Tool of War

  Van opened his eyes. They immediately began stinging and watering, but he stitched a line of bullets across the walls, aiming low, just like Tool told him. It would be below where the kill squad wore their body armor, Tool had explained.

  The door exploded. Shadow creatures, armored and helmeted, bug-eyed with night-vision goggles, poured through the gap.

  The first one tripped on electrical wire that Tool had torn out of the walls when the whole place went dark, and that they’d quickly strung across at knee height. The soldier went down, firing as he fell, his rounds flying wide, hitting ceiling and walls. Plaster and bricks exploded, throwing shrapnel.

  Blinking through tears, lungs tingling from whatever was left over of the gas, Van fired at the next one who came through. This one tripped but caught himself—herself?—Van couldn’t tell. Van put a bullet in that one’s face, right on the mask. The hole went through.

  Nice.

  Tool was grabbing the dead one’s gun and tossing it to Stork, but everything Tool did looked slow. He wasn’t even as fast as a human being. More like an old man. Or a turtle. The firefight was moving too fast for him. Out back, Van could hear Ocho and Mahlia firing, holding the rear.

  Another soldier came through the door. Van opened fire, but all he hit was body armor. Stork was armed now and firing the Mercier soldier’s own weapon. The rounds cut straight through the same armor, and blew the trooper apart. Stork started blasting out the whole wall, stitching a line of explosives along its length, following where Tool pointed, blasting through to the troopers on the other side, who thought they were still safe.

  I will not be able to shoot, Tool had said. I can only guide you.

  Suddenly Van heard the flat snap of the sniper rifle. Stork toppled, and his gun skittered out of his hands.

  How had the sniper managed to get an angle on him?

  Van lunged forward, reaching for the rifle, but another sniper round knocked the fancy gun out of his hand, forcing Van to take cover. He hunkered back against the wall, praying he was out of sight.

  Where the hell was Stick? Why hadn’t he gotten the damn snipers yet?

  Tool went for the gun. Another sniper bullet plowed into his broad back. It was like watching a turtle get targeted. Blood sprayed and muscle shredded.

  Tool managed to slide the gun to Van just as another bullet pummeled him, but then he collapsed. He lay on the floor, twitching. A keening animal whine filled the air so loud it drowned out almost everything else.

  Now that the smoke was clearing, Van thought it looked like everyone who had tried to hit the front door was dead, thanks to Stork’s work. But Stork was definitely out, too.

  More gunfire came from Mahlia and Ocho’s position in the rear. Tool had said the kill team would wait back there, but it sounded like they were coming in. Van glanced over at Tool, hoping for guidance, but the half-man didn’t look like he was going to be any help. He looked like a bug, pressed flat. His animal whining continued, loud and irritating.

  No help there.

  The sniper took a shot at Van, shattering brick above him. Van crabbed sideways, trying to keep moving, looking for a way across the open floor. Maybe if he could get to another window, he could put out the sniper himself. With this big high-tech cannon gun, he could probably bring down a chunk of the building where the sniper was perched. Didn’t even need to hit the sucker—

  A roar of gunfire interrupted. Ocho was shouting for more ammo, but then a huge explosion shook the building. Smoke and dust billowed in from the rear of the building. Fates, this was it. It wasn’t gas this time. Some kind of heavy ordnance.

  Van gripped the fancy gun and braced, knowing what was coming.

  There.

  Shadows piling in from the rear, plowing through the smoke, firing at him. Van pulled the trigger. The high-tech gun opened up. Tight, fast bursts. Soldiers dropped.

  Sweet.

  Bullets peppered the walls around him. He could see muzzle flashes in the smoke, his enemies, trying to kill him even as he blew them away. He felt his head slap sideways. A near miss. But his body felt wrong, like someone had punched it numb.

  He got his gun targeted again, wondering why it was so hard to hold. More muzzle flashes. He wished Mahlia would take them out, maybe surprise them…

  Never mind. There she was. She was hit already. Slumped on the floor, lying like a rag doll, covered in the debris and dust.

  Oh.

  He was the last, then.

  So this was it.

  Van braced his back against the wall and gripped the gun tight. Explosive rounds pounded him. He knew it was over, but figured maybe he could at least take one more with him.

