Cloneworld - 04

by Andy Remic

  Squib puffed out his chest, clutched his gun tight, and opened the metal door with a long, slow creak. He stepped out into cool night air. The sun was dying over the horizon like a blood ghost. He felt a fresh wave of excitement rush through him. His cock pressed hard and true against his pants. He was ready. Ready for the challenge. Ready for the fight!

  As the huge metal robot marched forward, inadvertently (and, Squib thought, clumsily) stepping on the metal fence with a crunch, so Squib waddled forward and lifted his well-polished carbine.

  The huge machine clanked forward, swaying a little with each step, and Squib thought proudly to himself, It's like a filmy. Like one of those famous ones like The Squib, The Squib and the Squib, For a Few Squibs More, Once Upon a Time in Squibland, and the seminal Squib Wars. He preened, not even considering the Herculean task of attempting to kill a thirty-foot-tall metal monstrosity. After all, he was the hero, right? The righteous dude pouring furious and righteous anger on his foes. Or something.

  "Halt!" Squib screamed, face twisted into the purest expression of anger and hatred, run through with a little streak of sexual fulfilment. "Who goes there? I will fire if you do not halt!"

  The GASGAM clanked and stomped towards the squib, seemingly oblivious to this little angry man, yakking like a little, annoying dog. A yakker snakker. The GASGAM had bigger fish to fry.

  Like the building.

  There was a click, as a missile slid sideways and into place on the GASGAM's arm, then a roar as the missile detached and slammed at the Slush Pit factory. Tiny holes opened up on the flanks of the building and counter-missiles launched in retaliation. Fire screamed through the heavens, and black, billowing smoke filled the sky. The GASGAM opened up with its heavy machine guns, strafing the side of the factory. Missiles slammed at the GASGAM, which knocked them aside without thought. Many exploded, but did little or no damage to the gunbot's impenetrable armour.

  And all the while, Squib the squib danced like a maniac at the GASGAM's feet, trying to get noticed. He fired his weapon, and realised with horror he'd not fitted a magazine to the carbine. Oh what an idiot squib you are! Oh how the other squibs will laugh at you down at The Squib and Jockey on Friday night! How they'll take the piss and pour beer over your head when you're laid out and unconscious with shame! You dumb little mutt!

  The GASGAM continued to attack the building. Rockets and bombs rained down fire and hell from the sky, but not a mark scathed the structure's exterior.

  Amidst the turmoil, the chaos, the violence, there came twin phwwts as Pippa and her clone were ejected by the GASGAM, ejected and projected like missiles towards the building's roof. The GASGAM's calculations were perfect, and both Pippas landed lightly on the lip of the building, took a quick look behind at the flames and billowing smoke, the craters in the rocky ground and the exploding chaos around the GASGAM, then dropped onto the flat roof and hunkered down behind the rim.

  Its quarry safely delivered, the GASGAM fired six final rockets, which filled the sky with purple fire as they were destroyed in a screaming line by 25t Bitchcats, and turned to leave, job done, mission accomplished. It slid for a moment, as it stepped on an unexpected obstruction; there was a tiny squeak, and a sound of crunching bones, but this barely registered in its fast-scrolling million-core AI cell. The GASGAM strolled off towards the distant rocky hills, swatting pursuing rockets from the air like gnats.

  Behind it, the gunbot left a smear of purple squib grease on the rocks.

  Pippa felt a thrill of adrenaline and speed as she was launched from the GASGAM. Her ascent was a perfectly synchronised arc, and she landed lightly on the lip of the roof, having used up every joule of energy needed to carry her to her target. She dropped and checked her weapons, her yukana sword and an MPK machine gun provided by the GASGAM's competent in-built Quad-Gal Military stores, and glanced at her clone. She checked for cams, and spied the roof access. She signalled to her clone, who nodded in understanding, and under cover of fast-falling, bruised darkness they both ran in half crouches towards the Slush Pit entrance...

  A door slid up in the wall of the factory. Ziggurat was there, bulky and hunched, one yellow eye and one green eye surveying the damage wreaked by the GASGAM.

  "Sir, I thought they were under our control?"

