Hive Monkey (26 page)

“...fuelled and ready to go,” he was saying, “I’ll be with you in fifteen minutes, and I’ll need pilots for all of ’em.”

“Who’s he talking to?” Victoria asked, raising her voice over the noise.

Paul lowered the volume.

“The control tower at the Fleet Air Arm Museum,” he said.

Victoria frowned. “Don’t tell me...”

“Yeah,” Paul couldn’t keep still. “You remember those Spitfires they dug up in Burma a few years back?”

“Yes, I bought him one.”

“Well, they have a dozen currently under restoration at the museum and, according to its website, at least half of those are airworthy.”

“Holy crap.”

“Quite.” Paul slid his glasses back into place, and shook his head. A smile tickled his lips. “It seems our friend’s rounding up a posse.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

UTTERLY FUCKED

S
AT ON THE
wooden veranda, surrounded by the fetid air of the potted jungle, K8 began to feel feverish. At first, she put the sudden clamminess down to fear, but the warmth kept spreading. At the small of her back, sweat pooled and ran like condensation on a cold beer glass. Seeing her growing discomfort, the Leader grinned, and his sharp canines caught the light from the armoured windows at the airship’s nose.

“Are you quite sure you wouldn’t like a cup of tea?”

K8’s hands were trembling. She screwed them into little balls.

“Go to hell.”

The monkey rose to his feet and tugged at his cufflinks, first one, then the other.

“I can see,” he said, “that you’re going to prove an interesting addition to the group dynamic.”

K8 swallowed hard.

“I’d rather die.”

He looked down at her, head slightly to one side.

“Would you?” He sounded surprised, and almost disappointed. “Would you really?”

The shaking in her hands spread to her forearms and shoulders.

“You’re damn right I would.”

The monkey touched his chin with leathery fingers.

“Well, that won’t be necessary, I assure you.” Leaving her seated at the wrought iron table, he walked back over to the veranda’s rail and stood, looking out at the sky. Parrots and budgerigars flapped among the upper branches of the trees, little flits of colour against the drab battleship grey of the chamber’s roof. The Leader was a silhouette against the windows. K8’s nose itched and her eyes hurt. All of a sudden, the light from outside seemed uncomfortably bright.

“I’ll never join you.”

The Leader turned to her, but she couldn’t make out his features against the glare. She held up a hand to shade her eyes.

“It seems,” he said, “that you’re labouring under a misapprehension.”

“Dream on, pal.”

He smiled and shook his head, ran a paw back through his coiffured mane.

“Allow me to speak plainly.” He jabbed his index finger in her direction. “You have no choice in the matter. You will join us. You will become part of the collective.”

K8 coughed. Her eyes were watering, and her nose had begun to stream. She dug in her pocket for a screwed-up tissue.

“How can you be so sure?”

The Leader leant back against the rail. He tapped a finger to his lips.

“Because we’ve already ticked that box.”

K8 sniffed and hugged herself. The shakes were getting worse.

“You what?”

The monkey came back to the table and picked up the silver teapot.

“Do you recall the injection on the
Tereshkova
?” He opened the lid and sloshed the contents around. “Well, I’m very much afraid it contained more than simple sedatives.” He refilled his cup, but didn’t sit.

Through watery eyes, K8 glowered up at him.

“How long have I got?”

He looked at his watch. “You’ll feel under par for another few minutes, like you’re coming down with the flu.”

“And then?” K8’s fingers and toes felt cold. Her stomach growled like a frightened dog.

“Then all your questions will be answered.”

She felt a lump welling in her throat. She couldn’t attack the monkey; in her weakened state, he was far stronger than she was. Neither could she run. He’d catch her before she found her way through the potted trees; and, even if he didn’t, she’d never get past the guards waiting outside the brass door. If she wanted to escape, her only choice would be to throw herself over the edge of the veranda, into the depths of the airship, and hope the fall broke her neck.

It wasn’t much of a choice.

“Why me?”

The Leader reached for the milk jug, and stirred a little of the contents into his tea. Then he placed the teaspoon on the saucer beside his cup, and set the jug back where it had been.

