Andromeda's War (Legion of the Damned Book 3) (7 page)

The sun set half an hour later, but McKee couldn’t stop. Not with such short days to work with—and so many miles to cover. So she pulled the advance team back and put the drones on point with a couple of T-1s to back them up. The cyborgs could “see” any Naa who might be in the area regardless of how much light there was.

There were some contacts, and that was to be expected. The Naa had no choice but to work through a couple of night cycles each day. Two local cycles later, it was time to stop and fort up. Like thousands of military commanders before her, McKee chose to camp on a hill. A defensive ditch was dug, lined with sharpened stakes, and seeded with computer-controlled crab mines. The missing element was a source of water. But even that problem was resolved when it began to rain. A steady drizzle continued for the next five hours.

So when the time came to depart, the compound was a quagmire and there was half a foot of water in the defensive ditch. Fortunately, the crab mines could be disarmed and summoned with a handheld remote. The T-1s had to be careful not to step on the devices as they scurried in from all directions. Each one had to be inspected and wiped clean before being placed in a special container. Only when all of them were accounted for could the box be loaded into a RAV.

And that wasn’t all. The mud meant that
everything
took longer than usual. But eventually the troops were fed, the shelters were torn down, and the column was ready to depart. As before, McKee sent the advance party out first, followed by alternating squads, the RAVs, the construction robots, and the rear guard. Larkin was tired of riding drag but understood the necessity. If the column was cut in two, both halves would require leadership. But that didn’t keep him from bitching.

Meanwhile, as T-1s and dooths plodded down the road, Andy struggled to keep up. The mud would have made that difficult anyway—but the fact that it had been ordered to carry an eighty-pound pack made the task that much more difficult. The plan was to slow the robot down.

There had been a protest, needless to say. But Andy couldn’t refuse an order that fell within the list of tasks that a combot could be ordered to do. Not without revealing its true nature. McKee not only took a childish delight in that—but hoped the additional stress would cause some sort of malfunction. Then, if the problem was sufficiently serious, she could order a legionnaire to destroy the machine. Would it work? Probably not. But some sort of plan was better than no plan at all.

The rain stopped just as night was falling, but the road was still muddy, and the rivers were full. That made for some very wet crossings. McKee was soaked, her skin was cold, and she knew the rest of the bio bods felt the same way. At some point, the possibility of hypothermia could force them to stop—but she was determined to make as much progress as possible.

Adding to the misery was the need to pause every now and then while Storytell and Jivani went forward to negotiate with yet another chieftain. Then, once an agreement was struck, the march resumed. Halfway through the next local day, they came to the largest village they’d seen yet. It was called Gooddirt. A name which, though far from poetic, described why the Naa lived there.

This time the advance party was met by a large group of armed warriors. It seemed that they knew the column was coming and were waiting for it. So McKee called a halt and took the first squad forward. She noticed that none of Gooddirt’s delegation looked surprised. That seemed to indicate that the villagers had seen Humans and T-1s before. At the mesa? Yes, that made sense.

Storytell had his pitch down by then. So he told the villagers that while they were looking for Truthsayer, they had no desire to hurt him, only to speak with him. It was an inquiry that hadn’t produced meaningful results up to that point. But in this case, the statement stimulated a strong response. The local chief was named Beathard Metalshaper. His voice was still strong in spite of the fact that he appeared to be old and frail. “Truthsayer?” he demanded. “Naaslayer is more like it . . . My son took two hundred warriors north to fight, and only three of them returned. I would kill you right now except that doing so would bring down fire from the sky.”

“Understood,” Storytell replied. “But what about Truthsayer? Where is he?”

Metalshaper spat, and a big glob of yellow sputum landed halfway between them. “I heard that the worthless pook is south of here . . . In the City of Pillars. You’re welcome to him.”

Storytell offered a gift and was refused. “You look like a Naa but smell like a slick skin,” Metalshaper said. “Keep your blood money and leave my village.”

Jivani translated. They were brave words, possibly foolish words, but McKee had no intention of attacking Gooddirt for reasons of pride. Fortunately, none of Sureshot’s warriors were close enough to hear. McKee knew they had a very strict code of conduct where matters of honor were concerned—and would have been duty-bound to kill Metalshaper. Or try to anyway.

