—
It was just after dawn, and Remy was spooning some peaches into his mouth when the help he’d been waiting for arrived. He knew Human ships were present when contrails appeared high in the atmosphere. Not one or two, like they’d seen over the last couple of weeks, but dozens of crisscrossing claw marks. And as Remy came to his feet, people all around the camp began to cheer. “They’re here!” someone shouted. “The squids are here.”
But the celebration was cut short as a momentary flash was seen, followed by a tiny puff of white smoke. A fighter or a shuttle had been destroyed, but whose? Remy was still contemplating that when Lieutenant Ellis came running over. “I’ve got a Marine Corps colonel on the horn! He says they’re trying to put some jarheads on the ground, but there’s a whole shitload of ridgeheads up in space. He wants a sitrep.”
So Remy jogged over to the “big horn” as the techs referred to the radio and identified himself. “This is Colonel Owens,” a male voice said. “We’re on the ground, but we’ve been forced to land in two different locations, neither one of which is anywhere near you. We’ll regroup and make contact as soon as we can. In the meantime, your orders are the same. Find code name Gemstone and secure her. Over.”
Remy said, “Yes, sir. We have recovered code name Cowboy. He’s in good condition and ready for extraction.”
That produced a brief moment of silence while Owens absorbed the news. “Well done, Major. That is a big relief. I’ll pass the news along. We’ll arrange for a pickup. Over.”
“Roger that. We’re getting short on supplies if you can spare any. Over.”
“Upload a list,” Owens replied. “We’ll see what we can do. Over.”
And that was that. Not too surprisingly, Huzz and a group of hungover warriors arrived an hour later. They had seen the battle in the sky and wanted to know what was going on. Remy had been careful to keep Huzz in the dark regarding the mission’s real objective lest the local try to find Ophelia on his own. Insofar as Huzz knew, the legionnaires were there for the purpose of fighting the Hudathans. And that was sufficient.
“So,” Remy said, in hopes of cutting the mourning period short. “My people are fighting the Hudathans in the sky. This is our opportunity to attack their base.”
What Remy knew to be a sly look appeared on the Paguumi’s face. “And what will we receive if the attack is successful?”
“All the metal in and around the base,” Remy promised. “Along with weapons so powerful that you will rule the planet for many years to come.”
“We will meet at Three Fingers as the sun goes down,” Huzz said. “Then we will ride.”
—
Chief Pudu was sitting atop his favorite zurna watching contrails etch themselves onto the heavens when the spy arrived. His name was Abu Mook, and he was a southerner by birth. But his wife was from the north and had been treated poorly while living among Mook’s people. An offense that continued to anger him. That plus the money Pudu paid him explained why Mook was willing to betray his tribe. Eventually, the traitor hoped to make a life for his family in the north—but Pudu continued to stall the spy rather than lose such a valuable source of information.
Mook was small, too small to serve as a warrior, and made most of his living buying plant materials from Jithi traders, which he and his family turned into various potions. And business was reasonably good because some of them actually worked. And, it was an occupation that allowed Mook to travel without raising suspicion.
Mook’s zurna was hung with large panniers rather than the paraphernalia of war and, except for the Jithi-made pistols holstered to either side of the animal’s neck, he was unarmed. Like the rest of his body, his features were small, and that made him appear younger than he actually was. Pudu’s bodyguards knew the southerner and allowed him to pass. “Greetings,” Mook said. “You grow younger with each passing day.”
“And your lies grow more glaring with each rising of the sun,” Pudu replied. Both of them laughed.
“So,” Pudu said, as he looked up at the sky and down again. “What’s going on?”
“The round heads are fighting the change skins in the sky,” Mook replied.
“That much is obvious,” Pudu replied dryly. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
There were times when Mook enjoyed his role as spy—and judging from his expression, this was one of them. “They say that Chief Oppo was murdered by his bodyguards. However Subchief Huzz and a delegation of round heads were in the hoga at the time.”
