What ensued was both thrilling and frightening. It sounded like a dozen freight trains were rumbling overhead as a curtain of steel fell—and a long line of explosions cut across no-man’s-land. Hundreds of Hudathans, all intent on destroying the T-1s, were caught out in the open and cut to pieces. McKee and her legionnaires were safe.
She stumbled through a hole in a long coil of barbed wire, crossed a trench via a wooden plank, and passed a machine-gun emplacement. Half a dozen legionnaires surged forward to greet her. “Eason,” she said woodenly. “Here . . . His BSM.”
“Got it,” a sergeant said. “Dawkins! Get this brain box to medical on the double!”
Then, turning back to McKee, he said, “Why? Why did you do it?”
McKee removed her helmet, ran a hand through her hair, and took a long slow look around. She was alive, and that came as a surprise. “I came to see Colonel Rylund.”
“You what?”
“I came to see Colonel Rylund.”
A lieutenant appeared at that moment. The young woman was about McKee’s age. She looked at McKee’s face, eyed the scar, and nodded. “You heard the corporal. She came to see the colonel. And, judging from what was required to get here, she has something important to say. Make it happen.”
CHAPTER: 17
* * *
Arms is a profession that, if its principles are adhered to for success, requires an officer to do what he fears may be wrong, and yet, according to military experience, must be done, if success is to be attained.
LT. GENERAL THOMAS J. (STONEWALL) JACKSON
A letter to his wife
Standard year 1862
PLANET ORLO II
The journey from no-man’s-land up through Riversplit’s twisted streets was like a trip through the seven chambers of hell. As McKee, Larkin, and Insa were led past shattered buildings and piles of rubble, they caught glimpses of hollow-eyed civilians crouched around fires, battle-weary legionnaires sleeping wherever they could, and starving dogs peering at them from the shadows. An air-raid siren wailed nearby, the ground shook as bombs landed on the north flank of the hill, and the steady thump, thump, thump of AA batteries could be heard all around. “The Hudathans are very methodical,” Sergeant Ito explained, as they passed a bombed-out hospital. “They attack twice each day and always at the same times. That might seem stupid, but people know what’s coming, and when to expect it. That saps morale.”
What Ito said made sense. And McKee wondered if that was because the Hudathans understood human psychology—or because they preferred to run their wars on time. The question remained unanswered as Ito led the threesome to the half-burned wreckage of what had been Governor Jones’s mansion. McKee winced as she remembered the moment when Jones, Cia, and Marcy had been murdered.
Jivv! The thought was enough to send what felt like ice water trickling into her veins. Was the synth here? In Riversplit? And what about Spurlock? Could he be waiting for her as well? McKee thought about the memory mod Avery had given her and wondered if his testimony would do any good. That didn’t seem likely if Spurlock had any say.
Those thoughts and more ran through her mind as Ito led the group back along the side of the building to the point where two sentries were on duty. After talking to the guards, the noncom led the party down a flight of stairs to a pair of blastproof doors. They opened into a small vestibule that served as a light lock. Once the outer doors were closed, the inner ones could be opened.
Ito removed his helmet, and McKee did likewise as they followed a hall to what a hand-printed sign proclaimed to be the COMMAND CENTER. The dimly lit room was quite large. A flat-screen mosaic covered one of the walls. Some views featured live footage that was streaming in from helmet cams and surveillance drones while others remained dark.
But if that was ominous, the quiet professionalism with which the people in the room went about their jobs gave McKee reason to hope. Most of the activity was centered around a three-dimensional holo tank. And there, within the semitransparent representation of Riversplit, dozens of miniature battles were being waged. Judging from the snatches of conversation she overheard, it appeared that there was some localized radio communication. But old-fashioned runners were being used as well—and that meant a constant flow of foot traffic.
