Hive Monkey (27 page)

Merovech had assured her that she wasn’t needed, that the RAF could handle things without the help of an unarmed and elderly skyliner; but she’d told him she was coming anyway, and he hadn’t tried to stop her. He knew as well as she did that there was nowhere else for her to be. Having come this far, she had to see the story through to its conclusion, even if it meant pitting herself against overwhelming odds; even if it meant dying in the attempt. With the whole world under threat, she had little to lose. She wouldn’t wait on the sidelines, passive and cowering. Better to go out kicking and screaming, she thought. If she had to die, she’d make sure the bastards remembered her.

Do not go gentle into that good night...

Well, duh.

The only thing that frightened her was the thought she might fall before the battle’s end, that she might never know the outcome—never know if her death had done more than simply buy the world a few moments of grace.

Behind her, the bridge lay deserted. With Ack-Ack Macaque currently AWOL, Paul was running the ship. All remaining passengers and non-essential members of the crew—including the navigator—had been put ashore, ferried down to the ground on the
Tereshkova
’s remaining helicopters. As far as she knew, the only flesh-and-blood people left aboard were a couple of engineers; half a dozen of her most trusted stewards; the writer, William Cole; his wife; and their daughter. With her arms and legs in traction, Marie couldn’t be moved, and Cole had nowhere else to go, refusing to leave her side. At least the girl, Lila, might be of some use. She’d fought the Gestalt before, on other parallels, and had some insights into their methods and tactics.

But how could Victoria best apply the girl’s expertise? Officially, the
Tereshkova
carried no ship-to-ship armaments. The 1978 Treaty of Bergerac, which enshrined the autonomy of skyliners in international law, expressly forbade them from carrying anything but the most defensive of weapons. She had half a dozen anti-aircraft missiles, a few flares, and that was about it. The monkey had taken the Commodore’s handheld missile launcher, and now only a few antique submachine guns remained in the airship’s armoury—enough to equip the six remaining stewards, but hardly enough to hold off a full-scale global invasion.

Gloomily, she contemplated the suburbs unrolling beneath her. The sun, now dipping towards late afternoon, threw the
Tereshkova
’s rectangular shadow ahead of it, and she watched it ripple across ring roads and roundabouts, tower blocks, industrial parks, and flooded gravel pits. Several kilometres to the southeast, she saw Heathrow. A few elderly jets lumbered around like pollen-drunk bees, staggering off on international runs to New York, Tokyo and Sydney. Above the cargo terminal, a couple of skyliners hung in the air like whale sharks looming over the surface of a reef, their torpedo-shaped bodies grey with distance and cloud-shadow. She thought she recognised one, but it was difficult to tell.

She could have used her neural implants to check their identities, but couldn’t be bothered. Some people obsessively collected sightings of individual skyliners, and each craft had its own online fan communities; but Victoria had never been one of them. She was happy enough to exchange pleasantries with a fellow captain if they passed each other during an ocean crossing, or found themselves in port at the same time, but she’d never really fallen for the whole ‘romance of the skies’ that so captivated the glorified train spotters posting photographs of the various ships on their forums. For her, the
Tereshkova
was a refuge. The Commodore had taken her aboard when her marriage to Paul collapsed, and the old gondolas, with their creaking walls and cramped cabins, had become her home. She liked the feeling of remoteness she got when looking down at the world from her porthole. Always moving, always in the same place. The scenery changed, but her immediate surroundings stayed comfortingly the same.

She heard a hiss as the intercom speakers switched themselves on.

“Uh, Vicky?” It was Paul’s voice. “We’ve got an intruder in the cargo area.”

“An intruder?” That was impossible. While she’d been resting, the stewards had searched the ship to ensure no one remained save those who were supposed to be aboard.

“It’s like they appeared from nowhere.”

“From another world, perhaps?”

“Exactly.”

She gripped the sword protruding from the scabbard at her hip.

“Where are they now?”

“Main forward cargo hold.”

Victoria glanced up at the ceiling. The main forward hold lay inside the central hull’s envelope, almost directly above the bridge.

“I’m on my way.”

