Macaque Attack!

by Gareth L. Powell

  Paul shrugged his shoulders, plainly struggling to follow her reasoning. “If you say so.”

  “Don’t you remember?” Victoria leant back against the glass, arms folded. “Nguyen told us all the stolen souls had been loaded aboard Céleste Tech’s Martian probe. And that means there has to be a copy of you up there too, maybe stomping around in one of those robot bodies.”

  Paul walked over to stand beside her. He looked out at the blue afternoon sky.

  “Even if that is the case, I don’t see what good it does us.”

  Victoria knew she was grasping at straws. “If we could get to it and somehow integrate the two of you…”

  Paul clicked his tongue behind his teeth. He reached a hand towards the window. “First off, I don’t know if that’s even possible and, secondly, what does it matter anyway?” His fingers reached the pane, and seemed to sink into the glass. “We can’t get to Mars. And, even if we could, the copy might have expired by the time we got there. Most copies last around six months. It might as well be on the other side of the universe.” As if to reinforce his point, the image of his hand emerged from the other side of the glass, into the air outside.

  “That shouldn’t stop us trying.”

  Paul flexed his fingers in the wind. “What do you suggest?”

  “I don’t know.” Victoria turned her palms upwards. “Perhaps we can negotiate with Lady Alyssa. She could transmit the file containing your copy. It would get here in minutes rather than years.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe if we had something she wanted?”

  Paul opened and shut his mouth a couple of times, as if he’d been about to snap back a retort but had then forgotten exactly what it was he had been about to say. His features softened into an expression of confusion. Slowly, he withdrew his hand from the window, bringing it back into the room, and looked at it. He repeatedly opened and shut his fist as if seeing it for the first time. Then he raised his eyes to Victoria’s and smiled apologetically.

  “I’m sorry, but who are you again?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  BIG DOG

  THE WIND BLEW across the top of the airship’s armour-plated hull, ruffling the hairs on Ack-Ack Macaque’s cheeks and the backs of his hands, and flapping the scarf at his neck. His arms were folded across his chest. As he drew them tighter, the brand new leather jacket creaked around his shoulders like a timber galleon. Thank goodness K8 had talked him into buying several spare sets of clothes. She knew his propensity for getting into trouble and, although he’d grumbled at the time, he was grateful now. If he was going to convince this ragtag mob of primates that he was still their leader, it helped to look the part; and besides, in his state of injured exhaustion, it was pretty much only the stiffness of the jacket that was holding him upright.

  With a squeal and a clunk, the platform—designed to transport helicopters from the hangars to the flight deck—drew level and the crowd parted around Bali, forming a loose semicircle with the younger monkey at its focus.

  Ack-Ack Macaque glanced back, to the gun turret at the far end of the airship’s hull, almost a kilometre away, where K8 monitored proceedings through the scope of a high-powered sniper rifle.

  “Stay cool,” he told her, knowing his words would be picked up and relayed by the throat mike beneath his scarf. “Don’t shoot unless I’m already dead.”

  He didn’t have an earpiece, so couldn’t know if she replied. Nevertheless, he trusted her. She knew how important appearances were in these matters. If she intervened to save his life, he’d lose the respect of the troupe—not because she was a girl but because she was human, and this was one fight he had to win or lose by himself. He uncrossed his arms, clamped the cigar between his teeth, and cracked his knuckles. Surrounded by onlookers and supporters, Bali did his best to look unimpressed.

  “I didn’t think you’d come,” he said, fingering the blade of his machete.

  Ack-Ack Macaque grinned, letting them all see his teeth.

  “I didn’t.” He gestured at the platform. “You came to me.”

  “A cheap trick.”

  “No.” Suddenly serious, Ack-Ack Macaque blew smoke from the corner of his mouth. “A message.” He took a step forward and saw Bali tense. “I heard you wanted to challenge me.”

  The younger monkey drew himself up. “That’s right.”

  “You don’t feel like backing down?”

  Bali’s blade swiped the air. “Not today, grandpa. We’ve followed you for two years and enough is enough. It’s time things were different. We need to start thinking about ourselves and about what we want. Let the humans deal with their own problems.”