  He squeezed the trigger one last time, full auto, spraying bullets.

  There wasn’t any point saving ammo now.

  Through the haze of gun smoke and debris, Tool saw Van shooting as attackers poured through the doorway. For a moment, Tool thought Van would get them all, but then the boy’s head exploded, bone and brain spattering the wall. The boy’s small body slumped.

  Tool rolled onto his back, cringing, surrendering to his owners.

  Beaten.

  Mahlia couldn’t breathe. She’d been hit in the belly, but it seemed the round had gone through her, instead of exploding. One minute she’d been holding the rear door, firing alongside Ocho, and then the bullet had nailed her and she’d stumbled back, and then there’d been the explosion pushing her back farther, out of the kitchen, and Ocho calling something out. And then he’d gone silent.

  Across from her, Van’s head was shot off. His body lay tumbled over, pouring blood from numerous wounds. In the center of the room, Tool lay on the floor, whimpering. Mahlia tried to reach for her rifle, but an armored soldier kicked it from her hand.

  “Tool,” Mahlia gasped. “Tool.”

  He just lay there, shivering, and now, as another soldier stalked into the room, he rolled onto his back, utterly subservient.

  The two soldiers were muttering to each other, muffled behind their gas masks, using some kind of comm gear to communicate.

  One of the soldiers squatted down beside Mahlia. He yanked her head around so he could look at her. His own face was masked, so all she could see was her own bloody reflection, a body, soon to become a corpse.

  Joli stalked around the scene, shaking her head. “I thought this was supposed to be clean!”

  Taj made a sour face as he scanned the bodies. “They were better soldiers than we thought.”

  “Yeah, but the dog-face was supposed to be the dangerous one, and look at him.” She poked the half-man with a toe. “It was these damn… people.” She went over and grabbed a girl’s head, yanked her around by her tight braids. Look at this… Who the hell is this?”

  She threw the girl back, disgusted.

  Taj was inclined to agree. Four squads of Stitch & Ditch, and this was what was left. Him and Joli, and that only because of luck. The target hadn’t even turned out to be the dangerous one. A bunch of scab-ass militia fighters had cut them to pieces.

  On the radio, there was chatter from the rest of the teams, running their own op offshore. It sounded almost as vicious as what they’d just been through. He didn’t look forward to the after-action report.

  “Su’s out in the hall,” Joli said. “He’s still alive.”

  “What a mess.”

  Eagle Eye called in, “What’s our status? Do you have the target?”

  Taj shot Joli an annoyed glance. Eagle Eye, looking over their shoulder. “Yeah. We got the target. We’re going to need some help extracting. We got a lot of casualties. A lot of dead.”

  “We’ve got the vitals. Su’s still got a strong heartbeat. Can you get him to the extraction point?”

  “You want us to leave everyone else behind?”

  “Affirmative. Cleanup teams are on the way. But you need to clear before SP responds. We need anyone who can report to get clear. No trace.”

  Outside, in the darkness, Taj could hear shouts an
d the thunder of feet on the stairs. Civvies still in the building, making a run for it. SPs would be here soon, for sure. Over the comm, he could hear Seema packing up her sniper gear and disappearing, turning into a ghost.

  “Can you extract?” Eagle Eye pressed.

  “Affirmative,” Taj said with a sigh.

  “We’re pulling out?” Joli asked.

  “Yeah, clean it up.” He went over to the girl, who was still breathing. Blood ran from between her fingers where she was holding her belly. She was trying to get up, but failing. Had to give these Drowned Cities soldiers credit—they had grit.

  She was trying to say something, but the words weren’t clear. Maybe prayers.

  Behind him, Joli asked, “So we put the dog-face down, right? Or we bring him in, since he’s surrendered?”

  Taj glanced back at the half-man. Hard to believe that anyone had been concerned about it at all. It was whining, lying on its back, begging to be put down. It happened sometimes.

  “Kill it. And make sure you collect the blood.”

  “This better be the right dog-face this time,” she said.

  “The last one wasn’t my fault,” Taj shot back. “Just finish it and get the sample.”

