Macaque Attack (10 page)

He shivered, and pulled his sodden jacket tighter. The cottage smelled of damp and ashes. A few sticks of charred furniture remained. Every time he moved his feet, his boots crunched on shards of broken glass and crockery. Outside, rain fell from a bruised sky, pocking the surface of the river. The wind whipped dead leaves across the road. Thunder rumbled in the overcast.

When he’d woken up this morning, getting trapped in a post-apocalyptic wasteland hadn’t been high on his list of things to do—and yet, here he was. One instant he’d been charging the figure in the office, keeping low to avoid bullets. The next, he’d been rolling and sprawling on the shiny white floor of a different laboratory, on a different world altogether. The black-clad version of Célestine lay beside him on the tiles, winded, sucking in air. Behind them, the portal died, its light sputtering out like a dying candle. For long moments, Ack-Ack Macaque lay looking up at the strip lights. Then a squad of soldiers entered the room and he took flight, leaping through a window and hurling himself away, into the ruins of an industrial park.

Now, hours later, he was wet, cold and hungry, and the bastards were still chasing him.

“I should have stood and fought,” he grumbled, but he knew he couldn’t have won. The soldiers hadn’t been human. Each had displayed the unnaturally smooth features, the waxy, sepia-coloured skin and tall, graceful builds he remembered from the last time he’d tangled with one of Nguyen’s cyborgs, back on his own timeline. They were human back-ups running on gelware brains, housed inside bodies equipped with titanium skulls and carbon fibre skeletons. One of them had been tough to kill; a whole squad would have been next to impossible. And so he’d run, and kept running.

Now, he needed food, ammunition and allies, and he needed time to think, to work out where he was and how he could find his friends—but he couldn’t do any of that until he got away from his pursuers.

He’d skirted several villages and suburbs, crossed half a dozen major roads, and had yet to meet a single human. Where was everybody? Thunder cracked and rolled, almost directly overhead. He could feel the rumble of it in his chest. He scratched at the leather patch covering his left eye socket, and yawned. If his geography was correct, the forest of Sénart lay a kilometre or so east of the river and, if he could only get to the trees, they’d never catch him.

First, though, he had to get across the river. It was too wide to swim, and looked to be running fast, swollen with rainwater. The broken bridge was his only option. It was a modern, two-lane highway with little in the way of cover, only steel railings on either side.

Well, I can’t stay here.

He stood and slithered over the windowsill, back out into the rain. Nguyen’s cyborgs were fast, and he’d have to keep moving if he wanted to stay ahead of them.

Before him, the bridge looked empty and wide. If he tried to run across, he’d be plainly visible to anybody on either bank, and exposed to whatever weaponry they cared to turn in his direction.

But did he have to go
over
the bridge? Seized by a sudden idea, he ran on all fours, scampering to the edge of the carriageway and down a slippery grass slope to the towpath running along the riverbank. From underneath, the bridge was made up of six long steel I-beam girders lying side by side, with the road running atop them.

Behind him, in the direction from which he’d come, he heard the
thud-thud-thud
of military helicopters.

Damn.
Another moment, and he’d have been caught in the open.
Don’t these guys ever stop?

As the sounds of pursuit grew louder, he jumped up and heaved himself into the space between two of the girders. The gap was about a metre wide. From here, he’d only be visible to somebody looking up from directly beneath. With his hands and feet braced against the girders’ lower flanges, and his tail whipping around to keep him balanced, he could cross the bridge on all fours without being seen by the choppers or, when he got out over the water, anyone on the bank or roadway. The collapsed middle section might prove tricky, but he’d deal with that when he reached it. Right now, his priority was to get across the river without being caught, and without falling in.

Muttering obscenities to himself, he started crawling.

CHAPTER TWELVE

VAST AND COOL

A
S IF OPENING
an old fashioned scroll, Amy Llewellyn unrolled a flexible display screen and placed it on the desk before Merovech, weighing down its corners with coffee mugs and books.

“She’s waiting for you.”

Merovech exhaled. He had a hollow, churning feeling in his stomach.

