Hardcore - 03 Read Free

species .
    "You OK?" came a soothing, female voice. It was the HoverChair's inbuilt Psychosis Monitor. Her name was Jemma.
    "Yes," snapped Steinhauer, irate for no reason. He grimaced again. Actually, he did have a reason. He had no legs. And no genius of science could replace that which he'd taken so much for granted. "Stop asking me the same damn questions over and over again. In fact, stop analysing my mental health - because at this current moment in time, I haven't got any mental fucking health!"
    Steinhauer dropped back to his pit of depression.
    And thought gloomily about the junks.
     
    Keenan went to step through the doorway to his shared quarters, when Franco dropped his shoulder and barged his way in. Scowling, Keenan followed and watched Franco drop his pack, put his hands on his hips, and beam around the narrow combined recreation and sleeping quarters. The decor was art nouveau, all twisted alloy and bubble-filled glass. The floor was a new type of spongy jewel. Even the sinks gleamed, with swan-head taps. The toilet was a contemporary aero-suck titanium-III model. Advanced.
    "I'm bunking here!" Franco landed on the bed, and bounced a few times. A spring popped. Franco beamed. "It's all right this, ain't it Keenan? I mean, getting ferried to our next mission on a damn pleasure cruiser!" His eyes gleamed, and he licked his lips.
    "I wouldn't pay to stay here," said Keenan, dropping his own pack to his bed and eyeing Franco warily. "It's a little bit too... tacky for my liking."
    "Tacky? Tacky! Keenan, your middle name should be Moaning-Old-Goat ."
    "You're the guy with a magpie eye for every plastic glitter bauble you can get your paws on. Now listen, we've got forty-eight hours until our DropShip leaves for Sick World. In that time we have to undergo medicals, get kitted out, check vehicles and weapons, and have upgrade implants. I don't want you heading out on the piss."
    "Moi? Piss?" Franco spread his hands. "Why would you possibly think I might do that?"
    "I know you, dickhead. So, no women, no beer, you understand? I need you switched on when we hit the ground."
    "Hey," said Franco, "have you ever known a mere ten pints of Guinness stop me performing?" He scratched his ginger goatee beard, and frowned. "Or even twenty, for that matter? I am a veritable party animal, Keenan. You have to let me out to play."
    "No."
    "Aww, go on Keenan, don't be such a stick in a bucket of turd."
    Keenan pulled free a battered Techrim 11mm pistol, and weighed it thoughtfully. "I'm not a... a stick in a bucket of turd, idiot." His words were tight. Controlled. But his eyes shone. "I'm just helping you to help yourself."
    Franco slumped to his bed, and kicked his sandals forlornly. "Fine words coming from a damned Jataxaalcoholic."
    "I don't drink anymore," said Keenan. "Not after Biohell. Not after the GreenSource Mainframe." He shivered, just a little, and remembered the cold clarity of alien thoughts flowing through his veins, acidic, cold, like hydrogen through an engine.
    "Well, I believe I deserve a drink. I've, um, had some recent bad news. Needs a bit of cheering up, I do."
    "You do? Why?"
    Franco twisted uncomfortably. "Weee eeelll, do you remember how I got married to my sweet Melanie? My liddle chipmunk? My little pocket of furry honey delight?"
    "You mean your eight-foot tall twisted deviated fiancée? Yeah, I remember it all too clear. You're a fucking braver man than me, Franco." Keenan shivered.
    During the horrific events which had overtaken The City, an entire planet dedicated to pleasure and hedonism, and whereby anybody planet-side who'd taken a vanity biomod human or alien upgrade transmogrified into mutated, zombie-like creatures, Franco's new-found true-love, a tax-inspector by the name of Melanie, had changed quite horrifically into an eight-foot tall quivering mottled genetic super-soldier. Despite their best efforts to find Mel medical help, and get her changed back to a form considered more human, they