Andromeda’s Choice (2 page)

Vas nodded. “Thank you. Colonel Red?”

Rex was a wanted man. So rather than use his own name he had chosen to operate under the nom de guerre Colonel Red. A name that married his Legion rank with his favorite color on the roulette wheel. He took a deep breath. “The Freedom Front is an opposition group dedicated to overthrowing the monarchy and replacing it with a representative democracy. We believe in freedom of speech, freedom of religion, and equal rights for all sentients.”

Vas offered a toothy smile. “Including computers?”

“If they are truly sentient, yes.”

Vas nodded. “I represent the Combine, which is a group of for-profit organizations.”

“Which is to say a group comprised of criminals,” the Sayer put in.

“That's how Ophelia sees it,” Vas said evenly. “Although her main complaint seems to be our failure to pay Imperial taxes.”

Rex chuckled. That was true. As far as he could tell, Ophelia's motives had very little to do with traditional morality. And, to the extent that the Combine was fleecing what she considered to be
her
sheep, the empress was unhappy. “So,” he said, “we have a lot in common.”

There was a loud crash as the Sayer opened her mouth to respond. Then a huge drill bit came down through the ceiling, quickly followed by a cascade of debris, dirt, and a steady stream of water. As it struck, the table shattered, causing all three participants to stand and back away. Rex had seen the technology used on enemy bunkers. But never from that perspective. “It's a penetrator,” he announced. “Once they jerk it up and out, troops will drop through the shaft.”

There was a loud whining noise, and more dirt fell as the penetrator went into reverse and was withdrawn. Somehow, some way, Ophelia's security people knew about the meeting and where it was being held. Then, having positioned the necessary equipment directly over the Blue Moon, they'd struck. “I think it's time to leave,” Vas said, as he drew a pair of energy pistols. Rex had to agree. The meeting was over.

 • • • 

PLANET ORLO II

The rain hit the top layer of the forest, ran off a multitude of leaves, and fell again. McKee heard it rattle on her helmet before streaming down onto her already wet poncho. Most of it anyway, although a trickle of water found its way under her collar and into her clothes. It was tempting to change position, or to try to tighten the seal around her neck, but McKee had been fighting in the Big Green for months by that time and knew the effort would be pointless. The jungle always won. Besides, the newly arrived jarheads were looking to her for an example, and if she began to thrash around, they would, too. And that could be fatal. The plan was to remain perfectly still, let the Hudathans walk into the trap, and take at least one of them alive. A waste of time in McKee's opinion because the Hudathans were tough as nails and not about to dishonor themselves by spilling their guts to what they thought were lesser beings.

Her train of thought was interrupted by a rustling sound and the crackle of broken twigs as Second Lieutenant Wilbur Fox plopped down beside her. “Sergeant.”

“Sir.”

“See anything?”

It was a stupid question even for Fox. Had McKee seen something, she would have told him via the platoon push, opened fire on it, or both. But he was the platoon leader, she was a noncom, and that meant their relationship was defined by a thousand years of military tradition. “No, sir. Not yet.”

“But you think they'll come?”

Admiral Poe's ships had been forced to flee when a much larger Hudathan fleet dropped out of hyperspace—and there had been a hellacious battle during their absence. Now the swabbies were back, along with a battalion of mostly green marines, Fox being an excellent example. That's why some of the Legion's officers and noncoms had been seconded to the Marine Corps to serve as advisors. So in spite of the fact that McKee had been in the Legion for less than a year, she found herself giving advice to an officer. “I think the odds are good, sir,” she said patiently. “Once the ridgeheads realize that Harvey is overdue, they'll send someone out to look for him.”

Harvey was the name the marines had given to the Hudathan who lay in the clearing directly in front of them. Harvey had been alive when the Droi found him in one of their pit traps, but not for long. The Droi
hated
the Hudathans and, judging from the number of bullet holes in his body, had used the off-worlder for target practice. “Excellent!” Fox said, as if hearing the news for the first time. “That's when we'll bag the bastards.”

