Hive Monkey

by Gareth L. Powell

  “We can’t fight them all,” he said. “Not by ourselves.”

  Victoria glanced up at the security camera in the corner of the ceiling.

  “We’ll alert the authorities.”

  “Will they believe us? Because, quite frankly, I’m in the middle of this, and I’m not even sure I believe it.”

  Victoria knew he was right. Even among skyliner captains, most of whom were considered pretty eccentric in their own right, she had a reputation as a maverick. Putting the world on a war footing in three hours would take more than just her word.

  “In that case,” she said, “I’m going to have to make a call.”

  “Not—?”

  “Who else? Besides, he owes us a favour.”

  THE FACE LOOKING back at her from the screen was that of a young man, but his eyes seemed more mature and weary than one might have expected from his apparent age. They were the eyes of a boy who’d served in the South Atlantic; who’d lost comrades in a helicopter crash; lost his father at an impressionable age; and fought his mother in order to prevent a holocaust.

  “Hello, Victoria. What can I do for you?” This was Merovech I, King of the United Kingdom of France, Great Britain, Northern Ireland and Norway, and head of the European Commonwealth. In the time she’d known him, he’d played many roles—a soldier, a criminal and a runaway, to name three— but this was the first time she’d spoken to him since his coronation, and the first time she’d seen him actually looking like a king. Gone were the ripped jeans and red hoodie she remembered; in their place, a tailored suit, crisp white shirt and regimental tie.

  “Your majesty.” Victoria tipped her head forward. “I’m afraid this isn’t a social call.”

  Merovech leant towards the camera.

  “I should say not. I saw what our monkey friend did on the M4, and how much damage he caused.”

  “I can explain.”

  “I think you’d better.”

  Hands clasped behind her back, Victoria rocked back on her heels. The young king had become a man. Every gesture and tone conveyed authority and patience. She wasn’t sure how much of that came naturally, and how much had been taught.

  “Merovech, listen.” She put a splayed hand to her chest. By addressing him informally, she hoped to break through the façade, and reach the young man she’d once fought alongside. “You remember last year?”

  “I’m hardly likely to forget.”

  “Well this is worse.”

  Merovech raised an eyebrow. “Worse than all-out nuclear war?”

  “Yes. At least in a nuclear war there’s the possibility of a few survivors.”

  “What are we talking about?”

  “An invasion. Several hundred armed skyliners, one over every major city, and each one packed with some sort of hideous plague.”

  “Where are they coming from?”

  “From thin air.”

  The young king sat back in his chair, and his image blurred for half a second as the camera refocused.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Victoria rubbed her forehead. “Look, it’s an invasion from another dimension, from a parallel world. I can’t explain more than that because, quite frankly, I don’t understand it all myself.”

  “Is this for real?”

  “I keep asking myself the same question.”

  He looked at her for what seemed like a very long time, and she could see that he was weighing their friendship, deciding how far he could trust her. Finally, he cleared his throat and said, “When?”

  “Three hours.” She felt a surge of relief. “You’ll need everything you have in the air, and you’ll need to alert the other countries. But be careful. If these things unload their cargo, it’s game over, and we’re all as good as dead.”

  Merovech frowned, suddenly doubtful. He tipped his head to one side and tapped a finger against his lips.

  “How can I ring the President of the United States and tell him we’re being invaded by Zeppelins from the Great Beyond?”

  Victoria took a step closer to her screen.

  “You’re the Head of the European Commonwealth, he’ll have to listen to you.”

  “But will he believe me?”

  “Does it matter? If one country scrambles every fighter plane it has, the rest will have to follow suit. They might not know the reason, but they won’t want to be caught napping. You get every European plane in the air, and I can guarantee the Russians, Chinese and Americans will do likewise.”

  Merovech made a clicking sound with his tongue.

  “After last year’s unpleasantness with China, putting that many planes in the air could be dangerous.”

  “It’ll be a lot more dangerous for you to do nothing.”

  “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

  “Yes I do. I’ve got the monkey with me. Twelve months ago, the three of us saved the world. Now, we’re asking you to help us save it again.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  FAMILIAR STRANGERS

  IN A PASSENGER lounge on board one the Tereskova’s starboard gondolas, William Cole sat on a bar stool with his elbows resting on the copper counter top. The lounge had been decorated in the style of a Zeppelin from the 1930s, with lots of bare rivets and brass fittings, and lazily revolving ceiling fans carved to resemble wooden propellers. Behind the bar, a painting hung over the cash register. It depicted a young man in a white Russian dress uniform with a red sash. William didn’t know who the young soldier was, but he recognised the jacket, and some of its medals, as being identical to the one worn by Captain Valois.

  I guess that must be the Commodore , he thought to himself.

  Opposite the painting, on the other side of the lounge, a row of portholes showed him the green countryside of southern England. The undulating landscape rolled past beneath the ship like the hide of some tremendous dragon.

