Cloneworld - 04 (53 page)

"Horseradish!"

"Beer!"

"Guinness!"

"Alcohol!"

"Any alcohol! We'll drink the entire fucking country dry!"

More laughter.

Franco grasped his own head with his own clawed hands, and groaned. For the past thirty years, Franco Haggis had been a considerable pain in the arse to anybody with the slightest sniff of authority over him. He recalled incidents, hundreds of incidents,
thousands
of incidents, where he'd been vacuous, drunk, or deliberately obstinate and boorish. He remembered all the women he'd abused, all the COs he'd thumped, all the AIs he'd bad-mouthed, and all the beer he'd quaffed.

In terms of discipline, Franco Haggis was the
worst
a soldier could get.

And here he was, faced by a thousand of his own kind. And not just his own kind, but
his own personal brand of bastard.
Franco groaned. If he'd had a gun, he'd shoot himself. Then he realised he had - and for a few moments seriously considered it. Because, and this was a galling thing to admit, but gradually - like a new sun dawning over a virgin world - Franco Haggis came to realise, and accept, what a truly awkward
cunt
he'd been for all these years.

"Okay," he said, and flapped his hands. "Listen. Listen. Listen, you useless, fat bunch of idiotic motherfuckers!"

A thousand narrowed eyes snapped to lock on him. He realised, with a grin - and yes, it
was
the sort of grin you offer Death when he's arrived to kick your awkward arse all the way back to the Chaos Halls - realised he'd just insulted himself. And it was a fair and just insult. Franco Haggis
was
a useless, fat, idiotic motherfucker.

He sighed.

"You starting trouble, son?" asked one Franco, cracking his knuckles.

"'Cos if you are, you'll be getting some," said another.

"No, wait, wait," said Franco, holding up his hands again. Then an idea struck him. He gave a crafty sideways smile. Now - now! - was the time to use cunning, and crafty, foxy guile. After all, they didn't call him Franco 'Crafty-Arse Fox' Haggis for nothing now, did they?

"Go on, Fat Boy, spit it out."

Oh! To be insulted like that by yourself! So cruel!

"Having fun, are we?" snapped Franco.

"What's that supposed to mean? We've got a war to fight, y'know. We might only be reserves, but we're damn and bloody important reserves, you get what I'm saying?"

"Yeah, yeah, I know," said Franco, purposefully dropping his voice so the huge group had to shuffle a little bit closer. "But - well, you know how these battles and things go. You must have a good leader, with this Mistress-type tart, yeah?"

"She's a bit of all right," said one Franco. "Tits are a bit small, but we're not that fussy, are we lads?"

"Nooooo!" roared a thousand voices.

"And what do we always say?" bellowed the improvised ring-leader.

"Nothing's nice as tits, Franco!" they all shouted, and leant against each other, roaring with laughter, roaring and roaring until the
real
Franco Haggis was tempted to shoot the whole fucking bunch.

When the uproar had finally ended, and the collective Francos were wiping tears from their eyes and snot from their noses, the original Franco Haggis held up his hands for some semblance of quiet, which was only interrupted by the occasional fart or belch. Sometimes the two at the same time.

"Okay. This is how it goes. Has this Mistress-woman-type offered you an after-war party?"

The Francos looked at each other. A few shook their heads.

"Indeed,
has
this Mistress-type leader of yours offered you copious amounts of whiskey? Hot fat women with boobs you could use as inflatables if you were stranded at sea? Sexy, young, slick chicks in military uniforms with cans of custard and jelly?"

There was muttering now. And a few cross faces.

"Has this Mistress type leader offered you a full month's R&R, with access-permits for free beer/whiskey/alcoholic-beverage-of-your-choosing throughout all the bars of Cloneworld? Hmm? Has she?"

"She damn and bloody well hasn't!" snapped one Franco squaddie clone.

"Well, lads," said Franco, puffing out his chest. "I can."

The Franco clone scratched his stubble. "Yeah. But. Isn't that, like, going against our morals kind of thing? I know we're a scruffy, hairy bunch, but we have our morals. They may be way down the ladder of such things, but when we says we'll do something, we'll do it. Reet, lads?"

