Cloneworld - 04

by Andy Remic

  The bucket of water splashed into his face and Franco gagged. Another brought him semi-conscious, wondering whose bed he was in, and if he was going to start scratching again, and a third bucket brought him round. He could see wood. Old wood. Stained wood. He could smell salt. And sea-water. And other scents which were distant memories - like greased tarpaulin, and lantern oil, and... and...

  What was that noise? That cheering noise?

  Franco tried to turn, and realised he was tied to the thick wooden beam in front of him. And a dawning realisation pushed gently into his blurry existence as he looked up, and up, and saw billowing sails above.

  A ship? A galleon? A pirate ship?

  Aaah, shit. That!

  I remember...

  Just above him, on a tiny length of wood jutting from the mast, was a bright green parrot. It was staring at Franco, and he stared back, unsure what to make of the green bird, or indeed, his situation, for his head was thumping like an elephant tap-dancing on his skull, and his mouth tasted like the inside of an unhygienic whore's knickers.

  "Pretty polly," said the parrot. "Squawk!"

  Franco stared at it. "Fuck off," he growled, as if the bird was drawing attention to his covert position, when in reality, his position was about as non-covert as it could possibly get.

  "Pretty Polly, pretty Polly, squawk, Franco get a beating, Franco get a beating."

  Did I hear that right? Does it know my name? Or am I still in that fabulous Dreamtime Longtime?

  "Pretty Polly, Franco get a whipping, whip it up, snap it up, cream it up, pretty Franco, Franco get a whipping."

  "So you're called Polly, right?" said Franco, weakly.

  "She sure is," said a face that loomed far too close, disgorging a mouthful of bad breath strong enough to make a strong man gorge.

  Franco stared into the face. It was the face of a madman. But worse. It was the face of a madorg several plates short of a dinner service. Franco analysed the face: broad and round and friendly, with a shock of black hair, some of which was woven into dreadlocks, and some tied with dried strips of old meat - in themselves, worthy of a great stench. The whole creation was bound together with a shock of coloured ribbons. The face was middle-aged, sagging a little with fat, black rings under dark eyes like marbles in treacle and showing nothing of the emotions behind the glassy, dead-eyed stare. The teeth were bad, in the true tradition of the pirate stereotype - some crooked, some missing, some gold - so that when the Cap'n smiled it was like looking into a bag of burned voodoo trinkets. The face was finished with unwashed skin and dirty stubble, and a slightly lop-sided look, as if Cap'n Bluetit had been severely smacked across one side of the head with a cricket bat - which, Franco was pretty sure, he thoroughly deserved.

  "Aah," said Franco, as the stench of the grave washed over him. "Have you ever heard of a device called a toothbrush?"

  "And what be ye meaning by that, me old chum, a-har?"

  "I mean your breath stinks like a dead skunk's piss sack. If you're going to play the villain, breathing all over your sorry victim, at least have the decency to have good sweet breath, not something that could be used to kill soldiers in trench warfare. Yeah?"

  "A-har-har-har," boomed Cap'n Bluetit, unperturbed by Franco's weak attempt at slander. "You'll be joking on the other side of your bull-whipped torso in a few moments, me lad."

  "Pretty Polly, squawk!" squawked Pretty Polly.

  Franco groaned. Why me? Why does this always happen to me? Why does this insane bullshit always happen to me? Why doesn't it happen to Pippa? I bet Pippa's sorted out all her bloody problems and is reclining in a soft bed, sipping Champagne and eating strawberries. The bitch. And Keenan! The lucky bastard. Absorbed into a machine God. Okay, I admit, he might be dead or have no individual soul, or summink, but at least he doesn't have to put up with retarded org pirate kings and their tattered parrots!

  "Squawk!"

  "Listen," growled Franco, "I know I caused a bit of a kerfuffle, but then, that sort of thing happens when you go and whip a lad like that. I mean, it bloody hurt, it did! I bet it's left a right sorry sore mark down my back. I bet I look like raw steak! Prime steak, I'd be the first to admit, but raw prime steak, if you get my meaning."

  Cap'n Bluetit went a little cross-eyed, then backed away, mumbling under his breath and leaving nothing but the tatty parrot in Franco's limited field of vision.

