Blood Relative by James Swallow

said he was 'reborn where I fell'. He was regened in the place where he died."
    "You know where that is?" Ferris asked.
    "Oh yeah," said Bagman coldly, "we know."
    Rogue got to his feet and fished the Vok-IV datacore from his pocket. "Here, take it. You got us out like I asked. Here's your payment."
    Ferris took the device and weighed it in his palm. He could almost feel the crisp nu-credits it represented. "So, uh, can I drop you off somewhere?"
    "You could do that," said Rogue, considering, "or you could take us a little further."
    The datacore vanished into the pilot's pocket. "Hey, no offence, but hanging out with deserters isn't exactly going to improve my standing with the Milli-Fuzz..."
    "Can't say the Norts will be pleased to see you, either," drawled Bagman. "Reckon they'll have your ident code flagged from here to Timbuk-2, which pretty much makes you a wanted man north of the borders, and after that little disagreement with the law in Pitt City, you ain't exactly welcome in Southside turf."
    The pilot's expression soured. "Son of a bitch..." he said to himself, the realisation of his predicament dawning. "Anywhere I land I'm a dead man walking."
    Gunnar made an electronic grunt. "Catches on quick, doesn't he?"
    Rogue inclined his head. "We're not done with this yet."
    Ferris gave a slow nod; he wasn't a fool. His options had just shrunk to zero. "I'm guessing you all are going to need another ride, right?" He sighed, resigned to the situation. "How about a fresh trade, then? I get you where you wanna go, you help me keep breathin'."
    Rogue considered this for a moment. "We can do that."
    "What?" said Gunnar hotly. "We looking after waifs and strays now? I still don't trust this flyboy. We can just kiss mud and leave this airhead to watch his own pink behind!"
    "Gunnar's got a point," began Bagman, "but a shuttle could get us there in hours instead of footslogging it all the way."
    "There?" repeated Ferris. "Where's there, exactly?"
    "The place where we fell," said Rogue. "The Quartz Zone."
     
    The orb-drone caught up with her as she reached the upper tier of the central dome, the whine of the spherical robot's impellers matching the resolute clatter of her boots on the polished neoplastic floor. It held a sample case in one thin steel arm which dangled below its drifting fuselage. The drone looked like an errant balloon tethered to a silver brick. It spoke with a synthetic analogue of her voice; all the drones in the facility did, from the smallest auto-tek to the large autonomous robo-gunner patrol units. It was a subtle conceit, but one that Schrader felt underlined her position of authority here.
    "Kolonel-Doktor," it chimed. "Here is the item you requested."
    Schrader took the case without halting, flipping it open to double-check the contents before locking it shut once more. "Dismissed," she told the machine, and obediently it fled, vanishing down the curving corridor toward the lower levels.
    She paused for just a moment outside the conference room, examining herself in the reflection of a polished steel panel displaying the Nordland sigil. Her ice-blond hair was impeccable as ever, framing a milky face so pale it was almost blue. From behind a set of wafer-thin data-glasses, Schrader's expressionless, doll-like eyes studied and then confirmed her own chilly perfection. She was the very model of the Nort ice princess, razor-keen and cold enough to burn. The woman allowed herself the brief interlude of a smile, then shut the expression away and entered the room.
    Standing to attention by the panoramic window, Volks stiffened as she approached, and that amused her. Poor, loyal Johann; he lacked the ability to consider any of his emotions in anything other than a military context, sublimating his barely concealed attraction to Schrader into the need to salute whenever she came near him. She was only nominally an officer, after all, her rank conferred by the Nort High Command as a function of her superlative