Andromeda’s Choice (27 page)

Quickstep grunted something in his own language before turning away. Heacox didn't know what the word meant and didn't care. It appeared the savage was a coward, and that meant he wasn't. The realization filled Heacox with a sense of pride as four Naa galloped down to the river and splashed through it, throwing spray into the air. Drops of water sparkled in the sunlight as they exploded upwards.

Simms and his T-1 were only a few feet away. “You saw where they crossed,” Heacox said. “Take the platoon across.”

Simms had a narrow face, a thin-lipped mouth, and a nearly nonexistent chin. He said, “Yes, sir,” and began to issue orders. The column started to wind its way down toward the river a few minutes later. Once across, Heacox found himself at the foot of a long, sloping hillside. It was covered with knee-high scrub and loose rocks shed by the hillsides above. That observation produced a moment of doubt. The enemy would have the advantage of height.

But Heacox told himself that's all they would have. The vegetation plus the scree would inhibit movement by members of both sides. And, given its superior weaponry, the Legion would have the upper hand.

Thus reassured, Heacox set about the all-important process of placing the troops. His first decision was to divide the Naa into two groups and send them out to guard both flanks. That would get them out of the way.

Quickstep opposed that, pointing out that the rocks and ground cover would force his warriors to fight dismounted. But Heacox waved the objections off. It was his opinion that the Naa might bolt if allowed to retain their dooths, and he was determined to make the buggers fight.

The second and even more critical decision had to do with placement of the quad. Heacox chose the spot himself. It was located about halfway up the slope, where the borg could hunker down behind a screen of rocks and fire his missiles into the hills above. And, in the case of a massed infantry charge, the quad could bring his Gatling gun into play. That plus the presence of four T-1s and their bio bods meant that the huge walker would be secure.

This left twelve T-1s, counting the ones that he and Simms were riding, to form a skirmish line across the slope. A line that was anchored at both ends by Naa warriors. Maybe they would fight, and maybe they wouldn't. But if they did, it would make the arrangement even stronger. As the light started to fade, Heacox was pleased with himself and confident of victory. War, as it turned out, was a simple task indeed.

 • • • 

What little light there was came from a well-shielded dooth dung fire. Fastblade Oneeye was peeing on a rock when the scout's dooth skidded to a halt and sent rock chips flying through the cold air. The youth's feet hit the ground with a thump, and the dooth made a grunting sound.

Oneeye uttered a sigh of satisfaction as he emptied his bladder, buttoned his fly, and turned around. The firelight lit half his craggy face. “Well?” he demanded.

The younger warrior was scared of the subchief and for good reason. Oneeye had a quick temper and liked to fight duels. “The slick skins are there,” the scout said, “just as you said they would be. And they have fifty warriors with them as well.”

“That's to be expected,” Oneeye replied. “Honor requires it. You can be sure that all of them were drawn from the village of Doothdown. If the slick skins can block us, Lifetaker will put it forward as proof that his alliance with the off-worlders is working. And that will encourage the holdouts to join his army. The army he plans to conquer us with.”

“And if we defeat them?” the scout inquired hopefully.

“Then they'll be dead, we'll loot Doothdown, and Lifetaker will look like a fool. Rather than join his alliance, some tribes will leave it. Did you spot the lookouts?”

“Yes, sir. There are four of them. All located where we would place them if the situation were reversed.”

Oneeye grinned, but his eye patch and yellow teeth made it look like a grimace. “You aren't as stupid as you look. When we return home, Chief Truthsayer will hear your name.”

To be “named” or mentioned to the chief-of-chiefs was a signal honor, and the youngster's chest swelled with pride. “Thank you, sir.”

“Now,” Oneeye said, “take three warriors and kill the lookouts. If you or one of the others makes noise, and alerts the slick skins, I will personally slit your throat. Understood?”

“Y-y-yes sir,” the scout stuttered.

“So, what are you waiting for? A divine revelation? Get to work.”

The youngster took his dooth and disappeared. Oneeye smiled. Ah, to be young again. What stories the youngster would tell when he returned to his village. But there was no time for sentimental imaginings. He had a battle to win. And, thanks to Truthsayer's planning, victory was all but assured. There was work to do, however, important work, and it wouldn't do itself.

