Andromeda's Fall (Legion of the Damned)

by Dietz, William C.

Avery nodded. “Good. Get some sleep.”

  McKee said, “Thank you, sir,” stood, and turned to go. She was halfway to the door when Jivv spoke. “Corporal . . .”

  McKee stopped and turned. “Yes?”

  “According to the squad-level load-out checklist for last night’s mission, you were carrying a thermite grenade. But you made no mention of using it—and there was no mention of the grenade on the list of ordnance that was turned in. What happened to it?”

  McKee felt something cold trickle into her bloodstream. Jivv was on a fishing expedition. Or did he suspect foul play? She made an effort to keep what she was feeling off her face. “I lost it.”

  Avery frowned and looked at the robot for the first time since McKee had entered the room. “If you believe that Corporal McKee violated regulations, or was remiss in the performance of her duties, then say so. Otherwise, keep your mouth shut.”

  Oxby looked uncomfortable and clearly wanted to be somewhere else. Jivv opened its mouth as if to reply, apparently thought better of it, and remained silent.

  Avery returned his gaze to McKee. He was furious, judging from the expression on his face. “Dismissed.”

  McKee said, “Yes, sir,” and left the room. Then it was time to grab a sandwich in the makeshift chow hall that occupied the gymnasium, return to the company area, and collapse on her cot. Sleep came quickly—and Nayer was there to greet her.

  * * *

  Twelve hours had passed since McKee had been debriefed. Six had been spent sleeping, five had been spent getting her squad ready for combat, and one had been spent waiting for the briefing to begin. That pissed her off because there were so many other things that she could have been doing. Although the Legion’s official motto was Legio Patria Nostra (The Legion Is Our Country), it might as well have been “Hurry Up and Wait.”

  But, finally, Captain Avery and Lieutenant Oxby entered the classroom where Echo Company’s officers and noncoms were assembled. “Sorry about the delay,” Avery began. “But the battalion briefer ran over. The good news is that we finally have a time. The assault on Riversplit will begin at 0500 hours in the morning. The 6th REI will go in first, with support from the Grays.

  “We will be in the second wave. Our task is to seek out the enemy’s cavalry and neutralize it. Thanks to some HUMINT, we have images to share with you. Lieutenant Oxby—if you would be so kind.”

  McKee was surprised to hear that the rebs had cavalry, as were the men and women around her, since T-1s, quads, and fly-forms were unique to the Legion insofar as she knew. But the picture that appeared on the wall screen was something very different from the sort of cavalry she was used to. So much so that the image provoked laughter and comments like “You’ve got to be kidding,” “We’ll cream them,” and “Get serious.”

  McKee remained silent, but she could see why the others were so contemptuous. The video had been shot from a distance. It jiggled from time to time and showed a human encased in a nine-foot-tall exoskeleton. The same sort of machine used to load and unload cargo vessels. The reb was running an obstacle course or trying to. But his machine hadn’t been designed to high-step through rows of tires, and she wasn’t surprised when he tripped and fell. That triggered gales of laughter, which Avery cut short. “Atten-HUT.”

  The talking stopped, those who had been seated stood, and everyone came to attention. “So you think the guy in the exoskeleton is funny?” Avery demanded as he glared at them. “Well laugh at this . . . The rebs call them Rippers. And for good reason. They’re slower than a T-1, and less agile, but a good deal more powerful. And that could be very important in an urban setting, where combat can get up close and personal.

  “Plus, the rebs have armed their machines with heat-seeking fire-and-forget missiles (SLMs). Two tubes per Ripper. And that’s in addition to the .50-caliber machine guns mounted on both sides of the operators’ cages. All of which is to say that you’d better take these things seriously. Do you read me?”

  The answer was in unison. “Yes, sir!”

  “Good. As you were. Lieutenant Oxby—you may proceed.”

