Biohell (46 page)

The Hammer Syndicate’s HQ was a
concept and
reality
from one such nightmare imagination. It had been
designed, originally, by a non-human organism, the term
alien
somehow
having fallen from grace when humans constituted perhaps only two-thirds of The
City’s population.
Coogan III
was, in fact, half human, half Jandlin.
Jandlin were highly intelligent sacks of protein with armoured scales and the
ability to mould themselves into the shapes of other creatures, albeit still
retaining their semi-translucent flesh. Not so much chameleons as base-level
shape-shifters, the Jandlin had failed miserably in their chosen
profession—that of subterfuge and covert investigations—because any attempt by
a Jandlin to imitate another life form became nothing more than an embarrassing
example of diplomatic stupidity. The Jandlin were far from bright, a situation
not helped by having radial brains distributed around their inner skin sacks.
Coogan III, by some miracle, was perhaps the only singular example of a child
produced by Jandlin and human. After all, the Jandlin reproduced by sucking a
mate
inside
themselves and constantly turning inside-out within one
another until they imbibed, over a series of revolving generations, genetic
information needed by the female to reproduce a moulded base-clone which could
then be deviated by electro-stimulus into an altered genetic evolution. It wasn’t
easy for a human sperm to find an egg to infuse when said egg didn’t, actually,
exist.

The Hammer Syndicate HQ, viewed
from the outside, was a three-hundred storey organic up-thrust, matt black, no
windows, a wavering pinnacle of what on first glance appeared to be rock, but
on closer inspection had its entirety of
flesh
held in a gently
undulating, wavering, shuddering field. The walls moved as if summer waves
rolled up and down their oceanic flesh contours. The summit was tapered, and
usually ensconced in clouds. The HQ had no obvious doors or windows, and in the
sunshine cast no shadow. However, in the current enforced darkness, it blended
rather neatly with the night.

Within, Floor 698 was cool, dark,
moody. Vertical drapes of primitive helk-fur tapestry decorated walls, and the
floors were layered in metal-weave helk leather. Voloshko sat on a wide couch,
reclining with a drink in one hand, a kube in the other.

“It’s progressing with the
perfection of a well-oiled machine,” he said. He smiled, sipping at his drink
as the person on the other end spoke. Voloshko nodded slowly, considering.

“When do you think you’ll send
them?”

He nodded again at the response.

“Yes. The timing would be...
adequate. Talk soon.”

He killed the communication, and
glanced up, over, across the massive low-ceilinged chamber to where a low
plinth of alloy-marble held the unconscious form of Mel. Voloshko stood, moved
across the floor (which shivered ever so gently under his footsteps, as if he
were walking across living, breathing, quivering flesh) and gazed down at the
deformed monstrosity.

Her eyes flickered open.

Voloshko smiled. “Good morning,
pretty one.”

“Grwwll.” She lunged, but wires
around arms and legs, face and elongated neck, glowed suddenly, tightening.
There came a stench of charred flesh, and smoke rose in tiny curls from her
mottled skin. With a squeal of pain Mel slumped back to the plinth.

“HotWire,” said Voloshko. He ran
a hand through his hair, looking suddenly tired. “We find it works superbly
against you... zombies.” He smiled sardonically. “Not just pain, but a
promise
of fire and extermination. And even you, my beautiful little experiment,
have enough self-preservation to understand the difference between life—and death.”

Voloshko peered close. Mel
growled again, a few inches from his face. He reached out, stroked her skin,
observing with interest the incredibly fine mesh of wire which coated her. His
hand dropped, brushing her breasts, with their huge plum-sized distended
nipples oozing grey pus. Mel snapped at him, jaws grinding, and growled, lunged
again, and the wires glowed orange. She thrashed on the plinth, Voloshko
forgotten as the wires ate into her and filled her world with bright insect
pain.

“We could have had
so much
fun,
my pretty,” he said, licking damp lips as his gaze lingered on her
pus-drooling, quivering, raw, pink zombie vagina. He nodded, as if imagining
some intimacy of the flesh. An image of sexual coupling of hardcore stamina. “Yes,”
he breathed, growing hard in an instant. “So much fun.”

“Voloshko!”

Voloshko turned, eyes narrowed,
and watched Dr Oz walk easily towards him. He glanced left and right, scanning
for... something out of place. Despite their
business arrangement,
Voloshko
trusted no man.

“Oz. You got my message.”

“You have done well,” Oz said,
staring at Mel. “You retrieved our unfortunate mistake.”

“She looks different to the
others. More...
advanced.
”

Voloshko caught the barriers
falling into place behind Oz’s eyes, as the sole owner of NanoTek gave a short
nod. “The product of mistaken identity, I am sure. All that matters is that we
have her.” He slapped Voloshko on the back, and it took all of Voloshko’s
willpower not to take a gun and blow Oz’s head clean off. Technically, they
were in the same business. But even slime can hate slime. However, Oz was not
to be underestimated. He probably had a wealth of military upgrades stashed in
his pants.

Dr Oz spoke quietly into a PAD,
and gave several codes. He glanced at Voloshko. “My people will transport her
from here. Your finances are being transferred as we speak. I won’t forget
this. Your loyalty. It is appreciated.” He lifted his finger, pointing at
Voloshko as if he were... Voloshko smiled a bland smile on thin lips. As if he
were a
normal
person.

