Hive Monkey (32 page)

V
ICTORIA AND
L
ILA
made their way to an anti-aircraft turret near the bows. Paul’s car trundled after them. The installation had obviously been hit by one of the circling jets. The domed roof had been peppered with fist-sized holes, and the white-suited Neanderthal inside lay dead and mangled in his chair, thick blobs of glossy blood dripping onto the deck from the tips of his hairy fingers.

Behind his chair, a hatch opened onto a narrow companionway. The stairs led down into the interior of the airship. They were only wide enough for one of them to descend at a time, and were a lot steeper than those on the
Tereshkova
. As Victoria ducked under a low stanchion, she figured they must be have been designed to allow the gunner to reach his post, rather than as a means of general access to the roof.

With Lila in the lead, they crept down, ready to shoot or stab, and acutely aware that if only one member of the Gestalt caught sight of them, the whole of the hive mind would instantly know about it. Victoria had to carry Paul’s car under her arm. She felt a bit bad about letting the girl go first, but Lila was much better armed than she was, and handled the weapon with a respectful nonchalance that spoke of training and experience.

The companionway wound down through the ship in a spiral, eventually ending in a heavy oval hatch that would have looked more at home on a submarine than an airship.

Lila peeped through the porthole in the door.

“Corridor,” she whispered.

“Clear?”

“Two guards at the bow end.”

“What are they guarding?”

“Big brass door.”

“How are we going to get past without them seeing?”

“Can’t.”

“What, then?”

Lila pursed her lips. “Look, it’s big and brass, it’s at the bows and there are two guards. Whatever’s behind it has got to be important.”

With her left hand, Victoria gripped the handle of her fighting stick; with her right, she put the toy car down and reached into the pocket of her tunic.

“What’s that?” Lila asked.

“A tracking device.” Victoria thumbed the power button and waited for the screen to boot up. When it did, it showed a series of concentric green circles, which indicated distance in units of ten, fifty, and one hundred metres. A red direction arrow bobbled about. “I find it useful for keeping tabs on the monkey.”

“Does he know?”

Victoria shook her head. “Are you kidding? I got a vet to insert the microchip while he was passed out drunk, after we lost him for two days in Las Vegas. He doesn’t even know it’s there. If he ever finds out, he’s going to go berserk.”

She held the little device flat in the palm of her hand. The arrow swung back and forth, and then settled.

“Alive or dead,” she said, “he’s behind that door.”

“Right, then it’s decided.” Before Victoria could stop her, Lila pulled the hatch to the corridor open. Without stepping out, she leaned around the frame and fired twice, and then twice again. The shots echoed loudly in the steel-walled corridor. Victoria’s nostrils twitched to the familiar tang of gun smoke, and she heard the thuds of bodies hitting the deck.

Lila raised the pistol to her lips and blew.

“Okay,” she said, “the guards are down. But now every white suit on this ship knows we’re here.”

Victoria slipped the tracker back into her pocket, and grinned. She couldn’t help herself. Right now, they had nothing to lose. She felt liberated, and dangerous. She reached down and picked up the toy car.

“Then we’d better make this quick,” she said.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

PRIVATE JUNGLE

S
TEPPING OVER THE
bodies, they pushed through the brass door, into the potted forest. Victoria looked up at the overhanging fronds and the glass ceiling. The place had the warm compost smell of a greenhouse. A parakeet flapped from one tree to another, its plumage an impressionist dash of blue and yellow. Butterflies twitched hither and thither.

“C’est quoi?”

Lila was in the process of reloading her pistol, taking loose cartridges from her thigh pocket and snapping them into the magazine.

“Remember we’re dealing with a monkey,” she said. “This is probably his gym or something.”

“A jungle gym? On a Zeppelin?” She gave the girl a sideways squint. “Have you been here before?”

“No.” Lila touched the bruise on her cheek, and scowled. “I only saw the Leader once, but that was on the ground, at the mansion.” She pushed the last bullet into the magazine with her thumb, and snapped the whole thing back into the butt of the pistol. “Now, let’s be quiet. Those guards were protecting more than just a bunch of trees, you know.”

She moved off between the pots, and Victoria took a second to marvel at her. She was only a teenager, yet she talked with the assurance of a combat veteran. What kind of upbringing, what kind of
life
, had that poor kid endured?

