“And you’ve aged.”
Her hand went to the back of her head. She felt suddenly, stupidly self-conscious. If this was going to be the last time she saw him, she realised, it would also be the last time he saw her, and she wished she’d had time to make more of an effort with her appearance. Not that he’d remember once she’d switched him off again, but still she couldn’t help feeling she should have done more to create a sense of occasion. After all, how many chances did one get to say goodbye forever to the love of their life?
“It’s over,” she said. “The invasion. Célestine’s dead.”
Paul’s face creased. He was obviously struggling to make sense of her words.
“Does that mean we can go home now?”
Victoria felt something stick at the back of her throat. “We are home, my love.”
He took off his glasses and looked towards the large window at the front of the gondola.
“We are?”
“Come and see.” She climbed to her feet and trudged over to the glass. He followed, the soles of his feet never less than a centimetre above the deck.
“Look,” she said, “that’s Paris over there on the horizon. You can see the skyliners over Orly Airport.”
He peered down his nose.
“If you say so.”
“This is where we came from, Paul. We’re back.” She put out a hand to touch his arm; stopped herself. “I just wanted you to know.”
Paul stroked his chin, squeezed his lower lip.
“I wanted to go home, to my apartment.” His voice was small and lost.
“That’s in London.”
“And we can go to London?”
“Of course we can. Just not right now.” She turned her back on the view, squaring up to him and gathering her resolve.
“Why not?”
“Because we need to talk.”
“That sounds serious.”
“I’m afraid it is.” She clapped her hands together and squeezed. “Je suis désolée.”
His eyes looked into hers, shifting nervously from one to the other.
“What is it?”
Victoria opened her mouth but nothing came out. Her throat had gone dry and the words wouldn’t form. She turned her face away and exhaled. She couldn’t seem to breathe properly.
“I’m afraid this is goodbye,” she croaked at last.
“Goodbye?” Paul frowned. He didn’t understand. “Where are you going?”
“I’m not going anywhere.” She waved her hands in a helpless gesture. “It’s you. I have to turn you off. I’ve got no choice.”
He shook his head and she saw the diamond stud twinkling in his ear.
“You’re pulling my plug?”
Victoria winced. If she was going to get through this, she had to be firm.
“You’re falling apart,” she said.
“So, what?” His eyes were wide, his expression alarmed. “Does that mean I get put down like an incontinent old dog?”
Victoria shook her head. This was hurting way more than she’d imagined. “It takes longer every time I switch you on,” she tried to explain, “and there’s less of you here each time. One day, I’m going to switch you on and you’ll be nothing but a drooling electronic vegetable—that’s if you even boot up at all.”
Paul’s mouth was a hard line. “I see.”
“I can’t do it, Paul.” Her eyes prickled. She felt her poise crumbling like wet sand. “I can’t go through that. I don’t want to see you reduced to such a state.”
“And what about what I want?”
She ran an agitated hand back across the top of her head. “I don’t know. It seems… kinder to say goodbye now.” She walked back to the command console, feeling his eyes on her the whole way.
“But I love you.”
Her vision blurred. “I love you too, and that’s why this is so hard for me. Believe me, this is the most difficult decision I’ve ever had to make.” She activated the touchpad that would cut off the power to his projector and confine him to an inactive file in the computer’s storage. All she had to do was tap the final command and he’d be gone—probably forever.
“We’ve been through so much.” His tone was pleading. She had to fight back tears.
“I know, and I’ll always treasure every moment.”
“But now you’re going to kill me?”
Victoria felt like weeping. “Don’t say it like that.”
“How else should I say it? I don’t want to die.”
A tear brimmed over her lower lid and dripped onto her cheek. She didn’t bother wiping it away.
“You died three years ago, Paul. You just haven’t stopped talking yet.”
Another tear fell, splashing onto the black glass console. Her finger hovered over the cut-off switch. Her hand shook.
“Please,” he said.
She bit her lip. “I’m sorry. Goodbye, Paul. Au revoir. I’ll always love you.” She looked up and their eyes met.
“Vicky, wait…”
She sniffed, fighting back sobs.
“What?”
He looked down at his feet for a long moment. When he looked back up, his expression had changed. He looked bemused. He frowned at her in puzzlement, as if trying to remember who she was.
“I’m terribly sorry,” he said. “What were you saying?”
Victoria swallowed back her grief. If she had to do this, it was better he was confused rather than terrified. She forced a watery smile. In her heart, she wanted him to be reassured, to be happy—and sometimes, ignorance really was bliss. She looked him in the eye.
“I was saying goodbye, my love.” Her finger touched the control and he disappeared. One instant he was there, blinking owlishly at her; the next, he was gone, switched off like a light, leaving only the tiny drone to mark where he had been standing.
