Julie looked back at the French coast, which was now little more than a strip of green on the horizon.
“But, my father—” She reached up to touch the fading bruise on her cheek.
“Forget him,” Merovech said. “He can’t touch you here. You’ll be safe.”
“What about me?” Ack-Ack Macaque had his back to the rail. He was passing the gun Merovech had given him from leathery hand to leathery hand, testing its weight and balance.
“That’s up to you,” Merovech said. “How did you get on in the game?”
The monkey shrugged.
“I killed a few people. Nobody important. I didn’t have time for much else.”
“Would you like to go back in?”
Ack-Ack Macaque opened his mouth and picked at a yellow canine.
“I’m going to wreck it,” he said. “Those motherfuckers at Céleste have it coming.”
Merovech nodded.
“Okay, get below and have K8 hook you back in. We’ll leave you in there until you’ve done what you need to do.”
“And then what?”
Merovech reached back and took hold of the gun in his waistband. He pulled it out and checked the magazine.
“We’ve been running too long, and I’ve had enough. When you’ve finished killing the new monkey in the game, you and I are going to start fighting back, for real.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHIMPANZEES DON‘T HAVE TAILS
THE CHOPPER WAS an amphibious model, with large floats instead of landing skis. By the time it reached the Tereshkova’s helipad, Victoria and the Commodore were there, waiting to greet it.
The Commodore wore his full dress uniform: a white jacket with plenty of gold braid, cavalry trousers, and a pair of knee-length riding boots. Although Victoria still wore her thick green greatcoat, beneath it, she’d changed into a clean pair of black jeans and a black roll-neck top, to conceal the freshly reapplied dressings at the back of her neck. She’d given up with the wig the Commodore had given her, and settled instead on a plain fleece hat.
As the helicopter’s hatch opened, the Commodore clicked his heels together and bowed at the waist.
“Welcome, your highness.”
Prince Merovech stepped down onto the rubberised surface of the pad and saluted.
“Permission to come aboard, Commodore?”
In the jeans and hoodie that he wore, he looked much like any other teenage boy from the streets of Paris or London. He was only nineteen years old yet, Victoria knew, he was a teenager already acquainted with the harsh realities of both public life and military combat. A boy who’d had to grow up fast, and take on more than many adults ever did.
“A pleasure to see you again, Miss Valois.” He had to shout over the engine noise.
“Your highness.”
Behind Merovech, a girl with purple hair. Behind her, a redheaded, boyish-looking kid in a green sweater.
And behind them all came the monkey.
Victoria took a moment to take him in. He stood much taller than she would have expected, yet not quite upright, and he was chewing the soggy end of an unlit cigar. A leather patch covered one of his eyes, while the other glared about him, sizing everything up as a possible threat. He looked powerful and dangerous, as much animal as man.
And who the hell, she thought, gave him a gun?
She tailed along as the Commodore led the party down, through the stairwells and gangways in the body of the airship, to the comfort of the main gondola’s dining room.
“Come,” he said. “Be seated. Make yourselves at home.”
Like the lounge bar, the dining room had been done out in homage to the pioneers of airship travel, from the spotless white tablecloths to the polished wooden fixtures and the patterned wallpaper on the bulkheads. The windows were wide and gave the room a light, airy feel, making it seem a lot bigger than it actually was. Between the windows, the Commodore had placed framed photographs of Russian heroes, including Yuri Gagarin, and the woman after whom he’d named the airship itself, Valentina Tereshkova, the first female astronaut.
The Prince and his entourage settled themselves around the largest table, and refreshments were served: tea for the Prince, coffee for Julie Girard, cola for the kid known as K8, and a daiquiri for the monkey. Victoria ordered a soda water. The gin had left her dehydrated and headachy, and she needed something to freshen her up.
When they’d all been served, and the formalities taken care of, the Commodore put his hands on the table.
“We were surprised to receive your radio message, your highness. We were given to understand that you were indisposed.”
