Halfhead (6 page)

She doesn’t even know who she is.

Her stomach rumbles and she flinches, startled by the sound. It’s been six years since she’s felt anything as profound as hunger. She knows this because one of the city’s big, floating Scrubbers carries a flickering advert with today’s date.

Six years.

Six years since she’s been able to feel anything at all.

Hunger. Love. Anger. Pleasure. Revenge. Lust. Pain. Seven perfect words, much hotter than a mere ball of burning gas ninety-three-million miles away. Pretty words: shiny like the blade of a knife.

She drifts on, ignoring everything but the growing hollow in her belly, unable to do anything about it; she can’t feed herself, they saw to that on the operating table.

Six years of intravenous nourishment. Nil by mouth.

They took it all away…

But she’s going to get it back. Oh yes. She’s going to get it
all
back.

‘One, one-thousand—two, one-thousand—three, one-thousand: breathe.’ Private Dickson straddled Stein’s scorched body in the darkened drop bay, pumping away at his heart. Every time she said ‘breathe’ Private Rhodes pinched Stein’s nose
and blew into his mouth. Then they would wait for his lungs to deflate and the whole pattern would repeat again.

‘One, one-thousand—two, one-thousand—three, one-thousand: breathe.’

Sergeant Nairn was up to his armpits in the resuscitation unit mounted on the drop bay wall. Cables snaked out from it, lying in coils at his feet, little sparks fizzling away in the depths of the circuit boards, adding the smell of hot plastic to the harsh tang of burnt hair and burnt flesh.

‘One, one-thousand—two, one-thousand—three, one-thousand: breathe.’

Beaton sat on the mesh floor of her cubicle, head back, face pale, clutching her left wrist where it had caught the flat’s windowsill on the way out. She hadn’t taken her eyes off Stein since they’d laid him out on the central walkway like a fish for filleting.

‘One, one-thousand—two, one-thousand—three, one-thousand: breathe.’

Will lurched back along the walkway to where Private Floyd was slumped against the bulkhead. The drop bay was baking hot, but Floyd was shivering, his forehead glassy with cold sweat. The front of his battle dress glistened with blood, but at least his heart was still beating.

‘One, one-thousand—two, one-thousand—three, one-thousand: breathe.’

Will knelt in front of him and peeled away the sticky fabric surrounding the wound. When Sergeant Nairn said the trooper had been shot, Will had expected some sort of flesh wound, not a gaping hole. It looked as if someone had welded a dozen nails onto the business end of a sledgehammer and then pounded merry hell out of Floyd’s shoulder.

‘What on earth did you stand in front of? A truck?’

Floyd hissed a couple of short breaths through clenched teeth, then tried for a smile. ‘Think it was an old…old P-Seven-Fifty.’

‘One, one-thousand—two, one-thousand—three, one-thousand: breathe.’

Will dug into the small first-aid locker at the side of the cubicle and pulled out a handful of blockers. He snapped three of the small, plastic ampoules into the injured man’s neck, waiting for them to take effect before popping the cap off a tin of skinpaint.

‘How’s…how’s Stein?’

‘Something’s wrong with the crash kit: no oxygen, no EKG, no defib. Nothing.’ He gave the tin a shake, then sprayed thick, pink mist into the wound.

‘One, one-thousand—two, one-thousand—three, one-thousand: fucking
breathe
damn you!’

The paint bubbled where it touched raw flesh, sealing the ruptured veins, bridging the gap between the tattered muscles. It didn’t look very pretty, but at least it would hold Floyd’s shoulder together till they reached Glasgow Royal Infirmary.

The trooper blinked. ‘Woah…’ Then a broad, lazy smile stretched his face wide. Three blockers had probably been a bit much, but Will didn’t really care—and from the look of things, neither did Private Floyd.

‘You going to be OK?’

Floyd just beamed—so Will left him to it, lurching back up the drop bay.

‘One, one-thousand—two, one-thousand—three, one-thousand: breathe.’

‘What’s our ETA?’ Detective Sergeant Cameron stood holding onto the edges of her booth, staring down at Stein’s pale body. Trembling.

‘Two, maybe three minutes.’

She nodded. Cleared her throat.

‘How you doing?’

