"Ch, ch, ch," said Betezh, and roared with incredibly boisterous laughter from his rolling, scrabbling position.
Several insects buzzed in, and Pippa's sword slammed left and right, sending tiny flashes sparking against a backdrop of darkening night sky. The doors closed with a
click.
Pippa whirled, eyes searching, and one final insect landed atop her head and stung her. She dropped, whirled, and her yukana killed the tiny thing with an actinic spark.
"Dit get you?" slurred Betezh.
Pippa rubbed her head. "Yeah. The little bastard."
Slowly, one of her knees buckled, and Pippa toppled to the sterile, cream-tiled floor. She watched the strip-lights overhead, and noted that in the corner, one was flickering, on off, on off, on off, in an annoying fashion. Something crept through her pleasure-filled brain with the lethargy of a steam-train grinding through an uphill tunnel. Who services the lights? Light bulbs don't last for a thousand years. Her eyes dropped, following ancient copper pipe-work, green and furred, which disappeared through the wall... and her last vision was of Betezh's leering, grinning, morphing face as she slipped unwillingly into unconsciousness.
She could smell them. They smelled of warm meat, sweat, salt, fear and sexual fluids. The nurse licked her lips. She liked salt. It made her tingle. And she liked sex juice. It made her writhe. She crept to the edge of the darkness beneath the stroboscopic strip-light and watched the tall woman, the dangerous one with the sword, watched her fall and the nurse's long tongue lolled out, dragging on the floor and leaving a trail of ichor. The nurse dragged herself forward a little, stumps scraping the tiles like wood on stone, and she rubbed at her mouth as drool eased free, smudging her cherry-red lipstick, so carefully applied, reapplied, and reapplied continually for the past several hundred years. After all... she wanted to look pretty. Her eyes fixed on the big fat man, big and fat, yes, but plenty, plenty meat. He rolled about, laughing, infected by the Morphs and their euphoria liquor and the nurse knew, knew as clear as Jangla followed the sun, chasing her like a rabid lover destined never to catch, that the fat man would succumb to the juice and would lie down and sleep and there would be no fight in him, no more, and her job, her
joy
would be so very much easier.
CHAPTER FOUR
SICK WORLD II: YAX
Franco skilfully piloted the DropShip towards the Yax co-ordinates with a big sloppy grin on his chops. This is going to be so ace, he thought cheerfully, picturing in his mind's eye the huge crate of seventy-two bottles of AssHole Vodka he'd packed, the crate of tinned Nuclear Chilli, a second crate of irradiated Curry Cream Cakes (
Yummy, Yummy In My Tummy, Graaargh
!) and the raison d'être of Franco's culinary machinations, a third and final crate of Puker's SuperFire Horseradish (guaranteed to put you on the bog for a month, or your money back!!!!!!!!). Franco loved horseradish. It was his favourite food in the world, and he smeared it on anything and everything that couldn't crawl off his plate; and maybe a few things that could.
As he piloted, one hand nonchalantly draped over the steering yoke, he eyed the rear-view mirror. There was Fizzy, red-headed and fiery, high cheekbones, dazzling green eyes, haughty and proud and rebellious and
right up Franco's particular fantasy back alley.
And there was Shazza, brunette, shorter and a bit more plumped out than Fizzy but hey hey hey Franco certainly loved a chick with a bit of meat on her, a bit of ham on that rump ass, so to speak, a bit of wobble to the chicken breast department... and certainly
right up Franco's particular fantasy back alley.
And then, there was -
"Shit and bugger and hot damn curried frogs."
There
was Olga, huge and hairy, arms like a German shot-putter, head like a bulldog's only without the charm, and a powerful suffocating headlock that guaranteed she got a regular shot of "ze sexual intercourse" she so liked. Olga was staring into the mirror, ergo, into Franco's wandering eyes.
"Har har har!" boomed Olga, her voice drowning out the sultry chatter of the two uber-vixens seated just behind Franco and strategically positioned so that with a certain little
twist
of the mirror, he could peer down their buxom bosoms. "I see you there little Franco Haggis, all shy and sexy, and giving Olga ze eye in ze mirror you have cleverly positioned to watch your favourite oxen gal. Yar?"
