Halfhead (28 page)

He tried to heave the bastard off, but her weight was solid, pinning him, immobile.

The fist caught Will’s left cheek and he heard, with surprising clarity, a muffled ‘pop’ as the bone broke.

Will’s hands scrabbled in the mud, looking for something,
anything
to fight back with. His fingers brushed against a boot—the other trooper, the one with no head.

The fist hammered down again. Pain cracked through Will’s mouth as teeth snapped. He retched, blood exploding from his split lips.

A voice above him shouted, ‘Gah! You filthy fucker!’

Another punch.

Will grabbed the boot, working his hand around. Boot knife:
please God let there be a…Bingo. He fumbled with the strap holding the knife inside its sheath. The handle was cool beneath his fingers as he slid the blade free. Head swimming.

Difficult to think.

Dizzy.

Darkness…

Someone was yelling at him, bellowing into his battered face, dragging him back to consciousness. He saw, through his one good eye, the woman on top of him curl her fist back again. Will rammed the boot knife into the back of her ankle and twisted till he could feel the hamstring snap.

A scream. The weight fell away. She rolled in the mud, clutching at the knife sticking out of the back of her leg.

‘You bastard! My fucking leg! You bastard! Agghh Jesus!’

Will rolled onto his side and vomited blood, bitter and salty. The roaring in his head came in waves, fading the world in and out, in and out.

‘You fucking bastard!’

He tried to move, but nothing worked. All he could do was lie there as the trooper struggled to her knees and dragged his fallen Thrummer out of the mud. Her face was pale, teeth gritted, eyes angry, dark slits, but there was no mistaking her. The first time they’d met she’d been wearing tribal scars and eclectic rags. The second time she’d been wearing casual clothing and talking to a man in a long black cloat. Big-boned rather than fat. Her ginger hair hidden beneath a combat helmet.

‘Fuck orders, you’re fucking dead!’

The telltales danced along the sides of the assault rifle, and a hard blue crackle filled the air. The lightning caught her square in the chest and Will felt the harsh roar of the Thrummer as all her muscles contracted involuntarily. Blue sparks fizzled out across her rigid body and then, with a wet splatch, she keeled over into the mud.

Will wanted to laugh, but all that came out was a rasping
gurgle and one of his back teeth. Still alive. He lay there, bleeding into the rain-soaked earth. Then quietly slipped into unconsciousness.

‘What do you mean, you lost him?’ Ken Peitai stood in the darkness of the Hopper’s cargo hold, watching the monitor in front of him and not liking what he saw one little bit. He’d arrived with ten heavily armed troopers, to pick up
one
guy, and the useless bastards got their asses kicked. One dead in Hunter’s apartment, another unconscious. One in little pieces at the bottom of a lift shaft. Three dead on the path in Kelvin grove Park. One with no head in the bushes and another one out for the count. Only two left and they’d lost the God-damned target.

‘Sorry, sir. There’s no sign of him. We’re widening our search pattern—’

‘I don’t care if you’re sticking a pineapple up your ass: find him! And find that Bluecoat bitch he’s got with him. If either of them get out into the real world I will
personally
make sure you spend the rest of your miserable life helping research test the next batch! Do I make myself clear?’

‘Sir, yes, sir!’

Ken stabbed the ‘off’ button. The old man was in a bad enough mood already—he’d hit the roof when he found out they’d cocked this up.

Should have been a piss-easy assignment: get in, pick up
Hunter and get out; take him somewhere safe; torture, question and kill his ass.

So how come Ken had six dead troopers and two zapped into unconsciousness?

The guy was a Network Assistant Director, not bloody superman.

‘Captain,’ Ken activated the intercom next to the monitor. ‘Get this hunk-a-junk in the air. We’re doing a sweep of that damn park.’

‘Sir? Our orders are to keep a low profile—’

‘You want me to come up there and
make
you do it? That what you want?’

‘No, sir.’

The engines came online, filling the drop bay with a low pulsing throb. Ken felt the floor surge under his feet and then the Hopper dropped over the edge of the building and accelerated towards the centre of the park.

Hunter wasn’t going to get away from him a second time.

Detective Sergeant Jo Cameron hit the ground like a sack of gravel. Someone scrambled onto her back, forcing her facedown into the wet earth. She lashed out with an elbow and felt it slam into something solid. Her attacker grunted, slipped—Jo dug her knee into the sodden grass and heaved, keepingthe momentum going, throwing the bastard all the way off.

With a twist she came round on top of the guy, and rammed her Field Zapper in his face, hard enough to break four of his front teeth.

‘Bad move, Cuddles.’ She thumbed the power up to maximum. ‘You’ve got exactly thirty seconds to tell me who the hell you are and where you’re from, before I electrify your head. You get me?’

The man just stared at her. Blood trickled from his broken mouth into his beard, before being washed away by the torrential downpour.

‘Twenty-five, twenty-four, twenty-three…’

He didn’t move a muscle.

