Andromeda's Fall (Legion of the Damned) (7 page)

It was an often-comical affair, which Hasker referred to as “a complete fuck-up,” although neither he nor the other NCOs seemed to be particularly surprised. Probably because they had seen the whole thing many times before and knew that a lot of practice would be required to get it right.

Then it was off to lunch, followed by a history lesson in the ship’s auditorium. The holo presentation began with the Legion’s birth and went on to document the early days in North Africa, Spain, and the Crimean War. All of which led up to the famous battle of Camerone, in which Captain Danjou and sixty-two legionnaires took on a much larger force at a village called Camerone. Finally, after Danjou had fallen, and with only four able-bodied legionnaires left, Sous-lieutenant Maudet ordered his men to level their bayonets and charge the more than two thousand Mexican soldiers who faced them.

Maudet was killed almost immediately, as was a legionnaire named Catteau, who was shot nineteen times as he tried to protect the fallen officer. At that point, the survivors were called upon to surrender, and agreed to do so on the condition that they would be allowed to keep their weapons, and their wounded would be cared for.

There would be thousands of battles to follow both on Earth and other planets, but none that meant so much. And it was then that she began to more fully understand the grim, inward-focused pride that people like Hasker felt for their organization.

Classes continued through the afternoon. They covered a wide variety of subjects, including basic hygiene, the Imperial code of military justice, and the way the Legion was organized. The latter was of special interest to McKee, who knew that if she were to succeed in the Legion, it would be necessary to understand it.

Then it was dinnertime, and as her platoon prepared to leave for chow, Hasker made the announcement that McKee’s platoon had been dreading. “You people have KP tonight, so remain on the mess deck when you finish eating. Petty Officer Chan will collect you at 1700 hours. Do what he says—and don’t screw up. Do you read me?”

The response was automatic by then. “Sir! Yes, sir.”

It was, McKee decided, a pain in the ass. But one that had to be dealt with. So the best thing to do was work hard and get the chore over with.

Chan was right on time, and instead of being the hard-ass that McKee had imagined, the petty officer was an affable man with broad cheekbones, a ready smile, and a slight paunch. In marked contrast to the Legion’s noncoms, the navy PO had little interest in turning the boots into effective soldiers and delivered his orders in a calm, laid-back manner.

Rather than be assigned to clean the galley, as she thought she would, McKee found herself working in a storage compartment adjacent to the kitchen. The task was to open the cases of food that had been brought up from one of the ship’s holds and load them onto what Chan referred to as “the ready racks.” That way, they would be secure if the argrav generators failed yet readily available to the cooks.

The job involved some lifting, but it was simple enough, and McKee enjoyed working alone. So she had been on the task for about thirty minutes, and was more than halfway through it, when she heard the hatch open and close behind her. Chan probably—come to check on her.

But when McKee turned, she realized that the visitor wasn’t Chan. It was Desmond Larkin. And two of his toadies. All three of whom had finished their work in the galley. “Well, well,” Larkin said. “Look what we have here. Scarface is all alone, with no big bad NCOs to protect her.”

McKee looked left and right, hoping for some sort of weapon or escape route. But there wasn’t any. Larkin chuckled. “That’s right, bitch. You’re mine. I told you it was coming—and here it is. You’re real brave when a person’s back is turned. Let’s see how you do face-to-face.”

McKee knew she couldn’t win but was determined to go down fighting. So she threw a box of baking soda at Larkin’s face. And when the bully raised his hands to deflect the object she launched a kick. Unfortunately, he was able to deflect it with the turn of a hip.

Then they swarmed her. Fists struck from every direction. McKee fell, curled up into a ball, and had the breath knocked out of her as a boot slammed into her ribs. Then came a blow to the head, the sound of distant laughter, and a long fall into darkness.

CHAPTER: 4

Kill a man and you are an assassin. Kill millions of men and you are a conqueror. Kill everyone and you are a god.

