The most obvious course of action was to carry out the raid at night, when fewer people were on duty. But given all of the activity associated with the load-out, McKee figured that the resulting confusion could offer as much protection as the hours of darkness would. The problem was finding the time required since Lieutenant Camacho kept the platoon busy.
Finally, however, McKee and Larkin were able to slip away during the two-hour period of time allotted for lunch and a physical-hygiene lecture. Sergeants Hux and Fanta would almost certainly make note of their absences and go through the motions of chewing them out, but that was a small price to pay for some spare parts.
Rather than break into the morgue, as originally planned, McKee had conceived a better strategy, which was to bullshit their way in. A task made considerably easier by all of the activity associated with a major load-out.
So with Larkin in tow, and an official-looking data pad tucked under one arm, McKee simply walked into the office marked BAT-SUP and requested the pass code for the morgue. A harried-looking corporal was seated behind the counter. She had a buzz cut, slightly protuberant eyes, and plenty of attitude. “Why do you need access? And who sent you?”
“Sorry, Corp,” McKee replied. “It’s just part of the fun. Some O-3 on the regimental staff wants us to count the empties before we lift. He doesn’t trust the manifest.”
“Sounds like he’s covering his ass,” the corporal replied darkly. “In case a war form disappears after the battalion pulls out.”
“Yup,” McKee agreed. “That’s my read.”
“I’ll write the code down and kill the alarm system,” the noncom said. “Let me know when you’re done, so I can change the code. What’s your name?”
“Peters,” McKee lied. “Lance Corporal Peters.” Then she remembered that the name McKee was printed on her shirt and prepared herself for the trouble that was sure to follow.
But the corporal didn’t think to look as she gave McKee a slip of paper. “Okay, here you go.”
McKee said thanks, turned, and led Larkin out into the stifling heat. “Damn!” he said admiringly. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“Nor did I,” McKee replied. “Maybe it’s your influence.”
“That makes sense,” Larkin said proudly. “Now what?”
“We get our tools and go to work,” McKee replied. Having stashed a duffel bag and a couple of omnitools behind an air-conditioning unit, all they had to do was retrieve them and walk a short distance to the morgue. It wasn’t called that, of course. The sign on the steel door read BAT WAR FORM STORAGE. AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
McKee was not only unauthorized, but extremely nervous, so she fumbled the first attempt to enter the code. The second effort was successful, however, and a rush of cool air met the legionnaires as they entered the long, narrow room. There was a solid thud as the door swung closed, and the overhead lights flickered momentarily as they came on. There weren’t very many of them, so the overall level of illumination was low.
There were two ranks of T-1s. They stood upright, like old-fashioned suits of armor, with their backs to the walls, staring at each other across a four-foot-wide corridor. The empties weren’t people and never had been, but they had been invested with life at one time, and evidence of that was stenciled onto their chests. Names like Franco, Chu, and Antov. Had her father touched any of them? On the assembly line perhaps? During one of his walkabouts?
McKee forced herself to ignore her emotions and focus on the job in front of her. The first task was to choose which machines to cannibalize. But as she made her way down the central aisle, there was no way to tell which war forms were in the best shape simply by looking at them. “Okay,” she said. “You know what we’re looking for. But be sure to run a diagnostic check before you pull any parts. Otherwise, you’ll wind up stealing worn-out components.”
“Yes, Mother,” Larkin said impatiently. “What? You think I’m stupid?”
McKee thought it best to ignore the question, paused in front of a war form with the name Chavez on its battle-scarred chest, and thumbed an inspection panel. It popped open to reveal a glowing screen. Each one of the war form’s primary systems could be seen. And as she scrolled down the list, she was disappointed to see that two of her high-priority targets were in the red.
So she closed the panel, moved to the next T-1, and had better luck there. Both of that unit’s arm servos were shot, but the war form’s knee actuators were listed as 80 percent, and its all-important com module was green as well.
