Tool dragged her on.
Jones prayed she would have the air to follow him.
Tool doubted that he could save the girl, or even himself. He had never intended to survive his encounter with Mercier, or live beyond this final triumph.
He was exhausted from battle, and from the weight of death upon him. The killing of Caroa had not been easy on his mind, and now that the adrenaline of that final moment had passed…
Tool surfaced.
The Mercier analyst came up with him, coughing and sputtering. Her lips were turning purple. He doubted she would last longer than a few minutes. Hypothermia would kill her, and he had much farther to swim.
The dirigible was sinking rapidly, compartments filling with rushing seawater. The whole great airship was rolling over as its turbofans quit spinning and all the helium chambers that Tool had ripped open flooded with seawater.
He grabbed the girl again and dragged her down. She followed gamely, but she was becoming lethargic. He had the air to swim, but she did not. When he tried to breathe for her, to press his mouth to hers and give her air, she fought and panicked and nearly drowned.
The next time he surfaced, he saw that she was nearly gone. The cold was seeping into his own skin as well. Exhaustion, the changes in oxygen and pressure, the physical struggle.
He recalled the layout of the dirigible from his long-ago training days. It would be a race, to swim upward through the sinking dirigible. To beat his own flagging reserves of energy, and hers.
He dragged the analyst under again. Her skin was cold.
He kept on.
Why do I struggle, always?
At last, he found a shattered port and swam out into the open sea, dragging his charge behind him. He surfaced into roiling ocean waves.
The great form of the dirigible lay in the ocean like a dead and bloated whale. Tool hauled himself up onto its chill skin, dragging Jones behind him. He laid her on the cold armored surface.
Her heart had stopped beating.
He slammed her chest hard. She gagged out seawater and started breathing again, coughing and choking, shuddering and shivering. She would not last long, in or out of the water. It was simply too cold for her kind.
Tool dragged her higher up the curve of the ship, but the dirigible was clearly losing the fight of buoyancy. Their island was sinking.
Jones was looking up at him. “I followed orders,” she whispered. Her lips were purple.
Tool looked down at her, trying to decide if he sympathized with her or despised her, but all he could think of was Mahlia. So many human beings, all struggling to survive. So many people doing terrible things, hoping to last another day.
Debris was bubbling up to the ocean surface. Cushions. Food packs. Uniforms. Bodies, all forced out by the rush of the ocean as the dirigible continued to sink. Jones had stopped shivering, hypothermia wrapping her deep in its deathly blanket. Her skin had grayed.
“I didn’t want to use Havoc,” she whispered.
Words that she had already repeated many times. Some unburdening of herself that she kept at, as if she were seeking absolution from him, someone who had killed so many that he had lost count long ago. A strange thing, this human need for comfort. This human desire to be freed of sin.
You are flawed, he thought.
But to his own surprise, he grasped her hand.
We are flawed.
The dirigible continued to sink.
Out on the horizon, Tool glimpsed movement. A fast speck of a boat, skipping across the waves.
Tool straightened, staring. He seized Jones. “Come.”
“Wha—?” She was barely conscious. Her body was icy. Tool threw her over his shoulder and clambered higher on the dirigible as it continued to sink. He waved to the moving boat, his arm held high.
The boat changed course, curving toward him. It grew, a speck becoming a dot, becoming a dagger boat, slamming across the waves.
Tool waved again, even though he knew they already saw him.
The dagger boat sped toward him, familiar faces in the cockpit. Nita at the controls, her hair tied back. Nailer leaping to the prow, preparing ropes and readying life rings.
Humans, working to save him.
Kin, if not in blood, then in kind.
Pack.
EPILOGUE
MERCIER’S NEWLY ASSEMBLED ExCom had been hastily convened. Most were still rushing to get up to speed on their duties when they read the report of Arial Madalena Luiza Jones, Captain, Intelligence Section, Joint Forces Division.
From the aerie of their secure spire in the SoCal Protectorate, they scanned the text, paragraph after paragraph, statements marked TOP SECRET, and EXCOM EYES ONLY, and NONDISCLOSURE AGREEMENT.
The room was silent except for the hiss of climate filters and the rustle of occasional movement as they worked through the report related to the deaths of their predecessors, along with the last heroic struggles of General Caroa against his beastly creation.
They read of Karta-Kul’s and Caroa’s paired deaths, the two of them locked in combat, the general’s body crushed by his creation, even as he shot the rogue augment dead.
All before the icy Atlantic waters swept their bodies away.
At last, the ExCom looked up from their tablets and focused on the author of the report—a young woman in her dress blues, newly burnished captain’s bars on her breast. Young for the promotion.
“Captain Jones,” Finance said. “You’ve done the company a great service. Do you have anything to add to this report?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Any concerns about the augment surviving this time?” Markets pressed. “It survived more than once, it seems.”
“No, sir. Caroa killed the augment. I saw it. His creation is no more.”
