Biohell

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Biohell Page 17

by Andy Remic


  “A Global Equilibrium Pump?”

  “Climate control. On a global scale. Stops The City frying. Now, I’ve tapped into the local news,” said Cam. “It appears the zombies have taken control of the GEPs. It would appear...”

  Cam paused, and Keenan and Franco climbed to their feet. Electricity sparkled down the street, leaping from skyscraper to tower-block to cubescraper.

  “Ah.”

  “Ah’s bad, right?” said Franco.

  “The zombies have blown the main GEP, and now have control of all subordinate machines. They’re in control of The City’s climate. Its weather. Its day and night cycle. Its ocean tides.”

  “Why would they do that?” said Franco, frowning.

  “They don’t like the sun,” said Keenan, voice soft. “Right?”

  “I don’t get it?”

  Keenan’s head snapped right. His eyes focused on Cam. “It’s the biomods. They slow down in the heat. If the zombies can shield the planet from the sun—cool The City down...”

  “They will become faster, more dangerous, harder to kill,” said Cam.

  “Great,” muttered Franco.

  Mel lifted her head, small dark eyes glittering, and emitted a long, mournful howl.

  Keenan hoisted his MPK with a rattle, and checked the mag on his Techrim. “Come on Franco,” he snapped. “And whilst you’re at it, smack your bitch up. She’s driving me barking mad.”

  “Very funny, Keenan.” Franco scowled. “I’m laughing so hard I pissed myself.”

  ~ * ~

  The black panel groundvan sat at the corner of two intersecting streets, now bathed in gleaming darkness. The sparking, ravaging energy which had smashed down the freeway rocked the van on heavy suspension, then left, like a fast-vanishing mountain storm. The van clicked softly, cooling. Panels shone, reflecting ambient light, the van and its precision engineering at odds with the surrounding detritus and destruction. Several zombies ambled past, but took no interest in the vehicle; there was no heady, needful, lustful aroma of brains.

  The doors slid back revealing a black interior. Cigar smoke drifted free, and Mr Ranger leapt from inside, heavy boots thumping the ground and crushing broken glass. He looked swiftly up and down the street, blue eyes raking devastation. Then he motioned, and the groundvan rocked and groaned on heavily up-rated suspension as...

  They exited smoothly, as if fashioned from animate liquid. There were three GK machines, all humanoid in shape, black, glossy, thin-limbed, sculpted—almost works of art. Beyond the ergonomic and functional semi-hydraulic joints, the enamelled TitaniumVI casings, the long elegant powerful limbs, there came teardrop heads with dulled matt black eyes. Each head was swept back to a point, and long slim jaws gleamed revealing rows and rows of tiny needle-thin teeth, each capable of injecting a variety of terminal poisons.

  Ranger stood with one hand on the controller, which emitted a soft green smoke, curling like oiled umbilicals around his fingers and integrating with his flesh, with his blood; his free hand sat in the pocket of his heavy overcoat.

  Ranger watched the three GK machines stand their ground and survey surroundings. Newborns. They had to learn fast. Ranger smiled; there was no fear in the machines, just an inquisitiveness of new life. Ranger licked his lips. Despite their machine AI status, they were quite definitely female.

  Ranger’s smile was dark. “Nyx?”

  “Yes, lord.” Her voice was full, powerful, mature and sentient. The GK shifted, her head dropping and rotating to fix matt black eyes on the old soldier. Nyx was the leader, stockier than the other two AIs; her gaze made Ranger shiver just a little, and take an involuntary step back. These machines were new, untested, straight from the crate. More prototype than prototype. Nothing like these had ever existed across the starfields of Quad-Gal.

  “Show me.”

  Nyx dropped to a crouch, rows of teeth widening in a silent roar as spikes rippled across her slick metal torso. They spread across her spine, her neck, her head, a wave of hypodermics undulating across arms and legs. Each of the five thousand points gleamed with the promise of a painful, toxic death.

