Macaque Attack (15 page)

Beyond the far edge of the laboratory compound, a large military helicopter wallowed in the air, only a few hundred feet above the scrubby ground. Its twin rotors filled the night with a low, guttural throb. Was it looking for him? It didn’t seem to be executing any sort of obvious search pattern; in fact, it seemed to be wobbling around as if a fight were going on in its cockpit. He frowned at it in puzzlement, then turned his attention elsewhere, to more pressing matters. If the helicopter wasn’t an immediate threat, he didn’t have time to waste on it. He had better things to worry about.

The chainsaw had a leather strap, so he hooked it over his shoulder and slid the pistol into the waistband of his trousers. From where he stood, he could see the laboratory building that housed the portal that brought him here. It was the next building but one. To get there, he’d have to jump from this roof to the next—a gap of at least fifteen feet, over a drop of thirty.

To his right, a half-track troop carrier rumbled along the row of buildings, using a searchlight to peer into the alleys between.

Ah, fuck it. Sorry Apynja, but we both knew this was a suicide mission.

He backed up as far as he could. Then, when the searchlight had passed the alley he intended to jump, he took three grenades from his satchel and pulled their pins. An underarm toss sent them tumbling over the edge of the roof, towards the sound of the half-track’s engine. While they were still in the air, he started to run. His boots slapped on the corrugated roof. The gap ahead yawned like a chasm.

By the time he realised he wasn’t going to make it, he was already airborne. The alley between the buildings was simply too wide, the chainsaw too heavy.

“Fuuuuck!”

V
ICTORIA STOOD BRACED
in the doorway of the helicopter’s cockpit, holding Célestine’s pistol to the pilot’s head.

“Circle around,” she told him. “Set down at the end of the row.”

“Then what?” Paul asked. From her point of view, he was sitting in the vacant co-pilot’s chair.

“Then we find the monkey and attract his attention.”

“What if he shoots at us? If he sees a helicopter swooping at him, he’s bound to assume it’s hostile.”

Victoria pursed her lips.

“Look, I’m improvising. If you’ve got any better suggestions, don’t keep them to yourself.”

In front of her, the pilot, who could only hear her side of the conversation, cleared his throat.

“If there is going to be shooting,” he said in a strong French accent, “we could always activate the field generator.”

Victoria and Paul looked at him, then at each other.

“Do it,” Victoria said.

The man gave a shrug. “Only the Duchess can make it work.”

Victoria considered this. Then she pressed the pistol hard into his shoulder. “If I leave you here for a moment, you won’t try anything stupid?”

“
Non, Madame.
”

“Good boy.”

With a tired sigh, she went aft, back into the helicopter’s cargo hold. She’d left Lady Alyssa tied to the leg of the desk, but she wasn’t there now. A wind whipped though the hold, extinguishing the candles. Célestine had opened the cargo bay’s side hatch. She was a black figure framed against the night. Victoria whipped the gun up and squeezed off two shots, but Célestine had already gone, allowing herself to fall away into the wind, and Victoria wasn’t sure whether or not she’d been hit.

“
Putain!
” She kicked her boot against the deck in frustration, and marched over to the hatch. The noise of the rotors was deafening. Below, the roofs of the factories wheeled beneath them in the darkness—but of the Duchess, there was no sign.

A
CK-
A
CK
M
ACAQUE’S CHEST
hit the lip of the opposite roof with a crunch that blew the wind from his lungs. His knees smacked against the side of the warehouse. In a panic, his fingers scrabbled at the rusted metal roof.

Behind him, the half-track exploded.

He ended up hanging by one hand from a broken sheet of corrugated iron, his boots dangling over a thirty-foot drop, the chainsaw swinging on its strap from his shoulder. If one of the cyborgs saw him, he’d be a sitting duck.

Q: Why did the monkey fall off the roof?

A: He was shot.

With a snarl, he reached up and took hold of the gutter with his other hand. He couldn’t pull himself up. The iron pipe was cold and its edges sharp, and he simply didn’t have enough strength left in his arms. The breath heaved in his chest and, not for the first time, he began to regret his cigar habit.

