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

by William C. Dietz

  Nola-Ba waited for Oppo’s wife to pour, raised the bowl high, and drank the contents. For some reason, the bitter brew tasted better than it had before.

  —

  THE GREAT PANDU DESERT

  A warrior mounted on a proud-looking zurna led the way, followed by twelve Human prisoners. One of them was Empress Ophelia Ordanus—and she was in crudely forged chains. Her right ankle was bleeding where a rusty bracelet had rubbed it raw. The trail wound its way through a scattering of boulders, up over a ridge, and onto an area of reddish hardpan. The sun was a malevolent presence in the sky—and beat down on the Humans as if determined to suck them dry of moisture.

  More than a day had passed since the attack on the wreck. After being cooped up inside the hot, muggy ship all day, Ophelia and Nicolai had gone out for a stroll. Daska and two additional synths had been along for protection. It was dark, but the moonlight offered enough light to see by, and the air was delightfully cool. So Ophelia allowed her son to play hide-and-seek with Daska.

  After an hour or so, she ordered the synth to take her son into the ship and put him to bed. The cross-country hike was slated to begin first thing in the morning, and it was important for Nicolai to be rested. He complained but was led away. That was the last time she’d seen him. Had he been killed inside the ship? Yes. Were it otherwise, Nicolai would be among the prisoners. Tears cut tracks through the dust on her cheeks and evaporated within seconds.

  Twenty minutes after Nicolai left, Ophelia heard what sounded like thunder and began to make her way back to the ship. But it wasn’t thunder. A fact that soon became clear as the marines fired flares from the top of the hill, and Ophelia saw that a large number of animals were running toward her. Animals that were urged on by riders who cracked whips and shouted words she couldn’t understand.

  The ship was still too far away to reach in time, so the synths boosted Ophelia up onto a large rock and turned to confront the bawling horde. The robots fired their machine pistols, and Ophelia heard grunts of pain. But the small-caliber bullets had very little stopping power, and the tidal wave rolled over the machines and kept on going.

  At that point it was up to the marines and sailors to stop the stampede, and they tried. Ophelia saw muzzle flashes and heard the stutter of automatic weapons as sentries attempted to cope with the unexpected threat. That was when the energy cannon on top of the wreck began to fire. Ophelia saw blips of coherent energy stutter out only to be absorbed by the seething herd of animals around her. How many died? Hundreds—maybe more.

  There was an urge to run but no place to go. Ophelia had never felt so helpless before. Normally, she was in charge. That’s what Ophelia was thinking about when the ship exploded. She was outside of the blast zone, but the flash of light took her night vision, and a shock wave blew her off the rock. She hit hard and rolled to her feet. The moon had set, but fiery pieces of wreckage were still twirling down out of the night sky.

  While lots of indigs had been killed, others were mounted on the herd animals. One of them spotted her, stood, and jumped from back to back. It was a display of athleticism unlike anything Ophelia had seen before. She turned and began to run as a secondary explosion lit up the night. Ophelia hadn’t traveled more than twenty feet when the warrior took a dive off one of the rampaging beasts and drove her to the ground. She struggled but to no avail. The Paguumi jerked the Human to her feet, tied her wrists, and led her away.

  The rest of the night was spent in a ravine where a small fire provided what little warmth there was—and three guards kept a close eye on Ophelia and two other prisoners. More captives trickled in until there were twelve in all. That was when a blacksmith arrived to fit them with leg irons and chains. The fact that such things existed said something about the locals and their culture.

  By the time the sun rose over the eastern horizon, the column was under way. Chains rattled, and when somebody tripped, all of the prisoners were whipped. Time lost all meaning as the sun arced across the achingly blue sky, and the shadows cast by the rock formations grew longer. Then, as the Humans rounded a low-lying hill, Ophelia spotted what looked like an inflatable hab up ahead. A mirage? Probably. That’s what she assumed until they were about a hundred feet away.

