Biohell (56 page)

Keenan snarled, “Get
back,
idiot!”

Franco whirled, and charged like
a lunatic towards the lurching zombies who were taken by surprise as their
quarry sprinted panic-fuelled into their midst... with a
click
High-J
detonated. Zombies were thrown around the disco as if in a blender.

In their midst, knocked and
bashed and churned, gyrated a
very
unhappy Franco Haggis.

~ * ~

Franco
opened his eyes—to see Keenan standing over him, an MPK in one hand, Techrim in
the other. A low growling, moaning sound came to his ears. Keenan glanced down.
Grinned. Through gritted teeth, he said, “I’d get moving
real fast,
Franco.
They’re about to attack. Again.”

Franco scrabbled up, pulled free
a fresh D5 shotgun, and scowled at the wall of wavering zombies. Around him lay
a platter of torn zombie body parts, a mish-mash puzzle of severed arms, legs,
limbless torsos and decapitated heads.

“They’ve been pulled apart! And I
was in that?”

“It would seem you’re made of
sterner stuff, Franco lad.”

Keenan opened fire at the wall of
deviants, then the two men turned and fled, slipping on severed fingers and
toes, and the occasional ear. They made for the blasted, bone-bar exit. Franco
suddenly stopped.

“What is it?”

“A gift. For my leedle friends.”
Franco rummaged in his pack, dropped a grenade at his feet, wiggled the pin at
Keenan, then snapped, “Let’s go visit Voloshko.”

~ * ~

Xakus
guided them up through the ever squirming interior of the organotower. They had
evaded no less than six charging squads of mission-fevered Battle SIMs, and as
they stood, sweating, and panting, waiting for Xakus to regain his breath,
Keenan lit a cigarette and blew smoke over Franco. Franco had found a rag in
his pack, and was scrubbing at his face, his beard, and his infected tongue.

“I feel dirty,” he said.

“You are dirty,” said Keenan,
gazing at Franco’s bedraggled exterior. “You look like someone who’s just been
mauled by zombies. Either that, or been to bed with them.” He winked.

“Shut up! Ugh! It was just,
slime, in mouth, breasts, blue pus, green pussy, ugh. Not tell. You. How bad.
Feel. Want. Vomit. Insides. Out. Sheee
at
.”

“So, one to tell the
grandchildren, then?” Keenan finished his Widow Maker. He checked his weapon,
they eyed Xakus who appeared exhausted, dangling at the end of his tether. As
he pointed out, he was a professor, not a soldier. And this mission was
difficult, physically and emotionally; even for veterans.

“I can go on,” said Xakus,
finally. “I’m just thankful the Battle SIMs have not taken up pursuit.”

“That’s the thing about SIMs,”
said Keenan, his eyes and gun barrel endlessly roving for fresh danger. “Theoretically,
they make great guards; I’ll be the first to admit they’re a bastard to put
down. But when the danger is real, and you need some genuine IQ, a Battle SIM
is not what you want by your side.”

Xakus nodded, and hauled himself
to his feet. “It’s not far. I’m sure of it. All these egomaniacs seem to nest
at the summits of their respective towers. That’s how this one was designed. In
the organic blueprints, anyway.”

Keenan gave a nod, checked his
PAD. It was dead. Had been since they entered the organotower. Even Cam hadn’t
been able to explain the phenomenon, although in fairness, Cam himself had been
behaving strange since entry. And now Cam had vanished, Keenan once again felt
like a father waiting till three AM for his daughter to return from her first
trip to a nightclub. He was filled with a subtle uneasiness. When Cam
disappeared on side-quests—well, it always made Keenan twitchy.

The group moved on. The
temperature was still rising, and Keenan felt his mood turning sour, more
bitter, the closer he got to this man, this Minister, of The Hammer Syndicate.
Back at The Happy Friendly Sunshine Assurance Company Voloshko had not just
taken Mel, he’d had the rebel kids, harmless as they were, exterminated.
Violence against children always sat bad with Keenan. It made him do things he
knew he would later regret, but strangely, in a detached way, was a personal
parameter of viciousness he could not change. Deep down, Keenan was a bad man,
a vengeful man, a bitter man, and he acknowledged these character traits
without remorse. After all, somebody had put down the fuck-ups, didn’t they?
And it sure as hell wasn’t going to be the government.

Like a bad smell, Keenan’s
headache returned. A dull nagging, deep in his brain.

He smiled, a grimace of loathing.
“Great. Just what I need.”

“Shh.” Xakus held up his hand.
The group slowed.

“This is my gig. I’m here for
Melanie!” Franco moved to the front, bristling with new weapons from his pack,
although thankfully he’d ditched his TRI-SPIES because they kept attempting to
strangle him. Carefully, he peered around the corner.

The corridor to Voloshko’s quarters
was guarded by two Battle SIMs. Franco glanced up, then around. Did they know
he was there? Was it a bluff? He chided himself. Battle SIMs didn’t bluff. They
didn’t have the intelligence. Sweat niggled under his collar, a flexing maggot
of fluid. Voloshko said don’t bring any weapons. Hmm. But then, what nutcase
would go unarmed?

Plan. Need a plan.

Franco rummaged, pulled free a
BABE Grenade, slid free the pin, and showed it to Keenan. Keenan gave a nod,
patted Xakus on the arm, and they retreated down the corridor a safe distance.

Franco lay on his belly, and
eased himself to the corner. The floor beneath felt like human flesh, soft and
wriggling and disgustingly erotic. It was so nauseating it made Franco want to
puke. Again.