McKee’s observations were interrupted as a captain came forward to greet the newcomers. He had dark skin, tired eyes, and a ready smile. Somehow, in spite of the conditions in Riversplit, he had contrived to shave, press his uniform, and polish his brass. Was that the mark of a professional? Or a butt-kissing REMF? McKee waited to find out as the officer introduced himself. “I’m Captain Kinzo. I know Ito here . . . And you must be Corporal McKee. You and your cyborgs lit up our screens! We knew something was happening when the fireworks started. Once we figured out what was going on, everyone cheered! The last bit scared the crap out of us, though. Still, as I understand it, your entire party made it through, so all’s well that ends well. Perhaps you’d be so kind as to introduce your companions.”
“This is Private Larkin,” McKee said, “and this is Insa. He wants to confer with Colonel Rylund regarding the alliance that Captain Avery negotiated with the Droi people.”
Kinzo’s eyebrows rose. “Avery is still alive? I’m pleased to hear it.”
Then, having turned to Insa, he said, “It’s an honor to meet you. It took extraordinary courage to come here, and we appreciate it. Colonel Rylund is tied up right now—but wants to meet with you the moment his conference is over.”
“That good,” Insa said stolidly. “I wait.”
“Excellent,” Kinza said smoothly. “There are refreshments on the table over there. Please help yourselves.” And with that, the officer walked away.
Conscious of the fact that Spurlock and/or Jivv could appear at any moment, McKee scanned the room. Thankfully, neither one of her enemies was present. That left her free to visit the buffet. It was intended to serve those who worked in the command center.
Larkin was visibly disappointed. “There’s nothing left,” he complained, and he was correct. Most of the trays were empty or very nearly so. The exception was a platter loaded with two dozen sweet rolls that arrived while they were standing there.
Larkin grabbed three while McKee and Insa helped themselves to one each. She took her pastry plus a mug of lukewarm coffee over to a table and sat down. Insa took a sip of the caf, made a face, and spit the liquid back into the cup. “Sorry,” he said. “Need tea.”
But there wasn’t any tea, so Insa settled for water instead. Having finished the roll, McKee allowed her head to rest on the wall behind her. What felt like two seconds passed before Larkin woke her up. “Rise ’n’ shine, Corporal . . . The colonel wants to see us.”
McKee yawned, glanced at her chrono, and saw that twenty minutes had elapsed since the beginning of her impromptu nap. Captain Kinzo was waiting. “Sorry, sir,” McKee said as she came to her feet.
“No problem,” Kinzo replied. “That’s how it is around here. We sleep when we can. Come on . . . The colonel is available.”
McKee, Larkin, and Insa followed the officer across the room to an open door. Kinzo knocked before looking in. “Corporal McKee, sir. Along with Representative Insa and Private Larkin.”
McKee took note of the title that Kinzo had bestowed on Insa and the way he provided Rylund with all of their names. It was, she realized, the sort of thing her father’s secretary always did for him. Was Mr. Wong still alive? Or had he been murdered, too? She hoped not.
McKee heard Rylund say, “Enter,” and followed Kinzo into an office which, judging from the way it was decorated, had been intended for use by Governor Jones. Rylund wasn’t smoking, but the aroma of cherry-flavored pipe tobacco permeated the room. She was shocked to see how much Rylund had aged during the last month or so. “Corporal McKee,” he said as he circled the ornate desk. “You’ve
been busy since the last time I saw you.”
Did Rylund really remember her? Or had he been briefed by Kinzo? McKee decided that it didn’t matter as the officer shook her hand and went on to welcome Larkin and Insa. Somehow, Rylund knew that a bow was called for where the Droi was concerned and was familiar with the greeting ritual as well. “I see you, Insa.”
“And I, you,” Insa replied solemnly.
“You are welcome here,” Rylund said formally. “Please have a seat. I am anxious to speak with you. But I’d like to ask McKee for a report first. Would that be agreeable?”
“Insa wait,” the Droi said, and sat on one of the well-padded chairs. Rylund rested his weight on the corner of the desk while McKee stood at something approximating parade rest. Larkin was behind her, and she hoped he was behaving himself.