Fox made the process sound like a turkey shoot—and maybe it was in his fantasies. But Fox hadn't fought the aliens in front of Riversplit or up on top of the Howari Dam. If he had, McKee figured the marine wouldn't be so lighthearted about the prospect of combat with soldiers who were six and a half feet tall and weighed more than three hundred pounds apiece. But there was no point in lecturing Fox, so she didn't. Once the shovelheads appeared, he'd learn soon enough. “Yes, sir,” McKee said dryly. “That's when we'll bag the bastards.”

The next forty-five minutes passed with excruciating slowness. The rain continued to fall, scavengers continued to nibble on the corpse, and McKee felt an increasing need to pee. Should she call the ambush off? Fox would agree to nearly anything she proposed. But was it right to cancel an ambush so she could relieve herself?

McKee's ruminations were interrupted by two clicks as a marine chinned his mike on and off. McKee blessed the leatherneck for holding his fire, placed a hand on Fox's arm, and shook her head. That prevented the officer from issuing an unnecessary order as three Hudathans appeared on the opposite side of the clearing. They were heavily armed and paranoid as hell. Which made sense on an alien planet populated by beings who wanted to kill them.

For what felt like an hour, they just stood there, looking around. But the marines were well concealed—and the rain had the effect of blurring their heat signatures. McKee eased the rifle forward and found one of the Hudathans in her scope. He was HUGE. The vestige of a dorsal fin ran front to back along the top of his bare skull, a pronounced supraorbital ridge threw a shadow down onto his cheekbones, and the froglike mouth was set in a straight line. He was within range, but closer would be better, since the knockout dart would have to penetrate both clothing
and
the Hudathan's skin. Would he cooperate?

He did. Having satisfied himself that it was safe to do so, the alien began to approach Harvey. His eyes were on the ground, looking for trip wires, pressure plates, or signs of disturbed soil. McKee placed the crosshairs on his neck, took up the slack on the trigger, and was about to squeeze it when Private Blonski fired his shotgun. The results were entirely predictable.

One of the aliens aimed a huge machine gun at the opposite tree line. It began to chug rhythmically as McKee fired. Her target turned, the dart missed, and Fox ordered his marines to open up. They obeyed. And because most of them had their weapons aimed at the lead Hudathan, he jerked spastically, battled to keep his feet, and finally went down.

Having witnessed that, the second ridgehead did a fade—quickly followed by the monster with the big gun. “We got him! We got him!” Fox shouted enthusiastically.

“What we have is a lot of trouble,” McKee said as she struggled to her feet. “The mission is to capture Hudathans—not kill them. Now we'll have to track the bastards back to their hidey-hole. Put the idiot who fired that shotgun on point.”

There wasn't a “sir” anywhere in McKee's evaluation—nor were the orders framed as suggestions. But Fox didn't notice or, if he did, chose to ignore the blatant breach of military protocol. The little sergeant with the diagonal scar across her face was right, and he knew it.

Orders were given, sixteen marines appeared out of the bush, and Blonski was put on point. It was a well-deserved punishment. But had Fox considered such subtleties, he would have noticed that McKee was right behind the private, telling him what to look for as they followed a trail of broken branches through the forest.

The Hudathans were moving quickly, which meant the humans had to do so as well or risk losing contact. But that was dangerous. Would the Hudathans stop at some point and lay an ambush of their own? McKee knew
she
would.

Then, as if that weren't bad enough, there was the old saw “Be careful what you ask for.” Assuming they found the Hudathan hideout, how many aliens would they have to face? The Hudathan fleet had been forced to withdraw when Admiral Poe and his ships arrived, leaving pockets of troops here and there all across the surface of Orlo II. Most of the groups consisted of no more than a dozen soldiers, but McKee knew some of them were larger. And if the marines ran into a company-strength force of Hudathans, they would be SOL. And so would she.

McKee's train of thought was interrupted as the trees began to thin, and a river appeared up ahead. Bronski was still moving forward when she grabbed the back of his harness and jerked the marine to a halt. “Get down . . . We'll low crawl forward.”

