by Andy Remic
They started down the huge, sloping, rocky descent, moving quicker than they would have liked. Boots squealed on shale and granite, slate and scree, and they spent the last hundred metres half running, half sliding through a sea of loose black stones. Hands out for balance, they were like surfers in the velvet of night, riding the mountain to its final rocky floor.
Pippa's clone moved towards the wreckage of the gunship, broken and bent, like a child's toy after a tantrum with an iron bar. Fires burned, too bright against the blackness, glittering from scarred alloy. The clone glanced nervously at the huge gunbots, which stood, one on either side of the ravaged gunship. They were motionless sentinels.
Pippa's clone halted fifty metres away, and Pippa came up beside her. They surveyed the wreckage, and watched the two gunbots watching them back.
"If they wanted us dead, it'd be a real short fight," growled Pippa. She looked the gunbots up and down - realising how huge they were close up. Thirty feet in height, they were skilfully crafted from a black alloy not unlike the yukana swords, or the QGM-created AI GG machines used for so many thankless tasks across the Four Galaxies. Despite being functional, the gunbots were sculpted. They looked modern, sleek, and despite occasional scarring on their robotic shells, they were in prime condition. Each one carried a personal arsenal of weaponry and Pippa knew, from reading specsheets years ago during a particularly dull training day in a huge room full of plastic chairs and free cakes and coffee, that the AI gunbots could scavenge, self-repair, and self-improve, and held detailed files on all manner of engineering and weaponry. They were awesome machines, not just useful as mobile self-propelled intelligent anti-aircraft measures - as they were being used here - but also on any field of battle. Especially against infantry and tanks. Especially against the infantry and tanks of races with inferior technology. After all, QGM always liked to have the upper hand.
"What happened here?" said Pippa, stepping forward. She decided that if she was going to die, then fuck it, she wouldn't do it with her head in the sand. She'd go out with some fucking conviction.
The two gunbots turned to survey her. Uh-oh, she thought. This is where I get a Kickass Stinger missile in the face!
She tensed, then frowned. "You two! State your model and mission directive," she snapped, voice harsh with a military abruptness she'd picked up from a hundred drill sergeants across a handful of star clusters.
One machine took a step forward, feet like clawed metal hands grasping the rocky floor. "We are Quad-Gal Military General Active System Gunbot AI Mechanisms, otherwise known as GASGAMs. Our mission directives are to protect and serve the Combat K operatives known as Pippa, Franco, Keenan. Scanning now. Your samples have been accepted. You are Pippa. We hereby serve."
The two GASGAMs stood a little bit straighter, with sleek hisses of digital hydraulics. They both orientated on Pippa, whose mouth had opened a little bit.
"You're sure about that?"
"Yes, O Commander."
"Can you be a bit less formal?"
"Sure thing, boss."
"Have you got names? Or do I have to keep referring to you as Quad-Gal Military General Active System Gunbot AI Mechanisms?"
"That's Frank. I'm Bert," said the huge machine, looking down at Pippa with emotionless silver eyes.
"Thirty foot, heavily armoured killing machines called Frank and Bert?"
"You said to be less formal."
"That I did. That I did." Pippa stared even harder. Hmm, she thought. "Who initiated your mission directives?"
"The QGM ship's computer known as Alice, registration LA05999ZXSPECCY200."
"That would explain a lot," said Pippa's clone, moving close to her. Words tickled Pippa's ear. She gave a curt nod.
"Yeah. These machines were hacked by the gangers. That needs hardware; pretty fucking sophisticated hardware - greater than these idiots possess. All Alice did was follow the same path in, and freshly corrupt the already corrupted data. She's put my DNA and codes in there. Now they're my tools. To help me get the job done. Clever, Alice. Real neat."
Pippa stared up at the thirty-foot high machines. Distantly, the sky brightened with a promise of a cold, bleak dawn. Light glinted from the GASGAM's alloy shells.
"So you're my boys, hey? You ready to work for your stripes?"
"Sure thing, boss," said Bert. Frank nodded. He seemed to be the strong, silent type.
The destroyed gunship, a destroyed crumpled husk, like something which had been crushed in a giant's fist, ticked and crackled softly on the rocky floor. Fires burned low. Oil dripped from somewhere inside it, forming a large black pool.
