Macaque Attack!

by Gareth L. Powell

  With a snarl, he reached up and took hold of the gutter with his other hand. He couldn’t pull himself up. The iron pipe was cold and its edges sharp, and he simply didn’t have enough strength left in his arms. The breath heaved in his chest and, not for the first time, he began to regret his cigar habit.

  If I get out of this, he promised himself, I’m going to take up jogging. I’m going to join a gym. I’m going to…

  Oh, who am I kidding?

  He kicked off his boots and let them fall. One after the other, they spun end-over-end to the muddy floor of the alley, landing with hollow thuds. If two hands weren’t enough, he’d try four. Using his tail as a counterbalance, he swung his feet up, and gripped the roof with his toes. His legs were stronger than his arms. Using them to bear most of his weight freed his hands to seek firmer purchase, and he was eventually able to heave himself up, out of danger.

  He lay on the roof, cursing softly under his breath. Voices came from below. Another few seconds, and he would have been seen.

  “Too close,” he muttered.

  Overhead, the helicopter wheeled toward him; or at least, towards the car park at the end of the row of buildings. Light spilled from an open hatch in its side. A figure stood braced on the threshold, tall, thin and feminine. For a moment, it swayed. Then it fell, arms and legs spread out in a graceful swallow dive. Ack-Ack Macaque elbowed himself up into a sitting position. That was Célestine! What was the Duchess playing at? Was she trying to kill herself? He could see she was too low to use a parachute.

  “Pavement pizza,” he muttered glumly, wondering how he’d ever get home without her to operate the portal.

  Then, as the falling woman hurtled towards the cracked surface of the parking lot, two of the spindly cyborgs leapt ten metres into the air. They caught her between them and fell, cradling her in their interlocked arms. As they hit the ground, their carbon fibre legs flexed, absorbing the force of the impact and the weight of the woman they’d rescued. They set her feet gently onto the shattered tarmac of the car park, and stepped away, giving her space.

  Watching the Duchess, apparently unharmed and dusting herself down, Ack-Ack Macaque felt his jaw drop open. He blinked his solitary eye. Célestine had been falling from a helicopter, and two of her cyborgs had jumped up and caught her.

  “What the fuck?”

  Beyond the barbed wire of the perimeter fence, massive vehicles were coming to life. Their engines growled and their weapons swung back and forth as if scenting the air. Fire and smoke belched from their chimneys. Tall, spindly figures raced toward them, climbing into their cabs or piling into hatches along their lengths. Célestine and her saviours followed at a brisk walk. Ahead, through the gloom, the metal arch had begun to glow brighter than ever. Blue sparks flickered like sprites amidst the metal latticework of its frame. The warped space at its centre swirled and sparkled like a whirlpool, throwing off shards of rainbow light.

  It was another portal, Ack-Ack Macaque realised, and all these giant tanks were lining up to pass through it.

  “Holy shitballs.” Even to his own ears, his laugh held an edge of panic. “It’s an invasion!”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  A VIEW OF THE RIVER

  THE CROWD STOOD in Parliament Square, solemnly contemplating Big Ben’s ruined tower. Rather than being rebuilt along with the rest of the Palace of Westminster, the scarred and shattered clock face had been repurposed as a permanent memorial to those who had died in the Gestalt attack. The pockmarked sides of the tower had been inscribed with the names of more than fifty thousand Commonwealth citizens, from more than a dozen countries, who had perished during that initial assault on the major cities of the world. As well as civilians, the names included those of politicians, civil servants, and members of His Majesty’s armed services.

  Dressed in a ceremonial uniform, Merovech stood on a specially constructed stage and looked up at the tower. Today, it stood battered but proud against a backdrop of blue sky and high, white cloud. He wondered exactly where on its ornate surface Julie’s name had been carved. He hoped it was somewhere near the top, with a good view of the river.

  Around him on the platform sat heads of state from most of the Commonwealth nations. Some had survived the tragedy; others had been elected in its wake. They were here, like him, to officially dedicate the monument. They all knew of his personal loss, of course, but had so far been either too polite or too reticent to mention it.

  Is it time?

  The thought surprised him. He’d spent the past three years pushing it to the back of his mind, smothering it with notions of duty and continuity; and yet here it came now, worming its way back.

  When he’d first taken the throne, in the immediate aftermath of the battle in the English Channel, he’d done it to avert a nuclear war. He’d always meant to abdicate. He’d promised Julie that he would. But then the Gestalt invaded, and everything changed. He put aside his personal feelings for the good of his country and his Commonwealth, and loyally played the part his people expected; but he had never been of royal blood and bore no right to sit upon the throne. He wasn’t even sure he was entirely human. Now, with this dedication, could it finally be time to walk away, to announce his retirement and take himself off to a small cottage on a Greek island, somewhere far from the machinery of media and state? Today seemed as good a day as any. If the crowds and cameras were gathered here in order to draw a line under the catastrophic events of the recent past, then surely now would be the perfect time to put an end to his reign? He had served his people. None of them knew that he had no claim to the crown. He had served and he had suffered, and the people had taken him to their hearts. Surely they would understand and be sympathetic if he announced his wish to step down, on today of all days?

