red lights strobed and, before him, a gate whizzed shut with a clank .
"Great," said Franco, scratching his beard.
A guard appeared to his right, bearing a Sphinx AT laser cannon and a gormless expression. He stopped when he saw Franco, and turned to run, and Franco coolly gave him a blast of green laser up his pumping, retreating arse. The guard slithered along the ground on his belly, arse-cheeks a smoking mash of charred flesh, unconscious. Franco walked over, stooped, and took the guard's weapon, casually handing it to the old org woman. She grasped the gun in metal fingers, leaving imprints in the alloy.
"You're pretty strong," observed Franco.
"Better believe it, bastad."
"What's your name? I can't keep calling you old org crone. It's bad for my karma sutra." He paused, seeing a rage like a thunderstorm pass across her face. Casually, he continued, "Not that I think you're old, nor a crone. Indeed, I think out of all the orgs I've ever met, you're probably the most..." he groped for a word, "mechanised?"
The org settled down a little, and her face - part old crone flesh, part metal - relaxed. "I am Strogger 7576889," she said.
Franco chortled. "What, that's your fucking... na..." He closed his mouth with a clack. "I like it. Nice. Sexy. Has a certain quick-fire ring to it, you know, like the kind of sort of chick you'd find dancing in a warehouse nightclub with greased poles..." He saw her face darken again, wrinkling, tiny pistons whumping in her cheeks. "Or, you know, maybe the name for a waitress working in a cocktail bar..." - her face darkened further - "A sexy nurse in a rubber outfit?" he suggested, and the thunderstorm crowded overhead, as Franco's voice went up yet another octave. "Maybe, you know, some top-brass secret service assassin who always overcomes insurmountable odds?" He paused for breath, and Strogger 7576889 relaxed a little again, nodding in approval, her wrinkled face breaking into a smile that had nothing to do with her eyes.
"Hmm. Yes. I like that, you little bastad."
"I'm Franco. Franco Haggis. I think I already said."
"You did," wheezed Strogger 7576889. "What I suggest, though, is that you call me what my children call me."
"You have children?" blurted Franco, strobing red light glistening in his beard.
"Oh yes. Five hundred and thirty three of the little bastads. Never stop bloody arguing, they don't."
Franco groped for words, aware he wasn't just out of his league, he was bloody Captain Nemo, twenty thousand leagues out of his fucking depth. "Er," he managed, looking around as if for some moral or at least social support, and finally settled for scratching under one armpit. "Er, you look very slim for it," he said.
"You can call me Mrs Strogger," she said.
"Okay. Mrs Strogger. Got it. I'm on the money. Now, you say you know the way out of here?"
"I do. And I'll get you out, on one condition."
"Name it. As long as it's nothing rude."
"You look like the sort of guy who has air support."
"Er." Franco looked suddenly shifty. He shrugged. "You know as well as I that aircraft are banned all across Cloneworld. You know as well as I, that the rampant rogue AI AA mechs that roam the planet would take down any aircraft I had, if I had aircraft, which I don't."
"How did you get in then?"
"Freefall."
"What, from outer space?" snapped the org. "Listen. You're special ops. I ain't that stupid. With age comes wisdom, and all that. Now. Without airlifts, we'll never get off Clone Terra. It's a damn long trek through enemy territory, and an even longer sea voyage either through The Squeeze or the Mek Straits which border the vertical stretch of The Teeth like a frozen chastity belt. Cloneworld is terraformed, yeah? Two continents, split down the middle - with the aim that never the twain shall meet. We need an airlift if I'm ever going home. Can you help with that, little bastad?"
Franco shrugged. "I'll see what I can do," he said.
"Don't mess with me," said Mrs Strogger. "Don't
"Great," said Franco, scratching his beard.
A guard appeared to his right, bearing a Sphinx AT laser cannon and a gormless expression. He stopped when he saw Franco, and turned to run, and Franco coolly gave him a blast of green laser up his pumping, retreating arse. The guard slithered along the ground on his belly, arse-cheeks a smoking mash of charred flesh, unconscious. Franco walked over, stooped, and took the guard's weapon, casually handing it to the old org woman. She grasped the gun in metal fingers, leaving imprints in the alloy.
"You're pretty strong," observed Franco.
"Better believe it, bastad."
"What's your name? I can't keep calling you old org crone. It's bad for my karma sutra." He paused, seeing a rage like a thunderstorm pass across her face. Casually, he continued, "Not that I think you're old, nor a crone. Indeed, I think out of all the orgs I've ever met, you're probably the most..." he groped for a word, "mechanised?"
The org settled down a little, and her face - part old crone flesh, part metal - relaxed. "I am Strogger 7576889," she said.
Franco chortled. "What, that's your fucking... na..." He closed his mouth with a clack. "I like it. Nice. Sexy. Has a certain quick-fire ring to it, you know, like the kind of sort of chick you'd find dancing in a warehouse nightclub with greased poles..." He saw her face darken again, wrinkling, tiny pistons whumping in her cheeks. "Or, you know, maybe the name for a waitress working in a cocktail bar..." - her face darkened further - "A sexy nurse in a rubber outfit?" he suggested, and the thunderstorm crowded overhead, as Franco's voice went up yet another octave. "Maybe, you know, some top-brass secret service assassin who always overcomes insurmountable odds?" He paused for breath, and Strogger 7576889 relaxed a little again, nodding in approval, her wrinkled face breaking into a smile that had nothing to do with her eyes.
"Hmm. Yes. I like that, you little bastad."
"I'm Franco. Franco Haggis. I think I already said."
"You did," wheezed Strogger 7576889. "What I suggest, though, is that you call me what my children call me."
"You have children?" blurted Franco, strobing red light glistening in his beard.
"Oh yes. Five hundred and thirty three of the little bastads. Never stop bloody arguing, they don't."
Franco groped for words, aware he wasn't just out of his league, he was bloody Captain Nemo, twenty thousand leagues out of his fucking depth. "Er," he managed, looking around as if for some moral or at least social support, and finally settled for scratching under one armpit. "Er, you look very slim for it," he said.
"You can call me Mrs Strogger," she said.
"Okay. Mrs Strogger. Got it. I'm on the money. Now, you say you know the way out of here?"
"I do. And I'll get you out, on one condition."
"Name it. As long as it's nothing rude."
"You look like the sort of guy who has air support."
"Er." Franco looked suddenly shifty. He shrugged. "You know as well as I that aircraft are banned all across Cloneworld. You know as well as I, that the rampant rogue AI AA mechs that roam the planet would take down any aircraft I had, if I had aircraft, which I don't."
"How did you get in then?"
"Freefall."
"What, from outer space?" snapped the org. "Listen. You're special ops. I ain't that stupid. With age comes wisdom, and all that. Now. Without airlifts, we'll never get off Clone Terra. It's a damn long trek through enemy territory, and an even longer sea voyage either through The Squeeze or the Mek Straits which border the vertical stretch of The Teeth like a frozen chastity belt. Cloneworld is terraformed, yeah? Two continents, split down the middle - with the aim that never the twain shall meet. We need an airlift if I'm ever going home. Can you help with that, little bastad?"
Franco shrugged. "I'll see what I can do," he said.
"Don't mess with me," said Mrs Strogger. "Don't
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