  That was when the entrance irised open, and a Hudathan emerged. Ophelia knew he was a Hudathan because she’d seen pictures of them. And he was huge. But for some reason, the alien’s skin was white instead of gray. A reaction to the heat? Yes. But details like that didn’t matter. What did matter was that the Hudathans had a presence on Savas and were on friendly terms with locals. That came as a shock.

  The Hudathan was equipped with a translator. It was set to let him talk with the locals, so Ophelia couldn’t understand a word of what was said. The alien’s hand gestures were eloquent enough, however. Based on his instructions, the locals herded the prisoners into the shade provided by a cluster of jagged rocks. Then they were given bowls of brackish water and allowed to drink as much as they wanted. After some gulps, Ophelia swished the liquid around the inside of her parched mouth before letting it trickle down her throat. Had wine tasted so good? If so, she couldn’t remember it.

  By that time, Ophelia had begun to think about strategy. It looked as though the indigs were about to hand their prisoners over to the Hudathans. If so, should she admit to who she was? Or would it be better to keep her identity secret? That would prevent the aliens from using her as leverage. On the other hand, she was likely to receive far better treatment if the Hudathans knew who she was. Besides, the other prisoners were likely to rat her out even if she ordered them not to. Especially if they were subjected to torture.

  No, all things considered, Ophelia thought it would be best to announce herself and hope that her subordinates on Earth would negotiate a release. Or perhaps she could cut a deal of her own. But with whom? Ophelia figured that question would answer itself before too long.

  There wasn’t much conversation among the prisoners, and Ophelia knew why. The sailors and marines were afraid to speak with her. But that was a blessing since she had nothing worthwhile to share. What could she say? Don’t worry—we’ll be fine? That was bullshit, and they would know it. So it was better to remain silent, allow the heat to sedate her, and to sleep if she could.

  So Ophelia was slumped forward, with her chin resting on her chest, when the shuttle passed overhead. There was a roar followed by a miniature dust storm as the machine turned and landed not far from the hab.

  A few minutes later, a ramp was lowered and some Hudathan troopers clomped down onto the ground. Ophelia saw what she assumed to be a noncom point in her direction—and wasn’t surprised when four of the Hudathans came over to collect the prisoners.

  A series of grunts, hand gestures, and the occasional shove were used to guide the Humans up the ramp and into the shuttle. Once aboard, their chains were shackled to O-rings set into the deck. They’re taking us up to one of their ships, Ophelia thought to herself.

  After the shuttle took off, it stayed low instead of climbing up out of the atmosphere—and followed the contours of the land in what Ophelia thought was a northwesterly direction. There was nothing to do, so her thoughts turned to Nicolai, the man he might have been, and the sudden reversal of fortune that led to his death. How could this be? she wondered. Bad things happened to other people. Never to her. The engines made a droning sound, and Ophelia felt numb.

  —

  SAVAS BASE 001

  The blazing-hot sun was beating down on his broad shoulders but, thanks to a body that was equipped to cope with Hudatha’s wildly fluctuating climate, Nola-Ba barely noticed. He was about to complete a full circuit of the newly completed base. An almost daily ritual that would no longer be necessary.

  The top of the hill had been removed to provide space for two landing pads. And down inside the hollowed-out core were a pair of fusion generators, living quarters, and six energy cannons. All of
which had been taken out of the skeletonized Head Hunter. But that wasn’t all. Now that the defensive ditch was complete, the Paguumis wouldn’t be able to use their herd animals as part of an attack on the base.

  So that part of Nola-Ba’s mission was complete, and he was in a good mood as he crossed one of four narrow footbridges and entered the fort via a sally port. A corridor led into the heart of the hill and the center of the base. One of two large lifts carried Nola-Ba up to Deck 3 where the command’s administrative functions were housed.

  Nola-Ba’s desk was positioned so that his back was protected by a wall. And as the naval officer sat down, his data screen came to life. There was a long list of messages waiting for him but one was flashing on and off. Nola-Ba touched it with a blunt forefinger and saw Spear Commander Aro-Sa appear. He was, according to the caption at the bottom of the screen, on the Light Cruiser Intaka (Deathblow). Having heard a tone, the Intel officer turned from what he’d been doing and looked into the camera. “Admiral.”