Pudu was surprised. The Oppo he knew had been far too smart to surround himself with anything but the most loyal of warriors. Relatives for the most part who were honor-bound to protect him. “What are you saying? That Huzz and the round heads killed Oppo?”
“It’s a possibility,” Mook replied cagily. “But only that. I have no proof. And Oppo was unpopular. The bodyguards could have been acting for others.”
“I assume you are referring to the metal tax,” Pudu said. “Word of it spread via the Jithis. So Huzz took over without much opposition.”
“None,” Mook agreed. “Now he’s coming north. A force of round heads and their fighting machines will accompany him.”
“Why?” Pudu wanted to know. “To attack us?” That was an alarming possibility.
“No,” Mook replied. “To attack the change skins. It’s connected with the battle in the sky. All of the aliens want our planet.”
“Yes,” Pudu said thoughtfully. “So it would seem.”
A white streak chased another across the sky until both disappeared into the distant haze. “So what will you do?” Mook inquired.
Pudu knew what he was going to do, or not do, as the case might be. If the southerners wanted to attack the change-skin base, then he would allow them to do so. Most would die just as many of his warriors had. If not eliminated during the fighting, the round heads would be severely weakened. Then he would strike and seize both the metal and a large number of alien weapons.
It was a good plan, too good to share with a spy, even one that he liked. “I don’t know,” Pudu lied. “I’ll think about it. Come . . . You must be thirsty and hungry as well. We will feast, and you will tell me stories.”
Pudu pulled the zurna’s head around, sent an order through the neural connection that linked them together, and felt the beast take off. His knees hurt, but his mind was sharp, and it felt good to be alive.
—
What the Paguumis called Three Fingers was a rock formation comprised of three sandstone pillars. And when Team One-Five arrived, it was to discover that Huzz and approximately three thousand warriors were waiting. McKee could see few signs of organization as the locals rode in circles, raced each other, or brewed tea. But Kambi assured McKee that she was looking at a highly disciplined horde that consisted of three zin (battalions) and thirty gan (companies), all led by seasoned veterans. And having seen action on Algeron, McKee knew better than to underestimate native troops.
Remy assigned McKee to the point position as usual. Except now she had an additional force of eight Paguumis to act as scouts. They were led by a grizzled veteran named Imon Supatha. It was clear from the beginning that he didn’t like riding with aliens, didn’t approve of female warriors, and wasn’t about to take orders from one. So, for reasons of pride, Supatha was careful to ride well out in front of McKee’s T-1s at all times.
That didn’t trouble McKee in the least since it meant that should an ambush be waiting, Supatha and his scouts were likely to trigger it—thereby giving her legionnaires more time in which to react. Besides, C-3 was aloft and providing a bird’s-eye view of the area ahead. And with a thousand warriors on each flank, there was very little chance of a surprise from the east or west.
No, in McKee’s estimation, the major threat was from the air, which was why every available set of rocket launchers had been mounted on her T-1s, thereby turn
ing four of her bio bods into foot soldiers. An ignominious fate that they resented greatly.
In spite of Supatha’s attitudes, McKee had to give the Paguumi scouts a great deal of credit. Even though the moon wasn’t up yet, and the warriors weren’t equipped with night-vision technology, they had an uncanny ability to find their way over, around, and through obstacles. And although they might veer right or left for a moment, they always came back on course. Did they have compasses? McKee didn’t think so.
Knowing how much the Paguumis loved to ride their zurnas flat out, McKee expected the horde to surge forward and maintain a blistering pace. But the passage of three-thousand-plus bodies created enough friction to slow things down.
As the stars frosted the sky above, and an occasional streak of fire raced across the sky, the horde pushed north. Three uneventful hours passed, and it was almost time for a break when Remy’s voice filled her helmet. “A marine assault boat and six escorts will arrive twenty from now. We’re going to stop so they can take Cowboy aboard.
