by Andy Remic
Rebekka smiled. “I’ll be OK, really.” She glanced nervously behind.
“No. Come on. They’ll crucify you.”
Together they sprinted up the ramp, which slammed shut behind them. The attack had gone from a rattle of stray bullets to a roar. Machine guns howled. Fire blazed from hot barrels. Tracer streamed, illuminating the Freeport. The SIMs advanced on the Hornet with the stoic bravery of the half-mechanical.
The Hornet suddenly glowed, leapt into the sky with a fighter’s agility, and was gone in a shimmering of heat haze.
The SIMs halted, some still firing aimlessly at the screaming crowd, simply to shut them up. Never masters of diplomacy, it took a while for a SIM to wind down from a violent encounter, and even longer to turn off its gun.
Julian X looked down at his smoking weapon, then back to the pounding rain clouds. He holstered the gun, and without a sound turned, mechanical eyes clicking, and disappeared into the heaving broiling mass of The City.
Pippa jumped them into fast orbit, then kicked free, and they cruised the cold expanses of space. The City wavered in a flicker of darkness and was gone; just another coloured blip against a backdrop of infinity.
Keenan came up beside her, slumped into his seat at the console and rubbed at reddened eyes. He looked bone-weary, and Pippa reached out, hand touching his arm.
“I thought you were going to cut my hands off,” said Keenan, voice thick with exhaustion.
Pippa sighed. “Maybe I’m mellowing.”
“What, so now only my fingers are forfeit?” He laughed hollowly. “Pippa, I think I’m getting too old for this running around shit. What am I doing? Risking all our lives—and the lives of others—and for what? For petty, personal retribution that, ultimately, counts for naught.”
“That’s not true,” said Pippa. Her eyes were shining. “It’s a noble cause, Kee. Nobody deserves to die like that, and believe me, that crime does not deserve to go unpunished. The Law is a fickle creature, and a joke most of the time. Sometimes it feels like the whole of our race stands for nothing, absolutely fucking nothing—if good men stand by and ignore atrocity.”
“That’s the problem, though, ain’t it? It’s why we evolved. What we were bred for. The slabs used to amuse me so much. Bred in VATS for the sole purpose of war, they seemed to me to be the perfect pinnacle of our evolution, something we, as a race, aspired to; the ultimate end-point for a sad and pathetic evolutionary trajectory. We created the ultimate man, and he was nothing but a destroyer. We’re a doomed race, Pippa. We’re a species destined to die.”
“Hiya!” beamed Franco, bounding in. He stared at the two morose faces, glum in the blue glow of the console. “Christ, you two’ve been sucking happy pills, haven’t you? Lighten up! We got away! We were the winners! We won! We succeeded against insurmountable odds! We—um—surmounted those insurmountable odds! We won! Time for a drink, hey, I’m thinking!” Franco beamed again, head twitching from Keenan to Pippa and back again.
“Actually, Franco, I need a word,” said Keenan.
“Yeah?”
“I never did ask. When that GG dragged you limp and bloody into the Syndicate HQ, how did you end up there? I kind of assumed you’d been taken from the Hornet.”
Franco looked suddenly shifty. “Well, ’twas a tale of honour and bravado and derring do! You see, I’d just nipped down the shops for a copy of The Sporting Chronicle, when...”
“You were instructed to stay aboard the Hornet!”
“Aww, come on Keenan, I needed a damn pint. OK? All right? I gave Cam a good right crack, legged it, found a rather grand Irish bar and sank a few pints of Guinness. The least I deserved, I reckon, after all that time banged up at Mount Pleasant. Did I ever mention they used to electrocute my testicles? The one up side is that my testes are like twin bags of marbles, and can take any amount of physical abuse.” He grinned again. His optimism was a painful thing.
Keenan sagged. He was tired, too tired. “Franco,” he sighed, “just tell me this one thing. Have you got it out of your system?”
Franco nodded like an eager schoolboy. “Yes. Yes, yes.”
“I can do without nasty surprises when we get down to Ket. It looks like a proper hell-hole.”
“I’m a good boy now,” said Franco, “a reformatted character.”
“Reformed.”