  Careful to keep his face impassive, Ack-Ack Macaque gave an inward groan. Part of him had been hoping Bali would lose his nerve and retract his challenge, sparing them both a fight—at least until Ack-Ack’s bruises had been given a chance to heal.

  “The people we’re fighting against are the ones who made us,” he said, appealing to the onlookers as much as Bali. “They’re the ones who turned us into monsters.”

  Bali laughed scornfully. “Then perhaps we should thank them?” He thumped a hand against his breast. “Just because you hate yourself, old man, it doesn’t mean the rest of us have to be wracked with self-loathing.”

  “Is that what you think?”

  “Yes, it is.” Bali let the flat edge of his weapon rest against his shoulder. “Now, compadre, are you going to bore me to death or are you going to meet my challenge?”

  Ack-Ack Macaque huffed. He didn’t want to fight Bali—the monkey had been a trusted lieutenant and he honestly didn’t know if, in his current state, he could beat him—but neither could he walk away.

  “I rescued you,” he said.

  Bali scowled. “Maybe I didn’t need rescuing. Perhaps I liked living in that temple. Perhaps I liked being a god.”

  “I didn’t hear any complaints at the time.”

  “You’re hearing one now.” They stood looking at each other, neither willing to be the first to break the stare. Finally, Ack-Ack Macaque rolled his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other, and gave a weary huff.

  “So be it.” He flicked a hand at the crowd, and the circle widened as every monkey in it took a quick step backwards. “Pick your weapon.”

  Smirking triumphantly, Bali held his blade aloft.

  “I choose the machete!” The polished steel gleamed in the cold November sun, and Ack-Ack Macaque shook his head, suppressing a shudder. Not another knife fight. Too many memories brawled at the edges of his awareness; his nostrils filled with the jumbled odours of sawdust, blood and shit.

  No!

  In one movement, he pulled out a Colt and fired. Bali’s arm jerked as the bullet snatched the machete from his grip and sent it clattering across the deck.

  In the sudden, echoing silence, nobody dared move.

  “Pick again,” Ack-Ack said.

  Bali sucked bruised fingers. “Are you insane?”

  Ack-Ack Macaque lowered his revolver until it was aimed directly at the younger monkey’s face. The spectators cowered.

  “Possibly,” he admitted. “I’m certainly sleep-deprived and recovering from some pretty fucking strong drugs.”

  Bali swallowed, looking truly uncertain for the first time. He thrust his chin forward. “Are you going to shoot me down, just like that?”

  For a moment, Ack-Ack Macaque considered it. With his thumb, he levered back the Colt’s hammer, clicking a fresh shell into the firing chamber. All he had to do now was squeeze the trigger. One little squeeze, and all his problems would be gone. He could blow Bali’s brains all over the top of this dreadnought, and then go and find the Founder and demand to know why she hadn’t told him about the baby; and then, after that, maybe he could finally go and get some fucking sleep.

  His forefinger caressed the trigger. So tempting… But would the other monkeys respect him or despise him for taking the easy way out?
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br />   With a silent curse, he eased the hammer forward, and slid the smoking gun back into its holster.

  “I don’t need to shoot you,” he growled, “to show everybody here what a jumped-up little piss-weasel you really are.”

  He took a deliberate step forward. Bali flinched but held his ground.

  “You don’t frighten me, old man.”

  Ack-Ack Macaque grinned. “Yes I do.” He took another step forward, clawed hands reaching out.

  “So,” Bali said, raising his fists, “we’re going to duke it out like gentlemen, is that it?”

  Still advancing, Ack-Ack Macaque shook his head.

  “Don’t be a twat.”

  The first flickers of real fear crossed Bali’s face. He began to back away. “Then what?”

  Ack-Ack Macaque rotated his shoulders and flexed his neck. His original plan had been to intimidate Bali into submission, but now his blood was up. Tiredness and irritation gave way to boiling anger. As far as he was concerned, the upstart was a stand-in for every hurt, frustration and set-back he’d suffered over the past few days, and all he wanted now was to stomp the insolent look from the little bastard’s stupid eyes.

