by Andy Remic
"I always get the job done," said Franco, and took a seat next to Tarly. He eyed her up and down, crafty-like, a technique most men employed. Only Franco wasn't that crafty. The whiskey made an idiot of his brain; made him grin like a Cheshire Cat.
"I've looked at your QGM sheet."
"Yeah, and full of shit that's likely to be. As full of shit as a pint of Scrotum's Old Todge Clogger - Finest Single Malt."
"Not so." Tarly tilted her head to one side. "It made for some... interesting reading. Made for some hilarious damn reading, if I'm brutally honest. I mean, Melanie divorced you? How the hell did that happen?"
"Hey, laugh it up. The rest of the fucking army have."
"I'm not laughing, Franco. I think she just didn't understand and appreciate your masculine side. I mean, any more macho and you'd be joining The Village People, right?"
Franco eyed Tarly warily. "Okay. Come on. What's the game?"
"No game." Tarly smiled. "I'm just... intrigued. You intrigue me. Believe me, I've waded through the paperwork of entire battalions. You, however, stand out as a true conundrum. As you say, you're wild and weird, but strangely, you always seem to get the job done."
"I just am what I am. There's no secrets here. What you see is what you get. I'm exactly what it says on the tin."
"And what's that?"
Franco shrugged, and hit the InfinityChef[tm], which obediently delivered him a pint of frothing Guinness, complete with sculpted shamrock atop the creamy head. Franco sipped it, giving him a moustache atop his goatee beard. He stroked his beard thoughtfully. "You're the one with the qualifications, General. You tell me. After all, I'm just a grunt."
"No. You're Combat K," she said, and untied her long curls, allowing them to tumble across her shoulders. "But anyway. Let's talk about something else."
"Such as?"
"Keenan. Tell me about Keenan."
"Aah, so that's the game you're playing," said Pippa, leaning against the doorway. In her hand was a battered Techrim 11mm, which had once belonged to Zak Keenan - Pippa's lover, and Pippa's nemesis. "Here to sniff out what happened down on Sick World, are you?"
"I read the reports," said Tarly, softly.
"But you don't believe them," smiled Pippa. She played distractedly with the gun. "Well, General. What I'd say to you is, what we wrote in the QGM Post-Mission reports is exactly what actually happened. Take it or leave it. There are no other answers to give."
"And that's your reply?" said Tarly, shifting her gaze to Franco. He gazed into her beautiful eyes. He licked his lips nervously. Here was a dangerous woman. Here was the most dangerous woman of all: one he desperately wanted... which pretty much summed up anything that walked or crawled.
"Err..."
"Yes, it is," snapped Pippa. "Now I'd ask you for a bit of privacy. Me and Franco need to talk."
"No problem," smiled Tarly, standing, and for a moment showing a tantalising amount of pale thigh. Then her black nightdress fell into place, and Franco swallowed, and somehow the fact she was fully covered was a million times worse. She moved to the doorway.
Franco coughed, an over-deep, masculine, macho cough. "Er, yes, well, thanks for the chat Tarly, we'll be seeing you around."
"Yes, Franco," she smiled. "I'll be seeing you around."
She disappeared and Franco gawped, and then went cross-eyed as the barrel of the Techrim 11mm touched the end of his nose. "I ain't even fucking with you," snarled Pippa, "when I say that if you speak about Keenan, even one fucking word, I'll shove this gun so far up your arse you'll be coughing bullets."
"Yeah, and I'm sure Keenan would like you to arse-render me with his favourite 11mm, for sure."
"It's just a warning, Franco. Just a warning."
"I don't need your warnings. I have my own in-built warning systems. Like, er, whiskey. And sausage. And, er, using my brain. I can use my brain you know! I know you think I can't use my brain, and it's something that's overrated, but I can use my brain when I need to use my brain!"
"Quite," said Pippa, removing the gun and gazing down at it, lovingly.
Franco drank his pint. In one. And smacked his lips. "You miss him. Don't you?"
"I miss him," nodded Pippa, and there were tears on her cheeks. "When he stepped into... when he was absorbed into VOLOS, in return for the information leading us to the Junkala Soul - well, I know what he was thinking, I know he felt guilt, like the weight of a planet resting across his shoulders. He wanted to see his dead girls again, travel beyond the realms of life and seek them out. See if there was something beyond."
