Hive Monkey (19 page)

“Besides,” she said, “the two of you are carrying enough ordnance to level the place by yourselves; you don’t need me tagging along.”

“Are you sure about that, boss?” The monkey picked up a crossbow. “You can be pretty handy in a scrap.” The crossbow had been made of some sort of carbon fibre, which made it light as well as tough.

Victoria turned to look up the corridor, in the direction of the airship’s bridge.

“I’ll have your backs from up here. If anything goes wrong, I’ll have a chopper snatch you out in seconds.”

Marie pulled a webbing harness over her shoulders and fastened it at the front. It had loops and pockets for weapons and equipment.

“How long will it take to get there?”

“About half an hour from when we cast off.”

“That seems a long time.”

“We have to fly slowly over the city.”

“Can’t we go around?”

“We could, but it wouldn’t save any time.” She checked her watch. “Now, I’ve got to get to the bridge so we can get under way. Monkey Man, are you going to fly us out?”

Ack-Ack Macaque stood in the centre of the armoury, festooned with weaponry and ammunition.

“You think I’d trust any of you idiots to do it?”

F
IVE MINUTES LATER,
Victoria sat in her command chair, looking forward through the curved windshield of the
Tereshkova
’s bridge. She wore an insulated cap with fur earflaps. The temperature in here was colder than in the rest of the gondola. The heat leached out through the glass of the big window and the metal of the walls and floor. The monkey sat at the pilot’s workstation to her right, and the Russian navigator to her left. The touchscreens set into the arms of her chair displayed graphical summaries of the airship’s systems. She couldn’t read the numbers, of course, but was reassured to see that everything that should be green appeared to be green, and nothing glowed red or amber. The engines were all online, and she fancied she could almost feel their vibration through the deck.

Paul stood by her shoulder. He’d been tinkering with his image again, and now appeared to be clad in a black polo neck and slate grey chinos.

“You know,” he whispered, “I could do this.”

“What?”

“Fly the ship.”

Victoria turned to look at him.

“Are you serious?”

“Perfectly. After all, it’s just another computer system, isn’t it? I don’t see any reason I couldn’t learn it, given enough time.”

“Don’t let the monkey hear you say that.”

Paul gave Ack-Ack Macaque’s back a guilty glance. “Of course not.” He adjusted his glasses. “I don’t want to undermine him or anything. It’s just that if things go badly and we ever lost him, I’d want you to know that you had another pilot on standby. Potentially. If you needed me.” He wouldn’t meet her eyes, and Victoria felt a prickle at the back of her throat. This was, she realised, his way of trying to be useful.

“I’ll always need you,” she said.

At the helm, Ack-Ack Macaque cleared his throat.

“Will you two stop yapping? I’m trying to concentrate.” He spoke without taking his eye from the controls, and Victoria knew he was busily aligning the engines to propel the airship’s kilometre-long bulk eastward. She watched his hairy hands dance on his workstation’s screen.

“All right, Mister Macaque.” She sat up straight, and tugged the hem of her tunic into place. “In your own time.”

The monkey hit a switch. A warning bell chimed over the intercom, followed by an announcement recorded in both Franglais and Russian. Down below, the delivery trucks, tenders and other vehicles had scattered from the runway to avoid the downdraught of the skyliner’s fifteen giant impellers.

“Here we go.” He dragged a fingertip down one side of the screen, and the bow tipped upward by twenty degrees. The airframe gave a series of creaks. A pen rolled from the navigator’s console and skittered across the deck until it clanged into the bridge’s rear wall. Victoria winced. She knew that in the gondola behind her—and in those hanging from the other four hulls—drinks would be spilling, plates would be sliding off tables, and people would be stumbling and tripping into each other.

Needs must
, she thought. One of their crew was in trouble, and that took priority over a few spilled gin and tonics.

The thrust kicked in, pushing her backwards in her seat. She’d never felt anything like it in all her time on the
Tereshkova
, and hadn’t thought the old airship capable of such acceleration. The monkey must have pushed all fifteen engines into the red. The whole ship seemed to judder, and she gripped the arms of her chair as the airfield fell away.