  "I suppose it can't get much worse?" muttered Franco optimistically.

  "Bets?" said Polly.

  Franco heard the crack long before he felt the burn. But when the burn came, oh, it came bad, and then another crack filtered through the wave of red-hot branding agony and more fire torched up over Franco's flesh, and he heard a voice, a sweet female voice that he instantly fell in love with because she sounded like an angel, and he realised, it was Tarly, Tarly Winters, General Tarly Winters, and she said, "Sweet mother of God, no!" in a kind of hushed whisper that melted Franco's heart suddenly and without mercy, for she cared about him, cared for him, for his suffering and his pain and then another crack tore the air and the whip sizzled Franco's flesh. The pain slammed through him like a juggernaut, like a train-wreck, tearing his innards outwards and filling him with more pain than he'd believed possible. Through waves of red, and a sobbing sound he realised was his own voice, he heard Cap'n Bluetit's voice interject.

  The Cap'n said, "Naw, that's not good enough, get the Cat o'Nine Tails, let's give him something to remember us by, eh lads, a-har!" and the next lash was like a meteor shower over Franco's shivering trembling body, and he felt his bravado leave him, and this was worse than being stabbed, worse than any bar-room beating, worse than being shot - and Franco had been shot lots (he had that effect on people) - and his rage was there, a bubbling terrible thing under the surface as the lash beat into his bloodied body and he heard Tarly whimpering and crying out for him, struggling against her bonds until a thump silenced the QGM General.

  More lashes followed. Shameless tears rolled down Franco's face, as blood ran down his back and stained his knife-cut combat shorts red. His legs ran crimson, and his boots filled with gore until they overflowed.

  When they cut Franco down, he collapsed.

  "Lock him in the brig," snarled Cap'n Bluetit, showing a mouthful of coinage and rot. Then he turned to Queen Strogger, who held her head high, eyes locked defiantly with the org Pirate Captain's and refusing to back down. The net fizzled, but she ignored the pain.

  "Do you know who I am?" she hissed, through glowing sparks and sizzling flesh.

  "Oh yes," said Cap'n Bluetit. "You are the Queen of The Org States - Queen Strogger the Merciless. It's your fault us here reject orgs are condemned to a life on the salty brine, with your stupid rules and policies and petty bloody bureaucracy! We're going to hang you from the rigging and watch you dance a merry jig, me-hearty! A-har!"

  "Oooh, Franco, you are so sexy, ve are ze sexy vixens who vould love to smother you vith butter and honey and lick it all off, ooh, ve are so impressed, you have ze best buttocks in ze vorld, first ve vould like to smear ze honey and ze butter over your buttocks and lick-y zat off first, then ve shall take you and roll you over, and then ze lick your manly hairy chest, ooh, it is ze best manly hairy chest ve have ever seen, then ve shall turn you back over and strip ze fucking skin from you fucking back, and rub salt and vinegar and mustard and chillies into ze raw peeled flesh, and see how you fucking like that, ze scumbag!"

  Franco opened one eye. The world didn't seem that bad, hey-hey? It was dark, yes, and it was cold, yes, and it smelled of rat piss, okay, he could live with that. But in the massive scheme of atomic war, and halo missile strikes on global cores, then Holy Jesus, holy shit, what was that, boiling acid down my back?

  The world throbbed.

  Franco groaned, and moaned, and groaned, and then a hand was on his brow in the darkness, and he felt lips near his mouth, and she whispered, "Shhh, you've got to try and be quiet, the minute they realise you're awake they'll come back and
give you some more - I've seen this kind of scumshit negative-psychology stuff before."

  Franco clenched his teeth together and fought the pain. It was a big fight, and he kind of got the feeling he was losing it. Fire rampaged up and down his back and he was surprised to find tears in his eyes. Franco hadn't cried for a long time. It wasn't something a rough, tough squaddie was supposed to do. But hell, they'd taken the skin off his fucking back. What was a man supposed to do?

  "Did they hurt you?" growled Franco.

  "Only a bit. A club to the head. Nothing like they... did to you. That was fucking brutal, Franco. One of the worst things I've seen done to a man. And I've seen lots."

  "Should have felt it from this end," he breathed. "But at least I'm sure of one thing."

  "What's that?"

