Blood Relative

by James Swallow

  The army cops were cracking down; anyone who broke the rules was being prosecuted to the full extent of the Confederate Military Code of Justice, which usually meant a .50 calibre "pardon" to the back of the head. That worthless bug Gog had turned Ferris into a dead man running. Once the MPs got him, he was cold meat. The pilot paused in the lee of a hab-capsule, struggling to even out his breathing. He was out of condition; he wasn't cut out for the fugitive life. Ferris wondered why Gog hadn't just had him killed. It was just like the loathsome little insect to amuse itself by letting him scurry and run while the cops closed in on him. Hell, Gog probably had a betting pool going for how long Ferris would survive.

  He gave a hollow, dry cough, steaming up the murky faceplate of his civilian chem-suit. His air filter needed replacing and all this exertion wasn't helping the jury-rigged oxy-scrubber in his backpack. Ferris had to get to safety and un-hood, or it wouldn't matter about the MPs. They'd find him collapsed in a corner somewhere, choked to death on his own carbon dioxide. He crossed the mud-slick street and walked as quickly as he dared towards the shuttle pads, peeling back a ragged edge of chain-link fence instead of taking the suicidal route through the main entrance. His luck held; there was a Mili-Fuzz trooper on the gate, spinning his baton with idle menace, but the Souther never saw Ferris as he ducked and wove between fuel bowsers and bombed-out blockhouses. Not for the first time today, Ferris found himself wishing he had a gun; but he'd lost his pistol in a card game and had barely managed to keep hold of the dagger in his belt - a lot of good that would do him against a dozen MPs, if it came down to it.

  There were lots of shuttles, hoppers and assorted atmocraft parked on the Pitt City airstrip. It was always busy with cargo, military craft dropping in and civvie ships coming from other Freeports and Disputed Zones. The fuzz would never think of looking for Ferris here, because no one being hunted by MPs would be stupid enough to sneak onto an airfield crawling with Southers. Nobody except Ferris, of course.

  He had never felt this nervous before in his life, and his eyes were darting everywhere, desperately trying to look in all directions at once. The pilot almost screamed in fright when he saw something shapeless move at the edge of the rockcrete.

  "Damn!" Ferris recovered quickly, watching a bent figure wreathed in a camu-cape shambling toward the vent ducts from the launch pits. Just one of the city's massive number of derelicts, some poor chem-sodden wretch trying to stave off the cold night air by clustering around steam that billowed from the ducts. Vagrants were ten a cred and their life expectancy was short. Ferris was sobered by the realisation that this could be his fate, too, unless he got his ass out of the settlement.

  His strato-shuttle was still where he had left it and for the first time that night, Ferris felt a vague twinge of hope. The aircraft's holds were empty and he was lacking in supplies, but he had plenty of fuel - plenty of stolen Souther fuel, as Gog had pointed out - and despite the busted drive baffle, it wouldn't be a problem getting airborne. As he approached, he began to entertain the idea that he could get away clean. All Ferris needed now was somewhere to escape to.

  He was at the hatch when they emerged from the shadows; four stocky Mili-Fuzz enforcers with the standard armoured shoulder pads and hoods with face-guards. One had a pistol, but the other three held batons in ready stances. Ferris sagged against the hull, his knees turning to water. Of course they would have been waiting for him. Why would he ever have thought otherwise?

  "Hey," he began lamely. "I can explain..."

  "Really?" said the MP with the gun. "You can explain why a no-good thief like you has Souther military property on board his tub?" His face wore a crooked smile. "We'd like to hear that, wouldn't we, lads?"

  There was a chorus of nods. "Yeah," said the closest man, the anticipation of imminent ultra-violence in his eyes, "This punk can tell us all about it while we're giving him a beating."

  Ferris held up a hand. "Wait, you don't-"

  "Oh," said another MP, "did you see that? He's resisting arrest."

  The gunman nodded. "Take him."

  A studded truncheon came down on Ferris as he tried to wheel away; the impact struck his shoulder and threw him to the ground. With every bone in his arm singing in pain, he scrambled under the shuttle's landing gear.

  "Get him out of there!" someone shouted.

  A hand closed around his ankle and pulled; Ferris slid across the oil-stained ferrocrete and into the clutches of the MPs. Turning, something caught his eye - the hobo from the vents, standing close by. An arm emerged from the dark depths of the camu-cloak and rolled something small and cylindrical towards the Mili-Fuzz.

