“Well, it takes all kinds, I guess, but you can see how people could get the wrong idea. And now that you’re a squad leader, you’ve got to guard against any perception of favoritism. So make sure Larkin gets his share of shit details.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Plus,” Kaylor continued, “you’re on something of a roll. Captain Avery thinks very highly of you. He can’t promote you until you have some time in grade. But if you stay on the straight and narrow, the bump will come. Meanwhile, he forgot to request a sergeant to fill your slot. That’s a gift, McKee. Don’t screw it up.”
“Yes, ma’am. I mean no, ma’am.”
“Okay, get back to work. I’ll see you in the morning.”
* * *
It was raining as the dimly seen sun began to rise. Not hard, but steadily, as if determined to wash all of the blood off the streets of Riversplit. McKee had to turn up the collar of her slicker to prevent the cold water from trickling down her neck and into her clothes. So thanks to the weather, and the brooding hostility projected by the locals as the column of legionnaires clanked, whined, and strutted past them, the mood was anything but upbeat as Echo Company made its way to a park filled with temporary graves. Rebs mostly, and civilians, who had been killed during the battle for Riversplit.
As soon as they arrived, the officers and noncoms were required to assemble a few hundred yards away from the rest of the battalion. Monitor Jivv was waiting for them in front of a wall inscribed with the names of the first colonists to land on Orlo II.
As the officers and noncoms arrived, an order was given to form a single rank. McKee saw a second robot. The machine was shaped like a globe, about three feet in diameter, and hummed softly as it floated next to the android’s left shoulder. “Good morning,” Jivv said as rivulets of rain ran down his alloy body. “As you know, we’ve been tasked with pursuing the traitor Naoto Jones and apprehending him before he and his followers can cause more strife or escape from the planet.”
McKee remembered Snarr and the way Frood had been executed. Would Jones suffer a similar fate once he was caught? Yes, it seemed likely. And, just as before, she would be partially responsible.
“The unit next to me is called a fugitive-tracking device or FTD,” Jivv continued. “It can see microscopic evidence, detect even the faintest odors, and perform a variety of forensic tests under field conditions. For example, if one of you were a wanted criminal, and the government had a sample of your DNA on file, this device could take a specimen, analyze it, and make a match. All in a matter of seconds.”
McKee felt a chill run down her spine. Jivv had been looking at her as it spoke. Or was that her imagination? One thing was for sure, however. The government almost certainly had DNA taken from her parents. So if the FTD ran a check on her, it would come up positive.
“Because the FTD is going to accompany us, I want it to be familiar with all of those who may need to give it orders,” Jivv said. “So please state your name and remain stationary as the FTD carries out some routine scans.”
They weren’t standing at attention, so McKee was free to turn her head and watch as the FTD sailed over to Colonel Spurlock and hovered in front of him. Then, person by person, the robot worked its way down the line until it was directly in front of her. She could hear the humming sound it made, smell the ozone it produced, and feel the warmth that the machine gave off. Her heart was beating like a trip-hammer by then, she felt light-headed, and feared that she might faint as the FTD began its inspection. It took all of her powers of concentration to say her name.
There was no way to know for sure, but McKee assumed the robot was recording photographic images of her, scanning her retinas, and mapping her heat signature. The question, and a life-and-death one at that, was whether it would take a sample for DNA extraction. She hadn’t seen it do that with anyone else, but her knees felt weak as a servo whirred, and the robot extruded a flexible probe. Some sort of sensor was mounted on the end of it, and she heard a sniffing sound as the instrument probed the air around her face and neck. Then, having completed its task, the FTD moved on. She had survived.
McKee’s inner clothing was soaked with sweat by then, and as the moisture started to cool, she started to shiver. The FTD had to be destroyed. The only question was when and how.
* * *
Governor Naoto Jones had fled south. That was what loyalist informers claimed, and it made sense because there were lots of reb sympathizers to the south, not to mention the Big Green, a vast track of unsettled land where Jones could hide.
