Cloneworld - 04 (44 page)

And as she watched, the Mistress started to break apart, her flesh writhing, bubbling, growing more and more volatile as her flesh lost its cohesive bond
,
and even though she sat there, a human figure, she was made of
snakes
, pale white snakes, flowing and writhing in a seething mass but all the time looking a Pippa with a look of shock, and mock-surprise on her face, as if to say, "Oops! Look at me! Look at what I've gone and become!"

The snakes hissed, a background symphony.

"How did you get the clearance? How did you read my Combat K files?" whispered Pippa.

"My lover. My sister. My companion through the ages. You know her." The Mistress looked up, black snake eyes watching Pippa, red tongue flickering from her snakeskin lips. "She is called Tarly. Tarly Winters. She is a General for Quad-Gal Military." She laughed. "Well. We have to pass the years
somehow,
wouldn't you agree? What better way than by infiltrating the most powerful military command in the Four Galaxies?"

"
Guilty! Condemned by his own mouth! Condemned like the spineless rotfish he is! I'll see him crushed and pulped and spewed and cut, strangled and poisoned until he's deader than fucking dead! Take them to the gallows! Take them all to the gallows! Hang them! I want to see them dance and jig! I want to see them Diiieeeee..."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," said Franco, holding up both hands. "Wait one cotton-picking minute there, Metal Mickey. I ain't got nothing to do with your damn and bloody foolish internal war, I'm just here for... for..."

"Yes?"

"Er. For something." Franco's mouth went tight shut, and he looked right,
past
the org squaddies, to where a large mechanical gallows had been erected. It was built completely of black steel, held a dangling metal rope (with noose), and looked extremely ominous. Franco noted that several TV cameras had been set up, replete with org cameramen - all wearing bright bandanas and drinking from small flasks.

The org squaddies surged forward and four of them grabbed Queen Strogger and restrained, their hydraulics hissing, steam pouring from their mouths and ears. The others grabbed Franco and Tarly, whilst the last org soldier hauled in the chain attached to Polly, who squawked and fluttered, losing several more feathers in the process.

Anklebolt III stalked close, and leered at her captives. In a low voice of steam and hot oil, she said, "You have been tried. You have been judged. You have been condemned. Now, you will die..."

"We've got to get out of here," hissed Franco to Tarly, who gave a nod. Their eyes met. This was getting out of hand. They had to do something
now
. Unfortunately, that meant hurting people. But hey, they
were
about to be hung...

A big org was holding Franco's arms, standing behind him with a look of basic stupidity across its flesh and metal-melded chops. Franco, however, despite being modest in height, and despite having a pot-belly any sausage-eater would be proud of, was in fact a prize-winning pugilist, an award winner in the art of fighting dirty. He leapt up and slammed his head backwards, breaking the org's nose with a
crack
and slackening his grip, which meant his arms were now his own. A second org reacted, machine gun coming up, but Franco was faster, foot kicking out to knock the gun skyward, bullets whining at the sun, then a short step and a footballer's kick to the happy sacks. The org grunted as a look of acute agony crossed his face (no bollock upgrade
there
, then!), and Franco winded him with a punch to the belly, took the heavy machine gun from the org's hands and slammed the butt into his face, making him stagger back. At the same time, Tarly ducked and whirled, pulling her arms free of her guard's grip, and the org swung for her but she was fast, real fast, a fluid dancer as she dodged the punch and stepped on the org's own bent knee to boost her up, to where a karate chop to the windpipe made the org turn suddenly purple and splutter up a mouthful of phlegm and blood. Tarly took his gun, somersaulted backwards, and her and Franco put their backs together and stared at their enemies - who were stood, mouths open, wondering what the hell just happened. Both machine guns were aimed at Anklebolt's head. The Princess scowled at them with barely contained rage.

