His real memories began with the game. His sentience and, to some extent, his personality, came preloaded on the synthetic gelware processors they stuffed into his skull. He’d been created to prove a point. He was a spin-off from AI weapons research, employed in a computer game to show the validity of using uplifted primate brains as CPUs for military drones. He hadn’t been the first monkey those bastards at Céleste Tech had uplifted, nor was he the last—but, thanks to the fallout of last year’s brouhaha, all the scientists were in jail, and all the other monkeys were dead.
He was, and now always would be, the only one of his kind.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
MARIE
THE WOMAN STOOD before Victoria’s desk, her hands bound before her, her feet apart, and her shoulders thrown back. She was, Victoria guessed, somewhere in her mid-to-late forties, and wore a black fleece top, black jodhpurs, and knee-length fur boots. Frizzy orange hair tumbled around her cheeks.
“I’ll ask you again. Who are you, and why were you on my helicopter?”
The woman returned her stare. The lines at the corners of her eyes made her look as if she were permanently squinting against a bright light.
“I want to see William Cole.” Chin raised, she spoke in a clear Home Counties accent. Victoria might have lost her ability to parse written text, but she could still read people, and if this woman weren’t military in some way, she’d eat her wig. And with that in mind, perhaps she ought to try another tack.
Taking a deep breath, she pulled herself up to her full height and fixed the woman with her hardest stare. Then, trying to channel the Commodore’s best parade ground bark, snapped, “What’s your name, soldier?”
The prisoner blinked in surprise, and her posture straightened. If she hadn’t been wearing cuffs, she would have snapped to attention.
“I’m not saying another word until I see William.” She sounded less sure of herself now, but her continuing stubbornness revealed itself in the way her hands and jaw tightened. Seeing this, Victoria sighed inwardly. From long experience, she could sense when someone was likely to open up to her, and when they weren’t. Still, the drill sergeant routine had been worth a try. Now, she’d have to think of something else.
When the Tereshkova’s stewards had apprehended the woman, she had been unarmed. If she was a killer, she was an unusually empty-handed one. All Victoria really had on her was that she’d stowed away in order to get aboard, and had broken into Cole’s cabin; but her insistence on seeing Cole suggested her motive hadn’t been burglary.
If she wasn’t a killer or a thief, what was she?
Victoria walked around the desk, and stood close to the prisoner.
“Are you a friend of his?”
The woman looked sideways at her.
“You could say that.”
“Then why won’t you tell me who you are?”
The eyes swivelled to face forwards again, staring across the desk at the large picture window, and the darkened skies beyond. “Because the less you know, the better.”
“And why is that, pourquoi?”
“I can’t say. Just let me see him.”
Victoria perched on the edge of her desk. She could feel the cold of the metal through her jeans.
“I’m afraid he’s not here.”
“Not here?” The woman blinked rapidly. A tendon stood out on her neck. “Then where is he?”
“He went ashore.”
“Is he all right?”
Victoria smiled to herself, knowing she’d found a way in, a crack in her opponent’s armour.
“You answer one of my questions,” she said, “and I’ll think about answering one of yours.” She crossed her arms. “So, tell me: why are you so keen to see Mister Cole?”
The woman’s shoulders slumped, and she shifted her weight onto one hip.
“I’m concerned about him.”
Victoria sucked her bottom lip.
“Pourquoi?”
“Because he’s in danger.”
“Yes, I gathered that. But you’re not the first person tonight to come looking for him. I’ve got another one down in the infirmary. His name’s Bill. Maybe you know him?”
“Is he okay?”
“He’s dead.”
The woman stiffened. “How?”
Victoria shook her head. That wasn’t how the game was played.
“First, tell me who you are, and why you’re so interested in Cole.”
The woman’s chin dropped to her chest as she looked down at her bound wrists. She rubbed the back of one hand with the fingers of the other.
“My name’s Marie.” She spoke quietly, without looking up. She seemed to be fighting a battle with herself. “And I’m his wife.”
Victoria frowned. “Cole’s wife is dead.” She’d been reading through the writer’s online biography, trying to figure out who Bill might be, and knew Marie had died over two years ago, from an infection contracted during a routine appendectomy.
The orange haired woman raised her eyes, expression bleak.
“Apparently not.”
w hen the Chopper carrying Ack-Ack Macaque, K8 and William Cole touched down on the Tereshkova’s main helipad, Victoria was there to meet it. Wind and rain whipped in from the Bristol Channel, making her wince. Two stewards flanked her. It was past midnight now, and she was ready for her bunk. K8 stepped down from the helicopter first, followed by Cole. Both had cuts and bruises. Cole seemed dazed, but he was upright, walking with one hand to his head. Ack-Ack Macaque came last, moving stiffly, dragging a body.
“Who’s that?” She had to shout over the noise of the rotors.
Ack-Ack Macaque had been pulling the guy by the lapels; now, he let him drop onto the wet rubber of the pad.
“We got into a fight.”
“You don’t say?”