‘Is he…’ She took one hand off the railing and ran it across her soot-smeared cheek. ‘I don’t get it. I mean, one minute
it was all fine and the next it was…everywhere. We didn’t even
do
anything. They just…’ She shuddered.

Will gave her shoulder a squeeze. ‘You did OK back there.’

She wouldn’t look at him. ‘Is that what it’s like in the Network? Everyone wants to kill you?’

‘Look: why don’t you give Nairn a hand with the crash kit? You cracked that securilock in ten seconds flat, maybe you can get it going too.’

DS Cameron nodded. Wiped a hand across her eyes. Took a deep breath. Marched over to the tangled mass of wires and levered Sergeant Nairn out of the way.

One minute later she’d got the machinery working.

Two minutes after that, Private Richard Stein was dead.

The hours all melt into one another, slipping by, carrying her along with them. Sunset paints the horizon with violent red. The sky is bleeding just for her. One by one the city’s streetlights flicker on, a Mexican wave of sodium fireflies as the day slowly dies, their light giving the greasy city an unhealthy yellow pallor.

A garishly painted Roadhugger hisses to a halt beside her. She ignores it, just keeps trudging along the baked pavement. And then the voices start:

‘Jeeeesus, would you look at the state of it! That blood?’

‘Some bugger must’ve cut it. Disnae matter, just shove it in the back with the others.’

Rough hands grab her shoulders, but she’s too tired to resist. They haul open the back doors and bundle her into an empty bay. Then paw at her flesh.

‘Cannae see any wounds,’ says a man who looks like a ruptured pig. His face is fleshy and bloated, a thin fringe of hair outlining the uppermost of his many chins. ‘Think we should take it straight tae the hospital?’

‘Bugger that. Only got another six to pick up and then I’m
aff home for the night. Let them worry about it back at the depot.’

Pig-Man frowns. ‘There’s an awful lot of blood here Harry, what if someone’s chibbed it? What if it dies?’

‘If it dies, it dies. It’s just a fuckin’ halfhead! Who cares?’

Pig-Man is quiet for a moment, then he sniffs. ‘Yeah, suppose you’re right.’ He pulls the restraining bar down, clambers back out into the night, and slams the door. Then waves through the window at them, sharing a joke with his ugly friend as they walk back around to the cab.

The engine starts and she lurches against the bar, blinking. Light-headed. Hungry. Sharp and broken. Bees and broken glass.

She needs to take her medication. Or someone will—get—hurt.

Another lurch, and one of the halfheads stumbles. They’re all around her: freakish faces devoid of thought or emotion. The rancid smell of their sweat is everywhere. Bluebottles and dead birds. The one in the next bay is staring off into the middle distance, the barcode tattooed over its left eye fresh and sharp. A new convert to the ranks of the living dead.

She reaches up and touches her own forehead, trying to feel the tattoo she knows will be inked into her own skin. The colours faded, the edges blurred after all these years.

It holds the key to everything she is and was. It holds her name.

The Roadhugger grumbles from stop to stop, and each time the back door opens, Pig-Man pushes another halfhead into an empty compartment. It doesn’t seem to worry him that his cargo was human once. That they were shiny things with dreams and feelings. Because that doesn’t matter any more: their brains have been burned away. They’re just lumps of barely sentient meat to be used as slaves. Walking, mutilated, orange-boilersuited reminders that crime doesn’t pay.

Or rather, that getting
caught
doesn’t pay.

Caught by a man in a dark-blue suit, with a jagged scar on his face. The scar would be invisible after all these years, but the face would be the same. A little older. Maybe a little more grey in the hair…Would his screams still sound the same?

The Roadhugger stops outside a large, featureless, concrete building, then the vehicle slowly judders backward towards an open loading bay. Beeping.

She knows this place: she’s seen it every morning and every night for the last six years. A sign on the wall, in cheerful orange and blue, reads: ‘SERVICES, UNIT 47 EAST. H-HEADS: LOADING AND UNLOADING’.

They will clean her and feed her and give her a place to rest until morning. She is home.

There will be plenty of time for revenge later.

Drums pound in the darkness, like the heartbeat of something huge and hungry. Creeping down the pitch-black corridor, Sergeant William Hunter grits his teeth and keeps moving.

