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

by William C. Dietz

  Minutes later she spotted a body lying on the ground and pulled up next to it. She took her helmet off as she stepped to the ground. “John! Can you hear me?”

  There was no answer, and McKee feared the worst as she knelt at his side. There was blood. A lot of it and her hands shook as she felt for a pulse. It was there! Thready, to be sure . . . But a pulse nevertheless.

  There was a bloodstain on the front of his chest protector, so she hurried to cut the straps that held it in place. Moments later she saw that the body armor had been holed and so had he. Each breath produced a spurt of blood.

  McKee had seen sucking chest wounds before and knew they could result in a collapsed lung. But she could prevent that by applying a special dressing to the wound. A bandage that would prevent air from getting in and allow extra air to escape.

  McKee fumbled with a pocket flap, found what she was looking for, and pulled it out. The bandage began to wiggle as it sensed blood and practically jumped onto Avery’s chest.

  That was good but what about the piece of metal responsible for the wound? Kambi was kneeling next to her. “Turn your helmet light on,” McKee ordered, knowing that it was a dangerous thing to do. But she had to see in order to treat Avery, and that had priority. “Here,” she added, “help me turn him on his side.”

  Kambi obeyed and kept the helmet light focused on Avery’s back as McKee cut the rest of the body armor away. And there it was—a small exit wound. The object had gone straight through! That was a blessing since she had no way to remove shrapnel from deep inside his body.

  McKee put a self-sealing compress over the wound and turned to Kambi. “We’ll place him on your sled. Find a place to hide. A spot where you can’t be seen from above. Keep the helmet on. I’ll use it to find you.”

  Kambi turned the light off and helped McKee drape Avery over the backseat. The retractable harness served to hold him in place. Kambi switched the light off. “You’re going after them.”

  “I have to. I want to kill Ophelia . . . That’s true. But now I have to kill her. She’ll send an army to find us if I don’t.”

  Kambi nodded. “There is a place south of here. A cave that only the Jithi use. I will take him there.”

  “Good. And, Kambi . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you.” And with that, she left.

  —

  Ophelia was on the lowest level of the fort being held prisoner in a cell. The Hudathans had secured her to a metal rack, and she’d been there for what seemed like hours. Then the door swung open, and McKee entered. The legionnaire smiled evilly as she came over to stand only inches away. Ophelia couldn’t take her eyes off the scar. It made McKee look cruel. Like a person who, having suffered pain, looked forward to dispensing it.

  But when McKee spoke, it was Alfred’s voice that Ophelia heard. But that couldn’t be since she’d been there when the synths threw her brother off the balcony into the abyss below. “That’s right,” Alfred said. “I’m waiting for you. Waiting to . . .”

  Ophelia awoke with a start and found a face much like her own looking down at her. Daska! Thank God. Farther up, she could see a dusting of stars and the flight of a meteor as it flashed across the sky. Or was that a burning ship? One of the many that were fighting over her. “Yes?” Ophelia croaked. “What is it?”

  “Fifteen hundred hours tomorrow,” the synth answered. “That is when they will come for you.”

  The ground was hard, and Ophelia was lying on a shelter half. There hadn’t been much time to gather supplies as she and her bodyguards fled the compound. Nor had she expected to need them with the navy so close. But in spite of everything Admiral Nigata had been able to accomplish, his ships were still outnumbered and worse yet, from her perspective, was the fact that the marines had been defeated on the ground. So help wouldn’t be coming from that quarter.

  By using Daska as an intermediary, Ophelia had been trying to arrange for an extraction. The task was made more difficult by the fact that the Hudathans were searching for her—and would respond in force if they thought a rescue attempt was under way. “How will it work?” Ophelia wanted to know.

  “There will be ten landings,” the synth replied. “At various locations. But only one will be real.”

  “Excellent,” Ophelia exclaimed. “That should do the trick. What about the traitors who are chasing me?”

  “Your plan was successful. Reez showed itself, they went after it, and Steffa fired a rocket at the Humans. We believe one of them was killed.”