“Chief Huzz is passing the word to his people—but don’t hesitate to double down on that. The last thing we want is to fire on the jarheads while they are trying to extract Cowboy. Over.”
McKee took a twisted pleasure in delivering the news to Supatha via her drone. Just as she knew it would, C-3 scared the crap out of the Paguumi scout when it appeared out of the sky and spoke to him with her voice. But Supatha got the message and ordered his warriors to pull up. Thankfully, Remy and Huzz were able to bring the rest of the horde to a halt with a minimum of fuss.
—
The roar of repellers announced the boat’s arrival a few minutes later, and Avery took Nicolai out to meet it. “The marines are going to take you up to one of our ships,” Avery told the boy. “You’ll be safe there.”
“I don’t want to be safe,” Nicolai said stubbornly. “I want to stay with you.”
Dust flew sideway as the boat put down, and Avery knelt next to Nicolai. He had to yell in order to be heard. “I’m sorry, son . . . But my place is here. With the Legion. Our job is to find your mother—and we need to keep looking.”
Nicolai looked up into the light from Avery’s helmet, and tears ran down his cheeks. “I’m going to miss you, Major John.”
Avery swallowed the lump in his throat. “And I’m going to miss you, Nicolai. Grow up, be strong, and be fair.”
A couple of marines had arrived by then. One of them spoke. “The ridgeheads followed us down. We have escorts, but there’s no telling how many of the bastards are coming this way. We need to lift, sir.”
So Avery led Nicolai over to the shuttle. A pile of supplies had been off-loaded, along with three synths, all of whom wore Ophelia’s livery. Bodyguards then . . . Sent to protect the empress should she be found. The sight of the machines made his blood run cold. Daska was present as well. And he could see that the robot was watching him. “Good-bye,” Nicolai said, then he came to attention. The salute was textbook perfect, as was the about-face. Then the boy was gone.
—
Repellers flared, the assault boat took off, and veered away. Other engines screamed as Tachyon fighters passed over their heads and crossed a field of stars.
McKee was still on point and couldn’t see the boat because the running lights were off. She could watch via her HUD, however, and was about to do so, when Bartov delivered a warning. “This is Charlie One-Three. There is an unidentified aircraft approaching at a high rate of speed from the northeast. I tried to contact it, but there was no response. Request permission to fire. Over.”
The Hudathan fighter was dropping bombs by the time McKee yelled, “This is One . . . Track and fire!”
The cyborgs were widely dispersed but tied together via a shared targeting system. Their rockets sought heat, and most converged on a single target. The combined impacts were sufficient to blow a wing off a fighter. The fuselage hit the ground and cartwheeled two or three times before finally skidding to a stop. McKee had no way to know how many Paguumis were killed by pieces of flying wreckage but suspected that the casualty rate would be high.
“This is Six,” Remy said. “That was some good shooting. Over.”
Such praise was rare, and McKee felt a surge of pleasure. But when she looked at her HUD, she saw that the letters “KIA” had been posted next to three names. Varco, Perodi, and Hamu were dead. She soon learned that seventeen Paguumis had been killed as well. It was with a heavy heart that McKee went to examine the fallen T-1s. If parts could be salvaged from Varco and Hamu, it was her duty to do so even as their brain boxes were being buried. It was the only way that the dead could help the living.
—
SAVAS BASE 001
The base was blacked out. So there was only starlight to see by as Nola-Ba stood on the landing platform and stared up at the heavens. He was in a bad mood and for good reason. In spite of the fact that he was an admiral, the ships under his command were fighting a desperate battle without him.
Yes, he could order a shuttle to land where he was standing, but what then? The Humans had fewer ships but more fighters. Would the shuttle and its escorts be able to fight them off? Or would both he and Empress Ordanus be killed on their way up into space? Because under no circumstances would he leave without her.