  “Spear Commander.”

  “You will recall that a Human ship passed through the upper atmosphere a few days ago and went hyper before we could intercept it. It was too small to constitute a warship of any significance, so we assumed it to be a scout or a freighter. A smuggler perhaps, which, having detected one of our ships, reentered hyperspace.”

  Nola-Ba nodded. “And?”

  “And, after further analysis, we believe the vessel was a Human dropship.”

  Nola-Ba felt his pulse quicken. A dropship! The kind of vessel used to literally “drop” special-operations teams into enemy-held territory. So odds were that the Humans knew about the wreck—and had sent a team to search for survivors. “So,” Nola-Ba said, “did they drop troops, or didn’t they?”

  “We believe they did.”

  Nola-Ba nodded. “Find them.”

  “Yes, Admiral. After the dropship reports in, the Humans will send a battle group.”

  “And we’ll be here to greet them. I assume that Captain Po-Ba and you are ready to spring the trap.”

  “We are.”

  “Excellent.” Nola-Ba speared the line of flashing text and the intelligence officer disappeared. Things were getting interesting.

  —

  Ophelia opened her eyes as the deck started to tilt and the engines began to work harder. Moments later, the shuttle seemed to stall, made the switch to repellers, and went straight down. There was a soft landing followed by a sudden flurry of activity. Chains rattled as they were pulled through O-rings, and the Humans were ordered to stand. From there they shuffled out into bright sunlight. It caused Ophelia to squint, and she could feel the sun’s strength through the cotton shirt she wore.

  Ophelia followed the prisoners in front of her across the badly scorched landing pad to a steel hatch. It looked like the sort of airtight door commonly used on spaceships, and as they waited for the barrier to cycle open, Ophelia had an opportunity to look around. She was struck by how elaborate the base was. It looked as if the ridgeheads were planning to stay. That would stretch their navy even more and make them vulnerable elsewhere. Maybe there was a way to take advantage of that. Then Ophelia remembered that she wasn’t in charge anymore, and the question of what to do next would fall to someone else. But who? There was no heir apparent. And that was no accident.

  Ophelia’s thoughts were interrupted as the hatch cycled open, and the prisoners were ordered to enter. The interior felt cool, which came as a relief. Chains scraped across the metal deck as the POWs were herded down a corridor into a lift. All of the doors and fittings seemed to be larger than necessary. So much so that Ophelia felt small.

  The lift took the Humans down to one of the lower levels, where they were shoved, prodded, and kicked into a nearly featureless room. Then the door closed, and the prisoners were left to their own devices. Some spoke to each other in low tones, and others took naps. One sailor rocked back and forth and sang to himself.

  Which person would the aliens interrogate first? Ophelia figured the Hudathans would choose a male since the Hudathans had a male-dominated culture, and that assumption proved to be correct when a pair of troopers entered the room about twenty minutes later. One of them pointed at a chief petty officer (CPO), who smiled engagingly. “Me? You’re asking me to the prom? Where’s my corsage?”

  The comment made no sense but caused all the rest of the prisoners to laugh. The Hudathans didn’t understand, of course, and one of them frowned. That’s how Ophelia chose to interpret the expression anyway. I’ll be next, she thought to herself, as they took the noncom away. So be ready.

  That prediction came true approximately half an hour later when the CPO returned. One eye was swollen shut, there was a cut on his upper lip, and he refused to meet her gaze. The prisoners were silent as he sat down, and a guard pointed at Ophelia. “You.” He was wearing a translator now—so it seemed reasonable to think that he had taken part in the interrogation.

  Had the CPO told the Hudathans that Empress Ophelia was among the prisoners? Yes, of course he had, just as she expected him to. More than that, wanted him to. She stood. And when the Hudathan gestured for her to exit the room she did. What were the others thinking? She didn’t care.

  Ophelia was frightened but mustered all the dignity she could as she boarded a lift and was carried upwards. When the platform coasted to a stop, she was escorted down a hall and into a sparsely furnished room. Three Hudathans were present, and all of them were seated behind a kidney-shaped table with their backs to a slightly curved wall. The one in the middle spoke first. “I am Admiral Dor Nola-Ba. And you are?”

