by Andy Remic
Keenan gave her a sour lop-sided grin...
And pulled the pin.
Three minutes into his freedom, Franco entered the nearest Irish bar with a proud sign in Gaelic green. The sign read: A LONG WAY FROM LIMERICK. It was, apparently, the Irish bar’s name, and part of the irrefutable truth that no matter where you find yourself across any world, universe, or galaxy, the first bar you’ll always stumble across is an Irish one, which will no doubt serve a fine pint of creamy headed Guinness.
Franco savoured the atmosphere: the warmth, the aromas, the craic. He ambled over to the bar, struggled for a moment to find purchase on a high bar stool, placed both elbows in puddles of Tox1C lager, and grinned at the frowning barman.
“A pint of your finest black stuff,” said Franco.
“You any ID?” sniffed the barman.
“ID?” Franco was aghast. “I’m forty-two years old!”
“Not for your age. Your import papers.”
“No.”
“That’s OK. It’s a pain in the arse filling them forms in anyway, so it is.” The barman poured. Franco beamed, licking his lips in anticipation of his first proper pint in years. The Guinness was duly delivered. Franco supped, allowed himself the luxury of a cream moustache, and sighed as several dregs of memory from the Mount Pleasant Hilltop Institution, the “nice and caring and friendly home for the mentally challenged” were washed away on a river of warm fuzzing alcohol.
“You new around here, mister?” asked a clanging metallic voice from his left. Franco turned, head tilted, eyes taking in the old GE model robot. The machine—or AI as it would have preferred to be called—would have probably been a top-end machine in its day. Now it looked as if it had been in the wars; all panels were dented, scuffed, scratched and battered. One arm had been welded with an irregular emergency repair, and one leg was slightly longer than the other. The GE’s head was not quite straight, listing effortlessly to one side. The bright purple eyes hissed within its head-shell, and Franco rubbed his bearded chin.
“I thought everybody around here was new,” he said, cautiously.
“Could be so, could be so.” The old GE picked up a small glass that contained what looked like used engine oil, complete with iron-filings and sludge.
“Why, are you new around here?”
“Been here a week. Waiting for an old friend to show up,” said the GE amiably. “The name’s Louis. I’m an old Razor-droid.”
Franco raised his eyebrows. The Razor-droids were indeed an old breed, but were also as tough as they came, from before a time when the great Japanese Robotics Corp, VWAS and NanoTek introduced legislation to tone down the inherently violent and awesomely destructive capabilities of some of their top-end models. Razor-droids were built for off-world war. They could survive in any climate. They could adapt most household items into terrible weapons of mass destruction. And they had no empathy chips, which meant their grip on AI status was tenuous; which in turn also made them twitchy, and tetchy. Back in barracks during Combat K training, Franco’s old instructor, Sergeant DDB, had once commented, “Don’t ever underestimate a Razor-droid. Tough little bastards, they are. Skewer you with your own pencil as much as look at you.” Franco had never met one, until now.
“Nice to meet you, Louis.” Franco shook the robot’s metallic appendage. “Can I buy you a drink?”
“I’m OK for now. Thanks for the offer. Very much appreciated.”
Hmm. Seems polite enough, thought Franco, and sank the rest of his Guinness in one; he ordered another, and made a dent in it with a single gulp. “By God that tastes fine,” he said, slapping his lips. “Makes me glad to escape from prison!”
“Prison, you say?”
Franco coughed. “Just a manner of speech. More of a, y’know, mental institution.”
Louis laughed, a tinny metallic sound, and watched Franco finish his second Guinness and order two more. They were delivered. They were devoured.
Franco grinned, some would say, like a maniac.
Thirty minutes and fourteen pints of Guinness later, Franco was swaying on his stool as he recounted his break from the Mount Pleasant Hilltop Institution, the “nice and caring and friendly home for the mentally challenged”. He swayed left and right, and mimed the act of thumping several times in close rhythm. “Yeah, I punched that bastard Betezh in the mush, and he squealed like a chicken, and I said, I said, I did I said, ‘Take that you dastardly Dr. Betezh bastard, that’s for all those electrolicles on my testoids’, you hear what I’m saying?” The surrounding group of entertained punters nodded, indeed hearing exactly what Franco was saying. It would have been hard to ignore the ginger tornado.
