Hive Monkey

by Gareth L. Powell

  Looking back into the kitchen, he saw Marie appear in the doorway. She had the coil gun cradled in her right arm. Her left hung at her side, slathered in blood, and her right leg dragged behind her as she moved. Drops of blood dripped from her fingertips, onto the white tiles. The sleeve of her jacket had been torn away and used as a makeshift bandage. Warily, she looked at the weapons in his hands.

  “Have you found Lila?” Ack-Ack Macaque waved the point of his stolen katana at the door at the foot of the stairs.

  “I think she’s in here.”

  Marie limped towards him. “Is it locked?”

  “I don’t know, I haven’t tried.” He could feel his arms and back stiffening, and was sure he’d torn at least one muscle, if not more. “Help yourself.”

  He stood aside, and she brushed past him. The handle rattled in her hand, and she swore under her breath.

  “Lila, honey? It’s me. Are you in there?”

  “Mum?” It was a girl’s voice.

  “Lila, I’m coming in. Stand away from the door.” She stepped back and braced herself against the wall, keeping the weight off her bad leg. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a gun identical to the one Ack-Ack Macaque had seen in Bill’s apartment. Keeping the barrel angled downwards, she pointed it at the door and squeezed the trigger. He couldn’t see the beam, but a spot began to smoulder midway between the handle and the frame. Within seconds, the door had a thin hole burned through it. Marie moved the gun around in a semi-circle, severing the section of door that held the lock. When she had finished, the rest of the door swung open, leaving the handle and lock in place. Ack-Ack Macaque closed his eye, and sank down onto the lower step. The stone was cold on his ass. He heard Lila crying and Marie fussing over her, checking her for injuries and evidence of torture.

  “Hey, K8?” he said tiredly. “Are you in there?”

  No reply.

  He re-opened his eye to find Marie and her daughter standing in the doorway. Lila took one look at him and shrank away behind her mother, plainly terrified by his wild, bloodied appearance.

  “She’s not here.” Marie limped forward, staying firmly between him and Lila.

  Ack-Ack Macaque felt a flush of anger. All that fighting and killing, and he still wasn’t done.

  “Well, where the hell is she?”

  “Lila says they took her to see the Leader.”

  “And where’s he?”

  “Somewhere else.”

  “Another hideout?”

  Marie shook her head.

  “Another world.”

  The walls of the cellar seemed to close in around him. Ack-Ack Macaque put his blades on the step and rubbed his eye patch. His chest felt tight, and sweat broke out on his back. Up until this moment all his missions had been successful. He’d never lost before, never come home empty-handed.

  “Another world?” He tugged at his right ear. His mind raced, retracing his steps, trying to figure out where he’d gone wrong. Marie and Lila were still looking at him, and he wanted to scream at them, fling his shit around and frighten them away. How could this have happened? How could K8 not be here, after all the trouble he’d endured to rescue her? It didn’t seem fair. He’d lost comrades in the past, in the game, but this was new and different. He actually cared about K8, even though he would have been loath to admit it under normal circumstances, and someone had known that, and used his feelings for her against him. She’d suffered because of his friendship, and now she was gone, spirited away to another plane of existence—lost in a sea of probability, on an unknown and unreachable world.

  He looked down at his bare feet. They were chilly on the stone floor.

  “What am I supposed to do now?”

  His phone rang but he made no move to answer it. On the fourth ring, Marie said, “Hadn’t you better get that?”

  He curled his lip at her.

  “Get lost.”

  On the sixth ring, still glowering at the woman and her daughter, he reached into his pocket, pulled out the phone, and clamped it to his ear.

  Hey, Ack-ster. It’s Paul. You’ve got to get back up here, man.

  “Why should I?”

  Just get up here, right now.

  “But, K8—”

  This is about K8. We’re sending a chopper. Just get up here as fast as you can.

  w hen aCk-aCk maCaque arrived back on board the Tereshkova, a Russian steward met him at the helipad and escorted him to the Captain’s cabin, where he found Victoria and Paul waiting. As he walked in, Paul flinched, and Victoria’s hand went to the handle of the cutlass at her hip.

  “Okay, what’s going on?” The chopper ride hadn’t helped his frustration. “If you people don’t start giving me some answers, I’m going to start banging heads together.”

  Victoria waved him to silence with her free hand. “There’s a call for you.” They were both looking at him very strangely.

  “But—”

  She shook her head, unable to explain. “Just take it.” She motioned to one of the large SincPad screens on the wall. The screen brightened into life, and AckAck Macaque found himself staring into a mirror.

  “What the—?” The face on the screen was his, only it wasn’t. Whoever this monkey was, he’d been groomed and washed, and the sleek black hair around his face shone with cleanliness. Instead of a ripped and battered old aviator jacket, he wore a white suit with a white shirt and tie, and an eye patch that covered his right eye instead of his left. Looking at him, Ack-Ack Macaque felt his hackles rise.

  “Who, the hell, are you?” He turned to Victoria. “What fuckery is this?”

