Andromeda’s Choice (18 page)

In addition to the long white hair, which was a flagrant violation of regulations, Hasbro was known for other eccentricities as well. He wore civilian clothing whenever he could get away with it, liked to collect Naa artifacts, and wasn't above wielding a shovel when the occasion demanded. All sins that had been repeatedly forgiven because of his skill as a civil engineer.

So given all of that, McKee wasn't sure what to expect as she ordered Ree-Ree to station himself on Hasbro's left while Chang and Tanner took a similar position off to the right. None of which escaped the officer's attention. He looked left, right, and left again. His blue eyes were bright with intelligence. “I told Lieutenant Dero that I didn't want any bodyguards, and it appears that she sent some anyway.”

McKee's visor was up. “Lieutenant Dero can be quite persuasive, sir.”

Hasbro laughed. “Well said, Sergeant. McKee, is it?”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

“You handled the ambush well, McKee. Thank God they fired early. Had they scored a direct hit on my sappers, we would have suffered a lot more casualties.”

Tell that to Axler and Kosygin,
McKee thought bitterly. But she knew what he meant and offered the only reply she could. “Yes, sir.”

“Well, now that you're here, let's stretch our legs shall we?” In response to an order from Hasbro, the officer's T-1 took off and began to run. That left McKee and her people to try and catch up. It wasn't long before Hasbro passed the RAVs, which meant there was a chance that his T-1 would step on a mine. McKee was about to object when the engineer and his cyborg came to a halt. Not because of the danger posed by mines but so the engineer could get down and inspect a timber bridge, a process that took long enough for the column to catch up.

And so the run-stop process went for the next couple of hours. After a while, two hills appeared in the distance. They grew steadily larger as the task forces closed in on them. Both elevations were conical in shape and located within a half mile of each other. “That's it,” Sergeant Grisso said. “The one on the right.”

They were riding side by side. As McKee looked at the hill, she could see why it had been chosen. The summit would offer an unrestricted view of the road and the countryside for miles around. And, given how steep the hill's sides were, it would be easy to defend. Or so it appeared. “How did they take it?” McKee inquired.

Grisso was thirtysomething. White facial tattoos stood out against his dark skin. “They sent more than a thousand warriors against it,” he said grimly. “There were thirty legionnaires on the hill. They called for air support, but visibility was too poor for the fly-forms to take off. They held out as long as they could. But it wasn't enough.”

McKee thought about that and blinked.
Sergeants don't cry.
“Does that sort of thing happen often?”

“No,” Grisso replied. “All of our bases take fire—but nothing like what happened here. Not recently anyway.”

Their conversation was interrupted as the column came to a halt, and drones were sent up to look around. As a squad leader, McKee could tap into the command channel. She felt sick to her stomach as one of the robots flew over the wreckage of a burned-out quad and crossed what appeared to have been
three
rings of defenses. A sure sign that the soldiers had been forced to pull back twice before being overwhelmed.

Then the drone entered the blood-splattered fortification that topped the hill. Darkness was falling, but the drone was equipped with a light, and as it played across a badly-shot-up wall, McKee saw that blue spray paint had been used to scrawl a name there. “Camerone.”

That was the name of the battle in which Legion Captain Jean Danjou and a company of sixty-four men were surrounded and attacked by a force of more than two thousand Mexican soldiers in the village of Camerone. The lopsided fight had come to symbolize bravery and a willingness to fight to the death if need be. McKee felt a lump form in the back of her throat as the light panned away.

Once the drones had completed their inspections, it was time to send the RAVs up to find whatever mines the Naa had left behind. And, as it turned out, there were plenty to find. So the legionnaires had no choice but to establish a fortified encampment at the bottom of the hill. Thanks to the crawlers, their dozer blades, and the construction droids, a task that might have consumed a day was completed in a matter of hours. All of the troops were exhausted by then, and that included McKee, who was looking forward to some serious shut-eye, when Larkin came looking for her. “Hey, McKee . . . Don't crawl into the sack yet. The loot has a shit detail with our names on it.”