S
WORD DRAWN, SHE
made her way aft to the companionway that led up into the body of the skyliner. With so few people on board, the ship felt echoing and empty, and somehow colder than usual. Her boots seemed to clang deafeningly on the cleated metal steps, and she became aware of the sound of her own breathing, and the insistent knocking of her heart.

At the top of the steps, she stepped off onto the walkway that ran the length of the central hull’s keel. Overhead, gasbags, platforms, and storage bays filled the vast space contained within the hull’s lightly armoured cylinder. After the warmth of the gondola, the unheated air felt sharp and fresh, tangy with the smells of cold metal and rubber, and alive with metallic squeaks and screeches, and the ever-present vibration of the engines. Sepia, mote-flecked sunlight filtered down from panels set into the airship’s upper surface, high above.

The forward cargo hold was a large room at the end of the walkway: an aluminium-walled compartment wadded into the point of the tapering bow, and accessed through a pair of double doors—one of which now hung ajar. It was mainly used for storage of passengers’ luggage. Larger items of cargo were accommodated in special bays in the outer hulls.

Although she could feel the chill around her, Victoria’s palm, where it gripped the sword, felt damp. She thought about using her gelware to squirt a mild sedative into her bloodstream to calm her nerves, but decided against it. As she didn’t know who or what she might be facing, it would probably be best to ‘stay frosty’, as the monkey often put it.

Sword held out in front, she crept her way forwards. She knew the stewards would be on their way, but couldn’t bring herself to wait. It was up to her to lead. She was the captain, after all, and this was her ship and her home, and therefore her responsibility. She cleared her throat.

“Okay,” she said. “I know you’re in there. Come on out.”

She tensed, but nothing happened. She heard something that might have been the deck creaking beneath the weight of someone moving, but no one replied, and nobody appeared in the doorway.

Carefully, she inched closer. The sword’s point wavered before her, ready to impale anyone who startled her.

“I know you’re there,” she said.

More sounds of movement came from within. Victoria stopped edging forwards, and dropped into a fighting stance. In the doorway, a middle-aged man stepped into the light. She saw thin grey hair and the ubiquitous white suit of a Gestalt drone.

“Hello, Captain.”

Victoria drew herself up.

“Mister Reynolds.”

Where Ack-Ack Macaque had hit him, the man had a split lip and a dark bruise around his mouth.

“How agreeable to see you again,” he said, smiling awkwardly around his injuries.

Victoria thrust her chin forward.

“How did you get back aboard?”

Slowly, Reynolds reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out something that looked like a SincPhone.

“We walk between worlds.”

Victoria held out her hand.

“Pass that to me.”

Reynolds shook his head.

“No, we don’t think so.”

She waggled the sword.

“May I remind you that I’m the one holding the big, pointy weapon?”

Reynolds’s hands enfolded the device. His smile remained unwavering.

“Even so, Captain, we will have to decline.”

Victoria thought about insisting that he hand it over, but then decided to switch tactics. From her years working as a journalist for
Le Monde
, she knew that a sudden change of subject could wrong-foot the tight-lipped, and get them to reveal more than they were intending.

“So, what were you doing in there?” She looked over his shoulder, into the darkness of the cargo hold.

Reynolds, who was still clutching his transport device, turned his head slightly, following her gaze. For a second, he hesitated, and she saw his smile falter; but by the time he turned back to face her, it had returned to full strength.

“I’m afraid we are the bearers of bad news,” he said, his voice dripping with false, honeyed regret.

“What have you done?” Victoria took a step closer, bringing the tip of the sword to within a foot of his face. He didn’t flinch. In fact, his blue eyes seemed to twinkle in the light sieving down from above.

“We have placed a bomb in your hold,” he said. “A very sophisticated bomb.”

Victoria drew back, her breathing fast and shallow.

“Get out of my way.”

Reynolds shook his head, and held up a hand.

“Some rules, Captain.” He brushed a speck of dust from his sleeve. “Our Leader is very keen to meet your macaque.”

“He’s not here.”

“We know. We also know that you still have the writer, William Cole.” The man’s smile broadened. “Hence, the bomb.”

Victoria ran her tongue across her lower lip. Her mouth was dry.

“You mentioned some rules?”

