Andromeda's Fall

by William C. Dietz

  Now, waiting to leave for Drang, she missed both of them so much that it made her chest hurt. And it was too late to please either one of them. She knew that. But, McKee told herself, there is one thing I can give them. And that’s revenge.

  That notion was comforting in a hard, cold sort of way, and she felt better as she and her companions were told to exit the bus. Then came a good deal of swearing reinforced by a kick or two as the NCOs herded their charges into a column of twos. “This ain’t a column of threes, idiot,” one of them said as a hapless recruit tried to line up next to a couple of his friends. “Get your ass to the back of the line. Goddamn it to hell, you people are stupid.”

  Then, having wasted time sitting on the bus, the recruits were required to run across the tarmac to one of the waiting shuttles and thunder up a ramp. Once inside the utilitarian ship, they were ordered to sit on fold-down seats and, in the words of one burly sergeant, “prepare to barf.” But in spite of the initial urgency, nothing happened for another fifteen minutes. A pattern that McKee was coming to expect.

  Finally, with barf bags at the ready, the ramp came up, and the shuttle lifted off. There were no viewports. All the recruits could do was stare at the people on the other side of the aisle or close their eyes as the additional gees pushed them down into thinly padded seats and the hull began to shake.

  McKee had been through the experience many times before albeit on much more luxurious vessels. So she was prepared for the occasionally violent motion as the shuttle battled its way up through Esparto’s gravity well and the sudden weightlessness that followed.

  But most of her fellow recruits were entering space for the first time. About half threw up into the barf bags, much to the amusement of the free-floating NCOs. And she couldn’t help but take pleasure in the fact that one of the people who came in for some ribbing was none other than Desmond Larkin.

  Fortunately, most of the vomit went into the bags. But a few brownish globules managed to escape custody, and there was no defense against the odor that threatened to make McKee sick with all the rest of them. So she was thankful as the shuttle entered the Tauri’s landing bay and came under the influence of the larger vessel’s powerful argrav generators.

  There was a solid thump as the shuttle touched down. But those who hoped to escape both the ship and the smell were in for a major disappointment. It seemed that the Eta Tauri’s crew was engaged in a training exercise that required them to leave the landing bay open and unpressurized until what one corporal referred to as “the navy’s circle jerk” was over. A full half hour passed before the bay was closed off, an atmosphere was pumped in, and the recruits were allowed to exit.

  Then it was time to form up and listen to an orientation lecture from Chief Petty Officer Nambo. She had a hard face, a beefy body, and a prosthetic arm. It produced a high-pitched whining sound whenever its owner moved it. The chief had to raise her voice in order to be heard over the rattle of a power wrench and the nonstop flow of announcements from the PA system.

  “Listen up,” Nambo bawled as she eyed the faces in front of her. “This is the combat supply vessel Eta Tauri. She is more than two miles long, she can carry 3 million tons of cargo plus a fleet of seventy-five shuttles like the ones you came up on. Approximately sixteen hundred men, women, and robots are required to run and defend the ship. Your job will be to stay out of their way and keep your pieholes shut. Someday, assuming that you graduate from basic, you will have both skills and a purpose. Until that fine day, you are cargo. And worthless cargo at that.

  “Once you reach your quarters, you will be assigned to a lifeboat. If the captain orders us to abandon ship, report to that lifeboat, and only that lifeboat. The people assigned to other boats don’t have to accept you and won’t. So when the Tauri falls into the local sun, you’ll be along for the ride.

  “Last but not least, we will be watching you . . . Steal something, assault someone, or pass gas without obtaining permission first and we will put your worthless ass in the brig. Do you read me?”

  The response consisted of a ragged chorus of “Yes”es.

  A sergeant named Hasker took a step forward. If looks could kill, every single one of the recruits would have been dead. “Chief Nambo asked you a question, pukes . . . The appropriate answer is either ‘Yes, ma’am,’ or ‘No, ma’am,’ realizing that if you say, ‘No, ma’am,’ I will put my boot up your ass.”

