Cloneworld - 04

by Andy Remic

"You're shitting me."

  "Nope. Fifteen years. Rising through the ranks. It was said I had exceptional skill and discipline. Then I transferred to the War Fleets. Served under General Kotinevitch, First General of Quad-Gal Military's Prime Fleet. I was her 2IC until that... unfortunate incident."

  "Ahh, the one with the planet rings? Jekyll, wasn't it called? Solar rings hit her in the face like a fucking galactic hammer. Yeah. The junks pulled a fast one there. Clever, corrupt little bastards."

  "The point is..." said Tarly, and moved so fast she was a blur, landing astride Franco, her face inches from his, a long slender stiletto dagger at his throat, poised over his jugular vein. She pricked it a little, and a trickle of blood ran past Franco's collar line, "I'm deadly."

  Unperturbed, Franco locked eyes with Tarly's dark steel gaze. She was so close, he could have kissed her. Yes, she would have cut out his voice box, but that was not really the point.

  "It's been a while since a bird pushed her tits in my face like this. You should be commended on your willingness to mix it with the common dog soldier grunts, my sweet."

  "You feel that little prick? I expect you're used to feeling little pricks, yes?" Tarly was smiling, and licked her lips, making them gleam. Her breath was sweet in Franco's face.

  "Not little ones, no. But I expect you can feel that big one."

  "Oh."

  "I'm sorry. It's just, the way you've got your legs clamped round me, er, sorry." And as Tarly was starting to apologise, she felt another blade touch her ribs. "However, this little prick," said Franco, smugly, "would drive straight through your ribs and cut your heart in half before you blinked."

  Tarly considered this. "How can you be erect and still threaten to kill me?"

  "It takes practise," admitted Franco.

  "I suppose I'd better get off you."

  "Don't rush on my account," said Franco, and grinned as Tarly stood, twirled, and sheathed her blade. She glanced down at Franco, wearing nothing more than his pyramid-shaped knife-cut combat shorts.

  "You really are a dirty, horrible little man," she said.

  Franco winked. "Hey girl, I wasn't the once forcing myself on an unsuspecting party."

  "Hmm."

  "So then?"

  "Go on."

  "Fancy a drink and a curry? I hear the InfinityChef[tm] does a fine line in Space Worm vindaloo."

  "What?" Incredulous. "With you?"

  "It's either me, or the psychotic half-metal geriatric cyborg queen from Hell."

  "Okay then. You've twisted my arm."

  "That's what I usually have to do."

  Tarly giggled then, her face breaking into sudden good humour, and she slumped down next to Franco. He poured her a dram of Scrotum's, which she downed in one. He poured her another.

  "Were you really?"

  "What? In the Suicide Squads?"

  "Yeah. I heard each mission was practically suicide. They only took on people with a certifiable deathwish. Used to recruit from the crazies; the burnouts, the psychos, the lunatics."

  "That as well," smiled Tarly, lips gleaming with whiskey.

  "So you were?"

  "Just like I said. I don't think they thought I'd last that long. I had a few... problems. But hey, don't let that ruin our evening. After all, we might be dead tomorrow."

  "Wait," said Franco, and frowned. "This mission, right here and now. That's why they sent you, right?"

  "At last! The penny drops."

  "So we're doomed to die?"

  "Only as much as the next man. I don't play the odds. I own them."

  "So I'm safe with you?"

  "I wouldn't go that far," said Tarly, and giggled again. Franco shook his head. How? his mind was shrieking. How can she be so funny, and charming, and sexy - all right she was going to cut your throat, but hey not every girl's perfect, right? - But how can she be all those things, near-perfect in every respect, except for the obviously dodgy past psychotic military career, but not every chick has it all, do they? How can she be so damn good and scrumptious, and yet display such a list of checkboxes pointing straight to the Damaged Goods aisle? Eh? I ask you? Eh?

  As if reading his mind, Tarly smiled. She touched a finger to his lips. "After all, I was the top of the league. And you only get there by stepping into Dead Men's Shoes."

  "Vindaloo?" said Franco brightly.

  "Doesn't it bother you that I'm an insane killer?"

  "Hey," said Franco, holding his hands apart and grinning, "I think even insane killers deserve happiness, right? And they don't call me Franco 'Give Sexy Insane Killers A Chance' Haggis for nothing, reet?"

