Andromeda’s Choice (33 page)

That wasn't true in the technical sense. The Legion had fought and suffered casualties. Dozens of them. But only when attacked. And that was the issue Lifetaker had in mind. “We find ourselves in a difficult position,” Bodry temporized. “If we are too active,
all
of the Naa will hate and fear us. Even those we help. Your people have a saying: ‘He who gives too much can never be trusted.'”

The use of a Naa folk saying was a clever strategy and one that Bodry had planned in advance. There was a momentary pause while Lifetaker considered the comment. A no-nonsense response followed. “We have another saying as well. ‘The ally who fights with his knife in a sheath cuts no one.' I was at the tunnel when Oneeye's war party arrived there. I
saw
what your thunderbolts can do. That is all we ask. There is no need for your warriors to suffer additional casualties. Bring the thunderbolts down on the invaders and end this battle
now
!”

Bodry was surprised. He'd expected Lifetaker to ask for air support. But an orbital bombardment would have the same effect. Either one would decimate the southerners and bring the conflict to a momentary close. The only problem was that he didn't want to end the slaughter. “I'm sorry,” Bodry said, with all the sincerity he could muster. “Such things are complicated and require ideal conditions. I'll let you know if such an attack becomes feasible.”

That was bullshit. And judging from the expression on the Naa's dimly seen face, he knew it. “Since you are a student of our culture, I have another saying for you,” Lifetaker said, and delivered a short but seemingly heartfelt statement in his native language.

“Which means?”

“Fuck you.”

And with that, Lifetaker reached out to rip the blackout curtain down. As it fell, the chieftain went with it, making Bodry and the staff officers in the com room visible to Longsee Sureshot and his fellow snipers. They were hidden on the opposite ridge and had been watching the OP for days.

The range was more than twenty-five hundred yards or 1.4 miles. A long shot indeed. But the snipers had Legion-issue .50-caliber sniper rifles that were equipped with 10X telescopic sights. More than that, their weapons were already aimed at the right spot, and suddenly, they were presented with a bevy of backlit targets. Their orders were to kill
everyone
, and they did their best.

The first bullet, fired by Sureshot himself, blew half of Bodry's face off. The officer's body was still falling as Sergeant Kumar died quickly, followed by a supply officer.

Lifetaker couldn't hear the reports as he elbowed his way under a second blackout curtain and entered the relative safety of the night. There was a scream, though, which was quickly silenced by a follow-up shot, as Lifetaker scuttled into the ruins. It took all of his strength to heave the flat stone out of the way. That exposed a steep flight of stairs. Once at the bottom of the escape route, Lifetaker would exit through a carefully camouflaged trapdoor. The slick skins would have their slaughter. But they, liars that they were, would pay a heavy price for it.

 • • • 

The trouble was that Surestep Axethrow wasn't any good at leading people, and knew it. But Longknife, Fastload, and Singsong were dead. All killed by the slick skins. So as the oldest surviving warrior, he was in charge of the survivors and honor-bound to lead them up onto the mesa.

The group was gathered around a tiny fire, the purpose of which was to boil water so that each warrior could have a mug of hot tea before going off to face death. It was also the moment when a leader like Longknife would explain his plan. But Axethrow didn't have a plan. Not a clear one, anyway. So all he could do was tell them the obvious. Firelight danced in their eyes as Axethrow spoke.

“The slick skins will be expecting us. So we must be extremely quiet. That will allow us to get close. But the machines are much more powerful than we are—so we can't fight them in the usual way. Strongarm, how many slick-skin bombs do we have?”

“Six.”

“That should be enough. Once we get close enough we will arm the bombs and throw them at the machines.”

“What if the machines are separated?” Metalworker wanted to know.

It was a good question and a possibility Axethrow hadn't considered. “We will divide ourselves into two teams,” he said. “Each team will have three bombs. That way we can split up if we need to.”

“There are two machines,” Wordbender said. “But there are two slick skins as well. What about them?”

Axethrow struggled to accommodate the new variable. “That is what I planned to speak of next,” he lied. “Once the machines have been destroyed, each team will go after a slick skin.

“There,” he said, in hopes of forestalling further discussion. “We have a plan. Let's drink our tea. Then we'll kill some aliens.”