  Even now, with the dog-face cringing respect and obeisance, it still filled him with an instinctual fear, the natural response to a monster. They’d been designed that way, to scare the hell out of humans. But still, Taj didn’t like having a dog-face with even a breath of life in it.

  Joli continued complaining. “I thought he was supposed to be a real genius war beast. And he wasn’t even the one who fought.”

  The wounded girl coughed. “Tool.”

  Blood stained her lips. Taj pressed his gun muzzle to the girl’s head. She looked up at him, dull, unafraid. Ready to die.

  He pulled the trigger.

  The girl flinched, but all the gun did was click empty.

  Figures.

  The girl had a brief look of hope. “Tool?” she whispered again.

  “He’s done, girl.” Taj pulled his combat knife and squatted down beside her. “You’re all done.”

  “Well? Is it done?” Caroa leaned over Jones’s shoulder, intent.

  “We’re getting a lot of chatter from the Seascape SPs. They’re responding to the decoy disturbances, but we don’t have much time to get everyone extracted.”

  “But Karta-Kul? He’s dead?”

  Jones pulled up a video feed from the surviving soldiers. A dingy apartment. Smoke and blood. The huge augment, curled in on itself, cowering.

  She let out her breath. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding it. “There he is.”

  Caroa leaned closer. “The training held,” he murmured, his voice almost reverent. “He’s still at least partially conditioned.”

  “It looks that way.”

  “Finish him,” Caroa ordered.

  “Yes, sir. They’re wrapping up now.”

  24

  “TOOL…” MAHLIA WHISPERED. It was hard to say the words. It felt like knives were cutting up her insides where the bullet had gone through. She wasn’t even sure what she was trying to say to him, or why she bothered. His ears barely twitched at her voice.

  “He’s done, girl.” The Mercier soldier grabbed her by the hair and jerked her head back, exposing her throat to his knife. “You’re all done.”

  Mahlia stared up at the mask of her executioner. She was surprised that the approaching knife didn’t bother her more. It was almost as if she were floating up on the ceiling, observing some other girl’s limp body, not hers.

  She was far away from her own death already.

  It didn’t matter. Everyone else was dead. Her mother. Mouse. Doctor Mahfouz. Ocho. Van and Stork and Stick. Everyone she’d ever known, either here or back in the Drowned Cities. Soon it would be Tool. He was shivering, practically begging to die.

  Mahlia watched as the other Mercier soldier raised her gun to put a bullet in him. Distantly, Mahlia felt her own head being jerked back, exposing her throat.

  She’d tried so hard, and still it had come to this. Getting her throat cut, slaughtered like a goat in a cramped, dingy squat in a strange city.

  She’d spent so long running and hiding, lying low in the jungle, surviving as other castoffs died like flies down in the Drowned Cities. Army of God had chopped off her hand and laughed and waved her severed limb in her face, taunting her. Just another Chinese peacekeeper castoff, a girl who looked wrong, and spoke wrong, and acted wrong. A piece of meat, to be slaughtered.

  And now it was happening again.

  No.

  Suddenly she was back inside herself, staring up at the soldier, seeing him clearly. Watching his knife descend toward her throat. And she was just lying there, accepting the killing blow. Rage flooded Mahlia’s body.

  I am not meat.

  She squeezed her hand. Twitch and a twist, just like Ocho had trained her. Poor, dead Ocho. But still, she had this one gift he’d given her. Twitch and a twist. Her prosthetic responded.

  Snick.

  Tool watched, astonished, as the blade shot out from Mahlia’s prosthetic wrist, a matte-black spike, a claw of her own.

  She slammed the knife into the soldier’s throat.

  The soldier gurgled and thrashed. He tried to cut her in return, but already he was dying. Mahlia yanked her hand back. Blood fountained from the soldier’s neck, bright red carotid oxygen. She slammed the blade home again, and the soldier toppled, choking on his own blood, flailing weakly with his knife.

  Even as Tool’s obedience-conditioned body cringed at the sight of another Mercier soldier’s death, he couldn’t help but be pleased. Mahlia had fought. She might not be able to triumph, but at least she’d fought.

