Halfhead by Stuart B. MacBride Page B

hundred feet: that included the public virtual reality channels. Robbed of the only real escape they had, the locals would start looking for something else to fill the gap. Religion might have been the opium of the masses, but VR was their crack cocaine.
    And no one liked going cold turkey.
    ‘How long to fix it?’
    ‘Don’t know.’ Beaton looked up at her colleague who gave a shrug. ‘Five, maybe ten minutes?’
    That made it over half an hour. Will shook his head—there was a difference between reasonable risk and reckless stupidity. ‘You’ve got two.’
    ‘No chance. We’ve got to recalibrate the whole array or it’ll just fall over again.’
    ‘Then pack it up. We’re leaving.’
    Stein shook his head and smiled as if he was talking to a small child. ‘You don’t understand—’
    ‘If you two aren’t ready to go by the time I count to ten, we’re leaving you behind. You can take your chances with the natives.’
    ‘But we—’
    ‘One. Two. Three—’
    ‘But,’ Stein pointed at the machinery’s dented casing. ‘The subsonics—’
    ‘Five. Six—’
    ‘We’ve got to recalibrate, or—’
    ‘Eight. Nine—’
    ‘But—’ He was beginning to go red in the face.
    ‘Ten. Time’s up.’ Will turned and shouted into the bedroom, ‘Sergeant Nairn, get your team together. We’re pulling out.’
    ‘Yes, sir!’ Nairn emerged from the bedroom with an evidence bag slung over his shoulder. DS Cameron was carrying one too, lurching after the sergeant into the lounge. With fifteen severed heads stuffed into the transparent sack, she looked like a macabre Santa Clause.
    ‘Did we get a VR set?’
    ‘Nairn’s got it,’ she said, as the man in question marched out the front door. ‘All twisted up into a pretty little shrine decorated with finger bones and jelly babies.’
    Will closed his eyes. Blood and drums in the darkness. Definitely time to go.
    ‘Come on then.’ He ushered her out into the corridor.
    A muffled, rapid conversation erupted in the apartment behind them: Beaton and Stein arguing over whether or not they’d really be left behind. Then there was the sound of mechanical scrabbling and professional swearing. The SOC team tumbled out of the flat, forcing their battered equipment back into its casing as they went.
    ‘All right, all right! We’re coming.’
    Will reached up and keyed his throat-mike. ‘Lieutenant Brand, this is Hunter: prepare for dust-off.’
    ‘Roger that, Hunter. We are hot to trot.’
    ‘You see,’ said Detective Sergeant Cameron, hoisting her evidence bag, ‘nothing to worry about. I told you this place isn’t half as bad as you think.’
    And that was when the shooting started.

5
    It started out as a faint crack, like the sound an ice cube makes dropped into warm water. Then another. And another. Then the sound changed, grew deeper, got closer. Gunfire echoed down from the floors above, and Rhodes’ voice crackled in Will’s earpiece:
    ‘…repeat, we have hostiles!’
    No: this wasn’t fair! He’d been careful. They were heading home!
    Sergeant Nairn punched up the power on his Thrummer and shouted: ‘Dickson, Wright, get your arses back here on the double!’
    They all sprinted for the broken escalator. Nairn jumped onto the ramp, his Thrummer searching for targets. ‘Talk to me Rhodes, what the hell’s going on up there?’
    ‘…Fifteen, maybe more. Automatic projectile weapons; I think I see a Zinger.’ The harsh burr of a Thrummer tore through the air. ‘Orders?’
    Nairn looked at Will and waited.
    ‘We…It…’
    ‘Sir, I hate to hassle you, but now would be a good fucking time.’
    ‘But we…’ Deep breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth.
    ‘Fine.’ Nairn hit his throat mike again. ‘Rhodes, you are cleared for deadly force. I want everything neutralized and—’
    ‘No!’ Will grabbed the sergeant’s arm. ‘We’ve had two cases of VR syndrome on this floor in one week, probably hundreds more we don’t