From inside, there came a curse. Then a scrabbling sound. A head appeared, a tangled mass of black frizzy hair above a narrow, nasty face. Teddy Sourballs looked up at the two gunbots.
"What the fuck did you do that for, idiots? I thought Ziggurat had you reprogrammed? I thought we were all... in this..." She stopped. She stared at Pippa, and Pippa's clone. "Oh. It's you." Her gaze narrowed. "And you. Why are you both alive?"
Pippa took a step forward. "I'm assuming you're the pretty lady I saw behind the controls of the minigun. And also an integral part in the scheme to have me gangered - and murdered." She took another step forward, and her boot connected with Teddy's face, snapping her head back with a spray of blood from lacerated lips. "Nice to meet you, cunt."
Teddy clutched her mouth and scowled, as Pippa's clone moved forward and hauled her to her feet. "We need to be careful. This bitch is a wild one." She ripped some optic cabling from a twisted housing on the gunship's battered flanks, and with her knee in the small of Teddy's back, bound her hands tightly behind her.
Teddy looked back, blood on her teeth. "You'll be exterminated for this, ganger," she said, quite calmly. And there it was. It settled into Pippa's mind... another puzzle. Who was real? Who was the copy? Maybe they were both copies and the real Pippa was on a different mission?
Pippa's clone grinned. "Let's just say I've had a change of heart."
"You'll have a fucking change of heart when Ziggurat gets hold of you. He's an expert with sharp implements. He'll be spending months with you in his cellars. And that's before the Mistress gets involved."
"So that's the hierarchy, is it?" said Pippa softly. "This muppet, then Ziggurat, then the Mistress right at the top, overseeing mindless exterminations and warmongering like a shitlist bitch, lusting after another fucking wargasm."
"Yeah, the Mistress is Prime Core, General of the Royal Ganger Police Force and Commissioner for the entire Clone TV network. She's the one who, basically, controls the entire planet's TV, filmy and computer networks. She's the one in charge of media, the government, you name it. She's the bitch at the top."
"The bitch who needs stopping."
"I thought your mission was to find the 3Core? You know I know it. And you know I know you were heading for the Slush Pits; that's where the Pod Vault is, of course." She winked.
"And the Mistress knows I'm coming?"
"Of course. She knows everything that's going on, down here on Cloneworld. After all, she wouldn't be the unofficial Ganger Queen, if not."
"Queen of the Gangers, eh? I never did like royal blood."
"Unless it's on the tip of your sword."
Pippa chuckled. "You're so good, you remind me of me. I wonder, sometimes, who really is the clone. Maybe both of us, eh, girl?"
The clone nodded. "That would be a good fucking mind-job, wouldn't it?"
"To clone the clone. A copy of an imitation. Beautiful."
"But then, who's to say what's real? Who's to say who's the copy? To be honest, Pippa, I no longer care. My drives are your drives, and if I am a clone, as these bastards believe, they made a big mistake trying to replicate the real Pippa's DNA."
Teddy Sourballs started to laugh, and both Pippas turned to look at her.
"You think you're so clever, a couple of bitches fresh out of the Slush Pits. Go on, head for the Pod Vault; see what's waiting for you there. We kno
w what you want, and you'll die trying."
Pippa took hold of Teddy's hair, and dragged her head down to the ground. She put her boot on Teddy's face, and pressed down hard. Teddy squealed like rat in a fire.
"Well, looks like I'm going to need a bartering tool, eh, love?"
"The Mistress will never give you what you want!" panted Teddy, face chewing dirt.
Pippa bowed low, and stared in Teddy's eyes. The yukana sword shifted, tip wavering before Teddy Sourballs's eyeballs. The steel glinted, a reflection of promised death. "Well, she can say goodbye to her little monkey, then, you mass-murdering piece of shit."
The GASGAMs thundered across the landscape, hydraulics working smoothly, fluid machines rolling with ease. One had opened its chest into a kind of wired cage, and into this metal kangaroo pouch Teddy Sourballs had been flung without dignity. Steel cables had pulled her tight, compressing her face into a parody of the human.
"It hurts!" she said, muffled by the mesh, her features contorted into squares.
"Good," said Pippa, without even turning.
