Andromeda's Fall (Legion of the Damned) (21 page)

Weber made a rumbling sound that McKee knew to be laughter.

As the march continued, the winding ribbon of road carried the battalion up and over a succession of vegetation-clad hills. A few hours later, the sky grew cloudy, flashes of lightning could be seen off in the distance, and the air felt increasingly humid. McKee was debating the merits of putting on her rain slicker when Kaylor’s voice invaded her helmet. “The second squad will fall out and stand by . . . I have a job for you.”

Weber groaned. “I knew it was too good to last.”

The battalion continued down the road as McKee and her legionnaires broke formation and made their way over to the spot where Kaylor was waiting. A case of MREs was sitting on the ground next to her cyborg’s feet. “Okay, people, here’s the situation. A navy drone spotted some wreckage about three miles east of here. According to the report, the crash must be fairly recent because there was a fire, and the surrounding foliage hasn’t had time to grow back. Trouble is that we aren’t missing any aircraft—and the loyalists aren’t either. That means it could be a reb aircraft of some sort. And who knows? Maybe the governor was on it.

“So we’re sending you out for a look-see. Once you arrive on the site, scope things out, collect any Intel you can, and report in.” Kaylor paused to look up at the sky. She blinked as the first raindrops hit her face. “The weather is deteriorating—and you’ll have to stay the night. Be careful out there. McKee will divvy up the MREs, then you can get going. The coordinates have been downloaded by now.”

McKee felt a strange combination of fear and excitement as she released her harness and jumped to the ground. The fear had to do with the amount of responsibility involved. Was she up to the task? The anticipation stemmed from the opportunity to break away from the column and operate on her own. “Oh, and one more thing,” Kaylor added. “We’re sending the FTD along to examine the crash site. Any questions?”

The robot arrived right on cue and hovered next to Kaylor. McKee kept her face blank as she looked up at Kaylor. “No, ma’am. No questions.”

Kaylor offered a jaunty wave as her cyborg turned and took off. The T-1 would have to run in order to catch up with the battalion. Suddenly, there was a clap of thunder, the skies opened up, and a deluge of rain fell. McKee was on her own.

CHAPTER: 11

A patrol leader can take his men a mile into the jungle, hide there, and return with any report he fancies.

SIR WILLIAM SLIM

Defeat into Victory

Standard year 1956

PLANET ORLO II

Raindrops landed on the leaves over McKee’s head, where they coalesced into fat globules and fell like miniature bombs exploding on her helmet and shoulders. Taken together, they produced a soft roar that was almost enough to drown out the rhythmic whine of Weber’s servos.

There was no trail, so all Weber could do was follow the FTD between the forest giants that towered hundreds of feet above. It wasn’t that the globe-shaped robot was determined to lead the way. It was homing in on the coordinates downloaded from the navy—and seemingly intent on reaching the crash site regardless of what happened to the legionnaires.

McKee and Weber were on point, followed by Chiba on Poto, Singh on Kinza, and Larkin on Hower. Their sensors were on max as lightning flashed above, thunder rolled across the land, and rain lashed the foliage around them. Powerful though the cyborgs were, she knew they could be overwhelmed by a massed attack. But she figured that an ambush was unlikely since they weren’t on an established trail.

Eventually, the FTD led them out of the forest and into a clearing. The remains of some thatched huts occupied the center of the open space, surrounded by what might have been gardens but were now thick with weeds. A Droi settlement? Abandoned months or even a year earlier? McKee assumed so as Weber crossed to the other side and reentered the forest.

Branches brushed past, wetting her slicker in the process, as Weber splashed through a fast-flowing creek and up a low bank. Then they headed uphill, past a mist-shrouded rock formation and onto a scree-covered slope that made for uncertain footing. The cyborgs struggled to stay upright as the pieces of wet shale slip-slid downhill and threatened to take them along.

Finally, having achieved the summit, McKee called a halt and ordered Weber to check their position. The FTD was probably correct—but what if it wasn’t? Rather than take that chance, she thought it best to double-check. And as Weber verified their location via a satellite, the FTD kept going. Moments later, it disappeared. That was annoying, but there wasn’t anything she could do about it other than contact the robot by radio and request that it return. But when she did so, there was no reply. Was there some sort of com problem to blame? Or did the robot have the capacity to ignore her? McKee didn’t know.

After the two-minute break, it was time to make their way down the other side of the hill. That process proved to be as difficult as climbing up it had been. Only this time it was necessary to contend with mud rather than shale. Weber swore as he lost his footing and was forced to execute a series of leaps in order to maintain his equilibrium. All she could do was hang on to the grab bar and bend her knees to absorb a quick succession of shocks.