  Having turned to Nambo, he said, “Sorry, Chief. Please try again.”

  Nambo grinned. “Do you read me?”

  McKee joined with all the rest to shout, “YES, MA’AM!”

  “That’s better,” Hasker allowed. “Now that you know everything you need to know about the Eta Tauri, it’s time to get organized.” At that point the recruits were divided into companies and platoons before being led through a maze of corridors and passageways to D deck, which was down in the belly of the ship.

  The space assigned to the second platoon of Bravo Company was equipped with stacks of bunks along both sides of the compartment, tiny lockers, and a narrow table that ran down the center of the bay. Training began with a lesson on how to make up a bunk complete with hospital corners. Then the recruits were issued bedding and ordered to use their newly acquired skills.

  McKee couldn’t remember making a bed before. She tried, failed, and wound up doing a lot of push-ups before finally getting it right. Fortunately, Larkin had been assigned to the first platoon and wasn’t present to witness her difficulties.

  Eventually, after all of the recruits successfully passed inspection, they were taken to the mess deck and fed. Though a far cry from what she had been accustomed to, the food was better than the crap served in the tank, and she was hungry.

  Some of the people around McKee tried to engage her in conversation. But being unsure of whom she could trust, she provided little more than monosyllabic responses and was soon left alone.

  Once the meal was over, two platoons from Alpha Company were detailed to enter the hot, steamy galley and perform all of the cleanup work. The rest of the recruits, McKee included, were released to “free time.” Assuming there was some after they had memorized the Legion’s chain of command, washed their “number twos,” and polished their boots.

  McKee completed the first task in a matter of minutes but was a good deal slower where the other two were concerned. But by imitating those around her, she managed to carry out all of the tasks assigned to her before climbing into her bunk. Then, with the privacy curtain pulled, she fell into a dreamless sleep.

  It seemed to be only moments later when Sergeant Hasker entered the compartment and began to yell at people. “It’s time to rise and shine, boys and girls . . . You have thirty minutes to prepare for inspection.”

  The announcement triggered a race as all of the recruits bailed out of their bunks and made for what the navy referred to as the “heads.” The compartments were of equal size, but due to the fact that there were fewer females, there was less competition for sinks and showers. So the women were among the first to exit and make their bunks. Then it was time to put on the clean uniforms and the boots they had worked so hard to polish the “night” before. As the half hour expired, the recruits were ordered to “stand to.”

  McKee watched out of the corner of her eye as Hasker and a stern-looking corporal came down the line, ripping poorly made bunks apart, pointing out flaws in the way uniforms had been pressed, and intentionally scuffing any boot that wasn’t shiny enough.

  Then it was her turn, and she braced herself for the worst, as Hasker stopped in front of her. His closely shaven face was only inches away, and she could see his furrowed brow and smell his aftershave. The NCO’s flinty eyes scanned her face, her uniform, and fell to her mirror-bright boots.

  Meanwhile, the corporal was eyeballing McKee’s rack. But rather than rip it apart, he took a step back. That left Hasker to deliver his judgment alone. “You ain’t no legionnaire, McKee. Not yet. But at least you look like one.”

&n
bsp; That was high praise coming from Hasker. And McKee felt an unexpected flush of pleasure. Because of all the thousands of compliments she had received during her life, she knew this one was real. And that meant a lot.

  After breakfast, the “boots” began a full day of training. The Tauri had broken orbit during the “night” and entered hyperspace a few hours later. That made it impossible to launch small craft, so the noncoms were able to take the recruits out onto the blast-scarred flight deck for a strenuous workout followed by an attempt to march. A seemingly outdated skill, but one that taught teamwork and still played a role in building esprit de corps.

  It was an often-comical affair, which Hasker referred to as “a complete fuck-up,” although neither he nor the other NCOs seemed to be particularly surprised. Probably because they had seen the whole thing many times before and knew that a lot of practice would be required to get it right.

