Andromeda's Fall

by William C. Dietz

  McKee, who was eyeing the well-executed battle scenes painted on the walls, had other thoughts. “I don’t know. But what I do know is that we’ve got a lot to learn. Like how to ride a T-1, fight from a T-1, and maintain a T-1. We can play later.”

  Larkin shook his head in mock despair. “You are such a straight-leg. I tried to beat some sense into you back on Esparto. But it didn’t take.”

  “Thanks,” she said sarcastically. “That was real nice of you. We’ll probably wind up in different companies. You realize that.”

  “No,” Larkin said serenely as he produced a loud belch. “I don’t. You saved my ass. I’ll save yours.”

  McKee sighed. “Lucky me.”

  * * *

  In keeping with orders received the evening before, McKee and Larkin reported to regimental HQ immediately after breakfast, where they were greeted with bored indifference by a sergeant who had them thumb half a dozen screens. McKee didn’t want to, knowing that her thumbprint could be linked to Catherine Carletto, but had no choice.

  “All right,” the sergeant said, once the formalities were completed. “The duty driver will take you to supply. After you draw your gear, report to the 2nd Battalion, where Sergeant Major Chora will assign you to company-level slots. Any questions? No? Then why are you still here?”

  Having collected their B-1 bags from the transit barracks, McKee and Larkin tossed them into the back of a 4 X 4 which dropped them off in front of a half-buried hard-wall structure ten minutes later. The sign out front read SUPPLY & LOGISTICS, 1ST REC.

  They entered the huge warehouse, where it took the better part of two hours to find the correct section, draw what seemed like a ton of gear, and exit. Fortunately, Larkin was able to “borrow” a pushcart, so they didn’t have to hump their B-1s plus helmets, body armor, and field gear out into the harsh sunlight. Once outside, it was necessary to wait for transportation. And by the time the truck finally arrived, they were hot and miserable.

  Despite the long wait, the trip to the 2nd Battalion’s rectangular chunk of reddish orange desert took only five minutes. After piling their gear in a patch of shade, McKee and Larkin entered yet another inflatable hab, where they went in search of Command Sergeant Major Chora. She turned out to be a stocky no-nonsense sort with gun-barrel eyes and a horizontal slit for a mouth. Her sentences were short and clipped. “McKee . . . Larkin. You’re slotted for Echo Company.”

  McKee saw the way Chora was looking at her and knew the noncom was thinking about her scar. It seemed as if women always stared longer. Or was that her imagination?

  There was a smirk on Larkin’s face as he directed a glance her way. She could practically hear him saying, “See? I told you we’d be in the same outfit.”

  “Captain Avery and his people will decide which squads and platoons are most likely to benefit from your complete lack of experience,” Chora continued. It could have been a joke, but since Chora wasn’t smiling, McKee didn’t either.

  “However,” Chora said, “before we can send you over to play patty-cake with Echo Company—Monitor Snarr would like to have a word with you.” There was something in Chora’s eyes at that point. Something McKee couldn’t read with certainty. Disapproval? Annoyance? She wasn’t sure. Suddenly, servos were heard, and a synth appeared. McKee felt the bottom drop out of her stomach and fought the impulse to run as the machine came to a stop next to Chora. There was something birdlike about the way it looked from McKee to Larkin and back again. The robot’s voice was flat and nearly inflectionless. “My name is Snarr. I was assigned to the 2nd Battalion to ensure that each and every legionnaire is a loyal member of the empire and stands ready to defend it.”

  “Which is a fancy way of saying that Snarr was sent to make sure we don’t revolt,” Chora put in pointedly. “Isn’t that right, Snarr?”

  “No,” the robot replied pedantically. “I was assigned to . . .”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Chora replied impatiently. “You made your point. You can leave now.”

  Snarr remained where it was for a couple of seconds, turned, and left the office. “That’s something new,” Chora observed. “Every battalion has one. It would appear that someone had doubts regarding the Legion’s loyalty. Be careful what you say and who you say it to. Especially when Snarr is around. Lord only knows who that thing reports to. Okay, enough of that . . . Let’s get you over to Echo Company.”

