Quake by Andy Remic

and gooey inside. What the fuck does four per cent represent, anyway?’
    ‘Statistics,’ mumbled Slater. ‘There are no current numbers ...’
    ‘Fucking suits and their fucking statistics,’ snarled Jam. ‘Real figures would had been more use - not four fucking per cent! What’s four per cent of an unspecified amount? Jesus! Now, this is our chance to take out a few more unfortunates ... drop it to two per cent of whatever, eh, mate?’
    ‘Jam ... better be careful we don’t become complacent.’
    Jam winked. ‘Hah! We eat the fuckers for breakfast nowadays.’
    Acting on tip-offs and local military intelligence, Jam, Slater and TT were due to investigate claims of a relatively small Nex ‘nest’ in Slovenia, close to a village named Trebija. The Brazil6 SAD mission had been the most recent large ‘find’, and SAD missions were becoming more and more infrequent and thus required fewer and fewer resources from Spiral. A large nest would entail complex military missions with interlocking paths from anything from three to twenty DemolSquads; but for a small gig like this? Jam was happy to do it on his own.
    ‘Probably be nothing. Rice or something on their scanners,’ growled Slater.
    ‘You’re so pessimistic,’ said Jam, lighting another cigarette and cursing himself. He was trying - very unsuccessfully and at the request of Nicky, his wife-to-be - to quit. He inhaled the deep blue smoke and slapped Slater on the back, having to stand on tiptoe to do it despite his own six feet of height. ‘Anyway, you haven’t told me yet if you’re coming to my wedding!’
    ‘I have to check my diary,’ said Slater.
    ‘You still sulking because I asked Carter to be my best man?’
    ‘No,’ said Slater sulkily.
    ‘Come on, buddy, you know I’ve been friends with Carter since fucking kindergarten. We’ve done some shit together, fought some fucking battles, been through some real hard times. And I know you and me are friends, but you have to accept my decision like a real man, not sulk like an arse ...’
    ‘It’s just...’
    ‘What?’
    TT sidled closer, a smile across her full pouting lips.
    ‘It’s just…’
    ‘Spit it out, man,’ snapped Jam.
    ‘He thinks if he’s the best man it’ll help him pull one of the bridesmaids, get him a bit of pussy for a drunken night of debauchery with fruit, or whatever it is that rubs Slater up the right way.’
    ‘Thanks, TT,’ spat Slater, reddening.
    ‘Don’t worry.’ Jam winked, slapping the huge soldier on the back again. ‘If it is a bit of pussy you’re wanting, then Jam is the man to ... to ...’ He stared hard at TT. ‘What? What’s that look?’
    TT ran a hand through her cropped hair, then smoothed her eyebrows which were immaculately plucked. ‘Do you realise that I went to prep school with Nicky?’ she said softly. ‘We shared a dorm, were very good friends, in fact.’
    Jam stared hard at her.
    ‘We used to have midnight feasts, sneak out into the village and meet the boys, got up to all sorts of mischief-me and your soon-to-be wife.’ She smiled sweetly at Jam.
    ‘You’re fucking with me, right?’
    ‘Not at all.’
    ‘Stop it, because you are fucking with me.’
    ‘Why would I lie? You know I’m friends with Nicky, you’ve seen me talking to her enough times. We joined up together.’
    ‘She never told me that.’
    ‘Why would she? Do you know everything about your woman?’ She gave a very dark smile. ‘Because I doubt it very much, Mr Jam. But the things she has told me about you!’
    The pilot chose that moment to arrive. He was a slim man, with bright eager eyes and the disposition of a puppy: always eager to please. He wore his hair long and generously curled like a middle-aged pop star or footballer, and it lapped around his shoulders, buoyed on a current of air, hairspray and expensive Italian conditioners. To Fenny, Hair Was Life. Which was why it had been with great irony that God had made this man bald at the crown -