  Then it was off to lunch, followed by a history lesson in the ship’s auditorium. The holo presentation began with the Legion’s birth and went on to document the early days in North Africa, Spain, and the Crimean War. All of which led up to the famous battle of Camerone, in which Captain Danjou and sixty-two legionnaires took on a much larger force at a village called Camerone. Finally, after Danjou had fallen, and with only four able-bodied legionnaires left, Sous-lieutenant Maudet ordered his men to level their bayonets and charge the more than two thousand Mexican soldiers who faced them.

  Maudet was killed almost immediately, as was a legionnaire named Catteau, who was shot nineteen times as he tried to protect the fallen officer. At that point, the survivors were called upon to surrender, and agreed to do so on the condition that they would be allowed to keep their weapons, and their wounded would be cared for.

  There would be thousands of battles to follow both on Earth and other planets, but none that meant so much. And it was then that she began to more fully understand the grim, inward-focused pride that people like Hasker felt for their organization.

  Classes continued through the afternoon. They covered a wide variety of subjects, including basic hygiene, the Imperial code of military justice, and the way the Legion was organized. The latter was of special interest to McKee, who knew that if she were to succeed in the Legion, it would be necessary to understand it.

  Then it was dinnertime, and as her platoon prepared to leave for chow, Hasker made the announcement that McKee’s platoon had been dreading. “You people have KP tonight, so remain on the mess deck when you finish eating. Petty Officer Chan will collect you at 1700 hours. Do what he says—and don’t screw up. Do you read me?”

  The response was automatic by then. “Sir! Yes, sir.”

  It was, McKee decided, a pain in the ass. But one that had to be dealt with. So the best thing to do was work hard and get the chore over with.

  Chan was right on time, and instead of being the hard-ass that McKee had imagined, the petty officer was an affable man with broad cheekbones, a ready smile, and a slight paunch. In marked contrast to the Legion’s noncoms, the navy PO had little interest in turning the boots into effective soldiers and delivered his orders in a calm, laid-back manner.

  Rather than be assigned to clean the galley, as she thought she would, McKee found herself working in a storage compartment adjacent to the kitchen. The task was to open the cases of food that had been brought up from one of the ship’s holds and load them onto what Chan referred to as “the ready racks.” That way, they would be secure if the argrav generators failed yet readily available to the cooks.

  The job involved some lifting, but it was simple enough, and McKee enjoyed working alone. So she had been on the task for about thirty minutes, and was more than halfway through it, when she heard the hatch open and close behind her. Chan probably—come to check on her.

  But when McKee turned, she realized that the visitor wasn’t Chan. It was Desmond Larkin. And two of his toadies. All three of whom had finished their work in the galley. “Well, well,” Larkin said. “Look what we have here. Scarface is all alone, with no big bad NCOs to protect her.”

  McKee looked left and right, hoping for some sort of weapon or escape route. But there wasn’t any. Larkin chuckled. “That’s right, bitch. You’re mine. I told you it was coming—and here it is. You’re real brave when a person’s back is turned. Let’s see how you do face-to-face.”

  McKee knew she couldn’t win but was determined to go down fighting. So she threw a box of baking soda at Larkin’s face. And when the bully raised his hands to deflect the object she launched a kick. Unfortunately, he was able to deflect it with the turn of a hip.

  Then they swarmed her. Fists struck from every direction. McKee fell, curled up into a ball, and had the breath knocked out of her as a boot slammed into her ribs. Then came a blow to the head, the sound of distant laughter, and a long fall into darkness.

  CHAPTER: 4

  * * *

  Kill a man and you are an assassin. Kill millions of men and you are a conqueror. Kill everyone and you are a god.

  CLERGYMAN BEILBY PORTEUS

  Standard year circa 1761

  IMPERIAL PLANET ESPARTO

  Hans Simek hated robots. Especially robots made to look and act like humans because most thought themselves superior to the beings who created them. But due to the influence of a well-placed relative on Earth, as well as a horrible twist of fate, Simek had been named Case Officer Nine in the newly created Bureau of Missing Persons (BMP) and placed in charge of creatures that were theoretically incorruptible, willing to work around the clock, and could be destroyed if necessary.

