Andromeda’s Choice (25 page)

“Now,” Hasbro said, as he touched a symbol on the right side of the map. “Here's the path that Fort Camerone's computers laid out for us based on multispectral data gathered from orbit.”

As McKee watched, a yellow line painted itself onto the map. It started at the point where the gorge emptied into the swamp and snaked across the Big Misery, nearly doubling back on itself at times. From what McKee could see, it appeared as though the mapping AI had picked out three dozen islands and connected the dots. She assumed that the calculation was a lot more complex than that but wasn't looking forward to the journey.

Shortly thereafter, the fly-form took off and was soon lost in the night sky. With the drones and RAVs scouting ahead, the column got under way again. And it wasn't long before they were in the gorge, following a twelve-foot-wide ledge south. The path had clearly been used for hundreds of years because where streams cascaded down the slope, they had been directed
under
the track via carefully constructed sluiceways. But the surface of the ledge was littered with large boulders that had fallen from above. So it wasn't long before the RAVs and T-1s were forced to fall back. That allowed the crawler to push the rocks off the edge and into the ravine below. They made quite a clatter, but it was dark, so McKee couldn't see them splash into the river.

“A couple of large dozers will precede the main column,” Hasbro told her, as they waited for the crawler to widen the path. “They'll turn this into a two-lane road.”

That seemed like a tall order, but Hasbro was confident, so McKee chose to believe him.

It took more than an hour to pass through the gorge. The sun was up by then though little more than a dimly seen presence behind a thick layer of sickly-looking clouds. And as the RAVs led them down through a series of switchbacks, McKee got her first look at the Big Misery. The swamp consisted of nameless channels that ran every which way, innumerable lakes, and dozens of marshy islands. Most were covered with low growth, but a few sported clusters of well-watered trees, all of which were bushy rather than tall.

Then as the ground leveled out, the perspective changed, and it became difficult to distinguish one feature from another. “This is Tango-Two,” Hasbro said over the radio. “The path begins over to the left. We'll send the drones out first, followed by the RAVs, some T-1s, and the crawler. The rest of the T-1s will bring up the rear.”

Quickstep didn't have a radio. But as the RAVs veered to the left, he came forward. McKee was close enough to hear as he spoke to Hasbro. “That is the wrong way. Do not go there.”

Hasbro turned to confront the Naa. Thanks to the fact that Quickstep was sitting astride his dooth, and Hasbro was riding Mombo, they were at roughly the same level.
“Why?”
Hasbro demanded skeptically.

“Deep spots,” Quickstep answered. “And breeding islands.”

“Breeding islands? For what?”

“Stingwings,” Quickstep replied. “They kill anything that comes near.”

“Well, we can deal with that,” Hasbro replied confidently. “Listen, no offense, but we have machines that take pictures from the sky. And other machines that can use those images to make maps. And, according to the map that I was given, the best path begins over there. Near that tree.”

“No,” Quickstep said flatly. “I will stay here.”

“And do what?” Hasbro demanded.

“Wait for you to come back,” the Naa replied.

“Let's go,” Hasbro said, as he turned to McKee. “If we get a move on, we'll be able to camp on island 008.”

McKee said, “Roger that, sir,” and chinned her mike. “This is Eight. There's a possibility that we could run into something called ‘stingwings.' That's all I know but it sounds like they can fly. So keep your sensors on max and be ready for anything. Over.”

The announcement was acknowledged by a series of double clicks. Then the RAVs were wading out into knee-deep water, with the first T-1s and bio bods twenty feet behind them. A thin layer of ice covered the water and made a crackling noise as it shattered.

The swamp had an ominous feel—or was that McKee's imagination? She gave herself a mental scolding, ordered her brain to concentrate, and eyed the area ahead. There were no landmarks to speak of, so everything looked the same. Fortunately, there was no need for any of them to navigate since each member of the team was linked to the Legion's GPS system and could summon up a copy of Hasbro's map if they chose to do so. McKee didn't like the clutter on her HUD, so she was looking at the drone feeds instead.

So, as the sun started to set, and the column left island 006 for 007, things were going well. McKee wasn't far behind as the first RAV waded out and began what looked like a hundred-yard journey to the next piece of dry land. Then, in a blink of an eye, the fully loaded robot disappeared! It was as if the swamp had opened up and swallowed it.