The war party was hidden in a maze of huge boulders, where every warrior and every dooth had cover under a ledge or in a water-cut cave. And that was important because the slick skins could see everything from the sky. Even at night. So rather than gather everyone together, Oneeye was forced to go from group to group. He went over what they were expected to do, called them names, and threatened to rip their hearts out if they failed. And because of who he was, and what he had accomplished, they cheered him.

Then, when news arrived that all of the northern lookouts were dead, Oneeye sent the special fire teams scurrying forward. Once they were in position there was only one thing left to do. That was to climb the north side of the hill and light the master fuse, from which other fuses led off into the rocks. Something he insisted on doing personally.

So far, everything had gone as Truthsayer said it would. Once the war party started north toward Doothdown, Lifetaker had prevailed on the slick skins to block the move. And by choosing the trail they had, the southerners had been able to predict where the battle would take place. The only surprise was the way in which the slick skins had decided to cross the river and fight with their backs to it. The original plan called for a quick foray across the water followed by an equally speedy retreat. Then, when the slick skins followed, they would be where they were now. Ready to be killed.
Ah well,
he thought to himself,
some things are meant to be.

Oneeye opened his bronze fire box, blew on the coals until they glowed red, and dipped the fuse into the miniature inferno. It sputtered, caught, and gave birth to a blob of fire that raced to do his bidding. Thus began what would become known as the Battle at Bloodriver.

 • • • 

A wan sun was rising in the east, and, as luck would have it, Heacox was down at the river filling his canteen when the series of explosions marched across the hillside. They came in quick succession, like a string of firecrackers, and when he turned, Heacox saw the last couple of flashes. Not on the slope where his troops were positioned but much farther up.

Puffs of smoke appeared all across the hillside above. Then the ground shook as an avalanche of loose material thundered down. A cluster of large boulders acted to block the east end of the landslide, but the center of the wave rolled over the quad and buried the cyborg under ten feet of broken rock. Suddenly, in the twinkling of an eye, the platoon's heavy weapons were gone.

Heacox thought,
This can't be happening.
But it was. And the horror wasn't over. By the time the last rocks clattered to a stop, fully half of the platoon's T-1s were down along with their corresponding bio bods. But to Simms's credit, he didn't hesitate to attack uphill, determined to find and come to grips with the enemy. And on his command, the Naa attacked as well. Heacox could hear their war cries as they scrambled through a haze of rock dust, their weapons at the ready.

But the brave assault was over as quickly as it began. Two catapults had been brought to the site months earlier and concealed in carefully excavated caves. And now, as they were revealed, the attackers were exposed to lethal artillery fire. The first salvo consisted of carefully selected rocks. One of them struck a T-1 and knocked the cyborg off her feet. That attack was followed by two fireballs, both of which missed but splashed the slope with liquid fire and generated clouds of greasy smoke.

Heacox knew he should do something, should run up the slope with the rest of them, but he was frozen in place. “No,” he said.
“No.”
The second protest coming out as little more than a whimper. He felt a great sorrow, and tears ran down his cheeks.

Now, partially screened by the smoke, the raiders appeared. They came down the slope in skirmish order, running from rock to rock, firing as they came. That was when the surviving T-1s had their say. Grenades sailed into the rocks, and as they exploded, .50-caliber bullets cut the southerners down. There were a few seconds during which Heacox thought the battle might shift his way.

Then a bullet snatched Simms off his feet, the only surviving sergeant went down, and a fireball hit a T-1, drenching it in fire. The cyborg and her bio bod were only partially visible inside a cocoon of flames, and as they screamed, Heacox shit his pants.

Unable to take any more, the officer turned, sought the protection of some boulders, and crawled in between them. And that's where he was, crying like a baby, when hands grabbed his ankles. His fingers clawed at the gravel on the ground as the Naa dragged him out into the open and jerked him up onto his feet. A warrior took the officer's pistol and aimed it at his head.

Heacox stared into the face or a horrible one-eyed creature and saw no pity there. The Naa looked him up and down in much the same way that a dooth trader might inspect a perspective mount. His standard was rough but understandable. “You smell like a newborn cub. Much worse than most of your kind.”

