Hive Monkey

by Gareth L. Powell

  Victoria started to ask how, but then stopped and shook her head, deciding she’d be better off not knowing. Instead, she walked up to Cole, who was leaning close to the wall, reading the handwritten notes pinned beside each picture.

  “Any clues?” To her, the scribbled words were just squiggles on paper, utterly indecipherable.

  Cole tapped a picture of himself kneeling at a snowy graveside, a paper-wrapped bunch of daffodils clutched in his hand. “It seems I’ve been under scrutiny for some time. At least since last Christmas.”

  “Any idea why?”

  “Not so far.” He turned to her. “But do you want to know something weird?” He pulled a note from the wall and held it out to her. “His handwriting is exactly the same as mine. Absolutely, spookily identical.” He shivered.

  Victoria peered at the paper trembling before her.

  “I’ll have to take your word for that.” She watched as he opened his shaking fingers and let the note fall, spiralling down to the floorboards. “Why don’t you sit down?”

  Cole rubbed his beard. He seemed agitated.

  “None of this brings us any closer to finding out who shot him.” He tapped his ribcage. “Or who’s been trying to kill me.”

  “I think we can assume for now that the same people are responsible for both,” Victoria said.

  The writer’s nose wrinkled. “Even if that’s the case, the question is: what am I going to do about it?” He glanced around at the walls, and crossed his arms over his chest. “Because poking around in this hovel isn’t getting us anywhere.”

  Victoria felt her fists tighten at her sides. She licked her dry lips, and swallowed her irritation.

  “Sit down,” she said quietly. She took a breath. “We won’t be here much longer. Have a rest.”

  Cole glared at her, but he sat on the futon. She left him there, muttering to himself and stroking his hairy chin, and went to see what the monkey was fiddling with. He’d been rummaging in the kitchen drawers.

  “What’s that you’ve got?”

  He held it out to her.

  “Another gun,” he said.

  “Is it the same as the last one?”

  “No, boss.” He tipped it into her outstretched hand, and she felt its weight. It was lighter then she’d been expecting. Also, it was like no gun she’d ever seen before. It looked like a pocket flashlight with a pistol grip fixed to the underside.

  “What does it do?”

  Ack-Ack Macaque reached out and took it back. He held it at arm’s length and aimed the ‘lens’ at the far wall.

  He pulled the trigger. Nothing seemed to happen.

  “Is it broken?”

  The monkey shook his head, and pointed a leathery finger at the wall. Amongst the papers, a small spot of plaster smouldered, molten red. The notes around it were charred at the edges, the photos had curled and melted, as if shrinking away from a flame.

  “Good, huh? It must be some kind of ray gun.”

  Victoria scratched her chin. “Or an x-ray, perhaps?” She wished Paul were here, as she was sure he’d know. “Anyway, be careful where you point it.”

  Ack-Ack Macaque gave a gleeful simian grin. “Yes, boss.”

  She turned. “Hey, Cole. Have you ever seen anything like this?”

  The writer looked up from wringing his hands. “What?” He stood upright, and shuffled over. “What is it?”

  “A ray gun,” Ack-Ack Macaque said.

  “Let me see.” Cole snatched the gun from the monkey’s hand, and glowered at it. He turned it over and over in his hands. His tongue poked into the side of his cheek as he inhaled a long breath. “Ray gun, indeed.” He stopped turning it and held it by the grip, forefinger resting on the trigger guard. He extended his arm, and closed his left eye, drawing a bead on the futon.

  “Be careful,” Victoria said.

  He turned to her. “I’m not an idiot.”

  “I never said you were...” Victoria trailed off. It was quite obvious that Cole had stopped listening to her. His eyes were focussed on something she couldn’t see: a thousand yard stare into the middle distance. His lips were working soundlessly, opening and closing, forming words she couldn’t hear. The breath rasped in and out of his nostrils. “Uh, Cole?” He didn’t react, and gave no signs of having heard her. She put a hand to his shoulder, and he went rigid. She could see beads of sweat forming at his temples. “What’s happening? What’s the matter?” She turned to Ack-Ack Macaque. “Is he having a fit?”

  “How the hell would I know?”

