Andromeda's Fall (Legion of the Damned)

by Dietz, William C.

  McKee thought about Empress Ophelia. “I want to learn how to kill people.”

  Boad’s eyebrows rose, and he nodded slowly. “Well, young lady . . . If that’s what you want—we’ll sure as hell teach you. Welcome to the Legion.”

  CHAPTER: 3

  * * *

  Hurry up and wait.

  AUTHOR UNKNOWN

  A military aphorism

  Standard year circa 1940

  IMPERIAL PLANET EARTH

  Everyone agreed. In the wake of Emperor Alfred’s unfortunate death, the Imperial government had been transformed from a reactive bureaucracy to an engine of change. Initiatives that had been on hold were approved. A number of Alfred’s pet projects were canceled, including his plan to provide the citizenry with affordable cyberbodies. So as Tarch (Duke) Hanno emerged from his air car, and was escorted through security, he could feel the energy crackling all around him. And it was intoxicating.

  But there was something else in the air as well. A sense of caution that hadn’t been there before. Which was to be expected. Because all of Alfred’s senior officials, key associates, and friends had disappeared. A lucky few had been allowed to slip into retirement, but most had been assassinated by Ophelia’s army of synths. That was a secret, but not much of one, because only a naïve fool would believe that thousands of prominent people would all suffer accidental deaths in such a short period of time.

  So even though Ophelia’s supporters had survived the purge, and were enjoying their sudden rise to power, they knew what could happen to anyone who fell under suspicion. And because Hanno had been summoned to the castle, what felt like a lead weight was riding the pit of his stomach. He couldn’t let his fear show, however, since Empress O had eyes everywhere, and it would be a mistake to reveal any sign of weakness.

  As a page led him through the busy hallways, Hanno responded to each greeting with a stiff smile as he compiled a mental list of the individuals he encountered. Because each person who greeted him could be an ally or an enemy during the days ahead. Assuming he survived that long.

  Two minutes later, Hanno passed between a pair of watchful synth guards and was ushered into one of three ornate waiting rooms, each accessed via a different hallway. The idea was to keep visitors separated, so they weren’t aware of each other. A precaution as old as monarchies themselves.

  There was nothing for Hanno to do in the waiting room except sit in a high-backed chair, drum his fingers on worn gilt, and examine the retro decorations that Ophelia’s grandfather favored. He was the man responsible for establishing the present empire. It was modeled on those of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries and had proven to be much more effective than the democracy that preceded it. Until Alfred took over, and the governmental machine slowed down.

  Hanno’s thoughts were interrupted as a door opened, and Ophelia’s secretary appeared. His name was Veneto. And in spite of his humble origins, everyone knew he was a player. A person who had Ophelia’s ear every day and every night if the rumors were true.

  So as Hanno stood, and the men exchanged courtesies, the nobleman was careful to match the depth of Veneto’s bow. There were many stories about the fates suffered by aristocrats foolish enough to slight Veneto, and Hanno had no desire to test the extent of the secretary’s influence.

  Veneto had thick, curly hair, a bladelike nose, and a sensuous mouth. His lips smiled, but the look in his gold-flecked eyes remained the same. “Tarch Hanno! Welcome to the palace. Please step this way. Her Highness is looking forward to meeting with you.”

  Hanno had his doubts about that but took comfort from Veneto’s lighthearted tone and felt the lump in his stomach start to dissipate. As the two men entered the audience chamber, Ophelia was on her feet, speaking with an admiral. Having received his orders, the officer bowed and backed away. When Ophelia turned in his direction, Hanno was struck by both her beauty and the cold clarity in her eyes. She was a very different person from her brother—and a very dangerous one. He bowed.

  “Good morning, Tarch Hanno,” Ophelia said. “And thank you for coming on such short notice. Please have a seat.”

