Andromeda's Fall

by William C. Dietz

  Her thoughts were interrupted as Eason said, “There’s the road!” and began to pick up even more speed. This, McKee thought to herself, is what cavalry was invented for. And when she heard herself yell “Charge!” it came as a complete surprise.

  As the three cyborgs and their riders ran straight at thousands of Hudathans, time seemed to slow, and McKee became hyperaware. She knew the press of wind against her body, the acrid smell of ozone, and the rhythmic thud, thud, thud of Eason’s fifty. The roadblock was lightly guarded, and the Hudathans stationed there never had a chance. Huge though they were, the shovel heads were no match for .50-caliber armor-piercing slugs. They got off a few shots but went down like wheat to a harvester.

  And as Eason cleared the entry point, McKee fired her AXE. By leaning back and letting the harness support her weight, she could use both hands to hold the weapon, and there were plenty of targets. McKee fired a long burst as they passed a column of two dozen troopers. The 4.7mm rounds didn’t pack anything like the punch that Eason’s fifty did, but that didn’t matter. A wounded Hudathan would require medical attention and sap the unit’s morale. Both of which were good things from McKee’s point of view.

  As she ejected an empty magazine from her assault weapon and seated another, she saw the back end of a tracked transport up ahead. And when Eason veered left to pass it, two more appeared. The first two were open in back and filled with what she assumed to be supplies. “I’ve got ’em,” McKee said as she let the AXE hang across her chest. “Save your ammo.”

  The grenades were in ready bags hanging to the left and right of her position. In order to avoid the possibility of a mistake, McKee kept the frags on the left and the thermite grenades on the right. Thanks to Eason’s height, it was a simple matter to arm one of the bombs and toss it into the back of the first crawler they jogged past. There was a flash as it detonated, and she knew it would burn at a temperature of four thousand degrees Fahrenheit. Hot enough to burn through five-sixteenths inches of durasteel in twenty seconds. So if there was something flammable in the vehicle, it was going to catch fire. And in this case, it appeared that the transport was loaded with ammo. When it exploded, a gout of fire shot a hundred feet into the air and lit up the entire area.

  McKee thought about the T-1s coming along behind her and hoped that they were okay as she readied another grenade. Eason had passed the second track by then, which meant she would have to be content with dropping the bomb into the third machine. But as they drew closer, she saw that the cargo compartment was covered by a tightly stretched tarp and knew the device would roll off.

  So rather than allow the weapon to explode in her hands, McKee threw it as far as she could. It landed next to the road, where it did little more than melt dirt and light up the night. A lesson learned.

  Larkin uttered a whoop of joy as one of his grenades landed in the second crawler and triggered a secondary explosion. A quick glance confirmed that Noll and Insa still occupied the two slot.

  “Soft targets coming up,” Eason said, and as McKee looked forward over the cyborg’s massive shoulder, she saw that he was correct. A column of troops was up ahead. And, thanks to the efforts of some quick-thinking noncom or officer, they were turning toward the oncoming threat. A few of them fired. But the effort came too late as Eason triggered the grenade launcher mounted under the barrel of his machine gun. The HE round blew a bloody hole through the Hudathan line, and McKee fired her AXE as they passed through the gap. One of the troopers charged the T-1 and was only feet away when she shot him in the face. He stumbled away, and Insa finished the job as Noll rushed past.

  “Uh-oh,” Eason said. “There’s oncoming traffic up ahead. Hang on.”

  McKee saw that they were coming up on a self-propelled rocket launcher, and a southbound transport was blocking the left lane. Eason could veer left or right and chose left. The cyborg fired into the vehicle’s windshield as he crossed in front of the oncoming track. The machine swerved into oncoming traffic and crashed into the rocket launcher. That brought both vehicles to a halt and blocked the road.

  Having rounded the back end of the stalled transport, Eason made his way back onto an open stretch of highway. That gave McKee an opportunity to try again. “All Legion forces . . . All Legion forces. This is Corporal McKee with three T-1s inbound from the south. We are traveling at 50 mph—ETA four minutes. Do not fire on us. Confirm. Over.” She put the same message out over all of the possible frequencies with the same result: Nothing but static.

