Halfhead

26

The Dragonfly banked hard to the right and dropped like a roller coaster for suicidal maniacs. More than half the bays were empty, their regular inhabitants being un-contactable at two o’clock on a Tuesday morning. The ones who had shown up lurched with the ship’s motion, clutching their assault weapons, rubbing the sleep from their eyes, and grumbling. Up front, Lieutenant Emily Brand scowled at the monitor, watching a blurry echo disappear from her screen. Probably just interference from the engines, but she could have sworn she’d seen something hiding in the fuzz. She reached for her throat-mike.

‘Oliver, I’ve got-’

‘Targets acquired!’

The screen flickered and an infrared view of the park sixty feet below appeared. Two human-shaped heat signatures filled the centre of the frame, yellow and orange: one lying flat out, the other standing waving.

‘Hit the lights!’

A soft ‘crack’ rang through the hull and a patch of Kelvin grove Park lit up like a very wet summer’s day. Emily toggled the display and got a view from the external cameras: in the foreground rhododendron bushes writhed-buffeted by the downdraught-and just behind them a Bluecoat stood over a body. The body was wearing a filthy dressing gown and looked as if it had taken one hell of a beating. The body was William Hunter.

‘Damn! Control, we have an agent down!’ She stuck her head through into the cockpit. ‘Get this thing on the deck NOW!’

The Dragonfly’s legs hadn’t even touched the ground before Emily cracked open the side hatch and leapt out into the rain. She hit the ground and rolled, coming to her feet with her Whomper ready and armed, sweeping the park like a conductor’s baton, looking to orchestrate a little death and destruction.

‘What are you waiting for, ladies?’ she said. ‘Defensive perimeter, now!’

Behind her, the rear hatch hissed open and four knackered troopers slogged out into the downpour.

‘You!’ Emily’s Whomper was pointing right at the sodden Bluecoat’s face. ‘Hit the deck!’

‘Yes, ma’am!’ The constable dropped her weapon, jumped for the ground and hugged it like a long-lost friend.

‘What happened here?’

‘He’s been attacked and beaten up.’

‘I can see that.’ Will looked as if someone had run over his face with a steamroller. Emily slid in closer and kicked the police-issue Field Zapper just out of reach, keeping her Whomper trained on the Bluecoat. ‘Who did this?’

‘Didn’t get a good look at her-it was dark-but it was definitely a woman. She was standing over him when I got here. I challenged her and she ran for it. Bitch knocked me flying.’

‘You let her get away?’

There was a pause. ‘Not by choice. The victim was still alive. I tried to call it in, but they-’

‘I know: jamming field.’

‘I started to chase her, but the victim looked like he needed assistance so…’

‘You did good.’ Emily stooped down and helped the muddy Bluecoat up. Then started shouting orders: ‘Nairn, Dickson secure the perimeter. Nothing in or out. Floyd, Patterson you’ve got stretcher duty. Move it people, we’re not getting paid by the hour!’

The Bluecoat stared at Will’s battered head. ‘Is he going to be OK?’

Good question. ‘Where’s that damn stretcher?’

Patterson and Floyd squelched to a halt, dumped the stretcher on the wet ground and carefully lifted Will into place. They strapped him in and switched the thing on. It rose into the air, the sensors beeping and humming. Floyd pulled out a couple of blockers and a stim, snapping them into Will’s neck as they hurried him back towards the waiting gunship.

‘Grnnnnnkin insn nnnsnsssnnn…’

‘Easy, Tiger,’ Patterson pushed Will’s head back against the platform. ‘Someone’s kicked seven shades of shite out of you.’

Emily followed them up the rear ramp and into the Drag-onfly’s warm, dry interior. ‘Nairn, Dickson, report!’

‘Nothing out here, ma’am, just a sodding huge bloodstain, two hundred yards from the pickup point. Other than that, nada.’

Emily looked out at the torrential downpour. ‘You found bloodstains in this?’

‘No’ as hard as it sounds, ma’am, there’s a hoorin’ lot of it.’

She stared down at Will’s battered face. ‘What the hell did you do…?’ There’d be time to worry about that later. ‘Nairn, you and Dickson get back here. Next stop Glasgow Royal Infirmary-’

A hand grabbed her wrist. ‘Nnnnrrr Dccccccccctrsssss.’ The stims were starting to take effect.

‘Don’t be daft. Your head looks like an inflatable turnip.’

‘Nnnnrrr Dccccctrsssss. Nnnnrrr timmme!’ He struggled to sit up, but the platform’s restraints held him fast. ‘Whrrrrrssss Jo?’

‘Jo?’

‘Jo! Dtttttttectiffffff Srrrrrgnntttt Camerrrrrrnn.’