Joint Forces flicked through the documents on her screen. “I understand there were some detainees related to this operation? Captured assets?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Jones nodded carefully. “The augment briefly utilized a small group of smugglers. We captured a few for intelligence purposes once we knew that we had failed to secure him during the Seascape operation. The truth is that they held little intelligence value, though they provided some insight into how he operated in the Drowned Cities. Patel Global has agreed to take them, and guaranteed their silence. They had no further intelligence value to us.”
Joint Forces glanced up sharply. “Under what authority did you release them?”
Jones shrugged. “My own. There was no one else left who was familiar with the situation after the Annapurna crashed. It was my call.”
“I see. And Patel Global… You returned here to the protectorate on one of their ships?”
“Yes, ma’am. I had… difficulty with flying, after the incident.”
“Understandable. What is your impression of that company? Are they a threat?”
“You have my full analysis, in the appendix,” Jones said. “They were as helpful as one might expect of a competitor. And certainly, they scrambled a number of their ships to aid the Annapurna when we crashed. Without them, I myself would not have survived. Many others would have been lost as well. They understood the threat Karta-Kul posed, and were quick to deliver all their data to us. You have the report of the Chinese consulate as well. They certify that the Patels have satisfied their obligations to render up all their data on the augment.”
“I see.” Finance was looking down at her notes. She glanced at the rest of the ExCom. “Very good, then. Thank you, Captain.”
She went on briskly. “Committee members, we will be placing this file under Priority Code Lock. ExCom, Eyes-Only. The genetic concerns and obedience failures will be forwarded to R&D under strict Red Access.” She glanced up again. “Thank you, Captain Jones. You may go.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Jones turned and headed for the doors, leaving the ExCom to proceed with their work. Behind her, she heard Finance saying, “Next order of business. Lithium supplies. I understand
there is an issue in the Andes—”
The rest of her words were cut off by glass doors sliding shut.
Jones stood in the hall outside, and let out a breath of relief. On either side of her, powerful augments in Mercier dress blues stood guard, ramrod straight, eyes staring off into the middle distance.
They stood as still as statues, and yet Jones knew that they tracked her every movement, measured her every breath, and smelled her relief, even thought they didn’t move a muscle or acknowledge her.
They towered over her, obedient and dedicated to their creators.
They won’t attack.
She could almost convince herself of it. But she felt better when she’d made her way to the tower’s express lift and its sliding doors had closed, cutting off her view of the guards.
She descended quickly. A few minutes later, she was outside, and on her way to the docks. Hot evening air bathed her, warm, even for Los Angeles.
She walked down a hill through the bright sunshine and came to a stop at the water’s edge. Out in the bay, fragments of the city’s orleans poked up through lapping waters—buildings and neighborhoods swallowed by rising oceans and lack of preparation. Farther out, the company’s floating docks and freight transfer stations were busy with commerce. Sheathed in solar panels, they glinted in the sunlight.
At one of the docks, a clipper ship was preparing to depart. A trimaran, graceful and sleek, flying the colors of Patel Global. Built for speed, not heavy cargo.
On her deck, a group of sailors were gathered. An augment loomed amongst them, towering over the smaller human forms. Not particularly remarkable, really. Many companies employed augments in their crews, Patel Global amongst them.
Even the scars and tattoos on the sailors’ faces weren’t all that remarkable. One of the crew seemed to sport mechanical legs, sleek, curving, metallic things. Another… perhaps it was the light that made it seem that her arm was mechanical as well, black and gleaming in the sun. It made sense, really. Sailing was dangerous work, and accidents sometimes happened.
Sailors, just like everyone, had histories, that was all.
Jones’s comm buzzed, her new assignment coming in. She checked her orders and turned away from the clipper ship, letting the crew and its history fade away, as if it had never existed at all.
Behind her, the trimaran raised its sails, preparing to depart with the tide.
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
WRITING A BOOK is difficult, even in the best of circumstances. I’m grateful for the support and guidance and wisdom of the many people who helped me at various stages to reach the end of this one. My wife, Anjula, and my son, Arjun. Friends Holly Black, Rob Ziegler, Aaron Jerad, Samara Taylor, Max Campanella, Charlie Finlay, Rae Carson, Daniel Abraham, Carrie Vaughn, Tobias Buckell, and Ramez Naam. I also want to thank my editor, Andrea Spooner, my copy editor, Christine Ma, and my agent, Russell Galen, who has always been such a fan of Tool.
PAOLO BACIGALUPI is the New York Times bestselling author of the highly acclaimed The Drowned Cities and Ship Breaker, a Michael L. Printz Award winner and a National Book Award finalist. He is also the author of the Edgar Award nominee The Doubt Factory; a novel for younger readers, Zombie Baseball Beatdown; and two bestselling adult novels for adults, The Water Knife and The Windup Girl. His first work of collected short fiction was Pump Six and Other Stories. The winner of the Hugo, Nebula, Locus, Compton Crook, John W. Campbell Memorial, and Theodore Sturgeon Memorial Awards, he lives in western Colorado with his wife and son. The author invites you to visit his website at windupstories.com.
Paolo Bacigalupi, Tool of War
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