by Andy Remic
“Well, that’s an interesting point of view,” came a soft voice from the shadows, and the squad - all except Jones - jumped. “But then, there’s always one in the crew who has his brain hard-wired to his cock. In the middle of a firefight, BAM! There he goes again, ruining his pants.”
Jones half-turned, a sneer on his face. “Little lady, I knew you was there all the time.”
Jenny Xi stepped forward, and coolly lit a narrow, evil-looking cigarette. She had long auburn hair, lightly curled, now tied back. Her face was narrow, pretty, tanned, her body tall and lithe, powerful and athletic. She wore dark combat fatigues and a khaki shirt, open at the neck and showing her dog-tags. Although this little unit weren’t strictly military - or at least, not employed by Amaranth’s resident standing army, navy or air force - they were mostly ejc-forces; all disgraced one way or another. And somehow, they had found their way here, crawled their way into the welcoming arms of the anti-Toxicity movement known as Impurity. “Good people putting a bad world right.” That was one of the many anti-Greenstar slogans. Anti-Company slogans. ECO terrorist slogans...
“I wondered why you had a hard-on,” she said, blowing out smoke.
Jones scowled. “That ain’t for you, bitch. That’s for the killing.”
“Interesting,” muttered Jenny, rubbing her chin, watching the group. They were all hard-nuts, with polished guns and combat boots. Some had SMKKs, some D4 shotguns. They were a battered, scarred, hardened bunch. She’d seen it all before. But now she was their new Squad Leader and she couldn’t let the slur stand; and besides, sometimes she just liked a fight.
Jenny moved to Jones, who refused to turn and acknowledge her. As if, by continuing to present his broad, heavily-muscled back, he was showing a lack of fear; as if tilting his lifted chin and grinning was a fuck-you middle finger to authority. But there was no authority. Cut the shit. They were a terrorist squad intent on bringing down the twisted government of the Greenstar Recycling Company. Intent on restoring their once-peaceful green and pleasant land back to being a green and pleasant land. Although with every million tonnes of shit dumped in the sea, every million tonnes of toxic sludge poured down mines drilled for this very purpose, for every million tonnes of old tyres, smashed bottles, crap and shit and heavy metal landfill...
Well. In her heart, Jenny Xi knew that the day would never come.
No matter what Old Tom had once dreamed...
Toxicity was the dumping ground for the civilised galaxy of Manna.
And Manna, despite the claim of being a perfect Utopia... well.
It would always need a toilet.
Jenny moved close behind Jones, noting the many scars on his back. She moved close, and leant, blowing smoke in his ear. “You know what they say about a man with scars on his back?” She grinned, voice barely above a whisper but suddenly the card games, the drinking, the back-slapping boasts were all forgotten; now Jenny and Jones were the centre of attention. The night’s amusement. A game for bored soldiers on stag.
“Go on,” growled Jones, voice dangerous, eyes narrowed.
“Well, they say that man’s done a lot of running away.”
There was some laughter, a couple of gasps, a general feeling of shock; for despite Jones having a loud mouth and dubious views on the integrity of the female of the species, he was without doubt a tough, bone-headed motherfucker.
“They say that, do they?” said Jones, rising slowly and turning to face Jenny Xi. He looked down at her with a sneer on his face. Jenny was tall, a touch over six feet. But Jones was nearly a head taller, a rippling, stocky, powerful example of an arrogant male in his prime.
“Jones...” said Zanzibar, his voice filled with warning.
“Hey, fuck you, Zanz. Keep your nose out of this.”
“Hey, I can see you’re saving your hard-on for your boyfriends here.” Jenny winked, taking a few steps back, smoking, eyes glittering with humour. “You wouldn’t want to give it to a real woman like me now, would you? I bet you’d need a strap-on, you pathetic piece of shit.”
Jones rolled his neck. “Oh, I’m going to give it to you, all right,” he said, taking a menacing step closer.
Jenny lifted her fists and tightened her jaw. “You see, all I’m bothered about is a modicum of respect. And seeing as I’m the new Squad Leader, I see respect is something that’s got to be earned.”
“I’ll show you some respect,” growled Jones, moving forward, his own fists raised.
“Come on, let’s see it, fat boy,” said Jenny.
Jones came at her fast, and despite his weight of muscle, he moved quickly. Right straight, right hook, left jab, left hook. Jenny swayed, ducking the blows, then shifted back a few steps to give herself room.
“You’re slow,” she said, and took a puff on her cigarette, flicking the butt away.
“I’m going to kick your ass, bitch.”
“Yeah? Less talking, more fighting.”
Jones growled, and charged. Jenny ducked a swipe and rammed a fist into Jones’s ribs. There came a crack and he staggered past, wheezing, gripping his side, and whirled on her, face flushed, hate filling his eyes.
“I’m going to fucking kill you,” he snarled.
“Come on, then.”
