Halfhead (30 page)

George had said one of the trackers was beneath his left arm, on the wall of his chest, but Will was beginning to realize that finding the transmitter wasn’t going to be as easy as he’d hoped. The blood was making everything slippery and difficult to see.

The blade slid from his fingers for the third time in as many minutes, clattering against the stainless steel tabletop.

Fucking thing.

How was he supposed to hold onto it when it was slick with blood? How hard did this have to fucking be?

He grabbed the handle and hurled the knife away into the darkness. It clanged off something metal hidden in the shadows.

He put his bloody hands over his eyes and slumped back on the cold post-mortem table.

This was impossible. He couldn’t go anywhere near Sherman House with a pair of locator beacons buried under his skin. They’d all be dead before they even set foot in the place.

An angry voice burst into the cold room. ‘Who’s in here?’.

‘George?’

The short, fat pathologist stood framed in the doorway, slippers on his feet and a bone hammer in his hand. The lights flickered on, killing the shadows.

‘Will? What the hell are you doing down here? It’s half three in the morning!’

‘Could ask you the same thing.’

George shrugged and waddled across the squeaky floor. ‘Explosion in the Queens Cross shuttle station. Forty-one dead. I was getting a couple hours kip before going back to…’ He sniffed, then stopped, staring at the blood oozing out of Will’s side. ‘What the hell are you doing?’

‘I’m trying to get rid of the—’

‘You’re bleeding all over my lovely clean mortuary!’

He pushed Will flat on the slab and peered at the open wound in his side.

‘What did you use, a cheese grater? This is a mess!’

‘You try operating on yourself! See how easy—’

‘You’re not even cutting in the right place!’

‘Well you do it then, if you’re so damn clever.’

George stepped back and bit his bottom lip. ‘I only operate on dead people.’

I’m coming.’

‘Lie back, I’ll go get the wand.’

Will pushed through the double doors into the Network shuttle station. His chest and stomach ached a little, like a background noise not quite loud enough to identify. George might be happier working on the dead, but he was no slouch with the living either. Even if he did narrate everything as if he was doing a post mortem.

Constable Cat McDonald was waiting for him, a brand-new Bull Thrummer slung over her shoulder. It dwarfed the Field Zapper strapped to her hip, reaching down to her shins and up past the top of her head. There was a small buggy at her feet, heaped with weapons from the armoury.

She’d changed out of her mud-encrusted Bluecoat into Network-issue concrete-grey camouflage combat gear. ‘Got a set for you too, sir,’ she said, handing over another jumpsuit.

Two minutes later a shuttle pulled up at the platform and Brian clambered out. He looked as if he’d fallen out of bed and into his fatigues.

‘Somebody call for a taxi?’

‘Here,’ said Will, giving him one of the Whompers and a shoulder pack of assorted crowd-control devices, ‘make yourself useful.’

When they were all ensconced in the shuttle—the massive Bull Thrummer jammed in at an angle to make it fit—Brian stuck his hand out to the new girl. ‘Special Agent Brian Alexander. Who’re you when you’re no’ tooled up to go shoot some toley beanbag?’

The constable smiled and shook Brian’s hand. ‘Cat McDonald: Bluecoats.’

‘Do I no’ know you?’

She stopped smiling. ‘I was drunk, OK?’

Brian threw a wink in Will’s direction. ‘A woman after me own heart.’

With a small clunk the shuttle left the Network’s private station and slipped into the main tunnels. As the car hummed up to cruising speed, Brian asked the big question: ‘So how’re we goin’ tae find her then?’

Will dug the tracker out of Cat’s shoulder pack and tossed it across the shuttle to his friend.

‘Coffin dodger.’

Brian flipped the thing open and scowled at the empty fizzing display. ‘Aw come aff it! It’ll take days to get that bugger Station Commander to switch the damn thing on!’

‘Who says we’re going to ask him?’ The shuttle’s console flickered under Will’s fingers as he hammered his way out through Network security and straight into the Bluecoat’s dispatch system. Within minutes there was a small click and then the tracker in Brian’s hand lit up like a carnival ride.

‘We have lift off!’ Brian squidged his face close to the screen, lips moving slightly as he read.

Will sat forward. ‘Well? Where is she?’

‘Hud yer horses, it’s comin’ up…’ He frowned as the map appeared on the tracker’s screen. Jo’s coffin dodger was a big red circle that constricted to a point as the city’s network of receivers triangulated the signal. ‘Southeast: other side of the river, past the firestacks…Shite.’ Brian looked up. ‘It’s—’

‘Sherman House.’ Will finished for him.

