Biohell

by Andy Remic

  Oz bowed once more, and travelled the long lacquered stage on a palanquin of cheers, screams and tumultuous applause. Not only was he the most powerful and wealthy sole owner of the Quad-Gal’s most prestigious and technologically advanced technology company, but he could kick ass as well.

  ~ * ~

  Slick Guinness was tall, powerful and fit. His broad shoulders tapered to a narrow waist. He was the epitome of the natural athlete. He wore his gold-blond hair to his shoulders, a delicate fan of subtle hues, an olfactory treat of hinted-at perfumery. Slick’s face was oval, strong-jawed, perfectly symmetrical and unblemished in tone. His nose was straight, a natural addendum to the precision of Slick’s masculine, yet rugged beauty. When he smiled he lit up like a pinball machine on a $10,000 payout.

  Slick was a beautiful man. A heroic man. It could be imagined they would carve statues of him in the future. Here was a man who oozed pheromones and had crowds of women flocking to catch a hint of that deep musical voice, to share a moment of connection with those profoundly philosophical turquoise eyes, to share an intimate moment of humour from his deeply witty repertoire. And to ride him senseless.

  However.

  Here, and now, Slick was in a world of pain.

  He sat, naked, strapped to an alloy chair, his Adonis features crushed, his fabulously rich pelt matted with blood, his lightly tanned skin crusted with saliva, snot and vomit. Six large men stood around him in a tight semi-circle, panting and wearing shawls of sweat under the glow of the simple energy saving bulb on its coil of elasticised cable dangling limp and solitary from a high vaulted ceiling veiled in shadow.

  Slick coughed, leaning to one side and hawking up phlegm mixed with swirling crimson. He coughed again, then rocked back on the chair and blinked, trying to clear his pounding, thundering head. His ears were ringing from heavy blows. His vision had become worryingly blurred.

  “Enough,” he managed to spit, and manoeuvred a broken sliver of tooth to his lips. He pushed it out with his tongue, but no longer had saliva enough to eject the piece of bone shrapnel. “What...” he coughed again, then forced himself to breathe deeply, carefully, smoothly. “What... have I done? What... do you want?”

  Five of the grim men took several steps back, fading into shadows, as one was foregrounded. Slick’s vision cleared and he deciphered a stocky bull of a man wearing a frighteningly expensive New-Italian suit and with close-cropped black hair. His eyes were intelligent, his face lined with the early contours of middle-age. His tan denoted wealth, for only in the Upper Reaches could a tan be freely obtained—either via sunshine, or with biomod vanity upgrades. Both routes to the pleasures of the sun were incredibly expensive...

  Whereas here—

  Here? Slick gazed around the damp cellar, the moss-riddled stones, the greasy, blood-slick floor with its history of violence and vermin. He breathed deep the sickly sweet stink of putrefying dead rats and piss, and an eternity of human detritus.

  Here could only be one place.

  The Dregs. Down-side. Low-Tek. Sub-City SubC. The hunting playground for criminals, the diseased, the whores, the biomod pirates and hackers and B-grade pushers. The final resting place of all the Non-Credits. The home of the Poor.

  Slick breathed deep. Mentally, he retraced his steps...

  A beautiful woman, swaying atop him, writhing and groaning as nipples brushed his questing lips and he thrust harder and harder, buried himself deep and drowned in her ambrosia nectar depths. His tapered fingers slid down her writhing sweat-streaked flanks as—shit, as she was smashed aside with a helve and men swarmed the room and blows came raining, crashing down; pounding Slick Guinness into an immediate mine-field of glittering unconsciousness...

  Slick’s eyes opened. He did not recognise the men, but by his stance the lead ‘gangster’—for that was all he could be—expected recognition. Craved it? Slick smiled. That meant he was small fry striving to jump from the little pond to the ocean. The only real problem was that the ocean was a very dangerous place.

  Man, when I get out of here I’m gonna seriously fuck you up, ran Slick’s internal dialogue. He composed himself and lifted his bloodied face to meet the man’s iron gaze. Despite Slick’s pain, and his beating, he made no sound of weakness. He focused with turquoise eyes.