  “Good. Momos? Lamia? Special functions?”

  Momos withdrew two long black yukana swords from thin metal sheaves on her back; each was fashioned from a single molecule and could cut twelve-inch hull armour. She spun the weapons idly, dark eyes fixed on Ranger, then went through a complex and stunningly fast choreographed kata where blades hummed and sang. Ranger stood, transfixed by the show of awesome skill. Never had he seen such fluidity, speed, skill or timing. He licked dry lips, and released a slow breath as Momos finally wound down from her display and sheathed the twin yukana blades.

  Finally Lamia, the thinnest, most elegant of the three GK machines, drew herself up as if standing on metal tip-toe. Her dark eyes seemed to shimmer, and with tiny metallic crackles her elegantly sculpted hands and feet, her arms and legs, they rippled with scales of shifting, blending, blurring metal, shimmering as they became four long black killing blades. Lamia started to dance, a slow rhythmical movement, elegant, mournful, the TitaniumVI blades clacking and clashing on the buckled road with harsh discordant sound. Faster she moved and spun, the four long killing blades flashing and spinning in a haze of incredible deadly motion. To get within reach of the GK was to be cut into chunks of bloody meat. Then Lamia leapt and Ranger stumbled back as blades slashed faster than the eye could see around his head, his body, his own delicate frail flesh limbs and Lamia spun away, halted her dance, a curious smile on her metal face. She folded her arms, which blurred back into a semblance of machine normality.

  Ranger nodded, lifted his hat, ran a hand through sweat-streaked grey hair. “Good. Your programming is efficient. You know where your loyalties lie?”

  “To you, lord,” came the three female voices.

  “You must kill them. Combat K: Keenan, and Franco. And the deviated monster who travels with them. Not just kill them, but annihilate them from our plane of existence. Do you understand this directive?”

  “We do, lord.”

  “Go. Do not leave any trace. Slaughter anyone or anything that gets in your way. Have no mercy, no compassion, no empathy; you must simply obey the One Law.”

  “Yes, lord. The One Law is to Kill. We will Kill, Lord.”

  Ranger watched the three machines lope off into the stygian gloom, padding through falling rain and mist with the tiniest of suppressed hisses. As Ranger surveyed, they passed a cluster of zombies, busy tearing at a fallen corpse. The six zombies turned, grunting and moaning with curiosity as the GKs approached. Without breaking stride the GK machines blurred into action and were through the zombies in less than a second leaving behind a scatter of body parts and heads, and streaks of tainted blood against buckled pavements.

  Ranger climbed into his groundvan, and slammed the door with a solid thunk. It had been hard finding Franco Haggis, for the man was ex-Combat K and covered his tracks well. However, once Melanie had transformed into the... deviant (Ranger smiled at that) the trace had been narrowed and location easily pin-pointed through GreenSource. Keenan had been in the right place at the right time; Ranger’s eyes scanned the tracers on the walls of the ground van. Ranger had a hot pirate-link straight to the Quad-Gal Military database. Wherever Keenan went, Ranger—and the GKs—could follow.

  Ranger lit a cigar, and with grim fascination looked out into an abused world through the eyes of his newborn AI killers.

  “This should be... entertaining,” he said.

  ~ * ~

  CHAPTER 7

  SINPLI(CITY)

  “It’s not there,” said Franco.

  “What do you mean, it’s not there?” Keenan pushed past Mel and crouched at the corner of the street, chin on the barrel of his MPK, peering at where they’d landed the Y Shuttle Drunk and Loving It. Franco was right: the ship wasn’t there. Porky Pauper’s Fast-Food Burger Emporium wasn’t there. In fact, the street was gone. All that remained was a pyramid pile of rubble over which s
tumbled a few lone zombies searching for meat and brains.

  “This darkness is giving me the creeps,” said Franco. Being a denizen of The City he had grown accustomed to pretty much constant daylight. The odd few hours of nightfall tended to pass whilst Franco lay deep in drunken slumber; as such, his night vision was underdeveloped.

