Andromeda’s Choice (32 page)

But she put that concern aside to focus on the pure joy of the moment. With not an officer in sight, and only three other beings to worry about, it was time to enjoy a special treat. And that was to let the cyborgs run full speed across the mostly open plain. The sky was clear, the sun was rising, and the mesa was bathed in pink light. McKee gloried in the press of wind against her face, the feeling of power that went with riding a war machine, and the kinesthetic feedback involved. She was alive and wonderfully so.

They were traveling at fifty miles per hour, so it didn't take long to reach the base of the mesa. Having activated her helmet cam, McKee decided to circle the formation in a clockwise direction and gave the necessary orders. But what if it was a good deal larger than she thought it was? They'd have to turn back if the plateau was
too
big and would be difficult to defend.

The sides looked good, though. They were sheer for the most part and far too steep for a dooth to climb unassisted. And given the advantage of height, a force stationed on top of the mesa would be able to hold it against anything short of a battalion-strength infantry attack. Especially if they had sufficient artillery and airpower. There were some weak points, of course—but no gaps that couldn't be reinforced with mines and earthworks.

In order to capture the scene with her helmet cam, McKee had to keep her head turned toward the mesa. So it was Sykes who spotted the enemy first. “This is Eight-Four. I have what could be two, maybe three, hostiles located to the southeast of us. They are closing fast. Estimated time of contact ten minutes from now. Over.”

McKee said, “This is Eight. Roger that. Stand by. Over.”

They had arrived at the southern end of the mesa by that time and were about to make the necessary turn. Should she abort? And make a run for the tunnel? Or keep going?

McKee allowed herself a glance to the southeast, saw the dust plumes, and knew the warriors were pushing their dooths hard.
Too
hard. Because no animal can compete with a machine. That was the deciding factor. “This is Eight . . . Continue to monitor the enemy and keep me informed. We're going to complete our mission. Over.”

McKee heard a series of clicks as she turned back to the mesa. Because all of the transmissions had been over the squad-level push, Hasbro couldn't hear them. Should she report in? No, McKee saw no reason to do so, not yet anyway. If she told Hasbro, all he could do was worry.

The south end of the mesa was lower than what McKee had seen so far. But, as they completed the turn to the north, McKee saw the sides begin to rise again. “This is Four,” Sykes said. “The Naa have fallen back a bit. Over.”

“This is Eight-One,” Larkin interjected. “At least half a dozen riders are closing on us from the northwest. Estimated time of contact six from now. Over.”

McKee swore under her breath. She was facing a difficult decision: Fight or run. Could the four of them take on something like ten Naa and win? Probably. But the outcome was far from certain—especially given the likelihood that the enemy had weapons taken off the dead legionnaires.

So maybe they should run. But where to? The riders approaching from the northwest were positioned to cut them off from the tunnel—and if they went in the other direction, they would have to confront
more
Naa. And what if they had a rocket launcher? The memory of Tanner's death in Doothdown was still fresh in her mind.

All of those thoughts and more flashed through McKee's brain as the seconds ticked away. In desperation, she turned back to the mesa and searched its flanks for a route to the top. Except that it was more than an academic exercise now. It was a matter of life and death.

As her eyes scanned irregularities in the cliff, looking for the right opportunity, she thought
no, no
, and
maybe
. The “maybe” was a place where a minor landslide had created a ramp that led to the plateau above. Once there, the legionnaires would have the advantage and stand a better chance of keeping the Naa at bay.

But was the ramp too steep? If it was, and the war forms weren't able to complete the climb, they would become vulnerable when forced to turn and make the trip down. Still, something was better than nothing. Or so it seemed to McKee. “This is Eight . . . Head for the slide area. We'll run up it, turn, and grease the bastards. Over.”

It all sounded so certain, so sure, without any possibility of something's going wrong. Never mind the fact that a T-1 could slip and fall—or that a rocket could strike a bio bod between the shoulder blades. But, as was so often the case, Larkin had no such doubts. He uttered a long, drawn-out war cry, held his AXE over his head, and yelled, “Charge!”

