Andromeda's Fall

by William C. Dietz

  But it was a pro forma exchange for the most part, since the tubes they were using had a maximum range of nine miles. That meant most of the shells landed in the no-man’s-land between the two sides. Still, Camacho’s team would have to risk fire from both sides as they passed through the pitch-black moonscape on their way into the city.

  With only thirty minutes left before departure, McKee checked the squad one last time. That gave Nayer another opportunity to needle her. He was a scrawny man of indeterminate age. He pushed his visor up to reveal a beaklike nose and two beady eyes. They were filled with hostility. “Don’t you ever get tired of playing general?” he sneered. “What are you going to do now? Check to see if I should take a dump?”

  “There’s no need to check,” McKee replied evenly. “Everyone knows you’re full of shit.”

  That elicited laughs from those close enough to hear and put a scowl on Nayer’s ratlike face. “You’re Camacho’s bitch today,” he said, dropping his voice so only she could hear. “But you’ll be mine soon.”

  “Be careful what you ask for,” McKee replied, as she shoved the barrel of her pistol into Nayer’s crotch. “I’d say my dick is bigger than yours. Now fasten that chin strap and mount up.”

  Nayer opened his mouth to say something but closed it as Camacho materialized out of the surrounding gloom. “Mount up, Corporal. Colonel Rylund’s feint will start soon, and I want to take full advantage of it.”

  McKee’s pistol was down along her right leg by that time. “Yes, sir. Private Nayer was just about to climb aboard. Isn’t that right, Nayer?”

  Nayer mumbled something incomprehensible and turned toward his T-1. Camacho watched him go. The light was uncertain—but McKee could see the crooked smile on the officer’s lips. “Don’t shoot yourself in the foot, Corporal . . . I need you.” And with that he walked away.

  McKee felt foolish as she slid the pistol back into her shoulder holster and secured it there. The fact that she’d been forced to use a weapon in order to get compliance from a member of her squad didn’t speak well of her abilities as an NCO—and it seemed safe to assume that Camacho was disappointed in her. Had there been time, she would have asked that someone else take over.

  The feint began with a loyalist rocket barrage and air raid. McKee was barely aware of the fireworks as the civilian guide and Marco led the rest of the team through a checkpoint and out into the ocean of darkness beyond. Camacho and his cyborg came next, followed by Snarr, who preferred to run rather than ride. The fact that the android could keep up with a group of T-1s traveling at 20 mph impressed and frightened McKee. Because it meant that if it ever came to a footrace with a synth, she was going to lose.

  The team couldn’t use any lights, not without the risk of being targeted, but didn’t need to. The T-1s could “see” via their infrared sensors, as could Snarr, and had no difficulty threading their way through cratered streets. And, thanks to directions from their guide, they were able to maintain a steady pace.

  Meanwhile, bombs exploded, long strings of red tracer explored the night sky, and infantry companies grappled with each other deep inside no-man’s-land. Dozens of flares, some launched by soldiers, some by mortars, cast their ghostly light on the proceedings as they drifted ever lower before being consumed by the inky blackness below.

  There were moments when the team came perilously close to the fighting. But in spite of some close calls, they always managed to slip away. A series of twists and turns took them down into a dry sluiceway. They followed it to a point where, thanks to the night-vision technology built into her helmet, McKee could see the green circle and the vertical lines that marked the entrance to a dark hole. Marco came to a halt, causing the rest of them to do so as well.

  The civilian spoke over the squad-level push. His name was Billy Balbo, or so he claimed, although McKee suspected it was one of many. Not that it mattered so long as Balbo kept his word and guided the team into Riversplit undetected.

  “Pay attention,” Balbo said tersely. “We’re at the foot of a large storm drain. During the rainy season, it’s full of water, which flows into the sluiceway and from there to the river. We’re going to blow the gate and walk uphill into the city. Then, if all goes well, you’ll leave the same way.”

  The plan was for Balbo to remain inside the city once Frood had been rescued, and McKee wasn’t sure how she felt about that. On the one hand, it would feel good to get rid of the civilian. But that meant making their way back without a guide. And that could be dicey. “What about sentries?” Camacho wanted to know.

