Everyone knew that, of course, so it was SOP to down-jump with weapons systems hot and all personnel at their battle stations. That’s why Avery was strapped into a chair at the very back of the command center. He didn’t have anything to do, but Commander Honto figured he had an obligation to put the military attaché somewhere near the action or run the risk that the empress would complain.
Avery had experienced dozens of jumps during his career and knew they could go wrong. So the possibility of an accidental death was enough to keep him from feeling bored. The command center was located forward of the bridge and half a level down. The semicircular space was organized around a large holo tank. It was dark and would remain so until the Vic reentered normal space. Then it would come back to life and provide the crew with information about who or what might be in the neighborhood.
Avery yawned as the ship’s NAVCOMP began the countdown. “Three, two, one . . . Reentry is complete.” The shift to normal space triggered the usual moment of nausea, the holo tank lit up, and a host of alarms went off. Avery sat up straight as the NAVCOMP launched into its report. “There are three, make that four ships located within twenty thousand miles of the jump point. All of them are a 98.4 percent match to known Hudathan profiles. Tracking, tracking, tracking . . . Sensors have detected twelve enemy torpedoes, estimated time to impact one minute thirty-seconds. Fighters launched. Shields up. Electronic countermeasures on.”
Captain Suzuki sounded calm. “Inform our escorts . . . We will engage. Kill those torpedoes and launch ship-to-ship missiles using standard threat protocols. What are we up against?”
“The ridgeheads have a Ka-Class battleship,” the ops officer said tightly. “Plus a cruiser and two tin cans.”
“We’re outgunned then,” Suzuki said clinically. “Prepare to . . .” He never got to finish his sentence. The Hudathan battleship fired a salvo of energy bolts from its projectors and the Victorious shuddered as they struck. Now a new and even more strident voice was added to the existing chorus of alarms.
“The ship’s energy shields are down,” the NAVCOMP announced. “We can reload the accumulators, but it will take thirteen minutes and seven seconds, assuming the ship sustains no further damage.”
The hull shook as two torpedoes struck and exploded. At that point, even a cavalry officer could tell that the Victorious was in trouble. “We can’t duke it out with a battleship,” Captain Suzuki said. “We’ll have to jump. Inform our escorts. Tell them to hold until the empress is in hyperspace. Then they can pull out.”
There it was. Brave men and women were going to die to buy time for a mass murderer. It made Avery sick, but there was nothing he could do about it.
“What about our fighters?” the operations officer asked hopefully. “Can we retrieve them first?”
“No,” Suzuki said woodenly. “We don’t have enough time. Tell the pilots to contact our escorts. Maybe they can help.”
Avery felt an emptiness where his stomach should have been. What would that be like? he wondered. To launch your fighter, defend your ship, and be left behind? Aerospace fighters weren’t equipped with hyperdrives. So, unless an escort managed to take them aboard, the pilots would be killed by the Hudathans or die of asphyxiation when they ran out of oxygen.
Avery clutched the armrests on his chair as the NAVCOMP began the countdown, and the holo tank went dark. That should have been the end of the danger but wasn’t. Avery listened as the chief engineering officer spoke from her control room deep inside the ship. “This is Collins. We took a serious hit, sir . . . The hyperdrive’s cooling system was damaged, and it’s running hot. I recommend that you down-jump ASAP.”
“Roger that,” Suzuki replied. “Give me some options.”
“The next down jump would place the ship in the Altari system,” the NAVCOMP responded.
“Who owns it?”
“Both the Human and the Hudathan empires lay claim to the system’s only inhabitable planet,” the computer answered. “It’s called Savas.”
“Settlements?”
“One Human colony.”
“Okay,” Suzuki said. “Savas it is. Execute.”
“Sixteen minutes and counting,” the NAVCOMP responded calmly.