It should be explained that Olga, prior to joining Combat-K as an honorary appointed veteran, had been instrumental in Franco, Keenan and Pippa's escape from beneath the violent lava-filled depths of the GreenSource Mainframe on the Biohell infected, well,
hell,
of The City only months earlier. During the mission, Olga had developed a serious crush on Franco and wasn't about to let something like his complete lack of reciprocation get in the way of using and abusing his muscular (if somewhat short and stumpy) body. Without Olga, Franco would surely be dead, and there were few moments that went by without her reminding him of the God-awful truth, and thus her need for some kind of payback, preferably in a grotesque sexual manner. Pippa had commented that Olga was the female sexually deviated version of Franco, himself a sexual deviant extraordinaire. Franco had been far, far from amused, and refused to acknowledge she was, in fact, correct.
"Um, actually..." began Franco, in retaliation to this most slanderous of slanders, but his voice petered out as he caught a glimpse of the rapidly changing landscape beneath. Glorious trees and lakes and mountains had gradually dropped, panning out into ocean, and then the ocean filled with chunks of ice. Now, as they cleared a towering black mountain range of jagged dragon's teeth, Franco saw a wilderness of ice and snow unfold before him. There were mountains, yes, but high jagged-bastard mountains filled with the kind of ice that crushed men for breakfast, ate women for dinner, and burped out their bones as a party trick.
"What the hell is this?" he boomed, leaning forward, his languorous slouch suddenly dead and buried. "What's all this snow? And ice? And damn and buggering icy mountains? Eh? I said, eh?"
Fizzy leant forward, red hair a sultry tangle. "You mean you didn't read up on Yax? And you thought Pippa was joking?"
"Eh? I mean, of course I read about it." Franco preened. "It's just, I thought this was some kind of hot desert wilderness, filled with lakes and forests and we could go fishing and dancing, and fishing and loving, and get up to some deep-forest tomfoolery." He coughed. "All I've packed is shorts and t-shirts."
"Honey," said Shazza, running a hand through her hair (replete with Combat-K combat hair-clips), "it's damn near -40oC out there. In a T-shirt you'd last about twenty-five seconds before you went blue, maybe five minutes until death. Why the hell did you think we all brought hi-tech winter kit? Ice axes? Laser-guided grapplers? The finest in heated WarSuits?"
"Um..." Franco scratched his ginger goatee beard. "I thought the axes, were, y'know, weapons. For fighting with. To kind of, go, alongside, your, guns." He faltered. Then brightened. "There must be some winter kit in the hold of this here DropShip, after all..."
"No," interjected Fizzy. "We checked. After take-off, when we realised you were so foolishly and unprofessionally under-equipped. You're like one of those dumb-fucks who dies on the mountain, wandering around without Gore-Tex, no map, no compass, completely underestimating the savage murdering brutality of
Nature.
She's a bitch, ain't she?" Fizzy grinned, a big-teeth grin which didn't allow Franco much opportunity for humorous camaraderie.
Olga's hand descended, slapping Franco's shoulder so hard he nearly pitched under the cockpit console. He grunted, coughing, and saw the gleam in Olga's eye.
"No."
"What do you mean 'no' Little Franco?"
"Just, no."
"But you not know what Olga suggest."
Franco stared at her huge flat face, her small, pig-like eyes. They seemed full of... concern. Like a mother's concern for a particularly retarded son.
"Go on," said Franco, warily.
"Olga is big lass, yes? Well, she sure her clothes will fit Franco absolutely no problem lubberly jubberly. That way, Franco not freeze his skinny-arse off in ze freezing wastes of Yax. Sound like a good plan?" She roared with laughter, and slapped Franco again. "Of course is ze good plan."
"OK," said Franco, voice slow, and still imbued with a terrible wary suspicion. "Suppose I was to say yes..."
"Let's go, then, to Olga's bed chamber and help you struggle from your little pants and T-shirt and standing all naked in Olga's bedchamber so you can then try on some of Olga's underwear, did I say ze underwear, silly me Olga was meaning ze clothes for ze winter mission of course." She beamed.
"Yes, go on Franco," said Fizzy, grinning at him. "Go and entertain Olga for a while. She's gagging for a bit of
hero
company like what you have to offer. I'm sure she'll grab your..."