  The trooper with the pistol was shouting at the vagrant. "Get lost, rummy, else you want us to put you down too!" The object halted at his feet. "What the-"

  The sunflare grenade exploded with a fizzing shriek and everything was flooded with brilliant white. Ferris recoiled from the dazzling light, twin shards of pure agony lancing into his skull. He felt flat on the runway, flash-blinded, eyes alive with horrible pain.

  The MPs were yelling and cursing as well, and one of them kicked Ferris as he stumbled around, flailing with his baton. "What was that?" said a voice.

  "Someone's here!" That was the one with the pistol. "Aaagh! Damn it. I can't see!"

  "Quiet!" called the guy with the baton. "You hear something?"

  Ferris stayed very silent and very still, the grey-white haze filling his vision.

  "Hey, Fuzz. Over here." Ferris didn't recognise this new voice. He heard a noise like bone crunching and the heavy sound of a man collapsing.

  "Watch it!" shouted the gunman.

  "Rogue, on your nine." Another voice, quite close; then a crack.

  "Ugh! My knee! He broke my knee!" The sound of a choke, another falling body.

  "Lights out, creep." A third newcomer, gruff and nasty. "I'd spit on him if I had a mouth."

  "Two left."

  "I hear him!" shouted the MP with the gun. Two rapid snap-shots sizzled over Ferris's head. "You like that, huh?" Then the trooper made a surprised yelp and fell silent.

  The last MP said nothing, but Ferris heard his footsteps as he ran, boots skipping off the ferrocrete.

  "Where's that dink goin'?" said the gruff voice.

  "He's gonna run straight into that-"

  Ferris heard an echoing clang as something struck a metallic object.

  "-fuel truck."

  There was a long silence. When the pain in his eyes had lessened from a murderous burning to a dull ache, Ferris dared to gather himself up. His vision was a blurry collection of grey shapes and black shadows.

  "You a pilot?" The voice startled him and Ferris jerked. "What's your name?"

  "Uh, yeah. When I can see, I am. I'm Ferris, just Ferris."

  "This your ship, Ferris?"

  "I think so. Registration number 1138 on the hull..."

  A strong arm clamped around his elbow. "This way." Ferris let himself be guided, feeling the decking of the strato-shuttle beneath his feet as he was led on board. He blinked. He could make out the shape of a man, dark against the light from the port floods. Just one guy? He could have sworn he heard more than one voice...

  The airlock slammed shut and the decontam process began, detergent spray spitting over the pair of them. Ferris removed his helmet and rubbed at his raw eyes. "Who are you? What did you do out there?"

  "I need a ride to San Diablo and you look like you need to get out of town quick. Figured one good turn deserves another."

  "Uh-huh." Now on familiar ground, Ferris fumbled his way by touch to a medi-kit on the wall and recovered an analgesic spray. He jetted puffs of vapour into his weeping eyes and blinked furiously. The pilot looked up at his erstwhile saviour. "Ah, crap. Your little lightshow's screwed up my vision. I've gone colour-blind!"

  Rogue sighed. "No, you haven't. I'm always like this."

  "But your skin is-" Ferris's brain caught up with his mouth and he gaped. "Blue. Your skin is blue." He swallow
ed hard. "You're that GI... The Rogue Soldier, or something..."

  "Eh?" said Gunnar. "Why do we have to go through this every time we meet someone? Next he's gonna say 'Holy Skev! Your gun can talk!'."

  Ferris shook his head as he made his way through the shuttle's interior, as if that would dispel the phantom of the Genetic Infantryman. He'd heard of the deserter - hell, everyone on Nu Earth had heard the tale of the lone gene-freak stalking the war zones - but it was almost too surreal for it... for him to come out of the darkness and pull Ferris's backside out of the fire. "I gotta sit down for a second."

  "We don't have time for this," said a new voice, calling over Rogue's shoulder from his backpack. "We need to get airborne now, before those Mili-Fuzz creeps wake up."

  Ferris glanced out the cockpit window and saw the sprawled forms of the MPs on the landing pad. A couple of them sported broken limbs. He blinked again.

  "How about it?" asked Rogue. "Can you see straight? Can you get this thing in the air?"

