Andromeda's War (Legion of the Damned Book 3) (14 page)

The minutes seemed to crawl by. Avery thought about all the things he’d done and hoped to do. Not by himself but with Cat. She was smart, funny, and brave. But she was sad, too . . . And plagued by guilt. If they could escape the empire, maybe he could make her happy again.

The NAVCOMP’s voice overrode his thoughts. “Stand by . . . The down jump will take place in ten seconds. Eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.”

Avery felt a moment of nausea, watched a planet appear in the holo tank, and saw it start to rotate. Savas. He’d never heard of the place before. Except for caps of white, both hemispheres were primarily tan in color, separated by a wide belt of green that encircled the globe’s midsection. Puddles of blue marked large lakes, but none were big enough to qualify as oceans.

“We’ll park the ship in orbit,” Suzuki declared. “Then we can evaluate the full extent of the damage and send a message torp to Earth.”

No sooner had Suzuki outlined his plan than the chief engineer killed it. “Collins here . . . I’m sorry, sir . . . But the standard drives are off-line. Both the primary and secondary control systems were damaged.”

“That is correct,” the NAVCOMP confirmed emotionlessly. “Given the ship’s inertia, and with no means to brake, the
Victorious
will enter the atmosphere.”

Avery heard the words, but it took him a moment to fully understand what they meant. After the
Victorious
entered the atmosphere, and with no way to slow down, the cruiser would crash. And since it wasn’t designed to land on a planetary surface, there would be a very large impact. One that few if any of them were going to walk away from. Savas dominated all of the screens by then, and the surface was coming up quickly. Somebody said, “Oh, shit,” and the countdown began.

The
Victorious
shuddered as she entered the upper atmosphere, did a slow roll, and went in at a steep angle. Through the skillful use of the cruiser’s steering jets, the pilot managed to pull the bow up. That acted to slow the rate of descent and made the possibility of a survivable crash more likely. The shields were back up by then, and they flared in response to the heat.

Avery closed his eyes and wished he had something to do as the
Victorious
bucked, performed another nauseating roll, and began to groan. The hull had never been intended for the sort of stresses that were being applied to it—and there was a very real possibility that it would fail before the vessel smashed into the ground. Then, after what seemed like an eternity, the
Victorious
began to level out. “Hang on,” Suzuki said, “we’re going in hard.”

And it
was
hard. The ship hit, bounced up into the air, and hit again. Then it slid. Loose items flew through the air as the hull struck the ground. A stainless-steel coffee mug whizzed by Avery’s head and clanged off the bulkhead. Gee forces pushed him into the seat. Someone screamed as the
Victorious
took the top of a hill off, belly flopped onto a plain, and skidded toward a low-lying mountain. Avery saw the obstruction grow to fill the screen, heard himself shout, “No!” and felt his head jerk forward as the ship slammed to a halt. Every possible type of alarm was beeping, bleating, and wailing. Avery didn’t care. He was alive.

When I die, and parachute into hell, the members of the 2
^nd
REP will be there waiting for me.

COLONEL JOSE FUENTES,
Commanding Officer 2
^nd
REP
Standard year 1936

PLANET ALGERON

As McKee looked up, she saw that the sky was gunmetal gray. It was snowing, and as each flake fell, it added substance to the shroud that lay over the village of Doothdown. The hamlet was deserted and had been ever since the devastating attack months earlier.

McKee was standing on what remained of the eastern wall. It consisted of vertical poles that had been harvested on the neighboring hillsides and dragged into the valley using dooths. Fireballs had been fired into the village, so a substantial portion of the palisade had been reduced to charred wreckage.

From where McKee stood, she could see the main street. After forcing their way in through the main gate, the southerners had been gathered at the north end of the town, preparing for a final push, when Larkin marched straight at them, firing two assault weapons at once. It was a brave not to mention a crazy thing to do. McKee smiled. He was at Fort Camerone now . . . Bedridden and bitching to anyone who would listen. That was something to be grateful for.

As for her, she was on leave. That was the problem of being stationed on Algeron. There were two choices. You could hang out in the fort or visit Naa country, most of which was off-limits. But after some lobbying, she had been able to wrangle a green-zone pass. Meaning permission to camp in “pacified areas.” The reality was that one had to be careful
everywhere
. Especially when traveling alone.

McKee was about to leave the top of the wall when she heard a faint tinkling sound. Bells? Or something else? McKee brought a pair of binoculars up to scan the area to the north. Another short day was coming to an end, so the light had begun to fade.

But as McKee swept the glasses from left to right, she saw a hint of movement. Then a tall, gangly figure emerged from the screen of falling snow and paused to look around. He was wearing a robe with an attached hood. That suggested a Human rather than a Naa because the fur-covered indigs made very few concessions to the snow.

McKee couldn’t see the man’s face. He was too far away for that. But there was no mistaking the eight-foot-long fighting staff. It was sheathed in metal and topped with the iron loop that symbolized the holy man’s faith. And bells? Yes, she could hear them tinkle as he made his way toward the shattered gate. It was a good idea to let people know you were coming on Algeron. Especially if you were Human.