  Cole let out a moan. Every limb shook, and she thought he would fall. Then whatever was holding him seemed to relax its grip, and he sagged instead.

  “I have to go.” His voice was hoarse.

  “Go? Go where?”

  “Get away from me.” He shook her off angrily. “I’m not waiting around here to be killed. I’ve got to go. Got to get out.”

  Holding the pistol at waist height, he blundered backwards until he stood in the open doorway.

  Ack-Ack Macaque made to follow.

  “Hey, Cole, wait.”

  The writer brandished the strange pistol in the monkey’s face.

  “Stay back!” His eyes were manic-looking slits. His lips were drawn back from his teeth. As Victoria watched, his knuckle whitened on the trigger. The shot drilled a smouldering hole through the top of Ack-Ack Macaque’s fedora. “Stay back, or I’ll kill you both!”

  THEY LISTENED TO the American’s footsteps clump down the stairs.

  Ack-Ack Macaque turned to Victoria. “Should I go after him?” He had his hat in his hand, one finger exploring the charred puncture. The beam had burned its way in at the front, and out at the back, singeing a few hairs on the top of the monkey’s head.

  Victoria waved him on. “Yes, but be careful.” “What about you?” He flexed his leathery fingers, and drew one of the silver Colts from beneath his coat. “No offence, but I can probably move faster without you.”

  Downstairs, they heard the front door bang.

  Victoria didn’t have the energy for a chase. She couldn’t keep up with the monkey, and she knew it. “I’ll get a taxi back to the Tereshkova, and do some digging around. Find out if Cole had a twin, that sort of thing. Meanwhile, you and K8 find Cole and get him into the car. Call me when you’re on your way back.”

  The monkey touched the barrel of the revolver to his brow. “Right-o.”

  “And Ack-Ack?”

  “Yes, boss?”

  “Try not to blow anything up.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE MEN IN WHITE

  WILLIAM’S HEART WAS a hunk of uranium: hot, heavy and crackling with toxicity.

  Crashing out of the house, he turned right, and ran along the street until he reached an area with shops and bright lights. The boulangeries, patisseries, newsagents and offices were closing, and the pubs were filling up for the night. Rickshaws cut between the cars and vans; three-wheeled tuk-tuks chuntered past, farting petrol fumes. As he blundered past an open door, he got a whiff of stale beer, a blast of warm air and jukebox music.

  Seeing the handwritten notes had shaken him. Up until that point, he’d been clinging to the idea that— however unlikely and fantastical it all seemed after four days without sleep—there would be a rational, mundane explanation for the sudden appearance of his doppelganger. Seeing the handwriting had changed all that. His understanding of the world had been shaken, and now all he wanted to do was flee.

  Flee from the strangeness, and from the people who were out to kill him.

  He didn’t know what he could trust, or who he could count on. All he knew for sure was that somebody wanted him dead.

  Marie , he thought. Bill told me she’d help. And if there’s a chance she’s alive, anywhere or anyhow, I have to find her. Wild hope surged against entrenched grief, and his legs wobbled beneath him. His knees felt soft like butter, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. He was empty. For the past four days, before boarding t
he Tereshkova, his body had been living off its own fat reserves while the speed quashed his appetite.

  At a street corner, momentarily overcome by dizziness, he fell against the cast iron shaft of a Victorian-style lamppost.

  How could his wife be both alive and dead? And which was the real Marie? And why had reality stopped making sense?

  Parallel worlds?

  Talking monkeys?

  Car bombs?

  Clinging on, he screwed his eyes tight. How could he comprehend any of this right now? As a habitual amphetamine user, he was used to a certain amount of craziness; but nothing on this scale, nothing of this magnitude. Like a frightened child, he wanted to run and lose himself in darkness and endless movement, until the world dwindled to a speck far behind him, and all its dangers and terrors were lost far in his wake.

  Releasing his grip on the lamppost, he blundered forward through a blur of pale faces. His eyeballs seemed to throb in time with his breathing.

