Ack-Ack Macaque (34 page)

Okay
, she thought.
Time to get drastic.

Retreating back inside herself, she kicked her consciousness up into command mode and dialled all the settings as high as she could. Time stretched. The pummelling of fists and bodies slowed to an insistent jostling. She opened her eyes, and felt her heart buck in her ribcage as her adrenal glands came online, flooding her bloodstream with hysterical strength.

At least two hands held her right arm. She tugged it free and punched upward, towards the stars. Her knuckles clipped one man’s face, and buried themselves in the gut of another. She pulled back and struck again. And again. Voices cried in pain and indignation. Some of the weight pinning her eased. She squirmed a leg free and let fly a kick that lifted one of her attackers off the ground, sending him rolling and tumbling into the swimming pool. A sideways jab with her left elbow broke somebody’s nose. And then the survivors were scrambling to get away from her, leaving only the unconscious and unmoving to weigh her down. She struggled free and scrambled to her feet. At least one of her ribs was cracked. Her nose bled and her knuckles were a ragged mess, but she didn’t care. Terror and regret were safely confined to the biological section of her brain, their voices muffled like those of noisy neighbours, and quite separate from the rest of her thoughts. Locked into the artificial clarity of her operating system, all she felt was fierce exhilaration. Nuclear fire might pour from the heavens at any moment but, until it did, she wasn’t going to surrender to anybody. She’d been hurt enough. She’d been drugged, attacked and operated upon, and now it was her turn to fight back. At least thirty guys ringed her now. She didn’t stand a chance, and knew it; yet, somehow, it hardly mattered. She flexed her shoulders. The faces surrounding her betrayed fear and anger. Somewhere near the stage, Ack-Ack Macaque fought a similar battle of his own, against equally insurmountable odds.

As she glanced in that direction, she saw the plasma screen cut to static. A pulled plug or an electromagnetic pulse? Were the bombs falling on London already?

The Duchess stood in front of the screen, caught in the glare of the world’s media. She pointed a long finger into the crowd, shouting instructions no-one could hear.

Victoria looked back to the men around her. They were edging forward. She recognised a few from her days as a journalist: a scattering of minor politicians, a few media types, one or two millionaires. Some of them clutched broken chair legs; others held champagne bottles as improvised clubs. She turned around slowly, staring them each in the eye. Then she hawked, and spat bloody phlegm at their feet.

One of the men stepped forward. He was a good head and shoulders taller than her, and built like the proverbial brick shithouse. The arms of his tuxedo bulged with muscle. He had the shaven head and swollen neck of a professional boxer, and each and every one of his fingers sported a thick gold ring.

Here we go
, she thought.

But then, before he could get close enough to strike, the sky flashed, and heads turned. The light came from the west. Instinctively, Victoria flinched away, waiting for the heat and fire of a nuclear blast. But the shockwave never came, and when she raised her head again, she saw a spear of light rising into the night sky.

The rocket had launched.

All those stolen souls were on their way to Mars, and she could do nothing to stop them. Was there a copy of her aboard, or had Vic been the only one?

She didn’t have much time to consider the question, as no-neck turned his attention back to her, his lip curled in a sneer. Behind him, the rest of the mob flexed. His contempt of her made them brave. They were getting ready to rush her again and, this time, she wouldn’t be able to fight them all off.

This was it.

“Goodbye, Paul.”

She took up a defiant stance, bloodied knuckles raised and ready.

And something huge blocked out the stars.

The big guy didn’t see it: he had his back to it. He swung at her with a paw like a bag of pig’s trotters, and she ducked to the side. But by now, the others had seen what was coming, and they had started to run.

Victoria laughed at them. Where could they go? The
Tereshkova
was longer and wider than the
Maraldi
, and it was diving right at them. There could be no escape.

