by Andy Remic
Within moments, Horace was lost in the crowds.
~ * ~
HORACE LIVED IN a big white house on a hill. The house overlooked a vast surrounding countryside, which constituted flowing, waving keeka grasses and red-leaf woodland. The expansive grounds of the house were marked by a clear boundary, a high stone wall topped with black iron spikes. The drive was guarded by high iron gates which could be controlled remotely from the house, and on the stone pillars there was a marked absence of an intercom. Horace did not welcome visitors. Horace did not like visitors. Horace did not welcome anybody.
The house, which went by the name of the Nadir, was a good hundred kilometres from the nearest village, and nearer two hundred from the nearest city. The only access to the imposing white-walled residence was up a narrow dirt track guarded on either side by dangerous lakes and overhanging, sharp-thorned trees. The land surrounding Horace’s home was not a welcoming place. It was the sort of location chosen by a dedicated recluse.
The seasons had shifted, an almost imperceptible slide from autumn to winter. On this cold, crisp morning, the lawns were peppered with ice crystals and a cold pastel sun hung low against a sky as broad as infinity.
Horace stepped from the side entrance, and shivered. Silka, his pet shifta, slunk over to him and wrapped herself between his legs, much the same way as an affectionate cat would. Her long tail tickled his calves and he smiled, bending down, picking her up in one hand. She purred, wide orange eyes watching him as her almost serpentine body curled around his hand, six legs with their little hands gripping him lightly.
“You catch anything?”
“Of course,” said Silka.
“So the hunting’s good?”
“At this time of year, the hunting is always good.” She smiled, and her face was almost human. Almost.
“Come on, climb down. I have work to do.”
“The shed?”
“Yes, the shed.”
Silka leapt from her master’s fist and slunk off into the auburn autumn grass. She disappeared immediately, engaging her chameleonic colour-shifting abilities and, as usual, Horace spent a good minute searching for her, without success. Despite Silka’s size - about that of a ferret - Horace knew she was one of the most deadly hunters on the planet. Her sharp teeth could easily rip out a man’s windpipe, and coupled with her near invisibility and human intelligence, she would make a deadly adversary for any organism. Luckily, she was mostly interested in hunting small rodents. Well, today, anyway.
Horace walked across the gravelled drive, boots crunching, breath smoking, and stopped to look at his shed. It was a large, rough-timbered affair which Horace had built himself. He stared at it proudly, analysing its odd angles and imperfect planking. Silka had constantly derided him for his limited carpentry skills, but Horace simply nodded, watching his shed grow and expand and become... complete. If truth be known, he revelled in the fact that it was imperfect. It had to be imperfect. He wanted it to be imperfect. Every angle was slightly different. The frame was not square. The roof slope was a different elevation on each side. Most of the frame and indeed the covering boards were of modest, unequal length.
It has to be uneven, distorted, warped. Because that’s the way I am. Deep down inside.
Horace worked hard in the cold morning air, sawing fresh planks to line the back wall, and nailing them in place. Sweat dropped down his face and he stripped off his heavy shirt, the top half of his naked, wiry body showing a heavy slew of twisting, swirling tattoos. There were no distinct images; just patterns, almost random swirls and arcs and spikes.
Horace was just completing the rear wall, covered in a second skin of fine sawdust and sweat, when he heard the heavy drone of a large engine. He knocked up the last plank with three accurate, hefty swipes of the hammer, removed several nails from between his lips and moved to his shirt, pulling it on and deftly fixing the buttons. Only then did he turn and look out from his hilltop vantage.
It was a large black 4x4, sweeping along the narrow track at a dangerous rate of knots. Horace moved to the shade of the large white house, leant with his back to the wall and placed his hands in his pockets.
The car halted, and waited, engine running, exhaust fumes pluming. After a few moments Horace asked, voice quiet, “Who is it?”
“The Fat Man,” said Silka, materialising; drifting into view as if phased into reality by a gradual analogue dial.
“He has a new car.”
“Yes.”
“Let him in.”
Horace ignored the gates swinging open, and set about tidying his tools into a large black toolbox. The car growled up the long gravel drive, tyres crunching, blackened windows showing the reflection of the white house. It stopped to one side, and the engine cut out. The door opened, and the Fat Man stepped out, his huge frame almost too much even for the vast 4X4.
“Horace!” boomed the Fat Man, and strode mightily forwards, hands outstretched, a big smile on his big face. His hair was black and shaggy, his shoulders broad, his belly huge, his legs like sturdy tree trunks.
“Fat Man,” smiled Horace, encompassed by the embrace, and not for the first time he acknowledged Fat Man’s prodigious strength. Yes, he was fat; but it was a layer of fat over a rock-hard, iron-ridged, muscle core. He had been underestimated many times by lesser men.
“It’s been a while,” said Fat Man. “The Company has missed you!”
“Yeah, well. I work when there is work to be done. You changed your car. That’s a shame. I liked your old car. It had... character.”
“Ach, she met with a large accident. Unfortunately, there were two bad men in the boot as she went over a cliff. You know how it is.”
