Macaque Attack (14 page)

“Always the same.” Apynja scratched her cheek with dirty fingernails. “But would it surprise you to learn you’re not alone?”

He glanced up at her with his one good eye.

“What does that mean?”

“There are a lot of humans who feel the same as you. They don’t care about politics or war; they just want to be left to get on with their lives in peace. Look around you. There used to be eight billion people on this world, now only a tiny fraction remain.” She pulled her blankets tighter around her squat frame. “You should have seen it when it happened. The corpses were rotting in the streets. Millions upon millions of them: men, women and children who wanted nothing more than to live their lives, to go to school, fall in love and care for their families.”

Ack-Ack Macaque growled, deep in his throat. The silence seemed to press in against his ears.

“What are you trying to say?” He took another hit to steady the ache in his brainpan, and passed the pipe back across the fire.

“Look at the way you’re dressed,” Apynja said. “You’re a soldier. A rebel. But have you ever asked yourself why? What is it you’ve been fighting all this time?”

Ack-Ack Macaque closed his eye again. He saw Spitfires and Messerschmitts wheeling across bright blue virtual skies; three-legged German war machines stomping through ruined villages; and Gestalt airships raining fire and death on London.

“Bad guys,” he said. “All my life, I’ve been fighting bad guys. First, the Nazis, then the Céleste conspiracy, and then the Gestalt.”

He looked at Apynja and she nodded.

“You’ve been fighting tyranny, Napoleon,” she said quietly. “You always have, right from the beginning. Don’t you remember? Even way back then, you had a problem with authority. The trouble is, the way things are set up at the moment, there will always be another would-be dictator. However many you defeat, others will always rise. It’s human nature. They’re primates like us. Their behaviour’s ruled by the same power dynamics as ours. Someone always wants to dominate. They want more sex, more food and more money than the others, and they always want to rule the world—or as much of it as they can get their grubby little hands on.”

“And now Célestine’s trying to conquer two worlds?”

“If not more.”

Ack-Ack Macaque felt the dead grass beneath him. The stillness beyond the fire’s crackles seemed oppressive and sad, and spoke of murder and death. Another growl worked its way up from his chest, curling his lip.

“Fine. You want to know what I believe? Well, I believe in a person’s right to be free to get on with their life without all the bullshit, without other people trying to rip them off and kill them. Not to have to put up with governments and corporations and megalo-fucking-maniacs.”

The elderly ape placed the bone pipe on the ground beside her.

“Then, I’ll ask you once more, Napoleon. What are you prepared to do about it?”

Ack-Ack Macaque shrugged. “What can I do? I’m outnumbered, outgunned...”

“I thought you liked it that way.”

“What are you saying, lady?”

Apynja raised her snout. “Somebody needs to bring order to the multiverse, to stop the killing, stop the chaos.”

Ack-Ack Macaque frowned.

“Me?”

“Who better?”

Ack-Ack Macaque felt his lips peel back in a savage grin. For the first time since coming to this benighted hellhole, he felt some of his old fire return. Maybe it was exhaustion; maybe it was the vodka and the smoke, but right then he felt ready to take on the whole of Célestine’s cyborg army—one by one, or all at once.

“Eight billion people died here,” Apynja said. “If you had the power, would you avenge them?”

He looked around at the empty forest, and thought of the bones littering the wreck of the crashed airliner.

“Damn straight.”

“Would you find those responsible?”

“Yeah, I’d find them. And I’d fuck them up, too.”

“Like the Lady Célestine?”

“Especially her.”

“Good.” Using her stick for support, Apynja levered herself into a standing position. “You need to make an example of her. You need to show the rest of them, all the would-be dictators, where the line is, and what will happen to them if they cross it.”

“Yeah.”

“You need to keep them in order, Macaque. You need to stop them killing their populations, stop them breaking out of their timelines.”

For a queasy moment, Ack-Ack Macaque’s head spun. He felt light and dry, like an autumn leaf.

“Hell, yeah,” he mumbled.

Apynja gave a nod. She looked pleased. “That’s what I was hoping you’d say.” Leaning on her stick for support, she made off towards the trees at the far side of the clearing. “Now,” she called over her shoulder, “come with me.”