  In the past, when he’d been afraid to sleep, when his brain cells crackled with coffee and speed and he found himself gibbering at his keyboard at three am, his hands shaking too violently to type, his peripheral vision itching with half-glimpsed phantasms; when the chemicals got too much; when paranoia or depression knocked the wind out of him or the walls of his room tried to engulf him like the petals of a carnivorous plant—when all that happened, he’d known where to turn. There’d always been one person who could straighten him out; one person who could claw him back onto solid ground. When he needed someone to talk him down and help him get his shit together, he called his dealer, Sparky.

  Yeah , he thought, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll go and see Sparky. He lives near here. He’ll help me. I need to hole up somewhere and ride this out. He’ll understand, and maybe he’ll have something to straighten me out. A few dabs of the good stuff on my gums, maybe, just to take the edge off.

  He staggered onwards, trying to ignore the looks of the passers-by, and straightened his collar, smoothed down his wild hair. His head span and his innards writhed like hooked eels, but at least he had a direction. He had a goal. Like a drowning man reaching for a lifebelt, he knew what he needed, and where to get it. He was going to see a familiar face, and he was going to clear his head. Only speed could give him the clarity needed to cope with everything that had been happening; and Sparky’s place was as good a bolthole as any.

  Yes, he thought, I’ll go find Sparky. Good old Sparky. He’ll fix me up. BY THE TIME he reached the block of student flats where Sparky lived, stumbling and cursing all the way, he’d begun to feel calmer, and more rational. As quickly as it had come, the panic passed, leaving him washed-out like a beach at low tide. In the aftermath of its onslaught, the events of the day seemed less overpowering, and more like the leftover hallucinations of a particularly vivid dream.

  Panting for breath, he stood in the shadow of the gnarled trees at the edge of the square, looking up at the rectangle of Sparky’s fourth-floor window, wondering if the car bomb and his doppelganger had all been part of some kind of fit—perhaps the result of a seizure, or maybe even the first stirrings of a brain tumour?

  Was he having some sort of paranoid breakdown? Was he going mad?

  His hands trembled with the fear that he might, at any moment and without warning, slip back down that rabbit hole of delusion and madness. He could feel it there, like a dark sea beneath the icy crust of his sanity, just waiting to draw him in.

  The cold air felt sharp and real on his cheeks and fingers. He tried to concentrate on it as he scratched his beard. Above, the light was on in Sparky’s room. He knew he should go back to the house, try to find Captain Valois and the monkey, and apologise—but that light was warm and familiar. Looking at it, he could almost smell the flat’s familiar mingled fug of chickpea curry and hash smoke. What would it hurt if he popped up for a few minutes? Sparky would be pleased to see him. The guy was pleased to see everybody. And maybe he’d have a few samples for his favourite customer?

  Maybe enough, William thought, to give me a little clarity? Clarity was what he needed now, more than anything; clarity, and the strength to stop himself coming apart at the seams. But he couldn’t do it alone. He was too tired, too strung-out. He needed a little chemical pick-me-up. He could always make his way back to the Tereshkova afterwards. He could get a taxi. The speed would give him the energy and the nerve to do it. It would straighten him out, and hold him together.

  He stepped out of the trees, onto the road. The buildings around the square were tall Georgian townhouses, fronted in pale stone. They had steps up to their front doors, and steps down to their basements. Some had wrought iron balconies, and several had been converted into offices, or subdivided into flats. He looked left and right. Two men stood at the corner of the square, watching him. They wore long white raincoats, white fedoras, and matching gloves. Even their shoes were white.

  William frowned. They were dressed the way he thought angels might dress; yet something about them seemed to radiate menace.

  “William Cole?” They spoke in unison. Startled, he stepped back, away from the light.

  “Who are you?” He didn’t feel up to talking. All he wanted was to get inside, and get fixed up.

  The one on the left spoke.

  “I am Mister Reynolds, and this is Mister Bailey. We knew you’d come, eventually, and we’ve been waiting.”

  Cole took another step back. They watched him with expressionless calm.

  “What do you want?”

  “We want you to come with us.”

  “Where?” He was playing for time, shuffling back towards the shops and crowds on the streets beyond the square. Moving in step, they kept pace.

  “You know where,” Reynolds said.

  He blinked at them.

  “What?”

