Blood Relative
Page 1
ROGUE TROOPER
BLOOD RELATIVE
Rogue threw Zero onto the ramp and pulled himself on board as the Nort armoured vehicles rounded the street corner, pushing waves of water, bodies and debris before them. "Get us out of here!" A cannon on the lead tank spat smoke and flame, and Ferris flinched as a shell shrieked over the shuttle and demolished a nearby building. "Whoa! That ain't friendly!" He slammed the throttle forward to full burn. "Hang on to something!"
The atmocraft's engine bells threw a sheet of fusion fire out behind them and the ship leapt to supersonic velocity, cracking the sound barrier with a thunderous boom of compacted air.
ROGUE TROOPER
#1: CRUCIBLE - Gordon Rennie
#2: BLOOD RELATIVE - James Swallow
#3: THE QUARTZ MASSACRE - Rebecca Levene
STRONTIUM DOG
#1: BAD TIMING - Rebecca Levene
#2: PROPHET MARGIN - Simon Spurrier
#3: RUTHLESS - Jonathan Clements
#4: DAY OF THE DOGS - Andrew Cartmel
#5: A FISTFUL OF STRONTIUM - Jaspre Bark and Steve Lyons
DURHAM RED
-Peter J Evans-
#1: THE UNQUIET GRAVE
#2: THE OMEGA SOLUTION
#3: THE ENCODED HEART
#4: MANTICORE REBORN
#5: BLACK DAWN
MORE 2000 AD ACTION
THE ABC WARRIORS
#1: THE MEDUSA WAR - Pat Mills & Alan Mitchell
#2: RAGE AGAINST THE MACHINES - Mike Wild
ROGUE TROOPER
#1: CRUCIBLE - Gordon Rennie
JUDGE DREDD FROM 2000 AD BOOKS
#1: DREDD VS DEATH
Gordon Rennie
#2: BAD MOON RISING
David Bishop
#3: BLACK ATLANTIC
Simon Jowett & Peter J Evans
#4: ECLIPSE
James Swallow
#5: KINGDOM OF THE BLIND
David Bishop
#6: THE FINAL CUT
Matthew Smith
#7: SWINE FEVER
Andrew Cartmel
#8: WHITEOUT
James Swallow
#9: PSYKOGEDDON
Dave Stone
JUDGE ANDERSON
#1: FEAR THE DARKNESS - Mitchel Scanlon
#2: RED SHADOWS - Mitchel Scanlon
#3: SINS OF THE FATHER - Mitchel Scanlon
CABALLISTICS, INC
-Mike Wild-
#1: HELL ON EARTH
#2: BETTER THE DEVIL
FIENDS OF THE EASTERN FRONT - David Bishop
#1: OPERATION VAMPYR
#2: THE BLOOD RED ARMY
#3: TWILIGHT OF THE DEAD
For The Enfield Suicide Squad,
The Friday Nighters
and The Friends of the 58th.
Semper Fidelis.
Rogue Trooper created by Gerry Finley-Day and Dave Gibbons.
A 2000 AD Publication
www.abaddonbooks.com
www.2000adonline.com
1098 7 65 4321
Cover illustration by Dylan Teague.
Copyright © 2005 Rebellion A/S. All rights reserved.
All 2000 AD characters and logos © and TM Rebellion A/S."Rogue Trooper" is a trademark in the United States and other jurisdictions"2000 AD" is a registered trademark in certain jurisdictions. All rights reserved. Used under licence.
ISBN(.epub): 978-1-84997-075-4
ISBN(.mobi): 978-1-84997-116-4
A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
ROGUE TROOPER
BLOOD RELATIVE
JAMES SWALLOW
THE LEGEND OF THE ROGUE TROOPER
Nu Earth is a hellish, nightmare planet ravaged by war. The planet's atmosphere is devoid of life, poisoned by repeated chemical attacks and deadly to inhale. But the planet is close to a vital wormhole in space, a fact which has dragged its two rival factions - the Norts and the Southers - into a never-ending war. Now Nu Earth is a toxic, hell-blasted rock, where millions of soldiers in bio-suits wage bloody battles and die in their millions. Nu Earth is too important to lose. Not an inch of ground can be lost!
Here is where the legend of Rogue Trooper was born. Created by Souther forces, Rogue Trooper is the sole surviving example of the Genetic Infantrymen: a regiment of soldiers grown in vats and bio-engineered to be the perfect killing machine. Complete with protective blue skin and the ability to breathe the venomous atmosphere, the Genetic Infantrymen became renowned figures on both sides of the conflict. Moreover, the mind and soul of the GI could be downloaded onto a silicon chip in case of a mortal wound on the battlefield. Once downloaded, the dog-chip could then be slotted into special equipment and preserved until the soldier could grace a newly grown body.
Betrayed by a general in their own high command, almost the entire regiment of GIs were wiped out in the Quartz Zone Massacre. The sole survivor managed to save just three chips from his former comrades and slot them into his gun, helmet and backpack. Now he is a loner, with just the disembodied personalities of his comrades for company, roaming the chemical wasteland in search of revenge: the Rogue Trooper.
