Andromeda's Fall (Legion of the Damned) (9 page)

The next couple of hours were spent loading magazines, learning how to insert them, and taking turns shooting at nothing in particular. Partly because the range hadn’t been set up yet—and partly as a way to familiarize the boots with their weapons before worrying about accuracy. And as McKee sprayed the swamp with bullets, she couldn’t help but think about Empress Ophelia and wonder what it would be like to kill her.

* * *

The sunny weather was too good to last. And by the time the recruits rose the next morning and lined up for inspection, a gentle rain was falling. Thousands of overlapping circles covered the surface of the muddy water as McKee followed a boot named Laraby into the obstacle course. The AXE was on a sling, and it felt heavy, but she was happy to have the weapon since one of the T-1s had nailed a frog during the night. And there it was, out in the middle of the O-course, with a sharp stick up its ass. The point was protruding from between the creature’s shoulder blades, and its head was hanging to one side. A warning, Hasker said, which would help keep other indigs away.

McKee wasn’t so sure about that since it seemed as though the impalement could easily attract trouble as well. But such considerations were above her pay grade. So rather than worry about the right and wrong of it, she took the opportunity to eyeball the creature from about ten feet away.

The indig had a snakelike head, a skinny body, and mottled skin. The warrior’s arms ended in three-fingered hands that lacked opposable thumbs but had skin-covered bone spurs that served the same purpose. The individual in front of her had long, muscular legs that led to webbed feet. The latter was the only aspect of its physiology that was reminiscent of a frog. McKee felt sorry for it, tried to convince herself that it was stupid to do so, and failed. It was a victim of the empire, and
she
was a victim of the empire, which meant they had something in common.

The obstacle course was tough. But as McKee’s upper-body strength continued to increase, she was getting better at physical training and managed to get through with only one boost from a fellow recruit. He took the opportunity to squeeze her butt cheeks as he pushed her up over the highest wall. She looked back over her shoulder and swore at him. And when he laughed, she saw that the offender was none other than a mud-smeared Larkin. The incident served as a reminder, and a timely one, because McKee knew she would have to deal with the bully eventually.

After completing the O-course, it was off to the recently completed firing range. It consisted of a level spot just outside the fence, a dozen pieces of metal siding to lie on, and two ranks of targets out in the swamp. There were ten of them at three hundred yards, and ten more at five hundred yards, with the second row being higher than the first.

Fortunately, there was no need to go out and retrieve targets, or to put more up, because the fabric through which the bullets passed was not only self-healing but designed to record the exact location of every hit. Data that was transmitted to a portable reader board set up on the beach.

Rather than use their own weapons, which, as Pacheck put it, “are pieces of shit,” the recruits were given new L-40s to fire. Both rows of targets could pop up and down, forcing the shooters to switch back and forth between them. Each boot was entitled to forty shots. Twenty-five hits were required to pass, thirty hits were required to earn a sharpshooter’s badge, and thirty-eight hits were required to qualify as an expert. No small task with a short-barreled weapon.

Twenty shots had to be taken from a prone position, ten while kneeling, and ten using only their arms to support and control the L-40. McKee had excellent eyesight, as well as good eye-hand coordination, and managed to score twenty-six hits the first time on the firing line, a performance that earned a “Not bad,” from Anders. High praise indeed.

By the time dinner rolled around, McKee felt fairly good about her performance for that particular day. She was sitting on a crate, working her way through an MRE, when a familiar roar was heard. She had a good view as a reentry-scarred shuttle lowered itself through the overcast and settled onto the huge X at the center of the compound. Such arrivals weren’t unusual. And as the transport’s ramp made contact with the ground, McKee wondered who would be chosen to go aboard and hump supplies. Then, as a lone figure appeared at the top of the ramp, McKee felt something akin to ice water trickle into her veins. Because the silhouette looked very familiar. Frighteningly so.

She reached for the AXE, checked to make sure that the safety was on, and brought the weapon up. A quick look through the telescopic sight was sufficient to confirm her worst fears. A synth! On Drang.
Why?

Suddenly, her appetite disappeared, and she felt a little bit dizzy as Hasker went over to speak with the android. The call went out over the PA system a few moments later. All of the recruits were to fall in. No exceptions.

For one brief moment, McKee toyed with the idea of opening fire on the robot or making a run for it but knew she’d wind up dead either way. No, the smart thing to do was to keep her cool and hope for the best. Besides, the odds were that the synth was there for a reason that had nothing to do with her.

