Blood Relative (25 page)

"More or less," rumbled the dog-chip.

The gamma grenades detonated with a hollow thump of noise, blasting another crater in the pockmarked wilderness of the range. Zeke watched it happen from his hiding place, afraid to look away from the hasty tripwire he'd set up in case his worried glances were the only things that were keeping it in place.

As he expected, the sharp eyes of the G-Soldats caught sight of the wire instantly. Zeke had seen them drop from the hopper with the sniper and break off, sweeping down towards the Southers like a pair of hunting dogs. Without a single spoken word of command, the two clones disconnected the wire and rendered the makeshift booby trap inert; but in the process, one of them stepped on the plastic contact switch that Purcell had improvised out of her torch and triggered the actual booby trap. Four grenades tied together by a lanyard chain-fired and ripped into the Norts.

Zeke grinned. These green-skinned clones were a different breed to the GI. Where the Rogue Trooper moved with the skill and composure of a veteran soldier, the G-Soldats were still green. Oh sure, they were fast and they were sharp as a sabre-cat, but they were just book-trained. None of them had been in the thick like Zeke, Purcell or the GI. "Move, move!" the sergeant called, beckoning to Purcell and the other survivors. "The other teams will be on their way!"

"Wait a sec," said Sanchez, walking forward with his revolver drawn. "'Fore you pat yourself on the back, let's make sure. I seen these greenies get up from more than your little love tap." The ragged soldier found the bodies of the G-Soldats close together and to Zeke's surprise they were still clinging to life. Sanchez used the large calibre pistol to put a bullet through each of their optic sockets. He indicated his own forehead. "Too tough to punch through their skull plates with ballistics," he noted. "Gotta shoot 'em in the eye."

Purcell jabbed a finger at the sky. "Hopper incoming."

Zeke threw Sanchez a look. "I said move."

A spark spat out of the cockpit console and Ferris cursed. "I think that's it. Wait. No. I got it."

"This isn't gonna work," said Gunnar irritably.

Ferris glared at the biochip. "This wouldn't be necessary if you had checked your fire."

"I've had a bad day," Gunnar's synth was acid. "So sue me."

The pilot said something under his breath and forced a connection into place. "There. The secondary bus was fried, so the signal strength is way lower than it was and patchy, but the range will be greater."

"Is it going to be enough to screw with Schrader's transmitter?" said Rogue.

Ferris flipped the power switch. "Only one way to find out." He handed the GI a microphone salvaged from one of the dead crewmen. "You're on the air with Radio Norty."

"Helm, Bagman, if you can hear me," Rogue said into the mic. "I'm not the enemy. It's Schrader; she's using your bio-implants to control you!"

"Schrader." The word cut into Helm like a knife of fire, bringing with it a cascade of hurtful images, a thousand subliminal cues that were designed to make him bow to every command the scientist uttered. He could hear Rogue speaking through the earpiece he wore, but the voice seemed like it was coming from everywhere at once. Rogue was all around him, in his mind, tearing at him, forcing him to see what he had become. Helm twitched; it was like emerging from a waking dream.

He looked down at his hands, at the dark emerald skin. "No," he said to himself. "Oh, no." Only the sensation of the GI-issue helmet on his head felt right; every other element of his self was like a mosaic of jigsaw pieces hammered into the wrong picture.

The other G-Soldats in the hopper studied him with mute suspicion, hands moving toward their rifles.

The hopper pilot turned in his seat to face Helm and the other troopers in the open cabin behind him. "There's a jamming signal being broadcast from inside the test range. Something is wrong."

Helm was just a hand's length away from the Nort. "Yeah, you're right," he said, a crystal clarity descending on him. With a lighting fast motion, he slammed his head forward and used the GI helmet to butt the pilot on the nose, cracking the bone and tearing open the front of his chem-mask. The Nort shrieked and clawed at his face, the hopper controls out of sight, out of mind.

It all happened at once. Unguided, the hopper dipped sharply to port and began a spinning dive. The two G-Soldats collided with Helm, grabbing at him, tearing at toughened skin, and then the cabin slipped away under them as Helm's tether snapped. He was falling through the air, caught in a knot with the G-Soldats, the twisted earth rushing up to embrace them.