Without being asked, the stewards stooped, took hold of the body by its legs and arms, and carried it below decks. Standing there, in the helicopter’s wet downdraught, Victoria gave silent thanks to the Commodore for having trained them so well.
The helicopter couldn’t stay on the pad for long. The wind was too strong. The noise of its engines increased as it throttled up, preparing to depart. As it thundered away into the midnight sky, Victoria led the writer, the girl and the monkey down the main companionway, through the body of the airship, and into the warmth of the main gondola; but instead of heading for her office, she took them aft, past the passenger cabins and infirmary, to the brig.
“Why the brig?” Cole asked. He had some colour in his cheeks, and his breath smelled like a distillery. Apparently Ack-Ack Macaque had been using shots of rum to revive him during the helicopter flight.
Victoria paused at the door. “It’s the safest place on the ship. And besides, there’s someone in here I want you to meet.”
The brig was a small room, just large enough to accommodate a narrow bunk and a stainless steel toilet. Its door was made of thick, soundproof glass. Inside, Marie stood with her back to them and her head down. Her hands were still cuffed together in front of her. Cascades of orange ringlets curtained her face. When Victoria pressed the keypad that unlocked the door, she turned, and the light caught the side of her cheek.
William Cole blinked.
“Oh!”
Victoria put a hand on his shoulder.
“Steady.”
He turned to her, eyes bulging.
“I’m sorry, I can’t—” Victoria felt his knees wobble. The vestibule held no chairs. As carefully as she could, she helped him over to the riveted metal wall. He leant his shoulder against it, and put his face in his hands.
When she looked around, Ack-Ack Macaque and K8 were staring at her. The monkey had one of his pistols in hand, just in case. He jerked a thumb at Marie.
“Who the hell is this?”
Cole trembled. Perhaps springing this on him had been a mistake; and yet, Victoria had been halfexpecting him to denounce the woman as a fraud. She’d done some research and,
as far as she could ascertain, Marie Cole was definitely dead. At least, the Marie Cole from this world...
The woman with the orange hair walked up to the open cell door, and leaned out.
“Hello, William.”
He wouldn’t look at her. Instead, he slid down into a crouch, and then bent forward with a tormented moan, wrapping his arms around his head, trying to block her out.
Victoria looked up at Marie.
“I’m sorry.”
The other woman shrugged. “Don’t be. It must be a terrible shock for him.”
“And not the first he’s had today.”
Standing beside the cell door, Ack-Ack Macaque cleared his throat.
“Okay, I’ll ask again.” His tail twitched ominously. “Who the hell is this?”
Marie turned to him.
“I’m William’s wife.”
“Bullshit.”
Marie held up her hands. The cuffs clanked together. “I can prove it.”
“How?”
“Run any test you like. Fingerprints, DNA, whatever.”
Ack-Ack Macaque looked her up and down, and then turned his sepia eye on Victoria.
“Can we do that, boss?”
Victoria shook her head. “Sorry. I already thought of it, but we just don’t have the equipment.”
Cole’s hands fell from watery, bloodshot eyes.
“It’s her,” he said. His voice silenced the room. “Only you’re not her, though, are you?” He curled his lip. “You look just like her, but you’re not really her. I saw her body. You’re no more the real Marie than your dead friend was the real me.”
Marie lowered her arms.
“I am her, William. At least, I was until her baby died. That’s where we split.” She swallowed nervously. “She lost a child, I didn’t. But up until that point, we were essentially the same person, identical in every way.” She brushed a wisp of orange behind her left ear. “I am what she would have been, had things been different.”
Cole glowered up at her from beneath his wiry eyebrows.
“But things weren’t different, were they?”
Marie flinched at the bitterness in his voice.
“I loved you every bit as much as she did.”
“No you didn’t.” Cole knuckled his eyes. “You loved the other one, the dead one. Bill. What was he, your husband?”
“He was. But in many ways, so are you.”
Cole rubbed his forehead, hard, as if trying to dislodge a stuck thought, or an embedded arrow. “Where are you from?”
“You know,” Marie said. “Deep down, you know. You’ve been writing about it for years. That’s why we came to find you.”
Cole looked blank. Marie took a step towards him, and Ack-Ack Macaque brought his gun up, covering her, making sure she made no sudden moves.
“Mendelblatt’s world,” she said, “Where the UK and France never merged, and there aren’t any Zeppelins in the skies over London.”
“Mendelblatt?” Cole’s face was a mask of anguish and confusion. “You mean—?”
She raised her cuffed hands, imploring him to believe her.
“That isn’t sci-fi you’re writing, my darling; it’s memory.”
BREAKING NEWS
From The Commonwealth Sentinel, online edition:
Palace Moves To Block Movie
London 15/10/2060 – This morning, Buckingham Palace issued a statement expressing its opposition to the making of a movie based around the events of last year’s attempted royal coup d’état.
Titled Ack-Ack Macaque, after the world-famous monkey, the multi-million dollar movie will tell the story of events leading up to the death of King William V, and the subsequent ascension to the throne of HRH King Merovech, then Prince of Wales. While some details of the so-called ‘Combat de La Manche’ have been made public, much remains classified, and royal sources fear that the gaps will be filled in by ‘guesswork and fabrication, making any attempt at an impartial enquiry impossible.’
