Andromeda's Fall (Legion of the Damned) (11 page)

The surprise attack resulted in a horrible chaos, in which Hasker shouted orders that no one could take the time to decipher, frogs slit throats, and recruits fired wildly. “Aim, damn you, aim!” Hasker shouted as McKee blew a slick-skinned frog away and felt another land on her back.

Rather than battle the warrior, who was much stronger than she was, McKee brought the AXE up to her shoulder and pulled the trigger. The sound was nearly deafening even with the helmet on. But the arm that had been wrapped around her neck fell away, and there was a splash as the indig fell back into the water.

McKee saw Chu charge one of the giant herbivores. The T-1 was firing, but the bullets had no perceptible effect on the two-ton monster, which simply absorbed them.

There was a monumental clash as the cyborg attempted to club the monster with his weapon, but the swamp beast hooked the T-1 with its nose horn and tossed the legionnaire into the air. There was an explosion of water as Chu landed. The cyborg tried to recover, but couldn’t, and as he sank below the surface, McKee realized that Anders was still on board and trapped beneath the war form.

She was pushing her way forward, intent on a rescue, when Chu exploded and blew the monster into bloody chunks. They splashed as they landed. It wasn’t clear if the demo charges the cyborg had been carrying went off on their own or had been detonated.

Meanwhile, the frogs had been able to divide the company in two, with the first platoon gathered around Fox and Hasker. They were in relatively good shape but separated from the second platoon, which was spread over a large area and battling to survive. And it wasn’t working. Bit by bit, the second was being whittled down.

McKee didn’t think about what to do—she just did it. And was surprised to hear her voice on the radio. “This is Alpha-Two-Three . . . Rally around me. Form a square and face out.”

McKee had seen the formation in the training vids they had been forced to watch and knew it had been used for thousands of years. Much to her surprise, the other recruits obeyed her order, and as they began to gather around, they brought the wounded with them. “Place them inside the square,” McKee ordered. “Okay, defensive fire only, and stay with me.”

The square was lopsided. It came apart, re-formed, and lost integrity again. But she was there to shout and cajole. She was towing a wounded recruit with one hand and firing bursts from her AXE with the other as a line of frogs surfaced and charged straight at them. The indigs were close, very close, but wavered like reeds in a stiff breeze as the hail of bullets struck them.

Then they were falling as McKee yelled, “Now! Left flank, march . . .” She was rewarded by something like a stampede as the surviving members of the platoon made the turn. Another recruit was helping to support the wounded soldier by that time, but it wasn’t until they were up out of the water that she saw who the recruit was. A two-foot-long section of spear was protruding from Larkin’s left thigh, and his face was contorted with pain. “Leave me a weapon,” he said. “I’ll take some more of those bastards with me.”

McKee frowned. “What? So you can win a medal? Bullshit. Hey, Peters, Mendez . . . Make a litter. Larkin needs a ride. And let’s get some dressings on that leg. He’s leaking.”

It took fifteen minutes to prep the wounded and get organized. The frogs launched a number of feints during that time, but they had taken hundreds of casualties and lacked the numbers required for an overwhelming charge into machine-gun fire. Meanwhile, the second platoon had lost contact with the first platoon, which meant they were on their own.

Having assigned herself to the point position, McKee followed the map projected on her HUD back toward the firebase. The journey would have been only a few miles had they been able to travel in a straight line, but the need to stay out of deep water nearly doubled that, and the bloodred sun was sinking in the west by the time Hasker and the first platoon were able to rejoin them.

Hasker was riding Fox. He eyed the muddy faces, the improvised stretchers, and the way the men and women of the second held themselves. Their weapons were ready, they were properly spaced, and at least half of them had wounds of some sort. He nodded. “You are some tough troops. Welcome to the Legion.”

CHAPTER: 6

We must accept that the enemy will penetrate through and between our forward formations and so we must be prepared to destroy him . . . by the resolute use of mobile forces . . .