Heacox blinked three times and struggled to organize his thoughts. Maybe, just maybe, he could talk his way out of the situation. “I'm an officer. An important officer. That means you can . . .”

“That means I can do whatever I want,” Oneeye interrupted. “Kill him.”

There was an explosion of pain followed by sudden darkness as the war club struck the side of Heacox's unprotected head. “Toss him into the river,” Oneeye ordered. “And gather everyone together. Once the wounded have been cared for, we will ride.”

“Where to?” a grizzled veteran inquired.

“Why, to Doothdown,” Oneeye replied. “Where else?”

There was a splash as the body hit the water. An eddy turned it around, and the current carried it away. The killing had just begun.

All they that take to the sword shall perish with the sword.

MATTHEW 26:52
Standard year circa 60

PLANET ALGERON

Larkin had to speak loudly in order to be heard over the fly-form's engines. “This is bullshit.”

“Of course it's bullshit,” McKee replied. “You joined the Legion. Remember?”

“Yeah, but this is extraspecial bullshit. After marching through that F-ing swamp, we deserve a break.”

“Think of this as a chance to learn more about Naa culture.”

“Will the fur balls have beer?”

“Doothdown is a small village, so I doubt it. Not the kind you're used to, anyway.”

“Then screw their culture.”

McKee closed her eyes and let her helmet rest on the bulkhead behind her. “You're hopeless.” The way she understood it, the orders had originated with Colonel Bodry. Then they flowed downhill to Lieutenant Dero, who chose McKee's squad for the job. “It will be a stroll in the park,” Dero had assured her. “Bodry sent Heacox and the first platoon south to intercept some raiders headed for Doothdown. The captain has a quad and something like sixteen T-1s—so he should be able to grease the southerners without breaking a sweat.

“But here's the thing,” Dero said. “What if the raiders go wide? And send a war party up and around? All of the warriors from Doothdown are with Heacox, so the village is unprotected. Your job is to go in there and secure the place until the fighters return. Simple, huh?”

And it was simple. Or should be. But if McKee had learned anything since joining the Legion, it was that what should be often wasn't. So once the squad was on the ground, she was going to do everything in her power to screw the lid down tight. Larkin wouldn't like that either. McKee smiled.

 • • • 

Like the rest of the cyborgs, Sykes's war form was secured inside a metal cage that would hold it in place even if the fly-form flipped upside down. So all he had to do was lock his knees and go to sleep if he wanted to.

But he didn't want to. Not so long as he had a very difficult puzzle to solve. The material Quinn had downloaded to his onboard comp fell into three categories. The first consisted of stuff which, though unencrypted, was incredibly boring, like lists of things to do, lists of things
not
to do, and lists of things McKee had accomplished.

The second category consisted of material that was encrypted, and might be of interest to him, but would be worthless to Max. The title
PERSONNEL FILES
said it all.

Last, but not least, were the contents of what Quinn called “the cat drive.” That material was encrypted, too. And trying to hack into it had become Sykes's hobby. By utilizing his onboard computer's excess computing power, he could run word/number combinations around the clock. Even so, the processor lacked the power of a mainframe and might crank away for years without hitting the right sequence of letters and numbers.

That was why he was working on the problem as well. Most people chose their birthdays, names of relatives, or other personal minutiae to use as passwords. So he was currently working the word “cat” and all sorts of numbers in an attempt to come up with the magic combo. All the while knowing that even if he was successful, he'd probably wind up looking at a bunch of love letters or something equally innocuous. Still, McKee did wear the cat around her neck, and why bother with a second storage device? Especially since all of the Legion's computers were backed up twice a day. Sykes was determined to find out.

 • • • 

In keeping with a suggestion from McKee, the fly-form circled Doothdown a couple of times before landing a quarter mile away. The idea was to let the inhabitants know that the legionnaires weren't about to attack them.

Prior to departing the FOB, McKee had convinced a supply sergeant to issue her a number of items that would normally be reserved for a platoon. Among them were two drones, which she sent south to patrol the trails that led into the village.

