Hardcore - 03 (5 page)

"You read your INFO PACK as well, did you?"

Keenan nodded, and smiled. "I'm a good boy."

"We're assured by the DropBot scans it's now OK," said Pippa, as the queue shuffled forward towards an ominous military green door which opened and closed with deep metallic
clangs.
"After all, all that Sick World stuff was a thousand years ago. Then they withdrew funding, and the research projects were closed down. There's nothing there now, just a planet left to its own devices for ten centuries."

"No," said Keenan, dropping his voice. "That's not quite what happened."

Pippa frowned. "You know something I don't?"

Keenan nodded. "I'll tell you later. In private. Let's just say the history books, once again, are far from accurate. What's that line from
th3 m1ss1ng'
s song? '
Let us celebrate, my friends, with rewritten histories and a fictional past'
."

The queue moved on, and Pippa nodded. "Like that, eh? Well, Franco's gonna be in a world of shit if he misses today. Although I've got to admit, he's had some pretty savage diseases and survived. We used to call him the Viking of VD back on The Bombay Blast."

"Yeah," growled Keenan. "Well, if he doesn't show, then he's a risk to the mission. I'll give him a bullet myself. Sharp end first."

Franco moaned. He groaned. He whined. He whinged. He croaked. He coughed. He spat. He pushed himself up on elbows, eyes still sleep-glued shut, then slumped back again because it was just too much damn effort. "Urgh," he said. He ran his tongue over dry lips and wondered who was beating his head with a lump-hammer. Slowly, he realised nobody was beating his head with a lump-hammer, but it was, in fact, a hangover.

One eye unglued. Fixed on a tangle of auburn hair on the pillow next to him. Then it closed again.

Girl?
he thought.

What girl? What did I do? And more importantly, what have I caught?

He peered under the bed covers at his inert and considerably shrunken willy, but could see nothing untoward. But that didn't mean he hadn't contracted some lethal alien cock-virus, did it? Eh?

He emerged from under the covers like a snail creeping from a stolen shell. He eyed the hair again. The body next to him, curiously angular beneath the covers, shuddered. It made a metallic snoring sound. Something went
ticker ticker ticker
, almost like... clockwork. The body shuddered again.

"Um. Hullo?" said Franco.

The head rotated 180? and stared at him. It was a robot dog.

"Aiiee!" screamed Franco, leaping backwards from the bed and standing, hands on hips, eyes wide open, staring at the metallic mutt. "What the hell are you doing in my bed? Eh? Eh? You dirty damn bloody mutt! And, more importantly," he stared around, "where is my bed? Where's this? Where am I?" He scratched his bollocks. The dog's brown eyes followed his fingers with a curious feral glittering.

"Get out!" screamed Franco, and idly, the robot dog, with various clanks and whirrs, clambered from the twisted bedcovers and leapt down to the threadbare greasy carpet. It sat down. Its doggy head, angular, silver, alloy, lifted and regarded Franco with something akin to wonderment.

"Ruff," it said.

"OK, OK, listen up you weird and wacky metal mange-maestro. I don't know what the hell you're doing here, in fact, I have no bloody idea what
I'm
doing here, but I want to get one thing straight. I'm not into any funny robot-fetish canine doggy business, OK? You're a dog. A robot. Whatever. And I'm a man!" He puffed out his hairy chest. "Got that, dog-meat breath?"

"Ruff," said the dog, and stood. It whirred over to Franco, legs kicking, and sat down again. A small drawer in the dog's chest slid out on neat hydraulics. There was a slim metal pamphlet. Franco eyed the pamphlet warily, having been the victim of junk mail before. Slowly, reaching forward, he snatched the slim volume and eyed the robot dog with a scowl. He read the front cover:

Congratulations!
on your purchase of the DumbMutt v1.2 special robotic friend. This little special friend will be your friend. A friend for life!! Please find enclosed the instruction manual and ownership deed in a variety of Quad-Gal languages, Braille and scent-sensorship.