"He didn't die," said Franco, softly, reaching out and placing his hand over Pippa's.
"Yes, but he isn't fucking here!" she snapped. "It was a one-way journey. He gave away his body, his flesh, his soul - to that thing. That eternal creature! Well, I'm telling you, Franco, one day I'm going back for him - when all this, all this shit is over and done with. One day I'm going back to VOLOS and he'll given me Keenan back, or I'll destroy the whole fucking planet trying."
Franco thought about this. Pippa's hand was warm under his. Comforting. It felt good to have human contact again. Felt good to have a connection with a woman.
"He did what he did for the greater good. And I also think he'd had enough, you know? Enough of the struggle. Enough of the fight. These are hard times we're living through, Pippa. Savage times."
"I know that, Franco." She softened. Then she hardened again. "But I swear, if you tell that Tarly bitch anything..."
"Hey! Trust me!" Franco grinned. "They don't call me Franco 'Perfect Trust' Haggis for nothing, you know!"
"They don't call you that at all." She grinned at him. "We've been through some shit together, haven't we?"
"Sure, sweetie." He squeezed her hand.
"Fancy a walk outside?"
"In the mountain air? Don't mind if I do."
"I'd put some clothes on first, though. Might be a bit chilly."
"Ha! Yes!"
Five minutes later, they trotted down the ramp. Night had fallen, and three moons sat at varying degrees on the horizon, two white and one blue. Blue light sparkled on snow, and a cold wind whipped down from the peaks as Franco and Pippa walked across the barren rocks, and stood staring down from the edge of the plateau.
"It's beautiful," said Pippa.
"Bloody freezing, is what it is," said Franco, ice riming his beard.
"Come here." Pippa put her arms around his waist, and they stood for a while, hugging, sharing their body-heat. Moonlight spread in mercury pools across the vast landscapes beyond, and below, stretching for mile after mile, reared mountains and rocky slopes, towering crags and sheer chimneys. Pippa and Franco watched The Gangers under pastel moonlight, and it was rarely that either had seen anything quite so beautiful.
"Much as I love you pressing against me," said Franco after a while, "I think I'm in serious jeopardy of my nuts retreating so far into my body they'll be Missing in Action. Or No Action, as the case may be."
Pippa turned. "Gods, look at the ship! That WormMek Missile sure made a mess of it."
They stared for a while at the damaged rear end of the Fast Attack Hornet. Huge struts emerged from the ship's arse, and the whole rearward bulk was a jagged, shattered mess filled with molten scars and scorch marks. As Pippa and Franco watched, the tiny PopBot repair modules buzzed and skimmed about, welding and sparking, disappearing into the long dark spaces and reappearing in bright flashes, and carrying out other essential repairs. It was like watching a hive of buzzbees, or a nest of mutt ants.
"Busy busy busy," said Pippa, lips compressed.
"I'm going in for a whiskey. You joining me?"
Pippa looked up at him. She smiled, a genuine smile of warmth and friendship. "Yeah, Franco. Don't mind if I do."
Pippa followed Franco up the ramp, and as he disappeared into the gloom of the hold she stopped, and turned, and gazed out over Clone Terra, over Cloneworld. In the distance, artillery boomed. Tiny flickers, like fireworks, but she
knew from experience they were tracer and explosions. People fighting. People dying. Dying, massacred in the mud. She shook her head, lips compressed, and followed Franco into the darkness.
It was later. Much later.
Both Franco and Pippa were draped over SlumCouches, which moulded to your shape to mimic every whim and desire. Drinks were in hand, lips were wet, eyes were glazed. Mrs Strogger had popped in for a chat after her oil bath, and was looking... younger. Still a cyborg, metal machine parts gleaming and making both Pippa and Franco feel just that little bit uneasy - conscious that with machine elegance, she could reach out and rip off their heads - but they tried not to let that worry them. After all, she had helped rescue Franco. And they still had the resources to fulfil their half of the bargain of returning her to The Org States.