“Whatever.”
Franco made for the doorway.
“And Franco?”
“Yeah boss?”
“Absolutely no torturing the prisoner.”
Franco looked crestfallen. “Aww, boss!”
“No, Franco, not until I’ve had some sleep and had time to question him myself, properly.”
“And thenI can torture him?” Franco sounded hopeful.
“No!” sang Pippa and Keenan in unison.
Franco disappeared to the music of their laughter.
Pippa set the Hornet on its course for Ket, and after a few sociable glasses of wine, they all turned in for some much-earned sleep. Keenan injected Betezh with a large dose of Sleep-o. The man was obviously seriously concussed, and also in no small amount of pain at the hands of Franco, then the SIMs, then Cam. You could say it wasn’t Betezh’s century. After checking the raze-wire securing Betezh to his Medical Hold bed, Keenan retired to his quarters and crawled under a soft white duvet.
It was one of those moments when a fresh bed feels like instant orgasm. Tiredness infused every single atom, and the pillow tasted of nectar; Keenan sank into a loving embrace. His eyes closed thankfully. And then he heard the click of the door. “Pippa?” he said, before he could help himself.
“No, it’s Rebekka.”
Keenan sat up and watched her close the door behind her. She wore a simple black nightdress. Her hair tumbled behind her, glowing under the quarter’s night-lights. Her eyes buzzed orange, alien.
“What can I do for you?”
“I cannot sleep.”
“We have some drugs in the...”
“I need company, Keenan. Not sex, nothing like that, just somebody to hold me. Could you do that? For me? Just tonight? I think I’ve been shaken to my core. I’m just glad to be alive.” She smiled. Fear edged her features like a ghost.
Keenan pulled back the covers and she climbed in, lying beside him. She was long and sleek: a panther. She pulled the duvet over her body and snuggled in against Keenan’s chest. He could feel her smooth skin against his legs, under his hands. He banished thoughts of sex with a savagery that surprised even him. Then he pushed his face into her hair and inhaled the fragrance. It picked him up, spun him round, and tumbled him down into a well of sleep, and verypleasant dreams.
KERJUNK.
“Wahhh!”
KERJUNK.
“Wahhhhhhh!”
KERJUNK. KERJUNK. KERJUNK.
“Wahhhhhhhhhhhh!”
Thuds reverberated throughout the Hornet. Keenan came violently and suddenly awake, and wondered why his face was engulfed in hair. Beautiful orange eyes peered up at him sleepily. “Ahh,” he said, trying, for a moment, to work out if he’d done the unthinkable. His unintentional erection pressed against Rebekka’s leg.
“Shh!” said Rebekka, and put her finger against his lips.
KERJUNK.
KERJUNK. KERJUNK!
Pippa burst into Keenan’s quarters. “Keenan, I think it’s... Oh.” She stumbled to a stop, staring. Keenan followed Pippa’s gaze down to Rebekka’s muffled form curled beneath the duvet. Even the thickly cosseting linen could do nothing to disguise her shapely, deeply feminine figure.
“Oh,” she said, again.
“It’s not what it looks like,” said Keenan, recognising the cliché.
Pippa disappeared, and Keenan followed with Rebekka close behind. They sprinted down corridors, all the time Keenan’s brain screaming, what’s happening? Is the ship under attack? Guns? Lasers? SPAWS eating through the hull? Have we wandered into a field of Blay Stars?
KERJUNK. KERJUNK. KERJUNK. KERJUNK. KERJUN
K.
“Wahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!”
They burst into the Medical Hold and slid to a halt, stunned for a second by the sight that greeted them. Betezh, still on his back, was strapped to the bed. Franco was kneeling over him, straddling him in a parody of sex, and in one sweating grip he held an Industrial Bone-Staple gun, as used in hospitals throughout the Quad-Gal. It was used—normally—to repair broken bones under a general and very deepanaesthetic. You didn’t want to be on the receiving end while sober. Franco grinned at the group weakly.
“Hi.”
“What the fuck are you doing?” hissed Pippa, eyes glaring.