  "So did I," said Ziggurat, hobbling forward, a ridiculous figure, a figure of fun to be laughed at - or he would have been, if it hadn't been for the neat tool-roll of very sharp medical implements at his belt, coupled with an intrinsic knowledge of the ganger anatomy and a willingness to show no mercy, no matter how much his victim screamed. The soldiers from The Bad Army knew this. Which is why they gave Ziggurat enormous respect and a considerable, eager berth at every eventuality.

  Ziggurat hobbled across scorched earth, and stopped by the splatter that was Squib the squib. He was wafer thin. He was, indeed, a pool of goo with crushed bones mixed in.

  "Shall we bury him, sir?" asked one soldier.

  Ziggurat looked up at the sky, then shrugged, which, on a hunchback, had double the effect. "No. Leave him for the buzzards. He can be easily replaced."

  Then Ziggurat took out a small communicator. Matt black, with a single red light to signify transmission. He smiled, his curious lop-sided face twisting into deformity. He spoke into the comms.

  "Pippa's inside. Be ready. Kill her on sight. Out."

  CHAPTER NINE

  PIRATES OF THE ORGIBBEAN

  Franco scowled as the rope-ladder was rolled down to their craft and, with a host of perhaps eighty guns pointing at them from along the galleon's crusty, uneven rail, he took hold of the first rung and started to climb. The ladder flapped and slapped against the side of the ship, sea-spray splashed him, and the wind mocked him with a whining cackle. He passed huge letters carved into the flank of the pirate galleon. They read: The Nice Lady.

  Hmm, thought Franco. Somehow I don't think this is going to be all that nice an experience, and they don't call me Franco "Yo, Ho, Ho" Haggis for nothing!

  Franco reached the deck, fists clenched, and was decked with a club from behind. He groaned, rolling on the salty, sea-strewn planks, and felt his hands tied roughly behind him with coarse rope.

  Tarly followed next, and was given the same treatment. The BCube containing a still-silent Alice was taken by Cap'n Bluetit and examined with only modest interest, before being tossed onto a chest brimming with gold and silver doubloons, necklaces of peals and all manner of glittering magpie treasure.

  Four huge pirates - and Franco blinked, for they could only be described as pirates - stepped forward. They wore traditional costume: ballooning pants, heavy boots, slime-smeared jerkins of leather and wool; one even wore a red and white striped vest. They possessed all manner of bushy beards and shaggy, drooping moustaches, their hands were festooned with heavy rings like the finest of knuckle-dusters, and they wore brightly coloured headscarves wrapped, not surprisingly, around their heads. However. They were orgs, and so their pirate costumes were slightly ruined by their mechanical arms and legs, which hissed and fizzed and slid on greased hydraulic poles. Some had alloy machine faces, glittering with whirling gears and cogs. Some had augmented bodies, and were larger than any real man had a right to be, bulked out with metal armour and casing, but still wearing brightly coloured striped vests. The whole effect made Franco wince. It was like they'd ineptly copied an image from an ancient Earth filmy.

  The four huge pirates carried a heaped net made of thick metal strands, each fizzing and humming and burping. Occasionally it sparked. They acted as if the metal net was causing them some pain, and nimbly, despite their size and bulk, leapt up to stand in a swaying line along the galleon's rail, despite the huge ship shifting and rolling at the whim of the Teeth Ocean.

  "A-har!" grinned Cap'n Bluetit, winking and chewing on a cigar. "'Tis an org Net, me hearties. Should slow down that there enemy org a right treat, so it should, a-har!"

  The pirates threw the fizzing, popping net down over Queen Strogger, who had h
er head down, subdued, as if she knew her fate. It was as if she had lain down to die. She was captured; she knew it, they knew it. And if she was captured by the Pirates of the Orgibbean, then her fate was assured.

  She was going to get a kicking.

  Probably a lot, lot worse.

  Ropes were looped around not just Queen Strogger, but the inflatable QGM boat, and the pirates formed two lines. "Heave!" they shouted, then "Heave-ho," and, working in rhythm, the two lines of pirates hoisted Queen Strogger, boat and all, up onto the brine-swilled decks of The Nice Lady.

  Franco and Tarly, trussed up on the boards, got a gasping faceful of sea water as Queen Strogger was landed like the most undignified of fish. The org net engulfing her was fizzing and popping, and she was writhing at its core.

