Cloneworld - 04

by Andy Remic

  It was steep. No, thought Pippa. It was steep.

  She edged forward with care, the rocks seeming to envelop her. It went darker as she shifted down the narrow channel in the mountainside. The mist didn't help. It crept up further, thicker now, and disguised the ground far below; disguised the fall.

  "Nice and easy," muttered her clone. "There's no rush, girl."

  Pippa grinned. Good. Her clone was feeling the same icy, creeping dread. Not just fear of the grave, but fear of falling in this vast, lonely, endless space, and never being found. Nobody to bury you. Nobody to mourn over you. Just an eternity trapped, wedged, rotting between icy rocks - entombed by the merciless mountains.

  They climbed on. It grew yet darker. Shadows crept forward, mocking them. The rocks were cold, even through gloves, and occasionally Pippa's boots slipped, making her heart climb up her throat and sit in her mouth, pumping her with raw fear. She moved on down, carefully finding footholds, inching her fingers into spaces, contorting herself into peculiar shapes she just knew, knew Franco would make some wisecrack about if he'd been there. The dirty but lovable little pervert. Franco. The Hornet. Shit! If she could get to the valley below, that would be the most likely place for a pickup, a rescue attempt...

  She'd have to be ready to fight.

  She glanced up, at where her clone was carefully picking her way down the rocky chimney. Then she blinked, as from a narrow dark cave to one side she saw... something. Something she herself had missed until now that she was beneath it. From the cave emerged a long, blood-red snout, like a dog's snout, only without fur and without skin, and her mouth went narrow and dry, and her tongue limp, and she wanted to cry out a warning, but the words stuck in her throat, and something long and thin crept out behind the snout, as the body emerged, and it was like an octopus, big and fat and white and bloated, only with four thick tentacles instead of eight, and from its muscular body emerged the dog's neck and bloody snout and it turned, and its dark black orbs fastened on her, and she felt a thrill of terror course through her body like liquid nitrogen injected straight through her veins. It growled, tentacles whipping, and leapt even as her clone heard the sounds and reached fast for her yukana... but the critter, the creature, the genetic mutation hit the clone fast, tentacles wrapping tight around her and making her scream as she lost her footing, and the two entwined creatures slipped, cannoning down the narrow rocky chute and into a shocked Pippa, who got a bloated white tentacle slapped in her face, leaving a thick smear of clear jelly. Pippa felt, heard, jaws snapping at her face and realised her eyes were shut. She'd slipped down, banged her back on rocks and was stunned. Her eyes clicked open. The dog-face was snapping at her, inches away, whilst the cloned Pippa wrestled with three of the thick tentacles and the bloated body pulsed with the heavy rhythm of its thick, squirming muscles.

  What is it? screamed her mind. What the fuck is it? but the professional part of her took over, took stock of the situation, and her Combat K training weighed up her predicament and made a snap judgement. She pulled back her fist and rammed her index and middle fingers into the snapping dog's eyes as hard as she could. Pitiful dog yelps cried out, reverberating up the stone walls of the chimney as the creature now tried to scrabble backwards, away from her. Pippa lunged at the beast, but slipped, sliding down yet more diagonal rocks, which battered her as she bounced from wall to wall. She had a vague impression of the dogopus, critter, or whatever the fuck the gangers wanted to call it, slithering away, using its tentacles to find instant purchase on the rocky slopes; then her clone crashed into the creature, and the yukana sliced through a thickly-muscled tentacle. A high keening rent the air, along with a wash of blood, soaking Pippa. The dog snout lunged forward and grasped the clone's throat, and she shrieked as it lifted her up. The yukana clattered, tinkling like ice, and fell through the rocks to land on a flat ledge twenty feet below. The dogopus threw the cloned Pippa against a rocky wall and she tumbled past Pippa. Her fingers snapped out, grabbing the woman instinctively, and she was jerked from her little ledge by the weight. Like marionettes they toppled together, lodging in another V of rock.