‘Twenty, nineteen, eighteen…’ She rammed the Zappper forward again, the sight gouging a slice out of his cheek. ‘I’m not fucking kidding around here!’

‘Twelve, eleven, ten, nine, eight…’ She smashed the hilt against the side of his face.

He just grunted.

‘Fuck it.’ Jo looked down into the bleeding man’s eyes and spat. ‘You’re not bright enough to know when you’re screwed.’

She sat back and stuck the weapon’s barrel underneath his hairy chin. ‘Bye, bye.’

She didn’t see the other trooper behind her, but she felt the butt of his Screamer as it smashed down on the back of her head. Hot orange sparks exploded in front of her eyes.

The Zapper dropped from her fingers and she slowly keeled over into the mud.

The Hopper twisted sideways in the rain, dodging the glowing sodiums that hovered over the path. With a deafening roar the engines turned and battered the grass flat before the whole thing settled into the soft earth on three articulated landing legs. It looked like a large metal flea, devoid of any visible weaponry, the logo of a nonexistent engineering firm stencilled on the side in flaking orange paint.

Ken Peitai walked down the rear ramp, a vid-helmet on his head and a fully-charged Whomper in his hand. As he stepped out into the monsoon he flicked his headset onto low-light, the goggles pulling hot green outlines and soft green shapes from the darkness. Three bodies lay nearby: one with nothing between its hips and shoulders; another sporting a large hole where its heart, left lung and arm should be; the third slightly further away, her spine little more than a foggy memory, the tips of white ribs poking through the smooth mess of her back.

Ken flicked on his throat-mike. ‘Get your scaly ass out of that cockpit and get these stiffs onboard.’

‘Sir, I don’t think that’s a good—’

‘So help me if I have to tell you again…Get out here and pick them up, now!
I
will go see what the hell is taking the rest of your halfwit buddies so long.’

This was ridiculous. Someone in his position shouldn’t have to go stomping about in the mud looking for morons who were supposed to know how to do their friggin’ jobs! ‘Right you hairy-assed bastards, sound off like you gotta pair!’

‘Sir, it’s Armstrong. We got one, sir!’

‘About time!’ Ken smiled into the falling rain. ‘Which one you got?’

‘Female: Five nine, wearing one of our jumpsuits. How’d she get one of our—’

‘Never mind that. Is she dead?’

‘No, sir. Just unconscious.’

‘Good, get her back here.’ He swept the park with his goggles, looking for the other trooper. ‘Buncha monkeys.’ It wasn’t even as if they paid peanuts. ‘Where the hell’s Carter?’

The same voice sounded in his ear:
‘I got Carter with me, sir.’

‘What, he can’t talk for himself?’

‘No, sir: broken jaw. The young lady kicked his arse for him.’

‘Just what I need, a bearded fuckin’ mute.’

The pilot grunted past, dragging one of the corpses into the Hopper, leaving a trail of smeared blood behind him. Like a haemorrhaging snail. From the way the bodies had fallen it was a safe bet that whoever shot the shit out of them had been hiding in the bushes.

‘Can the hairy asshole carry the woman?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then get your ass out there and find Hunter.’

‘Em…how?’

‘What d’ya mean, “How”? Use the trackers for God’s sake!’

‘The jammer’s blocking the signal—all I’m getting is static.’

‘Jesus…’ Unbelievable. What was the point of burying transmitters under people’s skin if you couldn’t use them? Ken grabbed the pilot as he stomped out to get the next body. ‘You: get back in there and switch off that damned jammer.’

The pilot looked at him. Opened his mouth. Shut it again. Closed his eyes for a moment. ‘Sir, if we turn off the jammer, every CCTV camera in the place will be able to see us. Any Network ship in the area will get us on sensors. We’ll be screwed.’

He was right.

Ken stared out into the darkness. It was all falling apart. ‘Get those corpses onboard.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The pilot did what he was told. For once.

‘Armstrong,’ Ken clicked his throat-mike, ‘the jammer stays on.’

‘But how am I—’

‘Just get your arse out there and find that Network bastard.’

‘The park’s massive, I can’t—’

‘Do you want to test out the next batch? Do you? That what you fuckin’ want?’

‘Sir, no, sir!’

Assholes, he was surrounded by assholes.

Ken set off towards the bushes, the Whomper up and ready to rock. Just past the outer layer of greenery the place looked as if it had been sheered off at ground level. Some poor bastard was lying in the grass with nothing to put his hat on any more. A second trooper had a dirty big knife sticking out the back of her leg like a handle.

It looked as if someone had been dragged off into the undergrowth—away from the scene. Ken took three steps along the trail before coming to a halt: the woman was in custody, Hunter was at large, and the retrieval team were all accounted for. So who dragged a body out of here?

‘Armstrong,’ he said into his mike, ‘where are you?’

‘Looking for Network Future Boy. Like you said, sir.’

‘You don’t have him with you?’

There was a pause.
‘No, sir, I don’t. If I had him I would have told you. Sir.’

‘Then who the hell else is out here?’