Then, along with the rest of the squad, she went to work unloading weapons, ammo, and enough food for seven days. It made quite a pile, and it looked like the legionnaires would have to hump the stuff into town when a pair of dooth-drawn carts arrived. Both were driven by females. They were young, slender, and covered with variegated fur. Their clothes consisted of skillfully sewn leather garments that were decorated with feathers, trade beads, and small pieces of bright aluminum. Salvaged from a downed fly-form perhaps? Probably.

Judging from their expression, the Naa were plainly hostile, and no wonder, since odds were that they were related to someone who had been wounded or killed during a battle with the Legion. But there was a strange-looking human with them, and it quickly became apparent that the carts were
his
idea. He was tall, rather emaciated, and dressed in a tattered robe. The man was carrying an eight-foot-long fighting staff. It was partially sheathed in metal and topped with an iron loop that symbolized his faith. “Good morning,” he said cheerfully. “Father Ramirez at your service. And you are?”

“Sergeant Andromeda McKee,” the noncom answered as she went forward to shake hands. “No offense, but are you the man the Naa call ‘Crazyman Longstick'?”

“One and the same,” Ramirez said. “How did you hear about me?”

“From a maiden named Springsong Riverrun. We took her prisoner when her people attacked us.”

“And you turned her loose,” Ramirez said. “That was wise, as was the decision to move your FOB off sacred ground and onto a different hill.”

McKee nodded. “Major Hasbro is a good officer.”

“He must be,” Ramirez agreed. “There are lots of officers who would have refused to move it.”

McKee took a guess. “You were an officer?”

“Yes, in what seems like another life. Rather than return to Earth, I decided to retire here.”

“So you know why we're here.”

“No, but I can guess. A subchief named Quickstep led all of the village's warriors south to fight the southerners. That left the village defenseless, and someone was bright enough to send you to protect it. I would have expected
two
squads, however, or a full platoon.”

McKee took note of Quickstep's involvement. The truth was that the Legion was stretched thin, very thin, but she saw no reason to tell Ramirez that. “One village, one squad. That's the rule,” she replied.

Ramirez laughed. “Spoken like a true noncom,” he said. “Well, if you load your gear onto the carts, we'll get it inside the palisade. Then, if you choose, I'll serve as your interpreter.”

“That would be wonderful,” McKee said. “Is Springsong here?”

“No, not right now. She's up north. With relatives.”

“Okay, we'll get to work.”

Once the carts were loaded, Ramirez led the legionnaires into the village. Knowing that she might be called on to defend the place, McKee paid close attention to the outer walls. They were made out of vertical poles that had been cut up on the surrounding hillsides, brought down, and planted in trenches. The good news was that they were quite sturdy. The bad news was that rather than tear the old walls down and reconfigure the palisade, new sections had been added over the years, a practice that resulted in obvious weak points. But what was, was. And McKee would have to deal with it.

A wooden gate groaned open to provide access to the village. There were no streets as such. Just heavily used pathways that were frozen at the moment but would quickly turn to mud the moment the temperature rose. That explained the system of well-placed stepping-stones that ran hither and yon.

A communal well was located in the open area opposite the main gate and half a dozen shops were arrayed to either side of it. There were no signs, or any need for them, since everyone knew what they sold. Farther back a three-story watchtower stuck straight up, and based on the satellite imagery McKee had seen, she knew that dome-shaped homes dotted the area around it.

The previously shy residents were starting to appear by then. And as they entered the common area, McKee saw that with the exception of some very old and very young males, the rest of the villagers were female. It seemed that
all
of the warriors had gone south. That meant the legionnaires would be on their own if the town was attacked.

Larkin must have been thinking the same thing. “There are eight of us,” he observed. “What are we going to do if the bad guys take a crack at this place?”

“The T-1s pack quite a wallop,” McKee responded, “and you could talk them to death.” That got a laugh from other members of the squad.

Larkin didn't deserve the rebuke, and McKee knew it. But she couldn't let morale start to slide. “Besides,” she added, “the supply monkeys gave us some equalizers. Come on . . . Let's find a place to set up shop.”

After a discussion between Ramirez and a female mystic, the decision was made to let the legionnaires take over the village longhouse. That was the structure where village meetings were held, weddings took place, and feasts were eaten. It was a sturdy affair, made out of logs, and more than adequate for the bio bods. Unfortunately, the T-1s were too large to go inside. Not that it mattered because the log house was primarily a place in which to store and maintain their gear. A fire pit was located outside under a pole-mounted roof. McKee lit a brick of F-1, took comfort from the instant heat, and began to issue orders. There was a lot to do.

