Halfhead

by Stuart B. MacBride

  ‘Hold it right there!’ She bathes him in the Bull Thrummer’s targeting beam.

  He doesn’t flinch, she admires that. Instead he pulls himself up to his full height and turns on her. ‘I don’t know what you’re trying to do here,’ he says, all clipped and educated, not moving a muscle. ‘But I can assure you I am not someone you want to interfere with.’

  She swings the Bull Thrummer up and evaporates a chunk of roof above his head. Concrete particles drift down over his tall, black-cloated shoulders like microscopic dandruff.

  He coughs and splutters as the dust settles. ‘You have no idea who you’re dealing with. Your Network friends aren’t going to save you. I can make you disappear, just like that!’ He snaps his long, surgeon’s fingers and she laughs.

  ‘I’ve already disappeared.’ She pulls a pebbled disk from her jumpsuit pocket, then twists the Palm Zapper’s power dial down to ‘LIGHT STUN’, keeping the Thrummer on him at the same time. ‘Now it’s your turn.’

  He sticks his chest out like a fighting cock. ‘Do you have any idea who I am?’

  ‘You,’ she says, pointing the Palm Zapper at his face, ‘are Tomuku Kikan. You stole my research, you stole my face, you stole my life.’ She smiles: a cold, sharp, hard-edged thing. Broken glass. ‘Did you really think you’d get away with it Tomuku? Did you?’ Her finger caresses the trigger gently and little sparks dance around the disk’s rim. ‘You should have known better than that.’

  ‘Who…’ There’s uncertainty in his eyes now. ‘Who are you?’

  She just smiles and shoots him.

  The shuttle didn’t even slow down. It sped away down the main line, the stanchion lights fading out behind it. Will stood in the growing darkness with chunks of Ken Peitai congealing on his jumpsuit.

  The sound of small arms fire filtered down the tunnel behind him, punctuated by the unmistakable clatter of Whompers and Thrummers. Will turned and staggered back towards the shuttle platform and the orange flashing emergency lighting.

  When he’d got as far as the crashed shuttle he slumped back against the twisted metal. The wreckage groaned in sympathy.

  ‘Where’s the wee shite?’ Brian swung his Whomper across the tunnel behind Will.

  Will looked down at his splattered and stained jumpsuit. ‘I think that’s his ear.’

  ‘Don’t be a bamheid.’ Brian peered at him. ‘That’s a kidney.’

  Will peeled it off the front of his chest and dropped it to the floor. ‘Yeah, you’re probably right.’

  A soft ‘thump’ sounded from further up the tunnel and what was left of the platform doors exploded in a whirlwind of glass and plastic. Two figures, just visible through the thick pall of dust, picked themselves out of the debris. They tried to return fire, but something large roared, turning them both into a fine red mist.

  ‘Jesus!’ said Brian. ‘Emily’s no’ takin’ any prisoners.’

  Someone stalked out of the ruined doorway onto the platform, a Bull Thrummer growling in their hands.

  ‘Cat!’ Will clambered to his feet and jogged back up the tunnel towards the murky figure.

  ‘Hold it right there!’ It wasn’t Cat; it didn’t even sound human.

  ‘Dickson? That you?’ Will had to squint, the siege weapon’s targeting beam had turned the foamcrete and human dust into solid green soup.

  ‘On your knees, hands where I can see them!’

  Will sank to the floor and did as he was told. Something alien emerged from the mist, all lumpy and misshapen. The figure flipped up its visor and pulled the breather off its face.

  ‘Lieutenant,’ Dickson said into her throat-mike, ‘I’ve found him.’ She gave Will a small smile and clipped the mask back over her mouth. ‘You can get up now, sir.’

  ‘Agent Alexander and DS Cameron are back there, near the shuttle wreck. We need to get Jo to a hospital ASAP.’ He pointed at the Bull Thrummer in her hands. ‘There’s another member of my team, a Bluecoat, carrying one of those. She’s still in the facility.’

  ‘I’ve not seen anyone, but I can ask.’ Dickson put out the call and another strange, alien figure emerged out of the mist. Two gold pips painted on the chitin’s shoulder plates, a glowing digital readout with ‘BRAND’ on the chest. Emily.

  The three of them walked back towards the flickering orange hazard lights in uncomfortable silence.