McKee turned and motioned for the rest of the patrol to take cover before falling in next to Blonski. The marine had been taught how to low crawl in boot camp and put on an excellent demonstration of how to do it as he placed his weapon across the top of his forearms and elbowed his way forward. It wasn't long before they had a good view of the river. It was sluggish, pea-soup green, and, judging from the boot prints on the opposite bank, not very deep.

All things considered, the ford was an excellent place for an ambush. Once the marines were exposed, and knee deep in water, they would make excellent targets. McKee heard what sounded like a wild boar charging through the forest and knew Fox was coming forward. He landed heavily. “Sergeant.”

“Sir.”

“What have we got?”

“This would be a good place for the Hudathans to set an ambush, sir. I suggest that you send a fire team upstream. Once they're around the bend and out of sight, they can cross, work their way back down, and let us know what they see.”

“We'll flank 'em!” Fox said happily. “That'll teach the bastards.”

“And one more thing,” McKee added. “If the shit hits the fan, tell them to pop some smoke. It would be a shame to shoot them.”

Fox's eyebrows rose. “Yes, good point; I'll take care of it.”

The next half hour passed slowly as a team of four marines crossed the river and felt their way east. What if she was wrong? What if there was no ambush, and the Hudathans managed to escape due to excessive caution on her part? All manner of doubts chased each other through McKee's mind until a male voice sounded in her helmet. “Charlie-Three to Charlie-Six . . . It looks like the ridgeheads were waiting for us. But they're gone now. Over.”

McKee felt a sense of satisfaction mixed with disappointment. She'd been correct—but the enemy had opened up a lead by now. There was one good thing, however, and that was the possibility that the Hudathans believed they were safe and would hightail it home without setting any more ambushes. Especially with night coming on.

It felt right to McKee, and she said as much to Fox, who had come to believe that the legionnaire was infallible. So the patrol crossed the river, located the game trail the Hudathans were using, and began to jog.

Blonski had been rotated to the rear by then, but McKee was still in the two slot, and grateful for the fact that she was in good shape. The rain had stopped, the air was humid, and she was carrying forty pounds of gear. That was a lot for a woman who weighed 125, but months of combat had strengthened her, and McKee knew she could run the jarheads into the ground. Branches whipped past her helmet, patches of blue flashed by overhead, and the rasp of her own breathing filled her ears.

They ran for fifteen minutes before McKee held up a hand and cut the pace to a walk. They had made up some of the time lost earlier. That's what McKee figured, and she didn't want to run pell-mell into an enemy encampment.

The concern was validated ten minutes later when the marine on point spotted a trip wire. McKee made a production out of stepping over it so that the men and women behind her would see and do likewise.

Moving with care, she led the patrol off the trail and into the bush. Once they were clear, McKee signaled for the platoon to turn south. It was a delicate business. One sensor missed, one careless move, and all hell would break loose. McKee thought about Blonski and hoped that his safety was on.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, a clearing appeared up ahead, and McKee motioned for the marines to get down. As Fox came forward, he made hardly any noise at all. His voice was little more than a whisper. “Sergeant.”

“Sir.”

“What have we got?”

“Looks like an improvised fort, sir. They put it on stilts, so the larger predators couldn't reach them.”

Fox peered through a screen of vegetation. The platform was made out of logs, was well constructed, and a good twenty feet off the ground. It was impossible to see the Hudathans unless they approached the waist-high wall that surrounded the platform. “That thing is quite a ways off the ground,” Fox observed. “Do the local predators get that big?”

McKee remembered firing down into a triangular skull as a monster jumped up at her. “Yes, sir. They're only about ten feet tall, but they can jump at least five feet into the air. And they absorb bullets like a sponge.”

“Sorry I asked,” Fox replied. “So, what do you recommend?”

McKee eyed the structure through her binoculars. “We're in a tough position, sir. They have the high ground. If we fire on them from here, they could respond with heavy weapons. What if they have a mortar or a crew-served machine gun? And if we charge out into the open, they will cut us down in no time. An air strike might be in order. Of course, we aren't likely to capture any prisoners that way.”