CLERGYMAN BEILBY PORTEUS

Standard year circa 1761

IMPERIAL PLANET ESPARTO

Hans Simek hated robots. Especially robots made to look and act like humans because most thought themselves superior to the beings who created them. But due to the influence of a well-placed relative on Earth, as well as a horrible twist of fate, Simek had been named Case Officer Nine in the newly created Bureau of Missing Persons (BMP) and placed in charge of creatures that were theoretically incorruptible, willing to work around the clock, and could be destroyed if necessary.

Now, sitting in his newly refurbished office on the seventy-third floor of the Imperial Tower, Simek had no choice but to put his bias aside and interact with a thing named Fyth. The killing machine’s head had a sleek, streamlined look; it was wearing the colors of the Imperial Security Service and standing at parade rest. Although all of the experts swore that robots didn’t have individual identities, most were willing to concede that because androids had to operate in a semiautonomous manner, they inevitably acquired experiences unique to them. That led to preferences and generalized behaviors that could be perceived as individual personalities but weren’t. Not technically.

All of which was a load of crap from Simek’s perspective, because he
knew
that Fyth had a personality, and an obnoxious one at that. But unless he wanted to go out and kill people himself, he had no choice but to use the machines placed under his control to get the job done. “So,” Simek said, “give me your report.”

“It was sent to you electronically,” came the inflectionless response.

Simek swore under his breath. “You will provide an oral report now, or I will have you recycled.”

Simek figured that a nonsentient machine shouldn’t care about being wiped. But in his experience, most of the higher-functioning androids did. That was because certain subprograms encouraged the robots to survive. Just as an inborn survival instinct served to protect human beings. So if Fyth wanted to “live,” it would comply. And it did. “I was ordered to find and terminate subject 1012.”

Simek tapped the number into a keypad. A three-dimensional likeness of an elderly man appeared in front of him. A cloud of white hair seemed to float around his head, a caste mark could be seen on his forehead, and deep lines creased his face. The image began to rotate. “Continue.”

“His daughter was on Worber’s World,” the machine said tonelessly. “So I went to the city where her house is located and placed it under surveillance. The subject arrived twelve days later, collected his grandchildren, and departed. I followed.”

“And then?”

“The subject took the children to a wooded area,” Fyth said. “There was a stream. He had fishing poles for the children. As they dropped lines into the water, I emerged from cover.”

Simek raised a hand, tapped some keys, and seconds later he was looking at 1012, the children, and the wooded setting through Fyth’s “eyes.” Sunlight sparkled on the water, and it rippled as it flowed past, broke against a rock, and came back together again.

Ten-twelve had his back to Fyth, but must have heard something because he turned. There was a look of surprise on his face, followed by what might have been resignation. His voice was matter-of-fact. “Ophelia sent you.”

“The government sent me.”

Ten-twelve laughed bitterly. “There is no government. Not anymore. Just Ophelia. Please spare the children. They know nothing.”

“Grandpa!” came a high-pitched voice. “I got one. Come help.”

Simek watched a pistol come up, and saw the crosshairs appear, as a blue-edged hole replaced the caste mark at the center of the old man’s forehead. Ten-twelve fell over backwards, a child screamed, and the background began to blur as the reticle sought the source of the sound.

Simek stabbed a key, and the holo imploded. He had grandchildren of his own. Three of them. And there was no need to witness the murders that followed. “And their parents?” he inquired.

“Dead.”

“And the cover story?”

“The pistol used to kill 1012 and the children was found clutched in their father’s hand. Police theorize that he followed his father-in-law to the stream, where he killed 1012 and the children. Then he returned home and turned the weapon on his wife. And himself. A suicide note was found next to his body.”

“Nice and tidy. I like it.”

“Of course you do,” Fyth replied smugly.

Simek felt a flash of anger. “You will refrain from gratuitous speech.”

Rather than reply by saying, “Yes, sir,” the android was silent. Was that a sign of obedience? Or defiance? Simek clenched and unclenched his jaw. “I have a new assignment for you,” he grated. “Lady Catherine Carletto is, or was, the daughter of Dor and Carolyn Carletto. They were neutralized during phase one of the succession process. Lady Catherine, or subject 2999 if you prefer, was here in Esparto Prime at the time.”

