The Commodore rolled the empty vodka glass between his palms.
“Whose personality?”
Victoria tapped her chin again. The gin had worn off and her head buzzed.
“I don’t know. Maybe a high-ranking member of the Undying?”
The old man huffed air through his cheeks.
“That’s quite a theory.”
Victoria banged her hand on the desk. “It’s more than that, Commodore. If I’m right, it’s a bloody coup d’état!”
CHAPTER TWENTY
NEUTRAL TERRITORY
A
CK-
A
CK
M
ACAQUE APPEARED
in the catamaran’s hatchway, wearing the leather jacket and flying goggles K8 had given him. He scratched his chest, and put an arm out to steady himself. He glared around at the grey waters of the English Channel, and his tail twitched.
“I hate boats.”
His words seemed to break a spell. Mrs Renfrew screamed again, clearly distraught at the sight of a talking monkey. At the same time, her husband—galvanised by her terror — dropped to his knees and pulled open the metal locker containing the automatic pistols. He came up brandishing one.
“Get back!”
Ack-Ack Macaque blinked at him in puzzlement.
“What’s your problem?”
The gun shook. Merovech stepped over and put his hand on the older man’s forearm.
“Give me the gun, Jerry.”
Mister Renfrew struggled.
“But, but—”
His knuckles were white. Merovech took hold of the pistol’s barrel, and twisted both weapon and wrist. Something snapped. Mister Renfrew gave a cry of pain and indignation, and released the gun.
“What are you doing?” Mrs Renfrew didn’t know whether to look at her husband or the monkey.
Julie bent and scooped the second gun from the locker. She passed it to Merovech.
“Okay,” he said. “Let’s get these two below.”
Mr Renfrew had dropped to his knees in the cockpit, cheeks ashen, arms and shoulders curled around the pain of a broken wrist. Merovech tossed one of the guns to Ack-Ack Macaque, and used his free hand to haul the man to his feet.
“Come on,” he said.
He could feel his heart beating in his chest. After days of running and hiding, it felt good to be doing something positive: to be taking charge of the situation, as he’d been trained to do.
He shepherded the old couple down into the interior of the yacht, and into one of the cabins.
“I’m sorry about this,” he said as he closed the wooden door. “But I’m afraid there’s more going on here than you realise.”
He tucked the gun into the back of his jeans and clumped back up on deck. The wind ran its fingers through his hair.
“Okay,” he rubbed his hands. “K8, get down there and make sure they don’t escape. And while you’re there, I want you to get on the radio and hail a skyliner. She’s called the
Tereshkova
, and if she’s running to schedule, she should be somewhere hereabouts.”
He turned to Julie.
“Skyliners are neutral territory. If I can get you and K8 on board, you’ll be safe from arrest. You’ll have time to figure out what you want to do next.”
Julie looked back at the French coast, which was now little more than a strip of green on the horizon.
“But, my father—” She reached up to touch the fading bruise on her cheek.
“Forget him,” Merovech said. “He can’t touch you here. You’ll be safe.”
“What about me?” Ack-Ack Macaque had his back to the rail. He was passing the gun Merovech had given him from leathery hand to leathery hand, testing its weight and balance.
“That’s up to you,” Merovech said. “How did you get on in the game?”
The monkey shrugged.
“I killed a few people. Nobody important. I didn’t have time for much else.”
“Would you like to go back in?”
Ack-Ack Macaque opened his mouth and picked at a yellow canine.
“I’m going to wreck it,” he said. “Those motherfuckers at Céleste have it coming.”
Merovech nodded.
“Okay, get below and have K8 hook you back in. We’ll leave you in there until you’ve done what you need to do.”
“And then what?”
Merovech reached back and took hold of the gun in his waistband. He pulled it out and checked the magazine.
“We’ve been running too long, and I’ve had enough. When you’ve finished killing the new monkey in the game, you and I are going to start fighting back, for real.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHIMPANZEES DON‘T HAVE TAILS
T
HE CHOPPER WAS
an amphibious model, with large floats instead of landing skis. By the time it reached the
Tereshkova
’s helipad, Victoria and the Commodore were there, waiting to greet it.
