Biohell (9 page)

However.

Here, and now, Slick was in a
world
of pain.

He sat, naked, strapped to an
alloy chair, his Adonis features crushed, his fabulously rich pelt matted with
blood, his lightly tanned skin crusted with saliva, snot and vomit. Six large
men stood around him in a tight semi-circle, panting and wearing shawls of
sweat under the glow of the simple energy saving bulb on its coil of
elasticised cable dangling limp and solitary from a high vaulted ceiling veiled
in shadow.

Slick coughed, leaning to one
side and hawking up phlegm mixed with swirling crimson. He coughed again, then
rocked back on the chair and blinked, trying to clear his pounding, thundering
head. His ears were ringing from heavy blows. His vision had become worryingly
blurred.

“Enough,” he managed to spit, and
manoeuvred a broken sliver of tooth to his lips. He pushed it out with his
tongue, but no longer had saliva enough to eject the piece of bone shrapnel. “What...”
he coughed again, then forced himself to breathe deeply, carefully, smoothly. “What...
have I done? What... do you want?”

Five of the grim men took several
steps back, fading into shadows, as one was foregrounded. Slick’s vision
cleared and he deciphered a stocky bull of a man wearing a frighteningly
expensive New-Italian suit and with close-cropped black hair. His eyes were
intelligent, his face lined with the early contours of middle-age. His tan
denoted wealth, for only in the Upper Reaches could a tan be freely
obtained—either via sunshine, or with biomod vanity upgrades. Both routes to the
pleasures of the sun were incredibly
expensive...

Whereas
here
—

Here? Slick gazed around the damp
cellar, the moss-riddled stones, the greasy, blood-slick floor with its history
of violence and vermin. He breathed deep the sickly sweet stink of putrefying
dead rats and piss, and an eternity of human detritus.

Here
could only be one place.

The Dregs. Down-side. Low-Tek.
Sub-City SubC. The hunting playground for criminals, the diseased, the whores,
the biomod pirates and hackers and B-grade pushers. The final resting place of
all the Non-Credits. The home of the Poor.

Slick breathed deep. Mentally, he
retraced his steps...

A beautiful woman, swaying atop
him, writhing and groaning as nipples brushed his questing lips and he thrust
harder and harder, buried himself deep and drowned in her ambrosia nectar
depths. His tapered fingers slid down her writhing sweat-streaked flanks
as—shit, as she was
smashed
aside with a helve and men swarmed the room
and blows came raining, crashing down; pounding Slick Guinness into an
immediate mine-field of glittering unconsciousness...

Slick’s eyes opened. He did not
recognise the men, but by his stance the lead ‘gangster’—for that was all he
could be—expected recognition.
Craved it?
Slick smiled. That meant he
was small fry striving to jump from the little pond to the ocean. The only
real
problem was that the ocean was a
very
dangerous place.

Man, when I get out of here I’m
gonna
seriously
fuck you up, ran Slick’s internal dialogue. He composed
himself and lifted his bloodied face to meet the man’s iron gaze. Despite Slick’s
pain, and his beating, he made no sound of weakness. He focused with turquoise
eyes.

“I’ll start again.” Slick spoke,
voice slow and measured. “I’ll start at the beginning. Do you know who I am?”

The bull-necked gangster nodded,
once, a curt movement. Then he smiled, and it was the smile that did it. Messed
with Slick’s brain. It was the smile of the knowledgeable. The accepted. The
Big.

“My name,” came the bass rumble, “is
Mr Konan.” He paused, a long and arrogant pause.

“Never heard of you.” Slick was
satisfied to witness a twitch at the corner of Konan’s mouth.

“I am the avatar of Mr Voloshko.”

Slick’s heart skipped a beat. He
felt the temperature of his skin plummet. His balls shrivelled to pips. Slowly,
he allowed a breath to exhale on a jet of apprehension. He took a tentative
lick at bark-smeared lips.

“OK. Voloshko I
have
heard
of. Can you tell me what I’ve done wrong?” Shit. Now it made sense. Slick
became finally and terminally aware he was in some pit of depravity for a crime
he did not comprehend. He was in what had become notoriously nicknamed Voloshko
Cellars.
Torture
Cellars. Down south in The Dregs.

He chuckled—but the chuckle fell
from his
soul.
This was serious. This was
bad shit.

Mr Konan sighed, stepping closer.
His boot squeaked in a puddle of blood Slick’s flesh had deposited when his
head connected with stone. “Up there, Mr Guinness, up above us elevates the
perfect world, glass and alloy, gleaming, an immaculate rejection. The
Tek-World. The City. It is a pinnacle of human and alien evolution, an entity
of organic construction over natural chaos, a mish-mash blend of organics and
genetics ruled by money, ruled by the biomods, ruled by NanoTek. But down here,
Mr Guinness...”

He frowned, heavy brows
darkening. The henchmen approached from the shadows; they carried helves and
steel truncheons. One—the most intimidating, in all his slim ferret-faced
efficiency—carried a steel-panelled briefcase. Somehow, this was even more terrifying
than any obvious weapon.

“Down here, NanoTek doesn’t give
a shit what The Seven Syndicates do. We rule, Mr Guinness. The Dregs, the
Sub-City Catacombs. They’re ours. Our Land. Our World. Our
Dominion.”

Slick nodded, heart racing. He
agreed. I agree, he thought,
I agree!
Just let me out of here...

You did not mess with The
Syndicates.

You
could
not mess with
The Syndicates.

The Seven Syndicates ruled. And
Mr Voloshko was Grade 1 Minister of The Hammer Syndicate. The Man in Command, 1ic.
Hell. Slick was in trouble!

