“Okay,” Avery said. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because as a loyal member of the empire’s armed forces, I thought you would want to know,” Snarr replied. “Think of it as an example of something you want to avoid. More than that, consider your responsibilities as an officer. You are in a position to observe your legionnaires every day. They are, as I’m sure you will agree, trash swept up off the streets of a dozen planets. Almost all of whom are hiding from something. However, the people I work for couldn’t care less about their various crimes. What they do care about is loyalty. Watch them, Captain Avery—watch them carefully. And if you observe anything suspicious, report it to me. Understood?”
“Understood,” Avery grated.
McKee couldn’t see them. But the clatter of loose rocks told its own story as Snarr and Avery departed. She allowed herself to exhale and was surprised to discover that she’d been holding her breath. It was terrifying to realize that Snarr was not only on the lookout for people like Catherine Carletto—but busy trying to establish a network of informers who might turn her in. People like Captain Avery.
McKee felt sorry for him. Judging from what she’d heard, his brother George was an ongoing source of trouble for the family. Still, it was comforting to know that there were those who shared her views regarding Empress O and the succession. And that raised an interesting possibility. What about Captain Avery? Could she enlist him in the effort to take the empire back? No, that was absurd. As a lance corporal, she couldn’t even talk to the man unless it was to say, “Yes, sir.” The best thing she could do was keep her head down, learn how to be a soldier, and wait for an opportunity. The sun was about to disappear, and when she took her first bite of food, it was stone cold.
CHAPTER: 7
* * *
The Legion is, it pains me to say, a necessary evil.
EMPRESS OPHELIA ORDANUS
Standard year 2706
PLANET ADOBE
It was Camerone Day, and as General Winton climbed a flight of stairs and made his way out onto the speaker’s platform, thousands of legionnaires were waiting. The bio bods stood in neat ranks, their white kepis gleaming in the sun, weapons at parade rest.
Behind them were row upon row of Trooper Is, each standing eight feet tall and packing enough firepower to grease an infantry platoon. The cyborgs didn’t need uniforms, but many had been awarded medals for valor and wore them on ceremonial harnesses designed for such occasions.
And all the way to the rear, towering above the rest, were the new forms commonly referred to as Quads because each had four fully articulated legs. The big walkers could function as armored personnel carriers, tanks, or antiaircraft batteries.
All of them were assembled because on this day, in the spring of 1863, a battle had been fought in what was still known as Mexico on Earth. And now, as Winton took his place, it was time to honor the men who had fallen there. A voice boomed through the PA system. “Atten-HUT!”
Thousands of legionnaires crashed to attention, and Lance Corporal Andromeda McKee was one of them. It was just past 1300 hours, and she could feel the heat on her shoulders as the battalion’s sergeant major bellowed the order, “Parade, REST.”
The formation had originally been scheduled for 0800 but had been pushed into the afternoon. There were various theories, but according to the most popular scan, a message torp had arrived from Earth, and a whole lot of troops were about to load out. Maybe that was true, and maybe it wasn’t, but one thing was for sure: The command structure had been caught off guard—and were playing catch-up.
Winton took a moment to survey the troops, then gave what might have been a nod of approval. “Good morning. As you know, we are gathered here today to celebrate the most famous battle in the Legion’s much-storied history.
“The French had laid siege to the town of Puebla about 150 miles inland from the Gulf of Mexico, and five thousand feet above sea level. So to strengthen their forces, and overwhelm Puebla, a supply convoy was sent into the highlands. It consisted of sixty horse-drawn wagons loaded with guns, food, and gold.”
McKee could imagine the dust, the horses, and the clatter of their hooves as the column followed a dirt road upwards. There would have been brightly colored uniforms as well, proud flags, and hundreds of hot, sweaty soldiers.
“Two days later, a spy brought some disturbing news. The convoy would be ambushed by several battalions of infantry, cavalry, and local guerrillas. Hoping to avert disaster, the Legion’s commanding officer, a colonel named Pierre Jeanningros, sent a company down the road to warn the convoy, or make contact with the enemy. He chose the 3rd company of the 1st Battalion, which, due to illness, had no officers well enough to go.