Avery thought about Ophelia, Nicolai, and the rest of the crew. So long as the ship’s hyperdrive continued to function, they would be safe. And if it didn’t? Then all of them would be adrift in a dimension from which none of them could escape. Eventually, after a few months, they would fight each other for food. Would Ophelia’s synths win that battle on her behalf? Perhaps. But even if they did, she would still starve to death. And that would be a good thing. Unfortunately, Nicolai would die as well. Because Avery liked the little boy even if he was a monster in the making.
The minutes seemed to crawl by. Avery thought about all the things he’d done and hoped to do. Not by himself but with Cat. She was smart, funny, and brave. But she was sad, too . . . And plagued by guilt. If they could escape the empire, maybe he could make her happy again.
The NAVCOMP’s voice overrode his thoughts. “Stand by . . . The down jump will take place in ten seconds. Eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one.”
Avery felt a moment of nausea, watched a planet appear in the holo tank, and saw it start to rotate. Savas. He’d never heard of the place before. Except for caps of white, both hemispheres were primarily tan in color, separated by a wide belt of green that encircled the globe’s midsection. Puddles of blue marked large lakes, but none were big enough to qualify as oceans.
“We’ll park the ship in orbit,” Suzuki declared. “Then we can evaluate the full extent of the damage and send a message torp to Earth.”
No sooner had Suzuki outlined his plan than the chief engineer killed it. “Collins here . . . I’m sorry, sir . . . But the standard drives are off-line. Both the primary and secondary control systems were damaged.”
“That is correct,” the NAVCOMP confirmed emotionlessly. “Given the ship’s inertia, and with no means to brake, the Victorious will enter the atmosphere.”
Avery heard the words, but it took him a moment to fully understand what they meant. After the Victorious entered the atmosphere, and with no way to slow down, the cruiser would crash. And since it wasn’t designed to land on a planetary surface, there would be a very large impact. One that few if any of them were going to walk away from. Savas dominated all of the screens by then, and the surface was coming up quickly. Somebody said, “Oh, shit,” and the countdown began.
The Victorious shuddered as she entered the upper atmosphere, did a slow roll, and went in at a steep angle. Through the skillful use of the cruiser’s steering jets, the pilot managed to pull the bow up. That acted to slow the rate of descent and made the possibility of a survivable crash more likely. The shields were back up by then, and they flared in response to the heat.
Avery closed his eyes and wished he had something to do as the Victorious bucked, performed another nauseating roll, and began to groan. The hull had never been intended for the sort of stresses that were being applied to it—and there was a very real possibility that it would fail before the vessel smashed into the ground. Then, after what seemed like an eternity, the Victorious began to level out. “Hang on,” Suzuki said, “we’re going in hard.”
And it was hard. The ship hit, bounced up into the air, and hit again. Then it slid. Loose items flew through the air as the hull struck the ground. A stainless-steel coffee mug whizzed by Avery’s head and clanged off the bulkhead. Gee forces pushed him into the seat. Someone screamed as the Victorious took the top of a hill off, belly flopped onto a plain, and skidded toward a low-lying mountain. Avery saw the obstruction grow to fill the screen, heard himself shout, “No!” and felt his head jerk forward as the ship slammed to a halt. Every possible type of alarm was beeping, bleating, and wailing. Avery didn’t care. He was alive.
CHAPTER: 7
/> When I die, and parachute into hell, the members of the 2nd REP will be there waiting for me.
COLONEL JOSE FUENTES,
Commanding Officer 2nd REP
Standard year 1936
PLANET ALGERON
As McKee looked up, she saw that the sky was gunmetal gray. It was snowing, and as each flake fell, it added substance to the shroud that lay over the village of Doothdown. The hamlet was deserted and had been ever since the devastating attack months earlier.
McKee was standing on what remained of the eastern wall. It consisted of vertical poles that had been harvested on the neighboring hillsides and dragged into the valley using dooths. Fireballs had been fired into the village, so a substantial portion of the palisade had been reduced to charred wreckage.