  McKee listened carefully and took notes, knowing it was her responsibility to pass the information on to her squad. Oxby’s briefing came to a conclusion ten minutes later. Avery offered a closing comment. “Remember . . . The infantry is counting on us. Two Rippers could decimate a company of ground pounders. And the enemy may have as many as fifty of them. Be ready at 0400, have your people in the assembly area by 0430, and keep radio traffic to a minimum. The sergeant major will be kicking ass and taking names. I’ll see you there. Dismissed.”

  She left with all the others, returned to her hooch, and found Larkin sitting on her cot. He had a shit-eating grin on his face. “So, Corporal,” he said, with unnecessary emphasis on the word “Corporal.” “Where should I put my gear?”

  McKee frowned. “You don’t mean . . .”

  “I sure as hell do!” Larkin said triumphantly. “I put in a request for the second squad—and Sergeant Fanta signed the chit!”

  McKee could imagine how thrilled Fanta had been. Nobody wanted Larkin, and the chance to get rid of him had been too good to pass up. Even if it left Fanta one bio bod short.

  But while Larkin was a burden in many ways, McKee knew that she could count on the troublemaker even if no one else could. And with Jivv around, it would be nice to have somebody to watch her six. She forced a smile. “That’s wonderful news. As it happens, I have a slot for a crazy, undisciplined pain in the ass like yourself. You’ll replace Nayer. Go find his T-1 and get acquainted. And run every diagnostic there is. We’re going to visit Riversplit tomorrow.”

  Larkin grinned and came to his feet. “Got it.”

  “And Larkin . . .”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t make me sorry.”

  * * *

  If the rebels were wondering when the attack would come, the question was answered at 0430 hours when the artillery and rocket barrage began. Hits were marked by red-orange explosions that lived for a second or two before being swallowed up by the predawn darkness. Meanwhile, Echo Company was assembled behind the Grays and stood ready to follow them into no-man’s-land, where the first clash was expected to take place. If Rylund’s forces were successful on the flat ground, they would have the dubious privilege of assaulting the hill beyond.

  McKee had checked her squad twice by that time and knew there was no point in doing so again. Weber was fidgety and kept shifting his weight from foot to foot, which meant she had to compensate for it. It was annoying and an act of will was required to refrain from saying something to him.

  Everyone was nervous, and that included Avery, who was making the rounds and talking to soldiers in each squad. He looked calm enough, but his words came more quickly than usual, and he was telling jokes. Something he never did under normal circumstances and wasn’t very good at.

  In fact, the only person who didn’t seem concerned was Larkin. He was doing what he always did, which was to complain about everything from what he considered to be a substandard breakfast to the constipation that would surely result. McKee smiled when Singh told Larkin to “shut the hell up.”

  Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of waiting, the artillery barrage stopped, at least two dozen flares went off over no-man’s-land, and the infantry began to advance. Avery’s voice sounded unnaturally loud in her helmet. “Echo Company will advance on my command. Remember . . . Keep those intervals right, watch for enemy cavalry units, and maintain your situational awareness. It could get real complicated out there, and it would be easy to wind up shooting at each other.”

  The order came moments later. “Echo Company will advance in extended order.”

  Someone yelled, “Camerone!” and other legionnaires did likewise. Sergeant Major Essex snapped at them for violating radio protocol, but everyone knew
he didn’t mean it.

  A gentle slope led down over broken ground into the warscape beyond. The sun had risen by then, and McKee could see the miles of bombed-out houses, buildings, and rubble-littered streets through which the invaders would have to pass before reaching the hill.

  The Grays and elements of the 6th REI were already in the maze and feeling their way forward under the direction of officers who could “see” the terrain ahead via drones and real-time images on their HUDs.

  Then, as Weber arrived at the bottom of the slope and followed Avery into what had been a major thoroughfare, McKee’s line of sight was greatly reduced. As a squad leader, she could access the drone feeds, but she knew that if she did, it might be a distraction rather than a help. No, she decided. It was better to let Avery worry about the big picture while she focused on the area around her squad.

