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

by William C. Dietz

  That didn’t mean much since it didn’t say where they would meet. And if Storytell failed to show, she was to “. . . Proceed according to your best judgment.” Which meant that all the responsibility for whatever happened would rest with her.

  Despite the rather uncertain arrangements where Storytell was concerned, McKee felt better and better as the mesa dwindled behind them and eventually disappeared. Because here was what any junior officer worth his or her salt desired, even if it was fraught with danger. And that was an independent command.

  So McKee took pleasure in the cold, crisp air as she sent Vella up and down the column. She made a point out of falling in step with legionnaires to chat. And thanks to the translator she was wearing, McKee could do the same thing with Sureshot’s warriors.

  The purpose of the exercise was to learn their names, gauge personalities, and listen. The latter was very important because having come up through the ranks, McKee knew that while some enlisted personnel were full of shit, others had good ideas. Things they were willing to share with officers who would listen.

  Meanwhile, noncoms were being tested; squads were being rotated through every possible position so that the weak links could be identified. It was a process McKee would have enjoyed if it hadn’t been for the omnipresent Andy. But she had learned to ignore the machine’s incessant requests for tight shots, additional takes, and sound bites. As a result, Andy was more like an annoying insect than a serious problem.

  After three two-hour-and-forty-two-minute days had come and gone, McKee called a halt. Then she gave orders for Larkin to throw up a marching camp not unlike those used by the Romans. It consisted of a ditch backed by a dirt rampart. And that, as it turned out, was not something the Naa were accustomed to, a fact that became abundantly clear when Sureshot came to see her. “Sergeant Larkin ordered my warriors to dig a ditch,” the Naa said, “and warriors do not dig ditches. When it is time to rest, they seek high ground that offers both cover and forage for their dooths.”

  “High ground of the sort you describe is not always available,” McKee countered. “But, even if it were, I would dig a ditch around it. We are in enemy territory, and the southerners might throw a thousand warriors at us. Should that happen, you will be glad of every advantage that you have, including a well-dug ditch and rampart. Fortunately for all of us, the T-1s and the construction droids will do half the work. But when it comes to preparing defenses, it’s important that everyone lend a hand. Here’s a shovel.”

  Sureshot looked her in the eye as he accepted the shovel. It was difficult to know what he was thinking, but McKee thought she saw annoyance mixed with something else. Something that had more to do with males and females than war. But she already had someone. Or hoped she did. His name was John Avery. Major John Avery, and she had served with him on Orlo II. What was he doing now? she wondered. And what would he think of the promotion? They could see each other legally now that both of them were officers. If they lived long enough to do so. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s show the troops how it’s done.”

  So the perimeter ditch was dug, and rations were distributed, much to the amusement of the troops—who took the opportunity to sample each other’s food. Then it was time for the legionnaires to return to work. Each bio bod was responsible for performing maintenance on their T-1, with the exception of Jivani, that is, who didn’t have the necessary training. She was trying to learn however . . . And had taken to wearing a sidearm.

  The Naa had similar responsibilities. Their dooths had to be fed, groomed, and treated for various maladies. All of which consumed a couple of hours. Once their chores were completed, it was time to stand guard or sack out—depending on where each individual fell on the watch list. That, at least, wasn’t subject to controversy since the Naa had strict traditions where sentry duty was concerned.

  The eight-hour rest period passed without incident, and although the process of breaking camp went more slowly than McKee would have preferred, the column was under way by 0830. The second day was much like the first insofar as the weather was concerned—with cloudy skies and the occasional snow flurry.

  But the landscape had begun to change. The previously flat plain had begun to break up into clusters of low-lying hills, gullies, and islands of rock. That made the terrain more interesting to look at but dangerous as well since there were plenty of places for enemies to hide.

  So McKee added two T-1s and their bio bods to the party of Naa scouts, knowing that the cyborgs could “sense” things that the locals couldn’t. Examples included heat and electronic signals. But in spite of the scouting party’s best efforts, it was a drone that made first contact.

