Andromeda’s Choice (22 page)

Such were Travers's thoughts as he typed “Andromeda McKee” into the system's search engine. That produced a request for a user name and password. The contractor entered both, and voila, he was looking at McKee's P-1 file. The face that looked back at him had been disfigured by a scar. It gave McKee a piratical appearance and made her look older than she probably was. She was still attractive, however, or so it seemed to Travers, remembering that he'd been on Algeron for a couple of months.

The contractor smiled, took a sip of freshly brewed caf, and began to scroll. McKee, if that was her actual name, had joined the Legion on the planet Esparto. Subsequent to that she had gone through basic training on Drang and been sent to Adobe, where she was assigned to the 1
st
REC. After that, it was off to Orlo II, where she served with distinction and was put in for an IOM by a colonel named Rylund. That seemed straightforward enough.

But in keeping with the Legion's traditions, McKee had not been required to provide her real name, a certified birth date, educational background, or information pertaining to a criminal record if any. A seeming dead end.

However, based on the latest report from Sykes, Travers knew that the CO who had signed McKee's glowing fitness report was quite possibly her lover as well. A captain, no
major
, named John Avery. And according to Sykes, McKee had been guilty of desertion! A crime for which she had received corporal punishment, but it wasn't mentioned in her file, presumably because of her relationship with Avery. Not the sort of stuff generally associated with heroes.

Yet for all of that, Travers was unable to find anything that suggested a political bent on McKee's part or a connection to the Mason assassination. So it was too early to send his findings to Max. Hopefully, if things went well, Sykes would uncover even more information about the scar-faced sergeant.

Travers clicked the file closed and left the office. As a contractor, he was allowed to eat in the officers' mess. And Tuesday was steak night. The blastproof door locked itself behind him.

 • • • 

THE DEEPDIG MINE

Once the sun went down, and a blanket of darkness settled over the land, the Naa attacked. It began with harassing fire from the opposite slope. The locals couldn't see. Not the way the legionnaires could. But they didn't have to. The idea was to distract the off-worlders and force them to take cover while the real attacks got under way.

As expected, the first assault came from below. But was it for real? Or just a feint? There was only one way to find out and that was to look. A muzzle-loading weapon fired, and a ball whispered past McKee's head as she elbowed her way out to the edge of the slope and scanned the hillside below. She could see some widely spaced green blobs, about ten of them, slowly working their way up through the rocks. The group was moving too slowly to constitute the main attack. “This is Eight,” she said. “We have ten, repeat ten hostiles on the front slope, and that isn't enough. Odds are that the rest will drop from
above
. Over.”

Having alerted the team, McKee assigned Sykes to deal with the warriors climbing up from the bottom of the ravine and ordered the others to take up positions that would allow them to fire up toward the top of the hill. That left Larkin, a private named Hagen, and her to serve as a quick-reaction force. Having been issued Chang's AXE, Hasbro was stationed at the entrance to the mine. His job was to protect Farley, Chang, and Peeby should one or more warriors manage to get close.

Had she thought of everything? McKee hoped so as the volume of incoming fire increased, and Sykes fired his grenade launcher downslope. McKee heard a series of explosions followed by the clatter of a rockslide and knew she wouldn't have to worry about that front unless the enemy threw more warriors at it.

Jaggi gave the alarm. “This is Eight-Five . . . The Naa dropped ropes from above . . . Here they come! Over.”

McKee had taken cover behind an old mining cart. She turned to look upward. Naa warriors were descending the ropes like beads on a string. “Roger that, Eight-Five. Waste 'em.”

Jaggi opened fire, quickly followed by Tanner, and she could see the muzzle flashes as they fired their fifties. Dead bodies thumped as they hit the ground, but the Naa kept coming. McKee couldn't help but admire their courage. “Keep moving,” she instructed. “The snipers can see your muzzle flashes.”

But that wasn't the worst of it. Suddenly, firebrands began to rain down from above. Yes, there was the chance they would land on someone, but the
real
danger was the illumination the torches provided. Suddenly, the snipers on the opposite hillside could see their targets, and the volume of incoming fire began to increase. “Larkin, Hagen, put those things out!” she ordered, and joined the effort herself.

