Andromeda's War (Legion of the Damned Book 3) (18 page)

By that time, Ophelia had begun to think about strategy. It looked as though the indigs were about to hand their prisoners over to the Hudathans. If so, should she admit to who she was? Or would it be better to keep her identity secret? That would prevent the aliens from using her as leverage. On the other hand, she was likely to receive far better treatment if the Hudathans knew who she was. Besides, the other prisoners were likely to rat her out even if she ordered them not to. Especially if they were subjected to torture.

No, all things considered, Ophelia thought it would be best to announce herself and hope that her subordinates on Earth would negotiate a release. Or perhaps she could cut a deal of her own. But with
whom
? Ophelia figured that question would answer itself before too long.

There wasn’t much conversation among the prisoners, and Ophelia knew why. The sailors and marines were afraid to speak with her. But that was a blessing since she had nothing worthwhile to share. What could she say? Don’t worry—we’ll be fine? That was bullshit, and they would know it. So it was better to remain silent, allow the heat to sedate her, and to sleep if she could.

So Ophelia was slumped forward, with her chin resting on her chest, when the shuttle passed overhead. There was a roar followed by a miniature dust storm as the machine turned and landed not far from the hab.

A few minutes later, a ramp was lowered and some Hudathan troopers clomped down onto the ground. Ophelia saw what she assumed to be a noncom point in her direction—and wasn’t surprised when four of the Hudathans came over to collect the prisoners.

A series of grunts, hand gestures, and the occasional shove were used to guide the Humans up the ramp and into the shuttle. Once aboard, their chains were shackled to O-rings set into the deck.
They’re taking us up to one of their ships,
Ophelia thought to herself.

After the shuttle took off, it stayed low instead of climbing up out of the atmosphere—and followed the contours of the land in what Ophelia thought was a northwesterly direction. There was nothing to do, so her thoughts turned to Nicolai, the man he might have been, and the sudden reversal of fortune that led to his death. How could this be? she wondered. Bad things happened to other people. Never to her. The engines made a droning sound, and Ophelia felt numb.

—

SAVAS BASE 001

The blazing-hot sun was beating down on his broad shoulders but, thanks to a body that was equipped to cope with Hudatha’s wildly fluctuating climate, Nola-Ba barely noticed. He was about to complete a full circuit of the newly completed base. An almost daily ritual that would no longer be necessary.

The top of the hill had been removed to provide space for two landing pads. And down inside the hollowed-out core were a pair of fusion generators, living quarters, and
six
energy cannons. All of which had been taken out of the skeletonized
Head Hunter
. But that wasn’t all. Now that the defensive ditch was complete, the Paguumis wouldn’t be able to use their herd animals as part of an attack on the base.

So that part of Nola-Ba’s mission was complete, and he was in a good mood as he crossed one of four narrow footbridges and entered the fort via a sally port. A corridor led into the heart of the hill and the center of the base. One of two large lifts carried Nola-Ba up to Deck 3 where the command’s administrative functions were housed.

Nola-Ba’s desk was positioned so that his back was protected by a wall. And as the naval officer sat down, his data screen came to life. There was a long list of messages waiting for him but one was flashing on and off. Nola-Ba touched it with a blunt forefinger and saw Spear Commander Aro-Sa appear. He was, according to the caption at the bottom of the screen, on the Light Cruiser
Intaka
(Deathblow). Having heard a tone, the Intel officer turned from what he’d been doing and looked into the camera. “Admiral.”

“Spear Commander.”

“You will recall that a Human ship passed through the upper atmosphere a few days ago and went hyper before we could intercept it. It was too small to constitute a warship of any significance, so we assumed it to be a scout or a freighter. A smuggler perhaps, which, having detected one of our ships, reentered hyperspace.”

Nola-Ba nodded. “And?”

“And, after further analysis, we believe the vessel was a Human dropship.”

Nola-Ba felt his pulse quicken. A dropship! The kind of vessel used to literally “drop” special-operations teams into enemy-held territory. So odds were that the Humans knew about the wreck—and had sent a team to search for survivors. “So,” Nola-Ba said, “did they drop troops, or didn’t they?”

“We believe they did.”

Nola-Ba nodded. “Find them.”

“Yes, Admiral. After the dropship reports in, the Humans will send a battle group.”

