The Word Cloud

Right - I've amended the beginning of this tale to take out most of the swearing. Some of it remains, simply because I'm not sure what I can replace 'shit-kickers' with (poo-nudgers, anyone? Or would Robert Rankin have a basis for some litigation??). I've also written a further 1500 words - the time it took me to get these 1500 words reflects just how bloody long I spent researching anaesthetics, analgesics and barbituates. Next time, I think I'll just ring my brother... (he's a doctor, by the way, not a huge drug fiend). Next field for research? Brain anatomy and different kinds of guns. If I'm not careful, I'm going to have Special Branch on my case...

Same notes as last time apply - these are early attempts, so don't expect miracles (and do expect errors!)

ONE

“Natural human reproduction is at best a fairly inefficient process” Dr John Yovich

Rain spattered against the grimy pane in intermittent bursts, coloured by the neon sign that advertised the strip club opposite. No such sign adorned Angel's surgery; you either knew it was there, or you didn't. She had no need to advertise.

Business was good. A steady stream of 'gangers, wireheads and streetcrawlers kept the wolf from the door, and so Angel had closed early, looking forward to a lost night in front of the box, her feet up, whisky in one hand, a cigarette in the other.

She leaned back into the plush cushions of her favourite easy chair and sighed, blowing smoke as she did so. Nothing of particular interest was on the plasma, just the usual selection of game shows, news propaganda and televised executions. She flicked through the channels until she found something she liked the look of – some kind of old sit-com from the days before the ice – and settled down to watch.

Her reverie was broken by someone pounding upon her back door.

“Go away,” she hissed under her breath, burying herself deeper into her nest of cushions. “I'm not in.”

The pounding continued.

An angry sigh erupted from her. She set down a half-empty glass of the finest black-market single malt 20 Eurodollars would buy and straightened herself up. “I said, I'm not in!”

The pounding took on a frantic edge.

Angel growled under her breath and pushed her feet into heavy boots (shit-kickers, her father always insisted on calling them. “If you're going to deal with thugs, then make sure you've got yer shit-kickers on,” he said, before showing her how a decent left hook should be thrown. Good old Papa...) before standing up. She pushed her hair out of her eyes, winding the whip-thin dreadlocks around themselves until they formed a ball at the base of her neck and stalked over to the videocom. She stabbed the keypad and the small screen awoke, its grainy lines coalescing to show a figure huddled outside the door.

“I'm not open,” she barked.

The figure unfolded himself and looked directly into the camera. “Ange... sweetheart – please. Open up.”

A face she once thought handsome peered up at the camera and smiled, the rain running in rivulets down it, dripping off his nose and chin.

“Piss off, Roman.” She turned away from the com.

“No – please!” There was no mistaking the pleading edge to his voice. “I... I really need your help. Just take a look. Five minutes. That's all I'm asking for.”

Angel closed her eyes and sought the happy place her yoga instructor kept banging on about, but still it eluded her. She sighed.

“Give me one good reason, Roman – just one.”

From outside the camera's influence, Roman hauled something into view.

“Because if you don't, he'll die?” He posed it as a question, but even in fuzzy monochrome, Angel could see the man her former gang-mate supported was bleeding heavily.

“Hell...” She sighed again. Her finger hovered over the button that would unlock the door an allow him in.

“Angel...”

“Yeah, okay; keep your hair on,” she snapped, and finally stabbed at the keypad. It gave a flatulent buzz, and the bolts that held the door closed slid back.

“You are a total peach, you know that?” Roman grinned and blew her a kiss through the com. He caught the door and pulled it open before the bolts could slide back again.

“Moron,” Angel replied, mainly to herself.

o0o

On the street, her name was Angel. This wasn't down to any divine pretensions - it could easily have been 'that Irish Bitch' or 'the Ghoul' - but everyone in certain circles knew that when shit hit the fan and half your insides were hanging out, you needed an Angel.

Roman wasn't his real name, either, but hey, it worked. He dragged the injured man in through the door, straightened up and treated Angel to his most winning smile.

She was not convinced.

“I don't know what you're playing at,” she began, “but if you think you can come around here, in the middle of the night-”

“It's eight o' clock,” he interrupted.

“Whatever!” Angel snarled and continued her rant. “In the middle of the night and bring some stupid blunt you've accidentally capped and expect me to fix him up before anyone notices, you're sorely mista-”

Roman caught Angel's cheeks between hands slick with blood and kissed her. “Spare me the lecture, Aoife – I don't need it.”

