Rebekka nodded, hair floating around her head in the slipstream of their travel. She shuffled forward, peering carefully from the flapping, banging steel doors. Her boots trod crushed blackened shrapnel. Her eyes were filled with a sadness that made Keenan lick his lips.
I thought proxers had diluted emotions?
he mused.
“Yeah, Red Zone. Home of the Razor Syndicate.”
Across the sprawling metropolis that was The City, seven ruling underworld factions fought for supremacy in—whilst not exactly illegal trade—what could sometimes be considered immoral business. The Seven Syndicates were notorious. From gun-running to prostitution, child smuggling, off-world bleeding, extortion, designer drugs, piracy and hacking, espionage, digital embezzlement; if there was money to be made, one of the Seven Syndicates had it covered. They had ranks, they were so large. They had players
.
And if The City had possessed such a thing as a stable government, the Syndicates would have bought it. The fact that there were seven, all battling for ever-increasing slices of the pie, meant a sort of equilibrium had developed; and although it was a violent equilibrium based on guns and death, the Syndicates had become a kind of self-policing criminal justice system, only without the legality (farcical though it could be) of the courts, and a 9mm round as the only agreed sentencing tactic.
“I thought the Syndicates were spread thinly across the entire planet?” said Pippa.
“Yes,” nodded Rebekka, “but each has a core, or concentrated core that not even police or SIMS would venture into. It looks like we’re heading to the central offices of Razor; for you, and me, this is not a good proposition.”
“I think she knows more,” said Pippa.
“About the Syndicates?” Rebekka laughed a cold laugh. “Oh yeah, I know enough to understand that once you enter this place, it’s rare you leave again, as a free person, or as a liveone. They must have been watching us; watching our deals for some time. Shit. I thought we had this angle covered.”
“What do you mean?” asked Keenan.
“Every transaction has to pay an unauthorised fee to a Syndicate for—ha—protection
.
You know the score, standard mafia extortion bullshit. We were operating an illegal outfit; we paid no kickbacks, and had a floating centre of operations; fuckers didn’t even know we existed. Or so I thought, until now.”
“Penalties?”
“Extermination,” said Rebekka, eyes locked on Keenan. Then her gaze moved to the stacks of hardware that lined the shelves, sliding and moving, jiggling and rattling during this swinging, pendulous journey. “I could always fight my way out.”
“Trained soldier, are you?” Pippa’s voice dripped poisoned honey.
“I’ve done my bit,” said Rebekka. “I know how to slot a hundred and fifty-two round micro-clip into an MPK. And I know how to put a round in the back of a venomous bitch’s cuckolded skull.”
“I’m the one with the gun,” said Pippa. Her Makarov nudged, aligning with Rebekka’s eyes. “And I don’t take kindly to your insinuation. So shut your mouth before I shoot you through the teeth. I won’t warn you again.”
“Pippa!” snapped Keenan, “Focus. We’re coming in to land.”
A huge skyscraper, a kilometre high, reared from the surging ocean, which frothed and churned at its base. No roads or walkways led to the edifice; the walls were slick silver alloy without windows. The building gleamed in the rising gloom
.
Rebekka gave a little sigh of fear, of resignation. It convinced Keenan of her innocence. She wore defeat like a cloak.
The chopper carrying them started a long lazy spiral of descent towards the skyscraper’s rooftop. Below, they could see a wide platform; around the edges of the tower were arched panels, all converging towards a central point. Several of these had slid back revealing a temporary hole and landing area for the chopper. Men with guns stood in ranks, neat and to attention. Keenan squinted, but did not recognise their military-style uniforms. As they closed, Keenan’s eyes also picked out mounted Mercury Cannons, a single shot from which could disintegrate the steel container in which they were, effectively, trapped.
“You see them?” said Pippa.
“Oh yes,” smiled Keenan. “They have us well covered.”
The container lowered through the gap and touched down with a
clang,
first one edge, then slowly lowering to a level platform. Keenan’s nose twitched. He could smell hot oil, and burnt metal. He had counted perhaps a hundred men—soldiers?—on the descent.