The march continued. The information gleaned from Metalshaper squared with what Storytell had been told earlier. Truthsayer was, or had been, in the City of Pillars.

McKee requested an uplink, got it, and ordered a sat map of the area ahead. The City of Pillars was hard to miss. It was considerably bigger than the largest village she’d seen. And, at their present rate of speed, they would arrive in three local days.

But the encounter with Metalshaper was an eye-opener. It seemed that Truthsayer wasn’t as popular as he had been, not after the slaughter up north, a possibility Colonel Cavenaugh had neglected to mention. Or never thought of. Not that it mattered since McKee’s orders were clear: Find Truthsayer and bring him in. Or, failing that, kill him. How the locals felt about the chief of chiefs was irrelevant.

But marching her troops into the City of Pillars wasn’t likely to get the job done. That could provoke an attack. What she needed was an out-of-the-way place to hide the company. Then she could go in and gather Intel without triggering conflict. That was the theory anyway. So McKee sent Storytell and two warriors out to scout the countryside. The call came in two hours later. “McKee.”

“This is Alpha-One. Please use radio procedure. Over.”

“Sorry,” Storytell said. “I found it. Over.”

“Tell me more, over.”

“We’re on an island in the middle of the river. There are the remains of some old huts, but nobody lives here anymore. Over.”

McKee eyed her HUD, saw the icon that marked Storytell’s position, and the irregular outline of an island. The river must be fairly shallow, or Storytell and his warriors wouldn’t have been able to get out there. Still, the need to wade through a current would slow attackers down and provide defenders with a free-fire zone as well. “Is there any cover? Over.”

“Trees . . . And some rocks. Over.”

“Okay . . . Hold your position. We’re on the way. Over.”

There was no, “Roger that.” Just a click.

It took two hours to reach the river, cross it in the dark, and take possession of the island. McKee knew it was very likely that a farmer or hunter had seen the column pass. And if one person knew about them, all of the locals would. So they couldn’t hide on the island. But they could prepare to defend it. McKee ordered the construction robots to dig both fighting positions
and
bunkers in case the locals brought some catapults or captured artillery to bear. That, plus the need to perform maintenance on the T-1s, would be enough to keep the legionnaires busy.

So McKee went looking for Storytell. He was sitting on his haunches, sharpening his knife. The whetstone made a rasping sound as it slid the length of the blade. McKee sat on a rock. The sun was rising, and the sky was clear. “I want to enter the city,” she said. “If Truthsayer is there, I need to locate him.”

Storytell looked up at her. “And if he isn’t?”

“Then I need to find out where he is.”

“I can go,” Storytell said. “But a Human? That’s impossible.”

“No,” McKee said. “It isn’t. I’ll wear a hooded cloak . . . Like the ones Naa females use to keep warm. And I’ll wrap a scarf around my face.”

Storytell looked skeptical. “And where will you obtain this cloak?”

“Jivani has one. She wore it the other day.”

“We would need warriors. Just in case.”

McKee took note of the “We.” “Eatbig and Highstep would be perfect.”

Storytell made the knife disappear. “Can you ride a dooth?”

“I guess I’ll have to.”

Storytell nodded. “I will notify Eatbig and Highstep.”

After borrowing the cloak from Jivani—McKee went to see Larkin. Naa females rarely carried rifles, so she couldn’t either. The solution was to borrow Larkin’s sidearm. That allowed her to carry
two
concealed pistols plus a combat knife. Grenades, one each, went into her side pockets. A hidden radio would allow her to stay in touch. “You know what to do,” McKee said. “Keep a low profile, don’t shoot anyone you don’t have to, and call for air support if the situation turns to shit. Oh, and don’t under any circumstances send people into the city after me. That’s an order.”

Larkin looked at her. She could see the concern in his eyes. “Be careful . . . It takes a long time to train an officer.”

McKee frowned. “Don’t go soft on me, Desmond. And use Jivani to stay in touch with the Naa.”