VICTORIA STUMBLED FROM the bridge with tears cascading haphazardly down her face, falling onto her chest, and soaking into the fabric of her tunic. She didn’t care. She’d had enough of being strong. The grief she felt wasn’t grief for her husband, the flesh-and-blood man whose funeral she’d attended three years ago; the grief burning a hole in her heart right now was for the Paul who’d been her constant companion since that dark day—the electronic ghost who’d become something so much more than the sum of his parts; the back-up who’d ended up getting closer to her than anyone else ever had, or ever would. She was crying for him, and for herself. For with him gone, who did she have left? She had friends, yes, but who would love her; who would comfort her in the night, and stay up talking with her until the dawn? Paul had spent time literally living in her head. How would she, could she, ever be that close to anybody, ever again?
Heedless of her appearance or the worried stares of the monkeys she passed, she made her way topside, seeking fresh air, wide open spaces, and a fresh sense of perspective. However, as she stepped out onto the flight deck, her eyes fell on something she hadn’t been expecting to see. In the centre of the airship’s back, resting on three extended landing struts, sat the Ameline.
Two figures were walking towards her, clad in identical green fatigues. One was the woman from the transmission, Katherine Abdulov. She walked with a shotgun balanced on her hip. The other figure was… familiar.
“Cole?” Victoria’s heart leapt at the prospect of a friendly face, a sympathetic ear.
The man raised his eyebrows. “Pardon?”
She wiped her nose on the cuff of her tunic. This wasn’t her former comrade, the alcoholic sci-fi writer who’d helped her uncover the Gestalt conspiracy. This was merely another iteration of the same man—a stranger with a similar face.
“Sorry, love,” he said, scratching the side of his nose, his accent betraying traces of time spent in both Cardiff and London. “My name’s Ed.” He shrugged again. “Ed Rico.” A grin split his face and he pointed two fingers at her, miming a ray gun. “Take me to your leader.”
Katherine Abdulov elbowed him in the ribs. Then
they both frowned. Katherine stepped forward and placed a hand on Victoria’s shoulder.
“Why are you crying?” she asked.
SCIENCE NEWS
From Physics? Fuck Yeah! (online edition):
Is our Universe a hologram?
TOKYO 18/11/2062: Scientists in Japan claim to have found the clearest evidence yet that our universe—that’s you, me, and everything we can see and hear around us—is a hologram. If true, this breakthrough could be a vital stepping-stone on the path to reconciling Einstein’s theory of relativity with quantum physics, and paving the way for a so-called ‘Theory of Everything.’
According to calculations made by the team at Ibaraki University in Japan, the three dimensions we’re familiar with—length, breadth and depth—are illusions, and the universe is simply a projection of information encoded on a two-dimensional ‘cosmic horizon’ in the form of vibrating, one-dimensional ‘strings’.
Although it sounds complicated, the idea can be visualised by imagining a balloon full of smoke, with pictures drawn on the outside. When a light shines through the skin of the balloon, the pictures cast seemingly three-dimensional shadows through the smoke.
While the theory has been around for some years, this is the first time a team claims to have simulated the process in convincing detail, by using extra dimensions implied by the proven existence of multiple, co-existing timelines.
The next step will be to widen the idea to incorporate a fundamental theory of the structure of the multiverse. Whether or not that project is successful, or even possible, today’s news provides an important boost for string theory, which had rather fallen from fashion of late.
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CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
FOLLOWING ORDERS
AMY LLEWELLYN LOWERED herself into a sitting position on the bunk, back resting against the pillows.
“So,” she asked, “what are you going to tell the reporters?” Since the cessation of hostilities, news copters had been circling the dreadnoughts, desperate for a shot of the King.
Merovech unhooked the submachine gun from his shoulder and laid it on the side table. They were in one of the crew cabins, which he had requisitioned. The infirmary had been filled to overflowing with wounded, irate monkeys, so he’d only stopped there long enough to grab some dressings.
“I don’t see why I have to tell them anything.” He perched on the blanket beside her and used his finger to push a strand of hair from the gash in her forehead. “It doesn’t look too bad,” he said, squinting at it in the dim overhead light. He went to the cramped bathroom, tore off some toilet tissue, and moistened it under the tap.
“This may sting a little,” he warned, and began to lightly sponge the wound. During the scuffle on the bridge, she’d fallen and hit her head against a steel bulkhead. She’d been stunned by the blow, and there was no doubt she’d have a painful bruise. However, it appeared the cut wasn’t nearly as bad as he’d feared. Once he’d cleaned away the blood that had run down her face, the wound turned out to be little more than a deep graze.
“You have to tell them something,” she insisted. “You’re the King, for goodness’ sake. You shouldn’t be riding into battle.”
Merovech smiled with one side of his face. “I don’t see why not.” He opened the bag of supplies he’d lifted from the infirmary and emptied them onto the bed. “There are precedents, you know.” He peeled apart a dressing and pressed it to her head. “Now, hold this in place while I get some tape.”
She touched her fingertips to the bandage and he picked up a small roll of white surgical tape and some scissors, and used four short strips to fix the dressing securely to her skin. When he was done, he sat back to inspect his handiwork.