"Reet, Franco!" they thundered.

Franco ground his teeth and his mind worked fast. "Yes, yes, yes, but you are me, you are my clones, and I have much more information about this whole situation which I'm willing to share with you - about the unjustness of killing millions of innocent orgs in an unprovoked attack, the fact the whole shebang is being televised just for entertainment's sake - war as fun, yes? And the fact that the Mistress is a snake-filled alien freak! And finally, finally, I can offer you women and beer and sausage! What more does a fat lad need?"

The Franco seemed to consider this. They muttered amongst themselves as Franco stood, tapping his foot impatiently. At last the self-appointed ring-leader turned and beamed.

"We'll do it!" he said.

Franco beamed. "Thank the Gods of Chaos for that! Come on! Do any of you guys know how to fly Q-Wing Fast Jets?"

"Of course," said the clone, without any hint of irony. "They don't call us Franco 'Ace Hot Pants' Haggis for nothing, you know."

Franco led the thousand Francos back across the rocky parade ground. They did not stride in any form of battle-organised unity. They were a straggling bunch of limping gimps.

As they walked, Franco said, "So, which bit did it?"

The clone grinned at him. His eyes twinkled. "Meaning?"

"Which moral angle of my fine oratory changed your minds?"

"Oh, that? We'd already agreed to come fight for you. That sexy lass Pippa talked to us a few hours before you arrived; convinced us what we were doing was wrong. We just decided to wind you up a bit. You know. Show you what a pain in the anus you really are."

"Ah," said Franco, scowling as he padded along. "Aah."

Strogger and Anklebolt had gathered their available troops in a giant hangar where the reserve Q-Wing Fast Jets were housed. In the last hour, every Franco had tooled up, suited up, and was armed to the gills with enough guns and bombs to take out a small army - which was, indeed, what they intended. Strogger and Anklebolt, with occasional interjections from Pippa and Franco Haggis, outlined their objectives. Their primary aim was to bring down the Mistress. Cut off the Head of the Snake. Take out the leaders, and the clones will follow.

Franco climbed up the ladder of his Q-Wing Fast Jet and, as the cockpit lifted, saw that several feet behind him, Polly had been inserted into a special little cubby-hole for Special Friends.

"She'll be your navigator," called Pippa from the adjoining Jet. "Make sure you don't get lost."

"She'll bloody make sure I go insane," growled Franco.

"Squawk! Gottle of rum! Gottle of rum!"

Franco waved his fist at Pippa, and they both donned helmets and climbed into their Jets.

Franco fired all systems, and heard the whine of warming matrix jets. The comms buzzed into life. "Brown Leader, this is Brown Five calling in. Do you copy, Brown Leader?"

Franco scowled. Brown Leader? Why the fuck did
he
have to be Brown Leader?

"Er, Brown Leader here, over."

"Brown Leader, this is Brown Two calling in. I have full systems on line, Brown Leader."

Franco glanced over to Pippa. She was Pink Leader. Now that was fine. That was great. That was
cool
for a sexy hot-pant-wearing military-type chick. And Strogger! Strogger was Silver Leader. Again, fine if the majority of your internal organs were made of mercury and iron filings. Anklebolt had the best though: she was Rainbow Leader. Franco had wanted the Rainbow Leader tag, but Anklebolt had give him a dirty look - which can be quite impressive, with a face made of metal gears and cogs and shit - and Franco relented.

Franco gave the signal, and as a thousand Q-Wing Fast Jets lifted slowly, vertically, into the air, engines roaring, jet ports glowing, and then left the huge gaping doors of the hangar in their team formations and swept through the falling snow into a cold, bleak, dark storm sky.

"Time to sort this shit out, Brown Leader," said Pippa over the comm.

"Yes, over," said Franco through gritted teeth.