“I’m sure you know the answer to that one.”

She closed her eyes. Of course she knew. He wasn’t the slightest bit interested in her as a person; she had no value to him beyond her worth as bait. She was simply a lure to entrap the Skipper. But, by the time Ack-Ack Macaque came for her—and she had no doubt whatsoever that he
would
come for her—she’d already be gone, claimed by the hive mind and sentenced to a zombified half-life as one of its drones. Even if by some miracle he got to her before the transformation was complete, he had no cure, no antidote with which to save her; and anyway, who knew what would be left of the world by then? If the Leader succeeded in dumping his plague, there’d be nowhere for them to go, nowhere to run. No way out.

She was, she admitted to herself with a sinking heart, utterly fucked.

“But, I thought—”

“I need you on board for this one, K8. It’s all about intelligence gathering; market research, if you like. If I’m going to persuade our mutual associate to join the winning team, I’m going to need to get a handle on his worldview. I need to find out what makes him tick, and so I’m going to need access to your memories and knowledge of him.” The Leader raised his drink. In his hairy, simian hands, the teacup looked absurdly dainty. “If he refuses to play ball, and it comes down to a fight, well then, who knows his weaknesses better that you, eh?”

K8 couldn’t reply. Her right eye socket felt as if a rusted spike had been driven into it. It was all she could do to stop herself from crying out. She ground her knuckles against her burning forehead, trying to rub away the pain.

“Don’t think of it as losing,” he said, looking down his nose at her. “Think of it as upgrading early, to avoid the rush.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

WHAT WOULD MENDELBLATT DO?

W
ILLIAM
C
OLE LINGERED
in the doorway of the
Tereshkova
’s infirmary, watching the woman in the bed. She hadn’t seen him yet. Her eyes were resting, and her auburn hair tumbled across the pillow like copper filigree. Her left arm and right ankle had both been plastered, and now hung suspended from a traction rig. Beneath the covers, her chest rose and fell, and its gentle rhythm brought tears to his eyes. As long as he could see it, he knew she lived.

Was there a word, he wondered, for what he felt? He’d never been so happy or so terrified; never felt so vulnerable or powerless. Over the past two days, he’d had his dead wife returned to him, and then almost lost her again. He’d become a husband and father on the brink of Armageddon, allowed only a fleeting moment of ephemeral happiness before the world fell apart.

It all seemed so damn unfair.

He thought of the old saying, that it was better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. Whoever came up with that had been an idiot. Two days ago, William would have probably welcomed the coming catastrophe, welcomed an end to loneliness and grief, and have quite happily thrown himself off the end of Portishead pier, into the sea with heavy rocks in his pockets, in order to escape the coming plague. But, as things stood now, he suddenly had something worth protecting, something worth living for. He had a family: two people he loved more dearly than he loved life itself, and no way to shield them from the coming horrors. He’d always known fate could play tricks, but he’d never expected it to be downright cruel. Losing his wife and daughter once nearly killed him. To lose them twice would be surely more than any man could be expected to bear.

Above the bed was a porthole, with blue November sky beyond. Leaning against the doorframe, he found himself remembering bright autumn days from his childhood: the front lawn of his parent’s house in Dayton; his father sorting Christmas lights in the garage, or tinkering with the petrol mower; his mother upstairs, running her stock trading business on a laptop in the spare bedroom, making video calls to New York, Tokyo and London. He remembered playing with the other kids in the neighbourhood; the sandpaper roughness of his father’s cheek, and the smell of oil and old cologne on his shirt; the clatter of his mother’s heels on the parquet floor; and the aroma of meatloaf from the kitchen.

Where, he wondered, had all that gone, and how could he have let something so precious slip away from him? That had been his family, his support, and his
home
. Right now, he’d give anything to hear his father’s voice, to lose himself in one of the old man’s bear hugs; but his father was dead, and his mother in a nursing home in Dayton, her mind already lost to the twisting confusions of advanced senility. However much he longed to go back, he never could, and never would. He wasn’t a child any more. He was a father himself, with a teenage daughter of his own, whom he’d only known for a few brief moments, and to whom he couldn’t offer anything like the stability or security shown to him by his own father.