Was that the way Longknife would say it? Yes, he believed that it was.

After they had finished their tea and checked their weapons, Axethrow ordered each warrior to jump up and down. And when Wordbender produced a rattling sound, he was forced to remove a pair of dice from his tea mug and store them in a pocket.

Then, with the other five warriors strung out behind him, Axethrow led the band toward the mesa. Thanks to excellent night vision and an ample amount of starlight, they could see. All of them were barefoot and made very little noise as they flowed around boulders, cut across a dry streambed, and crossed a patch of crusty snow.

Fifteen minutes later, they were in position below the mesa. But not at the foot of the slide. Axethrow might not be a born leader, but even he knew that the slick skins could and probably would be waiting at the top of the natural ramp.

No, there was another way. A cliff that offered plenty of handholds and footholds. The sort of thing cubs climb to entertain themselves. Axethrow went first, just as Longknife would have, and made the ascent without difficulty.

Once the rest of them had completed the climb, it was time to lead the group south toward the landslide. The theory was that the aliens would feel a need to guard it. And that, as it turned out, was a very good theory indeed. Because it wasn't long before Axethrow saw the glow of a campfire. It had been screened in such a way that people out on the desert floor wouldn't be able to see it. But the war party was close,
very
close, and the blaze was impossible to miss.

Axethrow felt the first stirrings of hope as he waved the other warriors forward. Maybe, just maybe, he was a leader after all. And the closer they got, the more likely that possibility seemed. One of the machines was visible. It stood about ten feet from the fire and was clearly on watch.

Axethrow pointed to Metalmaker, Wordbender, and Strongarm, then he pointed to the war machine. The message was clear. Each warrior would throw a grenade at the monster. But where was the other T-1?

The answer, as it turned out, was a hundred feet away. Sykes, McKee, and Larkin all opened fire at once. And the warriors never had a chance. Axethrow felt a slug pluck him off his feet and throw him down. The stars were so bright. Something hurt. And he was sorry. So very, very sorry. Axethrow's eyes closed, and as they did, the grenade rolled free. There was a flash of light, a loud boom and shrapnel flew in every direction. Metal clanged on metal, but the T-1 standing next to the fire didn't respond.

 • • • 

Servos whirred and boots crunched on gravel as the legionnaires came forward. Larkin was carrying Jaggi's brain box. “Load him,” McKee instructed. “I think his war form took some hits, but hopefully it's okay.”

“He's gonna be real hard to get along with if it isn't,” Larkin said.

“We're in need of some bait,” McKee replied. “And he drew the short stick.”

Larkin inserted the box, turned a handle, and closed the compartment. Five seconds passed, and McKee was beginning to worry when a servo whirred, and Jaggi turned to look at her. “Now I have dents,” he said resentfully.

“They make you look tougher,” McKee replied. “All right, time to report in. Stand by.”

McKee chinned her mike, announced herself, and was talking to Hasbro a few seconds later. Having delivered her sitrep, she found the engineer to be unexpectedly cheerful. “Well done,” he said. “And I have some good news. A company-strength security force is on the way with orders to secure this end of the tunnel. Plus, after eyeballing your footage, the brass decided to put the FOB on the mesa. So stay where you are. The transports should put down in thirty minutes or so. Over.”

“That's outstanding,” McKee said. “What about your team? Over?”

“We'll join you as soon as the security people are on the ground,” Hasbro replied. “I'll leave the RAVs here to block the entrance. Over.”

“Roger that, over.”

McKee's people were tired, and help was on the way. So rather than order them to dig graves, she worked with Larkin to lay the bodies out in a row. The droids would take care of them later. At that point, they weren't enemies anymore. And as McKee looked at them, she knew they were sons, husbands, and fathers. All trying to protect what was rightfully theirs. Killing them had been necessary to protect her people—but the effort to set Naa on Naa wasn't right. It made her feel ashamed. McKee's thoughts were interrupted as Larkin spoke. “It looks like we have company.”