That was when a swarm of black dots rose from island 007, circled as if to gain strength, and came straight at the column. McKee heard the whir of thousands of wings followed by the rattle of machine-gun fire as the second RAV opened up on the horde. Then it was lost to sight as a cloud of fist-sized insects engulfed it. McKee opened her mouth to utter a warning, but it was too late. Three stingwings hit her helmet in quick succession, more slammed into her body armor, and one managed to sink its stinger into her left arm. The pain was intense, and she heard herself scream. But the swamp had heard lots of screams over the millennia and didn't care.

Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
Julius Caesar
Standard year 1599

PLANET ALGERON

The stingwings were large enough to deliver a painful blow even if they failed to penetrate unprotected flesh with their stingers. So as long as McKee remained where she was, which was trapped in her harness, she would take a beating.

Like the other T-1s, Sykes was largely impervious to the attack and was firing his fifty into the cloud of swirling insects, as McKee dropped free. She hit the freezing-cold water feetfirst, lost her balance, and fell. As the swamp water closed in over her face, she had a revelation. The stingwings couldn't attack underwater. But that knowledge had to be shared, which was why she stuck her head up out of the water. “This is Eight. All bio bods into the water! Stay down and retreat to island six.”

The responses were largely incoherent, and understandably so, as Hasbro, Larkin, and the rest of them jumped, fell, or dived into the slushy water. But as the bio bods crawled and swam toward island 006, Jaggi took it upon himself to rally the cyborgs. “Come on!” he shouted. “They're trying to protect the next island. Fire some grenades at it.”

There was a flurry of bright orange explosions on island 007 as the T-1s fired their weapons. And with dramatic results. The swarm turned, and thousands of wings beat the air as the creatures rushed to protect their young. That allowed McKee and the rest of the bio bods to stand up and wade to island 006. One after another they left the water to stand shivering on solid ground. After a quick head count, McKee was relieved to discover that all of the team were accounted for, and that included Major Hasbro, who had a bloody stinger protruding from his right thigh.

Hasbro swore steadily as Larkin and Hagen helped the officer climb into the crawler, where most of the engineers had been during the attack. One of them doubled as a medic. She produced a hemostat, locked it onto the foreign object, and pulled. The bloody stinger came out smoothly. “No barbs,” she observed. “That's a good thing. You're next, Sarge . . . Sit on that crate.”

McKee did the best she could to remain impassive as the stinger was removed from her arm. Would it leave a scar? Of course it would. Not that she'd be wearing an evening gown anytime soon. There was a moment of pain followed by a dribble of blood. “There,” the medic said as she dropped the object into a kidney basin. “You feel okay? Do you feel a pins-and-needles sensation? Drowsiness?”

“My arm is sore . . . But that's all.”

“Tell me right away if you develop any additional symptoms. Odds are that a neurotoxin would have made itself known by now, but who knows? You could drop dead later.”

McKee made a face. “Thanks, Corporal. I love your bedside manner.”

“Anytime, Sarge,” the medic said cheerfully as she applied some antiseptic and a self-sealing bandage. “You've got some swelling there. Slap some ice on it. Lord knows there's plenty floating around.”

“The Naa was right,” Hasbro said bitterly, as the medic turned her attentions back to him. “The map is a piece of shit. Lieutenant Royce . . . Turn the column around. We're going back.”

The engineer was perched on a fold-down seat. She said, “Yes, sir,” and ducked out into the night. Hasbro glanced at McKee. “You look like hell.”

McKee's teeth were starting to chatter as someone draped a blanket over her shoulders. “Look who's talking,” she replied. “Sir.”

Hasbro laughed, engines roared, and the crawler began to turn. The retreat was under way. There were no further attacks on the column as it made its way back to dry land. McKee's gear was stored on the crawler, so she was able to don a dry uniform but didn't like riding in the “can,” as the engineers referred to it. That was partially due to the ride, which was pretty bumpy, but mostly because she didn't want to be separated from her squad. Larkin would keep them on the straight and narrow. But what if something unexpected arose? Larkin's response to obstacles was to take them head-on. That was often a virtue but not always.