Nola-Ba didn’t want to die, but the thought of losing Ophelia was even worse. She was more valuable than an entire fleet of ships. Proof of which could be seen in the fact that the Humans had sent a ground team and a naval task force to find her.
Fortunately, there had been no attempt to attack his base, so she was momentarily safe. Or was she? Nola-Ba felt an unexpected emptiness in the pit of his stomach. There was only one Hudathan base on Savas, and it would be hard to miss from orbit. So why hadn’t the animals attacked by air? Or from orbit for that matter? The answer was glaringly obvious. Because the clanless bastards knew Ophelia was there! And didn’t want to harm her.
But how? How could they know? Then it came to him, and when it did, the thought was like a thunderbolt out of a clear blue sky. An implant. There was an implant in Ophelia’s body. A way to find her should that become necessary. The device would be very small and powered by an even tinier battery or by her body heat. That was why none of his personnel had noticed it.
Nola-Ba was angry at his subordinates and himself as he opened a blastproof hatch and entered a lift. It took him down into the subsurface maze of rooms that had originally been part of the Head Hunter. A dagger commander named Oma-Da was in charge of security. He was asleep when Nola-Ba barged into the compartment that he shared with another junior officer. “On your feet!” Nola-Ba demanded as he slapped a light switch. “We have work to do.”
—
Empress Ophelia Ordanus was sitting on the floor of her cell, leaning back into a corner. She was filthy, dressed in rags, and fighting depression. There had been jubilation at first. The navy had come to rescue her! And Nola-Ba couldn’t take her to Hudatha. But that emotion had begun to fade as hours passed, and there was no attempt to save her. What were they waiting for? If she survived, she would order the Minister of Defense to launch an investigation.
No, that didn’t make sense . . . It would be better to cast the officer in charge as a hero. Then, if he or she wasn’t a hero, her synths could . . .
Ophelia’s train of thought was interrupted by the sound of a muffled voice. Metal rattled. The door banged open. And there, standing backlit in the entryway, was the unmistakable figure of Admiral Nola-Ba. Ophelia felt a stab of fear. Had he come to take her away? Was this the beginning of the trip to Hudatha? “Take her to the interrogation room,” Nola-Ba ordered. “Secure her to the rack and strip her clothes off.”
The Hudathans were going to torture her! Just as others had been tortured. She had heard the screams. Were any of the crew still alive? She hadn’t heard or seen another Human being for a long time.
Ophelia was terrified as two troopers entered the cell and took hold of her arms. Her feet walked on air as they carried her out into the corridor. Less than a minute later, Ophelia found herself in a low-ceilinged room being secured to a metal rack. It was slanted at an angle and positioned over a floor drain. What might have been bloodstains could be seen on the frame. Ophelia feared the worst.
Then came a moment of terrible indignity as the rags were ripped off her body, leaving Ophelia naked for all to see. They’re aliens, she told herself. They aren’t interested in the way you look. Even though the assertion was clearly true, it did nothing to make her feel better.
No translator was present, but Ophelia knew enough Hudathan to understand the order that Nola-Ba gave. “Scan her. The transmitter will be very small and hidden under the surface of her skin.”
The beacon! They were looking for the beacon! That had been her hope, the central element in all of her rescue fantasies, and now they were going to take it away! Ophelia fought back the tears as a technician ran a hand scanner over the contours of her body.
The process didn’t take long. An intermittent beeping sound was heard as the device passed over the vicinity of her neck. It grew louder as the technician maneuvered the scanner in behind her skull. “There it is,” Nola-Ba said grimly. “Cut it out.”
Metal screeched as one of the troopers turned the rack over. Ophelia found herself hanging from the straps and staring at the floor. Then she heard movement, felt something sharp penetrate her skin, and screamed. There was a pause followed by more pain and a grunt of satisfaction. She couldn’t see Nola-Ba but could hear him. “Well done! Put a dressing on the Human’s neck and flip her over.”
Andromeda's War (Legion of the Damned Book 3) Page 27
