Dogs of War

by Jonathan Maberry

  It took a little more time to sort out who actually owned it, and Spencer was impressed by the attention to detail. However, it is actually impossible to hide forever, especially from a computer system that’s designed to intrude in any database and then collate that data using a huge number of linked processors. What Spencer found was that Julius Systems was owned, through sixteen removes, by Harrison Industrial, a shell corporation that Bug’s people traced all the way back to Bain Industries, currently owned by a woman named Zephyr Bain.

  Ms. Bain was a notable scientist and computer engineer who had developed the Calpurnia artificial-intelligence system. She was also deeply invested in dozens of companies tied to DoD R & D contracts for robotic combat systems, computer-software systems, drone warfare, and nanotechnology. Spencer studied this information, piecing it together as his people brought it to him and as MindReader collated it.

  The name Zephyr Bain tickled something in Spencer’s memory, so he initiated a new search to connect her name to anything—absolutely anything—that was linked to this case. He didn’t expect much except for maybe another link in a chain, and another and another beyond that.

  That isn’t what he found.

  “Well, piss on my blue suede shoes,” he said aloud as he read the data. Then he picked up the phone to call Mr. Church.

  “Jerry,” began Church, “I was about to call to see how—”

  “Skip the shit,” interrupted Spencer. “I think I know who Bad Sister is.”

  CHAPTER NINETY-SEVEN

  IN FLIGHT

  OVER WASHINGTON AIRSPACE

  “Zephyr Bain,” I repeated. On the viewscreen Church looked grave, Bug looked angry, and Jerry Spencer—for once—looked almost happy. He was never happy when ordinary people were happy, and it usually meant that someone was going to get hurt. I could relate. “I thought she was dying or something.”

  “She is,” said Bug. “A little less than three months ago, she was told that her cancer had metastasized and that she was terminal. Best estimate was that she would last six months, but there is a private note in her medical file from one oncologist to her primary-care physician that it was more likely she would live two to three months, and she’s at that limit now.”

  “I don’t get it,” said Cole. “Why would someone like that want to do all this crap? She won’t get to see this singularity thing, so why bother?”

  It was Rudy who answered that. “Nicodemus.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Rudy said, “Did you ever read the novel Fahrenheit 451? You know the opening line, about how it was a pleasure to burn? That’s Nicodemus.”

  Even so, Bunny asked, “What does he get out of it except for jollies? I mean, if this is all so he can roast wieners as the world burns, how’s that do him any lasting good? Especially if the technological singularity happens. Shouldn’t that sort of thing end up with a new kind of stability? A smaller but less messed-up world? That’s not chaos.”

  Spencer said, “What’s it matter? He’s a freak and he needs to be put down. And if we find this Bain broad alive, then she needs a bullet, too.”

  “Hooah,” murmured Top.

  Bug shook his head. “Here’s the thing, guys,” he said. “I’ve been going over the John the Revelator speeches to try and figure out what their moves are, and there’s a real problem.”

  “How so?” Rudy said.

  Bug adjusted his thick glasses. “Well, for one thing it won’t work. You can’t curate an apocalyptic event. It’s patently impossible no matter how you look at it. I mean, sure, the way they have this set up the process of tearing down the world as it is might work. And, to tell you the truth, I don’t know how we’re going to stop it.”

  “Ay Dios mio,” said Rudy softly, once more touching the crucifix beneath his shirt.

  “But,” continued Bug, “there’s no way to guarantee the survival of whoever they think is worthy of making the cut. Let’s figure that it’s the people who attended John’s lectures. The educated, the intellectual class, the people in favor of green solutions—basically, most of the people I know and like. It’s not like we’re all living in protected biodomes. I talked this over with Doc Cmar, and he agrees. When you have sixteen plagues released into that big a portion of the population, even if the release is controlled by nanites, the diseases will spread like wildfire, because the areas hardest hit have dense populations and poor health-care and emergency services. That means there will be millions or billions of corpses that will never be buried. You can’t cremate them all, because the smoke from that many fires would plunge the world into a kind of nuclear winter. And there are diseases from unburied decaying bodies that would go completely wild. Maybe—and I mean maybe—a few thousand, maybe a few million people worldwide—could find shelter on islands, inside walled compounds, in bunkers, on watercraft, whatever—but they wouldn’t necessarily be the technocracy. A lot of them would be doomsday preppers who’ve been expecting some kind of disaster. Some would be military. Some would just be lucky because they lived on small islands. Overall, though, it’s ridiculous to think that this mass-disease release would accomplish what John the Revelator has been predicting. And it’s not like we have robots ready to protect the chosen ones. Zephyr Bain’s DoD contracts are for things like the thresher and for WarDogs. Not for infrastructure robotics or AI that would manage a disaster.”