Konan produced a photograph on a
thin piece of photo-plastic. He held it before Slick’s face. It was set to
[cycle]. Slick watched the images impassively as blood drained ever further
from the already undead flesh of his face.

The statics depicted Slick
linking arms with a beautiful woman, and they were both laughing// they ate in
a restaurant, Slick complaining about the soup, the woman touching his arm in
an intimate fashion// walking to a plush hotel, arm in arm// taunting one another
with fresh strawberries in the lift // Slick moaning with need, eyes fixed on
her face, lips wet and gleaming// the woman dancing provocatively as she
undressed, face lit with an open, primal animal lust// squirming naked
together, bodies writhing on sweat-streaked sheets// the woman’s face, a parody
of pain, mouth open, tongue firm against teeth in a deep sex-need hypnotism of
repeated moaning shuddering gun-shot multiple-orgasm// [end].

Slick’s eyes stared at nothing.
Then, his gaze sidled carefully to the left.

Mr Konan was shaking his head.

“Who is she?” ventured Slick,
finally, when he realised Konan did not have the charity to break the silence.

“Melissa. She is Mr Voloshko’s
wife.”

“But he’s...”

Slick bit his tongue. He
was
going
to say
“he’s ninety-six years old!”
but, obviously, being a Grade 1
Minister to one of the largest biomod piracy Syndicates in the Quad-Gal meant
Voloshko had access to a billion human upgrades. Age simply wasn’t the handicap
it had been. And who needed Viagra when a simple biomod could fashion a wealthy
customer with a permanent penis upgrade? Length, girth, strength and endurance?
All yours for a few dollars more.

“You abused the wrong woman,
Slick. And, despite Mr Voloshko’s recent...
interest
in more esoteric
forms of passion, of enjoyment, of lust, you tampered with Mr Voloshko’s
bitch.”

Slick Guinness considered this.
And the truth of the situation finally penetrated his ego like syrup working
patiently into a sponge. He was dead meat. This Chamber was not a child’s
playground... he wouldn’t get a lolly and a contented ride home in the back of
the car. No. This was a Torture Pit. A Death Hole.

Slick wasn’t going to leave this
room alive. He met Konan’s dark and steady gaze. “My one consolation,” Slick
sighed, trying to buy himself more time, trying to put off the inevitability of
fate, his face a picture of hang-dog sorrow, “is that Melissa Voloshko
enjoyed
herself.
She howled like a whore. Fucked like a dog. And she tasted real
sweet, my bully-boy friend. Like sticky toffee. Like syrup and cream. A
personification of
orgasm.”

Behind the chair, Slick was
rubbing at his thumb. There came a tiny
click.

“Yeah?” Konan was shocked. He
relaxed into a smile, a lizard smile showing nasty, coffee-stained teeth. “OK
then, tough guy. Mr Voloshko wants to offer you a gift. A present. A valuable
and hard-earned
lesson.”
He pulled free a sleek alloy shaft and flicked
free the tapered razor at its peak. It gleamed... a slice of steel, a splinter
of raw and promised
pain.
Konan twisted the razor knife slowly from side
to side, allowing light from the yellow bulb to play along the finesse of the
glittering, sterile implement. Tiny rainbows danced like fish.

“He offers you a lesson you will
never forget.”

Konan glided forward. His eyes
gleamed. Like glass.

Slick’s heart seemed to stop
beating as he watched that terrible blade descend...

~ * ~

Franco
parked the Mercedes groundcar and with a
whine
the seat deposited him on
the pavement. Immediately he was amidst the heaving throng, and he pushed
through the crowd of humans and proxers, and the occasional SIM, and up steep
steps of a nameless, faceless steel-fronted hundred storey block. He eased
through revolving doors which reflected the snake of flesh on the pavements,
nodded at the two black-suited men bearing machine guns and dark glasses, hair
slicked back, stance professional, and ambled down the corridor to the gate.

Once scanned and through, Franco
stepped into the canteen. Keg and Tag were already there, Keg’s huge figure
squeezed into a small plastic seat, each man bearing a steaming coffee before
him. Keg was an ex-gunrunner, a huge man with a tattooed forehead, tattooed
forearms, and a body that was as wide as it was tall. He was a giant of a man,
spiky black hair glistening untidily, stubble smeared like grease across a
square-jaw you could break paving slabs on. His small eyes glittered in
permanent challenge, and he watched Franco advance.

Tag, in contrast, was slim and
tall, his face thin and pointed, his eyes narrow, almost oriental. Clean
shaven, he wore heavy gold rings on each finger and a swathe of gold chains
around his neck. Tag had risen the Hard Way from the Dregs; he was a rough and
tough streetboy, a king of backstabbing, a master of the mashed beer glass.

“All right, lads?” smiled Franco
easily, slipping into a chair opposite. His eyes took in the three heavy D5
shotguns gleaming on the table surface. Keg and Tag were staring at him
fixedly.

“We’ve got a job come in,” said
Tag. His lips gleamed. He seemed... too eager.

“Oh yeah?” Franco was cool, but
his mind was racing. Up until now the jobs had been... regular. Non-violent.
That was good. That was fine. But here were two thugs with gleaming new guns
and a need to make a name for themselves; they were out to impress, out to
climb the ladder of a hard to recognise internal ranking system. And that
always meant bad shit. It usually meant somebody had to die.

Franco sighed. Why couldn’t
things just carry on as normal?

Why did it always have to get so
complicated?

I fear change, he thought
morosely.