Slide On The Run Read online

  Slide On The Run

  Mick Farren

  Mick Farren

  Slide On The Run

  Episode One

  This Fucking Body's Nine Parts Shot!

  The quasi-woman who undulated professionally in front of him was arrayed in a second skin of white latex, complete with a form fitting hood that totally encased her head, save for a ponytail switch of hair, teased from a vent in the back of hood, a little above the nape of her neck.

  It perversely reminded Slide of the single scalp lock of the traditional tribal Cossack, or the tail of a blood-line true palomino mare. The hood completely hide her features and she was only identifiable by the form of her body, her trademark long legs, prominent hip bones, and maybe something in the way she moved. She wore white rubber cocktail gauntlets with fingers ending in fake nails that, as far as Slide could tell, were constructed from white titanium, pointed as icepicks and as sharp as razors, protracted feline claws at full extension, and with a wicked scimitar curve. The facepiece of the hood was akin to a gas mask, but mysterious as a domino. Dark, unreadable eyes looked out from behind the built-in, circular goggles of tinted glass, while a white ribbed hose projected from the center of the mask like a pachyderm nose, curving round to the left side of her waist to vanish somewhere Slide could not see but only imagine.

  "Do me a favor? Please? Just get the fuck away from me. This fucking body's nine parts shot."

  Yancey Slide was on the run again.

  The Howdy Hole had deposited him in a place of spheres, down in the Gantenbrink matter of the sub-atomic foam. He was confronted with identical orbs, floating in random patterns of tachyon flux, with full substance, but neither sound nor color, and stretching as far as his demon perception could perceive, each one's perfection only marred by the letterbox shadow slit of a Borkhist wormhole tag-patch. Slide's body was shredding fast. His physical form was actually falling apart, and it was probably getting the best of the deal. Fortunately for his entirety, sub-atomic foam could be persuaded to be at least temporarily accommodating, and allow itself to gathered and molded it into a rough approximation of body tissue. Even after these makeshift repairs, to say Slide was messed up was like calling the Atlantic Ocean "damp". Mercifully his silver flask was still full of old, bad, Red Army vodka, distilled from MIG 15 antifreeze, and well spiked with tetradetoxin, the puffer fish derivative used in the traditional zombie process. It messed up humans real good, but, for a demon, it could help slow a rapid bout of borrowed-body degenerative decay. The free floating cooch joint, however, was what had really saved his ass.

  The interdimension fun-mill's grab-a-rube gravity just sucked him in towards the orbiting lights and virtuals, which proved blinding up close, and came in over seven thousand cultural equivalents, of which Slide could perceive at least half, and which gave him a headache on top of everything else.

  At first the Skylars had been reluctant to admit him when he had lurched up to the portal with hardly a body, and riddled with bullet and blast holes patched up with sub-foam. They knew he could only have come directly from the carnage on the Darogad, and they didn't need any on-the-lam demon-merc deserters in their pseudo-saloon. Then an old Skylar 5 flash-signed to the others that this was the original Yancey Slide and not to fuck with him if they knew what was good for them. Once inside and in the cloaking chamber, the Skylar 5 had tossed him a spray can. "Use the damned ectoplasm before you melt all over the floor."

  "You got a mirror and something to wear?"

  "Complimentary kimono or hood-habit?"

  "Hood-habit. I ain't got enough body for a kimono. And what about a piece of complimentary hardware?"

  "You know I can't loan you a piece."

  "Not even a belly gun, like for insurance. Particle beam or Derringer. I ain't fussy."

  "No chance."

  "Give me a break. Right now I'm posted as a deserter in at least three of the wars."

  "Weapon-free establishment, ain't we?"

  Slide knew better than to ask the Skylar 5 a third time, and, hidden by his new hood-habit, he moved on inside the cooch, where he had been almost immediately hustled by the quasi in white latex, who refused to take "get the fuck away from me" as an answer. Her crotch was on his eye level as he sagged in the amorphous, womb-soft shaper-couch, and she tried one last shot. "I thought you demons couldn't be killed."

  "Not in the strictest sense, but we can be royally and painfully fucked up."

  "So why don't we play out what's left on the old body, baby?. I thought demons could do anything."