  “So … does that mean this singularity isn’t going to happen?” asked Cole.

  “I’m saying that it can’t,” said Bug. “No way. There is no model, no variation of a model, in which that can happen.”

  “If Zephyr Bain believes it,” observed Rudy, “then she was manipulated into believing it.”

  “Right,” said Bug, “which is why I have Nikki running down everyone who’s invested in special shielding and security, bunkers, remote compounds, whatever, with a bias toward the kinds of people that fit what we think is the model for ideal survivors. Not the poor and not the people polluting the planet. That still leaves a lot of room for error, though. Some of the people she’s finding are just doomsday preppers or social misfits.”

  Church said, “Nicodemus said that we stopped the Seven Kings, Mother Night, and the Jakobys but that we missed their progeny. He intimated that the Bad Sister was coming up behind them, learning from them and surpassing them. Once Jerry found the Bain connection, we had Nikki run a deep background on her, and behind one of Davidovich’s blind spots we found that connection. Her father was a business associate of Hugo Vox’s. That connection dated back decades, so it isn’t unreasonable to believe that Zephyr was exposed to Hugo as a child or teen, and possibly to the Jakobys as well. We know that Nicodemus worked with Hugo for years. He even admitted that he was our enemy’s teacher.”

  Cole marveled at this. “He … raised her to be like this? To do this?”

  “I believe so,” said Church.

  “Shee-eee-eeet,” said Top, drawing it out. “If Nicodemus was her role model, then that kid never had a chance to be anything but nuts.”

  “But she’s dying,” said Bunny. “Does that mean this is all a going-away party for her? Instead of balloons and a scary clown, she gets to watch the world get sick and die?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Or maybe she’s been manipulated into throwing a big apocalyptic hootenanny for her mentor.”

  “Maybe it’s a bit of both,” said Church, nodding.

  “Hold on, though,” said Bunny. “Seems like we’re missing something. Maybe this isn’t Zephyr. I mean, we were warned about a sister, right? Good Sister and Bad Sister. Are we sure she’s the Bad Sister? Maybe she’s just Dead Sister. Maybe she’s the one who’s been texting the captain and the real bad sister is working with Nicodemus.”

  Bug was shaking his head before Bunny finished. “Can’t be that, ’cause Zephyr Bain is an only child.”

  Cole cut a look at Rudy. “Could it be a split-personality thing? Could Zephyr be both Good and Bad Sister?”

  Rudy pondered t
hat, lips pursed, then slowly began shaking his head. “I don’t think so. I mean, sure it’s possible, but not likely. Multiple-personality disorder isn’t as compartmentalized as that. No … I think we’re dealing with two distinct persons rather than one fractured individual.”

  “So who the hell is the Good Sister?” asked Top.

  No one had an answer.

  “Where’s this Zephyr Bain live?” asked Bunny. “And how come we’re not en route to put a bullet in her?”

  “Or arrest her,” suggested Cole.

  “Sure, okay. We can look at that as a possibility,” Bunny told her unconvincingly.

  “Bain has houses all over the place,” said Bug. “Her main estate is in Seattle.”

  Top raised his hand. “Bunny and me … and Officer Cole … can hit that once we’re on the ground. It’s forty-five minutes from the joint-use base where we’re touching down.”

  “Forty if I drive,” said Bunny.

  “Thirty-five if I drive,” countered Cole.

  “Good,” said Church. “I already sent the Junkyard to the airbase in anticipation of Echo Team’s arrival.”