  All of McKee’s bio bods were cross-trained in at least two disciplines, and Corporal Dara Boyer was the company’s lead com tech. Which meant that in addition to maintaining her T-1, the legionnaire had to keep the company’s drones up and running, too. Her voice flooded McKee’s helmet. “Alpha-Four-One to Alpha-One. Over.”

  “This is One . . . Go. Over.”

  “Drone 2 has a contact on channel seven. Over.”

  “Roger that,” McKee said, as she brought channel seven up on her HUD (Heads Up Display). The video was projected on the inside surface of McKee’s visor and gave her a drone’s eye view of a middle-aged Naa. He had a scarf wrapped around his head, was wearing a dooth-leather jacket, and was seated with his back against a slab of gray rock. If the drone was a surprise to him, he gave no sign of it. His command of standard was excellent. “It’s about time you people showed up,” he said. “My name is Longtalk Storytell. I was going to stay hidden until you arrived, but the bastards spotted me. Now I’m pinned down and running out of ammo.”

  “This is Alpha-One,” McKee replied. “What can you tell me about the surrounding area?”

  There was a pop as someone fired a distant rifle, and McKee saw rock chips fly as the slug glanced off a rock. Storytell smiled grimly. “Humans like to say that a picture is worth a thousand words . . . So tell your drone to make the picture larger but to stay low. Your machine makes a nice target.”

  McKee gave the necessary order, and the drone obeyed. As it zoomed out and floated sideways, she was able to peer through a gap between the rocks. A heavily rutted road led up into the gap that separated two hills. The fortification sat atop the elevation to the right. It boasted a crooked flagpole from which a brightly colored pennant drooped. “That’s Graveyard Pass,” Storytell said. “Assuming it’s in the picture. It changes hands on a frequent basis. At the moment, it belongs to a bandit named Hardhand Bigclub. You can force your way through the gap or take a 150-mile detour to the east.”

  McKee ordered the drone to pull back. “Roger, that . . . What’s your present situation? Over.”

  “I’m surrounded,” Storytell replied. “I killed three of them, but I’m running out of bullets. It’s only a matter of time before they nail me.”

  That was very bad news indeed. McKee needed the Naa in order to find Truthsayer. “Hang in there . . . Help is on the way. Over.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Storytell said. “Tell your drone to land. Otherwise, they’re going to—”

  McKee never got to hear what the Naa was going to say. She heard a clang and saw an explosion of light. That was when the transmission cut to black, and a tone sounded. Drone 2 was dead.

  CHAPTER: 2

  The first method for estimating the intelligence of a ruler is to look at the men he has around him.

  NICCOLÒ MACHIAVELLI

  The Prince

  Standard year circa 1513

  PLANET EARTH

  Over thirty-six years, Carlo Veneto had risen from street urchin to gigolo. Then, powered by a clever mind, he made the nearly impossible journey from a wealthy matron’s bedroom to her drawing room. That’s where he dazzled her friends with his wit and made a name for himself. From there it was a small leap into the Byzantine world of royal
politics—and a carefully engineered “chance” encounter with the equally rapacious Princess Ophelia. It was what one critic called “A match made in hell.”

  The attraction was mutual and quickly consummated in Ophelia’s bed. Veneto became her secretary a few weeks later. And from then on he had her ear. Not her mind, however. Because close though they were, Ophelia knew better than to give anyone full access to her thoughts. So there was a line that Veneto was never allowed to cross. Nor did she expect him to sleep with her every night. And that suited him just fine.

  Because valuable though his relationship with Empress Ophelia was—Veneto had come to regard the physical aspect of it as something of a chore. So the freedom to pursue more intense sexual experiences was welcome indeed. And, as Veneto’s long, grueling workday finally came to an end, the opportunity for some relaxation was very much on his mind.