  “There aren’t any,” Balbo responded. “That’s why I chose this route.”

  That meant the rebs were stupid, careless, or both. McKee found that hard to believe. But such considerations were above her pay grade, so all she could do was go along as Singh placed a charge and blew a hole in the gate designed to keep people and animals out.

  Because McKee was second-in-command, she and Weber had to wait for the rest of the team to start up the steep slope before they could follow. If the column was cut in two, both sections would have leadership. That was the theory—and she prayed it wouldn’t come to that. First, because of the casualties such a calamity would produce, and because of her own inadequacies. Deep inside she knew that Nayer was right. She wasn’t qualified to lead a squad. And the people under her command deserved better.

  The team could use lights once they were inside the storm drain. Beams from the T-1s slid over the walls, threw shadows, and glinted off the trickle of water that ran down the pipe. McKee figured it was about twelve feet in diameter.

  Smaller drains came in from the left and right at regular intervals. “Smaller” being a relative term since most were large enough for her to stand in. Some were dry, but most produced at least a trickle of water that dripped down to join the flow, which splashed away from the cyborgs’ podlike feet. And there were vertical access tubes as well. When she aimed her helmet light up into them, she could see metal rungs.

  Meanwhile, as the last bio bod in the column, it was McKee’s job to watch the team’s six. But the harness made it difficult to turn back, and the light from her helmet couldn’t penetrate very far. She could “see” heat, however, thanks to the technology in her helmet. And on two different occasions she spotted what looked like green blobs. But then, after a second or two, they disappeared, leaving her to wonder if the sightings were real or if her night-vision gear was on the fritz.

  So she looked forward again. But as the minutes passed, McKee couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right. Finally, she chinned her mike. “This is Echo-Four.” That had been Sergeant Hux’s call sign, but was hers now, and would be so long as she was squad leader. “I’m about to light off a flare. Over.”

  “Roger that,” Camacho answered. “Over.”

  She withdrew a flare from a pouch on her combat vest, thumbed the igniter, and threw it into the darkness. The sudden flash of light caused her visor to darken, and there, exposed by the glare, was a silvery patrol drone! It was flying about three feet off the bottom of the pipe—and had been for who knows how long. It had the capacity to attack, but hadn’t. Why?

  The question was left unanswered as McKee yelled, “Contact!” and opened fire. The burst from her AXE had the desired effect. Light strobed the pipe as the drone exploded and peppered her with small pieces of shrapnel. Her body armor was proof against most of the flying debris, but there were stings, as fragments of metal bit into her unprotected arms and legs.

  But that wasn’t the end of it as more drones sped out of the darkness firing energy cannons as they came. Weber swore as he took a hit, triggered his grenade launcher, and blew one of the machines into a thousand pieces. McKee was protected by the T-1’s bulk at that point, so none of the shrapnel hit her.

  She fired over Weber’s left shoulder as bolts of blue energy blipped past her head. The rest of the team was taking fire, too, but the T-1s were too big to fight side by side in such a confined space and co
uldn’t use their weapons without hitting McKee and Weber.

  So that meant that the two of them were battling the drones alone until Snarr appeared next to them. The android was significantly smaller than a cyborg and had a pistol clutched in each hand. Snarr fired a dozen well-aimed shots, and another drone blew up. And when Weber nailed the last one, the fight was over. The success of the rescue attempt depended upon secrecy. And the rebs knew that an effort to infiltrate the city was under way. Surely Rylund wouldn’t blame Camacho if he decided to abort the mission. So what would he do?

  Apparently, Monitor Snarr was wondering the same thing because he spoke before Camacho could make his intentions known. And there was nothing subtle about the words he chose. “It is my duty to remind the team that we are engaged in a mission of critical importance. The empress is counting on us to do our duty. Over.”

  “This is Echo-One,” Camacho said. “With all due respect, no one in my platoon needs to be lectured regarding his or her duty,” he said tightly. “That being said, it’s my opinion we can pull this thing off. Let’s move.”

