Halfhead (15 page)

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.

The crucible drops down the feeder rack and slips off to the incubation room. The first cell division will already be under way, expanding and growing at an accelerated rate.

Now all she has to do is wait.

‘Feelin’ any better?’ Special Agent Brian Alexander plonked himself down on the end of Will’s hospital bed. The little private room was comfortable enough, if you liked machines that pinged and gurgled at random intervals. ‘You look like a mouldy jobbie, by the way.’

‘What took you so long?’ Will swung his legs out of bed, then stood, his hospital-issue smock flapping open at the back. The left side of his face felt as if it had been stretched over a head three times too big for it. And every breath was like being stabbed in the chest.

‘Last time I do you a favour.’ Brian sniffed. ‘We knew they took all your clothes in as evidence, so me an’ Jo went
shoppin’
!’

Will stared at him. ‘Oh, no. Tell me you didn’t let…’ He ground to a halt—DS Cameron was standing in the doorway. She was still wearing the same florescent pink, triple breasted suit she’d had on in the park that morning. Given her taste in work clothes, and the dirty big grin on Brian’s face, Will got the nasty feeling they’d bought something that would make him look like a complete idiot. He forced a smile. ‘I mean…Thanks.’

It was the thought that counted. And besides, whatever
fashion-disaster they’d bought, he’d only have to wear it from here back to the apartment. Twenty minutes, half an hour tops.

Will reached round and clasped the gown closed at the back, making sure DS Cameron didn’t get subjected to an eyeful of buttock. ‘Honestly, you shouldn’t have gone to all that trouble.’ They
really
shouldn’t have: they could have just gone past the flat and picked him up a change of clothes—and Brian knew it—but that wouldn’t have been as much fun as buying something hideous.

‘Oh no,’ Brian’s smile grew wider. ‘It was a pleasure! Wasn’t it, Jo?’

DS Cameron handed Will a bulky bag in luminous yellow with something trendy written on the side. ‘Hope they fit.’ Was she blushing?

Suddenly Will felt very uncomfortable. ‘Em…thank you.’

Brian let the silence drag on for a bit, before taking DS Cameron by the arm and leading her out into the corridor so Will could ‘get some privacy’. Wink, wink. The bastard was loving every minute of this.

Will dumped the bag down on the bed and opened it gingerly. There was no sudden flash of electric green, or yellow and blue stripes, or any of the other fashion eye-burners that were all the rage on Sauchiehall Street. Not believing his luck he tipped the contents out onto the scratchy sheets and began to dress.

Outside the room, Jo shifted from foot to foot. Brian nudged her. ‘You needin’ a pee?’

‘Don’t be daft.’ She scowled and stopped fidgeting. Then started again. ‘Think he’ll like them?’

‘Ooh, I get it,’ Brian’s eyes sparkled as he started to sing: ‘Jo and Wi-ill, up a tree, H.U.M.P—’

Smart arse.

She smacked him one.

‘Ow! Better watch that DS Cameron—don’t think Will likes rough girls.’

Jo turned and leant against the wall. ‘Tell me about him.’

‘OK…’ Brian held up his hands, pulling back the cuffs of his jacket. A ragged line ran all the way around the left wrist. The arm looked normal enough, but the hand didn’t—it was smaller than the right, and the skin was a strange pink colour: as if he’d borrowed it from someone shorter who didn’t get a lot of sun. Up till now she hadn’t even noticed there was anything wrong with it. So much for impressing everyone with her Bluecoat powers of observation.

He held both hands side by side. It just emphasized the difference. ‘Eleven years ago we were workin’ in one of them Rapid Response Teams, doin’ our best to stop them riotin’ bamheids from killin’ each other. Thirteen Service personnel got grabbed at Dexter Heights: poor sods were only there to pick up the dead. So we go in after them.’ He leant against the wall next to her. ‘There’s me: out on a wire with the rest of the pickup team, shootin’ back at a bunch of wee radges with Shrikes and Whompers; no way in hell we’re gonnae rescue the hostages, the buggers have got way too much firepower. So we do a runner: hard D, me and the guys all danglin’ about underneath the Dragonfly when it jumps into the air. Only we don’t make it.’

The smile slid from his face. ‘Somethin’ big hits the ship and we do a nosedive right into Sherman Heights. Bang!’ He slammed his hand with the funny borrowed fingers against the plasticboard.

Jo tried not to flinch.

‘Everyone on a wire gets flattened against the wall, an’ this is like thirty-nine storeys off the deck, mind. Will’s the only one still movin’. Pilot and Copilot’s dead, so’s the rest of the pickup team: squashed like fuckin’ bugs on the side of a dirty big buildin’.’