The Bluecoat grabbed Emily’s sleeve. ‘Just before you turned up, someone was shouting, “We’ve got her.” They were going on about cutting her face off if anyone opened their mouth.’

Will thrashed against the medistraps. ‘Gtttt me out offfff thizz.’

‘You’re going nowhere till you’ve seen a doctor.’ Emily keyed her throat-mike. ‘Nairn, Dickson, you going the bloody scenic route? Get your arses back here now!’

Two soaked and muddy troopers squished their way up the rear ramp.

‘What kept you?’ Emily slammed her hand on the button, and the rear doors squealed closed. ‘Get us out of here,’ she told the pilot. ‘Glasgow Royal and step on it.’

Will grimaced at his reflection in the hospital mirror. Having his cheekbone welded back together wasn’t something he ever wanted to experience again. A triangular patch of skinglue and bracing pulled his face into a constant, lopsided smile, whether he felt like it or not. His nose had been reset for the umpteenth time and new toothbuds stitched into his gum.

The black eye was already beginning to fade-as were all his other bruises, thanks to a hefty dose of anti-ecchymosis medication-but the sight still wasn’t pretty.

Someone had been dispatched to his flat to fetch a change of clothes and discovered the place in ruins. All the corpses were missing: no dead bodies in the apartment, no dead bodies in the lift, no dead bodies in the park. All that remained were two huge bloodstains on the lounge carpet and some sticky bits of skin on the lift walls. Short of a DNA match they weren’t going to get any names.

‘We need to get back to base,’ he told Emily as she stood watching him dress.

‘You need to get back to bed. You look as bad as you smell.’

He glared at her. ‘We haven’t got time for this! If they’ve got Jo…’ And then he remembered the listening devices sitting beneath Emily’s skin. Everything he told her went straight into the ears of that stumpy wee bastard Ken Peitai. Deep breath. ‘Sorry.’ He pulled on his trousers. ‘It’s the blockers. I’m not thinking all that clearly. You’re right. I need to go to bed.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Oh no you bloody don’t. Come on: “if they’ve got Jo,” what?’

‘Nothing. It’s been a rough-’

‘What is wrong with you Will? Why won’t you talk to me any more? What the hell did I do to you?’

‘I…’ He shut his mouth and forced his arms into the sleeves of his shirt. The blockers cut the pain, but he was still stiff. ‘You’ve not done anything. It’s me. You heard the doctor, too many bangs on the head. Concussion. It’s not…I’m not…’

‘Don’t give me that shite Will. The people who attacked you got DS Cameron. We’re going after her!’

Will smiled; it twisted his face even further out of shape. ‘Thought you didn’t like her.’

The pause was only a heartbeat long, but it was there. ‘She’s on the team. We don’t hang our own out to dry.’

Carefully he pulled on an old jacket and stood, looking at his bruised and battered reflection in the mirror, but seeing Jo: running for her life, dressed in a jumpsuit scavenged from a dead body.

Emily paced up and down the little hospital room. ‘We get them to set off her coffin dodger. We pull in the reserves. We push every button we can until someone squeals. We lean on people. We oil the wheels. We do whatever it takes to get her back.’

A good suggestion, but utterly hopeless. Whoever it was Ken Peitai worked for, they weren’t going to be hanging around in bars, ready to spill their guts for a pint of special. But it would give Emily something to do, and everything she did would be relayed back to good old Ken. Let him know they were getting nowhere.

‘You’re right. Get it started.’ He laid a hand on her shoulder and even though he felt like a complete bastard for lying to her again said, ‘I’m going home.’

Out in the corridor, the constable they’d picked up in the park was waiting. The mud had dried on her bright-blue tunic, turning it the colour of old lentil soup. She’d made some attempt to brush it off, but the thing was still a long way from clean.

‘Has there been any news?’ she asked as they drew level.

Will shook his head, winced, and decided not to do that again for a while. ‘Lieutenant Brand’s setting up a search. I’m going back to bed. Doctor’s orders.’

The Bluecoat looked surprised. ‘Is it going to be safe there, sir?’

Emily nodded and consulted her watch. ‘We’ve got two of the nightshift over there watching the place: Bull Thrummer and a Screamer. No one’s going to get anywhere near.’

‘Even so, sir.’ The constable stood to attention. ‘I’d like to escort you back. I know it’s probably not necessary, but-’

‘Good idea.’ Emily placed a hand in the small of Will’s back and propelled the pair of them in the direction of the lifts. ‘Gives me one less thing to worry about.’

‘You know,’ said Will as they climbed into the shuttle, ‘you saved my life, and I don’t even know your name.’

The constable looked down and picked a lump of mud from the ID tag on the front of her filthy tunic. ‘Catherine McDonald.’ She pulled the tag, showing it to him. ‘But you can call me “Cat” if you like, sir. My DS does.’