“And we’ll be here to greet them. I assume that Captain Po-Ba and you are ready to spring the trap.”

“We are.”

“Excellent.” Nola-Ba speared the line of flashing text and the intelligence officer disappeared. Things were getting interesting.

—

Ophelia opened her eyes as the deck started to tilt and the engines began to work harder. Moments later, the shuttle seemed to stall, made the switch to repellers, and went straight down. There was a soft landing followed by a sudden flurry of activity. Chains rattled as they were pulled through O-rings, and the Humans were ordered to stand. From there they shuffled out into bright sunlight. It caused Ophelia to squint, and she could feel the sun’s strength through the cotton shirt she wore.

Ophelia followed the prisoners in front of her across the badly scorched landing pad to a steel hatch. It looked like the sort of airtight door commonly used on spaceships, and as they waited for the barrier to cycle open, Ophelia had an opportunity to look around. She was struck by how elaborate the base was. It looked as if the ridgeheads were planning to stay. That would stretch their navy even more and make them vulnerable elsewhere. Maybe there was a way to take advantage of that. Then Ophelia remembered that she wasn’t in charge anymore, and the question of what to do next would fall to someone else. But
who
? There was no heir apparent. And that was no accident.

Ophelia’s thoughts were interrupted as the hatch cycled open, and the prisoners were ordered to enter. The interior felt cool, which came as a relief. Chains scraped across the metal deck as the POWs were herded down a corridor into a lift. All of the doors and fittings seemed to be larger than necessary. So much so that Ophelia felt small.

The lift took the Humans down to one of the lower levels, where they were shoved, prodded, and kicked into a nearly featureless room. Then the door closed, and the prisoners were left to their own devices. Some spoke to each other in low tones, and others took naps. One sailor rocked back and forth and sang to himself.

Which person would the aliens interrogate first? Ophelia figured the Hudathans would choose a male since the Hudathans had a male-dominated culture, and that assumption proved to be correct when a pair of troopers entered the room about twenty minutes later. One of them pointed at a chief petty officer (CPO), who smiled engagingly. “
Me?
You’re asking me to the prom? Where’s my corsage?”

The comment made no sense but caused all the rest of the prisoners to laugh. The Hudathans didn’t understand, of course, and one of them frowned. That’s how Ophelia chose to interpret the expression anyway.
I’ll be next,
she thought to herself, as they took the noncom away.
So be ready.

That prediction came true approximately half an hour later when the CPO returned. One eye was swollen shut, there was a cut on his upper lip, and he refused to meet her gaze. The prisoners were silent as he sat down, and a guard pointed at Ophelia. “You.” He was wearing a translator now—so it seemed reasonable to think that he had taken part in the interrogation.

Had the CPO told the Hudathans that Empress Ophelia was among the prisoners? Yes, of course he had, just as she expected him to. More than that,
wanted
him to. She stood. And when the Hudathan gestured for her to exit the room she did. What were the others thinking? She didn’t care.

Ophelia was frightened but mustered all the dignity she could as she boarded a lift and was carried upwards. When the platform coasted to a stop, she was escorted down a hall and into a sparsely furnished room. Three Hudathans were present, and all of them were seated behind a kidney-shaped table with their backs to a slightly curved wall. The one in the middle spoke first. “I am Admiral Dor Nola-Ba. And you are?”

“Empress Ophelia Ordanus.”

A moment of silence followed as a wall screen came to life. What looked like motes of light swirled and took shape. “Here it is, Admiral,” the Hudathan to Nola-Ba’s left said. “It’s the only footage we have.”

As the picture locked up, Ophelia saw herself delivering a speech on Earth. Had a copy been captured somewhere? That seemed likely. “And so,” the slightly younger Ophelia said, “it will be necessary to increase taxes on the colony worlds in order to defend them.” A Hudathan pointed a remote, and the screen and video froze.

All three Hudathans looked at Ophelia, looked at her likeness, and looked back again. “It appears that you are telling the truth,” Nola-Ba said.

“Yes, I am,” Ophelia agreed. “And from this point forward, I insist that you treat me with the same level of respect due to a member of your triad.”

The triad was the three-person triumvirate that ruled the Hudathan Empire, and as Nola-Ba stared at the ragged-looking Human, he could hardly believe his luck. Now, after being shamed, he was about to get the full measure of his honor back.