Merovech considered this.
“I thank you for your hospitality, Commodore. All I can say is that rumours of my ill health have been greatly exaggerated.”
“And your simian friend?”
“A long story, I’m afraid. The truth of it is, we’re in a spot of bother, and could really use your help.”
Victoria leant forward in her chair.
“We know about the Undying and their plan to seize the throne,” she said. “And we know you’re involved.”
Merovech’s eyes narrowed.
“‘Seize the throne’?”
Victoria slipped off her hat, revealing the jacks studding the scar on her temple. “You and I were in the hospital at the same time, Merovech. They took out the damaged parts of my brain and pumped my head full of gelware. And they did the same to you. Only the bits they took out of your head weren’t damaged at all.”
The Prince regarded her for a long, thoughtful moment.
“And do you know why they did that?”
Victoria swallowed. This was it. Time to put all the pieces together and make some wild accusations.
“The Undying have infiltrated Céleste. They’re using you as a pawn. The minute you take the throne, they’ll pump another personality into your head.”
Merovech glanced at Julie Girard, then back at Victoria.
“What makes you say that?”
Victoria felt her cheeks flush. “They sent an assassin to kill every member of Doctor Nguyen’s team. We stopped him and he—” She took a deep breath. “He talked.”
They were all looking at her now.
Merovech said, “Nguyen’s dead. We went to his house.”
“So, you knew about this?”
The Prince shook his head.
“We were starting to piece it together. K8 used to work for Céleste, and she hacked their internal server. Then, when we broke into the corporate building, Julie found Nguyen’s notes.”
The Commodore raised his eyebrows.
“You broke in?”
Julie smiled. “Yes, and we got a lot more than we bargained for.”
Victoria recognised the girl’s accent. She said, “Tu es de Paris?”
“Oui. Je suis étudiante à la Sorbonne. Et vous?”
“J’ai vecu un moment à Paris. Maintenant j’habite ici.” She looked back to Merovech and switched to English. “So, you’re on the run, are you?”
The Prince didn’t even blink.
“We are. At least, for the moment. That’s why we’re here.” He turned to the Commodore. “Would it be possible for us to claim asylum on your vessel, sir?”
The old man smoothed his white moustache with thumb and index finger, considering his answer. When he finally spoke, he said, “I suppose that could be arranged.”
Merovech smiled. Julie and K8 looked relieved.
“Thank you.”
The Commodore held up a hand.
“Just be good enough to answer me one question.” He levelled a finger at Ack-Ack Macaque, who was at that moment in the process of cleaning his ear with his little finger. “What is the deal with the chimpanzee?”
Ack-Ack Macaque bristled. His solitary eye glared at the Commodore.
“Have you seen my tail, man? Chimpanzees don’t have tails.”
The Commodore bowed his head.
“F
orgive me, I meant no offence. But my question remains. Who are you, and where did you come from? To whom do you belong?”
Ack-Ack Macaque picked up his daiquiri glass and began to lick the sugar from the rim.
“I’m my own monkey,” he said between slurps, “and I don’t belong to anyone, not anymore.”
“We rescued him from the Céleste laboratories,” Merovech explained. “As far as I’m concerned, he’s his own person. But there’s a lot of proprietary tech crammed into his head, and I’m sure Céleste will be keen to get it back.”
The Commodore sighed.
“So, you bring me a fugitive prince, a teenage computer hacker, a burglar, and a stolen monkey?”
Merovech clapped his hands together and rubbed them.
“I’m afraid that’s about the size of it.” He turned his attention to Victoria.
“So, what else did your assassin have to say?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
IRRESISTABLE FORCE
ONE OF THE Tereshkova’s stewards showed K8 and Ack-Ack Macaque to a crew cabin in the farthest port gondola, away from the areas permitted for use by ordinary passengers.