‘Aye, Sherman House.’ Brian sighed. ‘Arseholes.’

‘Look on the bright side,’ said Will as he powered up his Whomper, checking the charge, ‘you’ll get to meet the lovely Mr Peitai.’

Brian shrugged and slapped a new battery into his assault rifle. ‘Her Majesty’s goin’ tae go mental when she finds out. She’ll have our goolies for earrings.’

‘Only if we get out of this alive.’

Brian beamed and slapped their new friend Cat on the back. ‘Aye, he’s right. Always look on the bright side.’

Outside the shuttle’s windows the stanchion lights vwipped past, their cold-white glow making the carriage flicker as Brian dug his way through the pack of crowd-control devices Constable Cat MacDonald had liberated from the Network armoury—lining them up on the floor. She’d been pretty thorough: Crispies, Jammers, Sticky Willies, and NightFog. All the toys.

Brian stuck them back in the bag while Will filled Cat in on Ken Peitai’s ‘social research’ project, the sub-dermal tracking and listening devices, Peitai and Kikan’s spell at Glasgow Royal Infirmary and what he’d found hidden away in the PsychTech files.

When Will was finished, Brian dumped the full pack on the seat next to him and said, ‘You find out why the wee dick and his boss were messing about with PsychTech?’

‘Not yet.’ Will stared out of the window, watching the bars of light streak past. ‘Westfield was building killers, Peitai is too. Maybe it was a kindred spirit kind of thing?’

Cat MacDonald raised her hand, as if asking permission to go to the toilet. ‘She was trying to see if the textbook model of serial killer development was valid, yes?’ Cat picked at the Field Zapper in its holster. ‘Perhaps they thought they could hijack her research?’

Will nodded. ‘That’s what I thought.’

There was a small lurch as the shuttle left the main net and clacked onto the Monstrosity Square branch line.

Will checked the destinator. Almost there.

‘Lock and load, people.’

He pulled his Whomper upright and popped the power cartridge out into his hand, checking the contacts were clean and the charge was full, before racking the battery back into place. Watched as Brian and Cat did the same.

They coasted the last fifteen feet into the shuttle station beneath Sherman House in absolute silence. Their car bumped to a halt against the station buffers and, with a soft hiss, the doors slid open, letting in the bitter reek of stale urine. Faded sodiums flickered incontinence-yellow against the grubby concrete as Will stepped out onto the deserted platform.

‘Which way?’

Brian wrinkled his nose. ‘Jesus…It
honks
in here!’ He peered at the tracker’s screen, then did a slow, lumbering pirouette, holding the device in front of him as he turned. At last he lifted a grey-clad arm and pointed off the end of the platform and into the dark of the shuttle tunnel: back the way they’d come.

‘Goin’ to have to walk.’

Constable MacDonald almost choked. ‘You’re kidding, right?’ She looked at the shuttle and then the black hole. ‘Do you have any idea what speed these things go at?’

Will pulled his Whomper round into firing position and started towards the platform’s far edge.

‘Sir, if we’re in the tunnels when a shuttle comes we’ll be spread all over the walls like pâté!’

Brian shrugged and slung his rifle over his shoulder. Holding the tracker in front of him, he followed Will down the ladder at the end and onto the trackway, leaving Cat alone on the station platform, clutching her massive Bull Thrummer and spluttering.

‘Am I the only one who sees how stupid this is?’

‘Aye,’ said Brian, ‘Looks like it.’

Will marched into the darkness, the hot green circle of his lightsight sweeping the track in front of him.

The room sparkled like a surgical blade. Harsh light bounced back off the wraparound mirror, illuminating the figure strapped to an interrogation chair. Sneaky bitch was slumped sideways, trying to pretend she was still unconscious, but the monitoring equipment told a different story. She was awake and they knew it.

The old man rested a hand against the observation suite window, staring through the glass at William Hunter’s girlfriend.

‘Have you managed to glean any information from our guest?’ His voice was soft, but Ken could hear the menace in it: like a teddy bear full of razorblades.

‘Well, sir, we had a friendly little chat and it seems Hunter knows a damn sight less than we thought he did. That or he’s not told Pocahontas here the whole story. Either way…’ Ken flexed his hand, feeling the tight pull of fresh skinpaint on his scraped knuckles. ‘She’s been very cooperative.’

‘You persuaded her?’

Ken nodded, pointing at the monitors. ‘Chemical, electrical and kinetic. She’s got nothin’ more to hide.’

