Andromeda's War (Legion of the Damned Book 3) (5 page)

Elf’s eyes were huge. “Sorry, boss . . . The Sayers took a run at that. A company of troops was waiting for them.”

Both were silent for a moment. Automatic fire stuttered in the distance. “So,” Rex said, “what do the dead people have to say?”

Elf’s eyes were luminous. “They’re waiting for us.”

Rex knew she was waiting for him to adjust . . . To accept the inevitable. “And the others?”

“They know.”

“Okay, then let’s give the bastards something to remember. We’ll head for the nearest penetrator hole and use their ropes to climb out.”

They would never make it. Both of them knew that. But it was an objective—a reason to move. “I’ll tell them,” Elf said, and left.

Rex thought about Macy, the woman he loved, and was thankful for the fact that she was in Chicago. And Cat . . . Brave Cat. He’d said things to her. Stupid things.
I’m sorry, Cat. I really am.
Vive la legion.

Then he turned and left the office. Hoke, Percy, Elf, and all the rest were waiting for him. Twenty-three in all. Rex left through the front door, and the rest streamed along behind him.

The Imperials could have cut power to the Deeps but had chosen not to. Rex thought he knew why. While the incoming soldiers would have night-vision technology built into their helmets—the locals knew every nook and cranny of their subsurface world by heart. So there was very little reason to turn the lights off. That meant all of the garish signs continued to glow, ads for services that would no longer be available crawled the walls, and text messages continued to zigzag along the floors.

Then all such thoughts were put aside as a mob of locals flowed down from Level 2, clearly desperate to reach Level 3. The crowd broke around the column of Freedom Front fighters and surged past them. “Turn back!” a woman yelled. “There are hundreds of them.”

A few seconds later, Rex arrived at the top of a ramp that led into an open area occupied by bars, restaurants, and tattoo parlors. A large shaft of sunlight came down through a hole in the ceiling and splashed the floor. It was surrounded by a cordon of troops, placed there to defend the drop zone from people like Rex. A dozen soldiers were rappelling from above. The time to kill them was
before
they could land and get their bearings.

Rex shouted, “Grenades!” and threw one of his own. It landed, bounced a foot into the air, and exploded. There was a flash followed by a loud boom as pieces of shrapnel cut three Imperials down. More grenades followed, and Rex waved his people forward. Speed . . . That was the key. That plus the element of surprise.

So they charged out into the open, firing as they ran. Hoke fired his shotgun and
more
soldiers fell. But the battle was far from one-sided. Percy was flying about twelve feet above the floor, firing his laser at targets of opportunity, when a rocket struck his spherical body. There was an orange-red explosion, and what remained of the cyborg’s body hit the floor and rolled. Rex shot the man with the launcher. He was closer by then. Much closer. Maybe, just maybe, some of his people could escape.

Then a Human appeared up ahead. He was flanked by two synths armed with machine pistols. They fired, and Rex staggered as a hail of bullets struck him. Then he was falling . . . And reaching for something important. Something that would prevent them from identifying his body. Something that would protect Cat. The only gift he had to give.

A synth stepped forward, and as Rex looked up, he could see the machine’s ruby red eyes staring down at him. That was when he pulled the pin, and there was a bright flash as the thermite grenade went off. Rex was cremated, the rest of his grenades went off, and shards of jagged metal tore the synth apart.

Hanno’s visor went dark to protect him from the bright light, he felt a sharp pain as something sliced through his left arm, and blinked as his vision was restored. A patch of blackened duracrete marked the spot where the man had been immolated and little pools of molten metal continued to burn.
I stood my ground,
he thought to himself.
They couldn’t make me run.
Then he felt dizzy, and the floor came up to meet him. The darkness took him in.

—

Empress Ophelia woke up in a good mood. She rolled out of bed, made her way over to the French doors, and threw the floor-length curtains out of the way. Once the doors were open, she stepped out onto a large veranda. A breeze caught her nightgown and whipped it around her well-shaped legs. The sun was shining, and the surface of the Pacific Ocean glittered as if dusted with gold. And there, out on the horizon the vague outline of a floating hab could be seen, gradually cruising north. All was right with the world.
This
one anyway. Others were less fortunate. But that could and would be corrected.

