Cloneworld - 04 (42 page)

"Well," said Franco, and if he could have lit a cigar and puffed it, he would. "You know what they say."

"What's that?"

"Nothing's nice as tits."

"But, surely, medical advancement, improvement at a genetic level, finding the
tweak
which allows you to switch off neuron loss; all these are more beneficial?"

"Nope," said Franco. "Without
tits,
there would be no advancement of the species. Just like without
beer
, populations would wane and gradually die. That's my philosophy, anyway."

"Tits? Beer?" Tarly punched him on the arm. "You're a modern day fucking romantic, mate."

"I try," said Franco, puffing out his chest and wincing at his skinless back. "I do try."

Onwards they went through the metal city, the sun high in the sky, beating down and heating up their barred truck nicely. Past huge factories they went, where furnaces belched and sparks flew, and they could hear the rhythmical
clanging
of hammers on anvils, only on a much larger scale. They passed electronics plants, where computer-controlled arms whizzed and punched, clacked and jerked, and assembly lines rolled out with curious machinery Franco and Tarly had never seen. They passed huge plastic bins filled with mechanical arms and legs, face plates, chest housings, and then, lastly, a cylindrical tub - as wide as a house - filled with small slick units, each as big as Franco's fist. They pulsed, each one running with its own seemingly random beat, and the whole tub seemed alive, crawling, as if with black and red globular maggots.

"What, in the name of arse, are those?"

"Hearts," said Queen Strogger, sombrely. "Basic units, obviously. Nothing specially crafted, not like what resides in my chest cavity. I have a Cronenberg Mk VI. The best money can buy. It could power a
squadron
of orgs and still have juice left to run the lights of the city for a year."

"Why would you need so much power?" said Tarly.

"It's not about need," said Queen Strogger. "It's about possibility. And wealth. And setting an image. I
can
have it
.
Therefore, I will. Just how your ginger man there is the type to buy huge, excessively powered landcars when he could use a bicycle, or a two-cylinder eco-model.
I
am the Queen of The Org States. No matter what my shitty little Anklebolt thinks. I swear, I knew that child was trouble the day she was born; bit my finger off when she was six months old! Little tyke."

They started to climb out of the docks and up the steep hill, riddled with steel towers like spikes on a porcupine. Ahead, the org horse started labouring, puffing and panting, the noise of its motors rising in pitch.

"Sounds like it's gonna pop," grinned Franco.

"It has an inferior built heart," said Strogger. "It cannot cope with my great weight."

"You don't say."

They laboured up the hill, the horse wheezing like a geriatric whizz-addict. Franco felt quite sorry for it.

They passed beneath a steel archway, which lit up with advertisements for new upgrades and augmentations - everything from chassis components to "Scrotum Packs[tm]" - and then flickered, and even as they watched from behind their bars, announced the impending trial and hanging of the traitor, Queen Strogger.

"How can it be a
trial
and hanging? Surely you only get hung if they find you guilty? Otherwise, it wouldn't be a trial, would it?"

"That's what it's like around here," said Queen Strogger, glumly.

"What bloody dumb and daft idiot implemented those rules, then?" snorted Franco.

"I did," mumbled Queen Strogger. Then scowled. "Well, it's different when you're the boss, innit?"

On and on they rumbled, through metal streets lined with metal orgs. Little org children, stomping along on hydraulic legs, threw metal bricks at the truck. They bounced off the bars harmlessly, but the principle of it upset Franco indeed.

"Little hooligans! Where are their parents, eh?"

"Orgs are released from their parents at the age of five. It makes them tough and independent. They have to fend for themselves in the rough and tumble real world. Learn to survive on their wits. Learn to be tough little orgs; tough enough to fight the gangers, anyway. It was a military decision."

"What a bloody idiotic, dumb and daft stupid rule! Who bloody implemented that one, then?" Then he saw Strogger's face, and grinned amiably. "Not had a good time of it, have you, love?"

