Andromeda’s Choice

by William C. Dietz

  But if the adults harbored negative feelings about the off-worlders, that didn’t seem to extend to their offspring. As the patrol plodded through town, cubs ran alongside the legionnaires, laughing, dodging in and out, and very nearly getting stepped on.

  After clearing the fort and settlement, Dero led the patrol up the path that led to the summit of High Hump Hill, a name that stemmed from the fact that it was a little taller than the others and supplies had to be “humped” up to the top during winter storms. “This is Bravo-Two,” Dero said, over the squad-level push. “Bravo-Eight will take the point. Over.”

  The point position was the most dangerous because the two-person team would be the first to get hit during an ambush and stood a greater chance of stepping on a mine. Did that mean Dero was out to get her? No. McKee knew that everyone had to walk point—and it was the officer’s way of testing her. So she said, “This is Eight. We’re moving up. Over.”

  Ree-Ree had been listening, and his servos whined rhythmically as he passed Dero and her T-1. Now it was McKee’s responsibility to lead the squad up a trail that she’d never been on before and do so in the dark of night. Fortunately, she had Ree-Ree’s sensors to rely on as well as her own.

  Thanks to night-vision technology and the heads-up display (HUD) projected on the inside surface of her visor, she could see. Not as well as during the day but as well as a Naa could without benefit of technology, and that put them on an even footing.

  But having spent time with the Droi insurgents on Orlo II, McKee knew that the indigs still had a number of advantages. The Naa knew the land in ways the off-worlders couldn’t, they could choose the time, place, and conditions under which to attack, and they were more motivated than the legionnaires were. So there was every reason to pay close attention to her surroundings and to be scared.

  Ree-Ree began to work harder as the incline steepened, and the trail turned into a series of switchbacks. With a steep bank on one side, and a drop-off on the other, there was very little room for error. And worse yet was the fact that while trails were often the easiest way to travel, they were inherently dangerous. Ree-Ree interrupted her thoughts. He was speaking over the intercom, which meant no one else could hear him. “I see something on the trail, Sarge . . . It looks like a leather pouch.”

  McKee searched, saw the object, and zoomed in. Ree-Ree was correct. It was a beautifully decorated pouch, and the first thing she noticed was that the object was lying on top of the crusty snow rather than beneath it. As if placed or dropped there recently.

  But what to do? If genuine, the pouch could contain valuable intelligence. But what if it was meant to serve as bait? The sun had started to rise by then, and as McKee looked uphill, she could see that the lead gray sky was getting lighter. And she could see something else as well. “This is Eight . . . Prepare to take fire from above. Over.”

  That prompted a quick response from Dero. “Whacha got? Over.”

  The answer came in the form of a huge boulder that suddenly broke contact with the hillside above, rolled downhill, and landed on the pouch. Then it took a bounce, dropped over the edge, and triggered a landslide.

  The pop, pop, pop of rifle fire followed, and McKee heard the distinctive ping of a bullet glancing off Ree-Ree’s armor as Dero ordered the squad to open fire. The engagement ended seconds later, as the Naa broke contact and faded away. If Dero was impressed by the manner in which her new squad leader had dealt with the situation, there was no sign of it in her matter-of-fact response. “Two here . . . What are we waiting for? Over.”

  McKee grinned and let her weight rest against the harness as Ree-Ree carried her upwards. The clouds began to burn off, and by the time they reached the summit, it was mostly clear. Viewed from above, the fort looked like something a child might construct in a sandbox. Fingers of smoke rose from Naa Town, and a large bird floated on the wind. It was beautiful, and, for the moment, it was home.

  • • •

  As the elevator carried Colonel Richard Bodry down into the Command Center located deep under Fort Camerone, he felt a pleasant sense of tension. The sort of buzz he always experienced when tackling a difficult task. And selling his plan to General Mary Vale wouldn’t be easy. She was getting close to retirement and more cranky with every passing day. But the facts were on his side, and Vale had a reputation as something of a visionary, so there was at least some chance of success.

  Double doors hissed open, and Bodry stepped out into a beautifully paneled lobby. From there it was a short walk to the conference room, where all of the usual players were seated along a rectangular table. They included Colonel Malcom Whitmore, Vale’s XO, Major Wendy Tomko, who was in charge of intelligence, line officer Lt. Colonel Sean Avers, who commanded the 4th REI, and his counterpart, a rapier-thin cavalry officer named Lt. Colonel Youssef Zedan. Some others were present as well, including the Chief Medical Officer, the captain in charge of Flight Operations, and a portly major who had responsibility for logistics.

  Bodry took a seat halfway down the table and exchanged pleasantries with Whitmore while they waited for Vale to make her entrance. The general was always five minutes late, and Body had never been able to figure out if that was due to a busy schedule, or a bit of theater intended to emphasize how important she was. He figured either could be true; as she entered, the other officers stood. “As you were,” Vale said as she took her place at the head of the table. She had white hair. And with the exception of the carefully conceived wave that fell down over her left eyebrow, the rest was combed straight back along both sides of her head. She had a high forehead, an aquiline nose, and lips that were pursed as if in eternal disapproval of whatever was taking place in front of her.