FIELD MARSHAL SIR NIGEL BAGNALL

Commander in Chief, British Army of the Rhine

Standard year 1984

PLANET ADOBE

“If the empire has an asshole, this is it,” Larkin said as McKee and a detachment of sixty legionnaires clattered down a metal ramp and onto Adobe’s orange-red soil.

“No, that would be
you
,” Pachek responded cheerfully. She laughed, and Larkin glowered. The relationship between McKee and Larkin had changed during the weeks since the battle on Drang. Thanks to her efforts to get her fellow recruit out of the swamp, and the swift medical treatment that followed, he’d been back on his feet in a matter of days. And since she had taken care of him, Larkin was determined to take care of her.

So even though McKee didn’t care for Larkin’s moody, hair-trigger ways, he had her six. And by that time she had concluded that having a weird friend was better than not having any at all. “Where the hell is everyone?” a legionnaire named Wiley inquired. His B-1 bag produced a puff of dust as it hit the ground. The group was standing in the shuttle’s oblong shadow, and the nearest structures looked as if they were at least a quarter of a mile away.

“Something’s coming this way,” Choa said as he squinted into the glare. “Maybe they’re coming to get us.”

McKee looked to the north and saw that Choa was correct. A column of dust was spiraling up into the clear blue sky. And it wasn’t long before a pair of 6 X 6 trucks arrived. They were painted with the Legion’s desert camo pattern, wore the 13
th
DBLE’s insignia, and rattled loudly as a sergeant opened the passenger side door of the lead vehicle and jumped to the ground. He was short and stocky. His white kepi, khakis, and desert boots were spotless.

McKee hoisted her B-1 off the ground and waited for the order to fall in. But there wasn’t one. That was when she realized that she and her companions weren’t considered to be recruits anymore. They were legionnaires, which meant their relationship with the Legion’s noncoms had changed. And Pachek, who had served in the marines, knew that. “Hey, Sarge,” she said. “You lookin’ for draft 481? ’Cause if you are, that’s us.”

“Glad to hear it,” he replied. “Welcome to Adobe. And yes, it’s always this hot. Okay, split up. I want half of you in the first truck—and half in the second.”

It took the better part of fifteen minutes to load the trucks, turn them around, and head for the distant cluster of buildings. Having boarded truck two and taken a place on one of the two bench-style seats that ran front to back, McKee found herself looking out across the seared landscape. Some hazy bluffs could be seen off to the east. But the rest of it was a flat, monochromatic plain.

She was struck by how surreal the situation was. It felt as if the original her had been left behind, the way a snake sheds its skin, so it could grow. Was that what she was doing? Growing? McKee hoped so, but maybe she was hiding and nothing more. Still, she had survived an all-out battle on Drang, and that was more than the previous her could claim.

Her thoughts were interrupted as the trucks slowed and came to a stop in front of an inflatable hab. The neatly stenciled sign out front read
COMMAND AND SERVICES COMPANY, THE 13
TH
DBLE (
13
TH
DEMI-BRIGADE DE LEGION ETRANGER
). McKee knew, or thought she knew, that she wouldn’t be assigned to the 13
th
DBLE, but couldn’t be sure. Her sights were set on becoming part of the famed 1
st
REC (
1
st
Regiment Etranger de Cavalerie
). It consisted of about five thousand legionnaires split fifty-fifty between bio bods and cyborgs.

But would her efforts to manipulate the legion’s aptitude tests work? Sergeant Hasker’s recommendation would mean a great deal, too—but she had no way of knowing what had been entered into her P-1 file. The result was a rising sense of tension. “All right,” the sergeant bawled. “Everyone out. Line up in alpha order. Bring those B-1s and follow the yellow line.”

What ensued was a long, tedious process as the incoming draft followed the faded yellow line into the hab and from station to station. There was a stop to update their P-1 files, a visit with a bored medic, and a two-minute session with a specially trained “sky pilot” who was available to provide instruction in eight different religions. The concept struck McKee as laughable, and judging from the comments she heard, her peers agreed.

But even if the check-in process was somewhat tedious, the hab was air-conditioned, and as Larkin put it, “I’d rather be in here than riding a T-1 all over the desert.”

