Andromeda’s Choice (36 page)

McKee was supporting the metal container with both arms as she turned. And there was Sykes. The cyborg was standing twenty feet away with the Storm fifty pointed at her chest. “Put the box down and take three steps back.”

McKee felt a sense of disappointment mixed with anger. The signs had been there, but she had been hopeful nevertheless. “Why?”

“You know why,” Sykes said. “You're wearing a whole lot of classified information around your neck. Stuff you aren't supposed to have. It took a long time to hack it, but I did. Avery108411. That's the access code. Were you part of the team that assassinated Governor Mason? Beats me . . . And I don't care. Now, put the box down.”

“Or?”

“Or I'll take you off at the knees.”

That was it . . . Sykes didn't want to fire at the box. Because it would mean killing a fellow borg? Because he'd be a hero if he brought Padovich back? Or both? It didn't matter. McKee placed the brain box on the ground and planned the next move. It would have to be fast—and it would have to be smooth.

The AXE shifted as she bent over and fell. She let it go, jerked her arm out of the sling, and threw herself sideways. Sykes fired and .50-caliber slugs tore up the patch of dirt where she'd been standing.

The remote was in the center pocket of her chest protector. As McKee came to a stop, she fumbled with the pocket flap and pulled the device free. Sykes was turning toward her. A curtain of soil flew up into the air as she pushed a protective cover out of the way and thumbed the button beneath.

The electronic signal triggered one of the demo charges. And when it exploded, the grenades in both ready bags went off as well, followed by the
second
block of D-6. The result was a series of overlapping explosions that destroyed the upper part of Sykes's body so thoroughly that only his legs remained. They stood upright for a moment, wobbled, and fell.

McKee's heart was racing, and her breath was coming in short gasps as she tossed the remote aside and went to recover Padovich. That was when a male voice flooded her helmet. “Hammer-Four-Niner-Three to Charlie-Eight. What happened? Over.”

McKee felt a sense of relief. The pilot had seen smoke but nothing more. “This is Eight. Charlie-Eight-Four stepped on a mine. I have the box and plan to hike out. Over.”

“Roger that, Eight. Paddy will buy you a beer if you make it, and so will I. But I'm down to fifteen minutes' worth of fuel. At that point, I'll have just enough to reach the fort. Over.”

“Understood,” McKee replied. “Keep 'em off me as long as you can. Over.”

Having slung the AXE over her shoulder, McKee began the long journey to the mesa. It wasn't the first time she'd been forced to lug a brain box across a battlefield, and she knew what to expect. That didn't make it any easier, though. The box was heavy, for one thing, the ground was uneven, and the Naa were all over the place. McKee climbed up out of the gully, took two steps, and tripped. She went down and, without being able to extend her arms, wasn't able to break the fall.

Somewhere off to the south, she heard an ominous roar and knew the fly-form was making a gun run. She swore, struggled to her feet, and hoisted the box. McKee could see the mesa and it was impossibly far away. It shimmered like a mirage and seemed to float inches above the ground. Still, there was nothing to do but stagger forward. She tried to run, but the box was too heavy for that, and the effort left her winded.

Then she heard a familiar voice and saw a dust plume up ahead. “Stay where you are,” Larkin said. “We'll be there in a minute.”

McKee stopped, looked up, and wondered why the sky was rotating above her. Then the combat car appeared, braked, and sprayed her legs with loose gravel. Moments later, Larkin was there to support her as Kyle took the box.

Once McKee was in the front passenger seat and strapped in, Larkin hit the gas. The car leaped forward and skittered away. She was feeling better by then and looked at Larkin. “I'm surprised that Hasbro allowed you to come.”

“He didn't,” Larkin replied, and grinned. Kyle laughed, the car bounced, and McKee wanted to cry.

The combat car only made it halfway up the slide area before it bogged down in loose soil and was unable to go any farther. So the legionnaires were forced to get out and scramble up to the top of the mesa. A group of people was gathered there, and they cheered as Kyle handed the brain box to a tech.

That was when Hasbro spoke to Hammer-Four-Niner-Three for the last time. “Thanks for everything. We'll take care of your buddy as best we can. And do me a favor on your way home. Over.”

