Blood Relative Read Online Free Page B

the money, the paid-off debts, all the problems Gog's fee would have solved slammed back into Ferris like a hammer blow. The humming knife in his hand was hot and ready, and for a second the pilot thought about ramming it into Gog's big compound eye, but he could hear the squeal of tyres as the Milli-Fuzz cruiser skidded to a halt outside the building and the gruff shouts of army cops as they kicked in the door. Ferris had been on the wrong end of Souther military justice before and he'd pissed blood for a week afterwards; he really didn't have much of a choice. He would be executed for stealing combat supplies, there was no question.
    "Bastard!" Ferris kicked over the hookah and broke it, sending Gog into a hissing, clacking fit of insect swearing, and then he ran for the exit and staircase that would take him to the roof. From there, he could climb up to the underside of the port's dome and make a run for it. Hopefully. Ferris was now officially broke, and in Pitt City that was a death sentence.
     
    The black sand crunched under Rogue's boots as he walked lightly across the flat expanse of beach. The cold air over his bare arms helped the anti-tox aerosol to soothe the inflammation of his tough, rubbery skin; although Rogue and his kind were built to weather the worst extremes of Nu Earth's murderous environment, swimming for hours in water like battery acid was hard even on him. The breeze moaned through the curls of obsidian sandstone that bordered the seashore. The soft black rock looked like frozen waves where the winds had cut and shaped it. The GI held his rifle shoulder high, tracing the horizon through its optical sights. At the edge of the visual acuity, a quick, stubby shape was crossing the stagnant waters.
    "Nort foil." Gunnar's voice was close to Rogue's ear. "Going for the rig, maybe?"
    "Reckon so." Rogue watched the vessel until it went out of sight. He slipped the rifle to a stand-easy stance and ran a hand through the queue of wire-hard white hair that bisected the top of his head.
    "Chalk up another victory for the mysterious Rogue Trooper and his biochip buddies," Gunnar mimicked the slick tones of a vid announcer. "Just hope it was worth the effort."
    The GI walked back toward the mouth of a small cavern, flicking out the legs of Gunnar's bipod. "We'll know soon enough." He placed the rifle on the sand, facing across the beach. "You know the drill. Watch and wait."
    "Yeah, yeah," the chip retorted irritably. "I hear you."
    "I mean it, Gunnar. You get trigger-happy and I'll swap you with Helm. See how you like the view from up there."
    "Whatever."
    Rogue threw the gun a last look and then ducked into the cave. Bagman was propped against a wall, his manipulator claw exploring the datacore's innards, trails of fibre-optic cable running into his service ports. Helm rested on a rock, watching over a cluster of G-rations on a heater pad. Helm was in full flow, recounting his exploits on the rig. "So I pushed up the gain on my output, right, and started broadcasting the sounds of the Nort guys looking for me! Footsteps, voices, the works! I swear they were running around in circles down there, chasing echoes!"
    "Helm..." Bagman's artificial voice was curt.
    "And when they started firing, I beamed that out too! They must've thought we had a whole platoon on board!"
    "Helm!"
    "Then Rogue and Gunnar turn up and snag me, but the Norts were real close, so quick as you like I pull punchbag duty and break those Norty noses like a-"
    "Helm, for synth's sake, will you quit it?" Bagman snarled. "I'm trying to bust a class nine encryption here. I don't wanna hear your damn hero stories!"
    "Well, excuse me, ya miserable kook!"
    "Don't call me a kook, you tin-plate piece of-"
    "Hey!" Rogue silenced them both with a sharp growl. "Can't you two ladies stop bickering for ten mikes? Keep it down, the pair of you." The GI sat heavily and took a bite from the ration pack.
    "Sorry, Rogue," said Helm. "I was just talking, is