  ‘The cavalry’s here,’ he told Brian, trying to break the permafrost.

  Lieutenant Brand snapped her visor up and nodded. ‘Brian.’

  ‘Took yer bloody time.’ He winked. ‘No’ got any chips on you, have you? I’m starved.’ The sound of gunfire was less frequent now; only the occasional roar and pop breaking the silence.

  ‘Greedy bastard…’ Emily looked down at Jo’s battered face and broiled arm, then keyed her throat-mike. ‘Floyd, Patterson, get your arses and a stretcher down to the shuttle bay. I’ve got an injured DS for you.’ She turned and addressed Dickson. ‘You’re on escort duty. See them back to the ship and make sure they go straight to the Royal. I hear they stopped off for a couple of pints and your arse is in a sling.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am!’

  ‘Emily…’ Will paused as she turned and stared at him, eyes cold and hard. ‘We’ve got an officer missing, the Bluecoat—’

  ‘I heard. If she shows up we’ll let you know.’

  Dickson and Patterson jogged out of the mist carrying an evac platform. Gently they lifted Jo into place, strapped her in and set off back to the surface, taking Private Dickson and her Bull Thrummer with them.

  Emily turned to follow them, but Will held her back.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry I—’

  She ripped the breather from her face. ‘YOU SHOULD HAVE TOLD ME!’

  ‘I didn’t want—’

  ‘They put crap under my skin! You knew!’ Her hand struck him like a cannon-shot, snapping his face to one side. ‘Bastard!’

  ‘What was I supposed to do?’ He spat a long stream of blood at the tunnel floor. ‘If I’d told you they’d have heard. They killed Stein and they damn near killed Jo. They would have come after you too…’

  ‘You should have told me.’ She pulled the mask back over her face and walked back into the mist. Will watched her disappear.

  A large hand settled on his shoulder.

  ‘Fancy a curry?’

  Will sighed. ‘She’s going to hate me for ages, isn’t she?’

  ‘Come on, let’s go see if we can find Cat.’

  She breaks an ampoule of halfhead sedative into Kikan’s twitching body. His eyes widen as the chemical takes hold and the shuddering subsides. Now he can’t move, but he can see, and he can hear, and he can feel everything.

  Lucky boy.

  Hefting Kikan’s limp body over her shoulder is no trouble at all. All those years of hard physical labour have paid off.

  It’s a shame she’ll have to leave the Bull Thrummer behind. A lovely toy, but it’s just too big. She can’t carry that and the old man at the same time.

  Pity…

  Ah well, she’ll just have to buy herself one when she gets to her new home.

  She pushes through the door. Outside, Sherman House is a dark silhouette against the sodium-tainted clouds. Doctor Westfield closes the door behind her, then slips away into the rainy night with her new best friend.

  She has a lot of fun activities planned for Mr Kikan.

  The facility was full of dust. Down in the interrogation room a handful of technicians and plainclothes military types were lying face down on the floor, hands snared behind their backs. Someone had thrown a cloat over Henderson’s headless body, but bits of Lincoln were still stuck to the roof, floor, walls…

  ‘No sign of her anywhere.’ Sergeant Nairn wiped a hand across his chitin’s breastplate, leaving a clean patch. ‘We found a Bull Thrummer up on the top level, near an exit to the square, but…’ He shrugged. ‘Sorry.’

  A familiar voice echoed down the corridor, getting louder all the time. ‘What’s going on
here? I want an explanation for all this and I want it now!’

  ‘Shite, it’s Her Royal Bitchiness!’ Brian spat onto one of the prone figures. ‘Where’s the nearest terminal?’

  Nairn pointed through the hole Cat had blasted in the mirrored wall to the observation suite.

  ‘You’ve no’ seen us, OK?’ Brian grabbed Will by the arm and pulled him into the little darkened room before Director SmithHamilton appeared.

  The unmistakable sound of power heels on tiles clattered through from the other side of the mirrored wall and they ducked down behind a bank of monitoring equipment, keeping out of sight.

  Brian pointed at a terminal and whispered, ‘Hack into the Bluecoat system again and set off Cat’s coffin dodger.’ He dug the tracker out of his pack. ‘We find her fast enough, maybe we all live to see breakfast.’

