Andromeda's Fall (Legion of the Damned) (19 page)

A gentle slope led down over broken ground into the warscape beyond. The sun had risen by then, and McKee could see the miles of bombed-out houses, buildings, and rubble-littered streets through which the invaders would have to pass before reaching the hill.

The Grays and elements of the 6
th
REI were already in the maze and feeling their way forward under the direction of officers who could “see” the terrain ahead via drones and real-time images on their HUDs.

Then, as Weber arrived at the bottom of the slope and followed Avery into what had been a major thoroughfare, McKee’s line of sight was greatly reduced. As a squad leader, she could access the drone feeds, but she knew that if she did, it might be a distraction rather than a help. No, she decided. It was better to let Avery worry about the big picture while she focused on the area around her squad.

The lead elements of the infantry had made contact by then, and the rattle of automatic weapons together with the steady
crump
of mortars signaled a brisk firefight. But there hadn’t been any reports of Rippers, so Avery was compelled to reduce the rate of advance or risk overrunning the ground pounders. And that could be disastrous. Because lethal though the T-1s were, the cyborgs weren’t ideal for urban combat—a situation in which their size made them excellent targets for rocket-propelled grenades, obstructions kept them from using their speed, and massed infantry attacks were a constant threat.

As Echo Company slowed, McKee was conscious of the fact that one of her jobs was to protect Weber’s six. That meant keeping her head on a swivel even as she monitored the three units under her command. Larkin’s ’borg, a male named Hower, had a tendency to walk right down the middle of the street as if daring the rebs to shoot at him. And if Larkin was aware of the problem, he showed no signs of doing anything about it. So as they came within range of the enemy’s artillery, she told Hower, “Stay out of the street and use cover.”

And it was then, while she was focused on the tactical situation, that the big picture changed. “This is Echo-Nine,” Avery said. “The first platoon will close up and prepare for a left turn at the next intersection. Some Rippers were hiding in an underground parking garage, and now they’re coming out to play. The first platoon will follow me. The second and third will continue to advance. Over.”

And with that, Avery’s cyborg began to jog. The rest of the company did likewise, as twelve T-1s snaked around a corner and threaded their way through an obstacle course that consisted of shot-up vehicles. Shoulder-launched missiles wouldn’t be very useful in an urban environment, so all of the ’borgs carried bio bods instead.

McKee could hear frenzied firing by then as well as desperate radio calls on the battalion push. All semblance of proper radio procedure had fallen by the wayside as a company of Grays battled to survive. “Behind you, Mac!” “It’s got Kowalsi . . .” “Medic! We need a medic here.”

All of that and more was flooding the push even as a voice that McKee recognized as belonging to Lieutenant Colonel Spurlock ordered his people to get off the battalion frequency. Then the platoon rounded a corner, and she could see the mayhem firsthand. A shopping mall had been transformed into a battlefield. And judging from the bodies that lay strewn about, the Rippers were stalking the Grays with near impunity, jerking them out of their hiding places and systematically dismembering them. A woman uttered a long, piercing scream as an exoskeleton-clad rebel plucked her off the ground and ripped her right leg off.

McKee felt anger flood in to replace whatever fear she’d been feeling. The rebs were clearly enjoying themselves and killing for killing’s sake as they painted the mall red. And it was clear that Avery felt as she did. “This is Nine . . . Choose your targets and take the bastards down! No prisoners. Over.”

Theoretically, cyborgs were supposed to do what bio bods told them to do. A practice that reflected the extent to which people at the highest levels of the Legion continued to be frightened of their new weapons. But in combat, that was rarely the case because the time consumed in a two-way conversation could mean the difference between life and death. Weber took the lead by heading straight at a rampaging Ripper. And because the reb was so engrossed in swinging a noncom around by his ankles, he failed to see the danger until it was too late.

Weber fired his grenade launcher and scored a direct hit. One of the exoskeleton’s legs collapsed, dumping the machine onto the pavement. A long burst from the fifty finished the job. Unfortunately, the Gray had been released to sail through the air and hit the side of a building headfirst. His body crumpled to the ground.