  “We’re going to fight like monkeys,” he said gruffly. “We’re going to scream and leap and scratch and bite. You know, old school. And then, at some point, I’m going to rip your tail off and jam it up your devious, back-stabbing arse.”

  Bali’s hackles rose. He stopped retreating. “Oh, really?” He spoke for the benefit of the audience. “You think you can take me in a fair fight?”

  Ack-Ack Macaque laughed.

  “Who said anything about fair?”

  THEY CRASHED TOGETHER with a screech that seemed to fill the vaulting sky. A kilometre away, the sound chilled K8’s blood and prickled the hairs at the back of her neck. Through her rifle’s telescopic sight, the two monkeys became a tumbling blur of flailing limbs and thrashing tails. They squirmed around each other, each trying to clamp his teeth around the other’s windpipe. She saw flying clumps of torn hair and ripped clothing, and the flash of yellow incisors.

  “Aw, shite.”

  Her index finger tapped against the trigger guard. She wanted to help, but the Skipper’s instructions had been very specific. She wasn’t to fire on Bali unless Ack-Ack Macaque died—and even then, she was only allowed to do it in self-defence. If Bali’s first act as new alpha male was to turn on the humans—K8 and Victoria—she was authorised to put a bullet in his brain. Otherwise, she was just to get the hell off the airship and let the Sun Wukong go wherever it wanted.

  I don’t think so.

  K8 jerked upright, startled by the voice in her head. Since returning to this parallel, the voices of the Gestalt had been a low buzz at the back of her awareness, a conversation she could tune in or out at will. This voice, however, was much louder—a sharp feminine voice speaking directly into her mind, and the sudden, queasy sensation of another presence in her head, peering out through her eyes.

  “What do you mean?”

  If you get a shot, child, you take it.

  “Founder?”

  Who else?

  “But the Skipper, he said—”

  I don’t care what he said. He’s a reckless fool. If you see a chance to end the fight, you end it.

  “But the other monkeys…”

  You leave them to me.

  K8 closed one eye and squinted down the scope. Her cheek brushed the rifle’s wooden stock.

  “They’re moving too fast.” She clicked the magnification up a notch. “If we shoot, we could kill them both.”

  Then wait for one of them to get the upper hand.

  Lurking behind the voice like the background hiss of a radio transmission, K8 sensed frustration, concern, and an exasperated, grudging respect for Ack-Ack Macaque and his hotheaded ways. She hunched around the rifle, arranging herself in order to minimise the amount of recoil her shoulder would have to absorb. Despite the cold wind, her hands were sweating. Through the sight, she saw Ack-Ack Macaque pull back his arm and let fly with a punch that sprayed blood and teeth from Bali’s mouth.

  “Yay!” K8 whispered—but, even as Bali turned with the force of the blow, his foot swept around and caught Ack-Ack off balance. The big monkey went down on his back, and Bali was on him, hands locking around his throat, throttling him. Heart beating hard, K8 tried to focus the cross hairs.

  Before she could, one of Ack-Ack Macaque’s hands came up to grab the side of Bali’s head, and his thumb pressed into the younger monkey’s eye. Bali twisted away with a cry of pain, but still the chokehold stayed in place.

  Was Bali going to win? From where K8 knelt, he seemed to have the advantage. He was younger and faster, and coming to the fight fresh and rested instead of exhausted and bruised; and with his hands locked around the Skipper’s throat, surely it was only a matter of time…

  Come on, girl.

  K8 swallowed. Bali was still on top of Ack-Ack, who was writhing furiously, trying to throw his opponent off. If they could just hold still for half a second…

  Ack-Ack Macaque’s thumb stabbed into Bali’s eye socket again, this time rupturing the soft jelly within. Bali screamed and pulled back, hands flying to his face. Vitreous fluid poured down his cheek like the contents of a broken egg. Freed from his stranglehold, Ack-Ack Macaque sat up and lunged forward with a vicious head-butt. The other monkey toppled back and they rolled apart. Bali was on his back now, feet in the air, hands clamped to his face.

  NOW!

