Andromeda's Fall (Legion of the Damned) (28 page)

McKee’s face hurt, her back was on fire, and it felt as if the rest of her body had been stomped by a T-1. But she could still see thorough one eye and Avery was looking at her. There was a cut on his left cheek, his lips were puffy, and a crust of dried blood was visible under his nose.
What’s he thinking?
she wondered.
Does he hate me? I wouldn’t blame
him.

Then Avery winked at her. And the sense of relief she felt was almost overwhelming. And frightening as well. Because ever since the point when Andromeda McKee parted company with Catherine Carletto, it had been her goal to be self-sufficient. And here, in the wave of emotion she felt, was evidence that she had failed.

Three and a half very uncomfortable hours followed. It was impossible to sleep sitting up, bound hand and foot, while almost every square inch of her body ached. Finally, at about 0400, the guards escorted the prisoners to the latrines. With that out of the way, they were herded back onto the truck, where they were allowed to eat while the battalion broke camp. “It looks like I was wrong,” Avery observed. “The bastard got away with it.”

McKee knew that the “bastard” was Spurlock, and that “it” was the officer’s failure to adequately fortify the encampment. “He got lucky,” McKee replied. “We aren’t clear of the Big Green yet.”

The battalion got under way shortly thereafter. And, as if to emphasize how lucky Spurlock truly was, the rain stopped, and the sun appeared. It would take days for the mud to dry up, however, so the battle against the mud continued.

Once breakfast was over, McKee feared that her wrists and ankles would be secured once more—and was pleasantly surprised when they weren’t. That meant she could position herself in a way that minimized the pain. Thanks to the beating received the night before she hurt
everywhere
, so her back felt better by comparison.

Thus began another day. There wasn’t much McKee and Avery could say to each other, so they were mostly silent as the convoy pushed its way north at about 20 mph. And for the first couple of hours it seemed as if the battalion would be able to travel north completely unopposed. Then the sniper fire began.

Because she didn’t have a radio, McKee was unaware of it at first. But then she heard the sound of outgoing gunfire followed by a loud
clang
as a bullet smacked into the side of the truck. Avery said, “Hit the floor!” and quickly followed his own advice.

As she landed next to him a projectile hit the canopy, passed through the cargo compartment, and exited through the other side. “What do you think?” she inquired. “Droi? Or the rebels?”

“It could be either one or both,” Avery replied from inches away. “But they aren’t serious. Not yet anyway.”

McKee realized that Avery was correct. There had been no effort to block the convoy—and the incoming fire consisted of single shots. That suggested an effort to harass the battalion rather than stop it. Why? Because the people in the jungle lacked the means to engage such a heavily armored unit? Or were they shooting at the column in order to slow it down. And if so, what did they plan to do? Questions swirled through McKee’s mind, none of which could be answered by anyone other than the enemy.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the firing stopped. Two minutes later, the prisoners were back on their seats. They had no way to know if the battalion had suffered casualties. Nor could they see anything other than the truck behind theirs and a patch of road on either side. Not knowing was a special sort of torture—and McKee longed to be back on Weber once again. Then she remembered his shot-up war form and had to fight back what would have been a flood of tears.

As the sun rose higher in the sky, and water-saturated ground gave up its moisture, the humidity soared. So it wasn’t long before McKee, Avery, and the guards perched next to the tailgate were soaked with sweat. McKee, who hadn’t had a shower in days, could smell herself. Or was that Avery? Not that it mattered.

Time passed, albeit slowly, and McKee was daydreaming when a bullet smacked into one of the Grays. The report was like an afterthought, and because she happened to be looking in that direction, she witnessed the moment when the body fell out of the truck and onto the road.

The soldier part of McKee’s brain informed her that, because the bullet had passed through the canopy at an angle, it was unlikely that the sniper had been able to see his target. So the hit was more a matter of good luck rather than skill. As those calculations were going through her mind the next vehicle in line rolled over the dead man’s corpse, and Avery pulled her down.

The harassing fire lasted for two or three minutes, and there was nothing the battalion could do about it. Because to stop and try to engage the snipers would not only be a waste of time but might be exactly what they wanted. So the trucks continued to roll as the T-1s fired on anything with a heat signature. It wouldn’t make much difference, but it felt good.