  The upward journey continued for five minutes. Then, as Marco arrived at the point where three pipes came in to join the main line, Camacho called a halt. The junction was so large that four of the T-1s could gather while two stood guard. “Okay,” Camacho said. “The bio bods will dismount. That includes you, Mr. Balbo.”

  “Why stop here?” the civilian demanded. “We haven’t reached the top yet.”

  Camacho was standing next to his T-1 by then. His headlamp was aimed up at Balbo. “We’re stopping here because the rebels will be waiting for us up top. Something you’re aware of—since you sold us out.”

  “I did no such thing!” Balbo insisted stoutly. “I’m taking the same chances you are.”

  “I don’t think so,” Camacho countered. “It’s my belief that the drones would have attacked us earlier if it hadn’t been for your presence. Fortunately, McKee spotted them. Now get down off that T-1. Or should I ask Monitor Snarr to remove you?”

  Balbo was clearly afraid of the android and hurried to dismount. “Good,” Camacho said. “Marco will lift each bio bod up into the vertical maintenance tube above us. I will go first. Nayer, Chiba, and Singh will follow. Then it will be your turn, Mr. Balbo . . . And never fear. Monitor Snarr will be there to assist you. Corporal McKee will bring up the rear.”

  Camacho looked at his wrist term and back up again. “Echo-One-Two will be command here.” McKee knew that Lance Corporal Zikey, AKA Echo-One-Two, was Camacho’s T-1. A role some cyborgs coveted and others tried to avoid.

  “We will try to return here,” Camacho said as he eyed the cyborgs. “But if you haven’t seen us by 2400 hours, then you’re to withdraw and return to base. In the meantime, be sure to post guards both above and below the junction. Because of the size of the pipe, the rebs will have to attack two or three abreast if they come. But keep an eye on those incoming pipes. Copy?”

  “Sir, yes sir,” Zikey replied formally.

  “Good. We’ll see you shortly.”

  It took five minutes for Marco to boost the bio bods and the android up into the maintenance tube. As McKee followed Snarr upwards, she gave momentary consideration to shooting the robot. But there would be no doubt as to who was responsible—and Snarr’s body would fall on her. But maybe, just maybe, there would be an opportunity later on.

  Boots rang on metal, Snarr’s servos whined softly, and McKee could hear the blood pounding in her ears. For that moment in time there was no past or future. Just the present. And a determination to survive.

  CHAPTER: 9

  * * *

  What soldier relishes the sight of a civilian flourishing a sword?

  PHILIP GUEDALLA

  Wellington

  Standard year 1931

  PLANET ORLO II

  As the legionnaires continued to climb, the blobs of white light projected from their helmets slid back and forth across the inside surface of the access tube. McKee heard a grating sound as her AXE made contact with the wall behind her.

  She felt it was her duty to pause occasionally and look down between her boots even though she couldn’t see beyond twenty feet or so. There was some comfort in the knowledge that attack drones couldn’t enter the bottom end of the tube so long as the T-1s were there. But there was nothing to prevent the robots from accessing the shaft via horizontal ducts that had been excavated by machines for machines.

  However, there were no signs of pursuit as Camacho arrived at the top of the ladder, braced himself, and pushed the circular lid up out of the way. As cool night air flooded the shaft, McKee could hear the persistent thump, thump, thump of antiaircraft fire and the occasional BOOM generated by incoming artillery rounds. Maybe Rylund had been able to push some of his batteries forward, thereby bringing the hill within range, or maybe some bigger tubes had arrived on the scene and were pounding the rebs from twelve miles away.

  As McKee followed Snarr up out of the tube, she saw flames in the distance, as one of Riversplit’s buildings burned, and heard a sonic boom as an aerospace fighter passed above. The team was so small that Camacho saw no need to use call signs. “All right, Mr. Balbo . . . Lead us to the house where Representative Frood is being held. And don’t make any mistakes. You’ll be sorry if you do. Nayer, take the point. Mr. Balbo and Monitor Snarr will be right behind you, and McKee will guard our six. Okay, let’s go.”

