by Andy Remic
Franco stared at them both, chewing. He considered Mrs Strogger's anger, hatred and violence. What had she said to those two helpless clone guards? Your families are from the clone vats, picked out to look like whatever deviant sexual fantasy you had on the day! Your children are slush grown puppies designed to give you a hard time! So stop your whining, you sado-masochistic maggots!
Very Holy! Har har!
"Pull the other one, General, it has bells on it."
"Really?" said Tarly, her face perfectly straight. "Mrs Strogger, this Mrs Strogger, is in fact Queen of The Org States, Ruling Monarch from Tak to Kakfuk, Seventh Deity of the Heap7 Mountains, Ruling Matriarch from the Heights of Zeg Top to the lowliest Spindlebot on the island of The Pig. Queen Strogger XXIV, stamped Strogger 7576889 from the Factory, has ruled for nearly three hundred years, and you, Franco Haggis, rescued her, you aided in her escape from Clone Terra captivity. You are a hero. No. A Hero. Your reward will be magnificent. They'll probably make you a... oh, a general!"
Franco spat a lump of sausage across the Hornet's interior. It bounced from Tarly's chest, and a FloorSuk cleaned it up with a fizz.
"That's a lot to take in," said Franco, eyes gleaming now. He'd rescued a Princess! Well, an old oil-stinking org, who wasn't strictly a Princess as such, but an old Queen, but hey-hey, he'd done something right for a damn and bloody change, and now he was up for a big reward which would no-doubt entail lots of money and drinking and sex. He frowned. "Er," he said. "This ain't no kind of trick, is it?"
"Not at all," said Tarly. "This is the Queen of The Org States. You rescued her. Okay, you didn't realise she was Royalty when you did so, but don't you see what you've done? On the one hand, you slaughtered Opera, which was a pretty dumb-ass thing to do, escalating near-peace to yet another emergency state of war. But if the gangers had executed Queen Strogger - which they probably would have done once they discovered her true identity, and certainly in a most horrific and terribly gruesome manner - there would have been all out war. Unstoppable. Non-returnable. The sort that wastes planets. You understand?"
"And I stopped it." Franco beamed. "Hmm. Yeah. But what about Pippa?" he snapped.
"I can help even the odds there," said Alice, voice soothing. "If we are to go on a mission to return Mrs Strogger to The Org States intact, and without further ganger molestation, I agree with General Winters that it must be done now. Pippa knows her mission, to reach the Slush Pits and retrieve the 3Core. We, on the other hand, have a new task - to see Queen Strogger returned to her Throne at the Strogger Palace in the capital city of Org."
"Where is Pippa?" said Franco.
"She has teamed up with her ganger, and they are crossing The Ganger mountain range. However, that gunship you saw earlier is about to make an appearance. I can help out with that situation, Franco, if you'll agree to accompany us to Org. If you agree to help us take Queen Strogger home. We need your skills. We need your... Old Magic."
Franco looked around suspiciously. "This is starting to feel like a bloody set-up," he muttered. "All three of you, in this together, are ye? Well, listen, I know Pippa can look after herself; I know she's a lot more efficient than me. But if she ends up dead out of all of this, there's no Betezh, or fucking Rainbow Pills, that'll stop me seeking out some payback. Pippa don't need me to hold her hand, but we're Combat K, we're a team, and that's what counts. Once Strogger is back on her throne, then we head straight back to pick up Pippa. Reet?"
"Agreed," said Alice, instantly.
"How long will it take to reach Org?" said Franco.
"We have to circumnavigate the band of five-kilometre-high mountains known as The Teeth; taking into consideration high-level low-speed flying to try and avoid unwanted gunbot intervention, I'd say, ooh, twenty-four hours. Until we get back to Pippa. She might even have acquired the 3Core by then."
"Yeah," grinned Tarly, "after all, she won't have you underfoot, tripping her up at every obstacle."
"What you gonna do to the gunship?" said Franco. "I've seen what their bastard miniguns can do! And it ain't nice."
Alice's voice sounded smug. "Well, you know those GASGAMs the gangers hijacked? I think I might just be able to help out there..."
