Andromeda's Fall

by William C. Dietz

  McKee acknowledged the order and signed off. Her first report from the field had gone well as far as she could tell—and it felt good to have it behind her. But there was no opportunity to enjoy the small victory as she went back to work.

  Upon returning to the cargo compartment, McKee discovered that the other bio bods had hung glow strips here and there and assembled a small treasure trove of items that might or might not be of value to the Intel people. But like Avery, she felt that the real finds, if any, were waiting behind the locked hatch. And that would give them something to do during the evening.

  But first it was time for the bio bods to heat up some water, pour it into their favorite MRE, and mix the two together. Once the resulting meals were ready, the personal condiments came out. Larkin was partial to garlic, Chiba favored hot sauce, and Singh sprinkled curry powder onto his chicken and rice. That made McKee the only person to consume her meal without adding anything to it—and once the legionnaire was finished, she couldn’t remember what had been in the glutinous mixture.

  With dinner taken care of, it was time to confront the hatch. The first and most obvious way to tackle the problem was to place a charge over the lock and blow it. So McKee ordered Singh to take his best shot.

  After fifteen minutes of careful preparation, the legionnaire declared himself to be ready, and once everyone had pulled back to the ramp, Singh thumbed the remote. There was a brilliant flash of light followed by an explosion that shook the ship’s hull. Smoke billowed and gradually began to dissipate as McKee went forward to inspect the damage. As her helmet light played across the bulkhead, she saw that, while the hatch was warped and pushed inwards, it remained intact.

  Singh shook his head. “The problem is that this bad boy was built to be airtight. It’s my guess that lock bars extend from the central control mechanism out into the surrounding frame. Kind of like a bank vault.” What Singh didn’t say was why he knew so much about breaking into bank vaults. But McKee wasn’t the only one who was hiding in the Legion, and she knew better than to ask.

  After giving the matter some thought, she called Kinza forward. She pointed at the obstruction. “It looks like the charge did some damage. Let’s see if you can kick it in.”

  The T-1 took a look, backed away, and positioned himself. Then, like a cop busting through a door, Kinza delivered a powerful kick. His foot pod hit, something gave, and a three-inch space appeared between the hatch and the surrounding frame. Two additional blows were required to push the steel door back far enough so that a bio bod could slip through.

  McKee nodded approvingly. “Nice work, Private. Go back and get some rest.” Kinza uttered a grunt of acknowledgment and clanked away.

  McKee drew her pistol before slipping through the gap into the darkness beyond. There was no need. What appeared to be a small lounge was empty, as were the bunks beyond, what the swabbies would call a “head,” and a two-person cockpit. There was something that looked like dried blood, however. Lots of it. And she could see why. When the ship hit the ground, it appeared that a piece of metal had been driven through the control panel and into the pilot’s body. Or was that the copilot’s chair? Not that it made any difference.

  Then, after the crash, the surviving crew member had removed the corpse. For burial? Most likely. That was the point when McKee remembered the need to record everything she saw. So she put her helmet on and instructed the other bio bods to do the same.

  The next hour was spent taking the cockpit apart trying to find any- and everything that might have memory or a CPU. Some of the modules were hard to remove, and McKee was afraid that damage was being done, but it couldn’t be helped.

  Once the cockpit had been stripped, it was time to shut off the cameras, rotate the cyborgs, and place two bio bods on sentry duty as well. McKee and Chiba took the first stint in what turned out to be an uneventful watch.

  Finally, when McKee was free to enter her sleep sack, she was so tired that she fell into a dreamless sleep. And when she awoke it was to find that Larkin was crouched next to her. “Hey, McKee . . . Time to rise and shine.”

  McKee felt a sense of alarm as she looked at her chrono and realized that it was 0500. That meant she had slept through her second watch. She sat up and began to shove the sleep sack down off her legs. “Why didn’t someone wake me up? I was supposed to stand watch with Kinza.”

  “That was my fault,” Larkin said evenly. “I forgot.”

