Andromeda's Fall (Legion of the Damned)

by Dietz, William C.

  Half an hour later, McKee entered a section of the forest that had been blackened by fire. Her first thought was that the Big Green was subject to the occasional burn-off just as any forest would be. But this fire was recent. So much so that the charred remains of spiky trees were still smoking. And a strange smell hung in the air. A distinctive odor that she knew to be fuel.

  Then McKee saw the first charred body, realized that she was looking at a dead Droi, and began to run. Each time one of her boots landed, it sent a cloud of gray ash into the air. Bodies lay everywhere, some whole, some in pieces—all blackened by the blanket of aerosolized fuel that had been sprayed over the forest and ignited.

  McKee tripped, fell, and struggled to her feet. Now she understood. She was late. Way too late. The attack had taken place. And in order to defend the battalion from what must have been thousands of Droi, Spurlock had called for an air strike and been granted one.

  Tears were streaming down McKee’s cheeks as she ran. And there, at the center of an area untouched by the fuel-fed fire, was the skeleton of a burned-out truck. Farther on, the wreckage of a Scorpion could be seen. Judging from the look of it, the armored car had taken a direct hit from a shoulder-launched missile. But that wasn’t the worst of it. There were metal grave markers. Rows of them. And beyond the makeshift graveyard the remains of a T-1 were visible.

  The cyborg was sitting with its back against a rock and its head slumped forward. One of its arms was missing, its body was riddled with shell holes, but it was too big to bury. McKee knelt in front of it, ran a wet thumb over the block printing on the T-1s chest, and read its name: Weber. Deep sobs racked her body as McKee said, “I’m sorry . . . So sorry. I should have died with you.” Contrails clawed the sky, a series of sonic booms chased each other across the land, and a blanket of silence settled over the battlefield.

  CHAPTER: 13

  * * *

  To continue on when there is no reason to hope . . . That is heroism.

  HIVE MOTHER TRAL HEBA

  Ramanthian Book of Guidance

  Standard year 1721

  PLANET ORLO II

  Having cried all the tears there were to cry, McKee stood. Then, after one last look at the desolation that surrounded her, she began to walk north toward Riversplit. She couldn’t survive in the Big Green, not for long, so there was nowhere else to go.

  What then? she wondered. I’ll be on an Imperial planet, in a loyalist city, with no money or connections. And both the synths and the Legion will be looking for me. Maybe I should save everyone the trouble and shoot myself.

  But McKee didn’t shoot herself. She remembered what her uncle Rex had said. “When the going gets tough—the tough get going.” The saying was trite, but true all the same. Plus, she had a purpose, and that was to bring Ophelia down.

  So she put one boot in front of the other and kept walking. And thinking. The trail was easy to follow. The battalion had left tire tracks, pod prints, and occasional pieces of litter in its wake. Where were they going? Riversplit most likely. Just like she was. But when had they left? A day ago? Or earlier that morning? It would pay to be careful lest she round a curve and run into the rear guard.

  But the danger, if any, wouldn’t last for long. Assuming the battalion was traveling at a steady 20–30 mph, it would soon leave her in the dust. Could she hitch a ride somehow? No, that wouldn’t be wise so long as she was in uniform. The Legion would put the word out, and people would be looking for a female deserter.

  Such were McKee’s thoughts as she followed the dirt track through the overarching jungle, between a couple of rocky hills, and up a rise. She paused at the top to survey the land ahead. But without binoculars, the chances of spotting the battalion were slim to none. So she made her way down the other side of the rise to a spot where a small stream cut across the road. Rays of bright sunshine poured through a large opening in the jungle canopy to flood the area with light.

  With no canteen, it was important to drink when she could. McKee knelt next to the brook, cupped her hands, and drank her fill. She was splashing water onto her face when a shadow slipped over her head and fled north. She looked up, expecting to see a bird. But the drone wasn’t a bird. Not in the conventional sense anyway. There was a hollow sensation in the pit of her stomach as the machine banked and began to turn back. The aircraft had a smooth, nearly featureless fuselage and the long wings that enabled it to fly low and slow.