McKee was in the process of removing her boots. She swore and began to lace them. “What kind of shit detail?”

“Remember the prisoner? The one I captured? They want to talk to her . . . And we're supposed to take her over to the command tent.”

McKee was on her feet by then. The ambush felt like ancient history. “Why us?”

Larkin made a face. “I was standing a few feet away when Dero got the request from Hasbro. “

It never paid to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Which was to say anywhere near an officer when some sort of crap slid downhill.

McKee put her jacket on and grabbed the AXE as she left the four-man tent. The sun was rising again, and she had to squint as Larkin led her to the spot where the Naa was being held. Her wrists and ankles were secured with plastic ties, and she was seated on an ammo box. Two members of the 1
st
REI were acting as jailers. “Hey, Sarge,” one of them said. “What's up?”

“We're here to get the prisoner,” McKee replied.

“Works for me,” the legionnaire replied. “I could use some chow.”

“Cut her loose,” McKee instructed. “When's the last time she got to pee?”

The soldier looked surprised. “Pee?”

McKee shook her head in disgust and pulled her knife. “Go to chow. We'll take care of it.”

As the legionnaires left, McKee knelt next to the prisoner. The blade sliced through the plastic ties with ease. “Come on,” McKee said as she stood. “I'll take you to the latrine.” She knew the words wouldn't mean anything but couldn't figure out how to signal her intention.

Then, much to McKee's surprise, the Naa said, “Thank you.”

McKee stared at her. “You understand standard.”

“Some . . . Yes.”

“How did you learn?”

“A human lives in our village.”

That was a surprise, and McKee wanted to ask more questions but knew it wasn't her place to do so. That's what interrogators were for. But she couldn't resist following up on the obvious. “So you listened to the soldiers talk, and now you know a great deal about this mission.”

The smile seemed very human. “Yes.”

McKee laughed. “Come on . . . You met Larkin earlier today, and you know what he'll do if you try to run.”

“Yes,” the Naa said flatly. “He will blow my fucking brains out.”

Larkin snickered. “You got that right.”

The Naa was at least partially responsible for the deaths of two legionnaires, which meant McKee should hate her. But there was something about the female that made that hard to do. “What's your name?”

“Springsong Riverrun.”

McKee thought it was a pretty name for someone who had been sent to kill her. “Okay, Springsong, let's go.”

After taking the Naa to the female latrine, the legionnaires escorted her to the command tent, where the major, a couple of officers, and three enlisted people were waiting. Two folding chairs had been placed under an overhead light, and Hasbro pointed to one of them. “Put her there.”

Larkin guided the Naa over to the seat and stood to one side as Hasbro took the other seat. “Okay,” he said, as a translator stepped forward. “Ask her to identify herself.”

McKee knew she wasn't supposed to take part in the interrogation but thought Hasbro needed to know that Springsong could understand most if not all of what was said. She cleared her throat. “Excuse me, sir . . . But Springsong speaks standard.”

Hasbro's eyebrows were white, and they shot upwards. “Standard? Who said so?”

“I did,” Springsong replied.

“Well, I'll be damned,” Hasbro responded. And the interrogation began. Having learned the prisoner's name, Hasbro demanded to know which village she was from.

“I won't tell you that,” Springsong said simply. “You would kill them all.”

McKee couldn't help but admire the Naa's courage—and wondered how Hasbro would respond. But, rather than become angry, the way McKee expected him to, he nodded. “So tell me about this human . . . The one who taught you to speak standard. Or are you going to protect him as well?”

“He calls himself Father Ramirez,” Springsong replied. “But we call him Crazyman Longstick.”

“Oh,
him
,” Hasbro said dismissively. “He was seen in the village of Crooked Tree three days ago.”

“That isn't true,” Springsong said, then caught herself. Because if she helped the human figure out where Longstick
wasn't
, that information could be used to help determine where he was. “You're trying to trick me.”