“Get the hell off me!” Angel pushed him backwards, slapping his hands away. She paused and reached up to touch her face. Even through her anger, Roman saw her sudden consternation.

The neon light outside flickered from red to green, bathing the hallway in an eerie light. The pool of blood seeping from the man on the floor grew, touching the soles of her boots.

“Damn,” she whispered, and ran a bloody across her forehead, leaving a crimson streak. “Damn. Okay. What happened?”

Roman shrugged. “I'm not sure. He was dumped on my doorstep about an hour ago. He had this attached to him.” He dug around in his pocket for a moment and produced a tatty, handwritten note.

“For payment.” Angel looked back to Roman. “Payment for what?”

“Haven't got a clue. But whoever dumped him, they've messed him up pretty bad.”

Angel crouched down by the bleeding man. He was out cold – probably for the best, Roman thought – and without touching him, assessed his condition. She blew a low whistle. “You're not wrong. Looks like half his head is missing.” She looked back up at Roman. “By rights, this blunt should be dead. Who is he?”

“Dunno.”

“So you've brought a complete stranger to me on the strength of some poxy note?” She stood up, and there was no mistaking the tight edge of fury to her voice now. “What are you, retarded?”

“No... I just didn't know where else to go.” Roman shifted uncomfortably. “There's something else, too.”

Angel rolled her eyes and planted her hands on her hips, but said nothing.

Wordlessly, Roman laid the blunt out and lifted up a filthy shirt to reveal a well muscled torso.

“So? He works out,” Angel said. “What of it? You've come to show me a good set of abs?”

“No, idiot. Look closer. What's missing?”

Her lips pursed, a sure indication of her rising irritation with him, and she hunkered down again to inspect the injured man's torso. The pout soon turned into a frown, quickly followed by a look of fear.

“No navel,” she whispered.

“No navel indeed,” Roman echoed. “Now do you see why I brought him here?”

Angel snapped her head up and flew at him. “You absolute bastard!” she spat. “You've brought a bloody 'bom here? To me? Do you realise just how dangerous that is? Mary, Mother of God - you're mental!”

That she blasphemed was all Roman needed to know about her terror. He knew, because he felt it, too.”

“I couldn't just let him die on the street, Aoife...”

“Stop calling me that!” she ran both her hands through her hair. “Anthony... I don't think you realise the gravity of the situation. You've brought an Abomination – a freak of nature that our dear government insists don't exist at all – to my surgery. At eight o' clock in the evening. With all of the bloody Southern Conurbation out on the streets.” Each point was punctuated by a stab of her finger against his chest. “You do realise that 'boms don't get out of whatever facility they are grown in without help, don't you?” She glared at him. “Whoever did this, did it to screw you up royally. And so, in bringing him in to me, you've screwed me up royally, too.”

Roman grinned a little sheepishly before recovering himself. “If it's any consolation, the shot to his head would have destroyed any regular tracking implant...”

He trailed off under her white-hot scrutiny.

“I didn't know what else to do, okay?” he admitted. “Like you, I thought he was just another blunt; another junkie. But then I saw the mess his head was in, and that he was a 'bom, and, well, I panicked a bit.”

“You panicked.”

“Yeah.”

“And so you thought you'd spread it around a bit?”

“What? No! I was going to tip him in the river, but then I saw the note.” He held up the blood stained piece of paper again. “'For payment'. So I figured he might have something, you know, worth taking..."

Angel grinned, but not out of kindness nor amusement.

“Oh, I see. You thought me might have some decent metal on him, huh?” She narrowed her eyes at him. “Something worth flogging? But you know that without a living body playing as host, decent tech decays... and so you need me to extract this shit for you, whilst he's alive, and store it properly.” She gave him a disgusted look. “And they say I'm the ghoul. You'd put Scrooge to shame, you know that?”

“That's a bit rich, coming from you,” Roman shot back defensively. “Your whole operation revolves around tech extraction-”

“I fit and fix tech,” Angel near-shouted. “I do not scavenge half-dead 'boms in the hope of making a quick buck!”

“Oh, that's right – you've got your oath, haven't you?” Roman sneered. “Oh – but you don't, because you crashed out of med school the moment they discovered you were a devo. Or was it more to do with you discovering the undiluted ecstasy of the prescription drugs cabinet?”

“SHUT THE HELL UP!” Angel screamed back.