  All McKee could do was stand, turn, and run. The drone passed over her seconds later. It fired a machine gun, and bullets kicked up puffs of dust ahead of her. And she knew it could launch missiles, too. The message was clear: Stop running or die.

  McKee considered pulling the pistol and firing at the aircraft but knew the 4.7mm rounds wouldn’t bring it down. So she came to a reluctant stop and was forced to stand in the middle of the road as the vulturelike drone circled above. She knew it was sending real-time video of her to someone. But to whom? A navy ship in orbit? And then to the battalion? Yes. That made sense, and the hypothesis was confirmed when a cloud of dust appeared to the north, and a Scorpion armored car arrived minutes later.

  As the vehicle skidded to a stop, McKee placed the handgun on the ground, took three steps back, and locked her hands behind her neck. Doors opened, and three marines got out. Two of them pointed weapons at her while a sergeant bent to retrieve the pistol. The noncom knew his stuff as evidenced by the way he stayed out of the line of fire. “Corporal McKee?”

  “Yes.”

  “Remain as you are while I pat you down.”

  The marine was thorough but didn’t try to cop a feel like so many men would have, and McKee was grateful for that. Having found no weapons other than her knife, which the sergeant confiscated, he ordered her to put her hands behind her back. A plastic tie was used to bind her wrists. “Okay,” he said. “Get in the vehicle.”

  McKee did as she was told. Sitting with her hands behind her was uncomfortable as the Scorpion bucked its way through a series of potholes and the marine reported in. His head was turned toward her, which meant that whoever the sergeant was talking to could see her face via his helmet cam. “Yes, sir, it’s Corporal McKee all right. No, sir. Yes, sir. About ten minutes, sir. Over.”

  It seemed as if only five minutes had passed as the Scorpion passed through a checkpoint manned by a squad of bio bods and a T-1. Then, as the vehicle bumped over a crude bridge, McKee realized that she’d been wrong. The battalion wasn’t on the run. It had been relocated to a more defensible position. A ditch had been dug all around the compound and was lined with sharpened stakes. An arrangement as old as the Roman Legions but effective nevertheless.

  T-1s could be seen patrolling the perimeter, each corner was anchored by a log bunker, and a landing pad had been established in front of the command tent. At least a dozen people came out to meet the car, and McKee saw that most of them were Grays. One of the soldiers opened the door and another jerked her out. A bandage was wrapped around his head, and he was visibly angry. “Remember me, bitch? No? Well, I remember you.”

  McKee doubled over in pain as the soldier buried his fist in her stomach. As she threw up, she remembered hitting him in the head with her rifle butt. No wonder he was pissed. Then a familiar voice said, “We’ll have none of that . . . Take that man’s name! Bring McKee into the command tent. The colonel wants to speak with her.”

  Avery! Captain Avery! He was alive. That was good news. Although judging from the expression on the officer’s face, he felt nothing but contempt for her.

  Then McKee remembered Jivv. Where was the synth? Given the circumstances, she would have expected the robot to be front and center. Had it been killed during the battle with the Droi? The possibility gave her something to hope for as she was hustled into the command tent. Spurlock was there, seated behind a folding table, and there was a look of satisfaction on his face. He turned to look at Aver
y. “Here it is, Captain . . . Proof that criminals don’t make good soldiers.” There was nothing the legionnaire could do but remain silent.

  Having turned his attention back to McKee, Spurlock frowned. “So, Corporal . . . I’m going to ask questions—and you’re going to provide answers. Why did you help Governor Jones and his family escape?”

  There hadn’t been time to think. But McKee knew one thing for sure. She couldn’t tell the truth without revealing her true identity. And insofar as she could tell, they didn’t know. Not yet. So all she could do was keep her mouth shut and hope for a miracle. “I have nothing to say, sir.”