  Neurons fluttered angrily in his exhausted brain. Telling him, should he be so much as tempted, to not even think about it. Slide sighed. "It's too late for anything like that."

  "So why the fuck did you come in here at all?"

  "For a drink, and to get out of the war."

  "The wars are a long way from here."

  "Not far enough, kid."

  The girl in latex moved on, clearly shrink-game trained or plex-programmed not to push the hustle beyond predetermined bounds. Finally left to himself to lay limp in the softness of the shaper-couch, Slide gave the interior of the cooch the gunfighter once-over. Inside the soft-light sugar walls, the wars actually did take on an unreal distance. Billows of pink and turquoise sweet-vented up like pillars from the floor, maintaining their integrity to a high chaos-point, and then precipitating into miniature storms of gelatinous colored rain that was gathered in ornamental gutters. The joint was busy, but that was the way of the cooch in high times of crisis with little but conflict above, below, and beyond. And it took all kinds to make a crowd; human girls and boys, lads and lassies, all for hire, squid-lid pukes and familiars, a single pair of twin-matched paracletes, plus a scattering of reptiles and invertebrates. Dwarves in military dress blues, bearing medals and strange insignia, looked on with over-sized Beefeater Martinis in their stubby fists, while lizard men from the frightened cities of the hollow earth, doing passable - if scaly - impersonations of Joan Crawford, tangoed with young men in transparent body shirts, sun glasses and impossibly tight black jeans, who must have planned their look to resemble the young Lou Reed. Italian baby wiseguys, in black fascisti shirts, white suits with wide lapels, and flared pants looked on in nervous and Saturday-night-fevered contemplation at things that could only be blobs of pure and formless evil, thinking that maybe they should never have left the Galaxy 2000 in the first place.

  Visiting mouth breeders sported in a tank between the bubble streams and the pendant rainbow crystals of aquarium chandeliers, creating hundreds of replicas of themselves as they rock & rolled, babies that Slide knew, without a doubt, would find themselves on the next day's menu in the restaurant, probably in heavy cream sauce and with a chopped garnish. A Krishna pimp paraded with a swaying, finger-cymbal string of five of his stable of slit-sari Hindu whores with yabyum dots on their foreheads. A gilded boy in spandex, and the kind of tan that could only end in melanoma, performed queer tribal dances with roots in the Hitchhike and the Batman with another quasi women in the standard form-fitting latex and goggles and ribbed nose hose, in her case, color-coded acid yellow. The couple were watched with admiration by things not of this earth in metallic capes, with exposed exterior brain cases and name tags that read "Hi, I'm Cwwymbvw." Was it possible that Mars still needed women after all these millennia?

  A small green lizard scrambled up onto the shaper and sank against Slide's left thigh. The demon glared at it. "Get the fuck away from me. I didn't ask for reptile contact. If I wanted a frog, I'd lick it."

  The lizard looked at Slide with reproachful and swivelling jewel eyes. "I was just trying to get warm."

  "So get warm elsewhere. I'm not a heat source."

  As he spoke, he noticed two spook-look
ing men hunched over a monitor table playing Shoot The Fat Elvis, with a concentration that either indicated that they were hazarding for real readies or faking it, and if they were faking it they were most probably spooks, Imperial Intelligence Agency or worse. They had that outside look of IIA. Pork pie hats and round indigo glasses as though dressing identically constituted a disguise. Maybe, later, they would require a quiet warning. Don't fuck with me, boys. I'm a genuine fucking demon from all the way back. On the other hand, for Yancey to do anything to draw attention to himself right then was probably a big mistake. He hadn't been lying or running a hardluck tale to the Skylar 5 about being posted as a three time deserter. He all too clearly remembered the exact thought that had encapsulated his improvised exit from the conflict.

  Fuck this for a sense of adventure.