A high-pitched mosquito-like whine announced the fact that Larkin was already at work as he made use of a flashlight-sized omnitool to go after a knee coupler. “Remember,” McKee said as she began work. “Clean up after yourself. Don’t leave any evidence.”
“Relax already,” Larkin replied, as a retainer clip popped out of the T-1’s actuator housing and flew across the room. “I’ve got it under control.”
But McKee couldn’t relax because the clock was running, and there was the constant risk of discovery. The pressure caused her normally nimble fingers to feel clumsy, and it seemed as if everything took twice as long as it should have. But item by item, she was filling her wish list. And, according to intermittent reports from Larkin, so was he.
So McKee was beginning to feel more confident when the door opened, and two people entered the room. If it hadn’t been for the noise generated by her omnitool, she might have heard them in time to hide everything. But that wasn’t the case, so all she could do was kick the duffel bag of parts into the shadows and pocket the tool. Her heart was beating like a trip-hammer by that time, and there was an open place where the bottom of her stomach should have been.
Rather than legionnaires, McKee found herself looking at a pair of civilians. The woman had a sunburned middle-aged face, and was dressed in neatly pressed khakis, with half-moon perspiration stains under her arms. She smiled. “Hello there . . . My name’s Maggie Cooper. Sorry to barge in. Sig and I work for Carletto Industries. We’re here to take these forms off your hands.”
McKee had never seen either one of the civilians before, so there was no way to know if they were longtime employees or had been hired since the company had been expropriated. She scanned their faces, looking for signs of recognition, but there weren’t any. She forced a smile. “Glad to meet you, ma’am. We were sent over to carry out some routine maintenance, and were about to leave.”
If Cooper wondered why the Legion would perform maintenance on empties, she gave no sign of it. “Right . . . Well, by this time tomorrow, the building will be empty. That will be one less thing for you to do.”
“Roger that, ma’am,” McKee replied. “Come on, Hawkins . . . Let’s get some chow.”
Larkin frowned, and McKee was afraid that he was going to correct her when he said, “Right. If you want to call that slop ‘chow.’”
The civilians chuckled and stood to one side as McKee lugged the bagful of parts out into the broiling heat. “I have an idea,” Larkin said. “Rather than keep these parts, we could sell them to hard-charging suck-ups like you! Then, next time we get a chance, we’ll party.”
“You do that,” McKee replied. “And I’ll make sure your ’borg hears about it.”
“God, you’re a pain in the ass,” Larkin complained. “Why do I put up with you?”
“You shouldn’t,” McKee replied. “Let’s call it quits here and now.”
“Oh, no you don’t,” Larkin objected. “We’re like two halves of the same thing.”
“Two halves of what thing?” McKee inquired.
“You know,” Larkin said mysteriously. “Us.”
The raid was over.
ABOARD THE TRANSPORT RHEA,
IN ORBIT AROUND PLANET ORLO II
The better part of three weeks had passed since the outfit had been loaded aboard the
Rhea and packed into a multiplicity of cabins, compartments, and bays. The latter being where the T-1s were quartered. So, with less than six hours left until a small fleet of shuttles took the first elements of the battalion dirtside, McKee was busy running one last check on Weber’s systems when Sergeant Hux appeared. He had to shout to make himself heard over the sound of conversation, the whine of omnitools, and the latest announcement on the PA system. “Follow me, McKee . . . The loot wants to see you.”
Any summons by a person with authority caused a stab of fear. Was this it? The moment when her past caught up with her? No, McKee told herself, get a grip. It’s a routine matter of some sort. Nothing more.
She stood and turned to face Hux. “Sure, Sarge . . . What’s up?”
“I’ll let the loot explain,” Hux said. “But one piece of advice.”
McKee felt a sinking sensation. It wasn’t routine then. “Yes?”
Hux smiled. “Lie like hell.”
And that was all the noncom would say as he led her out of the bay and down a gleaming passageway, to the tiny cabin that Camacho shared with Lieutenant Sarr. A varnished knock block was mounted next to the steel hatch. Hux came to attention and rapped three times. “Sergeant Hux, and Lance Corporal McKee, reporting as ordered, sir!”
