Yes, it would be good to kick back and have some laughs. It was Friday night, after all.
WILLIAM COLE WONDERED what his next move should be.
Here he was, in a cabin with a dead body—a body with a face that clearly resembled his own. How could he explain what had happened? Who in their right mind would believe such a story? He was only here on Captain Valois’s sufferance. What would she say if he came to her with this? His mind raced. Was there any way he could dispose of the body? Or should he leave it here, and try to disappear himself?
His earlier tiredness had gone, washed away by adrenalin.
He shuffled forward on the bed and, placing the gun on the covers beside him, reached out a hand to touch Bill’s still-warm cheek. Even close-up, the resemblance was striking. The hair might be shorter and the beard tidier and more neatly trimmed, but this was definitely the face William saw every morning in the mirror above his bathroom sink.
He took a deep breath and tried to stop his hands from trembling. Apart from the ugly guy in the car this morning, he’d never seen anybody actually die before—and to see ‘himself’ do it filled him with nauseous revulsion. He hadn’t even been there when Marie went. When she’d finally slipped away, he’d been outside, in the hospital corridor, taking a call from his agent. By the time the nurse found him and brought him back into the room, it had been too late.
Find Marie, the man had said. But what did that mean? How could he find her? He’d scattered her ashes on their favourite beach, in accordance with what he thought her dying wishes might have been. She was one now with the sand, the wind and waves. How could she possibly help him?
And yet…
If Bill had been William’s double, did that mean— dare he hope—that there could be another Marie out there? Was his wife’s doppelganger walking around somewhere? If so, he had no idea how to find her.
He took another long, deep breath, trying to calm himself. He couldn’t stop opening and closing his hands. They fluttered like startled birds. Before he did anything else, he had to decide where he was going to go when he left this room. The gun lay on the blanket next to him. He picked it up and turned it over and over. He could smell the sooty oil used to lubricate its mechanism. He had a weapon now. The thought made him feel better. He had no idea how ‘Bill’ had smuggled the pistol on board, but that didn’t matter right now. The important thing was that he wasn’t defenceless any more.
But where was he going to go?
He tried to analyse the situation as calmly and rationally as he could, as if working out the plot for one of his novels. On balance, the Tereshkova still seemed like his best bet. It was a self-contained state, with limited access; but if he wanted to stay here, he’d have to find a way to explain the body.
So be it, he thought, pulse racing. He had a weapon. What he needed now were allies.
BREAKING NEWS
From The South West Messenger, online edition:
Police Try to Trace Missing Writer
Police in Somerset are trying to trace the whereabouts of reclusive science fiction author, William Cole. Cole, whose works include the ‘Lincoln Mendelblatt’ novels, disappeared from his home this morning, following an explosion in the street outside his apartment block. Eyewitnesses say that shots were fired before the explosion, possibly at Mister Cole, and police are very concerned for his safety.
Cole, aged 44, is known to have past convictions for the possession and use of controlled narcotics, and a history of depression, and police are appealing to members of the public to get in touch if they can shed any light on his whereabouts.
Cole, who is often compared to Philip K. Dick and H.P. Lovecraft, first came to public attention when a damning review of his debut novel, Better Angels, went viral on the Internet. Since then, two sequels have followed—Die Robot (2058) and The Collective (2060).
Speaking at a hastily convened press conference in London, Cole’s agent, Max Morrison, said, “I spoke to Will this morning, just prior to the attack. He was in good spirits, and working hard on his next book, the fourth in the Mendelblatt series.”
Online, fans have speculated that the author’s disappearance could be a media stunt, designed to promote his forthcoming novel, A Thousand City Whispers. However, when asked if he had a message for William Cole, Morrison simply said, “We’re all worried about you, buddy. If you’re listening to this, I want you to get your act together and call me, okay? We’ve got important things to do, and time’s getting tight.”
Police are urging anyone with information concerning the author’s whereabouts to come forward as soon as possible.
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CHAPTER SIX
DON'T FUCKING MOVE
VICTORIA DECIDED SHE was too tired to accompany him into town, so they agreed to have a quick drink in the Tereshkova’s passenger lounge. They took a corner table, and Victoria signalled one of the whitegloved stewards.
“An Amstel for me, and rum for the monkey.” The steward bowed. Like most of the airship’s staff, he was Russian. The Commodore, a former pilot and cosmonaut in the Russian air force, had preferred to hire his own countrymen.
The steward turned to Ack-Ack Macaque. “Single or double rum, sir?”
Ack-Ack Macaque grinned around the cigar in his teeth.
“Bottle.”
“Very good, sir.”
This early in the evening, few people were in the lounge. Victoria knew that most of the transatlantic passengers had already disembarked. They would complete their journeys by fast trains to London, Manchester, or Edinburgh. The remaining passengers, who intended to stay with the airship for her onward journey to London and Paris, had also mostly gone ashore for the evening, glad to be back on terra firma after three days in the air, ready to sample the nightlife and historic tourist attractions of Bristol and Bath.
