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

by William C. Dietz

  Avery’s thoughts were interrupted by loud applause. After being introduced, Empress Ophelia was climbing the stairs that led to the stage. As she stood behind the bulletproof podium, a pair of synth bodyguards took up stations on either side of her. The sleek machines wore spray-on uniforms and carried submachine guns. It was just one aspect of the additional security precautions put in place after the Veneto assassination on Earth.

  Two cameras swooped in to capture Ophelia’s words as a gentle breeze ruffled her hair. “Good afternoon,” she said. “First let me say that it’s a pleasure to visit this beautiful planet. And nowhere is that beauty more apparent than in the vast forest that you call the Big Green. It was there that I was introduced to a Droi named Insa. It told me that while many issues are left to be settled, there is no reason why all the peoples of Orlo II can’t live in peace . . . And I agree. Now that the recent civil unrest is behind us, we can come together. That’s what the men and women buried in this cemetery were fighting for . . . Peace and our glorious empire.”

  That was a load of crap. And Avery was glad to be standing at attention. That meant he didn’t have to clap with the rest of them. The truth of the situation was that Empress Ophelia raised imperial taxes by 12 percent shortly after seizing power from her brother.

  The increase led to noisy protests. Then, fearful that things were starting to get out of hand, the so-called loyalists requested that marines be sent in to restore status quo. Their request was granted, and that resulted in a civil war, with loyalists on one side and secessionists on the other. And since there weren’t enough marines to impose order by themselves, the empress sent the Legion to help.

  Meanwhile, having spotted what they saw as an opportunity, the Hudathans attacked. That forced the Legion to fight the loyalists and the aliens at the same time. And both wars had been won. Not easily and at great cost. So the truth was that the loyalists, rebels, and Droi were still at odds, and it was the presence of the Legion that kept them from clashing.

  As for the Hudathans, they had been driven out of the solar system but would almost certainly return one day. And they would bring an even bigger fleet next time.

  There was another five minutes of royal drivel followed by thunderous applause as the empress left the podium. How many new graveyards would be commissioned during her reign? Avery wondered. Enough to hold a brigade? A regiment? An army?

  Moments after the empress left the stage, a sergeant major bellowed, “Dismissed!” That was the signal for military personnel to either break formation or march off to the trucks that were waiting for them. Avery was about to fade when Colonel Rylund stopped him. He was a good if somewhat eccentric officer, whose leadership had been critical to the recent victory. “Not so fast, John . . . General Ashton and I would like to have a word with you.”

  Avery frowned. “This wouldn’t be in regards to some sort of shit detail would it, sir?”

  Rylund chuckled. “Why yes, it would. Is there any other kind?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Good. That’s settled then. Come on. The general is going to give us a ride into town.”

  Like Ashton herself, the staff car had arrived after the fighting was over, so there wasn’t a scratch on it. Rylund opened a door and gestured for Avery to enter. Once inside, the legionnaire found himself with his back to the driver, facing the general. He’d been introduced to Ashton at a reception but had never exchanged more than a few words with her until then.

  She was a large-boned woman who was known as a straight talker, a bodybuilder, and an enemy of the cavalry. The very branch that Avery belonged to. The reasons for her bias weren’t entirely clear but probably stemmed from more than twenty years spent in infantry regiments. Or, what the ground pounders liked to refer to as “the real Legion.” Their eyes met and she nodded. “Good afternoon, Major . . . We met once before I believe.”

  Ashton had probably been introduced to a thousand people since her arrival on Orlo II, so Avery was impressed. “Yes, ma’am. We met at the reception that followed the change-of-command ceremony.”

  Rylund entered the car and closed the door. “Yes . . . Avery distinguished himself on a number of occasions—not the least of which were his efforts to forge an alliance with the Droi.”

  “A touchy business indeed,” Ashton observed, as the hover car rose off the ground, then turned on its axis. “And that’s one of the reasons why we think you’re the right officer for the job at hand.”

  Avery looked from Ashton to Rylund and back again. “Thank you, ma’am. And what job would that be?”