Franco still wasn't happy about it. It sat badly with him. Like he was abandoning Pippa. Leaving her to die. However, they had an agreement, and the bottom line was, he'd been given new QGM orders. And orders was orders, right? Wrong! He wrestled with this internal dilemma as he thumped about his sleeping quarters, getting his kit together in a pack, tweaking the code on his PAD, checking his weapons, oiling his guns, loading his belts and jacket with ammo. He was sat on his bunk in his underpants, a screwdriver poked into the buzzing innards of his WarSuit control pack when there came a knock on the door, which slid open to reveal Mrs Strogger. Or Queen Strogger, as she was now to be known.
Franco glanced up. "What do you want, eh?"
"Listen," said the old org, shuffling in. She had reduced in size again, so that she was a wrinkled, little old lady, albeit it with mechanical legs and forearm spikes that could rip out a man's lungs. Franco appreciated that she was trying to make herself look less intimidating - which was a nice touch - but Franco had seen her fight. Even now, reduced and wrinkled, she filled him with a primeval terror.
"The thing is," said Mrs Strogger, and her voice had changed, had lost its brutality, and Franco realised it had all been part of an act, a disguise, to stop the damn gangers from discovering who she really was. Now she felt safe, she had dropped the mask. Now she was once more Queen Strogger, Ruler of The Org States. "I wanted to thank you. I wanted to give you my Royal Blessing for your aid in escaping from Clone Terra."
Franco gave a shrug, and went back to his screwdriver. In some ways, this new voice, this new persona, gave him the creeps. He'd preferred it when she kept swearing at him. "Cheers. I think it was a situation of mutual benefit, no? I wasn't working on an act of charity; it wasn't from the depths of my heart, you understand?"
"Yes," smiled the old org, "but then, they don't call you Franco 'Honest Injun' Haggis for nothing, do they?"
Franco gave her a cold grin. "Clever. Very clever."
"Merely an observation. Still, I want you to rest assured that once I reach Org and the Strogger Palace, anything you desire that I can provide will be yours. You want untold wealth? You shall have it. A palace of rubies? Yours. Concubines to make your thighs ache? For the rest of your life..."
Franco gave a lazy blink. "Hmm," he said. He'd heard promises like this before. And in Franco's experience, nice things tended to happen to other people. "Like I said. Thanks. I'll kinda believe it when I see it. And the conkybines will have to wait. Until Pippa is safe, at least. Until we have the 3Core. I have my principles, you know."
"As you wish."
Franco prodded something, which went buzz-clack and gave him a shock. "Aiee!" he squealed, as actinic sparks flickered over his hand, and he sucked at his index finger. "Little son of a bitch!"
Queen Strogger was staring at him. "I see your finger is healing. A little shorter than it was, but healing well."
"Yes. You cauterised it. That was quick thinking." Franco looked at the stump of his little finger, and wiggled it forlornly. "I'll miss that little finger. Me and that little finger, we were quite attached. I loved that little finger. It was a part of me. Like... a little finger. And now it's not. Now it's gone. I'm little-fingerless."
"Very poetic," said Queen Strogger. "I can help."
"No, no, it's okay," sighed Franco, placing his screwdriver to one side. "I mean, it looks a mess, right, all burnt and missing like that, but it's okay, I'll survive, I'll get over it. If we were at QGM HQ Central they could have grown me a new one and grafted it on; but I fear, in times of war, one squaddie's lost little finger is hardly high on their emergency operation list." He wiggled his stump. He looked very sorry for himself. It was a quite pathetic sight.
"Come here," said Queen Strogger, and she shuffled closer and grabbed Fran
co's hand.
"Aah, no, no, thanks, that's all right, I'll be all right, indeed, all right I'll be," he said.
"I can help."
"Aah, er, don't be thinking, old crone, just 'cos you're a Queen and everything, that you can take any form of sexual liberties with me, I know what it says in my file, but I'm actually a man of honour and integrity..."
An opening had opened in Queen Strogger's torso. Franco caught a glimpse of complicated machinery. A stench of hot oil flooded out, with an accompanying sound of clacking and gears and heavy chains and weights that went thump. Inexorably, Queen Strogger dragged Franco's hand towards the glowing green chasm in her own wrinkled flesh.
"Ahh, no, argh, really," said Franco.