ONE
THE SCHEME'S THE THING
Sequence Begins: Reference PBI2743#987. Digi-Orchestra setting: "Southern Freedom March Suite". SynthVox selection: Female. Subliminals at interval grade alpha. Training vid commences.
"Courage. Faith. Honour. These are the values that you, as a soldier of the Confederacy of the Southern Cross Republics, embody. Even now, as you watch this vid, thousands of your fellow troopers are fighting for those very same values on battlefields across the galactic frontier. Like you, they have bravely volunteered for a duty that no ordinary person could be capable of. Like them, you have proven that you have the stamina, the fitness and the keen mind that the Souther Army expects in all its men and women. Take a moment and look around you."
SynthVox pause, approximately four seconds.
"What do you see? Your fellow soldiers, brothers and sisters-in-arms preparing for their first day of military service to the people of the Confederacy. Together you are the very tip of the spear, honed to a fine, deadly point. Think of your family and friends; if they could see you now, they would be filled with pride at your accomplishments."
Open planetary data file. Image: Reference NUE97104/A#X45.
"Because of your level of excellence, your unit has been selected for operations at our most important conflict site: the planet Nu Earth."
Galactic map graphic. Scroll and zoom in to star system 97104, planet A.
"Our war with the vicious rogue nations of Nordland is at a critical juncture here, and you alone may be the one to help turn the tide. Nu Earth is of crucial strategic value because of its proximity to the Valhalla Gate, a Type Epsilon Wormhole Crossroads which links it to other important star systems; ask your line officer for more information if you would like to learn about black hole hyperspace travel. To allow this world to fall into Nort hands would leave our peace-loving home colonies open to their savage and pitiless attacks."
Sublimininal optic trigger #34 (Anger/Hatred/Determination analogue).
"Your tour on Nu Earth will not be an easy one, and you will be tested. During your rotation, you will face extremes of warfare never dreamed of in other battle zones - ruthless Nort weapons such as the cursed Hellstreaks, Decapitator drone
mines and the sinister psychogenic Dream-Weavers - but your trusted leaders at Milli-Com are deploying the finest counter-forces to these evil devices, including advanced Robo-Gunners, the latest fighters and even genetically engineered super-soldiers. Alongside these allies, you will prevail. Have faith in your commanders. The Southern Nation has confidence in your superlative skills; your four weeks of training and orientation have moulded you into the best fighting force the South has to offer."
Sublimininal optic trigger #197 (Pride/Arrogance analogue).
"The transport ship you are currently aboard will begin its landing pattern in a few moments. Remember! The bombardments by the cowardly Norts have poisoned the atmosphere of planet Nu Earth through their destructive use of chem-weapons, bio-toxins and nuclear munitions! Under no circumstances are you to remove your chem-suit while outside a sealed environment! Stay alert, watch your teammates and keep your suit patches to hand!"
Digi-Orchestra volume to maximum. SynthVox tones to setting 4.
"Follow your training and you will be unbeaten! Discipline, teamwork, belief in the unit - these are the keys to victory. Know your directives! Obey orders. Trust your commander. Destroy all enemies. Show no mercy. If in doubt, consult your war book. And remember - The Scheme's The Thing!"
Sequence ends.
Ivar rolled the kaff-stik around his mouth as he patted his pockets in search of a lighter tab. The bitter flavour of the artificial caffeine substitute had not been improved by spending a few days inside the pocket of his combat fatigues and the thin white tube was bent a little in the middle, but for Ivar it was a taste of heaven and it flattened the twitches that came from his near-addiction to the mild stimulant. He counted himself lucky that his posting to Nu Sealand freed him of the need to wear a full-hood chem-suit.
The Nort base hid itself in the midst of a rusting stilt-town out in the shallows of the Orange Sea, off the Dix-I coastline; once Nu Sealand had been the site of a geothermal power plant, built in the heyday of the colonisation years. Back then, when the Orange Sea had been called the Crystal Sea and the waters had actually been blue, the facility was hammered into the ocean floor with plans to tap into Nu Earth's magma core for cheap, clean energy. Had it worked, the plant would have lit up half the continent, but construction was never completed, as the wars took more and more money from the coffers of the Nordland Territories and gave less and less to civilian contracts like the rig. By the time the ocean had been turned to a dirty umber by rust-fungus bio-bombs, Nu Sealand had accreted a shantytown on its half-finished decks, packed with refugees fleeing the warfare.
Ivar found the tab and touched it to the kaff-stick; he was rewarded with a warm gust of vaporised caffeine molecules and sucked them into his lungs. He'd been in school then, during the early throes of the war, and the vidiganda shows had captivated him. Ivar joined the Nort army as soon as he was old enough, gleeful that he would be sent to Nu Earth to torch the arrogant Southers just as the proud men on the screen had done. Reality gave him a different view on things, though. He soiled his chem-suit on the first day he fought the enemy, and there, cowering in a foxhole on the outskirts of the Toron-2 citiplex, Ivar realised what a terrible mistake he had made.