McKee heard a male voice say, “Come,” and followed Hux inside. Lieutenant Sarr was nowhere to be seen. With his troops probably—getting ready for the drop. Camacho was young and good-looking in a brooding sort of way. He had black hair, dark brows, and very intense eyes, both of which were fastened on McKee. “I must say, I’m disappointed,” the officer said. “I had you down as one of the good ones. A shoo-in for corporal. Now, based on what I’ve been told, it looks like you’re a thief.”
McKee felt her skin prickle and began to sweat. The statement was just that, a statement, so she remained silent.
“I am referring to the theft of parts from the morgue on Adobe,” Comacho continued. “According to a civilian contractor named Cooper, you, or a person matching your description, were in the morgue when she and an associate entered two days prior to liftoff. A person who could have been Private Larkin was present, too.
“Later, once Cooper and her team began to prepare the empties for transport to Earth, it became clear that more than two dozen parts were missing. A message torp was waiting when we dropped into orbit, and there, along with a shitload of stuff for the colonel, was a report addressed to Captain Avery. He passed it on to me. What, if anything, do you have to say for yourself?”
McKee thought about how the accusation had been phrased and took comfort from the words “or a person matching your description.” That seemed to indicate that they weren’t entirely sure. And she had Sergeant Hux’s advice to go on as well. Her eyes were focused on a spot directly above Comacho’s head. “Nothing, sir . . . I didn’t do it.”
Comacho’s left eyebrow rose slightly. “Really?” he said skeptically. “Fortunately for you, this unit is no longer on Adobe. So citizen Cooper isn’t here to call you a liar. You are one, however. And that’s why Sergeant Hux is going to give you and your partner in crime some extra duty. Now get the hell out of my cabin.”
Both legionnaires said, “Yes, sir!” and performed a neat about-face. Moments later, McKee was out in the corridor walking next to Hux. “Sorry, Sarge.”
Hux grinned. “Don’t worry . . . The loot knows the score . . . And since you were scrounging parts for his cyborgs, he’s not going to poop on your parade.”
McKee was surprised. “Really?”
“You’ve still got your stripe, don’t you? And nobody ordered me to search your gear. But,” Hux added, “don’t do it again. And if I catch you or Larkin selling any of those parts, you will be pulling shit details until I make general.”
“What about the extra duty?”
“That’s for real,” Hux replied. “Camacho is sending you the same message I did.”
“So I’ll be digging latrines on Orlo II?”
“Worse than that,” Hux said darkly. “While the rest of the outfit is strutting around Hoodsport, looking important, you’re going to babysit some brass. Good luck, McKee . . . You’re going to need it.”
* * *
Colonel George Rylund had been in the Legion for more than twenty years, and he was, according to the scan, a good if somewhat eccentric officer. One of his eccentricities jutted out from between clenched teeth and emitted regular puffs of cherry-flavored smoke. That in spite of the NO SMOKING signs posted on the battered bulkheads around him. He was dressed in camos, seated on an ammo crate rather than a drop seat, and engrossed in whatever was on his data pad. Intel reports? Probably, or so McKee assumed, as she eyed the officer from twenty feet away. The assault boat shook violently as it passed through a jet stream high in the atmosphere and continued to lose altitude.
McKee, along with Weber, Larkin, and his T-1, were on temporary assigned duty to Rylund’s bodyguard. It was a relatively small force of eight people led by a no-nonsense staff sergeant named Sharma. He and the rest of his squad were members of the 2nd REP (2nd Foreign Parachute Regiment) and wore berets rather than helmets, thereby putting pride before safety. It was a questionable trade-off in her opinion.
The T-1s and their bio bods had been sent along because they could “throw a lot of lead,” as Sergeant Hux put it. Something that would be important if the enemy attacked during what Hux referred to as “the upcoming circle jerk.”
