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

by William C. Dietz

  “I’ll take care of the platoon,” Jolo said as he slid past her. “We’re on C deck.”

  McKee thanked the noncom and watched Olson say something to Remy before leaving the compartment. Was the XO okay with the major’s decision? Hell, no. Would she find a way to make McKee’s life suck? Hell, yes. That was life in the Legion. McKee sighed.

  Once the rest of them were gone, Remy turned to McKee. “Welcome to the team, Lieutenant . . . I can see that you have a good grasp of why I requested a cavalry detachment. What may not be so obvious is why I requested you. We need an officer who can think on her feet—and has a lot of combat experience. You have those qualities plus one more . . . You are the only person on the team who has been eyeball to eyeball with the empress.”

  McKee frowned. “Sir?”

  “If she’s alive, and if we find her, the fact that she knows you could come in handy,” Remy said. “The empress is used to giving orders—but she lacks tactical experience.”

  There it was. The real reason why McKee had been selected over more senior officers. Remy was understandably worried about what it would be like to try and manage a famously dictatorial monarch under stressful conditions. “I only spent a few minutes with her,” McKee put in.

  Remy nodded. “True. But during those minutes, she presented you with the Imperial Order of Merit. That’s something she isn’t likely to forget. So if you make a suggestion, there’s a very good chance that she will listen to it.”

  “And if she’s dead?”

  Remy shrugged. “I have photos . . . But someone will have to identify the body. A mistake could be disastrous.”

  That was true. Should the team find a female body and mistakenly identify it as Ophelia’s, only to have the real monarch surface somewhere else, that would not only end Remy’s career but put his life in danger. A possibility he was clearly aware of.

  Would she be able to recognize Ophelia’s dead body? Barring major disfigurements, McKee thought she could. More than that, it was a sight she wanted to see. She nodded. “Yes, sir. Roger that, sir. You can count on me.”

  —

  The work began the moment the Io broke orbit and entered hyperspace. The first thing McKee wanted to do was meet each person in her platoon, get Jolo’s impressions of them, and study their P-1 files. The good news was that Remy and Olson had clearly gone to considerable lengths to draft bio bods and cyborgs who had better-than-average service records. The bad news was that some of the best legionnaires McKee knew were screwups like Larkin. Difficult to manage? Yes, but frequently worth their weight in gold when the poop hit the fan.

  There was another problem as well. Rather than draft an existing platoon, Remy and Olson had plucked “volunteers” from a variety of units. That meant McKee’s people didn’t know each other—and had no experience working as a team. To compensate for that, McKee put her legionnaires through dozens of VR drills covering standard combat situations. Things went poorly at first but had begun to improve by day four.

  By that time, McKee was under a great deal of pressure from Olson to practice high-altitude drops. So even though she would have preferred to spend additional time and effort on standard tactics, McKee was forced to switch. And because the drop scenarios were custom-designed by Olson, they were consistently difficult. That was good in a way since the landing on Savas would be tough.

  But it seemed as if the XO was determined to make sure that every make-believe mission ended in failure. That was hard on morale. During the latest drop, the entire platoon landed in a virtual swamp so dangerous it reminded McKee of boot camp on Drang. Half her people were KIA by the time she aborted the mission, ripped the VR leads off, and told her people to take a break.

  McKee made the trip from C deck to Olson’s cabin on A deck in record time. The hatch was open, and she entered without knocking. Olson looked up from her computer, frowned, and was about to speak when McKee beat her to it. “Permission to speak freely, ma’am.”

  Olson smiled as if she knew what was coming and looked forward to it. “Permission granted.”

  “As regards the VR simulations for my platoon, ma’am . . . While I understand the need for tough training prior to the insertion, my team has never worked together before. So they have no record of past successes to fall back on. By creating scenarios in which they never succeed, you are working contrary to the best interest of the One-Five. I request that you provide my platoon with some exercises in which they have an opportunity to do well. If you fail to do so, I will go over your head.”