A voice boomed. “Mr. Keenan, Pippa, so nice of you to join us. Please, step out of your cage.”
“That answers that question,” said Keenan.
“They were after us,” nodded Pippa.
“And no funny business, please,” said the booming voice. “After all, I am sure you were witness to our awesome firepower on your rather uncouth descent. Please, do not be alarmed. We proffer no immediate violence.”
Keenan stepped free, and tossed his Techrim onto the smooth black floor. A wind howled distantly. Keenan looked up at the sky as the chopper disengaged from the container, lifted, banked, and disappeared into the falling gloom.
Huge arched panels slid smoothly back into place. The sky vanished. They were sealed, as if in a tomb.
“Welcome to my humble abode,” said the man, stepping forward. He was tall, with a slender frame. He looked to be early sixties, white hair thinning against the prominent skull of a pointed face. He had bare feet, and loose, baggy, black clothing, and he carried a pistol levelled at Keenan’s face.
He smiled.
“Keenan,” he breathed, “it’s been such a long time.”
“I don’t know you,” said Keenan.
“You do, although I looked different back then. A billion dollars of surgery have worked their wonders. But it was you who killed my brother,” said the man, simply, eyes glittering with a reined-in malice. “And it would be my pleasure to return the favour.”
Franco’s gaze was fixed, immovable, on that simple hypodermic. Within that glistening tube of psycho drugs lay the queuing horrors of Franco’s worst demons, worst fears, worst living nightmare hell
.
Franco had been incarcerated in Mount Pleasant because of these drugs; it would take a miracle of strength to return him there.
Franco went slack. It was a trick he had used often at Mount Pleasant, something the guards and mental nurses had become familiar with. The GE Razor-droid, however, was not a guard, nor a mental nurse, and had no experience with the subtleties of deranged patients; even after they had quaffed a bucketful of Guinness.
Louis, feeling its prisoner relax, loosened the rigid grip. After all, what good was a prisoner when you’d cut off the blood supply to his arms, promoted necrotic flesh and necessitated amputation? Not the desired effect... unless torture was on the cards.
Betezh came so close that Franco could smell garlic. Franco’s eyes swivelled up. The needle descended.
Flexing, Franco’s boot lashed up and the hypodermic flew from Betezh’s hand, up into the air, and Betezh looked back just in time to get the flat of Franco’s boot square on the nose. Betezh gasped, stumbling back, scattering stools. The syringe spun, end over end, droplets of fluid dripping and pattering to the floor. Then, like a rocket returning to Earth, it fell, point first, again to connect with Franco’s well aimed boot-strike. It shot true as an arrow and entered Betezh’s open howling mouth, embedding at the back of his throat.
Betezh gagged.
Franco threw a backwards head-butt, which had little effect on the old GE Razor-droid; however, some locals, deciding this was something of an unfair fight, had picked up pool cues and advanced on the GE. Louis heard a rattling sound of quick successive strikes, and with a blink realised it was four cues pounding his battered cranium. He released his grip on Franco. Never one to fail to capitalise on a situation, Franco charged with a scream. Betezh, still choking, threw his arms up in defence as Franco delivered a thundering right, straight to Betezh’s groin, and felt testicles compress agonisingly under his great flat knuckles. Dropping to one knee, again he pounded Betezh’s groin, then kicked out, cracking Betezh’s left knee-cap with a
snap
of dry wood.
Betezh fell, sending the remaining stools toppling to the floor. His hands grappled to pull free the syringe embedded in the back of his throat. He curled into a foetal position, gurgling, as Franco danced around drunkenly, cheering himself on.
“I win! I win!” cheered Franco, as something flat and metal struck the back of his head, lifted him from the ground and sent him crashing over the bar, where he rolled and cannoned into stacks of whisky bottles, bringing the whole shelving system raining down, around and on top of him. Bottles clonked and smashed off his head. Broken glass scattered like confetti. Franco groaned, but even in red-hot poker-searing agony his fingers somehow found a fifty year-old single malt and popped the cork. He took a long, long draught. He shook his head, and tenderly probed the back of his skull where a lump the size of a tennis ball was rising.