“Yes,” said Horace, face registering no emotion.
“A drink?” suggested Fat Man.
“Of course. Come in. I’ll get Jemima to rustle up something to eat.”
Fat Man grinned and rubbed his hands together. “Good,” he said.
~ * ~
THEY SAT ACROSS from one another. Horace’s house was decorated with sparse but expensive taste. He had white pash ornaments placed strategically on puf-watch puf-stands. The carpets were seaweed and edible. The furniture was bombool crack coca cane, and glittered orange.
The Fat Man finished his third piece of black slab cake, and licked his fingers noisily, dusting crumbs off himself and smiling at Horace. “The Company has a job for you.”
“I am ready,” he said.
Fat Man reached inside his suit, and pulled out a sheaf of metal leaves. He laid them out on the table, shifting the cake plate with a scraping sound, and brushing aside a few more crumbs from his expensive trousers.
“Greenstar Agency is having a few... problems.”
Horace gave a little shrug. “They’re always experiencing a few problems.” He gave a tight smile. “That’s the nature of your business. That’s why you employ me. It’s why I exist.”
“The Company thinks you’re a little too... high profile, at the moment. Here on Earth. So we have another option for you.”
“Go on.”
“On Amaranth, which you know is our principal recycling facility, there has been ‘an escalation of violence.’ An increased number of bombings and attempted sabotage of various facilities.”
“I know. I saw reports in the papes and on ggg. The whole of Manna knows this.”
“What’s not being reported is the success rate of these bastards. You know what The Company is like; even if the bastard ECO terrorists wiped out our entire HQ with a Q Bomb, we’d put it down to rats in the cabling, a glitch in the matrix, and weather it out until our repair squads got us at least superficially up and running. You know how it is.”
“I do,” said Horace, and broke off a corner of cake. At the same time, he touched the metal leaves before him, eyes scanning the data, the pictures, the statistics, the gathered intel.
“These ECO terrorists have five operational squads,” he observed.
“Yes. And becaus
e of the poor living conditions on Amaranth, they’re recruiting more and more to their ‘cause’ all the time.”
“Why don’t they leave?”
“You know what these freaks are like. It’s their homeland, ancestors buried under the ground, blah blah. The fact is, until Greenstar arrived, the planet was a backwater shit-hole, a no-place for hillbilly redbollock rednecks. The Company brought jobs and education.”
“And toxicity,” said Horace, showing a rare smile.
“Don’t you fucking start. Everybody knew the deal when they signed.”
Horace held up a hand. “Hey. I don’t care. You pay me, I do the job. I leave the politics to the... politicians.”
“So. That’s where you come in.”
“Oh? I thought I’d be going after the ECO terrorists.”
“No. There has been a leak from the Green House. One of The Company’s own directors is pissing out intel to the ECO nuts, giving them access codes, handing out military-grade weapons and explosives like it’s candy at a little girl’s party. It’s a fucking political nightmare. We need you in there. Fast. A clean kill. No witnesses. You know the score. We don’t know which director - yet. But we have a location of leaked and uploaded files. Rather than send in the pigs - well, we thought we’d send in you.”
“When do I leave?”
“We’ve got you booked on a Shuttle. As a tourist.”
“A tourist? Tourists go to the Toxic Planet? What are they hoping to see?”
“You tell me, pal,” said Fat Man. “How long do you need to sort your shit?”
“Ten minutes.” Horace stood, lifting the metal leaves with him. “You go and warm the car. I’ll get my case.”
“Good. The Company will owe you one if you pull this off.”
“I’ll pull it off,” said The Dentist, face straight, eyes staring straight ahead. “I always do.”
~ * ~
NEVER LOSE YOUR temper.
Horace was sat on the Shuttle in a casual suit with black shiny shoes, listening to the argument behind him. Two half-drunk shebangs wearing spotted shirts and too-tight shorts had been sneaking cheap voddie into plastic cups and fumbling with each other under the blankets. They were caught by a Shuttle stewardess, who tried to confiscate the voddie, and an argument ensued:
“You’re not having it!” the male shebang said, facial tentacles waving.
“Sir, it’s company policy that you do not bring liquor aboard Greenstar Shuttles. We have an adequate drinks trolley where you can buy the beverage of your choice.”
“Yeah, at your over-inflated prices!”
“That’s not the point,” said the stewardess. “Rules are rules. Now... give me the bottle.”
There were sounds of a scuffle.
The male shebang was growling something incomprehensible, and as Horace stood up and turned, the female lurched upwards, eyes on him. She pointed in his face. “Don’t get involved, shitbag!”
Horace hit her with a right straight on the feeding tube, so hard it would have dropped a horse. It certainly dropped the female shebang, whose alien head folded in on itself for protection, leaving nothing but a tennis-ball-sized mini-head.
Horace turned to the male. “Are you going to give up the voddie, you cheap little shit? Or shall I pop your inflatable head as well?”