"This," said Franco, "is a QTM Longshave 8.65mm with Mad-Ejector Armour-Piercing cartridges. I've seen these fuckers eat through a tank's hull armour to pulp the unfortunate bastard inside. Now, I reckon you orgs have pretty tough armour, but I'm also reckoning you carry the firepower to put down enemy orgs. Ergo, these guns would kill Anklebolt III there before she could shout, 'Hang the traitors!' So, guys, put down your guns nice and calm like, and we won't shoot the dodgy princess in the fucking kebab-face."

There was a moment of hiatus...

"Do it!" screamed Anklebolt, flapping her hands.

The rest of the org squaddies bent slowly, putting their guns on the ground.

"Release Queen Strogger!" snapped Tarly, moving close to Anklebolt and shoving the barrel of the gun under her chin. Anklebolt glared down at Tarly with a look that said if she ever got the chance she'd chew her face clean off. Tarly grinned back. She hadn't achieved QGM General without facing terrible odds and laughing in the face of terrible foes.

Queen Strogger was released, and moved to stand beside Franco and Tarly. "What now? The whole of The Org States think we are traitors. We've already been beamed across the TVs! There is nowhere for us to run, nowhere for us to hide!"

"We need to stop this ganger army," said Franco, chewing his lip. "We can't let you two groups of nutcases go back to war, even though I'm thinking you probably fucking deserve it. But first, we need to find Pippa."

"She's on another bloody continent," said Tarly, wearily. "And I'm damned if I'm sailing back across that bloody Teeth Ocean and facing down hordes of rampant, mutant, oil-dribbling metal-stinking pirates again; no offence meant."

Franco scratched his stubble. "Hey, Strogger! You said this city, and this hill, was terraformed, right?"

"Yes."

Franco grinned. "Good. I have an idea." He pointed at Anklebolt III, red with rage and trembling, her vast gear-driven jaws chomping like a rabid horse at the bit. "And you're coming with us!"

They moved through the palace like ghosts, Franco's gun barrel at the base of Anklebolt's neck. The palace was a shrine to old machinery, and everywhere stood pedestals containing old org body-parts: legs and hearts, tongues and hands, glittering from inside their glass cylinders like dodgy trophies. Anklebolt led them through many huge halls, some filled with vast tables containing org flowers, metal petals glittering, some filled with cutlery and tableware, steaming plates of org food on display, gold potatoes, alloy spinach, iron beef and augmented whole roast pigs, still on the spit over trays of glowing coals, their own hooves reaching for the spit handle to turn it, roasting themselves whole. It gave a new meaning to the concept of
reach around.

"This is sick," said Tarly, walking close behind Franco, her gun weaving, looking around nervously. They'd tied up the solider orgs out in the courtyard, and according to Queen Strogger, the palace would be near-empty of personnel, for Anklebolt was so
paranoid
that she hated having anybody but the most trusted within her proximity. Quite rightly, for in the previous year alone there had been a hundred and seventy-seven assassination attempts on Anklebolt. One would have thought that gave her a good overview of her own popularity. Apparently, it did not.

"How far?" snapped Franco.

"The palace is a vast warren," said Anklebolt, and although she had stopped screaming, all present could see she was
steaming
. She was angry as angry could get. She was incandescent with slow-burning rage.

"Squawk! Watch out for traps!"

Tarly had released Polly, Franco's Special Friend, much to his muttering and consternation. Spending his escape attempt with a certifiably insane robot parrot was not Franco's idea of Good Time Frankie.

They moved through halls and corridors, extra-wide in order to accommodate big clanking orgs. All the time Anklebolt grumbled, and Queen Strogger marched along behind her wayward daughter. Together, they looked like a couple of horrorshow experiments. There was a kind of silent standoff going on between mother and daughter; they weren't talking, but ceaselessly glaring at each other. Their hatred was a palpable thing; like syrup on their metal teeth. Franco knew if they'd let them go at it, one would soon be dead and torn to raggedy pieces on the org palace floor...

Tarly nudged Franco. "Which one has more metal, do you reckon?" she whispered.