“Son of a bitch.”
He climbed to his feet, frowning. The Irish bar was in a state of devastation. The pool table was a broken V, with four unconscious locals draped untidily across torn green felt. The GE, Louis, stood with metal hands on metal hips. Betezh was whimpering in a ball amongst tinder.
Franco threw the bottle, which Louis dodged, then another, and another, and a fourth. The GE’s arm flashed up to deflect the whisky vessel, which shattered, showering the robot in finest malt.
“I only wanted a quiet drink!” howled Franco. “Why can’t you bastards leave me alone?”
He threw another bottle, groping around in the broken glass behind the bar and slicing his fingers, and then another, which also smashed, allowing amber to wash over the Razor-droid.
“It’s going to be a pleasure squashing you, little man,” said the battered old droid.
Franco shrugged, eyes dropping to the counter where a cigar burned steadily in an ashtray. Franco reached forward, almost casually, lifted the cigar and took a long casual puff on the fine Trigon II smoke. Then, almost lazily, he flicked the brown weed at Louis... who realised a millisecond too late that he was soaked in Scotland’s finest fifty year-old flammable.
WHOOSH!
Flames roared up and over and about the Razor-droid, and Louis turned and sprinted for the rain, straight through the door, leaving splinters and twisted spirals of smoking steel in his wake. Franco heaved himself onto the bar, and then dropped to the floor with a simple thud. He was deflated, weary, his bout of Guinness and a good rumble leaving him ready for a sleep. Then he saw Betezh, still whimpering. The man had withdrawn the syringe and held it in baby fingers. Franco dropped to his knees and stared into Betezh’s eyes.
“You hurt me,” said Franco, simply.
Betezh nodded. “It was my job.”
“You fucking Nazi bureaucrat. What kind of answer is that?” he slurred. “We was playing a game: I try to escape, you try to stop me. It’s the comedy game prisoners have played for centuries. There was no need to get so... personal.”
Betezh scowled, anger and brute-force stubbornness seeping through his agony. “It’s personal, Franco, because it had to be personal. You weren’t just a job, no, you were an assignment!”
Franco grabbed Betezh’s arm and dragged up the tight sleeve. There, tattooed on the doctor’s wrist, was the tiniest of military script symbol: the mark of Combat K. Franco reeled, stunned more than any alcohol or violence could deliver. “You’re one of us!” he screamed, shock battering him like a hammer. Then, more quietly, more focused, “You’re Combat K.”
Betezh, although in pain, allowed a glimmer of triumph to shine through. “You were betrayed,” he spat, “condemned by your own. So stop fucking whimpering and accept the fact that you were never wanted. You were an embarrassment. You became expendable.”
“Expendable?” growled Franco, feeling a rage well within him greater than anything he had ever felt. Here was another Combat K special forces soldier removing every shred of honour Franco had ever possessed; here was a brother telling Franco he was no longer a brother; here was a fellow CK squaddie telling Franco he
did not belong.
“I’ll give you fucking expendable.” He wrenched the syringe from Betezh’s fingers and lifted it high in the air.
The Irish bar’s punters, those still conscious, watched with held breath. Their eyes were fixed on the hypodermic. The needle fell, slamming Betezh’s skull and punching through bone.
Franco injected Betezh with the drugs, direct to the brain.
He watched light dance in Betezh’s eyes, which faded to a slack, meaningless nothing.
A hush descended on the public house.
Franco’s nostrils twitched. He could smell scorched steel.
He glanced right, to where a small hunched man with a flat cap and chunks of hair sprouting from his nostrils still held his pint of Guinness in rough working-class hands. The man gave Franco a weak but rugged smile.
“That droid. It’s behind me, right?” said Franco.
The hairy man gave a single nod.
“God, I need my tablets, especially the yellow ones!”
The hairy man said nothing.
Franco whirled... into the
smack
of a pool cue.