The first Ripper’s death elicited an amplified roar of outrage from another reb, who charged across the plaza at Weber. It happened so quickly that the cyborg wasn’t able to get off more than a three-shot burst before the tooth-rattling collision.

Then the battle was hand-to-hand, or grasper-to-grasper, as McKee looked over Weber’s shoulder and into what she could see of the rebel’s face. Only his eyes were visible thanks to the makeshift armor that protected him. Servos whined, and the air was filled with the acrid odor of ozone as the giants grappled with each other.

McKee had seen Weber throw other T-1s during training sessions, but not only was the Ripper more powerful than he was, it was heavier, too. So she aimed the AXE at the enemy pilot and fired a sequence of short bursts. But because of the thickness of the reb armor, plus violent movements by both machines, she wasn’t able to score a hit.

So McKee released her harness and dropped to the ground. Then, as she circled the machines that loomed above her, she fired short bursts. Sparks flew where her bullets struck. But the 4.7mm rounds had no noticeable effect on the Ripper. It had a lock on Weber’s head and was trying to twist it off.

More out of desperation than anything else, McKee let the AXE dangle from its sling as she launched herself at the Ripper from behind. Then she pulled herself up to the point where she was directly behind the pilot. He was protected by an improvised cage. But it wasn’t perfect, and a small gap offered the opportunity she needed.

Noncoms carried pistols, and that included corporals, even if McKee hadn’t had a chance to fire hers yet. As Weber struggled to escape the exoskeleton’s grip, she held on with one hand and pulled the weapon with the other. McKee felt proud of herself as she remembered to release the safety before shoving the barrel into the hole. The pistol’s magazine held thirty rounds and she fired fifteen of them into the control compartment.

There was no way to know if she hit the reb directly or via a ricochet. And it didn’t matter. Suddenly, the Ripper went limp, Weber was able to regain his freedom, and the exoskeleton collapsed. McKee rode it down, was thrown free by the impact, and rolled to her feet with pistol raised.

Avery, who was still aboard his cyborg, was there to greet her. “I saw what you did, Corporal . . . And Sergeant Hux would have been proud. No wonder they call you the Steel Bitch.”

McKee hadn’t been aware of the nickname until then and didn’t like it. But she knew that once given, such things were impossible to get rid of. “Thank you, sir. I think.”

Avery grinned. “We beat ’em, McKee. We beat ’em good.” And as McKee looked around, she saw that the officer was correct. A couple of T-1s were down, but at least six Rippers had been destroyed, one of which was little more than a smoking wreck. That meant the Grays were free to enter the meat grinder up ahead.

“Mount up,” Avery ordered. “And collect your squad. With any luck at all, we’ll eat our rations on the hill tonight.”

As it turned out, Echo Company didn’t get to eat dinner in the city of Riversplit. The rebs were too tough for that. But they did have breakfast near the top of the hill. A spot from which it was possible to look out over the devastated landscape and watch the sun come up. Not
her
sun, but an alien sun, which, like the planet itself, belonged to Empress Ophelia.
And I helped her take it back,
McKee mused.
How ironic is that?

But her belly was full, her tea was hot, and she felt strangely happy. A battle had been won, her squad had survived, and that was sufficient.

CHAPTER: 10

Civil unrest signals weakness and invites attack.

HADA IBIN RAGNATHA

Turr Truth Sayer

Standard year 2203

PLANET ORLO II

Echo Company was bivouacked in the ruins of a machine shop on the east side of the city. McKee had removed Weber’s head and was replacing the rotator bearing in the cyborg’s neck when Singh stopped by. “Jeez, McKee, shouldn’t you call in Hosker for a repair like that? What if you can’t put him back together?”