So she took her place in the front rank of the second platoon and was standing at attention as both Hasker and the visiting android took up positions in front of the company. McKee knew Hasker pretty well by then. They all did. And judging from the noncom’s expression, he wasn’t happy. “Listen up, people . . . This is Tracker Fyth. It’s looking for a fugitive named Catherine Carletto. If you are Catherine Carletto, or know where Catherine Carletto is, speak up.”

McKee felt as if she were going to faint. It took all of her resolve to keep her head up and look straight ahead. The situation was bad.
Very
bad. Ophelia’s security apparatus was looking for her on Drang. But McKee knew she had a couple of things going for her. One of which was the Legion’s closed culture.

“All right,” Hasker said after five seconds of silence. “Tracker Fyth has requested permission to inspect the ranks. You will remain at attention.”

McKee watched out of the corner of her eye as the android started with the first platoon and inspected the recruits one by one. The process seemed to last for hours. But in all truth, less than ten minutes had elapsed by the time Fyth sidestepped into a position directly in front of her. And as McKee stared into the robot’s red eyes, she knew it was comparing her features to those stored in its onboard computer. Everything was at stake—and time seemed to stop.

CHAPTER: 5

Humans have many weaknesses, not the least of which is their extensive reliance on cyborgs and robots. No good will come of it.

HAK HAKNA

Ramanthian xenoanthropologist

Standard year 1972

IMPERIAL PLANET DRANG

As the android made its way along the ranks of legionnaires, he could “hear” the Trooper Is talking to each other on the squad-level push. The cyborgs were heavily armed. And Fyth knew that if he found his target, he would have to be very cautious. The cyborgs might destroy him if he put a bullet in her head. Because humans were prone to act on emotion rather than logic, and the fact that they were wearing electromechanical bodies wouldn’t make any difference. So the best strategy would be to arrest Lady Carletto, take her off-planet, and shoot her somewhere else.

Making the situation even more difficult was the fact that while the noncommissioned officer named Hasker was acting in a compliant manner, his face was devoid of expression. That raised the possibility that he was concealing negative emotions, a behavior that would be consistent with the Legion’s tendency to protect its soldiers from civil authorities.

Fyth had registered two possible “hits” during the last few minutes but neither one held up under more intense scrutiny. So as the search continued the android kept a picture of Lady Carletto up where it could “see” it. Another face appeared as Fyth sidestepped into position directly in front of a female recruit. The Carletto image contracted to more closely match the size of the woman’s closely cropped head. At that point the android experienced a pleasant buzzing sensation while text slid sideways cross the bottom of its electronic “vision.” “Subject is a 58.2 percent match to target 2999. Investigate.”

So Fyth focused its attention on the superimposed images. There was a definite resemblance. The subject’s hairline, eyes, and lips were a perfect match. But the recruit’s nose was flatter, her face was thinner, and she had a pronounced scar that ran from just over her right eye down onto her left cheek.

That observation prompted Fyth’s processor to replay part of the conversation with Simek. “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.” Could the facial scar have been received on Esparto?

“What’s your name?” Fyth demanded.

The recruit looked at Hasker, saw him nod, and brought her eyes back to Fyth. “McKee . . . Andromeda McKee.”

“Where are you from?”

The recruit opened her mouth to reply but Hasker spoke on her behalf. “McKee was sworn in on Worber’s World.”

Fyth “saw” the possibility of a match drop to 46.1 percent. “Let me see your arms.”

The recruit was wearing a T-shirt. When she extended her arms, the android saw that they were free of scars. Fyth lost interest. The next recruit was male and way too tall. The search continued. When it was over, the android was left with nothing to show for its effort. A human might have felt a sense of disappointment. But not Fyth. It didn’t have emotions as such. Just a continuing desire to complete its mission.

So Fyth boarded the shuttle, strapped itself in, and began to “think” about the rim worlds. Maybe Simek was correct. Maybe subject 2999 was hiding out along the very edge of human-controlled space. Fyth would find out.

* * *

McKee felt a profound sense of relief as the shuttle’s repellers flared, and the ship began to rise. She was safe. For the moment at least. Thanks to Hasker. Thanks to the Legion.
Legio Patria Nostra.
It was true.

The troops had been dismissed, and she was about to leave the assembly area when Hasker motioned her over. The expression on his face was serious. “McKee . . .”

“Sir?”

“I don’t know why the synths are looking for you, and I don’t care. But watch your six . . . Maybe this is over, and maybe it ain’t. You read me?”

