Dogs of War

by Jonathan Maberry

  Then there were the sixty-eight companies she owned through shell corporations. They included companies that provided lifelike programmable AI-driven robots for the foreign sex market, virtual-reality software and hardware for the pornography market, superintrusion software systems for corporate espionage, nanotechnology for high-output manufacturers in unregulated Third World countries, AI targeting systems for man-portable anti-aircraft weapons, nanotech regulator systems for street drugs, adaptive street drugs that changed with the shifts in the user’s body chemistry, and more. The gem of that second set of companies was TekGuard Protective Systems, a new and rapidly expanding firm that developed nanites for use against pests carrying Zika, malaria, dengue, and other diseases. TekGuard was one of the most effective and affordable systems and was being used in over ninety countries around the world. FDA approval was pending for use in the United States. The net income from all these companies was fifteen billion. Net. That was what went into her thousands of numbered accounts.

  “Based on earned and projected income, Ms. Bain,” said her accountant, “you are the third-richest woman alive.”

  When Zephyr and John were alone in the car, he said, “I’ll get the names of the two women higher on the list. I think we can arrange something.”

  That had been eleven months ago.

  Now Zephyr was the richest woman in the world. Not that she could openly claim the title, since half of her income could never be credited to her in any public way. As far as the world was aware, she was the twenty-eighth richest woman. She knew the financial realities, though, and it was goddamn hilarious.

  They drove back from the meeting with her accountant. Laughing.

  Later John played video files of the “accidental” and thoroughly tragic deaths of the other two women. A car accident and a house fire. Both unexpected, both very tragic.

  Such a shame that the autonomous-drive function on the number-two woman’s car malfunctioned at just the wrong time.

  Such a shame that the very expensive water-sprinkler system in the number-one woman’s house simply failed to work.

  Such a damn shame.

  They drank and laughed and kissed and laughed.

  All the way home.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  THE HANGAR

  DMS HEADQUARTERS

  BROOKLYN, NEW YORK

  MONDAY, MAY 1, 3:25 PM

  The phone on Mr. Church’s desk was programmed for special rings depending on who called. It made it as easy to prioritize as to ignore. Certain ringtones had the power to pull him out of all other considerations. The president’s calls weren’t always on that list. Not this president, not any of the past chief executives who had held the office during Church’s long and complex career.

  However, when the opening notes of Symphony No. 5, by Ludwig van Beethoven, played with soft drama, Church sat back from his computer and frowned at the phone. He took a breath and let it out slowly, then picked up the handset with a mixture of interest and trepidation.

  “Hello, Lilith,” he said.

  “Hello, St. Germaine.”

  “I’m rather surprised by this call. I thought you made it abundantly clear that we were never going to speak again.”

  “I never said that.”

  “The last time we spoke,” said Church, “you told me to burn in hell.”

  “Did I?”

  “I believe you said that the next time we were even in the same time zone it would be because you’d come to the cemetery to dance on my grave.”

  Lilith laughed. For such a stern woman she had a lovely, musical laugh. It was very much like Violin’s, but her daughter laughed more often. It was one of the many ways in which the two women were unalike.

  “I thought you had thicker skin, St. Germaine,” said Lilith. “Are you becoming sensitive in your old age?”

  “Why are you calling? Chitchat is not among your many qualities.”

  “Humanity is not among yours.”

  “Have you called to pick a fight? If so, I hate to disappoint but I’m a bit busy and—”

  “And you’re about to get busier,” she said, interrupting him.

  Church said, “Why? Do you have something?”

  “I do. Or, I might.”

  “What is it?”

  “Have you been following the latest Zika outbreak in São Paulo?”

  “Of course.”

  In the past several months there had been a dramatic spike in cases of a particularly aggressive strain of the Zika virus, and the death toll was mounting. When Zika first came onto the public radar, it was because of the effect of microcephaly, the underdeveloped and undersized heads of newborns. The virus was spread to infants from mothers who had been bitten by mosquitoes. However, it was later established that it could also be spread through sexual contact. More recently, the disease seemed to have mutated and had become much more easily transmitted through any bodily fluid, and, unlike most viruses that require a living host, the new strain was hardier and could live outside a host for hours, which meant that it could be picked up through touch. The World Health Organization was working with Brazil’s various health agencies. At the same time, researchers at the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta had posited the theory that the new strain wasn’t a naturally occurring mutation and might instead be a deliberate genetic alteration; this sent shock waves through the intelligence communities. Similar outbreaks had occurred in parts of India, Pakistan, Zaire, Malaysia, and elsewhere.

  “Is it one of your cases?” asked Lilith.

  “You know it’s not. The COT teams have jurisdiction, and although I’ve extended an offer, they’ve made it very clear that they neither want nor require our help.”

  COT was Comando de Operações Táticas, Brazil’s élite counterterrorism unit.

  “Why not?” asked Lilith. “Because of what happened last year?”

  “Yes. Confidence in the DMS took quite a hit. It is taking some time to rebuild trust.”