McKee would have preferred to have a tech do the work, but she’d seen some of the shoddy repairs that Hosker made. And wasn’t about to let him work on Weber. But if she said that, Singh might tell Hosker, who would report her for carrying out repairs she wasn’t qualified to make. And the charge would stick. “Hosker’s busy right now,” McKee said evasively, “given all the battle damage he has to repair. So I figured I’d take care of it myself. And Weber doesn’t mind. Do you, Web?”

The cyborg’s head was sitting on a beat-up table and was connected to his body via an armored umbilical. “Hell, no,” Weber responded. “McKee has the touch. She can work on me anytime.”

“Okay, if you say so,” Singh replied doubtfully. “I’ve got a message from the PL. She wants to see all of the squad leaders at 1000 hours.”

Lieutenant Cally Kaylor had been sent to replace Camacho. According to the scan, she was a jacker, meaning an officer who had risen through the ranks, and a stickler for regulations. McKee had been introduced to the officer but hadn’t spent any time with her. She frowned. “So what’s up?”

Singh shrugged. “Beats me. The loot didn’t say.”

“Whatever it is won’t be good,” Weber predicted darkly.

“Quit being so pessimistic,” McKee said, although deep down she agreed with him. “Maybe we’re getting a pay raise.”

That was sufficient to elicit a laugh from both legionnaires, and as Singh left, McKee returned to work.

At 1000 hours she reported to the small parking lot that served as Echo Company’s HQ. It consisted of an inflatable hab, tarps stretched over a crude framework made from salvaged lumber, and lines of four-man tents. Captain Avery was nowhere to be seen, but Kaylor was seated under a large sheet of plastic along with squad leaders Boyce and Fanta. As McKee came to attention, Kaylor waved the formality off. “As you were. No need for that when the four of us get together. Grab a chair.”

Kaylor had white sidewalls, a blond crew cut that stood straight up, and a square face. Her eyes were green and an army of freckles marched cheek to cheek across an unremarkable nose. The officer’s mouth was so straight it looked as if it had been issued to her.

“All right,” Kaylor said as McKee took her seat. “Let’s get to it. Captain Avery and Echo Company’s platoon leaders were required to attend a briefing this morning and here’s the download. Governor Jones led the rebellion so the brass want to get their hands on him. But for political reasons, the locals insisted on arresting him themselves.

“Our troops were ordered to stand down while the Grays took him into custody. But while they were getting their act together, the governor took off. The Intel people don’t know where the bastard is, but have a pretty good idea of which way he went, so a mixed battalion is going to track him down. And Echo Company will be part of that battalion. Don’t tell me—let me guess. You have questions.” The last comment was delivered with a smile.

McKee was impressed by Kaylor’s direct no-nonsense manner and figured that was at least partly the result of having worked her way up from private. She had questions, but Boyce beat her to it. He had black hair, dark skin, and intense eyes. “Yes, ma’am. Did you say ‘mixed battalion’?”

Kaylor made a face. “Yes, I did. Although one might question whether it’s going to be a small battalion or a reinforced company. But, since Lieutenant Colonel Spurlock says it’s a battalion, I guess it is. The force will include Echo Company, a platoon of Grays, and two squads of marines. That way, everyone will be able to take credit once we capture the governor.”

McKee was reminded of the march north and the way in which Sergeant Hux and twenty-five others had paid for Spurlock’s incompetence. A hole opened up in the pit of her stomach as Fanta entered the discussion. He’d been on that march, too, and clearly had reservations. “Spurlock? You must be joking.”

Kaylor frowned. And for the first time, McKee got a glimpse of the strict disciplinarian that she’d heard about. “Be careful, Sergeant. That comment could be construed as mutinous. But I’ll assume that it was simply a poor choice of words. It isn’t for us to judge who commands the battalion. Our job is to run the first platoon. The members of which look to noncoms such as yourself to set the appropriate tone. Do we understand each other?”