From where McKee stood, she could see the main street. After forcing their way in through the main gate, the southerners had been gathered at the north end of the town, preparing for a final push, when Larkin marched straight at them, firing two assault weapons at once. It was a brave not to mention a crazy thing to do. McKee smiled. He was at Fort Camerone now . . . Bedridden and bitching to anyone who would listen. That was something to be grateful for.
As for her, she was on leave. That was the problem of being stationed on Algeron. There were two choices. You could hang out in the fort or visit Naa country, most of which was off-limits. But after some lobbying, she had been able to wrangle a green-zone pass. Meaning permission to camp in “pacified areas.” The reality was that one had to be careful everywhere. Especially when traveling alone.
McKee was about to leave the top of the wall when she heard a faint tinkling sound. Bells? Or something else? McKee brought a pair of binoculars up to scan the area to the north. Another short day was coming to an end, so the light had begun to fade.
But as McKee swept the glasses from left to right, she saw a hint of movement. Then a tall, gangly figure emerged from the screen of falling snow and paused to look around. He was wearing a robe with an attached hood. That suggested a Human rather than a Naa because the fur-covered indigs made very few concessions to the snow.
McKee couldn’t see the man’s face. He was too far away for that. But there was no mistaking the eight-foot-long fighting staff. It was sheathed in metal and topped with the iron loop that symbolized the holy man’s faith. And bells? Yes, she could hear them tinkle as he made his way toward the shattered gate. It was a good idea to let people know you were coming on Algeron. Especially if you were Human.
McKee smiled, slung the AXE over her shoulder, and made her way to a rickety ladder. Moments later, she was on the ground and walking up the street. Her boots made a crunching sound—and the only tracks to be seen were hers.
Ramirez waved when he saw her. McKee waved back and gave him a hug when they met at the center of the village. Ramirez had a gaunt, skull-like face. He smiled. “Nofear Deathgiver.”
“Crazyman Longstick.” They laughed.
“We meet again,” Ramirez said. He’d been present during the battle of Doothdown and fought at her side.
“Yes. How did you know I was here?”
“Everyone within fifty miles of this spot knows that Deathgiver is camped here.”
“I haven’t seen anyone.”
“They don’t want to be seen. But six warriors keep watch over you day and night. This area is relatively safe—but there’s no way to know when bandits will pass through.”
McKee felt a lump form in her throat and managed to swallow it. “Come on . . . I’m using an abandoned hut. It’s warm there.”
The hut was a short distance away, and like the majority of such dwellings, most of it was underground where the fire in the central hearth was still burning. The original owners had relied on dried dooth dung for fuel. But McKee didn’t have any of that, so she was using scraps of wood instead. Her sleeping bag was laid out on one of three curved benches that fronted the fireplace. “Make yourself to home,” she said, as Ramirez descended the ladder. “Are you hungry? I have lots of MREs.”
“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Ramirez said, as he shrugged the pack off. “But an MRE sounds good.”
So they made what turned out to be dinner. And when Ramirez asked about what she’d been up to, McKee found herself telling him about the mission to find Truthsayer, the disastrous crash, and the extraction that followed. “So,” Ramirez said as he sipped some instant caf, “what happened when you returned to Fort Camerone?”
McKee was silent for a moment. “They debriefed me. I told them everything I knew. And helmet footage served to verify my report.”
“And then?”
“Nothing. They thanked me, said it was too bad the way things turned out, and cleared me for a return to duty.”
Ramirez eyed her over the steaming cup. “And you didn’t like that?”
McKee frowned. “Are you a licensed psychotherapist?”
“No. But I was an officer once.”
McKee made a face. “That counts, I guess . . .”
“So, like I was saying, you didn’t like that. At some level, you thought you deserved to be punished. Some sort of cleansing.”
McKee shrugged. “I failed. People died.”
“And you succeeded. People lived.”
“Not enough of them.”
“It’s never enough,” Ramirez replied soberly. “But think about it . . . Was there someone else? Someone who could have done better? And be honest.”