So she fussed and fumed as the crawler ground its way back to the point where the column had first entered the swamp. And then, unable to take it anymore, she insisted on climbing the short ladder that led up to an access hatch and the deck above.

Cold air flooded in around McKee as she pushed herself up to the point where she could see. The first thing she noticed was a large fire. It was bright enough to serve as a beacon. Every now and then, something would give way deep within the conflagration, and the flames would shoot skyward, sending sparks up to join the stars. The fire was Quickstep's way of helping the legionnaires find their way back.

Hasbro's head and shoulders popped out of the hatch opposite from hers. He looked at the blaze and over to her. The officer had to shout in order to be heard over the engine noise. “He's a cheeky bastard, isn't he? Well, I was wrong. Simple as that. I won't make the same mistake twice.” And with that, Hasbro disappeared.

A wave of water surged away from the front end of the crawler as it nosed into a subsurface hole. Tracks churned, and the vehicle lurched up. McKee was forced to grab the ring mount that circled the hatch. She could understand Hasbro's change of attitude. Quickstep had proven himself to be a reliable guide. Then why didn't she trust him? Was she becoming one of
those
? Meaning the sort of legionnaire who was eternally suspicious of all indigs. She hoped not.

The surviving RAV arrived first. Quickly followed by the crawler, the construction droids, and the rest of her squad. Once the track came to a halt, McKee jumped to the ground. And that was when she smelled the mouthwatering odor of roasting meat. Quickstep had gone hunting while they were gone and killed two of the so-called hoppers that the Naa relied on for protein. So with the hoppers roasting on sticks, the humans not only knew where to go—but had a hot meal waiting for them when they arrived. A surefire strategy to convert even a xenophobe like Larkin into a trusting ally.

The aroma caused McKee's stomach to rumble. But, before she or anyone else could tuck into some Naa barbecue, there was a need to establish a defensive perimeter. Something which, thanks to the crawler and the construction droids, was accomplished in thirty minutes.

The T-1s weren't interested in food, so McKee was able to put them on guard duty while the bio bods ate. Then, once they were finished, it would be time to give the cyborgs a break. The sun was up by then, what looked like steam was rising off the surface of the swamp, and as McKee tucked into a plate of roasted hopper, she marveled at where she was. It felt good to be alive.

 • • • 

Sykes was standing sentry duty at the northwest corner of the newly established compound with his sensors on max. He could “see” small heat signatures as animals scurried about. But there were no signs of electromechanical activity in the area. That meant he could let his onboard computer do the actual work while he turned his thoughts to more important things.

Sykes had a plan. Not much of a plan—but a plan nevertheless. And that was to search McKee's personal belongings. Not because he thought she was guilty of participating in the Mason assassination or the Travers killing. By that time he had convinced himself that Andromeda McKee was exactly what she appeared to be. A by-the-book, hard-assed noncom who could eat bullets and shit fire. But he had to convince a man named Max of that—and a search would help to buttress his case. Then, with Max off his back, he could turn his attention to having fun and evading work.

But a
big
problem stood in the way, and that was his war form. There was no F-ing way that he would be able to sneak into McKee's shelter and go through her things. Because even if he could fit inside, he wouldn't be able to manipulate small objects with his huge graspers.

So, what to do? Recruit some help, that's what. A bio bod who could be bribed, tricked, or blackmailed into doing his bidding. Not Larkin because the idiot was in McKee's pocket. No, a weaker reed would be better. Hagen, perhaps, or Quinn. Yes, Quinn! A female could get closer to McKee than a male could. But
how
? Some research was in order. Sykes smiled, or would have, had such a thing been possible.

 • • • 

A ten-hour break gave all of them an opportunity to eat, get some rest, and tend to their wounds. McKee discovered that the ice was effective in reducing the swelling on her upper arm. That, plus two pain tabs, allowed her to get seven hours of sleep. Then it was up and at it. And once the legionnaires were ready to go, it was Quickstep who led the way, with Hasbro and McKee positioned to either side of him.

Quickstep began by taking the column west for a couple of miles before turning south. And McKee noticed the difference right away. The water was relatively shallow, just as it had been during the first attempt, but the bottom was solid! With very few holes for Sykes to step in. And Hasbro was conscious of the change as well. He spoke loudly so Quickstep could hear him over the intermittent sound of servos. “When will this route turn soft?”

