Biohell by Andy Remic

mate.”
     
    “Ach, think nothing of it.”
     
    “I still have contacts. Combat K
contacts. You ever need a favour, you look me up.”
     
    Franco nodded. Sighed. “I’ll keep
it in mind, Slick. Now, you look after yourself.”
     
    “Be careful, Franco.”
     
    “Voloshko doesn’t even know where
I live. I faked my application. I’ve never trusted the Seven Syndicates.
Bastards, to a man.”
     
    “Even so.”
     
    Franco watched Slick disappear
into the throng. Music blatted around him, an irritant. And, despite Franco’s
usual party-animal nature, his love of sex and drugs and rock ‘n roll, all he
wanted now, amazingly, was a hot mug of cocoa, a kiss from Mel, and his comfy
bed.
     
    Franco trudged through the
cheering, singing crowds, towards his rest, and only when he was on the
fifty-eighth step leading to his apartment did he curse.
     
    “Hot damn and bloody buggers!” He’d
forgotten the fireworks. And the jasmine oil.
     
    ~ * ~
     
    The
apartment squatted in gloom, black-out curtains killing early-morning light. A
strange silence seemed to have enveloped the room, and Franco, remembering his
action-packed night, shivered.
     
    What if...
     
    What if Voloshko had discovered
where he lived?
     
    What if Voloshko had sent
killers, or kidnappers, for Mel?
     
    What if they’d rumbled Franco,
and linked him to the jewel heist of a few years previous? Five of the Seven
Syndicates had money in on that deal... which meant Franco had now made
enemies of six of The City’s toughest criminal underworld organisations.
     
    Makarov in hand, his weariness
evaporating, he called out in a wavering warble. “Mel? Mel?”
     
    “In here.”
     
    Franco scowled, but his racing
heart calmed a little. He holstered his weapon, locked the door carefully
behind him, and picked his way across the rubble of his apartment.
     
    Franco peered into the bedroom. “You
OK, honey?”
     
    “Mmm. Mmm.” Mel turned, still
half-asleep, hair tousled. “Hiya. You’re back late.”
     
    “Busy day at the office,” grinned
Franco.
     
    “Hope you didn’t cause any
trouble?”
     
    Picturing the headless body of
Keg, and the exploding inferno of the Apache F52, Franco shrugged powerful
shoulders. “Nah. Nothing little old Franco couldn’t handle. After all, they don’t
call me Franco ‘Trouble Free’ Haggis for nothing!”
     
    Mel frowned. “Franco...”
     
    “Yeah yeah, I know. They don’t call
me Franco ‘Trouble Free’ Haggis at all. But hey...”
     
    “Did you get the jasmine oil?”
     
    “Sorry. Slipped my mind. I’ll
pick it up in the morning.” He yawned. “Listen. You go back to sleep, I’m gonna
grab a few beers and wind down before I hit the AM pillow.”
     
    “Don’t stay up too late. You know we’re going to the Tek Central Carnival Opening with Jim and Sandra
tomorrow afternoon. I don’t want you yawning all the way through the
presentations.”
     
    “I know. I know.”
     
    Franco grabbed himself a ten-pack
of Wife-Beater and slumped on the settee. Despite there being truth in what he’d
told Mel, there was also another reason.
     
    He cracked open a beer. Placed
his D5 shotgun across his knees. And waited to see if he’d been followed.
     
    Unlikely. But always possible,
     
    Outside, millions thronged the
streets, singing and dancing and drinking and drugging. The thump of distant
music became a mantra. Screams and laughter the chorus. And the Carnival Song
dropped a gear, wound itself up, and trillions really started to get
jiggy.
     
    ~ * ~
     
    Franco
opened his eyes, slowly. Confusion was his master. Rat-spit his saliva. Tom-tom
drums his skull. “Shit,” was all he managed. Then his wandering blurred vision
fell on the ten empty tinnies of Wife-Beater. Stupid. Stupid. And into
the thunder of his skull intruded a white-hiss cackle of vacant TV broadcast.
     
    “Ugh. What channel was I
watching?” Most ran 24 hours. That meant it was a pirate channel. He reddened.
That