So It Begins (18 page)

  Once believed extinct, the junks had reappeared on Galhari, a quiet fringe planet, with devastating suddenness…in a flood of
millions
. The planet had been taken in hours, and from that foothold the junks began a galaxy-wide conquest which had, in all honesty, gone bad for Quad-Gal Military. Recently, a series of freak coincidences led to military intelligence uncovering a source of the junk’s expertise: a psychic general, capable of reading minds across the Four Galaxies and uncovering QGM’s secret plans. Named Zenab, the general was also rumored to have invented a Nano-Bomb, a microscopic detonation device which could put QGM out of the game for good. Zenab was making it possible for the junks to extend their diseased and toxic empire, and had set up camp in his Nano-Bomb Factory. Now, it was Combat K’s mission to take him out . . . before millions more died.

  “Tipping in now,” said Pippa.

  The SLAM’s engines quietened and it fell vertical, accelerating through high-altitude rage toward the smash of jungle canopy below. Like a meteorite they plummeted, the ship’s computers masking their profile and using a radioactive Doppelganger Shift to pre-empt rogue AI SAMs.

  Without incident, the SLAM reached a half klick above the rain-lashed jungle, and engines suddenly roared, energy
whumping
against trees and blasting a crater fifty metres wide. Every tree in the radius was shredded, instantly. The SLAM levelled out, stabilizers grunting, and settled into the crater. Engines died. Rain played drumbeats on the hull, and Franco uncurled from his CrashCouch and glared at Pippa with a teenage pout. “Not exactly what I’d call smooth,” he said.

  “Get to shit, Franco. I’d like to see you do better.”

  “Actually, they don’t call me Franco “Ace Pilot” Haggis for nothing, chipmunk.”

  Keenan placed a hand on Pippa’s shoulder, and smiled into her blossoming wrath. Relax, said that smile. Chill. There are more important things than Franco’s attitude.

  Keenan stood, stretched, and removing his cigarette, which he stubbed into a whirring mechanical ashtray with six metal fingers which took the weed and crushed it into recyclable pulp, said, “Let’s tool up.”

  The ramp hit the blasted jungle crater, and Combat K descended, guns primed, covering one another’s arcs of fire with a practiced finesse. Pippa held a PAD computer alongside her D5 shotgun. “All clear,” she said, expert eyes reading the scanner.

  They stepped into the rain and a cool wind, and were instantly drenched. In one fist Franco carried a small black ball, which appeared to be made from rubber. It gleamed in the rain.

  They crossed the crater, climbed slick mud sides, and moved efficiently into the jungle, a well-oiled military machine, with Keenan walking point, Pippa scanning central, and Franco, complaining as usual in a mumbling mutter, bringing up the rear. He had three D5 shotguns on his back, a military porcupine, a Kekra quad-barrel in one fist, and a Bausch & Harris sniper rifle strapped to his pack. As was usual, Franco was terribly over-tooled for the mission—but he wouldn’t have it any other way. He’d been in a savage fire-fight once and run out of ammo; it hadn’t been a pleasant experience, and Franco spent many long hours, drunk, regaling people with an exaggeration of the tale.

  The trees were eerie, silent. The rain danced. A strong aroma of rotting vegetation flooded the jungle like toxic gas.

  It was too . . . still. Just too damn lifeless.

  The squad halted in a vast swathe of curving jungle. Somewhere they could hear a raging waterfall. Keenan glanced at Pippa. “How far to the contact?”

  Pippa smiled at that. Keenan could be so . . . clinical. The contact. The target. The assassination. The taking of a human life, and yeah, OK, that guy was responsible for the deaths of millions according to the unreliable monkeys of QGM military intelligence, but who’s to say they were right? Who gave Combat K the right to play God?

  “Twenty klicks. Northeast.”

  “How far to the Blood River?”

  “Eight hundred and twenty-seven metres. Give or take.”

  “Let’s move out.”

  They eased through the enemy jungle. There had been no early ScoutBot Scan infiltrations or WebCloud relays, because QGM wanted to retain the element of surprise. In and out in three hours. A neat excision.

