Ruiz rolled into cover, popping up with the blunt muzzle of the Blowpipe at the ready. "Where? Anyone see the flash?"
"Above..." began Johnson, waving his hand. "I think I saw something."
"In front and behind?" said Purcell, her head whipping back and forth. "Skev! I told you this was a set-up, Sarge!"
Zeke frowned, and as if to underline his mistake and prove Purcell right, a couple of las-rounds streaked through the air from the opposite direction. The Nort who had killed Taylor was still with them, dogging them into the canyon. The sergeant would have spat in self-disgust if he hadn't had a hood on; how could he have been so damned stupid? He'd led his men right into a meat grinder.
Grimly, Zeke worked the battery-cartridge slide on his gun and checked the charge. "Pop smoke! Let's make this bugger work for it!"
G-Soldat NG/181-Beta recognised the report of the Mowzer and halted. Something wasn't running according to their tactical plan; it was too soon for 442-Sigma to start shooting the Southers. Sighting through the tele-optics of his own weapon, Beta considered the possibilities. Clearly, there was a third factor in this skirmish that neither of them had accounted for. The Nort gene-trooper reconsidered the moment as he had moved from cover after killing the woman. For just the smallest of instants, 181-Beta had seen what appeared to be movement at the top of the ridgeline. Had there been a third Soldat in their unit, he would have directed him to investigate, but with only Sigma and himself there had been no opportunity. Beta decided that the motion was likely starlight twinkling off glass fragments and nothing more; now he revised his conclusion and weighed the options. If Sigma had engaged a new target, Beta was potentially exposed. That was not an acceptable outcome.
The clone soldier peered into the rolling wall of smoke emerging from the handful of grenades tossed out by the Southers, looking for something to kill. The metallic mist was excellent for baffling automatic sensors, but the organic brain of a living sniper could interpret things no machine ever could. Beta saw a shape change aspect through the smoke and opened fire.
Half-out of his cover, Ruiz yelled in fright as a beam passed within a hand-span of his helmet and another one shrieked off the barrel of the Blowpipe. He dropped to a crouch, the heavy launcher knocked from his fingers.
Beta had his range now, even if he couldn't see him exactly, and his gunsight mind began to estimate the position and angle that the Souther would most likely adopt. He fired a few more probing rounds into the murk. The Soldat did not need to see his target to kill it.
"Do you even know how to use a weapon?" Gunnar asked angrily. "It's a simple interface, pinky, just point and click. Got it?"
"Quit calling me names," Ferris replied in a blunt whisper. "I'm new to this footslogger stuff."
"I'll say. Hold up here and bring me to eye-level."
The pilot did as the gun demanded. "What am I looking for?"
"Muzzle flash." The overlaid multi-spectral display from the rifle's triad optics showed cold stony rubble and grey swathes of smoke, then suddenly a flickering jag of yellow lightning to the right of the picture. "There!" Gunnar growled. "Hold me steady."
Ferris let the barrel dip toward the ground. "Wait, you don't know if that's a Nort or a Souther-"
"Aim me!" Gunnar snapped. "You ain't making the choice here, pal!"
"My finger's on the trigger!" he replied.
"No, it ain't," said the rifle.
Ferris let out a yelp of shock as Gunnar unleashed a full-auto surge of fire into the distance, the las-beams skipping off the glass and hissing through the air. The recoil of the rounds set him back on his heels. "Holy crap."
Out in the smoke, there was the distinctive sizzle of cooking meat as a shot struck bare flesh.
Rogue fought to keep the Nort GI from choking the life out of him; the G-Soldat was as strong as a mek-bull. Automatically he fell into pre-determined combat patterns drilled into him from his youth; Rogue struck out with steely fingers, performing nerve strikes that would have crippled a normal human. The enemy trooper let out painful grunts but gave no other signs of injury. The Nort GI's plastiflesh skin felt uncannily like Rogue's own. The armoured dome of bone-like matter over the Nort's head loomed, filling Rogue's vision; this new variety of Soldat was a lot tougher than he looked.
