Free Quake by Andy Remic Page A

imprints. A hundred security cameras tracked their slow departure.
    Laden with canvas sacks of ammunition in a variety of calibres, Jam and Mongrel made their way along the long straight corridor and paused at the iron gate. They waited, and then Jam peered through between the bars to where Sgt Simmo was seated at the high desk, a sheaf of papers in front of him, his finger poised delicately above something that had captured his attention.
    Jam coughed.
    There was no response.
    Jam coughed again, this time louder.
    Slowly, Sgt Simmo turned his huge bullet head on his thick bull neck, which spilled over the collar of his urban-combat jacket, and glared at the two men. Then, casually and without obvious hurry, he reached over and hit the release, which buzzed in an annoying fashion.
    Jam and Mongrel stepped through this magic portal, their bags of bullets clanking as they paused in front of the desk and Simmo’s raised bushy eyebrows. He grinned at them. It was a particularly nasty grin.
    ‘We need to sign?’ asked Jam softly.
    ‘Oh yes,’ crooned Simmo. ‘In triplicate, on the correct military forms.’ He pushed forward the thick pad and Jam stared with distaste at the stains. He took the pen on its industrial-grade chain and leaned forward.
    ‘What the fuck is that?’ snapped Jam, pointing.
    ‘Chocolate.’
    ‘You sure?’
    ‘I very sure,’ growled Simmo.
    ‘And that? There! What the fuck is that?’
    ‘That is blood,’ said Simmo quietly, his rumble like the distant detonation of a nuclear device.
    Jam met the large sergeant’s eyes. ‘How did you manage to get blood on your triplicate signing-out book?’
    ‘Man refused to sign,’ growled Simmo. ‘Called me pedantic triplicate-signing paper-pushing motherfucker. So I stabbed him through hand with pen. Look, there is nick in wood where pen got stuck. It very messy. Got one of tendons wrapped around the nib.’
    ‘Ahh, nice.’
    Jam reached forward to sign. He signed.
    ‘In triplicate,’ said Simmo.
    ‘Yeah, yeah.’ Jam signed twice more.
    ‘And him,’ said Simmo, nodding at Mongrel.
    Mongrel sighed. ‘What you do if there was nuclear war and we had to urgently get whole battalion’s ammunition in few short seconds because HQ about to be overrun?’ ‘You would have to sign in triplicate on the correct military forms. For every item.’
    ‘But you have nuclear bombs blasting overhead, room shaking, lights flickering, nuclear fire screaming across landscape ...’
    Simmo stared hard at Mongrel. ‘You would have to sign in triplicate on the correct military forms,’ he said without any sign of emotion on his face, without any indication of humour, without any suggestion of anything other than consummate military professionalism.
    ‘Come on.’ Jam grinned, patting Mongrel on the back. ‘You can see me off at the hangar.’
    Mongrel nodded, and they trooped towards the door. Just as Jam reached for the handle, Simmo’s low growl echoed across to the two men and made them freeze.
    ‘Just one question, soldiers.’
    Jam and Mongrel exchanged glances. ‘Told you so!’ hissed Mongrel, and turned with an unaccustomed beaming smile across his battered wide face. Jam turned, dropping the canvas sacks and placing his hands on his hips.
    ‘Sarge?’
    ‘You enjoy looking at my little toy?’
    ‘You mean the HTank?’ Jam nodded, and pulled out a cigarette, lighting it and inhaling deeply. Through a plume of smoke he said, ‘Yeah, nice little piece of kit. Impressive CamCloak, and fucking thick armour, hey?’
    ‘Nice machine,’ rumbled Simmo, eyes gleaming.
    ‘What you mean, “your” little toy?’ said Mongrel.
    ‘Is mine.’
    ‘I ... I thought it belong to Spiral.’ Mongrel smiled carefully.
    Simmo shook his bullet head. ‘No. ‘S mine.’
    ‘You mean it’s your HTank,’ laughed Jam. ‘As in, ownership documentation is stamped in your name, you have full financial possession, the HTank does in fact belong to you.’
    ‘No. But it