The old man turned his back on the observation window and pulled the test tube from his pocket, sending it dancing between his fingers, keeping the thick, liquid contents moving. ‘You still haven’t found Mr Hunter.’ It wasn’t a question.

‘We’re lookin’ for him, sir. I got three teams sweepin’ the city as we speak.’

‘And are they going to be using the tracking beacons we implanted under his skin to find him this time? Or have you got them charging around like headless chickens again, wearing low-light goggles instead of infrared?’

Ken could feel his cheeks flushing in the darkness. ‘We couldn’t use the trackers in the park, sir, the jammer blocked the—’

‘I don’t like excuses, Ken, you know that.’

Tokumu Kikan smiled and placed a hand on the back of Ken’s neck. The old man was easily a foot taller than him—even with the Cuban heels—and Ken had to try really hard not to flinch as the long, cool fingers wrapped around.

‘I would so hate for this to come between us, Ken.’ Pause. ‘Don’t let it come to that.’

‘Yes, sir. Definitely, sir. I’ll get onto the teams and make sure they know—’

‘Find Hunter for me. Maybe we’ll forget all about your errors of judgement.’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’

The test tube stopped its dance and Ken watched the liquid inside slide back down the sides of the glass into a thick green pool.

‘And if you can’t…’ Kikan shrugged. ‘If you can’t, well, we always need people to help us test the formula.’ He slipped the test tube into Ken’s top pocket and patted it gently.

‘It’s not goin’ to come to that, sir, I swear it.’

‘Good lad.’ The old man smiled again and turned back to look through the window at Detective Sergeant Jo Cameron pretending to be unconscious.

Interview terminated.

Ken got the hell out of there as fast as his cowboy boots would go. If the old man was pissed at him it might be better to keep on running. Make himself disappear before an assault team broke
his
door down in the middle of the night and did it for him. Maybe hop a Trans-Atlantic shuttle, set up shop in one of those half-assed redneck republics. Get a new name and a new face and keep his head
way
down. Not even the old man could live forever…But Ken knew it wouldn’t
work, the Newnited States wasn’t far enough: they’d still find him.

No choice then. Have to see this out to the end.

The control room was quiet, the bank of monitors covering one wall flickering from apartment to apartment in the building above. A mousy blonde in a headset sat behind the large, crescent-shaped desk. Ken parked himself on the edge of it and demanded a progress report.

‘Not much, sir.’ The controller hit a button and the monitors flickered, all the pictures merging into one. An aerial shot of Finneston slid past, the distinctive pug nose of a Hopper just visible on the left of the frame. ‘Team two is doing a segment sweep, but they’re not getting anything on the tracker.’

She hit another button and a Network Dragonfly shot across the wall, its navigation lights winking red and green in the rain-drenched night.

‘Team three picked up this blip fifteen minutes ago: the codes don’t match, but.’

‘That’ll be Lieutenant Brand: the one that crippled Arkwright. Forget about her, she’s…’ Ken stopped, remembering the old man’s fingers wrapping around his neck. ‘Second thoughts, stay on her: she’s wired for sound. If Hunter tries to get in touch I want to know.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘What about team one?’

‘Spiral search pattern out from Network Headquarters. He was in Glasgow Royal Infirmary for a couple of hours getting his head stitched back together, but we couldn’t touch him: too much security. He took a shuttle to Network HQ an hour ago. Twenty minutes later we lost the tracking signal.’

‘God damn it.’ Forty minutes—bastard could be anywhere by now. ‘You pull in every extra man we’ve got. I want to know where this sonuvabitch is.’

‘There we go.’ Brian’s voice was little more than a whisper, but it still echoed uncomfortably loud in the dark, empty hollow of the shuttlenet tunnel. Up ahead, just visible as a faint semicircle, was an unmarked branch off the main line.

Will swept the green beam of his lightsight up the nearside wall and then snapped it off, leaving them in absolute darkness.

‘Anyone see any cameras?’ he asked.

‘No, sir.’

‘How’re we supposed to see cameras? You’ve switched the bloody light off!’

‘Stop moaning.’ Will reached out, searching for the person nearest to him and finding Constable MacDonald. ‘You grab the back of my harness, Brian’ll grab yours. Single file.’ He inched forward, feeling his way in the dark towards the private branch line.

‘Sir?’ Cat whispered. ‘Sir? What are we going to do when we get there?’

‘Grab the first person we find, ask them where Jo is. Then we rescue her and do a runner before they send in the Marines.’

‘Great.’ She sighed. ‘A well thought out plan. Nothing left to chance. How could it possibly go wrong?’