  After donning street clothes, Veneto examined himself in a full-length mirror. It was something he did frequently and for good reason. The thick, curly hair, the strong bladelike nose, and the sensuous lips were important assets.

  Confident that his good looks were intact, Veneto strode through the richly decorated living room to the private elevator that carried him up to the roof. Ophelia and her son Nicolai occupied most of the palace, but that still left room for the three-thousand-square-foot apartment that Veneto had all to himself.

  A pair of bodyguards were waiting. They were on his payroll rather than the government’s—and were experts at a number of martial arts. Both men had been subjected to psychological loyalty programming in return for large amounts of money. Given his destination, a larger force would have been nice—but too many escorts could attract the kind of trouble he hoped to avoid. Because, according to a popular axiom, “Anyone worth guarding is worth attacking.”

  Veneto entered the air car and sat in the back. The leather-upholstered seat began to squirm in an effort to make Veneto feel comfortable, and his favorite drink appeared at his elbow. It was dark, and as the car lifted off, Veneto could see the lights of Los Angeles spread out all around. Over the years, the metroplex had grown to encompass more than one thousand square miles. Some of that was relatively flat, but there were thickets of buildings that soared hundreds of feet into the air. Lights representing thousands of air cars, buses, and other flying vehicles wound their way between such structures and battled each other for space.

  Not Veneto’s limo, though. Thanks to its owner’s importance, and the coded transmissions associated with it, the air car’s pilot was free to go wherever she chose. A wedge-shaped high-rise glowed up ahead. The tower was hundreds of stories tall and clad with solar panels. The limo’s running lights blipped across rows of highly reflective windows as it circled prior to coming in for a landing.

  The bodyguards exited first, with their long dusters open to reveal the stubby assault weapons that dangled under their arms. Then, having assured themselves that the pad was safe, the taller of the two waved Veneto forward.

  Veneto paused to pull a formfitting mask down over his head before exiting the car. Anonymity was important both for the sake of Ophelia’s reputation and his own safety. Some criminals, especially members of the so-called Freedom Front, would shoot him on sight. Other less political gangs would hold him for ransom. Neither prospect had any appeal.

  The high-rise belonged to a wealthy family who wanted to know what Ophelia was going to do before she did it so they could invest their money accordingly. A service Veneto was happy to provide up to a point. He knew better than to take the service too far—and his friends were happy to take what they could get.

  Veneto stepped up to a reader, so that the building’s security system could scan his retinas. A thumbprint was required to complete the process. Doors parted, and the bodyguards entered. Veneto waited for a hand signal before stepping aboard.

  The doors closed with a whisper, and the platform fell so fast that Veneto felt a couple of pounds lighter. It slowed after thirty seconds or so and coasted to a gentle stop. The doors slid open, and Veneto followed the bodyguards into a tiny lobby located two levels beneath the streets. A four-digit code was required to enter a narrow passageway that led out into the Deeps. Multicolored signs crawled, slid, and blipped across the structures around him. Neon glowed, spotlights roamed, and ad blimps floated above.

  Veneto knew that the power required to run the businesses around him had been obtained by tapping into LA’s grid. Ophelia could put a stop to that . . . But it would take an army to do so, and the government had a lot of other priorities at the moment. The alien Hudathans being primary among them.

  Veneto pushed work out of his mind so as to take everything in. He loved the bars, the strip clubs, and the sleazy ambience of it all. The Deeps reminded him of the environment he’d grown up in, the difference being that most of New York’s combat zone was aboveground.

  So as Veneto walked past the beggars, the robotic Sayers, and the hookers who waited in doorways, it was like a symbolic homecoming. The locals noticed him. How could they fail to? But none dared approach the man in black. Not with two bodyguards in tow.

  The two-block journey to the Sweet Dream Sim Salon was delightfully uneventful. Unlike most of the establishment’s patrons, Veneto had enough money to buy a sim system and have it installed in his apartment if he wanted to. But if he did so, Ophelia would learn about the purchase within a matter of hours and disapprove. Besides, the weekly visit to the Deeps was part of the fun.