"You know what the lads have started calling you? Over," said Pippa, and Franco thought he heard a snigger as he lifted his Fast Jet higher, and winter sunlight glittered through his cockpit, splaying radiated patterns across his console. Up here, he felt suddenly wild and free. It had been a long time since Franco had been in a fighter jet. Slowly, the intricacies of the airborne weapon were coming back to him.

"Go on," said Franco, "although I'm sure it has a variation on the theme of excrement. I know these lads. They're, er, me."

"Mr Poo. Over," said Pippa, with a chuckle.

Franco shook his head, and grinned. Some things would never change.

"Mr Poo, over and out," said Franco, and pulled back on his control stick. The Q-Wing Fast Jet howled and lifted its nose towards the sky. Below Franco, Cloneworld spread out as a rolling, beautiful tapestry. To the east he could see distant explosions, fiery trails, and the signs of battle against a tiny-detailed map.

Franco grimaced. All thoughts of comedy left him.

"Brown Leader, this is Silver Leader, over."

"Go ahead, Strogger, I got you, over."

"I've got a lock on - the Mistress is in a War Balloon. She's heading for the Org Palace. Her jets have taken out the main Defenso-Guns." There came a pause. Franco could sense Strogger's horror over the comm. "Franco. They've got a Disintegrator."

Franco licked his lips. A Disintegrator was
heavy duty
Quad-Gal Military hardware. It could remove land targets with one blast - huge land targets. Even whole
cities!

"Where did the mad bitch get that from?"

"I don't know, Franco. But she's going to destroy the Org Palace! All my children are there!"

"What? All five hundred and thirty three?"

"Yes!"

For the first time since he'd met her, Franco heard the true woman inside the metal hulk of Queen Strogger. There was no machine there. Just pure humanity. And it spoke to the core of Franco's soul.

"Don't panic, Silver Leader. We're going in. Over and out."

Franco switched his comm to an open channel. "All Leaders. All Fighters. Lock your Q-Wings into Attack Positions."

"Yes, Brown Leader!"

"Agreed, Brown Leader."

"Let's kick some snake-arse, Brown Leader!"

"Time to sort this shit out," Franco muttered, cruising fast at high altitude, his wingmen behind him in a staggered V with him at the tip. Licking his lips, he activated the High Action Weapon Console, set his navigation computer - Polly - to the capital city of Org, and locked his Q-Wings into Attack Position.

The City of Org.

That's where the psychopathic egotistical narcissistic nutcase known as The Mistress planned her final, ultimate explosion...

Of course.

How else would she achieve the dramatic climax for her Live TV! show?

Franco put the Q-Wing Fast Jet into a dive, his squadron in close pursuit - and with grim smile, began the attack run.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CLONEWORLD

"Mistress! Enemies approaching fast!" cried Teddy Sourballs.

"How do you know?"

"They've just shot down a hundred Q-Wing Fast Jets!"

"And what, pray, are the enemy flying?"

"Q-Wing Fast Jets!"

"
What?
How? Only
I
own Q-Wing Fast Jets on this godforsaken ball of shitty rock!" The Mistress was frowning, and ran to the barrier. She peered up into the bright, winter-sun heavens, where, even as she watched, several more Q-Wing Fast Jets were shot down, spiralling towards the ground in swirling balls of flame. Black dots raced through the sky, heading straight towards her War Balloon...

"I don't believe it!" she hissed. "It's that Franco and his battalion of Francos!"

"Mistress?" Confusion.

"It has to be! Why, the slimy little corrupt bunch of back-stabbing bastards! They've turned on me! They've gone against me, even though it was
I
who instigated their cloning! I created them! I am... their
Goddess!
"

"I don't understand..."

"General Banks!" screamed the Mistress. "Get clones to the Flak Cannons! Let's shoot the traitorous whores out of the sky!"

"Yes, Mistress."

A hundred Q-Wing Fast Jets howled overhead, guns thundering, and the War Balloon shuddered. The Flak Cannons yammered, flames blossoming from barrels as they filled the skies with shells. Ten Q-Wing Fast Jets were smashed like clay pigeons from the heavens, glittering under merciless sunlight, and went spiralling down to the city below, trailing smoke and shattered metal.