  The force of the command swamped all other thoughts. K8’s finger twitched and the gun bucked—and a thousand metres away across the curving roof of the dreadnought, Bali’s left knee exploded.

  ACK-ACK MACAQUE TIED his white silk scarf around his fallen opponent’s thigh, pulling it tight to form an improvised tourniquet. Then he turned to glare at the distant figure of K8, who was standing up now, the rifle dangling from her right hand.

  “Why the fuck did you do that? I was winning,for Christ’s sake.”

  At his feet, Bali moved feebly, one hand on his shattered leg, the other covering his punctured eye.

  “Hold still,” Ack-Ack Macaque told him. “You’ll be okay.”

  Bali looked up at him, his remaining eye filled with anguish.

  “You’re not going to kill me?”

  Ack-Ack Macaque reached into his jacket and pulled out a pair of cigars. He lit both, and handed one over.

  “I never was. I only planned to teach you a lesson.”

  The other monkeys stood awkwardly around them. Some didn’t believe the fight could be over; others were just waiting to see what would happen next.

  “A lesson?” Bali’s laugh was brittle. The hand holding the cigar shook so violently he almost dropped it. He was going into shock. To keep him focused, Ack-Ack Macaque bent down and slapped him across the cheek.

  “I didn’t say I wasn’t going to kick your ass.” He stepped back a few paces, his boots leaving bloody footprints on the iron deck. Bali regarded him with horrified disbelief.

  “But, you took my eye…”

  Ack-Ack Macaque shrugged.“If you challenge the big dog, you’re going to get bitten.”

  He straightened his jacket, and glowered at the assembled crowd.

  “Now, I’m going to let this one live,” he said, nodding down at his fallen challenger, “for one reason, and one reason only. And that’s because I’ve seen enough senseless killing to last me the rest of my days. There are too many assholes out there thinking they’ve got the right to kill and maim and enslave, and I’ve had a gut-full of all of it. I won’t be one of them.” He stomped to the edge of the deck and threw an arm out, pointing to the horizon. “If any of you want to leave this ship and live out your days on Kishkindha, you’re welcome. I won’t stop you. But let me just say this. You remember those tossers we were just fighting? The ones in the big tanks?” He recalled his woodland encounter with Apynja, and bared his teeth at his audience. “Do you know they killed everybo
dy on their timeline, just because they fucking could? They murdered eight billion people because they were in the way.” He shook his head, feeling disgusted with himself, with Bali and K8, and the whole messy fuck-up.

  “The woman leading them is called Alyssa Célestine. Some of you may have heard of her. She’s a grade-A fucking psychopath.” He sucked his cigar until the end glowed like a flare, then spoke through a plume of smoke. “She wants to live forever. She’s worked with copies of herself and Doctor Nguyen on a number of timelines, trying to convert people into undying machines. And that’s where we came from.” He jabbed the cigar butt at the nearest monkeys. “We’re byproducts of their experiments. They didn’t want to try uploading people until they’d tried it on monkeys first.” He hawked and spat over the edge of the deck, and watched his phlegm get snatched away by the wind. “And so, here we are. We’re the cast-offs, the prototypes. The ones sentenced to lives of loneliness and pain, separated from our species and surrounded by humans. And my question to you is this…” He paused, letting his words hang, watching their eyes widen. He was their boss and he was angry. This wasn’t a victory speech; it was a call to war.

  “Are you motherfuckers ready to do something about it?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  NUCLEAR WINTER

  AS THE SUN WUKONG approached the glittering ribbon of the English Channel, Merovech’s helicopter touched down on the airship’s upper deck. As he stepped out, into the downdraught from the rotors, two dark-suited bodyguards, a pair of armed Royal Marines, and a young lady with a briefcase accompanied him. Standing at a safe distance, Victoria watched them hurry towards her, their heads bent and hands shielding their eyes. As this was a royal visit, she’d made a point of wearing the Commodore’s old dress tunic and scabbard. She even wore a blonde wig to cover the scars on her scalp. She might not be in sole command of this airship, as she had been with the Tereshkova, but she’d be damned if she couldn’t look the part.