McKee felt sorry for Fanta because it had been clear from the beginning that Kaylor had misgivings about the battalion, and his question had been consistent with that. But it seemed as if Fanta had stepped over an invisible line and paid the price. All of which was being absorbed and filed away as a chastened Fanta said, “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Colonel Spurlock wants to get an early start tomorrow. So have your people assembled and ready to go at 0500. Monitor Jivv will deliver a briefing for officers and noncoms. Once that’s out of the way, we’ll head out. You and your troops have the rest of the day to perform maintenance and load up for what could be a long march.”

McKee felt a sense of alarm at the very mention of Jivv’s name and cursed her luck. No matter where she went, it seemed as if a synth was always nearby. Kaylor’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Corporal McKee? Please stay after the others leave. I’d like to have a word with you.”

It was a clear dismissal for Boyce and Fanta, who stood and hurried to extricate themselves from what had become an uncomfortable meeting. At that point, McKee’s already-flagging spirits sank even further. Was she in trouble? It appeared that way judging from the expression on Kaylor’s face.

“So,” the officer said once the other noncoms were gone, “tell me about your relationship with Private Larkin.”

Suddenly, McKee understood. Having heard that the two of them were inseparable, and that Larkin had engineered a transfer to the second squad, Kaylor jumped to the obvious conclusion: The legionnaires were having an affair. The thought caused McKee to laugh, and when Kaylor frowned, she hurried to explain. Once Kaylor heard about the battle in the swamp, followed by Larkin’s almost-doglike devotion, she was amused rather than critical.

“Well, it takes all kinds, I guess, but you can see how people could get the wrong idea. And now that you’re a squad leader, you’ve got to guard against any perception of favoritism. So make sure Larkin gets his share of shit details.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Plus,” Kaylor continued, “you’re on something of a roll. Captain Avery thinks very highly of you. He can’t promote you until you have some time in grade. But if you stay on the straight and narrow, the bump will come. Meanwhile, he forgot to request a sergeant to fill your slot. That’s a gift, McKee. Don’t screw it up.”

“Yes, ma’am. I mean no, ma’am.”

“Okay, get back to work. I’ll see you in the morning.”

* * *

It was raining as the dimly seen sun began to rise. Not hard, but steadily, as if determined to wash all of the blood off the streets of Riversplit. McKee had to turn up the collar of her slicker to prevent the cold water from trickling down her neck and into her clothes. So thanks to the weather, and the brooding hostility projected by the locals as the column of legionnaires clanked, whined, and strutted past them, the mood was anything but upbeat as Echo Company made its way to a park filled with temporary graves. Rebs mostly, and civilians, who had been killed during the battle for Riversplit.

As soon as they arrived, the officers and noncoms were required to assemble a few hundred yards away from the rest of the battalion. Monitor Jivv was waiting for them in front of a wall inscribed with the names of the first colonists to land on Orlo II.

As the officers and noncoms arrived, an order was given to form a single rank. McKee saw a
second
robot. The machine was shaped like a globe, about three feet in diameter, and hummed softly as it floated next to the android’s left shoulder. “Good morning,” Jivv said as rivulets of rain ran down his alloy body. “As you know, we’ve been tasked with pursuing the traitor Naoto Jones and apprehending him before he and his followers can cause more strife or escape from the planet.”

McKee remembered Snarr and the way Frood had been executed. Would Jones suffer a similar fate once he was caught? Yes, it seemed likely. And, just as before, she would be partially responsible.

“The unit next to me is called a fugitive-tracking device or FTD,” Jivv continued. “It can see microscopic evidence, detect even the faintest odors, and perform a variety of forensic tests under field conditions. For example, if one of you were a wanted criminal, and the government had a sample of your DNA on file, this device could take a specimen, analyze it, and make a match. All in a matter of seconds.”

McKee felt a chill run down her spine. Jivv had been looking at her as it spoke. Or was that her imagination? One thing was for sure, however. The government almost certainly had DNA taken from her parents. So if the FTD ran a check on her, it would come up positive.

“Because the FTD is going to accompany us, I want it to be familiar with all of those who may need to give it orders,” Jivv said. “So please state your name and remain stationary as the FTD carries out some routine scans.”

