Free Ack-Ack Macaque by Gareth L. Powell Page B

soul-catcher. We had to operate quickly to stem the bleeding.” He gestured at his own thinning white hair. “We didn’t have time to spare, so we just shaved it all off, I’m afraid. The surgeon patched you up as best he could, but you’re going to be weak for a while.” He lowered his hand. “And you’re going to have to wear a collar to support your head, until the muscles heal. That means plenty of rest, and no stick fighting.”
    Victoria touched the bandage at the back of her head.
    “Why aren’t I dead?”
    The old man smoothed his moustache with finger and thumb, moved his weight from one polished boot to the other.
    “Whoever did this, they must have been in a hurry. They went for the catcher and tore it out by the root. They left you for dead.” His fists clenched and unclenched. She could see he was upset. If her soul-catcher had been attached to living, organic tissue, its removal would have been fatal. The haemorrhages alone would have killed her. For the second time in a year, it seemed her life had been saved by the gelware in her cranium.
    “How bad is it?”
    The Commodore shook his head regretfully.
    “He punched a hole in the base of your skull with a knife. Luckily for you, it’s slightly off-centre, just behind and below your left ear, so your spinal column’s intact. The surgeon replaced the missing bone fragments and stapled the wound. It should heal, eventually.”
    Victoria’s lips were dry. She ran her tongue over them.
    “This isn’t the first time I’ve had my head cut open.”
    The Commodore checked his wristwatch, a large antique timepiece covered in studs and dials. Standing by the window, with his white hair and crisply ironed uniform, the old rogue still cut quite a dash. For the umpteenth time, she tried to guess his age, and failed, settling for somewhere between sixty and seventy years old.
    Although he was her godfather, she knew little of him, aside from the fact that in his time he’d been both a Russian air force officer and a cosmonaut, and that he’d been asked to be her godfather because he’d once saved her mother from a charging rhinoceros. There were many rumours about him—that he used to work for the KGB; that he’d won the Tereshkova in a card game in St. Petersburg—but few hard facts.
    “The police want a statement, when you’re ready.”
    “The police?”
    He made shushing motions with his hands.
    “There’s no hurry. They can wait.” The skyliner was autonomous under international law, and the Metropolitan Police had no jurisdiction.
    Victoria closed her eyes. She didn’t have the energy to keep them open. She thought of the poor, dead detective in the stairwell, and the room seemed to spin around her.
    “I don’t feel so good.”
    The Commodore pulled the sheet up to her chin.
    “Try to rest. The anaesthetic will make you groggy. You have been slipping in and out for half an hour or so. We have already had this conversation twice.”
    She smiled despite herself.
    “What do the police think happened?”
    She heard the Commodore shuffle his boots on the deck.
    “They think the detective’s killer took your soul-catcher in order to cover his tracks.”
    Victoria twitched her head. The movement brought a fresh flare of pain.
    “No, that’s not what happened.” The drugs were pulling at her again. Her arms and legs felt heavy, as if weighed down by sodden clothes, and she felt herself slipping back beneath the waves, sucked down by the groaning silhouette of the sinking chopper.
    The Commodore gave her a gentle pat on the shoulder.
    “Shhh.” His voice seemed to come from a great distance. “Rest now. Tell me all about it when you are feeling stronger.”
     
     
    V ICTORIA SLEPT FOR a time. She didn’t know how long. When she woke again, the lights in the sickbay were low. Outside, the sky had darkened and the clouds cleared. She could see a few stars and, on the underside of the skyliner’s hull, the warm red smoulder of a