The carpet scritches and screltches beneath his feet, sticky with blood. He can’t see it, but he can smell it: hot copper and burnished iron. Every single floor is like this, shrouded in darkness and drenched in blood. Like a nightmare he can’t wake up from.

Cramp screams across his back again and he stops for a moment, gritting his teeth and swearing quietly. Private Alexander weighs a bloody ton and Will’s been carrying him around for long enough to resent every last ounce. He unclips the trooper’s harness and struggles the almost dead weight onto his other shoulder.

‘Bloody hell…’ his voice is barely a whisper, ‘…why did you have to be such a
fat bastard
?’

Private Alexander isn’t the only weight he’s carrying: the whole building’s pressing down on top of him, grinding him into the blood-soaked carpet. Making every step a battle. Add to that one empty Whomper—the battery as dead as the rest of the Dragonfly’s team—and Will has all the fun he can handle.

He fastens their harnesses together again, then pushes off the wall and staggers on in the dark: one hand held out in front of him, the other brushing the wall at his side.

Plastic doors bump beneath his fingertips, each one hiding its own horrible little story. A murdered family. A VR shrine to the building’s new digital god. A tattered corpse, mutilated and half eaten…

It’s been a day and a half since the Dragonfly crashed headfirst into this freak show, thirty-nine floors up, and so far the only people he’s seen have all been very, very dead…

He stops. Something has changed, but it takes him nearly a whole minute to figure out what: the drums are silent. The bloody things have been his constant companion for a day and a half, pounding away at him, and now they’re gone.

Thank God.

He slumps against the nearest wall and closes his eyes, enjoying the blissful peace. Could go to sleep now. Kick in the door to one of the flats, chuck the dead bodies out into the hall, and barricade himself inside. He sighs. Never going to happen. If he doesn’t get Private Alexander to a medic soon, he’s going to die.

Slowly Will pulls himself upright and forces his legs to move, carrying the trooper’s fat arse through the blackness.

The corridor seems to go on forever, stretching away into the dark. On and on and on.

Door, wall, door, wall, door, wall, door, wall, door, wall…

And then a rush of warm, foetid air brushes Will’s face.

He freezes. Then reaches out a hand. There’s a little metal lip, and then nothing. Lift shaft? There’s no sign of the actual lift, just that column of dank air, laced with the smell of machinery and grease.

‘Oh you wee
beauty
.’ He can feel the grin spreading.

The stairwells are too dangerous—blocked with piles of furniture, lit by flickering torches—but the lift shaft is another
matter. He double checks Fat Boy Alexander is securely strapped in place, then inches forwards until the floor comes to a sudden, terminal stop.

Holding on to the open elevator door with one hand, he reaches out into the void, searching along the lift shaft’s rough foamcrete walls for the maintenance ladder he knows is in there.

Climb down to the ground floor, break out through the front doors, and run like hell for freedom. Easy. No problem at all. Leave this dark, scary shitehole behind and go back to the real world, where people don’t mutilate themselves with kitchen knives.

The sound of drums explodes all around him and he flinches, stumbles, grabs at the wall, trying not to scream…He scrabbles back into the corridor, heart hammering faster than the deafening drums. He stands there, trembling for a moment, then wipes a hand across his eyes. Frowns. Blinks.

There’s a light, flickering weakly at the far end of the passageway.

It’s getting brighter.

Oh Jesus…

They’re coming.

Will sat bolt-upright in the middle of the bed, surrounded by clammy sheets, sweat running down his chest, heart pounding. He dragged in a couple of ragged breaths and swore.

Hadn’t had that nightmare for nearly four and a half years.

‘Lights.’ The controller bleeped, filling the apartment with dazzling brightness. ‘Argh…Down, down!’ They slowly faded to something less likely to burn his irises off.

Will slumped back on the bed and scowled at the ceiling.
Not
a good start to the day.

By the time he’d showered, dressed, and caught the shuttle into work, it was half past seven and the dream was gone.

Network Headquarters was enjoying the quiet lull before
the day shift kicked in. Services were delivering their daily consignment of halfheads, herding them through the squeaky corridors. Giving them their instructions in small, easy to understand words, then handing each a wheely-bucket full of cleaning supplies and leaving them to get on with it.

Sweep. Mop. Polish. Tidy. Dust.

