Halfhead

by Stuart B. MacBride

  The man laughed. ‘Aye? Well how’s this for fuckin’ professional?’ There was the metallic snickt of a power switch. Something big and clunky: modern weapons didn’t make noises like that anymore. Maybe it was the same antique P-750 that punched a hole in Private Floyd’s shoulder? Didn’t matter how old it was, it would still be deadly.

  ‘So what you going to do?’ Will slowed to a halt, moving his weight forwards onto the balls of his feet. ‘Talk me to death?’

  ‘Am gonnae blow a great big hole in yer arse an bugger aff wi a’ yer cards and yer housecode. Then me an some mates are gonnae nick everythin’ ye’ve got. An if yer girl or boyfriend’s aboot we’ll shag the shit ootae them an fuck’em in the heid wi an ice-pick.’

  Will frowned. He knew they were the bastards from the Sherman House ‘project’, and they knew he knew—otherwise they wouldn’t be here. So why the play-acting? Maybe they were filming it? Maybe this was one of the few bits of the park where the CCTV actually worked? No one would go looking for a conspiracy, not when they had it all on tape. A mugging gone wrong. His own fault really, should have known better than to cut across the park. A tragic indictment of today’s society. Small state funeral. No questions asked.

  Ken Peitai gets away with murder.

  Will spun around, bringing the Palm Thrummer up. The one in the cloat was there, but there was no sign of his friend.

  ‘Cloat’ wasn’t holding a P-750, what he had was even older than that: about as long as the man’s arm, all rust patches and visible wiring. It looked more likely to blow up in Cloat’s face than do Will any damage…Probably a decoy: something to distract him.

  A nuclear family strobed into life at the side of the path, the rain rippling through their holographic bodies as they launched into a song and dance about having pizza for tea. Someone must have set off the advertipod’s sensor.

  Jacket-and-Scarf came out of nowhere, swinging a thick metal rod. Will didn’t have time to duck—it slammed into his forehead. Ringing in his ears, bright lights flashing inside his skull. He stumbled and fell, face thudding into the wet tarmac path.

  Get up. GET—UP!

  An animated dinosaur joined the musical number, telling everyone that on Monday nights kids ate for free.

  Will forced himself to his knees, the world roaring in his ears as it span. Jacket-and-Scarf took a run up and kicked him in the ribs, hard enough to send him sprawling across the rain-sodden grass, through the blue triceratops and into the middle of the advert—mushrooms and peppers and chunks of cloned meat swirling all around him, making his skin flicker and glow.

  Will coughed up blood. Something inside him was broken. Every breath was a sharp, stabbing pain.

  This didn’t make any sense. Why were they playing with him? Didn’t they know how dangerous it was? Didn’t they understand?

  ‘Ha, lookit him: now he’s a pizza topping! Whit a fukin’ jessie!’

  How could they not understand? Will tightened his grip on the Thrummer. It was time to explain it to them.

  Jacket-and-Scarf dropped the metal rod and pulled a knife. It was huge, a proper kitchen job: six inches long and three inches wide, tapering to a point. Not the sort of blade he’d been expecting. It glittered as Jacket-and-Scarf stepped through the dancing children and grabbed Will by the throat. ‘Time tae play “ah’ve nae face”!’

  Up close Jacket-and-Scarf looked like someone’s niece, hardly old enough to be out of school. She drew the knife back, held it there for a fraction of a second then lashed forward.

  The Thrummer burred in Will’s hand.

  Jacket-and-Scarf didn’t scream, she just sat back on her haunches, staring at the stump of her left arm—severed just below the elbow—pumping out bright-red, arterial mist into the rain.

  A happy dinosaur skipped past.

  ‘Fukin hell!’ Cloat aimed his antique weapon at Will’s head and pulled the trigger. It clunked.

  ‘No’ again!’ He smacked his hand against the power unit, trying to get something more deadly than a dull whine out of it. ‘Work, ye fuckin’ piece o’shit!’ Cloat backed off, slapping and swearing as Will struggled to his feet. His ribs ached, blood trickled down his face, gumming up his eyes. He rubbed a hand across them. Blinked. Staggered through a small holographic child.

  Sparks leapt from the exposed wiring on Cloat’s gun when they came into contact with the rain, and the whine changed to a throaty growl.