“It won't,” Quickstep said confidently. “This is the path of pain. It was built 672 years ago using forced labor—and according to legend, the slaves cried enough tears to fill the swamp.”

“My God,” Hasbro said, as he eyed the seemingly endless maze of channels and islands ahead. “How was it done? What's the road made of?”

“Rock,” Quickstep replied. “They say Chief Farreach ordered his people to supply ten thousand dooths and an equal number of carts to carry it in.”

“But
why
?” McKee asked. “Sorry, sir . . . I'll shut up.”

Hasbro grinned. “That'll be the day. It's a good question. Why indeed?”

“Farreach wanted to unite the north and the south. He planned to rule the planet,” Quickstep said simply. “It was his warriors who dug the first tunnel under the towers. The only pathway that can be used year-round. But it's too narrow to move armies through.”

“So, what happened?” Hasbro inquired.

“Farreach was murdered,” Quickstep answered. “Or so the story goes. Some say that his mate did it. Others claim he was assassinated. Not that it makes much difference.”

“No, I suppose it doesn't,” Hasbro said thoughtfully. “Well, we'll see. Perhaps something good will come of his road. Because based on what I've seen so far, the main column will be able to roll through unimpeded. And, thanks to the fact that Lieutenant Royce is dropping electronic markers at regular intervals, they won't get lost.”

McKee noticed that while Quickstep didn't object to anything Hasbro said, he didn't affirm it either, which meant what? All she could do was wait and see.

Even with the underwater road to speed them along, and Quickstep's ability to guide them around breeding islands, it still took one and a half standard days to cross the Big Misery from north to south. And, like all the rest of them, McKee was exhausted by the time they arrived.

There was to be something of a respite however because Forward Operating Base Oscar had been established just ten miles south of the swamp on a rise that provided a commanding view of the surrounding countryside. A defensive ditch had been dug all around, with an eight-foot-tall palisade behind that, backed by a maze of trenches and bunkers. All built by engineers and construction droids who had been flown in. And once the column entered the FOB and made the climb up to the plateau, McKee saw that four well-equipped landing pads were in place. Colonel Bodry had been busy. He even had a headquarters hab with two flags flying over it.

As Hasbro and Quickstep were led off to meet with the colonel, the rest of them were assigned to the habs that had been set aside to house transients. Quarters which, miraculously enough, were equipped with showers! Not hot showers, to be sure, but showers nonetheless, and McKee couldn't wait to wash the grime off her skin.

But first there were all sorts of things to attend to. There was a RAV to replace, not to mention the supplies that had gone down with it, and lots of other stuff, too. Including the food and ammo consumed during the trip from Fort Camerone. So, knowing that it might be necessary for the supply people to fly some of it in, McKee wanted to submit her reqs ASAP.

Then, once everyone had been given an opportunity to shower, eat, and sleep, it would be time to clean weapons, perform maintenance on the cyborgs, and deal with personnel matters. Some sort of commendation for Jaggi for example. His leadership during the stingwing attack had been critical to saving lives. So with all of that in mind, McKee went to work.

 • • • 

It was early “afternoon,” and Mary Quinn had the spartan eight-person hab to herself. Hopefully, it would remain that way until the mission that Roy Sykes had given her was completed. Bio bods had a tendency to hang with bio bods, and borgs with borgs, but bio/borg friendships weren't unknown. Of course the word “friendship” wasn't entirely accurate since Sykes was going to pay her for searching McKee's belongings.
Why?
That was a mystery. Not that Quinn cared. She had gambling debts to pay off, and the money would help her do so.

It had been easy to go through the gear McKee had left next to her cot. Easy but not especially revealing. There was a mesh bag that contained some Band-Aids, pain tabs, a small flashlight, a music player, earbuds, a pair of sunglasses, half a roll of TP, some stray pistol rounds, a flick knife, a bottle of nail polish, and a pair of panties. All of which was very similar to what
she
carried around.

But where were the photos of McKee's family? Or the good-luck charms that legionnaires typically carried? It was as if McKee had been issued rather than born. But maybe the personal stuff was in the noncom's comp. That would make sense. The problem was that McKee had the device with her.