by Andy Remic
“So this is a military mission, now?”
“We need to know,” said Steinhauer. He stared out over The City. “The plague is coming,” he said. “We’ve grown too big, too decadent. It would seem we are going to be punished.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I will heal your toxic affliction, Keenan, and give you co-ordinates where you can find a man down there who will decode the SinScript. We need to understand the junks. Keenan, the object you carry is like a gift from the gods.”
Keenan took a deep breath. “This is official Combat K business?”
“Yes. Your Prohibition D has been lifted.”
“No more sneaking around, then,” grinned Keenan.
“No more sneaking,” agreed Steinhauer.
Keenan moved to a settee, sat down, rested back, rubbed at his pounding temples. “What’s going on down there, General? Why the heavy metal orbit?”
“We will get to that in a moment,” said Steinhauer. “For now, be satisfied that we’ll give you weapons. Bombs. Permatex WarSuits. A Fast Attack Hornet. Anything you need.”
“All that just to find a man?”
“Get down there, link up with your old Combat K unit, and carry out this mission.”
“My old Combat K unit? Ahh, so that’s the Franco link. Convenient. For you.”
“Yes.” Steinhauer turned his glittering gaze on Keenan. “And Pippa. She is down there. We can locate her for you.”
“And why would I want you to do that?”
“Combat K. Complete again. The perfect military unit.” He sighed. “You’re going to need everything you’ve got. It’s a warzone, Keenan. A killzone.”
“You still haven’t told me what’s going on.”
“Things have taken a turn for... the worse, shall we say.”
“Is it the junks?” Keenan’s voice was hard. Bitter. He was thinking of the dead back on his home planet.
“No. It’s the people.”
“What, civilians?”
“Let me explain,” said Steinhauer, leaning against the edge of his desk and folding his arms.
~ * ~
BLACK AND WHITE NEWS CLIP
The City’s Premier News Delivery Service
[available in: print, TV, vid, mail, dig.bath, idem.implant, comm., kube, glass.wall, ggg, galaxy.net and eyelid transpose— all for a small monthly fee].
News clip GG/07/12/TBA:
The City is suffering under the iron fist of a terrifying affliction! Millions of people have changed from loving, happy, good and hardworking citizens into creatures from the deepest realms of nightmare. Everyday folk have transmogrified into flesh-eating gun-toting monsters, surging in swarms and packs and gangs across the now deserted city streets, massacring everyone they meet, and sometimes even eating the corpses! It has been rumoured that unfortunates who have changed are in fact innocent people or carbon-based alien-forms who took a dose of pirated, hacked and cracked biomods, the famous new technology from NanoTek, currently running at revision 1.4. Further speculation has revealed that there may be a basic flaw in the original nano-technological design, a major bug in the code found in every one of the single miniature nanobots which populate this supposedly wondrous new technology for human and alien improvement, or as NanoTek like to call it in their marketing manifesto, “The Organic Upgrade”. NanoTek have vehemently denied any and all accusations that their nano-molecular technology is flawed, instead blaming it vehemently on the pirates, crackers and code-freaks. Within the next 24 hours they will issue a formal statement; probably vehemently. However, down at street level the massacres, the mutilation, the murder and mayhem will not stop. Seven independent private Urban Force groups have sent out large-scale squads of SIMs, Slabs and Mercs, but all of these quite hefty private armies have been overwhelmed in minutes and massacred to a pulp. It would seem the “zombies”, as these mutated citizens are being affectionately called, are not just the dead risen, not just the walking dead or a rampaging dawn of the dead—they have, in fact, some semblance of intellect. This is a terrifying concept! The zombies can, for example, operate a D5 shotgun. They can replace a magazine in a H&K twin-barrel MP9. They can pilot a helicopter. And the millions of zombies across The City have tooled-up! Various governing factions on our lovable world have issued the following statement: “Stay off the streets. Lock and barricade your doors. And whatever you do, do not attempt to fight these creatures. Quad-Gal Unification Peace Forces have been informed, and are currently in orbit in an observatory capacity, working closely with NanoTek and other agencies to bring an end to this horror.” Our only final worry is that of contagion. Can a zombie pass on this [suspected] hacked biomod infection to a non-infected person or alien? At this early juncture, all we can do is speculate. Be safe. Stay indoors. And whatever you do, carry a weapon—and shoot for the knee-caps.
News clip: END.
~ * ~
Dr Oz stood, surveying the darkened world. Lights glittered and he turned, pouring himself a generous measure of antique brandy in the stygian gloom of this, the dimly lit upper reaches of NanoTek T5. He took a tiny and considered sip, moved across thick glass carpet, and past a wall of glittering hardware containing six bio-immersion terminals finished in a stylish and moody chrome. Dr Oz moved precisely, as if afraid to waste a single joule of energy. Carefully, intimately, he sat at his huge mahogany boardroom desk as his desk-kube purred.
“Yes?”
“Mr Ranger is here.”