The GI's hand flapped over the hilt of his combat knife where it remained buried in the Nort's chest and Rogue grabbed on to it. He gave the blade a forceful twist, letting the weapon open up the enemy soldier's wound. Somewhere in the Soldat's chest cavity were the decentralised chambers of his heart, much as they were in Rogue's, and he slashed the knife in drastic arcs as emerald blood shot out like small geysers. The Nort bio-engineers had done their work well; the G-Soldats had ribcages like a tight hex-grid, protecting the more vulnerable organs within.
Sigma felt no agony from the savage wound. A neural shunt conditioned by his creators instantly diverted all impulses from pain receptors, flooding his brain with combat strength endorphins. In such a state, he would be able to march for days on bloody stumps, or beat someone to death with his own severed limb before the eventual fluid loss wore him down.
Rogue saw the green-skinned warrior's eyes widen with the flush of the neurochemicals; he knew the sensation from personal experience. Vision fogging, he tried a last ditch attack and went for the soldat's throat. The GI's teeth bit into the Nort's flesh and tore a lump of muscle away with them.
Sigma dropped Rogue as he clasped at his neck, trying to hold onto the ragged flap of skin, and as he did so, the infantryman spun away and landed hard on the ground. Sigma spat out a mouthful of thick, glutinous fluids. Dimly, Rogue was aware of Helm and Bagman speaking, but their voices shot out like hollow echoes. He shook off the sluggish effects of the soldat's attack. Bagman's arm was pressing something into his hand, a pistol-shaped device.
"Get him!" Bagman cried. "Head shot!"
Rogue realised what the object was just as the enemy GI dived at him, an animal roar escaping from its lips. He brought up the device and caught the Nort in the face. Rogue pressed the coiled flexsteel bit of the hand-drill into the only weak spot on the soldat's head - its eyes - and forced the delicate optical jelly into the Nort's forebrain. Instantly, Sigma tried to pull back, but Rogue caught him in a death grip and rammed the drill deep into his skull.
The enemy trooper made a peculiar, juddering cry and went slack, limbs jerking and twisting as its brain misfired. Rogue let the Soldat slip to the ground and watched carefully as it slowly died.
"A drill?" Helm was sour. "Way to improvise, Bag."
"First thing that came to hand," said the backpack biochip.
"Quiet, both of you." Rogue removed the tool with a pop of wet flesh and then recovered his combat knife. He gave the G-Soldat a brief once-over, then made a couple of quick, deep cuts that severed the Nort's main arteries in its neck. In seconds, G-Soldat NG/442-Sigma had ceased to function, lying in shallow pool of its own synthetic blood.
G-Soldat NG/181-Beta smelled the death scent of its team-mate on the cold air and stiffened, the tactical effects of Sigma's killing racing through its brain. The wound on its torso was severe but not crippling. In Beta's regimented mindset, it saw the burnt skin and organ damage like a checklist of plus and minus points: kidney impaired, blood loss increasing, epidermal integrity lost.
The G-Soldat's fight or flight reflex kicked in. The balance of the skirmish had altered radically in the last few minutes, the disoriented Souther soldiers suddenly gaining not one but two allies from out of nowhere - one of which had terminated Sigma without the use of a firearm. The sporadic laser fire from the second new arrival suggested to Beta that the shooter was inexperienced, but the lucky round that had hit him in the gut said otherwise.
All this, the reasoning and evaluation, raced through the warrior mind in a flash. G-Soldat NG/181-Beta's self-preservation protocols rose to the top; retreat and evade, it decided.
"What is that?" Ruiz asked, aiming his Blowpipe at the blue-ski
nned figure as it walked carefully down the ridge toward the troopers. "He ain't got no mask!"
Rogue tossed away the smashed fragments of the Mowzer rifle; he'd broken it in two after spotting the gun camera lens on the barrel, the transmitter still active. "Who's in command here?"
Zeke frowned behind his chem-hood. "I'll ask the questions. What's your unit?"
Purcell made a spitting noise. "Hell, Sarge, you know what he is! It's the Rogue, man. The Rogue Trooper." She shook her head. "Skev me. In the flesh!"
"Stay away, you monster!" Johnson had his rifle raised and aimed at the GI. "You're no different from those other ones!" He flicked a look at Zeke. "It'll kill us! Just 'cos the skin's a different colour, that don't mean nothing!"
"Stow it!" Zeke snapped.
"Well, that's gratitude for you," said Bagman.