  It looked as though all the blood had drained out of Olson’s face. Her eyes were wide, and her lips moved, but nothing came out at first. “How dare you! I am going to document what you said and charge you with insubordination. It’s just as I suspected. You aren’t a real officer . . . You’re a jumped NCO who happened to be in the right place at the right time, won an IOM she didn’t deserve, and thinks she can throw her weight around.”

  McKee took three paces forward, placed both fists on Olson’s desk, and bent forward. Their faces were inches apart. “Listen, bitch . . . This isn’t a fucking game. Have you ever gone up against a ridgehead? No? I didn’t think so. Well, I have, and they’re tough. If we run into them, the odds are that both you and I will wind up dead. So do you think I give a damn about your silly-assed charges? Hell no, I don’t. And if you want to take this to Remy, I would welcome that. So think things over. And make some changes to the way you put those VR scenarios together. Because if you don’t, I will come up here and personally kick your skinny ass. Do you read me?”

  There was fear in Olson’s eyes by then, and her voice was little more than a whisper. “I read you.”

  McKee came to attention. The salute was perfect. “Good. Thanks for listening.” And with that, McKee left the compartment. The next VR scenario was difficult but survivable.

  The succeeding days seemed to fly by even though they were long and tiring. There were VR exercises to take part in, but more than that, actual preparations to complete, including a review of every item that the legionnaires would take with them. Because once on the ground, they weren’t likely to receive more supplies until the theoretical relief party arrived.

  Fortunately, Jolo had used team One-Five’s high-priority clout to requisition so many spares that the platoon wouldn’t be able to carry all of them. But some components had a tendency to wear out faster than others. So McKee had her bio bods replace such parts no matter how new they were in an effort to ensure that her T-1s remained operational for as long as possible.

  There was one glitch, however, or what could have been a glitch, and that had to do with the three supply pods allotted to the cavalry platoon. After inspecting them, McKee discovered that they had been loaded by category. All of the food in one, all of the ammo in another, and so forth. That meant that if one container was lost, then all of something would be lost with it.

  So McKee had all three pods repacked, making sure that all her supplies were spread around. Would the green hats make that kind of mistake? McKee didn’t think so. But ever since her tête-à-tête with Olson, the XO had been hands off. That was the downside of telling her off—and caused McKee to wonder what problems had been missed.

  Then time ran out. The Io left hyperspace and began the run in toward Savas. Odds were that at least one of the Hudathan ships would be close enough to “see” the dropship and respond. That meant there would be no second chance.

  With that in mind, Major Remy ordered his people into their pods before the Io left hyperspace. There were a hundred drop tubes on D deck, seventy-eight of which were loaded with pods. The plan was to launch all of them simultaneously, so that they would land within a few miles of each other. But there were a lot of variables to contend with, and having been through ten virtual insertions, McKee knew that the so-called “spread” could cover a much larger area.

  Some of the containers were
packed with supplies, some carried RAVs, and the rest were filled with people. Twelve pods were what the hats called “deuces,” meaning they were loaded with a bio bod and a corresponding cyborg, so that each two-person team would hit the dirt together.

  So as the Io entered the planet’s gravity well and bucked her way down through the atmosphere, McKee found herself seated across from a ten-foot-tall T-1 named Leo Bartov. They were almost knee to knee thanks to the fact that she was perched on a storage compartment full of .50 caliber ammo. The ceiling was low, the inward-curving walls felt oppressively tight, and the LEDs on the control panel to McKee’s left glowed green.

  Bartov gave her a gigantic thumbs-up, and she answered in kind. He was, according to what McKee had read, guilty of killing his wife and her lover. With a baseball bat if she remembered correctly. And, when given a choice, had chosen to live life as a cyborg rather than face the big nothing. But unlike many of his peers Bartov seemed to enjoy life as a T-1. Or, as he liked to put it, “I’m the baddest badass on the block.”

  McKee’s thoughts were interrupted as the pilot’s voice flooded her helmet. “All personnel, stand by for launch . . . Check onboard NAV functions and reboot if necessary. Thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight . . .”