Admiral Poe’s drones had flown dozens of missions over the Big Green looking for the fugitive and would continue to do so during the days ahead. But it was, as Lieutenant Oxby put it, “like looking for a needle in a haystack.” Vehicles would be easy to spot if they were out in the open, but it was difficult if not impossible for the drones to “see” through the forest canopy, and their infrared sensors were of little assistance because Orlo II was home to a race of sentients called the Droi. And the indigs lived in the Big Green, as did their herds of partially domesticated P-Yani, plus thousands of forest-dwelling animals. So there were countless man-sized heat signatures to choose from and no way to know which ones to focus on.
All of which had to do with why the battalion had been sent south. The hope was that people on the ground would find the governor’s trail and catch up with him. McKee was the exception, however, because she was a reb sympathizer at heart and secretly hoped that Jones would escape.
But regardless of McKee’s desires, there was a lot of soldiering to do. Not for the benefit of politicians good and bad but for her comrades in arms. And with the possibility of an ambush around every corner, there were lots of things to worry about. Including the fact that Kaylor had a sharp eye for details and was quick to criticize her squad leaders if their ’borgs were too slow, or a bio bod was dozing in his or her harness.
And when the first platoon was on point, as they were at the moment, it seemed as if Kaylor was extravigilant. McKee didn’t know if that was due to the constant threat of an attack—or the fact that Spurlock’s open command car was behind the lead platoon.
Two of the Marine Corps’ Scorpion armored cars were next in line, followed by four 8 X 8 trucks, each loaded with supplies and a squad of Grays. A fuel tanker occupied the eight slot, followed by a rear guard consisting of T-1s.
It wasn’t fair, everyone knew that, since the arrangement meant that the Legion was always on point and drag. The most dangerous slots in any column. But Spurlock justified the practice by pointing out that the T-1s were best able to protect themselves and the rest of the vehicles were the battalion to be attacked. And even McKee had to acknowledge that.
So the rain fell, Echo Company’s platoons rotated every hour, and the column followed Route 36 south at a steady 40 mph. Spurlock’s goal was to cover at least three hundred miles per day.
Eventually, the well-cultivated farms gave way to scrubland and what looked like miniature fortresses all owned by agro companies. The fortifications were a necessity according to Oxby—since the Droi were none too happy with the way in which the gigantic farms were eating into the Big Green. And, because the conglomerates were aligned with Empress Ophelia’s government, the Droi were allied with the rebs.
Dwellings became few and far between as the paved road turned into a muddy track, and the column’s speed fell to 20 mph. A sure sign that Spurlock was going to fall well short of his three-hundred-mile-per-day goal.
And slowing progress even more was the need to stop for lunch, which they did right at the point where a poorly maintained track led off into a tangle of vegetation and disappeared. The Grays were ordered to establish a defensive perimeter, and rations were issued.
That was when Oxby, Jivv, the FTD, and three bio bods from the Echo Company’s third platoon followed the parallel ruts back into the bush. They were looking for Intel, but McKee figured it was going to be a waste of time, and said as much to Larkin.
> Fifteen minutes later, she was forced to eat her words as the party returned with a wizened-looking human in tow. His head was surrounded by a halo of frizzy gray hair, and he was dressed in bush clothing. The man carried a scope-mounted rifle, suggesting that he was one of the hunters who eked out a living along the margins of the Big Green.
McKee wasn’t privy to the conversation that ensued between the local, Spurlock, Jivv, Oxby, and a gaggle of officers that included Captain Avery. But once the session was over, she saw Oxby give the hunter a case of rations, which he hoisted onto a shoulder and carried into the bush. “He’ll be sorry,” Chiba predicted, and the others laughed.
Later, as the scan percolated down through the ranks, McKee learned that a convoy consisting of four fancy off-road vehicles had passed through two and a half days earlier. The group didn’t stop, so the hunter hadn’t spoken to them, but there wasn’t much doubt as to who the “city folks” were. It appeared the battalion was on the right track.
