Ack-Ack Macaque (15 page)

“Really?”

“It’s a gamer thing.”

“So, why introduce yourself as Mindy Morris?”

The girl looked at him, then glanced at Julie.

“He doesn’t know who you are,” Julie explained quietly. “He doesn’t play the game.”

Merovech looked between them.

“Ah!” He clicked his fingers. “
That
’
s
where I’ve seen you. You were in the clip, with
him
.” He pointed at Ack-Ack Macaque, who was now leaning against the van’s radiator, blowing smoke rings at the stars.

“That’s right.” K8 took her hand back and self-consciously used it to smooth down the front of her sweater. “I’m a professional game player.”

“But ‘Morris’?”

“I never use my real name. I play characters. Céleste Tech hired me to keep an eye on the big guy here.”

Merovech smiled despite himself.

“You’re his handler?”

Ack-Ack Macaque bristled.

“She’s my wingman.” He tapped ash from the end of his cigar. “Or rather, she was. In the game.”

“The programmers at Céleste were worried that he’d started to think about things too deeply. Started to question the world around him. The last time that happened, they had to get a whole new monkey.”

“Wait, he’s not the first Ack-Ack Macaque?”

K8 shook her head.

“Apparently, there have been five to date.” She glanced apologetically at Ack-Ack Macaque. “I didn’t find this out until after they hired me, but as each one went off the rails, they simply loaded the root personality into a new monkey, and the audience was none the wiser. They accepted it as an upgrade. Nobody outside Céleste knew it was a real monkey. They all thought it was an AI.”

“So, why bother hiring you?” Julie asked.

K8 grinned.

“I’m cheaper than a new monkey.”

Beyond the trees, Merovech saw the lights of a skyliner heading for the passenger terminal at Toussus-le-Noble Airport. Against the night sky, its gondola portholes shone like the windows of a floating village: warm and unreachably far away.

“How did you find us?”

The grin slid from the girl’s face.

“I heard about the raid. They called me and told me not to bother coming in to work. I thought at first it might be animal rights activists, but when I heard the rumour on the Internet that you were involved, your royal highness, I knew the two of you’d show up at Nguyen’s place sooner or later.”

“And you found him dead?”

“Yes. I saw him through the window. The top of his head was missing.” She rubbed her lips with the back of her hand.

“And you didn’t call the police?”

“I didn’t want to frighten you off.”

Still leaning against the Citroën’s grille, Ack-Ack Macaque rolled his cigar between finger and thumb. From where Merovech stood, he was a long-armed silhouette between the glare of the headlamps to either side.

“What happened to them?”

Merovech squinted against the light.

“Pardon?”

Ack-Ack Macaque pushed himself upright and took a step towards K8. His voice was low, barely a growl.

“The other four. The ones before me. What happened to them?”

K8 put her hands in her pockets. She took them out again. She didn’t seem to know what to do with them.

“They’re dead, skipper.”

“All four of them?”

“They were put down.”

Beside him, Merovech heard Julie Girard suck air through her teeth.

“
Mais c’est du meutre ça!
”

Ack-Ack Macaque glared at her.

“Murder? You can say that again, sweetheart.” With a flick of his hairy wrist, he sent the cigar flipping out onto the tarmac of the empty road. “The question is, what are we going to do about it?”

Merovech met his stare.

“What did you have in mind?”

Ack-Ack Macaque clawed at his hips, fingers curling around non-existent pistols.

“Kicking in doors, blowing up shit. The usual. Why, do you have a better idea?”

Merovech rubbed an itch on the tip of his nose.

“They’ve screwed us both over,” he said. “I’m just not sure the ‘all guns blazing’ approach is the best one, strategically speaking.”

“Fuck strategy.” Ack-Ack Macaque drew himself up to his full height. “Those motherfuckers at Céleste have killed me four times already, and enough is e-fucking-
nough
.”

K8 stepped up to Merovech. Her head came up to his collarbone.

“You don’t know the half of it,” she said. “Don’t forget, I worked with Nguyen. I saw stuff. I know about you.” She tapped her temple. “I know all about the gelware they pumped into your head.”

