Cloneworld - 04

by Andy Remic

  Franco looked around. He scratched his beard. He looked around again. "Er," he said. Then shrugged. "I'm. Er. Sorry?"

  There was a commotion, and fifty heavily armed police officers stormed through a variety of doors and studio entrances. They carried state-of-the-art MPK sub-machine guns and D5 Shotguns used for riots and crowd control (and the controlling slaughter of rioting crowds). And... Franco blinked. Every single member of the Royal Ganger Police Force looked exactly the same. They were the same build, the same height, and had the same facial features - that of a thirty-year-old man in his prime, with neat dark hair and purple rings under the eyes from too many late nights drinking coffee and eating donuts.

  "Throw down your weapons!" came a crackly voice through a loud-hailer.

  "Put your hands in the air!"

  "Lie on the floor!"

  "Hands behind your back!"

  "Don't move, sucker!"

  "I'm not carrying a weapon," said Franco, helpfully.

  "He can't put his hands in the air and lie on the floor, you idiot," crackled the loud-hailer.

  "Er, just kneel down then, with your hands in the air. And throw down your weapons, mister!"

  At that point, Franco's earlobe comm gave a tiny buzz. In his ear, Franco heard Pippa's voice. "At last, we've found the bugger. Franco? Franco, what are you - oh, no, tell me this is a joke, a bad dream, a slap in the face with a portable bloody nuke! You've killed Opera? Holy shit! She's a public phenomenon and you've just decapitated her on live TV! Oh, no..."

  "I didn't kill her," said Franco through gritted teeth. "She sort of cut off her own head with a digital chainsaw during a fight. I was the completely innocent party, I was."

  "Listen, just hang tight," snapped Pippa. "Do not fight these goons. I repeat, do not fight..."

  The RGPF waded into Franco, and he slammed a right hook, a right straight, a left hook, another right straight, breaking jaws and cheekbones on that perfectly gangered face before the sheer weight of cloned police and batons clubbed him to the ground in a flurry of eagerness and Franco entered yet another blissful state of dreamless euphoria.

  CHAPTER ONE

  PUBLIC ENEMA NO. 1

  She lay on a cold slab. It was uncomfortable, pressing against her shoulder blades, coccyx and ankles. She was naked. She shivered, but relished the feeling. Goosebumps rippled along her flesh. Pain teased her. But then - that was okay. Pain meant life. Pain meant existence. She opened her eyes. The world was grey. The world was black. Swirling whorls, a fluid jigsaw. And she remembered - no colour. Everything was black and white. Like an old filmy. Like the P-Earth-History books. She released a breath. A breath held in a cage for a million years. She sat up. Looked around. Her eyes settled on a table. On the table there was a photograph. Next to the photograph was a gun. She took the gun. It nestled in her palm, like metal flesh. She licked her lips. Studied the face in the photo. And instinctively, because she was programmed to, she knew what she must do.

  Franco groaned, long and low, and realised he was in the shit. This was going to be a week of being in the shit, he understood that now, and somehow it made him reticent to open his eyes because everything would be brown. I'll just lie here for a while. It's cool. No new violences are being visited upon my organs, and despite a rumbling in my belly and the craving for a few stiff whiskies, I think I could just get used to this.

  "Oy!"

  Franco remained stoically calm, and stubbornly refused to open his eyes. A distant pounding drummed through his skull from rough treatment at the hands and clubs of the Royal Ganger Police Force. The ends of his fingers tingled, signifying some element of nerve stress, and Franco tried hard not to imagine what would happen when Pippa finally turned up... and yet! Yet it had been going so well. And what happened when things were going so well, was that they usually stopped going so well, and then kicked a man in the balls - or if one didn't have balls, the nearest damn equivalent...

  "Oy! You there!"

  Franco gave in. He opened his eyes. He gazed up at cold grey steel. It was a cold grey steel ceiling attached to cold grey steel walls. A cool breeze washed over him. Aircon? A drink, sir? Maybe you'd like to retire to your room for a massage...? Franco clicked his brain into gear and ran a physical diagnostic. He wiggled everything. Everything seemed to work. His eyes were going in and out of focus, and he tenderly touched his head where a lump the size of an egg was threatening to crack open and spill yolk across the... yep, he checked, across the cold grey steel floor. So then! Police cell. Ganger police cell. A ganger police cell fashioned from, Franco blinked and checked around, a solid cube of grey cold steel. Shit. Shit. How did one escape from a cube? And more importantly, how did they feed you?

