Cloneworld - 04 (40 page)

"Bloody nagging back-seat drivers!"

"Don't start! This is serious!"

"What, more serious than me getting us out of that whirlpool conundrum? I saved our lives, I did."

"Yes, and immediately dumped us in another bag of shit."

"It's not
my
damn fault the bloody hyperdrive broke the ship."

"The only thing broken is
your bloody logic.
"

Franco scratched his beard. They could hear a
glub-glub-glub
sound. Queen Strogger thumped over to them, and scowled. "We are taking on water. We are sinking. What's the plan now, Franco Haggis and Tarly Winters? An org is not the best creature to be lost at sea. The salt rots our components."

"WD40?" suggested Franco.

"Your joke is not appreciated," snapped Queen Strogger.

"Who said it was a joke? Listen, listen, ladies, ladies, it's not a problem, reet? We'll just... build a raft. Or something."

"Out of what?"

"Crates? Planks? Wood? I've seen the adventure survival programmes. All we need to do is lash together lots of wood using twine, or electrical cable, maybe dental floss, and then we can float our way to safety and freedom. See? Job done, problem solved, we'll all be saved." He beamed, as if the raft was already built.

"I estimate we have two minutes until we're under water," said Queen Strogger with the sort of patronising look Franco usually received from his drill sergeant. "Go ahead. Build a raft."

"Er. Right." Franco looked around, but the prow of the galleon rose further into the air with a splash and creak of timbers, until the ship was near vertical and Franco was left dangling from the rail, legs kicking.

Tarly kicked next to him.

And Queen Strogger, next to her.

"Any more bright ideas?" said Tarly, voice neutral.

"Go on."

"What?"

"Say it."

"Say what?"

"Say the raft idea was a shit idea."

"Franco, it's a great idea."

"Really?"

"Yeah, if we were stuck on an island with a timber merchant's and a hydraulic nailgun."

"Oh." He looked crestfallen.

"One more thing."

"What's that?"

"When the galleon goes down, it'll suck us under. You've got to cling to something."

"What, like Strogger?"

"I've got a feeling she's going to
sink
."

"Ah. Oh. So we're all going to die?"

"Yes."

Franco considered this. "Bugger," he said.

It was a beautiful night. The stars were crystals scattered on sable. A cool wind blew over gently-lapping waves. The rhythmical
slap, slap, slap
of the ocean was enough to put any hedonist to a gentle, thumb-sucking sleep.

Franco clung to the top of the crate, starfish-style, and bobbed on the ocean. To his left, also spread-eagled on a crate, bobbed Tarly, and to his right, starfishing across
three
rope-lashed crates, was Queen Strogger, in possibly the most undignified position any queen had ever found herself - except, maybe, with her neck on a chopping block.

The water slapped.

They bobbed, like corks, on the ocean.

Polly the Parrot landed on the crate next to Franco's head, but careful to stay out of reach of his teeth. The parrot had seen what could happen to wayward and annoying Special Friends when a squaddie came too close with his gnashers.

"It's not that bad, squawk!" squawked Polly.

Franco, aroused from sleep, mumbled and licked salt-rimed lips. "What isn't?"

"This. Being afloat. Lost at sea. Stranded. Squawk! Dying slowly of thirst. I mean, what's it been?"

"Three days," said Franco, weakly.

They had no water. No food. And the hammer of the sun pounded their limbs and bodies against the crate anvils. It was ten times worse for Franco, for the salt baked into his flayed back was agonising him every second of every day. And just when he thought the wounds were healing, another splash of brine splashed and slopped over him, bringing fresh salt and fresh, excruciating agony.

"You've got to admit it, it's pretty funny," said Polly.

Franco stared at the parrot with a beady eye. "What's fucking funny? Fucking funny will be when I get a fucking gun and shove it up your fucking arse. Then you'll be laughing on the other side of your beak. Only you won't, because I will have shot your arsehole up through your mouth."

"Charming."