Simek tapped a couple of keys, and the likeness of a young woman blossomed over the desk. As he spoke, the disembodied head began to rotate. “During the lead-up to the explosion on the fifth floor of this building, she was called away. Unfortunately, all of the people who knew why she was called away are dead. However, there’s reason to believe that someone warned 2999. Because when she reentered the ballroom, and spotted some of your kind, she was visibly alarmed. Then a synth named Varth took a shot at her and missed. You might be interested to know that the unit was wiped and recycled. Perhaps it will be reborn as a dozen garbage cans.”

If Fyth was troubled by Varth’s ignominious fate, there was no sign of it on his smooth, nearly featureless countenance.

“That was just the beginning,” Simek said grimly. “Half a dozen of your mechanical brethren went after 2999, and she managed to elude them all. A society girl, for God’s sake! But a resourceful one. She ran, bought new clothes, and was hiding in a third-rate hotel when a desk clerk saw her image on a vidnet and turned her in.

“
More
synths were dispatched, and she not only disabled one of them but acquired a weapon in the process. A nightstick, which she used to kill the hotel clerk. We know because her prints were on the handle.

“Are you seeing a pattern here?” Simek inquired rhetorically as he caused Catherine Carletto to disappear. “The score is something like society girl ten, machines zero. But you don’t feel any shame, do you? Because at the end of the day, you’re a
thing
. Well,
thing
, see if you can succeed where the rest of your kind didn’t. Twenty-nine-ninety-nine was wounded during her escape from the hotel. And, judging from the amount of blood she left behind, the cut went deep. A defensive wound most likely. So even if she’s wearing a disguise, there could be one or more partially healed lacerations on her hands or arms.

“But first you’ll have to find her,” Simek added. “And that won’t be easy. Because after fleeing the hotel, the bitch disappeared. So either she’s here on Esparto, or she found a way to get off-planet. Maybe she sold some jewelry, or sold herself, and is hiding out on some shit-hole rim world by now. That’s
my
theory.

“There is another possibility, however, and
you’re
going to check it out. After sifting through 150 terabytes of data, an AI employed by the local security service noticed that the Legion processed a draft of recruits during the days immediately after 2999’s disappearance. That raises the possibility that she enlisted, and they shipped her to Drang for basic training.

“So get an oil change or whatever it is that you do between assignments and go to Drang. If she’s there, take care of it. If not, we’ll focus on the rim worlds. Do you have any questions?”

“Just one,” Fyth replied. “If she
is
on Drang, what about the rest of the soldiers?”

It was a reasonable question and a tricky one. Because while it was one thing to scrub 1012 and his family, Tarch Hanno might object to Fyth taking out an entire contingent of legionnaires. Assuming he could, which would be difficult unless Simek brought the navy in and authorized them to attack the Legion base from space. But then there would be an investigation plus a shipload of navy personnel to eliminate, and that would create even more problems. So Simek delivered his answer. “If you find 2999, leave the rest of them alone. But bring some of her DNA back for verification.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Fyth . . .”

“Sir?”

“Don’t screw up. You’ll wind up as scrap metal if you do.”

ABOARD THE IMPERIAL TRANSPORT
ETA TAURI,

IN HYPERSPACE

McKee was working on a spider form with her father, and he was talking. Telling her something important. But try as she might, she couldn’t understand him even though she knew it was vitally important to do so. Then the scene began to fade, the drone of his voice started to recede, and someone pushed one of her eyelids open. A bright light flicked back and forth. “She’s back,” a female voice announced.

McKee saw two hazy-looking blobs, blinked them into focus, and found herself looking up at Sergeant Hasker and a medical officer she’d never seen before. She tried to sit up, but the pain hit, and she was forced to let her head fall back against the pillow.
Everything
hurt. Her face, her torso, even her legs were sore. One eye was swollen shut, and she winced as she reached up to touch it. “Take it easy,” Hasker advised. “Nothing was broken, but somebody kicked your ass.”