  Will hammered commands into the keyboard, not even bothering to cover his tracks. Fifteen seconds later the tracker in Brian’s hands burst into life.

  ‘Got her!’ He grinned, then frowned. ‘In the name of the wee man…’ He slapped the tracker and peered at the readout again. ‘It’s no’ workin’ properly.’

  Will held out his hand. ‘Let me see it.’

  ‘It’s buggered. According to this she’s way over the other side of town.’

  Will stared at the map flickering on the tracker’s screen. ‘Maybe whoever grabbed her has a hopper?’

  ‘Aye, that’ll be…Hud oan, she’s no’ movin’. Signal’s stationary.’

  ‘Right. We need transport.’ Will clicked off the terminal and crept through the door at the back of the observation room.

  There was a brand-new Wraith parked in the middle of Monstrosity Square. It was sleek and impressive, the engines idling; ready to bounce away at the slightest sign of trouble. Will and Brian marched straight over to it.

  Will knocked on the cockpit window, and when the pilot opened it said, ‘We’re commandeering this vehicle.’

  ‘Aye,’ she replied, ‘that’ll be shining. This is the Director’s private flyer, I’m no’ goin’ anywhere without her say-so.’

  ‘You want to call her?’ asked Brian. And when the pilot said she did, he punched her on the nose and dragged her out of the cockpit.

  ‘Brian!’

  She rolled into a ball on the rain-soaked concrete, clutching her face and groaning.

  Brain shrugged and threw his Whomper in the back. ‘We’re in a hurry.’

  They scrambled aboard and strapped themselves in, then Brian grabbed the controls and the Wraith leapt into the downpour, engines howling as it accelerated away from Sherman House.

  ‘Where we goin’?’ He tossed the tracker to Will.

  Will squinted at the little screen. ‘Kelvingrove Park.’ He frowned. That didn’t make sense…Why would they take Cat back there?

  From above, the park was a vast patch of darkness, the only light coming from a thin line of sodiums burning amber in the incessant rain. Brian brought the gleaming ship in low, whipping the bushes with the engines’ wash as he landed.

  Will grabbed the Whomper and leapt out into the frigid monsoon. The tracker bleeped at him as he squelched through the mud and bushes, and then, at last, he found her.

  It was difficult to equate the battered, naked body at his feet with the Bluecoat they’d stormed Ken’s underground facility with. Her face was smashed beyond recognition: battered so badly there were no features left, her skin pale and waxy.

  ‘Aw Christ, Cat.’ Brian sank to his knees in the mud next to her. ‘You poor wee kid.’

  Will shifted from foot to foot, powering up the Whomper. Something wasn’t right.

  ‘What the hell’s she doing out here, Brian?’ He swept the weapon across the darkened park. ‘Why’s she been stripped?’

  ‘Give me the tracker.’ Brian’s voice was low.

  ‘Brian, something’s wrong ‘

  ‘Enough! Alright? Enough…’ Brian scowled at him, then looked away. ‘Course somethin’s fuckin’ wrong: she’s dead. We’re too late.’ He took a deep breath and held his hand out. ‘Just gimme the tracker.’

  Will handed it over.

  Gently, Brian reached out and killed the transmitter embedded in Constable Cat McDonald’s skull. There was nothing else they could do for her.

  The rain was turning icy, lashing against Director SmithHamilton’s window. Her office was far too warm and Will would have been fighting to keep his eyes open, if she wasn’t in the process of giving him a bollocking.

  ‘What the hell were you thinking? You had no authority to raid that research lab. You had no sanction to massacre its staff. You shouldn’t have been there at all!’

  New skinpaint and skinglue covered one side of Will’s face like a patchwork quilt and he did his best to stand up straight and not answer back.

  ‘You can consider yourself damned lucky, Mr Hunter,’ she said, picking up a thick folder and shaking it at him, ‘that the Ministry are blaming last night’s little fiasco on the man who ran the Sherman House project. You have a lot to thank Mr Tokumu Kikan for, if we ever find him. If it wasn’t for him you’d be facing a tribunal faster than you can say “Criminal Negligence”.’ She slammed the folder down on the desk. ‘And you can tell Agent Alexander to thank his lucky stars my pilot isn’t pressing charges!’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  She stood and straightened the creases out of her dress uniform. ‘We will discuss your disciplinary hearing once the press conference is out of the way.’ Director SmithHamilton glowered at him as she crossed the thick pile carpet to the office door. ‘The Ministry may want to give you a medal, Mr Hunter, but I warn you: one more step out of line and you’ll be swelling the ranks of the unemployed. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  31

  The flat is clean from top to bottom: not a speck of dust or a spot of blood anywhere. Which is quite remarkable considering what’s happened here over the last five days.