"Never said I was."

"Squawk!"

"Will you
stop fucking doing that right next to my ear!
It's bad enough having no skin on your back, but if I have to spend another pissing day with tinnitus I'll give you something to worry about, lost at sea or no! You'll see, you mangy pile of stinking, half-feathered rectal scraping!"

"No need to be like that," sniffed Polly the Parrot. "I was only being friendly. Squawk!"

There came several minutes of savaging noises and squawking as Franco chased the hopping parrot around the crate-top with his mouth. It was not a dignified sight. Indeed, a spread-eagled Franco was far from the most dignified creature on any planet, never mind Cloneworld.

Eventually, weak after so much time without food and water, Franco finished his aimless chase, and lay there, drooling on the crate top.
I just can't believe it. Can't believe it's come to this! Chasing a parrot around a crate in the hope I can bite its bloody head off!

"Hey."

Franco glanced over at Tarly. "What?"

"Another fine mess you've got us into."

"Oh, don't you start as well!"

Polly the Parrot, Franco's
Special Friend,
hopped about on the edge of the crate, riding the waves up and down, up and down, and occasionally dodging an errant splash of ocean brine. "What I don't understand," said the parrot, with a considered air, "is why you haven't eaten and drunk from the emergency rations packed in this very crate? I mean, you've been floating here for three whole days, dying slowly of hunger and thirst, and yet you are afloat atop a veritable minefield of nutrition! I find it most strange you haven't tucked into all the edibles I can scan beneath you. Most strange indeed."

Franco scowled. "Listen, dipshit, the reason we haven't eaten and drank our rations, reet, is because the crate lids are all screwed down! And lo! I do not seem to have a screwdriver about me."

"Yeah, but I can easily unscrew the lid," said the parrot.

"What?" said Franco, voice strangely calm.

"I can easily unscrew the lid," repeated the parrot, and smiled, a beaky smile, but a smile nonetheless.

"So let me get this straight. We've been lying here, dying, for
three whole days
and you never thought to mention it before?"

"You never asked," said the parrot smugly. "After all, a Special Friend needs to feel...
wanted.
And I haven't felt...
wanted
very much at all."

"Why, you little motherfuc..."

"Franco!" It was Tarly. She had a strained smile on her face. She turned her eyes on Franco's Special Friend. "Could you please, please, please, O great and wonderful parrot, please open one of the crates so that we don't die in the next few hours? Pretty please?"

"Sure thing, buster," said Polly, and dipping her head, used her now
rotating
beak to unscrew the crate lid. It spun like a power drill, and within minutes Franco was carrying out a strange balancing act as the hinged lid opened and he tossed hydro pills and packs of PreCheese to both Strogger and Tarly, who drank, gasping, and ate like hungry people.

"Good job you packed
some food,
at least," said Tarly, munching on PreCheese. It was like eating a block of lard with cheese granules. It wasn't very wholesome. It was downright disgusting!

"Hey, well, PreCheese covered in horseradish
is
one of my favourite foods when I'm stranded in an exotic foreign location!" Franco beamed, Tarly's irony lost on him, and he paddled his hand in the ocean. "Hey, this isn't turning out to be such a bad gig after all, is it?"

"Shut up," said Queen Strogger, who was scowling across the expanse of water at him as she chewed on a rancid lump of PreCheese. "I've never known a man land us in so much horse-shit!"

"Hey, that's a bit harsh," said Franco. "You can't blame
me
for the unfortunate sequence of events which have befallen us! Can you? Eh? I ask you?"

"We could ask Alice."

"Oh, that bugger come on line, has she?"

"It would appear so."

Tarly pulled the small black cube from her pocket. Green lights flickered across its surface, then a weary voice said, "Hello, gang."

"Alice!" beamed Franco. "Glad to have you back, lass! Sorry about the Hornet, by the way, and whilst you're here, you can just clear up a few little things about just what the bloody hell happened back there, and how it wasn't anything to do with me, oh, no, sir, and how I've been reet helpful and saved everybody's lives getting us off that ol' pirate galleon, and..."

