CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

TITANIUM CRANIUM

 

CÉLESTINE’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.”

 

 

ACK-ACK MACAQUE 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.

Beyond the far edge of the laboratory compound, a large military helicopter wallowed in the air, only a few hundred feet above the scrubby ground. Its twin rotors filled the night with a low, guttural throb. Was it looking for him? It didn’t seem to be executing any sort of obvious search pattern; in fact, it seemed to be wobbling around as if a fight were going on in its cockpit. He frowned at it in puzzlement, then turned his attention elsewhere, to more pressing matters. If the helicopter wasn’t an immediate threat, he didn’t have time to waste on it. He had better things to worry about.

The chainsaw had a leather strap, so he hooked it over his shoulder and slid the pistol into the waistband of his trousers. From where he stood, he could see the laboratory building that housed the portal that brought him here. It was the next building but one. To get there, he’d have to jump from this roof to the next—a gap of at least fifteen feet, over a drop of thirty.

To his right, a half-track troop carrier rumbled along the row of buildings, using a searchlight to peer into the alleys between.

Ah, fuck it. Sorry Apynja, but we both knew this was a suicide mission.

He backed up as far as he could. Then, when the searchlight had passed the alley he intended to jump, he took three grenades from his satchel and pulled their pins. An underarm toss sent them tumbling over the edge of the roof, towards the sound of the half-track’s engine. While they were still in the air, he started to run. His boots slapped on the corrugated roof. The gap ahead yawned like a chasm.

By the time he realised he wasn’t going to make it, he was already airborne. The alley between the buildings was simply too wide, the chainsaw too heavy.

“Fuuuuck!”

 

 

VICTORIA STOOD BRACED in the doorway of the helicopter’s cockpit, holding Célestine’s pistol to the pilot’s head.

“Circle around,” she told him. “Set down at the end of the row.”

“Then what?” Paul asked. From her point of view, he was sitting in the vacant co-pilot’s chair.

“Then we find the monkey and attract his attention.”

“What if he shoots at us? If he sees a helicopter swooping at him, he’s bound to assume it’s hostile.”

Victoria pursed her lips.

“Look, I’m improvising. If you’ve got any better suggestions, don’t keep them to yourself.”

In front of her, the pilot, who could only hear her side of the conversation, cleared his throat.

“If there is going to be shooting,” he said in a strong French accent, “we could always activate the field generator.”

Victoria and Paul looked at him, then at each other.

“Do it,” Victoria said.

The man gave a shrug. “Only the Duchess can make it work.”

Victoria considered this. Then she pressed the pistol hard into his shoulder. “If I leave you here for a moment, you won’t try anything stupid?”

“Non, Madame.”

“Good boy.”

With a tired sigh, she went aft, back into the helicopter’s cargo hold. She’d left Lady Alyssa tied to the leg of the desk, but she wasn’t there now. A wind whipped though the hold, extinguishing the candles. Célestine had opened the cargo bay’s side hatch. She was a black figure framed against the night. Victoria whipped the gun up and squeezed off two shots, but Célestine had already gone, allowing herself to fall away into the wind, and Victoria wasn’t sure whether or not she’d been hit.

“Putain!” She kicked her boot against the deck in frustration, and marched over to the hatch. The noise of the rotors was deafening. Below, the roofs of the factories wheeled beneath them in the darkness—but of the Duchess, there was no sign.

 

 

ACK-ACK MACAQUE’S CHEST hit the lip of the opposite roof with a crunch that blew the wind from his lungs. His knees smacked against the side of the warehouse. In a panic, his fingers scrabbled at the rusted metal roof.

Behind him, the half-track exploded.

He ended up hanging by one hand from a broken sheet of corrugated iron, his boots dangling over a thirty-foot drop, the chainsaw swinging on its strap from his shoulder. If one of the cyborgs saw him, he’d be a sitting duck.

Q: Why did the monkey fall off the roof?

A: He was shot.

With a snarl, he reached up and took hold of the gutter with his other hand. He couldn’t pull himself up. The iron pipe was cold and its edges sharp, and he simply didn’t have enough strength left in his arms. The breath heaved in his chest and, not for the first time, he began to regret his cigar habit.

If I get out of this, he promised himself, I’m going to take up jogging. I’m going to join a gym. I’m going to...

Oh, who am I kidding?

He kicked off his boots and let them fall. One after the other, they spun end-over-end to the muddy floor of the alley, landing with hollow thuds. If two hands weren’t enough, he’d try four. Using his tail as a counterbalance, he swung his feet up, and gripped the roof with his toes. His legs were stronger than his arms. Using them to bear most of his weight freed his hands to seek firmer purchase, and he was eventually able to heave himself up, out of danger.

He lay on the roof, cursing softly under his breath. Voices came from below. Another few seconds, and he would have been seen.

“Too close,” he muttered.

Overhead, the helicopter wheeled toward him; or at least, towards the car park at the end of the row of buildings. Light spilled from an open hatch in its side. A figure stood braced on the threshold, tall, thin and feminine. For a moment, it swayed. Then it fell, arms and legs spread out in a graceful swallow dive. Ack-Ack Macaque elbowed himself up into a sitting position. That was Célestine! What was the Duchess playing at? Was she trying to kill herself? He could see she was too low to use a parachute.

“Pavement pizza,” he muttered glumly, wondering how he’d ever get home without her to operate the portal.

Then, as the falling woman hurtled towards the cracked surface of the parking lot, two of the spindly cyborgs leapt ten metres into the air. They caught her between them and fell, cradling her in their interlocked arms. As they hit the ground, their carbon fibre legs flexed, absorbing the force of the impact and the weight of the woman they’d rescued. They set her feet gently onto the shattered tarmac of the car park, and stepped away, giving her space.

Watching the Duchess, apparently unharmed and dusting herself down, Ack-Ack Macaque felt his jaw drop open. He blinked his solitary eye. Célestine had been falling from a helicopter, and two of her cyborgs had jumped up and caught her.

“What the fuck?”

Beyond the barbed wire of the perimeter fence, massive vehicles were coming to life. Their engines growled and their weapons swung back and forth as if scenting the air. Fire and smoke belched from their chimneys. Tall, spindly figures raced toward them, climbing into their cabs or piling into hatches along their lengths. Célestine and her saviours followed at a brisk walk. Ahead, through the gloom, the metal arch had begun to glow brighter than ever. Blue sparks flickered like sprites amidst the metal latticework of its frame. The warped space at its centre swirled and sparkled like a whirlpool, throwing off shards of rainbow light.

It was another portal, Ack-Ack Macaque realised, and all these giant tanks were lining up to pass through it.

“Holy shitballs.” Even to his own ears, his laugh held an edge of panic. “It’s an invasion!”