  “I’ll start again.” Slick spoke, voice slow and measured. “I’ll start at the beginning. Do you know who I am?”

  The bull-necked gangster nodded, once, a curt movement. Then he smiled, and it was the smile that did it. Messed with Slick’s brain. It was the smile of the knowledgeable. The accepted. The Big.

  “My name,” came the bass rumble, “is Mr Konan.” He paused, a long and arrogant pause.

  “Never heard of you.” Slick was satisfied to witness a twitch at the corner of Konan’s mouth.

  “I am the avatar of Mr Voloshko.”

  Slick’s heart skipped a beat. He felt the temperature of his skin plummet. His balls shrivelled to pips. Slowly, he allowed a breath to exhale on a jet of apprehension. He took a tentative lick at bark-smeared lips.

  “OK. Voloshko I have heard of. Can you tell me what I’ve done wrong?” Shit. Now it made sense. Slick became finally and terminally aware he was in some pit of depravity for a crime he did not comprehend. He was in what had become notoriously nicknamed Voloshko Cellars. Torture Cellars. Down south in The Dregs.

  He chuckled—but the chuckle fell from his soul. This was serious. This was bad shit.

  Mr Konan sighed, stepping closer. His boot squeaked in a puddle of blood Slick’s flesh had deposited when his head connected with stone. “Up there, Mr Guinness, up above us elevates the perfect world, glass and alloy, gleaming, an immaculate rejection. The Tek-World. The City. It is a pinnacle of human and alien evolution, an entity of organic construction over natural chaos, a mish-mash blend of organics and genetics ruled by money, ruled by the biomods, ruled by NanoTek. But down here, Mr Guinness...”

  He frowned, heavy brows darkening. The henchmen approached from the shadows; they carried helves and steel truncheons. One—the most intimidating, in all his slim ferret-faced efficiency—carried a steel-panelled briefcase. Somehow, this was even more terrifying than any obvious weapon.

  “Down here, NanoTek doesn’t give a shit what The Seven Syndicates do. We rule, Mr Guinness. The Dregs, the Sub-City Catacombs. They’re ours. Our Land. Our World. Our Dominion.”

  Slick nodded, heart racing. He agreed. I agree, he thought, I agree! Just let me out of here...

  You did not mess with The Syndicates.

  You could not mess with The Syndicates.

  The Seven Syndicates ruled. And Mr Voloshko was Grade 1 Minister of The Hammer Syndicate. The Man in Command, 1ic. Hell. Slick was in trouble!

  Konan produced a photograph on a thin piece of photo-plastic. He held it before Slick’s face. It was set to [cycle]. Slick watched the images impassively as blood drained ever further from the already undead flesh of his face.

  The statics depicted Slick linking arms with a beautiful woman, and they were both laughing// they ate in a restaurant, Slick complaining about the soup, the woman touching his arm in an intimate fashion// walking to a plush hotel, arm in arm// taunting one another with fresh strawberries in the lift // Slick moaning with need, eyes fixed on her face, lips wet and gleaming// the woman dancing provocatively as she undressed, face lit with an open, primal animal lust// squirming naked together, bodies writhing on sweat-streaked sheets// the woman’s face, a parody of pain, mouth open, tongue firm against teeth in a deep sex-need hypnotism of repeated moaning shuddering gun-shot multiple-orgasm// [end].

  Slick’s eyes stared at nothing. Then, his gaze sidled carefully to the left.

  Mr Konan was shaking his head.

  “Who is she?” ventured Slick, finally, when he realised Konan did not have the charity to break the silence.

  “Melissa. She is Mr Voloshko’s wife.”

  “But he’s...”

  Slick bit his tongue. He was going to say
“he’s ninety-six years old!” but, obviously, being a Grade 1 Minister to one of the largest biomod piracy Syndicates in the Quad-Gal meant Voloshko had access to a billion human upgrades. Age simply wasn’t the handicap it had been. And who needed Viagra when a simple biomod could fashion a wealthy customer with a permanent penis upgrade? Length, girth, strength and endurance? All yours for a few dollars more.