It was the kind of foolhardy exuberance that annoyed McKee except in situations like this one. Then she admired Larkin for the quality of his careless bravery and his wild fighting spirit.

So having been inspired by Larkin's example, McKee waved her own weapon, shouted defiance at the sky, and felt the cold wind tear at her clothing as Sykes ran. He was the closest and going to arrive first. The slide area was too narrow to zigzag across, so he went straight at it in hopes of building enough momentum to carry him at least halfway up.

The distant
pop
,
pop
,
pop
of rifle fire signaled the enemy's attempt to stop them. The Naa could see the danger and were trying to prevent the legionnaires from reaching the mesa. But they were firing from moving platforms at moving targets. And as far as McKee could tell, none of their bullets came close.

Servos whined as Sykes's legs rose and fell with the regularity of pistons. Every fiber of McKee's body was willing the cyborg up the slope but, other than lean forward to help the cyborg maintain his balance, there was nothing she could do to help. He stumbled, caught himself, and continued to climb.

McKee heard Larkin swear over the push and turned to look over her shoulder. Sykes's efforts had sent a number of rocks tumbling downwards, one of which had apparently come very close to the bio bod behind her. To her credit, Shinn had taken a different approach to climbing the hill. Having passed her fifty to Larkin, she was using her “hands” as well as feet. That gave her more traction and explained how she had been able to get so close.

The Naa hadn't given up, however. And now, having dismounted, they were firing from standing positions. Bullets kicked up geysers of dirt all around as Sykes neared the top, and McKee heard a telltale ping as a mostly spent slug flattened itself on armor.

Then they were up and over as Shinn neared the end of her climb as well. “Aim for the dooths,” McKee said coldly, as Sykes turned to fire. “Make the bastards walk.”

Though generally fired in two- or three-round bursts, the Storm fifties were capable of firing one shot at a time, and quite accurately in the right hands. Especially if those hands were guided by perfect vision and an onboard computer. So when Sykes pulled the trigger, the first slug flew straight and true. A dooth jerked, stumbled, and keeled over. That caught the Naa by surprise, but they wasted no time swinging up into their saddles and kicking their animals into motion.

But since the war party was about fifteen hundred yards out, they couldn't outrun the slugs that followed them. The next bullet struck a dooth in the spine just forward of its rear haunches. It pancaked in and slid for what might have been six feet before finally coming to a stop. A third animal fell seconds later.

“The warriors,” McKee said. “Switch to the warriors.” The cyborgs obeyed and dropped two Naa before the others could vault up onto the surviving beasts. They rode double as the dooths thundered out of range. It was a murderous process, but it had to be done. The sun was setting in the west—and the Naa would return under the cover of darkness. That made it crucial to improve the odds in any way that she could.

“Okay,” she said, “cease fire. We'll have to spend the night. Larkin, Shinn, take a look around. See if you can find something we can defend. There aren't enough of us to keep them off the plateau. I'll check in with Major Hasbro.”

Larkin and Shinn took off, and as the light continued to fade, McKee used her helmet cam to pan the top of the mesa. Once that activity was complete, she chinned her mike. They were overdue, and the response was immediate. Hasbro had clearly been waiting for a report. “We heard shots. What's your status? Over.”

McKee delivered her report in the flat unemotional style favored by professional soldiers everywhere, and concluded by saying, “So it looks like we're going to be stuck here for the next couple of hours. We'll see what the situation looks like at sunup. In the meantime, I'm going to send some recon footage your way. Based on what I've seen so far, the mesa still looks like a good site. Over.”

“Roger that. Watch your six. Over.”

McKee used a series of voice commands to label the feed and send it. The range was less than two miles, so there was no need for a relay. A confirmation arrived quickly.
TRANSMISSION RECEIVED
.

As the sun dipped below the western horizon, and hundreds of stars dusted the sky, something howled out on the plain. The long hours of darkness had begun.