The afternoon was a long, slow affair. But eventually the rain stopped, the sun came out, and McKee removed her slicker. That made the trek more pleasant, as did the knowledge that the battalion would be forced to stop pretty soon. Although it wasn’t until the orange-red sun was resting on the very edge of the western horizon that Spurlock finally called a halt next to a small stream.
But before anyone could plop down next to the stream and eat dinner, it was first necessary to establish a defensive perimeter. That was accomplished by using the trucks, the Scorpions, and the command car to create a laager. The Grays were ordered to dig defensive firing positions two hundred feet out from the vehicles, and with T-1s patrolling the area beyond, the battalion was ready for the night.
Thanks to the luck of the draw, McKee’s squad wasn’t due to walk the perimeter until 0300, which meant they could grab about six hours of uninterrupted sleep. Not ideal, but better than the poor slobs on the 1100 to 0100 watch, who would have to get up and pull a couple of hours of guard duty before hitting the sack.
So McKee crawled into her tent as soon as she could, got into the sleep sack with most of her clothes on, and checked to make sure that the AXE was within reach. Then she lay there for a minute or two, wondering if the screech produced by a cyber tech’s power wrench was going to be a problem, only to wake up five and a half hours later to the gentle beep, beep, beep of her wrist chrono. Then it was time to brush her teeth, take a pee at the female latrine, and grab a cup of glutinous coffee from the pot in the mess tent.
With those things accomplished, McKee walked over to the point where the squad was supposed to assemble, discovered that Larkin was MIA, and was forced to go looking for him. He was none too pleased when she pulled him away from a card game in the supply sergeant’s tent—and even less so when she informed him that he would be digging shit holes that evening.
After relieving a squad from the second platoon, McKee led her people out into the surrounding darkness. Their job was to detect potential enemies before they could attack the battalion, neutralize them or, failing that, slow them down.
She ordered the T-1s to crank their sensors up to max and began what promised to be a boring watch. Her squad had responsibility for half of the perimeter. That meant they ran into their counterparts occasionally. But with that exception, the next hour passed uneventfully. Then, as the second hour began, Chiba’s T-1 spotted something. “This is Echo-Four-Seven. I have three heat sigs north of my position at approximately two o’clock. Over.”
McKee had been daydreaming and felt guilty about it as the transmission cleared her mind. “Roger that . . . Hold your position and continue to track them.”
The call sign for the bat command post was Papa-Eight. So when she relayed the information, it was to whatever officer had the duty at that moment. “Echo-Four to Papa-Eight. We have three heat sigs in the northwest quadrant of the perimeter. Request permission to investigate. Over.”
It was Captain Avery’s voice that answered. “This is Papa-Eight . . . Permission granted. I’ll give you some light. Over.”
The flares shot up into the inky blackness, popped, and threw dark shadows as they drifted down. McKee felt her heart pound as Weber followed Chiba and his T-1 into the bush. Branches whipped past her shoulders, and she was forced to duck lest some low-hanging limb smash into her visor. “This is Echo-Four-Seven. The heat signatures are fading. Wait a minute . . . What’s this?”
As McKee rode Weber into the small clearing where Chiba and his cyborg were standing, she could see what they saw, thanks to the wash of light from the flares and helmets. A sapling had been cut off shoulder high so that the human head could be placed on it. There was no mistaking the halo of gray hair or the leathery face. McKee was looking at the hunter who had spoken to Spurlock, Oxby, and Jivv the day before. The sight turned her stomach.
Suddenly, Avery and his T-1 were there to add even more illumination to the scene. “So somebody’s watching us,” Avery said reflectively. “The question is who? The rebs or the Droi?”
The FTD was summoned. It sniffed the head, scanned the ground, and took minute samples. But when the process was over, the machine wasn’t able to tell the humans anything they didn’t already know.
As the sun rose, the head was given a burial next to the road, a metal marker was driven into the ground, and the battalion departed. The marching order was the same, it was a nice day, and it wasn’t long before McKee had adjusted to the now-familiar rhythm of Weber’s movements.
