Ken Peitai walked down the rear ramp, a vid-helmet on his head and a fully-charged Whomper in his hand. As he stepped out into the monsoon he flicked his headset onto low-light, the goggles pulling hot green outlines and soft green shapes from the darkness. Three bodies lay nearby: one with nothing between its hips and shoulders; another sporting a large hole where its heart, left lung and arm should be; the third slightly further away, her spine little more than a foggy memory, the tips of white ribs poking through the smooth mess of her back.
Ken flicked on his throat-mike. ‘Get your scaly ass out of that cockpit and get these stiffs onboard.’
‘Sir, I don’t think that’s a good-’
‘So help me if I have to tell you again…Get out here and pick them up, now! I will go see what the hell is taking the rest of your halfwit buddies so long.’
This was ridiculous. Someone in his position shouldn’t have to go stomping about in the mud looking for morons who were supposed to know how to do their friggin’ jobs! ‘Right you hairy-assed bastards, sound off like you gotta pair!’
‘Sir, it’s Armstrong. We got one, sir!’
‘About time!’ Ken smiled into the falling rain. ‘Which one you got?’
‘Female: Five nine, wearing one of our jumpsuits. How’d she get one of our-’
‘Never mind that. Is she dead?’
‘No, sir. Just unconscious.’
‘Good, get her back here.’ He swept the park with his goggles, looking for the other trooper. ‘Buncha monkeys.’ It wasn’t even as if they paid peanuts. ‘Where the hell’s Carter?’
The same voice sounded in his ear: ‘I got Carter with me, sir.’
‘What, he can’t talk for himself?’
‘No, sir: broken jaw. The young lady kicked his arse for him.’
‘Just what I need, a bearded fuckin’ mute.’
The pilot grunted past, dragging one of the corpses into the Hopper, leaving a trail of smeared blood behind him. Like a haemorrhaging snail. From the way the bodies had fallen it was a safe bet that whoever shot the shit out of them had been hiding in the bushes.
‘Can the hairy asshole carry the woman?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then get your ass out there and find Hunter.’
‘Em…how?’
‘What d’ya mean, “How”? Use the trackers for God’s sake!’
‘The jammer’s blocking the signal-all I’m getting is static.’
‘Jesus…’ Unbelievable. What was the point of burying transmitters under people’s skin if you couldn’t use them? Ken grabbed the pilot as he stomped out to get the next body. ‘You: get back in there and switch off that damned jammer.’
The pilot looked at him. Opened his mouth. Shut it again. Closed his eyes for a moment. ‘Sir, if we turn off the jammer, every CCTV camera in the place will be able to see us. Any Network ship in the area will get us on sensors. We’ll be screwed.’
He was right.
Ken stared out into the darkness. It was all falling apart. ‘Get those corpses onboard.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The pilot did what he was told. For once.
‘Armstrong,’ Ken clicked his throat-mike, ‘the jammer stays on.’
‘But how am I-’
‘Just get your arse out there and find that Network bastard.’
‘The park’s massive, I can’t-’
‘Do you want to test out the next batch? Do you? That what you fuckin’ want?’
‘Sir, no, sir!’
Assholes, he was surrounded by assholes.
Ken set off towards the bushes, the Whomper up and ready to rock. Just past the outer layer of greenery the place looked as if it had been sheered off at ground level. Some poor bastard was lying in the grass with nothing to put his hat on any more. A second trooper had a dirty big knife sticking out the back of her leg like a handle.
It looked as if someone had been dragged off into the undergrowth-away from the scene. Ken took three steps along the trail before coming to a halt: the woman was in custody, Hunter was at large, and the retrieval team were all accounted for. So who dragged a body out of here?
‘Armstrong,’ he said into his mike, ‘where are you?’
‘Looking for Network Future Boy. Like you said, sir.’
‘You don’t have him with you?’
There was a pause. ‘No, sir, I don’t. If I had him I would have told you. Sir.’
‘Then who the hell else is out here?’
‘Winos? Zippers, Bean-Heads, Tezzers, H-monkeys, perverts, muggers-’
‘Alright! Enough already, I get the picture.’ Ken looked around the devastated clearing, searching for inspiration, but all he could see were the two bodies. ‘Shit.’
‘Sir?’
‘Get your ass over here on the double, Mister.’ He scowled into the green-tinted night. ‘Where the hell are you, Hunter?’
She drops to her knees and peers at his battered face. One eye is already swelling up. His nose is broken and caked with blood, and the left side of his face doesn’t sit right. She reaches out and pokes it, feeling bone move beneath the tips of her fingers.
At least he’s still breathing: she can see his chest rise and fall, see the blood washing away in the rain…
Disappointing. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. It was supposed to be perfect. She’s been looking forward to this moment for so long, but now that she’s here-with him all battered and helpless-it just doesn’t feel right. He should be awake and terrified. He needs to know that she’s taken everything from him: his wife, his future, and his life.
He’s meant to suffer.
She sits back and watches the rain falling on his pale skin.
She could reach out, right now, and end it all. Smash her fist into his throat-crush his windpipe and let him choke to death. Or take one of the blades from her pack and slit his throat. Or just take the skinglue, seal up his nose and mouth, and let him suffocate…But what’s the point if he doesn’t know it’s her?
She strokes his cheek, feeling the rasp of stubble beneath her fingers. The people in combat gear have spoiled her revenge. Ruined everything.
She looks off into the park, back along the drag marks, towards the place where she found him about to be Thrummed apart by a fat woman with a knife in her leg.
She recognized the uniform: Special Ops combat gear. The kind of thing the guards wore in Peitai and Kikan’s torture chamber.
‘Peitai…’
There’s no point killing William Hunter, not when he’s like this, and Peitai and Kikan still need to be punished.
She leans forward and kisses Hunter on his bruised and bleeding forehead. There will be plenty of time to torture him when he’s feeling better.
And that’s when the cavalry arrives.
‘Hud it right there!’
She freezes. A Bluecoat sidles around the edge of a big rhododendron bush. Female, carrying a heavy Field Zapper. The weapon’s powered up, rain sizzling against the hot barrel.
Dr Westfield stands. ‘You’ve got to help me!’ Her voice is nearly perfect, just a slight rasp to show she’s not had vocal chords for six years.
The Bluecoat’s Zapper doesn’t waver. ‘I told you tae stand still.’
‘This man’s been attacked!’
‘Aye,’ the officer inches closer, ‘an’ who’s to say you’re no’ the one attacked him?’
Hunter twitches and moans, a small, painful sound, but it’s just enough to take the Bluecoat’s eyes off hers. Westfield leaps at the woman, knocks her to the ground, and runs away into the dark.
‘Sir, we have serious problems!’
‘Jesus, what now?’ Ken turned on the spot, sweeping his Whomper across the undergrowth. The bushes all around him had grown thicker and darker, and the drag marks had run out. He was soaked to the bone, he didn’t have Hunter, and the last thing he needed was more whinging from that slack-assed pilot.