Biohell (7 page)

“What a romantic time to get
married! Perfect!”

“Yeah, that’s what, y’know, I was
thinking.”

“Is this a proposal, Franco
Haggis?”

“I, um, suppose it is.”

“Oh Franco! I’d love to! It’ll be
perfect! It’ll be wonderful! It’ll be a chance of a lifetime! My answer is yes!”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

~ * ~

And
so the day and the time were set—for the final, explosive finale of The Quantum
Carnival. Mel invited her family with pink flowery invitations. Franco sent out
two messages. One to Keenan asking him to be his best man, and one to Pippa,
asking her not to kill anybody. Franco bought a ring and a wedding-bind suit.
Mel bought a dress. It was big and white, and looked like a meringue.

~ * ~

“Do
you think I’ve got a big nose?”

“What?”

“My nose,” smiled Mel. “I’ve
always thought it was
too big.”

They lay in bed amongst
sex-scrambled sheets. The sweat was still cooling on Franco’s back. Like a true
bloke, he wore nothing but his socks. “No no
no,”
he said, hoisting
himself onto one elbow. “Your nose is perfect. Your nose is
beautiful.”
He
tweaked it, as if his tweaking would give her beauty more emphasis.

“I’ve never been happy with it,”
she sighed.

“Well
I
think it’s lovely.
Like a pixie’s. Scrumptious.”

They lay, listening to the sounds
of roaring city life. In The City—even at night, which only came once every
three days—it was never quiet. 112 trillion people made sure of that.

“I’ve been thinking of getting it
done.”

“Done?”

“Via biomod. For the wedding.
Apparently I’ve got just enough time to sort it out before everything shuts
down for the parties! And I’m sure you
want me looking my best.
”

“Whoa! I know you’re on good
money working for the Quad-Gal External Revenue—we
all know
you tax
inspectors are loaded, minted, greased—but NanoTek are fucking
extortionate
love.
”

“Franco!”

“Sorry.” Sheepish. Mel didn’t
approve of swearing.

“I
know
it’s a lot of
cash. But... well, it’s something I always wanted, it’s all the rage now, and
it just seems
the right time.
After all, you only get married once. Ha
ha ha.”

“Yeah. Once. Ha. Ha.”

“I never fancied going under the
scalpel of a surgeon before, but now this biomod technology has come of age, it’s
as safe as safe can be!”

“That’s a line from the TV ad.”

“So? Everybody’s
raving
about
it. Biomods are
cool,
now, hun. Hip. Happening. Even Sylvester
Slyvester, the famous heart-throb actor, has had his penis done.”

“His penis?” Franco raised an
eyebrow. He was 10% interested.

“A biomod size
reduction.
Said
he owed it to the ladies. Said they shouldn’t have to suffer so much pain
during pleasure.” Melanie swooned, eyes fluttering.

Franco shivered. “No bollocks.
Well, I’d rather go under the knife than take a biomod. Personally speaking.”

“Would you?
Really?”
Mel
was staring at him. Watching him in that way that freaked him out just a
little.
Monitoring
him.
Reading
him like a book. Shit. Trust him
to get an intelligent girlfriend. Why couldn’t she be dumb as a doughnut?

“Listen love, I don’t believe
those NanoTek boys know what they’re doing. Letting millions of bloody little
robotic buggers run around inside your veinstreams. Urgh.” He shivered. “It’s
unnatural. Alien.
Freakish.”

“They’re called
nanobots.
They’re
harmless!”

“Harmless? Hah! How can something
that rearranges your molecular structure from the inside out be classified
harmless?”

“You are such a backward heathen,
Franco Haggis! Nanobots help people,” said Mel. “All the hospitals use them
now. Our Jenny’s cousin’s boyfriend’s mum’s stepfather had a new
heart
built
for him—inside his body—by the nanobots... by an injection of biomods! It was a
pioneering operation! Everything was perfect! Newer than new, the adverts say.
Grown or grafted from your own DNA. And now, NanoTek are filtering it down to
smaller stuff!”

“Yeah, I heard.”

NanoTek’s rise to power had been
incredible. An awesome stampede across the world known as The City... a
thundering onslaught on the Empire of Finance... a left uppercut against the
chin of every Global Corporation which had existed before it.

NanoTek was single-handedly
responsible for all major advancements in biomods. Nano-technology. This
technology consisted of the creation of tiny robots—nanobots—able to operate at
a molecular level within the human or alien body, and capable of following
simple instructions to devastating effect. But the magic of NanoTek, the major
deciding factor which had catapulted this fledgling technology company above
the now festering remains of its competition—thus turning NanoTek into an
almost immediate Quad-Gal Major Player—had been the simple premise of
user-friendliness.

NanoTek biomods were
user-friendly; they came with a small colourful plastic console (with a massive
variety of clip-on fascias and downloadable polyphonic tunes). The console was
a user interface, its intention that of making the application of biomods a
breeze.
Easy-peasy lemon squeezy. It was so damned easy that even kids could use it...
despite it being—technically—illegal for anybody under the age of 13 to swallow
a biomod capsule, except in medical emergencies, or with a note from parents.