Because there were some false alarms during the first few hours, everyone was on edge. But the fears began to fade as miles passed and the sun rose higher in the sky. Drones passed over occasionally but had nothing of substance to report.
Then, after a brief stop for lunch, the battalion ran into the first problem of the day. A river designated as 6452 flowed west to east, was at least three feet deep, and running along at a very good clip. That was the bad news. The good news was that a sturdy-looking wooden bridge offered an easy way to cross it. But was it safe to do so? The battalion came to a halt as the brass discussed the situation. The first platoon was on point again, which meant McKee was close enough to hear some of the conversation.
Spurlock was in favor of sending a Scorpion over. Then, if it survived, the rest of the battalion would follow. Avery thought the plan was too risky and pointed out that if they lost an armored car, they would be losing its offensive/defensive capabilities as well, making the entire unit more vulnerable. McKee had the feeling that Spurlock would have rolled right over him had the legionnaire been a Gray. But the militia officer knew Colonel Rylund was likely to side with one of his own—so he let Avery have his way. Even if the decision was delivered with a grudging, “All right get on with it then . . . But remember. Time is of the essence.”
A few moments later Kaylor and her T-1 appeared at McKee’s side. The platoon leader’s visor was raised, and she was smiling. “Can you swim?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. Captain Avery thinks it would be a good idea to take a look at the underside of the bridge before we cross it. And I told him that you were expendable. Keep an eye out for explosives—and watch the current. Oh, and one other thing, Captain Avery will be riding shotgun via your helmet cam.”
Why us? McKee wondered. The expendable thing was a joke. Or so she assumed. Had Avery requested her? Or had the choice been Kaylor’s? She would never know. All she could do was say, “Yes, ma’am.”
Weber gave his fifty to another ’borg in order to keep his graspers free. The T-1 followed a gently sloping beach down to the fast-flowing river. The water broke white around the beams that held the bridge up. And as Weber waded out into the flow, McKee stared up into a maze of crisscrossing supports. Captain Avery’s voice sounded in her helmet. “Be on the lookout for command-detonated explosives, a mine hooked to a pressure plate on the bridge deck, or something more primitive. Like partially sawed through timbers for example. Stay sharp. Over.”
“Roger th
at, sir. Nothing so far.”
The next voice she heard was Weber’s. He was speaking over their intercom rather than the squad push. “The current is pretty strong. Be ready to bail if I go down.”
The water was up to McKee’s knees by then, and it was cold. Weber was correct. It wouldn’t feel very good if the cyborg fell on top of her. But the alternative wasn’t all that attractive either. Once free of the harness, and in the frigid water, she would be swept downstream into the rock garden below. “Thanks, but no thanks,” McKee replied. “Stay vertical please.”
They were out in the middle of the river by then, with Weber leaning into the current, as McKee studied the beams above. They were clear insofar as she could see—but what about the topmost surfaces? They were invisible. She chinned her mike. “Echo-Four to Echo-Nine . . . Over.”
Avery was quick to respond. “This is Nine. Go. Over.”
“I know the FTD wasn’t designed to provide surveillance,” McKee replied, “but maybe you could use it to get a top-down look at those beams. Over.”
There was a pause, as if Avery and the other officers were discussing the idea, followed by a burp of static. “This is Nine. Good idea. Over.”
McKee felt a momentary sense of pleasure, but it was short-lived as Weber put his left foot into the crevice between two rocks and fell sideways. She had her hand on the harness release when the T-1 slammed into a vertical support. Fortunately, he was able to grab hold of it and keep from falling farther. Then, when he had regained his footing, they were able to continue.
Meanwhile, the FTD was flying above them and darting in and out as Avery and the others monitored what it “saw.” Five minutes later, McKee and Weber emerged from the river and made their way up onto the south bank. She knew people could see her but felt obliged to make a final report. “This is Echo-Four. I saw no explosives or signs of sabotage. Over.”
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