Hive Monkey

by Gareth L. Powell

  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 handle 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.”

  SWORD 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, moteflecked 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 wrongfoot 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 t
humbed 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

  THE FIVE SPITFIRES 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 machineguns 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.

  a Ck-aCk maCaque left his plane with one of the mechanics and, without stopping to watch the others land, made his way down through the airship to the bridge.

  Stepping into the room, he pulled out his lighter and lit the damp cigar in his mouth, huffing great clouds of blue smoke into the room.

  “Hey, Boss. What’s shaking?” Alone in front of the main window, Victoria wrinkled her nose and flapped a hand in front of her face.

  “We had a visit from your old friend, Mister Reynolds.”

  “And how is the old bastard?”

  Her hand went to the empty scabbard at her side. “Dead.”

  “Good.” Ack-Ack Macaque looked around at the unmanned workstations. “So, who’s flying this thing?”

  “Paul.”

  “Seriously?”

  “He seems to be doing a reasonable job of it.”

  Ack-Ack Macaque loped over to the window. “Then I’m out of work?”

  “Not at all, just redeployed.” Victoria crossed her arms over her chest. Medals jangled. “We need you on the front line.”

  He looked at the distant towers of Central London, and tried to imagine them in flames, pillars of smoke reaching up into the clouds—a new Blitz to wipe away everything rebuilt since the last one.

  “Who’s coordinating the defence?”

  “Merovech’s enlisted some high-ups in the RAF. They’re trying to liaise with the Russians and the Yanks, but everybody’s talking at the same time, and no-one’s listening.”

  Ack-Ack Macaque curled his lip. He had some strong opinions on the subject of commanding officers and top brass. When he tried to express them, words such as ‘arse’ and ‘elbow’ came to mind.

  “So, we’re on our own?”

  “No, we’ll have fighter support. There are two aircraft carriers steaming up the Thames, and we can call in planes from Air Command in High Wycombe.”

  “What about the other cities?”

  “From what I can gather, Edinburgh, Manchester, Paris and Belfast are covered. The rest will have to take their chances.”

  “That’s a bit harsh.”

  “There simply aren’t enough planes.”

  Ack-Ack Macaque blew a smoke ring at the ceiling. “Well, I bought another five.”

  Victoria turned away from the view. Looking down, he saw the capital opening up before them like an unfolding map.

  “Listen,” she said, walking over to a cabinet set into the wall. Inside were half a dozen swords. She selected one and slid it into her scabbard. “There’s something else you can do, right now, that might just give us an edge.”

  Ack-Ack Macaque removed the cigar from his mouth and held it between the fingers of his left hand.

  “What’s that?”

  “The leader of the Gestalt.”

  He felt his lips draw back from his teeth.

  “What about him?”

  “He’s a version of you. He might talk differently, but deep down, you’re the same.”

  “He’s a lunatic.”

  “Exactly.” She came over and stood beside his chair. “Can you put yourself in his position? Can you think like him? You’re the best chance we have of second-guessing his tactics.”

  Ack-Ack Macaque rolled the cigar thoughtfully.

  “I thought he made his tactics pretty bloody clear.”

  “Yes, but if we’re going to have any hope of defending ourselves, if we’re going to fight him, we need to know how his mind works.” She turned to a screen on the wall of the bridge, and it blinked into life, displaying a strategic satellite view of the city, with red and green icons marking the positions of known forces, and yellow arrows indicating major targets. “If you were him, what would you do?”

  Ack-Ack Macaque gave the map a wary squint. Then he kicked himself to his feet and shuffled over to it.

  “If it was me, I’d materialise here.” He tapped a point on the screen where the river snaked through the heart of the city, just downstream from Westminster Bridge. “And launch everything
I had. Take it all out in the first few seconds: government, monarchy, civil service, everything. Wipe out every one of the bastards, and the battle’s over. There’s nobody left to give orders.”

  Victoria stroked her chin. “Decapitate the state, you mean?”

  “Yeah.” Ack-Ack Macaque couldn’t help grinning. “Knock out the high command, and you can mop up the foot soldiers later.”

  “You wouldn’t just nuke the place?”

  His grin spread. “I can’t lie, that would be very tempting; but I don’t think that’s his game. He doesn’t want everybody dead. He wants converts for his religion. He wants fresh brains for the hive, and he can’t have them if they’ve all been vaporised.” He took a draught of smoke, and then blew it out the side of his mouth. “If he can throw us into disarray, even temporarily, it gives his virus thingy space to work. By the time we’ve regrouped, we’ll already have been infected.”

  Victoria leant close to the map, eyeing the Commonwealth Parliament – the seat of power for most of a continent.

  “A single, overwhelming attack,” she mused, “and then all he has to do is sit back and wait for us to come to him.”

  “Unless we nuke him first.”

  She straightened up, eyebrows raised, her hand on the pommel of her replacement sword.

  “Non! We cannot! This is London, for heaven’s sake. Eight million people!”

  The monkey shrugged.

  “Then all we can do is wait until he appears, and then hit him as hard as we can.” He scratched his cheek. “What does the girl say?”

  “Lila? Pretty much the same.” Victoria let her shoulders drop. She ran a hand back across the dome of her scalp.

  “There’s something else,” she said. “Reynolds left us a present before he died. It’s in the cargo hold directly above this room. If we’re not there waiting for the Leader when he arrives, ready to hand you over to him, it’ll go off.”

  Ack-Ack Macaque gave a snort.

  “That stupid fuck.”

  Victoria frowned. “Reynolds?”

  “No, the Leader. He’s just made his first mistake.”