Andromeda's Fall (Legion of the Damned) (6 page)

So what did she want? Friends? That would be nice, she reflected. But would such a relationship be fair to them? What if Ophelia’s assassins found her? Would they be satisfied with killing her? Or would the synths eliminate everyone she was close to? Those were difficult questions and remained unanswered as she went to bed.

The most obvious time for Larkin to attack her was during the night when she was asleep. So she arranged to trade her lower bunk for a rack located directly below one of the cameras. The idea was that if Larkin tried to reach her, he would have to climb up the framework, thereby shaking the stack and providing a few seconds of warning. Then, whatever took place would be visible to the people monitoring the cameras. Assuming they cared.

In spite of those precautions, McKee woke up frequently during the night and got very little sleep. And adding insult to injury, the morning whistle sounded an hour earlier than usual. That triggered all sorts of rumors, one of which was that the evaluation process was over.

The suspense continued to increase as the PRs ate breakfast, retrieved their trays, and fell in for morning roll call. Except the process was different this time. “Pay attention!” a corporal bawled. “The following people will assemble to my left. “Allen, Cassie, Atkins, Phil, Banu, Beri . . .” and so forth until roughly a third of the PRs had been accounted for.

It looked as though the individuals in one group were going to be accepted while those in the other would be cut. And since McKee’s name hadn’t been called she was in group two. Was that good or bad?

All of the PRs wondered the same thing as an actual officer appeared. The first such creature they had seen so far. He was a captain and wore two rows of ribbons on his chest. After taking his place in front of the PRs, he stood at parade rest. His blue eyes swept both groups like lasers. “Good morning. My name is Captain Dawkins. I would like to thank the members of group one for applying to become members of the Legion—and to congratulate group two for being accepted.”

That triggered a ragged cheer from group two and a mutual groan of disappointment from all the rest. And McKee might have added her voice to the celebration except for one thing: Larkin was in group two as well. And that didn’t bode well.

The rest of the morning passed quickly as the PRs who hadn’t made the cut were taken away, and the rest were given military-style buzz cuts. Once that process was complete, it was time for Dawkins to address them again. “You are,” he said, “about to become members of the best fighting force that the human empire has. The Legion was founded on March 10, 1831. It was, and is, an elite unit, which is why we choose our members with care. That may sound strange to those of you who are familiar with the Legion’s reputation as a refuge for people who want a fresh start. But, as one of our generals put it, ‘We want the best of the worst.’”

It was a joke and generated plenty of laughter. “But regardless of what others may think,” Dawkins continued, “we aren’t outcasts. We have each other. Our motto is ‘
Legio Patria Nostra
,’ which means ‘The Legion Is Our Country.’ That’s how it was, is, and how it will always be. A lot of governments have come and gone over the last 875 years, but we’re still here. That’s because we fight for each other rather than a creed. Some say it is our greatest flaw. I say it is our primary virtue.”

The officer’s words had special meaning for McKee because it seemed as though Dawkins was sending all the recruits a message: “The Legion takes care of its own.” Hopefully, that meant her DNA was safe from the government.

“Once you are sworn in,” Dawkins continued, “some of the most difficult days of your lives will begin. From Esparto you will be sent to Drang for basic training. Those of you who survive the process will go from there to Adobe or other planets for additional instruction.”

Having heard the phrase “those of you who survive,” McKee scanned Dawkins’s face for any trace of humor. There wasn’t any. And though well traveled, she had never heard of a planet named Drang. One of her mother’s favorite sayings came to mind: “Be careful what you ask for. You might get it.”

Then it was time to raise their hands and swear an oath. Not to the empire but to the Legion. Suddenly, everything changed. Requests became orders. The recruits were told to address noncoms as “sir” or “ma’am” until they graduated from boot camp. What seemed like picky details suddenly took on tremendous importance. Infractions were punished with push-ups. And there were lots of infractions as the recruits broke rules they didn’t know about.

Finally, having stripped their bunks, cleaned the lavatories, and buffed the floors, the recruits were taken outside and loaded onto buses, which transported them to the spaceport. That was where three reentry-scarred shuttles were crouched waiting to take them up to the transport
Eta Tauri
.