Three days had passed since the army had gone down into the Deeps and killed 99 percent of the scum who lived there. A few, including a crime lord named Vas, had been captured. And once the DIS interrogators were finished with him, he would be executed. A very satisfying outcome indeed.

The glitch, if there was one, had to do with the army’s failure to find Colonel Red. The Freedom Front leader had been there . . . That’s what Vas claimed. Unfortunately, the army had been unable to recover a body that matched Red’s description. Still, there had been a number of intense fires, and there was the very real possibility that the rebel had perished in one of them. Most convincing of all was the fact that Colonel Red had been silent since the raid.

Yes, things were going very well indeed. She did miss Veneto, though. Not the sex so much as the rest of it. She’d been able to talk to him—to share some of her problems. Realizing that it was important to maintain at least some distance from everyone she knew. Especially lovers.

But Veneto had been stupid and paid a steep price for his stupidity. So she would put him and all memories of him aside. There was work to do, starting with the meeting scheduled for 10:00
A
.
M
.
Ophelia took a moment to savor the sea air, turned, and went back inside.

The synth that had been watching over her from the roof above notified the rest of the security team. A gray-and-white seagull rode the wind, drifted in toward shore, and floated there. The android “saw” it, compared the bird to its operational parameters, and made the logical decision. Just because the seagull
looked
like a seagull didn’t mean it was one. The synth brought its rifle up and fired. The bird exploded, and pieces of it fell out of the sky. The empress was safe.

—

A shadow flitted over the buildings below as Tarch Hanno’s air car flew north. His arm ached, but he didn’t care. The raid . . . That was the important thing. It had gone well, and body or no body, everyone agreed that Colonel Red was dead. That took the pressure off and made it very unlikely that Forbes would be able to seize control of the Bureau.

So he felt as good as a man with a lacerated arm could as the car put down, and he made his way to the Security Center. This meeting was to be different from the last one and for a very good reason. Empress Ophelia was going to participate. And as he entered the room, Hanno saw that she was already there.

Heads turned. Ophelia saw him and broke away from a group of admirers in order to come over and greet him. Her long dark hair hung down to her shoulders, and there was a smile on her heart-shaped face. “Tarch Hanno! I didn’t expect to see you here . . . How do you feel?”

“Quite well, Majesty,” Hanno replied. “Thank you for the gift basket by the way . . . What a wonderful selection of wines.”

“I’m glad you like it,” Ophelia said, as she took his good arm and escorted him over to a chair. “Going down into the Deeps was both unnecessary and foolhardy. But brave as well. I daresay we’ll have to come up with a suitable commendation of some sort. How does Knight of the Empire sound? That might suit the situation.”

It was more recognition than Hanno could have hoped for. Especially since he had done little more than drop through the hole and get wounded. Lady Constance Forbes was on the other side of the table, and, judging from the expression on her face, had doubts regarding the extent of Hanno’s heroism.

Tarch Ono brought the meeting to order, welcomed Ophelia, and thanked those present for their roles in the successful attack. With the formalities out of the way, Ophelia took over. She was seated at one end of the table, and her eyes probed the faces around her. “I would like to add my thanks to those already expressed by Tarch Ono. Sterilizing the Deeps was an important accomplishment.

“However, I think you’ll agree that this is no time to rest on our laurels. Even though the Freedom Front has been decapitated, there are like-minded organizations on other planets. And while the Hudathans were driven off of Orlo II, they represent a constant threat. So this is the time to strengthen our hold on the inner worlds. Tarch Ono, Lady Forbes, and Tarch Hanno all have roles to play in that effort. But force isn’t everything. We need to win hearts and minds.

“So I plan to make a grand tour of the empire, starting with Orlo II. Each time I arrive, there will be receptions, parties, and parades. All of which are opportunities to communicate why the empire is relevant to their lives. Who else can facilitate trade? Who else can protect them from the Hudathans? And who else can ensure that they aren’t cut off from the rest of Humanity? The trip will also provide an opportunity to strengthen my relationships with governors and leading royalists. I’d like to hear your opinions.”

Ophelia’s proposal was met with universal approval. Some people, like Ono, seemed to actually believe in the concept. Hanno was less sanguine. He feared that Ophelia’s visits would trigger bloody protests. But with a knighthood in his pocket, he wasn’t about to object. Besides, Ophelia’s absence would be equivalent to a vacation.