McKee thought about it. Larkin? No. Sergeants Payton, Ling, or Sayer? All good noncoms, but no, no, and no.
Ramirez smiled. “Your silence says it all. You aren’t perfect, McKee. None of us is. But you aren’t so flawed as you think you are either. And you’re learning.”
“So that’s why you came here? To straighten me out?”
“Hell, no. I came to get a free meal.”
McKee laughed, threw a piece of wood onto the fire, and watched a constellation of sparks disappear up into the clay chimney. The pain was still there—but more bearable somehow. They slipped into their sleeping bags shortly thereafter—each claiming one side of the fire. Wood crackled and popped. Light danced the walls. And for the first time in days, McKee fell into a deep dreamless sleep.
The sun was up by the time McKee awoke, threw the last of the wood on the fire, and had to go looking for more. Plus it was a chance to take a pee and look around. The sky was clear, and a fresh layer of snow obscured the tracks that she and Ramirez had made earlier. A sure sign that there hadn’t been any visitors. Snow crunched under her boots, and her breath fogged the air as she approached the remains of the watchtower.
The old axe was right where she’d left it, so she put her assault weapon down, and went to work. The axe produced a satisfying thunk as it bit into a piece of wood, and there was a sharp, cracking sound when a section split in two. It was hard but satisfying work because a well-aimed blow produced a predictable result. And that’s what McKee was thinking about when a humming noise caused her to turn with the axe raised.
Unlike the drones she had employed during the mission to find Truthsayer, this one was larger, shaped like a cigar, and equipped for long-range missions. It hovered four feet off the ground, and McKee could feel the envelope of heat that surrounded it. The voice was clearly synthetic. “Are you Lieutenant McKee?”
McKee felt a sudden flood of anxiety as she lowered the axe. They were looking for her. Why? Because they knew her true identity? Or because some supply officer wanted an accounting of all the gear she’d left in the field? Not that it mattered. Chances were that the robot knew the answer to its own question. “Yes, I’m McKee.”
“Please stand by.”
McKee swore under her breath. Who was being summoned? The answer turned out to be someone she didn’t know. “Lieutenant McKee?” a female voice said. “I’m Captain Olson. I’m sorry to cut your leave s
hort, but we need you here at the fort. Remain where you are. A Vulcan will pick you up within the next hour.”
McKee swallowed. “May I ask why?”
“Sorry,” came the reply. “That will have to wait until you return. Suffice it to say that we have an assignment for you.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Report to me when you arrive.” The words were followed by a click.
The drone rose and took up station fifty feet over her head as McKee made her way back to the hut. That was off-putting, but McKee chose to take comfort from the little bit of information she had. If Olson had a shit detail with her name on it, then chances were that her true identity was safe. It could be a trick, of course . . . But why bother? They could order the drone to kill her and send a graves-registration robot out to deal with the carcass.
Ramirez was up and around by the time she dumped the load of firewood into the underground chamber and lowered herself down the ladder. He took one look at her face, and said, “Uh-oh. What’s wrong?”
“They called me back for some sort of assignment.”
“That sucks,” Ramirez replied. “So, you have a radio?”
“No. They sent a drone.”
Ramirez produced a low whistle. “Must be important. Are you going to hike out?”
McKee had stacked the firewood and was opening an MRE. “Nope. They’re going to send a Vulcan.”
Ramirez muttered some words and traced a circle in the air. He meant well, but the fact that the holy man felt the need to deliver a blessing was more than a little unnerving. “I’ll leave the rest of the MREs,” McKee said.
“Thank you. I’ll think of you each time I eat one.”
“Please do me a favor, Father . . . Tell the warriors who have been guarding me that I said, ‘Thank you.’”
“I will,” Ramirez promised.
McKee finished her meal, packed her gear, and was about to climb the ladder when Ramirez came over to deliver a hug. “Take care of yourself, Andromeda. And remember . . . You did your best. No one can do more than that.”
Andromeda's War (Legion of the Damned Book 3) Page 14