Pippa and her clone rode on the backs of the GASGAMs, secured by safety harnesses and heady with the rush of height and speed. The final descent from the Ganger Mountains had been a mad panic of flight, of falling rocks and scraping scree, of gasps and violent feelings of spinning vertigo as the two women rode the mechs like upright metal steeds. But The Gangers had dropped, then risen again into rocky foothills devoid of life and, thankfully, devoid of ganger deviants.
Pippa, the real Pippa, the old Pippa, the true Pippa - in her mind, at least - rode in silence, but her skull was a maelstrom of confusion. She doubted herself. She doubted reality. She doubted sanity. Is this it? Is this what happens when your mind fractures? When you go insane? When reality cracks like a broken bad egg? Am I real? Am I really real? Am I Pippa, or a simple carbon copy? An imitation? A doppelgänger? I feel real. I think thoughts and feel feelings, emotions, ideas, I have memories as real as anything else in my head. Surely I'd just fucking know I was the real me. Instinctive. Like a lion knows to hunt meat. Like a spider knows to spin a web. In-built, a part of you. Surely I'd just know, right? Because... well, if I don't, if I can't feel something so basic, something at a molecular level, if I can't differentiate between being human, a first breed, and being a copy - well, surely I don't deserve to live?
They moved through a wasteland of rolling, desolate hills. A cold wind blew down from the mountains, and the sky was filled with towering clouds promising a fight. Pippa glanced left, to the smoothly-pounding GASGAM with its piggy-back human rider.
She said I was the clone. That she was real. But now it turns out she might be a clone. Both of us could be clones! What a joke. And if that's the case, where the hell is the real Pippa?
None of us want to feel like copies; we all want to be the original, the master, the template. None of us want to feel second-hand. Used. Abused. Cast aside. Another's useless fucking toy.
Am I real?
Am I Pippa?
And it went back, further and further, spearing into her memories, all the way back to that moment, that moment she hated, that she always revisited in her dreams and in her fucking nightmares... the murders. Keenan's family. It had all been so perfect - ha, yeah, right. She'd fallen in love with a married man, a man with two children, bright-eyed young things called Rachel and Ally. And then somehow they'd all ended up dead, and Pippa thought, knew, fucking believed that she'd done it...
Murdered them. Murdered them all.
It was unfair, so incredibly unfair; but then I find these things always are. The cool breeze ruffled my hair; filled my senses with life, and with a calmness which should have been impossible. The wall was rough under my gloves, and I smiled to myself, staring out across a dark street. Rain fell, cleansing the world with gentle acid. I revelled in the rain; it provided me with extra cover.
I stepped out, boots silent on wet alloyconcrete. The hour was late, the moon peeping from behind fists of cloud. I moved cautiously, still not sure what I would do or what the outcome would be; but I knew, knew there had to be confrontation, some form of retribution. These things could not go unpunished. There had to be justice in the world; not the insane ramblings of some aged incontinent judge, sat in his skewed wig, his only desire a lust for port and brandy and bent-over young boys later that evening. Where was the justice in that? No: this was justice, real justice, the law of the land and nature and blood.
I crossed the road, skipping onto the pavement, looked about. The world was dead. My eyes hardened. It has to come, I kept telling myself; this moment has to come. Like night follows day, smoke follows fire, death follows life.
The path was heavily crowded by trees: conifers, their pine scent filling my nostrils and making me yearn for a childhood in the woodland behind my home. Those days, however, were gone. Buried. I walked slowly, almost reluctantly, until I reached the door. The pretty house - all white and terracotta - was in darkness. Distantly, I could hear the sea.
I reached out to knock, but something stopped me. Instead, I stepped from the path and moved around the perimeter. I halted by a set of patio doors, peered in at discreet alarm sensors. I opened a small case at my hip, slid out several identity-card sized items, and eased them under the door. Remotely controlled, the two slivers of metal glided across black marble tiles and stopped. With a click I killed the alarms. Then I prized open the door, stepped inside, closed it behind me.
The room was still. It smelled good; home cooking mixed with lavender and the recent aroma of extinguished candles. I moved across the carpet, all senses firing, stealth a priority; I orientated myself, moved through the hall and to the foot of the stairs. The house was silent around me. It was welcoming, and yet I shivered. Something bad had to happen here tonight. I did not know what, but the conflict was there. Suppressed. And like a caged serpent, it could not rest.
