Andromeda's War (Legion of the Damned Book 3) (11 page)

So with Payton in charge, and four T-1s to do his bidding, McKee felt the situation was under control as her boots hit the ground. Corporal Deon Smith arrived seconds later, closely followed by Private Flo Hyatt. “Smith, I want you to go forward. Find the emergency access hatch, open it up, and jerk the pilot’s brain box.

“Hyatt . . . You and I are going in. Keep your head on a swivel and run your recorder. The Intel people are going to run this stuff frame by frame.”

Smith took off at a trot, while McKee led Hyatt toward the crash site. Scraps of the fiber-composite fuselage were scattered everywhere. What remained of engine three lay thirty yards west of the main wreck and was still burning. The Titan’s cigar-shaped fuselage had been bent into the shape of a Chinese fortune cookie. The split between the two halves offered a way in.

A headless body had been thrown clear. It was dressed in a flight suit so McKee knew it belonged to the crew chief or one of the door gunners. She checked to make sure that her camera was on and recording as she scanned the legionnaire’s name tag.
ORKOV
. The graves registration people would want to know.

AXE at the ready, McKee stepped over the corpse and approached the badly contorted hatch. If any passengers had survived the crash, they would be armed and understandably trigger-happy. So she called out. “This is McKee! Don’t shoot . . . We’re coming in.”

There was no answer other than the occasional groan of tortured metal as the wreck continued to settle. McKee heard a burst of gunfire from behind her and knew that Sergeant Payton and his T-1s were earning their pay.

There was a profound emptiness at the pit of McKee’s stomach as she brushed past the pintle-mounted minigun and entered the hull. If there were survivors, where were they? She called out again, but there was no response.

McKee turned left and was barely able to squeeze through the narrow gap that opened into the cargo hold. Sunlight streamed in through dozens of ragged holes to form pools of gold on the bodies sprawled within. It looked like a slaughterhouse.

The first thing McKee noticed was that Naa bodies had been tossed every which way. That didn’t make sense at first. Then she remembered that the ride on the Titan was a first for the locals . . . And someone, Stinkkiller came to mind, might have objected to wearing a safety harness. Perhaps he thought it would be a sign of weakness—or maybe he was afraid of what the Humans might do to the warriors if they were restrained.

Whatever the reason, McKee found the Naa’s body with a stretcher laid across it. Stinkkiller’s head was turned at an unnatural angle and it looked as though his neck was broken. Tears ran down McKee’s cheeks as she spotted Jivani. The civilian was strapped in the way she should be. But a shard of bloody metal was protruding from her chest. The xenoanthropologist’s eyes were open and staring at McKee, who paused long enough to close them. “I found Truthsayer,” Hyatt said from ten feet away. “It looks like a locker fell on him.”

McKee swore and was forced to step over a legionnaire named Nix in order to join Hyatt. Judging from all the blood, Nix might have been dead
before
the crash. Truthsayer was still recognizable even though the ammo locker had crushed his rib cage. A quick check confirmed that the chief of chiefs was dead. There would be no negotiations or prospects for peace.

Then McKee noticed some khaki under some wreckage and pulled a ceiling panel aside to reveal Colonel Cavenaugh’s body. Had he been up out of his seat when a piece of shrapnel tore his arm off? It appeared that way. Then, while he was in the process of bleeding out, the Titan hit the ground. The impact could have bounced him off the ceiling and crushed his skull. Not that it made any difference. McKee’s thoughts were interrupted by a blast of static and the sound of Payton’s voice. “Alpha-Three to Alpha-One . . . They’re massing for an attack. We’ve got to pull out. Over.”

“Copy,” McKee said. “We’re on the way. Over.”

She turned to Hyatt. “You heard the man . . . It’s time to amscray.”

Hyatt said, “Yes, ma’am,” and turned to go. McKee was immediately behind the private when she saw an arm shoot up out of a pile of bodies. A survivor! She hurried to help. And there, much to her amazement, was Andy! It appeared the synth had completed the task it had been sent to do—or it figured that McKee was going to die in battle.

Whatever the reason, the robot had slipped aboard the Titan and been cut in half during the crash. McKee almost made the mistake of trying to help the machine. Then she realized how stupid that would be and removed a thermite grenade from a pouch on her chest protector. Knowing that her helmet cam would capture everything she did, McKee pulled the pin and dropped the grenade where Andy wouldn’t be able to reach it. “No!” Andy said. “Help me!”

