Free Hardcore - 03 by Andy Remic Page B

Oakley Solaris shades. "It's just by the north pole. It's snow, ice, crevasses, the full gamut of raging arctic conditions." He showed his teeth, although it was far from a smile. "Why did you think Fizzy and Shazza brought their skis?"
    "Optimism?" ventured Franco.
    Pippa tutted, eyed Keenan, and said, "All comms are up. I'll see you back here in five. And you?"
    "Yeah?" beamed Franco.
    "Don't get killed."
    "Aye aye, Cap'n."
    Pippa stalked off, and herded a newly squabbling Betezh and Olga back into the DropShip. Pippa could be seen directing a grumbling crew in carrying huge, rectangular alloy cases.
    "Better be off," beamed Franco, holding out his hand to Keenan. "I'm sure one of the gals will lend me a jacket."
    "I'm sure they will," agreed Keenan, shaking Franco's hand. "And Pippa was right. Don't get killed. And don't get into any trouble. And if you do get into trouble, use your kube, comms, even your linked Tuff-Map. You got all that?"
    "Yeah." Franco turned, and waved to the female soldiers lounging like lizards in the shadow of the DropShip.
    "And Franco?"
    "Yeah mate?"
    "I have a question."
    "Shoot."
    "It's about, well, I'm just curious, it's just that, when you said that, I mean, when you got married, right, and you and Mel, well, when you made it back to the hotel room, what I wanted to ask, was, well, did you, y'know, and, well...
    What was it like?"
    Franco stared, stonily, ahead. He coughed. Turned. And without a word, strode back towards his DropShip.
    Keenan shrugged. "That bad, eh?" he muttered, and lit a cigarette.
     
    "Change of plan," said Pippa, hoisting her weapons and her pack. Franco, who had been poking suspiciously in his own pack as the teams made final preparations to separate and begin their search and analysis of Sick World, glanced up. He smiled, a broad smile, and produced a long, evil-looking, purple sausage. It was slick with grease, and smelt of death.
    "Found it!" Triumph.
    "What the hell," said Pippa, "is that?"
    "It's a sausage, muppet. A Slim Jim." He bit it, with a crunching sound, and began to chew. It sounded like cogs in a blender.
    "This is the score, and I've cleared it with Keenan so no bloody moaning. Because Candy was pulled for another mission at the last minute, and you're a team member down, we're transferring Olga to you."
    Franco pointed at Pippa with the purple bratwurst. "No."
    "It's orders. Betezh and Olga are fighting like cat and dog, so it'll immediately alleviate that problem. I'll take Miller with me, because the moaning, whining son-of-a-bitch will have a harder time trying to talk when I pierce both his cheeks with my yukana. Franco, this situation is not up for negotiation."
    Franco, about to speak, waggled his sausage... and there came a shring, a blur of movement, and six slices of meat tumbled to the soil. Franco focused on the end of the decimated weiner, grimaced, then extended his focus beyond to a poised and quivering Pippa, sword raised above one shoulder, her stance that of a formidable ancient sword-fighting warrior queen.
    Franco popped the last of the sausage into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. "I'd get that blade oiled, love. Looking a bit battered, a bit the worse for wear." He shook his head, face showing regret. "A shame, to let a fine weapon like that rot."
    Pippa clucked in annoyance, and sheathed her blade. She stepped in close, an embodiment of menace. Voice low, she muttered, "be careful where you wave your next sausage, dick head. It might just get the same treatment."
    "What?" Franco beamed. "So you're offering up your services as a bona fide sausage chopper from now until the end of time? You're such a girl. Such a lass. Such a -" he leered speculatively, " fine specimen of a woman."
    Pippa stalked off, furious despite herself, stomping past Keenan who walked to Franco, tightening straps and pulling on his desert EBH despite the heat. "You ready?"
    "As ever, bro."
    "No shit, right? No drinking, no shagging. You're on mission, on