The others had similar difficulties, and it was a miracle that none of them took a serious spill. Once on the forest floor, Weber led the squad through head-high thickets of vegetation that reminded McKee of bamboo. And that was when she heard a clap of thunder followed by what might have been a distant rifle shot. Except that the two sounds came so close together it was hard to tell if there was a difference.

Weber turned into a small stream after that. It served as a highway for a while until they had to bear right in order to stay on course. Then they entered a blight-ravaged area where the trees had been stripped of foliage. Now they stood like jagged splinters against the gray sky, shoulder to shoulder in a spooky wasteland. And that was where they found the FTD. Weber gave the alert over the squad push. “Echo-Four-Five to Four-Four. I have a fix on the FTD. It’s about four feet off the ground at two o’clock. Over.”

McKee held up a hand to slow the others and peered through the gathering gloom. As they closed on the object, she could see that Weber was correct. The FTD was hovering just above the ground, waiting for them. Or that was how it appeared until they were ten feet away. Then she realized that the robot was impaled on a stick. The hunter’s decapitated head came to mind as she said, “This is Four-Four. Look sharp everybody . . . We’ve got company. Over.”

As the squad took up defensive positions all around, she freed herself from the harness and dropped to the ground. Then, mindful of the need to record what she saw, McKee activated her helmet cam. Once they got back, she would have to file another after-action report, and a picture was worth a thousand words. Meanwhile, she knew it was important to look for trip wires or any other indication that the FTD had been booby-trapped.

There was no response when McKee spoke to the machine, and the reasons for that quickly became obvious. A hole could be seen where a large-caliber bullet had penetrated the robot, and an equally sizable exit wound was visible on the opposite side of its body. And that was to say nothing of the sharpened stake upon which the FTD was impaled.

McKee felt a prickly sensation between her shoulder blades as she did a slow 360. They were being watched, she felt certain of that, even if the rain was interfering with the accuracy of the team’s infrared sensors by cooling everything down. “So what now?” Larkin demanded. “This place is spooky.”

“Four-Two will use proper radio procedure,” McKee said as all sorts of thoughts flickered through her mind. What, if anything, had the FTD “seen” prior to being hit? Maybe it was still there, resident in the robot’s memory, waiting to be accessed. The mere possibility of that meant it was her duty to pull the machine’s CPU and take the device with her.

But what sort of information had the FTD acquired since the battalion departed Riversplit? Data about her perhaps? Gathered at Jivv’s request? Or just gathered. Because that was what the robot was designed to do. The decision seemed to make itself. “This thing is too big to carry, and we can’t leave tech laying around, so Echo-Four-One will destroy it. Then we’re out of here. Over.”

That was the moment when McKee feared one of her team members would suggest that she jerk the CPU, but none of them did, and she felt a sense of relief as Singh attached a small charge to the robot. Then, once they were a safe distance away, he thumbed a remote. There was a flash of light followed by a loud bang. The FTD and whatever it knew was history.

“Okay,” McKee said, “keep your heads on a swivel. And max those sensors. Over.”

There was a series of double clicks by way of a response as Weber led the others into the forest. McKee had more reason to worry about the possibility of an ambush at that point because the enemy knew they were present and could guess where they were headed. It would be easy to calculate a line of march and lie in wait for the legionnaires. But by moving quickly, she hoped to reach the crash site before the opposition could get organized.

Unfortunately, what light there was had begun to fade, adding even more urgency to the situation. They were going to spend the night, and that meant she’d have to find a spot that the squad could defend. A task best carried out during the day when one could see the surrounding territory.

Thick brush gave way and was forced to surrender as Weber smashed through it. Eventually, after five minutes of concerted effort, the cyborg broke free of the foliage and entered an area blackened by fire. And there, with its nose half-buried in the ground, was a spaceship. It was too large to be an air car of the sort Governor Jones might have access to—but about right for a scout or small transport. But that was all she could discern without inspecting the wreckage more closely. “This is Four-Four . . . That thing could be empty or full of bad guys,” McKee said. “So be careful. And watch for trip wires, land mines, and IEDs.”

Step by step, the squad advanced over broken ground until the dark hull loomed above them. “Does anyone know what kind of ship this is?” McKee inquired. “Over.”

“This is Four-Three,” Chiba replied. “I’m no expert. But it doesn’t look human to me. I think it’s military, though. See the bulge on the side of the hull? And the tube that’s sticking out? That looks like an energy cannon. Over.”

That set McKee’s mind to churning as she led the team counterclockwise around the wreck. Not human? Military? If so, the wreck was a real wake-up call. Something the brass would be very interested in. But before she sought to make radio contact with the battalion, McKee wanted to learn more. And find a place where the squad could hole up for the night.