How would the authorities on Hudatha use the leverage he was about to give them? What demands would they make of the Humans? He didn’t know or care. All he had to do was record the ensuing interrogation, upload it to a message torp, and send it off.

Would they restore his previous rank? Or make him a Grand Admiral? If they did, he would use the position to destroy War Commander Ruma-Ka. The idea pleased him, and had Nola-Ba been capable of smiling, he would have done so. “It’s an honor to meet you,” Nola-Ba lied. “I have questions . . . A lot of them. So let’s get started.”

What makes the desert beautiful is that somewhere it hides a well.

ANTOINE DE SAINT-EXUPÉRY
The Little Prince
Standard year 1943

PLANET SAVAS

Empress Ophelia was alive!
That was the good news for everyone except McKee. Because it had been her fervent hope that the bitch was dead. The announcement came the day after the team landed and just before they were about to head out. With the exception of those who had guard duty, the rest of Special Ops Team One-Five were gathered around the flat-topped rock on which Major Remy stood.

“I have some good news for you,” Remy said, as he eyed the faces around him. “The empress is alive. We know that because a tiny locator beacon was inserted under the skin behind her left ear roughly nine months ago. At the time it was seen as a precaution that would help authorities find Ophelia in the unlikely event that she was abducted. The existence of the implant is classified because if assassins knew about it, they could use the signal to track her movements. In any case, the beacon is programmed to fail if she’s killed and, since we are receiving a strong signal, it’s safe to conclude that she’s still alive.”

The announcement prompted applause, lots of positive comments, and an immediate improvement in morale for everyone except McKee. Remy smiled and nodded. “That’s the good news. The bad news is that she’s more than three hundred miles northeast of here . . . So a long hike lies ahead of us.”

Now, three days later, they were forty-five miles into the journey that Remy had warned them about, and a cloud of insects was swirling around McKee’s head as she elbowed her way forward. Sergeant Roy Feng was next to her, while Bartov and the rest of the squad were concealed in a ravine a hundred yards to the rear.

The legionnaires wormed their way up over a rise and paused so that McKee could use her binoculars. There was a ragged-looking tree line in front of them, and McKee knew that she was looking at a peninsula of equatorial jungle that jutted out into what their maps called the Great Pandu Desert. The battle between the jungle and the desert had been under way for a long time. Given enough rain, the green stuff would hurry to colonize new territory. Then, when a dry spell came along, the desert would recover the ground it had lost.

In any case, Remy was eager to reach Ophelia as soon as possible. And in order to do that, it would be necessary for the company to push its way through two fingers of jungle before committing itself to the desert for the balance of the journey. Having fought in the Big Green on Orlo II, McKee knew what they would be in for once they entered the forest. The overarching canopy would block a lot of the sunlight. Animals they’d never seen before would scamper through the branches over their heads—and there would be frequent bouts of rain.

Still, after days spent crossing an arid wasteland, a little bit of precipitation would feel good. But that was to come. The immediate challenge was to make sure that the company didn’t walk into an ambush. “See anything?” McKee said from the corner of her mouth.

“Nope,” Feng replied as he peered through the scope on his weapon.
“Nada.”

“Okay, send the drone in for a look-see.”

Charlie Company had three drones—one for each platoon. McKee’s was affectionately known as Can-Three, or C-3, because of its shape and the “3s” painted on both flanks.

C-3 hummed as it passed over their heads and made straight for the jungle beyond, where it passed between two trees and disappeared. McKee brought the drone’s video up on her HUD—and found herself flying through the sun-dappled forest. A Paguumi subrace called the Jithi represented the immediate threat. According to the briefing materials, the Jithi had split away from the nomadic Paguumis thousands of years earlier—and taken up residence in the planet’s equatorial rain forests. In contrast to their desert-dwelling cousins, the Jithi had light green skin, their hair resembled dreadlocklike fronds, and they had prehensile tail-tentacles. That’s what they were supposed to look like anyway—although the off-worlders had yet to see any of them.

Not having spotted any Jithi, Paguumis, or Hudathans, McKee stood and called for the second squad to come forward. Rather than reclaim her perch on Bartov’s back, she ordered the other bio bods to dismount and cross the intervening patch of ground on foot. If the legionnaires didn’t like it, they would soon change their minds as they entered an environment where anyone riding a T-1 would be forced to battle low-hanging branches all day.