“I'm sorry about Eight-Four,” came the reply. “Many thanks to Eight. Your wish is my command. Over.”

“Destroy the combat car. We can't use it, and I don't want it to fall into enemy hands.”

“Roger that. Scratch one car. Over.”

And with that, the fly-form waggled his wings before making a run from east to west. The combat car shook violently and burst into flames as hundreds of bullets swept over it. Then the fly-form made a beeline for the Towers of Algeron and a high mountain pass ten miles away. The sun was low in the sky by that time, and the temperature had started to drop. “Well, Corporal,” Hasbro said, as he turned to Larkin. “That car cost fifty thousand credits. Once we get to Fort Camerone, I'm going to write you up for destroying government property, disobeying an order, and pissing me off. Then I'll submit a request for some sort of commendation. Who knows? Maybe they'll cancel each other out.”

Larkin's countenance was professionally blank. “Sir, yes, sir.”

Hasbro turned his gaze to McKee. “You're bleeding. Plug the leaks, get something to eat, and grab a nap. It will take some time for the Naa to regroup. And when they do, I'll need you.”

That was when McKee realized that she had at least a dozen cuts and scratches, some of which were oozing blood. “Yes, sir.”

“And McKee . . .”

“Sir?”

“About twenty Naa managed to climb the cliff up north. Bo took a squad up to stop them. He was killed in action.”

The news hit McKee with the force of a physical blow. She hadn't known the lieutenant for long, but liked him, and remembered what he'd said.
“If I fall.”
So many people dead. And for what? She looked away in hopes that Hasbro wouldn't see how she felt. “That sucks, sir.”

“Yes,” Hasbro agreed. “It does. But that's how it is. I'm bumping you to second lieutenant. I don't know if it will stick when we get back, but I'll do my best.”

So much was left unsaid.
If I survive. If you survive. If we get back.
“Thank you, sir, but I don't . . .”

“Shut up, Lieutenant. Dismissed.”

McKee left with Larkin on one side and Kyle on the other. “An officer?” Larkin said disgustedly. “What a suck-up.”

“I think that's ‘what a suck-up,
ma'am
,'” Kyle interjected.

“We should have left her out in the desert.”

“You're the one who stole the car.”

“And you're the one who's going to wind up with my boot up his ass.”

McKee couldn't help but grin. “Thank you, both. I'll never forget what you did for me.”

“Too bad about Sykes,” Larkin observed. “He liked you. Used to talk about you all the time.”

“Yeah,” McKee agreed, as they entered the FOB. “Too bad about Sykes.”

And that was when she remembered Vickers. Did she know what Sykes knew? Of course she did. Sykes had been talking to her. McKee felt a chill run down her spine. It wasn't over. It couldn't be. Not so long as Vickers was alive.

The first-aid station was filled with wounded. The light was dim, those who could were leaning against the walls, while others lay sprawled on the floor. A soldier whimpered as the medical officer removed what remained of his left leg, and a medic sought to comfort him. “Don't worry, buddy . . . Your new leg will be better than the old one. Bulletproof, too!”

McKee backed out and made her way past a row of fighting positions to the informal squad bay where her gear was stored. After searching for and finding her personal first-aid kit, she put disinfectant on all of the open cuts before spraying them with sealer.

Once that chore was out of the way, she ate part of an MRE and lay down with the intention of taking a nap. It was completely dark by then and cold. Snow had begun to fall outside the shelter and served to dampen the sounds around her. So McKee should have been able to sleep but couldn't. Not so soon after the rescue mission, Sykes's death, and the depressing update from Hasbro. Plus there was Vickers to worry about as well.

So after twenty minutes, McKee freed herself from the sleep sack, washed her face, and left the FOB. It seemed natural to make her way to the top of the slide area, where she could look out over the desert below. Two squads of infantry were on duty along with a couple of Bo's T-1s. All waiting for the inevitable. A sergeant nodded and blew on his hands. “Cold enough for you?”

“My butt is so cold I think it's bulletproof.” It was a lame joke but sufficient to draw laughter from those who could hear.