“It’s my pleasure to serve,”
forced Voloshko, voice tight, but the irony seemed lost on Oz. Four large Slabs
entered from a distant door, and one administered a jab to Mel’s eye. The
needle slid into her eyeball and she screamed, thrashed for a few moments, then
was still.

“Direct to the brain,” said Oz.

“Primitive,” said Voloshko.

“It will keep her sane, lucid,
and
controllable.” Oz shrugged, then gestured to the Slabs who grunted, heaving
Mel between them, and staggered off across the undulating flesh floor. Oz
followed, and stopped at the door. He turned.

“There was something else?” said
Voloshko. He was feeling irritable. Used, somehow. Abused. Ironic, because that
was usually how he himself operated.

For once, Voloshko did not know
the bigger picture, and this irked him. After all, he
owned
The Hammer
Syndicate. It was his gig. The City ran, partially, under his rule. He knew who
was stealing what, who was fucking who, who lived... and who died. There were
few to challenge his authority.

“Did you... kill the others?”

“We killed the children.”

“No, the two men—Keenan and
Franco.”

“They weren’t with the subject.
Why? Do you need them taking out?”

“I have people on it,” said Oz.
He glanced around. “But I’d... lock your flaps, or whatever it is you do for
security in this organic hive. It’s possible Combat K might come looking for
Mel.”

“I am sure they will. Don’t
worry. My security systems are adequate,” said Voloshko, voice cold, and he
watched Dr Oz vanish into a rippling flesh valve. He glanced back to the bed
where his wife, Melissa, lay. The very same wife who had
betrayed
him...
an act which still tasted sour on his tongue, in his brain... and yet one he
was willing to now overlook since her transformation into
deviant.
It
was a sultry deformation he could not resist.

“Are you coming?” came the
crackling voice of Melissa, the zombie, behind thin black curtains. Her outline
seemed to shimmer, inhuman, as if lit by silver. Voloshko licked needful lips.

“I soon will be,” he said,
striding forward and loosening his tie.

~ * ~

Keenan
stared at the Realtime TuffMAP™
(the funky groovy way to find your way
around the universe, dude!)
Franco stood close behind, D5 in wide steady
paws, his eyes bleak and focused. “There.”

“I see it,” said Keenan, finger
tracing the lines of the old underground tube system. “You know they’re
condemned, right?”

Franco gave a cold smile. “Yeah.
But we’ll find a way through. If they’re still standing. First, we need
weapons, Keenan. We need bombs, and guns, and armour. This is a savage gig.”

Keenan gave a nod, stood, and
folded the TuffMAP™ into his WarSuit. “We don’t know if the old SPIRAL SP1_store
still exists; maybe SPIRAL cleaned them out during their final war.”

“No,” said Franco, shaking his
head. “They didn’t have time. They were wiped out so fast the bastards couldn’t
even blink.”

Keenan took a deep breath. “We
take MICHELLE to the stores, tool up, then infiltrate The Hammer Syndicate
HQ—possibly through the tunnels, if we can find an access point. That way we
avoid the gathering zombie armies. Then we rescue Mel, take Xakus to NanoTek,
restore Mel to full health and find out how to switch off these zombie
deviants.
Then
we hunt down the kit needed to allow Xakus to decode the
junks’ SinScript.
Easy.”
His eyes sparkled, and he sucked in cool city
air. “I always did like a challenge.”

Franco slapped him on the back,
barking a laugh. “Yeah Keenan. Just like the old days, hey lad?”

“Yeah, the old days,” muttered
Keenan, remembering the bad ones.

“Bah, you’re a grumpy old git.”

“It must be the people I meet.”

“No no, Keenan, I swear, the
older you get, the more of a miserable bastard you become. You’ll stop
celebrating your birthday soon; tell everyone not to buy you presents and lock
yourself in the bloody toilet for the day.”

“My
birthday?”
Keenan gave
a cynical smile. “That’s just something that happens to other people.”

From the edges of the skyscraper
came a buzzing sound, and five guns tracked Cam as he zipped up into the air,
hovered for a moment, then dropped like a stone to sit solid and stable in the
pollution before Keenan’s face. Keenan held up a hand, and smiled. “It’s OK. He’s
a friend.” He squinted. “You are a friend, right?”

“Keenan, we need to talk. This is
important!”

“Nice to see you, too, Cam. Been
holidaying in the sun, have we? Machine, you wouldn’t
believe
the shit
we’ve been through in the last twenty-four hours.” He stared at Cam’s shell,
which was battered and dented, and showed deep fresh surface scars.

Cam gave a little cough. Which
was odd, because PopBots had no throat.

“So you’ve been in the wars
yourself?” said Keenan, more gentle now.

“Yes,” sighed Cam. “I found the
battery upgrades I required, and repaired and charged myself. However,
something
sent a couple of HK PopBots to wipe me out.”

“Hunter Killers? They’re vicious
little bastards.”

“Exactly. I am not exactly
equipped
to deal with full-on military models. The fight was long and hard, I can
assure you.”

“Who sent them?”

“A question at the forefront of
my mind,” said the tiny little ‘bot. “After all, I am nothing but a personal
security device. Yes? Why expend the time, effort and cost of HKs on little old
me?”

“You killed them?”

“I did,” said Cam, voice distant.

“How?”

Cam spun, lights glittering red. “It’s
a long story, for another time. What’s important, Keenan, is what’s going on
down there. On the streets. In the malls. With the... deviants. The
zombies,
as you like to call them.”