Hanno’s eyes drifted into contact with Forbes’s. She smiled for the first time in recent memory—and that was when Hanno realized that they might have something in common. Maybe Forbes was looking forward to a break as well—or maybe she saw Ophelia’s impending absence as an opportunity. A chill ran down his spine.

I don’t know what effect these men will have on the enemy, but, by God, they frighten me.

THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON,
on a draft of troops sent from England during the Peninsular Campaign
Standard year 1809

PLANET ALGERON

Andromeda McKee was riding Corporal Sam Vella, and he was running full out. And she was experiencing a wild mix of emotions. There was fear, and for good reason since she and a small group of riders were about to attack some Naa bandits; but there was more. McKee was conscious of the cold air that blew in around her visor, the wild thumping of her heart, and the guilty joy of riding into battle. It was stupid. McKee knew that. Because the excitement was often followed by grief.

Knowing made no difference. The unrepentant sense of joy was still there, as was the broad expanse of sun-streaked sky and the spiky rock formations ahead. That’s where Longtalk Storytell was holed up. Could they reach him in time? McKee hoped so. Because if anyone could help her find the chief of chiefs, Storytell was that person. So the mission could very well depend on what took place during the next few minutes. “This is Alpha-One,” McKee said. “Go in hard. Fire at will. Over.”

The heavily rutted road took a turn to the right, and a flurry of gunshots were heard, as Corporal Smith yelled, “Contact!” Sparks of light could be seen in among the rocks as the bandits fired. Sureshot shouted something in Naa, and two warriors followed him as he dropped down along his dooth’s massive neck and galloped straight ahead. As bullets kicked up geysers of dirt all around, one of Sureshot’s warriors fell. He was trampled by the dooth coming along behind.

“Go left and flank ’em,” McKee ordered via the intercom, and Vella obeyed. McKee brought her assault weapon up and fired as a bandit broke the skyline. Meanwhile, Vella rounded an outcropping of rock and spotted a group of dooths. The frightened animals were milling around while three Naa attempted to mount up. The T-1 fired his .50 caliber machine gun. A bloody mist floated over the scene as the indigs and their animals died. When Vella came to a stop McKee took a moment to put a dying dooth out of its misery. Corporal Smith’s voice filled her helmet. “Alpha-Three to Alpha-One . . . We have what’s-his-name. Over.”

“This is One. What kind of condition is he in? Over.”

“No holes. Over.”

McKee felt a sense of relief. She looked forward to hearing what Storytell had to say. But first things first. They were in enemy territory, the column was coming up behind her, and the light had begun to fade.

The next half hour was spent locating a spot where a ridge of rock offered protection from the south, and the company could laager up around a well-established fire pit. It was a regular stop then . . . A place where north- and southbound caravans paused to eat and grab some sleep.

Once the company’s defenses were complete, McKee asked Jivani to accompany her on a full circuit of the perimeter. It was dark by then, and a scattering of fires lit the campground. McKee paused to speak with each group. She was wearing a translator but knew Jivani would pick up on the sort of subtleties that a machine couldn’t.

The Naa preferred to camp upwind of the Humans, whom they privately referred to as “stinks” or “slick skins.” Something not lost on the Human bio bods, who routinely called the Naa “digs” and “fur balls.” It was a schism that McKee hoped to bridge.

Once the tour was over, McKee told Jivani to get some chow and went looking for Storytell. McKee found the guide crouched in front of a small blaze, with Sureshot sitting across from him. That was both annoying and potentially dangerous since she didn’t trust either one of them. But if the Naa were plotting against her, there was no sign of it as Sureshot rose to introduce her. “This is Lieutenant McKee . . . My people call her Nofear Deathgiver.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Storytell said as he stood. “I heard the story of Doothdown from a northerner named Quickword Spellbind. It’s a wonderful tale, and I was hard-pressed to offer a story of equal value in return.”

McKee accepted the forearm-to-forearm grip and was thankful for it. It was nice to know that Storytell was willing to take her seriously. “Thank you. I’m glad you came through the fight unharmed.”

“They killed my dooth,” Storytell said sadly. “I will miss her.”

“We captured two of their animals,” Sureshot put in. “You can take your pick.”

“Thank you,” Storytell said. “No offense . . . But why is that thing watching us?”

