Macaque Attack (23 page)

“Where am I?” He rubbed his eyes and looked around with a puzzled expression. Victoria moistened her lower lip.

“You’re on the
Sun Wukong
.”

“And who are you?”

“Your wife.”

Behind his glasses, his eyes were wide and fearful, like those of a frightened animal. “My wife?”

“Ex-wife.”

He seemed to mull this over. A hand came up to scratch the bristles on his chin.

“You’re... Vicky?”

“
Oui, mon amour.
”

He frowned again. “What happened to your hair?”

Victoria put a hand to her scalp. “I had an accident, years ago. You saved me.”

“I did?”

“Yes. Yes, you did.” She felt a lump in her throat; she couldn’t swallow properly. “Don’t you remember?”

Paul looked pained. He reached up to fiddle with the diamond stud in his ear.

“I’m not sure...”

“Do you remember the
Tereshkova
?” she prompted. “The battle over London?” She stepped close to him. She wanted to touch his face, ruffle his spiky hair.

“I remember a smiling man.”

Victoria felt her heart lurch. “You don’t need to worry about him,” she said hurriedly, blinking away the memory of Berg’s reptilian face and the screams he made as the monkeys tore him apart.

“But the rest...” Paul flapped his arms helplessly. “It comes and goes. I get flashes.”

Victoria put a hand to her mouth. She wanted so desperately to comfort him.

“It’s okay,” she said. “I’m here. I’m going to look after you.”

Paul clenched his jaw. He glared over the top of his glasses.

“I’m not an idiot. I know what’s happening to me.”

“Then you also know that I love you, and I’m going to do whatever I can to help.”

His expression hardened. “There’s nothing that can be done.”

Victoria clenched her fists. “I’m not letting you go without a fight.”

“But what can you do?”

Victoria drummed her fingers against her chin. “Could we duplicate the original back-up, and integrate your stored memories?”

Paul shook his head. His earring flashed. “It wouldn’t work. We didn’t keep a pristine copy. The memories I’ve gathered since being activated have overwritten and updated the original recording.”

“So, all we have is you as you are now? No back-up to the back-up?”

Paul looked down at his body, and wiped his hands down the front of his lab coat. “That’s the way these things were designed. Nobody wants multiple copies of their dearly departed.”

Victoria bit her lip, thinking furiously. If they couldn’t get the original, then maybe they could get the next best thing...

“You know, there
is
another copy of you.”

“Where?”

“On Mars.”

Paul raised skeptical eyebrows. “Mars?”

“Yes.” Victoria walked over to the main windshield. Rural France lay below like a winter blanket, a patchwork of browns and yellows. “When you were killed, Berg cut out your brain, soul-catcher and all. He took your official back-up and we never recovered it.” She turned her back to the view and levelled a finger at him. “You, the you I’m talking to right now,
you’re
the illegal duplicate.”

Paul shrugged his shoulders, plainly struggling to follow her reasoning. “If you say so.”

“Don’t you remember?” Victoria leant back against the glass, arms folded. “Nguyen told us all the stolen souls had been loaded aboard Céleste Tech’s Martian probe. And that means there has to be a copy of you up there too, maybe stomping around in one of those robot bodies.”

Paul walked over to stand beside her. He looked out at the blue afternoon sky.

“Even if that is the case, I don’t see what good it does us.”

Victoria knew she was grasping at straws. “If we could get to it and somehow integrate the two of you...”

Paul clicked his tongue behind his teeth. He reached a hand towards the window. “First off, I don’t know if that’s even possible and, secondly, what does it matter anyway?” His fingers reached the pane, and seemed to sink into the glass. “We can’t get to Mars. And, even if we could, the copy might have expired by the time we got there. Most copies last around six months. It might as well be on the other side of the universe.” As if to reinforce his point, the image of his hand emerged from the other side of the glass, into the air outside.

“That shouldn’t stop us trying.”

Paul flexed his fingers in the wind. “What do you suggest?”

“I don’t know.” Victoria turned her palms upwards. “Perhaps we can negotiate with Lady Alyssa. She could transmit the file containing your copy. It would get here in minutes rather than years.”

“Why would she do that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe if we had something she wanted?”