Rogue stood clear of the soldiers, hands at his sides, doing his best to appear non-threatening. The GI had dealt with twitchy types like these on dozens of occasions and he wasn't about to give them an excuse to start shooting. He inclined his head at the broken church tower. "You were walking right into a sniper snare. I dealt with him."
Zeke eyed the splashes of emerald blood on Rogue's chest. "I can see that. There was another one, though..."
"Got away." Gunnar's voice came through the smoke.
Ferris emerged carrying the rifle and jerked to a halt as Ruiz and Purcell swung their guns to bear in him. "Whoa! Easy there! We're all pals here, okay?" He gave a feeble grin. "Southside? Yeah!"
The confederate rallying cry carried little weight with the soldiers, however. "Who the hell are you?" demanded Ruiz.
"He's with me," Rogue answered. "Gunnar, the other soldat?"
Ruiz's eyes widened as the rifle in Ferris's grip spoke in a disgusted snarl. "Flyboy here messed up my aim. I wounded the Nort, but it cut and ran before I could finish him off."
The Souther soldier blinked. "Dead men talking. Now I seen it all."
"Yeah, we're a real freak show," added Helm.
Johnson mumbled a prayer under his breath. Zeke gave him another hard look, then waved down the soldiers. "I suppose we should thank you."
"Yeah, you should," agreed Bagman. "You'd be ventilated like your friend back there if Rogue hadn't waded in."
The GI crossed over to Ferris and accepted his rifle. "How come you're out this far?"
Zeke shifted uncomfortably. "We got cut off from our unit... Lost the radio. Norts didn't give us time to take a breath and get our bearings."
"That's their way," Rogue nodded. "I'm looking for somewhere called Domain Delta, a Nort base hidden in the zone. You heard of it?"
"Inside the zone?" Purcell tapped her mask thoughtfully. "We did get reports of an enemy convoy passing through recently; couple of Nort atmocraft heading out into the wilds. There's nothing out there, though. Seemed pretty strange."
"Could have been supplies for Delta," said Ferris.
"Maybe." Rogue considered the soldiers for a moment.
"We need to get back to our lines," Zeke insisted. "I imagine you won't be following us, though, what with you being a deserter and all..."
The thinly-veiled insult didn't rankle the GI; he'd heard it too many times. Rogue pointed to the south. "That way. You start walking now and you'll hit allied turf in a day or so. But you better be ready for more of those Nort G-Soldats and their buddies."
"What do you mean?" said Ruiz, failing to keep the fear from his voice.
"I know their kind," Rogue said without irony. "They're not going to stop hunting you until they got all your scalps. It's how the Norts made them."
"You got a better idea?" asked Purcell. Behind, Ferris saw Zeke's expression harden; suddenly the sergeant's troops were deferring to the GI like he was in charge.
Rogue gave a curt nod. "We play their move against them. Set up a fire zone, let them come in and then waste them all."
"Here?" said Johnson, glancing around nervously.
"No, too open. We'll go deeper into the zone."
Zeke was suddenly aware that the other soldiers were staring at him, waiting for him to agree. He fumed inwardly; he couldn't deny that the Genetic Infantryman knew what he was talking about, but instant erosion of his command irritated the veteran. He sure as hell didn't like taking orders from this blue freak - but if the GI was right, they'd never make it back to safe ground.
"Fine," he said brusquely. "You take point, seeing as you know this plate-glass hellhole better than any of us... But any funny stuff and I'll waste you myself."
Rogue didn't acknowledge the order and started off into the glass. Ferris kept pace with him. "You sure this is a good idea, hooking up with these guys? Can't you just give them a digi-map and let them go?"
"They'd be dead in an hour," Rogue replied flatly. "Besides, you saw those Nort GIs. If they're being deployed in the Quartz Zone, then they've gotta have a base nearby."
"You think you could get a live one?"
The clone soldier's eyes narrowed. "We'll see. For now, it's the best lead I got."
Ferris was silent for a moment before speaking. "You're using those dogfaces as bait. What if they're not up to it?"
Rogue gave him a sideways glance but did not answer.
EIGHT
FIRE MISSION
As the elevator rose through the levels of Domain Delta, Kapten Volks nervously brushed stray hair out of his eyes and flicked a tiny speck of lint from the front of his uniform. The hour was late; he had been completing a triple-check of the perimeter sensors in the test range west of the domeplex when the autovox chimed on his communicator.