His hand plunged into the hole, which puckered and closed around his wrist, holding him tight. Suddenly, panic welled in Franco's heart and mind and he started to struggle. Metallic limbs shot from Strogger's body and pinned him down. "Be still, be calm, this won't hurt a bit. Well, not much, anyway."
"Geddoff!" wailed Franco, struggling like a hooked maggot.
From deep within Queen Strogger's body could be heard several deep clangs. Then a ratchet sound. There were thuds, and a chugging noise like an old steam engine. Franco's eyes went wide.
"What're you doing to me? Stop it! I don't want it! Whatever you're doing, stop it now! I never asked for it! I don't want it!"
Clang. Chunk. Thunk. Whack.
"Argh no! Stobbit! Geddoff!"
Whump. Rattle. Rattle. Shring. Chump.
Steam hissed from Queen Strogger's ears, and Franco felt his little finger grasped tight and then it was hot, and it hurt, and pain raced up his hand and arm, and he squealed like a pig on a stick in a fire, but he could not move, for the mechanised org had him pinned down and held tight.
And then it was done. And gone. And over.
The orifice released Franco's hand, and in horror he dragged his shaking limb before his eyes, to see -
"Oh," he said, and frowned.
"The finest I can make," said Queen Strogger, smiling proudly.
"You, er, you gave me a metal finger," said Franco, and flexed his hand, turning it this way and that, analysing the shiny metal little finger where once had been only a forlorn stump.
"A cyborg finger," said Queen Strogger, with a bigger smile.
"Er, a what?"
"An org finger," said Queen Strogger. She patted Franco on the back, as he stared with open mouth at the cybernetic addendum to his physical shell. "It works just like your real finger did. See it as a present. For helping me escape certain death."
"Er. Yeah. Right."
"No need to thank me," she said, and started to shuffle from Franco's sleeping quarters. "Let's hope nothing else gets amputated, eh?" She laughed. "A-ha-ha-ha." Like that. As she reached the doorway. And disappeared into the Hornet's interior.
Franco looked up then. His face shone with sweat as he thought about losing another limb, some extremity, maybe something dangling, and he paled even more. "No, let's hope," he said quietly, and swallowed. Hard.
Queen Strogger's face reappeared.
"Welcome to the team," she said, smiling with her chromed teeth.
"What?"
"Well. You're one of us now. You're an org. Part man. Part machine."
All idiot, the ghost of Pippa muttered in the back of his mind. Shit. Franco was starting to miss the old girl.
And then Queen Strogger was gone.
Franco stared at the metal finger. He scowled. He grimaced. He mumbled something incoherent, then coughed a cough heavy with phlegm and the need for a strong triple-pint of whiskey.
"Fucking great," he muttered.
Alice cruised the Hornet at super-slow speeds to throw the AI gunbots off-scent. Night fell over the edge of the world. Green sunlight sparkled through the higher reaches of the atmosphere, and silence rolled over them like galactic foam.
Franco sat in one of the pilot's chairs, swinging from side to side. A bowl of PreMeat Meatballs lay untouched next to him, with some foodstuff which had been recommended by the InfinityChef[tm], but of which Franco was deeply suspicious. Was it an AI's act of retribution for all his horrible sausage orders? The InfinityChef[tm] said it was called spaghetti, in its soothing, asexual voice. Franco thought of it as stringy shit.
He poked around with his spork. The spaghetti looked like it might poke back.
Franco sighed. He poured himself another dram of Scrotum's Old Todge Clogger - Finest Single Malt. But it didn't taste good, didn't go down well (with that fiery feeling, like one was drinking undiluted hydrochloric acid), and Franco pushed his glass aside, disappointed in alcohol for once in his life.
Getting old, bro!
Getting boring. Like a fetid old goat.
"Let me show you something," said Alice.
"Amaze me."
The screen before Franco cleared, and showed a high-altitude map of the planet. There were two huge land masses, to the left and right. An ocean divided the two continents, but down the centre was a narrow vertical strip of rock containing nothing but mountains.
"What am I looking at?" said Franco, sounding bored, when no other words were forthcoming.
"This is Cloneworld," said Alice, soothingly.
Franco drank his drink. "So?"