  “Which one?”

  “Major Avery.”

  “Damn. McKee is the more dangerous of the two. What about Reez? Did they manage to kill it?”

  “Yes,” Daska said unemotionally.

  “Okay,” Ophelia said, as she stood. “All we have to do is make it to 1500 hours tomorrow. Tell Steffa to ambush McKee and kill her. Even if the effort fails, it will buy me more time.”

  “Steffa is on his way,” Daska said two seconds later. “We are ready to depart.”

  Ophelia took a long drink of tepid water before handing the canteen to the robot. “All right . . . I will set the pace.” And with that, she began to jog. Her boots were heavy but well broken in. But could she run far and fast enough? The answer, Ophelia decided, would have to be yes.

  —

  McKee knew what to look for by that time and had little difficulty following the synth’s trail. It led west, then south, along the side of the looming mesa. Every now and then she checked her HUD to see where Kambi and Avery were. It appeared that the slower sled was headed for the north side of the mesa.

  She was tired and had a hard time staying awake. It required an act of will to keep her eyes open and scan the area ahead. The sky was growing lighter, and visibility had improved. Suddenly, a hole appeared in the windshield, and a bullet buzzed past her helmet. A sniper!

  The response was instinctual. McKee swerved and began a series of S turns. There! She could see a slight rise topped by a scattering of boulders. The perfect spot for a synth to lie in wait.

  McKee heard a clang and knew that the robot had scored again. That meant the S turns were too predictable. So she began a series of what she hoped would be unexpected zigs and zags. The engine sputtered, quit, and caught again. Had the most recent hit caused some damage? Or was the sled running out of fuel?

  Either way, it was imperative to reach the rise. If the vehicle stalled out in the open she’d be a sitting duck for the sharpshooting robot. The distance began to close, and as it did, the vehicle’s course became increasingly predictable. McKee bent over and ducked low. She heard a report and felt the hovercraft jerk as it took a hit. Then it was time to grab the shotgun and roll free. The sled ran up the slope and slammed into a reddish boulder.

  McKee assumed she was up against a single robot but knew assumptions could be fatal. So she was careful to stay low as she entered a maze of rocks. But as McKee passed between a couple of rocks, she heard the chatter of a machine pistol. She had to scuttle forward to escape a hail of bullets. Shit, shit, shit! How did the synth know where she was?

  Then, as McKee rounded the side of a boulder, the answer came to her. It was the helmet! It was broadcasting her location on a frequency the synth could intercept. But could that work for her? Maybe.

  McKee set the trap and ducked out of sight. Thirty seconds passed before the synth dropped from a ledge up above. It took the shock with bent knees before straightening up. The machine was reaching for the helmet when McKee pulled the trigger. That produced a loud BOOM. The robot was forced to take two steps backwards as the twelve-gauge slug struck its chest. The android looked down at the dent and back up again. The machine pistol was coming to bear when McKee pulled the trigger again. The slug blew a hole through the synth’s head. There was a thump as it hit the ground. “That’s three,” she said, and felt suddenly dizzy.

 
There was a patch of shade, and McKee sat in it. She should collect the helmet, recover the synth’s weapons, and check on the sled. But that would require standing up, and she couldn’t summon the energy. Five minutes. That’s all she needed. Then she’d be raring to go. McKee let her head rest on the rock, allowed her eyes to close, and sleep carried her away.

  It was the heat that finally woke her. And when she looked at her chrono, McKee realized that more than two hours had passed. Two precious hours during which Ophelia had been on the run. She swore, got to her feet, and went over to the helmet, which she turned off. The locator beacon had betrayed her once. She didn’t want that to happen again.

  With that accomplished, it was time to collect the machine pistol, the ammo that went with it, and the rifle that had been left on top of the hill. McKee felt a sense of despair as she carried the arsenal down to the sled. The hovercraft had gone partway up the slope, slipped sideways, and flipped over. And it was too heavy to lift without help. All she could do was salvage the canteens, choose which weapons to take with her, and get going.