I moved up the stairs, a ghost.
I drifted across the landing, paused, heard breathing, and a mumble in sleep. Passed the door, slightly ajar, nightlight casting a blue glow, and came to the master bedroom. Pushed the door, which opened noiselessly. Again, a blue nightlight in the corner of the room highlighted an eerie, haunting scene. Long hair lying across a pillow. A face, serene in sleep. Eyes fluttering in a dream. One pale, smooth arm thrown wide.
Jealously forced a fist down my throat, gripped my heart and wrenched it from my chest. I choked on anger, and a sudden welling hatred, and it wasn't supposed to be like this, I wasn't supposed to feel like this, but fury swamped me and the words I wanted to say to her, the bitch, the cunt, Freya, Keenan's wife, dissipated like smoke, and my eyes narrowed, and I staggered, physically stumbled, as my head spun, whirling with colours and darkness and images of blood, and I fell against the dresser, my hand lashing out to steady myself, my fingers curling around a gleam of long, sleek metal -
A pair of scissors.
Freya's eyes opened, fixed on me, confusion taking her mind. But then sleep fled, I saw recognition develop on her face (of course, she'd seen my pictures in the news after the incompetence that was the Terminus5 reactor incident) and she knew, she understood, she saw I was Keenan's lover and come here to -
To what?
To sort out the problem? To talk about his betrayal - of us both? To attempt to understand the situation, and the reasons, and yet all this fled me, and a terrible demon squatted in my mind, and I lifted the scissors and saw Freya's mouth open to scream and I leapt, meaning only to silence her, to quieten her, then I was atop her struggling, powerful body and the covers fell away, exposing milk-white breasts and my hand covered her mouth, covered the scream, and she struggled, struggled hard, but I lifted the scissors - glanced up then, at their gleaming mated blades, then down into eyes now frightened and understanding, and I smiled. Smiled a thin cruel smile. I hammered the scissor blades into Freya's heart, and she went rigid at the impact. Blood fountained, pumping over me, drenching the duvet in seconds. She spasmed, started to st
ruggle again, but I held her there, in her death throes, abusing my strength, my power, my training, my trust, my honour, and I held her there, the twin blades embedded in her chest, in her heart, and I watched with blank eyes as the struggling grew swiftly weak, and she slumped back, and I removed my hand from her mouth. She stared at me, and I watched the life bleeding from her eyes. Her lips trembled.
'Why?' she croaked.
And then she was dead.
I stood, reversing neatly from the bed, using the covers to wipe my gloved hands and the scissors. I stared at Freya; she seemed broken at impossible angles. I did not feel proud. But I understood. This was something: a necessity. I had not travelled to Keenan's house to kill, but the murder released a great weight from my heart. From my soul.
I turned, moved out of the bedroom.
Stopped.
Around me, the world turned.
I heard muted sobbing from the children's bedroom. They had heard. Heard the struggle. Maybe even come in, all sleepy-eyed and tousle-haired, as I pinned Freya down in her frantic last moments of precious, squirming life. In which case... they probably saw my face, my features, my joy, caught rigid in the act of murder.
I stepped towards the door and pushed it open.
I saw the young girls, silhouetted in the gloom.
They were staring at me, tears wet on their cheeks.
I put my finger to my lips.
'Shh,' I said. 'It's going to be all right.'
I walked forward, still carrying the scissors.
The fire burned brightly, demons crackling, wood popping. Pippa's clone had built it, and both women sat dejectedly, staring into the flames. Night had come, and Pippa called for a rest. She said she was tired; exhausted. What she really meant to say was, I am haunted by the past, by bad dreams, by nightmares that stick in my brain like needles and won't fucking let me go!
The two huge GASGAM's stood, motionless, silent, flames reflecting from their dull alloy shells. Perfect killers, right? Wrong, thought Pippa as she stared into the fire. I am the perfect killer. I am the ultimate fucking prize. That's why QGM gave me a job. That's why they had me cloned. That's why I killed Keenan's family. Because I must have killed them. I barely remember it - or maybe the memories, the echoes, are implanted? Whatever. Every crime has its price. Every killer must face the consequences, somewhere down the line... and if not in this life, then the next or the next or the fucking next.