“Well,” gabbled Franco, “Betezh here, lovely nice Dr. Betezh... well he just had a few minor wounds, and I was just facilitating his recovery by... just stapling them back together again. Can’t have him bleeding all over the place now can we?” He grinned with bared teeth. “Just doing my bit for the mission, so to speak. So sorry to disturb.”
“Get off him,” snapped Keenan, and moved forward. Betezh had indeed received a few minor wounds, which Pippa had repaired using steri-strips of Titanium Weld. Over this fine repair—including a four centimetre gash down one cheek—Franco had followed the original line of the wound, injecting huge black U staples with considerable energy and enthusiasm. Betezh’s face resembled something from the slab of Dr. Frankenstein. It was not a pretty sight, although, acknowledged, it had been far from a pastel landscape in its original state.
“You lunatic!” said Pippa, dragging Franco down by the scruff. “Look what you’ve done to him!”
Franco shrugged, and placed the Industrial Bone-Staple gun back in its chrome recess with all the other neat surgical implements. “I never said I was anything else,” smiled Franco.
“Betezh? Can you hear me?” Pippa was leaning over Betezh.
Betezh opened his eyes. “Keep that little ginger fucker away from me!” he screamed into Pippa’s face, showering her with foul spittle. His eyes twitched and his hands flexed beneath raze-wire. Pippa nodded, turned, and slapped Franco across the face; a vicious, stinging blow.
“Dickhead,” she snapped, and stalked from the room.
Franco looked to Keenan, who merely shook his head in despair, turned on his heel, and left. Rebekka followed without a word, and Franco glanced up at Cam, who had made a sagacious entrance towards the end of the charade.
“You as well?”
“What a muppet,” said Cam, and disappeared on a steady stream of ionised air.
Franco considered his position for a moment: this sudden ostracism, this open hostility, this naked aggression. He shrugged, rubbing his blood-speckled hands enthusiastically. “Right, time for some breakfast,” he said. He grinned, and added, “And one of those right tasty blue pills.”
Keenan and Pippa spent most of the day poring over charts of Ket. They worked their way through maps, both civilian and military. They read up on the history of the planet, and the Ket-i people in particular; a warrior race, they took little understanding as to motivations, but a lot in terms of sheer incompetence when it came to Galaxy-wide diplomacy and a sheer obstinate belief that they could take on the entire Quad-Gal, and win.
The atmosphere was frozen and uncommunicative between the two ex-lovers. Occasionally they would share information, but exchanges were short and to the point. Both reeled with inner emotions and both were trying, in their own ways, to navigate through a minefield of past problems.
At one point Rebekka entered the room, bringing a steaming drink for Keenan. No words were spoken, but Pippa threw the proxer such a look of hatred and open contempt that Rebekka retreated without a sound. Keenan stared at the frothing hot chocolate as if it was rabid.
“Drink it, then.”
“What?”
“Your lover brought you a drink. The least you can do is drink the fucking slop.”
“She’s not my lover.”
“Not what it looked like to me.”
“Pippa, grow up.”
“What, grow up and shut up? Actually Keenan, we’re a long way past the days when I’d smile sweetly, innocently, trustingly, and obey your every last whim.”
Keenan laughed. “You never obeyed my every last whim.”
“It felt like it.”
“How’s it going, children?” Franco grinned from the door, a huge sandwich in one paw, mustard—or at least, something thick and yellow—smeared around his mouth and crusted in his beard. He took a bite, chewed, swallowed, and made appreciative mumbling noises.
“Not so bad, mutilator.”
Franco nodded. “Mutilator, heh? Quite good. Quite good. I love this witty repartee, this funky exchange of comedy insults. It’s what makes us a team, right?” He cackled and mooched over to Keenan. “Big place, ain’t it?”
Keenan looked up. “So you’ve done your research?”
“Aye,” nodded Franco. “After all, they don’t call me Mr. Photographic Memory for nothing.”
“Franco... they don’t...” Keenan shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”
Franco took another bite of his huge sandwich. He dribbled mustard on the map. “Sorry. Sorreeee!”
“Franco,” snapped Pippa, “what the helldo you want?”
“Just wondered when we were going to question Betezh. The bastard has been a pain in my throbbing arse for these last few years. Thought it might be time we got some answers.”