  "At least we've still got our emergency supplies," said Franco, and gave Tarly a big grin and a wink.

  She scowled at him.

  "You there, stop talking!" bellowed an ugly org pirate with lumps and bumps all over his face. He leaned back, and Franco blinked as he realised the pirate carried a... a... a whip? It lashed across Franco's bare back with a crack. There was a moment of nothing, then pain like fire screamed across Franco's whole being and he let out a momentous howl that shook The Nice Lady to its watery bowels.

  Franco struggled, slipping, to his knees, and scowled at the pirate. "You bastard," he snapped, leaping forward and, his hands tied tightly behind his back, doing what he did best: brawling. He kicked the org pirate in the nuts. The pirate howled long and hard, eyes crossing as his legs closed reflexively and he fell to the decks in a foetal position. A fist whirred by Franco's head like a flapping partridge, but Franco swayed, stamped on the attacker's toes, and as the huge, seven-foot tall pirate bellowed and leant forward, Franco head-butted him good and hard on the nose, breaking it with a crack. A punch caught Franco in the back of the head, but he rolled with it, leg kicking out to break a knee-cap. Suddenly, he was a whirlwind of ginger beard at the core of pandemonium. Fists and kicks were flying, but Franco seemed to be dancing amongst the clumsy, oafish orgs, feet and knees making short work of many an unexposed groin, big flat head flattening any exposed nose that got in his way. Swords were drawn, flashing in the sunlight, and Tarly screamed, "Franco, behind you!" Franco whirled, as a blade whizzed down and cut the bottom inch of his beard clean off. There was a momentary pause as Franco watched an inch of ginger fluff waft gently down to the planks of the galleon, drifting from side to side as it fell. A scowl of fury took over Franco's face.

  "Hey," he said. "Nobody cuts my fucking beard!"

  Another sword slashed down, and Franco leapt, and twisted, and the blade cut neatly through the ropes. Franco shook his hands free and lifted his fists as the pirates surrounded him. There were ten; no, twenty; no, thirty. Franco grinned at them all, then looked down at Tarly and gave a big wink.

  "Come and get it, lads," he growled, puffing out his chest and cracking his knuckles.

  The pirates charged in, and like in a comedy cartoon there were two thwacks, and two pirates were lifted from their feet, heads up, sailing back and down, their feet following. They hit the deck, but unlike a comedy cartoon, their teeth broke and rattled across the boards. One sat upcradling his face, where his cheekbone had cut through the flesh.

  And Franco was amongst them, straight punches and hooks thundering out, and it was easy, because they were the enemy, all of them were the enemy, and his fists pounded into temples and jaws and cheekbones, his fingers poked viciously into eye sockets, his elbows cracked exposed throats and his knees and feet stamped at groins and knees. The pirates's swords hissed around him, but they quickly realised the little ginger midget was dangerous, the little ginger midget was fast, the little ginger midget was one amongst many. Several arms and an ear lay flapping on the brine-washed boards before good sense told the dumb pirates to stop hacking at one another with their chunky cutlasses. Franco ducked a wild swing and planted his fist in a pirate's belly, then grabbed his balls within the loose soft clothing, and yanked down hard. On instinct, he rolled sideways as a club thundered over him, and the weapon connected with the pirate whose testicles he was clutching. There was a crump. Franco rose next to the club wielder, grinned at him for a moment, showing his missing tuff, then grabbed his ears and jumped, thus gaining enough height to head-butt the pirate, who groaned once and folded like a punctured sex doll. But Franco was over-confident, Franco was cruising and rolling and thumping and on a long enough time-line, luck always runs out. A club cracked his skull and he staggered. Another club cracked his ribs, and he spun, a right straight breaking the pirate's nose, which fell off, spouting gears and coils. Another blow caught Franco on the shoulder from behind, and pain flared from his collar bone, and then, and then he felt himself descending, descending into the blood red world which he feared and welcomed, and which had haunted him since childhood, for it was the world of the berserker and he'd carried it like a demon, like a disease, since his very earliest memories...

  Franco spun, roaring, fists lashing out, but everything was just awash with a honey blur, and nothing was real anymore, and the fight around him was just a distant dream, held at arm's length like a mangy cat by the scruff. Franco danced, and punched, and kicked, and spun, and leapt, and he watched himself distantly, as if through a telescope filled with oil, but it was always the same, these things never worked out well in the end, for there was no thought, no construction to the fight, and because Franco was lost to himself, lost to his rage, lost to his anarchy, there was a huge injection of luck and it could not last for ever...

