sent a comm; the Super Tankers were loading up. It was evening.
The sun was falling fast from the sky. It was time to get the job done.
Zanzibar stood and embraced
Jenny.
“For freedom,” he said.
“For freedom,” she echoed.
And hoisting packs and weapons,
they headed out into the night.
Last to leave was Randy. He gave
a look behind him, a smile, and pulling a small button from his pocket he gave
it a tiny click and dropped it on the floor, where it glowed blue,
briefly, before returning to the disguise of a normal button.
“For freedom,” he muttered, and
vanished into the falling gloom.
~ * ~
SICK
NOTE LOOMED from the darkness, pale and pasty and looking like shit. He
crouched in the hole beside Jenny and gave a single nod.
“All three?”
“Out for the count, mate.”
Jenny gave a single nod. The
Reprocessing Factories had originally been easy meat; pretty much unguarded
targets. Until Jenny, her crew, Impurity5, and the Impurity Movement as a whole
started detonating them. Subsequently, security had been increased, but was
nothing somebody with the military background of Sick Note could not easily
overcome.
Jenny watched Sick Note move. A
hypochondriac he might be, constantly moaning about his knees, back, elbows,
headaches, flu, and a million other minor ailments that either inspired roaring
laughter or complete frustration. “How are you going, mate?” he’d always ask;
not as a genuine inquiry into your health, but as a prelude to a litany of his
own woes. It was a question most of the unit had learned to neatly side-step.
But despite his moans and groans, he was a dab hand at stealthily rendering
guards unconscious. Formerly special forces, Sick Note was a damn sight more
deadly than he looked. Especially when not in bed whining with Man Flu.
“Let’s do it.”
Jenny, Sick Note and Flizz
climbed and slithered up the muddy slope, boots kicking in, closely followed by
Randy, who was focused on Flizz’s fantastically shaped behind. She glanced back
at him with a deep scowl, gloved hands muddy, hair tight back and face dark
with camo cream. “Don’t get any ideas, motherfucker,” she snapped.
Randy held his arms wide with a
smile, as if to say, I wouldn’t dream of it, angel.
They crawled under cover of
twisted, leafless trees, one of The Company’s toxic gifts to the flora and
fauna of the planet. It was rare to find anything organic on Toxicity not affected
by the pollution of the past thirty years. Toxicity was a horticulturist’s idea
of Hell. And a perfect model for people’s idea of a poisoned world.
They stopped at the edge of the
trees and surveyed the comically named Reprocessing Plant. Even though Jenny
had memorised the plans, the layout, the wiring and ducting schematics, now -
here, up close - the place was not only huge, but dark, brooding and
intimidating. Jenny didn’t know if The Company had set out to build a factory
which oozed malice, but they had certainly succeeded. Its vast matt-black
walls, lack of windows, and massive array of cooling towers, vats, pipes and
open engines, all black, all without lights; well. Jenny smiled. They wouldn’t
be throwing any children’s parties there, that was for sure.
Randy had pulled out a sniper
scope and was surveying the plant. Up close, the place wasn’t just dark and
foreboding, it was loud. A constant buzz and smash and thump and grind,
as if the place lived. It was loud on the ears, and the thumping pounded a
person to the pit of his stomach. The constant onslaught made Jenny feel
physically sick.
“How does it look?”
“Deserted,” said Randy. “Night
shift. Skeleton staff. As we expected. The last loading of the Super Tankers
have just gone. It’s like taking pie from a kiddie, darling.”
“We’ll see,” said Jenny. “Okay.
We all know what to do. Comm silence unless it’s an emergency. We
The sun was falling fast from the sky. It was time to get the job done.
Zanzibar stood and embraced
Jenny.
“For freedom,” he said.
“For freedom,” she echoed.
And hoisting packs and weapons,
they headed out into the night.
Last to leave was Randy. He gave
a look behind him, a smile, and pulling a small button from his pocket he gave
it a tiny click and dropped it on the floor, where it glowed blue,
briefly, before returning to the disguise of a normal button.
“For freedom,” he muttered, and
vanished into the falling gloom.
~ * ~
SICK
NOTE LOOMED from the darkness, pale and pasty and looking like shit. He
crouched in the hole beside Jenny and gave a single nod.
“All three?”
“Out for the count, mate.”
Jenny gave a single nod. The
Reprocessing Factories had originally been easy meat; pretty much unguarded
targets. Until Jenny, her crew, Impurity5, and the Impurity Movement as a whole
started detonating them. Subsequently, security had been increased, but was
nothing somebody with the military background of Sick Note could not easily
overcome.
Jenny watched Sick Note move. A
hypochondriac he might be, constantly moaning about his knees, back, elbows,
headaches, flu, and a million other minor ailments that either inspired roaring
laughter or complete frustration. “How are you going, mate?” he’d always ask;
not as a genuine inquiry into your health, but as a prelude to a litany of his
own woes. It was a question most of the unit had learned to neatly side-step.
But despite his moans and groans, he was a dab hand at stealthily rendering
guards unconscious. Formerly special forces, Sick Note was a damn sight more
deadly than he looked. Especially when not in bed whining with Man Flu.
“Let’s do it.”
Jenny, Sick Note and Flizz
climbed and slithered up the muddy slope, boots kicking in, closely followed by
Randy, who was focused on Flizz’s fantastically shaped behind. She glanced back
at him with a deep scowl, gloved hands muddy, hair tight back and face dark
with camo cream. “Don’t get any ideas, motherfucker,” she snapped.
Randy held his arms wide with a
smile, as if to say, I wouldn’t dream of it, angel.
They crawled under cover of
twisted, leafless trees, one of The Company’s toxic gifts to the flora and
fauna of the planet. It was rare to find anything organic on Toxicity not affected
by the pollution of the past thirty years. Toxicity was a horticulturist’s idea
of Hell. And a perfect model for people’s idea of a poisoned world.
They stopped at the edge of the
trees and surveyed the comically named Reprocessing Plant. Even though Jenny
had memorised the plans, the layout, the wiring and ducting schematics, now -
here, up close - the place was not only huge, but dark, brooding and
intimidating. Jenny didn’t know if The Company had set out to build a factory
which oozed malice, but they had certainly succeeded. Its vast matt-black
walls, lack of windows, and massive array of cooling towers, vats, pipes and
open engines, all black, all without lights; well. Jenny smiled. They wouldn’t
be throwing any children’s parties there, that was for sure.
Randy had pulled out a sniper
scope and was surveying the plant. Up close, the place wasn’t just dark and
foreboding, it was loud. A constant buzz and smash and thump and grind,
as if the place lived. It was loud on the ears, and the thumping pounded a
person to the pit of his stomach. The constant onslaught made Jenny feel
physically sick.
“How does it look?”
“Deserted,” said Randy. “Night
shift. Skeleton staff. As we expected. The last loading of the Super Tankers
have just gone. It’s like taking pie from a kiddie, darling.”
“We’ll see,” said Jenny. “Okay.
We all know what to do. Comm silence unless it’s an emergency. We
Similar Books