Paul opened and shut his mouth a couple of times, as if he’d been about to snap back a retort but had then forgotten exactly what it was he had been about to say. His features softened into an expression of confusion. Slowly, he withdrew his hand from the window, bringing it back into the room, and looked at it. He repeatedly opened and shut his fist as if seeing it for the first time. Then he raised his eyes to Victoria’s and smiled apologetically.

“I’m sorry, but who are you again?”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

BIG DOG

T
HE WIND BLEW
across the top of the airship’s armour-plated hull, ruffling the hairs on Ack-Ack Macaque’s cheeks and the backs of his hands, and flapping the scarf at his neck. His arms were folded across his chest. As he drew them tighter, the brand new leather jacket creaked around his shoulders like a timber galleon. Thank goodness K8 had talked him into buying several spare sets of clothes. She knew his propensity for getting into trouble and, although he’d grumbled at the time, he was grateful now. If he was going to convince this ragtag mob of primates that he was still their leader, it helped to look the part; and besides, in his state of injured exhaustion, it was pretty much only the stiffness of the jacket that was holding him upright.

With a squeal and a clunk, the platform—designed to transport helicopters from the hangars to the flight deck—drew level and the crowd parted around Bali, forming a loose semicircle with the younger monkey at its focus.

Ack-Ack Macaque glanced back, to the gun turret at the far end of the airship’s hull, almost a kilometre away, where K8 monitored proceedings through the scope of a high-powered sniper rifle.

“Stay cool,” he told her, knowing his words would be picked up and relayed by the throat mike beneath his scarf. “Don’t shoot unless I’m already dead.”

He didn’t have an earpiece, so couldn’t know if she replied. Nevertheless, he trusted her. She knew how important appearances were in these matters. If she intervened to save his life, he’d lose the respect of the troupe—not because she was a girl but because she was human, and this was one fight he had to win or lose by himself. He uncrossed his arms, clamped the cigar between his teeth, and cracked his knuckles. Surrounded by onlookers and supporters, Bali did his best to look unimpressed.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he said, fingering the blade of his machete.

Ack-Ack Macaque grinned, letting them all see his teeth.

“I didn’t.” He gestured at the platform. “You came to me.”

“A cheap trick.”

“No.” Suddenly serious, Ack-Ack Macaque blew smoke from the corner of his mouth. “A message.” He took a step forward and saw Bali tense. “I heard you wanted to challenge me.”

The younger monkey drew himself up. “That’s right.”

“You don’t feel like backing down?”

Bali’s blade swiped the air. “Not today, grandpa. We’ve followed you for two years and enough is enough. It’s time things were different. We need to start thinking about ourselves and about what
we
want. Let the humans deal with their own problems.”

Careful to keep his face impassive, Ack-Ack Macaque gave an inward groan. Part of him had been hoping Bali would lose his nerve and retract his challenge, sparing them both a fight—at least until Ack-Ack’s bruises had been given a chance to heal.

“The people we’re fighting against are the ones who made us,” he said, appealing to the onlookers as much as Bali. “They’re the ones who turned us into monsters.”

Bali laughed scornfully. “Then perhaps we should thank them?” He thumped a hand against his breast. “Just because you hate yourself, old man, it doesn’t mean the rest of us have to be wracked with self-loathing.”

“Is that what you think?”

“Yes, it is.” Bali let the flat edge of his weapon rest against his shoulder. “Now,
compadre
, are you going to bore me to death or are you going to meet my challenge?”

Ack-Ack Macaque huffed. He didn’t want to fight Bali—the monkey had been a trusted lieutenant and he honestly didn’t know if, in his current state, he could beat him—but neither could he walk away.

“I rescued you,” he said.

Bali scowled. “Maybe I didn’t need rescuing. Perhaps I
liked
living in that temple. Perhaps I
liked
being a god.”

“I didn’t hear any complaints at the time.”

“You’re hearing one now.” They stood looking at each other, neither willing to be the first to break the stare. Finally, Ack-Ack Macaque rolled his cigar from one side of his mouth to the other, and gave a weary huff.

“So be it.” He flicked a hand at the crowd, and the circle widened as every monkey in it took a quick step backwards. “Pick your weapon.”

Smirking triumphantly, Bali held his blade aloft.