He pursed his lips for a moment. Frowned. ‘I’m no’ a
hunnerd percent sure what happens next cos I’m all busted up and out ma face on blockers, but somehow Will hauls me back into the drop bay. Then he carries me on his back for about two days, climbin’ down the stairs an’ lift shafts: tryin’ to stay away from the locals. You know, proper hero stuff.’ Brian dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘They wis goin’ tae make a big film out of it, but the Ministry called copyright on everything involving government personnel. Thievin’ bastards. Anyway…’

Brian straightened up and showed her his hand again. ‘At some point in the proceedin’s Will gets jumped by the natives, and while he’s fightin’ them off, some noseless wee turd carries my poor, unconscious body away intae the depths of the buildin’. I come round for like about five minutes, an’ it’s real hazy: I’m in this parkin’ lot on one of the sublevels, and some bugger’s chewin’ on a severed hand…Takes me a while to realize it’s mine.’

He stared at that strange, pink-skinned palm. ‘So I scream. Will appears, chaos ensues, an’ next thing I know we’re out—him runnin’ hell for leather, me slung over his shoulder like a sack of tatties. He’d never set eyes on me before the crash, could’a left me to die on the wire, or in the basement, or half a million other times, but he didn’t. Came back for me, even though I wis a total fuckin’ stranger. You want to know what he’s like?
That’s
what he’s like.’

Jo looked at the hand again. ‘Not a very good cloneplant, is it?’

Brian shrugged. ‘Had it done eleven years ago; they’ve got a wee bitty better at it since then. James keeps tellin’ me to get a new one grown, get this one replaced. But I’m buggered if I’m gonnae sit back and let anyone cut ma hand off again.’

Jo had to admit he had a point.

Will examined himself in the mirror above the sink in the tiny en-suite shower room. Brian had been right—he looked
bloody awful. The left side of his face was swollen and tender, covered in dark-purple bruises. An off-colour patch sat on his temple—just above the eyebrow—where Jacket-and-Scarf had tried to cave his head in with that metal rod. The surgical team had filled the wound with skinpaint, but it would take a while to blend in.

The rest of him looked…almost stylish. Black trousers, grey T-shirt, and a collarless thing in stone-blue. The unders weren’t covered in little hearts or bunny rabbits. They’d even thrown in a jacket that must have cost someone a small fortune.

Will limped out into the corridor with a small, ‘Tada.’

‘You still look like shite,’ said Brian, head on one side, ‘but at least now you look like well-dressed shite.’

‘This lot can’t have been cheap.’

‘Aye, well remember that when you’re signin’ my expenses this month.’

DS Cameron still hadn’t said anything. Maybe he’d offended her by being an ungrateful bastard when she’d turned up with the clothes. Will cleared his throat. ‘Thank you…both of you. These are really great.’

She smiled, obviously pleased. ‘It’s OK.’

Brian tugged at the jacket’s lapels, lining them up. ‘I wanted to get you somethin’ a bit more
vivid
, but she wasn’t having any of it.’

Jo shrugged. ‘Just thought these would suit you better.’

She looked at the floor, twiddling with her hair while Will tried to think of something to say.

‘So…’ Brian grinned. ‘Are we goin’ or no’?’

They’d almost made it as far as the escalator when a reedy voice piped up behind them, ‘And where do you think
you’re
going, Mr Hunter?’

‘Home?’

A short woman with greying hair and glasses marched in front of them, blocking the lifts. Dr Euphemia Morrison—if
you worked for the Network, and you went into combat, sooner or later you ended up in her care. ‘You
are
kidding, right? You nearly died this morning, remember?’

‘Er…Pressing business. Can’t be helped.’

‘You just had major surgery.’

‘
Really
pressing business.’

‘Apart from anything else, you’ve got a concussion, you need constant supervision.’ Dr Morrison pointed back towards the private room. ‘Get your arse back in that bed.’

No one moved.

She stared at him, but Will didn’t flinch.

‘Fine…’ She said at last. ‘But if you drop dead in the middle of the night, don’t come crying to me.’ She turned on Brian. ‘Keep an eye on him this time, for God’s sake. If I have to glue his ribs back together again there’ll be no bloody bone left.’

