Total Conflict Page 3

  “And your point is?” said Pippa, turning to stare in horror at Franco’s bratwurst.

  “We-eell,” said Franco, looking suddenly shifty, “if this is such an easy gig, and there’s little or no threat, what I was thinking is that you two walk point and sort out this bird, reet, and then I can activate a brave rearward base-operation of integral food and drink caching combined with complex chemical analysis of onboard chemical substances.” He beamed, a bit of sausage stuck between incisors.

  Pippa considered this. “What you mean is, you’ll stay here, watch a movie, stuff your face with sausage and get pissed?”

  “Only technically,” beamed Franco, oblivious to the sarcastic growl in Pippa’s voice.

  “No, dickhead. You can’t.”

  “Aww, Pippa, come on, hey Keenan, tell her, mate, tell her I can stay. I don’t wanna go rooting around no archaic battle site with only my piles for company. I’m an ill squaddie, I am; I should be on the sick, confined to quarters and all that.”

  “The only sick part of you is your mind. Now shut up. We’re going in.”

  As if triggered by her words, the Hornet suddenly rocked, a vicious kick to the engine ports, and Keenan’s knuckles went white on the controls. The Hornet gave another surge, then dropped a thousand feet in a second making Franco give a sausage-streamer wail from the back. The Hornet bucked, a wild manoeuvre for such a fast combat craft, then dropped. Keenan leant forward, slapping buttons and dials…

  “What is it?” snapped Pippa.

  “Engine fault.”

  “Coincidence?” said Pippa.

  Keenan glanced at her. “Let’s just land first, yeah?”

  “Whatever you say, boss.”

  The Hornet slammed down from ionosphere to thermosphere, then lower. Vor spread before them like a chequered gameboard, a pastel painting filled with brightly coloured daubs. Sunlight glittered green on the Hornet’s stubby wings and the nose dipped again to a background wail of engines and shaved, splintered pistons, Keenan fighting controls like a lunatic, and they all watched a world of brightly spilled paint spread out, glimmering with bursts of sunshine, from this height of ersatz paradise, a tropical canvas, an invitation to dive in… only now now they were diving in way too fast, and Keenan was losing control by the nanosecond.

  “Initiating emergency engine drags,” snarled Keenan, watching the world coming up slamfast to punch him in the jaw.

  “Agreed,” said Pippa, hitting the button to second the command which would, effectively, boost their power but halve the Hornet’s engine life; the scanner read her prints and DNA. Howls rocked the rocking Hornet.

  Keenan banked. Jungles scrolled past, hugging the mountains like a lover.

  “It’s going to be a bumpy one,” said Keenan, voice an octave too high, face dripping sweat, and they skimmed the jungle and embraced the landscape in an undulating rhythm as computers fast-locked for a safe LZ.

  The Hornet snarled, bucked, whirled around in a huge arc as fatbelly-jets blasted a five-hundred metre radius of trees into instant flaming charcoal, and the Hornet ejected legs and touched down, feet gently crackling scorched wood into hard-earth charcoal compression.

  Engines whined, then shut down one by one by one. Keenan mopped his brow, took a deep breath, and closed his eyes.

  “Good landing,” said Franco, finishing his sausage with a belch. He unclipped, stood up, and patted Keenan on the back. “Well done mate. I had every fucking faith in you.”

  Franco hit the DP and steps ejected. A metre-thick door lifted. Sunlight streamed in. He grinned, illuminated by a green-hue of sunshine; he looked demonic.

  Pippa stared at him. “Does nothing upset you?” she snarled, heartbeat still a tattoo of raging palpitation.

  Franco shrugged. “It’s in the lap of the Gods, chicken,” he said, and stepped outside. Then popped his head back in. “And they don’t call me Franco ‘Lucky Arse’ Haggis for nothing, you know?” Then he was gone, leaving a sausage-grease smeared metal plate on his seat for somebody else to wash up.

  Pippa glanced at Keenan. “What happened?”

  He scowled. “Engine problems my arse. Something spiked our Hornet; and it’s obviously the same thing that brought down Kuminyana.”

  “You thinking rogue War Machines?”

  “I’m thinking ancient not-quite-decommissioned alien bastard war technology. I think we need to bring the big guns.”

  Pippa gave a wry smile. “Don’t we always?”