  "I said oy, you, bastad!"

  There came a whirring sound, followed by several clunks, and Franco shuffled into a sitting position on his cold grey steel bunk. From the steel gloom came a woman, a little old woman, and awww, Franco liked little old women because they reminded him of his mum, and Franco loved his mum, but this little old woman leered and loomed from the gloom because, because... the clanking stopped. She had splayed metal toes at the end of what could only be described as robot legs.

  "Er," began Franco.

  "What you in for?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "You, you bastad. What you in for?"

  Franco eyed the woman up and down. She looked perhaps eighty years old, assuming an old-hume lifespan. She was bent over, stooped, almost hunch-backed in that perennial display of the aged: weighed down by a great pressure of years. Her skin was wrinkled, and Franco stared for a while, fascinated by this phenomenon. After all, in most corners of Quad-Gal the QG Cosmetica Syndicate, one of the most affluent, powerful and influential of galaxy-wide corporations, had pretty much eradicated old age. Or at least, the appearance of old age. "Why Grow Old!" proclaimed the marketing slogans, with blatant disregard for correct punctuation. "Why Wrinkle and Prune!" spat aggressive marketing splats 24/7 on all available channels. "Let the Cosmetica Syndicate help you beat those ageing blues... We make the Old New, we make the Crone Beautiful, our simple course of phenuclearaxiate injections make the Dead Alive...! Only a simple remortgage required!!! @ggg.iwanttobeyoungagain.com."

  "Er." Franco stared hard at her. Understanding clicked with a tiny click. The old woman was an org. Distant phrases from the "Infiltration Sheet" drifted like wedding confetti in the vacuous caverns of Franco's mind... Franco never read his infil.literature. What's the point, he reasoned, when I'll be on the job soon enough? Eh? I ask you? In reality, it sometimes made Franco Haggis a liability best avoided.

  Anyway, in this instance he had read some of the infil.literature (at Pippa's 9mm-pistol-prodding insistence), whilst perched on the alutitanium auto-flush toilet, pants round his ankles, vacating himself of the previous evening's vindaloo:

  The Org - Upgrade Information

  An Org Inc. Pamphlet

  General

  The orgs are a species who have evolved from a basic human construct/shell with the addition of mechanical and bio-mechanical aids. The orgs' religion is based on the premise "Thou Shalt Improve Thyself" and any org who does not wholly embrace such technological splicing - indeed, the art of mechanical self-improvement in its entirety - is thus exterminated as deviant to the core species. Here is the latest Sales Pack from Org Inc. [Upgrades Division/ Cloneworld East Sec].

  Upgrade Technology: Basic Packages

  [1] Core Power

  The human "heart" is always the first unit to be replaced, and replace it you should! Why perambulate along like a bowl of sushi, when you can fly... This is obviously the most expensive unit to be incorporated, as on its energy input/output/capability rests the operation of the complete org construct. One must carefully decide as to other requirements before choosing a heart unit (or 4-valve supply, as it has become trendily known). Basic 4-valvers will accommodate most normal augmentations, but for our "extra-special" special models, 8-valvers and even 16-valvers can be employed
after special artery-rerouting organic circuitry. You'll have to dig deep in those deep pockets for the latest tech! But hell, for any org true to his/her roots, it's worth it! A bargain! - $117.99.

  [2] Arms and Legs

  These are considered the "back-bone" upgrade (along with the real backbone, a-ha-ha-ha). Arm and leg upgrades (orgspeak for beginners: mods/ augmentations) give increased strength/stamina/speed, allowing any happy org much increased power in all athletic events! Want to win that race? Win that girl/boy? Woo that mutant? You need the basic Armaleg units! Soft! Strong! And very, very durable! A special "Fight Pack" can also be ordered for all you budding org combatants (and let's face it, who doesn't like the odd punch-up, eh?), which substitutes carbontitanium bones and enlarged knuckles for those all-important fist-fights to the death. If you want to bludgeon your enemy to death, the Fight Pack is a must! Only - $55.99.