“I choose the machete!” The polished steel gleamed in the cold November sun, and Ack-Ack Macaque shook his head, suppressing a shudder.
Not another knife fight.
Too many memories brawled at the edges of his awareness; his nostrils filled with the jumbled odours of sawdust, blood and shit.

No!

In one movement, he pulled out a Colt and fired. Bali’s arm jerked as the bullet snatched the machete from his grip and sent it clattering across the deck.

In the sudden, echoing silence, nobody dared move.

“Pick again,” Ack-Ack said.

Bali sucked bruised fingers. “Are you insane?”

Ack-Ack Macaque lowered his revolver until it was aimed directly at the younger monkey’s face. The spectators cowered.

“Possibly,” he admitted. “I’m certainly sleep-deprived and recovering from some pretty fucking strong drugs.”

Bali swallowed, looking truly uncertain for the first time. He thrust his chin forward. “Are you going to shoot me down, just like that?”

For a moment, Ack-Ack Macaque considered it. With his thumb, he levered back the Colt’s hammer, clicking a fresh shell into the firing chamber. All he had to do now was squeeze the trigger. One little squeeze, and all his problems would be gone. He could blow Bali’s brains all over the top of this dreadnought, and then go and find the Founder and demand to know why she hadn’t told him about the baby; and then, after that, maybe he could
finally
go and get some fucking sleep.

His forefinger caressed the trigger.
So tempting
... But would the other monkeys respect him or despise him for taking the easy way out?

With a silent curse, he eased the hammer forward, and slid the smoking gun back into its holster.

“I don’t need to shoot you,” he growled, “to show everybody here what a jumped-up little piss-weasel you really are.”

He took a deliberate step forward. Bali flinched but held his ground.

“You don’t frighten me, old man.”

Ack-Ack Macaque grinned. “Yes I do.” He took another step forward, clawed hands reaching out.

“So,” Bali said, raising his fists, “we’re going to duke it out like gentlemen, is that it?”

Still advancing, Ack-Ack Macaque shook his head.

“Don’t be a twat.”

The first flickers of real fear crossed Bali’s face. He began to back away. “Then what?”

Ack-Ack Macaque rotated his shoulders and flexed his neck. His original plan had been to intimidate Bali into submission, but now his blood was up. Tiredness and irritation gave way to boiling anger. As far as he was concerned, the upstart was a stand-in for every hurt, frustration and set-back he’d suffered over the past few days, and all he wanted now was to stomp the insolent look from the little bastard’s stupid eyes.

“We’re going to fight like monkeys,” he said gruffly. “We’re going to scream and leap and scratch and bite. You know, old school. And then, at some point, I’m going to rip your tail off and jam it up your devious, back-stabbing arse.”

Bali’s hackles rose. He stopped retreating. “Oh, really?” He spoke for the benefit of the audience. “You think you can take me in a fair fight?”

Ack-Ack Macaque laughed.

“Who said anything about fair?”

T
HEY CRASHED TOGETHER
with a screech that seemed to fill the vaulting sky. A kilometre away, the sound chilled K8’s blood and prickled the hairs at the back of her neck. Through her rifle’s telescopic sight, the two monkeys became a tumbling blur of flailing limbs and thrashing tails. They squirmed around each other, each trying to clamp his teeth around the other’s windpipe. She saw flying clumps of torn hair and ripped clothing, and the flash of yellow incisors.

“Aw, shite.”

Her index finger tapped against the trigger guard. She wanted to help, but the Skipper’s instructions had been very specific. She wasn’t to fire on Bali unless Ack-Ack Macaque died—and even then, she was only allowed to do it in self-defence. If Bali’s first act as new alpha male was to turn on the humans—K8 and Victoria—she was authorised to put a bullet in his brain. Otherwise, she was just to get the hell off the airship and let the
Sun Wukong
go wherever it wanted.

I don’t think so.

K8 jerked upright, startled by the voice in her head. Since returning to this parallel, the voices of the Gestalt had been a low buzz at the back of her awareness, a conversation she could tune in or out at will. This voice, however, was much louder—a sharp feminine voice speaking directly into her mind, and the sudden, queasy sensation of another presence in her head, peering out through her eyes.