“Watch your speed,” Paul said nervously. Ack-Ack Macaque didn’t bother turning around.

“Screw the limits. What are they going to do, shoot us down over the city?” He touched a control and increased the thrust even further. Around them, the bulkheads moaned in protest, like the timbers of a galleon caught in a storm. The old airship rose, as if hoisted on the crest of a wave, and Victoria’s communication display lit up. The airfield’s control tower wanted to talk to her. She smiled, and dismissed their call. Inside, she felt a wild surge of pride. The
Tereshkova
was hers, and it was doing something unsuspected and spectacular—something that would further cement its reputation as a maverick in the skyliner community; a true individual in a company of rogues.

Silently, she offered up a prayer of thanks to the Commodore. Losing her ability to write, her career in journalism, and her husband had left her lost and rudderless, and it had taken the
Tereshkova
to rekindle her sense of purpose. She hoped that in whatever vodka-soaked afterlife the old man now found himself, he knew how thoroughly he’d saved her.

Beside her, Paul’s hologram stood stroking his chin, unaffected by the tilt of the deck. She poked a finger at him.

“You’d be able to fly like this, would you?”

His eyes were locked on the forward view, and she saw his Adam’s apple bob in his throat as he swallowed nervously.

“I don’t know. Maybe. If I really had to.”

“You think so?”

Wide eyes met her gaze over the tops of his spectacles.

“Perhaps.”

“Are you monitoring the internal cameras?”

“Yes. It’s a mess back there.”

“Any serious damage?”

“Nothing dreadful; mostly crockery and furniture falling over. A few bumps and bruises. Everything else is secured against turbulence. Except—” He bit his lower lip. “Oh dear, oh dear. Our furry friend’s going to be very upset.”

“Why, what is it?”

He glanced at the back of the monkey’s head, and then leant in close to whisper in her ear.

“It’s his Spitfire.”

“What about it?”

“It’s fallen off.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

IN THE CELLAR

T
HE DRUGS THEY’D
given K8 hadn’t knocked her completely out, just rendered her queasy and muddled. A whole bottle of vodka would have had a similar effect. She had vague, blurred impressions of being bundled out onto the
Tereshkova
’s flight deck and stuffed into a helicopter. Her legs hadn’t been working properly, and so the men in white had to support her by the elbows. Then it was all blue sky, white clouds and green countryside until they landed in a garden somewhere, and they led her into the cellar of a big old house, and threw her down onto a bare and filthy mattress.

She lay there for a long time, staring at the ceiling, trying to stop the room from spinning. Then she felt small, tentative hands shaking her by the shoulder, and turned her head (making the walls of the room swoop and sway even more sickeningly) to find herself looking into the concerned eyes of a girl about her own age.

“What...?”

The girl shrank back. A bruise darkened her cheek. Her eyes were wary.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

K8 tried to sit up; then put a hand to her head and groaned, waiting for the pain behind her eyes to recede.

“I’ve been drugged,” was all she could manage. The girl didn’t reply. Instead, she shambled over to a workbench by the door and came back clutching a metal canteen. She held it out and K8 took it, unstopped the lid, and sniffed.

“Water?”

The girl gave a nod. She had brown hair tied back in a long plait, and wore a grey t-shirt and a pair of combat trousers done out in the black, white and grey splodges of urban camouflage.

K8 took a sip from the canteen. The water inside was cool and tasted of aluminium. She rinsed it around the inside of her cheeks, and spat onto the floor.

“Who are you?” She wiped her mouth on her sleeve. “Where are we?”

The girl hugged herself.

“My name’s Lila.”

K8 frowned, and rubbed her forehead.

“You’re Marie’s daughter, right?”

“You know my mother?”

“Yeah, sort of. I heard her mention your name. Just now, before those freaks grabbed me.” With great effort, K8 pushed herself up into a sitting position and placed her feet on the floor. The room dipped and shuddered, but then seemed to steady itself, and she decided she’d better remain upright for the foreseeable future—at least, until she felt better. Tipping the canteen to her lips again, she swallowed a mouthful of water, and tried to take stock of her surroundings.