Amy cringed. “How do I look?”
“It’s a bit crooked, but you’ll be fine.”
She coughed and looked away, cheeks flushed. “I feel such an idiot.”
“There’s no need.”
“You’re too kind.” Her voice held a sarcastic edge. Irritably, she tried to stand. “But I’ve got work to do. Somebody’s got to sort out this mess.” She got upright and swayed, and Merovech caught her by the hands.
“There’s no hurry,” he said, supporting her. “Take a moment. You’ve had a bang to the head; you’re going to be a bit wobbly.”
Her fingers felt cold, so he blew on them. It seemed like a natural thing to do, but Amy snatched them away as if he’d bitten her.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing, I’m sorry.” Her face was flushed and she wouldn’t meet his eye. In the cramped cabin, they were standing face-to-face, almost touching.
“Did I do something inappropriate?”
“No.” She brushed a lock of hair behind her ear and straightened her jacket. “Not at all.”
“Then what is it?”
Amy rolled her eyes and tried to turn away, looking mortified. “Nothing, forget about it.” She brushed down the front of her suit. Her hand shook, and Merovech thought of his dead fiancée.
As a young prince, he had met his share of eligible society women. The royal matchmakers had tried to pair him with rich girls from all over the Commonwealth—the daughters of industrialists, presidents, oil barons and sultans—and yet none had fascinated and challenged him like Julie Girard. He’d loved her from their first meeting on the Paris metro. She’d been a breath of fresh air. The girls he was used to were all ambitious, would-be princesses. They were obsessed with gossip and horses, and dazzled by the glamour of the throne. Julie wasn’t anything like them. For a start, she favoured a republic. She believed in causes and direct action, and thought the world could be made a better place through protest. She was the most real person he’d ever met. She hadn’t cared for power, fame or prestige. The things that concerned her were honest, tangible things. Things he hadn’t considered until she showed them to him. Poverty, social justice, animal rights… She had opened his eyes to a world of inequality and injustice, and he’d planned to abdicate and spend the rest of his life with her, fighting for her causes.
Only, of course, things hadn’t worked out that way—and now here he was, standing in an airship’s cabin with a girl from Wales, feeling emotions he couldn’t name. He missed Julie so much that her absence had become a physical need. His skin cringed at the lack of her touch; his lips were raw where he’d been nervously dragging them over his teeth, missing her kiss. He hadn’t let go, hadn’t grieved. He’d kept everything bottled up inside so he could do his duty to his country and Commonwealth.
And now…
Now, he just wanted to be held. He wanted to rest his head on Amy’s shoulder and feel her arms around him. He wasn’t in love with her (at least, he told himself he wasn’t). He had no family, no close friends. She was the nearest he had to either, and he wanted her to stroke the back of his neck and whisper comforts to him as he wept into the fabric of her jacket.
It felt right. She felt right.
He coughed and looked at his feet.
“Amy, listen—” He wasn’t sure exactly what he was going to say, but it didn’t matter. Before he could continue, K8 knocked smartly on the open cabin door.
“Hey, Your Majesty.” She looked curiously from Merovech to Amy. “Not interrupting anything, am I?”
Merovech gave a silent, exasperated curse.
“What do you want?”
The girl raised an eyebrow at his aggrieved tone. She jerked her thumb at the low metal ceiling.
“We’ve got a couple of visitors upstairs you really
need to meet.”
ACK-ACK MACAQUE SHUFFLED across the field. He was bone tired and his jacket hung in ribbons. A pistol dangled from one hand, the recovered chainsaw from the other. Around him lay the remains of the Leviathans. Some of the wrecks had been cut in two; others had been diced into fat metal cubes with drippy-looking melted edges. A couple of the tanks were on fire, and their smoke stained the autumn air, hanging thick and languid across the battlefield.
A damaged cyborg clawed its way across the turf. Its legs were missing and it was using one arm to pull itself forward while the other brandished a fat machine gun. Ack-Ack Macaque walked up behind it and pressed the chainsaw to the wrist of the hand holding the weapon. Sparks flew and there was a noise like someone feeding a set of steel railings into a wood chipper. He felt the vibration rattle his teeth. Then the hand fell to the earth and the chrome fingers writhed in the dirt like the tentacles of a beached sea creature.
“Where do you think you’re going, eh?” He reached down and flipped the cyborg onto its back. Part of its face had been torn away, exposing the wires and circuits beneath the stretched skin and dull armour.
“Please,” it whispered through its mangled mouth, “please, I don’t want to die.”
Ack-Ack Macaque’s lip curled. “You start a war, sunshine, you have to be prepared to lose it.”
“No.”
The monkey frowned. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”
“It wasn’t me. I didn’t want any of this.” The thing was begging for its life. Ack-Ack Macaque pocketed his revolver and rubbed his eye patch.
“Were you on one of those tanks?” he asked.
“Yes…”
“Then you’re the enemy.” He took a firm grip on the chainsaw.
Macaque Attack! Page 24