One of the bigger halfheads bent to pick up a cloth and cleanblock from the bucket at its feet, then shambled over to polish the lift doors. What was left of its surgically truncated features was covered in spiral tattoos, a brand new patch of pink skin grafted onto its forehead with the barcode right in the middle. It looked vaguely ridiculous, but then that was the point. Will stood for a moment, waiting for the halfhead to finish, then decided that he’d really rather take the stairs.

Somehow the lift didn’t appeal today.

An hour and a half later his desktop terminal bleeped at him. Incoming call. Will scowled at the little camera mounted into the unit. The bloody thing had resisted all attempts at sabotage. He’d even tried sticky tape over the lens, but the halfhead who did the offices cleaned it away every time it came in to empty the bins.

Will stabbed the ‘receive’ button and barked, ‘Hunter,’ into the microphone.

‘Aye, very good.’
A familiar, podgy face filled the screen, one eye a milky ball of grey with little flashes of light going off inside it. The image was slightly distorted, stretched by the tiny wide-angle camera attached to the end of the caller’s fingerphone.
‘Nice haircut byraway, circus in town?’

Will ran a hand through his unruly locks, unable to stop the smile breaking out on his face.

‘Morning, Brian. Had a dream about you last night.’

‘Oh aye? Don’t tell James, he gets affa jealous.’

‘Don’t flatter yourself.’ He settled back in his chair. ‘How’s tricks?’

‘Lousy. The Munchkin From Hell keeps givin’ us cases Sherlock Holmes couldn’t fuckin’ solve.’

‘That’s because you’re her special little soldier.’

‘Aye, and my farts smell of rainbows.’
A scowl turned his features ugly.
‘Every time I see the old bag I get another impossible case.’
He shook his head.
‘She’s gettin’ her own back for what happened at the Christmas party. Did I tell you…’

Will listened to Brian rant for a while, nodding his head every now and then to pretend he was paying attention. Brian was wrong about Director Smith-Hamilton, yes she had it in for him, but her grudge went back a lot further than last Christmas.

‘What can I do for you Brian?’

‘Oh, right…It’s your new girl, DS Cameron.’
There was a squeaking noise and the background swooped past Brian’s head—probably swivelling his chair around—settling on a patchwork of old, two-dimensional photographs as he dropped his voice to a whisper,
‘She’s dodderin’ about this mornin’, looking like somethin’ the cat shat out. What the hell did you do to her yesterday?’

‘George found traces of VR syndrome in two bodies from Sherman House. Natives got restless when we went back to search the victim’s apartment.’

Brian blinked.
‘What do you mean, “when
we
went back”? You’re no tellin’ me you went with her!’

‘If it’s an outbreak of VR it’s out of Bluecoat jurisdiction. You know that.’

‘Sherman House…’
Brian’s face shuddered.
‘Jesus an’ the wee man. I mean, I find it hard enough and I was away with the fairies the whole time. Last time I bagged and tagged a set of Termies there thought I was going to pee myself…’
He trailed off.
‘You sure you’re OK?’

‘I lost Stein.’

‘Aw, Jesus.’
Sigh.
‘I’m sorry. Two in one week…’

Will changed the subject. ‘Anyway: DS Cameron?’

Brian’s round, pink face suddenly loomed on the screen, until Will was staring straight into one huge, magnified eye.
‘She doesn’t know I’m telling you this—and she’d probably throw a blue hairy if she found out—but she’s no doin’ as well as she’s kiddin’ on.’

Will nodded. He’d seen the look on her face when the mortuary techs wheeled Stein’s body away. The life of a Blue-coat wasn’t easy, but it was nothing compared to what the Network went up against every day.

‘Can you no’ get her to take some time off?’

‘Don’t know, Brian: she only started yesterday. If I send her home it’s going to look like I don’t think she’s up to the job.’

‘What’s more important? You lookin’ like a shite in a suit, or her being able to cope?’

‘Point taken.’

‘Knew you’d see sense.’
The image zoomed out again, showing off a big toothy grin.
‘Oh, and while I’m on, James wants to know if you’re free for dinner tonight?’

‘I don’t know if I can—’

‘Bollocks. My place: seven thirty. And bring a bottle of somethin’ drinkable this time, you tight-fisted bastard.’
There was a muffled sound from the room behind him and the picture jiggled around until Will was looking at DS Cameron. She was carrying two steaming mugs. Brian reached out and took one.
‘Thanks, that’s smashin’.’

