Stuart MacBride - Halfhead

‘Is it always that bad?’

‘Caught me off guard that’s all. They broadcast the “come in number six: your time’s up” message to every Bluecoat in the city and the things in our heads jump about like it’s Hogmanay. Doesn’t matter if you’re number six or not. System was meant to be selective, only trip the locator in whoever’s gone missing, but the IT company fucked the installation up and we haven’t got the budget to fix it.’ She stopped and frowned at him. ‘You don’t have them do you?’

‘Nope: security risk. It’d be too easy to spot an agent when they’re undercover. Network doesn’t care if it can’t find our dead bodies.’

‘Lucky bastards.’

The lift arrived on the fourth floor with a small, metallic ‘ping’. Will slapped a professional smile on his face as the doors slid open, but left his hands in his pockets.

‘Well…I have all that lovely paperwork to get back to. Let me know how you’re getting on with the case, OK?’

‘Yes, sir.’ She snapped off a salute, turned on her heel and marched away.

As the lift doors slid slowly shut Will closed his eyes and sighed. ‘Bloody hell.’ He was definitely getting too old for this.

Six people sit around the dinner table: two men, three women and one little girl, all are dressed up in their Sunday best. Which is funny because it’s not Sunday, it’s Tuesday.

Their suits are all neat and clean, shirts ironed, ties tidily tied, shoes shined, party hats on their heads. Everyone is smiling. One big happy family. No arguments. No temper tantrums.

No one moves. No one says a word.

The silence is beautiful.

Full of love.

The sound of running water comes from a room off to the side, interspersed with snatches of VR jingles: Fruity Pops. Poppa Steve’s Family Pizza. CheatMeat-the tasty cloned treat. The singing isn’t loud: just someone entertaining himself, whistling along softly to the bits between the words. Whistling while he works.

Through in the bedroom there’s a stain, exactly eight pints of O rhesus negative wide. There’s another one on the hall carpet, next to the cupboard. The rest is slowly disappearing down the plug hole, in a froth of pink, soapy water.

And last, but not least, there’s the birthday girl. She lies curled up in front of the VR terminal, hands and feet tied behind her back, a wire in the back of her sinful head. She stopped struggling half an hour ago; now she just lies there, shivering and sobbing while a wholesome, computer-generated fantasy flickers inside her retinas.

Eighteen years old.

Filthy, dirty, impure…lovely…

She’s not as lucky as the ones sitting around the table.

For her death is still a long, long way away.

Outside, on the roof, the heat was overpowering. Three steps off the escalator and sweat was beading on Will’s forehead. Over to the west, clouds were beginning to form: the rains were coming. About bloody time. After the oppressive, drawn-out summer, it would be nice to come up here and just stand in the downpour. Let everything wash away. But right now it was like standing in a frying pan.

He hurried along the rooftop walkway, heading for landing bay twelve: where Lieutenant Emily Brand and a nice cold beer were waiting.

She was standing with her back to the hangar door; dress uniform replaced by a plain, concrete-grey jumpsuit, the sleeves knotted round her middle, showing off neon-red sports webbing, muscled arms and broad shoulders. He watched her pull a Shrike from the Dragonfly’s port weapons pod-shifting the heavy air-to-target rocket as if it were made of papiermâché.

She was every trooper’s fantasy: early thirties, five foot six, athletic, strong chin, freckles, button nose…Her team took great delight in winding up newcomers: fanning the fires of their ardour, knowing full well that Emily would only put up with so much before beating the crap out of the poor sod. The last one ended up with a broken arm, three missing teeth, and concussion.

Emily might scrub up well, but she was not the sort of person you messed with.

Will stepped into the shade of the hangar. It wasn’t that much cooler in here, but being out of the sun made him feel less like a slice of bacon. ‘It’s half five: where’s that beer you promised?’

She hooked a thumb over her shoulder, towards the Dragonfly they’d taken to Sherman House yesterday. ‘Help yourself.’

Will unlocked a hatch on the Dragonfly’s hull marked ‘WARNING: ENGINE COOLING SYSTEM’. A six-pack of brown plastic tubes nestled in a homemade hammock between the coils and the burner. It had taken Emily about two months to get it positioned just right. Too close to the coils and you got beercicles, too close to the burners and you got an engine compartment full of boiling foam and melted plastic.

He popped two loose from the mesh and threw one over.

Emily caught it and held the cool container against her forehead. Sighed. She ran the tube through her close cropped hair and down to the nape of her neck. ‘Can’t remember summer ever going on this damn long…’

‘Cheers.’ Will pulled the tab and swigged a mouthful of cold, dark-brown beer. ‘Won’t be much longer: Monsoon’s on its way. They’re saying Thursday, Friday at the latest.’ He slumped down onto a box of pod rockets. Loosened his tie. ‘God…that’s better.’

‘Serves you right for wearing that ridiculous suit the whole time.’

‘Privilege of rank: you get to “set an example”.’

‘Get to sweat like a pig in a sauna too: sod that.’ She leaned back against the Dragonfly’s dented hull and stared at him for a bit. ‘You know,’ she said at last, ‘you look like shite.’

‘Good’, I’ve been practising.’

‘Trust me, you can stop practising. You’ve reached perfection in the “looking like shite” stakes. They ever decide to make “looking like shite” an Olympic sport, you can rep resent Scotland. You’re gold medal material.’

Will took another swig and smiled. ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’

‘Don’t mention it.’ Emily crossed her arms and examined the scuffed toe of her grey boot. ‘How’s the new girl getting on?’

‘Jo?’ He suppressed a beer-fuelled burp. ‘OK, I suppose. Get the feeling this liaison job is a bit more… difficult than she’d expected.’

‘Yeah, everyone thinks it’s all glamour, heroism, and medals…’ Emily looked away. ‘Want to see why the crash kit wouldn’t work yesterday?’

She marched around to the far side of the ship. Will hauled himself to his feet and followed.

‘Shite.’ There was a tattered hole in the hull, about the size of a small child, just in front of the starboard air intakes. Pipes, wires, and cables blackened and torn.

‘Outer casing slowed it down a bit, but there was still enough oomph left to roast the controller circuits. Whole thing’s completely fucked; it’s a miracle your new girl got it working again.’ Emily’s voice dropped. ‘Two minutes earlier and we might have saved Stien…’

Will peered into the hole. ‘What was it?’

‘Best guess? One of the old P-Seven-Fifties. Probably the same one that took a chunk out of Floyd’s shoulder. Damn thing must be an antique.’

They walked back to the hangar’s entrance together, standing just out of the sun’s reach.

‘Funny the way it works out, isn’t it?’ Emily snapped a pair of shades over her eyes. ‘Team before us were in and out, not even a whiff of trouble.’ She smiled. ‘Mind you, spent two days getting the blood out of their drop bay.’

‘Tell me about it. I remember this one time…’ He stopped as his brain caught up with what she’d just said. ‘Wait a minute, why did they have to clean the drop bay?’