  Anyone could stroll through the front door and into the sleekly furnished lobby beyond. But then it was necessary to enter a kiosk and provide a nine-digit alphanumeric code before being allowed to enter “The Inner Sanctum.” That was where a scantily clad hostess was waiting to take Veneto to a “dream box.”

  Secure in the knowledge that his bodyguards would remain outside and be there to protect him, Veneto followed the young woman into the boxlike room. Then it was time to remove his ankle-length cloak and hang it up before stretching out on the couch. The hostess was waiting. “Are you ready, sir?”

  “Yes.”

  Veneto could smell her perfume and see her nipples as she leaned forward to insert the lead into the very expensive socket hidden under the hair near his temple. Then he was gone . . . Carried away on a wave of euphoria. Thanks to computer-driven virtual-reality generators, the sim world was a place where every experience was available no matter how obscure or perverted it might be. And such scenarios were so realistic, they were indistinguishable from what sim designers referred to as “Set One.” Their designator for the real world.

  There were all sorts of things clients could do while immersed in the sim world. Some chose to live life as an ant, or a flower, or a bird of prey. But most chose some form of sex. Sadomasochism, rapes, and orgies were common. And Veneto had tried most of them.

  But before he could choose one of the icons floating in front of him—what sounded like the voice of God reverberated through his seemingly disembodied mind. It wasn’t the real voice of God of course—but it felt that way. “Good morning . . . Or is it evening? Who knows down here? Not that it matters. My name is Colonel Red.”

  Veneto felt a stab of fear. Colonel Red? He knew that name. Millions of people did. Colonel Red was the nom de guerre of the man who led the Freedom Front. A rebel group that claimed responsibility for having assassinated Earth’s governor months earlier. Veneto struggled to take control of his body. If he could pull the plug . . .

  Laughter echoed as if from somewhere far away. “No, you can’t break free. Not until your half-hour sim is over. Yeah, we spent a lot of money following your movements and hacking this system. But it was worth every credit. Now you’re mine. Any questions?”

  Veneto knew that the system could “hear” him and assumed that Colonel Red could, too. “What . . . What are you going to do to me?”

  “What the hell do you think I’m going to do to you?” th
e voice demanded angrily. “You and the bitch you work for killed thousands of people including my brother and my sister-in-law. I’m going to kill you.”

  “No, don’t do that,” Veneto said desperately. “I can pay you . . . I can . . .”

  “You can suffer,” Colonel Red said darkly. “Just a little at first. Then more and more until the pain generates enough stress to stop your heart.”

  That was when Veneto found himself on a conveyor belt. He was unable to get off but discovered that he could raise his head just enough to see the glowing oven. Then came the heat. Nothing too severe at first—just enough to make him sweat. But as Veneto neared the open door, he felt hot. Very hot. And thirsty. Then his clothes caught fire, and the real pain began. Indescribable, searing, burning pain. He could smell his own charred skin as the fire consumed his legs and approached his genitals. Then Veneto screamed, and the sound was so loud that his bodyguards heard it. They looked at each other and grinned. The boss was having a good time.

  —

  Tarch (Duke) Hanno had just arrived in his office and was preparing to wade through the e-mails that were waiting for him when one of his subordinates entered the room. Her name was Crystal Kemp and her expression was bleak. “Sorry to interrupt you, sir . . . But I have some bad news. Secretary Veneto was assassinated last night.”

  Veneto was no great loss. Not to Hanno anyway . . . But the fact that someone had been able to successfully target Ophelia’s private secretary was of considerable concern for the government and his department in particular. Especially if it turned out that the assassin or assassins were on the list of people the Bureau of Missing Persons had been ordered to kill. That would be something his enemies could blame on him. So Hanno had a reason to look concerned. “Why, that’s terrible! Please . . . Sit down. Do they have the assassin?”