  McKee looked around, saw Singh grin, and knew it was a plot. The whole squad was in on the plan to give her some extra sleep. It was, as far as the very privileged Catherine Carletto could remember, the finest gift she had ever received. She said, “Thank you, guys . . . But don’t ever do that again. You’ll be busting ass in the jungle if you do.”

  That got a chuckle as McKee laced up her boots, grabbed the AXE, and went outside to take a pee. The rain had stopped, the sun was rising, and a thick blanket of mist covered the ground. Then, as McKee stood and hurried to pull up her pants, she heard Weber’s voice over the radio that was slotted into her body armor. “This is Four-Five . . . We’ve got company. Lots of it. Over.”

  McKee made her way over to the ramp, where she took up a position between Weber and Poto. “This is Four-Four. Gear up everybody . . . And be ready.”

  McKee saw the Droi materialize out of the mist. There were dozens, no hundreds of them, all standing shoulder to shoulder. Larkin spoke from his position at the top of the ramp. “They’re like sitting ducks. Let’s grease ’em.”

  “No,” McKee replied firmly. “Not unless I give the order.” Then, having placed her AXE on the ground, she went out to meet the indigs with hands up and palms out. A light breeze blew the remaining wisps of mist away to reveal an individual who stood about six feet tall and was armed with a huge assault rifle. From the ship? Yes, McKee thought so, as the indig bent to place his weapon on the ground.

  The Droi’s head was covered with iridescent scales that flowed down the back of its neck to merge with the mantle that covered its upper torso. It was dressed in a pair of cross belts, a short skirt made of leather, and a pair of sturdy sandals.

  When the Droi straightened up, McKee found herself looking into a face dominated by two slitted cat eyes, a series of bony ridges where a human nose would have been, and a thin-lipped mouth. “My name is Insa,” the Droi said simply. The standard was a pleasant surprise—but made sense since McKee knew that the rebs had been trading with the locals for many years.

  “And I’m McKee,” she replied.

  “McKee,” Insa said slowly, as if testing the name. “Come, we have tea.”

  “I’m sorry,” McKee replied, “but I can’t leave my squad.”

  “Not far,” Insa replied, and pointed.

  McKee saw that a small fire was burning in a ceramic bowl about twenty feet away—and as she watched mats were placed on either side of it. Though no expert in xenoanthropology, she didn’t need to be in order to understand the situation. Insa was inviting her to take part in some sort of ceremony and, given how many of its people were in attendance, McKee figured the right answer was, “Thank you.”

  What ensued took a full twenty minutes as they knelt on the mats, water was heated to a boil, leaves were added, and Insa said what might have been a prayer in its native language. Then it was time to strain the leaves out and rinse two small containers with water, before pouring the fragrant liquid into the exquisitely crafted cups.

  At that point, McKee was careful to watch and mimic Insa as it offered the cup of tea to the sky before bringing it down to the point where its snakelike tongue could sample the air around the steaming liquid. Then, with the reverence of a priest performing a sacred ritual, it took a sip.

  McKee, who was determined to get the brew down no matter what it tasted like, did likewise. She was pleased to discover that it was sweet and minty. “It’s good,” she said politely. “Very good.”

  Insa offered a slight inclination of its head. “We are pleased that you lik
e. Talk now.”

  McKee took a second sip, heard her stomach growl, and remembered that she hadn’t had breakfast. “Good. What shall we talk about?”

  “War,” Insa answered grimly. What followed was more like a speech than a two-way conversation. The way Insa told the story, the Droi welcomed the first human colonists and had been grateful of the opportunity to trade for items they wouldn’t have been able to obtain otherwise. Yes, there had been friction when the humans tried to carve farms out of the Big Green. But that conflict had been resolved by an agreement negotiated with Emperor Ordanus’s government in which the Big Green had been ceded to the Droi in perpetuity.

  Then the emperor died, his sister assumed the throne, and the agreement had been vacated by a royal decree. That was when employees of the big off-world companies began to invade the Big Green, searching for valuable minerals, cutting trees down, and staking out what were to become huge farms. This, Insa explained, was why the Droi were aligned with the rebels. That and the fact that the humans who had been born and raised on Orlo II were generally respectful of the Droi and acknowledged their right to the Big Green.