“Bastard!” he shrieked. “Bastard, bastard, bastard!” and leapt at Horace, who dodged a slapping tentacle with ease, dropped his shoulder, then cracked him with a right hook that could have felled an elephant. As the shebang hit the ground, there was a hissing sound and fluid pissed out, and his head deflated into a miniature head.
“Oh, thank you, sir! Security are just arriving now! But thank you, thank you for stepping in!” “
Horace, who was still staring at the shrivel-headed aliens, shrugged. “What a strange defence mechanism,” he said, frowning, then looked at the stewardess. He gave her a nod. “My pleasure, ma’am,” he smiled, and knew by the look in her eyes that he was going to be very well looked after on the Shuttle voyage.
~ * ~
IT WAS RAINING at the Shuttleport in Bacillus Port City, Toxicity’s capital. They flew in low through heavy rainclouds which sounded like thunder on the Shuttle’s hull. Horace watched the vast sprawl of the grim, dark, polluted city hove into view. It was like an architect’s nightmare, a vision of Hell and a toxic wasteland, all rolled into one. It was rumoured to be the most poisoned city on the planet, but Horace doubted it. He’d read the files. However, it wasn’t called Bacillus for nothing and he welcomed the fine antibacterial spray which constantly emanated from the Shuttle’s CleanBeing WishYouWell ConstaDecontaminate System.
As the spacecraft touched down, stubby legs groaning and creaking into suspension housings, the rain eased off. Horace made his way into the connection umbilicals and along endless corridors filled with... space. Lots of space. As if Amaranth had once had a booming tourist industry, but now only catered for a dribble of curious visitors. Which was probably a good analogy, thought Horace, as he collected his single case and stepped through immigration. A toxic dribble. Pus from the overflow pipe.
He showed his Quad-Gal passport, several other papers, and walked across gleaming tiles, his boots clicking, until he stepped out into the fresh air of Bacillus Port - although the air wasn’t very fresh. It stank like a rancid corpse.
“Hmm,” said Horace, and moved to a nearby taxi rank. All the taxis were hover models, as if by refraining from the use of wheels they might somehow halt the spread of contagion across the planet. Doubtful, when they welcomed it in by the billion-tonne tanker-full.
As he relaxed back in the hover taxi, the driver growled, “Where to, Mister?”
“Bacillus Hilton, good sir.”
The taxi moved from the rank and the rain started again, hammering down, gushing black through crap-filled gutters. A thick snake of commuters hurried down pavements, their silver shining umbrellas up-spraying black tox water at one another. There came many curses, and several fist fights on the pavement as people pushed and shoved, jostled and hassled. It made for grim watching.
Lights flickered across Horace’s pale white face, as they sped through the narrow streets of Amaranth’s capital.
~ * ~
HORACE WALKED THROUGH the night, his suit drenched through with toxic rain, his gloved hands carrying a slick wet briefcase. Horace liked the rain. In the rain, the majority of people became invisible, heads down, scurrying, thinking only of getting out of the rain; of keeping dry and getting home for that hot mug of cocoa or dram of whiskey juice. Horace gave a brief smile; a flicker across his lips. Yes. The rain was good. It distracted people. Made his job easier to carry out. Much, much easier.
His boots waded through mud as he walked up the edge of the road. He was on the outskirts of Bacillus Port now, and the dark night sky, lit only by a few green stars, contained a corrugated horizon, a serrated skyline of a thousand factories, towers, cooling humps and reprocessing plants. Many were privately owned, companies having jumped on the “recycling” bandwagon trailblazed by Greenstar, and indeed, fed down crap by Greenstar in their capacity of appointing sub-contractors. But Greenstar were the Masters. This was their planet of crap, and they would never let go their stranglehold and monopoly.
The Fat Man had misled Horace a tad. Horace found this annoying, but he internalised the situation and dealt with it. The Fat Man had said a director of Greenstar was feeding information and pass codes to the ECO terrorists; he’d never said which one, but they were “on it.” Well, no new intel had come through. And the problem with that was that there were a lot of directors. Greenstar had turned the entire planet of Amaranth into a waste zone, a dead zone, a planet of rubble and tox and broken glass. There were whole cities that were factories dedicated to reprocessing; nearly the entire population worked the factories. This was an industry based on waste. A hive of shit, the leftovers from a hundred thousand planets all brought here to be reformed into something positive. Or so the
advertising spiel went.
Lirridium.
A New Fuel for a New Space Age! Created Entirely From Your Waste!
Yeah. Right.
Greenstar had no less than nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine directors. So Horace’s task was a little more difficult than first envisioned. The directors were organised into a tier which shuffled up and down due to performance - presumably, financial performance. Greenstar was one of the most financially buoyant companies in the entire Four Galaxies.
There were five tiers. Horace would start in the middle. Horace liked the middle. The bottom tier or two would contain the slackers and the useless. The top two tiers, admittedly, would contain the best; but also the complacent, the wealthiest, the most heavily protected. But the middle tier! Ahh, the middle tier would have the fighters, the scrappers, those with the most knowledge and data; for knowledge and data were key in screwing and clawing and biting your way to the top.