War Machine (The Combat-K Series) (11 page)

Keenan watched tears soak her cheeks.

He said nothing.

“When they dumped me on
Hardcore,
I fought and when I fought I pictured you. It was your arms I cut from bodies, your head I caved in with rods of steel.”

She stepped forward. He held her. She rested her head against his chest. “I wanted you dead, Kee.” She looked up, a child in his arms. Keenan felt his heart melt and run through his veins, mingled with a heady cocktail of fear. “But you had me, had me body and soul. You were the only one I ever allowed through the barriers; the only one I ever trusted, the only one I ever loved. But—ultimately—you rejected my love. You chose her over me. You went back to your wife when you said you loved
me
.”

“I had to, for the girls. Me and Freya, our love had withered and died. We both acknowledged it. Our marriage became an act; a play, stage-bound, a fucking dark comedy if the truth be known. But the girls, Pippa, it was for the girls.”

“Until they were brutally slain.” Pippa’s voice was suddenly cold, hard: a brittle black thing.

Keenan stepped away, looking at her in a new light. “What are you trying to say?” A steel edge lined his words. Need left him. Slowly, carefully, he said, “Is there something you need to tell me, Pippa?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. The point I’m making, Keenan, is that I was yours. You turned me away. You played a part in the thing I became. You helped shape me, mould me.”

“The thing you became?”

“The monster that stands before you.”

Keenan stared at the beautiful woman. “You are no monster, Pippa. You are an angel.”

“You never saw the things I did.” Pippa rubbed at her reddened eyes, then laughed. “Damn you, I said I’d never cry over you again.” She ran a hand through her hair, then moved towards her SleepCell.

Keenan watched the flow of her steps, the rhythm of her hips. His mouth was dry.

Pippa stopped, turned. “And Keenan?”

“Yeah?” His mouth was a desert husk.

“If you touch me again, I’ll cut off your fucking hands. Now, that’s a fucking promise.”

Keenan nodded, and watched Pippa disappear into the gloom of the unlit corridor.

It’s like that dream you have, when a loved one has died. You dream about them laughing and crying, walking and talking, warm eyes fixed on you bright and sparkling; and they arethere, concrete, real, breathing, alive
.
You wake up snug under a warm duvet with a pulsing inner glow, because none of those bad things happened, they’re alive again, the world is warm again, and nothing evil can ever touch you again. The waking nightmare of your miserable mourning existence has gone...

But it creeps up on you, gradually, like a disease... Reality. A dawning horror... The world isn’t all right, the person you loved really is gone and dead and cold; lost, buried, far beneath the soil, and lost to you, lost to you always forever and ever and ever. Yeah. A-fucking-men.

A fist slams your chest rips out your heart tears it to shreds; because... your life will never be the same, cannever be the same. How could it? The pain is too great. And let’s be honest, in the cruel dawn light of a slowly dying world with hot tears raping flushed cheeks, your prayers are never truly answered. Are they? ARE THEY?

Keenan dreamt of his dead children.

And in his sleep, hot tears soaked his pillow.

It was hours later when the door to the SleepCell opened and Franco found himself staring down the barrel of a locked and loaded MPK machine gun. Franco grinned. Keenan relaxed.

“Touchy, bro.”

“I’ve had better nights,” said Keenan, slumping back to his bed. He found his silver cigarette case, rested his MPK on his duvet, and rolled himself some Widow Maker
.
He glanced up. Franco was still standing in just his boxer shorts, one hand holding a sculpted litre of Jataxa
.

“Thought you might like a drink.
Jataxa:
remind you of home, all the goodthings you left behind.”

“I would have preferred a decent sleep.”

Franco grinned. “Stop being a grumpy old bitch and get some glasses.” He settled himself cross-legged on the floor, and accepted some home-rolled from Keenan.

“So, you have an argument, my man?” Franco spoke delicately. Despite his inner moments of madness, he could sometimes display a subtle apperception that belied his violence.