If I get out of this,
he promised himself,
I’m going to take up jogging
.
I’m going to join a gym. I’m going to...

Oh, who am I kidding?

He kicked off his boots and let them fall. One after the other, they spun end-over-end to the muddy floor of the alley, landing with hollow thuds. If two hands weren’t enough, he’d try four. Using his tail as a counterbalance, he swung his feet up, and gripped the roof with his toes. His legs were stronger than his arms. Using them to bear most of his weight freed his hands to seek firmer purchase, and he was eventually able to heave himself up, out of danger.

He lay on the roof, cursing softly under his breath. Voices came from below. Another few seconds, and he would have been seen.

“Too close,” he muttered.

Overhead, the helicopter wheeled toward him; or at least, towards the car park at the end of the row of buildings. Light spilled from an open hatch in its side. A figure stood braced on the threshold, tall, thin and feminine. For a moment, it swayed. Then it fell, arms and legs spread out in a graceful swallow dive. Ack-Ack Macaque elbowed himself up into a sitting position. That was Célestine! What was the Duchess playing at? Was she trying to kill herself? He could see she was too low to use a parachute.

“Pavement pizza,” he muttered glumly, wondering how he’d ever get home without her to operate the portal.

Then, as the falling woman hurtled towards the cracked surface of the parking lot, two of the spindly cyborgs leapt ten metres into the air. They caught her between them and fell, cradling her in their interlocked arms. As they hit the ground, their carbon fibre legs flexed, absorbing the force of the impact and the weight of the woman they’d rescued. They set her feet gently onto the shattered tarmac of the car park, and stepped away, giving her space.

Watching the Duchess, apparently unharmed and dusting herself down, Ack-Ack Macaque felt his jaw drop open. He blinked his solitary eye. Célestine had been falling from a helicopter, and two of her cyborgs had
jumped up and caught her
.

“What the
fuck
?”

Beyond the barbed wire of the perimeter fence, massive vehicles were coming to life. Their engines growled and their weapons swung back and forth as if scenting the air. Fire and smoke belched from their chimneys. Tall, spindly figures raced toward them, climbing into their cabs or piling into hatches along their lengths. Célestine and her saviours followed at a brisk walk. Ahead, through the gloom, the metal arch had begun to glow brighter than ever. Blue sparks flickered like sprites amidst the metal latticework of its frame. The warped space at its centre swirled and sparkled like a whirlpool, throwing off shards of rainbow light.

It was another portal, Ack-Ack Macaque realised, and all these giant tanks were lining up to pass through it.

“Holy shitballs.” Even to his own ears, his laugh held an edge of panic. “It’s an invasion!”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

A VIEW OF THE RIVER

T
HE CROWD STOOD
in Parliament Square, solemnly contemplating Big Ben’s ruined tower. Rather than being rebuilt along with the rest of the Palace of Westminster, the scarred and shattered clock face had been repurposed as a permanent memorial to those who had died in the Gestalt attack. The pockmarked sides of the tower had been inscribed with the names of more than fifty thousand Commonwealth citizens, from more than a dozen countries, who had perished during that initial assault on the major cities of the world. As well as civilians, the names included those of politicians, civil servants, and members of His Majesty’s armed services.

Dressed in a ceremonial uniform, Merovech stood on a specially constructed stage and looked up at the tower. Today, it stood battered but proud against a backdrop of blue sky and high, white cloud. He wondered exactly where on its ornate surface Julie’s name had been carved. He hoped it was somewhere near the top, with a good view of the river.

Around him on the platform sat heads of state from most of the Commonwealth nations. Some had survived the tragedy; others had been elected in its wake. They were here, like him, to officially dedicate the monument. They all knew of his personal loss, of course, but had so far been either too polite or too reticent to mention it.

Is it time?

The thought surprised him. He’d spent the past three years pushing it to the back of his mind, smothering it with notions of duty and continuity; and yet here it came now, worming its way back.