“Yes, Mommy.”

McKee grinned. “That’s better . . . I’ll see you soon.”

Larkin watched her walk away. The cloak made her look smaller. His voice was pitched too low for her to hear. “Take care of yourself,” he said. “And watch your six.”

McKee, which was to say Cat, had done some horse riding in her younger days. But the dooth named Bigfoot was so big that Highstep had to boost her up onto its back. Then, once McKee managed to throw a leg across the animal’s spine, it felt as if her feet were sticking out sideways.

That made staying aboard even more difficult as her fellow riders urged their mounts into the river. All McKee could do was hold on to the equivalent of a saddle horn as Bigfoot carried her through the current and up onto the opposite bank. So far so good.

Then the animal broke into a trot as it hurried to catch up with the other dooths. That’s when the up-and-down pounding began—and continued as Storytell led the group through the verdant countryside. Farmers waved as they passed, and the traffic increased once they turned onto the main road. Now they were part of a parade of pedestrians and dooth-drawn carts all headed for the City of Pillars.

In order to enter the town, it was necessary to pass through a palisade constructed of vertical logs. It spanned the gap between two rocky hills and looked very sturdy. There was no line to get in, and the gate was unguarded. That seemed strange.

Where were the beggars, food vendors, and assorted ruffians that should be hanging around the entrance to the city? McKee looked at Storytell, and he shrugged. Hooves made a
clop, clop, clop
sound as they made contact with worn cobblestones. Except for that, an eerie silence hung over the city, and the only sign of life was the skinny pook that eyed them from an alleyway and ran away. Others were present, however. McKee could
feel
their eyes on her. Staring through door cracks, peeking from windows, and eyeing her from heavily shadowed alleys.
But where were the rest?
The city felt empty.

By that time, McKee could see the sandstone pillars from which the city took its name. Most were about a hundred feet tall and too spindly to have any practical value. But a few were crowned with shrines or tattered banners that snapped in a light breeze.

McKee thought the formations might have been shaped by a powerful flow of water at some point in the past. But whatever the mechanism, they gave the city an exotic feel, and McKee wished that Jivani could see it. Her thoughts were interrupted by Storytell. He was speaking via a wire-thin boom mike and a low-power squad-level freq. His voice was tight. “We’re being followed.”

McKee felt adrenaline surge into her bloodstream. She looked back over her shoulder. There were six mounted warriors, and they were hanging back. Was that simply a matter of coincidence? Or were they there to prevent McKee and her companions from turning around? “There’s
more
,” Bigeat rumbled. “Left and right.”

McKee looked and sure enough . . . Riders were converging on the main thoroughfare from the surrounding side streets. She was about to issue an order when a group of warriors appeared up ahead. They blocked the street. She thought about the pistols . . . And the grenades. But resistance would be futile. There were too many of them. “Pull up,” she ordered. “Don’t fire. We’ll try to talk our way out of this.”

None of her scouts answered, but none went for their weapons, either. A warrior mounted on a battle-ready dooth came forward. The Naa was big and armed with a Legion-issue assault rifle. When the Naa was about thirty feet away, he pulled back on the reins. “My name is Stinkkiller,” he said matter-of-factly. “But I like to kill Naa, too . . . Especially those who whore themselves out to the slick skins. What do they call you, old man? Assuming you have a name.”

Storytell was reaching for his rifle when McKee said, “Stop!” And the voice that emanated from the translator was loud enough for Stinkkiller to hear. McKee threw the hood back, pulled the scarf away, and looked the Naa in the eye. “My name is Nofear Deathgiver . . . And I’m here to speak with Chief of Chiefs Truthsayer. Take us to him or get out of the way.” The silence hung heavy in the air, and McKee could feel the weight of Stinkkiller’s gaze as her right hand slid toward the butt of her pistol.

Honor is a fragile, elusive, and subjective thing. Yet nothing is more important.

WAR COMMANDER OHA WORA-SA
A Treatise on the Clan Wars
Standard year 1947

PLANET HUDATHA

Admiral Dor Nola-Ba stood with hands clasped behind his back as he stared out through a narrow window. The sky had been clear an hour earlier. Now a bank of gray clouds had rolled in from the west, and the temperature had dropped twenty degrees in a matter of minutes. Such a change would have been regarded with alarm on a planet like Orlo II but constituted a nice day on Hudatha.