“I know Captain Avery sent you here for a reason,” Rylund said. “But, before we get into that, I’d like to know how the mission to find Governor Jones went. And get a readout on the battalion. We could use some more troops.”
McKee felt a profound sense of relief. Spurlock was still MIA—and very likely dead. And so, for that matter, was Jivv. Were it otherwise, Rylund would know, or at least think that he knew, what had occurred. So she could describe the situation in whatever way she chose. But how? Should she tell Rylund everything? Her real identity, what Jivv had done, and Spurlock’s complicity in three homicides? Or should she lie by providing a narrative that omitted any mention of her role in the governor’s escape, the fact that she had witnessed his death, and subsequently been charged with a long list of crimes? Remembering that whatever she did would affect Avery as well.
Rylund was staring at her, and McKee realized that at least five seconds had passed. She cleared her throat, and said, “Sir, yes sir.” What followed was a report that was accurate in every respect except where her activities were concerned. The way she told the story, the governor and his party managed to escape on their own, were recaptured, and disappeared shortly thereafter. She wasn’t sure, but rumor had it that they had been killed by Jivv and the bodies disposed of.
Rylund winced when he heard that but didn’t seem terribly surprised, and said, “Go on.”
McKee was committed to her lie by that time and knew that both Larkin and Insa could contradict her account if they chose to. It was tempting to look at them, but she managed to resist. She said, “Yes, sir,” and resumed the narrative. The balance of the report was much easier to give. McKee told Rylund about how the battalion had been ambushed on the bridge, the EMP bomb, and how Avery had assumed command.
“What happened to Lieutenant Colonel Spurlock?” Rylund demanded.
“He disappeared during the fighting, sir,” McKee replied. “Along with Monitor Jivv.”
Rylund looked at Kinzo. “You’re recording this?”
Kinzo pointed at one of the cameras located in a corner of the room. “Yes, sir.”
“Good,” Rylund said as he turned back to McKee. “Please continue.”
McKee’s throat felt dry. Her lies were being recorded. And if either Spurlock or Jivv came back from the dead, the report would be used against her. “Yes, sir. That’s where Representative Insa comes in. It was his forces who, with the help of a rebel agent named Trask, set the ambush. They captured us. That was when Captain Avery and Representative Insa began to discuss the possibility of an alliance.”
Rylund turned to Insa. His voice was stern. “I find myself in a difficult position. You and your people killed some of my legionnaires. Yet Corporal McKee says that you are interested in forming an alliance. What should I believe?”
“Hate Hudathans,” Insa said. “Kill.”
Rylund smiled grimly. “You are the first diplomat in my experience to word a response so clearly and succinctly. And I agree with your sentiment.”
Kinzo cleared his throat at that point. “Excuse me, sir, but judging from the expression on Private Larkin’s face, he wants to say something.”
McKee turned to look and saw that Kinzo was correct. She’d seen that expression before. The frown, the squinty eyes, and the downturned mouth were all signs of an impending eruption. And there was no way to know what the volatile legionnaire would say. “Is that correct?” Rylund inquired politely. “If so, get whatever it is off your chest.”
McKee’s heart fell as Larkin spoke. “The corporal left some stuff out, sir. Important stuff.”
“Oh, really,” Rylund responded with a raised eyebrow. “Please enlighten us.”
“Well,” Larkin began, “McKee mentioned the EMP blast, and what it did to the cyborgs, but she didn’t tell you who got them up and running again.”
Rylund smiled. “Corporal McKee?”
“Damned straight, sir, begging your pardon. She’s better than all of our techs, and she never went to school!”
McKee groaned internally. In his effort to make sure she received credit for repairing the T-1s, Larkin had opened a door that she wanted to keep closed. “That’s very impressive,” Rylund said. “Thank you, Private. It seems that the corporal is far too modest. So, McKee, how do you account for your skills?”