As McKee looked to the northwest, she heard the drone of aircraft engines and saw three dots approaching. Over the next few minutes they morphed into tubby transports. The lead aircraft circled the area once before landing not far from McKee. A cloud of dust billowed up and began to settle as the engines spooled down. Motors whined, a ramp was lowered to the ground, and a legionnaire made his way down onto the mesa. He was wearing a helmet but removed it as McKee approached. The left half of the man's head had been shaved—while the hair on the right side of his head remained. A strange look to be sure but one that was explained by the bandage affixed to his scalp.

That was when McKee saw the bars, recognized the face, and felt a profound sense of shock. “Good morning, Sergeant,” Captain Heacox said coldly. “I believe it's customary to salute superior officers. I suggest that you do so.”

When you are occupying a position which the enemy threatens to surround, collect your force immediately, and menace him with offensive movement.

NAPOLEON I
Maxims XXIII
Standard year circa 1810

PLANET ALGERON

Heacox saw Sergeant McKee come to attention and deliver a crisp salute. He returned it and dismissed her as Lieutenant Dero appeared at his side. They were forced to move aside as two columns of heavily laden legionnaires tromped down the ramp. Dero thumbed her visor up and out of the way. “Orders, sir?”

“You know what to do,” Heacox said irritably. “That's why you're the XO. We're here to establish an FOB. Make it happen.”

The truth was that Heacox had only the vaguest notion of the steps involved in creating an FOB and was finding it difficult to concentrate. Because of the blow to the head? Yes, the doctors agreed that such a thing was possible.

But there was another reason for his lack of focus. And that was the ongoing command review of what had come to be known as the Battle of Bloodriver. A debacle in which his entire command had been decimated. Would the investigation lead to formal charges? Dereliction of duty perhaps? Or, God forbid, cowardice?

Yes, almost certainly, if the Naa named Quickstep had his way. The fur ball had been shot in the chest yet he had survived somehow and been telling lies about Heacox ever since.
But,
Heacox told himself,
I still have a chance. If the Naa attack the mesa, and if I distinguish myself, that would go a long way toward restoring my reputation. Then it will be my word against that of a savage. And there can be little doubt as to how that will turn out.

That made Heacox feel better, and he resolved to pay attention as Dero went about the process of establishing the FOB. Security Force Zulu consisted of two platoons of infantry, one platoon of cavalry, and a weapons platoon. The latter being equipped with mortars, rocket launchers, and heavy machine guns.

Force Zulu even had a detachment of artillery that consisted of four energy cannons and a three-person crew for each. In addition, the company had a couple of dozen construction droids, two four-wheeled combat cars, and the promise of air cover should the need arise. Given those resources, the legionnaires should be able to defend the mesa, and therefore the tunnel, indefinitely.

It was, Heacox told himself, a
real
command, unlike the combined force he had been given to block the raiders at Bloodriver. The ugly truth was that both the Naa and Simms had failed him. A disgraceful reality that he had been forced to elaborate on in his after-action report.

But that was behind him. Buoyed by the thought, Heacox began to make his rounds. All sorts of activities were under way—and it was important to be seen.

 • • • 

After the unexpected run-in with Heacox, McKee was determined to maintain a low profile, in hopes that the officer would be too busy to mess with her. And that was easy to do because there was a great deal to accomplish.

As a watchtower went up, and habs were assembled, she had her reconstituted squad to look after. And that meant carrying out full maintenance checks on the T-1s. So she pushed the other bio bods to carry out all the field repairs they could. Kyle was a huge help in that regard. But she was still the best tech on the squad, so a lot of the more complex tasks fell to her.

And that's where she was, working to replace the extender in the lower part of Sykes's left leg, when Lieutenant Mark Bo dropped by. He had vaguely Asian features, a sunny disposition, and was in command of the company's cavalry. The addition of McKee's squad put him over full strength and that pleased him. “So, Sergeant,” Bo said. “I hear you've been sucking up all my spare parts.”

“Not
all
, sir . . . But quite a few,” McKee admitted. “Sorry about that.”

“Well, it can't be helped I guess. But don't replace anything with less than 70-percent wear on it. We'll need parts for the other borgs once the fighting starts.”

McKee had been replacing everything that had more than 60-percent wear but wasn't about to admit that. She wiped her hands on a rag as she stood. “So, we're expecting trouble?”