They were short on water. So the only way to deal with the tar-soaked sticks was to stomp on them. As McKee did so, she felt a bullet slam into her armor. It almost knocked her down. She staggered, managed to recover, and knew she was going to have one helluva bruise.

About half the fires had been extinguished when Farley's voice came over the radio. “They're in the mine! I shot one of them with my pistol.”

McKee swore. There was another entrance up top somewhere. And that possibility had never occurred to her.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
“Larkin! Hagen! Follow me.”

Hasbro had his back to the entrance by that time and was firing over Chang into the darkness beyond. He wasn't wearing a helmet, and couldn't see in the dark, but the auto fire had the effect of keeping the Naa back.

McKee's first thought was to lob a couple of grenades into the tunnel, but she remembered how old the supports were and thought better of the idea. Any kind of explosion could bring tons of rock crashing down on them. “No grenades,” she said, “and pick your shots.”

The firefight was consuming a lot of ammo, and McKee was increasingly concerned. The latest weather report was for clearing by “midday,” meaning that they would have to hold out for another four hours or so.

A green blob appeared, all of them fired at it, and the warrior fell. “Goddamn it,” Larkin said as he advanced, “you people are starting to piss me off!” There was a muzzle flash, followed by a three-shot burst from Larkin, and silence.

“That's far enough,” McKee cautioned. “Toss a glow stick back there and take up a defensive position. Hagen will provide you with backup.”

Confident that the tunnel was reasonably secure, McKee went back outside. She looked around. The firing had stopped. “What's up, Eight-Five?”

The ghostly looking T-1 was close enough to answer directly. “They broke it off, Sarge. For the moment, anyway.”

“Good . . . But stay sharp. Odds are they'll try again.”

“Roger that.”

She'd checked on the cyborgs, so it was time to tackle the
next
problem. And that was pilot Marvin Peeby. Could he make it to the point when the weather cleared? Or would his emergency life-support system (LSS) crash before then?

Having activated her helmet light, McKee knelt next to Peeby's brain box and flipped a cover out of the way. The good news was that Peeby was alive. The bad news was that his indicators were in the red.

Gravel crunched as Hasbro arrived. “So? What do you think?”

“I think Peeby's going to die,” McKee answered, as she stood. “Unless . . .”

Hasbro looked hopeful. “Unless what?”

“Unless we use one of the T-1s to keep him going.”

“Brilliant!” Hasbro said. “We can remove one of their brain boxes knowing it will be able to sustain them for three days and load Peeby's. Let's get to work.”

“Not so fast,” McKee countered. “First, we need a volunteer. We can't force a cyborg to give up his war form. Second, there's the welfare of the entire unit to consider. Unless Peeby is qualified to run a T-1, which I doubt, he won't be able to do much more than talk to us. That means we'll lose a great deal of firepower.”

Hasbro looked crestfallen. “I never thought of that. What are you going to do?”

McKee's first thought was to push the responsibility back onto him. He was the officer after all. But that would be a cop-out. Finally, it came down to which option
felt
better. “I'll talk to the T-1s,” McKee said. “That's the first step.”

As McKee went outside, she saw that the sky had begun to lighten. All of the legionnaires were close enough to hear her voice. “Larkin, watch the front slope. Hagen, keep an eye on the top of the hill. I'd like to have a word with Sykes, Jaggi, and Tanner.”

Once the T-1s were gathered around her, McKee explained the situation and what was going to happen to Peeby. “So,” she finished, “I won't order one of you to help him . . . But I hope you will.”

“I'll do it,” Jaggi volunteered. “I could use a nap.”

“Bullshit,” Tanner put in. “If the flyboy wakes up in
your
form, he'll wish he was dead. When was the last time you had an overhaul anyway?”

“The new guy is the logical choice,” Sykes countered, “and that's me.”

Sykes had done a good job so far, but McKee agreed with him. If the Naa attacked again, and she fell, the survivors would need every bit of expertise they could muster.