  [3] Armour

  Fed up with being shot in the face? Annoyed when a more powerful org kicks in your breast bone, splintering fragments into your woefully inadequate 4-valver and causing a temporary death sequence? Do not fret! Armour can be applied to any area of the org construct. Breast plates, joint plates, face plates. Hell, you can even encase those precious testicles in tiny solid balls of steel - or even better, have them removed entirely! [recommended for pit slab fighters]. Special pink units can be ordered for the ladies, as can protective head-shells for the kiddies! Never again worry when little Charlie org falls down the stairs, gets crushed in the kitchen mincer, or is attacked by a violent dog org with his irresponsible dumb owner (but aren't they all these days, eh? Heh, heh, heh). Protect your children. Protect your genitals. Get our Armour Pack Today! A snip at - $38.99.

  [4]Sexual Upgrades

  Hey there, sexy lady/ man/ mutant/ nudge-nudge-wink-wink, fancy giving your org partner a little bit of spice-up? Sexual upgrades are a popular augmentation for all you happily married orgs/ lotharios/ sexual predators/ femaleorgpower junkies! We have the obvious penis and clitoral upgrades, with added biomechanical vibrating stimulation for those lonely nights all on your lonesome! Guys! - Don't ever miss that opportunity with your best friend's wife ever again! Get yourself a Throbbing Extension[tm] (comes in five hundred and fifteen different size/ colour/ alloy configurations - It's the Quad-Gal's first ever "Pick & Mix Cock"!). And ladeees! - Don't ever let him get away with cutting you short of a good time! With our Teeth+Spike inserts, you can gently prod him into yet more energetic work and eager efforts - with the simplest of mental impulses! Don't be cheated ever again, buy our wonderful Vagina Dentata mods.

  :Special Love-Day Offer:

  Go on, guys, treat the woman org of your dreams to a combo Multi-Orgasm Insert combined with the Megaviolence[tm] pack for some awesome sex in the sack!! You know it makes sense... All sexual upgrades at the wonderfully low but sexually stimulating - $89.99.

  [5] Special Upgrades

  * Ever wanted to become a fifty-foot-tall mech?

  * Ever wanted to crush buildings with a single swipe of a car-sized fist?

  * Ever wanted helicopter rotors on your back? So you can fly?

  * Ever wanted a jet engine up your ass?

  Call one of our special Org Inc. salesorgs for the latest deals. Special rates for the military and teachers!

  At this point, Franco had stopped reading. Hey, he reasoned, one robot man is the same as the next? Reet? And he'd moved onto his hacked PAD to check the latest Arsebook updates (Welcome to Arsebook - Arsebook helps you connect and share with the arses in your life...).

  Now, here and now, Franco was frowning hard and starting to wonder (not for the first time) at his lack of research prior to an infiltration in enemy territory. But it was just such an easy gig, he reasoned to himself. It was simply a search and sniff mission, yeah? A take-it-from-behind mission. A lame-ass gig with no worries, baby, no drama!

  The old woman had stopped and was staring at him. Franco swallowed hard as he analysed her close-up in the gloom of the confined cubic cell. She was small, and bent, and wrinkled, yes. But she had bone-grafted spikes along her arms that looked pretty mean. Her legs from the knees down where pure mechanical, and clicked and whirred with every subtle shift of weight. Her face was wrinkled like an old woman, but now Franco studied her, he noted her eyes glowed green, with a deep and worrying malevolence. And her teeth were chromed like the finest of Franco's motorcycle accessories.

  "I said," and she reached out, and prodded Franco with an alloy finger that clicked and hissed on hydraulic joints, "what you in for? You deaf or something?"

  "I, um, got into a spot of bother, old crone," said Franco, smiling optimistically. The "old crone" stepped backwards and, with a clanking and grinding of metal, rose on hissing hydraulics until her legs were ten foot long, and her midriff separated from her pelvis on a fat greased piston that took her head all the way up to the ceiling. With clicks and clacks her shoulders opened, revealing tiny mounted lasers that focused, and locked red dots, one on Franco's face, the second over his heart...

  "Er?" said Franco, eyes wide.

  "Old crone, is it, fat boy?"

  "Er," and Franco held up his hands in supplication. "Wait, wait, I beseech thee! It was all a misunderstanding, I was stuck in this here cell through no bloody trouble on my part, oh no, I was simply walking down the street and next thing I know I'm accused of cutting off Opera's head! Hot damn and dirty donkeys!"