  “The empress needs a military attaché,” Rylund answered. “A person who can provide Her Highness with assessments of military readiness on each planet she visits—and offer tactical advice should that become necessary.”

  “Yes,” Ashton put in. “If the empress is going to have a military attaché—then who better than one of our officers?”

  The inference was obvious. The Legion, navy, and Marine Corps were locked in a perpetual battle for resources. So rather than cede the slot to another branch, the general wanted to place one of her officers where he or she could suck up to the empress on behalf of the Legion. And Avery had been chosen for the job. It was an especially odious task given the fact that Ophelia wanted to kill the woman that Avery was in love with. “Yes, ma’am,” Avery said obediently. “But I haven’t spent much time on staff. Surely someone with more experience could do a better job.”

  Ashton laughed. “That’s what Colonel Rylund told me you would say. Nice try, Major . . . But no cigar. I hear the empress has a preference for real soldiers. The kind who have been in action. And, in spite of the fact that you mistakenly chose the cavalry over the infantry, I think you have the right credentials. Pucker up, Avery . . . It’s time to kiss some ass.”

  —

  More than a week had passed since the conversation with Colonel Rylund and General Ashton. During that time, Avery had to pare his belongings down to the ninety-six pounds he would be allowed to take aboard the ship, find his way through the labyrinthine checkout process, and say good-bye to a special place.

  In a city where housing was hard to come by and overnight accommodations were almost impossible to find, the apartment where Cat and he had spent their last night together was absurdly expensive. But he stayed there anyway and drank the bottle of wine by himself. Cat wasn’t there, of course, but the memories were, and they haunted his dreams.

  When morning came, Avery made himself a light breakfast before packing the B-1 bag and hauling it down to the street. A mere major didn’t rate a vehicle like the one assigned to Ashton—but a beat-up scout car had been sent to pick him up. The driver had the old-young face typical of so many legionnaires. He was wearing a white kepi, crisp camos, and a pair of mirror-bright boots. He snapped to attention and offered a salute. “Good morning, sir. Corporal Sanko reporting as ordered. Where are we headed?”

  Avery dumped the bag in back and took one last look around. He didn’t expect to see any of the surrounding buildings again. “We’re going to the new spaceport.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Avery swung into the well-worn passenger seat and made good use of the grab bar as the car bounced through a succession of potholes. Avery could see signs of the recent fighting as the vehicle wound its way down the hill to the recently scoured floodplains below. There were lots of shot-up buildings, charred ruins, and bomb craters, most of which were half-full of rainwater.

  Because of all the damage, a new spaceport was being built south of town. To get there, it was necessary to follow the arrow-straight road past a row of burned-out Hudathan tanks to the hills beyond. There was lots of traffic going in both directions, but the driver proved to be an expert at dodging in and out between big transports and delivered Avery to a security checkpoint in what might have been record time.

  After being waved through, the driver guided
the car up the side of what had been a hill until the men, women, and cyborgs of the famed Pioneers sliced the top of it off. As they arrived on the newly created mesa, Avery saw that all sorts of heavy equipment were being used to create rows of landing pads. Only two were in service at the moment, however, and repellers roared as a boxy-looking assault boat lifted off.

  The so-called terminal building was little more than an inflatable hab with four dusty vehicles parked outside. “This is it,” Sanko announced as he pulled into an empty slot. “I’ll get your bag.”

  But Avery was used to handling such chores himself and waved the offer off. After thanking Sanko for the ride, he carried the bag inside. There was a crowded waiting area off to the left and a line straight ahead. It led to a sign that said, CHECK IN. So Avery fell in behind a navy ensign and began what turned out to be a fifteen-minute wait. Eventually, it was his turn to approach the counter. A harried-looking petty officer looked up from his terminal. “Name please.”

  Avery gave it, the sailor typed it in, and everything changed. A smart-looking chief petty officer (CPO) appeared, took charge of the B-1, and led Avery over to a door that bore a handwritten sign. VICTORIOUS. That said it all.