  Four chairs circled a table. Ophelia took the one that was lit in a way that would accentuate her beauty. Hanno chose the seat directly across from the empress and waited for her to sit down before doing the same. “So,” Ophelia said as she settled into her chair, “you’re wondering why you were summoned. And given how busy we are, I’ll cut to the chase. I need someone with your talents to run a new department. One that will help shape the empire during the coming years.”

  Hanno felt his heart beat faster. Here was what he’d been hoping for. A position of real power. “I am honored, Highness. How can I be of service?”

  “I would like you to become Director of the Bureau of Missing Persons,” Ophelia replied.

  Hanno felt his spirits plummet. The empress laughed. “You should see the expression on your face!” she exclaimed. “Never fear, Tarch Hanno . . . I’m not asking you to track down runaway teenagers. Far from it. No, the Bureau of Missing Persons will be in charge of locating individuals who represent a threat to the empire, but for one reason or another, have not been found. Not so far, anyway. Although I’m sure that you and the forces I will place under your command will be able to find most, if not all of them, and do so expeditiously.”

  Hanno’s mind was racing. If he understood Ophelia correctly, she was asking him to complete the purge. An unpleasant task, perhaps, but a necessary one, lest someone try to overthrow the new government. It was the sort of task that would enable him to strengthen the Hanno family’s ties to the empress and line their pockets at the same time. “I see,” he said gravely. “And how many missing persons are there?”

  “Three thousand, two hundred, and thirty-six,” Ophelia replied. “Scattered across more than two dozen planets. That’s a large area I know . . . But I can provide you with twenty-five human case officers and five hundred synth trackers.”

  “And when we find a missing person?”

  “They’re missing,” the empress said with a smile. “Make sure they stay that way.”

  IMPERIAL PLANET ESPARTO

  The one-story building designated as Receiving Facility 7654 (RF-7654) was located adjacent to Elysium’s largest spaceport so that Cat—no, McKee; she had to start thinking of herself as McKee—and the 289 provisional recruits, or PRs, housed inside had to listen to the barely muted roar of engines at all hours of the day and night.

  A third of what the PRs called the tank was devoted to rows of bunk beds, which were divided by gender and a yellow line painted onto polished duracrete. Tables and chairs, all of which were bolted to the floor, occupied the center of the space. An open assembly area was located adjacent to that.

  When not engaged in some sort of official activity, there was no discipline to speak of, and that allowed the strong to prey on the weak. Something they did primarily for the fun of it since all of their personal belongings had been confiscated and nobody had anything to steal other than Legion-issue toiletries, a scratchy towel, and two sets of olive drab fatigues.

  The lack of military discipline struck McKee as strange until she noticed all the cameras mounted around the enormous room. Was their purpose to monitor the mayhem and ensure that it didn’t get out of hand? Or were the PRs being tracked and evaluated via some sort of behavioral software?

  She would have put money on the second possibility, but it raised more questions. If the PRs were being evaluated using a personality matrix, what sort of behaviors were considered good? Teamwork was an important part of any military enterprise—so maybe the Legion was looking for the kind of individuals who could get along with others.

  On the other hand it would be logical to suppose that the Legion placed a high value on aggressiveness. And by watching people interact with each other in the tank, the staff might be able to identify th
e PRs most likely to lead a charge up a hill. Or follow someone else up a hill. Then there was the possibility that the command structure wanted to recruit and retain a blend of personality types.

  There were so many variables that McKee knew she wouldn’t be able to game that part of the system and turned her attention to what she could influence, which were the tests that the PRs took each day. Some were physical in nature, and it didn’t require a genius to know that the Legion was looking for recruits who were in good condition.

  So McKee strove to deliver every push-up, every sit-up, and every jumping jack required of her. She couldn’t, of course, since she hadn’t been working out much, and the targets were set high. But she tried. And if McKee was right about the cameras and their purpose, then someone knew that. And was aware of the extra push-ups she was doing as well.