  Suddenly it roared, digging a chunk out of the ground by his feet. Cloat screamed, scrabbled back a couple of steps. Then grinned at Will, eyes wide and bloodshot.

  ‘Yer fuckin’ dead! Ye hear me? Yer dead!’ He yanked the barrel up and the whole thing went off like Hogmanay. One moment he was standing there and the next he was lumpy rain. Will covered his eyes and waited for the bigger bits to stop falling from the sky.

  Jacket-and-Scarf was shivering, clutching her left arm, staring at where it came to an abrupt end.

  The pizza song and dance routine reached its big finale, and then it was gone—leaving them in darkness and silence.

  ‘You’ve got two choices,’ said Will, spitting out a mouthful of blood. ‘Either you tell me who sent you and what your orders were, or I kill you.’

  She looked up at him, face waxy, lips going purple. ‘I…I…My arm! A’ve nae arm!’

  Will planted his foot on her chest and shoved till she was flat on her back. ‘Let’s try it again!’ He was shouting now, the adrenaline burn making his voice tremble. ‘You and your friend the smear, were sent here to kill me. Who was it? Who sent you? It was Peitai, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Ma arm!’

  Will dropped to his knees, straddling her chest, and pressed the Thrummer against her pale cheek.

  ‘It’ll be your head next, understand?’ He slapped her hard across the face. ‘Understand?’ Another slap. ‘WHO’S HE WORKING FOR?’

  ‘We only wanted some cash! A couple o’ cards, some credits! Just enough to get oan wi! We wouldnae’ve touched yer girlfriend! We wouldnae!’ She sobbed. ‘Please…Ah that stuff Malk wis sayin wis just tae scare ye. We wouldnae’ve done it. We just wanted a bitta dosh fer H! Ye didnae haf tae take ma arm!’

  ‘I’ll take your whole head you snivelling piece of—’

  There was a roar above him and a sudden downdraft of hot air. All around them the park jumped into eye-searing focus as landing lights flooded the area, the downpour whipped into a hurricane by the Dragonfly’s engines.

  A voice buzzed in Will’s earpiece, crackling with static.

  ‘This is Echo Two Seven, we show landing zone secure.’

  The cavalry had arrived.

  Will looked down at Jacket-and-Scarf. Two more minutes and he’d have got the truth out of her, even if he’d had to take every single one of her bloody limbs off. She wouldn’t admit anything now there were witnesses. Even if she made it as far as the Tin, Peitai would find a way to get her out. That or silence her for good.

  Will placed the Thrummer against her temple. Maybe he’d save them the trouble.

  The holographic advert flickered back to the start: Mum, Dad, and two-point-four children launching into their song and dance again. ‘If you’re hungry as can be—need to feed your family…’

  Someone tapped Will on the shoulder. ‘It’s OK, sir, we’ve got her now.’

  He didn’t have to look to know it was one of the Dragon—fly’s pickup team. They wouldn’t like him blowing Jacket-and-Scarf’s head off like this, but they wouldn’t say anything about it. They’d close ranks. Delete the footage from the gunship and their helmet-cams. He’d been one of them, riding the wire for almost three and a half years before making the grade as a Network Agent and they knew it. The team protected its own.

  A new voice: ‘Mr Hunter? Sir?’ Will caught a flash of neon-pink trouser leg.

  Fuck.

  ‘Sir, are you OK?’

  Too late.

  He couldn’t execute the one-armed bandit while DS Cameron was watching. She wouldn’t unders
tand. She still believed in the rules.

  ‘You can let go of her now, sir.’

  He closed his eyes and powered down the Thrummer.

  ‘You’re bleeding…’ She helped him to his feet, holding him upright while he hissed breath through his clenched teeth. Definitely a broken rib. Probably two.

  ‘I’ve had better days.’ Will watched someone spray Jacket-and-Scarf’s stump with skinpaint. She’d go to hospital overnight for observation; Ken Peitai would make all the charges disappear; it only took a week to grow a new arm; couple of hours in surgery; and she’d be back on the streets.

  Will should have killed her when he had the chance.

  ‘Looks like you put up quite a struggle.’ Jo pointed at the chunks of Cloat littering the sodden grass.