The room was small and cramped, lit by a lamp fixed to the wall. His nostrils twitched at the pervasive stench of unwashed sheets and Russian cologne. A pair of cabin beds stood to either side of the narrow space that ran the length of the room from door to porthole. Beneath the porthole, a nightstand, and a couple of chairs. The washroom was down the hall.
“Are you ready to get back in there?” K8 asked, sitting cross-legged on the bed. She had the SincPad and connective leads in her lap. Even to Ack-Ack Macaque, who wasn’t very good at reading human expressions, she looked tired.
She’s just a kid, he thought. But she was his kid. He had no idea where she came from, but she was the closest thing he had to a friend right now. She’d been a member of his squadron, and as such, he’d do everything in his power to look after and protect her. Over the years, he’d lost so many kids. He’d seen them shot out of the sky by flak, gunned down by enemy pilots, and skewered by black-clad ninjas. He’d watched their planes spiral into hillsides, trailing smoke and flames, and it had eaten away at him. Survivor’s guilt, they called it. Yet, out here in the real world, none of those deaths counted. They hadn’t really happened at all. They’d all been a part of the game. The characters may have died, but the players were still alive. They were still at their consoles and SincPads, still living and breathing, even if they couldn’t get back into the game. After months of guilt and grief, the knowledge felt like a weight taken from his shoulders.
He leant against the back of the closed cabin door and lit a cigar. K8 wrinkled her nose.
“Are you allowed to smoke in here?”
“I don’t give a crap.” He spoke through teeth clenched on the cigar’s butt. “I’ve got bigger things to worry about right now. Like, who I am, and what I am.”
K8 fiddled with one of the connective wires in her lap, straightening out its kinks and tangles.
“Maybe I can help you fill in some of the blanks.”
“More hacking?”
A mischievous grin. “Hardly. I worked there, remember? I got trained. They wanted me to know how important you were. They even gave me a brochure.”
Ack-Ack Macaque took the cigar from his mouth. He raised his muzzle and huffed a trio of expanding smoke rings at the low metal ceiling.
“So, what did it say in this brochure? What am I, a kids’ toy?”
K8 laughed brightly. The lamplight caught the short copper curls of her hair.
“You’re a weapons system, Skipper. A prototype. The game’s just a fortunate spin-off, a bit of extra cash. The real money’s in intelligent guidance systems. Drones, missiles. Even space probes. They didn’t want to go to all the trouble of developing genuine AI, so they thought they’d do the next best thing, and start bootstrapping primates.”
She leaned forward and lowered her voice almost to a whisper. “But here’s the thing nobody else knows, the bit I did get from hacking the server. That probe they’re sending to Mars, it isn’t full of terraforming bacteria. No, that’s just a cover story. A diversion. Really, it’s full of souls.”
Ack-Ack Macaque moved the cigar from one side of his mouth to the other.
“Souls?”
“Recorded personalities.” She tapped the back of her neck, at the base of her skull. “Thousands of them, harvested from the dead and dying.”
“To what end?”
“To download, once they get there. Don’t forget these guys are pretty heavily into the whole transhumanism trip. The probe’s the size of a London bus. There’s machinery in there. It’s going to build android bodies for the Undying faithful—bodies that don’t need to breathe or eat or sleep. And then, they’ll have the whole of Mars to themselves. By the time the Americans or Chinese get around to sending a manned mission, they’ll find an established colony of robot cultists already in place.”
Ack-Ack Macaque considered this. He hadn’t understood everything she’d said, but he thought he’d gleaned the gist. Or some of it, at least.
“You say thousands. Is the cult really that big?”
K8’s expression darkened.
“The faithful probably number a couple of hundred. The rest have been harvested from hospitals and morgues. A ready-made slave army.”
Ack-Ack Macaque tapped ash onto the deck.
“Robots, Morris? Really?”
“Yes, Skipper. They already had a prototype. They built it using what they learned working on Victoria Valois. They stretched some skin over its face and uploaded a personality into it. Called it Berg.”