When the steward had fetched their drinks, set them down, and withdrawn, she leant across the table.
“Are you all right, now?”
The monkey glanced at her with his one good eye. In the light of the art deco electric wall lamps, his fur had a rough, bronzed sheen.
“I’ve been better.”
Victoria wiped her thumb across the condensation on the neck of her beer bottle. She couldn’t read the label, but she could recognise the maker’s logo by its colours and shape.
“Would you care to elaborate?”
On the other side of the table, Ack-Ack Macaque unscrewed the cap of the rum bottle and, ignoring the glass the steward had brought, took a hefty glug from the neck. He smacked his lips, and replaced the cigar.
“Not particularly.”
“Was it something he said?”
“Who, Reynolds?”
“Of course, Reynolds.”
The monkey made a face and hunched over the table. His leather jacket creaked. “You know what they say: It takes a hundred and forty-three muscles to frown, but only fifty-two to grab somebody by the lapels and bite their face off.”
Victoria wasn’t amused.
“There’s been too much violence on this ship. If you want me to carry on trusting you, you can’t lash out like that.”
Ack-Ack Macaque drummed his fingers on the side of the rum bottle.
“It was everything he said. Especially all that stuff about being alone.” He ran
a fingertip around the rim. “It got to me.”
“But, you’re not alone. You have K8. You have a place here.” She reached out a hand. “You have me.”
“I know.” Ack-Ack Macaque scowled. “But it’s not easy being the only talking monkey in the world.”
“You feel like a freak?”
He gave a shaggy shake of the head. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Victoria felt her cheeks colour. She tapped the ridge of scar tissue at her temple. The surgery to repair the damage to her brain had been extensive and life saving; but it had left her bald and scarred— an oddity.
“Oh, really?”
She saw him glance at her scalp, then back down to the bottle in his paw.
“Sorry, boss.”
She gave a shrug. In truth, she knew how he felt. She used to feel the exact same way when passengers tried not to stare at her. For a while, it had bothered her; but last year’s unpleasantness had given her confidence, and a certain notoriety, and now she no longer cared what anyone thought of the way she looked.
She accepted his apology with a gracious nod.
“C’est rien.” Her beer was cold and sharp, just the way she liked it. She savoured the bubbles on her tongue before swallowing.
The sad truth was, the camaraderie she shared with Ack-Ack Macaque was about the closest thing she had to a relationship with an actual, physical being. She had Paul, of course, but, however much she loved him, he was still just a face on a screen, or a tiny hologram on her desk. The monkey was, tragically, the nearest thing she had to a living, breathing friend.
“You know,” she said, “I don’t trust them, either.”
His eye swivelled up to meet hers.
“The Gestalt?”
“There’s something about them.” She thought of Reynolds, and wondered how many minds had been peering at her from behind the man’s mild, cornflower-blue eyes. “They freak me out.”
Across the table, Ack-Ack Macaque took another hit of rum. She gave him a long, thoughtful look.
“I wonder why he wanted you,” she said. “In particular, I mean. After all, I’ve got nearly as much gelware in my head as you do, and yet he didn’t even ask me.”
“Feeling left out?”
“Hardly.” Her thumbnail worried the edge of the beer bottle’s label. “But doesn’t it strike you as odd?”
“Everything they do’s fucking odd.”
She dipped her heard, conceding his point. “Still, there’s something about it that doesn’t ring true. Something that tells me he wanted to do more than simply recruit you.”
Ack-Ack Macaque regarded her from beneath a lowered brow. “Your journalist instincts acting up again, boss?”
Victoria smiled. “Something like that.”
Ack-Ack Macaque ground out the butt of his cigar, then fumbled in his jacket pocket and pulled out another. “I thought as much.” He put the fresh cigar into his mouth, but didn’t light it. “Don’t go digging around on my behalf. I couldn’t give a damn what they want.” He grinned. “I’m just glad I slapped the silly sod when I had the chance.” He stretched in his seat. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, boss, I’m going out for the evening.”
Victoria sat back with a sigh. Her curiosity would have to wait. She peeled off the label and screwed it into a ball.
“Are you going anywhere nice?”
“I hope not.” He gave a toothy grin. “Are you sure you don’t want to come?”
“Quite sure, thank you.”
Victoria watched as Ack-Ack Macaque got to his feet, with the cigar clamped in his jaw and the bottle dangling from his fingers. This is my life, she thought: an uplifted monkey, an electronic exhusband, a teenage hacker and me; four wretched creatures drawn together because we have nowhere else to go; because we’re all artificial, made things— with patched-up souls, and cortices covered with other people’s grubby fingerprints. Maybe that’s why the Gestalt frightens us so much: because, instead of feeling incomplete and ashamed, they embrace their artificiality. They make it a central part of themselves. And they want to help us.
With a flick of her finger, she sent the screwed-up label skittering across the table.
“Well, have a good time, won’t you?”