  It was immensely dark in the jungle, and muted sounds echoed metallic between trees. The sounds were odd, unlike usual jungle noises. Keenan and Pippa exchanged glances, but continued, heightened senses alert to danger, guns rain-slick and slippery in gloved hands. Permatex WarSuits moderated body temperature and kept the stifling jungle humidity from biting…too much. Franco still mumbled curses as he brought up the rear, expertly scanning their back-trail, and expertly watching Pippa’s arse.
I wish,
he thought sourly.
Oh to get my paws on that ripe pair of peaches!
But it would never happen, especially as Franco was currently married to an eight-foot mutated zombie super-soldier, once beautiful, now an abomination of pus. He frowned at the memory. It was a long story, a tale of violence and psychopathic
biohell
.

  The river surprised them, despite electronic warnings. It slammed from the darkness, a muted roaring greeting them instantaneously from the gloom. It was lighter here, out from under the tree canopy, and a rime of green moonlight crept from behind bruised copper clouds. Keenan gave Franco a nod, and the small ginger squaddie knelt in the mud by the side of the river.

  “Do it.”

  “Yeah boss.”

  Franco twisted the small rubber ball, and tossed it into the river on the end of a flexing TitaniumIII cord. The ball gave a
crack
of ignition, and a hiss, and inflated instantly into a special forces covert boat, nicknamed a Rubber Duck, or
Sitting Duck
by the more cynical members of the squads. Pippa and Keenan climbed in, guns tracking dark shorelines overhung with skeletal branches. The air crackled with strange, metallic creaking, not unlike the discharge of energy. Pippa gave a shudder.

  “You OK?”

  “I feel like we’re being watched. The PAD states otherwise, although the thing’s playing up—which is unusual. They’re normally good for a billion years. Maybe it’s the high magnetic field? Maybe we’re being dicked with.”

  “Still no life?”

  “No life,” said Pippa. “By that, I mean
absolutely
no life. This jungle is deader than a crypt. There’s no indigenous life-forms; no birds, no insects. Nothing. I’ve seen more energy in a corpse.”

  Franco jumped in and fired stealth engines, a twin-set of Suzuki Whisper MkIVs. He eased the boat out into the strong tug of the river, and turned against the current. They were headed up-river; deeper into the jungle, deeper into nigritude, deeper into the heart of darkness.

  Franco stared at the gloom. “I don’t suppose there’s any brothels up there?” he muttered.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” snapped Pippa.

  “Pubs? You reckon?” He sounded feebly hopeful.

  “Dickhead.”

  “What about a casino or two? It’s ages since I’ve had a flutter.”

  “Mate, the last time you gambled you lost your damn house. Haven’t you learnt your lesson?”

  “’Twas a simple error of reading the cards. I’ll do better next time, so I will.”

  “Well,” said Pippa carefully, “I don’t see how. After you shot the place up with that K7 shotgun, and dropped a BABE grenade in the manager’s office. Fair blew the place to shit. You’ve been banned from every gambling franchise on The City.”

  “Rubbish! They know that was only little old me playing toy soldiers.” He brightened. “Still. This guy is a king, right? This General Zenab? Showered in gold and jewels by the junks? Treated like royalty?” His eyes went suddenly crafty, as he guided the small submersible through dark channels of foaming river. Rainfall gleamed on his skin, and as green moonlight caught him, he looked quite demonic. Like a devil, sick of sin. Like a twice reanimated corpse. “We might even make a few dollars!” He beamed. “There might be dancing girls in the palace!” He beamed wider, showing his broken tooth from too many drunken bar-brawls.

  Pippa slapped his arm. “You’re a muppet. You need to focus, Franco, and focus hard. This ain’t no game we’re playing. Kee? I told you he’d be a damn liability. I told you to choose somebody else.”

  “Well, charming!” stuttered Franco. “Thanks for your vote of confidence, sweetie.”

  “We might need his detonation skills,” growled Keenan, with a shaded glance. “And you
know
there’s nobody better with a Bausch & Harris. I’m hoping we can get this gig finished—
without
getting our hands dirty.”