“Sweet little Angel, the streetcrawler's saviour...” Roman fluttered his eyelashes and cradled his chin in his hands, pantomiming innocence.

A groan from the floor stopped Angel's punch in mid flight.

“He's awake,” she whispered, her fury all but forgotten. “Crap, he's awake!” She scrabbled frantically at his neck, her fingers seeking a pulse. “Okay, calm down... lie still... try not to move... Roman! Get his legs – no time to get the gurney. We've got to get this guy to surgery now.”

Between them, they bundled up the 'bom an d half carried, half dragged him to what looked like a blank stretch of wall. Angel slapped her palm against its plastic surface and a section slid open with a slight hiss, revealing a small elevator. They pulled the injured man in and the elevator lurched. Roman's stomach flipped a little as he counted backwards from a hundred; small places really weren't his cup of tea. The trip was mercifully short and after a few seconds (91... 90... 89... ) the doors sighed open, revealing a pristine room beyond. White and chrome dominated, and as the spotlights overhead flared to life, Roman blinked rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the glare. Gadgets adorned the walls, their arms pinned back with little chrome clips, their wires tamed by plastic tags. On the far side, a gun cabinet lurked: a rifle, two pistols and something that looked suspiciously like a modified SMG all nestled within its laser-protected embrace.

“Right; get him to the table,” Angel said, none of her previous animosity apparent, only icy efficiency. Roman steadied himself and hauled at the 'bom's legs, only for them to be snatched from his grasp.

“Hey!” he yelped as a booted foot caught his chin. “Watch i-” He stopped. The 'boms body convulsed again, over and over, until he looked like he was doing some weird kind of dance.

“Oh, hell!” Angel hissed. She grasped the sides of the 'bom's head and tried to steady it between her knees, careful not to widen the already gaping hole in his skull. “Get me 50mls DDM Methohex now.”

  Roman, his attention still fixed firmly on the convulsing body upon the floor, didn't hear her.

“Roman!”

  He shook his head and lifted a face that had taken on a distinct grey pallor.

“Go and get me 50mls DDM Methohex.”

 “50mls DDM Methohex?” he echoed, more than a little bewildered.

“Yes, the freaking DDM Methohex!” she snapped. “On the side!”

“I'm not a nurse!” Roman bit back. “I don't know what DDM Methowhatever is!”

“You can read, can't you? It's on the side, in a green sedpen!”

The 'bom on the floor began to foam at the mouth, a white cascade tinged pink with blood that spilled over his teeth and down his chin. Roman followed its progress, mesmerised.

“What are you waiting for?” Angel wrenched something from a concealed pocket and flung it at him. It hit him on the cheek and raised a lump, breaking his appalled fascination.

“DDM Metho... whatever. Green sedpen. Right.” He dithered and turned, heading for one of the gleaming white cabinets. Upon it lay a glass-covered tray, its insides slightly frosted. Injector pens of all types were laid out in regimented rows, each one a different colour, denoting their various contents. He slid the glass to one side. There were two types of green.

“Sedpens are pastel, right?” he asked.

“Yes,” Angel replied through gritted teeth. She tilted the 'boms head back and tried to clear his airways with one finger. “Now would be a good time!”

Roman grabbed the tube closer to mint rather than lime and sent a little prayer to whomever might be listening in at the time. He threw it towards Angel, trusting in her tech-honed reflexes. As predicted, her hand shot up almost of its own accord and caught it easily. She ripped the plastic tip off the pen with her teeth and stabbed the exposed needle into the side of the 'bom's neck. His eyes bulged open as the drug took hold and his tremors subsided. After a few seconds, his eyelids drooped and his body relaxed. Angel withdrew the spent sedpen from his jugular and capped it again. She stood up daintily and grimaced at her blood-stained trousers before giving Roman a dry look.

“I'm charging the dry cleaning to you,” she said.

o0o

“Well, whoever wanted him dead did a good job.” Angel looked up from inspecting the 'boms head and fished around in the breastpocket of her overshirt. She pulled forth a cigarette and sucked on it once, sparking the auto-igniter. “If this guy was a regular blunt, he'd be a corpse by now.”

Roman gave the cigarette a distasteful look. “That's not very hygienic, you know...”

“People don't pay for hygiene. Anyway, it never did you any harm,” Angel quipped back. She shuffled the cigarette to the corner of her mouth and held the 'bom's dark hair back with one hand. “Straight through the side of his temple. Point blank range. Judging by the amount of damage, we're looking at something high calibre.”