  “Won’t we need it at the camp?” asked Rudy.

  “Not likely,” I said. “The DARPA camp is staffed by our guys.”

  There was a bing-bong and the pilot’s voice crackled through the speakers. “Coming up on it, Cowboy.”

  CHAPTER NINETY-EIGHT

  BRAZILIAN RAIN FOREST

  FIVE KILOMETERS FROM THE FREETECH/WORLD HEALTH ORGANIZATION

  RESEARCH FIELD CAMP

  NORTH REGION, BRAZIL

  TUESDAY, MAY 2, 9:01 AM LOCAL TIME

  The helicopter landed in a rough natural clearing surrounded by dense trees. Two men got out and stood for a moment looking back the way they’d come. Inside the chopper were six other men dressed in unmarked jungle-camouflaged BDUs. They were all heavily armed and wore broad-bladed machetes on their hips, useful for chopping through the thick jungle growth. The co-pilot let them out and ordered them to sit on the grass on the far side of the clearing. The men sat as ordered. Each of them was marked with scars from injuries received in combat, and overlaying those scars were fresher surgical scars that looped up and over their skulls.

  The pilot and the co-pilot walked to the other side of the chopper, lit cigarettes, and stood smoking in silence. When the call came it was via satellite phone, and the co-pilot unclipped it from his belt.

  “We’re on deck,” he said. “Five klicks from the camp.”

  “Send the men,” said the caller.

  The pilot was leaning in to listen to the call, and he met his co-pilot’s eyes. The co-pilot said, “We haven’t received the go order from WhiteHat.”

  “I’m giving you the order,” said the caller.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but we were told that only the lady can give the order.”

  “I’m calling on her behalf.”

  “Sir, I—”

  “She is ill and cannot make this call.”

  “I get that, sir, but our orders were very specific. We’re not supposed to go into Havoc mode until we get the word from the lady. That was what she said, and I’m going to have to follow her orders.”

  There was a brief silence on the line.

  Then, “Very well. Move your team into position one half kilometer out and wait for the lady to call,” said John the Revelator.

  The co-pilot lowered the sat phone and lit another cigarette, then shared the match with the pilot. They smoked the fresh cigarettes halfway down before either of them spoke.

  “You think she’s already dead?” asked the pilot.

  “I don’t know,” said the co-pilot. “Maybe. Last time I saw her she looked like she already had one foot in the grave and the other on a slick spot.”

  They watched their smoke rise into the humid air.

  “What if it’s just John running the show now?” asked the pilot.

  The co-pilot shrugged and flicked the butt out into the woods. “Then fuck it. The world’s for shit as it is. This ain’t going to make it worse.”

  The pilot said nothing. He glanced over at the six silent, scarred soldiers. He nudged his partner lightly.

  “Tell you what, though,” he murmured. “I want to be in the air and far away from here before we flip the switch on these sons of bitches.”

  The co-pilot nodded and offered a fist for a bump, got it, checked his watch, and then whistled for the six soldiers.

  “Game time,” he said.

  CHAPTER NINETY-NINE

  THE BAIN ESTATE

  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  TUESDAY, MAY 2, 9:22 AM

  “Wake up, my darling,” murmured John.

  Zephyr Bain opened her eyes very slowly and tentatively, as if they were heavy, as if opening them hurt. “I…” she began, but had no idea where she wanted to go with that, so she let it go.

  “You need to wake up,” coaxed John, his voice soft and warm.

  “I can’t,” she complained.

  “You must.”

  “I’m tired … I’m sick.…” She curled up and turned away, closing her eyes again. She knew that she was in her bed, but the sheets were wet. Had she peed the bed again? No, there was a soapy smell, and she realized slowly that he must have carried her here from the tub without rinsing her off or drying her. Or dressing her. “Let me sleep,” she said.

  Except that isn’t what she said, and Zephyr heard her own words as a strange interior echo.

  Let me go.

  Which meant Let me die.

  “I will,” he promised. “Soon you’ll be able to sleep as long as you want. You’ll be able to sleep forever and swim in the warm, dark waters as long as you want.”

