He poked around with his spork. The
spaghetti
looked like it might poke back.
Franco sighed. He poured himself another dram of Scrotum's Old Todge Clogger - Finest Single Malt. But it didn't taste good, didn't go down well (with that fiery feeling, like one was drinking undiluted hydrochloric acid), and Franco pushed his glass aside, disappointed in alcohol for once in his life.
Getting old, bro!
Getting boring. Like a fetid old goat.
"Let me show you something," said Alice.
"Amaze me."
The screen before Franco cleared, and showed a high-altitude map of the planet. There were two huge land masses, to the left and right. An ocean divided the two continents, but down the centre was a narrow vertical strip of rock containing nothing but mountains.
"What am I looking at?" said Franco, sounding bored, when no other words were forthcoming.
"This is Cloneworld," said Alice, soothingly.
Franco drank his drink. "So?"
"To the west is Clone Terra, to the east The Org States. They have been physically divided using terraforming equipment; hence the huge mountains, called The Teeth, and a ban on all manner of aeronautics."
"Aerowhatics?"
"Planes."
"Ach. Of course." He poured himself another whiskey, and started to find Alice's voice sexy. He wondered if she had an avatar. If she did, he hoped it wasn't blue, like that last one. The blue ones smelt funny. Like rotten off-marzipan. Or something.
"You see all the tiny red dots?"
"Aye?"
"Watch what happens when I accelerate."
The dots started to move, fast, homing in on the blue dot.
"Now I'll slow down again to our current cruising speed." Within moments, the dots started to disperse, moving randomly about the map.
Franco frowned. "Ahh," he said, looking wise and placing his goatee-bearded chin on the tip of his index finger. "I see. Fascinating."
"Don't you think? And that explains our current velocity."
"What does?"
"What I just showed you."
"What did you just show me?"
Alice sighed with the patience of tectonic movement. "The blue dot is us. The red dots are the AI gunbots. When we increase velocity, they detect our speed and start to home in on our location. We slow down, to what is effectively a snail's pace, and they no longer track us. So it's not so much aerial targets they detect, but speed greater than that capable on land. Within reason."
"Fascinating," said Franco, face blank. "So. Fucking. What."
"It means we do not have to relinquish our flight; merely our speed."
"Let's hope we don't have an emergency then, eh?" If he could have, he would have slapped her on the back. But she didn't have one. So he didn't.
Franco was just about to ask,
Hey Alice, have you got one of those avatar things? Even a blue one? It's been a while, you see,
when Tarly Winters entered the recreation quarters behind the cockpit. Franco watched her over his glass. She wore a black uniform, with glittering silver insignia, and black boots. Her red hair was tied back tight, accentuating her high, beautiful cheekbones, and her eyes glittered cold, like frozen hydrogen.
"You all right, Killer?" said Franco.
Tarly gave a cold smile, and moved through to the cockpit. "Not so bad, Fat Boy."
"Hey," said Franco, cupping his rotund belly, "it's all muscle."
"Better there than in your head," smiled Tarly, sweetly.
"I might be fat," said Franco, "but I'm happy and I have morals. Not like some of the high-ranking military scum you find kicking around the universe." He glanced sideways at Tarly. "Makes you wonder how some people sleep at night."
Tarly shrugged. "I sleep just fine."
"You are a bitch," said Franco.
"Don't ever forget it," smiled Tarly.
"Must get lonely?" ventured Franco.
"Not really," said Tarly, and seated herself in a pilot's chair. She started punching digits into the console.
"Not even a bit? I mean, we all know what it's like with you general-types and high-fliers, standing on the fingers and toes of all your friends on your way up the shit-slippery pole of the ziggurat. What's that saying? The toes that you step on when you're on your way up, will be the same ones kicking you in the face on the way down. Heh. I like that saying. Reminds me of a few people I know. Ones I kicked, that is."
"It's unlikely," said Tarly, glancing at Franco.
"What? The fact that you might slide down the pole, or the fact that your ex-friends will be kicking you in the chops on your meteoric accelerating descent?"
"Neither. Because I didn't leave any enemies behind."
"What happened to them?"
"They're all dead," said Tarly, softly.
"A lot of, er, unlucky groundcar accidents, I expect? Yachting accidents round the Rings of Pluto? Accidentally
bathing
in tubs of Perushian yoghurt acid, perhaps?"
"Franco Haggis. Do you actually
know
what department I worked in on my toe-stepping rise to the higher ranks of Quad-Gal Military? Have you any concept of who you're dealing with?"
"Let me guess. You spent a few years cleaning out the industrial bean bins? Wait, wait, don't tell me! You gave a couple of Fleet Admirals an admirable blowjob when their wives were on the latrine? Wait, wait, it's knocking me out, this, what a game! I suspect you might have bent over a few battalions and
fucking give it them violently from behind.
"
"I worked the Suicide Squads," said Tarly, quietly.
Franco paused, which was impressive, because it usually took at least a right hook, and more often than not a pistol-butt to the back of the head to halt Franco in mid-rant. He stared hard at Tarly.
"You're shitting me."
"Nope. Fifteen years. Rising through the ranks. It was said I had exceptional skill and discipline. Then I transferred to the War Fleets. Served under General Kotinevitch, First General of Quad-Gal Military's Prime Fleet. I was her 2IC until that... unfortunate incident."
"Ahh, the one with the planet rings? Jekyll, wasn't it called? Solar rings hit her in the face like a fucking galactic hammer. Yeah. The junks pulled a fast one there. Clever, corrupt little bastards."
"The point is..." said Tarly, and moved so fast she was a blur, landing astride Franco, her face inches from his, a long slender stiletto dagger at his throat, poised over his jugular vein. She pricked it a little, and a trickle of blood ran past Franco's collar line, "I'm deadly."