"Schrader!" The name was a block in Bagman's path and he stumbled over it. Heat, crippling and constant, washed over his chest and head from the burning brand in his neck. His fingers picked at the edges of his bony skull armour, as if ripping it off could bring some relief from the fire flooding through him. He staggered like he'd been gut-punched, one hand whipping out to keep his balance, the other clutching at his backpack.

Strong fingers gripped his wrist and pulled him off-balance. Bagman blinked away the agony behind his eyes and saw his G-Soldat chaperones watching him. Without orders, they were falling back into their usual operational patterns; kill anything that exhibited behaviour outside the parameters set by the kolonel-doktor.

"You are impaired," declared the one that was holding on to him.

Bagman touched the dispenser slot on the back of his pack and tapped an item code on the touch pad there; he knew the numbers like he knew the names of every GI that had died in the Zone. Item four-six-three dropped obediently into his palm.

"Desist," said the other Soldat, drawing a combat knife. "We are to locate and terminate the GI. You must follow the kolonel's commands."

Heat lanced through his chest and arms, radiating out from the epicentre of the bio-implant, cramping every one of Bagman's muscles. "I gotta get this outta me..." he hissed through clenched teeth. "Nnnnnn! I ain't one of you no more!"

The las-scalpel in his hand blazed into life, the blade beam extending to its full magnitude. Bagman swept it around in an arc of yellow light, cutting cleanly through the wrist of the first Soldat. The second trooper should have ducked backward - that was what a seasoned soldier would have done - but instead he tried to turn inside Bagman's reach. He was ready and the las-scalpel tore open the other Soldat's throat. Green fluid spattered all over Bagman, burning him like acid.

He reached up to wipe the blood away and realised that some of it was his own; the G-Soldat's knife jutted from Bagman's ribcage. How had he missed that?

He stumbled onward, leaving the disarmed clone to bleed out in the dirt.

FIFTEEN

WILDFIRE

The pain in Ferris's leg was growing worse and he tried to put all thought of finding more no-shock ampoules out of his mind. As much as they would help, he wanted to stay sharp and focused. He wasn't about to accept Rogue's dead buddies back into the fold as easily as the GI did.

"Definitely a hopper," he said. "What's left of one, anyhow." Through his binox, Ferris could see a wing poking up from the twists of wreckage in the near distance. He glanced at Rogue; the GI had spotted the aircraft spiralling down out of the sky. "Did you see a missile?"

"Negative," said the GI. "But the pilot of that thing was dead before it hit the dirt."

"You think Helm or Bag were aboard?" said Gunnar.

"Can't be sure." Neither of them said what they were thinking. If their comrades had been in the hopper, they would surely have been killed and with no one around to save the biochip, they would stay that way.

"There's still, uh, bad guys out there," said Ferris. "You got a plan?"

Rogue gave a shrug. "I'm making this up as I go."

Gunnar gave a guttural snort. "Nothing changes."

A voice echoed down from the ridge. "Trooper? Sound off!"

"It's Purcell," said Ferris.

The Southers were tired but wary and the ragged group emerged over the top of the shallow valley with their weapons primed. Purcell had salvaged a gun from one of the G-Soldats and she held it like she was itching to use it. Zeke, Sanchez and three more men came with her into the embankment cut by the crashed atmocraft.

Sanchez surveyed the wreck and made a spitting noise.

"What's going on?" Zeke demanded of Rogue. "I saw a hopper go down. You do that?"

The GI looked back, impassive. "Threw a spanner in the works. Right now Schrader's realising that the rules of her hunt have just changed."

"With all due respect," Purcell broke in, "that psycho blond can go chew on a torpedo for all I care." She looked at Ferris. "Forget Schrader, let's get airborne."

Sanchez gave a hollow laugh. "Good luck."

Ferris blinked and the words came out in a rush. "The G-lifters are trashed. It wouldn't fly even if you strapped an orbital booster to it."

Purcell's face turned red with rage and she went for him, grabbing Ferris by the throat. "You civvie prick! You said you could fly it!" Ferris flailed and choked, pulling at the soldier's grip.

"Let him go!" Zeke snapped. "Purcell, you'll kill him!"

"Damn right I will!" she shouted. "You let us down, you stupid dink!"

Rogue took Purcell's arm and applied pressure at a nerve point; she gasped in pain and let the pilot go. "It's not Ferris's fault. We knew the wreck was a long shot."