  The cracked bell tolled in the damaged tower. He rose to his feet and walked to the microphone. Heads and cameras turned towards him. The upturned faces of the people packed into the square reminded him of a field of sunflowers, turning to greet the day. As they fell silent, he cleared his throat.

  “Today,” he began, reading from the words projected by the autocue. They shimmered in the air before him like the delusions of a heat-stricken madman. “Today marks a most solemn anniversary. It is a time for remembrance but also a time for hope; a time to acknowledge our grief but also to give thanks for the peace and international cooperation that have followed in the wake of catastrophe. For now, nation stands shoulder to shoulder with nation, united. Our petty and dangerous squabbles have been put aside in the face of strange and graver threats, and in honour of those whom we come here today to remember.” He paused, conscious of the bell tower behind him. The words he was reading were his. He’d written them himself, yet still they died in his mouth. He couldn’t go on. His throat felt closed up and he couldn’t swallow properly. All he could think of was Julie: her face, her smell, the way her eyes would crinkle at the corners when she smiled.

  Damn it all.

  She’d want him to do it. She’d never wanted to be a queen or princess, but she’d gone along with the charade because he’d convinced her it was necessary. And it had been, at the time; at least, he’d thought so. He’d spent his life being trained to lead, and so who better than him to step in during a crisis? But with that crisis now over, how necessary was it for him to remain? He closed his eyes and sighed. The crowd was silent. They thought he was overcome with grief, and their sympathy stung him even as he was grateful for it. It made him feel like a fraud.

  Time to go.

  In his imagination, he’d rehearsed this moment a hundred times. Yet, now it was upon him, he couldn’t think of anything to say. The only words that came to mind were tumbled, nonsensical platitudes.

  He watched one of the vast Gestalt dreadnoughts chug across the rooftops of the city, on its way to Heathrow. Following the Gestalt surrender, the hundred or so dreadnoughts that were still operational had been placed under joint international control. In a world still reeling back from the brink of
World War III, no single country could be permitted sole control of such a fleet, and so the vast armoured airships, still operated by their Gestalt crews, had been organised into a defensive force, designed to combat incursions from other timelines. Thanks to Ack-Ack Macaque, Earth’s assailants had become its protectors.

  Thinking of the monkey, Merovech looked down at his hands.

  Why didn’t I go with them when I had the chance? How different his life would have been if he and Julie had accepted Victoria Valois’ invitation to join the Tereshkova’s crew three years ago, in the wake of the so-called ‘Combat de la Manche.’ They could have travelled the world. Julie might still have been alive.

  “I have to tell you something.” His voice faltered. The crowd’s wide eyes radiated commiseration and compassion. He gripped the sides of the lectern with his white-gloved hands and took a deep breath. His legs were shaking.

  “I have to—”

  He became aware of voices behind him, and glanced around. A number of the world leaders arrayed behind him were talking urgently into their phones, or listening to aides. Had they guessed what he was about to say? Even as he frowned at their interruption, he saw Amy Llewellyn shouldering her way towards him from the back of the stage. She had her security pass in one hand and carried a SincPhone in the other. Her dark brows were drawn together and her cheeks were ashen. Reaching him, she placed one of her hands across the microphone and raised herself on her toes to whisper in his ear.

  “It’s Mars,” she said, pushing the phone into his hands. Her breath was warm against his cheek.

  “Another message?” Merovech looked down at the handset she’d forced on him. The very last thing he wanted right now was to talk to his mother.

  “No.” Amy shook her head, expression grim. She gripped his shoulder. “They’ve launched a missile.” She eyed the expectant crowd. “And if our estimates are correct, it’s the size of the Isle of Wight.”

  BREAKING NEWS

  From B&FBC NEWS ONLINE:

  ASTRONOMERS DETECT ‘MISSILE’ FROM MARS

  PARIS 18/11/ 2062 – Astronomers working for the European Space Agency have observed the launch of a gigantic projectile from the surface of Mars. The shock announcement came earlier today, during a service of remembrance to mark the second anniversary of the Gestalt attack of 2060. The projectile, which is believed to be some sort of weapon, is on a course to hit the Earth, and is due to arrive in less than six months.

  At a hastily convened press conference in Paris, Dr. Sandrine Aurand, a spokesperson for the ESA, told reporters that the missile appears to be moving faster than expected, saying, “If our measurements are correct, the only way to explain the object’s apparent acceleration is to assume some form of antimatter propulsion.”

  Antimatter is matter in which the charges of the particles are reversed. When it comes into contact with ordinary matter, the two annihilate each other with a release of energy much greater than that given off during a nuclear reaction. Antimatter is extremely rare, and it is not known where the newly revived crew of the Martian probe could have obtained enough to power a missile of such size.

  According to observations, the object is most likely a captured asteroid or ‘minor planet’ measuring almost two kilometres in length, which makes it comparable in mass to the asteroid that is thought to have wiped out the dinosaurs.

