Andromeda's Fall (Legion of the Damned) (16 page)

McKee felt nervous as she followed the officer into the classroom. The windows were blacked out, an effort had been made to furnish the space with adult-sized furniture, and the odor of cherry-flavored tobacco hung in the air. Colonel Rylund was present, as was Lieutenant Colonel Spurlock, and something that made her blood run cold: the synth named Monitor Snarr. McKee had seen the android on numerous occasions ever since the first day she met it on Adobe. But always at a distance. And now, as the machine’s sensors scanned her face, she felt a terrible emptiness in her stomach.

But the robot remained silent as Captain Avery came forward to greet her. What had become of Avery’s brother? she wondered. And Avery himself, for that matter? Had he been forced to do Snarr’s bidding? Or managed to maintain his independence? There was no way to know as they shook hands. “Congratulations on your promotion, McKee. You already know Command Sergeant Major Chora and Monitor Snarr. But I’m not sure that you’ve met our S-2, Lieutenant Oxby. Grab a chair. The lieutenant is about to amaze us with his grasp of what’s going on inside Riversplit. Isn’t that right, Oxby?”

The Intel officer was young, slightly chubby, and good-natured. He smiled. “Yes, sir. I have a guide to all of the best restaurants, a copy of a children’s book about the zoo, and a secessionist poster entitled, ‘Why the empress should take her tax and shove it.’ All of which will be critical to our success.”

Everyone chuckled except for Snarr, who had no sense of humor, and McKee, who was far too frightened. As it turned out, Oxby knew quite a bit about what was going on inside the rebel city thanks to orbital surveillance, recon missions by unmanned drones, and interviews that had been conducted with secessionist POWs, refugees, and paid informants. McKee listened attentively as Oxby described a city that was heavily fortified, well provisioned, and home to Governor Naoto Jones. The man most people considered to be responsible for the rebellion. “But,” Oxby continued, “the purpose of
this
raid is to locate an Imperial official and rescue her.”

“That’s right,” Rylund said as he emptied the bowl of his pipe into a makeshift ashtray. “Her name is Samantha Frood. She was sent to Orlo II about a year ago with orders to put a lid on the simmering trade issues. Then, when the empress raised the tax, and hostilities broke out, the rebs took her hostage. My fear is that they will use Frood as a human shield when we attack Riversplit. That wouldn’t stop us, of course. But I feel we owe it to Representative Frood to extract her if that’s possible.”

“Quite so,” Spurlock put in sanctimoniously. “It’s the right thing to do.”

“Yes, sir,” Oxby said expressionlessly. “Fortunately, we have a good lead on where Representative Frood may be. So the mission is to enter the city, go to that location, and pull her out.”

“We’ll launch a feint at the same time,” Rylund put in, as he held an old-fashioned match to his pipe. “That plus an air raid will give the rebels something to think about as you sneak in.”

Avery eyed Camacho and McKee. “The team will be led by Lieutenant Camacho. It will consist of a civilian guide, Monitor Snarr, and a squad led by McKee here. That’s six T-1s, including Lieutenant Camacho’s cyborg, and a spare for Representative Frood. So the group will have plenty of firepower if it runs into trouble. Questions?”

Camacho had lots of questions. Good ones. But as McKee listened, she was thinking about the question the platoon leader couldn’t ask. Why was Snarr coming along? No obvious answer came to mind. But whatever it was, McKee figured she wouldn’t like it.

* * *

The rescue mission was scheduled for that night. Just twenty-four hours before the all-out attack on Riversplit was to begin. That left McKee with only a short period of time in which to prepare the second squad for combat. The process began with readiness checks on each T-1, including Marco, a cyborg on loan from the first squad. It was going to be his job to carry the guide into the city and take Representative Frood out. A risky proposition since neither bio bod would be of any use in a firefight.

There were some maintenance issues, just as she figured there would be, but none that couldn’t be fixed. Especially with Camacho on hand to motivate the company’s cyber techs. No, the real difficulty was legionnaire Tim Nayer, a bio bod who had been in the Legion for three years without rising above the rank of private. There were reasons for that, of course, including the fact that he was obstinate, lazy, and somewhat slow-witted. All of which were problems that previous NCOs had done their best to deal with.