The Naa pointed, and McKee turned to see that Andy was staring at them from the edge of the firelight. Recording? Yes, probably. “Ignore it,” McKee said, as she turned back. “It was sent to document the mission.”

“If you say so,” Storytell said doubtfully, and sat down. The other two joined him, and it was a chance for McKee to tuck into one of the MREs that a private dropped off. Sureshot opened his. But Storytell preferred to carve slices off a chunk of jerky. “So,” she began. “You know why we’re here?”

“To find Truthsayer,” Storytell replied.

“And how do you feel about that?”

Light flashed off steel as Storytell carved another slice of meat. “My father was from the north . . . And my mother was from the south. We were
Noogin
. Wanderers. So while I have no reason to hate Truthsayer—I have no reason to love him, either.”

That was a good thing if true, and McKee paused to eat some stew before asking the most critical question. “So, where is he?”

Storytell eyed her across the fire. “I can tell you where he was—but only the gods know where he
is
. Eighty-one days ago, he was in the City of Pillars. My cousin saw him there. But he could be anywhere by now.”

McKee tried to do the math in her head. If she was correct, eighty-one local days were equivalent to something like nine standard days. So Storytell was correct. By the time the column entered the City of Pillars,
if
they were allowed to enter the City of Pillars, the chief of chiefs could be long gone. But what choice did she have? Even if Truthsayer had left she might be able to pick up his trail or figure out a way to contact him. But first she had to get there. “Tell me about Graveyard Pass.”

Storytell shrugged. “Travelers must pay to pass through it. That’s the way it has always been. I don’t know Hardhand Bigclub. Maybe he would allow you to pass through for the right price. Or maybe he hates slick skins.”

“I could talk to him,” Sureshot volunteered. “Or try to.”

It was a generous offer and one that involved no small amount of risk for Sureshot. McKee nodded. “Thank you. Let’s get some rest and give it a try. I would prefer a peaceful passage if such a thing is possible.”

Once the meal was over, McKee took one last tour of the perimeter and spent a few minutes going over the watch schedule with Larkin. “I plan to have some of our people on duty around the clock,” the noncom said. “And I told the squad leaders to keep an eye on the fur balls.”

McKee understood Larkin’s perspective—but felt obliged to stress the need for unity. “Remember Desmond, we’re all on the same team.”

Only half of Larkin’s face was illuminated, but she could see the look of surprise. McKee rarely called the legionnaire by his first name, and when she did, there was a reason. In this case, to take the sting out of her comment. He nodded. “I hear you. But I plan to handle things the way you would have . . . Back before they pinned that bar on you! And there’s no way in hell that
Sergeant
McKee would let a bunch of indigs stand watch alone.”

McKee couldn’t help but laugh. “I stand corrected. Carry on, Sergeant. And get some rest. Something tells me that we’re going to need it.”

The bandits fired on the company twice during the next five hours but did so from a distance. McKee woke up on both occasions but didn’t think the outlaws were serious. And when no one came to get her, that opinion was confirmed. So she went back to sleep.

Then, after what seemed like no more than a minute or two, it was time to get up. Her morning shower consisted of a wipe down with a premoistened towelette followed by the application of some spray-on deodorizer. Then it was time to down a mug of hot coffee before going out to join Ridefast Trickshot’s funeral ceremony. The location was the makeshift graveyard that was adjacent to the camp. Judging from the rows of crude headstones, dozens of Naa had been buried there over the years.

As the rest of them listened, Sureshot told the gods how Trickshot had been killed, how brave he was, and why they should welcome him. Then, as the blanket-wrapped body was lowered into the ground, Sureshot led the rest of the Naa in a chant that Jivani didn’t need to translate. The sadness and regret inherent in the rise and fall of the words was universal. The company had suffered its first casualty—and McKee was left to wonder how many would follow.

Twenty minutes after the ceremony, Sureshot and two of his warriors were armed and ready to ride. McKee was there to see them off. “I will carry my father’s totem,” Sureshot said solemnly. “Bigclub would be foolish to fire on it.”

“Good,” McKee replied. “If you run into trouble, use your radio. The third squad will come a-running.”

“That’s good to know,” Sureshot said. McKee saw the familiar look in the warrior’s eyes and knew he was thinking about something other than war. Males. They were so predictable.