Biomod pads became a fashion
accessory. A pad equated to wealth; for only the wealthy could use biological
upgrades on a regular basis (although a huge array of dazzling and dazzlingly
crippling finance packages were available for the discerning “bodder”). Cars
were bought on credit; houses via a mortgage—why not a spectrum of
easy-to-manage finance packages for the development and enhancement of that
decrepit human shell the average soul inhabits?

“It’s too expensive,” said
Franco, finally.

Mel smiled. “Well, I heard about
this guy. This guy who can get the
pirated stuff.”
She whispered
pirated
stuff
as if somebody close-by might be listening.

“No, no and triple no,” said
Franco. “That’s even worse. At least when you let the NanoTek butchers maul
with your genetics you’ve got some legal come back and you can sue their arses.
If you buy an illegal one—shit Melanie, I thought you were more intelligent
than this? What legal comeback have you got against a guy on a street corner?”

“At least the illegal ones are
cheap.”

“Nothing in this world is cheap,”
said Franco sourly.

“I just wanted to improve myself.
For our wedding! For you!”

“You’re perfect.”

“No I’m not”

“I think it’s a bad idea.”

“We-
eell
, you got your
tooth
done!”

“You bloody arranged that!”
shouted Franco. “I was quite happy being gappy! God, can’t you see? As long as
the world is full of vain people then NanoTek and other vanity butchers will
always grow and expand and end up ruling the damn world!” He calmed himself. “Look.
Look. I’m sorry. I just... I saw the mess some of those early biomods made of
people. It was horrific. Genetic experiments gone wrong. An explosion in a
morgue. Something hideous from a horror flick.”

“That was
decades
ago,
Franco. Keep up! NanoTek have advanced since then. There are all sorts of
safety precautions
built in.
I saw a programme about it. The other
night.”

“Well, the bastards tried to
cover up their early mistakes,” snarled Franco. “If it hadn’t been for BBC
Quad-Gal exposing them on that TV documentary programme...”

“All water under the bridge,”
said Mel. She smiled. “They’re safe to use now. Proven. It said so in
Cosmospolitan.”

Franco held up his hands. “OK.
OK. If
you
say so.”

“Good.” She snuggled up to him.
Nuzzled him. Nibbled his neck. “Glad we got that sorted.”

Franco frowned in the gloom.
Got
it sorted? Did we? When?

~ * ~

If
that wasn’t bad enough, the beginning of Franco’s
real
problems
started—as is often the case in life—with his job. Franco worked for a man
called Mr Voloshko, Grade 1 Minister, Head Honcho, the Big Guy, Headman, Boss
and Dude, the one and only true Guv’nor of The Hammer Syndicate—one of The City’s
seven major gangland mafia-type ruling families. The Seven Syndicates were huge
in terms of man-power, finance, political acumen and military might. They
traded and trafficked in everything from people to guns to drugs to money: the basics.
They had a finger in every criminal pie on every damned planet across
Quad-Gal—which made The City a criminal hub for pretty much everything dodgy
that went down.

Franco, being ex-Combat K,
ex-military and, technically, being unskilled with anything
other
than
guns, bombs and his fists, had tried a variety of jobs. He tried to be a
waiter. However, he thumped the customers. He tried working in a shop. However,
he thumped the customers. He tried working in a factory making component sliver-boards
for robot dogs. However, he thumped the robot dogs. Then thumped his boss.
Then
thumped the customers.

At first, Franco thought the
problem was
everybody else.

Eventually, it dawned on him that
the problem lay with
him.
And, with a bit of psycho self-analysis, he
realised that—well, Franco and idiots—hell, they just didn’t get on. And there
were
so many idiots
out there! They had all sorts of jobs! Doctors!
Dentists! Teachers! Idiots! Millions of bloody idiots! Everywhere! You’d think
it’d be illegal, or something.

And so Franco (through a friend
of a friend of a friend, no?), managed to get a job with Mr Konan, which in
time led to a job with Mr Voloshko. Franco was big (well, he had big
fists)
and
acted dumb and didn’t ask too many questions. He kept his mouth shut, usually
(and when sober).

His jobs usually comprised
standing and scaring people, collecting or delivering packages, watching and
tailing other people in or around the casinos which Mr Voloshko—and The Hammer
Syndicate as an organisation—operated, or simply driving a variety of people to
a variety of places either in Mercedes groundcars or BMW fliers. It was a cushy
job. No violence (mostly), no worries. And because nobody treated him as an
idiot, nobody got thumped. And so he retained gainful employment, and didn’t
have to brave the horror of the Unemployment Office. After all, he was barred.
For burning it down, that time.

“I’m off, love.”

“Can you pick up some fireworks
on your way home?”

“Fireworks? What for?”

“The Quantum Carnival starts
tonight!”

“Hot damn, so it does. I forgot.”

“How could you forget
that?
It’s
a global phenomenon!”

“Other things on my mind,”
mumbled Franco. “Such as our impending wedding.”

“Of course. How sweet. Can you
also pick up some jasmine oil?”