“I’ll get something for the pain,” the woman said, and disappeared.

Hasker looked away and back. “So, McKee, who beat the crap out of you? Give me a name. I’ll have their ass for dinner.”

McKee wanted to give him a name.
Wanted
to see Larkin and his toadies go down. But as she looked up into the noncom’s eyes, she saw sympathy combined with something else. Curiosity? Yes. Hasker was waiting to see what she would do. To rat or not to rat. During the last week, she and her fellow recruits had been required to learn all sorts of rules. Some directly and some indirectly. And even though no one had said as much, McKee knew that legionnaires didn’t rat on legionnaires. Problems, especially interpersonal problems, were handled without going up the chain of command. It was a far different world than the one she had grown up in. One in which she’d
never
been struck. Not once. When she spoke, her voice was little more than a croak. “I don’t know who attacked me, sir. They came from behind.”

McKee saw disbelief in Hasker’s eyes. But respect, too. And the complete lack of follow-up questions served to reinforce her decision. “That’s too bad,” the noncom responded. “The doc tells me you’ll be up and around by tomorrow. I’ll put you on light duty for a cycle, and we’ll see how you feel after that.”

“Sir. Yes, sir.”

Hasker said, “Get some rest,” and disappeared.

The doctor returned, gave McKee a couple of pills and a glass of water. “Take these. You’ll feel better. And you’ll look better in a couple of days. All except for the nose, that is. It might be a little flatter than before.”

McKee managed to prop herself up, put the capsules in her mouth, and take a sip. Some of the liquid went down the wrong way and caused her to cough. That hurt, and it felt good to lie down again. The lights dimmed, the pain began to recede, and sleep pulled her down. She went looking for her father but couldn’t find him.

* * *

Two “days” had passed since the beating and, while still sore in places, McKee had returned to full duty. That included two sessions of PT per day, an hour of marching, and a couple of classes. Some had to do with the Legion, but most were focused on a swampy planet named Drang. It was inhabited by a race of primitive amphibians that lived in beehive-shaped mud huts and steadfastly refused to do any of the things that a succession of interplanetary governments demanded of them. Like paying taxes and obeying Imperial laws. The result was an often-violent stalemate.

Such were the facts. But what McKee couldn’t understand was
why
. The orientation materials made no mention of exploitable natural resources, geopolitical strategy, or other factors that would explain why the Legion was required to occupy a worthless rock.

So as a session on Drang’s often-dangerous wildlife came to a conclusion, and the usual Q & A period began, she raised a hand. Hasker, who was standing at the front of the auditorium, aimed a laser pointer at her. A red dot wobbled across her forehead. “McKee, go.”

“Given that the locals hate us, and there has been no mention of a strategic objective where Drang is concerned, why station troops there?”

Hasker smiled grimly. “Well I’ll be damned. One of you pukes has a brain! Well, I ain’t no general, but here’s my take. First, Drang is pretty close to a jump point our Hudathan friends would like to own.

“Second, even though the people who run things like to use the Legion for a variety of purposes, they’re scared of it, too. Because any organization with a motto like ours could be dangerous. So they figure it makes sense to keep us busy on puss-ball planets like Drang and Algeron.

“Third, there ain’t no better way to learn how to fight than to spend some quality time with the frogs. Those water-sucking bastards are tough, and if you survive basic, you’ll be a combat veteran. So pay attention, people. What you learn here could save your life.”

Class was dismissed after that, and McKee was in the mob of recruits headed for the mess deck, when someone shouldered her aside. It was Larkin. “Hey, watch where you’re going, bitch . . . Or do you want another ass kicking?”

Then the bully was gone as he pushed his way toward the front of what would soon become the chow line. McKee felt a sudden surge of anger and battled to tamp it down. She couldn’t take Larkin head-on. She knew that.
But I will take him,
McKee thought to herself.
It’s just a matter of time.

IMPERIAL PLANET DRANG