  It first happened when he was at school. Franco had always been an optimistic child, a stocky, happy little boy with his maroon jumper and blue shoulder-pack, toddling along to the playground where his favourite friend Connor waited, so they could run around, jumping and skipping, being silly and playing the heroes from all their favourite filmys. Then there was the boy, and he was a Big Boy, and he was a Bad Boy. He was called Piston, because they said his punch was like being struck by a piston, but little Franco was too innocent for all of that and didn't fight. He didn't know how. He didn't understand why. Why fight when you could play? What was there to fight about when you were six years old? But Piston had other ideas, because Piston was one of the Bigger Boys and Piston was one of the Badder Boys, he was a bully and proud of it, as bullies often are. So he found Franco skipping happily around the playground, and Franco stopped and stared inquisitively at Piston because that was the sort of happy kid he was.

  Piston punched little Franco, straight on the nose, knocking him back to the alloyconcrete.

  Franco cried, and did not understand. Why did the Big Boy hit him?

  Why?

  There was no reason, and it soured Franco's experience, and soured his school, soured his world, soured his life. He looked at people with a new apprehension, for now everything wasn't so innocent and everybody didn't want to play. People wanted to fight. But Franco didn't want to fight, because that wasn't his way. He had a peaceful soul, a happy, caring soul, one instilled with love by his Mummy and Daddy.

  A few days later, Piston arrived again. Franco took a step back.

  "I heard you've been calling me."

  Franco shook his head, eyes wide.

  "You called me a Pussy." Sniggers, from The Crew, the sort of weak-minded, weak-livered bunch who always followed someone like Piston around. The sort of children who enjoyed The Show, enjoyed The Pantomime, but always at another's expense. Always at the expense of the weaker kids. The natural victims. The natural targets. The easy prey. Easy meat.

  "No," said Franco, taking another step back.

  Piston charged at him, and this wasn't going to be a single punch, this was going to be something bigger; Piston was going for a bigger display of his physical prowess, and for a few moments Franco felt himself overwhelmed by the larger boy, engulfed, encompassed, and he was weaker and smaller, but there was something inside of him, something which way, way, way back
, past his birth and upbringing and loving parents, something that was in his blood, some fire in his soul and it went click.

  Franco grabbed Piston's ears, pulled them sideways with a crunch, poked his finger in Piston's eye and felt himself descend into a blood-red frenzy which he did not understand and could not control, and it was only when the teachers pulled him off Piston, both little fists red with the blood pissing from Piston's broken nose, that Franco wanted to say, I didn't mean this to happen, I didn't want any of this to happen, I didn't want it this way! But he was punished all the same, and Franco learned, then; learned that, despite all the learning, despite all the knowledge and history and empathy and supposed superiority, the human species, at its core, was a raw, bestial animal. You could dress it up however you wanted, with your academic progress, with your fucking philosophers and psychologists and superior technology. Humans were animals with a shallow veneer of empathy. Nothing more. Nothing less. And it only took a nudge to send them flailing helplessly and uselessly down that slippery slope back into the chemical soup of violent evolution which had moulded Man into a genetic entity of unbreakable iron. As the saying went:

  You can't teach an old dog new tricks.

  It saddened Franco. Always would. But it was the way it was. And Franco was the way he was.

  And there wasn't a human in existence, given however much breeding and education and social engagement, who could ignore the baggage of those early years of evolution and competition - when the right buttons were pushed.

  Not one.

  Franco had learned, over the years, to fight the good fight. But every now and again, his ingrained berserker rage got in the way.

  Sometimes it worked. Other times, it didn't.

  And now, he heard the distant slap of wooden timbers on his skull, and his energy was spent, his rage was diluted, his anger was washed away by the rhythmical swills of sea-water splashing up from the Teeth Ocean and swilling the deck of his blood. He lay still, and dreamt he was swimming through a sea of treacle, and it felt pretty nice, actually, felt kind of warm and calm, and slow and oozy, and he looked at the red treacle between his fingers and wondered what all the shouting and cheering was about...