  “Empress Ophelia Ordanus.”

  A moment of silence followed as a wall screen came to life. What looked like motes of light swirled and took shape. “Here it is, Admiral,” the Hudathan to Nola-Ba’s left said. “It’s the only footage we have.”

  As the picture locked up, Ophelia saw herself delivering a speech on Earth. Had a copy been captured somewhere? That seemed likely. “And so,” the slightly younger Ophelia said, “it will be necessary to increase taxes on the colony worlds in order to defend them.” A Hudathan pointed a remote, and the screen and video froze.

  All three Hudathans looked at Ophelia, looked at her likeness, and looked back again. “It appears that you are telling the truth,” Nola-Ba said.

  “Yes, I am,” Ophelia agreed. “And from this point forward, I insist that you treat me with the same level of respect due to a member of your triad.”

  The triad was the three-person triumvirate that ruled the Hudathan Empire, and as Nola-Ba stared at the ragged-looking Human, he could hardly believe his luck. Now, after being shamed, he was about to get the full measure of his honor back.

  How would the authorities on Hudatha use the leverage he was about to give them? What demands would they make of the Humans? He didn’t know or care. All he had to do was record the ensuing interrogation, upload it to a message torp, and send it off.

  Would they restore his previous rank? Or make him a Grand Admiral? If they did, he would use the position to destroy War Commander Ruma-Ka. The idea pleased him, and had Nola-Ba been capable of smiling, he would have done so. “It’s an honor to meet you,” Nola-Ba lied. “I have questions . . . A lot of them. So let’s get started.”

  CHAPTER: 9

  What makes the desert beautiful is that somewhere it hides a well.

  ANTOINE DE SAINT-EXUPÉRY

  The Little Prince

  Standard year 1943

  PLANET SAVAS

  Empress Ophelia was alive! That was the good news for everyone except McKee. Because it had been her fervent hope that the bitch was dead. The announcement came the day after the team landed and just before they were about to head out. With the exception of those who had guard duty, the rest of Special Ops Team One-Five were gathered around the flat-topped rock on which Major Remy stood.

  “I hav
e some good news for you,” Remy said, as he eyed the faces around him. “The empress is alive. We know that because a tiny locator beacon was inserted under the skin behind her left ear roughly nine months ago. At the time it was seen as a precaution that would help authorities find Ophelia in the unlikely event that she was abducted. The existence of the implant is classified because if assassins knew about it, they could use the signal to track her movements. In any case, the beacon is programmed to fail if she’s killed and, since we are receiving a strong signal, it’s safe to conclude that she’s still alive.”

  The announcement prompted applause, lots of positive comments, and an immediate improvement in morale for everyone except McKee. Remy smiled and nodded. “That’s the good news. The bad news is that she’s more than three hundred miles northeast of here . . . So a long hike lies ahead of us.”

  Now, three days later, they were forty-five miles into the journey that Remy had warned them about, and a cloud of insects was swirling around McKee’s head as she elbowed her way forward. Sergeant Roy Feng was next to her, while Bartov and the rest of the squad were concealed in a ravine a hundred yards to the rear.

  The legionnaires wormed their way up over a rise and paused so that McKee could use her binoculars. There was a ragged-looking tree line in front of them, and McKee knew that she was looking at a peninsula of equatorial jungle that jutted out into what their maps called the Great Pandu Desert. The battle between the jungle and the desert had been under way for a long time. Given enough rain, the green stuff would hurry to colonize new territory. Then, when a dry spell came along, the desert would recover the ground it had lost.

  In any case, Remy was eager to reach Ophelia as soon as possible. And in order to do that, it would be necessary for the company to push its way through two fingers of jungle before committing itself to the desert for the balance of the journey. Having fought in the Big Green on Orlo II, McKee knew what they would be in for once they entered the forest. The overarching canopy would block a lot of the sunlight. Animals they’d never seen before would scamper through the branches over their heads—and there would be frequent bouts of rain.