The Commodore wore his full dress uniform: a white jacket with plenty of gold braid, cavalry trousers, and a pair of knee-length riding boots. Although Victoria still wore her thick green greatcoat, beneath it, she’d changed into a clean pair of black jeans and a black roll-neck top, to conceal the freshly reapplied dressings at the back of her neck. She’d given up with the wig the Commodore had given her, and settled instead on a plain fleece hat.
As the helicopter’s hatch opened, the Commodore clicked his heels together and bowed at the waist.
“Welcome, your highness.”
Prince Merovech stepped down onto the rubberised surface of the pad and saluted.
“Permission to come aboard, Commodore?”
In the jeans and hoodie that he wore, he looked much like any other teenage boy from the streets of Paris or London. He was only nineteen years old yet, Victoria knew, he was a teenager already acquainted with the harsh realities of both public life and military combat. A boy who’d had to grow up fast, and take on more than many adults ever did.
“A pleasure to see you again, Miss Valois.” He had to shout over the engine noise.
“Your highness.”
Behind Merovech, a girl with purple hair. Behind her, a redheaded, boyish-looking kid in a green sweater.
And behind them all came the monkey.
Victoria took a moment to take him in. He stood much taller than she would have expected, yet not quite upright, and he was chewing the soggy end of an unlit cigar. A leather patch covered one of his eyes, while the other glared about him, sizing everything up as a possible threat. He looked powerful and dangerous, as much animal as man.
And who the hell, she thought, gave him a gun?
She tailed along as the Commodore led the party down, through the stairwells and gangways in the body of the airship, to the comfort of the main gondola’s dining room.
“Come,” he said. “Be seated. Make yourselves at home.”
Like the lounge bar, the dining room had been done out in homage to the pioneers of airship travel, from the spotless white tablecloths to the polished wooden fixtures and the patterned wallpaper on the bulkheads. The windows were wide and gave the room a light, airy feel, making it seem a lot bigger than it actually was. Between the windows, the Commodore had placed framed photographs of Russian heroes, including Yuri Gagarin, and the woman after whom he’d named the airship itself, Valentina Tereshkova, the first female astronaut.
The Prince and his entourage settled themselves around the largest table, and refreshments were served: tea for the Prince, coffee for Julie Girard, cola for the kid known as K8, and a daiquiri for the monkey. Victoria ordered a soda water. The gin had left her dehydrated and headachy, and she needed something to freshen her up.
When they’d all been served, and the formalities taken care of, the Commodore put his hands on the table.
“We were surprised to receive your radio message, your highness. We were given to understand that you were indisposed.”
Merovech considered this.
“I thank you for your hospitality, Commodore. All I can say is that rumours of my ill health have been greatly exaggerated.”
“And your simian friend?”
“A long story, I’m afraid. The truth of it is, we’re in a spot of bother, and could really use your help.”
Victoria leant forward in her chair.
“We know about the Undying and their plan to seize the throne,” she said. “And we know you’re involved.”
Merovech’s eyes narrowed.
“‘Seize the throne’?”
Victoria slipped off her hat, revealing the jacks studding the scar on her temple. “You and I were in the hospital at the same time, Merovech. They took out the damaged parts of my brain and pumped my head full of gelware. And they did the same to you. Only the bits they took out of your head weren’t damaged at all.”
The Prince regarded her for a long, thoughtful moment.
“And do you know why they did that?”
Victoria swallowed. This was it. Time to put all the pieces together and make some wild accusations.
“The Undying have infiltrated Céleste. They’re using you as a pawn. The minute you take the throne, they’ll pump another personality into your head.”
Merovech glanced at Julie Girard, then back at Victoria.
“What makes you say that?”
Victoria felt her cheeks flush. “They sent an assassin to kill every member of Doctor Nguyen’s team. We stopped him and he—” She took a deep breath. “He talked.”
They were all looking at her now.
Merovech said, “Nguyen’s dead. We went to his house.”
“So, you knew about this?”
The Prince shook his head.