Merovech looked down at her.

“I’ve read Nguyen’s notes,” he said stiffly. “I know I’m a clone.”

K8 gave a snort. “You’re a lot more than that, your highness. There’s more gelware in your head than anything else. You and the skipper here, you’re two of a kind.” She crossed her arms, looking up at him like the precocious kid she was. “The thing is, I’ll bet you haven’t figured out why the Duchess had you grown in the first place?”

Merovech restrained an impulse to seize her by the lapels.

“If you know something, tell me.”

The girl held his gaze for a couple of seconds, as if searching his eyes for something. Then she turned on her heel and began to pace back and forth in the light, talking as she went.

“Okay, here it is. I told you, I’m a professional game player. Some people would call that a fancy name for a hacker. And in my case, they’d be right.” She walked back to her holdall, where it lay on the grass. The van lights caught the steam of her breath in the cold night air.

“I was thirteen years old when I cracked the firewall at Céleste Tech. Six months later, they offered me a job, and I’ve been working for them ever since.

“When they called me in to look after the monkey, I got suspicious. I knew it wasn’t a real AI. So, I did some digging. I found Nguyen’s notes. He ran both projects, and he kept pretty detailed records.” She knelt and pulled a SincPad from the bag. “Here, I downloaded it all onto this. If you want to go public, this is all the evidence you’ll need.”

She handed Merovech the pad and stepped back, to the edge of the circle of light.

“Nguyen and your mother. They’ve been working on this for a long time.”

“On what?”

“Artificial brains in organic bodies. Brains into which they can download stored personalities. The skipper here, he was a prototype. A proof of concept. You, though.” She raised her palms to Merovech. “You’re the real prize.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

COMMAND MODE

V
ICTORIA
V
ALOIS KEPT
the end of her quarterstaff trained on the Smiling Man as he stood, hands bound before him, in front of the gaping doors of the
Tereshkova
’s cargo hold.

They were powering west, above Slough and Windsor. She could see the reservoirs at Colnbrook and Wraysbury; the grey ribbon of the M25; and the Georgian splendour of Windsor Castle, with its large central tower.

“Okay,” she said. “Tell me about that tattoo on your wrist.”

He looked down at his hands. One of his wrists was swollen, where she’d tried to break it in the graveyard.

“It’s Omega,” he said. “The last letter of the Greek alphabet.”

“I know that. But what does it
mean
?”

His eyes came up to meet hers.

“It’s the symbol of my order. We are the Undying. We believe in an end to things, a benevolent Eschaton at the end of the universe. An Omega Point.”

Victoria tightened her grip on the staff.

“What’s that got to do with Paul? With Lois and the King?” She
had
to know the full story.

Berg glanced over his shoulder at the town below. He was just inside the threshold of the open doors. Beyond, the deck’s lip extended another half a metre into the sky. When the doors closed, it would form a narrow ledge.

“Nguyen and his team were expendable. They knew too much of our plans.”

In Victoria’s head, Paul scratched his peroxide hair and said, “He’s talking about the night they brought the King in. The night of the assassination attempt.”

“What happened that night? Lois started to tell me, but we were interrupted.”

Thinking she was talking to him, Berg opened his mouth. She silenced him with a raised hand. She wanted to hear what Paul had to say.

“We were called into the Céleste facility. It was late. The King and the Duchess were there. We were told to remove the King’s soul-catcher.”

“Even though his injuries weren’t serious enough to warrant surgery?”

Paul shuffled his trainers.

“Nguyen told us it was necessary.”

“And you never spoke of it?”

“I couldn’t. We were told it was a national security matter. We had to sign all sorts of forms.”

Victoria considered this for a moment. Then she turned her attention back to Berg.

“And I suppose
you’re
tidying up the loose ends from that night?”

“Amongst other things.”

“So, tell me. Who gave the order to remove the King’s soul-catcher?”

Berg rolled his head from side to side, like a vulture trying to swallow a chunk of flesh.

“Oh, come on, Victoria. Isn’t it obvious?”

She narrowed her eyes. “You tell me. What would anyone have to gain by removing it?”

