Andromeda's War (Legion of the Damned Book 3) (27 page)

“Tell the
Hercules
to abort the drop and take up a position on the far side of the planet,” Nigata instructed. “Once she arrives there, the landings can begin. And send some Tachyons to neutralize those guns while the rest of our ships pull out of range.”

It was a good plan. The only possible plan. Because powerful though the STS cannons might be, they couldn’t fire through the planet. There would be trouble though . . . since the marines were putting down in
two
widely separated locations. Maybe landing craft could be used to unite the marines, and maybe they couldn’t. But that was what generals were for. In this case, a two-star named Hollister. Assuming the poor bastard was still alive.

“Uh-oh,” the XO said, “it looks like one of their transports is laying eggs.”

Rather than boats or shuttles, the Hudathans preferred to use egg-shaped landers to put their soldiers on the ground. Since the ridgeheads had no way to know that a Human battle group was on the way, it seemed safe to assume that they’d been planning to reinforce their ground troops from the beginning. And now, with marines landing on the surface, the need to do so was that much more urgent. The landers hadn’t gone unnoticed by the Tachyon pilots, however, and Nigata could hear a mishmash of radio chatter by touching one of the buttons in his armrest. “Tally ho!” a female pilot said. “Watch my six. Over.”

“Shit! They nailed Meyers . . .”

“Damn . . . Did you see that? My missile hit that egg square on, and it’s still intact. Those things are tough.”

“Give it a torpedo,” another voice put in. “That should do the job.”

Nigata switched his attention back to the holo tank in time to see one of his gunboats fall victim to a brace of DEs. His command was bleeding to death.

“Engaging,” Somlyo said laconically, as the cruiser fired a broadside of ship killers at one of the enemy cruisers. It responded in kind and Nigata felt the
Mars
shudder as Hudathan missiles exploded against her shields.

What followed was a seemingly endless five-minute slugfest in which two powerful ships tried to batter each other to death. But the
Mars
was slightly larger, her shields were stronger, and she had more throw weight. So even with a Hudathan DE rushing in to help its sister ship, the
Mars
managed to win. There was no explosion. Just a flare as the other vessel’s shields went down, its propulsion system dropped off-line, and it began to drift. “Let’s finish it,” Somlyo said grimly. “Prepare to fire energy cannons.”

“Belay that,” Nigata said. “Let them take her under tow.”

The crew people sitting around Nigata looked at the admiral as if he was crazy, but the captain understood. “Aye, aye, sir. It will take most of what they have left if they want to save her.”

That was Nigata’s plan. To break the battle off while he still had some ships. Because
if
the empress was still alive, and
if
the jarheads managed to rescue her, it would be his responsibility to take the royal home. “They’re going for it,” the XO said happily. “Or trying to.”

“Good,” Nigata said. “Send the following message to all commanding officers. They are to withdraw to the side of the planet opposite the moon. Execute.”

—

PLANET SAVAS

The fact that Huzz had not only helped to engineer Oppo’s death but participated in the assassination, didn’t prevent the newly elevated chief from staging a well-attended funeral for his predecessor. Thousands of tribal members came. And in keeping with Paguumi tradition, hundreds of the dead leader’s katha were slain, butchered, and roasted over communal fires.

Then, in a transparent effort to buy the tribe’s support, Huzz repealed the unpopular metal tax. It was a very popular decision and one that cemented his position as chief.

The rest of the team had arrived by this time and was camped a discreet distance away from the Paguumis, who were in the midst of the first of what promised to be a three-day mourning period. If carousing, feasting, and bride taking could be called “mourning.”

That was a source of considerable frustration to Remy, who wanted to march north but couldn’t do so without a sizable force of southerners to bolster his tiny command. For one thing, the legionnaires were sure to encounter the northern tribe and would have to do battle with the Hudathans as well.

But it was clear that the southerners were in no mood for war and wouldn’t be until the wake was over, and their warriors were sober. That meant all the legionnaires could do was rest and catch up on deferred maintenance. The unit had been working the T-1s, RAVs, and drones hard, so there were plenty of issues that needed to be dealt with. It was also an opportunity for McKee to slip away and have a few minutes with Avery.