“We were starting to piece it together. K8 used to work for Céleste, and she hacked their internal server. Then, when we broke into the corporate building, Julie found Nguyen’s notes.”
The Commodore raised his eyebrows.
“You broke in?”
Julie smiled. “Yes, and we got a lot more than we bargained for.”
Victoria recognised the girl’s accent. She said, “
Tu es de Paris?
”
“
Oui. Je suis étudiante à la Sorbonne. Et vous?
”
“
J’ai vecu un moment à Paris. Maintenant j’habite ici.
” She looked back to Merovech and switched to English. “So, you’re on the run, are you?”
The Prince didn’t even blink.
“We are. At least, for the moment. That’s why we’re here.” He turned to the Commodore. “Would it be possible for us to claim asylum on your vessel, sir?”
The old man smoothed his white moustache with thumb and index finger, considering his answer. When he finally spoke, he said, “I suppose that could be arranged.”
Merovech smiled. Julie and K8 looked relieved.
“Thank you.”
The Commodore held up a hand.
“Just be good enough to answer me one question.” He levelled a finger at Ack-Ack Macaque, who was at that moment in the process of cleaning his ear with his little finger. “What is the deal with the chimpanzee?”
Ack-Ack Macaque bristled. His solitary eye glared at the Commodore.
“Have you seen my tail, man? Chimpanzees don’t have tails.”
The Commodore bowed his head.
“Forgive me, I meant no offence. But my question remains. Who are you, and where did you come from? To whom do you belong?”
Ack-Ack Macaque picked up his daiquiri glass and began to lick the sugar from the rim.
“I’m my own monkey,” he said between slurps, “and I don’t belong to anyone, not anymore.”
“We rescued him from the Céleste laboratories,” Merovech explained. “As far as I’m concerned, he’s his own person. But there’s a lot of proprietary tech crammed into his head, and I’m sure Céleste will be keen to get it back.”
The Commodore sighed.
“So, you bring me a fugitive prince, a teenage computer hacker, a burglar, and a stolen monkey?”
Merovech clapped his hands together and rubbed them.
“I’m afraid that’s about the size of it.” He turned his attention to Victoria.
“So, what else did your assassin have to say?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
IRRESISTABLE FORCE
O
NE OF THE
Tereshkova
’s stewards showed K8 and Ack-Ack Macaque to a crew cabin in the farthest port gondola, away from the areas permitted for use by ordinary passengers.
The room was small and cramped, lit by a lamp fixed to the wall. His nostrils twitched at the pervasive stench of unwashed sheets and Russian cologne. A pair of cabin beds stood to either side of the narrow space that ran the length of the room from door to porthole. Beneath the porthole, a nightstand, and a couple of chairs. The washroom was down the hall.
“Are you ready to get back in there?” K8 asked, sitting cross-legged on the bed. She had the SincPad and connective leads in her lap. Even to Ack-Ack Macaque, who wasn’t very good at reading human expressions, she looked tired.
She’s just a kid, he thought. But she was his kid. He had no idea where she came from, but she was the closest thing he had to a friend right now. She’d been a member of his squadron, and as such, he’d do everything in his power to look after and protect her. Over the years, he’d lost so many kids. He’d seen them shot out of the sky by flak, gunned down by enemy pilots, and skewered by black-clad ninjas. He’d watched their planes spiral into hillsides, trailing smoke and flames, and it had eaten away at him. Survivor’s guilt, they called it. Yet, out here in the real world, none of those deaths counted. They hadn’t really happened at all. They’d all been a part of the game. The characters may have died, but the players were still alive. They were still at their consoles and SincPads, still living and breathing, even if they couldn’t get back into the game. After months of guilt and grief, the knowledge felt like a weight taken from his shoulders.
He leant against the back of the closed cabin door and lit a cigar. K8 wrinkled her nose.
“Are you allowed to smoke in here?”
“I don’t give a crap.” He spoke through teeth clenched on the cigar’s butt. “I’ve got bigger things to worry about right now. Like, who I am, and
what
I am.”
K8 fiddled with one of the connective wires in her lap, straightening out its kinks and tangles.
“Maybe I can help you fill in some of the blanks.”