  McKee took advantage of a momentary pause to speak. “What you say is interesting, but I’m a low-ranking soldier and have no say in such matters.”

  Insa was in no way dissuaded. “You come for ship, yes? We talk ship.” That was when the Droi launched into another diatribe, this one being focused on what it called “the second threat.” Namely the possibility of an invasion by the Hudathans. There had been a number of landings since the last planting and, according to Insa, it was only a matter of time before the Hudathans arrived in force. Something that would threaten everyone.

  “I see your point,” McKee replied carefully. “And I will tell my superiors what you said.”

  “You tell,” Insa agreed. “And give present.”

  McKee frowned. “A present?”

  “Yes. Present.” Insa raised a hand, and that was when four Droi led a Hudathan out into the clearing. Ropes were attached to the leather collar around his neck, his wrists were secured to a thick pole that rested on his massive shoulders, and chains rattled as he shuffled forward. All of which served to emphasize the extent of the alien’s considerable strength.

  And he was big, at least three hundred pounds, and maybe more. The alien had a humanoid head, the vestige of a dorsal fin that ran front to back along the top of his skull, froglike ears, and bony lips. His temperature-sensitive skin was gray at the moment. But what impressed McKee the most were the Hudathan’s small and rather malevolent-looking eyes. She saw no signs of fear in them, just hate, as the Droi jerked their prisoner to a halt. “He yours,” Insa said. “You take. Make talk. Stop war.”

  McKee’s head was spinning by then. What had begun as a reasonably straightforward mission was suddenly very complicated. But she knew that the Hudathan was a high-value prisoner—and Avery would expect her to bring him in. “Yes,” she said. “I will do as you say. Can I ask a question?”

  Insa inclined its head. “Ask.”

  “There was a machine . . . A flying machine. We found it impaled on a stake.”

  “We kill,” Insa said unapologetically. “It attack Thua.”

  The FTD wasn’t armed insofar as McKee knew, and that led her to believe that the robot had detected the person named Thua and headed straight for it with plans to perform a scan. And, feeling threatened, Thua or one of Thua’s companions put a bullet through the machine.

  In any case, what could she do? Tell Insa not to shoot any more FTDs? It seemed best to let the matter go, so she changed the subject. “With your permission, I’m going to request that an aircraft land and take the Hudathan away.”

  Insa looked up as if the shuttle might appear at any moment. “Yes. That okay.”

  It took the better part of six hours to contact Avery, explain the situation, and get a navy shuttle on the ground. No easy task since the LZ was extremely tight. But things went quickly after that, as six heavily armed swabbies herded the Hudathan aboard, soon followed by the T-1s and bio bods.

  Twenty minutes later, the ship put down next to the clearing in which the battalion was camped. It paused just long enough for McKee’s squad to disembark before taking off again.

  Lieutenant Kaylor came out to meet them. She stood with hands on hips. “Your uniforms are filthy! A disgrace to the Legion.” Then she grinned. “Welcome home—such as it is. You did a helluva job. And that’s from the captain. He would have come himself except for the governor and all.”

  McKee frowned. “The governor?”

  “Oh, right,” Kaylor said. “You wouldn’t know. We caught the bastard! They’re interrogating him now. Come on . . . I’ll show you where Echo Company is quartered.” McKee followed the officer toward a crude palisade and the encampment beyond. The governor had been captured. It seemed anticlimactic.

  Thanks to the fact that the brass were busy with the governor, McKee was spared the sort of hot wash she had endured after the effort to rescue Frood. That meant she was free to eat, spend five minutes in a jury-rigged shower, and hit the sack. She awoke feeling rested, went about the process of getting ready for the day, and was eating her breakfast next to the first platoon’s all-purpose fire when Kaylor appeared. McKee started to rise. But Kaylor said, “As you were,” and took a seat on a crate of MREs. The officer had a mug with her and took a sip from it. “How are you feeling?”