Keenan nodded, snapping back a shot of the thick spirit. He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling alcohol flood his system. Then he drew heavily on his cigarette. “Let’s just say Pippa has not revised her position in joining my fan club.”

“She’ll come round. You see if she doesn’t.”

“Hmm.” Keenan smiled. “I think I’ve been junked.”

“Talking of junk,” said Franco, “where’s that little weevil Cam?”

“Recharge chute.”

“He needs to recharge? I thought battery technology was good for a thousand years; even against Multi-G?”

“I think he just needed some space. I think I upset him.”

“Why’s that?”

“I called his choice of Hornet—let me think now—called it a worthless un-space-worthy honking heap of greaseless shit. That’s when he started to sulk. Said he’d never help me buy a ship again. To which I replied good, because if this was the best a supposedly advanced AI PopBot could achieve, I’d be better off letting the local KajungaKids sort out my annual tax returns.”

“So, a lover’s tiff then?”

Keenan inhaled. “Yeah, sort of. You know what it’s like when the honeymoon period is over. Boy meets PopBot, Boy falls in love with PopBot, Boy blows out PopBot down to shite choice of space-going wreck. How many times have we heard thatstory?”

They drank for a while in easy silence; the past years of separation no longer existed. The void melted away like butter. They were friends again, brothers again. Then, Franco, voice quiet against the hum of the ship, said, “You know when we touch down on The City; you cantrust me, you know. Just because I spent a few years incarcerated and haven’t had so much as a sniff of wet pussy, doesn’t mean I’m going to turn into a sex-crazed lunatic! Ha ha. Anybody would think my balls are like grenades without pins!” His eyes gleamed. “But they’re not!” he added hurriedly. “I am still the professional Combat K squaddie you knew. So, come on, let me out to play. I’m sick of being confined to barracks.”

“I see your wily trick, Franco. A bottle of the old Jataxa
,
grease Keenan up well and get him to agree to something he might later regret. You’re a fox, Franco Haggis, a deviant and cunning one.”

“Hey. Wily is my middle name. What do you say?”

“No. Sorry, mate. I really do need you to guard the ship. And it’s not just some idle excuse to keep you here; The City’s a bad place as well you know. You’ve seen enough of its bars, brothels and cells to appreciate that.”

“Why don’t you make Pippa ship-sit? After all, she is... a girl.”

“Franco, Pippa knows The City better than any of us. And if she hears you disrespecting her she’ll put a cap in yo ass. Now, take your—admittedly welcome
—
bottle and let me get some sleep. We’ve got some serious planning tomorrow. Remember, poor planning promotes piss poor performance!”

“Ha! To which I’d retort, arsehole adventurers always accessorise anal articulation.”

Keenan chuckled. “That’s why we plan. I’ve seen the spaghetti messes you’ve made of some missions, Franco, and the Fractured Emerald isn’t going to steal itself.”

“You got the maps?”

“I got the maps,” said Keenan, mood turning sombre. “All I need now is the hardware. But to be honest Franco, even without a gun I’d go in now, right now. It’s burning me. I need a name, a single name, and then I’m going to hunt me a killer all the way across the fucking galaxy.”

“So... somebody’s got it coming?”

“Franco, there’s a person out there who’s Dead Meat Walking. I swear it, by all the Gods.”

The next day saw the Hornet spinning silently through VoidSpace. Frozen hydrogen glistened across the hull as readouts scanned for typical deep space threats.

Franco, with his newly shaved and gleaming head, slouched beside the pilot’s chair as Pippa’s intense gaze followed readouts and checked for consistency with course plotting. She did not trust the Hornet’s navigation systems until she had triple-checked everything. She was a perfectionist.

Franco, however, was far less diligent. He sat with a bowl on his knee, in which something long and slimy glistened.

Keenan stepped through the portal, yawning, and rubbing at his tousled hair. A morning cigarette hung from dry lips and smoke stung his eyes, making him squint.

He stopped dead, eyeing the plate on Franco’s knee. “What,” he said, “is that?”