  By midafternoon, the newcomers had checked in, stowed their gear in the lockers located at the foot of their beds, and were ready to begin the integration process. Both of them were placed in the first platoon. But while McKee was assigned to the second squad, Larkin wound up in the third, and that was a relief.

  McKee’s squad leader was a lanky man with a shaved head, quick brown eyes, and dark skin. His name was Hux, and once her gear was stowed, he took her on a quick tour. There were brief stops at the medical clinic, the armory, and the so-called morgue, where decommissioned war forms were stored. It was cool inside but kind of spooky, and she had no desire to linger.

  Then it was time to return to the battalion’s grinder to meet McKee’s T-1. “His name is Rudy Weber,” Hux said as they left a shaded walkway for the blistering parade ground. “He’s a combat veteran. So when he speaks, be sure to listen. There he is . . . Weber is the one wearing the 300-Z series war form.”

  Two T-1s were facing each other and about to clash. One was a 300-Z and the other was a newer 460-C. The differences were subtle but apparent to a trained eye. “So Weber is the one on the left,” McKee said matter-of-factly.

  “That’s correct,” Hux replied as he directed an approving glance her way. “You were paying attention in basic. I like that. Now watch what happens.”

  As far as McKee knew, the Hudathans didn’t have any cyborgs. So the contest was a way for the legionnaires to stay sharp and make sure that their war forms were functioning properly rather than a preparation for hand-to-hand combat with enemy cyborgs.

  There was a thump as the T-1s slammed into each other, a pause while both of them sought more leverage, and a clatter as the 460-C landed on the ground. Hux grinned. “A hip throw! Nice move. Hey, Weber,” Hux said. “Meet your new bio bod. McKee’s fresh from Drang, but she knows the difference between a 300-Z and a 460-C, so there’s hope for her.”

  “That’s a good start,” Weber acknowledged. “And she’s light. That’s worth a couple of miles per hour.”

  “Glad you approve,” Hux said. “Get her ready . . . The battalion has a field exercise slated for tomorrow morning. And it would be nice if she survived.” And with that he left.

  “So,” Weber said, “have you ever ridden a war form before?”

  The truth was that McKee had ridden dozens of cyborgs, starting when she was a little girl and continuing through college. But always in the context of her family’s test facility. Yet she couldn’t admit that and didn’t. “No, I haven’t.”

  “Well, circle around behind me and use the steps built into my legs to climb up into your fighting position. Once you’re in place, secure the harness.”

  McKee did as she was told. Her feet went in the deep slots located on the back of the cyborg’s legs, and the well-placed grab bars made the task that much easier. Once she was in position, with her head almost immediately behind the T-1’s, it was time to fasten and adjust the safety harness. Normally, she would wear a helmet, but that was back in her locker. A headset was clipped to the metal in front of her, so she put it on. “Can you hear me?”

  “Loud and clear,” Weber replied. “Let’s take a couple of laps around the parade ground. Remember to bend your knees to absorb some of the shock and keep your head on a swivel. My sensors are good, but they aren’t perfect, and we’re especially vulnerable from behind.”

  Weber began with a slow walk and took it up to a jog. “How are you doing?” he inquired.

  Too much time had passed for McKee’s previous experience to be of much value. It felt as if she were riding a jackhammer. “Just fine,”
she lied.

  “Good. Let’s try something faster.” When Weber ran, the ride became a lot smoother, but it was difficult for McKee to assimilate what was going on around her at the higher speed. That was going to take some getting used to—and she was grateful when Weber slowed down.

  The workout ended half an hour later, and it felt good to enter the barracks and lie on her rack. The sun was a warm glow beyond the fabric roof. She was a member of the 1st REC now—which meant her first objective had been achieved. She had a place to hide.

  But she hadn’t even begun to work toward her ultimate goal, which was to bring Princess Ophelia down. A notion so absurd, so silly, that it was ridiculous. Except the need to try burned so brightly inside her that no amount of internal dialogue would make it go away. So the only thing she could do was to take the next logical step: master the art of killing.