“Sorry,” McKee replied, as she backed away. “We have to pull out, and I can’t allow you to fall into enemy hands.” Then she turned and ran.

A flash strobed the bulkheads around her as the grenade went off, and she knew that the thermite would turn Andy into a puddle of metal and prevent the machine from submitting a report to the Bureau of Missing Persons. Vella was waiting as McKee cleared the wreck. “Smith got the pilot . . . She’s alive.”

“Thank God for that,” McKee said, as she strapped in. “Alpha-One to Alpha-One-Three . . . Let the digs close in on the wreck. Once they do, destroy it. Over.”

The response came from squad leader Sergeant Joi Ling. “This is Alpha-Four . . . Roger that. Over.”

This time it was Payton and his T-1 who led the way, with McKee and Vella bringing up the rear. The squad circled out and around the west side of the crash site as they followed the slope upwards. And when they entered the compound, Ling was there to greet them. She waited for McKee to dismount before delivering her report. “At least a dozen of the bastards are inside the wreck,” Ling said. “With more gathered outside.”

“Let them have it,” McKee said coldly, and stepped up onto a block of granite so she could see better. Rockets sleeted into the sky, fell downwards, and hit the wreck in quick succession. A second salvo followed the first. The fly-form shook in response to a series of overlapping explosions. A new sun was born a second later. It produced what sounded like a clap of thunder, collapsed in on itself, and sent a column of black smoke billowing up into the sky. All that remained was a shallow crater and a large field of debris.

McKee turned to Ling. “Well done. Where’s Sergeant Larkin?”

The noncom’s expression was grim. “He took a bullet . . . Zapata’s working on him now.”

It was too much. More than McKee thought she could take. It took all of her strength to maintain the icy composure that the job required. “Where is he?”

“In the command bunker.”

McKee ran across the compound and followed the ramp down into the dimly lit chamber below. Larkin was laid out on a folding table. A bloodstained battle dressing was wrapped around his head. A medic was taking his blood pressure. McKee made her way over to the corner. “Is he conscious?”

Zapata had a buzz cut, brown eyes, and cheeks covered with black stubble. He removed the stethoscope from his ears and let it hang. “Sometimes.”

“What happened?”

“Something hit his helmet, he took it off to see how much damage had been done, and a bullet creased his skull. But, if we can get him to Fort Camerone, there’s a good chance he’ll make it.”

“Don’t let him die,” McKee said harshly. “Do everything you can. Do you read me?”

The words sounded shrill, even to McKee, and she could see the fear in Zapata’s eyes. That was when she realized that the AXE was pointed at him. She pulled the barrel up so it was pointed at the roof before turning to face a wide-eyed com tech. “Give me a sitrep . . . We need a dustoff.”

The com tech was opening her mouth to speak when a voice came over a small speaker. “Alpha base, this is Fox-Four, Six, and Seven inbound. ETA three minutes. I understand you could use some air support. Over.”

McKee went over to snatch the hand mike. “This is Alpha-One. Roger that. Most of the targets are in the woods a half mile south of our location. Over.”

“Understood,” came the reply. “Take a break . . . We’ll tidy up. Over.”

“We need a dustoff,” McKee said. “And we need it
now
. Over.”

“This is Bravo-Two-Two,” a new voice said. “Roger the dustoff. Prep the LZ for two Vulcans. Over.”

“You’ll have to land one at a time,” McKee responded. “But we’ll be ready. Over.”

There was a muted roar as the fighters passed overhead and began their bombing runs. McKee returned to the surface in time to witness the resulting explosions, the tidal wave of fire, and the roiling smoke. If even one Naa survived the aerial onslaught it would be a miracle.

The fighters circled above as the first Vulcan came in for a landing. Larkin’s stretcher went on first, followed by the brain box Smith had pulled out of the Titan, and three walking wounded. Four T-1s, the construction droids, and the RAVs completed the load. McKee would have preferred to stay with Larkin, but that wasn’t possible. Her place was on the ground until the last member of her company had been loaded.