S
HE LED HIM
through the forest until they came to a large gnarled oak. To Ack-Ack Macaque, in his addled state, it resembled an ancient forest god, wrinkled and patient in its eternal vigil. Using her stick, Apynja hacked at the undergrowth surrounding the trunk and exposed an opening—a black maw in the half-light, like a vertical mouth, or the entrance to a womb.

“Here we are,” she said.

Ack-Ack Macaque frowned.

“I may be stoned, but I’m not climbing in there.” Spider webs draped the entrance, and who knew what other creepy crawlies lurked inside? “No fucking way.”

Apynja made a rude noise.

“I don’t want you to
get in there
.” She spoke slowly, as if to an idiot. “I want you to
reach
in there and pull out the box.”

“What box?”

“The one in the tree.” She jabbed her stick at the hole. “And be quick about it.”

Ack-Ack Macaque swore under his breath. He handed her the steel canteen that he’d been carrying, and stuck an arm into the orifice. Grimacing, he waved it around until his fingers made contact with something hard and rectangular. There seemed to be a rope handle affixed to the end. He gave it an experimental tug.

“Christ, this weighs a tonne.”

“It should do.” Apynja rapped her stick against the tree trunk. “It’s full of guns.”

Ack-Ack Macaque’s tail stood on end. He turned his head to her.

“No shit?”

“Guns and bullets, and a few hand grenades.”

Grinning, he gave another heave, and the wooden box slid out into the open. It was the length of a coffin, but narrower and not as deep. When he pulled up the lid, he found himself staring at a veritable arsenal of machine guns, pistols and spare magazines. There were a few knives taped to the inside of the lid, and even a couple of hatchets and a solid-looking chainsaw. He took a deep breath in through his nostrils, savouring the smells of cold metal and gun oil.

“Oh, momma. Where did you get them?”

Apynja sniffed. “At the start, the humans resisted. Célestine had the elite—the world leaders and major industrialists—in her pocket. She bribed them with promises of eternal life and eternal power. But the real people, the everyday men and women—the doctors, soldiers, teachers and police—they resisted. Even as they fell sick and died, they tried to fight Nguyen’s metal men.”

“What happened?”

“They died. These are their weapons. I’ve been collecting them from battlefields and mass graves. I thought they might come in useful.” She tapped his boot with her cane. “I trust you know how to use them?”

“Do you shit in the woods?”

“I don’t see how that—”

“It means yes.” He picked up an automatic rifle. It was sleek and black, and reassuringly heavy. The fug in his head began to clear and he felt wired and energised and... just fucking ready to kick some fucking arse.

“Can you take me back to Célestine’s lab?” he asked.

Apynja worked her lips together, looking pleased. “Of course.”

“Good.” He snapped a magazine into place. “Because my only way home’s through her portal.”

“You’ll need her to operate it for you, Napoleon.”

“I’ll persuade her.”

Apynja smiled. “Of course, you realise that the only way to get to her will be by fighting your way through Nguyen’s soldiers?”

Ack-Ack weighed the gun, judging its balance.

“That’s what you’re counting on, isn’t it?”

Apynja’s hands folded over the top of her cane. “Of course. If you can kill the woman and destroy Nguyen’s creations, the surviving humans here might just stand a chance.”

“Leave it to me.” Hefting the rifle in one hand, Ack-Ack Macaque reached into his jacket and pulled out his last cigar. He looked at it for a moment, wondering if it really would be his
last
cigar; then he screwed it into the corner of his mouth and grinned. “Cos when I shoot a fucker, that fucker stays shot.”

He heard a grunt of contentment.

“Why do you keep calling me Napoleon?” he asked.

“Because that’s your name.”

“No it isn’t.”

“Yes, it is. It’s your
real
name...”

He felt the air stir, and his hair prickled with static. When he looked up, through a blue haze of cigar smoke, Apynja had gone. She had evaporated into the damp forest air as thoroughly as if she had never been there at all.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

TITANIUM CRANIUM

C
ÉLESTINE’S KNUCKLE TIGHTENED
against the trigger. In her accelerated state, Victoria saw every movement as if in extreme slow motion. She saw the tendon in the woman’s wrist stiffen like a violin string. She saw the skin of her knuckle stretch and blanch, and the way her jaw clenched in anticipation of the bang. Then, below, on the ground, something exploded. A fireball blossomed among the laboratory buildings. Distracted, Célestine’s gaze flickered to the porthole, and Victoria had her chance.