  Now, sitting in his newly refurbished office on the seventy-third floor of the Imperial Tower, Simek had no choice but to put his bias aside and interact with a thing named Fyth. The killing machine’s head had a sleek, streamlined look; it was wearing the colors of the Imperial Security Service and standing at parade rest. Although all of the experts swore that robots didn’t have individual identities, most were willing to concede that because androids had to operate in a semiautonomous manner, they inevitably acquired experiences unique to them. That led to preferences and generalized behaviors that could be perceived as individual personalities but weren’t. Not technically.

  All of which was a load of crap from Simek’s perspective, because he knew that Fyth had a personality, and an obnoxious one at that. But unless he wanted to go out and kill people himself, he had no choice but to use the machines placed under his control to get the job done. “So,” Simek said, “give me your report.”

  “It was sent to you electronically,” came the inflectionless response.

  Simek swore under his breath. “You will provide an oral report now, or I will have you recycled.”

  Simek figured that a nonsentient machine shouldn’t care about being wiped. But in his experience, most of the higher-functioning androids did. That was because certain subprograms encouraged the robots to survive. Just as an inborn survival instinct served to protect human beings. So if Fyth wanted to “live,” it would comply. And it did. “I was ordered to find and terminate subject 1012.”

  Simek tapped the number into a keypad. A three-dimensional likeness of an elderly man appeared in front of him. A cloud of white hair seemed to float around his head, a caste mark could be seen on his forehead, and deep lines creased his face. The image began to rotate. “Continue.”

  “His daughter was on Worber’s World,” the machine said tonelessly. “So I went to the city where her house is located and placed it under surveillance. The subject arrived twelve days later, collected his grandchildren, and departed. I followed.”

  “And then?”

  “The subject took the children to a wooded area,” Fyth said. “There was a stream. He had fishing poles for the children. As they dropped lines into the water, I emerged from cover.”

  Simek raised a hand, tapped some keys, and seconds later he was looking at 1012, the children, and the wooded setting through Fyth’s “eyes.” Sunlight sparkled on the water, an
d it rippled as it flowed past, broke against a rock, and came back together again.

  Ten-twelve had his back to Fyth, but must have heard something because he turned. There was a look of surprise on his face, followed by what might have been resignation. His voice was matter-of-fact. “Ophelia sent you.”

  “The government sent me.”

  Ten-twelve laughed bitterly. “There is no government. Not anymore. Just Ophelia. Please spare the children. They know nothing.”

  “Grandpa!” came a high-pitched voice. “I got one. Come help.”

  Simek watched a pistol come up, and saw the crosshairs appear, as a blue-edged hole replaced the caste mark at the center of the old man’s forehead. Ten-twelve fell over backwards, a child screamed, and the background began to blur as the reticle sought the source of the sound.

  Simek stabbed a key, and the holo imploded. He had grandchildren of his own. Three of them. And there was no need to witness the murders that followed. “And their parents?” he inquired.

  “Dead.”

  “And the cover story?”

  “The pistol used to kill 1012 and the children was found clutched in their father’s hand. Police theorize that he followed his father-in-law to the stream, where he killed 1012 and the children. Then he returned home and turned the weapon on his wife. And himself. A suicide note was found next to his body.”

  “Nice and tidy. I like it.”

  “Of course you do,” Fyth replied smugly.

  Simek felt a flash of anger. “You will refrain from gratuitous speech.”

  Rather than reply by saying, “Yes, sir,” the android was silent. Was that a sign of obedience? Or defiance? Simek clenched and unclenched his jaw. “I have a new assignment for you,” he grated. “Lady Catherine Carletto is, or was, the daughter of Dor and Carolyn Carletto. They were neutralized during phase one of the succession process. Lady Catherine, or subject 2999 if you prefer, was here in Esparto Prime at the time.”