  “Don’t try to stall us, Cole. You cannot change what must happen.” Without breaking stride, they opened the left sides of their white coats, revealing ivory-handled pistols. Seeing them, William wanted to turn and flee, but his knees were still weak, and he knew he couldn’t outrun a bullet. Instead, he fumbled in his pockets, until his fingers closed on the gun he’d taken from Bill’s house.

  Seeing what he was doing, the men in white drew their pistols in one smooth, coordinated sweep, and aimed them at his head.

  “Don’t try to pull that out,” Reynolds warned.

  With his hand still in his pocket, William felt for the trigger. He could hardly breathe.

  “We wanted you to come with us, Cole,” Bailey said.

  “But if you’re going to be awkward,” Reynolds finished, “we’ll have to shoot you where you stand.”

  Side-by-side, their gun barrels stared at him like the soulless, empty sockets of a metal skull.

  In his pocket, his finger closed on the trigger, but he made no move to pull out his hand. Instead, heart squirming in his chest, he squeezed, firing through the material of his coat. Mister Bailey gave a grunt, as if he’d been punched, and dropped to his knees, pawing feebly at a charred spot on his chest. Reynolds looked down at him in confusion. Moving as if in a dream, William turned his hips and fired again. Reynolds yelped, and his gun clattered to the floor as his hands went to the pencil-thin hole speared through his left thigh. Without even thinking, William had fired twice through the lining of his coat, into the two men in white. The beam had burned through their skin and bone as easily as it had through paper. And it had set light to the fabric of his coat. With his hands beating at the flames, and his nostrils filled with the stink of bonfires, he turned and ran for all he was worth.

  TECHSNARK

  BLOGGING WITH ATTITUDE

  Legion of the Bland? Posted: 08/11/2060 – 16:00 GMT | Share |

  Wave of the future, or totalitarian techno terror? Whatever your opinion on the white-suited Californian cult, one thing’s for certain: the ‘Gestalt’ is here to stay.

  Since its inception a mere two years ago, the cult’s grown at an unprecedented, and s
ome would say alarming, rate. Their website boasts more than a million linked-up members across the world and, just yesterday, they petitioned the United Nations in New York, demanding to be recognised as a sovereign nation – a nation without geographical or ethnic boundaries.

  Adherents to the faith use adapted soul-catcher technology to broadcast every thought and image in their heads to every other member of the cult. They can ‘hear’ what each other are thinking, twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixtyfive days per year; and they claim this makes them the ultimate democracy, with 100% participation in every decision. Human language is, they argue, too limited and imprecise a medium to truly and reliably communicate the complexities of our innermost nature; only by linking brains, they say, can we fully engage in meaningful discourse.

  According to its literature, the Gestalt cult aims to create a ‘global consciousness’ and free humanity from the hatreds and conflicts that have dogged its history. And yet, despite all this techno-utopianism, the individual members (if they can still be described as ‘individual’ in any meaningful sense) exhibit a disappointing blandness – the complacent vacuity of born-again converts whose troublesome personalities have been sterilised in the name of conformity. Yes, they seem happy but, speaking personally, I don’t trust them. There’s something sinister about the way they move and talk in unison. I grew up believing in freedom and individualism, but the men and women of the Gestalt seem dedicated to wiping out every quirk and foible, turning us all into mindless drones. They might wear white, but don’t let that fool you. Beneath that smiling, angelic exterior, they’re no better than ants in a nest or bees in a hive.

  Read more | Like | Comment | Share

  CHAPTER TEN

  UGLY SONOFABITCH

  THE DOWNS WERE an expanse of green parkland that ran along the lip of the Avon Gorge, sandwiched between its cliffs on one side and the city on the other. They ran a couple of miles downstream from the Suspension Bridge, eventually blurring into the leafy avenues of Sneyd Park and Henleaze. Having left the house, Ack-Ack Macaque figured Cole would have come this way, trying to lose himself in the darkness beyond the streetlights; but, so far, all he’d found had been a pair of urban fox cubs rooting through a bin, a drunken reveller asleep on the grass, and a misted-up car full of dope-smoking teenagers listening to Parisian techno.