His dumb luck saved him; a senior officer with the same surname was killed half a world away, and because of a related foul-up in assignments at High Command, Ivar found himself sent back from the frontline and placed here, out in the ruddy waters where nothing really happened. At some point in the past decade, the Norts had flamed the rig to kill all the civvies clinging to its grimy framework and then quietly set up shop on board. It was a choice spot, just over the horizon from Souther-held Dix-I, a perfect listening post and staging point for Filth Columnist missions. When the push from Greater Nordland had come just a few weeks ago, Dix-I fell to the Nort war machine - thanks in part to the operations of the Nu Sealand crew.
Technically, the rig was a naval outpost, but the sensitive nature of what was done there mandated an army presence too - hence Ivar and the rest of the cadre garrisoned in the mid-levels. Ivar didn't really know the exact ins and outs of what happened in the core decks of the stilt-rig and he didn't really care. It was something to do with computers and communications, that he was sure of. Even the slowest soldier couldn't fail to notice the clusters of antennae and sat-dishes concealed among the rusty metalwork, painted with fake mutie-gull guano to blend in. They had a word for what was done on Nu Sealand: Sig-Int.
Signals Intelligence, that was the term. In the core, a weaselly gaggle of techs studied and evaluated millions of pieces of radio traffic from all across the hemisphere, sifting and collating it for analysis by a different gaggle of techs at some other secret base. To Ivar, the idea of reading Souther emails every day was the most boring thing he could imagine, so he was thankful that he had been given the job of standing guard while someone else ploughed through the endless pile of communications. Out here, far from the dirt, mud and blood of the real fighting, Ivar's only mission was to walk a route that never changed, circling the western face of the vast rig, watching for contrails or the signs of ships on the horizon.
Like all the polluted waters of Nu Earth, the foetid stench of the Orange Sea's marine microclimate was enough to keep the virulent chem-clouds at bay; so while the air around Nu Sealand was breathable, it was a cocktail of the most repellent scents imaginable. Ivar's commander had once described it as being similar to "a boiling pot of excrement, vomit and caustic soda". Still, you got used to it after a while, and it meant that the Norts on the platform could go about barefaced, at least when there weren't any acid storms in the vicinity.
Ivar took a long drag on the kaff-stick. He couldn't stand the idea of being sealed into a chem-suit, maybe for days on end, incapable of having even the briefest of smokes. Sure, this place smelled like puke and if he fell over the side, the toxins in the water would turn him into meaty slurry in a matter of minutes, but at least he could light up.
He cast a lazy eye over the poisoned ocean, but Ivar didn't expect to see anything of interest. Since the Norts had taken Dix-I, the only thing coming over the horizon were broadcasts from the Nordland forces simulant sweetheart DeeTrick, her synth singing bawdy tunes about her exploits in Nu Atlanta. Ivar sighed. He hoped that the fall of Dix-I wouldn't mean the end of Nu Sealand's usefulness to High Command, because that would mean reassignment, and maybe some actual exposure to warfare.
Little of the kaff-stick remained and Ivar began the return leg of his patrol to the post where Lindquist would be waiting; newly promoted to sergeant and one pay grade above Korporal Ivar, Lindquist would probably be polishing his rank pins again. Ivar rounded a stanchion and saw the sergeant leaning over the guardrail, staring down at the russet froth around the stilt legs. It wasn't until he got closer that Ivar started to become concerned. It seemed like Lindquist wasn't breathing.
"Hoi!" he said around the cigarette, reaching for the other man's shoulder, "Are you-"
Ivar took a handful of Lindquist's jacket and pulled him up from his crooked stance. He almost swallowed the kaff-stick in surprise. "Stak!" Protruding from the sergeant's pale neck were three small knives made from a dull, matte plastic. The blades of the little weapons had swelled up after they penetrated his skin, thickening enough to choke the soldier to death. Every detail of the silent murder imprinted itself on the Nort's eyes.
Korporal Ivar felt the onset of loosening bowels as he imagined where the knives might have come from - had they been thrown? Not from the sea, no, too far. Not from above... That meant the killer was on the same deck! Ivar went cold as he realised that he'd walked right past a pool of shadows cast by the stanchion, large enough to conceal a man. He clutched his rifle, brought it up and fumbled at the safety catch.
The length of chain was connected at one end to a pulley mechanism that had served some forgotten purpose during the rig's construction; the other end was wrapped around a balled fist belonging to a figure that stood, not in the shadows, but directly behi
nd Korporal Ivar. With brutal economy of movement, the grimy line of metal links looped over Ivar's head and coiled around his neck. The chain bit into his throat and tightened inexorably. Ivar had the brief impression that the figure behind him was bare-chested, but the lack of air in his lungs seemed to be playing tricks on his eyesight, warping his sense of colour. The Nort soldier let the gun drop and clawed at his neck, tearing his skin as he tried to lever the makeshift garrotte from its deadly embrace. However, his trachea collapsed under the pressure and the lifeless body slumped to the ground.