  “No more poetry, damn you,” she pleaded. “Just leave me be.”

  “It’s time to give the word. The dogs of war are straining at their chains. Everything is poised to go. The world is breathless, waiting for the great change.”

  She shook her head in a long, silent no.

  “Zephyr,” he said with a harder edge to his tone. “You promised.”

  “No.”

  “This is what you’ve always wanted.”

  His voice was strange. Deeper, rougher. Uglier. She opened her eyes to slits and turned to look at him. John sat on the edge of the bed. Naked, covered in sweat as if he were in a sauna, his penis engorged and erect, spit glistening on his white teeth, eyes swirling with wrongness.

  “This is what you’ve always wanted,” she protested, and it hurt her—scared her—to hear how small and frightened and faraway her voice had become in the past few days. It was as if she could feel herself going farther and farther away. Leaving this world, leaving life. She never expected to be able to feel it happen. She’d always figured it would be like going to sleep. Some pain and then nothing.

  She also never expected John to be such a monster. Her vagina ached, and she wondered—not for the first time—if he had taken her while she slept. Raping a corpse. Taking the inability to respond as consent.

  Yes, she thought. That’s exactly what he did. He was like so many men, who thought that consent, once given, was an ongoing license. If she had the strength, she would have risen up and kicked the shit out of him.

  If he could be killed.

  Even now, after all these years, after knowing him so intimately, Zephyr had no idea what he really was.

  “You need to give the word,” he told her, bending over her. She could feel the pressure of his stiff cock against her naked hip. So hard and so cold. Like a spike of Arctic ice.

  “No,” she whined.

  “Yes,” he insisted.

  “I don’t care about it anymore.”

  “You do. You must, my sweet. You have spent your life preparing for this moment.”

  Zephyr felt a flare of hot anger in her chest, and she shoved at him with one hand. It didn’t move him even an inch, and her hand flopped back onto the bed.

  “I wanted this because I thought I’d see it, god
dammit. Now that’s for shit. You killed me.”

  “No, my girl, I gave you thirty years. I gave you all the time you needed to change the world. Now, all that’s left is to tell Calpurnia to start. All you have to do is speak one word. You owe this to me.”

  “I … don’t owe you anything,” she said, her breath labored just from the effort of trying to shove him. “You took everything … from me.”

  “No. I gave you the world.”

  “You … twisted me all around … you made me crazy.…”

  He laughed. A chuckle that sounded like thunder. Weirdly deep, oddly loud. “You were born crazy, my darling. You were a loaded gun from the time you could form your first thought. All I did was aim you in a useful direction.”

  She wanted to scream, but she lacked the energy. She wanted to weep, but her body was a dry husk. She wanted to die, but he seemed to be able to keep her here, in the world, in this bed, with him.

  “Say the word,” he demanded. “Say it and I will let you go.”

  He pressed his hardness against her.

  “No,” she snarled. If her body was a crumbling house, then that word blew like a sudden gust through the open windows. It made the last candle flame of her life flicker and dance, and the glare through goblin shapes on all the walls. She screamed it again.

  “NO!”

  And, with that, the candle flame blew out.

  CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED

  JOINT BASE LEWIS–MCCHORD

  LAKEWOOD, WASHINGTON

  TUESDAY, MAY 2, 10:18 AM

  We put down at JBLM near Lakewood. Two vehicles waited for us. One was a Bell ARH-70 Arapaho helicopter that belonged to the local DMS field office, and the other was a gorgeous Mercedes Sprinter luxury RV that belonged to Brick Anderson. Known as the Junkyard. The RV was a rolling arsenal that was kitted out to provide tactical support for any kind of field mission up to and including fighting Godzilla. From the outside, it looked like a playtoy for very rich campers, but inside the armored shell there were banks of advanced computer and communications equipment, bins of combat gear, and rack upon rack of handguns and long guns, ranging from combat shotguns to the latest automatic rifles. Boxes of grenades—fragmentation, flash bangs, smoke—and a bin filled with uniforms and Kevlar. And metal cases of the specialized electronic equipment for which Dr. Hu had been so famous. Cole whistled when she saw it.