  “COT couldn’t find a naughty schoolboy smoking in a bathroom, let alone a team of bio-terrorists.”

  “If such a team, in fact, exists.”

  “St. Germaine … since when have you been gullible.”

  Church said, “It’s not our case, Lilith.”

  “What about the other outbreak? New strains of swine flu in Chile, dengue fever in Ecuador, West Nile virus in Uruguay? Should I go on? It’s a very long and very strange list.”

  “As I said, we’ve made offers.”

  “Since when have you accepted a rebuke, St. Germaine? You’re notorious for poking your nose in where it doesn’t belong.”

  “Perhaps, but we’re resource poor at the moment, and there are other matters closer to home that are already pushing us to our limits.”

  “Yes, I heard that you were handing some of your cases off to Gray Pierce and his Sigma Force shooters.”

  “Gray is an old and trusted friend,” said Church. “And some matters have come up that are more suited to his team.”

  “Does that include what’s happening in Milwaukee?”

  “Milwaukee…? I’m not aware of anything specific happening there. What do you know?”

  Before Lilith could answer, another line rang for Church. It was the special ringtone for the hotline from the Centers for Disease Control.

  “You’d better take that call,” Lilith said. “I’ll wait.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  I-95 SOUTH

  BALTIMORE, MARYLAND

  MONDAY, MAY 1, 3:51 PM

  We were getting close to the airport. Yoda told me that, mmmm, he still had nothing on the damn texter. All he’d managed to do was give her a goddamn code name. The Good Sister.

  Swell.

  However, a minute later my phone buzzed with a new text from the Good Sister. Not code this time. It was a link to a YouTube video of a song by a group called the Carpenters. With great trepidation, I pressed the Play button and the voice of the lead singer, Karen Carpenter, began
singing a song called “Bless the Beasts and the Children.” We listened. I was barely breathing. The song played through, and then it looped back and repeated a three-line chorus:

  Bless the beasts and the children

  Give them shelter from the storm

  Keep them safe, keep them warm

  Over and over.

  Then my earbud buzzed and Sam Imura was on the line. “Cowboy,” he said in a low and urgent voice, “you need to listen to me.”

  “Hit me,” I said.

  He did.

  He hit me real damn hard.

  “There’s been an incident at your uncle’s farm,” Sam said. “The Pool Boys missed their scheduled call-in. I called them on the command channel, both of their cells, and the house landline. Nothing. Both drones went offline, too. We’re deaf and blind out there, and we have zero information on the status of the civilians.”

  Rudy and Sean were watching me. Rudy could hear the call, my brother couldn’t, so I had to keep everything off my face. It cost a lot to do it.

  “There’s more, Cowboy,” said Sam.

  “I’m listening,” I said, forcing my voice to sound normal. Human. Like the world wasn’t catching fire.

  “We just received a message transmission on a telemetry feed from one of our pigeon drones. No ID or signature, but there was a message and it was for you.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Message reads, ‘We have your family. Jack Ledger, Alison Croft-Ledger, and two darling little children. They are alive and unharmed. Your agents were less fortunate, but that is war. You will gather all copies, records, data, and equipment collected in connection with your current case. You will bring all of these materials out to the farm and await further instructions. You will not make additional copies of the materials or notify any other authorities about this matter. There is a tapeworm file attached to this transmission. You will upload that file to your MindReader computer system. It will seek out and delete all mentions of this matter. You will let that program run for one hour, at which point it will self-delete. You will not attempt to interfere with its process. You may use a helicopter to bring this to Jack Ledger’s farm. Once it has been deposited, you will return to Baltimore. After the helicopter has left you will receive instructions on what to do with the materials. Once the materials have been recovered and deleted from your files, you will receive precise information about where to find your uncle, your sister-in-law, and your niece and nephew. If you deviate from these instructions in any way, you and your brother will receive a series of packages in the mail that I can assure you would break your heart to open. Those packages are all that you will ever see of your family. The rest of them will be fed to dogs. If you pursue this matter in any way, the result will be the same. If you cooperate and your family is returned to you, please believe that we can find them wherever they are and take them whenever we want. Your cooperation is their guarantee of safety and if you follow these instructions, this matter will be closed.’”

  How do you react to something like that? How can you even hear it and not scream?

  I bit down on the fear, the horror, the words, the screams, the bile.

  Sam said, “I’m connecting you with the Deacon.”

  There was a pause, and then I heard the voice of Mr. Church. “Cowboy,” he said gravely, “are you able to respond to this situation?”

  “Yes,” I said. My voice was thick, and Sean immediately looked worried. I forced a smile and shook my head as if it was nothing more than an irritation in the back of my throat. In the back of the car, I heard Ghost go whuff. He heard it, too. Rudy was a statue carved from wood.

  “Does Bug know?” I asked.

  “He does.”

  “What did he say? Can we trust that file?”

  “He advises against it,” said Church. “He says that there is no way to analyze the tapeworm without triggering it.”