She stood and watched the crippled airship grow larger and larger, filling the oval of sky described by the rim of the arena. And then, just as she judged it was about to hit, she turned and threw herself full-length into the swimming pool.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

MONKEY-EX-MACHINA

T
HE CRASH WENT
on and on. Coming in at a relatively shallow angle, the
Tereshkova
pancaked onto the liner like a whale throwing itself onto a rock. The belly of the gondola scraped the upper surfaces of the ship, snapping off radar and communication antennae. The tops of the funnels crumpled, and the
Maraldi
heaved sideways, pushed almost completely over, before righting itself as the
Tereshkova
’s five sterns dropped into the sea and the noses came up, relieving some of the pressure on the liner’s superstructure.

Glass and debris rained into the arena. The water in the swimming pool sloshed back and forth, and Victoria had to fight to stay afloat. Struggling against the weight of her sodden clothes, she pushed through a floating morass of dead bodies and broken patio furniture. She reached the edge of the pool and hauled herself out. Water ran from her, and she collapsed onto the deck.

Overhead, the five hulls of the
Tereshkova
formed a roof to the arena. The hatches of the main gondola were flung open, and ropes thrown out. Then, before anyone on the
Maraldi
had time to react, white-jacketed stewards were sliding down, rifles and submachine guns from the Commodore’s armoury slung over their crisply-ironed shoulders.

Victoria lay on the deck, bleeding from a dozen separate wounds, and laughed.

“You mad old goat,” she said. “You crazy, stubborn, brilliant man.”

And then, he was there in person, coming down one of the ropes, hand-over-hand. She recognised his white hair and red sash, and the cutlass dangling from his belt. And there, behind him, was Merovech: the new king himself, sliding into battle with the troops.

In her eye, she saw Paul hovering over her, looking concerned.

“Vicky? Are you okay?”

She laughed again. “I’m fine. I’m going to hurt like hell tomorrow; but right now, I feel brilliant.”

“That’s the drugs talking.”

“Damn straight.”

She used her sleeve to wipe blood and snot from her nose, then sat up and pulled herself stiffly to her feet. The Commodore’s boots had touched down on the deck a short distance away, and she limped over to greet him.

The old man had his cutlass drawn, and was using it to direct his stewards, while barking orders in Russian. His yellow teeth gnashed beneath the white forest of his moustache.

“Be careful.” She squinted at the sword. “Or you’ll have somebody’s eye out with that.”

He turned to her. Despite the white hair and injured hip, he looked twenty years younger, and his eyes held a wild glint. He gripped her shoulder with his free hand. “Good to see you, girl.”

Her soaked clothes were dripping onto the deck. She looked at the stage. “Where’s Célestine?”

“The Duchess?” The Commodore scowled. From his belt, he pulled an automatic pistol. “Take this,” he said.

Victoria palmed the gun. It was heavier than she’d been expecting: a solid chunk of metal in her hand.

“Over there.” The Commodore waved the tip of his sword at the other side of the pool, where Merovech stalked in the direction of the stage, still clad in his ratty jeans and red hoodie, a black Uzi machine pistol clasped in his hands. “Follow him.”

With a piratical grin, he turned back to his men, who were fanning out across the arena, and waved his cutlass above his head.

“Keep going!” he bellowed. “Get to the bridge! Take that, and we take the ship!”

Victoria watched him go, dragging his bad leg behind him. Then she turned and made her way around the pool to intercept Merovech. He was moving at a trot, but slowed when he saw her coming.

“My mother?”

“She was on the stage. I didn’t see which way she went.”

“That’s okay. I know this ship. I know where she’ll be heading. Come on.”

With his hood thrown back and chin jutting forward, he strode to the rear of the arena, and Victoria did all she could to keep up. She’d never seen him look so determined or move with such a sense of unstoppable purpose. The raw cadet she’d once sat beside on a South Atlantic helicopter had gone, leaving a soldier in his place.

He led her along corridors and down several stairwells, always moving towards the stern.

“There’s a dock at the back of the ship. She’ll be trying to reach one of the speedboats.” He spared a glance for her injuries, looking at her cuts and scrapes, and the way she favoured her injured knee. “You don’t have to come. You can stay here if you need to.”

“No.” Victoria’s voice was firm. “I want to see this through to the end.”

Merovech looked as if he understood. “You still need to get the full story, don’t you?”

She gripped the pistol in her hand.

“There’s more to it than that.”