“That’s why Captain Jean Danjou, a member of the headquarters staff, volunteered to lead the patrol. Two subalterns agreed to join him. Out of a normal complement of 120 men only 62 were fit for duty.
“The company left before first light on April 30 and marched toward the coast. They made good time during the hours of darkness and reached a post manned by the battalion’s grenadiers before dawn. After coffee and some black bread, the march resumed.
“Danjou took his men out just before dawn, which was just as well since it was going to be an extremely hot day.”
McKee was sweating by then. The air seemed to shimmer, Winton was slightly out of focus, and her throat was dry. How long was the story going to take? Legionnaires had been known to pass out during such formations. She was determined to stay upright.
“They passed through a number of settlements during the next few hours,” Winton said. “One such settlement was a run-down collection of shacks called Camerone.
“Danjou, a veteran of the Crimean War, led the column. Had someone been watching, they would have noticed that his left hand was missing—it had been lost in an accident—and replaced with a hand-carved wooden replica. The substitution did nothing to slow him down. Fortunately, thanks to science, the Legion can offer us new bodies now . . . And that’s an improvement. Wouldn’t you agree?”
The cyborgs produced a roar of approval, and Winton nodded knowingly.
“The legionnaires entered Palo Verde about 7:00 A.M. The village was empty. The men had brewed some coffee, and were in the process of drinking it, when Danjou saw a dust cloud in the distance. The cloud could mean only one thing—horsemen, and lots of them.
“‘Aux armes!’ Danjou shouted.
“The company was terribly exposed, so they fell back toward Camerone and looked for a place to make a stand. A shot rang out, and one of the legionnaires fell. They charged a hacienda, but the sniper had vanished by then.
“So Danjou gathered his men and was just about to lead them to an adjacent village when a squadron of Mexican cavalry galloped into sight. Danjou waved his sword in the air. ‘Form a square! Prepare to fire!’
“The Mexicans split their force in half and approached at a walk. And then, when they were two hundred feet away, they spurred their mounts and charged.
“Danjou ordered his men to fire, and thirty rounds hit the tightly packed horsemen. A second volley rang out. At least a dozen cavalrymen fell. Then, as the Mexicans prepared for another charge, Danjou led his men into a deserted hacienda.”
McKee felt dizzy. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a bio bod go down. There was a meaty thump as the body hit the grinder. If Winton was aware of the casualty, he gave no sign of it. And no one moved to help the unfortunate man.
“During the subsequent confusion, the pack animals were lost, along with most of the legionnaires’ food, water, and ammunition,” Winton said. “Sixteen men were killed. Danjou’s force had been reduced to two officers and forty-six men.
“In the meantime, the Mexican cavalry had been reinforced by local guerrilla fighters who fired on Danjou and his men—even as a sergeant named Morzycki climbed up onto the stable’s roof. He reported that they were surrounded by ‘hundreds of Mexicans.’
“The ensuing battle was an on-again, off-again
affair in which periods of relative quiet were interrupted by sneak attacks and sniper fire. Meanwhile, about an hour’s march away, three battalions of Mexican infantry received word of the fight and headed for Camerone.
“At about nine-thirty, a Mexican lieutenant approached under a flag of truce and offered the legionnaires an honorable surrender. ‘There are,’ he said, ‘two thousand of us.’
“‘We have enough ammunition,’ Danjou responded. ‘No surrender.’
“Shortly thereafter, Danjou spoke to his troops, asked each to fight to the death, and received their promises to do so. Danjou was shot and killed two hours later.”
McKee swayed, took an involuntary step forward, and caught herself. Then, determined to hold her position, she returned to parade rest. The legionnaire who had fallen still lay crumpled on the ground. Medics would tend to him—but not until the full story of Camerone had been told.
“Second Lieutenant Napoleon Villain assumed command,” Winton said.
“By noon, the youngest members of the company, Jean Timmermans and Johan Reuss, were dead. A bugle sounded, and Morzycki announced that approximately a thousand additional soldiers had arrived, each of whom was armed with an American carbine.