  The other monkey regarded him with a baleful glare.

  “Who do you think I am?” He brushed the lapel of his suit jacket. “Check out the threads. Consider the context.”

  “You’re me?”

  “You seem surprised.” The stranger sat back, away from the camera. He appeared to be seated in a cabin similar to the one in which Ack-Ack Macaque now stood, but the walls of his cabin were draped with tapestries and other expensive ornaments. Statues stood on plinths in front of bookshelves lined with the spines of ancient hardbacks. Having made himself comfortable, he waved a regal hand. “Before you say anything, let me first express what a genuine pleasure it is for me to touch base with you. As we’re both iterations of the same basic individual, I hope we can find a way to collaborate together towards mutual understanding and profit.”

  “Huh?” Ack-Ack Macaque flexed his fists. “Look, pal. How about you just tell me what you want, and why you’re here.”

  The monkey on the screen adjusted his tie with manicured fingers.

  “Oh dear,” he said. “You’re one of the thick ones, aren’t you? Well, you can call me, ‘Leader’. Everybody else does. I created the Gestalt out of nothing, and I’ve led them to dominance on half a dozen worlds. I’m the CEO, the king and the president, all rolled into one. I’m a pharaoh in three different Egypts; I’m the place where the buck most definitely stops; ‘le grand fromage’; and ‘a jungle VIP’. In short, I’m the boss, and you’d do very well to bear that in mind. Capeesh?”

  Ack-Ack Macaque’s hands twitched, longing for his trusty Colts. He glanced across at his companions. Victoria was leaning on her desk, arms folded, watching the confrontation through narrowed eyes. Paul stood, hands in pockets and mouth agape, obviously delighted by the sight of two identical monkeys arguing between themselves.

  “Don’t try that alpha monkey shit on me,” AckAck Macaque said to the face on the screen. “I invented that.”

  The Leader just smiled and made a finger steeple in front of his lips. Shiny white cufflinks flashed in the light of the screen.

  “I know you came here to reclaim your pet human, the little one who thinks it’s clever to spell her name with numbers as well as letters,” he said, “but you should really take a moment to reassess my earlier proposition. There’s still a place for you on my team. I know how lonely you are. I used to be just like you. But now,
think what we can achieve together. Think of the synergies. You and me, maestro, we’d be unstoppable: the dream team.”

  “If you’ve hurt her…”

  The Leader shook his head.

  “Your concern does you credit, but can we park that issue for a minute, and concentrate instead on what I’m offering?” He rubbed his covered right eye, and Ack-Ack Macaque had to make an effort to refrain from copying the gesture. “In a couple of hours, my fleet will arrive in your world, and I’ll have an airship over every major town and city.”

  “Airships can be shot down.”

  “Not enough of them, and not quickly enough. You don’t have enough planes or missiles, and my assets are packing some serious hardware of their own.”

  “We’ll fight you.”

  “No, you won’t. You see, as soon as I’ve given the fleet a short window in which to demonstrate their superior firepower, I’ll broadcast my terms. This isn’t some nineteenth century pirate raid, you know. We know what we’re doing because we’ve done it before, on six worlds, and the outcome’s always been the same. This is a takeover, plain and simple. Anybody who wants to come over to my side beforehand will be welcomed with open arms. But those who refuse—” He lowered his chin, and his yellow eye burned through the screen. “—will be subject to extreme measures.”

  “What sort of measures?”

  “Let’s just say, I have the means to make conversion automatic and mandatory. I have recently acquired an airborne agent that is capable of germinating inside the human body. It converts messy, rebellious neurons into clean, obedient gelware.” He interlaced his fingers. “All I have to do is give my fleet the signal to release it and, within hours, every human on the planet’s either dead or a functioning member of the Gestalt.” He fiddled with his cuff, looking casual as hell. “So, it’s time for you to choose, my brother. Come willingly, or come as a slave. Rule with me, or be ruled by me.”

  “You’re mad.”

  “No, companero, I’m winning.” He glanced at the white hands on his platinum wristwatch. “Now, you have less than four hours. My fleet’s going to rock up at eighteen hundred hours, GMT. I’ll be on my flagship, over London, drinking a cup of Earl Grey with your little friend. In fact, I’ll pour an extra cup for you, just in case. If you’d care to join us, be there, and don’t be late.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  ZEPPELINS FROM THE GREAT BEYOND

  WITH A FLICK of his hand, the Leader cut the connection and the wall screen went blank. From where she leant against her desk, Victoria Valois saw Ack-Ack Macaque’s posture slump. He’d been holding himself upright for the confrontation; now, he looked half dead.

  “Are you all right?” The macaque swivelled his face towards her, too tired to move his feet.

  “Verbose motherfucker, wasn’t he?”

  She smiled.

  “Do you think he was serious?”

  “Do you have any reason to think he wasn’t?” Ack-Ack Macaque put a hand to the side of his jaw, and pushed his chin up and to the side. Something crackled in his neck.