  Unlike the measures of physical fitness, the electronically administered personality and aptitude tests could be gamed. Or so she assumed. And having completed a degree in cybernetics before setting out on the grand tour, she was an expert at taking tests. The key to success lay in simple multiple-choice questions such as, “Would you prefer to: (a) carry a stretcher, (b) operate a com set, or (c) perform maintenance on a crew-served weapon.”

  None of the those choices got at what McKee really wanted to do, which was learn to fight. But it was a pretty safe bet that those assigned to operate crew-served weapons had to maintain them as well, so by choosing C, McKee was indicating a preference for a combat specialty, and the training that went with it. Wherever she could, she skewed her answers accordingly.

  Once the tests were over, the PRs were left with a significant amount of unstructured time. Roughly half of each day was spent napping, shooting the shit, or playing improvised games. One of which was called slave. It involved throwing a pair of dice that someone had smuggled in. Rather than wager money they didn’t have, the players could bet five-minute periods of time during which the loser, or “slave,” was required to do whatever the winner, or “master,” wanted.

  Did the people in charge of the tank know about “slave”? They had all of the necessary camera shots at their disposal. But for reasons unknown, the activity was tolerated. And that wasn’t a problem for the most part because the demands put forward by most masters involved personal errands, silly antics, or slave contests. One of the favorites was who could eat the most rock-hard fruit bars in the shortest period of time.

  But occasionally a master would insist on something darker. And such was the case one afternoon as she and the rest of the PRs finished their lunches. As usual, McKee was sitting by herself, worrying. There hadn’t been any sign of the synths so far. But the medics had taken blood more than a week earlier. That meant the Legion had her DNA. Would they share it with the new government? Or would the Legion’s stubborn insularity protect her from a cross match? The Legion was full of people who were on the lam, and if the organization ceased to be a place of refuge, the supply of volunteers would dry up.

  Such were McKee’s thoughts as a PR named Larkin won a series of throws thereby enslaving a young woman named Melissa Reese. And rather than order Reese to duckwalk around the room, or something similar, Larkin told her to strip. And when Reese refused to comply, he ordered his toadies to grab her. They obeyed, and Larkin had just ripped Reese’s shirt open when McKee hit him in the back of the head with a metal lunch tray.

  Larkin staggered, swore, and turned. He was angry. Very angry. Partly due to the pain. But mostly because of the way the incident might impact his social standing. Larkin’s power, such as it was, lay in his ability to control other people through the use of his fists. So an attack, especially by a female, couldn’t be tolerated.

  For her part, McKee knew she was in real trouble. Not only did Larkin outweigh her by at least sixty pounds, he was in excellent shape, and proud of a criminal background that involved breaking bones for a loan shark. She wanted to run, but there was no place to run to, so she stood her ground.

  Larkin took a roundhouse swing at McKee, and she ducked. And as his fist passed over her head, a whistle was heard. That was the signal for all of the PRs to line up in alpha order. And people who failed to obey such a summons had a tendency to disappear within a matter of hours.

  So rather than continue the fight, Larkin grabbed a fistful of McKee’s shirt and jerked her in close. His face was only inches from hers. “This isn’t over, Scarface. I’ll be watching you, and when you least expect it, pow! It will be payback time.”

  Larkin let go of her as the PRs hurried to line up. Once they were in formation, the NCOIC (noncommissioned officer in charge) made some routine announcements. There was no mention of Larkin’s assault on Reese or McKee’s attack on him. Had the assembly been called in order to prevent further violence? Or was it a coincidence? Either was possible. But one thing was for sure. McKee had an additional enemy now—and would have to be careful.

  As the day wore on, McKee made an interesting discovery. She had never been popular thanks to her foreboding appearance and standoffish ways. But no one liked her now. Not even Melissa Reese. Partly because Larkin and his buddies were busy dissing her—but also because those who weren’t members of the bully’s group feared retribution.