  They cruised in silence through obsidian shadows. The jungle closed in as the river narrowed, became yet more violent, raging and pounding around black fists of ancient volcanic rock. Quietly, Pippa said, “Never in a million years.”

They stopped in a small bay of calm water for navigation checks. Pippa was jagging the touch-dials of the PAD, and shook her head. “No good, Kee. There’s something wrong—either with the PAD, or with the whole damn planet.”

  “Leave the pad,” said Keenan. “We’ll use our eyes and ears. Just like the old days on Molkrush Fed.”

  He glanced up, and there, at the edge of the jungle, perhaps five metres away, stood a squad of junks. Four of them. Heavily armed. For what seemed an eternity the two groups faced one another across the expanse of stagnant water, a platter of stinking glass . . . then hell erupted—

  Keenan’s Techrim 11mm was out and pumping in his fist and he dived right, over the edge of the boat. Pippa dropped to one knee, D5 in her gloved hands, booms crashing through the jungle. Franco split left, a Kekra quad-barrel machine pistol in each hand slamming bullets at the squad. The junks, tall and powerful wearing basic electronic leather armour, skin pitted like metal, eyes like pools of blood, short, forked silver tongues flickering in silver mouths like liquid metal—they split with equal skill and speed, their MPKs firing volleys of roaring bullets at Combat K. Everything was a deafening bellow of chaos and confusion. The jungle screamed with concussion and bullets, a distillation of confusion, as Keenan pumped rounds into a junk’s face and watched him stumble back, blood spewing from destroyed eyes, his face a mash of chewed bone and gristle and flapping cheek skin. Franco, yelling, charged with Kekras roaring. Two bullets
thumped
his WarSuit like hammer blows, knocking the wind from him, slamming his heart with pounding fists but he was on the junk, both guns screaming, aware like the others that junks were insanely tough, hard to kill, real
bastards
to put down. Their eyes were their Achilles’ heel; shoot out their eyes and death would follow. Franco was on the junk, both boots slamming the stunned, eye-destroyed face and riding him to the ground to crouch beside the writhing figure. The two remaining junks charged Pippa, her D5 still cracking but they
absorbed
shells in primitive armour and skin and muscle, which rolled like melted wax, reforming, repairing even as it was decimated and Pippa felt panic well in her breast at this seemingly indestructible threat before her…and closing fast. One reached out, took the D5 from her hands and bent it into two discrete parts with a
snap
and scatter of unspent shells. The junk screamed in her face, a toxic blast of poisonous air that made her weak at the knees, ingested toxins attacking her central nervous system as the second junk turned on Franco and fired a volley of MPK rounds…

  And Keenan was there, Techrim against the junk’s head. “Put her down, shitbag.” The junk turned and grinned at him, blood red eyes narrowing as Keenan pulled the trigger and the bullet whined through skull and brain, erupting in a mushroom shower of shards and mashed brain-slop. It rammed a fist into Keenan’s chest, slamming him back over the boat in an acceleration of gasping pain and realization that the junk
could still operate with a bullet in the head
. . . the junk turned on Pippa, who smiled a nasty smile, and slammed her knife into one eye with a downward punch. She ripped the blade sideways, cutting out the junk’s second blood orb and it screamed, a sudden high-pitched shrill, flopping back in the Duck, thrashing as Pippa hurled the blade to embed in the final junk’s armour. It turned from Franco, lying back on the rocks, stunned by bullet blasts in his Permatex. When it glanced at Pippa, Franco reached back and grabbed the first thing which came to hand. His Bausch & Harris sniper rifle, packing high velocity 8.98 medium calibre rounds. At that range, face to face, the weapon was devastating. The rifle gave a
thump
in Franco’s gloved fists and the junk’s head disintegrated. The body stood for a moment, jiggling, blood a fountain from the jagged neck, then fell flat and dead on the rocks. A thick, evil stench poured from the open neck. An aroma of rotten eternity. The perfume of the junk.