  “Don’t be such a big girl.”

  Mel, crouching beside Franco, started to scratch behind an ear with her foot claw. A rasping sound, as of metal on metal, echoed down the rubble-piled street. One of the zombies looked up—a quick, unexpected movement. With a guttural snarl it leapt towards them, scattering bricks and shards of glass, using hands as feet as it pounded towards the group with a sudden burst of acceleration.

  Keenan stood, and growled, “I’m sick of this shit.” The zombie leapt, and Keenan unloaded ten bullets into the sagging grey flesh, each impact spinning and punching the marionette until it landed, rolling, rags fluttering, twenty feet away. Keenan glanced at Franco. He shook his head. “Looks like we’re on foot.”

  Franco gestured past Keenan with a twitch of his head. Keenan looked back, to see the dropped zombie crawling unsteadily to its feet. Keenan could see clean through several holes, jagged with splinters of bone. He pulled a smile without humour as the zombie, snarling again, charged with a limping, wounded, tortured gait. Keenan leapt to battle, ducking a swipe of claws and side-kicking the creature in the chest. But it was fast, faster than Keenan expected; claws closed on his leg, catching him in steel manacles and he was spun horizontally, second boot hammering at the creature’s face. It stumbled back, tripped, flailed as it hit the ground. Keenan landed lightly, leapt forward, placed his boot on the creature’s chest and gazed down into yellow, feral eyes.

  Once human, he thought.

  It was once a person. A man.

  “Shit.”

  He unloaded twenty bullets into the zombie’s head until there was nothing left but a protruding shard of slick spinal column. Decapitation by machine gun. Keenan glanced up. Around. The activity had gained them some attention. He cursed.

  “Neat,” said Franco, watching the gathering crowd of zombies climbing up over the rubble pyramid and shuffling together, silhouetted against a bright sulphur glare of strobing lights from a nearby train-wreck, which rested on its side amidst the annihilation of the street. “You dealt with that incident in a perfectly covert manner. You didn’t get us into no bother, no sir. No unwanted attention at all!”

  “Quiet! Cam? Which way to the market?”

  “Which one? The City has one hundred and seventeen thousand.”

  Keenan looked at Franco, as the background noise of groans and moans increased in volume. “Which market, Franco? To find this boy, Knuckles? Come on, the bastards are coming.”

  Franco shrugged. “How the hell do I know? I’ve no bloody idea where the damned woman shopped. Shopping is an activity for the female of the species!” He spat with aggression, face contorted in hatred, and growled, “I wouldn’t be seen dead with a fucking plastic carrier bag!”

  “You’ll be dead pretty soon if you don’t explain where we’re going,” said Cam, voice an atomic whisper.

  Mel grunted, heaved her bulk to its taloned feet, and set off at a lumber down a street littered with broken glass, which glinted, sparkling like tiny, fallen stars. She glanced back, over one rippling shoulder, then continued, claws raking the ground.

  “Where’s she going?” rumbled Franco, eyeing the approaching horde of zombies.

  “I think she’s showing us the way,” said Keenan. He glanced wearily at the buried Y Shuttle. “So much for weapons, bombs and the Permatex War-Suits I had stashed for you and Pippa!”

  “Pippa? You mean we’re meeting her?” Franco’s face lit up. He had a special affection for Pippa.

  “No. But I have a nasty suspicion she’ll find us. I don’t trust Steinhauer as far as I can piss. This little drama is starting to feel too much like a bad gig. Convenient. I’m only here because I want to know why the junks invaded my world; Steinhauer, on the other hand, seems to want Combat K together again.”

  Franco nodded, pumped his D5 shotgun ten times, and they set off at a run. Behind, the rag-tag collection of zombies pursued doggedly, but these were the slow, the lame, the injured, the deviant. The stronger ones had more important work to do.

