Hive Monkey (11 page)

“Anybody alive out there?”

No reply came; at least, none that he could hear. His ears felt as if spikes had been driven into them.

He had to move fast. Firstly, he knew K8 would have heard his shots, and he didn’t want her blundering up here, not until he was sure it was safe. Secondly, half the city had probably heard them too, and he had no doubt the police would be on their way.

Standing, he edged around the doorframe, guns held out in front of him, ready to empty the rest of his bullets into anything that moved.

His shots had scythed through the flat at shin height, splintering wood, cloth and bone. Now, a thick-set man lay curled around a bloody leg wound, trying to stem the flow of blood from where a clean, white shard of bone stuck out from the back of his calf.

Ack-Ack Macaque pointed both revolvers at the man’s head.

“Drop the gun, sweetheart,” he said. The man glared up at him from under a heavy brow, and he did a double take. When K8 had told him that the guy was ugly, she hadn’t been kidding. The man—if indeed he was a man—had a large, bulbous nose, with cavernous, hairy nostrils; his stubble-covered lower jaw seemed too large for his face, and his shovel-like teeth too numerous for his mouth. With one over-sized hand still clamped over the wound in his leg, he tried to raise his gun; but Ack-Ack Macaque sprang forward and stamped on the weapon, forcing the tip of the silencer into the floor. “I said, drop it, dickhead.” He slammed the butt of one of his Colts into the man’s temple. The man’s head snapped sideways, hit the wall with a smack, and he slumped to the floor unconscious.

For a few moments, the only sound Ack-Ack Macaque could hear in the flat was the sound of his own panting breath. He holstered the gun in his left hand, but kept the right one drawn, in case of trouble. Then he bent over to take a look at his fallen opponent. The guy wasn’t particularly tall, but he had powerful, muscular arms, broad shoulders, and a barrel-shaped chest. He wore a shabby overcoat and a cheap brown suit. The ridge on his forehead was far more pronounced than it had first appeared; and his unusually large jaw and protruding chin made his face look as if it had been somehow pulled forward.

“Ugly sonofabitch, aren’t you?” Keeping the Colt aimed at the guy’s face, he slipped a hand inside the raincoat, looking for a wallet, or anything that might identify who—or what—he might be. As he rummaged, he heard the front door slam, and the sound of shoes on the stairs. His SincPhone rang, but he didn’t answer it. Instead, he stood up and faced the open door, gun at the ready.

A couple of seconds later, Cole stood swaying at the threshold. His eyes were wide, and he was out of breath. His coat had a blackened hole in it.

“Monkey?” The word was a croak from dry lips.

Ack-Ack Macaque raised his revolver.

“Don’t move, fucknuts.”

But Cole didn’t seem to hear him. Without another word, the writer lurched forward, and collapsed into his arms.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

ANDROGYNOUS SEVERITY

V
ICTORIA
V
ALOIS RETURNED
to the
Tereshkova
by helicopter. Almost three years had passed since her helicopter crash in the South Atlantic, and yet she still thought about it every time she climbed into one, remembering the helplessness and terror that had possessed her as the ailing craft hit the slate grey sea and started to sink. The raised scar on her temple served as a constant reminder that she’d been lucky not to die in the accident—that she’d only survived thanks to the gelware that had been used to replace the damaged areas of her brain.

Now, when the helicopter from Bristol touched down safely on the pad fixed to the
Tereshkova
’s upper surface, she felt her clenched fingers and toes relax. Today had been a long day, and she was ready for a hot shower and a good night’s sleep, but she knew she’d get neither for a while yet—not with her professional curiosity aroused and prowling, hungry for answers.

Moving slowly, she made her way down through the hatch that led into the body of the skyliner. A flight of metal stairs took her down past one of the main gasbags, to a draughty walkway that ran the length of the
Tereshkova
’s central hull—almost a full kilometre in length. If she felt the need, she could walk all the way to bow or stern, past storage areas housing passenger luggage, freight, and essential supplies; additional gas bags; and a thousand other nooks and crannies containing who knew what. For thirty years, the
Tereshkova
had been the Commodore’s private fiefdom, filled with souvenirs and trophies from a life hard lived and dearly sold; it had been his home and his attic, and now it was hers, and she didn’t have the heart to start rooting through its alcoves, chucking out his stuff.

