brother. Just a little further."
Zero gave a laboured nod and Rogue frowned; he couldn't begin to imagine the hell that the other GI had been through at the hands of his Nort interrogators, and he felt a sting of guilt. In a way, he was responsible - the enemy believed that Zero was Rogue and undoubtedly they had tried to tear a confession from him for all the Norts that he had sent to their graves. He imagined Zero in that cramped cell, suffering intolerable agony as they beat and burned him, unable to answer the demands of his captors.
There was a distant, higher part of Rogue's tactical mind that still marvelled at the sight of another living, breathing Genetic Infantryman. It had been so long since the killings at the Quartz Zone - somewhere along the way he had become used to the idea that he was the last of his kind - the sole survivor of an artificially created species. If Zero was still alive, could there be more? What if there were other survivors out there, other Rogues?
He shook the thought away with a sharp turn of his head. No time to think about that now, he told himself. They still had to make it to the shuttle.
The entrance atrium had been turned into a seething pool of coarse, bubbling water, and the infantrymen half-swam, half-waded across the open area and into the flooded city streets. There were corpses as far they could see as well as great floating drifts of debris. Men were desperately scaling the exteriors of abandoned towers to escape the churn of the corrosive rivers. Shots cut into the torrents around the two troopers, slicing down from a rifleman in a high vantage point.
"Shooter, three o'clock high!" called Helm.
"Mark him," Rogue replied, and turned, bringing Gunnar to bear. Through the GI rifle's optics, Rogue saw the outlined heat-blob of a man on the thermographic scope. He squeezed the trigger and a red-orange laser light shot across the brickwork to flush the Nort out. The rifleman bolted from his cover, a blur through the sight scope, and abruptly came apart in a storm of crimson. Rogue's gaze flicked to his side to see that Zero had taken the kill shot himself, ripping into the Nort with the very same make of weapon that the enemy trooper had used on them. The rifleman's shredded corpse fell out of his sniper nest and landed in the water with a heavy splash.
Zero took a laboured breath. The effort of the escape was getting to him and they were a long way short. He caught Rogue looking at him and managed a quizzical jut of the chin. "Your show, Rogue. Where now?"
"Bagman, dispense macro-raft."
With a click, the backpack's servo arm extended, clasping a fat grey packet. "Uh, Rogue. This thing's Nort-issue junk. You sure it's gonna work?"
The GI grabbed the plastic pack and tore it open, revealing a striped pull-cord. "Unless you got a couple of surfboards in there, this is the only option." Rogue gave the cord a tug, and the packet hissed back at him, inflating.
"Where'd you get that?" Zero asked.
"Salvage from Harpo's Ferry. Thought it might come in useful." The macro-raft unfolded, memory-plastic bladders opening up to full size. The compact brick of flexible material transformed into a small boat, a shallow canoe big enough for two at a pinch. "Come on. We're gonna ride the flood right out of here."
"You thought of everything," Zero grunted.
Rogue hauled himself into the raft and extended a hand. "Tactics, improvisation, execution," he said, recalling the combat litany the Genies had drilled into them the moment they stepped from the breeder tubes. "That's how they made us."
"Right." With effort, Zero scrambled over the gunwale and Rogue grabbed his arm to pull him in. His fingers clamped around Zero's forearm and he felt atrophied, weak flesh there, not the hard muscle of a GI's normal physique. The other trooper almost fell into the boat, face-first. Rogue's eyes automatically caught sight of something anomalous on the back of Zero's neck, a slight distension like a
Zero gave a laboured nod and Rogue frowned; he couldn't begin to imagine the hell that the other GI had been through at the hands of his Nort interrogators, and he felt a sting of guilt. In a way, he was responsible - the enemy believed that Zero was Rogue and undoubtedly they had tried to tear a confession from him for all the Norts that he had sent to their graves. He imagined Zero in that cramped cell, suffering intolerable agony as they beat and burned him, unable to answer the demands of his captors.
There was a distant, higher part of Rogue's tactical mind that still marvelled at the sight of another living, breathing Genetic Infantryman. It had been so long since the killings at the Quartz Zone - somewhere along the way he had become used to the idea that he was the last of his kind - the sole survivor of an artificially created species. If Zero was still alive, could there be more? What if there were other survivors out there, other Rogues?
He shook the thought away with a sharp turn of his head. No time to think about that now, he told himself. They still had to make it to the shuttle.
The entrance atrium had been turned into a seething pool of coarse, bubbling water, and the infantrymen half-swam, half-waded across the open area and into the flooded city streets. There were corpses as far they could see as well as great floating drifts of debris. Men were desperately scaling the exteriors of abandoned towers to escape the churn of the corrosive rivers. Shots cut into the torrents around the two troopers, slicing down from a rifleman in a high vantage point.
"Shooter, three o'clock high!" called Helm.
"Mark him," Rogue replied, and turned, bringing Gunnar to bear. Through the GI rifle's optics, Rogue saw the outlined heat-blob of a man on the thermographic scope. He squeezed the trigger and a red-orange laser light shot across the brickwork to flush the Nort out. The rifleman bolted from his cover, a blur through the sight scope, and abruptly came apart in a storm of crimson. Rogue's gaze flicked to his side to see that Zero had taken the kill shot himself, ripping into the Nort with the very same make of weapon that the enemy trooper had used on them. The rifleman's shredded corpse fell out of his sniper nest and landed in the water with a heavy splash.
Zero took a laboured breath. The effort of the escape was getting to him and they were a long way short. He caught Rogue looking at him and managed a quizzical jut of the chin. "Your show, Rogue. Where now?"
"Bagman, dispense macro-raft."
With a click, the backpack's servo arm extended, clasping a fat grey packet. "Uh, Rogue. This thing's Nort-issue junk. You sure it's gonna work?"
The GI grabbed the plastic pack and tore it open, revealing a striped pull-cord. "Unless you got a couple of surfboards in there, this is the only option." Rogue gave the cord a tug, and the packet hissed back at him, inflating.
"Where'd you get that?" Zero asked.
"Salvage from Harpo's Ferry. Thought it might come in useful." The macro-raft unfolded, memory-plastic bladders opening up to full size. The compact brick of flexible material transformed into a small boat, a shallow canoe big enough for two at a pinch. "Come on. We're gonna ride the flood right out of here."
"You thought of everything," Zero grunted.
Rogue hauled himself into the raft and extended a hand. "Tactics, improvisation, execution," he said, recalling the combat litany the Genies had drilled into them the moment they stepped from the breeder tubes. "That's how they made us."
"Right." With effort, Zero scrambled over the gunwale and Rogue grabbed his arm to pull him in. His fingers clamped around Zero's forearm and he felt atrophied, weak flesh there, not the hard muscle of a GI's normal physique. The other trooper almost fell into the boat, face-first. Rogue's eyes automatically caught sight of something anomalous on the back of Zero's neck, a slight distension like a
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