The extreme changes in the weather were due to the fact that Hudatha rotated around a star that had a core temperature so high that it resulted in rapid nuclear fusion. The result was that the sun was well on the way to becoming a red giant.

And making the situation even more complex was the fact that Hudatha was in a Trojan relationship with a Jovian binary. The Jovians’ centers were separated by roughly 174,000 miles, which meant that their surfaces were only 68,000 miles apart.

If there hadn’t been any other planets in the system, Hudatha would have followed the Jovians in a near-perfect orbit. But there
were
other planets. And they tugged on Hudatha enough to make it oscillate around the following Trojan point. The result was a wildly fluctuating climate, a race that had evolved to cope with nearly impossible conditions, and a need to find some new real estate to live on. And that had everything to do with why Nola-Ba was back on his home planet staring out a window. He’d been in command of the fleet sent to cleanse Orlo II and prepare it for colonization.

Nola-Ba’s ships had engaged the Human navy, destroyed sixteen of their ships, and chased the rest away. Once that was accomplished, War Commander Tebu Ona-Ka had taken a brigade of troops down to the surface and attacked the city of Riversplit.

Nola-Ba had been powerless to determine how things went subsequent to that. So the fact that most of the brigade had been wiped out wasn’t his fault. But would the court of inquiry see it that way? No, probably not, since Ona-Ka had been killed in the fighting, and his uncle was a member of the court.

Nola-Ba’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a loud knock. It was good manners to announce oneself prior to entering a room. And to do otherwise was dangerous since all male Hudathans were not only armed but extremely paranoid. The latter being an excellent survival trait on a very unpredictable world. Nola-Ba turned. “Enter.”

The Arrow Commander was young, of average size, and dressed in his best uniform. It consisted of a waist-length blue jacket, leather cross straps, and white pantaloons. They were tucked into knee-high boots. A holstered sidearm and a back-sword completed the outfit. “I am Arrow Commander Ora-Sa,” the youngster said formally. “It would be my honor to escort you to the command chamber.”

“Thank you,” Nola-Ba replied. “My sword is on the table.”

It was called Ka-Killer. A name assigned to it during one of the ancient clan wars. The hilt was worn as befitted an heirloom blade. But the scabbard looked new, having been replaced by Nola-Ba a few years earlier.

Ora-Sa had to carry the weapon because Nola-Ba couldn’t. Not unless the court chose to return it. Ora-Sa lifted the weapon off the table without touching the hilt. That was something only a member of the Ba clan could do. “Thank you,” he said solemnly. “Now, if you are ready, we will depart.”

“Lead the way,” Nola-Ba said gravely. “I will follow.”

Ora-Sa preceded Nola-Ba out into a generously sized hallway. It was, like most public thoroughfares, just wide enough for four columns of soldiers to march through. A design that harkened back to ancient times when clan wars were frequent, and the government changed hands every two or three years. A continual stream of military personnel passed them headed in the opposite direction. Nola-Ba was a very senior officer, so most of them were obliged to salute. But regardless of rank, all of them could see the sword that Ora-Sa carried cradled in his arms and knew what that meant. Did they pity him? Some did. As for the rest, well, many of them would be happy to see an admiral go down. Especially if they were members of the navy. An open slot at the top of the naval hierarchy would allow as many as half a dozen officers to climb one rung higher on the ladder of promotion.

A pair of elite star guards crashed to attention as Nola-Ba approached, and the iron-clad wood doors opened as if by magic. The chamber beyond was large enough to hold a hundred Hudathans, but no more than a dozen were present. Three of them were members of the tribunal who would judge him. The one Nola-Ba feared the most was War Commander Ona-Ka’s uncle. His name was War Commander Ruma-Ka. He was a brutish-looking officer whose eyes lurked below a heavy supraorbital ridge.