  Pippa groaned, and opened her eyes. Her clone was breathing, but there were puncture wounds in her throat, leaking rich blood. It bleeds! It is real! cackled an insane part of Pippa's mind, as she gradually became aware of a slithering, yapping sound, and was brought clattering back into painful reality. She glanced up. The dogopus, head swaying, eyes squinting through their weeping sockets, was shifting from rock to rock in a three-limbed descent. Pippa cast about, saw the yukana only feet away, and, hoisting her groaning clone's dead weight off her own torso, leapt for the sword. She took a tight hold on the hilt and turned to gaze up at the monstrosity weaving towards her, swaying, cackling, growling, yakking and snakking like some poisonous little bastard terrier with an insane love of its own yakking voice.

  "Come on!" snarled Pippa, "come on, you bastard!"

  At the sound of her voice, the dogopus critter slowed and its head lifted, ears pricking. It gave a little whimper and finally stopped, perched on a big rock just above Pippa's head. Blood pattered down. Pippa saw it had shiny, curved claws on the undersides of its three remaining tentacles.

  "What in the name of fuck are you?"

  The creature whined, its ears flat against its canine skull. A long tongue lolled out and the creature started panting.

  "What?"

  Pippa stared in disbelief. No, it couldn't be, how could they engineer something so insane? Was it really a hybrid of what she thought it was? And did it really inherit those same traits? Surely, that was impossible. Surely, that was just God having a laugh...

  "Good boy," she said.

  The ears rose. The panting became more pronounced.

  "Er. Lie down!" She ordered, emphatically.

  Squelching, the dogopus lay down, canine muzzle resting on one tentacle. It stared at Pippa with blood-rimed eyes. It seemed to be grinning a doggy grin and Pippa felt her stomach flip and lurch. She came close to losing her breakfast. Or would have, if she'd eaten any.

  "Bad dog!" she tried.

  The dogopus whined.

  "Good boy!"

  The dogopus put its head on one side, and panted at her, almost grinning. Almost.

  Pippa stood, wedged between two rocks, one boot on either side of a drop that could kill her, crush her, maim her in an instant - and traded dog-friendly instructions with a mutated mutant.

  Pippa licked her lips. Go on. It's worth a try. And the bastard is too pitiful to kill, even though I know I can. After all, a yukana can easily cut through hull steel...

  She pointed, back off up the rocks. "To your bed! Go on, get to your bed!"

  The dogopus stared at her with those evil black eyes, licked its incisors, then slowly stood and turned and, with a little whine, squelched back off up the mountain chimney, making short work of the tricky, dangerous ascent. It picked up its severed tentacle and then retreated into its cave, far off up the chimney. And then, as quickly as it had come, the dogopus had gone.

  Pippa swallowed, and ran a hand over the smears of blood on her WarSuit. She grimaced, looked down at her clone, and cursed, and for a long minute thought evil thoughts. Then, almost reluctantly, she moved to the clone, who was breathing heavily, and drew the second yukana from its sheath, examining the blade with a faint air of curiosity. It was exactly the same as her own. Then she sheathed the blade neatly, and with a tiny snick, against her own back.

  "Come on, wake up," said Pippa, without much compassion.

  Groaning, the clone opened her eyes. Her hand went to her throat, and the new puncture wounds there, two of them deep. She croaked, and spat out a lump of phlegm and blood, then slowly sat up. She was wincing, and coughing, and Pippa pulled a medkit from her own pack, complete with skinglue. She tossed the kit to the clone, who caught it deftly.

  "You got two minutes to patch yourself up. Then we move."

  "Your compassion overwhelms me."

  "Look into y
our own heart, bitch, and see what you'd do if the situation was reversed."

  The clone of Pippa nodded, and cleaned her wounds as Pippa kept watch, yukana in one fist, eyes wary on the cave above. She could hear occasional panting, and a grotesque tearing sound. What do you bet the genetic freak is reattaching the fucking limb? I guarantee it. I just bloody guarantee it!

  The clone glued her own throat back together, and lay for a few moments, head back on a rock, damp hair spread out around her pale face as she waited for the glue to fix. When she tentatively removed her hand, she sat up and glared at Pippa.

  "You bitch."

  Pippa grinned. "Hey. I'm just the way the world made me. Now get on your fucking feet and get moving; you're lucky I didn't leave you for the dog-pussy thing. Lucky I didn't leave you as chopped up dog liver!"

  The clone tilted her head to one side - as, Pippa realised, she must have done a million times in her own lifetime. "How did you pacify it?" she said. "How did you stop it attacking? They are renowned for being fearsome indeed..."