“I was,” Hasbro admitted, “but you're too smart for me. The truth is that thanks to this, I already know what village you're from.”

Hasbro extended a hand, and a sergeant placed a beautifully carved staff in it. McKee recognized it as having been recovered from a spot adjacent to one of the wrecked catapults.

“I study such things,” Hasbro said. “And because of that, I know that the dooth carving mounted on top of this totem, combined with the vine motif on the shaft, are emblematic of a village called Doothdown. A community located southeast of here.”

In spite of the Naa's effort to remain expressionless, McKee saw Springsong jerk as if slapped across the face. Suddenly, her respect for Hasbro went up a notch. The man was more than he seemed. “Never fear,” Hasbro said kindly. “We aren't going to kill all of the people in your village. But we
will
send a team to search for stolen weapons and have a chat with your chief. Why did you attack us?”

“Because you built your fort on sacred ground!” Springsong said accusingly.

Hasbro frowned. “Sacred ground? What sacred ground?”

“The hill,” Springsong said, as she pointed in the direction of FOB Victor. “That's where the god Ofar appeared to Spiritsee Praylong.”

There was a moment of silence while everyone took that in. “You know what?” Hasbro said as he eyed the faces around him. “I think we screwed up.”

 • • • 

The meeting place had been chosen with great care, and that made sense since both parties had a great deal to lose, including their lives. So as Spearthrow Lifetaker and his son Longsee Sureshot approached the edge of a low bluff, they slid off their dooths and tethered them in a copse of trees. “Remember,” Lifetaker said, “the slick skins can see many things from the air. You must always take precautions.”

“Then they can see us now,” the youth responded.

“That's true,” Lifetaker agreed patiently. “Because their sky machines look down on the surface of the planet all the time. But the slick skins can't see
everything
. Especially on a cloudy day like this one.”

“Yes, Father,” Sureshot replied dutifully. His father was chief of chiefs, a renowned warrior, and a politician. And if Sureshot hoped to succeed him, there was a great deal to learn.

Together, they followed a game trail to a point near the edge of the bluff, where they lowered themselves to the ground and low crawled the rest of the way. To do otherwise was to risk being seen against the skyline.

But once they arrived, it was clear that they had nothing to fear. As they looked down on the valley, a cold wind swept in from the north and ruffled the knee-high dooth grass. The area had been overrun by southern marauders two season cycles earlier. All that remained of what had been a thriving community was a collection of slowly dissolving earthen domes, a skeletonized watchtower, and an overgrown graveyard.

“Okay, son,” Lifetaker said. “So far so good. I will make my way out to the meeting place. You will remain here. Should you need to fire, what will be your greatest challenge?”

“The crosswind,” Sureshot answered as he slid the long-barreled rifle forward. “And the downward angle.”

“That's correct,” Lifetaker said approvingly. “Should something go wrong, don't waste your life trying to save me. That will be impossible. Your task will be to send at least one slick skin to hell. Understood?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Good. I will need some time. Use it to conceal yourself.”

“Yes, Father.”

Lifetaker gave the boy an affectionate pat, elbowed his way forward, and slithered down a steep slope into the tall grass. It took him in.

 • • • 

The ground whipped past as the fly-form's shadow led the cyborg east. Some of the slipstream found its way in through the open hatch to buffet Colonel Bodry and his bodyguards. All of them had been drawn from the elite 2
nd
REP and wore berets in place of helmets. They were dressed in body armor and armed with a variety of weapons, including AXE assault rifles, a sniper's rifle, and one rocket launcher. A more-than-sufficient force so long as Lifetaker kept his word, and Bodry thought he would.

A message torp would arrive any day now and, assuming the answer to his request was, “Yes,” then there would be only a limited amount of time in which to bore through the mountains before winter set in.

So it was imperative to cut some sort of deal with the northern tribes. Otherwise, they would cause so much trouble that the whole effort would grind to a halt. The fly-form's voice was flat and unemotional. “We're one minute out . . . Prepare for landing.”