She placed Paul’s car on the deck.

“Okay,” she said, “you can come out now.”

The car buzzed. The headlights flickered on and off, and it jumped forward half a wheel rotation. Then the projectors kicked in and Paul shimmered into apparent solidity amongst the ferns and creepers.

He used a finger and thumb to settle his glasses more firmly on his nose.

“Um,” he said, looking around. “Where are we?”

“The boss monkey’s private jungle.”

“Ah.”

Victoria shook her fighting stick out to its full length.

“Come on.”

Holding the staff in both hands, she picked her way into the foliage, and Paul trundled after her, his image seeming to glide above the leaf-strewn matting that covered the deck. It was very quiet beneath the trees. Even the roar of the jets and the clatter of gunfire from above seemed somehow muted. The trees rose from their pots like the pillars of a cathedral, their branches forming archways and overhead vaults.

Ahead, through the low-hanging ivies and lianas, she saw Lila crouched beside a particularly large pot, her back resting against the curved ceramic, her gun at the ready. Beyond, the vegetation thinned out, and she caught a glimpse of an open area, with grey sky beyond it. Lila waved at her to get down.

“There’s somebody out there,” she hissed.

“Where?” Victoria craned her head for a look. She saw an iron patio table and accompanying chairs, one of which was occupied by a slumped, skinny figure in jeans, with arms hanging loose, and short, carrot-coloured hair.

Oh,
merde
.

“K8?” Victoria ran forward. “K8, what happened? Where’s the Leader?”

The girl looked up at her and raised a trembling arm. Tea dripped from a spilled cup. A saucer lay in pieces on the floor.

“Over,” she whispered. “They went over.”

Victoria walked to the edge of the veranda. The entire nose cone of the airship had been glazed, like the cockpit of some art deco spaceship from a pulp magazine. A section of the bamboo rail had been broken. She stood at the edge and craned forward. Below, she could see the rooftops of central London, and, stretching back beneath the veranda, an unglazed area of shadow and machinery.

“Any sign?” Paul asked, wheeling up beside her.

Victoria shook her head.

“That has to be a fifty foot drop.” If Ack-Ack and the Leader had fallen from here, they hadn’t hit the glass, which meant they must be somewhere amongst the machinery. Victoria got down onto her hands and knees, and leant over as far as she dared. Far below, wires and cables covered the floor of the chamber. Computer servers stood like islands. Strange, archaic-looking pistons moved up and down. Fans turned. Lights blinked. Coolant steamed.

An iron ladder had been bolted to the far end of the veranda.

“You could climb down,” Paul suggested. “And make sure they’re dead.”

“Maybe in a minute.” Against such a drop, the ladder looked fragile and spindly. And besides, there were more important things to worry about first. Victoria turned back to K8. She walked over and crouched in front of her. “Are you hurt?”

Sweat glittered on K8’s forehead. She put a hand to the back of her skull, where her soul-catcher nestled beneath the skin.

“I’m plugged into the hive.”

“Shit.” Lila brought her pistol to bear. “So, they already know we’re here.”

K8 shook her head. “No. I’m blocking them. For now.” Her voice was hoarse. Her fists were hard little balls in her lap, the knuckles as white as bone. “But I don’t know how much longer I can keep it up.”

Victoria waved Lila’s gun away, and put a hand to K8’s freckled cheek.

“We’ll get you out of this,” she said.

The girl shook her head again, flinching away from the physical contact.

“I don’t think so, boss.” She gave the brittle, self-conscious smile of a little girl trying to be brave. “The stuff he put in my head’s getting stronger all the time. I don’t know how much longer I can fight it.”

A jet screamed past outside, and something exploded aft. They felt the deck quiver.

“We don’t have a lot of time,” Lila said. “If the monkey’s dead, we need to find the control room, and stop them dumping the agent.”

“Oh, I’m not dead.”

The voice came from the edge of the veranda. Victoria turned in time to see a hand appear at the top of the ladder, followed by a hairy head. A white-suited monkey clambered awkwardly over the bamboo rail and dropped to the wooden deck. Beneath the suit, he wore a bandolier across his chest, and a holster on each hip.

Lila raised her gun.

“No!” K8 lunged forward in her chair. “Don’t shoot him. Look at his eyes.”

Victoria frowned. His eyes?

Then realisation hit her.