  It was impossible to know what sort of situation might await her, and that made the choice of weapons difficult. But after giving the matter some thought, McKee settled on the sniper’s rifle in addition to her pistol. Her logic was that it would be difficult to close with the fugitives, but she might be able to spot Ophelia from a distance.

  Rather than leave the machine pistol and the shotgun for the next Paguumi who happened by, she hid both the weapons and eight pounds’ worth of body armor in a crevice about two hundred feet away from the sled. Then she began to walk. The helmet was strapped to the pack, which contained extra ammo, two canteens of water, and a first-aid kit.

  It took a while to find the synth’s tracks and follow them back to the point where they parted company with the other footprints. Some had been made by standard-issue boots, while the rest belonged to a robot. And that robot had to be Daska since the rest of the synths had been eliminated.

  That was the good news. The bad news was that the trail was hours old and degrading fast. Each gust of hot, dry wind blew sand over the impressions and made them more difficult to see. Still, even though the spoor was steadily disappearing, the line of march was constant and therefore predictable. Ophelia wasn’t wandering around the desert. She was headed somewhere. To a pickup point? Probably. Daska could and would be in contact with the navy. That meant every hour was precious. McKee quickened her pace.

  It was growing steadily warmer as the sun climbed higher in the sky, and McKee knew she wouldn’t be able to catch up using a quick march. That forced her to adopt what the Legion called a double march—a speed roughly equivalent to a jog. Something any legionnaire should be able to maintain for hours at a time. Especially with a light load. Could Ophelia do the same? McKee didn’t think so. Yes, Daska could carry the bitch, but that would slow both of them down.

  Time passed, the sun beat down, and McKee wished she had a hat. But she didn’t, so all she could do was watch the terrain ahead and choose the fastest routes.

  An aircraft passed over her about thirty minutes later. It was very high, so there was no way to know who was flying it—or what the plane’s mission might be. It did get McKee to thinking, however. By this time both she and Avery were listed as MIA. So the Legion would be searching for them. Still another threat.

  Time and distance lost all meaning after a while. McKee felt as if she were floating along as the horizon swayed back and forth, and her boots hit the ground. And that was dangerous because if McKee wasn’t careful, she could run into a trap.

  So she forced herself to stop every now and then to take a drink of water and eyeball the terrain ahead. And it was during what might have been the eighth or ninth stop that she spotted a speck, no a pair of specks, off in the distance!

  McKee brought the rifle around so she could peer through the scope. The images seemed to leap forward, and one of them was Ophelia! The empress was walking slowly, with Daska a pace or two behind.

  McKee felt a sudden surge of energy. The bitch was within reach! With the rifle slung across her back, she began to run. The desert was flat for the most part, but there were dips. Each time she passed such a depression, the targets dropped out of sight. Then, as she topped the next rise, the figures were a tiny bit closer.

  Meanwhile, McKee forced herself to think. What would the endgame be like? As soon as Ophelia realized that McKee was closing in on her, she would send Daska back to kill her pursuer. And that could work. So, what to do?

  McKee ran halfway up a likely-looking slope and threw herself to the ground well short of the crest. Then, with the rifle across her arms, she low crawled to the top. Once in place, it took a moment to find the target and place the crosshairs on Ophelia’s back. The logical thing to do was to shoot the empress right then. But, right or wrong, McKee wanted to confront the bitch—wanted to see the look in Ophelia’s eyes just before she died.

  So McKee swung the crosshairs over to Daska. The last synth had been able to survive a shotgun blast to the chest. So what impact would a .308 rifle bullet have on the robot? Especially at long range? Of course, McKee knew a great deal about robots, cyborgs, and their weak spots. One of which was the area right behind their knees. She could try for that.

  That kind of shot would involve considerable risk, however. A miss could warn the targets and send them into hiding. That would force McKee to cross a lot of open ground before she could close with them. And the long gun would be a liability at short range. Yet what choice was there? She needed to stop them and to do so quickly.