  "You - you cut off Opera's head?" screeched the old crone org. "I don't fragging believe it!"

  "Is that an 'I don't fragging believe it' in a 'thank the gods that really awful TV presenter is finally devoid of her skull and brain innards' sort of way? Or..."

  Suddenly, the org dropped and loomed close, and blew foul breath over Franco, stinking of hot oil and melted grease. There came a sound like dry bearings grinding steel shavings. "No, you idiot deviant. I admit I hate gangers on general principle, as is only just and right for an org such as I, but Opera... well, she was something different. Something special. She brought hope to the masses!"

  "Ah."

  "She brought messages of freedom and ultimate peace between org and ganger kind!"

  "Ah. Aaah."

  "She was the one hope of uniting the orgs and gangers, of halting the progress towards all-out war, of stopping the rape and mutilation and eventual total destruction of the entire bloody planet of Cloneworld!"

  "Shit," said Franco in a little voice.

  "And you killed her, you little bastad!"

  Lasers tracked again. Franco whimpered. There came a whine, deep down in the old org's belly, like some great and massive power source charging, ready to ignite and fire...

  Which it did.

  "I was simply walking down the street."

  Franco Haggis, Combat K, efficient in demolition, detonation and assassination.

  Mission: to find the Soul of the Junks, or the Junkala Soul as it is also known. Sent to Cloneworld by VOLOS - an ancient machine-God and also an entire living planet - theirs was the mission to end the advance of the junks spreading like a toxic virus across Quad-Gal. With the Junkala Soul, Combat K could potentially re-infect the decadent warmongering species of junks, re-infect them with a digital retrovirus and pacify their hatred; turn them back into a good species. Turn them from their path of darkness and abomination. Return them to former nobility and integrity.

  Mission: a fast SLAM-drop, with Franco disengaging from the Hornet at two klicks over the surface of Cloneworld and SLAM-diving with his auto-chute. This had been a problem, because a) Franco hated heights, and b) Franco fucking hated heights. He screamed like a prepubescent girl from disengagement to his final hard, rolling, coughing landing in the dust of a toxic zone power plant, in what were comically known as the Abandoned Sectors of Cloneworld. Not the sort of place you wanted to back-pack. Not unless you wanted to grow three heads.

  Franco stood in the dust, breathing in the tox and staring around. It was night. A cold sour wind blew. It smelt bad. It smelt like..
. toxic overload.

  "Hot damn and bloody bollocks," said Franco, and cut himself free of his SlickChute, rolling it into a ball and stowing it under some nearby dead, skeletal shrubbery, twigs like bony fingers. "So I'm here. And Pippa dropped me in a toxic shithole." He considered this. "So. Some things'll never change, then."

  In the distance, the lights of a city glittered. This was Nechudnazzar, one of the twin capital cities on the ganger continent of Clone Terra; it was also the place where Franco was to begin his search for the mythical Junkala Soul artefact.

  Instruction: Do not engage in combat. This is a covert mission. Do not make your presence known. Find information on the Junkala Soul - if it exists - and report back to Pippa on the Fast Attack Hornet Metallika. From thence, further plans will be formulated. Sorted.

  Simple. Easy peasy. With a bit of lemon squeezy.

  Even Franco couldn't mess it up. Right?

  "I'm in. You dropped me in a snot-pit again, Pips."

  "Nothing less than you deserve, deviant."

  "Well, now I've got a fifty klick hike, thanks to your crap nav skills. Skills, did I say? Your lack thereof!"

  "Maybe you'll lose your paunch, gutsy. I'm just looking on the bright side."

  "I do not have a paunch. I'm just robust. Like a digger. Or a tank. Or something. Anyway, I absolutely refuse to walk."

  "You'll have to. No bringing attention to yourself, right?" She sounded annoyed now; which was ironic, as far as Franco could see. "We can do without compromising the mission before it even begins! You know the rules, Franco. The whole planet is in a constant flux of political upheaval, and teetering on the brink of total war. The gangers and orgs hate each other, and need little enough persuasion to fire off a few micronukes or HighJ spikes. The last thing Quad-Gal and Combat K need is to be caught up in the middle of some dogshit dogfight. So you do what we all do in these situations, Franco, and you bloody well keep a low profile and use your brain. Right?"