She followed him down another flight of stairs and out onto an open section of deck, running alongside a row of passenger cabins. The sea air felt cool and soothing on her skin, and she filled her lungs, relishing the dank overtones of salt and iodine.

They heard feet slapping on the deck behind them and turned. Ack-Ack Macaque joined them. He had been running. His eye patch had been ripped off. Clumps of fur were missing from around his face, and one of the sleeves of his leather flight jacket hung loose, where it had split along a seam.

He stopped and pulled a cigar from the jacket’s inner lining.

“Are you going after the Duchess?” Merovech gave a nod. The monkey jammed the cigar between his teeth and spoke around it. “Swell. I guess I’ll tag along with you, then.”

He pulled a cheap plastic lighter from his other pocket, and sucked the cigar into life, huffing out clouds of pungent blue smoke in the process.

Merovech looked from him to Victoria.

“Follow me,” he said.

T
HEY CAUGHT UP
with Duchess Alyssa at the top of the dock, on a gangway overlooking the water. Her progress had been hampered by her gown, and by the high heels that dangled from one hand. In her other hand, she carried a fire axe, which she must have torn from a corridor wall during her flight from the stage.

The dock behind and below her was an open area at the
Maraldi
’s stern, with berths for pleasure craft. At either end of the gangway on which she stood, stairs led down on to pontoons, to which the smaller vessels were moored.

Standing with her back to the rail, the Duchess dropped her shoes and took hold of the axe in both hands, ready to swing at the first person to step within reach.

“Don’t come any closer,” she warned.

Merovech levelled his Uzi at her.

“Put the axe down, mother.”

Duchess Alyssa laughed and tossed her hair. Her voice held a hysterical edge.

“Or what? Are you going to shoot me? Are you going to shoot your own mother?”

Merovech’s lip curled. “You’re not my mother.”

“Yes I am!” She let go of the axe with one hand and thumped her chest. “We’re the same flesh and blood. You came from me. I carried you in my womb. I gave birth to you.”

“But you were still going to kill him,” Victoria snapped.

Duchess Alyssa turned to her, lip curled.

“Oh, the reporter. How many times have we tried to kill you now?”

“Too many.”

She turned her attention to Ack-Ack Macaque. “And the monkey! How glorious. All my little birdies home at once.”

She took a fresh grip on the axe handle.

“Now,” she said. “Which of you wants it first?”

Merovech held his Uzi in both hands. His knuckles were white.

“You killed my father,” he said.

Duchess Alyssa gave a snort.

“He wasn’t your father.”

“You let me think he was!”

“So what? Are you going to arrest me? You’re not really the King, you know. Or has my baby gotten all ambitious, all of a sudden?”

Merovech adjusted his stance. “What you tried to do to me was monstrous. You would have killed me, erased my mind. But if my life has to be a lie, at least I can make it a lie of my choosing. And if I want to be king, I will be King.” He took a step towards her. “You might think I’m nothing more than a clone, mother. But I’m
your
clone. Do you expect me to be any less determined than you?”

Duchess Alyssa moved the axe from one shoulder to the other, like a batsman warming up at the crease, ready to deliver a devastating backhand swipe.

“All right,” she said. “Let me tell you how this is going to work. I have somewhere I need to be. You three are each going to take one step back and stay where you are until I reach the steps at the end of this gangway. I’m going to take one of the smaller boats.” She tapped a bare foot against the metal deck. “You can keep this one, for all the good it will do you.”

Victoria looked to Merovech. The young man didn’t move. Slowly, he raised the machine pistol so that the barrel pointed directly at his mother’s face.

“No,” he said. “Let me tell
you
how this works. You’re going to drop that axe and put your hands on your head. Then I’m going to march you back upstairs, and you can confess everything in front of the cameras, on live TV.”

The Duchess gave a pitying shake of her head. “You can’t stop me, Merovech. Look at you. All three of you. I’ve never seen such a sorry mess.”

“It’s over, mother.”

Duchess Célestine tossed her hair. “I’m afraid it’s very far from over. In fact, it’s just getting started. There’s a war coming, Merovech, and after that, things are going to be very different. The world will be a much better place.”