The other two officers included a much-decorated army officer named War Commander Duma-Da and Grand Admiral Dura-Da. He was the senior person present, a well-known naval officer, and Nola-Ba’s best hope. All wore dress uniforms complete with rows of decorations and clan crests.

The panel was seated behind a sturdy wooden table. They watched impassively as Nola-Ba’s sword was laid out in front of them. The fact that it was there, well within reach, was symbolic of the power they had over its owner.

A gong sounded, signaling that the court of inquiry was officially under way. In response to a gesture from Admiral Dura-Da, a military clerk stepped forward to read the charges. “During the attack on the Human world Orlo II, Admiral Dor Nola-Ba had responsibility for naval operations, and reported to War Commander Tebu Ona-Ka. Unfortunately, War Commander Ona-Ka was killed during the fighting on the planet’s surface. At that point, Admiral Nola-Ba chose to withdraw, leaving thousands of Hudathan troops stranded on the surface of Orlo II.”

Even though he was already familiar with the charge Nola-Ba felt a sudden surge of anger. He was tempted to snatch the family blade off the table and take heads. Given the way it was written, the charge amounted to an allegation of cowardice. And it didn’t require a genius to figure out that certain highly placed individuals were trying to protect the Ka clan’s reputation. The after-action reports were clear . . . The terrible losses on the ground had been the direct result of errors made by War Commander Ona-Ka.

But Nola-Ba’s entire life had been an exercise in discipline. So he sought to suppress the rage and focus his mind. A battle was about to take place, and it would be fought with words rather than razor-sharp steel. “The charge has been read,” Grand Admiral Dura-Da intoned. “Both the court and the defendant have had full access to all of the relevant reports. Now, before a formal judgment is reached, oral arguments will be heard. Judicial Officer Ree-Da will speak on behalf of the prosecution.”

Ree-Da was an older officer with stooped shoulders and the manner of a clerk. He stood and shuffled forward. He read the words off a data pad without looking up. “As put forth in the final charge, and documented via a written brief, Admiral Nola-Ba failed to provide adequate support for ground troops during the battle for Orlo II. As a result of Admiral Nola-Ba’s willful negligence, more than a thousand troops were left behind when the navy was forced to withdraw.”

There it was . . . The whitewash the Ka clan was hoping for. If they could blame Nola-Ba for the calamity on Orlo II, their honor would remain unblemished. And because the Ka clan had more political clout than the Ba clan did—there was an excellent chance that the bastards were going to get away with it. Nola-Ba felt light-headed. “In light of the charge leveled against him,” Ree-Da continued, “the chief prosecutor recommends that Admiral Nola-Ba be relieved of his command and reduced to rank of warrant officer.”

“So noted,” Grand Admiral Dura-Da said. “Judicial Officer Duba-Sa will speak for Admiral Nola-Ba.”

Duba-Da was young and relatively inexperienced. But he was enthusiastic and the son of a retired naval officer. So Nola-Ba hoped for the best as Duba-Da rose and stepped forward. He looked good in his uniform and spoke without referring to a data pad. “The charges against Admiral Nola-Ba are just that—charges. What the allegation neglects to mention is that Admiral Nola-Ba’s vessels were under attack by advance elements of an incoming fleet even as the battle raged on the ground. Because the admiral’s ships had to defend themselves, they weren’t free to provide the amount of support that War Commander Ona-Ka demanded. Later, as even more Human ships arrived, the admiral had no choice but to withdraw or risk the loss of his entire squadron.”

“Thank you,” Dura-Da said. “At this time, the court will withdraw to make a final decision.”

The members of the court rose, and so did everyone else, except for those already on their feet. The gong sounded, and that meant Nola-Ba could sit. Duba-Da came over to say some encouraging words, but Nola-Ba had seen the look on Ruma-Ka’s chiseled face and knew that the army officer was determined to bring him down. Could he face the shame of being broken to warrant officer? It was either that or commit suicide—and Ruma-Ka would like nothing more.

Conscious of the fact that others were watching, Nola-Ba sat with his head up and his back straight while the minutes ticked away. Ten, fifteen, twenty . . . It seemed as if the wait would never end. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the court of inquiry reentered the room. Did Ruma-Ka look pleased? Or was that Nola-Ba’s imagination?