  Blood began to suffuse Spurlock’s face as he came to his feet. “I don’t think you understand the situation. Once we reach Riversplit, you will be charged with desertion and treason. That means the death penalty unless you cooperate. Then, if I were to speak on your behalf, you might receive a lighter sentence. Fifty years at hard labor perhaps. What are you? Twenty something? With luck, you’ll be free someday. Now I’ll ask again. Why did you help Governor Jones and his family to escape?”

  McKee stood at attention with her eyes on a spot four inches over Spurlock’s head. “I have nothing to say, sir.”

  “Damn you!” Spurlock said, and made a stylus jump as he brought his fist down on the metal tabletop. “Where are Governor Jones and his family hiding?”

  “I have nothing to say, sir.”

  Spurlock circled the table. When he stopped, his face was only inches from McKee’s. His right hand came up to clutch her throat. “Tell me what I want to know or die right now.”

  McKee found it difficult to breathe. And that was when a gun barrel entered her field of vision. It was pressed against Spurlock’s temple, and the voice was Avery’s. “Please remove your hand from the corporal’s throat. There are regulations regarding how military personnel are to be treated in situations like this one—and I won’t be a party to violating them. Sir.” The last sounded like what it was. An afterthought.

  Spurlock’s expression registered surprise, followed by fear, and even more anger as the pistol was withdrawn. “Lieutenant! Place Captain Avery under arrest and find a place to confine him. And make sure his guards are Grays . . . Legionnaires can’t be trusted.”

  Spurlock took a step backwards. “You can remove the corporal as well. I’ll deal with her later. In the meantime, send for my platoon leaders so I can brief them on the situation.”

  Two Grays grabbed McKee’s arms and hustled her out of the tent. There were moments when her boots didn’t touch the ground as a sergeant led the way. People stopped whatever they were doing to stare. She scanned their faces, hoping to spot members of her squad, but didn’t. She saw others though . . . Including Tacker from the third squad, first platoon, Blonski, from the first squad, second platoon, and a T-1 named Mishko. It was difficult to read their expressions, but a thumbs-up from Blonski was enough to give her heart. Most of her comrades had been up on charges at one time or another. So their sympathies generally lay with the accused rather than the accusers. Especially if the accuser was a Gray. “Put her in the bunker,” the sergeant ordered.

  McKee saw that a rectangular hole had been dug at the center of the compound and topped with logs and dirt. It was intended to be a place where troops could take cover in the case of a mortar attack, but it was about to become a cell.

  McKee was stripped of her body armor before being thrown inside. She fell, rolled, and wound up on her back. Tiny bits of blue sky were visible through holes in the cover above. But most of the light came in through the entrances located at each end of the bunker. She wondered about Avery. He was under arrest as well, and she felt badly about that.

  Then the heat closed in around her, and McKee realized that the bunker was a solar oven. And, like any oven, it was going to cook her. Water. She needed water. Maybe they kept some in the bunker.

  She got up, discovered that it was impossible to stand without bumping her head, and was forced to explore her cell while hunched over. Thirty seconds later she knew the truth. There was no water. Was that intentional? Or the result of an oversight? McKee thought the first possibility was the most likely and wasn’t about to beg, not yet anyway.

  All she could do was wait for evening, when the temperature would fall. McKee was reluctant to take off the outside layer of her clothing at first, knowing male soldiers could enter the bunker at any time. But it wasn’t long before she surrendered to the stifling heat and removed everything except her sweat-soaked olive drab bra and her Legion-issue briefs.

  Having done what she could to stay cool, McKee sat with her back against an earthen wall and took advantage of the opportunity to think. That was the plan, anyway, but she hadn’t had much sleep the night before, and her thoughts morphed into strange dreams as she drifted in and out of consciousness.

  Eventually, after what seemed like an eternity but was only a couple of hours, something hit McKee’s leg and jarred her awake. She felt for the object, found the familiar outlines of a canteen, and hurried to unscrew the top. The water was warm, and slightly brackish, but it restored moisture to her mouth and took the edge off her thirst as it slid down her throat.