McKee smiled, slung the AXE over her shoulder, and made her way to a rickety ladder. Moments later, she was on the ground and walking up the street. Her boots made a crunching sound—and the only tracks to be seen were hers.

Ramirez waved when he saw her. McKee waved back and gave him a hug when they met at the center of the village. Ramirez had a gaunt, skull-like face. He smiled. “Nofear Deathgiver.”

“Crazyman Longstick.” They laughed.

“We meet again,” Ramirez said. He’d been present during the battle of Doothdown and fought at her side.

“Yes. How did you know I was here?”

“Everyone within fifty miles of this spot knows that Deathgiver is camped here.”

“I haven’t seen anyone.”

“They don’t want to be seen. But six warriors keep watch over you day and night. This area is relatively safe—but there’s no way to know when bandits will pass through.”

McKee felt a lump form in her throat and managed to swallow it. “Come on . . . I’m using an abandoned hut. It’s warm there.”

The hut was a short distance away, and like the majority of such dwellings, most of it was underground where the fire in the central hearth was still burning. The original owners had relied on dried dooth dung for fuel. But McKee didn’t have any of that, so she was using scraps of wood instead. Her sleeping bag was laid out on one of three curved benches that fronted the fireplace. “Make yourself to home,” she said, as Ramirez descended the ladder. “Are you hungry? I have lots of MREs.”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Ramirez said, as he shrugged the pack off. “But an MRE sounds good.”

So they made what turned out to be dinner. And when Ramirez asked about what she’d been up to, McKee found herself telling him about the mission to find Truthsayer, the disastrous crash, and the extraction that followed. “So,” Ramirez said as he sipped some instant caf, “what happened when you returned to Fort Camerone?”

McKee was silent for a moment. “They debriefed me. I told them everything I knew. And helmet footage served to verify my report.”

“And then?”

“Nothing. They thanked me, said it was too bad the way things turned out, and cleared me for a return to duty.”

Ramirez eyed her over the steaming cup. “And you didn’t like that?”

McKee frowned. “Are you a licensed psychotherapist?”

“No. But I was an officer once.”

McKee made a face. “That counts, I guess . . .”

“So, like I was saying, you didn’t like that. At some level, you thought you deserved to be punished. Some sort of cleansing.”

McKee shrugged. “I failed. People died.”

“And you succeeded. People lived.”

“Not enough of them.”

“It’s never enough,” Ramirez replied soberly. “But think about it . . . Was there someone else? Someone who could have done better? And be honest.”

McKee thought about it. Larkin? No. Sergeants Payton, Ling, or Sayer? All good noncoms, but no, no, and no.

Ramirez smiled. “Your silence says it all. You aren’t perfect, McKee. None of us is. But you aren’t so flawed as you think you are either. And you’re learning.”

“So that’s why you came here? To straighten me out?”

“Hell, no. I came to get a free meal.”

McKee laughed, threw a piece of wood onto the fire, and watched a constellation of sparks disappear up into the clay chimney. The pain was still there—but more bearable somehow. They slipped into their sleeping bags shortly thereafter—each claiming one side of the fire. Wood crackled and popped. Light danced the walls. And for the first time in days, McKee fell into a deep dreamless sleep.

The sun was up by the time McKee awoke, threw the last of the wood on the fire, and had to go looking for more. Plus it was a chance to take a pee and look around. The sky was clear, and a fresh layer of snow obscured the tracks that she and Ramirez had made earlier. A sure sign that there hadn’t been any visitors. Snow crunched under her boots, and her breath fogged the air as she approached the remains of the watchtower.

The old axe was right where she’d left it, so she put her assault weapon down, and went to work. The axe produced a satisfying
thunk
as it bit into a piece of wood, and there was a sharp, cracking sound when a section split in two. It was hard but satisfying work because a well-aimed blow produced a predictable result. And that’s what McKee was thinking about when a humming noise caused her to turn with the axe raised.

Unlike the drones she had employed during the mission to find Truthsayer, this one was larger, shaped like a cigar, and equipped for long-range missions. It hovered four feet off the ground, and McKee could feel the envelope of heat that surrounded it. The voice was clearly synthetic. “Are you Lieutenant McKee?”

McKee felt a sudden flood of anxiety as she lowered the axe. They were looking for her.
Why?
Because they knew her true identity? Or because some supply officer wanted an accounting of all the gear she’d left in the field? Not that it mattered. Chances were that the robot knew the answer to its own question. “Yes, I’m McKee.”

“Please stand by.”

McKee swore under her breath. Who was being summoned? The answer turned out to be someone she didn’t know. “Lieutenant McKee?” a female voice said. “I’m Captain Olson. I’m sorry to cut your leave short, but we need you here at the fort. Remain where you are. A Vulcan will pick you up within the next hour.”

McKee swallowed. “May I ask why?”

“Sorry,” came the reply. “That will have to wait until you return. Suffice it to say that we have an assignment for you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Report to me when you arrive.” The words were followed by a click.