  The dinosaur reappeared, singing, ‘On Monday bring your fa-mil-eee, cos kids under twelve eat for free!’ Will pointed his Thrummer at the advertipod and reduced the emitters to dust.

  Jo stared at him. ‘Not a big fan of pizza then?’

  ‘The dead one had an old S-Nine-Eighty. Looked like it fell off the back of a museum. Blew up in his hands.’

  ‘Long black cloat?’

  Will nodded.

  ‘That’ll’ve been Malcolm Albany. He and Samantha here used to work the Green, till Nicholson and Richmond offered to pop their heads in a cruncher.’

  ‘You know these people?’

  She sighed. ‘Know them? I’ve arrested Samantha McLean more times than I can count. Prostitution, assault, burglary…you name it. Been in and out of the Tin since she was six. She’s screwed this time—attempted murder. Poor cow’s in for a halfheading.’

  Muggers. Not Peitai after all.

  Will ran a hand over his face. It came away sticky, covered in red. He snorted. Smiled. Started to laugh.

  ‘How hard did they hit you?’ Jo stepped in close, peering into his eyes. ‘How many fingers am I holding up?’

  He grabbed her cheeks with his bloody hands and kissed her full on the lips. ‘You,’ he said, ‘have restored my faith in human nature.’

  ‘I…em…’ She stepped back, mouth working up and down in time with her eyebrows, a blush rushing up her neck. ‘I don’t understand, sir.’

  Will limped towards the waiting Dragonfly. ‘Sometimes there is no conspiracy. Sometimes people are just basically evil.’

  ‘But why did you—’

  The rain-swept sky exploded as a second Dragonfly swung in over the scene with all weapons pods opened. Deep, dark scars wound their way back along the gunship, smoke trailing from the port engine.

  ‘Hunter, this is Brand, do you copy, over?’ Emily. She wouldn’t know if he was alive or the filling in a body-bag buttie.

  ‘Panic’s over, Lieutenant.’ He turned and beamed at Jo and her ridiculously colourful suit. ‘DS Cameron saved the day. They were just muggers. Can you believe it? Muggers.’ He started to laugh again and didn’t stop until they’d snapped a blocker into his neck.

  The hospital’s busy in the run-up to lunch: lots of things going on, people trying to clear their desks before noon. Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzing about the hospital like busy, busy bees. No one paying attention to anyone else. Always the best time to get things done.

  She takes a good look around before hauling the trolley out of the storeroom and into the corridor. Body-bags would be too suspicious—they don’t let halfheads push dead people around—but general-purpose refuse sacks are another matter entirely. You just have to cut the dearly departed into smaller bits.

  She pulls the door shut behind her and trundles along the corridor to the incinerator. It’s been six years since she last needed it: Gordon Waugh. She’d kept the furnace door open that time, turning the heat down so it wouldn’t instantly reduce his mangled corpse to ash…smiling as Gordon hissed and crackled in the flames. That night she’d gone out and had a huge plate of roast pork.

  But she doesn’t have time for fun now. So she just throws the eight heavy refuse sacks into the furnace and cranks the heat up full. Soon there is nothing left. Bye-bye Kris, bye-bye Norman.

  Dr Westfield waves, then abandons the trolley in favour of a mop and wheely-bucket, pushing it in front of her like a bag lady pushing a shopping cart full of empty plastics. Focusing on the soapy water as if it’s the only thing in the world.

  The service elevator is crowded—just as she expected it to be. Four doctors, three interns, and a nurse. They move over, just enough to let her in without actually acknowledging her existence. Even though two of them used to work with her every day…Back when she was a human being.

  Dr Stephen Bexley—the one with the salt and pepper beard, reading a patient’s chart on his datapad—even went to the trial. He wept as she took the court through the list of names, telling them exactly what she’d done to their bodies, both before and after death. It was the postmortem activities that seemed to upset Stephen most of all. Once upon a time he’d claimed to be her friend. Now he doesn’t even recognize her.

  Poor Stephen.

  His face is much the same as it’s always been: leathery, hook-nosed and bearded. He’s got a lot more hair than he had at the trial—cloneplants, the saviour of balding men. Did he get one of his minions to perform the procedure, or do it himself? Always the perfectionist. Always the huge ego.