  Tool’s own executioner was turning, surprised at the commotion, bringing up her rifle. Mahlia lunged across the distance, her bloody blade gleaming. She must have known it was impossible to cross the gap in time, before bullets hit her, and yet she fought on, despite pain, despite the inevitability of failure. Her eyes were murderous, unashamed of killing Mercier soldiers, of killing his pack—

  No.

  Mahlia was his pack. Even now, even as she was dying, still she fought for him, defending him when he himself could not fight.

  Pack.

  True pack.

  More memories of Kolkata flooded Tool’s mind, a rush so complete and terrible that for a moment Tool thought he was going mad. His pack, his kin. All of them arrayed alongside the Tiger Guard of Kolkata, hacking through the Mercier battle lines, humans, their former masters, running ahead of them, screaming, humans falling like wheat. Kolkata Tiger Guard and Mercier Fast Attack Claws all fighting together, arrayed against all humanity.

  He remembered.

  The cage that bound Tool’s body shattered.

  Red mist filled the air.

  Mahlia gaped as the soldier she was lunging for exploded into shredded bits. In her place, Tool stood tall, roaring, covered with the blood of his kill. The old Tool. The monstrous and terrible and implacable Tool. The war demon who feared nothing and bowed to no master.

  Chunks of flesh spattered the walls and showered the floor, the soldier’s shredded body raining down. Mahlia collapsed to her knees, clutching her stomach as pain flooded her and lost adrenaline left her weak and shaking.

  Tool stalked the room. Blood leaked from numerous wounds, but he acted as if they were nothing but scratches. He seized a dead soldier, and at first Mahlia thought he would rip out the heart and dine, but instead Tool yanked off the helmet and pulled a commlink from the dead soldier’s ear. He listened for a moment, then came over to kneel beside her.

  “You’re wounded,” he growled.

  Mahlia laughed weakly. “You’re not?”

  The monster shook his head. “These wounds are nothing, now.” He gently probed her belly wound. She hissed in pain.

  “We must move you,” he said. “More people are coming.”

  “Shore Patrol?”

&nbsp
; Tool tapped his earpiece. “Mercier. They know they have failed. They are regrouping. They will be here soon.”

  Mahlia struggled to stand, clutching her stomach. “We need supplies. I need a weapon.”

  “You need medicine—” Tool broke off, his ears twitching.

  “What is it?”

  “I hear someone.”

  Mahlia limped after Tool as he eased toward the rear of the squat. In the blood-drenched kitchen, bodies were piled high. Tool began digging furiously through the corpses, pulling Mercier bodies aside. He dragged away another corpse and beneath it, Ocho lay. Covered in blood, but still breathing.

  “Ocho!” Mahlia stumbled to his side.

  Ocho smiled weakly up at her. “Oh, good. I thought we all bought it.” His breathing was labored. Mahlia began running her hands over his skin. His clothes were shredded, and he was scraped and cut, but he looked okay, and yet, he was frighteningly pale.

  “Where are you hurt?”

  “My legs…” he grunted.

  Tool pulled aside a corpse that lay across his lower body. Mahlia gasped.

  Ocho’s legs were a mash of bone and meat, both limbs essentially gone. Blood soaked the floor and the shredded remains of his shorts. It was everywhere.

  Mahlia choked back her grief. “Oh, Ocho. Ocho…” She ran her hands desperately down Ocho’s legs, trying to find the arteries. There had to be something she could do. All her medical training from Doctor Mahfouz was in her head. Airway, breathing, circulation… she had to stop his bleeding. She had to treat for shock. Infection.

  “Stay with me, Ocho,” she said. “This isn’t the Drowned Cities. They got hospitals here. Good ones. They can fix you.”

  But Ocho was looking at Tool, who was shaking his head. “More people are going to be coming,” Ocho said. “A lot more.”

  “So let’s get out of here—”

  Ocho’s face twisted in pain. “Look at me, Mahlia. I’ll slow you down.”

  “You don’t slow me down!”

  Tool was taking a commlink from another dead soldier, and now he pressed it to her ear. “Listen, Mahlia.”

  Voices crackled. “—ive, move in. Reserve Six, Sniper Two, you have lead. Good hunting.” Someone far away, directing carnage with calm commands in rapid stream.