Larkin was standing behind McKee. She turned to face him. “You put in for the 1
st
REC?”

“Of course.” Larkin’s lopsided grin was the same one McKee had learned to hate back on Esparto. “Where you go, I go. That’s how it is with us.”

“But what if they put me in another unit?”

“They won’t,” Larkin said confidently. “Hasker not only recommended you for a cav unit but put you up for lance corporal. Everybody knows that.”

McKee stared at him. “I don’t.”

Larkin looked smug. “Yeah, I know. Maybe you oughta talk to people a little more.”

McKee turned back toward the front of the line. By then, she had learned that there were very few secrets in the Legion. Somehow, some way, word of what was going to happen always leaked out. The problem was that the “scan,” as the legionnaires referred to it, was frequently flawed. So while the rumor that a particular unit was slated for a load-out might be true, the destination could be Algeron rather than Earth, and the two planets were
very
different.

In spite of what Larkin thought he knew, McKee’s fate was anything but certain. And making a bad situation worse was the memory of Drang and the synth that had been sent to look for her. Was she being tracked? The suspense continued to build as the yellow line led her into an office labeled
PERSONNEL
.

The staff sergeant seated behind the desk was female and looked up from her terminal as McKee stopped in front of her. “McKee, Andromeda?”

“Yes, ma’am. I mean sergeant.”

The noncom had short gray hair, an aquiline nose, and a no-nonsense mouth. The name tag on her desk read
SSGT. A. TRAVERS
. She made a steeple out of her fingers and frowned. “Sergeant Hasker rated you as outstanding. He even went so far as to recommend you for a medal. That’s ridiculous, of course. We don’t award medals to recruits. So forget that.

“However,” Travers continued, “Hasker put you in for lance corporal. That’s unusual, but not unheard of, and I see no reason to get in the way. Don’t spend the extra thirty-two credits per month all in one place.

“That brings us to your MOS. You requested a cavalry slot, and you’ve got the necessary test scores, but the system flagged you for tech school. How ’bout it, McKee? The cyberschool is located on Earth. It’s a helluva lot cooler there. And when you come back, you’ll be a qualified gear head, a shoo-in for tech sergeant, and a very popular lady with all the ’borgs. Sound good?”

McKee was tempted for a second, but only a second. Earth was a very dangerous place for a member of the Carletto family to be. “No, thanks. I’d rather fight.”

“All of us fight when the shit hits the fan,” Travers responded dryly. “But I know what you mean. And we don’t force people to attend tech schools. So take your orders, follow the yellow line out to the pickup zone, and look for a vehicle from the 1
st
REC.”

There was a whirring noise as Travers touched a key, and a sheet of hard copy emerged from the printer on her desk. “Good luck,” the noncom said as she handed it over. “And congratulations on your promotion.”

McKee felt slightly light-headed as she left the office. Not because of the promotion, which, though higher than private, barely meant anything in the military scheme of things. No, her sense of relief stemmed from surviving a contact with officialdom. Fortunately, there hadn’t been any questions about her identity. And she was about to join the famed 1
st
REC! A regiment where the war forms manufactured by Carletto Industries would be all around her. McKee found that to be comforting, although she would have been hard-pressed to say why.

As she emerged from the hab, and the afternoon heat pressed in around her, she discovered that many of her peers had already been cycled through and taken away. Pachek was there, however, waiting for a truck from the 2
nd
REP (
2
nd
Regiment Etranger de Parachutistes
) to pick her up. The 2
nd
didn’t use parachutes much anymore, preferring drop pods instead, but the idea was the same, and Pachek was happy.

So the two women were busy congratulating each other, and extolling the virtues of their respective regiments, when Larkin appeared. There was a scowl on his face.

“What’s wrong?” McKee inquired. “Did they put you in the Pioneers or something?”

“No,” Larkin replied. “I was assigned to the 1
st
REC. Just like you.”

“So what’s the problem?” Pachek wanted to know.

“Sergeant what’s-her-name told me to polish my brass and said I was a disgrace to the Legion.”

“Well, you
are
a disgrace to the Legion,” Pachek said.