  The floors pass and one by one the others leave until she is alone in the lift with Stephen. Oblivious to her presence he works one of his delicate surgeon’s fingers up that huge, hooked nose. Round and round and round he digs, before dragging something out and peering at it.

  She closes her eyes and does not watch him eating what he has found.

  The lift shudders to a halt and she waits for him to leave the car first—just like a good halfhead should—then follows him out into a cluttered reception area. The walls are peppered with inspirational posters, pictures of happy, smiling children, thank you letters, news clips and awards. The cloneplant ward of Glasgow Royal is one of the best in the world. And Dr Stephen Bexley is it’s grand vizier.

  The security guard checks Stephen’s ID, running it through the scanner as if he were a potential terrorist instead of the head of the department. Only when the reader plinks ‘ALL CLEAR’ does the guard smile and ask him how his wife and children are.

  He has a family now. A new head of hair, a pregnant wife, and children. How sweet. That makes things a lot easier.

  Stephen shares a few pleasantries with the guard, then walks through the doors. No one bothers to check the ID of the halfhead with the mop and the bucket, she just shuffles past into the depths of the cloneplant lab.

  It’s bigger than she remembers it. The equipment in here is all new to her, but she’s a fast learner. She mops the floor, up and down between the rows of work benches, nice and slow, watching what the technicians are doing. The first stage seems easy enough: place patient samples in a sequencer to fabricate stem cells. The next bit is harder: working out how to direct the growth. There will probably be stored procedures in the system to get the results she wants, but she needs enough time to find the proper commands. So she keeps on mopping until the lunch bell goes and they all bustle off to sample the canteen’s deep-fried delights.

  They’ll be back in forty minutes: she has to work fast.

  Getting the sample for the sequencer isn’t easy. She needs good, healthy tissue. There’s no way she can scrape cells out of her cheek, or her oesophagus; so she peels a strip, five millimetres wide and ten millimetres long, from her abdomen with a fresh blade. It’s not a deep wound, but it stings and bleeds more than she expects. She presses a handful of sterile wadding over the wound, stopping the worst of it. A small sacrifice to get her real face back. To be herself again.

  Should have taken a tin of skinpaint from the storeroom, but she never expected to get this far so soon. Ah well: carpe diem.

  With her free hand she slips the rectangle of flesh into a fresh crucible—a circle of complicated plastics and electrics sealing off a bag of growth medium. She sna
ps the top back on, slides the whole thing into the sequencer and sets it in motion. From here on everything is automated; all she has to do is tell the system what she wants the cells to grow into.

  Which is more complicated than it looked.

  She’s still searching for the right commands when people start returning from lunch: she can hear them chatting in the reception area, dragging their heels, not wanting to get back to work too quickly.

  The sequence has to be in here somewhere…

  Her left leg starts to tremble.

  Where the hell is the damn sequence?

  Bees and broken glass.

  The door clicks open and the staff drift in, heading for their work areas.

  Time to give up. Come back later. Don’t take any risks.

  She tabs through the command list as quickly as she can, speed reading from one file to the next.

  Someone sits down at the next bench along, talking into his finger: ‘Yeah, no, a pint sounds great…’

  A sequence flickers up on her monitor, every last cell division worked out in perfect detail. It’s a lot more tissue than she needs, but she doesn’t have time to search for something else.

  ‘Hey, what’s that damn halfheid doin’ tae ma desk?’ The voice is rough, coming from the other end of the room.

  The man sitting at the next bench looks up at the noise and then glances at her.

  It’s just enough time to peel the wadding off her bleeding stomach and pretend to polish the desktop with it.

  ‘Cleaning,’ says the man. ‘What’d you think it was doing, Rob, reading your pornmail?’

  They laugh, and Rob blushes. ‘Shut up.’

  She stabs the button, downloading the instruction sequence into the crucible.

  ‘What’s all the hilarity about?’ Dr Stephen Bexley stands at the front of the room, running a hand through his new hair.

  ‘Rob thinks the halfhead’s reading his dirty emails.’ More laughter.

  ‘No ah don’t!’

  ‘Children, children.’ Stephen smiles at them, always the self-appointed father figure. ‘Play nice.’

  The workbench is covered with thin streaks of blood where she’s been rubbing it with the wadding. She dips the cloth into the bucket at her feet and wipes it clean before anyone can see.