“Sir, yes sir.”

“Good. Report to your MOS group.”

There was a great deal to learn before the recruits could graduate from basic training and join one of the regiments. Not just
any
regiment, but the one that Hasker and the other instructors deemed to be most in keeping with a recruit’s test scores, skills, and apparent aptitudes.

The possibilities included aviation, supply, medical, the pioneers, infantry, airborne, and cavalry. The latter was of considerable interest to McKee because it would allow her to work with the cybernetic “forms” designed and manufactured by Carletto Industries. And because members of the cavalry were considered to be part of an elite organization that appealed to her as well. So when Hasker asked if any of the recruits wanted to learn more about the T-1s, her hand shot up. “You’ll be sorry,” Pachek predicted. “
Never volunteer for anything.
That’s the second commandment.”

McKee grinned. “And the first?”

“Pee when you can.”

McKee laughed. “I have that one covered. How ’bout you? What specialty are you interested in?”

“Airborne,” Pachek replied. “Why walk if you can fly?”

* * *

Corporal Anders was teaching the class on T-1 maintenance and ticked names off a list on his hand comp as McKee and a dozen other recruits gathered around a hulking T-1. “Okay,” Anders said. “Let’s get something straight right from the get-go. Private Fox isn’t a machine. She’s a person just like you. The difference being that you have biological bodies, and she is wearing a war form. So when you interact with her, keep that in mind.

“Now let’s talk about what a Trooper I can do. Trooper Is are eight feet tall and weigh half a ton. They are equipped with three-fingered pincer hands, or shovel hands, as the occasion demands. A Trooper I can run at speeds up to thirty-five miles per hour for sustained periods of time while carrying a bio bod. And they can do fifty in a sprint.

“Now, no insult to Fox here, but the greatest weakness of a T-1 is that they are only as smart as the human beings installed in them. In most cases, a Trooper I has his or her name stenciled on his or her right chest plate, a unit insignia on its left arm, and some choose to wear artwork in place of the tattoos that bio bods are allowed to wear.

“If you look closely, you’ll see that each cyborg has twelve small inspection plates located at various points on their bodies. They provide readouts for power, coolant, lubricant, life support, com systems, and so forth. Primary responsibility for checking the readouts rests with the bio bod assigned to each Trooper I, secondary responsibility rests with the platoon’s cyber techs, and tertiary responsibility rests with the squad leader.

“
Every
bio bod is expected to carry out daily maintenance tasks and service their cyborg’s weapons. And, if worst comes to worst, it will be your responsibility to pull your T-1’s brain box. At that point, the cyborg is rendered unconscious but can survive for up to twelve hours. Then they have to be hooked to a ‘rack’ for external life support, or they will die.

“So,” Anders finished, “if you’ve had some prior experience with electronics, hydraulics, and or life-support technologies, that would be very helpful. Okay, enough talk. Let’s start with basic maintenance.”

McKee was pleased to discover that she knew more about the inner workings of T-1s than Corporal Anders did. And that made sense since her family manufactured war forms, and she had a degree in cybernetics. But it soon became clear that he knew a lot of things that she didn’t, including which parts were substandard and how to carry out field repairs, that would have left her father shaking his head in amazement.

As the orientation session came to an end, and the light started to fade, the recruits lined up to get their MREs. Then it was time for a final roll call and some words from Hasker. “Get all the sleep you can, boys and girls. We’re going for a stroll in frog country tomorrow, and this ain’t no training exercise.

“It seems the gunrunners have been putting down about fifteen miles southwest of here. So we’re going to lay an ambush for the bastards. And if that don’t work, we’ll booby-trap the LZ before we leave. Load up for three days. That includes ten mags each. No more and no less. Reveille is at 0400. We’ll wade out at 0500. Sweet dreams, shitheads.”

* * *

After more than two hours of tossing and turning, McKee had finally fallen asleep. And when the lights came on, and the noncoms began to beat on the sheds, she had a sense of having been somewhere better, although she couldn’t remember where.

There was no time to waste as the women rolled out of their racks and lined up to take five-minute showers, before returning to the main bay. After putting her jungle-style camos and boots on, McKee ducked under her poncho-style body armor and poked her head up through the hole. The bullet-resistant liner and ballistic inserts were heavy in and of themselves. And with full ammo pouches, a combat knife, first-aid kit, entrenching tool, and two canteens of water, the rig weighed more than forty pounds. Her weapon plus a small pack brought the total up to something like fifty-five pounds. She was stronger now, thanks to all the physical conditioning, but was she strong enough to carry half her body weight all day long? She would know by nightfall.