Roman leaned closer to the raw hole and suppressed a shudder.

“Is the bullet still in there?”

Angel shrugged. “I wouldn't think so. Probably used frag rounds – they disintegrate after doing the maximum amount of damage, leaving no evidence. No bullet means no way of tracing the weapon.” She shook her head and took another drag on her cigarette, allowing smoke to curl from her nostrils. “Seen it before, just not on someone still breathing.”

Laid out, the abomination was tall. Taller than Angel had been expecting, to be honest. He was also in excellent health, apart from the gaping rent in his head. If he was lucky, he'd come out of this without an eye and a short term memory. If he was unlucky... well, losing an eye and being unable to remember what he ate for breakfast were the least of his worries. On the upside, the sedatives were working; you never could tell with the Affected, least of all Clones. The Coalition were adamant they were nothing more than a paranoid fantasy, used to scare the masses by those sympathetic to the Affected cause. Well, not any more, buddy – not if this guy was anything to go by, any way – whether she had believed the lies or not, she had stone cold proof now that Clones were not only a reality, but they came with a good set of abs as well. She just had to hope that his system was at least somewhere along the 'normal' line and that she wasn't doing more harm than good. Not that anyone knew what normal was any more; that baseline had been eradicated years ago.

He wore simple clothes: black jeans, a black button shirt covering a plain grey T-shirt, steel toe-cap boots. Nothing special, but more to the point, nothing to identify him. She leaned over and stubbed what remained of the cigarette out into a kidney dish and cracked her knuckles. Well, better see what this was all about...

She lifted a lock of dark hair and reached for the clippers. Sorry, sonny; time for a haircut. Betcha haven't had one of them for a while, aye? Roman watched as she carefully circumnavigated the wound, removing a thick, blood-caked shank of hair, which ended up in the kidney dish-nee-ashtray before reaching for a cotton swab.

Tentatively, she dabbed at the hole. The blood was beginning to coagulate, and came away in thick clots – how much of that was brain matter as well, she didn't really want to contemplate. How the hell does this guy keep breathing? she wondered to herself as she discarded yet another gore-soaked swab into the kidney dish. Finally, red gave way to pink and the hole was as clean as she could possibly make it.

“Now let's see what you're all about...”

A cursory glance told her nothing. No tell-tale remains of a nano-processor, no frazzled-looking wire ends, no stray plastic tips denoting a displaced cortex-stim... nothing.

“Roman, I think you've been had,” she said.

Roman bent closer. “What do you mean?”

“I mean this guy's got nothing on him. He's clean.”

“Clean?”

“You deaf?”

“But... he can't be. Why would someone dump a shot-up 'bom on my doorstep?” To anyone else, Roman would have just looked perplexed, but Angel recognised the faint crease to his brow as fear.

“Could be a warning,” she replied. “'For payment' doesn't have to mean you gaining anything.”

“Someone could be paying me back.” He phrased it as a statement rather than a question, confirming that had been his suspicion all along. Angel felt a pulse of anger again at his recklessness. She didn't see him for nearly a year and then -poof- there he was, a bad omen made flesh. She waited for him to continue, but he wasn't that forthcoming.

“So,” Angel prompted. “Who've you been working for? Anyone in particular you've annoyed recently?”

“Apart from you?” His brow creased again. “No one I can think of...”

“Come on, Roman; it's your job to get on people's collective wicks.”

“Okay, fine,” Roman admitted. “Yeah, I've annoyed plenty of people over the last year, but not enough for them to send me half-dead warning signs. Usually its the flash of a gun muzzle and they run.” This wasn't a boast; Angel had counted the scars, and on one memorable occasion, removed the bullet.

“So no clue? None at all?”

“Well...” Roman paused.

“Well what?” Angel dug out another cigarette and drew on it.

“Well, I did start a job recently – for Takahomo-”

Angel choked. “Takahomo? And what do you mean by 'start a job'?”

“I didn't finish it. I pulled out before the end.”

At least he had the decency to look contrite. Angel turned a delicate shade of puce.

“You pulled out of a Takahomo job and are now wondering why you're getting half-dead calling cards? Why didn't you tell me before? I knew I should've told you to sling your hook the moment you turned up.” She stabbed a finger at him, forcing him to sway his head back to avoid getting burnt by the glowing tip of her cigarette. “Now the Taks are going to think I'm back with you and they're going to give me hell, too! I've only just picked myself up after last time!”

Roman shrugged and grinned sheepishly. “Sorry?”