  He was waiting for Marie, and Lila. In his hands he held an old photograph. It was a printout from a digital file, and he’d been carrying it around in his pocket ever since the day of his wife’s funeral. It was a shot he’d taken in New York, not long after they’d first met. He’d taken it on the observation deck of the Empire State Building, and it showed her laughing, leaning back against the railings with the whole of Manhattan spread out behind her. She was wearing a black ‘I ♥ New York’ t-shirt. Her orange hair had been cropped short, and tucked behind one ear, and the sun picked out the freckles on her nose. It was the one photograph of her that he’d included in his bug-out bag; the one picture he wanted to keep, as a reminder of everything they’d had, and everything they’d lost. It was a picture of her taken when they were both young and in the first passionate throes of love, when the world seemed filled with excitement and hope, and all their dreams seemed attainable. At the moment the shutter clicked, neither of them had known that she would shortly fall pregnant, that the baby would die, and that, unable to comfort each other, they’d separate and spend so many years living apart, married to the wrong people, only to reunite a decade later, a short time before her untimely death.

  A glass of soda water stood on the counter beside his left wrist, fizzing quietly. It was all he wanted. Once, he might have ordered a glass of bourbon to steady his nerves; now, he no longer felt the need. He’d taken a hot shower and changed his clothes and, for the first time in months, felt clean inside and out.

  What would Marie—his Marie—have said if she’d known that, one day, he’d find another version of her, and get to meet the daughter they’d lost? Would she have felt betrayed, or would she have been pleased for him, wanting only for him to be happy? He smoothed out the edges of the photo with his thumbs, hoping her answer would have been the latter, because, whatever she might have thought, he couldn’t afford to pass up this second chance.

  After all, he told himself, he wouldn’t be cheating as such. This was Marie. She had many of the same memories as his Marie. She’d even remember this photograph being taken. At the point the camera clicked, t
hey’d been the same person. It was only later, when the baby died —or in her case, lived— that their lives had diverged. The last sixteen years may have panned out differently for her, but she was still, essentially, the same girl he’d taken up to the eighty-sixth floor of the Empire State; and the picture he held was as much a photograph of her as it was of the woman he’d buried just over two years ago. He thought of the closing lines of War Of The Worlds by H.G. Wells: And strangest of all is it to hold my wife’s hand again, and to think that I have counted her, and that she has counted me, among the dead.

  How many people had ever been given such an opportunity? He placed the picture on the counter, and took a sip of water. The ice cubes clonked and jangled against his moustache and upper lip. How many, indeed?

  He turned to the portholes and watched a wisp of white cloud drift past. They were making good time towards London but he didn’t know how high they were. Were they higher than the observation deck on the Empire State? Perhaps he should have arranged to meet Marie and Lila on the helipad at the top of the Tereshkova’s central hull. Perhaps that would have been somehow more fitting than arranging to meet in a bar? He’d spent far too much of his life in bars. If they all came through this alive, and if the world escaped assimilation by the Gestalt, he promised himself that things would change; he would change. He’d stop taking drugs and start getting regular exercise. If it took every last scrap of his strength, he’d make the woman in the photograph proud of him. He’d even start writing again, and do it properly this time.

  A girl walked into the lounge. She had glossy, shoulder length brown hair tied back in a loose ponytail, and she was dressed in the white jacket and black trousers of a borrowed steward’s uniform. It took him a moment to realise who she was, but when he did, the realisation hit him like an electric shock that sparked from the sensitive pit of his stomach to the prickling skin at the back of his neck. This was Lila, the daughter who never was, the daughter who’d died in the womb. And now here she stood, as large as life, and twice as beautiful.

  His mouth went dry, and he sucked his bottom lip. What could he say to her, what could anyone possibly say in this situation? The only words that came into his head were either far too pompous, or impossibly trite. In the end, he settled for, “Hello.”

  She smiled at him.

  “Hello.” She held out her hand. Her accent was pure cut glass. “Mother’s resting at the moment, but I thought you and I should probably meet.”

  William rubbed his palm against his trouser leg before taking her hand. Her skin was cool, and unexpectedly rough, and her grip was strong.

  “Pleasure to meet you,” he stammered as they shook formally.

  She really did have his eyes; but on her, they looked much better.

  After a moment of awkwardness, he realised he was still holding her hand, and hurriedly let go.

  “Would you like a drink?”

  She shook her head and pursed her lips. She seemed as nervous as he was. After a moment’s hesitation, she slid onto the bar stool next to his, crossed her legs at the ankle, and clasped her hands in her lap.

  “How are you?” she said. She had a wine-coloured bruise on her right cheek.

  William straightened his back, and unconsciously reached up to flatten the hair at the side of his head.

  “I’m okay,” he said, meaning it. “The past twentyfour hours have been kind of rough, but I’m getting there.”

  “You don’t find this peculiar, meeting me like this?”

  He gave a snort of not-quite laughter.