He charged again, fists flailing, and for a moment they were both moving in a blur, a punch-up of staggering skill, dodging, weaving, straights and hooks and jabs smashing and connecting. Jones hit Jenny with a straight to the chin and she took a step back, amazingly keeping her feet, avoided a follow-up punch, and delivered a right hook so powerful it lifted Jones from his feet and deposited him on his rump with a slap. Stunned for a moment, Jones rolled to avoid Jenny’s boot, which cracked the earth. He slammed an elbow into her knee, folding her leg, but on the way down her own elbow came over in a sideways blow like a bone knife, splitting the flesh under Jones’s eye and sending him rolling away, growling like a dog.
Jenny leapt up, and there was a sheen of sweat on her skin. Slowly, she lifted her fists once more and lowered her head.
Jones stood, and in his own fist was a knife.
“Don’t be silly,” said Jenny, head still lowered, eyes glittering dark and dangerous.
“You fucking bitch,” he spat through saliva and blood.
“Jones, don’t be a dickhead,” came the warning rumble of Zanzibar.
“Yeah, you fucking idiot. Put the knife down,” came another voice.
“I’ll kill her!” Jones slurred, lurching forward a step.
Jenny held up a hand, palm out. “Stop.”
“You scared, motherfucker?”
“You’re raising the stakes, Jones. Don’t make me put you down. I need you in the squad. This has gone too far...”
“Fucking whore!”
He charged her, and Jenny lowered her hands, eyes dark, mouth a grim line, and the rest of the squad watched in hushed silence as the knife glittered through the gloom and at the last moment Jenny took Jones’s wrist, twisting the knife away, side-stepping, ramming his arm up his back. Jones’s momentum carried him on forward, as Jenny leapt, still holding onto his twisted arm, her knee connecting with his spine as she rode him to the ground. Jones’s face planted the soil and he grunted, spittle exploding from his lips. Jenny took the knife from his fingers, lifted it in the air, and stabbed Jones in the back of the shoulder. Blood bubbled and pumped. Jones howled and squirmed, but Jenny held him there, her body hard and taut, her face and eyes grim.
“Lie still,” she said.
Jones struggled.
“Lie fucking still!” she hissed.
Growling and snarling, Jones was finally still. Jenny leant forward, and into his ear, said, “You’re lucky this time, boy. Don’t fuck with me. Next time I push it through your ribs and cut out your heart. Do you understand?”
Jones mumbled.
“Do you fucking understand?” She grabbed the hilt of the knife and twisted.
“Yes!” he screamed. “Yes, I fucking understand!”
/> Jenny stood, and turned on the rest of the squad. They were deathly quiet. Her eyes were flashing mad and dangerous, and she held up the bloodied knife. “Anybody else want to be Top Dog? Do I have to prove myself to any other cunt? Or are you all happy?”
“You know we don’t all think like him,” said Zanzibar, his incredibly deep, dark, brown eyes fixed on Jenny. The large, dark-skinned soldier stood and moved forward, and gently took the knife from Jenny’s hand. “Calm down, Xi. Calm down, my friend. Come on, we go a long way back. You know you can trust me.”
Jenny took several deep breaths, and Zanzibar turned and made a hand gesture. Somebody left to get a medic. Jones was unconscious; nobody moved to help him.
Zanzibar guided Jenny to a seat, and somebody put a glass of whiskey in front of her. She decked it in one.
“I’m sorry,” she said, lifting her head then, looking round at the gathered faces of the squad. “I shouldn’t have...”
“Don’t apologise,” rumbled Zanzibar. “Prick had it coming, right?” There was a muttering of agreement.
Medics arrived, and Jones was rolled onto a stretcher and carried out. Jenny toyed with the knife. “You know what? I know he isn’t a bad man. I know Jones has done... good things in his time. He’s a good soldier. A good fighter. Good for the cause. But I...”
“Hey, when your blood’s up, it’s up,” said Zanzibar, and patted her arm. “Don’t worry about it. Now come on. Pick up the cards. Let me relieve you of some of that hard-earned pay you carry in your fat purse.” He winked.
“Is that fighting talk?” smiled Jenny, breathing deep.
“Always,” smiled back Zanzibar.
~ * ~
FROM BEHIND HER cards, through the smoke, fuelled by whiskey, Jenny surveyed her squad. Many were new to each other, these men and women, and new to her - except Zanz. But she felt like she already knew them. She was also sure they had been informed about her previous squad; killed to a man on an assassination mission. It happened. What looked mildly suspicious was that she was the only one who’d survived, and she didn’t like that. Made her look like she was either a coward, or on the inside spitting out. And she was neither. Jenny licked her lips, rubbed her eyes, and rolled a fresh cigarette. Sometimes, it was better to die with your men.
“Your hand, girlfriend,” said Randy, in his effeminate voice, and Jenny grinned over at him. She’d seen Randy’s profile. Randy was tall and slim, with masses of long curly black hair. He had designer stubble and a designer uniform. Even his boots were decorated with glitter. It had led to a lot of misunderstandings, and a lot of agony - for other people. Just because Randy sounded like a squeaky girl didn’t mean he fought like one; he was an expert in martial arts and street fighting, and a dab hand with a machine gun. Maybe not a man to have in your bed, but certainly a man to have behind you in a firefight.
“Thanks.”
