Ack-Ack Macaque

Also by Gareth L. Powell

The Recollection

Silversands

The Last Reef

First published 2012 by Solaris

an imprint of Rebellion Publishing Ltd,

Riverside House, Osney Mead,

Oxford, OX2 0ES, UK

www.solarisbooks.com

ISBN: (epub) 978-1-84997-468-4

ISBN: (mobi) 978-1-84997-469-1

Copyright © Gareth L. Powell 2012

Cover by Jake Murray

The right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of he copyright owners.

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

For Edith and Rosie, with love.

In September 1956, France found herself facing economic difficulties at home and an escalating crisis in Suez. In desperation, the French Prime Minister came to London with an audacious proposition for Sir Anthony Eden: a political and economic union between the United Kingdom and France, with Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II as the new head of the French state.

Although Eden greeted the idea with scepticism, a resounding Anglo-French victory against Egypt persuaded his successor to accept and, despite disapproving noises from both Washington and Moscow, Harold Macmillan and Charles de Gaulle eventually signed the Declaration of Union on 29th November 1959, thereby laying the foundations for a wider European commonwealth.

And now, one hundred years have passed...

PART ONE

DIGITAL GHOSTS

Des hommes raisonnables? Des hommes détenteurs de la sagesse? Des hommes inspirés par l’esprit?... Non, ce n’est pas possible.

(Pierre Boulle,
La Planète des Singes
)

BREAKING NEWS

From
The European Standard
, online edition:

King Injured In Grenade Attack

Assailant targets royal motorcade

P
ARIS,
11 J
ULY
2058 – The King and the Duchess of Brittany have been injured by an explosion on the streets of Paris.

An air ambulance flew His Majesty King William V, ruler of the United Kingdom of Great Britain, France, Ireland and Norway, and Head of the United European Commonwealth, to a private hospital last night, where surgeons battled for three hours to save his life.

The royal couple were on their way to a formal reception at the Champs-Elysées Plaza Hotel, where they were due to announce plans for next year’s Unification Day celebrations, which will mark the centenary of the merger between France and Great Britain.

Eyewitness reports say that shots were fired as the royal motorcade turned onto the Champs-Elysées and a missile, possibly a rocket-propelled grenade, struck the royal limousine.

Following the explosion, police shot dead an unidentified assailant, who died at the scene.

The King and the Duchess were cut from the wreckage by emergency services and rushed to hospital by helicopter. In a statement issued this morning, Buckingham Palace confirmed that the King suffered a critical head injury, but is now resting comfortably after surgery to relieve pressure on his brain. It is not known if the King’s soul-catcher suffered any damage.

Her Grace Alyssa Célestine, The Duchess of Brittany, received treatment for minor injuries, and reportedly spent the night by her husband’s bedside.

This latest tragedy comes only a year after the King’s son was involved in a helicopter crash while serving in the South Atlantic. The prince survived his ordeal, but seven of his colleagues were not so fortunate.

Since news of the Paris attack broke, the Palace has been inundated with messages of sympathy and concern.

As speculation rises, no republican terror group has yet claimed responsibility and official sources have so far declined to comment.

The investigation continues.

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CHAPTER ONE

VICTORIA AT PADDINGTON

T
HE MOMENT
V
ICTORIA
Valois stepped down from the Heathrow train, she saw the detective waiting for her at the ticket barrier. He was there to escort her to her dead husband’s apartment. Slowly, she walked towards him. Fresh off the train, after her flight from Paris, she still wore the thick army surplus coat and heavy boots she’d pulled on that morning. As she walked, she could feel the retractable quarterstaff in her coat pocket bump against her thigh. She sniffed the air. Under different circumstances, it might have been nice to have been back in London. Paddington’s concourse smelled the way she remembered, of engine grease and fast food. Trains pulled in and out. Metal luggage trolleys rattled. Pigeons flapped under the glazed, wrought-iron roof.

She stopped in front of the barrier.

“I’m Valois.”

“Welcome to London, Miss Valois. I’m Detective Constable Simon Malhotra. We spoke on the phone.” He glanced behind her. “Do you need any help with your bags?”

Victoria shook her head.

“I haven’t brought any. I’m hoping this won’t take long.”

“Ah, of course.”

Outside the station, the pavements were slick with rain. He led her to his car and opened the passenger door.

“Shall we go straight there, or do you need to freshen up first?”

Victoria ducked into the proffered seat. The car was an old Citroën, its interior warm with the autumnal odours of cold coffee, damp clothes and cheap pine air freshener. A half-eaten croissant lay on the grimy dashboard, wrapped in a napkin. She wrinkled her nose.

“Let’s just get this over with, shall we?”

Malhotra closed the door and hurried around to the driver’s side.

“Okay.” He settled behind the wheel and loosened his tie. He pressed the ignition and Victoria heard the electric engine spin up, whining into life. The wipers clunked back and forth. The indicator light ticked, and Malhotra eased the car out into the late morning traffic.

Victoria let her head fall back against the headrest. As the skyliner ground its way across the Channel, she hadn’t bothered trying to sleep. The bunk in her cabin had remained undisturbed. She’d spent most of the night in a chair by the porthole, using her jacket as a blanket, watching the rain clump and slither on the glass, smudging the lights of the other gondolas; asking herself the same question, over and over again:
How could Paul possibly be dead?

Malhotra took them out onto Edgware Road, then south past Marble Arch, and onto Park Lane. The road and sky were as grey and wet as each other.

“So.” He glanced across at her as they passed the gaunt trees and black railings of Hyde Park. “Is this your first time in London?”

Victoria didn’t bother turning her head.

“I worked for three years as the London correspondent for
Le Monde
,” she said. “I met my husband here. He worked for Céleste Technologies. We moved to Paris when they offered him a position there.”