Of course, the two bio bods were being punished as well, because while they were glued to Rylund’s six, the rest of the company would be taking part in what everyone expected to be an unopposed landing near the loyalist town of Hoodsport. A community which, according to some highly questionable scan, would insist on providing the battalion with free sex, beer, and food.
McKee would have preferred to be with the rest of the company but was somewhat philosophical about the chore, knowing it could have been much worse. Larkin, on the other hand, was absolutely furious because he was about to be denied the only thing worth fighting for. And that was a full-fledged bacchanal.
But like it or not, they were part of the security detail, and McKee was determined to learn what she could from the experience. So as the assault boat came in for a landing, and Sharma issued his orders, she was ready to go. “The T-1s will de-ass the boat first,” Sharma said, “and scan the LZ for hostiles. Unless something has gone very wrong, there will be friendlies in the area. Try not to shoot them. Once the area is secure, the rest of the security team will exit, followed by Topper-One and his staff. Do you read me?”
A flurry of double clicks confirmed that they did. McKee was already mounted on Weber by then, and the cyborg was positioned in front of the main hatch as it was lowered to the ground and transformed into a ramp. They didn’t expect trouble, but she was nervous anyway and took comfort from Weber’s professionalism as he clanked down onto solid ground. His voice boomed through her headset. “This is Echo-Four-Five . . . I have three bio bods inside the zone—and all of them appear to be friendlies. There are numerous heat signatures farther out, but they are consistent with Imperial vehicles of various types, and none of them are lasing us. Over.”
Weber broke right, as Larkin’s T-1 turned left, so that they were positioned to defend the hatch. “Roger that,” Sharma replied. “Stand by . . . We’re on the way. Over.”
The security team exited the boat at that point, split, and took up positions around the T-1s. Then, as if out for a stroll, Colonel Rylund clomped down the ramp. Except for his pipe, and a swagger stick, he was unarmed. Which, according to the stories McKee had heard, was the way he typically entered battle.
A phalanx of officers followed along behind, including the battalion S-2 (Intelligence), the S-4 (Logistics), and the S-6 (Communications). All of whom would want to confer with their counterparts in the navy and Marine Corps as the three branche
s came together to agree on a course of action. Because while Empress Ophelia had given orders to pacify Orlo II, she hadn’t said how. That was up to Vice Admiral Jonathan Poe. He, and two of his senior officers, were waiting to greet Rylund.
The colonel made use of his pipe to salute Poe, who, if offended, gave no sign of it. In marked contrast to the camo-clad men and women around him, Poe was wearing a crisp white uniform, and looked as if he were about to attend a tea party. The admiral was a tall, thin man who was known for his intelligence in a branch where scientific expertise was critical.
There was a flurry of handshakes as the security team moved forward with a T-1 on each flank. That was when it started to rain. Two umbrellas appeared over the admiral, and Rylund was left to get wet as the group left the LZ for the line of trees beyond.
After passing through the trees and a defensive position manned by some bored-looking marines, the group arrived at the center of a temporary HQ, where they took shelter under a large tent. It was equipped with weatherproof walls, which were rolled up to let the muggy air circulate. A female officer was waiting to greet Rylund, and McKee had the impression of a stocky woman with a plain face.
As the rain continued to fall, McKee, Weber, and the rest of the detail stood with their backs to the tent ready to defend Poe and his subordinates should the secessionists launch a surprise attack. Standing guard was a drag, but she could hear most of what was being said, and couldn’t resist the opportunity to learn what she could. “All right,” Poe said, “Hoodsport is ours. So we have a secure beachhead. And, if it hadn’t been for the idiot who shot himself in the foot, our casualty rate would be zero.
“But taking the city of Riversplit won’t be so easy. According to all of the Intel reports, the rebels are not only dug in, they have hundreds of black-market surface-to-air missiles (SAMs) in hardened launchers. So we won’t have air superiority in that area.”
Andromeda's Fall (Legion of the Damned) Page 13