Extracting a tiny digital spy
mirror from his inoperative PAD, he peered round the corner. One of the Battle
SIMs shifted, heavy armour creaking. Franco rolled the BABE Grenade along the
floor, then waited, arms over his head.

The SIMs, too long in domestic
servitude, stared sullenly at the BABE as it rolled to a halt by their feet,
silent and rocking on the veg flesh floor. They looked at it. Then up. They
stared at one another, heads tilted in curiosity.

“I...” began one—as the
detonation picked them up and tried to rip them physically and elementally into
a million pieces. A deep concussive
boom
roared through the corridor,
and Franco sprinted through the smoke, Kekras in hands, and almost toppled into
the ragged hole blasted in the semi-organic floor. He skidded, arms flapping,
and was almost swallowed by ragged lips of bomb-charred flesh. He gazed down
into distant darkness ringed with blood-dripping ribs. The SIMs were bellowing
and punching at one another as they fell, arguing, voices hollow and fading,
fists like whirring spades. Bullets whined from combat carbines, panic tracer
carving distant lines. Franco grinned to himself... he’d expected to have to
finish them off with head shots. He hadn’t anticipated the grenade eating the
soft floor. He chided himself, aware he was supposed to be an expert in
detonations.

“Do come in. I have been
expecting you.”

Franco’s head slammed up, focused
on... Voloshko. The man stood, wearing an immaculate crushed-coral suit. It was
pink, and shimmered. His hair and beard were neatly trimmed, eyes dark in
sunken sockets. Despite his appearance and obvious wealth, he appeared a
little... tortured?

“Where’s Melanie?”

“Ah, straight to the point.”

Franco’s Kekra came up, quad
barrels trained on Voloshko’s face. Voloshko did not flinch... and that made
Franco wary. He edged forward, around the grenade hole, and into Voloshko’s...
apartment?
Franco shook his head, eyeing the moody interior, the drapes of helk-fur
tapestry, the metal weave floor.

Voloshko gestured to a wide black
couch. “Would you like to sit? We need to talk.”

“There’s nothing to discuss. You
took Melanie. You killed those children. I want Melanie back. Or you
will
die.”

Voloshko smiled, but it was a
movement with his mouth and not his eyes. When he spoke, his voice had changed.
It was level, monotone, like a machine. “I don’t think you
quite
understand
your predicament, Franco Haggis.” He moved, and seated himself. He picked up a
drink. Ice cubes chimed. “Now let
me
explain.”

There was a
boom,
and
bullets ate the leather three inches beside Voloshko’s head. Franco strode
forward, face a snarl, and he halted gazing down at the Minister for The Hammer
Syndicate.

“No, let
me
fucking
explain it to
you.
This is the way it works. You’re not fucking
immortal, and you have no biomods in your blood
because
if you did then
you’d be a deviant mess of organics, like all our friends out there on the
streets. So you’re human. And you die as easily as any other sack of flesh
shit. You’re acting cool because you think you invited me here, but you
expected me to roll up like a good doggie wagging its tail, but no, I came in
the, uh, arse way. You weren’t expecting that. That’s why you’ve got Battle
SIMs running around like headless chickens. Stop trying to play the cool fucker
and
tell me what you’ve done with Melanie!
Before I really lose my
temper and start a little Voloshko Cellar of my own.”

Voloshko licked his lips.

Franco’s Kekra boomed again, and
this time blood appeared on Voloshko’s ear. A nick. A
warning.
A droplet
oozed free, and dripped onto the shoulder of the pink coral suit. Ice cubes
danced in Voloshko’s glass.

“Next time,” said Franco, “my aim
might not be quite so true. I’m a little bit,” he twitched, “tetchy.”

“She’s not here.”

“Where is she?”

“NanoTek took her.”

“What did NanoTek want with her?”

Voloshko smiled. “You’d have to
ask them.”

“You’re lying?”

“Why? You’re the Big Man with the
gun.”

“You’re a bastard.”

“I never claimed to be anything
other.”

Franco roared, and slammed a
right hook that sent Voloshko reeling to the couch, blood spraying from smashed
lips. Franco lifted his Kekra and fired ten shots off into the ceiling... then
froze.

Blood rained down.

“Don’t move,” said Keenan, voice
impossibly soft.

Franco licked his lips, and
stared down at Voloshko. “What’s your secret weapon, scumbag? You’re way too
cool.”

Voloshko glanced up with his
eyes, then eased himself back into a sitting position. He produced a white
handkerchief and dabbed at his bleeding lips.

“Franco. I repeat, don’t move.
Don’t look up. Just don’t damn well move.” Keenan was standing by the entrance
to the Floor 698 apartment. Franco could hear, and
sense,
his tension.

“So,” said Voloshko, and stood.
He lifted the Kekra from Franco’s hand and weighed the weapon thoughtfully. “You
are, indeed, correct. A man such as I doesn’t simply employ stupid Battle SIMs
to charge up and down corridors. Things at The Hammer Syndicate are, shall we
say, a little more sophisticated. You may now look up.”

Franco looked up. His heart sank.

The high, dark ceiling—in its
entirety—was filled with needle thin elements, spear-long, and glinting with
nasty black sparks. As Franco watched, several of them curled back into
recesses, and other long needle-thin lengths uncurled and wavered, then became
rigid. Franco took a step one way. A hundred of the needles followed him,
swaying slightly, as if caught by magnetic attraction... before becoming rigid
again.