  Remy’s voice overrode the pilot’s. “Okay, people . . . It’s time to earn that drop pay. And remember . . . Those pods belong to the government, so don’t soil them.”

  That produced a chorus of guffaws as the countdown resumed. “Sixteen, fifteen, fourteen . . .”

  McKee gave thanks for the helmet and visor. It was nice to know that Bartov couldn’t see how scared she was. “Three, two, one.”

  McKee felt a sudden jerk as the Io leveled out and fired the pods straight down. Her stomach performed a flip-flop as the pod fell clear of the ship’s ARGRAV field, and the steering jets fired. McKee couldn’t see the activity but knew the Io was dumping chaff into the atmosphere along with the pods as a way to confuse the Hudathans. Which blips were pods and which weren’t? It would be tough to tell. The deuce began to vibrate as an envelope of hot plasma formed around it. She could feel the temperature inside the module start to rise as layer after layer of protection was burned away. Then the deuce flipped and flipped again as the steering jets fired. “We’re having some fun now,” Bartov rumbled.

  McKee was about to reply when the main chute deployed, and she felt a violent jerk. The sensation was identical to what she had experienced during the VR training, and that was reassuring. The pod swayed from side to side, and a downward-pointing camera fed video to McKee’s HUD. That was when she saw the lake and realized that the deuce was going to hit the water. “Get ready,” she said. “We’re going to . . .” And that was when the pod hit.

  It sank at first. Then, being airtight, it bobbed to the surface. That was the good news. The bad news was that the pod had no means of propulsion—and couldn’t be opened without allowing water to rush in.

  Meanwhile, as the pod floated on the surface of the lake, it was an inviting target for anyone who wanted to shoot at it. Fortunately, no one had. Not yet anyway. McKee tried to remember a VR session that dealt with such a predicament but couldn’t. Remy’s voice sounded in her ears. “This is Charlie-Nine . . . It looks like we have three floaters. Blow your pods, salvage what you can, and get to shore. We’ll cover you. Over.”

  McKee chinned her mike two times and eyed her HUD. The other floaters belonged to her. She switched to platoon freq. “This is Charlie-One to Charlie Four-One and Charlie-Five. You heard the major. You can swim, and your borgs can walk along the bottom of the lake if they have to. Be sure to remove your supplies from storage before you blow your pods. Once your T-1 is loaded, blow the pod. Over.”

  There was very little room in which to maneuver. But McKee managed to open the compartment she’d been sitting on. Bartov leaned forward to pull two waterproof containers out. There was a forty-pound backpack for McKee and a larger chest pack for him. With help from McKee, he was able to strap both to his body. The weight distribution was all wrong but would be okay for the relatively short walk to shore.

  Once that was accomplished, McKee flipped a protective cover out of the way and thumbed a button. There was a loud bang, both halves of the pod separated, and the sky appeared. That was followed by a sudden influx of water. It was cool but not that cold.

  McKee threw herself clear and Bartov waved as he sank. Fortunately, McKee was only a hundred yards from shore. But she was wearing combat gear and carrying her AXE. All being too precious to shed.

  So she floundered forward, sank, and battled her way to the surface again. But it wasn’t going to work. She was going to drown. Then McKee felt something grab her combat vest from behind and lift. Suddenly, she was halfway out of the water and still kicking her feet as Bartov carried her ashore. As the cyborg put her down, Remy appeared out of the brush that bordered the water. His visor was open, and there was a smile on his face. “Welcome to Savas, Lieutenant. If we survive this mission, I’ll rate you as drop-qualified . . . A signal honor for a cavalry officer.” The Legion had landed.

  CHAPTER: 8

  It is difficult to say which I hate more, the round heads, or the change skins. Both bring death.