  “We’re running simulations at the moment,” Dr. Aurand warned, “but wherever this hits, the effects will be global.”

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  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THE BELLY OF THE BEAST

  VICTORIA VALOIS STOOD in the cockpit door, her pistol pressed into the skin at the back of the pilot’s neck.

  “So, how come you’re still human?” she asked. She had to raise her voice over the noise of the engines.

  The Frenchman gave a tight shrug. He was trying to concentrate on his instrument panel.

  “I’m good at what I do.”

  “Okay, prove it.” Victoria pointed forward, through the windshield. “Get us as close to that roof as possible, and lower the ramp.”

  “You want to get out?”

  “No, we’re picking somebody up.”

  The hull rattled, as if hit by a handful of ball bearings.

  “They’re shooting at us!” Paul said.

  Victoria ignored him.

  No shit, Sherlock.

  She kept the barrel of her gun jammed against the pilot’s spine, just below his helmet, where it met his shoulders. Her other hand gripped the doorframe and she had her feet braced against either side of the narrow gangway. She watched the horizon tilt and slide as the big helicopter wallowed around, lining its tubby backside up with the old warehouse. A small screen on the pilot’s console showed a grainy night-vision view of the roof, taken from a camera at the back of the copter. In its unreal green light, she could see Ack-Ack Macaque crouched by one of the air vents. The gun in his hands flashed, and Victoria flinched as a bullet clanged against the bulkhead behind her.

  “Jeez, now he’s shooting at us,” Paul complained.

  “What do you want me to do about it?”

  “You could call him. Assuming he’s still got his radio.”

  “His radio?” If she could have spared a hand, she would have slapped her forehead. “Of course, he was wearing his link when he fell into the portal.”

  Paul smiled infuriatingly.

  “It’s a good job one of us pays attention.”

  Pocketing her gun, Victoria reached forward and lifted the radio handset from its clip on the console between the seats. She thumbed through the frequencies, and then squeezed the button to transmit.

  “Hey, monkey-man. It’s us. Stop firing, and shift your derrière.”

  ACK-ACK MACAQUE THRUST the Desert Eagle into his waistband, and pulled tight the strap holding the chainsaw. Then he ran. He crossed the rusting iron roof on all fours, scampering as hard and fast as he could, careless of the noise he made. Shots came from below but he ignored them. He couldn’t see who was firing or where the bullets were going; all he could see was the inviting maw of the helicopter’s open cargo ramp. He could feel the blood surging through him and felt like whooping. He had been alone, but now his troupe had found him. With a last, desperate bound, he was aboard, and half-running, half-stumbling up into the belly of the beast.

  He found himself in a cargo bay filled with toppled candles. For a second, he thought he might be back in the woods with Apynja, hallucinating, still high on exhaustion, vodka and weed. Then reality kicked in and he forced himself forward, to where Victoria stood, covering the pilot with her weapon. She smiled.

  “Damn good to see you, monkey-man.”

  “Likewise. But I think I hit your fuel tank.” He’d certainly stitched a row of bullet holes across the helicopter’s flank and seen liquid vent from the base of the rear rotor. Without looking around, the pilot tapped a dial.

  “He’s right, we’re losing fuel.”

  Victoria swore under her breath. Reunions would have to wait. “Do we have enough to make it through the portal?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then take us through. We’ll worry about the rest later.”

  Ack-Ack Macaque looked forward through the windshield and gaped at the ranks of lumbering machines arrayed before the metal structure. “Are you fucking nuts? You’ll be flying us into the middle of an invasion.”

  “Yes, but at least we’ll be home. We can signal the
Sun Wukong to follow us when it gets here.”

  Ack-Ack Macaque focused his yellow eye on her. “Home?”

  “That’s where the portal leads,” Victoria said. “Célestine’s planning to invade our timeline.”

  Her words seemed to echo in his ears. Home. He hadn’t been back to the timeline of his birth in two years, and the thought of all this armour attacking it filled him with a sick kind of rage. The Gestalt assault had been bad enough; the thought of another onslaught so soon…

  “What are we waiting for?” He straightened his collar and champed at the cigar still clamped in his teeth. “The Sun’s on its way. Tell it to drop all its missiles on these tossers.”

  “We can’t wait for it.”

  “We don’t have to.” Bullets clanged against the hull. “We’ve done all we can. Now get us through that portal before we fall out of the goddamn sky.”

  TRAILING SMOKE, THEY passed through the portal and burst into sunlight. Ack-Ack Macaque blinked and put up a hand to shade his eye.

  “Are they coming after us?” Victoria asked.

  He ducked his head back into the cargo bay. The rear ramp had been left open. Behind them in the winter air, he saw nothing more than the faintest suggestion of a shimmer, like a desert heat haze.

  “Nope, not yet at any rate.”

  “Well, they can’t be far behind.” He watched her pick up the radio and begin flicking through the frequencies, calling for help. He left her to it, inching his way aft, searching for weapons. If a couple of hundred Leviathans were about to breach the portal, he wanted to face them with something more substantial than a pistol and a chainsaw.