But Nayer was in perpetual denial and insisted on believing that his lack of advancement was caused by misfortune, happenstance, and willfully incompetent officers. So when Sergeant Hux was killed in action, and McKee was promoted to Corporal, Nayer was incensed. And since he couldn’t punish Camacho for what he saw as a gross miscarriage of justice, Nayer took his anger out on her. Not via direct insubordination. He wasn’t that stupid. But in more subtle ways. And without Larkin there to watch her six, McKee knew she would have to be very careful. Would Nayer shoot her in the back if he got the chance? She didn’t think so but couldn’t be sure. And that added even more risk to an already-dangerous mission.

It was dark by the time all the preparations were complete. The city of Riversplit was blacked out. Both sides were firing on each other with artillery. The shells rumbled like freight trains as they took to the air and shrieked like banshees on the way down. Red-eyed explosions winked as the rounds went off, and the earth shook.

But it was a pro forma exchange for the most part, since the tubes they were using had a maximum range of nine miles. That meant most of the shells landed in the no-man’s-land between the two sides. Still, Camacho’s team would have to risk fire from
both
sides as they passed through the pitch-black moonscape on their way into the city.

With only thirty minutes left before departure, McKee checked the squad one last time. That gave Nayer another opportunity to needle her. He was a scrawny man of indeterminate age. He pushed his visor up to reveal a beaklike nose and two beady eyes. They were filled with hostility. “Don’t you ever get tired of playing general?” he sneered. “What are you going to do now? Check to see if I should take a dump?”

“There’s no need to check,” McKee replied evenly. “Everyone knows you’re full of shit.”

That elicited laughs from those close enough to hear and put a scowl on Nayer’s ratlike face. “You’re Camacho’s bitch today,” he said, dropping his voice so only she could hear. “But you’ll be mine soon.”

“Be careful what you ask for,” McKee replied, as she shoved the barrel of her pistol into Nayer’s crotch. “I’d say my dick is bigger than yours. Now fasten that chin strap and mount up.”

Nayer opened his mouth to say something but closed it as Camacho materialized out of the surrounding gloom. “Mount up, Corporal. Colonel Rylund’s feint will start soon, and I want to take full advantage of it.”

McKee’s pistol was down along her right leg by that time. “Yes, sir. Private Nayer was just about to climb aboard. Isn’t that right, Nayer?”

Nayer mumbled something incomprehensible and turned toward his T-1. Camacho watched him go. The light was uncertain—but McKee could see the crooked smile on the officer’s lips. “Don’t shoot yourself in the foot, Corporal . . . I need you.” And with that he walked away.

McKee felt foolish as she slid the pistol back into her shoulder holster and secured it there. The fact that she’d been forced to use a weapon in order to get compliance from a member of her squad didn’t speak well of her abilities as an NCO—and it seemed safe to assume that Camacho was disappointed in her. Had there been time, she would have asked that someone else take over.

The feint began with a loyalist rocket barrage and air raid. McKee was barely aware of the fireworks as the civilian guide and Marco led the rest of the team through a checkpoint and out into the ocean of darkness beyond. Camacho and his cyborg came next, followed by Snarr, who preferred to run rather than ride. The fact that the android could keep up with a group of T-1s traveling at 20 mph impressed and frightened McKee. Because it meant that if it ever came to a footrace with a synth, she was going to lose.

The team couldn’t use any lights, not without the risk of being targeted, but didn’t need to. The T-1s could “see” via their infrared sensors, as could Snarr, and had no difficulty threading their way through cratered streets. And, thanks to directions from their guide, they were able to maintain a steady pace.

Meanwhile, bombs exploded, long strings of red tracer explored the night sky, and infantry companies grappled with each other deep inside no-man’s-land. Dozens of flares, some launched by soldiers, some by mortars, cast their ghostly light on the proceedings as they drifted ever lower before being consumed by the inky blackness below.

There were moments when the team came perilously close to the fighting. But in spite of some close calls, they always managed to slip away. A series of twists and turns took them down into a dry sluiceway. They followed it to a point where, thanks to the night-vision technology built into her helmet, McKee could see the green circle and the vertical lines that marked the entrance to a dark hole. Marco came to a halt, causing the rest of them to do so as well.