“What happened to it?”
K8 shrugged. She had no idea. Instead, she held up one of the connective leads by its copper jack.
“Are you ready to get in there and cause some trouble?”
Ack-Ack Macaque held his cigar at arm’s length, considering. Then he dropped it to the deck and ground it out with the toe of his boot.
“Yeah.” He hopped up onto the bed beside her and rolled onto his back. “If it’s the best way to hurt Céleste, then hook me in.”
K8 shuffled close to his head as he made himself comfortable.
“I’ve been fiddling with the parameters,” she said. “I think I’ve rigged it so you’ll have unlimited ammo. Cool, huh?”
Ack-Ack Macaque grinned, exposing his incisors.
“Can you make it so I can’t die?”
K8 tipped her head on one side.
“I think you’re almost immortal already. After all, why name the game after you if you can get killed off easily? There’d be no challenge.”
Ack-Ack Macaque wriggled on the blanket, adjusting his position. K8 removed the goggles from the top of his head, and smoothed down the chestnut-coloured hair on his scalp.
“Maybe that’s what happened with the other four monkeys,” he said. “Maybe they got killed and had to be replaced?”
K8 shook her head.
“You don’t die if you get wasted in the game. Not in the real world. You just get disconnected.”
“So, the new version of me...?”
“He’s just an uplifted monkey, same as you are, jacked into the game. He’s probably in the same lab, in the same couch where they had you.”
“But is he indestructible too?”
“Not entirely. Neither of you is. You’re both just very, very hard to kill.” She plugged the leads into the sockets on the edge of the SincPad. “So, I guess we’re about to answer that age-old question.”
“What question?”
She bent over him, sliding the other end of the cables, one by one, into the corresponding ports on the top of his head.
“The question of what happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object.”
EVERYTHING WENT BLANK. Then, half a second later, Ack-Ack Macaque found himself standing once more in the perpetual summer of a fictional 1944. This time, K8 had dropped him close
r to the main action, behind a hangar on his old airbase.
Everything was exactly as he remembered it, from the acrid tang of engine grease to the feel of the warm tarmac beneath his bare feet. He drew his Colts. Nobody in sight. The main action was taking place at the end of the row of hangars, in the Officers’ Mess. He could hear somebody hammering out a tune on the piano. Glasses clinking. Voices raised in laughter.
This had been his life for as long as he could remember. This field, that tent. Those planes on the runway. He felt his lips pull back from his teeth, exposing his canines.
Okay motherfuckers, he thought. Time for a dose of reality.
Keeping low, he loped from hangar to hangar, working his way towards the sounds of merriment. Was his replacement inside the tent? Some of the planes seemed to be missing from the runway. Perhaps he was, perhaps he wasn’t. Ack-Ack Macaque paused at the corner of the final hangar, and tightened his grip on the Colts.
There was only one way to find out.
He licked his teeth, checking them for sharpness. Then, still hunched as low as possible, he scampered around to the front of the tent. When he got there, he straightened up as far as he could and, holding his gigantic silver revolvers high, kicked open the door.
Instantly, the piano music stopped. All the heads turned in his direction.
Same old crowd, he thought. Young, talkative and cavalier. His thumbs drew back the hammers on the Colts.
“Where’s the monkey?” he snapped. They looked at him in puzzlement. Nobody spoke. From the corner of the tent, the cockney Mess Officer bustled towards him, all white jacket, slicked back hair and pencil moustache.
“Afternoon, squire. What can I get you? The usual, is it?”
Ack-Ack Macaque looked him up and down. The wide-boy patter never changed. The man was an obvious construct, part of the program. How come he’d never noticed before?
He pressed the barrel of one of the Colts to the Mess Officer’s forehead, and pulled the trigger. The gun went off with a satisfyingly deafening bang, and red mist blew from the back of the man’s head. But he didn’t fall down. He stood there, holding his silver tray, looking stupid.
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