When he’d first taken the throne, in the immediate aftermath of the battle in the English Channel, he’d done it to avert a nuclear war. He’d always meant to abdicate. He’d promised Julie that he would. But then the Gestalt invaded, and everything changed. He put aside his personal feelings for the good of his country and his Commonwealth, and loyally played the part his people expected; but he had never been of royal blood and bore no right to sit upon the throne. He wasn’t even sure he was entirely human. Now, with this dedication, could it finally be time to walk away, to announce his retirement and take himself off to a small cottage on a Greek island, somewhere far from the machinery of media and state? Today seemed as good a day as any. If the crowds and cameras were gathered here in order to draw a line under the catastrophic events of the recent past, then surely now would be the perfect time to put an end to his reign? He had served his people. None of them knew that he had no claim to the crown. He had served and he had suffered, and the people had taken him to their hearts. Surely they would understand and be sympathetic if he announced his wish to step down, on today of all days?

The cracked bell tolled in the damaged tower. He rose to his feet and walked to the microphone. Heads and cameras turned towards him. The upturned faces of the people packed into the square reminded him of a field of sunflowers, turning to greet the day. As they fell silent, he cleared his throat.

“Today,” he began, reading from the words projected by the autocue. They shimmered in the air before him like the delusions of a heat-stricken madman. “Today marks a most solemn anniversary. It is a time for remembrance but also a time for hope; a time to acknowledge our grief but also to give thanks for the peace and international cooperation that have followed in the wake of catastrophe. For now, nation stands shoulder to shoulder with nation, united. Our petty and dangerous squabbles have been put aside in the face of strange and graver threats, and in honour of those whom we come here today to remember.” He paused, conscious of the bell tower behind him. The words he was reading were his. He’d written them himself, yet still they died in his mouth. He couldn’t go on. His throat felt closed up and he couldn’t swallow properly. All he could think of was Julie: her face, her smell, the way her eyes would crinkle at the corners when she smiled.

Damn it all.

She’d want him to do it. She’d never wanted to be a queen or princess, but she’d gone along with the charade because he’d convinced her it was necessary. And it had been, at the time; at least, he’d thought so. He’d spent his life being trained to lead, and so who better than him to step in during a crisis? But with that crisis now over, how necessary was it for him to remain? He closed his eyes and sighed. The crowd was silent. They thought he was overcome with grief, and their sympathy stung him even as he was grateful for it. It made him feel like a fraud.

Time to go.

In his imagination, he’d rehearsed this moment a hundred times. Yet, now it was upon him, he couldn’t think of anything to say. The only words that came to mind were tumbled, nonsensical platitudes.

He watched one of the vast Gestalt dreadnoughts chug across the rooftops of the city, on its way to Heathrow. Following the Gestalt surrender, the hundred or so dreadnoughts that were still operational had been placed under joint international control. In a world still reeling back from the brink of World War III, no single country could be permitted sole control of such a fleet, and so the vast armoured airships, still operated by their Gestalt crews, had been organised into a defensive force, designed to combat incursions from other timelines. Thanks to Ack-Ack Macaque, Earth’s assailants had become its protectors.

Thinking of the monkey, Merovech looked down at his hands.

Why didn’t I go with them when I had the chance?
How different his life would have been if he and Julie had accepted Victoria Valois’ invitation to join the
Tereshkova
’s crew three years ago, in the wake of the so-called ‘Combat de la Manche.’ They could have travelled the world. Julie might still have been alive.

“I have to tell you something.” His voice faltered. The crowd’s wide eyes radiated commiseration and compassion. He gripped the sides of the lectern with his white-gloved hands and took a deep breath. His legs were shaking.

“I have to—”

He became aware of voices behind him, and glanced around. A number of the world leaders arrayed behind him were talking urgently into their phones, or listening to aides. Had they guessed what he was about to say? Even as he frowned at their interruption, he saw Amy Llewellyn shouldering her way towards him from the back of the stage. She had her security pass in one hand and carried a SincPhone in the other. Her dark brows were drawn together and her cheeks were ashen. Reaching him, she placed one of her hands across the microphone and raised herself on her toes to whisper in his ear.