  * * *

  The new day dawned clear and bright. The air was still cool as the 2nd Battalion 1st REC left its compound and formed up around the trucks loaded with troops from the 6th REI (6th Regiment Etranger D’Infanterie). The first part of their mission was to accompany the motorized infantry east toward the hazy-looking hills. That’s where the men and women of the 4th REI were dug in. They were playing the part of Hudathans, who had taken control of a strategically important objective called the castle, and were determined to hold it.

  It wasn’t a real castle, of course, but a natural rock formation that bore a resemblance to a castle, and was located at the end of a narrow valley. That meant that if the invaders went up the middle of the valley without neutralizing at least some of the enemy batteries on the hills to the right and left of them, they would be in a cross fire. But since all of them were aware of the danger, McKee assumed that her leaders had some sort of plan to counter the threat.

  Echo Company’s job was to parallel the infantry and screen the trucks from the possibility of an attack by Hudathan armor. And from her position high on Weber’s back, McKee could see the full sweep of the assault. A wispy column of dust marked the progress of each vehicle or cyborg—some of which were little more than dots to the south. It was an amazing display of military might.

  Meanwhile, by looking at the HUD displayed on the inside surface of her visor, and selecting one of many views, she could see how she was positioned relative to the rest of the squad. She could also access what Weber was “seeing” via his sensors, and the macro readouts for his electromechanical body.

  According to the screen, Weber’s life-support module was functioning at 98.4 percent efficiency, and with the exception of his left knee actuator, all of his primary systems were in the green. Unfortunately, the actuator had begun to overheat. Probably as the result of normal wear since the war form was designed to run for long periods of time and should be able to take it. Either way, it was something that would require her attention once the exercise was over.

  And McKee could feel the pounding. Because in spite of her efforts to lean back and keep her knees slightly bent, each footstep sent a jolt up through her body.

  McKee’s thoughts were interrupted as Captain Avery spoke over the company push. She had been introduced to him the day before and been struck by both his manner and appearance. Rather than a Hasker-style hard-ass, Avery came across as thoughtful, and mild-mannered. He had thick brown hair, even features, and a slightly haunted look. Or so it seemed to McKee. The second or third son of a wealthy family perhaps? Forced to accept a military career because he wasn’t slated to inherit? Yes, McKee had gone to school with many young men who had to join the military, seek their fortunes on rim worlds, or serve as minor functionaries on Earth.

  “This is Echo-Nine,” Avery said. “On my command, the lead elements of the company will break left and follow the north side of the ridge in an easterly direction. The enemy has missile batteries on the top of the ridge. Fly-forms will engage them—but keep your eyes peeled. They’re likely to get off a few rounds before they can be neutralized. Break left . . . Over.”

  McKee was mystified. It appeared that the infantry, along with most of the 2nd Battalion 1st REC, were headed straight up the valley and into a withering cross fire. Meanwhile, for reasons not clear, Echo Company would be moving parallel to the main force, but on the other side of a ridge. The same ridge that constituted the north side of the valley.

  However, when she chinned a map onto her HUD, she saw the gap. It was located about five miles ahead on the right. The low saddlelike break offered an opportunity to cross over into the neighboring valley and attack the batteries clustered around the “castle.”

  But only if the enemy had been stupid enough to leave the gap undefended or their defenses had been neutralized somehow. Then there was no longer any time to think about the matter as the battle began.

  Neither side was armed with actual weapons. But each soldier, vehicle, and cyborg could be “hit” electronically and scored as wounded or killed by a computer that had access to thousands of helmet cams plus satellites. Once hit, a person or unit would be ordered to stand down as the fight continued. Nor was the battle a sterile affair in which the two sides could go at each other with surgical precision. There were lots of electronic, visual, and auditory effects including electronic jamming, what looked like explosions, and artificially created gray smoke to simulate the fog of war.