Randy winked at her. “Don’t let Jones worry you. He likes a bit of rough and tumble, but then don’t we all?”
“I know I do,” said Jenny.
“Ooh, saucy.”
“Why don’t you shut your hole,” growled Bull. Bull was a short stocky man with angry eyes, an angry face and so many facial tattoos they often squirmed together to form new ones, depending on the expression he pulled.
“You can fill one, if you like,” winked Randy.
Bull went red. Well, the few remaining bits of untattooed skin went red. “What have I told you, eh? What did I say about making suggestive comments? Bull doesn’t like it. Bull likes his women quiet and chunky. Bull doesn’t want an amorous relationship with a fop.”
“Oh, fop now, is it?”
“Guys,” said Zanzibar, ever the voice of reason, and Jenny realised she was actually enjoying herself. Yes, her knuckles hurt like a bitch, but Flizz, the glamorous assassin, tall and slender and beautiful, and as deadly as a striking cobra, had been down to the kitchens and brought her back two bags of frozen haranga. Flizz was quiet, shy, and with her glossy long hair and perfect make-up made Jenny feel quite dull, in her stained combat clothing and facial bruising. Still, she’d met Flizz a few years back; they’d been on the same squad for a short period.
Jenny sighed. Anyway. She’d not made a brilliant first impression on this new squad, by any stretch of the imagination.
“Right,” said Zanz. “I’m upping the stakes. Twenty.”
“Shit, I’m out,” crooned Randy, and tossed down his cards.
With a grin, Jenny laid out her own cards. “I’m out as well.” She rolled her neck, feeling tendons like steel threatening to strangle her. Randy stood and came round the table.
“Here, girlfriend, let me help you with that.” He started a slow massage, and Bull scowled at him.
“Leave her alone, you big girl.”
“You wish I was a big girl,” said Randy with a wink.
Bull snorted. “The only day I’d shag you is on the day you died,” snapped Bull.
“Ooh, Bull, don’t tempt me.” Then down to Jenny, “Ignore him. He’s a bullish brute. I, and the rest of my colleagues, are far more sophisticated. Just look around you - you never could hope for such a group of efficient military effluvia to back you up in bringing down the Bad Guys.”
Jenny usually hated to be touched by people she did not know, but the fight, and her realisation that her gung-ho approach had perhaps not been the best of early introductions, had left her wired tighter than a junkie on peppered koona jock-strap. She let Randy ease her tension. And realised, suddenly, that she missed the basics of human touch. It had been a long time. Far, far too long.
“Just don’t get any ideas,” she growled, long and low.
“All my ideas are my own,” Randy whispered in her ear.
Jenny relaxed more thanks to Randy’s questing, nudging, teasing fingers, and she found herself smoking, and drinking whiskey, and looking around the table at the other squad members. They were all at ease with each other, and seemed unconcerned that Jones had been removed from the action. Unconcerned, in fact, that Jones had not just had his head kicked in, but a knife put through his shoulder blade.
Mentally, Jenny re-scanned the metal leaves for each of her squad members. Their cell, Impurity5, was part of what the government liked to call “an illegal and violent radical terrorist cell,” “under the enfolding embrace of the greater umbrella, The Impurity Movement”. Yes, sure, Impurity had an official, legal, political and positive face to their actions; the face that went on TV and cubes and ggg, smiled for the cameras, condemned The Company for its constant illegal and repressive underhand recycling techniques, ran for government and tried - vainly, it would seem -to achieve votes. But when Impurity’s members started being randomly picked off - assassinated - and those assassinations were rumoured to be carried out by the highly illegal and dangerous Anarchy Androids, Impurity had decided to fight back with the creation of a covert paramilitary wing: cells, squads that used underhand methods - as did The Company - in its fight not for freedom, but for an end to pollution.
Impurity fought to highlight the toxic poisoning of their world; something so obvious it was in front of every member of the Manna Galaxy daily. Unfortunately, it would seem humans and aliens alike enjoyed their happy Utopia so much they would cheerily condemn Amaranth to its Toxic World status without the blink of an eye, without a thought for the dropped hot-dog carton, the frothing psycho-sud suds, and - as with everything - a constant eye on the fucking bank balance. At the end of the day, Jenny, and every other member of the Impurity Movement, knew the whole shitty corrupt process was about money. No... Money, with a capital fucking M. And that was what was so galling. If Greenstar, if The Company, did what it said it would do - recycle everything in a completely nontoxic, ethical, positive, life-affirming manner - well, then everybody would be happy. But they didn’t. They cut corners. Saved money. Pumped shit into the soil and the water. And as a result, people died.
And, Jenny knew, there was a hard core who wouldn’t stand for it.<
br />
She wouldn’t stand for it.
Which is why it pained her so much, truly, to fight somebody like Jones.
Hell. They shouldn’t be fighting each other.
They should be disintegrating The Company and its lack of ethics.
People, animals, fauna; everything on Toxicity was dying or dead. T-Day was coming. Total toxicity. Then there would be no going back; then, there would be no more time to stand up and fight and be counted. On that day, Jenny knew, it would be a good day to die.