"Borrocks," said Sax, choosing that moment to look up from his basket, wig slightly askew. Something inside him went
clonk.
"Yeah, don't be such a wet fish," chimed in Shazza. "Go on. Olga's a lass who loves a good time, doncha gal?"
Franco deflated. In a small voice, he said, "I suppose I might pop along in a little while to have a look at your, um, wardrobe." His eyes narrowed. "But don't be getting any bloody damn and bloody ideas, alreet?"
"Ideas?" Olga fluttered her eyelashes. It had the same effect as a bear fluttering its eyelashes prior to pulling your head clean off. "I would ze never dream of it, sweetie."
Yax was a savage harsh land of ice-storms, ice-hail, ice-sheets and snow. Much of the year was spent in darkness, and when there was a hint of daylight the sun hung low, a bloated red orb slung over the horizon like a zombie corpse over the back of a saddle. The DropShip howled, banking, jets turning ice-hail to water and lowering slowly, a wary predator, between walls of jagged, ice-encased mountain and lower yet, into a broad valley split by a sluggish, ice-bobbing river. Occasionally, sparkles of red fire blossomed amidst the ice, then hissed and were extinguished, leaving trails of frozen magma and ash from the underground volcanic fault which kept this river fluid amidst a -40
o
C summer.
The DropShip cooled swiftly with several alarming clangs and bangs. Landing struts, sunk deep in snow and ice, quickly assimilated a sheen of ice webs.
Creaking, the hold ramp lowered and Franco stood, hands on hips, beaming. He wore knife-cut army combats and a Guinness t-shirt. His face glowed instantly red from frost-nip, and his broad smile, showing his single missing tooth, was nothing if not a platter of massive fake humour.
"Ach, it's not that bad!" he bellowed, and strode down the ramp, hands still on hips, like some perverse and deviant catwalk model. The wind whipped him with cat-o'-nine-tails lashes of pain. Snow stuck instantly to his ginger beard, forming long curled icicles. He turned, surveying the three huddled figures in the doorway, wrapped in heavy furs and the most advanced military Gore-Tex Combat-K would and could provide. "It's just, y'know, refreshing. Like a dip in a cold bath after a sauna. That sort of thing. Makes a man of ye, so it does."
The three females stared at him. Warily, they emerged, and slid worryingly down the ramp. Fizzy poked Franco in the chest. "You've gone blue, dickhead."
"Ate some bad cheese."
"You've ice in your beard!"
"Must have been that ice-pop I had after lunch."
"Mate, you're shivering worse than a blue-peanut junkie during a gun-turkey withdrawal."
"Yeah, well," he grinned, "suppose I need a voddie. The chill affects me like that, sometimes."
"Franco," Fizzy looked deep into his eyes, "you are one stubborn son-of-a-bitch."
"Hey, I never said I was perfect. Never said I was Mr. Franco 'Perfect Pecs' Haggis, never said I was some kind of incredible macho hunky superhero, although now I think about it, I am. Come on, let's get this show onna road, this ship launched, this sperm ejaculated from the barrel. It's gonna be a long, hard gig of," he sniggered, holding his belly with one scarred hand, "collecting damn soil samples." The team of four stepped away from the DropShip, and Sax appeared, groggily, just as Franco hit the TRANS key. The DropShip growled, motors whirring as panels clanked and slid, hydraulics hissed and the whole vehicle stood up and transformed into a DropShip BaseCamp. With a strangled "
Borrocks"
Sax tumbled back into the interior, and they could hear him banging and clanking around, bounced and tossed as walls rearranged themselves and Sax was bounced around like a spanner in a tumble drier, like a bone between slurping jaws.
Steam hissed, melting more snow and ice. The wind howled mournfully. Franco slapped his blue thigh, and strode up the new ramp towards the gleaming interior. Once inside, away from the storm which crackled around air-vents like an electric banshee, Franco scowled at his team. They stared back at him, only moderately disbelieving. Being part of a Franco Haggis combat squad was a bit like being committed.
"OK team. This is how it works. Today, we'll establish a rearward leisure-time comfort-zone with our main priority being that of spa-works, imbibing pleasure-sense altering substances and with the possibility of loquacious arousal on the imminent horizon if I'm not very too much mistaken."