“Mon dieu!” She lowered her sword, and put a hand on Lila’s gun, gently pushing it downwards.

“But—”

“His eye patch. It’s on the left.”

“So?”

“The Leader wears his on the right.” She turned to the monkey. “Isn’t that right, Ack-Ack?”

The macaque threw a floppy salute.

“Howdy, boss.” He straightened his tie.

“Nice threads.” Paul looked him up and down. “What happened to their owner?”

“I used him to break my fall.”

“He’s dead?”

“Very.”

“So, it’s over?” Lila asked hopefully.

Ack-Ack Macaque shrugged. “Not yet. The attack’s still under way.”

“How do we stop it?”

“Leave that to me.”

Victoria slid her sword into its scabbard.

“What are you going to do?”

Ack-Ack Macaque jabbed a leathery thumb in K8’s direction.

“Well,” he said. “First off, she and I need to convince the fuckwits in white that I’m their chief.”

“N
O, YOU CAN’T
do that.” Victoria was horrified. “I won’t let you.”

They had been arguing for several minutes.

“It’s the only way,” Ack-Ack Macaque assured her. “K8 can broadcast to the entire hive.”

“But it’ll destroy her.”

He reached into a silk-lined jacket pocket and pulled out a rather battered-looking cigar.

“We don’t have a choice. You understand that, don’t you, K8?”

“Yes, Skip.”

The girl’s hair was wet at the temples. Her face had become pale and drawn.

“No.” Victoria made a cutting motion with her hand. “She’s only seventeen, for God’s sake. You can’t ask her to do this.”

Ack-Ack Macaque lit up, and huffed the cigar into life. He took a heavy draw, and blew smoke at the butterflies flittering above his head.

“I don’t like it any better than you do. But she hasn’t got much choice. The way I see it, that muck in her head’s winning. It’s going to take her sooner or later, whatever we do. At least this way, she gets to save the world first.”

Paul scratched his beard thoughtfully.

“But if she opens herself to the hive,” he said, “won’t they be able to read her thoughts? Won’t they know it’s a trick?”

Ack-Ack Macaque curled his lip in irritation. He rolled the fat cigar between his fingers and thumb.

“Okay.” He stood over K8. “Can you do anything about that? Send sound and vision only, without the commentary?”

“I can try.”

“Good girl.”

He went to stand by the veranda’s rail, with the darkening November sky at his back. Somewhere far beyond the clouds, the sun had already set. Fuming, Victoria took Lila and Paul to watch from the treeline. K8 sat facing him.

“Ready?” he asked her.

“Yes, Skip.” There were tears in her eyes. He straightened his collar and smoothed back the hair on his cheeks and scalp. He had to look convincing to the Gestalt even if, inside, all he wanted was to murder every single last one of the motherfuckers.

How dare they put him in this position.

He bit back the rage, and dropped the half-smoked cigar over the rail.

“Right then, sweetheart,” he said gruffly. “Ready when you are.”

K8 swallowed.

“Goodbye, Skip.”

“Don’t say that.”

She sniffed.

“What should I say, then?”

For the first time, Ack-Ack Macaque felt a hot lump rise in the back of his throat.

“Be seeing you, kid.”

They held each other’s gaze for a long moment. They both knew this was it. Then, wiping her cheeks, K8 sat up straight. She closed her eyes. Her posture became stiffer and more formal, and the tension bled from her features. Her lips curled up in the same dreamy, vacant smile that he’d wanted to wipe from Reynold’s face.

By the time she reopened her eyes, she looked like a different girl.

The K8 he’d known was almost gone, and he didn’t have a lot of time.

Ack-Ack Macaque cleared his throat.

“L
ADIES AND GENTLEMEN
of the Gestalt,” he began. “Esteemed colleagues. It is I, your Leader, standing here on my flagship, over London. Apologies for not contacting you directly,” he tapped the side of his head, “but my connection has been damaged.”

Were they getting this? Did he sound convincing? The Leader had been a wordy bastard with a gob full of corporate waffle. Could he match that?

“I have something important to, um, tell you. And you’d better listen because otherwise I’ll... I mean... Look, attacking this world was a mistake.” He punched the fist of one hand into the palm of the other. “And the reason I’m speaking to you now is that I require you to stop it. Stop everything. Immediately. Like,
right now
, okay?”