The desert was black, or would have been, if it hadn't been for thousands of campfires. They flickered as the snow fell in front of them, and they stretched for as far as the eye could see. And as McKee looked at them, she knew the Naa would take the mesa within a matter of hours once they brought their forces back together. That was certain. In fact the only thing that had prevented them from doing so earlier was the sudden arrival of air support. And the weather was so bad that fly-forms wouldn't be able to make the trip even if the brass could spare them.

So, barring a miracle, what could they do? The initial answer was nothing. But then McKee had an idea. A horrible, terrible idea, but one that might work nevertheless. But could she sell it? The logical person to start with was Dero. She had always been open to suggestions from the ranks, and Hasbro was likely to defer to her in any case.

McKee lowered her visor, activated the HUD, and chose
MAP
. That was followed by
PERSONNEL
. An outline of the mesa as viewed from above appeared. McKee said, “Lieutenant Dero,” and a dot started to glow. It was only a short distance away from the east–west trench designed to keep the Naa from attacking the FOB.

On an impulse, McKee said, “Carly Vickers.” There was no response. And couldn't be because the civilian didn't have a Legion helmet. That meant Vickers could be anywhere. Or, maybe the bitch was dead. That would solve the problem.

As McKee made her way toward the trench, she found Dero sitting behind a screen of rocks. The officer was heating a mug of water over a heat tab, and the glow lit her face from below. It was drawn, and she looked tired. “Hey, McKee . . . Pull up a rock. I'm glad you made it back in one piece.”

“Thank you, ma'am. Have you got a minute?”

The water started to boil. Dero ripped a foil packet open with her teeth and dumped instant caf into the mug. “Sure . . . What's on your mind?”

So McKee told her. It took about two minutes. And when she was done, Dero winced. “It's been done before, but rarely, and for good reason. Everyone is likely to die.”

“Everyone is likely to die anyway.”

“True,” Dero said, stirring the contents of her mug.

“And if we put the robots to work now, we'll stand a better chance of success,” McKee put in. “Every minute counts.”

Dero blew steam off her mug. “You're crazy. You know that?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Okay, Lieutenant, I'll take your idea to Major Hasbro.”

McKee heard the “Lieutenant,” and felt an unexpected sense of pride. And that was stupid. The Legion was a place to hide. Or had been. But now, much to her surprise, it was something more. It was a profession, a family, and a country.
Legio Patria Nostra.
“Thank you, ma'am.”

“One more thing,” Dero said as she took a sip. “There are just three of us now. Sergeant Major Jenkins has responsibility for the north end of the mesa. He has a single squad, and their job is to ensure that the fur balls don't scale one of the cliffs again.

“I plan to handle this stretch. The enemy is sure to mass south of here and push this way. I want you to take command of the platoon at the slide area. Hold out as long as you can. Then, when the time comes, we'll pull back to the FOB.”

“Yes, ma'am. A question.”

“Shoot.”

“What happened to the civilian? What's her name?”

“Vickers's fine,” Dero replied. “She volunteered to fight, and she's up north with Jenkins.”

“Glad to hear it,” McKee lied. “We can use the help.” And with that, she left.

The sun was starting to rise by the time McKee returned to the slide area. But it was little more than a yellow stain on the otherwise gray sky—and the rapidly falling snow had reduced visibility to half a mile or so. What were the Naa doing? she wondered. Licking their wounds? Or prepping for battle?

The questions went unanswered as she made the rounds, introduced herself to the ground pounders, and did what she could to reassure them. The position at the top of the slope consisted of three lateral trenches, each separated by thirty yards of open ground. The plan was to surrender the first ditch if necessary, pull back, and wait for it to fill up with Naa. That was when the electronically detonated mines would go off, slaughtering most, if not all of them.

It was a good plan, but it would only work once, then the Naa would advance on the second trench. Or would they? The Naa were smart, so if they had Legion-issue grenades, they would throw them into the second ditch in an effort to detonate the mines. That left the third trench, which the legionnaires would hold just long enough to prepare a coordinated withdrawal. Because they needed to work in concert with Jenkins and Dero.