  It was still dark outside when Franco awoke. He'd drunk an insane amount. He awoke in his sleeping quarters, naked except for a comedy frog thong. He quickly removed it and tried, in a familiar manner, to piece together the events leading up to his testicular incarceration in a furry frog.

  I know, he thought. I'll make myself a wee drinkie to help pass the evening as I contemplate events, and decide on further events, in order to event an event! Yay! He pulled on his army shorts and sandals, and staggered out of his sleeping quarters, into the lounge, and stood for a while swaying. Tarly was curled in pink pyjamas on a couch, snoring gently. Franco frowned. If General Tarly is there, then who - what - why am I in a furry frog thong? Oh my God? Mrs Strogger? Queen Strogger? Back for payment for my cyborg finger replacement? Oh my God!

  He flexed his metal finger. He looked around for the old cyborg, but she wasn't there.

  Hot damn and bloody bollocks! Now I definitely need a drink!

  He staggered over to the InfinityChef[tm]. The InfinityChef[tm] could conjure any food or drink in the known universe. It was an industrial model, as befitting a military class Hornet. An InfinityChef[tm] was designed to operate in any environment. It was designed to withstand a bomb blast. It was tougher than hull steel.

  Franco punched in various digits. The lights were low. The InfinityChef[tm] flickered extra lights at him, and a drink emerged. It was whiskey. Franco took a slug. It was good whiskey! Hot damn, it was good and fine whiskey! But Franco was feeling particularly anarchic, and was worried about Pippa, and worried about Mrs Strogger and the frog thong. He punched in new digits. The InfinityChef[tm] gave a buzzing noise, as if to say No.

  Franco frowned. He punched in the digits again.

  Once more, the InfinityChef[tm] gave a long buzzing noise, as if to say, Are you insane?

  "Listen," growled Franco, "if I wants a drink of extra hot vindaloo chilli whiskey, with a hint of PreSausage, then that's what I'll be bloody having! So do it, bozo."

  For the third time, the InfinityChef[tm] gave a long, low buzzing noise, as if to say, Get fucked.

  Scowling, Franco pulled free his screwdriver and prized off a panel. "Oh yeah?" he muttered, having had this problem once before when trying to order a rare Space Worm kebab. He worked on the InfinityChef[tm] for a moment, face curiously demonic in the purple glow of the ship's night-lights.

  "Okay, baby!" He prodded in the digits, and the machine buzzed, and then a glass of something slightly bubbling was delivered in the output hopper. Franco took a sip. "Wow!" he cried, as he started to choke. Through tear-streaming eyes, as he clung on to the InfinityChef[tm] for stability, as he wheezed and choked and thoroughly enjoyed the kick, he punched in more digits. "Give... me... a... bucketful..." he croaked into the microphone.

  The InfinityChef[tm] started to rock gently from side to side, buzzing and moaning, as a shiny metal bucket was duly delivered and started to fill with frothing fizzing vindaloo chilli whiskey, with a hint of PreSausage.

  "Yeah, baby," grinned Franco. He hiccupped, and took another blast. Through gritted teeth he wheezed, "They don't call me Franco 'Chef Ramsey Fiery Balls' Haggis for nothing, you know?" The Infinity Chef duly finished delivering its quota of steaming vindaloo chilli whiskey, with a hint of PreSausage (cubes of which Franco could see floating in the broth) and gave a loud honking noise, which could not be mistaken for anythin
g other than Franco Haggis - you are a fucking moron.

  Franco staggered away, holding his bucket by the handle, and heading roughly in the direction of Tarly Winters, snoring in her pink pyjamas, with a vague idea of asking her if she wanted to share a nightcap. Of chilli whiskey.

  It had to be said, Franco Haggis was grinning like a village idiot.

  Franco Haggis was panting like a diseased steam engine.

  Franco Haggis had a twinkle in his eye...

  Right up to the moment he looked down, wondering why the bucket was growing lighter in his hands, and realised the damn vindaloo chilli whiskey with a hint of PreSausage had eaten a large hole in the bottom of the bucket and he'd left a trail across the lounge floor.

  "Ah," said Franco, stopping in his tracks. "It eats through metal? Who would have thought that?"

  Franco scratched his beard. And watched the trail of vindaloo chilli whiskey eat a long crevasse into the floor of the Hornet fighter.

  "Er," he said.