There were attempts at levity as the recruits ate their rations, but the jokes fell flat, and there was tension in the air as the noncoms ordered the recruits to form up for an inspection. Not the kind they had experienced before, but a more casual affair, in which Hasker and Anders went over each recruit’s kit, checking to make sure they had all the required gear and that their body armor was properly secured.

Once that process was complete, Hasker spoke to them over the company push. McKee could hear his voice via the speakers in her helmet. “Listen up . . . Anders and Chu will be on point followed by the first platoon and the second platoon. Fox and I will walk drag. Do your best to maintain visual contact with the person ahead of you but don’t bunch up. Because if you do, a single grenade could cause a lot of damage.

“If we take fire, don’t shoot back unless you can see a target—or a noncom calls for suppressive fire. And if that happens, be careful what you shoot at. If you hit me, and I survive, you’ll wish I hadn’t.

“Finally, keep those brain buckets on. Your HUD (Heads-Up Display) will show where you are relative to the rest of the unit and to Fire Base Charlie-Four. And so long as you are wearing your helmets, Corporal Anders and I will be able to remind you of how stupid you are. That’s what we get paid for.”

After that, Chu carried Anders out into the swamp, and the first platoon followed along behind. The sun was only a dimly seen presence above the low-lying clouds, the normally green plants looked gray, and, with the exception of the icons on the inside surface of McKee’s visor, the men and women of the first platoon seemed to fade from existence.

Then it was the second platoon’s turn as Pachek led them into the cold water while an unseen bird produced what sounded like a sardonic laugh, and McKee battled the fear that lurked in the pit of her stomach. It was an ally, or could be, so long as she didn’t allow it to control her. That’s what she told herself anyway as the relative safety of Fire Base Charlie-Four was left behind. Each movement sent wavelets out across the water, something coughed in the canopy above, and Drang closed in around her.

* * *

Kr-Kak, son of U-Keni and father-to-be, sat high in a soul tree as the strangely attired star devils wound their way through the swamp below. It was difficult to understand how they could be intelligent enough to create such devastating kill things yet stupid enough to walk past a sinuous choke slither without seeing it. Fortunately for them, the constrictor had feasted the evening before and wasn’t hungry. At least one of the off-worlders would have been killed otherwise.

That didn’t apply to the huge death walkers, however. They were strong enough to kill a slither with their graspers, carried powerful boom weapons, and could “see” heat. So as one of the monsters splashed past fifty warrior lengths to the south below, Kr-Kak froze. There was a good possibility that the machine thing knew something was clinging to the tree above. But it couldn’t tell the difference between a warrior and a parasitic tree slug of the same size.

Once the star things had passed, Kr-Kak stood with harpoon gun in hand, eyed the turgid water below, and dropped straight down. There were many pools. Some were shallow and some were deep. Kr-Kak knew the difference.

There was a small splash as he went in, followed by a delicious coolness as the liquid caressed his mottled skin. Then, with a surety that Kr-Kak took for granted, he swam toward the slight turbulence signaling one of the planet’s many subsurface rivers and entered the flow. The current carried him downstream. The star devils were on the move—and Queen Mar-mi would want to know.

* * *

Gradually, as the clouds began to clear, and rays of sunshine slanted down into the jungle, the air grew warm and humid. That made the already-unpleasant journey even worse. There were three modes of travel. The first involved wading across large bodies of mostly shallow water. There were hidden holes, however, and they were extremely dangerous, especially for a person burdened with fifty pounds of gear. Because if McKee was sucked down into a subsurface river, she would drown in a matter of minutes.

The second mode of travel, walking on solid ground, was better in some ways and worse in others. Because while she could see the ground ahead, the surrounding vegetation was home to a variety of creatures, including prunelike “crotch suckers,” so named because of their predilection for dropping off branches and oozing through damp clothing to a victim’s pubic area. The perfect place to tap into a femoral artery. And there were other pests as well, which found ways to colonize, feed on, or simply annoy the humans.

But the
worst
mode of travel to McKee’s way of thinking was the so-called deep crossings, in which the recruits were required to half walk, half swim across murky lakes teeming with aquatic life. There was no way to know what was brushing up against one’s leg, why there was a sudden disturbance in the water nearby, or when the bottom would suddenly drop away. And being only five-six, she found it difficult to keep her head above water at times.