  "I ain't playing anymore," he said, eyes gleaming in the darkness. "What did they do with Strogger?"

  "They're having some kind of ceremony. Then they're going to hang her from the rigging."

  "Hang her? What? To dry, or something?"

  "No, hang her by the throat, kicking and squawking, till she's dead."

  "Oh. Ah. That kind of hanging. Then we must, y'know, get out of here. Help her."

  "Can you move?"

  "I'll try."

  A pause in the blackness. A gasp.

  "I feel like they removed every inch of skin from my fucking back."

  "It certainly looked that way. You'll find most of it in your boots. And if you try and escape again... or fight?" Tarly shuddered. "They'll do it again. And again. And again."

  "Right. I've fucking had enough of this shit!"

  Franco forced himself to roll over, but the effort left his head spinning; he vomited. But it emptied his stomach, and the spinning receded a little, and he felt a notch better. A tiny notch, but a notch all the same.

  Franco slowly moved onto his knees. Everything hurt. His back, obviously, but other pains intruded now. His knuckles, especially, from the sheer amount of punching he'd done in the scrap with the pirate orgs. There had been moments, in the pit of adrenaline, when he'd been punching metal.

  "I need a weapon."

  "There's a guard," said Tarly.

  "Only one?"

  "Yes."

  "The fucking ignominy!"

  That's a big word for a little squaddie."

  Franco snorted a laugh. "I won't forget you sticking up for me, Tarly. You're a good girl."

  "That's not really the way you should address your General."

  "Hey," said Franco, reaching forward and kissing her. She paused for a second, then kissed him back. In the darkness, in the cold and the stench, this tiny moment of intimacy meant more than words, and more than worlds. They kissed softly, both of them covered in sweat and dirt, blood and brine. They kissed, and it was more intimate than sex, and warmer than a summer's day. It lasted forever, and filled Franco with an unbelievable strength, a belief in himself, an injection of focus that helped him to fight down the raw agony in his flayed back. He stood up and rested a hand against the wall - old timber, damp and slick - and now his eyes had adjusted to the dark, he looked around the floating prison cell.

  Skeletons were chained to huge iron hooks. Franco looked down, but they hadn't even bothered to chain him, so confident were they that his severe lashings had broken him.

  Franco glanced at Tarly. She was still tied with simple rope. "No chains or leg irons?" he said.

  Tarly fluttered her eyelashes. "Well, I'm only a little lady, after all..."

  Franco grinned. "I think it's time we gave these cunts a fucking wake-up call."

  "I agree."

  Franco moved behind Tarly, and with lots of fumbling, undid the tight knots. Tarly dropped the rope and rubbed her chafed wrists. Then she tenderly reached out to touch Franco's back, but he flinched. "Ow! Don't touch it, don't bloody touch it!"

  "Okay, Big Guy. We'll get that sorted, just as soon as..."

  "We've done some killing."

  Franco kicked around on the floor, and found a length of old rusted chain. He hefted it thoughtfully, and wrapped it round both hands so an eighteen inch length hung between his fists. Then he lay back on the ground and glanced at Tarly.

  "Right girl. Get him in here."

  Tarly nodded and put her hands behind her back, then moved to the door and knocked on it with her boot. From the other side she heard a grunt, and saw a shadow loom through the tiny barred window.

  "Hi sexy," she said, through the bars.

  "You want something?" grunted the pirate. He was big. A hefty, hairy fellow, even for an org. She could hear the grind of his mechanicals. She recognised him as a hairy Graham-model.

  "I thought you might like some company? After all, all those long and lonely nights on the rocking sea, it must get awfully lonely for a big, handsome, horny org like yourself?" His stench wafted through the door: faeces mixed with old engine oil. He grunted again, like a ferret in a tumble drier.

  "Maybe," he ventured, cautiously, and they heard bolts slide in the door. Lantern light flickered by the window, and the door creaked open, allowing a soft yellow glow to ease into the cell. The org stepped through the portal. He was big. Very big. He grinned at Tarly, who tilted her head to one side and smiled coquettishly before leaping forward, her right fist swinging around to deliver an almighty smashing hook. The org grunted and staggered to one side, lantern swinging, as Tarly leapt and her boots hit him square in the face. But he was quicker than his size suggested, and he caught her legs and swung her against the wall. She hit hard, with a crash, and tumbled into a heap... as Franco reared up behind the big org and wrapped the length of chain around his throat. He put his knee in the org's back and pulled tight.