  “You look like merde,” she said. His knuckles were battered and raw. One of the sleeves of his flying jacket had torn at the shoulder seam, and now hung down almost to his elbow. His fur stuck out in clumps, caked in dark and sticky blood. She wondered how much of the blood was his, and how much had come from other people.

  “What can I say? It’s been a long day.”

  She pushed off from the desk and stood upright. Tapped the fingertips of her right hand against the palm of her left.

  “I’m almost afraid to ask what you want to do.”

  “About what?” He jerked a thumb at the dead screen. “About that arsehole?”

  “He’s you.”

  “He most certainly is not.”

  “A version of you.”

  “So what? He’s still an arsehole, and we’re still going to kick his fucking head in.” He turned his body to face her, his movements stiff and laborious. “Right?”

  Victoria let out a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding.

  “If you say so.”

  The monkey’s eye narrowed.

  “You didn’t think I’d be tempted, did you?”

  Victoria shrugged.

  “Stranger things have happened.”

  “Not to me they haven’t.” He reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a cigar. About a third of it hung at an angle, having been damaged during the fight at Larkin Hall. He snapped off the short end and dropped it into her wastepaper basket.

  “You can’t deny you’ve been lonely.”

  He reached into the pocket on the other side of his jacket, and extracted his Zippo. “No, I can’t.” A quick flick of the little wheel, and a flame sparked. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to get gooey-eyed about the first talking monkey that comes along.” He held the flame to the end of the cigar and huffed clouds of blue smoke into the room. “Especially as he’s planning to fuck the planet.”

  The air-conditioning kicked in. It sucked most of the smoke up into vents on the ceiling, but couldn’t completely obliterate the pungent and lingering whiff. Victoria wrinkled her nose, and mentally recited the code words that let her access the command menus for her cranial implant. Once in, she quickly deactivated her sense of smell. Fond of the monkey as she was, the aroma of cigar smoke always made her feel ill.

  “So you do care about us?”

  “Of course I do. I already saved the world once, didn’t I?” He took a mouthful of smoke, rolled it around, and blew it at the ceiling. “Besides, I’m not really alone, am I?” He coughed, and looked away, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “I’ve got you two, and K8.”

  Victoria exchanged a look with Paul, and they both raised their eyebrows. This was the first time they’d heard him talk this way; the first crack they’d seen in his habitually gruff exterior.

  “Yes,” she said, “of course you do.”

  The monkey scuffed a foot against the deck. He looked supremely uncomfortable.

  “That’s okay then.”

  Victoria tried to suppress her smile. It appeared that, despite his coarseness, Ack-Ack Macaque had the same insecurities and needs as everyone else, including the need to belong; and it seemed losing K8 had finally driven home to him who his friends really were, and made him appreciate everything he had, and everything he stood to lose.

  “You should get checked out,” she said, wanting to spare him further embarrassment. “Get Sergei to patch you up.”

  Ack-Ack Macaque looked down at himself. He tried to straighten his torn sleeve.

  “But K8—”

  “You’re not going to be any use to her in that state. Get down to the infirmary and get Sergei to see to you. That’s an order.”

  He took the cigar from his lips and rubbed his brow.

  “Yes, boss.”

  a fter he’d gone, Victoria walked around her desk and sat in the chair.

  “Jesus Christ,” she said.

  In the bright noon light from the picture window, Paul’s image was an insubstantial ghost haunting the corner of her office: the murder victim who wouldn’t lie down, the ex-husband who never left.

  “What are you going to do?” Victoria pulled the cutlass from her belt and dropped it into the umbrella stand.

  “You said you could fly this thing?”

  Paul took off his glasses and rubbed them on the hem of his shirt. “Well, yes, if I had to. All the connections are in place.”

  “You have to.”

  “Right now?”

  Victoria drew herself up. “Make course for central London, best speed.”

  “Aye, aye.” Paul’s brow screwed in concentration as he devoted more and more of his processing time to the business of running the airship’s systems. His image grew tenuous, and then finally disappeared, as he focussed his attention elsewhere. Moments later, Victoria felt a tremble through the deck as the skyliner’s engines powered up and the Tereshkova�
��s nose swung eastwards again, towards the capital.

  Ahead, the windscreen showed a bright blue sky growing paler all the way to the far horizon. A single vapour train caught the sun like a comet trail, and she found herself wondering what the world would have been like had jet travel really taken off in the latter half of the twentieth century. With the first skyliners entering commercial service in the early 1960s, and the subsequent oil blockades and price wars of the 1970s, jet air travel had never become an economical option, and now only the richest and most extravagant used it as a means of crossing oceans. Skyliners might be slower, but they were dependable and cheap, and their nuclear-electric engines had none of the economic and environmental disadvantages of oil. But how would things have been, she asked herself, had the skyliners not come along when they did—if the post-war British and French shipyards had been allowed to wither and die instead of being turned over to airship production? What would the globe look like with everybody rushing around at nine hundred kilometres per hour, and the skies streaked by hundreds of shining white trails?

  Paul’s voice came over the intercom.