A frown crossed Will’s battered face. ‘Have we met?’

‘Oh, not again.’ She sighed. ‘Listen, I don’t make a habit of getting drunk at official functions, OK? And it was bloody years ago. Can we just drop it?’

‘Consider it dropped.’ He reached forward and punched ‘NETWORK HEADQUARTERS’ into the destinator, then settled back in his seat as the shuttle slid forward and clacked onto the hospital exit ramp. The brightly lit tunnel walls disappeared behind them as the car picked up speed, leaving them with the internal light. It turned the wraparound windshield into a dusty mirror, reflecting back one battered Network Assistant Director and one filthy Bluecoat. The first of the stanchion lights vwipped past, wiping their images off the glass and back on again, like the flickering lines on an old display screen.

‘You’re not going back to your apartment?’ said Constable ‘Cat’ McDonald as the shuttle bumped onto the main shuttlenet.

‘No, I’m not.’ Will dragged out his mobile. ‘I’m going to Network HQ, I’m going to get my hands on some very big guns, and then I’m going to blow some very big holes in the people that grabbed DS Cameron.’ He dialled Brian’s home number, waiting for it to connect.

The constable shook her head and placed a hand on her sidearm. ‘Oh no you’re not.’

‘Trust me, there’s no way-’

‘Grmmmmmmf?’ A bleary face-squeezed too close to the camera-peered out from the little screen. ‘Will?’ it said prising its eyes open, ‘Fuck’s sake, do you no’ know what time it is?’

‘Brian, I need your help.’

The face pulled back a bit and frowned. ‘What the hell have you done to your head? Looks like a fat bird’s jumped on it.’

‘Shut up and listen. They broke into my flat. They got Jo.’

‘Jesus!’ Brian suddenly looked a lot more awake. ‘When? How?’

Will told him everything, watching the Bluecoat out of the corner of his eye. She fidgeted with the Field Zapper on her hip, a frown on her face as he got to the part where she saved his life. Will held the phone out to her. ‘Tell him what you heard.’

‘I didn’t see anyone, but I heard some American bloke shouting that if anyone did or said anything he was going to cut the DS’s face off.’

‘American?’

Will took the phone back. ‘That’ll be Ken Peitai. Speaks like he’s just jumped off the tunnel. Newnited States? I’ll bet he’s never been west of Govan in his life.’

Constable McDonald pursed her lips and frowned. ‘And you’re going after him?’

‘And his bastard boss. Anyway,’ said Will going back to the phone, ‘I’m stopping by the office to get tooled up. I can’t ask you to come with me Brian, but-’

‘Away and shite. You know fine well I’m no lettin’ you go off after the buggers without me.’ He turned to look at something off camera and smiled. ‘James here can make his own breakfast for once.’

The Bluecoat was still staring off into the middle distance when the destinator finally chimed their arrival at Network HQ. Will reached out and gently touched her shoulder-her hand flashed up and wrapped round his wrist like a vice.

‘Are you OK, Constable?’

She blushed and let him go. ‘Sorry, sir, I was miles away.’

‘Don’t worry about it. I’ve got to go arrange things here. Thanks for the escort. You can take the shuttle back to your station-’

‘Oh no you don’t, sir.’ She followed him out onto the platform. ‘If you’re going after the DS I’m going with you, whether you like it or not. She’d do the same for me.’

‘Fair enough.’ Will turned and swiped them both in through the staff entrance. ‘You know where the armoury is?’

She shook her head.

‘Ask at Reception. Tell them you’ve got orders to draw some Whompers, a tracker and anything else that takes your fancy. They can confirm by calling me.’

‘Where are you going to be?’

Will straightened his shoulders and headed for the lifts.

‘There’s something I have to take care of first.’

Most of the lights were off in the mortuary, filling the antiseptic room with thick chunks of darkness. Will sat on the edge of a post-mortem slab with a surgical blade in his hands and blood running down his left side. An Anglepoise lamp cast a hot-white spotlight on his left armpit, making the scarlet blood sparkle and shine. With gritted teeth he cut deeper, pulling the edges of the wound apart. It didn’t hurt-the last of his hospital-issue blockers had seen to that-but the sights and sounds were making him nauseous.

George had said one of the trackers was beneath his left arm, on the wall of his chest, but Will was beginning to realize that finding the transmitter wasn’t going to be as easy as he’d hoped. The blood was making everything slippery and difficult to see.

The blade slid from his fingers for the third time in as many minutes, clattering against the stainless steel tabletop.

Fucking thing.

How was he supposed to hold onto it when it was slick with blood? How hard did this have to fucking be?

He grabbed the handle and hurled the knife away into the darkness. It clanged off something metal hidden in the shadows.