  There was a sound like a steam engine breaking down. They staggered around, looking like some odd symbiosis, lit by the swinging, stroboscopic lantern light. The org suddenly charged backwards, thrusting Franco into the wall, slamming his raw back into the splintered wood. Franco muffled a scream - on the org's fist. He dodged the second blow, and the org hit the wall with a grunt and a crack of his knuckles. Franco powered a blow into the org's belly, then his groin, and then dropped and crawled between his legs, dragging his chain after him. Tarly ran, leapt over Franco and slammed both hands into the org's face; but he twisted, punching her to one side as Franco leant in and took the lantern like a lolly from a kid and, with a snarl, smashed it over the org's head. Oil splashed all over the pirate, and ignited; the org went up like Guy Fawkes soaked in happy petrol. He screamed, and tried to run for the door, but Franco lassoed his chain around the org's neck and dragged him back into the cell, where he fell to his knees, crawling around in aimless, burning circles.

  Franco and Tarly watched the pirate org burn, grunting and panting, squawking occasionally, then finally collapsing into a smouldering heap. Smoke had filled the cell and the corridor outside, along with the crisp stench of frying pork.

  "That was a risk," said Tarly, at last. "You could have sent the whole ship up in flames!"

  "That was a risk I was willing to take," said Franco, voice level. Then he twitched, stooped, and picked up an old skull.

  "What is it?" whispered Tarly.

  "We're being watched!"

  "By?"

  "In the corridor!" he hissed.

  Tarly turned, and Polly the Parrot met her gaze.

  "Squawk!" it shrieked, "Prisoners escaping! Prisoners escap..." but was cut off as the skull bounced off it, sending its flapping green body spiralling down with a sudden thump.

  Tarly ran forward and grasped the bird, pinned its wings to its sides and shook it vigorously. "Any more shouting, bird brain, and we'll be having parrot stew for lunch! Geddit?"

  "Okay, okay," said the parrot, in a reasonable, level voice. "No need to be so rude. If you could just let me go, I promise I won't squawk another impromptu phrase..."

  "Wait a minute," said Tarly, frowning and plucking at alloy feathers. "You're not a real bird. You're a robot!"

 
"Hey, I am not a robot!"

  "What the hell are you then, a vacuum cleaner?"

  "No!" The parrot preened, scowling. "I am a Special Robotic Friend."

  Franco frowned. "Oh no," he groaned. "Not one of those little bastards again."

  "You've heard of them?" said Tarly.

  "You've heard of us?" asked Polly.

  "Oh yeah," said Franco with a grimace. "You're made by Metal Mongrels Inc., aren't you, you little fucker?"

  "No need to be rude," said Polly, frowning, which was quite a feat for a green parrot with dodgy plumage. "I am a DumbMutt v1.7, a much improved model, I can tell you! And ©hv3801 Metal Mongrels Inc. QGSMA Quad-Gal Safety Mark Assured (pending). I'm a quality piece of kit, I can bloody assure you!"

  "Oh, no. No! Tarly, trust me, drop it on the floor and jump on it. The bastards follow you to the ends of the world, and they will never, ever let you fucking go!"

  "Which model did you acquaint yourself with?" said Polly.

  "You wouldn't know it. A fucking heap of junk with a bad hair quiff and a pretence at being a shite poet. Called itself Sax. A dogjunk heap of dogjunk dogshit, is what it was. The whole fucking thing was a mess!"

  "Ahh, Sax, I know him well. We were upgraded together. He told me about you. About you, Franco Haggis, Quad-Gal resident DNA number 67536753476453764575324652. There were quite a few stories, ha-ha; bad stories admittedly, because that was all he could write, but oh, how we did laugh, squawk!"

  Franco scowled. "Yeah. Well. You're like a plague, you bastard little DumbMutts. I don't want anything to do with you, okay?"

  The parrot shrugged. "That's okay, buster. Squawk!"

  "Come on," said Tarly. "We have bigger fish to fry. Queen Strogger is in trouble..." she paused, then stared at the parrot. "What's happened to Queen Strogger?"