McKee took care of the swap herself. Sykes came out, and Peeby went in, and both survived. As Peeby came to, he was understandably disoriented. But Farley was there to talk him through it while McKee went out to check on the tactical situation. The sun had risen by then, the thick layer of clouds was starting to burn off, and the situation had evolved into a standoff. The legionnaires were trapped, but the Naa lacked the means to overwhelm them, so all the two sides could do was snipe at each other. And that was how the situation remained for the next couple of hours.

Finally, just as the sun began to set in the west, and the last of the clouds melted away, McKee heard the crackle of static followed by a cheerful voice. “Bravo-Eight, this is Fox-Four-Five, along with two of my best friends. We are three out. Take cover. Over.”

“Roger that,” McKee said. “Welcome to the party. Over.”

McKee followed the rest of them into the mine, chose the most commonly used ground-support freq, and clicked it on. Suddenly, she could “see” through the lead ship's nose cam, as the fly-form began its run. There was no sound, so the scene had an eerie, otherworldly quality as Fox-Four-Five triggered the rotary cannon in the bow of his fly-form. A steady stream of shells turned the river into sheets of spray, carved lines into a hillside as the VTOL banked to the right, and tore any Naa foolish enough to expose himself into bloody rags. She could hear the aircraft engines by then and caught a brief glimpse of the avenging fly-forms as they flashed by. Then a new voice flooded her helmet. “Juno-Six-Four to Bravo-Eight . . . I'm ten out. Prepare for dustoff. Over.”

McKee broke the video link to Fox-Four-Five, and said, “Roger that. Over.”

By the time the tubby medevac ship put down on the flat area in front of the mine, Jaggi and Tanner were ready to load Peeby, who was resident in Sykes's war form. It was laid out on a makeshift stretcher, which only they were strong enough to lift.

Chang was conscious by then, but in considerable pain, and McKee felt grateful when a pair of medics rushed in to help. They performed a quick assessment, loaded the bio bod onto a stretcher, and carried her onto the waiting VTOL.

The bio bods went next, with McKee boarding last, as two of the attack ships hovered nearby. Then the ramp came up, engines roared, and the VTOL rose. That was the moment McKee had been waiting for. The mission was over, other people were in charge, and she could relax. The crew chief came by with a thermos of caf, but she was asleep by then. An olive green brain box was sitting on the deck between her boots—and the name
ROY SYKES
was stenciled across both sides of it. They were going home.

 • • • 

Near one standard day had elapsed since the medevac ship had landed at Fort Camerone. Peeby, Sykes, and Chang had been rushed off to receive medical treatment, and the rest of them had been debriefed. Then, and only then, were they allowed to get some rest.

McKee slept poorly because variations of the same dream plagued her all night. She was back in the mine, and the Naa were pouring in through an air shaft that ran up to the top of the hill. She fired her AXE at them, but they were bulletproof, and kept on coming. And it happened over and over again.

So it was something of a relief to get up, have breakfast, and go to muster. The meeting lasted fifteen minutes and, as it came to a close, Dero caught her eye. “My office—0830.”

Dero met with individual squad leaders on a frequent basis, so such get-togethers weren't unusual. Still, having just returned from a rather unusual mission, McKee felt a bit of apprehension as she approached the tiny office and rapped on the door. The lieutenant was at her desk and waved McKee in before she could announce herself. “I know who you are . . . Take a load off.”

McKee felt a little better as she sat down. It seemed as though Dero was in a good mood. “So,” the officer said, “you'll be happy to hear that Chang is doing well—and Sykes will return to duty later today.”

McKee was about to reply when the comset buzzed. Dero squinted at the readout and made a face. “Sorry, it's the captain.”

Then, as she brought the handset up to her ear, “Good morning, sir.”

There was a moment of silence as Dero listened to whatever was being said at the other end. That was followed by a crisp, “Yes, sir. I'll be there shortly.”

“This shouldn't take long,” Dero said, as she put the receiver down. “I'll be right back.”

Once Dero was gone, there was nothing to do but sit and look around. But, with the exception of a neatly framed recruiting poster, the walls were bare. So McKee's eyes were drawn to Dero's terminal. She could see that it was on. It was wrong, she knew that, but curiosity got the best of her.