Franco glanced down, picked up the quivering sausage, and took a bite. Lumps of fat glistened within the thin skin-walls of the mammoth wiener. Franco chewed with delight. “It’s my bratwurst.”

“For breakfast? After all the Jataxa we drank last night? You’re kidding, right?”

But Franco was far from kidding. He was too busy tucking in to the gleaming excuse for semi-meat. He grinned again, mashed mush caught between teeth and lips.

“What did I say last night, Kee? About you lightening up? I’ve been in a loony bin for nigh on three years; the bastards fed me on bread and slop. This, my friend, is my beanie, my bowow, my tube steak, my puppy sausage. It’s a bratwurst, originates from Germany, Earth. And man, it tastes just fine
.”

“OK.” Keenan seated himself beside Pippa, eyes scanning screens—professionally—despite his dishevelled appearance. “It just seems a shame to put a million dollar InfinityChef through such a painstaking creation. After all, you could have Seecheefrom Bagdabadad, Triptopus from Hojo, even a damned Old Earth Steak smothered in Pepper Sauce. But that? Franco, even for you it’s a fucking abomination.”

Cam took that cue to make a reappearance. He glided into the cockpit in what he considered a graceful manner, filled with pride, élan, lissomness and symmetry. He spun slowly, observing the three members of the recently re-formed Combat K.

“You OK Cam?” asked Franco through a mouthful of sausage.

“Actually, now that you enquire...”

Franco held up a hand. “Stop there. No whining, please. You’re a machine, mate, so just stick to making toast and we’ll get on fine. No more of this mechanical skulking.”

“Why, you, you, you...”

“Cam!” snapped Keenan. “OK. We need maps of The City. Street level, tek level, and the names of contacts that can get us high grade weapons, bombs, the best Permatex WarSuits, the lot. Can you do that?”

“Of course. After all, I’m a GradeA Security Mechanism with advanced SynthAI and a Machine Intelligence Rating (MIR) of 3150. I am, as has already been pointed out on numerous occasions, more human than many humans. I’m certainly more human than most of the aliens you see walking the four corners of the Cluster. Thus, I postulate...”

Franco lifted his sausage, and smacked the foot long glistening tuber across Cam’s case leaving a long greasy smear. “Go on, beat it, we’ve got stuff to discuss.”

Cam rotated and disappeared down the corridor.

Laughter followed at a discreet distance.

It was later, much later.

Over a bottle and shot-glasses of vodka Keenan and Franco pored over the maps. The maps were Realtime TuffMAPS
^TM
, maps on rectangles of plastic that folded and shifted like a simple puzzle, but were almost indestructible, and moved and updated in real time from a million different deep-galaxy satellite relays.

“I’m telling you Keenan, I know my way round The City like a junkie sniffing out a dealer.”

“For the hundredth time, no.”

Pippa entered, rolling her neck and rubbing at tired eyes. “Is he still moaning?”

“Yep.”

“Not this time, Franco.” She smiled a sweet smile. “You’ve got the very important task of keeping our ship alive. Within ten minutes of landing at a FreePort we’ll have all manner of Scavs crawling over us. You’ll have to be a Big Man to sort out the little shits. No offence meant.”

“None taken, but it strikes me that a brain-fried gun-toting chick is better suited to this sort of hardcore menial job; no offence meant.”

“None taken.” She accepted the glass of vodka and killed it. “OK. We’re packing, so if you want a Long Sleep the Bays are free. I, for one, am not sitting here for another sixteen days while you two squabble over sausages and map tactics, especially as I knowfor a fact both of you are better off warside on the ground. Little correlation between the map and the world outside, if you know what I mean. I’ve seen it before. So, I suggest you get some much needed kip; and Franco, if you so much as try to creep into my SleepCell while I’m on a longways, well, I’m going to warn you, I’ve rigged an intruder circuit for serious electrocution, with an encore of possible maiming thrown in.”

“I wouldn’t dream of trying to take advantage,” said Franco, looking hurt and shocked.

“Why not? You’ve tried it before.”