  Echo Company was jogging along the edge of a dry riverbed when preplanted smoke bombs went off all around them, and two T-1s were neutralized. “This is Echo-Three,” Hux said over the squad-level push. “Keep moving. Take evasive action. Over.”

  McKee was thrown back and forth as Weber zigzagged between boulders and the “enemy” fired at them from the top of the ridge. “This is Nine,” Avery said. “A squadron of fly-forms will hit the gap in two minutes. We’ll pass through it sixty seconds later. Follow the path to the left. That will carry you up into the castle. Over.”

  McKee felt a wild sense of exultation as the fly-forms swooped in, dropped dozens of proxy bombs onto the gap, and were rewarded with clouds of billowing smoke. Then, as the airborne cyborgs disappeared, Avery led his company into the swirling grayness. McKee couldn’t see, but Weber could, and they broke out of the fog and into the valley beyond moments later. A battle was raging there, but the assault was stalled, as the men and women of the 6th REI were forced to crouch behind whatever cover they could find.

  “Now!” Avery shouted as he and his T-1 led Echo Company up a steep path. “Kill the bastards!”

  Avery, the company sergeant major, Lieutenant Comacho, and their cyborgs were all “killed” within seconds and forced to step aside as Sergeant Boyce led the first squad past them. Hux, McKee, and the only other surviving member of the second squad came next. He was a T-1 with a “dead” bio bod strapped to his back.

  Weber was firing his fifty as a solid phalanx of defenders came down to meet the invaders, and the fighting grew more intense. McKee triggered short bursts from her proxy AXE. Her primary responsibility was to prevent enemy soldiers from flanking Weber or attacking the cyborg from behind. She saw at least two “Hudathans” break off and head for the sidelines after she fired bursts into them.

  All the while, they were climbing, and each stride took them closer to their objectives, which were the heavy weapons on the ledge above. The attackers were close, very close, and McKee thought they were going to make it when her HUD went dark to protect her from a flash of light, and a buzzer sounded in her helmet.

  “You were killed by a rocket-propelled grenade,” the synthesized voice said emotionlessly. “You will withdraw from the exercise and await further orders.”

  That suggested that Weber was dead, too, an assumption that was confirmed as the cyborg stepped off the trail, and the battle continued. There was very little left of the company by that time, and the last of them were “killed” just short of the ledge where the heavy weapons were. That part of the exercise came to an end soon thereafter, a reedy cheer went up from the “Hudathans,” and both sides were or
dered to stand down.

  The next few hours were spent setting up encampments, complete with carefully placed defenses, in case of an attack. The sun was just starting to set as McKee collected her MRE and went looking for a quiet place to eat. She found it a couple of hundred yards from the company HQ just inside the company perimeter. A short climb took her to the top of a huge boulder, where she could eat and watch the sun go down.

  Five minutes later, the self-heating entree was ready, and she was digging into it with a plastic spoon when the telltale crunch of gravel was heard. Then she heard a voice that she recognized as belonging to Captain Avery. “This is far enough . . . Now, what do you want? I have work to do.”

  McKee wondered if she should announce her presence, and was just about to do so, when a second person spoke. The voice was unmistakably that of the synth named Snarr. That changed everything, and she decided to remain silent. “I think you will appreciate my discretion once you learn what I have to say,” the android answered.

  “All right, say your piece.”

  “It’s about your brother,” Snarr said. “Recently, while at a party in old New York, he made comments that were critical of the empress. Then he questioned the circumstances surrounding her brother’s death. He even went so far as to suggest that the emperor could have been murdered.”

  Avery’s voice was tight. “So this is what things have come to. Every word we say is monitored.”

  “Not every word,” Snarr replied. “But the government has an obligation to protect itself.”

  “Knowing George, he was probably drunk.”

  “That may be,” the robot acknowledged. “But humans have a tendency to tell the truth when they are under the influence of alcohol—so such statements cannot be ignored.”

  McKee was uncomfortable by that time. But afraid to move lest she make a sound or send a pebble rolling down, revealing her presence.