There was a wait as the first fly-form took off and disappeared to the north. Then the second Vulcan came in for a landing. The crew chief began to talk about a potential overload as more T-1s clomped aboard but stopped when McKee pointed her AXE at him. Finally, after one last look around, McKee walked up the ramp. The mood was somber inside the cargo compartment, and no one spoke.

The engines wound up tight as they struggled to lift the overloaded fly-form off the ground. The hull wobbled as the Vulcan took to the air and steadied as the pilot switched to horizontal flight. That was when McKee closed her eyes, watched the Titan crash all over again, and wished that officers were allowed to cry.

In Flanders fields the poppies blow.
Between the crosses, row on row.

JOHN M
C
CRAE
“In Flanders Fields”
Standard year 1917

PLANET ORLO II

A temporary platform had been set up on a rise that looked out over the new cemetery. From where John Avery was standing, he could see more than a thousand white grave markers. They stood in precise rows, each representing a life lost. Avery had known some of them, fought next to them, and seen them die.

Dignitaries were present, too, a couple dozen of them, along with contingents of military personnel representing the Legion, navy, Marine Corps, and the planet’s Militia. They stood at attention as a military chaplain read a speech peppered with phrases like, “These fine men and women,” “the best the empire had to offer,” and “for the greater good.”

All of which was bullshit, but no one was going to call the chaplain on it, since the empress was about to speak. She had arrived to much fanfare three days earlier and was slated to remain on Orlo II for two additional weeks before continuing her tour of the empire.

And thinking about Ophelia inevitably reminded Avery of Cat Carletto, or Sergeant Andromeda McKee as she was now known. The footage of her receiving the Imperial Order of Merit had been sent to all of the colonies and played endlessly over the government-run media outlets. And Avery never tired of watching the vid in order to see her face. What was McKee thinking when she accepted the medal? he wondered. Nothing good, that was for sure.

They had fallen in love during very trying circumstances, which made the bond even stronger. But he was an officer, and she was enlisted, and that made their love affair illegal. And the ever-present threat of discovery had been difficult to live with.

That was bad enough, but there was another problem as well. The Bureau of Missing Persons had sent synths out to find Cat and kill her—and there was reason to believe that he was under suspicion, too. Not because of McKee, or his actions, but based on things his brother had said back on Earth.

Avery’s thoughts were interrupted by loud applause. After being introduced, Empress Ophelia was climbing the stairs that led to the stage. As she stood behind the bulletproof podium, a pair of synth bodyguards took up stations on either side of her. The sleek machines wore spray-on uniforms and carried submachine guns. It was just one aspect of the additional security precautions put in place after the Veneto assassination on Earth.

Two cameras swooped in to capture Ophelia’s words as a gentle breeze ruffled her hair. “Good afternoon,” she said. “First let me say that it’s a pleasure to visit this beautiful planet. And nowhere is that beauty more apparent than in the vast forest that you call the Big Green. It was there that I was introduced to a Droi named Insa. It told me that while many issues are left to be settled, there is no reason why all the peoples of Orlo II can’t live in peace . . . And I agree. Now that the recent civil unrest is behind us, we can come together. That’s what the men and women buried in this cemetery were fighting for . . . Peace and our glorious empire.”

That was a load of crap. And Avery was glad to be standing at attention. That meant he didn’t have to clap with the rest of them. The truth of the situation was that Empress Ophelia raised imperial taxes by 12 percent shortly after seizing power from her brother.

The increase led to noisy protests. Then, fearful that things were starting to get out of hand, the so-called loyalists requested that marines be sent in to restore status quo. Their request was granted, and that resulted in a civil war, with loyalists on one side and secessionists on the other. And since there weren’t enough marines to impose order by themselves, the empress sent the Legion to help.

Meanwhile, having spotted what they saw as an opportunity, the Hudathans attacked. That forced the Legion to fight the loyalists and the aliens at the same time. And both wars had been won. Not easily and at great cost. So the truth was that the loyalists, rebels, and Droi were
still
at odds, and it was the presence of the Legion that kept them from clashing.

As for the Hudathans, they had been driven out of the solar system but would almost certainly return one day. And they would bring an even bigger fleet next time.

There was another five minutes of royal drivel followed by thunderous applause as the empress left the podium. How many new graveyards would be commissioned during her reign? Avery wondered. Enough to hold a brigade? A regiment? An army?