  In a strange sort of way, the social isolation was useful, however, because it gave McKee an opportunity to think about her previous life. A strange existence that had been lonely in spite of all the advantages. Or was it because of them? It had always been difficult to sort out those who wanted her body, wealth, or influence from those who actually cared about her. Assuming there had been any. So things were largely unchanged. She’d been alone before and still was.

  Viewed from that perspective, she had lost less than she first thought. And when she went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror, she no longer felt the desire to flinch. True to the real McKee’s prediction, the sutures had disappeared, leaving a pink line that would probably turn white with time. And just as her beauty had been an advantage in her previous existence, the scar was an asset now. It was both a disguise and an emblem.

  So what did she want? Friends? That would be nice, she reflected. But would such a relationship be fair to them? What if Ophelia’s assassins found her? Would they be satisfied with killing her? Or would the synths eliminate everyone she was close to? Those were difficult questions and remained unanswered as she went to bed.

  The most obvious time for Larkin to attack her was during the night when she was asleep. So she arranged to trade her lower bunk for a rack located directly below one of the cameras. The idea was that if Larkin tried to reach her, he would have to climb up the framework, thereby shaking the stack and providing a few seconds of warning. Then, whatever took place would be visible to the people monitoring the cameras. Assuming they cared.

  In spite of those precautions, McKee woke up frequently during the night and got very little sleep. And adding insult to injury, the morning whistle sounded an hour earlier than usual. That triggered all sorts of rumors, one of which was that the evaluation process was over.

  The suspense continued to increase as the PRs ate breakfast, retrieved their trays, and fell in for morning roll call. Except the process was different this time. “Pay attention!” a corporal bawled. “The following people will assemble to my left. “Allen, Cassie, Atkins, Phil, Banu, Beri . . .” and so forth until roughly a third of the PRs had been accounted for.

  It looked as though the individuals in one group were going to be accepted while those in the other would be cut. And since McKee’s name hadn’t been called she was in group two. Was that good or bad?

  All of the PRs wondered the same thing as an actual officer appeared. The first such creature they had seen so far. He was a captain and wore two rows of ribbons on his chest. After taking his place in front of the PRs, he stood at parade rest. His blue eyes swept both groups like lasers. “Good morning. My name is Captain Dawkin
s. I would like to thank the members of group one for applying to become members of the Legion—and to congratulate group two for being accepted.”

  That triggered a ragged cheer from group two and a mutual groan of disappointment from all the rest. And McKee might have added her voice to the celebration except for one thing: Larkin was in group two as well. And that didn’t bode well.

  The rest of the morning passed quickly as the PRs who hadn’t made the cut were taken away, and the rest were given military-style buzz cuts. Once that process was complete, it was time for Dawkins to address them again. “You are,” he said, “about to become members of the best fighting force that the human empire has. The Legion was founded on March 10, 1831. It was, and is, an elite unit, which is why we choose our members with care. That may sound strange to those of you who are familiar with the Legion’s reputation as a refuge for people who want a fresh start. But, as one of our generals put it, ‘We want the best of the worst.’”

  It was a joke and generated plenty of laughter. “But regardless of what others may think,” Dawkins continued, “we aren’t outcasts. We have each other. Our motto is ‘Legio Patria Nostra,’ which means ‘The Legion Is Our Country.’ That’s how it was, is, and how it will always be. A lot of governments have come and gone over the last 875 years, but we’re still here. That’s because we fight for each other rather than a creed. Some say it is our greatest flaw. I say it is our primary virtue.”

  The officer’s words had special meaning for McKee because it seemed as though Dawkins was sending all the recruits a message: “The Legion takes care of its own.” Hopefully, that meant her DNA was safe from the government.

  “Once you are sworn in,” Dawkins continued, “some of the most difficult days of your lives will begin. From Esparto you will be sent to Drang for basic training. Those of you who survive the process will go from there to Adobe or other planets for additional instruction.”