Provided Alice managed to fix the Hornet. It didn't bear thinking about what would happen if she couldn't...
"You know what?" laughed Pippa, swirling her glass around, "I still can't believe you did it."
"Did what?"
"That mission. I thought you'd, y'know," she hiccupped, "screw it up."
"Hey! I might have an odd way of going about things, but they don't call me Franco 'Gets The Job Done' Haggis for nothing, reet? I said, reet?"
"Ha! I suppose they don't."
They sat in the gloom, with only purple Eezeelights flickering through the air, supposedly calming their collective mood. Franco watched Pippa fill her glass for a fifth time, then looked at his own. It was still full. For once in her life, Pippa was out-drinking him. He growled something, and decked the whiskey in one. "Can't be having that," he muttered, and held out his glass for a refill. Pippa filled it, then spilled some over the edge and across his combat shorts.
"Ach, Pippa, you sloppy lass."
"Your groin was in the way." She giggled.
"You're drunk."
"Wish I was," she said, and waved her glass around, catching the purple lighting. "Have you ever been in love?"
"Lots of times," grinned Franco. "With all sorts of laydees."
"No, no, properly, you dickhead, have you properly been in love? You know, where somebody expands to fill your life, fill your world, and you become a lost, whimpering puppy, willing to do anything for them. You lose your edge, er, you lose your fire. You lose all ability to think straight, or to follow your own senses; it's like drowning in honey and time no longer has any real meaning. Do you know what I'm talking about?"
"Yeah, Pippa. I know exactly what you mean."
"I miss Keenan, Franco."
"I miss him as well, sweetie."
"Do you know what today is?"
"Go on?"
"You mean you don't know?"
"Surprise me."
"It's the anniversary of the deaths of Keenan's wife and girls, Rachel and Ally."
Franco chewed his lower lip, and wondered how best to progress. This was not easy territory. This was territory likely to get him shot. Or skewered. Or both. Best proceed with caution. Best keep big flapping mouth shut.
"I didn't know that," said Franco, and rubbed at his eyes. He watched Pippa refill her glass. Again.
"I killed them! Apparently. Did you know that?" She gestured hard with her glass, and whiskey slopped down her black shirt and combats.
"I know you were implicated," said Franco, carefully. "You said you'd been wrongly accused. You had no recollection of that night."
"But Keenan fucking believed it!" she hissed. Then laughed. "He almost killed me over that one. Several times. Tried his damned best. He hunted me for a while, did you know that? Of course you know that. You probably helped the motherfucker..."
"Pippa, I never hunted you," said Franco, softly. He sat up. Reached forward. Touched her hand.
"Get off!" she hissed, her hand snapping back, a blur. "What, you after another cheap fuck?"
"No," said Franco, meeting her gaze. "I'm here to listen. And to understand."
Pippa brooded for a while, head hung low, then looked up, face lost in shadows, eyes hooded and dark, probably one of the most menacing and dangerous creatures Franco had ever seen.
"It was a clone. Apparently." She laughed. It was a bitter laugh.
Franco nodded. Said nothing. He watched for a while as Pippa finished her drink, a range of emotions crossing her face like clouds across a stormy sky. Then, she slipped eerily into the ooze of unconsciousness.
Franco sipped his drink, but no amount of alcohol could touch him.
He thought about Keenan.
He thought about Pippa.
He thought about the junks, and their spreading evil and violence and how they, he, might have a chance at stopping them. By reverting them into something other than a race of psychopathic, warmongering aliens.
Franco finished his drink, and stood, and stretched. He placed his glass down with a clack. "Come on, little lady," he said, and stooping, picked Pippa up in his arms. She was surprisingly light, considering her strength and iron, and Franco carried her down the corridor. Her hair was in his face, and it smelt good. He shifted to the right, and her skin glowed, and this, too smelt good.
"No," he growled, and lifted his head, and carried Pippa's lithe form through to her sleeping quarters. The door closed behind him with a tiny click. He laid her out on the bed. There. Beautiful. A goddess.
Franco sat down next to her, and gazed at her face.
In sleep, she was younger. Carefree. The lines of stress and iron were gone. She looked like... looked like any ordinary beautiful young woman. Franco traced a line down her face with his finger, and sighed, recognising how truly complex she was - inside her skull. An emotional wreckage. A social misfit. A psychological conundrum.