  The lead elements of the infantry had made contact by then, and the rattle of automatic weapons together with the steady crump of mortars signaled a brisk firefight. But there hadn’t been any reports of Rippers, so Avery was compelled to reduce the rate of advance or risk overrunning the ground pounders. And that could be disastrous. Because lethal though the T-1s were, the cyborgs weren’t ideal for urban combat—a situation in which their size made them excellent targets for rocket-propelled grenades, obstructions kept them from using their speed, and massed infantry attacks were a constant threat.

  As Echo Company slowed, McKee was conscious of the fact that one of her jobs was to protect Weber’s six. That meant keeping her head on a swivel even as she monitored the three units under her command. Larkin’s ’borg, a male named Hower, had a tendency to walk right down the middle of the street as if daring the rebs to shoot at him. And if Larkin was aware of the problem, he showed no signs of doing anything about it. So as they came within range of the enemy’s artillery, she told Hower, “Stay out of the street and use cover.”

  And it was then, while she was focused on the tactical situation, that the big picture changed. “This is Echo-Nine,” Avery said. “The first platoon will close up and prepare for a left turn at the next intersection. Some Rippers were hiding in an underground parking garage, and now they’re coming out to play. The first platoon will follow me. The second and third will continue to advance. Over.”

  And with that, Avery’s cyborg began to jog. The rest of the company did likewise, as twelve T-1s snaked around a corner and threaded their way through an obstacle course that consisted of shot-up vehicles. Shoulder-launched missiles wouldn’t be very useful in an urban environment, so all of the ’borgs carried bio bods instead.

  McKee could hear frenzied firing by then as well as desperate radio calls on the battalion push. All semblance of proper radio procedure had fallen by the wayside as a company of Grays battled to survive. “Behind you, Mac!” “It’s got Kowalsi . . .” “Medic! We need a medic here.”

  All of that and more was flooding the push even as a voice that McKee recognized as belonging to Lieutenant Colonel Spurlock ordered his people to get off the battalion frequency. Then the platoon rounded a corner, and she could see the mayhem firsthand. A shopping mall had been transformed into a battlefield. And judging from the bodies that lay strewn about, the Rippers were stalking the Grays with near impunity, jerking them out of their hiding places and systematically dismembering them. A woman uttered a long, piercing scream as an exoskeleton-clad rebel plucked her off the ground and ripped her right leg off.

  McKee felt anger flood in to replace whatever fear she’d been feeling. The rebs were clearly enjoying themselves and killing for killing’s sake as they painted the mall red. And it was clear that Avery felt as she did. “This is Nine . . . Choose your targets and take the bastards down! No prisoners. Over.”

  Theoretically, cyborgs were supposed to do what bio bods told them to do. A practice that reflected the extent to which people at the highest levels of the Legion continued to be frightened of their new weapons. But in combat, that was rarely the case because the time consumed in a two-way conversation could mean the difference between life and death. Weber took the lead by heading straight at a rampaging Ripper. And because the reb was so engrossed in swinging a noncom around by his ankles, he failed to see the danger until it was too late.

  Weber fired his grenade launcher and scored a direct hit. One of the exoskeleton’s legs collapsed, dumping the machine onto the pavement. A long burst from the fifty finished the job. Unfortunately, the Gray had been released to sail through the air and hit the side of a building headfirst. His body crumpled to the ground.

  The first Ripper’s death elicited an amplified roar of outrage from another reb, who charged across the plaza at Weber. It happened so quickly that the cyborg wasn’t able to get off more than a three-shot burst before the tooth-rattling collision.

  Then the battle was hand-to-hand, or grasper-to-grasper, as McKee looked over Weber’s shoulder and into what she could see of the rebel’s face. Only his eyes were visible thanks to the makeshift armor that protected him. Servos whined, and the air was filled with the acrid odor of ozone as the giants grappled with each other.

  McKee had seen Weber throw other T-1s during training sessions, but not only was the Ripper more powerful than he was, it was heavier, too. So she aimed the AXE at the enemy pilot and fired a sequence of short bursts. But because of the thickness of the reb armor, plus violent movements by both machines, she wasn’t able to score a hit.

