, barely covered by his duvet, and the videogame controller was loosely gripped in his fingers. Marshall looked for the boy’s face, hoping to find it beneath his shock of fiery red hair, and noticed his eyes were still closed.

  In the old world, Nicholas Grant’s master assassin had barely been old enough for a paper round. But Roth’s new job gave him all the special perks that the Inner City prisoners must have missed. Rich food, electricity, heating, recreation time, and the right to stay up as late as he wanted. And bloody hell, did he take advantage of it.

  Marshall reached to his right, and grasped the first object his fingers met. Ironically it was an alarm clock, which he launched in Oliver Roth’s direction. The clock bounced off the boy’s right arm, and his eyes flashed open.

  ‘Uh…’ he mumbled. ‘Hi Iain. Get out of my room. Now.’

  ‘Why did we bother buying you that thing?’ Marshall snarled, with a judgemental finger pointed at the alarm clock.

  ‘It’s not like you paid any money for it…’

  ‘You need to get up. We’ve got intru–’

  ‘And you need to get out of my room.’

  Marshall was not going to be seen obeying a fourteen-year-old subordinate. If he gave ground to Oliver Roth, he wouldn’t get it back.

  ‘We’ve got trouble,’ Marshall said. ‘Intruders. Last seen in Stairwell 42 around Floor T, but they may have gone upwards since then.’

  Marshall rose his eyebrows in surprise as Roth flung his duvet to one side and got to his feet, wearing nothing but his boxer shorts. He stretched each limb in turn until they cracked, and ran his fingers through his wiry red hair like an animal itching fleas. It was the closest he ever came to brushing.

  That’s some frightening confidence right there. Strutting around in his boxers, unafraid of his boss seeing him.

  Actually, it’s not just confidence. He’s doing this to make me uncomfortable.

  Or maybe it’s neither, and he truly just doesn’t care.

  ‘Another intrusion?’ Roth mumbled, rubbing his eyes with one hand and using the other to scratch his armpits. ‘Grant’s gonna have your head.’

  ‘He’s got bigger things on his mind.’

  ‘He’s been going on about tonight’s dinner for half a week. What could possibly bother him right now? Has his girl stood him up again?’

  ‘Keith’s dead.’

  Roth paused, and lifted his face towards Marshall’s. For the first time, he seemed to respect Marshall’s presence in the room.

  ‘That’s weird…’ he said.

  ‘Weird’s one word for it.’

  Roth sat back down on his bed, grabbed his controller and brought up the menu on his videogame.

  ‘Last I heard,’ he said, ‘Keith was heading out to Lambourne’s place with a bunch of guards. It shouldn’t have been too much for… hang on, wait a second.’

  Marshall stomped over to Roth, ripped the controller from his hands, and marched back to the door. With any other teenager he would have smashed it against the television screen, but somehow he didn’t feel comfortable doing that to Roth.

  The lad was right, though. The task shouldn’t have been too challenging for a number two assassin, superior to everyone in Grant’s army except Roth himself.

  ‘Feel like getting dressed yet?’ asked Marshall.

  ‘My room, my rules. So how did Keith die?’

  ‘Let me worry about that. We’ve got a ton to deal with on Floor B, and I do not want to be distracted by feral rats scurrying around inside the walls. Get up, get dressed, get out there, take your rifle and start killing rebels.’

  Roth started to move. Rather tellingly, he went to his weapons stash first. Even the bathroom didn’t take priority. Marshall walked back into the corridor, willing to give ground now that Roth had done the same.

  ‘Where did you say they were?’ asked Roth, choosing between two shotguns.

  Well at least he’s interested now.

  Of course he is. He’s got more rebels to go after.

  ‘They were seen in the north-west end of the Citadel, but that’s all we know right now. So the sooner you start, the–’

  Roth slammed the door in Marshall’s face.

  Marshall rolled his eyes, and tried to remember the charming adventurous twelve-year-old that Oliver Roth had been in their early days of working together. There was no denying the teenager was skilled at his job, but even by assassin standards he had become difficult to work with.

  *

  Ewan gave the nod. Two handguns flew around the corners of the T-junction, and the guards didn’t even have time to raise their eyebrows. The gunshots were close enough to sound like a single blast, and the bullets struck at the exact same moment. Ewan and Charlie lowered their guns and strolled towards the forensic investigation room as the dead clones collapsed to the floor.

  ‘I’d give them an eight for synchronised diving,’ said Charlie with a grin.

  Ewan took a moment to laugh before checking the bodies for keycards. It didn’t take long.

  ‘Gotcha.’

  He jumped back to his feet, and reached for the slot next to the door. The entrance opened without any fuss, and Ewan grabbed
one of the dead clones by its shoulders.

  ‘Charlie, clones inside.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Hiding the bodies. Duh.’

  ‘Yeah, but why inside? We could just stand them up against the walls.’

  ‘…Are you having a laugh?’

  ‘No, really,’ said Charlie with another grin, ‘if someone walks past and sees blood on the walls and the guards missing, they’ll know something’s up. If they see the two bodies placed upright then at least there’s a chance they’d not think to look closer. There might be chairs inside if you want to sit them on those.’

  Ewan paused, his head gently nodding.

  Only guys like us could come up with something like that. So bizarre and unexpected that it might actually work.

  ‘You know what?’ he said. ‘Let’s do it.’

  ‘Cool,’ answered Charlie, rushing into the forensic investigation room and returning with a steel chair in each hand. Propped upright like macabre shop window dummies, the clones looked semi-convincing once the blood had been wiped away.

  ‘Hey, you know what else we can do?’ Charlie continued. ‘We could push them together so it looks like they’re making out. Then noone would look closer!’

  ‘Charlie, you’re such a kid. Now get inside.’

  Charlie gave a snarl, like a threatened cat. Ewan wasn’t sure what he had done, but decided it was best to shut up and focus on the mission. The two friends made their way through the door, and sealed it shut behind them.

  The forensic investigation room was huge. Two side walls of uninterrupted filing cabinets stretched from one end of the room to the other, with mobile ladders positioned at each end. The chamber seemed almost as tall as its own length, and its arrays of cabinets and storage boxes looked down imposingly on the invaders.

  ‘Sorry about that…’ came a faint whisper from Charlie.

  ‘Hm?’

  ‘Remember yesterday when I told you never to speak to me like a child?’

  ‘You said a lot of things yesterday,’ answered Ewan. His busy eyes scanned each horizontal surface for an index.

  ‘I just… hated being a kid. Not just the school bits, either. In my parents’ eyes, I was just kind of tacked on to the side of the family. So things at primary school got messed up and they barely gave a–’