“The Mexicans called for the legionnaires to surrender and were refused once again.
“At about 2 P.M., a bullet hit Villain between the eyes and killed him instantly.
“As time passed, the legionnaires died one by one. The fatalities included Sergeant Major Henri Tonel, Sergeant Jean Germays, Corporal Adolfi Delcaretto, Legionnaire Dubois, and an Englishman named Peter Dicken.
“When evening came, the Mexicans piled dry straw against the outside wall and tried to burn them out. Smoke billowed, and, unable to see, the legionnaires fired at shadows. By five o’clock, only nine legionnaires remained alive. And the Mexicans had suffered hundreds of casualties.
“Another surrender was called for and summarily refused, after which fresh troops assaulted the hacienda, and hundreds of rounds were fired at the legionnaires.
“Sergeant Morzycki fell along with three others. Now there were only five men left. They included Second Lieutenant Maudet, Corporal Maine, and Legionnaires Catteau, Constantin, and Wenzel. Each had a single bullet left.
“Maudet led the charge. Catteau tried to protect his officer and fell with nineteen bullets in his body. Maudet was hit and gravely wounded, but Maine, Constantin, and Wenzel remained untouched. They stood perfectly still. A colonel named Cambas stepped forward.
“‘You will surrender now,’ he said.
“‘Only if you allow us to keep our weapons and treat Lieutenant Maudet,’ Maine replied.
“‘One refuses nothing to men such as you,’ Cambas answered.
“They were presented to Colonel Milan shortly thereafter. He looked at an aide. ‘Are you telling me that these are the only survivors?’
“‘Yes, sir.’”
“‘Pero, non son hombres, son demonios!’ (‘Truly, these are not men, but devils!’)
“Days passed before the bodies were buried, and during that time a rancher named Langlais found Danjou’s wooden hand, and eventually sold it to General Bazaine for fifty piastres. That hand can be seen at Fort Camerone on Algeron. It is symbolic of what we are.”
Winton was silent for a moment. Then he spoke. “A great deal has changed since then. But our purpose remains the same. Many of you are about to receive orders. Prepare yourselves, and above all else, remember Camerone.”
A sergeant major said, “Atten-HUT!”
The legionnaires crashed to attention. “What did the General say?”
“CAMERONE!”
McKee mouthed the word, and was just about to faint when someone stepped in to support her. “Oh no you don’t,” Larkin said as the formation was dismissed. “What you need is a beer . . . And this is the one day of the year when it’s free! Come on, let’s drink a toast to that Dan-jo guy.” McKee had been saved.
* * *
The next few days were extremely busy as the 1st REC, along with elements of the 6th REI and the 13th DBLE (13th Demi-Brigade de Legion Etranger) worked to prepare thousands of men, women, and cyborgs for combat on a world called Orlo II. An agricultural planet that McKee had never been to but that was, according to the briefing from the battalion’s S-2, a backwater world where nothing ever happened.
Or that’s how things were until Princess Ophelia took over, raised Imperial taxes by 12 percent, and threatened to cut off imports if the inhabitants refused to pay. And that would hurt since the citizens of Orlo II were dependent on trade for a wide range of manufactured goods.
There were protests, but the Marine Corps put them down with brutal efficiency. That sparked a civil war, with loyalists on one side and secessionists on the other. And if there was anything that the new empress wasn’t going to tolerate, it was secession.
The Marine Corps didn’t have enough boots on the ground to impose Ophelia’s will on anything more than a few cities, however—so the Legion had been ordered to land on Orlo II and help restore order. But first there were what seemed like a thousand things to do, starting with McKee’s responsibility to Weber.
The official load-out for the 1st REC included a full complement of by-the-book spare parts for the regiment’s cyborgs, vehicles, and weapons. The problem was that by-the-book wear and actual wear were two different things. So some components were certain to wear out faster than they were supposed to, leaving the regiment in short supply. Something McKee’s father would have hurried to correct had he been aware of it. But Dor Carletto was dead.