  Steam rose. The floor started to buckle. Metal mesh twisted and dissolved.

  "Er, somebody?" said Franco, looking around him. "Er, I think we might have some kind of minor emergency?"

  Suddenly, the lights flicked on. Alice's voice snapped at him. "What is it? What's eating the floor?"

  "Er." Franco whistled a little tune.

  "Idiot! Answer me! Those panels are straight over the engines!"

  "Er. It could, maybe, might be a distillation of, possibly, vindaloo chilli whiskey."

  "What the hell is vindaloo chilli whiskey?" snapped Alice. Then, "It doesn't matter. Shit. Shit! Haggis, don't move. Don't blink! Don't even fart! Your evil little concoction has reached the core matrix cabling, but that stuff is... ah..."

  Franco felt Alice's presence... disappear. As if the ship's computer was frantically turning all her existing cores to solving a really bad problem. Franco whistled a little tune again. Don't worry! It'll be reet! 'Tis but a little spillage. Soon be mopped up. Soon be dabbed up. Soon be put back in the bucket and all t'will be forgotten. Yup.

  A siren screamed through the ship on full volume.

  Tarly sat up, bleary-eyed, face confused.

  Queen Strogger came clanking in from her sleeping quarters, pulling on whatever moth-eaten, ragged clothing she used to cover her wrinkled flesh and metal frame.

  Everybody stared at Franco.

  "What?" he said, shrugging and frowning, and having to shout to be heard over the alarms. "It's just a drill, right? Don't be bloody panicking!"

  The Hornet's interior contained perhaps thirty large black screens. Now, one word in glowing white letters appeared on all of them.

  Emergency, it said.

  Tarly and Strogger stared at that word. Then they turned and stared at Franco.

  "There's no problem!" he insisted, flapping his hands.

  "Alice?" shouted Tarly. "Alice?"

  Alice did not respond. It was as if she was too busy. Or maybe even disabled.

  "Er," said Franco again, and looked forlornly down at his bucket. There's a hole in my bucket, he thought miserably. I think I might just have fucked up. Just a little bit. But fucked up, all the same.

  There came a deep rumbling sound. The Hornet shuddered. Everybody looked at each other.

  "What did you do?" screamed Tarly, grabbing the forlorn Combat K squaddie by the shoulders and shaking him. Suddenly an automated ship emergency drone-voice came booming over the speakers:

  This is your crash computer speaking. Please do no be alarmed. You are about to crash. This Hornet fighter vessel, Registration LA05999ZXSPECCY200, will crash in ninety seconds. Please strap yourself into a Crash Couch. Crash foam will be deployed in sixty seconds. If you are not in a Crash Couch, full life support systems cannot be properly administered. Alice has been disabled. Her black box will be available directly via post-crash scavenge and will contain all details and coordinates necessary to coordinate a coordinated rescue operation. Please make your way calmly to the crash facility. You are about to crash. We apologise for this crash. This crash is due to unforeseen circumstances. Crash foam will be deployed in thirty seconds. Please do not panic. There is a seventy-five per cent probability you will survive this crash with all limbs. This is your crash computer speaking. We apologise for this impending crash. Thank you, and good night.

  Rushing slightly, Franco, Tarly and Queen Strogger hurried down narrow alloy corridors and strapped themselves into Crash Couches. All the time, Tarly was saying, "I don't believe it, I just don't fucking believe it, I mean, you train for these eventualities, but you never think it's going to happen to you. What happened, Franco? Where's Alice? Why were you carrying an empty bucket? What the hell is going on?"

  "I think we must have been struck be a missile," lied Franco fluently, and Tarly stared at him, teeth bared.

  "I thought this Hornet had a wealth of scanners and proximity detectors?"

  "Yeah, well," said Franco, face crafty, "it'll be one of those damn clever AI gunbots, won't it?"

  But he didn't get to say any more.

  Because at that moment the Hornet's nose dipped, the engines stalled, and it tumbled from the sky like a duck with an arse full of red-hot lead shot.

  Crash Foam v2.7 was deployed.

  And there's nothing better than a face full of Crash Foam v2.7 to really shut you the fuck up.