  ~ * ~

  Despite her bulk, Mel ran quickly, talons pounding the littered city streets. Keenan and Franco kept pace, with Cam bobbing just behind, his haywire scanners trying their best to locate threat.

  They halted by a wide-open plaza. Fires burned, and they could see where a collection of people— with a few proxers and Slabs thrown in—had built a high barricade. At the foot there lay a smattering of dismembered zombie bodies. Further out, in staggered arcs, lay the smoking, blackened corpses of the deviant.

  “Flamethrower?” said Franco, dropping to one knee beside Keenan.

  “Yeah. They’re doing a good job in that temporary fortress.”

  Franco stared across the paved space, beyond several burning cars, and could see huge Slabs bearing what looked like industrial pipes but with flames flickering in holed barrels. They patrolled up and down the makeshift ramparts, which had been hastily built from sections of concrete and steel, and old steel barrels.

  Slabs were genetically modified humans bred in Vats for an ancient game of war on a planetary scale, designed to amuse decadent game-head humans. They were, to all intents, genetically bred defects: huge, muscular, with cubic heads and flat faces, awesomely powerful in battle, but what Man—as God—had given them in brawn, he had taken away in brain.

  “What you thinking?” whispered Franco.

  “I’m wondering why Mel has stopped.”

  “Is this place in the way? Is she frightened of the fire, do you think?”

  Keenan shrugged. “She’s your girl, Franco. Ask her.”

  “Mel? Mel!”

  Melanie turned, globular head dropping to within a few inches of Franco’s face. She made a strange keening sound, and her chain dragged across the ground.

  “Es?”

  “Why have we stopped?” hissed Franco. “Do we need to get through here?”

  Melanie shook her head. Her corrugated neck made strange hissing and popping sounds.

  “Why then?” Franco frowned. “Is this the marketplace where you bought the biomod?”

  Mel nodded, pea-head bobbing.

  “But it’s no longer here! How are we going to find this lad, Knuckles?”

  “We’ll ask the locals,” said Keenan, who’d lit a cigarette. The burning fires reflected in his eyes. “With a name like that, I’m pretty sure somebody must have heard of him. Sounds like a wheeler-dealer type.”

  “The City has a population of trillions,” said Franco, staring hard at Keenan. “Your optimism never ceases to amaze me.”

  “Any better ideas? After all, it’s not my bird who’s got fleas.”

  “Funny, Keenan, very funny. I’m laughing so hard my sides are splitting.”

  Behind them came a groan, and the sound of sodden limping in the darkness. Keenan shuddered. “If we don’t move soon, that might well come to pass. After all, your sides are the quickest way to your kidneys. Come on.”

  “We can’t take Mel in there,” hissed Franco, clasping his gun. “They’ll burn her!”

  Keenan gave a half-smile, wrinkling his nose at the stench of smoke. “I’m sure they’ll see her feminine side,” he muttered.

  ~ * ~

  Keenan approached first, and waving his arms, shouted, “Ho! In there! We’re friendly, hold your fire.”

  A huge flat Slab peered over the jagged barrier of concrete. Small black eyes stared at Keenan without compassion. “What you want?”

  “We’re looking for information. On a lad called Knuckles, used to work the streets round here.”

  The Slab stared at Keenan for a long time. “You not one of them flesh eating boobies?”

  “No,” said Keenan
. “Do I look like one? I have all my own arms, see?”

  The Slab stared again and Keenan sighed. Slabs were hard. Rock hard. But intelligence didn’t feature high on their list of employee attributes. In fact, you were lucky to get a stupid one.

  “You might be boobie,” said the Slab, slowly, face wrinkled in concentration. Keenan caught the whiff of a flamethrower held just out of sight. His hand tightened on his MPK.

  “Look, what’s your name?”

  “I is Rappo, and I is no cherry spuke, nor a cheese in fact! Ha! I know your damned zombie games. You boobies, you sneak in, past this old spuke and try and eat my brains yes you would!”

 

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