The door to the bar opened at that moment, allowing a free flow of toxic air to rush inside. A figure stepped through the portal dripping with rain, and the interruption broke the flow of Franco’s considerably exaggerated retelling.
Franco squinted towards the door. It was filled by a stocky figure, silhouetted against a background of clover leaf. The figure shook rain free of a leather cape and hung it on a nearby peg.
Franco suddenly realised Louis the Razor-droid was by his side. Close, intimatelyclose, like a lover.
“My friend,” said Louis, by way of explanation.
And into the light stepped the bullet shaved head, the shark gaze, the powerful pendulum arms... of Dr. Betezh. Franco gasped. Betezh smiled: a nasty smile, a shark’s grin, in fact.
“Said we’d find you, didn’t I, you little maggot,” breathed Betezh. And suddenly Franco was in the grip of the GE Razor-droid, Louis. Steel claws locked Franco’s arms more effectively than any police handcuffs; his arms became rigid within a simple, elegant, robotic cage.
The circle of punters widened. It was turning into quite an entertaining evening.
“I’m not going back,” said Franco.
Betezh pulled free a long hypodermic. A tiny squirt of amber fluid ejected from the tip.
“Oh, I think you are, my boy,” he said.
And advanced.
Chapter 6
Red Zone
Keenan sprinted for safety, grabbing a pile of flak jackets and diving towards the two women. They huddled in a heap beneath the protective clothing as two things happened simultaneously. Instead of an unleashing of mini-gun rounds, there was a solid clank from above the container and it shuddered, like some great creature in the throes of extinction. Then the Babe Grenade detonated. Fire billowed and screamed, and shrapnel smashed out in all directions. Behind their huddle of flak jackets, Keenan, Pippa and Rebekka heard a pattering of thuds as the shrapnel was absorbed. Chemical heat washed over them, scorching hair and searing little bits of exposed flesh. The container shuddered again, and Keenan kicked free the protective jackets, holed and smoking, and was canted forward as the container lurched, picked bodily up and hauled high into the neon sky. The container’s ridged floor suddenly tipped to become a violent slope, and the doors—now blasted open—swung wide revealing a fast disappearing landscape. Everything on the shelves began to slide, and Pippa grabbed Keenan, hauling him back with a grunt so he could grab a steel strut. Then the chopper righted itself, the container levelled, and the world disappeared in a swathe of heavy cloud.
Wind blasted inside, chilling them.
Hailstones smashed the flying container.
“What the hell is happening?” growled Keenan, rounding on Rebekka.
“I don’t know! I swear!” She held her hands up in supplication. “We’ve been attacked! They must have been scoping us, checking us out for a heist. Why would I want to have my own damn men killed?”
“Or maybe you led somebody to us?” snapped Pippa.
“Why, who the fuck are you? I don’t know you!” There was pleading in Rebekka’s voice and tears in her eyes. Her flesh was pale. Her hands were shaking.
Pippa prodded her with the Makarov. “I say we waste her.”
Keenan shook his head. “No. If this is a gang rape then she may come in useful; after all, she b
rought us to this place.” He gave a smile, full of teeth. “If she is party to any conspiracy, then she may be a useful bartering tool.”
Rebekka grabbed Keenan’s arm. “I swear to you. I had nothing to do with this. I carry out five or six deals like this every month; three times in the past we’ve had criminals try to take us down. Or maybe this is the work of rogue terrorists from one of the Syndicates in need of a few free weapons. My men are—were—good men, tough. Out there, they were cut down like wheat.”
“Not easy to fight off a mini-gun,” observed Pippa dryly. Her Makarov still targeted Rebekka’s head.
Rebekka turned, dark hair whipping. “Hey, let me tell you something. They may have looked like scumbag mercenaries, but they were loyal to me and they did their jobs well. Some had wives, families, so don’t be flapping your mouth like a bitch just because your man was making eyes at me.”
“Myman?” Pippa snarled.
“If you took care of things at the home nest, his hand wouldn’t be sliding up my leg. You understand what I’m saying?”
“Keenan is not my man.”
“Then your chemistry lies.”