  CHIEF SOTH NENGAR

  The northern Paguumis

  Standard year 2761

  PLANET SAVAS

  The air was cool, and the sky was a beautiful violet color as Avery exited the wreck and paused to look around. But off to the east, the orange-red sun was about to break company with the horizon and would soon make itself known. By midday, the temperature would climb to a toasty ninety-five degrees. That was why he wanted to climb the mountain early. Marines and sailors were posted around what remained of the ship. One of them said, “Good morning, sir,” as the officer passed by.

  Avery waved as he followed boot prints toward the base of the mountain. Or was it a large hill? Not that it made any difference. More than a week had passed since the crash landing. Ophelia and her son had survived, along with most of the people on the upper decks, but hundreds had been killed down below, where the force of the impact crushed a hull never intended for a planetary landing.

  The marines on D deck suffered a disproportionate number of casualties, and that included the loss of their commanding officer, Major Conklin, which was how Avery wound up in command of all ground forces. That included most of the sailors since their regular jobs didn’t exist anymore. With nothing else to do, the survivors were waiting for the rescue force that was sure to come, assuming that Captain Suzuki’s message torp made it through.

  Avery let his AXE dangle from its sling as he started up the steep trail. The path wasn’t new, or he didn’t think so, and for good reason. Many of the sentients who lived on Savas were nomads. So it seemed likely that they had passed through the area many times and placed lookouts on the hill just as he had.

  It took the better part of twenty minutes to follow the switchbacking path up to the summit, where Outpost Oscar was situated. The OP consisted of a large tarp supported by metal poles, a well-dug fighting position, and a team of six. The idea was to make sure that two people were awake and scanning the surrounding countryside at all times.

  A row of empty five-gallon water containers sat ready to be picked up later that morning. Two of the ship’s maintenance bots were being used to hump five-gallon containers of water up to the summit—and without them, Outpost Oscar wouldn’t have been possible.

  The NCO in charge of the OP was a cheerful sergeant named Rucker. Like the rest of the detachment, he was dressed in shorts, boots, and very little else. Having missed his weekly haircut, his red hair was getting longer. “Good morning, Major . . . It’s nice to see that the Legion is finally up and around.”

  “Good morning, Sergeant. Look at that hair . . . You’re a disgrace to the Marine Corps.” Both men grinned and shook hands.

  Then Avery made the rounds, pausing to
talk with each marine or sailor before returning to the point where a pair of tripod-mounted 30-160x70 binoculars had been set up. “So, Rucker, what are the buggers up to this morning?”

  “They’re all around us, sir . . . Just watching so far. See the pointy rock out there? You can see a couple of digs down at the base of it.”

  Avery stepped up to the glasses, swung them onto the rock, and tilted down. That’s when he saw two cloth-wrapped heads and what might have been a rifle barrel. The locals had the wreck under surveillance all right. The question was why? Were they merely keeping an eye on the off-worlders? To make sure they stayed where they were? Or were they preparing to attack?

  Avery took his eyes from the binoculars in order to survey the surrounding terrain. It was open. That was a good thing because it meant the digs wouldn’t have much cover if they tried to take a run at the wreck. But how many fighters could they bring to bear? A hundred? A thousand? That was Avery’s greatest concern. The remaining marines weren’t equipped to deal with a situation that no one had foreseen. Had it been otherwise, he could have placed artillery and mortars on the hill ready to sweep the open area with plunging fire. But such wasn’t the case. All they had were small arms and a few crew-served machine guns. A squad of T-1s, the legionnaire thought to himself. A single squad of cyborgs could make a huge difference. But he might as well have wished for a battalion of tanks.

  Closer in, near the foot of the hill, he could see the wreck. Most of the bow was buried under the tidal wave of dirt that had been pushed up during the ship’s three-mile journey across the planet’s surface. The top half of the hull was exposed, but the lower decks were inaccessible from the outside. And there, leading away from the stern, was the fifty-foot-deep furrow that ran east to the recently decapitated hill. No wonder the digs were watching. The ship’s arrival would have been hard to miss. “All right,” Avery said, as he turned to Rucker. “Keep your eyes peeled. And call me if something changes.”