McKee placed the entire company on standby as Sureshot rode out. By standing on a rocky outcropping, she could watch as Sureshot and his companions followed the road south and disappeared into a ground-hugging mist. There were no gunshots, and no calls for help, so it seemed safe to assume that Bigclub was willing to talk.

An hour passed. And as night began to fall, McKee was beginning to worry. What if Sureshot and his warriors were dead? All killed by arrows or some other means? At what point should she attack? Jivani believed that the warriors were having tea, a ritual that involved a good deal of socializing before either party could discuss the matter at hand. And McKee understood that. But an hour and a half?

That’s what she was thinking when Larkin’s voice came over the radio. “This is Alpha-One-Three . . . We have Sureshot on Drone 3. He’s on his way back. Over.”

McKee said, “Roger,” and climbed up onto the rock. The sun was an orange smear in the western sky, but there was still enough light to see by. And sure enough . . . Three riders were headed her way. The pace was deliberately slow, so as to signal nonchalance. It took every bit of McKee’s self-control to hide the impatience she felt as the negotiating team finally entered camp.

But once Sureshot dismounted and turned her way, she knew the negotiations had been successful. It was visible in the way he held his body. “I have good news,” Sureshot said confidently. “Bigclub will allow us to pass.”

“And the price?”

“A RAV, a construction droid, and a hundred thousand rounds of ammunition.”

McKee’s spirits fell. There was no way she could or would pay that price. But, before she could reply, Jivani spoke up. “That’s what he
asked
for . . . What price did you get him down to?”

Sureshot grinned. “One thousand rounds of ammo, ten grenades, and a case of MREs.”

McKee laughed. “Nice job. I hate to provide bandits with arms, but we’d be forced to use even more ordnance to launch an attack, and we would take casualties as well.”

McKee had no intention of taking the company through the pass at night. So the hours of darkness were used to eat another meal, review contingency plans, and break camp. By the time the sickly yellow sun was two fingers off the eastern horizon, they had cleared the rocks and were halfway to the hills.

Sureshot and his dooth led the way with a pack animal. It was loaded with the ammo, grenades, and food required to pay Bigclub. Sureshot was followed by alternating squads of Naa and legionnaires, with RAVs and construction droids behind them. The rear guard consisted of Larkin and the members of the third squad.

McKee noticed that a T-1 named Sal Toto was carrying two shoulder-mounted rocket launchers rather than Sergeant Rico Sager.
He
was sitting astride the last RAV. That was Larkin’s doing—and not in keeping with the order of march she had approved.

McKee thought about calling the arrangement into question and knew Larkin would lose face if she did. It was the sort of “I’ll do it my way” approach Sergeant McKee had been known for . . . And now it was coming back to bite her. McKee smiled. She would talk to Larkin later . . .
After
they cleared the pass.

Sureshot started upwards, and the rest followed. McKee rode at the head of squad one, behind the first group of Naa. Storytell, Jivani, and Andy were nearby. At the beginning, the road had been wide enough to accommodate two dooth-drawn carts. Now it was starting to narrow, and as that occurred, rocky hillsides rose to the right and left. And as McKee looked up, she saw ledges. Each occupied by at least one of Bigclub’s ragged-looking warriors, all of whom were staring down at the column.

By that time, McKee could
feel
the hostility they projected and realized that she’d been stupid.
Very
stupid. They were riding into a trap. Bigclub had lied to Sureshot who, being young and relatively inexperienced, believed the bandit.

McKee chinned her mike and opened her mouth but never got the opportunity to speak. Because that was when one of the bandits fired a rifle, and Sureshot toppled out of the saddle. All hell broke loose immediately thereafter. Both hillsides sparkled as dozens of bandits opened fire. Bigclub wasn’t about to settle for a pittance. He planned to take
everything
.

It seemed to occur in slow motion. There was only one way to go, and that was straight ahead. So McKee shouted, “Fire at will! Charge!”

It was impossible to know if Sureshot’s warriors were following her order or their own instincts as they kicked their dooths into a trot. They were firing back and doing so with deadly accuracy.

Bullets pinged against Vella’s armor as the T-1 raised his fifty. The short, three-round bursts were computer-controlled—and nearly every slug found a target. McKee was firing, too. Her 4.7 mm Axer Arms L-40 Assault Weapon could fire two thousand rounds per minute in the three-round-burst mode. Her job was to keep the Naa from closing in on Vella.