McKee’s eyes were fixed on a point directly over the officer’s head. She decided that the best course was to tell the same lie she had used before. “I worked in the factory that makes T-1s prior to joining the Legion, sir.”
“And we failed to offer you a tech slot?”
“No, sir. I want to fight. Sir.”
Rylund chuckled. “Most techs would take exception to that comment, but I understand. It seems that Captain Avery made a good decision when he recommended you for corporal. And I was smart enough to approve his recommendation.”
That was news to McKee, who didn’t know that Rylund was even aware of such trivial matters. “So an alliance was formed,” Rylund said. “What then?”
Rylund listened to the rest of it without interrupting her. That included McKee’s account of the trip through the forest, her observations from the hilltop, and the decision to charge straight in. Once the narrative was over, Rylund shook his head in amazement. “That took imagination and guts,” he said. “I’m glad you made it. I’m going to instruct Captain Kinzo to put all five of you in for decorations. And, as of today, you can add another chevron to your arm. We can’t have corporals leading cavalry charges. It makes the rest of us look bad.”
The promotion to sergeant came as a shock. And McKee knew she didn’t deserve it. “Thank you, sir. But I don’t think . . .”
“Sergeants do think,” Rylund said. “Well, they’re supposed to anyway. Now let’s bring Representative Insa back into this conversation. I’d like to know how many warriors he can bring to bear on the situation, how they’re armed, and where they are.”
The officers spent the next thirty minutes quizzing Insa about the Droi and their capacity to fight. According to Insa, there were at least ten thousand warriors within a three-hundred-mile radius of Riversplit. Of course, that number was a bit deceiving because while all of the Droi were considered to be warriors, they were also hermaphrodites, and that meant some of them had parental responsibilities. Plus, some of the population was too old or too ill to fight. Those factors brought the number of effectives down to something like five thousand Droi. Not as many as Rylund would have liked but a respectable force nevertheless.
But because the Droi were lightly armed, and lacked the supplies required for a protracted conflict, it was clear that they wouldn’t be able to do much more than harass the Hudathans. Still, anything that took pressure off Riversplit would be welcome.
But as the Q & A session came to an end, it was clear that Rylund planned to do something more than prolong the existing standoff. “Thank you, Representative Insa. Your forces would be no match in a head-to-head battle with the Hudathans. But there’s more than one way to win a war. And the Droi could be a critical e
lement in winning this one.
“Take a look at this,” Rylund said as he pointed a remote at a large wall screen. Video blossomed and resolved itself into an aerial map. “Once the fleet withdrew, the Hudathans destroyed our surveillance satellites,” Rylund said, “so this image is a few weeks old. But the basics are there.”
“Excuse me, sir,” McKee said. “I’m not sure that Representative Insa is familiar with satellite maps.”
“Thank you, Sergeant . . . Good point.” Rylund provided Insa with a short tutorial and, as with so many things, the Droi demonstrated a remarkable capacity to make complex things seem simple. “Like looking from treetop,” it said. “Only higher.”
Rylund grinned. “Exactly. So here’s where we are.” As he pointed the remote at the map, a red dot appeared and described circles around Riversplit. “And here,” he continued, “is the river from which the city takes its name. You’ll notice that as we follow it westward, we come to this structure, which is the Howari Dam. It supplies power to the area—or did until the shovel heads cut the transmission lines. And here, backed up behind it, are some 3 million cubic yards of water. I’ll bet Sergeant McKee can tell us why that’s important.”
McKee had already noticed the topography and come to the conclusion that the dam had been constructed to provide something more than power. “It looks like the Hudathans are sitting on a floodplain, sir. It’s my guess that the dam is used to keep the area dry. So if we could blow it, a wall of water would surge down the valley and sweep the enemy away. Everything but the city of Riversplit.”
“Exactly,” Rylund said as his eyes darted from face to face. “And the Hudathans aren’t stupid. They know that. And they know that the dam could be quite useful to them after they win the war. That’s why they spared it.”
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