"It would appear not," said the Queen, voice strained.

Now, org dogs came panting from the shadowy, hot-oil-and-scorched-steel-smelling metal side-streets. They were horrible, small, fat, ambling metal beasts. They pressed their wet slick noses against the bars of the rumbling truck as the captured heroes trundled past. They went, "Pant, pant, pant, clank-clank-clank."

Franco looked at them in distaste, and poked a snout away with his sandal. It snapped at his toes, and he retreated hurriedly at the veritable mouthful of jaws-style sword-teeth. "Bloody hell! It could fair take your bloody foot off, that could!"

"And it would," said Strogger. "They're on a commission from the Foot Builders. Ten percent of the value of every org foot that gets replaced because of them. The org in question gets the foot half-price, too. Bargain."

"Ridiculous! There should be laws against that! Go on, buggeroff!"

He punched a dog on the snout, and it made a snuffling low-bass clanking sound, which sounded a little like "
Archie-Archie-Archie"
repeated over and over again, an oily, raspy, farting kind of noise. Franco wasn't sure whether the sound came from its mouth, or its arse.

Then, the most intense and horrible thing happened. From between Archie's stomping little metal org legs unfolded a huge pink alloy erection. Archie rubbed it over the bars, sliming a spunk-trail as it went, and Franco scrambled back with a squawk of utter disgust, eyes wide, face screwed into a ball of crumpled flesh, eyes locked on the obscene, pink, quivering, slathering dog dick.

"Why me, eh? What's it with me and bloody Combat K adventures and all manner of disgusting phallic interludes, eh? You dirty, dirty, 'orrible little motherfucker," he spat.

"Woof!" said Archie, panting with need and seeing in Franco a future possible fellow soul-mate. Or at least, a quick leg-hump.

Eventually, the stumpy little group of org dogs grew tired of running, and tired of rubbing their collective dog dicks on the bars. Shuddering, the group moved on through the steel city, leaving the metal dogs behind.

They rolled past endless towers of metal, past sprawling factories making org machine components, past weapons factories and landcar units, past
Merging Plants
which, Queen Strogger reliably informed them, was the place where flesh and machine met in a beautiful union. It all made Franco feel a little bit sick.

The hill grew steeper and steeper climbing up towards the Org Palace, sitting on top of the hill like a cork on a bottle. The metal horse pulling their truck puffed and panted, wheezed and farted, and generally sounded like a dying diesel generator waiting to keel over at any moment.

Looking behind them, Franco watched the admittedly stunning view of the hill dropping away, riddled with steel towers, to a bustling dockside where four huge steel warships sat at anchor, including the one which had brought them in. This was Queen Strogger's navy. Or had been, before she was...
usurped.
He rolled the word around his mind like a marble in a jar. Yes. Strogger had been usurped. Poor little love.

"The hill is this steep in order to test the mettle of anybody wishing to approach the palace," said Strogger. "It's also a test of wealth. Only the richest in our org society can afford the powerful legs and top-end power supply units needed to climb this hill. Thus, only the wealthiest are granted an audience, by default."

"And those that crawl?" said Franco.

"What?"

"Those that crawl? I'm sure some buggers crawl up here on their bellies. But then, you'd like that, wouldn't you? Pure subservience."

"I didn't make the rules, Franco Haggis. I just obey them."

"No. No. You're the damn and bloody Queen, for the sake of bollocknugget! Don't you see? You can change all this. You can change your society. Make it a more friendly place. Somewhere where humans and orgs could get along happily!"

"And how would I do that?"

"Tourism," said Franco, smugly. "I know lots of people who'd love to come down here and sample your world. There'd be some who would like to drink your molten cocktails, explore your dark back alleys, sample your org upgrades, you know,
experience
something different."

Queen Strogger considered this. "People would
pay
to do those things?"

"Oh yes," said Franco. "We're a mixed-up bloody race, is us humans, that's for sure. I bet there are even some weird and warped deviants who would like to
shag
your org folk. You know. As a kind of different experience thing going on."