  Everyone knew that the Victorious was a light cruiser that had been reconfigured to serve as the royal yacht. That meant everyone associated with the vessel received special treatment. Even obscure majors like John Avery.

  So rather than wait with the horde out front, Avery found himself in a small VIP lounge that was equipped with six seats, a coffeepot, and a tray of stale pastries. Eventually, a couple of sailors were shown in, and in keeping with their ranks, sat as far away from the officer as they could. Shortly thereafter, the natty-looking CPO came to get the group.

  Avery hoisted his bag and followed the noncom out to a gleaming shuttle. It looked brand-new, wore the royal coat of arms on its flawless fuselage, and was taking on cargo. Supplies probably bound for the Victorious.

  The sailors were sent into the cargo compartment, where they would ride with the flight crew. But Avery’s status as an officer entitled him to sit on a leather-upholstered seat just aft of the cockpit. The copilot welcomed the legionnaire aboard, the crew chief offered some rudimentary refreshments, and a sailor took charge of the bag.

  Avery had no way to know if other ships were waiting for a clearance to take off but suspected that they were. That made no difference, however, because the moment the aircraft was ready, the pilot announced, “All personnel to fasten their safety harnesses,” and gave them thirty seconds to do so before firing the shuttle’s repellers. The ship went straight up and swiveled to the north. Then, having received the necessary clearance, it took off into the wind.

  There was nothing remarkable about the trip up through the atmosphere, and that was a good thing. It took the better part of two hours to enter orbit, match speeds with the Victorious, and enter her cavernous launch bay. Avery had done a little bit of research so he knew that the LC 8654 (Light Cruiser) Victorious was more than two miles long. The ship could carry twelve fighters, twelve shuttles, and boasted a crew of a thousand men, women, and robots.

  But raw statistics didn’t capture what made the ship different from other ships of the same size. Because although the cruiser was armed, the Vic was more luxury liner than warship. A fact that became immediately apparent once the bay was pressurized, and Avery could disembark. Except for the unavoidable scorch marks on the gray decks, everything else was perfect.

  The bulkheads, directional signs, and even the maintenance droids looked as if they’d been painted the day before. Even the air that had been pumped into the bay was scented lest the acrid stench of ozone offend sensitive nostrils. Not Avery’s nostrils, nor the crew’s, but Ophelia’s. Was she aboard? Or still on the surface? There was no way to be sure as a smart-looking ensign offered a perfect salute. “Major Avery? I’m Ensign Neely. Welcome aboard, sir. If you would be kind enough to follow me, I will take you to your quarters.”

  “Thank you,” Avery replied. “I have a bag here somewhere.”

  “Yes, sir,” Neely said. “It will be delivered to your cabin. See the yellow lines? For your own safety, please stay within them.”

  Avery followed Neely through a lock, into a corridor, and onto a lift. It carried them up to what she said was C deck. The closest thing to a common area on the ship. Neely told him that A deck was devoted to command and control functions. Empress Ophelia and her retinue were situated on B deck, and crew quarters were on D deck. The engineering spaces occupied the levels below.

  The corridor that ran the length of C deck was crowded with people. As Neely led him along, Avery saw deck officers, weapons officers, engineering officers, flight officers, supply officers, all manner of ratings, camo-clad marines, and a variety of robots all walking in both directions. Glow panels marked off regular six-foot intervals, the conduit-lined bulkheads were navy gray, and multicolored decals identified where first-aid kits, damage-control stations, escape pods, weapons blisters, node points, and access panels could be found. A constant stream of routine announcements could be heard as they walked along.

  “Here we are,” Neely said as she led Avery into a side corridor. “This is officer country. You were assigned to cabin C-231.” Neely stopped in front of a hatch marked C-231 and waved a keycard. There was a hissing sound as the door slid open.