 • • • 

In a move reminiscent of ancient warriors like Hannibal, the southerners had accomplished the impossible by marching thousands of warriors over Lowback Pass in the midst of a snowstorm. How many had frozen to death? No one was keeping count. Although Bodry felt sure that the bodies of frozen warriors would be found for hundreds of years to come.

Having cleared the pass, the invaders spilled into a narrow valley. Within minutes, they were confronted by northerners who had been warned by the Legion. Now the warriors from the south were stuck with the Towers of Algeron at their backs, Chief Lifetaker's army on their right flank, and a brigade of humans on their left flank. The latter were situated on the western slopes of a formerly peaceful valley. And that's where Bodry was, high on a ridge, where he had an excellent view of the battlefield below.

Unlike the other combatants, the Legion had flares, which they used to light up the area in front of them. Two shot up in quick succession, popped, and drifted downwards. They threw an eerie blue light over a killing ground littered with dead dooths, Naa corpses, and the detritus of war. As Bodry scanned the scene with his binoculars, he had a brief glimpse of a field gun that was missing a wheel, trenches that had been dug to prevent the invaders from breaking out, and the wreckage of a fly-form brought down by a rocket. Then, as a blanket of darkness fell over the scene, patrol attacked patrol. Bodry saw pinpricks of light and heard the rhythmic
blam
,
blam
,
blam
of rifle fire followed by a dull
boom
of a grenade going off. People were dying. But very few of them were legionnaires.

Though nominally aligned with the northerners, the truth was that the Legion was present for the purpose of protecting the tunnel off to the west. And that, Bodry felt sure, was why the southerners had attacked. They knew the tunnel could be used to invade their territory and hoped to capture or destroy it. What they
didn't
realize was that the whole purpose of the tunnel was to facilitate a war between the north and south. Bodry grinned wolfishly as a battery of northern catapults launched fireballs into the sky. They fell like meteorites and exploded behind the southern lines, but it was impossible to gauge how much damage was done. The plan,
his
plan, was working.

“Excuse me, sir,” an aide said. “Chief Lifetaker has arrived. The security people are bringing him up from the valley.”

“Thank you, and Lieutenant . . .”

“Sir?”

“Is Sergeant Kumar on duty?”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

“Tell the sergeant to search Lifetaker very thoroughly. He won't like what I'm going to tell him—and he was given that name for a reason.”

“Yes, sir. I'll tell her.”

The OP Bodry had chosen as his temporary HQ had been constructed by robots using the ruins of an old watchtower as a source of materials. It consisted of a chest-high stone wall topped by a rectangular opening through which people could observe the battlefield below. As Bodry peered through the open window, his back was turned to a blackout curtain that separated the so-called porch from the brightly lit com room. That was where half a dozen staffers were doing what staffers always do—which was to solve logistical problems, listen to field officers demand more of everything, and drink gallons of caf.

Rather than receive Lifetaker in the extremely busy com center, where he might pick up nuggets of intelligence, Bodry thought it better to meet with him on the porch. With that in mind, he had called for some Naa-appropriate refreshments. They arrived only moments before Lifetaker did. “I see you,” Bodry said, even though it was so dark the Naa's features were hard to make out.

“And I see you,” Lifetaker replied gravely.

“Please, have some refreshments.”

“No, thank you,” Lifetaker responded. “I ate just before I came.”

Was that true? Bodry wondered. Or a fiction designed to cover up Lifetaker's lack of trust? Politically motivated poisonings weren't unheard of among the Naa. So Lifetaker had a reason to be cautious. “We are winning,” Lifetaker said, by way of an opening gambit.

“Yes, you are,” Bodry replied, careful to avoid the use of “we.”

“But the enemy is strong.”

“True,” Bodry agreed. “Amazingly so, given what they had to survive in order to get here.”

“The
real
battle will begin soon.”

“That makes sense,” Bodry agreed.

“We are allies,” Lifetaker added.

“Of course,” Bodry said. “That's why we sent thousands of troops here.”

“But your troops don't fight.”