Dr Morrison poked Will gently in the stomach. ‘Your insides are one big gristly ball of scar tissue. Next time I’m cutting all that gubbins out and replacing it, whether you like it or not.’ She handed Will a packet of blockers, the finger-length plastic tubes fluorescing slightly under the UV lights. ‘No more than one an hour. And I want to see you back here at four thirty on Sunday for a follow-up.’ She poked him again. ‘Don’t make me come and get you. And try to stay off your bum for a while, keep those bruises moving or you’ll seize up.’

‘Yes, Mum.’ He planted a small kiss on her cheek.

‘Don’t you “yes mum” me, you cheeky wee bugger. Go on: out. I have sick people to attend to.’

Will hobbled after Jo and Brian to the lifts, riding down in silence, till Jo finally asked, ‘So your mother’s a doctor?’

‘What?’

The doors pinged open and they stepped out into the hospital’s busy lobby.

‘The doctor: I didn’t know she was your mum.’

‘She’s not. Doc Morrison is like that with pretty much everyone. Even more of an old mother hen than Brian is.’

Brian didn’t rise to it, just kept barging a path to the front doors.

Will limped along behind him. ‘So what’s the plan?’

‘We’re givin’ you a lift home, then me and Jo gotta crash a birthday party full of dead folk.’

‘Why don’t I just tag along with you?’

‘No chance. The Tiny Terror would have my balls: you’re on compassionate leave till Monday.’

‘Look, you heard what the Doc said—I’ve got a concussion. Someone needs to keep an eye on me just in case something—’

‘Nice try. You’re goin’ home.’ The automatic doors swished open.

Outside, it was still chucking it down.

People dashed in from the deluge, collars up, plastics down, looking miserable. The only ones not rushing about trying to get into the dry were the halfheads—they just went about their daily business, emptying the bins, polishing the plaques, mopping up the dirty water tramped in from the streets—as if today were a day no different from any other.

They didn’t mind the wet, because they couldn’t feel it. Some would get flu, some would get pneumonia, some would probably even die and no one would care. Not even them.

Brian hurried out into the rain, sploshing through the puddles towards the car park, while Jo and Will huddled under the hospital’s portico—watching the people go by.

Neither of them saw the halfhead shivering its way through the deluge towards them, pushing a wheely-bucket piled high with refuse sacks. They didn’t see it, but it saw them.

She recognizes Him, even with all the bruising and casual clothes. He’s lost some hair and gained some pounds, but it’s Him all right: The Man In The Dark-Blue Suit. The man who did this to her.

The BASTARD who did this.

He’s dead. He’s still walking about but he’s dead. Right now. Dead.

There’s a scalpel in her pocket—not as delicate as a surgeon’s wand, but it’ll open him up just as well. Spill his guts all over the concrete floor. Blood like a fountain. Screams. Begging to be put out of his misery as she jams her hand into his hollow stomach cavity and reaches for his heart…

Everything is bees and broken glass.

She steps forward, the scalpel’s handle cold against her palm.

And then stops. Too quick. It’ll be over too quick. The Man In The Dark-Blue Suit deserves to suffer.

We begin by splitting the lower jaw
.

Deep breaths. Calm. Deep fucking breaths.

A battered people carrier pulls up outside the hospital entrance—The Man In The Dark-Blue Suit limps over and opens the back door, clambering inside, followed by some woman dressed in garish pink.

They drive off, sending up a wall of spray.

She stands there, watching as the car disappears into the waterlogged traffic.

It takes a lot of effort to calm her breathing. Slowly the buzzing in her head subsides and she can think clearly again. Focus. Not focusing leads to mistakes. Mistakes lead to getting caught.

It has taken her four hours to traverse the city, depositing her bargaining chip in a safe place. Safe for her, but not so safe for her old friend Dr Stephen Bexley.

She has dozens of apartments dotted all over the city, all neat and clean, safe and tidy. The people who used to live
in them are all dead. Have been for years. She didn’t list their names in court, kept them secret.

During the trial, the NewsNet channels had gloried in the size of her body count, gleeful indignation as the roll of the dead grew and grew. But to her it was little different from reciting a shopping list. No one cries when the fleshworks harvest their great vats of cloned meat do they? No, they eat their CheatMeat burgers and go on with their happy, dead, little lives.

It’s not her fault she has more refined tastes.

She stalks the corridors beneath the hospital buildings. Pushing her wheely-bucket and its special cargo.

All that fuss about a few hundred dead bodies. Ridiculous. Imagine the outcry if they’d discovered the
real
number of victims was even higher. But they didn’t. And best of all, they never found out about ‘Harbinger’. If they had they’d have rounded up all her special children before they had a chance to blossom and grow. And that would have been a
terrible
waste.