Ack-Ack Macaque caught the paper ball and dropped it into his unused glass.
“I’ll give it a try.”
A shout came from the corridor behind him. Victoria looked over, just in time to see a figure burst into the room—a wild-haired, bearded man in a white t-shirt and saggy pyjama bottoms, with pale, gooseflesh arms, and a gun clenched in his fist.
Oh hell, Cole.
The gelware processors in Victoria’s head kicked into combat mode, pumping adrenalin into her system and ramping up the speed of her thoughts. The chair went flying behind her, and her fingers curled around the neck of the beer bottle, ready to hurl it. At the same time, in her peripheral vision, she saw Ack-Ack Macaque throw himself sideways across the lounge, dragging his huge silver Colts from their holsters. By the time the Cole staggered to a halt a few paces inside the door, he found himself facing a woman and a snarling monkey, both pointing weapons at him, and both poised to defend not only themselves, but also everybody else on the skyliner. His eyes rolled from one to the other, and then down to the pistol in his fist.
“Don’t shoot!” He let go of the gun as if scalded. The weapon clunked onto the deck, and he raised his hands.
Lying on his side, with both guns trained on Cole’s forehead, Ack-Ack Macaque spat out his cigar.
“We won’t fucking shoot,” he said in disgust, “if you don’t fucking move.”
* * * aCtIng on VICtorIa’S instructions, Ack-Ack Macaque and two of the white-jacketed stewards manhandled William Cole to her office, where they handcuffed him to the chair in front of her desk. She followed behind, examining the fallen gun.
“So, Mister Cole,” she said when he had been firmly secured. “Would you care to explain what you were thinking?”
Cole looked bad. Beneath the scratches, his face was pale, and his eyes bugged out. His breathing came in heaves.
“Yeah,” the monkey said, growling around his unlit cigar. “Because bursting into rooms waving guns is a very good way to get your fucking head blown off.”
Cole looked between them. Sweat glistened on his balding forehead.
“I want to report a murder.”
Victoria sniffed the barrel of the gun she’d picked up. It had been fired recently.
“Have you killed somebody, Mister Cole?”
“No!”
“Then, tell me, what’s happened?”
Cole swallowed. “A man came into my cabin.” He pulled experimentally at the cuff on his right wrist. The chain rattled. “He looked just like me. He said he’d come to help, that somebody was trying to kill me.”
“But you already knew that.” Victoria weighed the pistol in her hand. “You told me as much when you came on board.”
“Yes.”
“Did you shoot him?”
Cole shook his head. “He was already wounded. I didn’t realise at first.”
“And now he’s dead?”
“I think so, yes.”
Victoria turned to one of the stewards. “Get a medic to the chef’s cabin. Go armed. Report back.”
The man gave a salute, and left the room.
Cole squirmed in his chair. “I didn’t kill him. That’s his gun you’re holding. He gave it to me before he—” He swallowed again. “Before he died.”
Victoria looked him up and down. She knew he hadn’t smuggled the gun aboard himself. Given his claim that somebody had tried to kill him, she’d made sure his bag and clothing had been thoroughly searched.
“All that remains to be seen,” she said. “In the meantime, I’d like you to take a deep breath, and start from the beginning.” As a former correspondent, she’d had plenty of practice at talking to the distraught. She slipped off the military jacket and draped it over the back of her ch
air, to make her look more informal. Then she sat and placed her hands on the desk, palms down. “Now,” she said as calmly as she could, “who was this man? Did you recognise him?”
Cole’s jaw tightened. “Of course I recognised him!”
Beside his chair, Ack-Ack Macaque spat out his cigar. “Then who was he? Don’t keep us in suspense.”
Cole turned a baleful eye on him.
“I told you. He was me.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
DOPPELGANGER
THE DEAD BODY lay wrapped in its habit, on a bunk in the Tereshkova’s infirmary. Ack-Ack Macaque looked from it to the man standing at the foot of the bed.
“That,” he said, “is fucking uncanny.” Standing next to him, Victoria Valois was forced to agree. Aside from a few cosmetic differences—tidier hair, a better maintained beard, and a bullet hole in the stomach—the man lying on the bed seemed to be the exact double of William Cole. At the end of the bed, Cole himself seemed transfixed.
“He said his name was Bill,” he said.
“Who is he?”
“I don’t know.” Cole’s hands were crossed in front of his chest. Despite the cold, he still wore only a t-shirt and pyjama trousers. “But he said he’d come to warn me. Something about a virus.”
“Any idea what he meant?”
“Sorry, none.” With nails bitten down to the quick, the writer scratched at each of his wrists. “What happens now? Do we go to the police?”
“No.” Victoria looked up at the ceiling. She felt warm and tingly inside. First the Gestalt guy, and now this? So many questions suddenly needed answering. “The Tereshkova is mine.” She pulled the Commodore’s white dress tunic more firmly onto her shoulders. “For now, I’ll lead the investigation.”
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