with developing a new military tactic was that the moment you used it, the enemy would be able to use it against you. Trager's brutal flooding of the San Diablo sub-train network had made him a war criminal in the eyes of Souther Command and his callous actions were now a part of the training briefs that upper echelon officer-cadets received in Milli-Com's battle schools. His actions were also documented in the war books of Souther line troopers; on the hundreds of cold and lonely nights that Rogue had spent on Nu Earth's wasted landscape, the GI had pored over salvaged digi-texts, learning all he needed to know about Trager's callous strategy and how to turn it against him.
Ferris had complained loudly when Rogue helped himself to one of the hyper-densified fuel canisters in the strato-shuttle's stores, but the infantryman simply tapped a finger on the upward-thrusting arrow on the casing, the symbol of the Souther Forces. Reminded of where he stole them from, the pilot opted for silence, and Rogue took the container with him into the tunnel network. The GI made short work of his improvised munition, wiring the last of the C9 detonator charges to the connector nozzle on the fuel tank before taking the jury-rigged bomb and positioning it in the optimum location. The overseer-teachers, the men the GIs called the "Genies", had taught their creations well, instilling in them the skills to innovate weapons from scraps of hardware and battlefield leftovers; Rogue could do everything from carving flint arrowheads to operating a piece of field artillery, if the need arose.
The Diablo Springs ran on geological clockwork, regular surge tides of hot, metallic waters bubbling up and then receding as Nu Earth's tectonic plates were massaged by the gravity tides of its moons and the distant energies of the Valhalla wormhole. Trager had known the tidal pattern and used it against the Souther sappers; now Rogue returned the favour, but with a new twist.
The water rose, lapping up at the walls of the dead sub-train tunnels, filling the tubeways with yellowed liquid. Soon, acrid moisture licked at the tip of a hydro sensor salvaged from a broken geoscanner module and a switch was tripped. The thin detonator rod spat sparks into the firing charge, chain-reacting. The block of C9 explosive flashed, puncturing the tank; suddenly the volatile shuttle fuel - a thick, tarry slurry in its inert state - was burning in one brilliant instant. Everything in its vicinity was instantly reduced to a ball of gas, stone and metal, vaporising and collapsing dozens of the ferrocrete pylons that were the foundations of the city stadium.
Tonnes of earth sank into the sulphurous floodwaters, displacing and choking the smaller tributary tunnels, and with nowhere else to go, the boiling surge from the toxic springs blew upward into San Diablo's streets, punching through the basements of buildings and ripping open the stadium plaza.
Gushes of murky liquid burst forth and engulfed Nort soldiers and vehicles alike, knocking them over and flattening them with caustic waves. Troopers used to the protection of their chem-suits from Nu Earth's toxins found the thin plastimesh to be no match for the boiling acids and they were cooked inside their war gear. Streams of the floodwater cut into the sealed corridors of the stadium interior, spurting out of fresh cracks in the ferrocrete like liquid knives. The water rose and chaos came with it.
Rogue forced his way through the rising tide in big, splashing steps, sparing only the occasional las-round for Nort troopers who were able enough to defend themselves. The majority of the enemy were far too occupied with more important things, like trying to breathe, to concern themselves with the two GIs in their midst.
Zero was having difficulty matching Rogue's pace, so the infantryman kept stopping to bring his fellow soldier along, guiding him through corridors choked with corpses floating in chest-high water. "Come on,
Ferris had complained loudly when Rogue helped himself to one of the hyper-densified fuel canisters in the strato-shuttle's stores, but the infantryman simply tapped a finger on the upward-thrusting arrow on the casing, the symbol of the Souther Forces. Reminded of where he stole them from, the pilot opted for silence, and Rogue took the container with him into the tunnel network. The GI made short work of his improvised munition, wiring the last of the C9 detonator charges to the connector nozzle on the fuel tank before taking the jury-rigged bomb and positioning it in the optimum location. The overseer-teachers, the men the GIs called the "Genies", had taught their creations well, instilling in them the skills to innovate weapons from scraps of hardware and battlefield leftovers; Rogue could do everything from carving flint arrowheads to operating a piece of field artillery, if the need arose.
The Diablo Springs ran on geological clockwork, regular surge tides of hot, metallic waters bubbling up and then receding as Nu Earth's tectonic plates were massaged by the gravity tides of its moons and the distant energies of the Valhalla wormhole. Trager had known the tidal pattern and used it against the Souther sappers; now Rogue returned the favour, but with a new twist.
The water rose, lapping up at the walls of the dead sub-train tunnels, filling the tubeways with yellowed liquid. Soon, acrid moisture licked at the tip of a hydro sensor salvaged from a broken geoscanner module and a switch was tripped. The thin detonator rod spat sparks into the firing charge, chain-reacting. The block of C9 explosive flashed, puncturing the tank; suddenly the volatile shuttle fuel - a thick, tarry slurry in its inert state - was burning in one brilliant instant. Everything in its vicinity was instantly reduced to a ball of gas, stone and metal, vaporising and collapsing dozens of the ferrocrete pylons that were the foundations of the city stadium.
Tonnes of earth sank into the sulphurous floodwaters, displacing and choking the smaller tributary tunnels, and with nowhere else to go, the boiling surge from the toxic springs blew upward into San Diablo's streets, punching through the basements of buildings and ripping open the stadium plaza.
Gushes of murky liquid burst forth and engulfed Nort soldiers and vehicles alike, knocking them over and flattening them with caustic waves. Troopers used to the protection of their chem-suits from Nu Earth's toxins found the thin plastimesh to be no match for the boiling acids and they were cooked inside their war gear. Streams of the floodwater cut into the sealed corridors of the stadium interior, spurting out of fresh cracks in the ferrocrete like liquid knives. The water rose and chaos came with it.
Rogue forced his way through the rising tide in big, splashing steps, sparing only the occasional las-round for Nort troopers who were able enough to defend themselves. The majority of the enemy were far too occupied with more important things, like trying to breathe, to concern themselves with the two GIs in their midst.
Zero was having difficulty matching Rogue's pace, so the infantryman kept stopping to bring his fellow soldier along, guiding him through corridors choked with corpses floating in chest-high water. "Come on,
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