this..." Ziggurat framed the name carefully, as if it was an alien taste on his lips, "this Franco Haggis, managed to get caught up in the Snare Nets. He must have done something bad, or given the drones cause to think he was a degenerate vagrant. Whatever. The drones thought he would not be missed, picked him up from a club, and he was filtered through the TV producers and placed on Torture! "
"And?" The Mistress's voice was suddenly icy. She could sense impending bad news, and like all egotistical power junkies, she did not like bad news.
"Well, the dumb bastard really thought he was about to be tortured. And, unbeknownst to us until now, he turned out to be Combat K ."
"Quad-Gal's elite."
"Yes," nodded Ziggurat.
"What did he do?"
"He killed the thug-like actors, and according to reports - for the live footage is a crazy piece of panic shit that veers all over the place - well, he cut off Opera's head with a laser chainsaw."
The Mistress did not groan, but she performed the nearest visual equivalent. She moved slowly, gracefully, to the window and peered out over her domain. Her dominion. She peered out over Nechudnazzar, but more, she peered out over the continent of Clone Terra, and onto the occasionally war-ravaged planet of Cloneworld.
"She is dead?"
"Dead as an org with a nuke up its arse."
"What about the SlushPits?"
"Tried it. We were too late. Ahh... Sourballs was more intent on arresting and incarcerating Haggis than saving Opera. Or so it would seem. There were mistakes made. There were... errors."
The Mistress considered these problems for a while, fingers steepled, dark eyes glowering. Then she said, "Do you think he knows? Do you think he was sent here by Quad-Gal Military to find out... well, our plans, shall we say, concerning the orgs? About our little..." she paused, considering. "About Live TV? About the Disintegrator?"
"It's impossible he, or QGM, could know our extended plans," said Ziggurat smugly.
"I disagree. QGM are more resourceful than you think, despite being distracted by the invading junks. I don't like this." She tapped her lower lip with her index finger. "I don't want him here. I don't want a TV trial. No judges. No voting panels. No. I want him dead. Tell Sourballs to kill Franco Haggis. Tell her to kill him now ."
"Of course."
Ziggurat turned to leave, then stopped. He looked back, instinctively realising there was something else to come. Ziggurat had known the Mistress for too long. After all, he had been her sexual plaything for... millennia.
"Make sure Sourballs keeps it quiet, totally covert, and she follows this Haggis infiltrator on his grunge path to the Smelting Halls and SlushPits. I want him pulverised into smush and fed back into the genetic tanks as a liquid dribble."
"My pleasure," said Ziggurat, with a cold smile, and hobbled away.
" Nooo!" squealed Franco, holding up his hands as the ancient org slipped from her oil-stained underwear, trying desperately to act seductive. Then there came a clank, and the door slid open, and there stood the barbed-wire head of Sourballs, hands on hips, a sour slick smile on her excuse for a face.
"What are you two lovebirds up to?" She waved away the guards, who retreated uncertainly, lowering their Steyr laser cannons. "It's okay. I have this pussycat under control, isn't that right, little man who's about to receive a publicly-voted death penalty followed by genetic pulping?" The door closed with a click.
"Well," said Franco, swaggering close to Sourballs, panting, weak, deranged from being locked away with a mad, sexually-deviant org, still stinking of whiskey and still as cunning as a fox's cunning uncle, and he launched himself at the ganger quicker than a striking cobra, his right fist slamming into her jaw, his left knee coming up hard into her groin with a crunch which suggested a hefty bulge of wedding tackle, and as she doubled forward, eyes crossing and tongue lolling, his forehead slapped her straight on the
"And?" The Mistress's voice was suddenly icy. She could sense impending bad news, and like all egotistical power junkies, she did not like bad news.
"Well, the dumb bastard really thought he was about to be tortured. And, unbeknownst to us until now, he turned out to be Combat K ."
"Quad-Gal's elite."
"Yes," nodded Ziggurat.
"What did he do?"
"He killed the thug-like actors, and according to reports - for the live footage is a crazy piece of panic shit that veers all over the place - well, he cut off Opera's head with a laser chainsaw."
The Mistress did not groan, but she performed the nearest visual equivalent. She moved slowly, gracefully, to the window and peered out over her domain. Her dominion. She peered out over Nechudnazzar, but more, she peered out over the continent of Clone Terra, and onto the occasionally war-ravaged planet of Cloneworld.
"She is dead?"
"Dead as an org with a nuke up its arse."
"What about the SlushPits?"
"Tried it. We were too late. Ahh... Sourballs was more intent on arresting and incarcerating Haggis than saving Opera. Or so it would seem. There were mistakes made. There were... errors."
The Mistress considered these problems for a while, fingers steepled, dark eyes glowering. Then she said, "Do you think he knows? Do you think he was sent here by Quad-Gal Military to find out... well, our plans, shall we say, concerning the orgs? About our little..." she paused, considering. "About Live TV? About the Disintegrator?"
"It's impossible he, or QGM, could know our extended plans," said Ziggurat smugly.
"I disagree. QGM are more resourceful than you think, despite being distracted by the invading junks. I don't like this." She tapped her lower lip with her index finger. "I don't want him here. I don't want a TV trial. No judges. No voting panels. No. I want him dead. Tell Sourballs to kill Franco Haggis. Tell her to kill him now ."
"Of course."
Ziggurat turned to leave, then stopped. He looked back, instinctively realising there was something else to come. Ziggurat had known the Mistress for too long. After all, he had been her sexual plaything for... millennia.
"Make sure Sourballs keeps it quiet, totally covert, and she follows this Haggis infiltrator on his grunge path to the Smelting Halls and SlushPits. I want him pulverised into smush and fed back into the genetic tanks as a liquid dribble."
"My pleasure," said Ziggurat, with a cold smile, and hobbled away.
" Nooo!" squealed Franco, holding up his hands as the ancient org slipped from her oil-stained underwear, trying desperately to act seductive. Then there came a clank, and the door slid open, and there stood the barbed-wire head of Sourballs, hands on hips, a sour slick smile on her excuse for a face.
"What are you two lovebirds up to?" She waved away the guards, who retreated uncertainly, lowering their Steyr laser cannons. "It's okay. I have this pussycat under control, isn't that right, little man who's about to receive a publicly-voted death penalty followed by genetic pulping?" The door closed with a click.
"Well," said Franco, swaggering close to Sourballs, panting, weak, deranged from being locked away with a mad, sexually-deviant org, still stinking of whiskey and still as cunning as a fox's cunning uncle, and he launched himself at the ganger quicker than a striking cobra, his right fist slamming into her jaw, his left knee coming up hard into her groin with a crunch which suggested a hefty bulge of wedding tackle, and as she doubled forward, eyes crossing and tongue lolling, his forehead slapped her straight on the
Similar Books