Tarly looked sideways at him. "Yeah. Weird and warped deviants."

"Is what I said."

Queen Strogger looked thoughtful. "I will consider this. It is a possibility for the future."

"If you survive the hanging," pointed out Tarly.

"And the new improved ganger orgs don't wipe you out first!" said Franco, grinning with all his remaining teeth. "You know. The army you helped build? With your betrayal? Sort of thing?"

"
I was looking for a solution to the war!"
hissed Queen Strogger, suddenly. "Don't you understand, you bastad? I went to the gangers with that information to form a
truce!
I give them org secrets, they get extra weaponry, but then the gangers will blend with org technology and thus
become accepted into org society.
It could have been an end to the perpetual battles! I am sick of the War Charts, sick of getting lists of people who were once friends and have been killed in battle. I was trying to do something
positive for my people!
You see?"

"Mashed that up a bit, then, didn't you love?" said Franco.

"I didn't expect the clones to betray me!"

"And they locked you up?"

"Yes. The Mistress locked me up." Queen Strogger shivered. "She's an evil one, that Mistress. And although she looks like the gangers, she isn't one of them. She's different. She's...
alien.
She perpetuates the war between orgs and gangers. I don't know why. The gangers are doing something. They want the planet to themselves."

The org horse whinnied, and reared up as if in a final act of defiance, before collapsing on the ground before the org Palace gates. The gates opened with a ratcheting sound, clanking and grinding as ancient machinery kicked into gear. Wearily, the org horse climbed to its hooves and pulled them the last few metres.

A rank of towers, burnished with gold and jewels, surrounded a huge central courtyard. Each tower was layered with finely crafted marble and diamond tiles and spires, atop which sat heavy-duty cannons. The walls were white and gold, the courtyard cobbled with gold bricks, and a cool breeze wafted through the yard, free of the stink of oil and machinery drifting across the capital city of Org.

Princess Anklebolt III was waiting for them, with a group of ten rough-looking org squaddies (although to be fair, thought Franco, all the orgs look bloody rough). These wore combat fatigues and green tin helmets, bearing logos such as, "I Have Become Org," "Born to Pulp" and "Show Me Your Org Face." They carried very large heavy-calibre 8.62mm machine guns, which Franco ogled from behind his bars with gleaming eyes. Franco was unabashed about his love of milporn. He could happily stroke a gun all night.

Two squaddies moved forward, hydraulic legs clanking, and threw open the barred door to the truck. Franco jumped down and stretched, moaning, ignoring the ten guns pointing at him.

"Over there," rumbled a big meathead, and Franco gave a nod and moved to stand before Anklebolt. Tarly followed, also stretching, and pointed up at Polly the Parrot, fluttering on a chain twenty feet above the truck. An org grabbed the chain and pulled the stricken robot bird down to earth, where it shrieked and moaned and squawked like the annoying little bastard it was.

Finally, Queen Strogger climbed ponderously from the truck, which rocked and creaked under her immense machine weight. She stood, hands on hips, and stared at her daughter.

"You've made a big mistake," said Strogger.

Anklebolt shrugged, and her metal teeth gleamed. "Mother. You always were impetuous. You didn't think I had the intelligence or perseverance to take your crown. Well, I have! You left a trail of evidence through the Org Offices so wide I would have had to
bribe
orgs not to implicate you in treason."

"Listen, daughter. This is not treason! I was trying to
save
the orgs! Stop the war! Secure us a better future... forever!"

"Liar!" screamed Anklebolt, and her machine guns clicked and shifted and armed. Laser sites focussed on Queen Strogger, who stood with hands on hips, and now, to Franco, looked suddenly incredibly more menacing. "It has gone out over Org TV. You are finished. Every damn org in The Org States wants you dead and ground down into cat pulp. And as for your friends..." Anklebolt turned her fury on Franco and Tarly, who gazed back with wide eyes. "They will hang with you."