  Sirens screamed. Wailed. Spluttered. The Hornet was thrashing. There were a thousand clicks as crash-injectors flipped down from recesses. "Holy shit," mouthed Franco, but his voice was lost as several thousand crash-injectors hissed and squirted, filling the entirety of the Hornet's interior with Crash Foam v2.7. They were hit by the foam, locked rigid and yet floating, as it surrounded them in an instant. The Crash Foam v2.7 filled open mouths and nostrils; it plugged their ears, and the world was muffled and killed as they descended into a cool green suspension, divorced from reality. The Hornet's emergency systems had taken control. Franco breathed the weird rubbery substance, which was infused with oxygen and a sub-prapethylene agent that would sustain him in stasis for around thirty minutes...

  This was enough time to crash. In theory.

  Then Franco felt like he was in a tumble drier. He felt like he was drunk, in a boxing ring, spinning round. He felt his ears and brain bleeding. He felt his rubber head turn inside out, his brain plop from his ears, his internal organs fry in a pan of butter and garlic, his testicles rise up through his body until they parodied his tonsils so that all he could talk was bollocks... and Franco screamed through the Crash Foam v2.7 and he heard distant, million-mile-muffled screams from Tarly and Queen Strogger and, he imagined in a fantasy world on another planet, even Alice, the ship's computer.

  Shit, thought Franco.

  We're going to die.

  The world felt like putty, and Franco a pellet of dung thrashing around in slow-motion at the centre. His lungs were fit to explode, filled with a billion old smoke rings, and he coughed and coughed and coughed, and wondered what the hell was wrong with him - was he dying? Was it cancer? And he was crying in pain, a raw, sweet agony, worse than any chilli powder in his eyes, and he rolled around on the soft squidgy floor but that couldn't be right, because the floor shouldn't be soft and squidgy like that - surely? Franco coughed and coughed, coughed till he thought his lungs would come out of his mouth, only instead he disgorged a long drooling stream of melting Crash Foam v2.7, which spewed out of him like some five-course salmonella curry. Pain ran circles in his skull, and his eyes felt they were about to pop. He reached up, pulled barrels of Crash Foam v2.7 from his nostrils, and only then, only when he could breathe cool sweet fresh air, did he gasp and suck in great lungfuls and feel even vaguely human again.

  You crashed the ship, said a mocking, nagging voice in his brain.

  Like an ex-wife.

  Like an irascible student.

  You crashed the damn Hornet!

  Oh. Shit.

  Franco opened his eyes. Unnecessarily, he felt, somebody said, "He
's awake."

  The world spun around like an elastic yo-yo, until it finally settled and he felt hands helping him to sit up. It was Tarly. Her hands were strong. She looked concerned.

  "Are you okay?"

  "I'd rather be dead."

  "You certainly look it."

  "Hey, I ain't no fucking zombie," muttered Franco, and continued to cough up phlegm and Crash Foam v2.7, picking it from his nostrils and scraping it from his beard. "Where are we?" he eventually spluttered.

  It was dark. Pitch dark. Above, the heavens were a vast, sable blanket glittering with stars like crushed ice. He could smell old matrix fuel. And fire. Definitely fire. A cold wind blew, and Franco suddenly realised they were moving.

  "Where are we?" he repeated, and got to his knees and gazed about. "We're on a boat! How the hell did we get on a boat? What are we doing on a boat? We shouldn't be on a bloody boat! I mean, one minute a spaceship, next minute a boat! What's the bloody world coming to?"

  He looked around again. It was a large, inflatable, QGM emergency-issue vessel. Franco rolled his head, and his neck and shoulder muscles howled in protest. His aching body battered him like a pit-fighter. His balls felt like shrivelled pips.

  "We crashed," said Tarly, voice quiet, calm. The wind ruffled her red curls. Starlight glittered in her eyes. "Alice deployed this boat at the last moment and an S-PopBot cut us out of the Crash Foam v2.7 and dumped us here."

  Franco looked around. "Where's the Hornet?"

  "Sunk."

  "Ahh."

  Tarly gave a weak laugh, and Franco saw it in her eyes; fear. They were stranded now. Not just on the sea in a little inflatable lifeboat, but here on the planet. The only space-going vehicles allowed were QGM. And they were busy fighting a war...

  "I can't believe we crashed."

  "Must of been a missile," mumbled Franco, miserably.

  "I'm sure Alice would have seen it coming." Tarly settled back, next to Queen Strogger. In the middle of the boat were several emergency crates. The boat rose and fell on the swell of the ocean. It was cold, but not uncomfortably so if one hunkered down out of the wind.