"Mmm?" she said, and her eyes fluttered open. "Franco?"
"I put you to bed."
"Thank you."
"My pleasure."
"Come here."
"Now wait a minute..."
She grabbed him, stronger than him, and pulled him down into a kiss. A long, lingering, gentle kiss. Then she rolled over, and started to snore gently, fingers twisting through the thin silk sheets.
Franco got up, stepped out into the corridor, and closed the door behind him - with an act of iron will.
"Hot damn and bloody bollocks," he muttered, shaking his head. "I need another drink!"
Franco awoke, groggy in his airblankets, and yawned a long, long yawn. Gods, that feels good. Good to sleep so deep. Good to have good dreams. Good to feel so... fresh! He thought back to the previous night. To Pippa. And whereas one side of him, an old side of him, would have said shit that's an opportunity for love wasted, and a real chance to piss Pippa right the hell off, another side of him, a new, mature side of him, thought, it was the right thing to do, a good thing to do. She's damaged goods. She needs some loving. Not Franco Big Boy loving, but real loving...
Franco sat up, and stretched, and froze.
Pippa sat cross-legged on the end of his bed, one of her yukana swords across her lap. Her face was down, eyes hidden, body tense. Franco was instantly fired with warning screams. This was not a good situation. This screamed murder...
"Er..." he said.
"What happened?"
"Nothing."
"Liar."
"I most certainly am not," snapped Franco.
"You could have done anything."
"I could have done anything, yes, and chose to do nothing, ya idiot. You got drunk. You talked about Keenan. I put you to bed. End of. And if you don't believe me, go ahead, cut my fucking head off. I'm sick of being the underdog. Sick of being labelled unfairly. I am" - he puffed out his chest, quite a feat from a sitting position in bed - "a newly baptised honourable man!"
"So nothing happened?"
"Well, you kissed me."
There was a hiss as yukana cleared scabbard. Pippa's head came up. Her eyes were glowing.
"And that was it. I love you, Pippa. And yeah, giving you a good old Franco-time is very high at the top of my sexual fantasy wi
sh-list, but believe me, taking it like that - no, not even an option, love."
"Bullshit."
"Why?"
"Because... because I fucking know you, Franco! I know what a sexual deviant you are! I know the places you've been, the things you've done, the aliens you've done..."
Franco met Pippa's gaze. He smiled. A warm, friendly smile. "Trust me," he said, simply.
Pippa suddenly frowned and leapt from the bed, holding up her hand. "Something's wrong."
"Wrong?"
"Outside."
Pippa padded through the ship, Franco following in his underpants. Pippa moved down the ramp, out into a fresh, crisp, wild morning breeze blowing through the mountains and carrying the smell of snow.
Franco stood at the top of the ramp, bemused, as Pippa moved onto the rock plateau and stood, sword at the ready, second yukana sheathed on her back. She was rigid, poised, readying for combat.
"Is she feeling alright?" he muttered.
"My analysis is that she has a bad hangover," said Alice, voice soothing.
Tarly appeared behind Franco, yawning, red curls tousled, skin sleep-warmed. She looked at Pippa, then to Franco. "Something I need to know about, soldier?"
"Er, Pippa going slightly mad? Stuff this, you fancy joining me for a coffee?" But even as he spoke, there came a tiny noise, a scattering of loose stones over icy rock, and a figure climbed into view. It was tall, lithe, clad completely in black. He, or she, wore a mask covering the entire face, and like Pippa, carried two yukana swords.
"Alice?" said Tarly. "Early warning signals are important, yes?"
"This creature is not registering on any scanners."
"Impossible," snapped Tarly.
"Fact," said Alice.
Franco sighed and cracked his knuckles. "I'll go and get my guns, shall I?" he said. "It's always the bloody same. You're just about to have breakfast and sexy chit-chat with a beautiful, scantily clad General of Quad-Gal Military, when some baddie comes along to ruins your morning's free juicy entertainment."
Pippa turned. "No! This is my fight."
"How'd you reckon that one, love?" frowned Franco.