Dr Oz smiled, and peered off into a darkened corner of the T5 suite where... something... brooded. He gave a nod, imagining he could see her eyes (or was that just a trick of the light, his imagination, his fear?). The movement was an almost indiscernible dip of his chin. “Please, send Mr Ranger in.”
The door opened and a huge figure blocked out the light. It squeezed awkwardly through the aperture and the only thing Dr Oz could determine was a silhouette wearing a wide-brimmed hat. Smoke plumed into the room, the heavy, acrid odour of cigar.
“I didn’t think anybody still smoked those—or at all,” said Dr Oz to the bulky man. They both knew smoking was dangerous beyond comprehension; an act, in fact, of educated suicide.
“I’m not just anybody,” came a heavy drawl. The figure strode in, substantial boots thumping, and halted. He pushed the brim of his wide hat up, but his face remained dark, lost in shadow. “You have a job?”
Dr Oz ignored the omission of sir. It was something he did not normally tolerate. However, on this occasion, he would live with it. “Mr Ranger. You come highly recommended by my... contacts.” Again, his eyes moved to the corner of the room. It seemed cold there. Colder than death. “It would appear I have a problem.”
“Problems are there to be solved,” drawled Ranger. He took a drag on his cigar, and another poisonous cloud of tox billowed out. Ceiling lights danced patterns through thick grey swirls. Somewhere on Oz’s desk, a carcinogen monitor beeped.
Dr Oz coughed. He wasn’t used to pollutants. “Take a seat. You want a brandy?”
Ranger moved hugely to the boardroom desk opposite Oz and eased himself into a chair, which buzzed, moulding to his large frame. He removed his hat, allowing light to spill over his middle-aged, unshaven face. His features were rugged, hair brown shot through with grey, storm-cloud eyebrows shaggy, eyes a piercing blue. Mr Ranger smiled—but it was a smile without humour. The smile of a predator; the smile of an unnatural born killer.
“I only drink the whisky nowadays. Good for the stomach, you understand.”
Dr Oz ordered a decanter of whisky over the kube and Uma tottered in, long pink hair swishing behind her. She placed a digital jade decanter on the table before Ranger. She giggled, wiggling and looking coyly back over her shoulder as she exited the plush suite in a cloud of Minx Jinx perfume.
Ranger poured a slug of whisky and downed it. His piercing eyes fixed Dr Oz, who smiled, elbows on the table, fingers steepled before him, face set in a mask of concentration.
�
��You have, of course, heard of our recent explosion of biomod technology. And you must also have heard, newswide, of the massive hacking, cracking and piracy racket surrounding our premium organic upgrade device. A week ago, a Juggernaut Supply Train was hit by a very specialist outfit. Stole two million chassis units. Two million! If those sort of numbers were to flood the market...” Oz shook his head, sighing. But his eyes were hard.
“You want me to find out who robbed your components?”
“No.”
“What then?” Ranger looked intrigued, sitting forward a little. He clamped his cigar between his teeth and squinted at Dr Oz through a cloud of cancer.
“I have a... special... job for you.”
Oz pulled a large black case from under his desk, stood, and planted it firmly on the lacquer. There were twin clicks, and Ranger stood and moved to peer inside.
“Do you know what these are?” said Oz, as Mr Ranger’s eyes were lit by a strange and subtle green light. Ranger leant forward, his hand bathed in green as he delicately touched the three tiny, intricate, black machines.
“They’re controllers,” said Ranger. “Latest military specification. Prototypes, in fact.” He eyed Oz carefully, his lined face showing concern. “They control the new GKs—the most advanced AI systems ever built by NanoTek... or any other micro software-butcher. I didn’t realise they were finished.”
“You keep your ear to the ground,” said Oz, neatly.
“I know my business,” said Ranger.
“Officially, the GKs are far from complete.” Oz smiled. “However, let us just say we are ahead of schedule. Now, the friend who recommended you... she claims you will know how to operate these machines? You can set them on a path to—kill. Yes?”
Ranger nodded, and closed the case. The green curled around his fingers, like mist, then gradually dissipated, evaporating. “I am au fait with all manner of mechanical and digital killing machines. They are, what you could call, my,” he smiled with cigar-stained teeth, “my speciality. But first, I need to discuss money...”
Oz waved his hand, as if batting away an insect. “I will triple your fee.” He sipped his brandy, which glittered against ruby teeth. Ranger’s eyes widened, although his face showed no change of expression. “Do we have a deal?”
Ranger shook Oz’s hand. Ranger’s skin was rough and calloused; the hand of a mechanic, the hand of a labourer, somebody who labours to kill. It was a harsh contrast to the soft, supple, ladylike touch of NanoTek’s numero uno.
“Dr Oz. You’ve bought yourself a killer.”
~ * ~
Ranger had gone, leaving only the stale odour of cigar smoke. Tiny machines flitted from the ceiling and darted about, purifying the air. Oz reclined, placing his feet on the desk and forcing himself not to turn, not to stare, into that darkened corner.
He did not hear her approach, but his other senses, his intuition, told him she was behind. He shuddered a little, and when her hand touched his throat he gave a shiver of delight.
“You liked him?”