  They stood under the Hornet, which hissed and crackled. Beneath hefty boots lay scorched earth, and a few hundred metres away a glowing, still-flaming jungle rim. Franco hoisted his pack and primed his guns. He looked up, shading eyes from the sun. Everywhere, a heat haze shimmered. “We good to go?”

  Pippa nodded. She pointed. “North. Five klicks. Shenzar City. The PAD’s locating Kuminyana’s ship now…” she pursed her lips. “Well. It’s located a destroyed shell.” She glanced up at Keenan, dressed in black and jungle camouflage. He was smoking a cigarette, filled with harsh Widow Maker tobacco, and squinting.

  “Not good,” he muttered.

  “Maybe she’s still alive?” said Pippa.

  “We’ll see,” growled Keenan. “Come on.”

  They tabbed hard, fast, down little used trails – but trails nonetheless. Created by predators, they all knew; harsh Grey Serles, a five-legged jungle cat; and the even more deadly chameleonic Liz-Liz lizards which could bite a man’s head clean off with a single snap of telescopic jaws from a fifty metre hidden vantage point. Pippa kept a nervous eye on her PAD, which scanned using k-waves. Nothing like losing one’s head to really screw a mission. However, other than indigenous predators, there was no sentient life on Vor. Or so the DropBot reports ran.

  Ahead, Keenan stopped, fist up, clenched. He dropped to one knee, and Pippa and Franco emulated. At the back, always at the back, Franco mumbled to himself about always being at the back. Before they left the ship, he’d moaned the continual mantra, “Why am I always at the back?” And Keenan had grinned like a yardie on crack. “It’s where you belong, good buddy.” Now, Franco was scowling, face flushed red, sweat dripping in his eyes, hands slapping at the investigative procedures of ants on his pants. “Damn and bloody bollocks,” he moaned, and shuffled forward to Pippa. “What is it?”

  “Keenan’s spotted something.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Probably a tree. He’s always doing that. Spotting trees, and thinking they’re something else.” Franco sighed. “What I wouldn’t give to be in a downtown dregside Slap & Tickle whorehouse right now, with a buxom lass sat on my face.”

  “Wouldn’t you suffocate?”

  Franco stared at Pippa as if she were insane; an interesting and ironic reversal. “That’s the whole point,” he snapped, and moved ahead to Keenan.

  “Is there a problem?” whispered Keenan, sliding back from the jungle fringe.

  “Yes,” moaned Franco. “I’m not in a compromising position with a fat bird. What about you?”

  “I’ve found Kuminyana’s Klasp Fighter.”

  Franco stared past Keenan, eyes narrowed. “I don’t see it.”

  “That’s because it’s in fifty or so chunks littering the jungle floor.”

  “Ahh. That’d be the reason, then.”

  Keenan gestured to Pippa. “Do another scan on the PAD. The Klasp’s up ahead, but something cut it up pretty bad. It wasn’t an explosion; I see laser scarring on the cubes.’

  “So, not a missile.” Pippa activated the PAD scan. “That sounds more like an IMS.” An IMS, or Industrial Molecule Stripper, was a savage construction deconstruction device used in the terraforming of planets – or more precisely, the unterraforming of planets. On the right setting, an IMS could cut a mountain in half. Military-grade hull armour stood no chance. That’s why they were illegal. And decommissioned on sight.

  “That’s what I thought. Franco, any signs of detonation?”

  Franco lifted his nose to the wi
nd. He sniffed. “Trace elements of G7 HUP explosive. But it’s old. Real old.” He closed his eyes, brow furrowing in concentration. Despite appearances of acute insanity and trembling sexual deviancy, Franco was an expert in the field of explosives, detonations and basically anything that went bang. Including, occasionally, himself. “Nothing else, bomb-wise… but I can smell a faint sulphuric inhibitor.”

  “Meaning?” said Pippa.

  “IMS. As you surmised.” The ginger-bearded man opened his eyes and grinned. “Some lunatic carved this ship like a primetime yuletide turkey; and only a lunatic runs wild with an IMS. Maybe some of the GriTags are left over from the war? Or the combat AIs? Maybe even Kuminyana’s own platoon went brain-rot crazee; seen it a few times, down on The City’s seedier districts, or in Kujoll and Temple Falls, you know, dengfish soldiers stir-crazy and bollock-naked on inhaled vodka-crack and direct plastic brain-stim injections. Affects AIs in strange ways, you know?”