A series of companionways took her down through another four levels, until she reached the one that led down to the main gondola. She could hear piano music swirling up from the passenger lounge, where a cocktail pianist tinkled on an electronic keyboard, and smell the remnants of the evening’s dinner from the kitchen. Her head was bare, and the top two buttons of her tunic undone. As she clomped down the grille metal steps, she saw someone waiting for her at the bottom. At first, she could only see their shoes; then their baggy cargo pants. The build and stance looked familiar but, for a second, she couldn’t place it. Then she spotted the tattoos on the figure’s arms, and her heart bucked in her chest like a startled horse.

“Paul?”

She took the last couple of steps in a daze, and there he was, waiting for her with a stupid grin plastered across his face.

“Do you like it?”

She couldn’t let go of the metal banister. Paul was dead; he’d been murdered, and his brain had been removed; she’d seen the body, been at the funeral; and now all that was left of him was the electronic copy of his mind that lived in the
Tereshkova
’s computer. And yet here he was, standing before her, as apparently solid and alive as she was.

“I don’t understand. What’s going on?”

He held up a hand.

“Don’t freak out, Vic.”

“I’m not freaking out, I’m just—” She stopped, and narrowed her eyes. Then, very slowly, she pressed her hand into his chest. Her fingers passed through the material of his garish Hawaiian shirt without resistance, and pushed in up to the wrist. “You’re a hologram?” Her heart sank. For a moment she’d allowed herself to hope that, however unlikely it might seem, he’d found a way to reincarnate himself. Now she knew what she was looking at, it became obvious he was a projection: a little pixelation here, a little blurriness there.

“Yeah, pretty good, don’t you think?”

She pulled her hand back, feeling her breathing slow, and her pulse return to normal.

“How do you do it?”

He gave a modest shrug. “I had the idea while you were away, and got one of the mechanics to cobble it together for me.” He pointed at his feet. “There’s a little remote controlled car down here on the floor, with a tiny projector mounted on it. I control it using the skyliner’s WiFi, and I use cameras on the front to see where it’s going.”

“Wow. That’s pretty good. I have to admit, you had me there for a second.” She bent down and reached into the image of his trainers. Her hands closed around something hard, and she pulled it out. His image flickered and died, and she found herself holding a toy car. It was around twenty centimetres in length, with fat rubber tyres and several projection lenses protruding from its roof. A tiny camera sat on its bonnet.

“Sorry if I startled you.” Paul’s voice came from a speaker bolted to the side of the car. Victoria turned the vehicle over, looking at the wiring.

“So, what’s the range on this thing?”

“It can go anywhere on this deck.”

“Only this deck?” Victoria bent at the knees, and placed the little car back on the floor. When she straightened up, Paul’s image reappeared, looking almost as deceptively solid as before.

“I haven’t found a way to make it climb stairs yet.” He looked down at his hands. “It’s just a prototype. Perhaps I’ll build the next version into a little remote-controlled helicopter or something. Maybe one of those floating cameras, like the one the monkey smashed. Or maybe one of those quad copter drones, they look pretty cool.”

“So, are you in there?”

“I’m still in the ship. This is just a remote. But it has the capacity. I could download into it if I needed to.” He shrugged. “Anyway, how did it go for you? Did you find any clues?”

“We lost Cole.”

“You lost him? You mean he’s—?”

“No, he’s not dead. He just ran off.”

“Where’d he go?”

“I don’t know.” Victoria’s eyes felt suddenly tired. She pinched the bridge of her nose between thumb and forefinger. “I sent the monkey to find him.”

“Was that wise?”

“Damned if I know.”

Paul took off his glasses. “I don’t understand why you have to be involved.” He wiped the lenses on the hem of his brightly patterned shirt. “Why don’t you turn the case over to the local
federales
, and be done with it?”

Victoria stretched.

“Things have been a bit sedate around here recently, and I need a change of pace.”

“Let me guess, you’re just a simple journo at heart, right?”

Victoria pushed her fists into her pockets. “What can I say? I miss that stuff.”