The film will be directed by BAFTA-winning British director, Tonya Field, who co-wrote the script with her husband and long-time collaborator, Tim Duncan. In 2057, the pair won an Oscar for their controversial screenplay, Andre’s Choice, about the life of a surgically enhanced male prostitute on the streets of Berlin.
No actors have yet been named, but insiders tip teen favourite, Brad Foley to play the Prince, and expect motion-capture specialist, Ashton Stanislavski to be brought in to play the monkey. A veteran of scifi epics, Stanislavski is probably best known to UK audiences for his portrayal of the alien in 2053’s horror blockbuster, Death Station. If the rumours are true, he will be playing one of the world’s most unusual and enigmatic celebrities: an intelligent monkey with a passion for cigars and alcohol, and a pathological dislike of the paparazzi.
Having spent several years portraying the main character in an online video game, the real-life ‘Ack-Ack Macaque’ somehow escaped from the headquarters of Céleste Technologies in Paris, and made his way to the coast, where he joined forces with Prince Merovech and became embroiled in the fight against Céleste Tech’s owner, the Duchess of Brittany, thereby averting a potentially catastrophic nuclear confrontation with China. Since then, the monkey has been living as a recluse aboard the skyliner Tereshkova, and has refused all requests for interviews or publicity.
In its strongly worded statement, the Palace called the forthcoming movie, ‘a cynical and ill-informed attempt to turn a serious international event into a tawdry spectacle.’
Ack-Ack Macaque himself was unavailable for comment.
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CHAPTER FOURTEEN
SPECIAL CIRCUMSTANCES
AS A COOL and watery sun rose beyond the portholes, Ack-Ack Macaque stood at the foot of another infirmary bed.
“We seem to be collecting bodies,” he said. The room smelled of antiseptic and disinfectant. In front of him lay the guy he’d shot and dumped in the car. Somehow, despite the blood loss, the man had survived. Monitors and drips had been plugged into him, to keep him alive.
Paul’s hologram stood to one side of the bed, stroking his chin.
“How are you doing?” Ack-Ack Macaque asked.
Paul’s face fell. He scratched at the wispy suggestion of a beard around his chin.
“You’ve never been killed, have you? Not even in the game, I mean.”
“Not so far.”
“Then you don’t know what it’s like, being a ghost, always on the outside of everything.”
Ack-Ack Macaque thought of the hat and coat he had to wear in public. “Maybe I got some idea.”
Paul wasn’t listening. He held his palms out in front of him, and turned them over as if inspecting them for dirt. “I have hands, but I can’t touch anything.” He looked up. “I have a tongue, but I can’t taste.”
Ack-Ack Macaque rolled the cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. “You can complain though, can’t you?”
Paul blinked at him. “I beg your pardon?”
Ack-Ack Macaque made his hand into a puppet’s flapping mouth. “Yap, yap, yap.” He laughed, and the tips of Paul’s ears reddened. “So, you don’t like being a ghost? Don’t be a fucking ghost. Be something else.”
“Like what?”
Ack-Ack Macaque waved his arms in an impatient gesture that took in the gondola and the five hulls above it. “Hell, you’re practically running this ship. Why not plug yourself right in? Stop pussyfooting around. Stop be
ing a ghost, start being an airship.”
Paul ‘s forehead grew lined in thought. He removed his glasses, blew on the lenses, and polished them on the hem of his long white coat. As a hologram, Paul had no need to clean them, and the action achieved nothing; but Ack-Ack Macaque knew he clung to these old habitual gestures. They were part of who he was, part of what made him Paul.
“You know, you could be on to something.”
Ack-Ack Macaque clacked his teeth together. “Hey, you know the old saying: If life gives you lemons, pull a gun on it and say, ‘Fuck your lemons, where are the goddamn bananas?’”
Paul smiled, and tapped an index finger against his chin. “If I could hook myself into the navigation software,” he said slowly. “If I could somehow wire into the telemetry, and maybe co-opt the main bridge computers...” He looked up. “Yes, it could be done. I could totally run this whole ship.” His eyes were shining. “Ack-ster, you’re a genius.”
Ack-Ack Macaque waved a hand. “Yeah, yeah.” He looked down at the unconscious ape-man on the infirmary bunk. “Back to business. You were about to tell me about good-looking here.”
“Yes, sorry.” Paul hooked his glasses over his ears. In life, he had been a medical researcher, specialising in brain implants. “Well, the thing is, I’ve never seen anything quite like him before. I don’t even think he’s human. At least, not in the strictest sense.”
“If he ain’t human, what is he?”
“I’m not sure.” Paul reached out a hand to indicate the figure’s upper arm. “His bones are shorter and thicker than most people’s. And take a look at the shape of the skull. The shape of his nose, and that ridge above his eyes.”
Ack-Ack Macaque chomped the cigar between his molars, but didn’t light it. “He’s certainly one ugly motherfucker.”
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