“Is it that important?”
“Well, he did say he used to be in a Combat K squad.”
“WHAT?” It was a joint exclamation by both Keenan and Pippa.
Franco shrugged. “That’s what he said.”
“I thought he was a ‘doctor’ from your happy little insanity station?” Keenan was frowning, hard.
“He was.” Franco grinned amiably. “I get the feeling he was planted there, to keep an eye on me, or something.”
Keenan rolled his eyes. “Right. Get your shit together. We’ll meet in the Med Bay in five.”
“Rodgah that!” saluted Franco.
“And Franco?”
“Sah?”
“Stop fucking about, there’s a good lad.”
They formed a semicircle around Dr. Betezh. The lights had been dimmed. The operating table, which had become Betezh’s temporary prison, was lifted to the near-vertical; Betezh did not look a happy man. He stared at them suspiciously.
“OK,” said Keenan, “talk.”
“About?”
“Combat K.”
“What would you like to know?” Betezh gave a nasty smile: the smile of a man who knew a lot, but did not intend divulging. He gestured to Franco. “What has that insane dickhead been spieling you?”
“Less of the insane,” growled Franco.
Keenan narrowed his eyes. “I’ll start at the beginning. Franco says you know about Combat K. You know about us. That figures, even if you were onlya doctor at Mount Pleasant. Now, what I want you to consider is this. If you know more about me, then you know about some of the things I’ve done, the places I’ve been, the missions I’ve carried out.” Betezh’s face paled a little. “If so, you’ll know I worked with this squad, but before... yeah, before there was a lot of stuff I’m not proud of. I was not a good boy.”
Keenan pulled his chair a little closer, became more of a conspirator: intimate. Outside, the chill of idle space flowed by, and Betezh felt the hours of his life slipping through oiled fingers.
“You need to talk,” said Keenan. His voice was gentle. “There are things I need to know.”
Betezh nodded. “I do know about you: the three of you, Combat K. I know about the Terminus5 reactor incident; I know about your subsequent trial and incarceration.”
“You were Combat K?”
“Originally,” nodded Betezh. “Then I went K-OPS.”
“A spook?”
Betezh nodded again. “I worked military assignments: spy work, infiltration, gathering evidence, watching suspects, the usual shit.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” said Pippa, standing up, eyes blazing. “You mean he’s—like—internal fucking affairs? Sent to spy on the good old boys of Combat K? Make sure we’re doing our fucking jobs?”
“Every organisation has its internal agencies,” said Betezh, voice dripping poison. “Because every organisation has its naughty players: those who embezzle, defraud, commit crimes of atrocity. My job was simple: root out decay blossoming at the core of Combat K and excise with a precision scalpel.”
“Now I hate him evenmore than traffic wardens,” interjected Franco. Keenan gave him a savage glance.
“Franco mentioned a name: Kotinevitch.”
Betezh nodded. “My controller.”
“The politician?”
“Yes.”
“What’s her beef? Why the hell is she up to her tits in military stuff?”
Betezh shrugged. “She’s a politician, General Activator for the Quad-Gal’s Warfleet.”
“She, also, knows of us?”
“Oh yes,” said Betezh. “She took an active interest. In a past life, she even wanted you exterminated.”
“Why?” snapped Keenan.
“After the Terminus5 catastrophe you almost caused... an incident. Let’s just say your incompetence in the field nearly led to a massive Quad-Gal meltdown, never mind a mere reactor meltdown on the planet. You buried yourselves, Combat K. You showed the military you were incompetent; a joke.”
“Not so,” snapped Pippa. “We were set up.”
“That’s right,” said Keenan. “The whole gig was an arse-fuck. They knew we were coming. It was a charade. We were the central characters in a pantomime; we were the scapegoats, my friend.”
“I know nothing of that.” Betezh’s dark eyes gleamed. Sweat glistened on his Frankenstein stitching.
“This has the sour stench of politicians,” said Pippa bitterly.
Keenan nodded. “Yes, the work of people like Kotinevitch. I’d like to meet this judgemental bitch; I’d like to find out exactly where her personal interest in our little outfit stems.”