“Girls, girls! Calm down.” Keenan waved them into silence, and ignored Pippa’s menacing looks. Overhead, the chopper clattered and they dropped in a series of jerks, the floor of the suspended container rocking violently, until they fell from the pall of heavy cloud cover, and below spread the ocean, or what would have been the ocean if it hadn’t been industrialised. A fifty lane highway soared beneath them, a glittering crescent of emerald steel-tarmac a hundred feet above the waves. It swayed gently, rippling almost like a slow-motion snake, altering its floatation stance with the undulation of the waves. Around this tributary stood buildings, skyscrapers; some were built down into the roots of the ocean, and rose like glittering fingers of glass pointing accusingly at the heavens. Myriad squat blocks of tenements and shops, car parks and malls all spread like some frothy scum across the ocean surface. As night had started to fall, lights glittered through the dusk. The one obvious omission from the surface of the ocean was, well, the ocean itself. The City had spread and conquered, even across the sea.
“Do you recognise our location?” asked Keenan.
Rebekka nodded, hair floating around her head in the slipstream of their travel. She shuffled forward, peering carefully from the flapping, banging steel doors. Her boots trod crushed blackened shrapnel. Her eyes were filled with a sadness that made Keenan lick his lips. I thought proxers had diluted emotions? he mused.
“Yeah, Red Zone. Home of the Razor Syndicate.”
Across the sprawling metropolis that was The City, seven ruling underworld factions fought for supremacy in—whilst not exactly illegal trade—what could sometimes be considered immoral business. The Seven Syndicates were notorious. From gun-running to prostitution, child smuggling, off-world bleeding, extortion, designer drugs, piracy and hacking, espionage, digital embezzlement; if there was money to be made, one of the Seven Syndicates had it covered. They had ranks, they were so large. They had players. And if The City had possessed such a thing as a stable government, the Syndicates would have bought it. The fact that there were seven, all battling for ever-increasing slices of the pie, meant a sort of equilibrium had developed; and although it was a violent equilibrium based on guns and death, the Syndicates had become a kind of self-policing criminal justice system, only without the legality (farcical though it could be) of the courts, and a 9mm round as the only agreed sentencing tactic.
“I thought the Syndicates were spread thinly across the entire planet?” said Pippa.
“Yes,” nodded Rebekka, “but each has a core, or concentrated core that not even police or SIMS would venture into. It looks like we’re heading to the central offices of Razor; for you, and me, this is not a good proposition.”
“I think she knows more,” said Pippa.
“About the Syndicates?” Rebekka laughed a cold laugh. “Oh yeah, I know enough to understand that once you enter this place, it’s rare you leave again, as a free person, or as a liveone. They must have been watching us; watching our deals for some time. Shit. I thought we had this angle covered.”
“What do you mean?” asked Keenan.
“Every transaction has to pay an unauthorised fee to a Syndicate for—ha—protection. You know the score, standard mafia extortion bullshit. We were operating an illegal outfit; we paid no kickbacks, and had a floating centre of operations; fuckers didn’t even know we existed. Or so I thought, until now.”
“Penalties?”
“Extermination,” said Rebekka, eyes locked on Keenan. Then her gaze moved to the stacks of hardware that lined the shelves, sliding and moving, jiggling and rattling during this swinging, pendulous journey. “I could always fight my way out.”
“Trained soldier, are you?” Pippa’s voice dripped poisoned honey.
“I’ve done my bit,” said Rebekka. “I know how to slot a hundred and fifty-two round micro-clip into an MPK. And I know how to put a round in the back of a venomous bitch’s cuckolded skull.”
“I’m the one with the gun,” said Pippa. Her Makarov nudged, aligning with Rebekka’s eyes. “And I don’t take kindly to your insinuation. So shut your mouth before I shoot you through the teeth. I won’t warn you again.”
“Pippa!” snapped Keenan, “Focus. We’re coming in to land.”
A huge skyscraper, a kilometre high, reared from the surging ocean, which frothed and churned at its base. No roads or walkways led to the edifice; the walls were slick silver alloy without windows. The building gleamed in the rising gloom.
Rebekka gave a little sigh of fear, of resignation. It convinced Keenan of her innocence. She wore defeat like a cloak.