The drone rose and took up station fifty feet over her head as McKee made her way back to the hut. That was off-putting, but McKee chose to take comfort from the little bit of information she had. If Olson had a shit detail with her name on it, then chances were that her true identity was safe. It could be a trick, of course . . . But why bother? They could order the drone to kill her and send a graves-registration robot out to deal with the carcass.

Ramirez was up and around by the time she dumped the load of firewood into the underground chamber and lowered herself down the ladder. He took one look at her face, and said, “Uh-oh. What’s wrong?”

“They called me back for some sort of assignment.”

“That sucks,” Ramirez replied. “So, you have a radio?”

“No. They sent a drone.”

Ramirez produced a low whistle. “Must be important. Are you going to hike out?”

McKee had stacked the firewood and was opening an MRE. “Nope. They’re going to send a Vulcan.”

Ramirez muttered some words and traced a circle in the air. He meant well, but the fact that the holy man felt the need to deliver a blessing was more than a little unnerving. “I’ll leave the rest of the MREs,” McKee said.

“Thank you. I’ll think of you each time I eat one.”

“Please do me a favor, Father . . . Tell the warriors who have been guarding me that I said, ‘Thank you.’”

“I will,” Ramirez promised.

McKee finished her meal, packed her gear, and was about to climb the ladder when Ramirez came over to deliver a hug. “Take care of yourself, Andromeda. And remember . . . You did your best. No one can do more than that.”

McKee gave him a peck on the cheek and shouldered her pack. The ladder creaked under her weight. Once she was up on the surface McKee took a look around. The drone was gone.

Rather than ask the fly-form to land in the confines of the village, McKee made her way out into the open, where there were no obstructions to worry about. And that’s where she was when the Vulcan appeared off to the west. It circled the village before coming in for a landing. Steam rose to envelop the machine as repellers stabbed the ground, and McKee hurried forward. The ramp bounced slightly as she made her way up to the point where the fly-form’s crew chief was waiting to greet her. “Good morning, ma’am . . . Where’s the rest of your patrol?”

“There is no patrol . . . Just me.”

There weren’t very many legionnaires wandering around Algeron by themselves—and the chief gave her a strange look as servos whined, and the ramp came up. McKee turned to look, saw that Ramirez had come out to see her off, and tossed a salute at him. He waved in return and disappeared as the ramp came up. The flight to Fort Camerone took about forty-five minutes but seemed longer. Were they going to send her south again? Or assign her to some godforsaken outpost? There were lots of possibilities and no way to guess which one might be correct.

There was a
thump
as the Vulcan put down on one of the fort’s landing pads. McKee was up and ready to disembark as the ramp hit duracrete. A choice had to be made. Would it be best to clean up first? Or report to Olson in a filthy uniform? Something about the brief interaction seemed to suggest that the second course was safest. “Report to me when you arrive.” That’s what Olson had said, so that’s what she would do.

Once she was inside the fort, McKee consulted an electronic directory and discovered that Captain Olson was attached to the 2
^nd
REP—or 2
^nd
Regiment Etranger De Parachutistes. A much-celebrated airborne outfit known for their daring special-operations missions. That didn’t make much sense since McKee was a cavalry officer, but then what did? Perhaps some sort of joint operation was in the offing.

McKee made her way through a maze of busy corridors and into the area occupied by the 2
^nd
REP. A smart-looking corporal was seated behind the reception desk and eyed McKee’s muddy uniform with obvious distaste. “Good morning, ma’am. How can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Captain Olson.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll tell her that you’re here.”

McKee waited while the corporal mumbled something inaudible into the wire-thin boom mike positioned in front of his mouth. “You can go back, Lieutenant. Take the first right. Captain Olson is in the second office on the left.”

McKee made her way back to the office with a sign that read
CAPT
.
OLSON
next to the open door. Then she shrugged the pack off and placed it on the floor next to her assault rifle. Her knuckles produced a rapping sound as they hit the block of wood placed there for that purpose. Then she waited to hear a voice say “Enter,” before taking three paces forward. “Lieutenant McKee reporting as ordered, ma’am.”

The office was small, and Olson was seated behind a gunmetal gray desk. She wore her hair in a flattop, and had white sidewalls, with two ears stuck out at nearly right angles. Her narrow-set eyes were bright with intelligence—and when she spoke, her slitlike mouth barely moved. “At ease. Close the door and grab a chair.”

McKee did as she was told. “So,” Olson began. “Welcome to Special Operations Team One-Five.”

McKee could tell that she was supposed to ask, so she did. “Thank you, ma’am. I don’t believe I’ve heard of Special Ops Team One-Five.”

“That’s because it’s secret,” Olson said primly. “As is everything I’m about to tell you. The team is a company-strength unit under the command of Major Brett Remy. I am his executive officer. For reasons that will soon become clear, the decision was made to cut one platoon of infantry from the One-Five and replace it with a platoon of cavalry. You will be in charge of that platoon.”

Even though nothing had been said, McKee got the distinct feeling that Olson was opposed to replacing infantry with cavalry—and that wasn’t too surprising given her background. “Yes, ma’am.”