"Kolonel-Doktor Schrader requests your immediate presence in her chambers," it said. Johann knew from previous experience that such "requests" were not to be taken lightly and returned quickly in a fast fan-jeep. The line troopers and men he passed said nothing as he made his way to the elevator bank. Volks knew that many of them talked about him behind his back, making fun of his liaisons with the director. That bothered the officer; he was afraid that their relationship would erode his authority with the soldiers, making him appear weak in their eyes. Schrader's behaviour towards him did not help the matter. She was frequently critical of him in full view of his subordinates, on some occasions even openly mocking.
Just the thought of it made Volks's jaw clench, his fists tighten. In his darker, more secret moments he wondered what it might be like to strike her, to force the icy bitch to do what he said for a change... But then the tiny fantasy of his bravado evaporated as the lift halted and the doors opened at Schrader's personal penthouse at the dome's crown. Volks stepped out into the dimly lit room, the dark of the night through the plastibubble roof casting pools of gloom all around him.
"Reporting as ordered," he said, somewhat redundantly. There was a line of monitor screens glowing in bright actinic hues along a nearby console and one showed the empty interior of the lift. She had been watching him since the moment he entered the dome.
A shadow moved in the dimness and Schrader approached, her ankle-length laboratory coat moving like a cloak around her. She had a digi-pad in one hand and was studying it intently. Volks stifled a gasp as he realised that aside from soft deck shoes, she was nude beneath the lab coat. One glimpse of her lean, strong body made the Kapten's resolve melt and it took a near-physical effort for him to shut away his desire.
She saw the expression on his face and made a show of covering herself up. "Don't stare at me like an addled kadet, Johann. I have something to show you." There was a flash of mischief in her eyes, a certain knowledge of her control over him. "Something else." Schrader approached the monitor console and brought up a replay of jumpy vid footage on the largest of the screens.
Volks recognised the coding on the display immediately. "A mission log from the training cadres?" he said. The Nort officer looked to Schrader for confirmation.
She nodded, smiling thinly. "G-Soldat NG/181-Beta and 442-Sigma. Part of the evaluation group set out for live fire sorties."
"Yes, they were sent after that Souther patrol," he said. "They were ordered to track and kill them."
"I changed those priorities," Schrader noted. "I wanted to let the NexGen toy with them a little first." She sighed. "It's important for a good predator to know the pleasure of the hunt before the prey is dispatched."
The Type-K Genetik Soldats - which Schrader had christened the "NexGen" - were the product of two decades of playing catch-up with the Southers in the field of gene engineering. But they still possessed the flaws of their predecessors, and while the war on Nu Earth had rumbled on, Domain Delta had been set up to improve Nort bio-science to a point that would surpass the enemy's advancements. That had been the dome's mandate, but under Lisle Schrader's control, what happened in Delta's sealed sub-levels had taken on a very different purpose. Like everything in the facility, the G-Soldats were just serving the higher goal that the Kolonel-Doktor had envisaged, the secret design to which she ceaselessly worked. Volks felt a weary weight in his chest as he realised that he was just as much a cog in her infernal machine as the clone soldiers were.
Schrader was scrolling through the footage from the gun-camera at high speed. Volks saw flash-fast images of las-bolts striking Souther troops, figures whipping around and vanishing in churns of splashed red. "G-Soldat NG/442-Sigma was terminated," she said offhandedly. "A close range melee kill, it appears."
The Nort officer frowned, confused. The woman's tone was light, unconcerned. In previous incidents where her precious NexGen had died, she had been positively incandescent with rage. Moreover, the killing of a Genetik Trooper by a typical Souther was freakishly unlikely. "How could that happen?" he asked. "Those suds are no match for our G-units."
"Very true," Schrader demurred. "Soldat Sigma lost its life to something very different." A new emotion entered her voice; longing. "Watch."
The gun-camera footage switched to a new view of several Southers approaching a sniper point, then suddenly the image went wild, sky and ground flickering around as the weapon where the camera was mounted flailed around. Volks got the impression of two muscular shapes wrestling in the half-light before the view fell away to the dirt. After long moments, the angle shifted again and a single yellow eye peered into the lens, followed by a rain of static and the screen displaying the words: "Signal lost".
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