"Not sure," he replied. "I seen that Queen Strogger rise another ten feet tall on hydraulic legs and midriff. She's had a lot of shit added, that's for sure." He shuddered. "Not sure I'd like to be in
her
skin."

Queen Strogger turned, then, and scowled at them. "What're you two whispering?"

"Nothing," they both chimed.

Tarly checked behind them, weapon primed, and they moved on through the palace. Endless vast chambers passed them by, and then they were heading down wide marble stairs, into more chambers, down more stairs, into more chambers... Endless paintings, and tapestries, and marble and gold, depicting huge metal monstrosities and thousands of years of mechanical and digital augmentation, from base human form to the orgs Franco and Tarly had come to know.

Franco analysed the huge paintings grimly. "I'm surprised they've got any fucking skin left," he said.

Eventually, they left the opulence behind, and Franco realised with a start that they weren't just heading below ground, but into the
foundations
of the very hillside, a hill that had been created; terraformed. A city, a country, a
world
built by machines.
Fucking perfect,
he thought.
I mean, who better to populate a machine city, a machine country? Than creatures who have betrayed themselves, betrayed their own flesh. This is what happens when vanity is taken to extremes. This is what happens when you don't put a cap on supposed self-improvement. Guns up your arse and a cock that can fire missiles.

Down they went, the opulence of the palace degrading as they went. Down more sweeping staircases, which narrowed as they travelled; through narrower chambers, darker now, many unlit, with only tiny shafts of light coming through the high tube-vents positioned far above. The dust lay heavy down here, and most of the furniture and antique machinery had been sheeted up. As they walked, Anklebolt and Strogger stomping along, Tarly and Franco padding after them, they kicked up swirls of dust which danced through shafts of light, swirling and twisting, dust demons intent on chaos.

Eventually, they came to a narrow doorway. Anklebolt stopped and turned. She stared at Franco, then at Tarly, then to her mother, who gave a nod. "Are you sure you want to go here? It's a very
very
dangerous place."

"Hey! They don't call me Franco 'Kicks Danger's Ass' Haggis for nothing, y'know? Get that there door open, and get us inside. I wanna see what terraforming secrets you have."

"But why?" asked Tarly, placing a hand on Franco's iron bicep. Despite the horseradish, despite the sausage, he was still a hunk. She squeezed his arm. He growled like a tiger.

"You'll see, babe," he said, and gestured with the gun to Anklebolt. "Now get it open. Before I shoot your machine face through the back of your head, you bloody psychopathic org freak."

Anklebolt stared hard at Franco, and he knew she was storing every little insult, every little put-down. But hey, so what? She'd been about to hang him an hour ago. It wasn't like her attitude to him could get much worse!

Anklebolt opened the metal door and, with a struggle, squeezed through. Franco and Tarly went next, shivering at the vast cold chill that swept out to meet them. Finally came Queen Strogger, looking nervously over her shoulder with a creak of metal and a hiss of ejected oil mist.

Nobody was there. No soldiers. No assassins. Maybe they were all glad to be rid of their insane royal family? Maybe they'd lost the scent? Or maybe they were busy appointing somebody new to the position of overall Ruler and God-like personage of The Org States. Queen Strogger snorted and slammed the door shut behind her.

What mattered now was stopping the ganger's Bad Army.

The new gangered
org
Bad Army. Bad Army-
Plus
.

And that wasn't going to be easy...

Franco stood on a high bridge, overlooking a chamber scooped from the rock. It was so
big
he couldn't see the other end. Darkness seeped into his every pore, seemingly into his
soul,
and distant lights twinkled, like runway lights spied from an aircraft approaching through fog. Franco took a deep breath. He'd seen his fair share of vast underground chambers in his time - some even when he was sober - but this was perhaps the most vast and awesome
cave
he'd ever witnessed. The bridge under his sandals stretched away like a spider's thread through infinite space. Anklebolt started forward across the black steel umbilical, and Franco and Tarly followed. Tarly stayed close to Franco, her hand sometimes reaching out to touch his arm. He stopped after a while and turned.