  “Yeah, of course I do. It’s all extremely, majorly, fundamentally weird. But you don’t know what my life was like up until yesterday.” He looked into her eyes, fighting down the sudden urge to confess, to drag up his dust ball of a life and lay it all out in front of her, so she could see how miserable and alone he’d been. “Compared to that, weird is kind of good.” He pulled back slightly. “Listen, I don’t pretend to understand half of what’s happened. All I know is that right now, you and your mother are here, alive and breathing, and that’s all that really matters.”

  Lila tugged at the hem of her borrowed jacket, and glanced around the room. She seemed to be grappling with something.

  “I don’t know what to call you.” Her brow furrowed. “I don’t even know what you should call me.”

  William blinked. “What would you like me to call you? You’re my daughter.”

  She shrugged, clearly uncomfortable.

  “I don’t know. I just lost my father.”

  William felt an odd, fluttering sensation in his chest. He gripped the edge of the copper counter.

  “You weren’t even born when I lost you.”

  Her eyes were like perfect jewels set into the marble of her face. They filled him with a strange mourning for his own lost youth—for the gawky Ohio farm boy he’d misplaced somewhere along the way. How different his life would have been if he’d had a girl like this to care for and raise. How much better a man he’d have had to be.

  “So...” His voice wavered. “What do we do now?”

  Lila bit her lower lip, and brushed her hair behind her ear. The gesture was one she’d picked up from her mother, and it brought a lump to his throat.

  “I don’t know about you, Dad,” she said hesitantly, trying out the word, “but there’s a fight coming, and I’m going to be part of it.”

  BREAKING NEWS

  From The European Sentinel, online edition:

  Jets Scramble as Europe Put on Military Alert

  PARIS 16/11/2060 – Official sources remain tightlipped about unconfirmed reports of frenzied activity at RAF and Commonwealth airbases across Europe, and speculation that this could be part of a massive, Europe-wide mobilisation of air defence forces. All that is known for certain is that all leave has been cancelled for service men and women from all branches of the armed forces, and that the aircraft carriers HMS Shakespeare and HMS Jules Verne, which had both been en route to Oslo for a special visit to mark the centenary of Norway’s integration into the United Kingdom, have instead been diverted, and are now believed to be steaming for the mouth of the Thames Estuary.

  Are these measures a prelude to hostilities with another country, and if so, which one? Or could they be somehow related to last year’s attempted royal coup d’etat?

  So far, official sources have refused to comment, saying only that Commonwealth citizens should remain calm, and monitor news channels for further updates.

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  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  WELCOME TO THE JUNGLE

  THE VTOL PLANE took K8 and her three minders to the armoured airship. As soon as it touched down, they went to seize her again, but she slapped their hands away.

  “Hey, I can walk by myself, okay?” She straightened her jumper, tired of being manhandled. “We’re on an airship, remember? You’ve got me. Where am I going to go?”

  The Neanderthals frowned at each other, then the one who’d spoken before said, “Okay, you walk. But don’t try anything stupid.”

  K8 pulled herself up out of her seat, and moved along the aisle to the aircraft’s cabin door. The plane had come down on the upper surface of the armoured airship, in a gap between gun emplacements and sensor pods. Carefully, K8 climbed down the steps, followed by the three cavemen in white. When they were at the bottom, she put her fists on her hips.

  “Okay, Ug, which way?”

  The on
e with the voice raised his arm.

  “That way, through the hatch,” he said. “Down the ladder. No funny stuff.”

  K8 turned in the direction he pointed.

  “Oh, don’t worry, sunshine. I’ll leave the jokes to you.”

  She went over to the open hatch. Pleated metal stairs led down into the bowels of the ship. She paused to take a last look at the boundless sky, and to draw a last lungful of clear, untainted air. Then she started down. As she clumped towards the bottom rung, she took note of the thickness of the armour plate on the hull to either side of her. It was at least ten centimetres deep. That was enough to stop all but the most powerful machineguns. If the thickness remained consistent all over the hull, the airship would be nigh on bulletproof, not to mention weighing about the same as a small mountain. Most of its interior would have to be given over to gasbags, she thought, just to support that immensity.

  At the bottom of the stairs, the Neanderthals led her forwards, through the airship’s interior, towards the bows. She saw racks holding automatic rifles and submachine guns; piles of ammo boxes; and heaps of white-painted body armour. The walls had been decorated in a deep, sumptuous olive, and the door handles and other fittings had been fashioned from brightly polished brass. Several times, they passed human members of the Gestalt. All were dressed in identical white suits, and all were silent. Even groups who appeared to be clustered together for discussion stood without speaking or smiling. Nobody on the airship spoke a word, and yet they were working and cooperating seamlessly. Some of them turned to watch her as she walked past, their eyes flat and passive and their expressions unreadable. On the Tereshkova, you could always hear voices—stewards making their rounds; passengers coming and going; mechanics changing light strips or unblocking sinks, whistling as they worked—but here, she heard only the distant thrum of turbines and the gentle whir of air in the vents. She didn’t like it. The mute, emotionless Gestalt made her think of an old black and white horror film she’d seen once, about a group of whitehaired children in a small English village. She’d been twelve years old when it came on the TV one evening, and it had given her nightmares for a week.