Thank you, Franco Haggis, Quad-Gal resident DNA number 6753675347645-3764575324652. As you read this, a genetic sample has been taken from your fingertips and relayed digitally to the DumbMutt's brain. He is now yours. He will never leave your side. He is forthwith electronically registered to your DNA and as such will follow you to the ends of whatever planet you inhabit [insert here]. If you lose your DumbMutt v1.2 special robotic friend, do not fret, because he
will
eventually find you. If you vacate the planet, he has emergency funds to book passage on a Shuttle to anywhere within the Quad-Gal bubble. In effect, your DumbMutt special friend will follow you to the ends of the Galaxy. Well done in this, the Smart Choice.

We do hope you enjoy your DumbMutt v1.2 special robotic friend. He will be a very special robotic friend. For life. Your special friend DumbMutt v1.2 comes with many exciting innovations and technical upgrades over the previous DumbMutt v1.1, which tended to burst into flame and kill the owner. Don't worry! That doesn't happen anymore! Not often, anyway [please read legal addendum].

Your friendly special friend DumbMutt v1.2 is called [Sax].

Please be kind to it. And remember. A robot dog is for
life
not just for [insert applicable religious festival].

©hv3801 Metal Mongrels Inc.

QGSMA Quad-Gal Safety Mark Assured (pending).

Franco eyed the dog, which panted mechanically. Somewhere deep inside, a heavy flywheel went
clunk
.

"So, you're Sax, eh lad?"

"Ruff."

"Why did they give you that weird quiff?" He eyed the straggled auburn tangle, sitting atop the dog's alloy head like a mop atop a dustbin; a toupee on a mannequin. Franco sighed, and hunted for his clothes. "Hey, have you seen my pants, boy?"

"Ruff." Sax padded over to a chair, where Franco's clothes had been neatly folded, and nudged them with his damp metal nose.

"Good boy." Before he could help himself, Franco patted the mop of hair - and shuddered. Sax wagged its stumpy tail. "Anyway," he shrugged, "I'm not quite sure I understand all this business. After all, I didn't
buy
you. You're not
mine.
What indeed was all that nonsense about a deed? Haha. Ha.'

There came a
ticker ticker ticker
sound. Sax opened his mouth, and a long stream of punched foil paper ejected. Franco took the paper, and read in letters made up of pin-prick holes:

Please take good care of your DumbMutt v1.2 [Sax]-model. Your DNA has now been registered with the MMI central core database. Your deed will last: 999 years. Thank you for your custom.

©hv3801 Metal Mongrels Inc.

QGSMA Quad-Gal Safety Mark Assured (pending).

Franco crouched down, face to muzzle. "Ach. Right. Well. You see, Sax, mate, buddy, faithful fellow, the thing is, I'm a bit of a special man you see, I work covert ops for a Combat-K squad and I'm kind of going on a mission, so I kind of don't need a dog. Sorr
ee
."

He stood.

Sax gave a whine.

Franco dressed, and walked to the door. Sax's sad brown eyes followed Franco. Franco opened the door. He frowned. "Look," he said. "I... I give you to yourself. There. Self-ownership. Your deed has been returned. So go on, bugger off, go and do whatever it is that little metal robot dogs do."

Franco closed the door and stared at the peeling wallpaper of an unfamiliar non-memory. Shit. Where am I? More importantly, who was I with? Even more importantly, why don't I remember her tits? And even
more
importantly, what's that fish smell?

There was a
crash.
A splintering, rending of timber kind of sound.

Slowly, Franco turned. Sax was sat, surrounded by shards of door, looking sheepishly at the floor.

"Ruff?" it said.

"Bad doggie!"

Sax wagged its tail.

"No! Bad doggie!" Franco waved a stern finger.

"Ruff."

"Hell, dog, can't you say anything other than 'ruff'? I thought you AIs had bloody technically advanced minds, or something?"

Sax seemed to think for a while, angular metal dog head on one side. Then it ventured, "Sax?"