"There's a boat coming," said Alice.

"What kind?" said Tarly, an edge to her voice. Last thing she fancied was being picked up by another pirate bunch of wacked-out crazy pirate orgs.

"It's flying a flag. A grey one."

"Does it show a cybernetic arm upthrust from a pot of grease?" said Queen Strogger, wearily.

"Yes," said Alice. "I believe that is the Royal Flag? Symbol of The Org States?"

"It is indeed," said Strogger, carefully.

"Hoorah!" said Franco, and danced a little jig, which sent his crate bobbing crazily about the ocean. "We're saved! Thank goodness for that! Time for a palace, and jewels, and rich food, and succulent women."

Tarly coughed.

Smoothly, Franco said, "And of course, by succulent women I was referring to the new succulent love of my live, Miss Tarly Winters, General for the Quad-Gal Military and all round succulent charm-monster."

The sound of powerful engines floated across the Teeth Ocean, and within minutes a huge grey steel vessel thundered into view. It was five times the size of the pirate's ancient rickety galleon, and was indeed a battleship, complete with massive mounted cannons, and machine gun turrets, and all manner of grim and pointy death-dealing devices.

"Hurrah!" repeated Franco, clinging on harder now as the sea became choppy with the battleship's turbulence.

It grew closer and closer, towering over them. Orgs stomped and clattered on the steel decks, and the ship slowed, turning to broadside the helpless heroes. A platform was lowered from the towering decks on hydraulics, and on it stood a massive, fearsome looking org. She was fully ten feet tall, a powerhouse of bristling steel weaponry, guns and electro-axes, laser-spears and stabbing weapons and advanced human upgrades. The only reason Franco could tell
she
was a
she
was because of the long blonde peroxide hair and the red lipstick applied crazily to the metal mask that was her face. It was not the most enticing or sexually pleasing image he had ever seen. It looked like make-up and a wig on a scorched MIG weld.

"Thank god!" shouted Franco. "It's so good to be finally rescued! We have your Queen here! Queen Strogger! We saved her life, saved her from the gangers!"

"Shut up," growled Strogger.

"She was in prison there!" shouted Franco, through cupped hands. "We saved her! Now, where's the palace, the hot food and hotter women! Eh?"

"Shut up!" snapped Queen Strogger.

"What's the matter, lass? Anyway, who is that?"

"It's my daughter. Princess Anklebolt III."

"Your daughter? Wow! Even better! What a coincidence!"

"Not really, I bet she's been out looking for me. Since I went missing. Since I, er, escaped."

"Wonderful! A happy family reunion!" Franco beamed around, as happy as a pig in shit, whilst Tarly watched on, a scowl touching her face as understanding dawned. Queen Strogger scowled, but then, that was only little old Queen Strogger, right? She always scowled like that and surely it was nothing to be worried about...

The ten orgs accompanying Anklebolt III pulled out heavy machine guns and pointed them across the short expanse of ocean. Bobbing on their crates, Franco, Tarly and Queen Strogger could do nothing.

"You are all under arrest," snarled Anklebolt III, hot-oil spittle ruining her finely applied lipstick. Clanking and slamming, more guns emerged from her own mechanised torso, from her shoulders and forearms, from her hips and even one from between her legs, like some crazy huge machine gun phallus clicking into place.

"Now that's a chick dick," said Franco, eyes wide. He held up his hands, an easy smile on his face, sure this was just some huge silly mistake and soon they'd be eating food and drinking wine and singing Old Kahuna hits on Solar Singstar and certainly with
no
machine guns pointing at their delicate floppy bits. "Hey, hey, hey, nice to meet you, Anklebolt, Strogger here has been telling me all about you, now I know you're looking forward to getting jiggy and providing us with sumptuous lodging and hot carafes of alcoholic beverage, so don't let me stand in your way, right?"