Rather than exit the buses, the recruits were required to sit and wait. The reason for the delay wasn’t clear. But as McKee watched a distant ship blast off, her thoughts turned to Earth and all that had been lost to her. The relationship with her parents had been rather poor during the months prior to her departure. Her father wanted her to join the family business, with an eye toward her running it one day—and her mother had been hoping for grandchildren. The problem was that neither possibility appealed to her.

Now, waiting to leave for Drang, she missed both of them so much that it made her chest hurt. And it was too late to please either one of them. She knew that.
But,
McKee told herself,
there is one thing I can give them. And that’s revenge.

That notion was comforting in a hard, cold sort of way, and she felt better as she and her companions were told to exit the bus. Then came a good deal of swearing reinforced by a kick or two as the NCOs herded their charges into a column of twos. “This ain’t a column of threes, idiot,” one of them said as a hapless recruit tried to line up next to a couple of his friends. “Get your ass to the back of the line. Goddamn it to hell, you people are stupid.”

Then, having wasted time sitting on the bus, the recruits were required to run across the tarmac to one of the waiting shuttles and thunder up a ramp. Once inside the utilitarian ship, they were ordered to sit on fold-down seats and, in the words of one burly sergeant, “prepare to barf.” But in spite of the initial urgency, nothing happened for another fifteen minutes. A pattern that McKee was coming to expect.

Finally, with barf bags at the ready, the ramp came up, and the shuttle lifted off. There were no viewports. All the recruits could do was stare at the people on the other side of the aisle or close their eyes as the additional gees pushed them down into thinly padded seats and the hull began to shake.

McKee had been through the experience many times before albeit on much more luxurious vessels. So she was prepared for the occasionally violent motion as the shuttle battled its way up through Esparto’s gravity well and the sudden weightlessness that followed.

But most of her fellow recruits were entering space for the first time. About half threw up into the barf bags, much to the amusement of the free-floating NCOs. And she couldn’t help but take pleasure in the fact that one of the people who came in for some ribbing was none other than Desmond Larkin.

Fortunately, most of the vomit went into the bags. But a few brownish globules managed to escape custody, and there was no defense against the odor that threatened to make McKee sick with all the rest of them. So she was thankful as the shuttle entered the
Tauri
’s landing bay and came under the influence of the larger vessel’s powerful argrav generators.

There was a solid
thump
as the shuttle touched down. But those who hoped to escape both the ship and the smell were in for a major disappointment. It seemed that the
Eta Tauri
’s crew was engaged in a training exercise that required them to leave the landing bay open and unpressurized until what one corporal referred to as “the navy’s circle jerk” was over. A full half hour passed before the bay was closed off, an atmosphere was pumped in, and the recruits were allowed to exit.

Then it was time to form up and listen to an orientation lecture from Chief Petty Officer Nambo. She had a hard face, a beefy body, and a prosthetic arm. It produced a high-pitched whining sound whenever its owner moved it. The chief had to raise her voice in order to be heard over the rattle of a power wrench and the nonstop flow of announcements from the PA system.

“Listen up,” Nambo bawled as she eyed the faces in front of her. “This is the combat supply vessel
Eta Tauri
. She is more than two miles long, she can carry 3 million tons of cargo plus a fleet of seventy-five shuttles like the ones you came up on. Approximately sixteen hundred men, women, and robots are required to run and defend the ship. Your job will be to stay out of their way and keep your pieholes shut. Someday, assuming that you graduate from basic, you will have both skills and a purpose. Until that fine day, you are cargo. And worthless cargo at that.

“Once you reach your quarters, you will be assigned to a lifeboat. If the captain orders us to abandon ship, report to that lifeboat, and
only
that lifeboat. The people assigned to other boats don’t have to accept you and won’t. So when the
Tauri
falls into the local sun, you’ll be along for the ride.

“Last but not least, we will be watching you . . . Steal something, assault someone, or pass gas without obtaining permission first and we will put your worthless ass in the brig. Do you read me?”