They weren’t standing at attention, so McKee was free to turn her head and watch as the FTD sailed over to Colonel Spurlock and hovered in front of him. Then, person by person, the robot worked its way down the line until it was directly in front of her. She could hear the humming sound it made, smell the ozone it produced, and feel the warmth that the machine gave off. Her heart was beating like a trip-hammer by then, she felt light-headed, and feared that she might faint as the FTD began its inspection. It took all of her powers of concentration to say her name.

There was no way to know for sure, but McKee assumed the robot was recording photographic images of her, scanning her retinas, and mapping her heat signature. The question, and a life-and-death one at that, was whether it would take a sample for DNA extraction. She hadn’t seen it do that with anyone else, but her knees felt weak as a servo whirred, and the robot extruded a flexible probe. Some sort of sensor was mounted on the end of it, and she heard a sniffing sound as the instrument probed the air around her face and neck. Then, having completed its task, the FTD moved on. She had survived.

McKee’s inner clothing was soaked with sweat by then, and as the moisture started to cool, she started to shiver. The FTD had to be destroyed. The only question was when and how.

* * *

Governor Naoto Jones had fled south. That was what loyalist informers claimed, and it made sense because there were lots of reb sympathizers to the south, not to mention the Big Green, a vast track of unsettled land where Jones could hide.

Admiral Poe’s drones had flown dozens of missions over the Big Green looking for the fugitive and would continue to do so during the days ahead. But it was, as Lieutenant Oxby put it, “like looking for a needle in a haystack.” Vehicles would be easy to spot if they were out in the open, but it was difficult if not impossible for the drones to “see” through the forest canopy, and their infrared sensors were of little assistance because Orlo II was home to a race of sentients called the Droi. And the indigs lived in the Big Green, as did their herds of partially domesticated P-Yani, plus thousands of forest-dwelling animals. So there were countless man-sized heat signatures to choose from and no way to know which ones to focus on.

All of which had to do with why the battalion had been sent south. The hope was that people on the ground would find the governor’s trail and catch up with him. McKee was the exception, however, because she was a reb sympathizer at heart and secretly hoped that Jones would escape.

But regardless of McKee’s desires, there was a lot of soldiering to do. Not for the benefit of politicians good and bad but for her comrades in arms. And with the possibility of an ambush around every corner, there were lots of things to worry about. Including the fact that Kaylor had a sharp eye for details and was quick to criticize her squad leaders if their ’borgs were too slow, or a bio bod was dozing in his or her harness.

And when the first platoon was on point, as they were at the moment, it seemed as if Kaylor was extravigilant. McKee didn’t know if that was due to the constant threat of an attack—or the fact that Spurlock’s open command car was behind the lead platoon.

Two of the Marine Corps’ Scorpion armored cars were next in line, followed by four 8 X 8 trucks, each loaded with supplies and a squad of Grays. A fuel tanker occupied the eight slot, followed by a rear guard consisting of T
-
1s.

It wasn’t fair, everyone knew that, since the arrangement meant that the Legion was always on point and drag. The most dangerous slots in any column. But Spurlock justified the practice by pointing out that the T-1s were best able to protect themselves and the rest of the vehicles were the battalion to be attacked. And even McKee had to acknowledge that.

So the rain fell, Echo Company’s platoons rotated every hour, and the column followed Route 36 south at a steady 40 mph. Spurlock’s goal was to cover at least three hundred miles per day.

Eventually, the well-cultivated farms gave way to scrubland and what looked like miniature fortresses all owned by agro companies. The fortifications were a necessity according to Oxby—since the Droi were none too happy with the way in which the gigantic farms were eating into the Big Green. And, because the conglomerates were aligned with Empress Ophelia’s government, the Droi were allied with the rebs.

Dwellings became few and far between as the paved road turned into a muddy track, and the column’s speed fell to 20 mph. A sure sign that Spurlock was going to fall well short of his three-hundred-mile-per-day goal.