  So McKee released her harness and dropped to the ground. Then, as she circled the machines that loomed above her, she fired short bursts. Sparks flew where her bullets struck. But the 4.7mm rounds had no noticeable effect on the Ripper. It had a lock on Weber’s head and was trying to twist it off.

  More out of desperation than anything else, McKee let the AXE dangle from its sling as she launched herself at the Ripper from behind. Then she pulled herself up to the point where she was directly behind the pilot. He was protected by an improvised cage. But it wasn’t perfect, and a small gap offered the opportunity she needed.

  Noncoms carried pistols, and that included corporals, even if McKee hadn’t had a chance to fire hers yet. As Weber struggled to escape the exoskeleton’s grip, she held on with one hand and pulled the weapon with the other. McKee felt proud of herself as she remembered to release the safety before shoving the barrel into the hole. The pistol’s magazine held thirty rounds and she fired fifteen of them into the control compartment.

  There was no way to know if she hit the reb directly or via a ricochet. And it didn’t matter. Suddenly, the Ripper went limp, Weber was able to regain his freedom, and the exoskeleton collapsed. McKee rode it down, was thrown free by the impact, and rolled to her feet with pistol raised.

  Avery, who was still aboard his cyborg, was there to greet her. “I saw what you did, Corporal . . . And Sergeant Hux would have been proud. No wonder they call you the Steel Bitch.”

  McKee hadn’t been aware of the nickname until then and didn’t like it. But she knew that once given, such things were impossible to get rid of. “Thank you, sir. I think.”

  Avery grinned. “We beat ’em, McKee. We beat ’em good.” And as McKee looked around, she saw that the officer was correct. A couple of T-1s were down, but at least six Rippers had been destroyed, one of which was little more than a smoking wreck. That meant the Grays were free to enter the meat grinder up ahead.

  “Mount up,” Avery ordered. “And collect your squad. With any luck at all, we’ll eat our rations on the hill tonight.”

  As it turned out, Echo Company didn’t get to eat dinner in the city of Riversplit. The rebs were too tough for that. But they did have breakfast near the top of the hill. A spot from which it was possible to look out over the devastated landscape and watch the sun come up. Not her sun, but an alien sun, which, like the planet itself, belonged to Empress Ophelia. And I helped her take it back, McKee mused. How ironic is that?


  But her belly was full, her tea was hot, and she felt strangely happy. A battle had been won, her squad had survived, and that was sufficient.

  CHAPTER: 10

  * * *

  Civil unrest signals weakness and invites attack.

  HADA IBIN RAGNATHA

  Turr Truth Sayer

  Standard year 2203

  PLANET ORLO II

  Echo Company was bivouacked in the ruins of a machine shop on the east side of the city. McKee had removed Weber’s head and was replacing the rotator bearing in the cyborg’s neck when Singh stopped by. “Jeez, McKee, shouldn’t you call in Hosker for a repair like that? What if you can’t put him back together?”

  McKee would have preferred to have a tech do the work, but she’d seen some of the shoddy repairs that Hosker made. And wasn’t about to let him work on Weber. But if she said that, Singh might tell Hosker, who would report her for carrying out repairs she wasn’t qualified to make. And the charge would stick. “Hosker’s busy right now,” McKee said evasively, “given all the battle damage he has to repair. So I figured I’d take care of it myself. And Weber doesn’t mind. Do you, Web?”

  The cyborg’s head was sitting on a beat-up table and was connected to his body via an armored umbilical. “Hell, no,” Weber responded. “McKee has the touch. She can work on me anytime.”

  “Okay, if you say so,” Singh replied doubtfully. “I’ve got a message from the PL. She wants to see all of the squad leaders at 1000 hours.”

  Lieutenant Cally Kaylor had been sent to replace Camacho. According to the scan, she was a jacker, meaning an officer who had risen through the ranks, and a stickler for regulations. McKee had been introduced to the officer but hadn’t spent any time with her. She frowned. “So what’s up?”

  Singh shrugged. “Beats me. The loot didn’t say.”

  “Whatever it is won’t be good,” Weber predicted darkly.