Free Biohell by Andy Remic

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.
     
    Tag leant closer. Coffee steam
made his brow glisten. “Word’s come down from Konan. We’ve got a pick-up. We’ve
got ourselves our first execution. “
     
    Keg grinned. Most of his teeth
were black. It was an ugly sight. “We’ve finally got the chance to prove
ourselves, Franco. We’re being given some responsibility! No more shitty little
errands—we’re dancing with the big boys!” He slid a shotgun across the
laminated worktop to Franco. “It’s time to start the killing.”
     
    Franco stared at the gun. His
face screwed up. Carefully, he said, “I’m not really sure I like this idea,
boys.”
     
    “Hey!” snapped Tag. “You’re
either with us... or against us.” His eyes glittered. And his face said it all.
There was no mercy there, no humanity. Not even for a fellow roughboy. Tag
was out for promotion. Recognition. Acceleration. Notoriety. Respect, man. And
woe betide anybody who got in his way.
     
    Franco picked up the shotgun. It
was a heavy, solid piece of engineering. It took sixty collapsible shells, and
had a 25gig bandwidth mark. Auto-aiming. Digital trigger. Expensive. Designer killware. Franco hated that. Murder and fashion combined.
Dolce and Gabbana for the diseased. Versace for the vulgar. Prada for the
perverse. Sick sick sick.
     
    He watched Tag and Keg climb to
their feet and roll shoulders to ease tension. They were nervous, Franco could
smell it. They were hairline triggers waiting to be caressed. Somebody was
going to suffer in order to banish their insecurities.
     
    “You coming, little guy? Or do we
tell Konan and Voloshko you lost your balls? Maybe they were never there
in the first place. Maybe all those tall stories of life in a combat
squad were just bullshit.”
     
    Keg sniggered.
     
    Franco stood, cracked open the D5
shotgun, checked the payload, and slammed the weapon shut. Keg jumped. His
nerves were shot to shit. Franco stared levelly at his two accomplices in
mediocrity; his face was suddenly a gargoyle carved from tek-stone.
     
    His voice, when he spoke, was
dangerously quiet. “Well then, let’s go kill somebody,” he said.
     
    ~ * ~
     
    Slick
Guinness oozed pain. Not just from the beating—although it had rattled his cage
and brought home the prolonged mental torture of a good physical pounding—but
also from the tiny, emergency Nail_blade which even now was cutting the
hardened titanium_nylon cable which secured his hands to the chair. It was also
making a terrible mess of his own flesh; but that would be a problem for
another day... if he survived.
     
    The Nail_blade was a device
reserved for military special forces. It nestled in a PTFE organic sheath
within a finger or thumb nail, and could be teased free for a variety of useful
purposes: opening tins of B&S, slicing the detonation cords on HighJ bombs,
or severing titanium_nylon bindings when tied to a chair suffering serious
physical torture and maiming.
     
    “He offers a lesson you will
never forget.” Konan approached, razor knife outstretched, as Slick felt his
own bindings part and he leapt forward, right fist slamming Konan’s forehead,
left taking the blade neatly from