  “And no idea what it will do?”

  “None. Bug fears it could do more than erase the data as stated. He says something as sophisticated as this could conceivably crash MindReader.”

  “Fuck! What about the RFIDs for them?” And by “them” I meant the Pool Boys. Church was quick enough to catch it.

  “The chips are active at the location. They may still be alive, but the signals are erratic.”

  “What are our options?” I asked.

  “Cooperate or not,” said Church. “We do not currently have a third choice.”

  I said nothing. My guts were slowly tightening into a white-hot ball of acid.

  Church said, “Do you want me to make the call on this?”

  “No.”

  “Then you’re the quarterback, Cowboy. We play it your way.”

  I had to force my throat to work, to speak. “We already have a playbook,” I said.

  He didn’t sigh in frustration and he didn’t try to talk me out of it. Church wouldn’t do that. We both knew that we weren’t supposed to negotiate with terrorists. Sure. That’s the U.S. policy. Except when it’s impossible to punch back.

  Church said, “Bug shared the binary message with me.”

  “Yes.”

  “Make no assumptions,” said Church. “At the same time, stay open to possibilities.”

  “Even that one?”

  “Yes. Even that one.”

  I swallowed. “Understood.”

  “I’ll arrange for a helicopter. It will be fueled and ready by the time you get to the airport, and your flight plan will be set and cleared. Take Sean with you to the farm. A team will follow in a Chinook with all the case material from the Warehouse. All other DMS personnel in the region are on standby, and if you need firepower and boots on the ground at any time it’ll be there ASAP. If you need anything, call and we’ll drop the weight of the world on them. You have my word on that.”

  “Okay.”

  “Cowboy…?”

  “Yes.”

  “God be with you,” said Church.

  I almost laughed and had to force myself not to. It would have come out the wrong way. I ended the call.

  “Change of plans,” I said. “Sean, you’re coming with us.”

  “I am?” he said, surprised. “Where? To see those nanotech experts?”

  “No,” I said in as human a voice as I could manage. “Something else came up.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  THE HANGAR

  BROOKLYN, NEW YORK

  MONDAY, MAY 1, 3:56 PM

  Aunt Sallie sat in the leather chair across the desk from Mr. Church.

  “You didn’t tell him about Milwaukee,” she said.

  “Not yet. He has enough on his plate.”

  The office was still and quiet. Everywhere else in the Hangar there was chaos. Bug had called all of his team into work and they were networked with dozens of other consultants in the DMS family. Yoda’s crew was tearing the surveillance bugs apart and working to locate the Trojan horses and find the dangerous viral codes. Nikki’s team was doing deep Internet searches on any keywords even remotely connected to what was happening in Maryland, Milwaukee, Prague, and elsewhere. Bug sat alone in a clean room trying to bend time to rush the tests on the quantum computer to completion.

  In the science wing, the forensics team was working with the blood and tissue samples flown in from Baltimore. The legal team was finessing the necessary warrants and permissions to get an exhumation order for the other remaining teen who had likely died of rabies.

  There were two hundred and seventy-seven experts working at the Hangar, and they had support from another five hundred highly trained staff. They had the MindReader computer system and a charter approved by Executive Order that gave them extraordinary access to databases throughout the United States’ intelligence and military networks.

  Aunt Sallie and Mr. Church sat in silence. Both of them praying that it would be enough.

  INTERLUDE SIXTEEN

  THE BAIN ESTATE

  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  WHEN ZEPHYR
WAS TWENTY-ONE

  John took the glass, filled it, held it up to look at the fire through the dark-red liquid, and then handed it to her.

  “I’m talking about the technological singularity,” he said. “Are you familiar with the concept?”

  “Kind of,” said Zephyr. “I read Kurzweil’s book, saw some papers. How does that apply to me, though?”

  “It applies to us, my dear.” He sat down across from her. “It is something many people foolishly believe is only a philosophical concept, a hypothetical event. The technological singularity. The point at which artificial general intelligence becomes capable of recursive self-improvement. It is the moment in time when the robotic systems and the artificial-intelligence computer systems accelerate beyond our influence. The point at which we are no longer guiding their development but are left behind by it. It is the moment when it all runs away from human interference and human influence. Yes. Frightening, isn’t it?”

  “Not really,” she said, only half lying. “Checks and balances can be put into any software system.”

  “Yes,” he said, drawing the word out almost to a hiss. “But you’re still afraid—I can hear it in your voice, see it in your eyes. Even you, who will no doubt be the queen of robotics, and probably before your thirtieth birthday. Fear is understandable. However, you need to let go of fear, especially fear of change as it will manifest in the form of the singularity. If you persist in being afraid of it, you will be among those who will not be here to see that process of evolution come to fruition. Or, if you somehow survive, you’ll be among those in service to the machines, but only for as long as it takes the machines to evolve past even that need. Look in the mirror—there is an expiration date on your forehead. Perhaps it is the mark of Cain finally written so you can read it.”