The woman shook off Rogue's grip and gave him a fierce look. There were tears of exasperation and anger in her eyes. "So what are we supposed to do now, blue-boy? Throw rocks at the Norts until they decide to bomb us into the mud?"

"Hunters will get us before that happens," Sanchez said in a low voice.

Zeke turned on the other soldier. "Why don't you shut your damn mouth? I'm getting sick of hearing nothing but dead air every time you open it!"

Sanchez shrugged, unconcerned. "Just saying, is all."

"Norts!" The shout broke through the tension. One of the other prisoners, a gaunt figure in a Navy-issue chem-suit stabbed a finger, brandishing a small auto-pistol. "I see a green skin!"

Rogue loped up the ridge and pushed the Souther aside, bringing Gunnar up to bear. "Full sweep," he told the rifle.

"Check," replied Gunnar. "Movement, three o'clock."

The trooper's eyes narrowed as a figure moved around the hulk of a destroyed staff car. It was a G-Soldat all right, but a GI helmet capped the broad, expressionless head. The clone soldier was unarmed, but he sported a familiar, boxy backpack. The gear seemed incongruous on an enemy soldier.

"Helm?" said Gunnar, spotting the biochip slotted in the brow of the helmet.

Rogue drew a bead on the Soldat's eye, he wasn't going to take any chances. "Hold it right there," he called.

The figure glanced up and noticed him for the first time. Rogue saw thin streams of blood at the corners of his mouth and the patch of distended, wet flesh on his flank. The NexGen was trying to hold closed a wide, deep wound. "Hey, Rogue. Knew I'd find ya."

"Bagman," Gunnar grated. "He's hurt bad..."

The Soldat slipped to the ground. "Ah. Here we go again, huh?"

Rogue shouldered his weapon and came to Bagman's side. "Helm, you in there?"

"Yeah." The voice from the helmet was sullen and distant.

"What happened?"

"Heard you calling..." Bagman tapped his head with a finger. "Whatever you did, it worked." He coughed out a mouthful of blood. "Helm... Took a skydive without a grav-chute..."

"I had Norts to break my fall," the synth replied with gallows humour.

"Got to him in time," Bagman gave a lolling nod and removed the helmet. "Here. Don't seem right without you wearin' it."

"Rogue, he's got major internal bleeding. A Nort put a fractal-edge blade through his guts," Helm said flatly.

Bagman pressed something into Rogue's palm with blood-slick fingers. "Your turn now," he gave a faint, pained smile. "My turn, I mean." Bagman touched his head. "What goes around, comes around, huh? Get me outta here."

Rogue looked down at the las-scalpel in his hand and nodded. He thumbed the activation stud and the blade flickered into life.

"I say we ditch the freak and head for the Quartz," said the Souther in the scum-sea war gear. "We get into the Glass Zone, we're home free."

"In your dreams," Ferris frowned. "You want to leave Rogue behind in this hell-hole? You gotta be out of your mind, he's the only fighting chance we got."

"What makes you think you're gonna get a vote, civvie?" said Sanchez. "This is a military unit and you're just a punk-ass independent."

The pilot sneered. "Listen to you! Well, Major General Brigadier whatever the hell you wanna be Sanchez, maybe you haven't noticed, but this little happy band isn't exactly parade ground material!" He pointed an accusing finger at the soldier.

Sanchez stroked his revolver. "Like I said, what makes you think you get a vote?" He tapped the barrel of the gun to his faceplate. "Maybe I just put a round in you and take those nice binox."

"Shut up, all of you!" Zeke barked. "If we want to get out of this alive, we'll stick together and that includes the GI."

"You followin' his lead now, Sarge?" Purcell looked away.

Zeke's face soured. "Shut up," he repeated, with less force than before.

The sailor stood up, clutching at his captured Nort assault weapon. "The civvie's right about one thing, there ain't no chain of command in this place. I'm getting outta here and I'm not letting that freak stop me."

"You go right ahead," Purcell's tone was sarcastic.

The Souther turned on her. "What? You gone yellow too? I'm not going back to that Norty zoo, you read me? The GI gets in my way, he's dead! We could take him if we hit him together, he's just one man-"

"You're wrong." Rogue's voice cut through the moment. He stood on the lip of the ridge, just as he had when he'd rescued Zeke and the others from the Soldat snipers. The straps of his backpack framed his chest and in one hand he held his rifle. "I'm not just one GI. I'm all of them."