"To the west is Clone Terra, to the east The Org States. They have been physically divided using terraforming equipment; hence the huge mountains, called The Teeth, and a ban on all manner of aeronautics."
"Aerowhatics?"
"Planes."
"Ach. Of course." He poured himself another whiskey, and started to find Alice's voice sexy. He wondered if she had an avatar. If she did, he hoped it wasn't blue, like that last one. The blue ones smelt funny. Like rotten off-marzipan. Or something.
"You see all the tiny red dots?"
"Aye?"
"Watch what happens when I accelerate."
The dots started to move, fast, homing in on the blue dot.
"Now I'll slow down again to our current cruising speed." Within moments, the dots started to disperse, moving randomly about the map.
Franco frowned. "Ahh," he said, looking wise and placing his goatee-bearded chin on the tip of his index finger. "I see. Fascinating."
"Don't you think? And that explains our current velocity."
"What does?"
"What I just showed you."
"What did you just show me?"
Alice sighed with the patience of tectonic movement. "The blue dot is us. The red dots are the AI gunbots. When we increase velocity, they detect our speed and start to home in on our location. We slow down, to what is effectively a snail's pace, and they no longer track us. So it's not so much aerial targets they detect, but speed greater than that capable on land. Within reason."
"Fascinating," said Franco, face blank. "So. Fucking. What."
"It means we do not have to relinquish our flight; merely our speed."
"Let's hope we don't have an emergency then, eh?" If he could have, he would have slapped her on the back. But she didn't have one. So he didn't.
Franco was just about to ask, Hey Alice, have you got one of those avatar things? Even a blue one? It's been a while, you see, when Tarly Winters entered the recreation quarters behind the cockpit. Franco watched her over his glass. She wore a black uniform, with glittering silver insignia, and black boots. Her red hair was tied back tight, accentuating her high, beautiful cheekbones, and her eyes glittered cold, like frozen hydrogen.
"You all right, Killer?" said Franco.
Tarly gave a cold smile, and moved through to the cockpit. "Not so bad, Fat Boy."
"Hey," said Franco, cupping his rotund belly, "it's all muscle."
"Better there than in your head," smiled Tarly, sweetly.
"I might be fat," said Franco, "but I'm happy and I have morals. Not like some of the high-ranking military scum you find kicking around the universe." He glanced sideways at Tarly. "Makes you wonder how some people sleep a
t night."
Tarly shrugged. "I sleep just fine."
"You are a bitch," said Franco.
"Don't ever forget it," smiled Tarly.
"Must get lonely?" ventured Franco.
"Not really," said Tarly, and seated herself in a pilot's chair. She started punching digits into the console.
"Not even a bit? I mean, we all know what it's like with you general-types and high-fliers, standing on the fingers and toes of all your friends on your way up the shit-slippery pole of the ziggurat. What's that saying? The toes that you step on when you're on your way up, will be the same ones kicking you in the face on the way down. Heh. I like that saying. Reminds me of a few people I know. Ones I kicked, that is."
"It's unlikely," said Tarly, glancing at Franco.
"What? The fact that you might slide down the pole, or the fact that your ex-friends will be kicking you in the chops on your meteoric accelerating descent?"
"Neither. Because I didn't leave any enemies behind."
"What happened to them?"
"They're all dead," said Tarly, softly.
"A lot of, er, unlucky groundcar accidents, I expect? Yachting accidents round the Rings of Pluto? Accidentally bathing in tubs of Perushian yoghurt acid, perhaps?"
"Franco Haggis. Do you actually know what department I worked in on my toe-stepping rise to the higher ranks of Quad-Gal Military? Have you any concept of who you're dealing with?"
"Let me guess. You spent a few years cleaning out the industrial bean bins? Wait, wait, don't tell me! You gave a couple of Fleet Admirals an admirable blowjob when their wives were on the latrine? Wait, wait, it's knocking me out, this, what a game! I suspect you might have bent over a few battalions and fucking give it them violently from behind."
"I worked the Suicide Squads," said Tarly, quietly.
Franco paused, which was impressive, because it usually took at least a right hook, and more often than not a pistol-butt to the back of the head to halt Franco in mid-rant. He stared hard at Tarly.