  Pippa shrugged. "Let's just say, as an educated woman of the world, and having spent many an evening in a drunk-filled nightclub, that I've got a particular knack at fending off dogs. Now, on your feet and start climbing."

  Darkness was descending like a veil over the mountains. Pippa crouched on the narrow ledge, perched like a hunter, surveying the landscape before her. The mist had cleared, at least partially, and the sky was a pastel backdrop of smeared ochre and magenta. The surrounding mountains, The Gangers, were alien teeth smashed up from the HeartStone of the world. Pippa grimaced, and glanced behind to the cave they'd discovered. It seemed as good a place as any to spend the night. To... defend, if the necessity arose.

  Pippa's clone had lit a fire at the back of the cave, and was cooking some kind of emergency ration stew over meagre flames. It stank like a dead cat, but Pippa had to admit her stomach was a bunched fist, her body deprived of nutrients. Damn, but she could have eaten Franco's arse if it was served to her on a plate with salad garnish and sour cream!

  Pippa retreated into the cave and hunkered down before the flames. They'd found a little dead wood, but not enough to keep the fire burning all night. It was more of a morale boost than anything else.

  "Any sign?" asked the clone.

  Pippa shrugged. "What, of the ganger mutants or your soldier friends? Or maybe the two aren't mutually exclusive?"

  The clone smiled. "I work for the Mistress. My contact is Ziggurat. And yes, they will be searching for me. The Gangers do... strange things to communication devices. And engines. They'll wait for morning, knowing I'll head for the valley below. Nice easy pickup. If I survive."

  "What, so they'll be willing to let you die in the mountains? Some friends!"

  "Who said they were my friends?" The clone stirred the stew, and met her own gaze. It was like looking into a mirror. The two women were identical. Clones. Freaks.

  Pippa shivered.

  "I'm a mercenary," continued the clone. "I work for money."

  "And you copied me?"

  "Yes." She gave a tight little smile. "A long time ago. And I've kept the... structure. It suits my profession."

  "You killed Keenan's wife and children," said Pippa, not looking up, but staring into the flames. They danced like tiny orange demons, obscene and erotic. She watched the fire and felt her anger rising, felt her hatred seeping into every molecule of her being. She had carried the false guilt for too long, her brain twisted and confused like broken shards of mirror. Now here was this creature, this diluted echo of herself, this very mockery of her own life and being and existence. This was the tool QGM had used, to control Combat K, to control Keenan and Pippa. For, with Keenan's family dead, he had become the ultimate QGM machine. Lost his humanity. Became the perfect killer...

  And Pippa?

  Pippa was the fucking scapegoat.

  She thought back to Hardcore, the Sick World... thought back, and dreamed her dreams in the twisting leaping fire, remembered Keenan, and tears rolled down her face. She remembered Keenan's gentle touch, the touch of a killer...

  Pippa gave a little shake of her head, caught Keenan watching her, and returned his smile. She started, wondering how she looked, and stood, locating a polished plate of chrome by the door. She stared into the face of a stranger, a battered, bruised, bloodied, tattered hooligan, a street-tramp with crap in her matted hair, grease and dirt-streaks on her swollen face. 'Shit,' she muttered.

  Something touched her hand, and she looked down at Keenan's questing fingers. She took his hand, and he squeezed her fingers, and in that simple single moment, in that spark of connection, of brushed skin, of honest intimacy, she suddenly realised everything was all right between them.

  Well, not all right, but the kill had gone. Keenan no longer wanted her dead. And that, in itself, was a massive leap forward; a milestone achievement of incredible understanding. Possibly... even forgiveness.

  I didn't do it, she said to herself.

  And she almost believed it.

  I didn't kill his family.

  It was a set-up. I was framed.

  But how? Why? And by whom?

  And a word leapt to her mind, and she felt a tickling sensation that swept through her veins, and this connection with Keenan, this reawakening of trust, sent sparks running up and down her spine, and seemed to ignite the alien essence left in her by the Kahirrim, Emerald. Ganger, came the word. Search the ganger. And Pippa knew. Knew it was her employer, Quad-Gal Military, who had turned her into what she had become; but more than that, they had betrayed her, made Keenan hate her. In a flash of understanding, she realised QGM had murdered Keenan's family. But why? Why would they do such a thing? And how had they used her as the puppet?