The civilian spoke over the squad-level push. His name was Billy Balbo, or so he claimed, although McKee suspected it was one of many. Not that it mattered so long as Balbo kept his word and guided the team into Riversplit undetected.

“Pay attention,” Balbo said tersely. “We’re at the foot of a large storm drain. During the rainy season, it’s full of water, which flows into the sluiceway and from there to the river. We’re going to blow the gate and walk uphill into the city. Then, if all goes well, you’ll leave the same way.”

The plan was for Balbo to remain inside the city once Frood had been rescued, and McKee wasn’t sure how she felt about that. On the one hand, it would feel good to get rid of the civilian. But that meant making their way back without a guide. And that could be dicey. “What about sentries?” Camacho wanted to know.

“There aren’t any,” Balbo responded. “That’s why I chose this route.”

That meant the rebs were stupid, careless, or both. McKee found that hard to believe. But such considerations were above her pay grade, so all she could do was go along as Singh placed a charge and blew a hole in the gate designed to keep people and animals out.

Because McKee was second-in-command, she and Weber had to wait for the rest of the team to start up the steep slope before they could follow. If the column was cut in two, both sections would have leadership. That was the theory—and she prayed it wouldn’t come to that. First, because of the casualties such a calamity would produce, and because of her own inadequacies. Deep inside she knew that Nayer was right. She
wasn’t
qualified to lead a squad. And the people under her command deserved better.

The team could use lights once they were inside the storm drain. Beams from the T-1s slid over the walls, threw shadows, and glinted off the trickle of water that ran down the pipe. McKee figured it was about twelve feet in diameter.

Smaller drains came in from the left and right at regular intervals. “Smaller” being a relative term since most were large enough for her to stand in. Some were dry, but most produced at least a trickle of water that dripped down to join the flow, which splashed away from the cyborgs’ podlike feet. And there were vertical access tubes as well. When she aimed her helmet light up into them, she could see metal rungs.

Meanwhile, as the last bio bod in the column, it was McKee’s job to watch the team’s six. But the harness made it difficult to turn back, and the light from her helmet couldn’t penetrate very far. She could “see” heat, however, thanks to the technology in her helmet. And on two different occasions she spotted what looked like green blobs. But then, after a second or two, they disappeared, leaving her to wonder if the sightings were real or if her night-vision gear was on the fritz.

So she looked forward again. But as the minutes passed, McKee couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. Finally, she chinned her mike. “This is Echo-Four.” That had been Sergeant Hux’s call sign, but was hers now, and would be so long as she was squad leader. “I’m about to light off a flare. Over.”

“Roger that,” Camacho answered. “Over.”

She withdrew a flare from a pouch on her combat vest, thumbed the igniter, and threw it into the darkness. The sudden flash of light caused her visor to darken, and there, exposed by the glare, was a silvery patrol drone! It was flying about three feet off the bottom of the pipe—and had been for who knows how long. It had the capacity to attack, but hadn’t. Why?

The question was left unanswered as McKee yelled, “Contact!” and opened fire. The burst from her AXE had the desired effect. Light strobed the pipe as the drone exploded and peppered her with small pieces of shrapnel. Her body armor was proof against most of the flying debris, but there were stings, as fragments of metal bit into her unprotected arms and legs.

But that wasn’t the end of it as
more
drones sped out of the darkness firing energy cannons as they came. Weber swore as he took a hit, triggered his grenade launcher, and blew one of the machines into a thousand pieces. McKee was protected by the T-1’s bulk at that point, so none of the shrapnel hit her.

She fired over Weber’s left shoulder as bolts of blue energy blipped past her head. The rest of the team was taking fire, too, but the T-1s were too big to fight side by side in such a confined space and couldn’t use their weapons without hitting McKee and Weber.

So that meant that the two of them were battling the drones alone until Snarr appeared next to them. The android was significantly smaller than a cyborg and had a pistol clutched in each hand. Snarr fired a dozen well-aimed shots, and another drone blew up. And when Weber nailed the last one, the fight was over. The success of the rescue attempt depended upon secrecy. And the rebs knew that an effort to infiltrate the city was under way. Surely Rylund wouldn’t blame Camacho if he decided to abort the mission. So what would he do?