‘Winos? Zippers, Bean-Heads, Tezzers, H-monkeys, perverts, muggers—’

‘Alright! Enough already, I get the picture.’ Ken looked around the devastated clearing, searching for inspiration, but all he could see were the two bodies. ‘Shit.’

‘Sir?’

‘Get your ass over here on the double, Mister.’ He scowled into the green-tinted night. ‘Where the hell are you, Hunter?’

She drops to her knees and peers at his battered face. One eye is already swelling up. His nose is broken and caked with blood, and the left side of his face doesn’t sit right. She reaches out and pokes it, feeling bone move beneath the tips of her fingers.

At least he’s still breathing: she can see his chest rise and fall, see the blood washing away in the rain…

Disappointing. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. It was supposed to be perfect. She’s been looking forward to this moment for so long, but now that she’s here—with him all battered and helpless—it just doesn’t feel right. He should be awake and terrified. He needs to know that she’s taken
everything
from him: his wife, his future, and his life.

He’s meant to suffer.

She sits back and watches the rain falling on his pale skin.

She could reach out, right now, and end it all. Smash her fist into his throat—crush his windpipe and let him choke to death. Or take one of the blades from her pack and slit his throat. Or just take the skinglue, seal up his nose and mouth, and let him suffocate…But what’s the point if he doesn’t know it’s her?

She strokes his cheek, feeling the rasp of stubble beneath her fingers. The people in combat gear have spoiled her revenge. Ruined everything.

She looks off into the park, back along the drag marks, towards the place where she found him about to be Thrummed apart by a fat woman with a knife in her leg.

She recognized the uniform: Special Ops combat gear. The kind of thing the guards wore in Peitai and Kikan’s torture chamber.

‘Peitai…’

There’s no point killing William Hunter, not when he’s like this, and Peitai and Kikan still need to be punished.

She leans forward and kisses Hunter on his bruised and bleeding forehead. There will be plenty of time to torture him when he’s feeling better.

And that’s when the cavalry arrives.

‘Hud it right there!’

She freezes. A Bluecoat sidles around the edge of a big rhododendron bush. Female, carrying a heavy Field Zapper. The weapon’s powered up, rain sizzling against the hot barrel.

Dr Westfield stands. ‘You’ve got to help me!’ Her voice is nearly perfect, just a slight rasp to show she’s not had vocal chords for six years.

The Bluecoat’s Zapper doesn’t waver. ‘I told you tae stand still.’

‘This man’s been attacked!’

‘Aye,’ the officer inches closer, ‘an’ who’s to say you’re no’ the one attacked him?’

Hunter twitches and moans, a small, painful sound, but it’s just enough to take the Bluecoat’s eyes off hers. Westfield leaps at the woman, knocks her to the ground, and runs away into the dark.

‘Sir, we have serious problems!’

‘Jesus, what now?’ Ken turned on the spot, sweeping his
Whomper across the undergrowth. The bushes all around him had grown thicker and darker, and the drag marks had run out. He was soaked to the bone, he didn’t have Hunter, and the last thing he needed was more whinging from that slack-assed pilot.

‘We have incoming, sir. Network gunship. Two minutes twenty.’

Ken spat into the rain—tonight just kept on getting better.

‘Options?’

The pilot didn’t even pause.
‘Run for it.’

‘Unacceptable.’

‘We can’t make a stand: this piece of shit isn’t designed to go up against that kind of firepower, sir.’

Ken clenched his teeth; the whole operation was one big cluster-fuck. Even if they did have the Bluecoat, going back without Hunter was as bad as going back empty handed. The old man would kill him.

‘ETA: One minute fifty. We need to go now, sir, or they’ll be right up our arses!’

‘FUCK!’ Ken backed towards the waiting Hopper. ‘We’ve got your bitch, Hunter! You hear me?’ He squeezed off a couple of shots at random, sending up plumes of mud and vegetation. ‘We’ve got her, and if you open your fuckin’ mouth so much as an inch I’ll slice her fuckin’ face off!’

The Hopper’s engines were bellowing full blast as he stepped onto the ramp.

‘One minute thirty seconds.’

‘YOU HEAR ME HUNTER? I’LL SLICE HER FACE RIGHT OFF!’

The ramp wasn’t even fully closed before the ship leapt into the sky. Ken staggered through the Hopper’s hold, lurching as the thing accelerated away, hugging the streets. Getting as far away as its two massive turbines could carry it before all hell broke loose.

The bays lining both sides of the hold were full of dead people. Some had no heads, some had no backs, some had
no inside bits. Useless bastards. The two unconscious troopers lolled against their harnesses, swinging back and forth with the ship’s motion. And there, at the far end, was the consol ation prize for this evening’s fiasco: Detective Sergeant Josephine Cameron.

A thin trickle of blood ran down the nape of her neck from where Armstrong had cracked her on the back of the head. Ken grabbed a handful of hair and pulled her head up. She was pretty. Not stunning, but not bad either.

Six dead, two unconscious and one broken jaw.

‘You better be worth it.’