The other option was to find a trail, assuming that such a thing existed. Then the bio bods would be able to ride. But, since an established path was the perfect place to set an ambush, the soldiers would have to be extremely vigilant. “Stay within sight of each other,” McKee advised, as vines brushed past her face, and a thick carpet of detritus gave under her boots. “And remember . . . The Jithi can travel through the treetops.”

Something screamed as if to emphasize that point, and some foliage shook violently as whatever the creature was fled the monsters below. But there were no signs of threats, so McKee called a momentary halt. “Charlie-One to Charlie-Nine. Over.”

Remy was quick to respond. “Nine here . . . Over.”

“We’re thirty yards into the green and haven’t seen any hostiles yet. Over.”

“Roger that. Look for a spot where we can spend the night. Over.”

McKee chinned her mike button two times. Now it was up to her to find a place where there was access to water, and the company could defend itself. Given what the Jithi were capable of, that seemed to suggest a clearing. So C-3 was sent forward to search for an opening in the jungle—and McKee instructed the squad to proceed single file. That was all she said, leaving it to Feng to assign people to the point and drag positions. A decision that would signal her confidence in Feng’s leadership.

C-3 offered up a number of potential camping spots before McKee saw one that she liked. A stand of dead trees marked the spot where some sort of disease had left its mark. By cutting those down, the legionnaires could clear a site large enough to accommodate the entire company, and the logs could be used to construct a palisade. And there was a rock formation off to one side. It rose thirty feet into the air. That made it the perfect place for a lookout.

So McKee sent a bio bod named Perodi up to the top with orders to keep her head on a swivel. Then she sent C-3 out to patrol what would become the perimeter at treetop level. Once those precautions were in place, work began.

The first step was to clear the dead trees, a task made easier by the use of the multifunction plasma torch that each squad carried. Feng made the cuts himself, dropped the trees in quick succession, and went to work trimming the branches off. Once that task was accomplished, it was a simple matter to chop the trunks into eight-foot lengths and plant them in the three-foot-deep trenches that two of her cyborgs were digging. The work would have gone even faster had McKee assigned
all
of her cyborgs to the task—but she wanted to keep at least half the squad ready to fight should the need arise.

The rest of the team arrived fifteen minutes later. The green hats were good—McKee had to give them that. In fact, had it not been for a call letting her know that they were closing in on her location, she would never have known that they were in the vicinity. The legionnaires seemed to materialize around the clearing. But rather than order them to pitch in, Olson put the troops on standby while she took a tour of the area.

Although that was consistent with the XO’s responsibilities, it also signaled a lack of faith in McKee’s judgment. Was that intentional? McKee assumed that it was—but knew she should expect some sort of retaliation after the confrontation on the ship.

So McKee kept her mouth shut as Olson paused to sample water from the stream that flowed through the area, tested a freshly cut log to make sure that it was solid, and eyed the beginnings of a latrine. Finally, having found no faults of the sort that would disqualify the site, the XO was forced to issue a terse, “Carry on.”

The work went quickly after that and was completed well before sundown. As the sun went down, and diurnal creatures began to give way to their nocturnal counterparts, a different set of sounds could be heard. The night creatures were a noisy bunch that liked to gibber, screech, and howl while they looked for food. McKee had been through it before and preferred the peace and quiet of the desert to the cacophony of jungle noises.

Olson had assigned McKee to the 1200–0200 watch for three nights running by then. A form of harassment that forced her to sleep, get up, and try to sleep again. A practice so obvious that it had been the subject of commentary from her peers. “What’s with the XO?” Ellis inquired at one point. “I get the feeling she’d have you dig latrines if she could.”

“Been there, done that,” McKee replied. “I was a private once.” And that, McKee knew, lay at the heart of the problem. Olson didn’t approve of jackers and never would.

Noisy though it was, the night passed without incident and, consistent with Remy’s orders, the company was ready to depart by 0700. As before, McKee’s people were on point except that she was traveling with Sergeant Mo Hiller and the third squad this time. The second had been rotated back to the drag position, with the first serving as a fast-reaction force that was positioned halfway down the column.