All he could do was stand and wait as the gong sounded, and the members of court took their seats. “The court has made its finding,” Grand Admiral Dura-Da announced. “It is our judgment that the arguments put forward by the defense are largely correct. Admiral Nola-Ba’s actions were in keeping with the written as well as verbal orders given to him by War Commander Ona-Ka.”

Nola-Ba felt a tremendous wave of relief only to have it snatched away as Dura-Da continued to speak. “However,” he said gravely, “had Admiral Nola-Ba assigned a small portion of his force to evacuate stranded troopers, it might have been possible to save hundreds if not a thousand lives. Therefore, it is the finding of this court that Admiral Nola-Ba’s rank be reduced to vice admiral—and he will be relieved of his present command. That is all.”

Nola-Ba watched in a state of shock as the officers trooped out of the room, and the gong sounded. Did the finding represent their true opinion? Or was it the result of a compromise in which he had been punished so that the Ka clan could save face? That was the way it appeared.

“Your sword, Admiral,” Arrow Commander Ora-Sa said as he returned the weapon. He looked embarrassed.

“Thank you,” Nola-Ba said as he took the blade. It felt heavier somehow.

—

ABOARD THE LIGHT CRUISER
INTAKA
(DEATHBLOW)

Vice Admiral Nola-Ba was seated in one of the high-backed chairs located to either side of the cruiser’s U-shaped control room. The captain, pilot, and navigator were positioned at the bottom of the U, where they could view a mosaic of ever-morphing screens on the bulkhead opposite them.

Nola-Ba had been a captain himself and knew what it felt like to have a senior officer present while conning a ship. So he felt some sympathy for Captain Po-Ba but not much. Anyone who couldn’t deal with that sort of situation was too weak for command.

The better part of two standard months had passed since the court of inquiry and his day of shame. That had been followed by weeks of politicking as he tried to secure a command. Not an office in the basement of naval headquarters but a
real
command. The kind of assignment that might offer him a chance at redemption.

And finally, after more than a month of worry, the orders came through. He was, in the stilted language of the admiralty, “. . . To take command of Battle Group 761, establish a presence on the planet Savas, and form alliances with the indigenous peoples that would prevent or hinder further colonization of said planet by Humans.”

There was more of course. Thirty pages of it. But the essence of the situation was that the Savas system was located at a point where the Hudathan and Human empires overlapped. Eventually, it would be necessary to eradicate both the beings indigenous to Savas and the Humans—because any variable that could be controlled should be controlled. But that would have to wait for a while.

In the meantime, there were only so many resources to work with, and there were thousands of potentially strategic planets, so it wasn’t realistic to occupy low-priority worlds like Savas. Not while the Human empire continued to flex its muscles on planets like Orlo II. So Battle Group 761 had been sent to secure Savas until such time as a Class II Occupation Task Force could be sent to “process” the planet.

But first, Nola-Ba had to reach Savas. And that meant slipping through a screen of robotic picket ships. A network of such machines protected the Human empire and was programmed to launch message torpedoes in case of an attack. And, should such a vessel fail to report in on schedule, a navy task force would be dispatched to check on the situation.

So Nola-Ba’s first task was to pass through the early-warning system undetected. Failure to do so would result in a swift and most likely fatal naval battle since the increasingly edgy Humans would respond to such an incursion with overwhelming force.

The battle group’s fate was in Captain Po-Ba’s hands as he gave an order, and the
Intaka
began to accelerate. For Nola-Ba’s idea to work, timing would be critical. The plan was for his ships to accelerate in concert, match velocities with the long-period comet that was due to pass through the area, and hide in its tail. If the plan was successful, the Human computers would ascribe sensor anomalies to the comet’s passage.

Would it work? Nola-Ba was gambling his life and the lives of all the people in the battle group that it would. He worked to keep his face blank and forced his body to relax while his ships slid in behind the comet and took up stations on it. The biggest threat to his plan was an old hulk called the
Head Hunter
. He had plans for the destroyer—but were her ancient drives up to the task? So far so good.