Larkin brightened. “I am, aren’t I? Serves the bastards right!”

McKee and Pachek exchanged looks as a 4 X 4 bearing the 1
st
REC’s oval-shaped emblem arrived, and a cheerful corporal rolled a window down. “McKee? Larkin? Throw your B-1s in the back. You can sit up here where the AC is.”

The sun was resting on the edge of the western horizon and just starting to sink as the truck carrying McKee and Larkin paused in front of a gate. A bio bod mounted on a T-1 waved the vehicle through. The driver had reddish hair, lots of freckles, and liked to talk. “I’m going to take you to HQ, where the OOD can sign you in. She’ll send you over to the transit barracks for the night. Then, come morning, they’ll figure out what company to put you in. We’re short of people—so there are lots of open slots. Here we are,” the corporal said as he brought the truck to a stop in front of a long, low-slung hab. “Welcome to the 1
st
. I’ll see you around.”

True to the corporal’s prediction, McKee and Larkin were logged in, sent to the transit barracks to drop off their B-1 bags, and released to chow. Most of the regiment’s bio bods had eaten by then, but the line was still open, and the pair were able to slip through the facility before it closed.

They carried their trays to an empty table, sat down, and began to eat. “What a dump,” Larkin said, with his mouth full. “I wonder what people do for fun around here.”

McKee, who was eyeing the well-executed battle scenes painted on the walls, had other thoughts. “I don’t know. But what I
do
know is that we’ve got a lot to learn. Like how to ride a T-1, fight from a T-1, and maintain a T-1. We can play later.”

Larkin shook his head in mock despair. “You are such a straight-leg. I tried to beat some sense into you back on Esparto. But it didn’t take.”

“Thanks,” she said sarcastically. “That was real nice of you. We’ll probably wind up in different companies. You realize that.”

“No,” Larkin said serenely as he produced a loud belch. “I don’t. You saved my ass. I’ll save yours.”

McKee sighed. “Lucky me.”

* * *

In keeping with orders received the evening before, McKee and Larkin reported to regimental HQ immediately after breakfast, where they were greeted with bored indifference by a sergeant who had them thumb half a dozen screens. McKee didn’t want to, knowing that her thumbprint could be linked to Catherine Carletto, but had no choice.

“All right,” the sergeant said, once the formalities were completed. “The duty driver will take you to supply. After you draw your gear, report to the 2
nd
Battalion, where Sergeant Major Chora will assign you to company-level slots. Any questions? No? Then why are you still here?”

Having collected their B-1 bags from the transit barracks, McKee and Larkin tossed them into the back of a 4 X 4 which dropped them off in front of a half-buried hard-wall structure ten minutes later. The sign out front read
SUPPLY & LOGISTICS, 1
ST
REC
.

They entered the huge warehouse, where it took the better part of two hours to find the correct section, draw what seemed like a ton of gear, and exit. Fortunately, Larkin was able to “borrow” a pushcart, so they didn’t have to hump their B-1s plus helmets, body armor, and field gear out into the harsh sunlight. Once outside, it was necessary to wait for transportation. And by the time the truck finally arrived, they were hot and miserable.

Despite the long wait, the trip to the 2
nd
Battalion’s rectangular chunk of reddish orange desert took only five minutes. After piling their gear in a patch of shade, McKee and Larkin entered yet another inflatable hab, where they went in search of Command Sergeant Major Chora. She turned out to be a stocky no-nonsense sort with gun-barrel eyes and a horizontal slit for a mouth. Her sentences were short and clipped. “McKee . . . Larkin. You’re slotted for Echo Company.”

McKee saw the way Chora was looking at her and knew the noncom was thinking about her scar. It seemed as if women always stared longer. Or was that her imagination?

There was a smirk on Larkin’s face as he directed a glance her way. She could practically hear him saying, “See? I told you we’d be in the same outfit.”

“Captain Avery and his people will decide which squads and platoons are most likely to benefit from your complete lack of experience,” Chora continued. It could have been a joke, but since Chora wasn’t smiling, McKee didn’t either.