‘Got you some biscuits too…’

Biscuits? First George, now Brian. Maybe she had a thing for strange little fat men?

Will shook his head. ‘I’ll let you know how I get on.’ He killed the link and went back to the paperwork.

The crime reports should have been interesting—high-tech transgression, murder, fraud, espionage, disappearances, kidnappings, hostile interventions—but somehow his team of agents always managed to make everything read like stereo
instructions. He waded through as many as he could before near-suicidal boredom set in.

He dumped the last two inches of cold tea from his mug in the nearest sickly pot plant and headed for the fourth floor.

There was no sign of Brian in the tiny office, but Detect ive Sergeant Jo Cameron was at her desk, grumbling away at something on her screen. Her hair was even more fashionable than before—the tightly-wound bun sitting at a bizarre angle to accommodate the new bald patch. The back of her neck was a swathe of fresh skinpaint, the shiny pink surface looking out of place against her caramel skin. But what
really
grabbed the attention was today’s suit. It hadn’t looked too bad on Brian’s fingerphone, but in person it was…hard to ignore. Bright blue with a narrow, luminous orange pinstripe, orange buttons, and orange lapels.

Will stared at her. ‘What would you have got if you’d won the bet?’

‘What?’ She swivelled her seat around. Her eyes were puffy and tight lines feathered out from the corners of her mouth, but other than that she looked as good as anyone could dressed as a plastic of Irn-Bru.

‘Came past to see how you were getting on.’

She pulled her face into a smile. It didn’t go anywhere near her eyes. ‘I’m feeling fine, sir.’

‘How’s the neck?’

‘Bit itchy…other than that…’ She shrugged, one hand going to that patch of artificial pink. ‘MO gave me some blockers.’

Will pushed the door closed, then perched on the edge of Brian’s pigsty desk.

‘You know,’ he said, picking his words carefully, ‘when we go into hot zones we put our lives on the line, and sometimes the stress…well, it can do a lot more damage than you’d think. If you don’t give yourself
time
, it can creep up and really sink it’s teeth in your arse. And if it
does that in the field, chances are you’re coming home in a plastic bag.’

DS Cameron’s brittle smile disappeared. ‘With all due respect,
sir
, I resent that. Just cos I’m a Bluecoat and a
woman
, doesn’t mean I’m going to fall apart the first time things get shitty!’

‘That’s not what I meant.’

‘Really?’ Her mouth turned down at the edges. ‘Well then, just what
did
you mean?’

‘I’ve been there, OK? I’ve done the whole therapy and counselling thing. And I’ve seen people playing it macho: refusing help. I’ve spoken at their funerals.’ He sighed. ‘Look, Jo, I’m just trying to make sure you’re not suffering in silence because you think the Network will think you’re weak if you don’t. I downloaded your file this morning: you’ve got the makings of a damn good agent, if you get the call. And if you don’t get yourself killed first.’

She blushed. Rubbed at her neck again. Stared at the carpet. ‘Thanks…’

Will nodded at the neat stack of printouts on her desk. ‘What they got you working on?’

‘Special Agent Alexander’s asked me to assist on a couple of cases. Burglary at Teretcor Engineering, about a dozen cases of Unauthorized Data Access at PowerCore.’

Will put on his innocent face and said nothing.

‘And,’ she pointed at a holo pinned to the board above her desk—an elderly couple sitting on a floral couch, grinning at nothing, their eyes like glittering beads of glass, ‘these very rich, very dead OAPs keep turning up. Big chunk of money missing from their bank accounts. Look like they’ve been stuffed…It’s bizarre.’

‘Yeah, that sounds like Brian’s caseload.’ Will checked his watch: half ten. ‘You got anything urgent on?’

‘Nothing that won’t wait.’

‘Come on then: if we’re lucky George has done something
with those severed heads. If we’re even luckier we’ll be in and out of there before he digs out his holiday snaps.’

‘Detective Sergeant Cameron! How nice to see you again!’ The plump pathologist slapped something purple and slimy onto a cutting slab, then wiped his hands down the front of his green apron. ‘What can I do for you this beautiful morning?’