‘You want a list?’ asked Brian from the back of the line.

‘Would you two shut up!’

They crept on in silence, off the main line into the private tunnel—using the maglev track in the middle as a guide. The tunnel swept away from the Sherman House station and, after what seemed like hours sneaking along in the dark, Will shuffled to a halt. He felt his way back along Cat’s arm to where Brian was holding onto her battledress.

‘How much further?’

There was a click and a faint grey glow lit Brian’s face from beneath. The light was turned down so low it was almost off,
but after the pitch black of the tunnel it was like a searchlight.

‘Two hunnerd and fifty feet…Jesus.’ He snapped the screen shut, plunging them back into darkness. ‘We’re right on top of the damn thing.’

‘Right, here’s what we…’ Will ground to a halt, staring back down the tunnel. It wasn’t much; just a faint flicker of light, but it was getting brighter. He stuck his arms out to encompass Brian and Cat and leapt for the tunnel wall. They slammed into the concrete as the light bars on either side of them burst into life, stinging their eyes. A pressure shock-wave made his ears pop and he hung on for dear life as the shuttle screamed past. It decelerated rapidly, settled into a stately glide and coasted to a halt at the research facility’s private station.

On either side of them the stanchion lights flickered out, plunging them back into darkness again. Globes on the station walls blossomed into life and Will had to squint to make out anything more than a harsh, painful blur. Three figures stepped out of the car and onto the platform. The sound of a punchline wafted down the tunnel—just audible over the ringing in his ears—and the newcomers laughed, slapped each other on the back, and disappeared through the station doors.

‘Shite that was close!’ said Brian when they’d gone. ‘My whole life flashed before my eyes…Mind, the dirty bits were good, but.’

Will turned his head and found his face less than an inch away from Constable MacDonald’s. Her hips hard against his, her breath hot on his neck where they were all squashed together against the tunnel wall. The adrenaline of almost getting killed was making this feel a lot more erotic than it should. She smiled at him, licked her lips, and said: ‘My hero!’

‘Yes, well…’ He backed away into the middle of the tunnel. ‘We’d, erm, better get moving.’

Will led the way across to the vacated shuttle and up onto the platform. He pulled his Whomper round, hit the ‘on’ button, and the assault rifle came online with a soft electric whine. Brian powered his up. Then they waited for Cat to get the Bull Thrummer going.

Nothing.

She poked at the buttons and flicked the switches. ‘It’s a different model to the one I’m used to, OK?’

Brian turned it on for her and the siege weapon growled, drowning everything else out.

‘Right,’ said Will, ‘here’s what we’re going to do: single file from here on. I’ll take point; Cat in the middle; Brian, you’re tail-end Charley.’

‘Shite. No’ again.’

‘Yes again. The place will be wired so…’ He dug into Brian’s pack and pulled out a portable jammer. ‘It’s got a range of about two hundred meters.’ He flipped the switch and stuffed it back where he got it. ‘They’ll be able to guess our position as the cameras go out ahead of us, but there’s nothing we can do about that.’

‘Aye there is.’ Brian winked at Cat. ‘Will’s supposed tae be the brains of the organization, but I’m no’ just a pretty face maself.’ He pointed at a big grey box marked ‘D
ANGER
OF E
LECTROCUTION
!’ welded onto the concrete wall with about a ton of foamsteel. ‘See that? That’s the main power line goin’ in tae the place. Cat, you want to do the honours?’

‘What?’

Brian sighed. ‘Thrum the damn thing.’

‘Oh. My pleasure.’ She swung the massive siege weapon round and thumbed the trigger. Nothing happened.

Brian rolled his eyes and sighed again.

‘It works better when you’ve no’ got the safety on,’ he said, reaching over and clicking it off for her.

‘Thanks.’ This time the tines began to tremble, sticking out behind her like an angry metal porcupine. And then the Bull
Thrummer bellowed. Cat rocked back on her feet as a hard blue pulse surged forward, ripping through the foamsteel as if it was made of jelly. Tiny ionized particles of metal and concrete exploded under the Bull Thrummer’s touch, whirling round in a cyclone of powder-grey dust, crackling with static electricity.

Cat McDonald was grinning like a maniac as the siege weapon thundered its way through the power line.

The noise was deafening, amplified by the tunnel walls. Sparks showered out of the ravaged foamcrete and all the lights in the station cracked off. The roar of the Bull Thrummer died away, leaving nothing but the sizzle and fizz of the dust storm, glowing with its own discharging electricity. And then they were back in darkness once again. Tinnitus ringing in their ears.