Halfhead - Страница 2

‘Lieutenant Brand said to tell you the team’s assembled and ready to go, sir.’ She stood to attention and Will couldn’t help but smile.

‘Are you sure that’s what she said?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Those were her exact words?’

Private Dickson wouldn’t look at him. ‘Em…more or less, sir.’

‘I can check, you know.’

She sighed. ‘Sir. The Lieutenant said: “Tell him to get his arse in gear before I kick it half way to Edinburgh for him.” Sir.’ Dickson’s face had turned a delicate shade of pink.

‘Well, we’d better not keep her waiting then.’

At the end of the corridor a pair of double doors hissed opened onto the staging zone. Will followed Dickson out onto the roof and into the open air. The sudden change from climate-controlled comfort to baking heat was like being punched in the chest. Every breath was an effort as they marched past the hopperpads towards a waiting Dragonfly.

The gunship sat on four squat, hydraulic legs, a huge asymmetrical salmon sculpted from blackened steel. All of its weapons’ bays were closed; they wouldn’t need heavy artillery where they were going.

As Will and Dickson cleared the barrier rail the Dragonfly’s engines growled into life, the concrete landing pad shimmering in the downdraught.

They clambered up the rear ramp and into the relative cool of the gunship’s darkened interior. A familiar voice sounded in Will’s ear, ‘Mr Hunter, how nice of you to join us…’

‘Morning, Lieutenant.’ Will made his way down the ship’s drop bay, nodding at the troops as he passed, looking for a vacant compartment. They’d kept one for him at the far end, next to the passageway that led through to the cockpit, directly opposite the six-and-a-half-foot-tall cylinder no one wanted to look at.

He clipped himself in.

Immediately the sound of the ship’s engines changed, roaring up through the octaves to a high-pitched whine. The ground beneath his feet surged and Will went with it, riding the wave of steel as the Dragonfly leapt into the sky and accelerated away.

It was a quiet journey: none of the usual banter that went on in the belly of a Network gunship. They stood, quiet in their bays, thinking about where they were going and how close they’d been to joining Private Worrall.

Will tried not to blame himself for what had happened. Why should he? It wasn’t his fault: Worrall had been careless. Worrall wouldn’t follow procedure. Worrall had to be the big hero.

Silly bastard…

But it didn’t stop Will feeling responsible.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder.

‘Are you going to speak, or do you want me to?’ Lieutenant Emily Brand sounded a lot more subdued than she had when he’d clambered aboard. She leant on the rail surrounding his compartment, shifting her weight effortlessly as the Dragonfly roared through the sky.

Emily was built for this type of work: lean, muscled, auburn hair cropped so short it was almost shaved. Like the rest of her troops she was in dress uniform: black, tailored, four chrome bars on her shoulder to show her rank. They’d be sending Private Worrall off in style.

Will glanced across at the metal cylinder. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll talk if you’re not…’ He was going to say ‘up to it’, but to Emily that would sound like a challenge. ‘I’ll do it. God knows I’ve done enough of these things; got the speech off by heart.’

‘Yes.’ She looked away. ‘That’d probably be for the best.’

The Dragonfly tilted and Lieutenant Brand headed back to her command station next to the pilot, leaving Will with an almost inaudible, ‘Thank you.’

He watched her go then reached forward to switch on the monitor mounted above his booth. The screen crackled and fizzed with static from the engines, but the view from the ship’s front gun ports was still recognizable beneath all that white noise: Glasgow.

The river Clyde sparkled like a barbed-wire fence, winding its way slowly to the sea, hemmed in by the massive barrier walls that cut the city in two and wrapped all the way around the outside. Keeping the Atlantic Ocean and the North Sea from swallowing it whole. On the south side of the river the city changed; there were none of the great ‘revivalist architectural projects’ or trendy sandstone communities. Over there it was all foamcrete and industrial plastic, a grey landscape of compressed urban habitation units sweltering in the sun.

Will watched as sunlight caught the windows of a massive connurb block, shining like a warning beacon against the depressing, angular landscape. ‘Stay away’ it said. Something cold marched down his spine. He didn’t need to be told twice.

‘Landing zone acquired: touchdown in three.’

He lurched against the harness as the Dragonfly’s engines howled into reverse, bringing the gunship to a juddering halt in midair. Didn’t matter what they were doing, they always flew these damn things as if they were going into battle.