The thought brought an irrational stab of shame, as if he’d failed in a sacred duty—failed Lila, Marie, and himself.

His cheeks burned, and he didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. They fidgeted like spiders, moving from beard to pockets, and back again.

When he opened his eyes, he found Marie watching him from the bed.

“William, what’s the matter? Is Lila—?”

“Lila’s fine.” He swallowed hard, and brushed his hair flat with his left hand.

“You saw her?”

“We talked.”

“And?”

He cleared his throat, wiped a hand across his eyes.

“She’s incredible.”

Marie smiled. “Yes, she is, isn’t she?”

He walked over to the bed and stood uncertainly. Should he pat her shoulder, or bend down and kiss her cheek? After a moment’s dithering, he settled for taking her hand.

“She wants to fight,” he said.

“So do I.” Marie looked at her suspended arm and leg. “But I can’t.”

“Shouldn’t we try to stop her?”

Marie shook her head. “No. Absolutely not. This is her choice.”

“But, aren’t you worried she might be killed?”

Her eyes widened in anger. “Of course I’m worried. But look what we’re up against. If we lose, that’ll be it, game over for good, and it won’t matter whether she was on the front lines or back here hiding under your bed.” She kicked at the covers with her good leg. “Personally, I’d rather see her dead than become one of them.”

William was aghast.

“How can you even say that?”

“Because I’ve seen what happens, okay? I’ve seen what they do to people. Men, women and children turned into drones, all traces of individuality banished by the machines in their heads.” She took a breath. “And so has Lila. She’s seen it all, and she knows exactly what we’re up against. She knows the odds and she knows the stakes, and if she wants to fight, there’s nothing you or I can do to stop her.”

“But the danger—”

“Danger’s relative. Sometimes it’s more dangerous to do nothing.” Frustrated, she tugged at the wires holding her damaged limbs in position. “And if it weren’t for these, I’d be right out there with her.”

“What about me?”

“If you want to help her, go with her.”

“What good would I be?”

Marie looked up at him.

“The Bill Cole I knew was a guerrilla fighter. What kind of man are you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then don’t you think it’s time you found out?”

“I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Of course you would. Seriously, William, don’t you remember your dreams, the ones you wrote down as stories? They weren’t dreams, they were memories. I don’t know how or why, but you’ve always been close to your alternate selves.”

“No, I don’t think—”

She slapped her palm against the covers.

“What was the name of that detective in your books?”

“Lincoln Mendelblatt.”

“Well, he’s you. Or at least, he’s a version of you. When you’re writing all that stuff about him, you’re really writing about yourself.”

William turned away from the bed. He could feel his cheeks going red.

“Bullshit.”

Marie caught his hand, and squeezed.

“It’s time to ask yourself,” she said, “what would Mendelblatt do?”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

STAY FROSTY

V
ICTORIA
V
ALOIS STOOD
on the
Tereshkova
’s bridge, at the front of the airship’s main gondola. She stood with her legs slightly apart and her hands clasped behind her back, at the edge of the windscreen, which sloped down from the ceiling and curved into the floor. It had been designed to afford the pilot and navigator an uninterrupted view of the sky and terrain ahead. The toes of her boots overlapped the join between glass and deck, and, looking down between them, she could see the ribbon of the motorway cutting through the countryside between Reading and Slough. Ahead, London lay beneath a towering mound of cumulus, the cloud’s shadow falling across the city’s glass towers and sprawling streets like the footprint of an alien mothership.

As they were riding into battle, she’d chosen to wear one of the Commodore’s more resplendent jackets: a red one with gold buttons and a silver scabbard on a white silk sash. She’d decided to leave her head bare, presenting her scars as an unashamed ‘fuck you’ to the world. Earned in combat, they were her medals—badges of suffering and survival, displayed now as an act of defiance, a warning to others and a reminder to herself.