Hardcore - 03 (6 page)

"A whattu?"

"A Prakku. They're a marine-based alien lifeform."

A disconcerting image flashed into Franco's mind. He instinctively grabbed his groin. "Um?" he said.

"I've heard of them," said Pippa, eyeing Franco carefully. "Said to be human on top, but..."

"But what?"

"Kind of
fishy
down below."

"What do you mean, fishy?"

The door clanged open. "NEXT!" bawled a hefty female sergeant with biceps like slabs of ham and a No.1 shaved head.

Franco was dragged into the cubicle. The door clanged shut, but they could still hear the exchange.

"Drop 'em."

"But... I'm not wearing any underwear!"

There came a big sigh. "Why not?"

"It's a long story. About fish, apparently."

"Gods, there's always one, isn't there?"

The Rapid Offence SLAM Cruiser
Rearward Entry
howled down the docking hole and hit space in glorious... silence. Like fleas on a dog, it carried three precious DropShips attached to its underbelly as it left a trail of purple carbide pollution in its fast curve from the Titan Pleasure Cruiser
Razzle
towards the glowing ball that was Sick World...

Krakken IV.

The Planet of the Damned.

Once a glistening jewel in Quad-Gal's crown, the Sick World had originally been at the pinnacle forefront of medical exploration and research into the hybrid crossover diseases which mutated when humankind and alienkind finally
clicked.
Man, being predominantly a creature of fluid, had a weaker organic chassis than he originally anticipated and proceeded to collect and transmit a variety of interesting, challenging and downright
dangerous
diseases the minute he began his cosmological integration.

And so, as Man spread enthusiastically across the Quad-Gal, eyes wide like a newborn kitten, he developed new diseases, ailments, organic oddities and deviations. As Man fucked and fought, bonked and bled his way across a new set of galaxies so the interesting mix of organics led to some really
weird
shit. Sick World was born, brainchild of Professor Malkus Malkovitch, original creator of The Great Malkovitch University down on The City. On Krakken IV, Malkovitch gathered together the greatest medical minds of the age, and the planet was divided into discrete sections across the weirdly shaped landmass of the three major stable land continents.

Around the equator, the major, desert-like, rocky barren continent of Second Djio was given over to the exploration, research, quarantine and cure of rare conditions and diseases. South of the equator was nothing but deep green sea circumventing the globe, but north, on the verdant and lush mid-latitude continent of Kludek, populated by rich forests, lakes and beautiful thrusting purple mountains, were built the finest medical and surgical care and rehabilitation suites the mind could dream. And finally, far north, as the snow and ice began to eat the land, was the continent of Yax, a freezing wilderness given over to research, experimentation and confinement for those cases that were... not quite so simple.

To all intents and purposes, the entirety of the planet Krakken IV
became
Sick World: the premier planet for curing mankind's and alienkind's ills. And, just a few hundred years after inception, as glittering alloy hospitals lay scattered across the planet like diamonds on velvet, it was mooted that no sickness would go uncured, no disease could not be tamed, nothing broken that could not be fixed.

Sick World became Paradise for the Plague Crowd.

Until...

Something went wrong. No history refers to the incident, a thousand years past. No text books, no vid, no kubes, no stacks, nothing had specific
detail
on Sick World and the reason five million people pulled out. And they pulled out
fast
on giant TEC; Titan Emergency Craft
.
In the space of a single day...

All that
was
known was Krakken IV was
quarantined
Quad-Gal wide.

For a thousand years.

And since then, officially, nobody had ever been back.

Keenan stepped into the cockpit with a smoke dangling from his lips, and froze. There was a man, seated, in a blue and white pinstriped shirt, dark trousers and polished shoes. He smiled in a strained but friendly fashion down the barrel-eye of Keenan's Techrim 11mm.

"Hello, my name is Professor Miller," said the man, and gave a broad smile. His teeth gleamed white in a face so tanned it was orange. He ran a hand through the grey square-cut hair of a politician, and watched uneasily as the gun tracked him.

"Keenan!" Pippa slammed into the cockpit, and gently lowered his arm. "Shit, Keenan. I'm sorry. I meant to say, this fucker was allowed on board at the last moment. Steinhauer's instructions."

Keenan, cigarette between his lips, smoke making him squint, holstered his weapon. "What the fuck," he said, staring hard at Miller, "are you doing on my ship?"

"Quad-Gal's ship," said the man, curtly. He stood, and Keenan glanced down at the polished leather briefcase. With twin clicks the man opened the briefcase, and produced a sheaf of papers. He sat down again. Looked up at Keenan. "If you'd like to be seated."

"I'll stand."

"This is Miller, Chief Health and Safety Officer for QGM."

"
What?"

"Chief Health and Safety Officer." Pippa forced her face to remain straight, and stared hard into Keenan's eyes. "It's orders, Keenan. Orders. I've seen the paperwork. Triple-stamped. All official. You can't mess with army bureaucracy, you of all men know that irrefutable truth."

"I thought we'd left that shit behind."

"You never leave that shit behind," said Pippa, a hand on his arm. "Just hear the guy out."

"Yeah, then throw him out," muttered Keenan. He sighed, eyed Professor Miller, then took a seat opposite the neat, prim, fastidious bureaucrat. "Go on. Hit me with it. What the hell do you want? And don't even
try
and tell me you're coming down to Sick World..."

"I have been commissioned by the Quad-Gal Military Authorities to carry out certain, shall we say, official surveys of combat practice in the field. You will find my authority comes not just from Steinhauer, but from his superiors and
their
superiors. Right the way to the top of the ziggurat." He eyed Keenan coolly, and Keenan suddenly saw
beyond
the bad tan, neat-clipped hair and expensive shirt. Miller had ego. He was a pedant. He had a damn
agenda.