“Things have changed.”

“You don’t need to remind me.” The helicopter accident had put an end to her career as a writer, but the old urges were still there, and she couldn’t walk away from a mystery.

She made to step around Paul’s ghost but, as she did so, he held up a hand to stop her.

“Hold on.”

She paused. “What is it?” He was made entirely of light. If she wanted to, she could walk right through him; but, somehow, to do so seemed impolite.

“It looks as if you were followed.”

“What do you mean?”

“There was a stowaway on your chopper. She was in the luggage compartment at the back. God knows how she got in there.”

Victoria’s tiredness vanished. “Where is she now?”

“I’ve got her on camera. She’s making her way down one of the service ladders.”

“Where’s she going?”

“Looks like the accommodation section.”

Victoria hurried through the lounge, along the connecting corridor, and into her office. Paul’s image followed, the little battery-powered car whining as it kept pace. “Anyone we know?”

“Apparently not.”

She shrugged off her tunic and sat behind the desk. “Have you run her face against the passenger manifest?”

“First thing I did.”

“And you got nothing?”

“Well, duh.”

“Show me.” A few years ago, the Commodore had installed a SincPad in the top of the desk. Being unable to read, Victoria usually kept it switched off, using its glass screen as little more than a surface on which to rest her elbows. Now, for the first time in months, the display brightened into life, showing a grainy black and white feed from a camera in the corridor outside the crew’s quarters. A slim, black-clad and obviously female figure was trying to jimmy the door to Cole’s cabin. “Is this live?”

“Yes, it’s happening right now.” Paul reached up to fiddle with the gold stud in his ear. “How do you wish to respond?”

Victoria peered at the picture. She didn’t know who this woman was but, as there’d already been one murder on the airship, she wasn’t about to take any chances.

“Get some crew down there. Make sure they’re armed, and have her brought to me.”

“Aye-aye, Captain.”

V
ICTORIA WATCHED THE
screen as three of her stewards approached the intruder. By this time, the woman had gained access to cabin, and was crouched over Cole’s luggage, her hands rummaging through its contents. She froze when she heard the stewards in the corridor outside. Then, when they pushed the door open, she backed up against the wall, hands spread flat against it, ready to spring.

“Don’t move,” Paul said. Although his image stood at the side of Victoria’s desk, she knew his consciousness—if you could call it that—still lurked in the skyliner’s computer systems, where it could monitor everything that happened on board, and that his voice was being relayed to the woman in the cabin via the intercom system. “We have you surrounded. There’s nowhere to go.”

On the screen, Victoria saw the woman glance upwards. Her eyes found the CCTV camera, and she smiled. It was a smile of recognition, and resignation. Without taking her eyes from the lens, she relaxed her stance, and raised her hands.

“We’ve got her,” Paul said.

Victoria watched the stewards cuff her, and then switched off the screen. She sat back and pulled the Commodore’s cutlass from the umbrella stand.

“Tell them to bring her straight here.”

“Have done.”

Paul walked to the picture window that took up most of the wall behind the desk. Patting the flat of the blade against her palm, Victoria turned in her chair and looked out, trying to imagine what he was seeing through the little camera stuck to the front of the toy car supporting his image.

Beyond the window, she could see the whale-like undersides of the
Tereshkova
’s hulls, and the lit windows and red and green running lights of the other gondolas. Below, at the edge of the airfield, a motorway cut southwards like a ribbon of orange light. She could see cars and trucks skimming its surface. Further away, the lights of the two Severn crossings, their humped backs carrying other motorways westward across the river, into Wales.

Although she’d been here a few times over the years, this wasn’t a part of the country she knew well. Nevertheless, it felt good to be back in England. However far the skyliner took her, the United Kingdom of France, Great Britain, Northern Ireland and Norway would always be her home—and she guessed Paul felt much the same.

He watched as she placed the cutlass on the desk and retrieved her white tunic. The shiny buttons were large and easy to fasten in a hurry. When she’d finished, she stood straight and looked at her reflection in the glass of the window: a tall woman in a military jacket, her bald, scarred head and strong-boned face lending her a handsome, almost androgynous severity.