“Ah, yes.” He raised a finger. “Rule one. If this airship drops below three thousand feet, the bomb will go off.” Another finger. “If anyone tries to move the bomb or otherwise tamper with it, it will go off.” He raised a third and final finger. “And if Cole and the monkey aren’t delivered to us within the hour, it will most definitely go off.”

Victoria took a deep breath through her nose.

“And what if I keep you here? Are you going to set it off while you’re still on board?”

Still smiling, Reynolds shook his head.

“We’re afraid you can’t keep us, Captain.” He thumbed a button on the device. Blue sparks crackled along his arm and played across his body. “You are defeated, and now, we go to meet our Leader.”

“Yeah?” Victoria drew back her arm. “Then give him this message from me.”

Enveloped in flickering light, Reynolds raised a supercilious eyebrow. He thought he had all the winning cards.

“What message?”

“This one.” Victoria stabbed the sword forward, putting her entire weight behind it. The blade caught Reynolds in the waistcoat, midway between navel and ribcage. His mouth and eyes opened in outrage and surprise, and she rammed it home, up to the hilt. The fabric at the back of his jacket stuck out like a tent. Red blood soaked into white cloth like spilled wine on a restaurant table. Sparks crackled. Victoria snatched her hand back, leaving the sword in place.

Mouth gaping, hands pawing at the pommel, Reynolds shimmered once. His knees buckled. There was a bright blue flash, a burst of ozone, and he vanished.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

THIS TOWN AIN’T BIG ENOUGH

T
HE FIVE
S
PITFIRES
came in from the southwest, in a v-shaped formation. In the lead plane, hand wrapped around the throttle, Ack-Ack Macaque chewed nervously at an unlit cigar. The Fleet Air Arm Museum had been hosting five airworthy Spits in their hangars but, although he’d been able to scare up four pilots at short notice, none of them had any combat experience.

Ahead, through the armoured glass pane at the front of the cockpit’s perspex canopy, he saw the black and white zigzags painted on the
Tereshkova
’s five hulls. Annoyingly, his hopes that the museum kept a stock of live ammunition had been dashed, so his makeshift squadron would have to land on the old airship in order to load up with bullets from his personal stash. Between the five of them, they’d use up his entire stock.

That’s if the fucking guns even work,
he thought to himself with a snarl. He’d been assured that each and every one of the Browning machine guns on each of the Spitfires had been faithfully restored, and were therefore all in good working order; at least, theoretically. Whether they’d stand up to being fired in anger was another matter, and he half expected them all to either jam or explode as soon as their firing controls were depressed.

Still
, he thought,
I’ve done the best I can. They may be five museum pieces, and inexperienced pilots might be flying four of them, but surely they’re better than nothing?

Over a hundred years ago, the British had used these antique fighters to halt the Nazi advance and keep the Luftwaffe at bay. He gave the dashboard an affectionate pat. With a bit of luck, maybe the kites could work their magic a second time.

And anyway, what was there to lose?

He brought his plane around, lining up with the runway that ran diagonally across the backs of the airship’s hulls.

“It’s me,” he said into the radio. “I’m coming in.”

Who else would it be?
Paul’s voice spoke in his headphones.
Welcome home, monkey boy.

Beyond the
Tereshkova
’s bow, Ack-Ack Macaque saw the suburbs of London: leafy streets laid out in rows and crescents; red brick tower blocks; billboards; railway cuttings and embankments. From up here, it looked peaceful.

“Any sign of attack?”

Not yet. And no word from your evil self, either.

Strapped into his seat, Ack-Ack Macaque bristled.

“Hey, I thought I was my evil self.”

Paul laughed.

Sorry, dude. I guess you’re just going to have to face it. Like it or not, you’re one of the good guys now.

“Goddammit.”

He had the nose of his plane aligned with the runway. Because the
Tereshkova
was ploughing forwards at a respectable rate of knots, he would have to come in at an angle, using the rudder to keep himself on target. With his right hand, he toggled the lever that lowered the undercarriage. Behind him, the other four planes lined up like ducklings, ready to follow him down—ready to transform the
Tereshkova
from a passenger liner to an aircraft carrier.