Once they cleared the area, and the incoming fire stopped, the boredom returned. McKee sat, thoughts adrift, until an uneasy sleep pulled her down. The next thing she knew, Avery had hold of her arm. As she opened her eyes, his were waiting for her. “We’re on the bridge.”

The words were said with such intensity that she knew the message was important. But why? Then she remembered the wooden bridge, the effort to spot explosives from below, and the subsequent mortar attack. And a single glance out over the tailgate confirmed Avery’s statement. They
were
on the bridge. The frame shook, and tires made a rumbling sound, as the truck bumped across the span at a good 10 mph. It was as if Spurlock thought that safety lay in speed. And that was stupid.

A loud explosion served to punctuate her thoughts. It was followed by the roar of collapsing timbers and barely heard screams as the truck tilted backward and fell into a hole that hadn’t existed moments before. As the 8 X 8 landed in the river, tons of cargo came loose and fell on the remaining guard. Thanks to their position just behind the cab, the prisoners landed on top of the boxes of ammo and rations.

The impact knocked the air out of McKee’s lungs. And she was trying to suck air as the canopy surrendered to the river, and cold water flooded in around her. She told herself to stand, and was about to do so, when Avery scooped her up. That raised her head above the flow, which if it hadn’t been for the wreck, would have swept both of them downstream.

Long bursts of automatic fire could be heard by then, and McKee knew this was it—the moment that the Droi and/or rebels had been waiting for. She reached up to grab onto one of the tubes that were supposed to support the canopy. “Thanks . . . I’m okay.”

Avery let go, and she found herself standing waist-deep in the frigid flow. “Come on, Corporal . . . Let’s get out of here.” And with that, the officer led McKee out of the truck and into the rush of water beyond. Timbers from the collapsed bridge helped to moderate the force of the current and provided something to hang on to. Bit by bit they managed to work their way over to the north shore and a rock beach. And there, with weapons leveled at them, were three Droi. There was nothing McKee and Avery could do but raise their hands and allow themselves to be herded up toward the road.

Firing could still be heard. But it was sporadic and soon stopped altogether. The battalion, or what was left of it, had been captured. But how? Even if all of the bio bods were KIA or WIA, the T-1s could fight on. Unless the enemy had antitank weapons that is—but there had been no evidence of that.

The answer became clear as McKee and Avery arrived on the road. An enormous tree had been felled so that it lay across it. Two vehicles sat empty in front of it. The first was a Scorpion, and the second was Spurlock’s command car, although the officer was nowhere to be seen. Nor was there any sign of Jivv. But T-1s could be seen on both sides of the river. They stood frozen in place but appeared to be undamaged.

Had the legionnaires surrendered? No, that didn’t seem likely, so what then? The answer was more intuitive than logical. Being her father’s daughter, McKee was familiar with both the cyborgs’ strengths
and
weaknesses, one of which was a susceptibility to electromagnetic pulses delivered over certain frequencies. When she left Earth, her father had been hard at work trying to develop better shielding. But somehow the Droi had acquired, or been given, at least one EMP bomb, which they had used to good effect.

As McKee took her place with the other survivors, she knew, or thought she knew, where the technology had come from. Because there, with a rifle slung over one shoulder, was Howard Trask. The same rebel she had been introduced to deep inside the Big Green. “Corporal McKee!” he exclaimed. “We looked everywhere. I’m glad you survived.”

Then his expression darkened. “But what are you doing
here
? With the battalion?”

McKee was still in the process of deciding what to say when Avery jumped in. “She was a prisoner, on her way to a court-martial in Riversplit,” he said.

Trask raised an eyebrow. “And you are?”

“Captain Avery. McKee got lost, stumbled across the road, and was captured. Our CO, Lieutenant Colonel Spurlock, placed her under arrest.
And
had her flogged.”

“I see,” Trask said sympathetically. “I would release you if I could . . . But the Droi are in charge here. And whatever happens next will be up to them.”

“That true,” one of the natives said as it took a step forward. “McKee . . . I see you.”