“The odds are pretty good,” Bo replied. “That's what the Intel people say. It seems that groups of Naa are massing all around us—although they could be planning to head north.”

“Across a pass? I thought they were snowed in.”

“They are . . . But thousands crossed before. Maybe they can do it again. If so, that would be a big problem for our people. They have their hands full already.

“By the way,” Bo added, as he turned to go. “The XO would like to see you.” Then he was gone.

Sykes had been mute throughout the conversation. Now he flexed his leg. “It feels good.”

“Glad you like it,” McKee replied. “Because I have a feeling we're going to be very busy.”

The FOB was coming together quickly, but there was still plenty to do as McKee crossed the compound. She had to pause to let some robots pass, saw a couple of T-1s mince by, and felt sorry for the ground pounders who were digging a ditch. None of which was unusual.

But what was unusual was the presence of a civilian. She was clad in what looked like a safari outfit and was talking to the company's sole medical officer. And as McKee passed the woman, their eyes met. That was when McKee saw what might have been a flash of recognition. Except that was impossible since they didn't know each other. Then the moment was over as McKee continued on her way. She was left with the impression of a tall woman with short hair, a narrow face, and brooding eyes.

The encounter was still fresh in McKee's mind as she entered the one-room HQ hab. Some techs were seated in front of a field-ready com console, and Dero was talking to the company's sergeant major. He was a big man with a handlebar mustache, a florid complexion, and a parade-ground voice. He was complaining about a lack of water and McKee felt a sudden sense of guilt. She should have thought of that, should have gone looking, and should have reported the problem to Hasbro.

So she stood off to one side, feeling stupid and wishing that she was smarter, until the conversation came to an end. There were some snowbanks, and those would have to do until additional water could be found or brought in.

Once the sergeant major left, Dero motioned her over. “Pull up a crate and take a load off.”

McKee sat on a crate labeled
COM PARTS-3
and the next few minutes were spent catching up. There was no mention of Heacox, nor could there be, with other people present. Then, when it became apparent that Dero wasn't going to give her some sort of task to do, McKee mentioned the civilian. “Oh, that's Carly Vickers.” Dero replied. “She was sent out to replace Travers. You know . . . The guy who was fragged.”

McKee felt a stab of fear. Travers had been checking on her. Had Vickers been sent to do the same thing? Was the long arm of Ophelia's security apparatus reaching out to get her? She struggled to maintain her composure. “Really? That makes sense I guess. But why would she want to come out here?”

“To see what it's like, I guess,” Dero responded. “Captain Heacox gave the okay.”

McKee got the feeling that Dero might have said more had the two of them been alone. The rest of the conversation consisted of operational stuff. It was all very casual, but McKee knew that Dero used such conversations to obtain feedback, gauge morale, and pinpoint problems. It was one of the things that made Dero such a good officer.

It was starting to get dark as McKee left the HQ hab and made her way back to the third platoon. She could imagine all sorts of reasons why Vickers could be there, legitimate reasons, having nothing to do with her. But she couldn't shake the memory of Vickers's eyes and the look of recognition there. They hadn't met—so what did that suggest? A photo, that's what. Vickers had seen one or more photos of her. Of course, plenty of people had . . . Especially in the wake of the medal ceremony and assassination on Earth.

Still, the uneasiness regarding Vickers continued to haunt McKee even as she fell into an uneasy sleep an hour later. She couldn't escape the feeling that something was after her. Something more dangerous than the Naa.

After seven hours of fitful sleep, McKee rose, took a sponge bath, and ate an MRE. Then it was time to attend the officer/NCO briefing scheduled for 0800. It took place just north of the compound, where a scattering of boulders served as seats. The air was cold, and McKee could see her breath as she took up a position not far from Bo.

Heacox was present, but Dero did most of the talking, something that came as no surprise to the audience. Everyone knew Heacox was in trouble—and the XO was pulling the load.

During the next half hour, all sorts of things were discussed, but the main message was simple. Thousands of Naa were gathering around the legionnaires. They weren't close enough to see. Not yet. But, as Dero pointed out, the smoke from their fires was visible out on the horizon—where hundreds of gray tendrils had woven themselves into a hazy blanket. It formed a circle that started in the east and extended south and west. In fact, the only place where it wasn't visible was to the north, where the Towers of Algeron blocked the way.