Moments after the empress left the stage, a sergeant major bellowed, “Dismissed!” That was the signal for military personnel to either break formation or march off to the trucks that were waiting for them. Avery was about to fade when Colonel Rylund stopped him. He was a good if somewhat eccentric officer, whose leadership had been critical to the recent victory. “Not so fast, John . . . General Ashton and I would like to have a word with you.”

Avery frowned. “This wouldn’t be in regards to some sort of shit detail would it, sir?”

Rylund chuckled. “Why yes, it would. Is there any other kind?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. That’s settled then. Come on. The general is going to give us a ride into town.”

Like Ashton herself, the staff car had arrived after the fighting was over, so there wasn’t a scratch on it. Rylund opened a door and gestured for Avery to enter. Once inside, the legionnaire found himself with his back to the driver, facing the general. He’d been introduced to Ashton at a reception but had never exchanged more than a few words with her until then.

She was a large-boned woman who was known as a straight talker, a bodybuilder, and an enemy of the cavalry. The very branch that Avery belonged to. The reasons for her bias weren’t entirely clear but probably stemmed from more than twenty years spent in infantry regiments. Or, what the ground pounders liked to refer to as “the
real
Legion.” Their eyes met and she nodded. “Good afternoon, Major . . . We met once before I believe.”

Ashton had probably been introduced to a thousand people since her arrival on Orlo II, so Avery was impressed. “Yes, ma’am. We met at the reception that followed the change-of-command ceremony.”

Rylund entered the car and closed the door. “Yes . . . Avery distinguished himself on a number of occasions—not the least of which were his efforts to forge an alliance with the Droi.”

“A touchy business indeed,” Ashton observed, as the hover car rose off the ground, then turned on its axis. “And that’s one of the reasons why we think you’re the right officer for the job at hand.”

Avery looked from Ashton to Rylund and back again. “Thank you, ma’am. And what job would that be?”

“The empress needs a military attaché,” Rylund answered. “A person who can provide Her Highness with assessments of military readiness on each planet she visits—and offer tactical advice should that become necessary.”

“Yes,” Ashton put in. “If the empress is going to have a military attaché—then who better than one of
our
officers?”

The inference was obvious. The Legion, navy, and Marine Corps were locked in a perpetual battle for resources. So rather than cede the slot to another branch, the general wanted to place one of her officers where he or she could suck up to the empress on behalf of the Legion. And Avery had been chosen for the job. It was an especially odious task given the fact that Ophelia wanted to kill the woman that Avery was in love with. “Yes, ma’am,” Avery said obediently. “But I haven’t spent much time on staff. Surely someone with more experience could do a better job.”

Ashton laughed. “That’s what Colonel Rylund told me you would say. Nice try, Major . . . But no cigar. I hear the empress has a preference for
real
soldiers. The kind who have been in action. And, in spite of the fact that you mistakenly chose the cavalry over the infantry, I think you have the right credentials. Pucker up, Avery . . . It’s time to kiss some ass.”

—

More than a week had passed since the conversation with Colonel Rylund and General Ashton. During that time, Avery had to pare his belongings down to the ninety-six pounds he would be allowed to take aboard the ship, find his way through the labyrinthine checkout process, and say good-bye to a special place.

In a city where housing was hard to come by and overnight accommodations were almost impossible to find, the apartment where Cat and he had spent their last night together was absurdly expensive. But he stayed there anyway and drank the bottle of wine by himself. Cat wasn’t there, of course, but the memories were, and they haunted his dreams.

When morning came, Avery made himself a light breakfast before packing the B-1 bag and hauling it down to the street. A mere major didn’t rate a vehicle like the one assigned to Ashton—but a beat-up scout car had been sent to pick him up. The driver had the old-young face typical of so many legionnaires. He was wearing a white kepi, crisp camos, and a pair of mirror-bright boots. He snapped to attention and offered a salute. “Good morning, sir. Corporal Sanko reporting as ordered. Where are we headed?”

Avery dumped the bag in back and took one last look around. He didn’t expect to see any of the surrounding buildings again. “We’re going to the new spaceport.”

“Yes, sir.”