"Shit."

Miller gave a tombstone smile. "Yes, I will be accompanying your outfit down to Kraken IV. And I will require certain paperwork tasks to be completed before, during, and after all said missions in the vicinity."

"What kind of paperwork tasks?"

"Could I ask you to put out the cigarette?"

"No."

"I insist."

"So do I."

Miller coughed, staring hard at Keenan. "I can see we are going to have some initial problems, as I see you have issue with authority."

"Only when it's on
my
fucking ship."

"Amusing, Keenan." He handed over a slim metal volume. "Before we land on Krakken IV, I need each member of military personnel to fill in this questionnaire."

"Why?"

"For my records."

"What is it?"

"A risk assessment."

"A fucking
what?"

"A risk assessment." Professor Miller bristled, and a shadow of arrogance sleeted his features. "It is a bureaucratic necessity to carry out certain distinct levels of assessment pertaining to the nature of risk in specific situations."

"We're entering a possible combat zone," said Keenan, voice low. "Of course there's gonna be a risk. The whole damn place was evacuated a thousand years ago! And despite DropBot scans, nobody
really
knows what's down there."

"As you readily admit there to be risk present, we therefore need to assess the probability of given situations throwing up foreseeable threat to the safety and health of those men, and women -"

"And deviants."

Miller paused, then continued, "- and
deviants
under your command."

Keenan flicked through the slim volume, and picked out a question at random. "'In the eventuality that you may come under enemy fire, please list three ways in which you should attempt to minimise being shot, as per Minimising Being Shot Regulations, hv3717.'" Keenan eyed Miller thoughtfully, and turned to another page. "'When working with dangerous explosives, you first need to familiarise yourself with the Working Safely With Dangerous Life-Threatening Explosives Regulations, hv3721, and list five precautions you might take in order to help save lives and not cause damage or vandalism to property not belonging to yourself.'" Keenan removed his cigarette, scratched his forehead, then put the weed back between his lips. "You ain't joking, are you?"

"No, Mr. Keenan. Health and Safety is no place for comedy."

"Damn right. Listen to this one, "'When engaging an enemy combatant, first you must take time to assess the situation and answer the following simple three-stage question: a] Before firing your weapon, is the enemy combatant a direct threat to you at this precise moment in time? b] Before firing on an enemy combatant, can you be
absolutely sure
he (she/it) is insistent on causing you harm beyond reasonable doubt? c] If possible, ask the enemy combatant to fill in a Risk Assessment Co-combatant Strategy Assessment form in order for both combatants to properly understand the seriousness of their situation, and thus decide on the best course of action for the future [as per Working Safely with the Enemy Regulations, hv3719].'"

"I don't need to listen to this, Mr. Keenan. I wrote it."

"The whole book?"

"The whole book."

Keenan stood, and drew out his Techrim. He toyed with the weapon thoughtfully, and flicked free the safety. Professor Miller paled, despite his deviant tan. Keenan smiled. "When it comes to risk assessment, Mr. Miller, I want you to consider one thing."

"Which is?" Miller bristled.

"Did
you
carry out a risk assessment prior to entering this situation? Because, if you did, and if you know me, then you're putting your sorry skinny arse on the line, my friend. I suggest you take your self-published pamphlet and
fuck off
out of my face before my bullet carries out an intimate Risk Assessment of your Fucking Skull Interior."

Miller hurriedly packed his things in his briefcase, and tripped on his way to the door. He turned at the portal.

"You will regret this, Mr. Keenan."

"I doubt it, mate," said Keenan, lighting another cigarette. "I very much doubt it."

Keenan clicked off the kube and rubbed his eyes. "What makes Sick World so damn safe now, then?"

Cam, hovering near the ceiling, apparently analysing the alloy roof tiles of the Rapid Offence SLAM Cruiser, buzzed down low with a glittering of orange lights. "Quad-Gal Military have been steadily compiling a database of worlds during the past few years. Using swarms of AnalysisBots and DropBots, they snap down to the surface, take samples, search for life using the most advanced equipment imaginable, and re-post back to the military Core DB. Sick World has been scanned, Keenan. It's dead as a dead duck."

"Hmm." Keenan rubbed his stubble, as around him the SLAM hummed. Built for speed, it was far from a refined cruise. It would have them in orbit around Sick World in thirty-six hours, arcing past and detaching its three DropShip cargo which, in turn, would separate and head down to the planet's surface.

"It's an easy mission," said Cam. "We head in, search the surroundings, take samples of soil, rock, minerals, that sort of shit. There have been a few ancient edifices flagged up for exploration; we prove the junks had nothing to do with Sick World then we hot-tail it out of there." Cam seemed to beam, which was hard to understand, being a small, alloy PopBot with no discernible features. "What can go wrong?"

"I don't buy it. Nothing in life is that easy."

A door slid open, and Pippa emerged. She looked annoyed as she slumped into the Comfort Bay's SquashCouch.

"You OK?"

"No. Betezh and Olga are at each other's throats. He keeps calling her a whale of blubber, she keeps calling him Frankenstein's Reject. They're doing my damn head in, Keenan. And to top it all, I've had Franco sniffing around me again. You'd think he would have learned his bloody lesson!"

The door slid open, and Franco sidled in, peering at his back-trail with obvious suspicion, like a spy being followed. He saw his Combat-K comrades, straightened, and smiled a beaming smile. The door hissed shut.

"Hi!"

"You OK, Franco? You look a bit twitchy?"

The SLAM rocked violently, engines screaming, and settled down gradually. Outside, rocks bounced from the hull and shattered into billions of fragments.

"Damn that pilot!"