  But imposing as her other features were, it was Vale’s eyes that took command of the room. They were durasteel gray and just as hard as they swept the faces around her. “Good morning. We’ll begin with the usual intelligence assessment, followed by the operations report, and a proposal from Colonel Bodry. Major Tomko? Please proceed.”

  Bodry had no choice but to sit and wait while Tomko told the group what they already knew. The Naa were increasingly restless, attacks on Legion outposts had increased, and the indigs were making good use of the weapons acquired when they overran Forward Operating Base (FOB) Victor a few weeks earlier.

  The ops report from Whitmore was equally gloomy. There had been 118 attacks on Legion personnel during the last thirty days—the most recent having occurred that morning on High Hump Hill. Still, depressing though the negative data were, Bodry saw it as the perfect preamble for the presentation that he was about to give. Once the XO was finished, Vale turned her gun-barrel eyes his way. “That brings us to a presentation by Colonel Bodry. Colonel?”

  Bodry felt his heart start to beat a little bit faster as he rose and went over to a huge wall screen and the podium that stood next to it. He’d been working on the concept for months by then and had no need to use notes as he aimed the remote at the flat-panel display. Motes of light chased each other, then came together and coalesced into an image that all of them recognized: the snowcapped Towers of Algeron. The shot had been taken from a shuttle, and as it flew along next to them, the mountains looked like fangs. “Here,” Bodry said importantly, “is the barrier that separates north from south, and Naa from Naa. And it has been that way for thousands of years.”

  Vale’s attention span was notoriously short and she shifted in her chair. “That’s common knowledge. Please get to the point.”

  Bodry battled to keep the resentment he felt from appearing on his face. “Yes, ma’am. The point is this . . . While the mountains keep the northern tribes separated from the southern tribes, there is some contact via high mountain passes and a naturally occurring subterranean tunnel. That’s why there are many cultural similarities between the two groups, including a common language, some shared mythology, and a near-universal hatred of us. However, the passageway is very n
arrow and difficult to negotiate.”

  “This is a strange presentation by the officer in charge of an engineering regiment,” Vale observed testily. “You have a proposal . . . What is it?”

  Bodry fought to contain his temper. “My proposal is this,” he said evenly. “I suggest that we open a large tunnel between north and south and let the Naa attack each other.”

  The plan was so audacious, so unexpected, that even Vale sat silent for a moment. And when she spoke, Bodry could tell that she was still in the process of assimilating the idea. “So you’re proposing that we facilitate a war between the north and south so as to weaken both.”

  “Exactly,” Bodry replied.

  “It sounds good,” Whitmore said cautiously. “But the tunnel you mentioned. How difficult would it be to create such a passageway?”

  “It would be difficult,” Bodry admitted. “Both because of the technical challenges involved and the fact that the Naa would try to stop us. But it can be done, and the results would be worth the cost.”

  Avers was impressed. “I think it’s fucking brilliant,” the stocky infantry officer said. “How many troops would you need?”

  That gave Bodry an opportunity to share the charts, graphs, and computer animations he’d been working on for the last few months. And by the time Vale called a halt to the meeting, more than three hours had passed. “All right, Colonel,” she said. “In order to pull this off, we’ll need more people, specialized robots, plus the tunneling machines you mentioned. That will cost money and require some high-level approvals. I can’t spare you for a trip to Earth, so prepare a holo presentation, and we’ll send it off in a message torp.”

  Bodry was thrilled. He would have preferred to make the presentation in person, but remaining on Algeron had its advantages as well. Because now that he had Vale’s support, he could perform the kind of research that hadn’t been possible earlier. “Thank you, General. The presentation will be ready by this time tomorrow.”

  • • •

  It was dark, or would have been if the fort’s lights hadn’t been on, as Sykes spidered out onto the grinder. It was covered by a thin layer of scuffed snow, and the cyborg left even more marks on it as he made his way over to Sally Port 3. That was the small, doorlike entrance used by legionnaires as they left the fort to visit Naa Town and to get back inside once they returned. Assuming they were sober enough to find it.

  Sykes stopped so that one of the sentries could scan the bar code on his torso. An indicator light flashed green, indicating that the cyborg was authorized to leave the base. Another legionnaire waved him through. “Have fun and keep your sensors peeled for scrappers.”

  Naa outlaws wouldn’t dare attack a T-1, but they were perfectly willing to go after spider forms, which could be taken apart and sold as scrap. The tribes were hungry for metal. Especially alloys, which they couldn’t produce for themselves.

  As for the cyborgs, which was to say their brain boxes, they were ransomed or destroyed. Not a pleasant way to go.

  But like most borgs, Sykes had bribed a tech to install a shock mod in his spider form. Which meant that any scrapper stupid enough to grab him was going to get a six-thousand-kilovolt surprise. That kind of tinkering was contrary to regulations, of course, but well worth the risk. Sykes said, “Thanks,” slipped out of the fort, and started down the road. A T-1 raised a “hand” as an incoming patrol passed him. Sykes answered in kind.