  Avery was pleasantly surprised as he entered. The cabin was equipped with a bunk, a storage unit, and a tiny fresher with toilet. There was a fold-down desk and data terminal as well. All in a space roughly eight-feet-by-eight-feet in size. That was small, but Avery had been forced to share such spaces with other officers on troopships. After giving the keycard and a pocket com to Avery—Neely told him to report to the ship’s executive officer (XO) at 1500 hours. Then she left.

  That gave Avery plenty of time to unpack, visit the officer’s mess, and explore C deck. So by the time his appointment rolled around, he knew where to go. There was a short wait in the anteroom outside the XO’s office before a laconic droid sent him in. Avery took two steps into the compartment, came to attention, and announced himself. “Major John Avery, reporting as ordered, sir!”

  The man on the other side of the desk had black hair worn so short he looked bald. He had dark skin, a moon-shaped face, and a big body. Thanks to the silver oak leafs on the naval officer’s shoulders Avery knew he was a commander—a rank equivalent to a lieutenant colonel in the Legion. The XO said, “At ease,” and came forward to greet his visitor. “My name is Max Honto. Welcome aboard.”

  Avery could feel the other man’s strength as they shook hands. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Have a seat,” Honto said, as he sat on a corner of the desk. “As far as I know, you’re the only member of the Legion on the ship. A regular one-man army.”

  Avery smiled. “I’ll try to live up to that.”

  Honto smiled. “I suppose you’re curious regarding your duties.”

  “Sir, yes, sir.”

  “Well, so am I,” Honto confessed. “The empress hasn’t required a military attaché up until now, so we’ll learn as we go. Please document what you’re required to do so we can create an appropriate job description.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Okay, I guess that’s it. Her assistant will give you a call when the empress needs you. Its name is Daska. That means Earth—or so I’ve been told. Should you receive a message from Daska, I suggest that you respond promptly regardless of what you may be doing at the time.”

  Was that a threat? A friendly warning? Or both? Avery scanned Honto’s face for clues and came up empty. “Yes, sir.”

  A couple of minutes of small talk followed, but Avery could sense that the meeting was essentially over. So when the com set began to buzz, he took the opportunity to salute and withdraw.

  Days of boredom followed. There was a flurry of activity when the ship broke orbit, and Orlo
II was left behind. But there was nothing for Avery to do except eat, work out with the marines, and sleep. But finally, two days into the journey, his pocket com buzzed. Avery fumbled the device out into the open. “This is Major Avery.”

  The voice on the other end of the call was clearly synthetic—but was being processed so as to sound feminine. “This is Daska. Please report to compartment B-14.”

  Avery felt his heart start to race. The empress! The woman who wanted to kill McKee . . . And would have him shot if she knew what he really thought about her. Avery’s chest felt tight. “Thank you. I’m on my way.”

  Avery heard a click and was thankful that he hadn’t been working out when the call came in. Knowing he was on call, the legionnaire had been careful to wear a freshly pressed Class B uniform when he wasn’t exercising—and that habit was about to pay off as he entered an elevator and pushed B.

  He’d been on C deck. A short ride took him up a level. When the doors parted, he stepped out into an ornate lobby. A pair of synths stepped forward to check Avery’s ID and pat him down. They stepped aside as Empress Ophelia entered the reception area.

  Avery was about to bow when the royal spoke. “My name is Daska,” the android said. “Please follow me.” He was looking at a body double! Still another way for Ophelia to protect herself.

  Daska passed a palm over a scanner, and a hatch hissed open. Avery followed the robot into a wood-paneled corridor. The fittings were gold, or appeared to be, and his shoes sank into the thick carpet. The hatches were labeled military style, and Daska opened the door to compartment B-14 without knocking.

  As Avery followed the android into the room, he was surprised by what he saw or didn’t see. There was no sign of Ophelia or the kind of furnishings one would expect an empress to have. A raised platform occupied the center of the compartment. It was roughly the size of a pool table. And there, sitting on top of it, was a make-believe battlefield, complete with two miniature armies. They were located at opposite ends of the table and separated by an artistically executed mountain range. Avery frowned. Surely the empress wasn’t going to plot strategy using toys?