  McKee drew a lungful of air and let it go. The trigger broke, and the rifle butt kicked her shoulder. McKee saw the puff of dust slightly to the right of Daska and swore. The sight was off, the side breeze was stronger than she’d thought it was, or both.

  The fugitives stopped and turned. That was when McKee realized that neither one of them had seen the bullet strike. It was the report they were reacting to. McKee had one last chance. She made the necessary adjustment and fired. The second shot was right where she wanted it. Daska’s head jerked as the bullet struck the robot’s right “eye.”

  It wasn’t a killing shot, though. Not at that distance. There was something very Human about the way the synth brought a hand up to touch the shattered sensor. That was when McKee fired again and uttered a whoop of joy as her bullet pulped Daska’s second eye. Blind now, Daska staggered in a circle, hands extended. And because the robot looked like Ophelia, it was like watching the empress. But Ophelia was untouched. She bent to retrieve Daska’s machine pistol before turning to flee.

  McKee stood and paused to reload the rifle before starting to run. It was no contest. McKee was in good shape, and Ophelia wasn’t. McKee ran past the spot where Daska was walking in circles and kept on going. Ophelia was running full out by that time and turned to trigger a flurry of shots. The bullets went wide, as McKee continued to close in.

  Desperate now, the empress stopped and turned with weapon raised. But McKee was ready. The pistol was up and rock steady. She fired, and the bullet hit Ophelia’s left kneecap. The machine pistol went flying as the empress collapsed. “That was for my father,” McKee said as she walked forward closer. “The next one is for my mother.”

  “No!” Ophelia said desperately. “You can have anything you want. Money, property, anything.”

  “Can you bring thousands of dead people back to life?” McKee demanded. “I don’t think so.” There was a loud report as she squeezed the trigger. There was a spray of blood as the bullet pulped Ophelia’s right knee.

  The empress wrapped her arms around what remained of her knees and produced a pitiful keening sound. McKee felt no sympathy for her. “Who are you?” Ophelia demanded as she looked up into the legionnaire’s scarred face.

  “My name is Lady Catherine Carletto,” McKee answered coolly. “And this one is for Uncle Rex.” There was
a third report, and Ophelia’s head snapped back as a third eye appeared between the other two. The body slumped to the ground.

  McKee stood there for a moment. Her mind was reeling as she absorbed the full impact of what she’d done and what it would mean for her life. Then, hand shaking, she returned the pistol to its holster. What should she do next? The answer was obvious. Hide Ophelia’s body. And do it quickly. Maybe, if she did a good job, it would never be found.

  McKee heard the scuff of a foot and had already started to turn when Daska wrapped an arm around her throat. That was when McKee realized that although the robot was blind, it could still hear. And it had been able to follow the gunshots and the sound of her voice to the spot where she stood.

  McKee brought both hands up in a futile effort to break the machine’s grip. But the arm was like an iron bar. And as Daska tightened its hold it became impossible to breathe. McKee knew she had seconds in which to react. Her lungs were on fire, and she was about to lose consciousness. The fingers of her right hand felt for the pistol and found it. She thumbed the safety off as the weapon left its holster. Was there a bullet in the chamber? Yes, there should be.

  Daska stood a head taller than McKee. That allowed the legionnaire to point the weapon up and back. She jerked the trigger and kept jerking it. The reports were deafening. But when the pistol clicked empty, the arm was still in place. McKee thought she had missed until the robot fell over backwards and took her with it.

  They hit hard, McKee discovered that she could breathe again and fought to free herself. Once she was out from under the arm, McKee turned to see that the right side of Daska’s face was gone, exposing part of its main processor. She rolled to her feet and gave the synth a kick. There was no response.

  It was second nature to hit the release and slide a fresh magazine into the pistol. Then, with the weapon back in its holster, she went to work. Ophelia had been on her way to an extraction point—and it seemed safe to assume that it wasn’t far away. So every minute was critical.