“So,” Dero said, “it's pretty clear that they're coming. And satellite photos confirm it. The only question is when. Tell your people to work even harder. Captain Heacox wants
all
of our defenses on line by 1500 hours. No excuses.”

Lieutenant Bo took McKee aside as the meeting came to an end. “You're the most experienced noncom in the platoon,” he said. “That's why I'm going to use your squad as a quick-reaction force. When the poop hits the fan, I'll send you and your people to whatever point is under the most pressure.”

It was like a free ticket to a meat grinder. But all McKee could do was say, “Yes, sir. We'll be ready.”

Bo looked away and back again. “If I fall, you will take command. The other squad leaders know.”

It was like a bolt out of the blue, and McKee didn't know what to say. “No way, sir . . . That isn't . . .”

Bo held up a hand to silence her. “I know . . . I'm going to live forever. We all are. But remember this . . . If it happens, lead the platoon the way you lead your squad: from the front, hands on, and with a sense of humor.” Then he was gone.

Having pushed so hard earlier, McKee's squad was fully operational by 1100 hours. So with nothing to do, McKee made her way over to the watchtower and climbed the ladder. The platform was fifty feet above the ground and large enough for four people. Two lookouts were on duty and one of them smiled as McKee appeared. The name on his chest protector was Purdy. “Hey, Sarge . . . Chilly, huh?”

“That's an understatement,” McKee said, as she eyed the pewter gray sky. “So what's going on? Have you seen anything interesting?”

“There are at least a dozen scouts out there,” Purdy replied. “And some of 'em are pretty close. Here, take my binoculars. See that rock about a hundred yards east of the mesa? The one with the patch of snow next to it? Take a look.”

McKee did as instructed and didn't see anything unusual at first. Then the snow moved slightly, and she saw a wisp of lung-warmed air. A warrior was hidden next to the boulder using a white travel rug for cover. “Cheeky bastard,” she commented. “Why don't you shoot him?”

“We'd like to,” Purdy replied. “But the lieutenant says to wait. We'll bag the bastard when the fur balls make their move.”

The lieutenant was right, McKee decided. If the lookouts killed the Naa, another would be sent to replace him. At least they knew where this one was hiding.

McKee took a moment to scan the horizon. There was no sign of the smoke she'd seen earlier. Was that because of the way the weather was closing in? Or had the fires been extinguished?

We'll know soon enough,
she thought to herself as she turned the glasses on the compound below. It was rectangular in shape and not that much different from the marching camps the Roman Legions favored.

The soil from the three-foot-deep ditch that surrounded the compound had been used to build a chest-high embankment. There was no palisade, or rows of stakes, because there weren't any trees to work with. The thirty-foot wide-open space behind the embankment was backed by more fighting positions. And they, plus the bunkers at the center of the compound, represented the ultimate fallback position. Paths had been left so that the heavy machine guns that guarded each corner of the rectangle could be dragged back for what would be a desperate last stand. A situation so bad it didn't bear thinking about.

So McKee was about to return the binos to Purdy when something caught her eye. Sykes? Yes, even though all of the Legion's T-1s might look alike to the untrained eye, McKee could pick
her
cyborgs out of any crowd. And Sykes was speaking to another equally recognizable figure. Sykes and Vickers. What did they have in common? The answer fell like a bolt of lightning:
Andromeda McKee
.

Suddenly, McKee was reminded of the personal questions Sykes had been asking her. All sorts of stuff about where she had grown up, her friends, and her family. Was he simply nosey? Or was there something else behind the questions? She felt a profound emptiness at the pit of her stomach.

But before she could give the matter any additional thought, the second lookout spoke. “Hit the button, Purdy . . . Here they come.”

Purdy flipped a cover out of the way and thumbed a switch. A Klaxon began to bleat as McKee raised the glasses and swept the horizon. The Naa were so far away that they looked like a smudge. But she knew it would take a lot of bodies to form the undulating wave. All coming her way. She handed the binoculars to Purdy. “Thanks, Corporal. It looks like you're going to have a front-row seat.”