McKee recognized Insa right away and felt the beginnings of hope. At least she knew the Droi, no matter how superficially. “And I see you, Insa.”

“You deliver Hudathan?”

“Yes, just as I said I would.”

“Too late. They here.”

“I’m sorry. The Legion will fight them.”

“The Legion
is
fighting them,” Trask put in. “And getting its ass kicked. Poe’s fleet was forced to withdraw. So the shovel heads are on the ground, and Rylund’s forces are trapped in Riversplit.”

“What about the rebels?” Avery wanted to know.

“We’re sitting this one out,” Trask replied. “What’s the old saying? My enemy’s enemy is my friend? Well, for the moment, the Hudathans are our friends.”

“The Hudathans don’t have any friends,” Avery said grimly. “They see each and every sentient race as a potential threat that must be eliminated.”

Trask shrugged. “I don’t make policy. My role is to help the Droi resist the loyalists and Ophelia’s thugs. And that means
you
.”

McKee frowned. “Where did you get the EMP bomb?”

Trask grinned. “We built it. The goal was to use it during the battle for Riversplit, but the tech heads had a hard time identifying the right frequency. But finally, after trying
all
of the possible frequencies on a captured T-1, they found it. So when I requested a bomb, it was ready to go.”

There was a hollow place where McKee’s stomach should have been. The cyborgs were still alive, trapped in their war forms, and would remain so until their power ran out. That’s when their life-support systems would shut down, and they would die. Her mind was racing, trying to find a way to save the ’borgs and what remained of Echo Company. McKee had an idea—but would Avery support it? She was about to find out. Her eyes locked with Insa’s. “You heard Trask . . . The rebels plan to sit this one out. Is that
your
view? What if the Hudathans win? They hate
all
sentients. That includes the Droi. So your best bet is to fight them
now
. Before it’s too late. We’ll help you.”

Trask laughed harshly. “Help them . . . With
what
? I see about twenty people here. Let’s say there are ten on the other side of the river. What difference will thirty soldiers make?”

“Look again,” McKee said steadfastly. “And you’ll see that we have seventeen T
-
1s.”

“Yes, but they’re useless.”

“No,” McKee said, “they aren’t. I can repair them.”

Avery directed a questioning look at her. “You can?”

The truth was that she was far from certain. But if she were to admit that, the moment would be lost. “Yes, sir,” she said. “I can.”

It was a seemingly outrageous claim but Avery knew that the T-1s had been manufactured by the Carletto family and that she had a degree in cybernetics. He nodded. “If Corporal McKee says she can repair the T-1s, then I believe her. And I agree with the proposal. With support from our T-1s, the Droi could have a significant impact on the war against the Hudathans.”

Trask shook his head but chose to remain silent. Insa hesitated but only for a moment. “McKee right. We fight.”

ABOARD THE BATTLE CRUISER
GLORY OF HUDATHA,

OFF PLANET ORLO II

War Commander Tebu Ona-Ka stood in front of a huge portal and looked down on Orlo II. His job was to wipe the planet clean of sentient life so that his race could colonize it. Because their world was gradually dying—and the race would need new planets.

He was six and a half feet tall and weighed a little over three hundred pounds. That wasn’t much by Hudathan standards—and explained the nickname that had been bestowed upon him at the age of ten: the Runt. A sobriquet that followed him into the military and was still used behind his back. But never to his face because Ona-Ka had fought seventeen duels, all with the same outcome. He was alive, and his enemies weren’t.

Ona-Ka heard a polite cough and turned. Good manners dictated that one pause before entering a space occupied by another and give warning. To do otherwise was not only considered rude, but dangerous, since all Hudathans were armed. Ona-Ka saw that the first person to arrive was Vice Admiral Nola-Ba and waved him in. “Greetings, Admiral. Please have a seat.”

The command center was oval in shape, with twelve niches set into the bulkheads, one for each member of Ona-Ka’s staff. And as Nola-Ba sat down, other officers filed in and took their seats. Once they were settled, Ona-Ka spoke. “You are to be congratulated. The first phase of the battle has gone well. But there’s more work to do. Admiral Nola-Ba . . . Your report please.”