The response consisted of a ragged chorus of “Yes”es.

A sergeant named Hasker took a step forward. If looks could kill, every single one of the recruits would have been dead. “Chief Nambo asked you a question, pukes . . . The appropriate answer is either ‘Yes, ma’am,’ or ‘No, ma’am,’ realizing that if you say, ‘No, ma’am,’ I will put my boot up your ass.”

Having turned to Nambo, he said, “Sorry, Chief. Please try again.”

Nambo grinned. “Do you read me?”

McKee joined with all the rest to shout, “YES, MA’AM!”

“That’s better,” Hasker allowed. “Now that you know everything you need to know about the
Eta Tauri
, it’s time to get organized.” At that point the recruits were divided into companies and platoons before being led through a maze of corridors and passageways to D deck, which was down in the belly of the ship.

The space assigned to the second platoon of Bravo Company was equipped with stacks of bunks along both sides of the compartment, tiny lockers, and a narrow table that ran down the center of the bay. Training began with a lesson on how to make up a bunk complete with hospital corners. Then the recruits were issued bedding and ordered to use their newly acquired skills.

McKee couldn’t remember making a bed before. She tried, failed, and wound up doing a lot of push-ups before finally getting it right. Fortunately, Larkin had been assigned to the first platoon and wasn’t present to witness her difficulties.

Eventually, after all of the recruits successfully passed inspection, they were taken to the mess deck and fed. Though a far cry from what she had been accustomed to, the food was better than the crap served in the tank, and she was hungry.

Some of the people around McKee tried to engage her in conversation. But being unsure of whom she could trust, she provided little more than monosyllabic responses and was soon left alone.

Once the meal was over, two platoons from Alpha Company were detailed to enter the hot, steamy galley and perform all of the cleanup work. The rest of the recruits, McKee included, were released to “free time.” Assuming there was some after they had memorized the Legion’s chain of command, washed their “number twos,” and polished their boots.

McKee completed the first task in a matter of minutes but was a good deal slower where the other two were concerned. But by imitating those around her, she managed to carry out all of the tasks assigned to her before climbing into her bunk. Then, with the privacy curtain pulled, she fell into a dreamless sleep.

It seemed to be only moments later when Sergeant Hasker entered the compartment and began to yell at people. “It’s time to rise and shine, boys and girls . . . You have thirty minutes to prepare for inspection.”

The announcement triggered a race as all of the recruits bailed out of their bunks and made for what the navy referred to as the “heads.” The compartments were of equal size, but due to the fact that there were fewer females, there was less competition for sinks and showers. So the women were among the first to exit and make their bunks. Then it was time to put on the clean uniforms and the boots they had worked so hard to polish the “night” before. As the half hour expired, the recruits were ordered to “stand to.”

McKee watched out of the corner of her eye as Hasker and a stern-looking corporal came down the line, ripping poorly made bunks apart, pointing out flaws in the way uniforms had been pressed, and intentionally scuffing any boot that wasn’t shiny enough.

Then it was her turn, and she braced herself for the worst, as Hasker stopped in front of her. His closely shaven face was only inches away, and she could see his furrowed brow and smell his aftershave. The NCO’s flinty eyes scanned her face, her uniform, and fell to her mirror-bright boots.

Meanwhile, the corporal was eyeballing McKee’s rack. But rather than rip it apart, he took a step back. That left Hasker to deliver his judgment alone. “You ain’t no legionnaire, McKee. Not yet. But at least you look like one.”

That was high praise coming from Hasker. And McKee felt an unexpected flush of pleasure. Because of all the thousands of compliments she had received during her life, she knew this one was real. And that meant a lot.

After breakfast, the “boots” began a full day of training. The
Tauri
had broken orbit during the “night” and entered hyperspace a few hours later. That made it impossible to launch small craft, so the noncoms were able to take the recruits out onto the blast-scarred flight deck for a strenuous workout followed by an attempt to march. A seemingly outdated skill, but one that taught teamwork and still played a role in building
esprit de corps
.