  "No," Ferris replied, running through the pre-flight check with quick, deft movements, "but that never stopped me before." In the heart of the shuttle, the thruster array went live and ignited. The pilot switched off the radio chatter streaming from Pitt City traffic control and grasped the throttle and joystick. "You better strap in, GI."

  Rogue leapt into a seat and tugged a restraint harness tight over his chest, then a lead cushion of G-force pressed into him, as the strato-shuttle thundered into the night sky.

  Ferris used the cover of a chem-storm to mask their flight over the no-man's-land near the Ash Wastes and dropped the transport down to treetop level - or what would have been treetop level if there had been any trees down below. His eyesight gradually returned, leaving him with just a mild headache and the gut-sick sensation of an adrenaline comedown. He glanced at the trooper.

  "So. San Diablo, huh? What's the big rush to get there?"

  The GI didn't look up from the digi-pad that held his attention. "Someone I know needs my help."

  "Oh yeah? What's his name?" Ferris could just about see the image of another GI on the screen.

  "Not sure yet."

  "You know that city's swarming with Norts, right? I mean, I'm a civilian. I could probably make it in okay on my own, but you... They'll waste you the second they see blue."

  "I can handle it."

  "Right," Ferris replied. "Well, if it's all the same to you, I'm not going to stick around when we land. You saved my ass, I give you a lift, we're even."

  Rogue's rifle made a derisive snort. "Huh. Civvies. Got no stomach for a fight, have ya?"

  "You're a gun. What the hell do you know about anything?"

  The GI broke in before Gunnar could frame an angry reply. "He used to be a soldier, like me." He indicated the biochips in his helmet and backpack. "They all were, once."

  Ferris looked away, his expression souring. "Yeah, well, it ain't my war. You know, if I had my head straight, I should land at the nearest Souther base and turn you in. I'm guessing the reward for a deserter is pretty high."

  Rogue gave a dry chuckle. "You're not going to do that. Those MPs weren't busting you up for fun, you must have a Milli-Fuzz warrant on you. You'd be about as welcome as me if you touched down on Souther turf right now." The soldier leaned forward. "And if it's nu-credits you're after, how about a little business proposition?"

  Part of Ferris's mind, the rational, sensible part of it, rang an alarm bell the moment the words left the infantryman's mouth; hooking up with this battlefield horror story would be worse than flying for Gog. And yet... The well-honed sense of greed that guided most of Ferris's deals was smiling widely, sensing the taste of money in the air. "Keep talking," he said automatically.

  "Rogue, why do we need this guy-" began Helm.

  "Quiet," said the GI, removing a cluster of circuits from his pack. "You know what this is, Ferris?"

  The pilot's bloodshot eyes widened. "Datacore, right? Looks like Nort issue."

  "Good call. I stole it from a listening post in the Orange Sea. The contents are less than a day old. Now, I'm willing to bet you know some dealers who'd pay very well for a look at what's on here."

  He nodded. "If it's genuine."

  "Oh, it is," said Bagman. "Count on it."

  Rogue pocketed the device. "I'm gonna need to leave San Diablo in a hurry. You keep the meter running for me and you get the core. Do we have a deal?"

  Ferris didn't hesitate. "Deal."

  "And don't even think about a double-cross," growled Gunnar. "Compared to the guys we've rubbed out, you're a wet fart in a chem-shower. Got me?"

  "Uh-huh," said Ferris. "Nice to be, uh, working with you."

  San Diablo, like so many cities on Nu Earth, was built on a foundation of broken promises and half-truths. The Southers had proclaimed it would be a model community, constructed using advanced techniques from the rocky buttes of the NuVada plateau, powered by the fierce energy of the Diablo Springs. The searing hot sulphurous waters that surged and plumed like clockwork would turn massive turbines to light the metropolis, and the population would be able to move from place to place via a state-of-the art sub-train network. It looked good on paper, but like so many things, the war changed it for the worse. Half-built, the vast construction site of a city became the focal point of a Nort armoured thrust from Oman-3, and so began its metamorphosis from township of the future to a nightmare of sniper corridors and six-foot deep drifts of broken glass from the unoccupied skyscrapers.