  “You’ve led a colourful life, haven’t you, dickhead?” said Pippa.

  Franco grinned, rubbing his goatee beard. ‘Bet your pretty little pussy on that one, sweetie.” He winked.

  Grimacing, Pippa crawled up beside Keenan and scanned the jungle. She started to pick out huge chunks of decimated Klasp starship. It made her shiver. This wasn’t just somebody making sure Kuminyana couldn’t leave the planet; this was a rampage. There was at least one madman still out there. Pippa reached back, and touched her twin yukana swords sheathed beneath her pack; they soothed her soul, calmed her mind, offered solid metal reassurance. Forged from a single molecule, each perfectly balanced blade could cut hull steel.

  Once the PAD gave an okay they moved out in a wide line, eyes alert, senses singing. All weapons were primed now and held steady, professional, in gloved hands. Keenan read the – havoc. The jungle itself was torn apart, and he led the way following wide tracks until they came to a clearing and halted. It was filled with machine corpses.

  GG AIs, and especially combat models, were lethal to the point of perfection, their development cycle stalled at a peak of hardware climax. They were end of the line; Nano-Tek could make no better. Sentient, very, very tough, streamlined, intelligent, empathic, loyal, a GG in terms of machine evolution was as good as it got. Machine gods. Ultimate guards, hunters or assassins. And here were eight of them, ripped apart, cracked carapaces spewing machine internals, wires and coils and digital valves, bashed limbs, crushed skulls, metal wrenched from metal wrenched from metal in ragged cokehead lines, alloy severed, wire arteries sliced, eyes fused, fingers pulverised.

  Combat K eased forward through jungle mist. They stood amidst the carnage.

  “This wasn’t done with an IMS,” said Franco, spinning slowly about.

  “So… what kind of creature rips apart eight GGs?” Pippa’s face was straight, and a touch pale. Her eyes met Franco’s. They hoisted weapons and glanced at Keenan.

  “I think she’s dead,” said Franco. “I think we should get back to the ship.”

  “Not till we find her,” said Keenan, voice a purr.

  “It’s a suicide mission!” wailed Franco. “Look around you! There’s no way she survived.”

  “Have you no honour?” snapped Keenan. “There’s a young, lonely, frightened princess out there. We have been charged with rescuing her. If she lives, we’ll find her.”

  “Yeah,” muttered Franco, “and you can carve that on my fucking grave.”

  “Look at this,” said Pippa. She held up a torn piece of fabric. It was made from silk, a dashing bright violet, charred at the edges. Pippa poked at something caught there; it was a long length of stripped and burnt flesh, replete with a tangle of gloss black hair.

  Keenan and Franco stared at the item.

  “Now do you agree she’s dead?” muttered Franco with a shudder.

  “No.” Keenan locked gazes. “She might be injured. We owe her a chance.”

  “It’s got her fucking skin and hair on it! Urgh! It’s ‘orrible! Face it pal, she’s as dead as a dead duck.”

  “We’re going in.”

  “You’re a stubborn mule, Keenan.”

  “And you’re behaving like a coward. Now listen, soldier; get your shit together, and get online, because I need you focused. If there’s a chance Kuminyana is still breathing, we’re going to find her. So less moaning, more on-task. Capiche?”

  “Yeah boss.” Franco sighed. “And boss?”

  “Yes?” Keenan snapped, and lit a cigarette. He stared at Franco, eyes blazing, weed drooping from his lower lip, smoke stinging his eyes.

  “You’re a good guy. You know that?”

  Keenan laughed. “Well, you can carve that on my fucking grave.”

  The jungle smash ended suddenly, and Keenan, Franco and Pippa crouched in knee-high jungle detritus staring out over Shenzar City. It was a sight to behold. For a start, it was vast; perhaps fifty square kilometres of titanic leering skyscrapers, warehouses, depots, towers, tenement blocks, each one interspersed by curving arcs of tiered freeways criss-crossing and entwining so Franco blinked, almost believing he was staring at a plate of splattered concrete spaghetti. But there were two aspects that set this city apart from the usual teeming metropolis they were used to: First, was the obscene, visceral and visual battle decadence, the crumbling concrete, massacred marble, smashed stone, ionised iron, an oil-painted landscape of bomb blasts, crumbled brickwork, bullet holes, a billion billion bullet holes so that bullet holes existed within bullet holes, of burned out tanks, six-wheeled husks, crashed and blackened fighter jets, the scene as a whole enough to put any chickenhawk off military pornography (or milporn, to those canny self-denying milporn academic addicts in the know) in about a nanosecond. Second, came the silence.