  “You abused the wrong woman, Slick. And, despite Mr Voloshko’s recent... interest in more esoteric forms of passion, of enjoyment, of lust, you tampered with Mr Voloshko’s bitch.”

  Slick Guinness considered this. And the truth of the situation finally penetrated his ego like syrup working patiently into a sponge. He was dead meat. This Chamber was not a child’s playground... he wouldn’t get a lolly and a contented ride home in the back of the car. No. This was a Torture Pit. A Death Hole.

  Slick wasn’t going to leave this room alive. He met Konan’s dark and steady gaze. “My one consolation,” Slick sighed, trying to buy himself more time, trying to put off the inevitability of fate, his face a picture of hang-dog sorrow, “is that Melissa Voloshko enjoyed herself. She howled like a whore. Fucked like a dog. And she tasted real sweet, my bully-boy friend. Like sticky toffee. Like syrup and cream. A personification of orgasm.”

  Behind the chair, Slick was rubbing at his thumb. There came a tiny click.

  “Yeah?” Konan was shocked. He relaxed into a smile, a lizard smile showing nasty, coffee-stained teeth. “OK then, tough guy. Mr Voloshko wants to offer you a gift. A present. A valuable and hard-earned lesson.” He pulled free a sleek alloy shaft and flicked free the tapered razor at its peak. It gleamed... a slice of steel, a splinter of raw and promised pain. Konan twisted the razor knife slowly from side to side, allowing light from the yellow bulb to play along the finesse of the glittering, sterile implement. Tiny rainbows danced like fish.

  “He offers you a lesson you will never forget.”

  Konan glided forward. His eyes gleamed. Like glass.

  Slick’s heart seemed to stop beating as he watched that terrible blade descend...

  ~ * ~

  Franco parked the Mercedes groundcar and with a whine the seat deposited him on the pavement. Immediately he was amidst the heaving throng, and he pushed through the crowd of humans and proxers, and the occasional SIM, and up steep steps of a nameless, faceless steel-fronted hundred storey block. He eased through revolving doors which reflected the snake of flesh on the pavements, nodded at the two black-suited men bearing machine guns and dark glasses, hair slicked back, stance professional, and ambled down the corridor to the gate.

  Once scanned and through, Franco stepped into the canteen. Keg and Tag were already there, Keg’s huge figure squeezed into a small plastic seat, each man bearing a steaming coffee before him. Keg was an ex-gunrunner, a huge man with a tattooed forehead, tattooed forearms, and a body that was as wide as it was tall. He was a giant of a man, spiky black hair glistening untidily, stubble smeared like grease across a square-jaw you could break paving slabs on. His small eyes glittered in permanent challenge, and he watched Franco advance.

  Tag, in contrast, was slim and tall, his face thin and pointed, his eyes narrow, almost oriental. Clean shaven, he wore heavy gold rings on each finger and a swathe of gold chains around his neck. Tag had risen the Hard Way from the Dregs; he was a rough and tough streetboy, a king of backstabbing, a master of the mashed beer glass.

  “All right, lads?” smiled Franco easily, slipping into a chair opposite. His eyes took in the three heavy D5 shotguns gleaming on the table surface. Keg and Tag were staring at him fixedly.

  “We’ve got a job come in,” said Tag. His lips gleamed. He seemed... too eager.

  “Oh yeah?” Franco was cool, but his mind was racing. Up until now the jobs had been... regular. Non-violent. That was good. That was fine. But here were two thugs with gleaming new guns and a need to make a name for themselves; they were out to impress, out to climb the ladder of a hard to recognise internal ranking system. And that always meant bad shit. It usually meant somebody had to die.

  Franco sighed. Why couldn’t things just carry on as normal?

  Why did it always have to get so complicated?

  I fear change, he thought morosely.

  Tag leant closer. Coffee steam made his brow glisten. “Word’s come down from Konan. We’ve got a pick-up. We’ve got ourselves our first execution. “

  Keg grinned. Most of his teeth were black. It was an ugly sight. “We’ve finally got the chance to prove ourselves, Franco. We’re being given some responsibility! No more shitty little errands—we’re dancing with the big boys!” He slid a shotgun across the laminated worktop to Franco. “It’s time to start the killing.”