  Enough had been enough. Turquoise phosphorous had streamed from the Delta Vulcan's undersides as they had made their strafing runs, igniting as it touched, turning at least quasi-human men into windmilling fiery special effects. And as if the chemical fire wasn't enough on its own, needleguns ripped fragment spirals and.70 caliber hollow point HE, like angry bees, chewed through the flames, and the lucky ones were cut to pieces before they fried. The Delta Vulcans would have blotted the sun from the sky, if we'd had the luxury of either, as they barreled across the hard deck with a howl that ended all other sound, while the grunts-of-the-thrall fell to attitudes of prayer and pleaded for the blessing of divine cover. Slide, demon that he was, grinned to himself even as he clung the reverberating ground.

  Nothing divine round these parts, lads, just scorching destruction. The Darogad had become an abattoir of machine slaughter, a killing field, pure and simple. Even to one like Slide, who had an age-long experience of violence and horror, the level of slaughter was almost beyond comprehension. In the most literal terms, the battle plain was shambles in which the men and the others died where they stood. Of course, Slide couldn't die, but the body he currently occupied was taking a dreadful beating, and wouldn't hold out much longer. Had he been human, he'd have been dead ten times over. Even the predator gas bladders in from the way-beyond, drawn by the curiosity when the first TV images of Dachau hit their star system, were now no more than rotting shreds. Only one word for it. The old Marine Corp's epithet, cluster-fuck; an out of the time stream, multidimensional cluster-fuck. That said it all.

  I should never have signed up for this cluster-fuck in the first place.

  This was double fucking jeopardy, played out against a moonscape diorama of shell craters and sandbags, shattered and blighted trees, ruined foxholes, and shreds of men and uniforms hanging on rust-red razor wire. Trenches were choked with mud, corpses, and slime-green toxic water, while skulls were crushed under the tracks of armored vehicles from the recent past, and the distant Skynet future, and vampire butterflies, heavy from deep and unstinted drinking, lazily flapped and flew, seemingly unaware of the relentless flak and radiation. Only the Moderns and the Futures now remained to continue the futile fight. The Retros were long gone. Macedonian phalanxes, Zulu impis, and rifle companies from the Somme had been mown down in the first minutes of engagement like stands of wheat. The Redcoats had formed desperate squares, and the Prussian cavalry, black plumes tossing, had charged through plasma bursts with all the courage of the truly insane. The Red Fog had eaten away the mail and Damascus blades of the Saracens, scorched their lungs, and liquefied their screaming horses' eyes. Seeing what had come to pass, the Zouaves and Legionaries had taken to their heels, but all to late, dying with the final knowledge that they had been capriciously sacrificed to nothing more than a moment of spectacle, and a megalomaniac leader's vanity of pomp and circumstance. He could see a spectral Howdy trace above the ruin of a shell hole, and Slide stumbled painfully to his feet, tossing away the burned-out blaster, and limping towards what could just be his salvation.

  It's time to cut your losses, boy, and get the fuck out of here.

  In the cooch joint, the quasi-woman in white, having failed to entice Slide, was now homing in on two men playing Shoot The Fat Elvis. She made to do nothing more than put down a side-bet, but Slide was pretty damn certain he'd detected a communication pass. Did that mean she was IIA too? Probably not an agent, but almost certainly hard wired as a Data Collector. Every quasi in a place like this had to be playing one or more side-angles. Even with tips and hustles, they didn't make enough for it to be otherwise. With little or no doubt she'd been checking him out, sniffing what she could from the hooded stranger with a borrowed body as ragged as Swiss cheese. How could he expect otherwise? Slide couldn't see that she could have learned much. He'd told the Skylar 5 more about himself, but Skylars were famous for keeping what they knew to themselves. That's why they were Skylars in the first place. The quasi was probably looking to part up with what crumbs she'd gleaned for a spare change gratuity. If they were Imperials, he should have been up and gone. No way did he want to fall back into the hands of Hassan IX's people, especially the Ministry of Virtue. Had he been fit he would have already been on the move, not taking any chances, but pain and exhaustion were making him lazy, willing to risk all to sit and hurt for a while. Maybe he should have hijacked the lizard's body and slithered out of there unnoticed. Slide preferred to be bipedal, at the very least humanoid. He had tried a reptilian corpus a couple of times when nothing else had been available, and he really hadn't liked it.