“Yes,” said Dr Oz. “A fine addition to our army.”
“So we are at war?” Her voice was deliciously dangerous.
“All business is war,” said Oz.
“Indeed, as is all life.”
Oz nodded, and gently the woman massaged his shoulders. He rolled his neck, savouring the iron-powerful grip, and the skill with which she released tension from his over-stressed muscles.
“Do you think he’ll find them?”
She spun Oz around on his chair, a sudden, violent movement. Wheels squealed against the floor. He gazed up into the cold, grey eyes of his Chief Security Officer.
Pippa smiled, although there was no evidence of humour, just a cruel upturning of her lips. “He’ll find Combat K,” she said. “Keenan and Franco are dead men.”
~ * ~
Knuckles, spaceship-thief, drugsmoke entrepreneur, wheeler and dealer and ducker and diver, rough and tough, wiser than a prophet, harder than hardcore, bitter and decadent and cynical before his time... well, he wasn’t having a good day. He’d woken to an astonishing silence, a deep and foreboding silence above and beyond the clash and clatter of water-streams. He crawled from his slumberpit in downtown Dregside, in the subterranean vault which nestled like cancer beneath The Happy Friendly Sunshine Assurance Company, and heaved his lithe form from the mouldy mattress, dodged streamers of leaking water and toxic effluvium, eased his way beyond crumbling concrete pillars to the child-sentries who guarded this, their secret underground domain. He approached Skull and Glass warily; they didn’t respond, even when he gave a low warning whistle.
“Glass? Skudders? What goes down dudes?” he whispered.
Slowly, Glass turned and through the gloom, where white light painted shadows on the young boy’s face, Knuckles could see... terror. Knuckles strode forward; he may only have been ten years old, but this was his damn outfit, his den, his gang, his world. He grasped Glass’s shoulders. “What is it, bro’?”
“They... they, they...”
Knuckles stared at Skull. The lad hadn’t moved. “Tell me!” he snapped.
“Outside! It’s the people. They’ve been on a... a rampage. They’ve changed, Nuck. They’ve changed bad.” He grabbed hold of Knuckles’ arm, his grip so hard it made Knuckles’ face compress in pain.
Knuckles moved to the Plexiglass sheet, stared up through an array of mirrors to the street a few feet above and beyond. It sat, deserted. A hundred groundcars lay abandoned. Five or six still had water-lithium engines running, fumes pouring from sub-tox exhausts. Many sported open doors. The scene froze across the lake of Knuckle’s mind. It made him shiver, ripples cascading the shores of his imagination.
“What’s going on? Where is everybody?”
Skull faced Knuckles. “They changed into zombies,” he said. “We got a Black and White News Clip.”
Knuckles barked a laugh. “Get to hell. What a load of shit.”
“Seriously.”
Knuckles searched their faces. “This is a wind-up, right?”
“Zombies,” repeated Skull. “I was watching. There was a woman, in the street. She started twitching, squealing, then she ripped off her clothes and people gathered round, clapping and cheering and thinking it was a free peepshow! Then there was a crunch and her face exploded on strings of tendon.” He shuddered. “It was horrible. Then other people started to twist and change and blood and stuff came out of their mouths.” He fell silent, tears running down his cheeks.
“What happened then?” said Knuckles, placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder.
“They started to fight, and eat each other, they jumped on the ones who weren’t changing and ripped out their throats and brains. They used anything for weapons. Many had claws.”
Knuckles stared up at the deserted street level. Squinting, he realised the scene was bathed in blood. Puddles of crimson glittered under dull grey light. Smears adorned the hoods and flanks of groundcars. Several limbs poked cheekily from behind tyres.
“Why didn’t you wake me?” said Knuckles.
“We were frightened to move,” said Glass.
“More importantly, now, where have these zombies gone?” Knuckles looked from Skull to Glass, and back again. Both boys shook their heads.
“We don’t know!”
“What do we do, Nuck?”
“Hmm.” Knuckles was frowning, hand dropping to a velvet bag attached at his belt. He reached inside, where ten small, smooth objects rolled over his hand with the tiniest of clacking sounds. He rubbed them thoughtfully, brow creased in concentration.
“This place isn’t safe,” he said, finally, with a nod. “We’ve got to get the gang and move them. Little Megan is still ill, but we can carry her between us.”
“You think they might come here?” said Skull, wide-eyed.
Knuckles nodded, glancing around at the derelict cubescraper basement they inhabited. “It’s an open freeway, mate. We have guards for early warning
of other gangs and SIMs, but if what you say is true—”
“Don’t you believe me, Nuck?” Glass’s voice was tiny.
Knuckles patted him. “I believe you. Come on, I know a way to the roof. Zombies are dumb, right? We’ve all seen the movies. What was that latest one? Shaun of the Dead 29? The Remake Remastered Director’s Final Cut v3.7? Ace film. Super. That scene with the undead zombie dog and the lamppost outside the Winchester. Genius! But... these zombies, hey, they’ll never find their way up to the roof, right? We’ll be safe there. You’ll see.”