The ship had thrown up a berm of soil as it hit and dug in. And the dirt was turning to mud as the rain continued to fall. Big clumps of it stuck to the legionnaires’ foot pods and made it difficult for them to walk as they circled around the hull to the point where a ramp led up into the ship. And that was very interesting since it suggested that at least one crew member had survived the crash. But where were they? Out in the forest, shooting FTDs? Or inside the ship waiting to blast anyone stupid enough to enter? There was only one way to find out.

“This is Four-Four,” McKee said. “The bio bods will dismount while the cyborgs take up defensive positions around the ramp. Execute. Over.”

Once the T-1s were in place, with their backs to the ship, McKee led the rest of the squad up the ramp, with her AXE at the ready. The white blob projected from her helmet swung back and forth across the cargo hold as she turned her head. Crates and cargo modules were secured to the deck, and most if not all of them had been opened and ransacked. So they weren’t the first ones to enter the wreck. Far from it.

Having established that fact, she forced herself to pay attention to the sort of details that might provide a clue as to what race the ship belonged to. The first thing she noticed was that what looked like control panels were higher off the deck than they would be on a human ship, a fold-down set was much bigger, and the handles on a storage box were
huge
. And there was the alien script associated with what might have been access panels, fire extinguishers, and other mundane items. All of which suggested a possibility that Chiba put into words before she could. “This is Four-Three. I think the ship is Hudathan. Over.”

McKee was aware of the Hudathans, of course, but only vaguely. They were
big
, she knew that, and very warlike. And some said paranoid because they regarded every sentient race as a potential threat no matter how peaceful it might be. As the empire continued to expand, there had been more and more contacts with the Hudathans as well as raids on human-occupied rim worlds in recent years. “Roger that,” McKee replied, as they arrived in front of a steel bulkhead. A hatch was centered in the middle of the barrier but refused to budge when Larkin tried the handle.

Clearly, they would have to break in. But that would have to wait. McKee felt reasonably sure that the wreck was deserted—and would be more defensible than a makeshift encampment would be. So she ordered the other bio bods to search for Intel while she returned to the ramp.

It was dark by then, and McKee was glad the team had a secure place to hole up as she ordered Kinza and Hower inside. Their electromechanical bodies didn’t require rest, but their brains did, and two cybernetic sentries would be sufficient. The T-1s left a trail of mud on alien steel as they tromped up the ramp, went off to one side, and locked their joints. The cybernetic equivalent of lying down.

Then it was time to plug into one of Hower’s jack panels so she could access a radio powerful enough to reach the battalion. It took two tries to raise one of the outfit’s com techs and request a link to Lieutenant Kaylor. What she got was a hookup with Captain Avery, who had clearly been waiting for a report. “This is Echo-Nine. Go. Over.”

What McKee delivered was modeled on the sort of report she’d heard Sergeant Hux give. It was short and to the point. The team had traveled cross-country, been separated from the FTD, and been forced to destroy it later on. Presently, they were inside a ship that might or might not be Hudathan. No mention was made of lightning, thunder, or any of the other difficulties they had been forced to overcome.

After listening to McKee, Avery said, “Well done, Four-Four. Break into the control compartment if you can and bring us every memory module, data pad, and scrap of paper you can lay your hands on. Assuming it is a Hudathan ship, Admiral Poe is going to be very interested. Over.”

McKee acknowledged the order and signed off. Her first report from the field had gone well as far as she could tell—and it felt good to have it behind her. But there was no opportunity to enjoy the small victory as she went back to work.

Upon returning to the cargo compartment, McKee discovered that the other bio bods had hung glow strips here and there and assembled a small treasure trove of items that might or might not be of value to the Intel people. But like Avery, she felt that the
real
finds, if any, were waiting behind the locked hatch. And that would give them something to do during the evening.

But first it was time for the bio bods to heat up some water, pour it into their favorite MRE, and mix the two together. Once the resulting meals were ready, the personal condiments came out. Larkin was partial to garlic, Chiba favored hot sauce, and Singh sprinkled curry powder onto his chicken and rice. That made McKee the only person to consume her meal without adding anything to it—and once the legionnaire was finished, she couldn’t remember what had been in the glutinous mixture.

With dinner taken care of, it was time to confront the hatch. The first and most obvious way to tackle the problem was to place a charge over the lock and blow it. So McKee ordered Singh to take his best shot.

After fifteen minutes of careful preparation, the legionnaire declared himself to be ready, and once everyone had pulled back to the ramp, Singh thumbed the remote. There was a brilliant flash of light followed by an explosion that shook the ship’s hull. Smoke billowed and gradually began to dissipate as McKee went forward to inspect the damage. As her helmet light played across the bulkhead, she saw that, while the hatch was warped and pushed inwards, it remained intact.