  “A little sore,” McKee admitted. “Jungle busting is a bitch. But otherwise fine.”

  “Good,” Kaylor replied. “I’m sorry to do this to you—but we have some female prisoners including the governor’s wife and niece. And since there are three men for every woman in Echo Company, we’re short of female guards. So I was forced to put you into the rotation.”

  It wasn’t good news, but it was typical of the way things worked, and there was no point in complaining. Especially to Kaylor, who had seen and done it all. “Yes, ma’am. What time?”

  “Twenty-four hundred to oh-three-hundred hours.”

  “I’ll be there. Can I ask a question?”

  “Shoot.”

  “How did we catch the governor?”

  “An armed drone spotted his convoy as it left the forest and began to cross a large open space. Two vehicles were destroyed, and a third was damaged. The rebs were trying to repair it when the third platoon caught up with them.”

  McKee had been hoping that the governor would escape, but she forced a smile and nodded. “Sounds like good teamwork. Was Monitor Jivv with the third?”

  “No,” Kaylor responded as she emptied her mug. “Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious, that’s all,” she replied. “When are we going to pull out?”

  Kaylor stood. “I thought the swabbies would swoop in and take custody of the governor this morning. But I hear Monitor Jivv is opposed to that. I’ll let you know when things come together.”

  Kaylor walked away, and as McKee ate the last of her breakfast, she was thinking. Why would Jivv stall? Because he had orders to kill Governor Jones, but wasn’t supposed to do so in front of witnesses? That seemed like a pretty good guess. Not that she could do anything about it. Taking care of herself was difficult enough.

  After a day spent cleaning her gear, performing maintenance on Weber, and looking after the squad, McKee reported to the tent set up for the female prisoners. It was large enough to house twelve Grays—and had, prior to being appropriated. There was one entrance guarded by two legionnaires, one of whom was a sergeant. He gave her the job of patrolling the back side of the tent.

  McKee was happy with the assignment since it meant she would be by herself and wouldn’t have to take responsibility for whatever comings and goings took place. The tent was lit from within, and McKee could see shadows moving about as she patrolled back and forth. It was a very boring activity, so the minutes seemed to crawl by, and it was difficult to stay alert.

  Then, with roughly an hour to go, there was an altercation out fr
ont. McKee could hear voices as a loud argument began. She was tempted to go check it out. But that would mean leaving her post. So she stayed, and that was when she noticed a dark shadow, and realized that one of the prisoners was right up against the back wall of the tent. Moments later something sharp penetrated the fabric and McKee heard a ripping sound.

  There were a number of things McKee could have done, including let the escape play itself out, or call for backup and put a stop to it. But she did neither. Instead, she took up a position directly in front of the newly created aperture, aimed her flashlight, and turned it on. There was a gasp of surprise followed by a look of fear on the part of the face she could see.

  Then it was her turn to feel a sense of shock as she realized she was looking at Marcy Tanaka. One of her best friends in college. “Marcy? It’s me, Cat.” McKee hadn’t used her real name in months and immediately wished she hadn’t.

  The eye McKee could see registered surprise. “Cat? I heard you were killed in a bombing. And your face . . .”

  “Think of it as a beauty mark,” McKee said dryly. “What are you doing here?”

  “Governor Jones is my uncle . . . You remember that.”

  McKee didn’t remember that. All of Cat’s friends had important relatives. And she had made very little effort to keep track of them. “We’ve got to escape,” Marcy continued. “There’s a synth. A robot named Jivv. He’s going to kill us.”

  McKee swore. It was just as she feared. The knife seemed to leave its sheath of its own accord. The tent fabric parted, and as McKee waved Marcy out, a middle-aged woman appeared. “This is my aunt Cia,” Marcy whispered, and McKee knew that she was looking at the governor’s wife.

  “You’ve got to save my husband,” Cia Jones said desperately. “He’s in a tent over there.” And that was when McKee realized how stupid she’d been. With one careless stroke of her knife she had compromised her identity, betrayed her comrades, and committed herself to a hopeless cause. The world she had built for herself was about to collapse.