  The fact that Riversplit was blacked out and under attack was helpful to the legionnaires as they followed Balbo up a series of winding streets. Darkened buildings loomed all around. There were places where light was visible along the edges of windows or below doors. But for the most part, McKee and the rest relied on night-vision technology to find their way.

  Camacho kept the team out of the streets, and on sidewalks to the extent that he could, and a good thing, too. Five or six vehicles passed them, and McKee’s heart very nearly stopped when a column of soldiers appeared out of the gloom and double-timed down the road toward the ramparts at the foot of the hill. The rebs were so close that she could hear the rattle of equipment, the thump of their boots, and a burp of static. Then they were gone.

  Minutes later, the team came to a halt as Nayer whispered over the radio. “Contact . . . The house is just ahead. There’s a wall and four rebs out front. Over.”

  “Chiba,” Camacho said softly, “go high. Find a spot where you can look down into that courtyard. And give me a sitrep as soon as you can. Over.”

  Chiba was not only known for his ability to climb—but was arguably the best shot in the platoon. That’s why he was armed with a sniper’s rifle rather than an AXE. He clicked his mike twice by way of a reply and faded into the darkness.

  From what McKee could see, which was damned little, they were in a neighborhood of large homes. Most were at least two or three stories tall and were surrounded by high walls. And that included the one Frood was being held in. Four green blobs were visible. So if an equal number of guards were posted on the other three sides, that would mean sixteen in all. But what about the people inside the walls? Hopefully, Chiba would be able to tell them.

  Five minutes ticked by. They seemed like hours as artillery rumbled in the distance, a series of flares popped high above, and tracers cut the night sky into abstract shapes. After what seemed like an eternity, Chiba spoke. “I’m on the roof of the building directly behind you. There are so many gutters, decorations, and balconies that even Singh could climb up here.”

  McKee knew there was a friendly rivalry between the two men and smiled as a pair of aerospace fighters screamed overhead, leaving trails of decoy flares behind them. The rebs launched an SLM and it took off after the nearest source of heat. The resulting flash of light lit the top of the hill. “I can see into the courtyard on the other side of the wall,” Chiba said. “The rebs have an autocannon set up in front of the house. It’s pointed at the gate. Three people are clustered around the gun and two more are standing off to the right. Th
at’s five altogether. Over.”

  “It’s imperative that we enter the house and reach Representative Frood,” Snarr put in.

  “All of us are aware of your desire to rescue Miss Frood,” Camacho said carefully. “Please refrain from unnecessary radio transmissions.

  “Now,” Camacho continued, “here’s the plan. Thanks to Mr. Balbo, the rebs are expecting a force of T-1s. That’s why they placed an autocannon in the front yard. Chiba will neutralize that threat by killing the crew. His fire will serve as our signal to open up on the sentries. Remember . . . There are bound to be more. So wait for them to appear before crossing the street. Meanwhile, Private Chiba will rejoin us. That will be the signal for Singh to blow the gate. Questions?”

  “Yes, sir,” McKee said. “What about security?”

  “Normally, we would leave people outside,” Camacho acknowledged. “But I’ve been on the radio with Captain Avery—and they’re going to send a fly-form to take us off the roof.”

  McKee looked up, saw that the house on the far side of the street had a flat roof, and realized she should have noticed that. What else had she missed? The question continued to dog her as Camacho issued the final order. “Kill the gun crew, Chiba. And let me know when they’re down. Over.”

  It was a good plan, or so it seemed to McKee. And it might have worked if Balbo hadn’t broken free of Snarr—and run out into the street. “They’re here!” he shouted. “Kill them!”

  Camacho triggered the burst that cut Balbo down. The guards fired in response, and all hell broke loose. McKee had taken cover behind a concrete planter and was firing short bursts as Chiba opened up from above. The sniper announced success thirty seconds later. “The gun crew is down. Over.”

  “Then get down here,” Camacho ordered. “All right, let’s move!”

  By that time, all of the sentries had been killed. But there were more, just as Camacho had said there would be, and the sound of gunfire brought them around to the front of the house. There was a melee as the two groups collided and fired at each other from only yards away.