  McKee wanted to drink half of it, and pour the rest over her head, but forced herself to replace the cap. How long would the water have to last? Three hours? Six? It made sense to assume the worst. And that was when she noticed the writing on the water bottle.

  She crawled over to the point where a shaft of light entered the bunker and held the canteen up for inspection. It was a common practice for soldiers to print their names on their gear. The letters were all caps. “LARKIN.”

  McKee felt an unexpected surge of emotion as she sat in the shaft of light with the canteen clutched to her chest. The sobs came from deep inside, and she didn’t want the Grays to know that she was crying, so she crawled back into the bunker. Catherine Carletto had been given many gifts, but none so precious. That included the water and the knowledge that Larkin was still alive.

  The water seemed to revive McKee, but in some ways made her imprisonment worse, because in the absence of the all-consuming thirst, she had more capacity to think. And no matter what she chose to focus on, it was bad. All she could do was summon up happier times, try to ignore the fact that the most important people in her life were dead, and relive the past.

  The hours crawled by, insects bit her, and eventually the air began to cool. So much so that McKee was compelled to put her clothes back on. She still had her chrono so she knew it was 18:33 when someone tossed an MRE in through the entrance on the north side.

  Just the sight of the box was sufficient to remind her of how hungry she was. Once the container was open, she sought to make the meal last as long as possible. Each item became a course—and each bite was an experience. Not necessarily a good experience, but a distraction, and that was welcome.

  Once darkness fell, McKee had nothing other than the glow from her chrono for illumination. The temperature continued to drop until she felt cold. All she could do was sit up with arms wrapped around knees and try to conserve body heat. Sleep came and went, as did a collage of dreams. Some from the past, some from the present, and some too strange to categorize. She was lost in a surreal landscape, searching for her face, when the Grays came for her.

  There was no warning, no declaration of purpose, as the men entered the bunker from both ends at once. They grabbed McKee’s arms, pulled her up onto her feet, and dragged her out into the early-morning light. A layer of mist hovered just above the ground and shivered as a light breeze nudged it. The first thing she noticed was that most of the battalion was present. They were lined up in ranks, with the legionnaires at the front. That was strange given the fact that they were in the field rather than on a parade ground.

  And there, standing in front of the formation was a contraption made out of logs. It consisted of two uprights, each havin
g one end buried in the ground, so as to from a large X. McKee didn’t understand the purpose of the construct at first. Then she saw the noncom with the coiled whip, plus the smirk on Spurlock’s face, and knew the truth: She was about to be flogged.

  A voice shouted “Atten-HUT!” as the guards brought her to a halt. McKee saw that Avery was present as well. His wrists were cuffed in front of him, and he was under guard. His face remained expressionless, but it looked as though Spurlock was enjoying himself as he read from a piece of paper. “Military discipline is critical to unit cohesion—and unit cohesion is critical to operational success. For that reason, our superiors have seen fit to lay down a system of military law known as the Military Code of Conduct.

  “And that system spells out the penalties associated with each possible offense. Some of these penalties are discretionary, meaning they can be imposed by a unit commander such as myself, while others fare judicial and require a formal court-martial. Owing to the nature of her crimes, Corporal McKee is subject to both.”

  Spurlock paused at that point as if to let his words sink in prior to continuing his speech. “Once the battalion returns to Riversplit, McKee will be tried for desertion and treason. But in the meantime, it is my responsibility to punish her for abandoning her post, striking a fellow soldier, and stealing government property. With those charges in mind, I hereby sentence her to ten lashes.”

  “I object,” Avery said, in a loud clear voice. “McKee is a legionnaire—and the Legion doesn’t permit flogging.”

  “Well the militia does,” Spurlock responded sternly. “And I would like to remind those present that Captain Avery stands accused of assaulting a superior officer. If he speaks again, the master-at-arms will tape his mouth closed. Prepare the corporal for punishment.”

  McKee felt a combination of fear and embarrassment as a Gray stepped forward to rip her shirt open—and another proceeded to cut the fabric away. That left her topless with the exception of a bra. And once that was removed, her breasts were exposed.