Unperturbed, Franco locked eyes with Tarly's dark steel gaze. She was so close, he could have kissed her. Yes, she would have cut out his voice box, but that was not really the point.
"It's been a while since a bird pushed her tits in my face like this. You should be commended on your willingness to mix it with the common dog soldier grunts, my sweet."
"You feel that little prick? I expect you're used to feeling little pricks, yes?" Tarly was smiling, and licked her lips, making them gleam. Her breath was sweet in Franco's face.
"Not little ones, no. But I expect you can feel that big one."
"Oh."
"I'm sorry. It's just, the way you've got your legs clamped round me, er, sorry." And as Tarly was starting to apologise, she felt another blade touch her ribs. "However,
this
little prick," said Franco, smugly, "would drive straight through your ribs and cut your heart in half before you blinked."
Tarly considered this. "How can you be
erect
and still threaten to kill me?"
"It takes practise," admitted Franco.
"I suppose I'd better get off you."
"Don't rush on my account," said Franco, and grinned as Tarly stood, twirled, and sheathed her blade. She glanced down at Franco, wearing nothing more than his pyramid-shaped knife-cut combat shorts.
"You really are a dirty, horrible little man," she said.
Franco winked. "Hey girl, I wasn't the once forcing myself on an unsuspecting party."
"Hmm."
"So then?"
"Go on."
"Fancy a drink and a curry? I hear the InfinityChef[tm] does a fine line in Space Worm vindaloo."
"What?" Incredulous. "With you?"
"It's either me, or the psychotic half-metal geriatric cyborg queen from Hell."
"Okay then. You've twisted my arm."
"That's what I usually have to do."
Tarly giggled then, her face breaking into sudden good humour, and she slumped down next to Franco. He poured her a dram of Scrotum's, which she downed in one. He poured her another.
"Were you really?"
"What? In the Suicide Squads?"
"Yeah. I heard each mission was practically
suicide
. They only took on people with a certifiable deathwish. Used to recruit from the crazies; the burnouts, the psychos, the lunatics."
"That as well," smiled Tarly, lips gleaming with whiskey.
"So you were?"
"Just like I said. I don't think they thought I'd last that long. I had a few...
problems.
But hey, don't let that ruin our evening. After all, we might be dead tomorrow."
"Wait," said Franco, and frowned. "This mission, right here and now. That's why they sent you, right?"
"At last! The penny drops."
"So we're doomed to die?"
"Only as much as the next man. I don't play the odds. I own them."
"So I'm safe with you?"
"I wouldn't go that far," said Tarly, and giggled again. Franco shook his head.
How?
his mind was shrieking.
How can she be so funny, and charming, and sexy - all right she was going to cut your throat, but hey not every girl's perfect, right? - But how can she be all those things, near-perfect in every respect, except for the obviously dodgy past psychotic military career, but not every chick has it all, do they? How can she be so damn good and scrumptious, and yet display such a list of checkboxes pointing straight to the Damaged Goods aisle? Eh? I ask you? Eh?
As if reading his mind, Tarly smiled. She touched a finger to his lips. "After all, I was the top of the league. And you only get there by stepping into Dead Men's Shoes."
"Vindaloo?" said Franco brightly.
"Doesn't it bother you that I'm an insane killer?"
"Hey," said Franco, holding his hands apart and grinning, "I think even insane killers deserve happiness, right? And they don't call me Franco 'Give Sexy Insane Killers A Chance' Haggis for nothing, reet?"
It was still dark outside when Franco awoke. He'd drunk an insane amount. He awoke in his sleeping quarters, naked except for a comedy frog thong. He quickly removed it and tried, in a familiar manner, to piece together the events leading up to his testicular incarceration in a furry frog.
I know,
he thought.
I'll make myself a wee drinkie to help pass the evening as I contemplate events, and decide on further events, in order to event an event! Yay!
He pulled on his army shorts and sandals, and staggered out of his sleeping quarters, into the lounge, and stood for a while swaying. Tarly was curled in pink pyjamas on a couch, snoring gently. Franco frowned.
If General Tarly is there, then who - what - why am I in a furry frog thong? Oh my God? Mrs Strogger? Queen Strogger? Back for payment for my cyborg finger replacement? Oh my God!
He flexed his metal finger. He looked around for the old cyborg, but she wasn't there.
Hot damn and bloody bollocks! Now I definitely need a drink!
He staggered over to the InfinityChef[tm]. The InfinityChef[tm] could conjure any food or drink in the known universe. It was an industrial model, as befitting a military class Hornet. An InfinityChef[tm] was designed to operate in any environment. It was designed to withstand a bomb blast. It was tougher than hull steel.
Franco punched in various digits. The lights were low. The InfinityChef[tm] flickered extra lights at him, and a drink emerged. It was whiskey. Franco took a slug. It was
good
whiskey! Hot damn, it was good and fine whiskey! But Franco was feeling particularly anarchic, and was worried about Pippa, and worried about Mrs Strogger and the frog thong. He punched in new digits. The InfinityChef[tm] gave a buzzing noise, as if to say No.
Franco frowned. He punched in the digits again.
Once more, the InfinityChef[tm] gave a long buzzing noise, as if to say, Are you insane?
"Listen," growled Franco, "if I wants a drink of extra hot vindaloo chilli whiskey, with a hint of PreSausage, then that's what I'll be bloody having! So do it, bozo."
For the third time, the InfinityChef[tm] gave a long, low buzzing noise, as if to say, Get fucked.
Scowling, Franco pulled free his screwdriver and prized off a panel. "Oh yeah?" he muttered, having had this problem once before when trying to order a rare Space Worm kebab. He worked on the InfinityChef[tm] for a moment, face curiously demonic in the purple glow of the ship's night-lights.