The sun was still in the process of climbing up off the eastern horizon, so it was murky on the jungle floor. The minimum goal was fifteen miles per day and, in order to achieve it, McKee had to push hard. Even though moving faster increased the possibility of walking into an ambush.

A front moved through at 1136. It dumped half an inch of rain onto the jungle in half an hour and left it steaming. The humidity was terrible, and since every leaf was laden with moisture, the bio bods were soaked in minutes.

McKee was splashing through a puddle when C-3 made its report. The drone was flying at treetop level about half a mile ahead. Its voice had a harsh, mechanical quality. “Three targets are headed your way. They are a 97.6-percent match with the indigenous species called the Jithi. Fifteen, that is one-five, targets are pursuing them. They are a 98.6-percent match to the Paguumi profile. Estimated time to first contact is approximately two minutes. Over.”

McKee had to take action and do it fast because if she took the time required to ask Olson or Remy for orders, the incoming targets would be practically in her lap. All she could do was make some decisions and hope they were the right ones.

“This is Charlie-One,” McKee said. “You heard C-3. Take up defensive positions in a line abreast. Allow targets one, two, and three to pass through. If they open fire, then smoke ’em.

“Fire warning shots over the pursuers and try to stop them. If that doesn’t work, then grease ’em. Charlie-Five and I will hang back and try to intercept targets one through three. Over.”

There were lots of clicks as the first Jithi appeared. He or she charged out of the underbrush, spotted a T-1, and skidded to a halt. That was when McKee activated her translator and overrode the PA systems on all of the cyborgs. “Keep coming . . . We won’t harm you. And we won’t let the Paguumis harm you either.”

The words boomed through five speakers and were followed by a flurry of gunshots as the Paguumis fired. The Jithi surged forward, and McKee was waiting as they passed through the line. They had shaggy green hair, prominent cheekbones, and none of them were more than six feet tall. The shimmery scales on the leather jerkins they wore seemed to blend with the background. “Halt!” McKee said. “Place your weapons on the ground and step back.”

The Jithis stopped and turned to look at each other. One of them spoke emphatically. Then, with considerable care, the Jithis laid their long, beautifully crafted rifles on the ground. McKee made eye contact with Bartov. “Guard them.”

Then she turned and ran a few feet to the moss-covered log where Hiller and his squad were waiting to confront the Paguumis. No more than a couple of seconds passed before the Paguumis emerged from the jungle undergrowth with their weapons raised. That was when they spotted the T-1s and fired. It was a serious mistake. The cyborgs triggered their fifties, and the desert tribesmen were swept away by a hail of bullets. Hiller, conscious of the need to conserve ammo, shouted “Cease fire!” He had to repeat the order three times before the last T-1 obeyed.

“Chow!” McKee yelled. “Count the bodies and do it fast. Popov . . . Watch her six.”

Gun smoke hung heavy in the air as McKee went back to speak with the Jithi. They were right where they had been, eyes wide with what might have been apprehension, waiting to find out what fate held in store for them. McKee wanted to say something reassuring but didn’t have enough time. “How many?” she demanded. “How many were there?”

“Fifteen,” the Jithi in the middle said.

McKee was on the squad freq. She chinned her mike. “Chow . . . What have you got?”

“Twelve bodies, Lieutenant.”

“Shit! Three got away. Hiller, take over here. Bartov, let’s go. If those bastards get away, we’ll be ass deep in indigs by this time tomorrow.”

Bartov waited for McKee to climb aboard and strap in. A slap on the right shoulder sent the cyborg running toward a moss-covered log. He jumped over it and kept going. McKee had to duck lest the tree branches take her head off. She chinned her mike. “Charlie-One to C-3 . . . Three locals are headed east. Find and report. Over.”

“This is Three,” the drone replied emotionlessly. “Understood. Over.”

Water flew as Bartov pounded through a stream, the sun played hide-and-seek up above the treetops, and a flock of fliers exploded into the air as they hurried to escape the monster below. “This is Three,” the drone said. “I have them.”

McKee took the feed up on her HUD and found herself looking down on the forest canopy. She could see C-3’s shadow blipping over the jungle and could make out some movement down below. According to the data that was crawling across the bottom of the image, the fugitives were half a mile ahead, and Bartov was closing fast.