He put his bloody hands over his eyes and slumped back on the cold post-mortem table.

This was impossible. He couldn’t go anywhere near Sherman House with a pair of locator beacons buried under his skin. They’d all be dead before they even set foot in the place.

An angry voice burst into the cold room. ‘Who’s in here?’.

‘George?’

The short, fat pathologist stood framed in the doorway, slippers on his feet and a bone hammer in his hand. The lights flickered on, killing the shadows.

‘Will? What the hell are you doing down here? It’s half three in the morning!’

‘Could ask you the same thing.’

George shrugged and waddled across the squeaky floor. ‘Explosion in the Queens Cross shuttle station. Forty-one dead. I was getting a couple hours kip before going back to…’ He sniffed, then stopped, staring at the blood oozing out of Will’s side. ‘What the hell are you doing?’

‘I’m trying to get rid of the-’

‘You’re bleeding all over my lovely clean mortuary!’

He pushed Will flat on the slab and peered at the open wound in his side.

‘What did you use, a cheese grater? This is a mess!’

‘You try operating on yourself! See how easy-’

‘You’re not even cutting in the right place!’

‘Well you do it then, if you’re so damn clever.’

George stepped back and bit his bottom lip. ‘I only operate on dead people.’

Will placed a hand on the little pathologist’s shoulder, leaving a dark red stain. ‘They’ve taken Jo. I can’t get her back if they know I’m coming.’

‘Lie back, I’ll go get the wand.’

Will pushed through the double doors into the Network shuttle station. His chest and stomach ached a little, like a background noise not quite loud enough to identify. George might be happier working on the dead, but he was no slouch with the living either. Even if he did narrate everything as if he was doing a post mortem.

Constable Cat McDonald was waiting for him, a brand-new Bull Thrummer slung over her shoulder. It dwarfed the Field Zapper strapped to her hip, reaching down to her shins and up past the top of her head. There was a small buggy at her feet, heaped with weapons from the armoury.

She’d changed out of her mud-encrusted Bluecoat into Network-issue concrete-grey camouflage combat gear. ‘Got a set for you too, sir,’ she said, handing over another jumpsuit.

Two minutes later a shuttle pulled up at the platform and Brian clambered out. He looked as if he’d fallen out of bed and into his fatigues.

‘Somebody call for a taxi?’

‘Here,’ said Will, giving him one of the Whompers and a shoulder pack of assorted crowd-control devices, ‘make yourself useful.’

When they were all ensconced in the shuttle-the massive Bull Thrummer jammed in at an angle to make it fit-Brian stuck his hand out to the new girl. ‘Special Agent Brian Alexander. Who’re you when you’re no’ tooled up to go shoot some toley beanbag?’

The constable smiled and shook Brian’s hand. ‘Cat McDonald: Bluecoats.’

‘Do I no’ know you?’

She stopped smiling. ‘I was drunk, OK?’

Brian threw a wink in Will’s direction. ‘A woman after me own heart.’

With a small clunk the shuttle left the Network’s private station and slipped into the main tunnels. As the car hummed up to cruising speed, Brian asked the big question: ‘So how’re we goin’ tae find her then?’

Will dug the tracker out of Cat’s shoulder pack and tossed it across the shuttle to his friend.

‘Coffin dodger.’

Brian flipped the thing open and scowled at the empty fizzing display. ‘Aw come aff it! It’ll take days to get that bugger Station Commander to switch the damn thing on!’

‘Who says we’re going to ask him?’ The shuttle’s console flickered under Will’s fingers as he hammered his way out through Network security and straight into the Bluecoat’s dispatch system. Within minutes there was a small click and then the tracker in Brian’s hand lit up like a carnival ride.

‘We have lift off!’ Brian squidged his face close to the screen, lips moving slightly as he read.

Will sat forward. ‘Well? Where is she?’

‘Hud yer horses, it’s comin’ up…’ He frowned as the map appeared on the tracker’s screen. Jo’s coffin dodger was a big red circle that constricted to a point as the city’s network of receivers triangulated the signal. ‘Southeast: other side of the river, past the firestacks…Shite.’ Brian looked up. ‘It’s-’

‘Sherman House.’ Will finished for him.

‘Aye, Sherman House.’ Brian sighed. ‘Arseholes.’

‘Look on the bright side,’ said Will as he powered up his Whomper, checking the charge, ‘you’ll get to meet the lovely Mr Peitai.’

Brian shrugged and slapped a new battery into his assault rifle. ‘Her Majesty’s goin’ tae go mental when she finds out. She’ll have our goolies for earrings.’

‘Only if we get out of this alive.’

Brian beamed and slapped their new friend Cat on the back. ‘Aye, he’s right. Always look on the bright side.’