  Her new guest is nice and quiet, standing in the middle of the lounge where she can fuss over him. There isn’t as much of him as there was when she dragged his limp body through the door on Tuesday morning, but what’s left feels no pain. Now Tokumu Kikan’s face ends at his upper jaw—everything underneath that is gone, hacked away with a boning knife, the spare flaps of skin stuck down with far too much skinglue. But then surgery was never really her forte, not the kind you survived anyway.

  And he has told her so many things. So many secret, dirty, dangerous things.

  Dr Westfield moistens the edge of a silk handkerchief and wipes away the little flecks of dried blood that sit in the corners of his eyes. The holes are hardly noticeable, she’s made a good job of it: a full-frontal lobotomy done the old-fashioned way. She tells him do a little twirl, showing off his new orange and black jumpsuit. Very smart.

  ‘Right,’ she says, ‘time to go.’

  She takes the old man’s hand and holds out the other one for Mrs Bexley. Stephen’s wife looks nice in the grey outfit Dr Westfield bought her. It flatters that big, pregnant bulge. With a pretty silk headscarf hiding the patch of bare skinpaint where she was scalped. Her eyes are glassy and vacant as she shuffles into place. Drugged up, docile, and most import ant of all: silent.

  Westfield leads her little family out of the flat, her travelling case trundling along behind. They walk, hand in hand, down the corridor and into the lifts.

  ‘Now then,’ she says, picking a stray dot of lint from the collar of the old man’s jumpsuit as they descend to the ground floor, ‘I want you to behave yourself out there. Always do what the nice people at the depot tell you and remember to rinse out your mop.’ The lift doors ping open and she smiles. ‘This is what happens when you interfere in someone else’s research. You should have kept your naughty little fingers to yourself.’ She tweaks his prominent nose. ‘Yes you should. Yes you should.’

  But he doesn’t reply. He can’t.

  She tells Mrs Bexley to go and wait for her
by the front door, then guides Tokumu Kikan over to the janitor’s locker and pulls out a wheely-bucket and mop. It’s heartening to see the old man as he carefully fills the bucket with a mixture of hot water and detergent—just like he’s been taught—then he takes the mop and starts to clean the dirty grey tiles beneath their feet. He’s as happy now as he’ll ever be.

  Her research is ruined. Kikan and Peitai contaminated the study with their heavy-handed amateurish methods. It’s worthless now, her children’s potential squandered: the point was to study serial killers as they developed in the wild, not churn them out like cloned burgers.

  Never mind, she’s had a lot of time to think since the fun and games in the research lab. Mrs Bexley’s unborn child will be the first of a new breed—not manipulated third-hand through their parents, but taken directly under her wing. In a few months’ time she’ll be able to start all over again. A brand-new child, and a brood mother to breed more from. Exciting times…

  With a spring in her step she takes Mrs Bexley’s hand and skips out into the freezing downpour. Glasgow is cold and wet, but it’s nice and sunny where they’re going. In just a few hours they’ll be sipping margaritas in the Southern Republic of the Newnited States.

  Crossing the street she heads down to the nearest shuttle station, pausing only to drop a package in the post on the way. A little parting gift.

  ‘Will? You’ve got a parcel.’ Jo stuck her head around the kitchen door and frowned when she saw he still wasn’t dressed. ‘We’re going to be late for that funeral if you don’t hurry up!’

  Special Agent William Hunter sighed and poured the last of his tea down the sink. He’d seen enough good men and women planted in the long walk to last him a lifetime. But Cat had fought alongside him, helped him rescue Jo. He owed her, even if she was a terror with a Bull Thrummer.

  ‘Come on.’ Jo threw his coat at him. ‘Are you wearing your medal?’

  ‘No.’ His demotion hadn’t hurt that much, not compared with getting Constable Cat MacDonald killed, but he’d felt like a fraud when they pinned that shiny bauble on his chest. ‘Not this time.’