  Then the portal fluttered and all of Yancey Slide's speculations became redundant. A three-team of Pentecostal Fire Boys on the snatch came in; probably freelance skip-chasers but maybe GS-AS which was as good as freelance in this reality. That familiar watchful silence fell, proving better than any mission credentials that these newcomers had jurisdiction. The game engines whispered to a stop. Just to hone the edge of the tension, the three-team had a snitch in tow, his head swathed in the traditional Informer's Mask, so the canary could see and not be seen, identify but not be recognized. As the scary quartet made their slow, curious, and all seeing circuit, no one moved. This was a circumstance in which any sudden reaction could prove fatal.

  If you were on their list, forget about it. With the Fire Boys actually in the room, to run would be death or worse. Finally they halted and all who breathed held their's. The snitch pointed with the Hand of Doom at the gilded boy in spandex, the one with tan who'd been dancing. The reductor flashed and, without a word, the kid was 2Ded into a null cookie in a sparkle of flux-flutter, leaving only the unmistakable whiff of ozone and antimatter.

  The three-team turned and the snitch continued to scan the crowd. Slide didn't have to wait for the informer's theatrics. When his head stopped moving Slide knew the sonofabitch was looking at him. He pushed back the hood of his habit and slowly raised his rotting hands into plain sight. "You got me, boys. You've nabbed po' Yancey. I'll come quietly. You won't need the fire."

  Story so far - At the peak of the great Battle of the Fifteen Armies, Yancey Slide, Ronin Demon of the Tenth Continuum, sees all is lost for the Allied cause. He becomes a deserter, fleeing the Darogad by means of a Howdy Hole. Taking refuge in a cooch joint he is betrayed by a Masked Informer to a three-team of Pentecostal Fire Boys.

  Episode Two

  Doing The Jump Without A Body

  Johnny Yuma hadn't been able to find any speed. He had been deprived of amphetamine for more than ninety six hours. The Blimp had been monopolizing the living room, smoking some black-sticky bastard-concoction from south of the border, and washing it down with tequila straight from the bottle while watching pay-for-porno on the Russian mob's black satellite. Johnny had tried a couple of hits on the glass and tinfoil burner, but it had only made him want to vomit, which said a great deal for the Blimp's capacity for consumption if nothing for his taste. After a while, Johnny had also found himself sickened by all the cocks, cunts, garter belts, and lousy drum machine music on the big TV, and he retreated to the privacy of his bedroom to seek either death or oblivion. Fourteen Valium had finally put him to sleep, but then
he was unable to wake from the nightmare. And was it some fucking nightmare. Usually Johnny Yuma came out his dreams screaming. In this one he was screaming going in. He screamed until he was dizzy, but it didn't make a blind bit of difference. The cacophony just smashed back at him with some Newtonian equal-and-opposite logic, along with a vast reverberating boom, like the towering rhythmic rage of some vast aquatic mammal. Johnny Yuma was submerged in a pit or tank. A pit of worms? Snakes? No. Not alive. Neither vertebrate nor oozing things; they were cables, roiling, squirming, fully articulated, varying in size from a domestic power cord to miro-filaments, some transparent, some blue-black, a scattering of red, and small but crucial coils that glowed bad, alien-with-gangrene green. All seemed controlled by their own innate quasi-intelligence, or maybe a single integrated mind, but that told Johnny Yuma a great secret within itself. He was being changed. Johnny Yuma didn't use phrases like "their own innate quasi-intelligence, or maybe a single integrated mind", dude. But more and more Johnny Yuma wasn't Johnny Yuma anymore.

  He was being penetrated with all the symbolic and physical implications that came with the statement. Violated, invaded, fucked; although he wasn't sure if "fucked" applied. To be fucked, even to be raped, implied that whatever or whoever was doing the fucking would remove itself when the rape was complete. Johnny Yuma could detect no such guarantee. The cables appeared to be fixing to stay. They were even adapting him to their liking, sucking, shaping and changing the crucial him all through his being. A TV screen appeared. and with its coming all else was black. His screaming continued but the foldback seemed to have been turned down. The picture on the screen was of huge rabbits, the size of city buses, lolloping down Fifth Avenue in New York City, somewhere in the thirties, snacking on available sidewalk trees. ("How the fuck long is this going to take?")