  The Norts had been holding San Diablo for over four years now and they were well settled in; two divisions of Blackmare tanks kept the land approaches clear and Grendel air patrols swept the skies. On their initial capture of the city, the Nort occupation force was dogged by Souther sappers, who used the incomplete sub-train tunnels to pop up amid ammo dumps and barracks for hit-and-run attacks. Brigadier Trager, the officer in charge of the Nort units, was a clever soldier with an eye for the dramatic; he set geomag charges at points along the tunnels where the thermal vents from the springs were closest and blew them open. When the daily surges came, boiling fluid flooded the San Diablo transit network and every Souther who didn't emerge into the guns of waiting Nort soldiers was scalded to death. Trager's victory over the so-called "tubeway army" earned him command of the sector and cemented Nordland's hold on the landscape.

  The torrid, fuming waters still gushed under San Diablo's streets, blocking any attempts to enter the city by underground means. The heat and pressure would cook a soldier venturing down there. An ordinary soldier.

  Rogue waded waist-high through the yellowish liquid, the stinging fumes from the sulphur and chem-agents coiling around him. The engineered internal regulatory organs in his torso worked at full capacity, bleeding the heat off the GI in streams of thick, oily sweat. "Time?"

  Bagman checked an internal clock. "Plenty. The geyser upsurge won't be until the top of the hour."

  "We're close," added Helm, over the constant hiss of bubbles. "About fifty metres up, south-south-west."

  "Got it." Rogue peered through the mists and saw the lip of a sub-train platform close by. "End of the line, guys." The GI made his way along the reeking tunnel and into the underground station. Dirty yellow slurry coated everything, thick and glutinous on every surface.

  "Is this the right place?" asked Bagman. "All those turns and branches, we could be back at the airport for all I know."

  "I loaded the network map from the battle computer," Helm replied. "We walked right in under their tanks. Beautiful!"

  "Aside from those four wrong turns." Gunnar said brusquely.

  Rogue hauled himself up and out of the water. "We're here now. That's all that matters."

  "Good," Gunnar continued. "Much more of that heat and my chips would have been fried."

  "Think of it as a much-needed bath," Bagman's tone was mocking.

  "Minds on the mission, fellas." Rogue growled. He reached up and wiped a layer of thick silt off the station sign. "Stadium Loop
. This is the one." Unlimbering his rifle, the GI picked his way through the remains of a broken escalator and made for the surface. The fumes thinned out, to be replaced with the cocktail of lethal chemistry that was Nu Earth's sorry excuse for an atmosphere.

  "You gonna clue us in on the plan, then?" Bagman said quietly. "Or is this going to be another make-it-up-as-you-go sortie?"

  Gunnar broke in. "I still reckon you should have left one of us with that flyboy. I don't trust him."

  "Synth out," Rogue retorted. "Ferris's not going anywhere. He's on a Nort airstrip surrounded by enemy soldiers. He may be a civilian but he's Souther-born. He's not gonna turn us over. We're his meal ticket."

  "That all depends on how hungry he is."

  "Quiet!" The entrance lobby of the station was clogged with debris and fallen masonry, but the GI's fleet-footed passage was almost silent. He shifted into a position where he could see the street, and beyond it, the flat disc of the stadium. The Norts outside were thinly spread - it would be a few hours before the main event took place - and most of the figures milling around were patrolmen and auxiliaries. Hung from the sides of buildings were huge flopscreens, some of them damaged with broken patches of errant pixels visible here and there. That braying robot female DeeTrick was pouting and posing across the panels, dolling out canned slogans and pithy bits of Nort propaganda in both Nordsprache and English.

  Rogue looked away. "Bagman, dispense binox." He held the imaging unit to his eyes and studied the stadium entrance. A pair of light AFVs were parked in positions where their fields of fire overlapped and watchful line troopers scanned the walkways for interlopers. Microdrones hummed over their heads, casting clusters of camera lenses across the area. Rogue watched an officer approach the scan grid at the main doors and saw him undergo an optical retina check and a passive DNA scan. The grid blinked green and he entered, the defence web confident of his identity. The GI frowned; he only had himself to blame for such increased security. Recently, he'd decided to show the Norts a little payback for their invasion of Dix-I sector by sneaking into a rally at Nu Nuremburg; that little operation had seen him assassinate Mooler and Marvin, two top-level Nort officers. As such, the enemy had quadrupled security on every other public event.