“Will this be live?”

“Yes, sir. We’ve repurposed one of the largest dishes at Goonhilly. She wants to speak to you, and you alone.” She tapped a spot at the side of the flat screen, turning on the power.

“Of course she does.”

“But that doesn’t mean other people won’t be listening. Most of the news networks will be casting this live.”

“I’m sure.”

“All you have to do is touch this button here to connect, and touch it again to disconnect.” She leant over him, pointing to the appropriate control, and he could smell the shampoo in her hair: a hint of mint and berries.

“This one?”

“Exactly.” She straightened up and tugged down the hem of her silk blouse. “But don’t forget, there’ll be a delay on the signal.”

“What sort of delay?”

“With Mars at the distance it is from Earth, it’ll take your signal about six minutes to reach her, and another six minutes until you receive her reply.”

“Twelve minutes?”

“I’m afraid it will make for rather a slow conversation.” She reached into her pocket and produced a large, silver-plated stopwatch. “This will help you keep track.”

Merovech took it from her and put it on the desk in front of him. His hands felt jittery.

“Okay,” he said. “I think I can manage this by myself.”

Amy raised her eyebrows. “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay?”

“No.” He waved her away. “No, thank you. I want to do this by myself.”

“But, sir.”

“No, really. It’s better this way.” He would be self-conscious enough just knowing the world’s media were eavesdropping. He didn’t think he could bear to have anybody else in with him, watching and listening and trying not to meet his eyes. “I’ll be fine.”

She put her hands on her hips.

“Well, if you’re sure.”

“I am.”

She tugged at the cuffs of her blouse. “Then I’ll be right outside. Just call me if you need me.”

Merovech rose to his feet.

“I will,” he said. “Thank you.”

She went to the door. He listened to her heels clack on the oak floorboards. When she’d gone, he considered his reflection in the ornate, silver-framed mirror that hung on the wall above the fireplace. As he was in mourning, he’d chosen to wear a black shirt and tie with a charcoal-grey jacket. It was the same suit he’d worn to his father’s funeral, three years ago. But, of course, the previous king hadn’t been his
real
father—and, although she’d carried him in her womb, his mother hadn’t really been his mother, either. He was a clone, cultured from one of her cells and turned male through the use of prenatal hormone injections—an artificial creature grown with the sole purpose of furthering his mother’s dynastic ambitions. Now that Julie was dead, only three people in the world knew the truth, and two of them—Victoria Valois and Ack-Ack Macaque—were missing, presumed lost.

He clenched his fists and swallowed. The whole world would be listening to his conversation—at least, those agencies, governments and broadcasters with the equipment and ability to intercept signals sent to and from Mars. Would the Duchess blurt the truth? Would she accidentally or deliberately expose him as a fraud? The disclosure would be a disaster. It would undo his attempts to unite and hold together his Commonwealth in the aftermath of both the Duchess’s attempted coup and the Gestalt invasion. The last thing his people needed right now was another crisis; and yet, in a deep and selfish corner of his heart, he knew the revelation—despite the accompanying scandal and disgrace—would come as something of a relief. For the first time in his life, he wouldn’t be playing a part; he would have responsibility for nothing but himself.

It was all he’d ever craved: the simple freedom to be himself. But suppose he ended up in jail, or was cast out as an exile, with the media hounding his every move? From childhood, he’d been trained and shaped for leadership and, for the past three years, he’d worked hard to keep the United Kingdoms together in the face of attack and economic turbulence. To have his efforts go to waste... Well, it was more than he would be able to bear.

His thoughts turned to Julie. She had respected but never really understood his sense of duty. What would she say now? From somewhere, she’d found the courage to confront her abusive father. Surely, she’d expect the same courage from him.

With a dry mouth, he turned to the desk and held his finger over the button.

“Okay.” He took a long breath. “Let’s get this over with.”

And let the cards fall where they may.

T
HE FACE THAT
appeared on the screen before him bore a passing resemblance to his mother, the Duchess, but its features held the smooth, passive lines of a waxwork. Behind it, Merovech could see the rusty pink glow of a Martian sunrise.