"So that's it? You've been programmed with
two whole words?
"

"Borrocks?"

"Sax, and borrocks," said Franco. "That's it?"

"Ruff." Sax nodded forlornly.

"Jeez," hissed Franco, and started down the steep stairs. He stepped into a teeming alloy lane, which he dimly remembered as being Pleasure Cruise Central, that happy core artery from which all hedonism stemmed. Franco glanced around. He had a nagging feeling he was late for something. Ah yes!
Medical! Covert ops! Mission! Sick World!
He grinned, and checked his watch. But his watch had gone. Stolen!

"Damn and bloody blast!"

He checked his pants. His wallet had gone as well.

"Triple damn and hot ring cheese bloody buggering!"

"Ruff."

Franco clenched his teeth. "Look! Sax! Will you
fuck off?"

"Ruff." Sax ambled over to Franco, lifted its head, and started licking Franco's groin.

Franco leapt back. "Ahh! Geddoff! Dirty dumb mutt!"

"Sax. Borrocks. Ruff."

"Great," scowled Franco, and set off at a lope through the heaving throng.
That's all I need. A hangover. No memory of last night's sex. All my cred and non-poor slots are gone, nay stolen! And now I've to chaperone a bloody robot dog. Well, we'll see what happens when I get to the internal quadrant barriers, yeah? Staff squaddies there'll fry his robot dog-ass! Let's see him say borrocks to that!

A few paces behind, like night follows day, like salmon swimming upstream, like birds flying south for winter, on sheer instinct Sax trustingly followed its new master at a steady, solid, rolling pace. The sort of pace it could keep up for, ooh, centuries.

Keenan and Pippa were emerging from their medicals when at the far end of the corridor a door opened, somewhat sheepishly, and there was a major kerfuffle. Franco barged his way in, red in the face and looking distinctly hung-over. Close behind followed a large robot dog, fashioned from silver and black alloy (and apparently beaten into shape with a hammer), which seemed to be wearing a wig. Franco was arguing with the wigged dog as he stormed past the patient queue and pushed in at the front, ignoring a range of sarcastic comments and evil glares.

The dog sat down with a clang, a few feet from the squaddie. "Borrocks," it said.

"You OK mate?" said Keenan, head tilted.

Franco beamed suddenly. "Hi Kee! Hi Pippa! Yep. Never better."

"Where did you get to last night?" Keenan, although smiling, had a face set in steel. His teeth were just a little too bared. His jaw line just a little too tense. Muscles in Keenan's jaw flexed, and Pippa placed a restraining hand on Keenan's arm and hushed him.

"Apparently, Franco," said Pippa, "Keenan's PopBot ran into a bit of trouble last night. Got trapped in the sewage canal which runs beneath the living quarters."

"Ha!" said Franco. "That'll teach him to sniff the toilet seats in the ladies quarters! Damn freaky little robot pervert."

"Franco!" Keenan's voice was far beyond warning.

"OK! OK! It's a fair cop guv'nor. But before you bust me back down to private just think of the horrific night I've had, and be thankful I'm here at all.
And
I've got to put up with that metal heap of shit! It just won't leave me alone! Tell it, Keenan, go on, tell it!"

"Tell it what?"

"Tell it to go away!"

"Why?"

"It's latched onto me. Is like a bloody parasite. A leech sucking on my testicules."

Keenan grinned. "Well, it's not the first dog to do that."

"Oh har har, don't start mate, I ain't in the mood."

"How was she? Did you get to party?"

The interruption came from a young soldier, in front of which Franco had so inelegantly pushed.

"Eh?"

The soldier smiled, and it was a smile filled with superior knowledge. "The alien you took home last night. You were going for a dance, and stuff. How was she?"

Franco's face had formed a painful rictus of pain. "
What
alien?"

"The one we tried to warn you about. Franco mate, you were
so out of it
you just waved away our advice like annoying drug smoke. She was called Amil. She was a Prakku."