  Franco thought the jungle was quiet. In retrospect, the jungle had been a blaze of riotous noise, of clicking insects and buzzing hums, of rustles and creaks and cracks and drips. Now, silence drifted up from the vast, barely inhabited space of Shenzar City. Barely inhabited by ghosts, at least.

  “I’m not going down there,” muttered Franco. “It might be dangerous.”

  Keenan grabbed the collar of Franco’s WarSuit. “That’s the idea, dickhead.” His eyes glowed. “We’re Combat K! That’s why we’re here.”

  Franco stared again at the vast city, stretching off as far as the eye could see, and riddled with evidence of ancient slaughter. A heat haze hung over the perfect stillness. He could almost feel the tarmac bubbling, the concrete cracking. He shivered.

  “Yes. But it gives me the heebie jeebies.”

  “Found her.” Pippa’s face glowed triumphant. In her gloved hand, the PAD gave a tiny blip. She glanced at Keenan. “Or at least, a trace of life.”

  “Where is she?” said Keenan.

  “Where else? The core of the city.”

  “How far?”

  “Twenty five klicks, or thereabouts.”

  “Through that?” said Franco, nodding at the buckled towering heat haze.

  “Through that,” agreed Pippa.

  “Let’s move out,” said Keenan.

  “Can’t we stop for a brew? And some, y’know,” Franco twitched, “some sausage?”

  Keenan stared at him. Then stared at him some more.

  Franco buckled. “Okay. Okay.” He held up his hand. “I’ll just have to wait for my injection of über-sausage fat and hypercaffeine. Gods! This is like… like being in the army, or something.” Keenan led the way down a savage slope of metal scree, boots sliding, gun tracking, eyes narrowed; Pippa and Franco followed, Franco moaning and mumbling – an act which seemed to keep him moderately happy, at least.

  They moved slowly down a narrow street, boots crunching glass, metal shards, old bullet casings, stones, crumbled rock, and above them towered buildings, huge blocks of decimated carnage, concrete riddled with a million bullet holes, windowless eyes glaring down with compressed antediluvian malevolence. Thick dark clouds rolled across the sky, like bruises against a virgin’s white skin. Darkness
started to fall in spirals. A cool air blew down the street, smelling of old metal and stone-dust. The ground seemed to vibrate with a deep and rhythmical bass, a drum rhythm beneath their boots.

  “A storm’s coming,” said Franco.

  “It’s something else,” said Pippa, eyes narrowed. “Quick. Get in the building.”

  They entered a dark tomb space and crouched behind a wall once eaten by bullets. Along the street, slowly, thumped a six-legged… vehicle. It looked like a normal QGM troop carrier, its hulking shell military green and battered and bashed so many times it looked like a hand-beaten panel of foil. But instead of wheels it had legs. Metal piston legs, which thumped in what would have been a comical fashion if it hadn’t been for three automated HMGs on the hull dome, tracking and moving, clicking and clacking.

  “I thought this place was long deserted,” whispered Franco.

  “Automated defences,” said Pippa, voice neutral. “That’s called a Thumper.”

  “But the war was over a hundred years ago!” snapped Franco. He frowned. “And why’s it called a Thumper? That’s a stupid name?”

  The machine halted, a sudden movement accompanied by metallic tearing noises. Engines gnashed. Pistons thrummed inside its belly. It turned, as if looking at the hidden forms of Combat K, despite having no eyes. It growled, long and low, and a huge piston slammed from its prow, smashing through the wall in a tumble of bricks and masonry chunks, and nearly taking Franco’s face off. The piston withdrew, slowly, trickling dust and bricks, and Franco, still staring straight ahead, his face now a platter of dust, turned and scowled at Pippa.

  “That’s why,” she mouthed. Then… “Shh!”

  They eased back from the wall, and a metallic, nasal, anally bureaucratic voice rang through the air. “ORGANIC MACHINES! I CAN SMELL YOU! I CAN HEAR YOUR LITTLE INSECT VOICES! YOU ARE TO STAND UP! YOU ARE TO WALK OUTSIDE AND NO FUNNY BUSINESS, BUSTER!”