Now.

Using all her pent-up energy, she threw herself across the metal box that lay between them, scattering candles in all directions. As she did so, the gun went off with a bang and a flash. The bullet passed somewhere above her, still aimed at the spot she’d just vacated. The recoil rocked the Duchess back on her heels. Victoria hit the floor with her shoulder and rolled. Her weight smashed into Célestine’s legs. The gun flew from the woman’s fingers, spinning a lazy parabolic course through the air. The Duchess cried out in indignation and surprise, and fell forwards onto her hands and knees.

Victoria climbed to her feet. She walked over and picked the pistol from the deck. Her hands felt shaky. Crisis over, her neural circuits were powering down, draining the dangerous levels of adrenaline from her system and returning her time perception to something more akin to normal human experience. Behind her, Célestine was on all fours among the fallen and rolling candles, cursing the pain in her arms and legs.

Paul’s ghost hovered in the air.

“Oh God,” he said, hand over his mouth. “Oh shit, Jesus.”

“It’s over,” Victoria told him.

“You were so
fast
.”

“It’s over. Send the signal.”

“What signal?”

“To the
Sun Wukong
. Tell them to come and get us.”

“Ah yes, of course. Sorry. I’ll do it now.”

Victoria remembered the pistol in her hands. She pointed it at the woman on the floor.

“Don’t move.” With her other hand, she rummaged in the pocket of her ragged coat, and pulled out her monkey detector. Paul watched her.

“Is it him?”

“Of course it’s him.” She risked a peep through the nearest porthole. A battle raged beneath. “Who else would it be?” The tracker beeped its confirmation. “He’s at the far end of the compound,” she said. “How long until the
Sun
gets here?”

“At least half an hour.”

“
Merde.
”

A
CK-
A
CK
M
ACAQUE LAY
flat against the corrugated roof of one of the industrial units. He was panting. In one hand he gripped a matt black Desert Eagle—a semi-automatic pistol big enough to blow a tunnel through a mountain—and, in the other, the chainsaw. Grenades filled the bulging canvas satchel at his hip. Below, in the narrow gap between his building and the next, he heard heavy footsteps. The cyborgs hadn’t considered that he could climb as well as he could run, and they were still looking for him on the ground. On the edge of the compound, a gas cylinder burned. The explosion had covered his entrance through the fence, and he’d been running and sniping ever since. He couldn’t take on Nguyen’s robot army and win in a stand-up firefight, but that was okay, because he had no intention of playing fair. The .44 Magnum cartridges in the Desert Eagle’s clip were powerful enough to take down elk or buffalo, and the diamond-tipped chainsaw would make short work of even the sturdiest metal limb. If he could keep the action on a one-to-one basis, using the guerilla tactics of ambush and surprise, he might stand a chance.

For some moments, he remained where he was, ears straining. Then, when the noise of pursuit had died away, he rolled onto his stomach. His pistol had a fat silencer screwed into it that, while unable to actually silence the noise the gun made, would deaden the sound, making it harder for Célestine’s troops to work out exactly where it was coming from. If he could stick to the rooftops, he might be able to take out a decent number of them before they located him.

Wriggling forward on his elbows, he took up position behind an air-conditioning unit and sighted along the pistol’s barrel. Tall, spindly figures moved back and forth in the darkness, rifles gripped in their metal hands. He picked one that was out by itself, in the weeds near the perimeter fence, and lined up his sights.

“Say goodnight, dickhead.”

The gun gave a low, flat crack and jumped in his hands. His target dropped into the long grass, a fist-sized hole punched through its titanium cranium, and he grinned.

One down, several hundred left to go.

He rolled away from the air-conditioner and scampered across the roof, in the opposite direction, seeking another vantage and another victim. If he could keep the robots guessing long enough, he might be able to slip into Célestine’s sanctum unmolested.