 • • • 

Hooves thundered as the riders galloped across a meadow and followed a pair of cart ruts up onto a lightly treed rise. That was where Oneeye raised a hand and brought the group to a halt. Twenty-seven warriors had been killed at what would forever be called Bloodriver, and twelve had been seriously wounded. They were on their way south along with the eleven warriors assigned to care for and protect them.

The rest of the war party, more than one hundred in all, had been divided into small groups and ordered to travel separately. A strategy intended to prevent the slick skins from attacking them. Because, when viewed from above, all Naa looked the same. And if the Legion went after every group of four or five warriors they saw, it wouldn't be long before they killed some northerners. That would not only aggravate Lifetaker but make it difficult for him to hold his alliance together.

So as the warriors came to a stop, there were only four of them. Oneeye, Thunderhand, Highclimb, and a youth who hadn't earned an adult name yet but was generally referred to as “Shithead.” None of them spoke as the dooths made grunting noises, and Oneeye sampled the air for any scent that shouldn't be there. Having found none, he said, “This will do. We'll bed down in the trees over there. Shithead will gather some wood. No point in using dung chips if we don't have to.”

All of them knew that dung chips were best reserved for rainy days, and as the most junior male present, it was Shithead's job to gather the necessary firewood. Someday, when he was older, the task would fall to someone else.

Once the dooths had been cared for and tethered down in the meadow, it was time to eat dinner. The meal consisted of hopper jerky, dried fruit, and a pot of boiled ga, a starchy cereal that was part of nearly every Naa meal. And it was then, while they ate their food, that talk turned to the battle. “Many slick skins died today,” Highclimb said phlegmatically.

Oneeye wiped his mouth on a sleeve. A mere six hours had elapsed since the fight, but it felt like sixty. Was Shithead tired? Hell, no. The truth was that Oneeye was too old for the job at hand, and he knew it. But he couldn't say no to Truthsayer. Very few could.

“Yes,” Oneeye said, “and many warriors died as well. Too many.”

“They are in paradise,” Thunderhand put in. “Feasting with the gods.”

“Some are,” Oneeye allowed. “But not all of them.”

That got a hearty laugh from all but Shithead. He sat slightly apart from the others, watching with shiny eyes and listening to the war talk. There were many things to learn from a chief like Oneeye—and his use of humor was one of them.

“So,” Highclimb said. “Let's speak of Doothdown. We can take it. Of that there can be little doubt. Most of the village's warriors are dead. But can we hold it?”

The question came as no surprise. What the warriors didn't know they couldn't reveal if captured. Now, only hours away, it made sense to share the plan. “We will take it,” Oneeye agreed. “But we won't try to hold it. That would require a much larger force. Lifetaker could bring thousands of warriors against us. No, the purpose of the raid is to prove that he's vulnerable in spite of the pact with the slick skins, and to cause his subchiefs to doubt his leadership. So we will take it, burn it, and leave.”

“But what of the females? And the oldsters?” Thunderhand wanted to know.

It was a loaded question because while it was customary to take slaves, they could slow the warriors down. Still, Thunderhand, as well as the rest of them, would love to profit from the trip into enemy territory. And keeping them happy was important. “We'll take every villager over ten and under fifty,” Oneeye said. “The rest will be allowed to go where they will. Spread the word when we join the others. There will be no needless killing. It isn't our way.”

That wasn't true, of course. There had been lots of needless killing in the past. But Truthsayer was trying to put an end to it. Partly because he considered the slaughter of noncombatants to be immoral. But for pragmatic reasons as well. Oneeye had heard him say it more than once. “If we kill theirs, they will kill ours . . . And where will it end?”

Once the meal was over, the older warriors wrapped themselves in travel rugs and took their rightful places around the fire. That was the beginning of Shithead's two-hour watch. Once it was over, Thunderhand would relieve him. Then, after a mere two-hour nap, the youngster would be expected to climb on his dooth and ride. Shithead felt something cold kiss his nose and looked upward. It had started to snow.