  Did she really use scissors?

  Pippa realised she was crying. Keenan stood, his body close to hers, rocking gently with the lull of the charging train. The motion pushed them together, and for a brief instant the lengths of their bodies touched. They shifted away, and Pippa looked up into his eyes.

  "It wasn't me," she said.

  "Shh," said Keenan, and touched her lips.

  "I wouldn't do that to you."

  Keenan grinned, like a skull on speed. He wanted to say, of course you wouldn't, I believe you, I love you, I know you would never do anything to harm my family. But he didn't believe it. He knew; knew Pippa was a killer, a psychotic assassin of the lowest order. He knew it. She knew it. And she knew he understood her soul. The dark corners. The dark places only she, alone, could explore in the lost hours of the night.

  Instead, she rested her head against his chest. And was happy with that.

  Except now, now he was fucking dead, twisted into the heart of the machine god known as VOLOS. Or at least as good as dead; no longer an individual entity, but a strand within a strand within a million strands. Keenan was good and gone, part of a chemical soup.

  Her head came up and she gazed long and hard at her clone. "You have caused me great pain."

  "I did a job. Was paid to do a job. The same as you."

  "I would never have slaughtered Keenan's family like that. It was brutal. Unnecessary. You're a fucking disease, and I'm going to give you a cure," she rose, yukana out, eyes reflecting the fire, which turned her, Pippa, the real Pippa, into a demon.

  "Wait," said the clone, and held out a hand.

  "You're going to die, bitch. I'm going to carve you up like you carved up Keenan's kids."

  "Wait! I have something to say. Something important."

  "Oh, yeah? There's nothing you could say to stop me carving out your heart..."

  "I'm not the clone," she said.

  Pippa halted, head twisted, lips in a snarl. She gave a laugh more like a bark.

  "What?"

  "I'm not the clone," repeated Pippa's clone. "You are."

  "Get to fuck. Like I'd buy that crock of shit..."

  "Tell me about your childhood."

  Pippa laughed, and placed one hand on h
er hip, the other holding the yukana loosely. "What's this going to be? Your basic, back-street abortion-butcher psycho-analysis? You got a form with tick boxes on it, love? Maybe you want me to take a Voight-Kampff test?"

  "How could I know about the fire? About Emelda? About the pig roasting..."

  "Where's daddy?" she asked, wondering why her daddy hadn't rescued her.

  "He's been burned. In the fire."

  Then the paramedics were there, checking her over and rushing her into the ambulance and away, to the burns unit at the local hospital. Most of her hair was scorched away, and the back of her neck and entire back seared by flame to a black, charcoal cinder. When the fire wall had leapt at her, she turned to run...

  Pippa blinked, now, remembering the following months of pain, the skin-grafts, the agony. Tears formed at the corners of her eyes, for here and now the smell of frying flesh reminded her of her own, all those years ago, when she'd been nothing but an innocent little girl. She discovered, much later, her father had fallen asleep, in bed, with a cigarette. The happy glowing little cig had burned down to its filter, a long and delicately balanced cylinder of ash, a mocking middle finger of grey which gradually crumbled, and ignited the duvet. In seconds her father's legs were consumed, and he ran from the house, screaming, setting fire to the stairs and landing in his fast, self-preserving exit - thus condemning Pippa to a fire-ensnared tomb. If it hadn't been for the bravery of the firemen, she'd be dead...

  "Bastard."

  She spat the word with a snarl, and even now Pippa felt the old scars on her back itching, and she thought of her father, and she hated her father. She remembered the thick yellow cream, remembered vividly the many skin-graft operations, six years of them, simply to return her to a semblance of normality. She remembered school, and the way she was tortured: kids were evil little bastards at the best of times, she knew, and even now she shivered, remembering the other kids chasing her with matches and lighters, making dolls of her and burning them in the classroom and playground. She'd wept, oh how she had wept and begged to be left alone. But the bullying continued, merciless, endless. Her parents couldn't stop it, her teachers couldn't stop it, because bullies were clever, cunning, they knew when to strike in those tiny moments when nobody else was around, nobody else there to witness the pain.