They left camp separately, made use of their knowledge of security to slip through the perimeter, and met half a mile from camp. It was a dangerous thing to do—but neither one was in a mood to be safe. Avery got there first. The meeting spot was on a low rise that would allow them to see anyone who might approach with their night-vision gear. The only problem was that it’s impossible to kiss with a helmet on.

So the first thing McKee did was to remove her brain bucket before sitting down next to Avery. There were none of the romantic touches that he had arranged on Orlo II. No candles, no wine, and no bathtub. But there was the dim glow that emanated from the Paguumi camp, the moon, and the soft night air. No words were necessary as McKee entered the circle of Avery’s arms and their lips made contact. It was a long, hungry kiss that left both of them wanting more. “We can’t,” McKee said as she pulled away. “Not here. Not now.”

“I know,” Avery agreed. “But we can talk. Tell me what happened after you left Orlo II. Tell me everything.”

So McKee told him about the trip to Earth, about her run-in with Ross Royer, and the meeting with her uncle. That led to an account of the Mason assassination and her part in it. “Ophelia was there,” she said. “I could have killed her. I
should
have killed her.”

“You didn’t know,” Avery said sympathetically. “You did the best you could. No one could fault you for that.”

“My uncle did,” McKee said sadly, as tears trickled down her cheeks. “And now he’s dead. I saw the news on Algeron. They sent troops down into the Deeps to find and kill him.”

“But we’re alive,” Avery reminded her. “And we’ll be together. All we need to do is survive this. Do you remember the plan we agreed on?”

McKee nodded. “I think about it every day. We’ll leave the Legion, settle on a rim world, and begin new lives.”

“That’s right,” Avery agreed. “So remember that. Focus on it. Ignore everything else.”

“What about Ophelia?” McKee wanted to know. “The beacon is on. She’s alive.”

“It’s impossible to know if she’ll survive what’s coming,” Avery responded. “But let’s say she does. Maybe we should back off. Who put us in charge?”

“That’s easy for
you
to say,” McKee objected. “Ophelia didn’t murder your family. But it’s more than that . . . She’s evil.
Thousands
have died.”

“I admire your sense of responsibility,” Avery said. “Not to mention your courage. But I’m selfish. I want you for myself. And if you try to assassinate Ophelia, you’ll get killed.”

McKee stared at him through the gloom. “I’m sorry, John. I really am. I want you, too . . . But my uncle was right. I allowed Ophelia to live. And that means I’m responsible for every person she killed since then. I can’t live with that.”

Both of them stood. “I love you,” Avery said simply.

“Don’t say that, John,” McKee said. “It hurts enough already.” With that, she turned and ran away. The darkness took her in.

—

Daska had seen all of it via the drone that had been hovering above the lovers and felt nothing. No surprise, no sense of betrayal, and no anger. But the interchange did trigger a programmed “need” to report the conversation to Empress Ophelia. That was impossible, of course—and would remain so until Ophelia was rescued. The robot accepted that the same way it reacted to changes in the weather and the “pain” that stemmed from a worn coupler. What was, was.

—

It was just after dawn, and Remy was spooning some peaches into his mouth when the help he’d been waiting for arrived. He knew Human ships were present when contrails appeared high in the atmosphere. Not one or two, like they’d seen over the last couple of weeks, but
dozens
of crisscrossing claw marks. And as Remy came to his feet, people all around the camp began to cheer. “They’re here!” someone shouted. “The squids are here.”

But the celebration was cut short as a momentary flash was seen, followed by a tiny puff of white smoke. A fighter or a shuttle had been destroyed, but
whose
? Remy was still contemplating that when Lieutenant Ellis came running over. “I’ve got a Marine Corps colonel on the horn! He says they’re trying to put some jarheads on the ground, but there’s a whole shitload of ridgeheads up in space. He wants a sitrep.”

So Remy jogged over to the “big horn” as the techs referred to the radio and identified himself. “This is Colonel Owens,” a male voice said. “We’re on the ground, but we’ve been forced to land in two different locations, neither one of which is anywhere near you. We’ll regroup and make contact as soon as we can. In the meantime, your orders are the same. Find code name Gemstone and secure her. Over.”

