Toxicity by Andy Remic Read Free Book Online Page A

recycling techniques, ran for government and tried - vainly, it would
seem -to achieve votes. But when Impurity’s members started being randomly
picked off - assassinated - and those assassinations were rumoured to be
carried out by the highly illegal and dangerous Anarchy Androids, Impurity
had decided to fight back with the creation of a covert paramilitary wing:
cells, squads that used underhand methods - as did The Company - in its fight
not for freedom, but for an end to pollution.
     
    Impurity fought to highlight the
toxic poisoning of their world; something so obvious it was in front of every
member of the Manna Galaxy daily. Unfortunately, it would seem humans and
aliens alike enjoyed their happy Utopia so much they would cheerily condemn
Amaranth to its Toxic World status without the blink of an eye, without a
thought for the dropped hot-dog carton, the frothing psycho-sud suds, and - as
with everything - a constant eye on the fucking bank balance. At the end of the
day, Jenny, and every other member of the Impurity Movement, knew the
whole shitty corrupt process was about money. No... Money, with a capital
fucking M. And that was what was so galling. If Greenstar, if The Company, did
what it said it would do - recycle everything in a completely nontoxic,
ethical, positive, life-affirming manner - well, then everybody would be happy.
But they didn’t. They cut corners. Saved money. Pumped shit into the soil and
the water. And as a result, people died.
     
    And, Jenny knew, there was a hard
core who wouldn’t stand for it.
     
    She wouldn’t stand for it.
     
    Which is why it pained her so
much, truly, to fight somebody like Jones.
     
    Hell. They shouldn’t be fighting
each other.
     
    They should be disintegrating The
Company and its lack of ethics.
     
    People, animals, fauna;
everything on Toxicity was dying or dead. T-Day was coming. Total toxicity.
Then there would be no going back; then, there would be no more time to stand
up and fight and be counted. On that day, Jenny knew, it would be a good day to
die.
     
    Out of the game, Jenny shooed
Randy away, who skipped off, his pointed boots with skull buckles clacking, his
cuff lace fluffing; she smiled wearily, tested her bruised jaw, and lit another
cigarette.
     
    Meat Cleaver was also out of the
game, and she watched him carefully. Stocky and powerful, even at a game of
cards he must have been carrying... what? Ten or twelve sheathed knives about
his person. And of course, down the middle of his back like some Conan- wannabe,
a massive, slightly curved meat cleaver which, he claimed, was more accurate in
combat than any petty trinket samurai sword. “What happens when you meet a man
with a machine gun?” had been Jenny’s first question on hearing that Cleaver
refused to carry a projectile weapon of any sort. He’d grinned toothily at her,
looked up to the sky, and said, “God works in mysterious ways. And you’d be
surprised what seeing my meat cleaver does to a man’s aim.”
     
    Jenny’s eyes moved further round
the group, past the dazzling gorgeousness of Flizz (gorgeousness she’d used,
predictably, to ensnare many a border or gate guard, dazzling him with beauty
and smiles and lip gloss, then rendering him unconscious with a kick to the
nads and karate chop to the neck).
     
    Beside her was Nanny, the oldest
member of the group. Female, hair in a crew cut, face harsh and haggard and
brutal and square. She’d be the first to admit she was the complete antithesis
of Flizz; where Flizz dazzled, Nanny groggled, where Flizz beamed smiles, Nanny
cracked sour cynicism, where Flizz laughed and skipped and bounced, Nanny
moaned and plodded and waddled. Nanny was stocky, muscular, heavy-set, big-boned,
wearing size 12 boots and with fists like shovels. She carried several pistols
and was the resident detonations expert, having once worked the infamous
DemolSquads of Old London. Often the others would poke fun at Nanny, and her
nickname was not, as