The word ‘Arse’ sounded in Will’s earpiece, and then the signal cut out.

Up in the cockpit Lieutenant Emily Brand was arguing with someone on the comlink-Will couldn’t make out the words, but the tone was clear. It didn’t sound as if she was winning.

Finally her voice crackled over the tannoy. ‘Sorry people: change of plan. Bluecoats need backup and an SOC team. That means us. None of the other units can attend. I know it’s shitty and I know it stinks, but it’s orders. Start your engines people, Private Worrall’s funeral will just have to wait.’

The ship swung in the air and the engines roared again. Will watched as the nice side of the city disappeared from his monitor, replaced by the foamcrete jungle. They were heading straight for the towering connurb blocks.

‘Oh no…’

‘Listen up, people: we’re going into a known hot zone and there are Bluecoats onsite, so no itchy trigger fingers and no heroics! I don’t want to be carting anyone else back in a body-bag.’

Almost everyone stole a glance at the canister opposite Will’s booth.

‘Target is: male toilets, main entrance lobby, Sherman House.’

Oh no. No, no, no, no, no…Will tightened his grip on the handrail, palms suddenly cold and damp. Curses flew around the drop bay as the troopers moaned about the target. But there was worse to come.

‘ASD Hunter will be in charge of the pickup team. Anyone who doesn’t do exactly what he tells them, when he tells them, will suddenly find themselves having a very bad day. Understood?’

Will barely heard the half-hearted chorus of, ‘Yes, ma’am.’ He was too busy trying not to throw up.

‘I can’t hear you!’

The steel walls reverberated with the deafening shouts of, ‘Ma’am, yes, ma’am!’

‘Better. We have an ETA of two minutes thirty. I suggest you make sure all weapons are locked and fully charged. Chitin will be worn! I see you out there without it and I’ll shoot you myself.’

All around him Whompers and Thrummers were buzzing into life, their targeting beams illuminating the dim interior with a sickly green glow.

Will reached for his throat-mike and asked as calmly as he could what the bloody hell Lieutenant Brand thought she was doing putting him in charge of the pickup team. Sending him out there.

‘It’ll be good for you.’

Will closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. Some very well-paid people with expensive leather couches and degrees in psychology had told him the same thing. If you don’t confront your fear it will always haunt you. He hadn’t believed them either.

‘ETA one minute, people. Smooth and clean. In and out. No drama. No problems.’

It was too late for Will to back out now and he knew it. It would make Lieutenant Brand look bad in front of her troops and it would make him look even worse.

Shit. Shitty…fucking…shit.

Thanks, Emily, thanks a heap.

He pulled his Zapper out from its shoulder holster and checked it was still fully charged. The small, pebbled disk sat in the palm of his hand, the dial on the top turned to a conservative ‘HEAVY STUN’.

Just because he was going back to Sherman House it didn’t mean history would repeat itself. And besides, this time he had a heavily armed assault team for backup. There was nothing to worry about. No one in their right mind would pick a fight with half a dozen of the Network’s finest. It would be suicide. Madness.

He shifted uncomfortably against his harness; the residents of Sherman House weren’t exactly known for their good mental health.

Sod it. Will grabbed a Whomper from the recharging rack. The assault rifle’s plastic casing was cool beneath his fingers as he ran a thumb over the power indicator. Telltales sparkled into life, indicating a full battery and the weapon’s readiness to blow a dirty big hole in anything it was pointed at. At least this way he could take a few of the bastards with him.

‘Heads up, people, we have visual.’

Monstrosity Square filled the small screen in front of him. Four massive connurb blocks with more than sixty thousand people shoehorned into each. And if that wasn’t bad enough, there were another eleven identical squares on this side of the river: half of them rebuilt in the aftermath of the riots.

God help Glasgow if their residents decided to go on the warpath.

Again.

Static crackled across the picture as the Dragonfly pitched into its final approach, dropping like a cannonball.

Lieutenant Brand stalked back into the drop bay, bracing herself as the gunship started twisting and turning-making itself a difficult target. She walked the length of the bay, checking everyone was chitined up before barking orders at them. ‘Nairn, Dickson, Wright, you’re on point. Floyd: rearguard. Beaton, you and Stein are on SOC. The rest of you form a defensive perimeter around the ship.’ There was a pause as Will’s escorts unbuckled themselves. ‘Stay focused, people, we’re not in Kansas any more.’