Remy said, “Yes, sir. We have recovered code name Cowboy. He’s in good condition and ready for extraction.”

That produced a brief moment of silence while Owens absorbed the news. “Well done, Major. That is a big relief. I’ll pass the news along. We’ll arrange for a pickup. Over.”

“Roger that. We’re getting short on supplies if you can spare any. Over.”

“Upload a list,” Owens replied. “We’ll see what we can do. Over.”

And that was that. Not too surprisingly, Huzz and a group of hungover warriors arrived an hour later. They had seen the battle in the sky and wanted to know what was going on. Remy had been careful to keep Huzz in the dark regarding the mission’s
real
objective lest the local try to find Ophelia on his own. Insofar as Huzz knew, the legionnaires were there for the purpose of fighting the Hudathans. And that was sufficient.

“So,” Remy said, in hopes of cutting the mourning period short. “My people are fighting the Hudathans in the sky. This is our opportunity to attack their base.”

What Remy knew to be a sly look appeared on the Paguumi’s face. “And what will we receive if the attack is successful?”

“All the metal in and around the base,” Remy promised. “Along with weapons so powerful that you will rule the planet for many years to come.”

“We will meet at Three Fingers as the sun goes down,” Huzz said. “Then we will ride.”

—

Chief Pudu was sitting atop his favorite zurna watching contrails etch themselves onto the heavens when the spy arrived. His name was Abu Mook, and he was a southerner by birth. But his wife was from the north and had been treated poorly while living among Mook’s people. An offense that continued to anger him. That plus the money Pudu paid him explained why Mook was willing to betray his tribe. Eventually, the traitor hoped to make a life for his family in the north—but Pudu continued to stall the spy rather than lose such a valuable source of information.

Mook was small, too small to serve as a warrior, and made most of his living buying plant materials from Jithi traders, which he and his family turned into various potions. And business was reasonably good because some of them actually worked. And, it was an occupation that allowed Mook to travel without raising suspicion.

Mook’s zurna was hung with large panniers rather than the paraphernalia of war and, except for the Jithi-made pistols holstered to either side of the animal’s neck, he was unarmed. Like the rest of his body, his features were small, and that made him appear younger than he actually was. Pudu’s bodyguards knew the southerner and allowed him to pass. “Greetings,” Mook said. “You grow younger with each passing day.”

“And your lies grow more glaring with each rising of the sun,” Pudu replied. Both of them laughed.

“So,” Pudu said, as he looked up at the sky and down again. “What’s going on?”

“The round heads are fighting the change skins in the sky,” Mook replied.

“That much is obvious,” Pudu replied dryly. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

There were times when Mook enjoyed his role as spy—and judging from his expression, this was one of them. “They say that Chief Oppo was murdered by his bodyguards. However Subchief Huzz and a delegation of round heads were in the hoga at the time.”

Pudu was surprised. The Oppo he knew had been far too smart to surround himself with anything but the most loyal of warriors. Relatives for the most part who were honor-bound to protect him. “What are you saying? That Huzz and the round heads killed Oppo?”

“It’s a possibility,” Mook replied cagily. “But only that. I have no proof. And Oppo
was
unpopular. The bodyguards could have been acting for others.”

“I assume you are referring to the metal tax,” Pudu said. “Word of it spread via the Jithis. So Huzz took over without much opposition.”

“None,” Mook agreed. “Now he’s coming north. A force of round heads and their fighting machines will accompany him.”

“Why?” Pudu wanted to know. “To attack us?” That was an alarming possibility.

“No,” Mook replied. “To attack the change skins. It’s connected with the battle in the sky. All of the aliens want our planet.”

“Yes,” Pudu said thoughtfully. “So it would seem.”

A white streak chased another across the sky until both disappeared into the distant haze. “So what will you do?” Mook inquired.

Pudu knew what he was going to do, or
not
do, as the case might be. If the southerners wanted to attack the change-skin base, then he would allow them to do so. Most would die just as many of his warriors had. If not eliminated during the fighting, the round heads would be severely weakened.
Then
he would strike and seize both the metal and a large number of alien weapons.