The cellar was about the same size as the passenger lounge on the
Tereshkova
, and illuminated by a single strip of light in the centre of the ceiling. It had obviously been used as a storeroom for many decades. Sagging, cobwebby boxes sat stacked against the back wall. She saw the handle of a tennis racquet protruding from one, and the moth-eaten arm of an old teddy bear sticking from the flap of another. Piles of decades-old newspapers sat clumped in string-tied bundles. Small screws and chips of wood littered the floor where they’d fallen. The air smelled of wood and mildew, and reminded her of the smell of the lock-up garage where her grandpa had kept his old car.

“Where are we?”

Lila took the canteen from her hands and refastened the stopper.

“I’m not sure.” She nervously brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “I mean, I’m pretty certain we’re still in England. All those newspapers are English, for a start. I’m just not sure
exactly
where in England we are.”

K8 thought about trying to stand, and decided against it. She wasn’t convinced her legs were ready to bear her weight.

“Have you been here long?”

“A couple of days.”

“Any idea what they want with us?”

“They’re using me as a hostage, to get to my father. Why they’d want you, I have no idea.” Lila crossed her arms. “I don’t even know who you are.”

‘Oh, sorry.” K8 rubbed her eyes, trying to force herself to feel more awake. “I’m K8.”

“Kate?”

“Aye, close enough. I’m from the
Tereshkova
. I’ve been looking after your father.”

Lila tensed.

“My father?”

“William Cole, the writer.”

“Oh.” The girl squeezed her hands together. She turned her head away. “He’s not really my father. It’s complicated. The last time I saw my real father, he was on his way to the
Tereshkova
, to intercept Cole.”

K8 felt a chill. “If you’re talking about ‘Bill’, he did.”

“How is he?”

She swallowed. She wasn’t in any fit state to be breaking bad news to a stranger. “I’m afraid he was shot.”

Lila’s hand flew to her throat. “He’s dead?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Lila’s gaze dropped to the floor. Her chest rose and fell. K8 looked away. She didn’t know what to do or say. She’d never been in this situation before.

Eventually, Lila looked up, and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

“You said you’d seen my mother?”

“Your mother came aboard last night. She asked Captain Valois for help in finding you.”

“And now you’ve found me.”

“Yeah, and a fat lot of good it does either of us.” K8 put her head in her hands and glared down at her feet. Her stomach made sharp complaining noises.

Lila was silent for a minute or so. Then, quietly, she said, “The Gestalt must have grabbed you because you were helping my mum.”

From somewhere far beyond the cellar walls, they heard a car approach and pull to a stop. Doors opened and slammed, and silence returned.

“No,” K8 said. “I don’t think that was it. They weren’t waiting for me; they were waiting for my friend. I think they were after him.”

“And they grabbed you by mistake?” Lila looked sceptical.

“He’d already refused to join their cult. He even slapped one of them around a bit. I think they were waiting for him, but when I arrived, I guess they improvised.”

“And now you think they’re using you as bait, the same way they’re using me?”

“Who knows?” She shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Do you think it will work?”

“Oh yes. He’ll come looking for me. You can bet your life on that.”

“And then you’ll both be caught.”

K8 smiled through the nausea. “You don’t know what he’s capable of.”

Lila rubbed her hands and blew into them. “Do you really think he’ll try to rescue you?”

“If anyone can, he will.”

“And he’s working with my mother?”

“I think we’re all on the same side now.”

Lila turned away. Her face was pale and drawn, and K8 could see that she didn’t want to let herself hope too much, or put too much faith in a rescue that might never come. After two days in this cellar, and who knew what mistreatment at the hands of the Gestalt, she must have given up all hope at least once; and so it was little wonder if she seemed wary of rekindling it—especially now, in the wake of K8’s devastating news.

“Well,” she said, her tone flat, “your friend had better be something special, because you have no idea what he’s up against.” She walked over to the door and absently rattled the handle, as if checking it was still locked.

K8 hawked and spat, trying to get the bitter, coppery taste of indigestion out of her mouth.

She said, “I don’t think a houseful of lunatics in white suits are going to put up much of a fight.”