  Five minutes later, Sykes entered Naa Town. Having been stationed on Algeron before, he knew it well. A muddy thoroughfare led him past a series of domes to the tavern called The Bunker. The name stemmed from the fact that it was a bunker, or had been, back when the fort was being constructed. Then, after it was vacated by the Legion, an enterprising Naa had taken possession of the fortification and turned it into a bar. It was the only establishment of its kind that catered to bio bods, cyborgs, and the occasional Naa.

  Sykes followed a couple of bio bods down a ramp and through a doorway protected by nothing more than broad strips of dangling leather. The interior was dim, the air thick with the scent of incense, and mismatched tables sat all about. The tavern was about half-full, and heads turned as Sykes entered. Then they turned back again. Most of the bar’s clientele were busy gambling, shooting the shit, or getting drunk.

  Sykes paused to scan the crowd. He was looking for a civilian, a man who had been hired to teach the legionnaires the ins and outs of the new personnel-management system that was being implemented throughout the Legion. He also worked part-time for Max, and whomever Max worked for, which remained a mystery. Or a partial mystery since the government was involved somehow. No one else would have been able to spring him.

  Sykes’s gaze came to rest on a man seated in a corner of the room with his back to the wall. He nodded, so Sykes crossed the room. “Mr. Travers?”

  “That’s right . . . Have a seat.”

  Sykes couldn’t sit. Not really. What he could do was let his body rest on the duracrete floor. “So,” Travers said. “I was told to expect you.”

  Sykes took note. Message torps sped back and forth between Algeron and Earth all the time. Each one was like a miniature spaceship complete with a hyperspace drive. Was that how Travers communicated with Max? Yes, that made sense. “Good,” Sykes answered. “I was told to gather information about a certain legionnaire and pass it along to you.”

  Travers took a sip of beer. His sandy brown hair topped a face that was home to a pair of bloodshot eyes and a bulbous nose. He was wearing a parka and what might have been body armor underneath it. “Yup, that’s part of it,” Travers agreed. “If the sergeant is what she appears to be, then tell me, and I’ll send the information to Max.”

  “And if she isn’t?”

  Travers wiped some foam off his lips with the back of a hand. “Then give me some proof, the kind of proof that will hold up under scrutiny, and make sure that she dies a heroic death. The press will like that.”

  “Why not arrest her?”

  Travers frowned. “You must be joking. After all the hero hype on Earth? The empress gave her a medal, for God’s sake! If we sent her back for trial, it would imply that Ophelia is fallible.”

  “And she isn’t?”

  “Of course not.”

  Sykes was silent for a moment. “The proof you mentioned. What would that be?”

  Travers grinned. His teeth looked like tombstones. “Beats the shit out of me. Good luck.”

  • • •

  For the first time since arriving on Algeron, McKee had a few hours of free time to fritter away. There were all sorts of things she could have done with it, but before getting a haircut, or going to the gym to work out, there was something she needed to do. Something important.

  After arming herself with directions, McKee made her way through a labyrinth of hallways to the fort’s media center. Doors swished out of her way as she entered. The lighting was dim, and the room was quiet. In most cases, McKee preferred to watch vids, play games, or read books on her data pad. But what she was about to do required some privacy. The kind she couldn’t get in the squad bay.

  Most of the booths were available so McKee chose one at random. After the door slid closed behind her, she pulled the chair out of the way and dropped to her hands and knees. Odds were that the computer consoles were safe so long as the wireless connection was turned off. But what if they weren’t? What if the Legion was monitoring what the legionnaires watched, read, or sent to their families? It was better to be safe rather than sorry, so McKee aimed a penlight up into the wiring. And sure enough, even though the terminal had a wireless connection, it was hardwired to the fort’s communications network as well. To monitor what the legionnaires did? Or to provide a backup system? There was no way to know.

  McKee stuck the flashlight between her teeth to free up her hands, pulled two cables free, and let them dangle. The terminal was offline.
Would that show up on a trouble report? Probably. But when a tech came by to check on it, they would discover that the station was up and running properly. Then, pleased to discover that the problem wasn’t a problem, they would tackle the next item on their list of things to do.

  McKee sat down in front of the console, clicked the wireless connection off, and removed the chain from around her neck. Data-storage devices came in all sorts of shapes and sizes. So public terminals were equipped with universal readers, and the terminal in front of her was no exception. When McKee touched a button, the pod-shaped player opened like a flower.

  Having removed the silver cat from its chain, she placed it within, touched the button again, and watched the petals close. Data flooded the screen. The information consisted of two lists. The first included the names of the people that the Imperial Bureau of Missing Persons planned to murder, and the second was a planet-by-planet roster of the Bureau’s agents, all downloaded from a synth on Orlo II. And that was the list McKee wanted to check. Did the BMP have a presence on Algeron? If so, she needed to know as soon as possible. She realized that the list was already months old and would become less useful as time went on.

  Algeron was near the top of the second page. McKee clicked on the name and watched one entry appear. “Lee Travers.” No rank; just the name. A civilian then.