The Smiling Man turned and used his bound hands to gesture at the battleship silhouette of Windsor Castle.

“Control of the throne.”

Victoria frowned.

“No, that’s ridiculous. The Duchess—”

Berg let out a sound that could have been a chuckle.

“Yes, the Duchess. Of course, the Duchess.
Her
company.
Her
husband.
Her
technology.”

“So, the assassination attempt?”

“All part of her plan, I’m afraid. The King is indisposed, so the Duchess becomes Regent until Prince Merovech finishes his studies, at which point he assumes the throne.”

“So, Merovech’s part of this?”

“Yes, although he doesn’t know it yet.” Berg took a deep breath, as if preparing to unburden himself. The temperature in the hold had dropped considerably, and she could see him shivering.

“When Merovech takes the throne, he will be working for us. His first act as monarch will be to dissolve the civilian government and impose martial law. He will have the backing of the armed forces. We’ve spent years getting our people into key positions. When the takeover happens, it will be swift and decisive.”

Victoria adjusted her grip on the quarterstaff. Every instinct in her body screamed at her to slam the tip into his moronic smirk.

“How do we stop him?”

Berg raised his chin, looking down his nose at her.

“I don’t think you can. The plan’s already underway. When the Mars probe’s ready for launch, the Duchess will announce that she’s resigning the Regency, and Merovech will ascend.” He raised his hands, asking for the plastic binding to be removed. “Everything will be in place. The new order will rise.”

Victoria closed her eyes. She moved her consciousness away from the emotions swamping the organic side of her brain. There would be time for panic later. Right now, she had to keep going. She couldn’t afford to crumple. With her mind in command mode, she opened her eyes, her thoughts as cold and clear as the sky outside.

“You killed my husband,” she stated. “And you tried to kill me.”

Berg jerked, startled by the sudden calm in her voice, the sudden change in focus. His wrists chafed against the plastic cable tie, trying to pull free.

“Now, look—”

“Be quiet.” She took a step forward, swinging the quarterstaff, marvelling at the mathematical beauty of its arcs, the perfect unity of its form and function.

“But you don’t understand. I’m one of the Undying. I’m one of the survivors. I
will
make it to the life everlasting.”

Victoria threw the staff up with one hand and caught it with the other. She reviewed her memories of Paul, from their first kiss to their wedding night. Whatever his faults, whatever he’d done, he hadn’t deserved to die such a horrible death.

“How many people have you killed?”

The Smiling Man took a step back, beyond the track of the doors, onto the very lip of the deck. He couldn’t retreat any further, yet Victoria still saw defiance in his eyes. He stood straight and tall, like a dinosaur stretching on its hind legs.

“Twenty-four,” he said.

Victoria took another pace towards him, staff held like a javelin. The gelware threw targeting graphics across her sight.

“And how many of their brains did you take?”

His eyes were on the staff now. He looked less certain of himself.

“Nineteen. But they will live again. They’re on the Mars probe. All the dead. All their soul-catchers. Even yours.”

“Mine?”

“All of them.”

“But why?”

“So they can live again, and take their places in the new global order.”

Victoria felt something sour rise in her throat. One of her hands gripped the staff, ready to strike if he tried to move. The other reached for the door controls. She pressed the red button with the heel of her hand, and the doors shuddered. With a piercing squeal, they began to close.

Afraid of being shut out on the ledge, Berg tried to step to safety, but a swipe from the staff kept him where he was.

“Hey! You can’t do this!” With his wrists bound in front of him, he found it hard to keep his balance. “Let me in.”

Victoria kept the staff poised.

“This is for my husband,” she said. Their eyes met. Berg’s were white all the way around. Without emotion, she watched him teeter. The wind snatched at his clothing. She saw one of his heels slip. For an instant, his entire weight rested on the toes of one foot. A cry escaped his smiling lips.

And he was gone.

Victoria ran forward, and caught a final glimpse of him: a black stick figure cart-wheeling down through the bright afternoon air, legs flailing. She saw office blocks; an industrial estate. And then, with an echoing clang, the doors shut, closing out everything but the cold.