“I’m here,” he said, and reached for the stopwatch.

Twelve minutes.
The lower drawer of his desk held the bottle of 15-year-old single malt that he’d been enjoying earlier, and a clean set of crystal tumblers. He picked one and sloshed in a generous measure, and then sat back to await his mother’s reply. When it came, he saw her eyes narrow and her posture harden. The ghost of a smile crept across her lips. A faint breeze disturbed her synthetic hair.

“I see you survived.”

Merovech felt his jaw clench.

No thanks to you.

On the screen, the Duchess raised a hand to indicate the boulder-strewn Martian plateau behind her. Tall, spindly figures bestrode the cratered surface, picking their way between the rocks. Some carried tools, others weapons. They cast long, black shadows across the regolith.

“So have we.”

“What do you want, mother?” Merovech spoke without thinking, and then sighed and restarted the stopwatch. He got up from his chair and walked over to the window, and looked out at the cranes and scaffolding of a city in the process of reconstructing itself.

If she’d had her way, this would all be radioactive ash.

Twelve minutes crawled past.

“Straight to the point, I see.” Was that a hint of pride in her voice? Merovech returned to his seat.

“I am calling with a proposition,” the cyborg continued. “I am aware of your recent brush with the Gestalt, and I’m here to offer my protection.”

“Your what?”

“You see,” she continued, as yet unaware of his interruption, “I have an army of my own here. A thousand cyborgs with human minds. We are stronger, faster and more intelligent than you could ever be. Our technology is years ahead of yours, and we have all the resources of this red planet. Just think what we can achieve.”

Merovech clunked his tumbler onto the desk.

“Get to the point,” he muttered.

Two hundred and twenty million kilometres away, the Duchess smiled.

“I know the world listens to our conversation,” she said. “And I’m here to make you this offer. Any country that pledges us their fealty and support will receive in return our protection. There are an infinite number of parallel worlds out there. Who knows when the next invasion may come?”

She paused expectantly. Merovech chewed his lower lip.

“You tried to trigger a nuclear war,” he said. “And now you expect us to believe you have our best interests at heart?” He sat back and shook his head. “I don’t buy it. I won’t believe it.”

A dozen minutes later, the Duchess laughed.

“What you believe scarcely matters, my son. The simple fact is, the Earth is under threat and only we can save it.”

“Save it by destroying it, you mean? By bending it to your will?”

“Spin it however you like, Merovech, but know this: Your world is being watched by intelligences greater than your own, intelligences vast and cool and deeply sympathetic. Spurn us at your peril.”

She fell silent. Merovech cleared his throat.

“Is that a threat, mother?”

Twelve minutes later, the Duchess narrowed her eyes. “Every carrot has a stick, my son. When we return to Earth—and return we shall—the weapons we will have built to defend our supporters will be turned against those who have denied us.” Her eyes flicked up and to the right, as if consulting a display he couldn’t see. “You, and all the nations of the Earth, have one hour to decide. Our forces grow by the minute. Within days, we’ll have weapons capable of reaching the Earth. Join us now, or suffer the consequences.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CARBON FIBRE BONES

I
N THE COLD
grey light of a damp false dawn, Victoria stood at the edge of the village, her thin frame wrapped in an old army greatcoat like one of the ones the Commodore used to wear in the winter. Leaves blew around her feet, which were wrapped in rags. Her clothes were drab and tattered and she’d left her head bare to the glowering sky. Only a torn and grimy length of cloth, wrapped around her forehead and tied at the back, hid the input jacks set into her temple. Shambling from their ruined houses, the villagers ignored her. She looked like one of them. Moving like emaciated shadows, their feet dragged through the mud and rubble and their eyes remained lowered and hopeless. As they formed up into ranks at the edge of the main road, she shouldered her way in among them, keeping her head down, hoping her disguise would be enough to fool the guards at the laboratory.

In the corner of her eye, she saw Paul’s image. He hung above the cracked and weed-pocked tarmac of the road like a spectre, invisible to everyone except her.