All McKee could do was take a look at the T-1’s maintenance records for the last year, note down the parts that wore out the fastest, and take steps to lay in her own supply of them. A strategy that wasn’t as simple as it sounded because hoarding supplies was illegal, she was in competition with other bio bods who hoped to accomplish the same thing, and the supply people knew what the scroungers were up to. That meant all of the hard-to-find parts were under lock and key.
But necessity is the mother of invention. So after giving the matter some thought, she came up with a plan. She would need help though—and that was where Larkin came in. The whole notion of planning for future eventualities was foreign to him, but stealing things came naturally, and he never refused a request from McKee.
So she devised a raid. Not on the supply warehouse, which was well guarded, but on the so-called morgue, where scrapped T-1s were stored until they could be shipped back to Earth for recycling. Because even though the “empties” had been taken off-line, they still had parts that could be used in a shortage. Although McKee knew that, once installed, some of the previously used components would burn out in a matter of hours. And if that occurred during combat, the results could be fatal. That was why legionnaires weren’t supposed to install anything other than new or reconditioned parts. But McKee felt it was her responsibility to do something—even if it was risky.
The most obvious course of action was to carry out the raid at night, when fewer people were on duty. But given all of the activity associated with the load-out, McKee figured that the resulting confusion could offer as much protection as the hours of darkness would. The problem was finding the time required since Lieutenant Camacho kept the platoon busy.
Finally, however, McKee and Larkin were able to slip away during the two-hour period of time allotted for lunch and a physical-hygiene lecture. Sergeants Hux and Fanta would almost certainly make note of their absences and go through the motions of chewing them out, but that was a small price to pay for some spare parts.
Rather than break into the morgue, as originally planned, McKee had conceived a better strategy, which was to bullshit their way in. A task made considerably easier by all of the activity associated with a major load-out.
So with Larkin in tow, and an official-looking data pad tucked under one arm, McKee simply walked into the office marked BAT-SUP and requested the pass code for the morgue. A harried-looking co
rporal was seated behind the counter. She had a buzz cut, slightly protuberant eyes, and plenty of attitude. “Why do you need access? And who sent you?”
“Sorry, Corp,” McKee replied. “It’s just part of the fun. Some O-3 on the regimental staff wants us to count the empties before we lift. He doesn’t trust the manifest.”
“Sounds like he’s covering his ass,” the corporal replied darkly. “In case a war form disappears after the battalion pulls out.”
“Yup,” McKee agreed. “That’s my read.”
“I’ll write the code down and kill the alarm system,” the noncom said. “Let me know when you’re done, so I can change the code. What’s your name?”
“Peters,” McKee lied. “Lance Corporal Peters.” Then she remembered that the name McKee was printed on her shirt and prepared herself for the trouble that was sure to follow.
But the corporal didn’t think to look as she gave McKee a slip of paper. “Okay, here you go.”
McKee said thanks, turned, and led Larkin out into the stifling heat. “Damn!” he said admiringly. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“Nor did I,” McKee replied. “Maybe it’s your influence.”
“That makes sense,” Larkin said proudly. “Now what?”
“We get our tools and go to work,” McKee replied. Having stashed a duffel bag and a couple of omnitools behind an air-conditioning unit, all they had to do was retrieve them and walk a short distance to the morgue. It wasn’t called that, of course. The sign on the steel door read BAT WAR FORM STORAGE. AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
McKee was not only unauthorized, but extremely nervous, so she fumbled the first attempt to enter the code. The second effort was successful, however, and a rush of cool air met the legionnaires as they entered the long, narrow room. There was a solid thud as the door swung closed, and the overhead lights flickered momentarily as they came on. There weren’t very many of them, so the overall level of illumination was low.
There were two ranks of T-1s. They stood upright, like old-fashioned suits of armor, with their backs to the walls, staring at each other across a four-foot-wide corridor. The empties weren’t people and never had been, but they had been invested with life at one time, and evidence of that was stenciled onto their chests. Names like Franco, Chu, and Antov. Had her father touched any of them? On the assembly line perhaps? During one of his walkabouts?
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