The chopper carrying them started a long lazy spiral of descent towards the skyscraper’s rooftop. Below, they could see a wide platform; around the edges of the tower were arched panels, all converging towards a central point. Several of these had slid back revealing a temporary hole and landing area for the chopper. Men with guns stood in ranks, neat and to attention. Keenan squinted, but did not recognise their military-style uniforms. As they closed, Keenan’s eyes also picked out mounted Mercury Cannons, a single shot from which could disintegrate the steel container in which they were, effectively, trapped.
“You see them?” said Pippa.
“Oh yes,” smiled Keenan. “They have us well covered.”
The container lowered through the gap and touched down with a clang, first one edge, then slowly lowering to a level platform. Keenan’s nose twitched. He could smell hot oil, and burnt metal. He had counted perhaps a hundred men—soldiers?—on the descent.
A voice boomed. “Mr. Keenan, Pippa, so nice of you to join us. Please, step out of your cage.”
“That answers that question,” said Keenan.
“They were after us,” nodded Pippa.
“And no funny business, please,” said the booming voice. “After all, I am sure you were witness to our awesome firepower on your rather uncouth descent. Please, do not be alarmed. We proffer no immediate violence.”
Keenan stepped free, and tossed his Techrim onto the smooth black floor. A wind howled distantly. Keenan looked up at the sky as the chopper disengaged from the container, lifted, banked, and disappeared into the falling gloom.
Huge arched panels slid smoothly back into place. The sky vanished. They were sealed, as if in a tomb.
“Welcome to my humble abode,” said the man, stepping forward. He was tall, with a slender frame. He looked to be early sixties, white hair thinning against the prominent skull of a pointed face. He had bare feet, and loose, baggy, black clothing, and he carried a pistol levelled at Keenan’s face.
He smiled.
“Keenan,” he breathed, “it’s been such a long time.”
“I don’t know you,” said Keenan.
“You do, although I looked different back then. A billion dollars of surgery have worked their wonders. But it was you who killed my broth
er,” said the man, simply, eyes glittering with a reined-in malice. “And it would be my pleasure to return the favour.”
Franco’s gaze was fixed, immovable, on that simple hypodermic. Within that glistening tube of psycho drugs lay the queuing horrors of Franco’s worst demons, worst fears, worst living nightmare hell. Franco had been incarcerated in Mount Pleasant because of these drugs; it would take a miracle of strength to return him there.
Franco went slack. It was a trick he had used often at Mount Pleasant, something the guards and mental nurses had become familiar with. The GE Razor-droid, however, was not a guard, nor a mental nurse, and had no experience with the subtleties of deranged patients; even after they had quaffed a bucketful of Guinness.
Louis, feeling its prisoner relax, loosened the rigid grip. After all, what good was a prisoner when you’d cut off the blood supply to his arms, promoted necrotic flesh and necessitated amputation? Not the desired effect... unless torture was on the cards.
Betezh came so close that Franco could smell garlic. Franco’s eyes swivelled up. The needle descended.
Flexing, Franco’s boot lashed up and the hypodermic flew from Betezh’s hand, up into the air, and Betezh looked back just in time to get the flat of Franco’s boot square on the nose. Betezh gasped, stumbling back, scattering stools. The syringe spun, end over end, droplets of fluid dripping and pattering to the floor. Then, like a rocket returning to Earth, it fell, point first, again to connect with Franco’s well aimed boot-strike. It shot true as an arrow and entered Betezh’s open howling mouth, embedding at the back of his throat.
Betezh gagged.
Franco threw a backwards head-butt, which had little effect on the old GE Razor-droid; however, some locals, deciding this was something of an unfair fight, had picked up pool cues and advanced on the GE. Louis heard a rattling sound of quick successive strikes, and with a blink realised it was four cues pounding his battered cranium. He released his grip on Franco. Never one to fail to capitalise on a situation, Franco charged with a scream. Betezh, still choking, threw his arms up in defence as Franco delivered a thundering right, straight to Betezh’s groin, and felt testicles compress agonisingly under his great flat knuckles. Dropping to one knee, again he pounded Betezh’s groin, then kicked out, cracking Betezh’s left knee-cap with a snap of dry wood.