Avery swung into the well-worn passenger seat and made good use of the grab bar as the car bounced through a succession of potholes. Avery could see signs of the recent fighting as the vehicle wound its way down the hill to the recently scoured floodplains below. There were lots of shot-up buildings, charred ruins, and bomb craters, most of which were half-full of rainwater.

Because of all the damage, a new spaceport was being built south of town. To get there, it was necessary to follow the arrow-straight road past a row of burned-out Hudathan tanks to the hills beyond. There was lots of traffic going in both directions, but the driver proved to be an expert at dodging in and out between big transports and delivered Avery to a security checkpoint in what might have been record time.

After being waved through, the driver guided the car up the side of what had been a hill until the men, women, and cyborgs of the famed Pioneers sliced the top of it off. As they arrived on the newly created mesa, Avery saw that all sorts of heavy equipment were being used to create rows of landing pads. Only two were in service at the moment, however, and repellers roared as a boxy-looking assault boat lifted off.

The so-called terminal building was little more than an inflatable hab with four dusty vehicles parked outside. “This is it,” Sanko announced as he pulled into an empty slot. “I’ll get your bag.”

But Avery was used to handling such chores himself and waved the offer off. After thanking Sanko for the ride, he carried the bag inside. There was a crowded waiting area off to the left and a line straight ahead. It led to a sign that said,
CHECK
IN
. So Avery fell in behind a navy ensign and began what turned out to be a fifteen-minute wait. Eventually, it was his turn to approach the counter. A harried-looking petty officer looked up from his terminal. “Name please.”

Avery gave it, the sailor typed it in, and everything changed. A smart-looking chief petty officer (CPO) appeared, took charge of the B-1, and led Avery over to a door that bore a handwritten sign.
VICTORIOUS
. That said it all.

Everyone knew that the
Victorious
was a light cruiser that had been reconfigured to serve as the royal yacht. That meant everyone associated with the vessel received special treatment. Even obscure majors like John Avery.

So rather than wait with the horde out front, Avery found himself in a small VIP lounge that was equipped with six seats, a coffeepot, and a tray of stale pastries. Eventually, a couple of sailors were shown in, and in keeping with their ranks, sat as far away from the officer as they could. Shortly thereafter, the natty-looking CPO came to get the group.

Avery hoisted his bag and followed the noncom out to a gleaming shuttle. It looked brand-new, wore the royal coat of arms on its flawless fuselage, and was taking on cargo. Supplies probably bound for the
Victorious
.

The sailors were sent into the cargo compartment, where they would ride with the flight crew. But Avery’s status as an officer entitled him to sit on a leather-upholstered seat just aft of the cockpit. The copilot welcomed the legionnaire aboard, the crew chief offered some rudimentary refreshments, and a sailor took charge of the bag.

Avery had no way to know if other ships were waiting for a clearance to take off but suspected that they were. That made no difference, however, because the moment the aircraft was ready, the pilot announced, “All personnel to fasten their safety harnesses,” and gave them thirty seconds to do so before firing the shuttle’s repellers. The ship went straight up and swiveled to the north. Then, having received the necessary clearance, it took off into the wind.

There was nothing remarkable about the trip up through the atmosphere, and that was a good thing. It took the better part of two hours to enter orbit, match speeds with the
Victorious
, and enter her cavernous launch bay. Avery had done a little bit of research so he knew that the LC 8654 (Light Cruiser)
Victorious
was more than two miles long. The ship could carry twelve fighters, twelve shuttles, and boasted a crew of a thousand men, women, and robots.

But raw statistics didn’t capture what made the ship different from other ships of the same size. Because although the cruiser was armed, the
Vic
was more luxury liner than warship. A fact that became immediately apparent once the bay was pressurized, and Avery could disembark. Except for the unavoidable scorch marks on the gray decks, everything else was perfect.

The bulkheads, directional signs, and even the maintenance droids looked as if they’d been painted the day before. Even the air that had been pumped into the bay was scented lest the acrid stench of ozone offend sensitive nostrils. Not Avery’s nostrils, nor the crew’s, but Ophelia’s. Was she aboard? Or still on the surface? There was no way to be sure as a smart-looking ensign offered a perfect salute. “Major Avery? I’m Ensign Neely. Welcome aboard, sir. If you would be kind enough to follow me, I will take you to your quarters.”