  Franco stared at the gun. His face screwed up. Carefully, he said, “I’m not really sure I like this idea, boys.”

  “Hey!” snapped Tag. “You’re either with us... or against us.” His eyes glittered. And his face said it all. There was no mercy there, no humanity. Not even for a fellow roughboy. Tag was out for promotion. Recognition. Acceleration. Notoriety. Respect, man. And woe betide anybody who got in his way.

  Franco picked up the shotgun. It was a heavy, solid piece of engineering. It took sixty collapsible shells, and had a 25gig bandwidth mark. Auto-aiming. Digital trigger. Expensive. Designer killware. Franco hated that. Murder and fashion combined. Dolce and Gabbana for the diseased. Versace for the vulgar. Prada for the perverse. Sick sick sick.

  He watched Tag and Keg climb to their feet and roll shoulders to ease tension. They were nervous, Franco could smell it. They were hairline triggers waiting to be caressed. Somebody was going to suffer in order to banish their insecurities.

  “You coming, little guy? Or do we tell Konan and Voloshko you lost your balls? Maybe they were never there in the first place. Maybe all those tall stories of life in a combat squad were just bullshit.”

  Keg sniggered.

  Franco stood, cracked open the D5 shotgun, checked the payload, and slammed the weapon shut. Keg jumped. His nerves were shot to shit. Franco stared levelly at his two accomplices in mediocrity; his face was suddenly a gargoyle carved from tek-stone.

  His voice, when he spoke, was dangerously quiet. “Well then, let’s go kill somebody,” he said.

  ~ * ~

  Slick Guinness oozed pain. Not just from the beating—although it had rattled his cage and brought home the prolonged mental torture of a good physical pounding—but also from the tiny, emergency Nail_blade which even now was cutting the hardened titanium_nylon cable which secured his hands to the chair. It was also making a terrible mess of his own flesh; but that would be a problem for another day... if he survived.

  The Nail_blade was a device reserved for military special forces. It nestled in a PTFE organic sheath within a finger or thumb nail, and could be teased free for a variety of useful purposes: opening tins of B&S, slicing the detonation cords on HighJ bombs, or severing titanium_nylon bindings when tied to a chair suffering serious physical torture and maiming.

  “He offers a lesson you will never forget.” Konan approached, razor knife outstretched, as Slick felt his own bindings part and he leapt forward, right fist slamming Konan’s forehead, left taking the blade neatly from the gangster’s flapping grip, right boot lifting to connect with Konan’s chin in a side-kick that sent the man sprawling upwards and backwards to land with a grunt of shock. Slick dropped to a crouch by Konan’s side and rammed the blade savagely into the man’s heaving chest.

  It slid free easily as the other, heavy-set men started with shock at this spurt of high-speed violence from a man who had—nanoseconds earlier—been constrained by chair and wire. Blood pumped and eased from the narrow wound in Konan’s chest, and blood bubbled, staining the corners of the gangster’s twitching mouth.

  Slick uncoiled slowly and stood, arms by his sides, the bloodied knife and his bloodied fist— immobile. He smiled then, smiled at the five large bulky men who had just spent the best part of
thirty minutes beating the shit from him.

  “You bastards,” he snarled.

  One gangster went for his inside pocket—a gun— and the action triggered Slick into a dance of death. He cannoned forward, the knife slashing left then right in twin splattered showers of horizontal blood; he ducked a clumsy steroid punch, dropped to one knee and rammed the dagger into the gangster’s groin, leaving it embedded as the huge muscle man screamed and screamed and screamed and Slick took his matt black pistol: a German-built Heckler & Koch P227 taking 9mm Parabellum cartridges in an 80 round micro-clip. The gun lifted, and two shots rang out, dropping two men in twin fountains of purple, spewing gore.

  Slick stared at the six dead men. Then, with a smile, realised Mr Konan was breathing, pink froth bubbling at his lips. Slick moved to kneel by the gangster’s side and grinned down through his own inflicted punishment.