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
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
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