  “Roadblock,” Eason said laconically. “Hang on to your panties. We’re going over it.”

  Though initially caught by surprise, the Hudathans were beginning to get organized. Some enterprising individual had parked two half-tracks to block the road. Troops were positioned behind them, and McKee saw muzzle flashes as the distance closed. The slugs made pinging sounds as they hit Eason’s armor, something tugged at her shoulder, and a tracer whipped through her peripheral vision.

  Then they were suddenly airborne as Eason leaped into the air and sailed over the point where the two vehicles met. The cyborg landed hard, and the jolt would have thrown McKee clear if it hadn’t been for her harness. As it was, half a dozen grenades flew up out of the ready bags and disappeared into the darkness as the T-1’s momentum carried him forward.

  McKee looked back in time to see Noll clear the roadblock as well. A flash and the explosion that followed proved that Insa was mastering the use of hand grenades. Then it was time to turn her eyes to the north and try another call. “All Legion forces . . . All Legion forces. This is Corporal McKee with three T-1s inbound from the south. ETA two minutes. Does anyone copy? Over.”

  There was no response on the battalion push, but when she tried the company-level freq, she got static followed by a partial transmission. “This is Delta-Six,” garbled. “. . . One helluva fireworks show. Have you now. Outgoing artillery thirty from now. Over.”

  The sound of the friendly voice made McKee’s heart leap. They were close. So close. And it sounded like Delta-Six was calling for an artillery mission. That would effectively slam the door behind them if they could get close enough. But now they were almost upon the Hudathan front line. The point where the aliens were fighting the Legion toe-to-toe. That meant thousands of troops, all of whom were on high alert by that time.

  The road had given way to a maze of craters, trenches, and bunkers, which forced Eason to slow down as the Hudathans opened fire. But because the T-1s had crossed the plain so quickly, most of the enemy’s crew-operated weapons were pointed north instead of south. That meant most of the stuff coming McKee’s way consisted of small-arms fire. But it was bad enough, and she could hear the pinging sounds as bullets flattened themselves against Eason’s armor.

  The cyborg could shoot back, however, and did. His armor-piercing slugs swept the area ahead and dumped dozens of Hudathan troopers on the ground, as he jumped a dead body. But as Eason came up out of a crater and prepared to make the final run across no-man’s-land, his luck ran out. Something big slammed into his chest and holed his armor. The impact was off center, and that saved McKee’s life because instead of falling back on top of her the cyborg landed on his side. Eason’s voice filled her helmet as McKee hit the quick-release button on her harness. “Looks like this is the end of the line, McKee . . . Run like hell.”

  “Bullshit,” McKee said as she knelt next to the cyborg and opened a panel at the back of his metal head. “I’m going to jerk your brain box. Stand by to catch some Z’s.”

  “Don’t do it,” Eason said. “It’s heavy and . . .”

  McKee didn’t listen to the rest of it as she opened the curved door, took hold of the red T-shaped handle, and gave it a full turn to the right. Then using the same handle, she pulled Eason’s Bio-Support Module (BSM) out of its bay. As she did so, McKee knew that sedatives were being pumped into the cyborg’s brain.

  The BSM was about the size of a .50-caliber ammo box and weighed nearly twenty pounds. It was going to be
impossible to carry it and fight. So all McKee could do was cradle the container in her arms and head north. Bullets kicked up puffs of dirt all around her as a wave of Hudathans charged straight at her. Then they wavered as if in response to a strong breeze, and broke twenty feet away. She could see the four-hundred-pound monsters being snatched off their feet as the slugs hit them.

  “Don’t worry, McKee,” Larkin said as Hower passed her. “We’ve got the point, and Noll has your six. Ain’t that right, Noll?”

  The last had an edge to it, as if Larkin was concerned that the cyborg might abandon her and was advising against it. Either Noll got the message or didn’t need the message; because when McKee glanced over her shoulder, the T-1 was walking backwards, firing toward the south.

  McKee turned back, tripped, and fell down. Then, as she got to her feet, a Hudathan rose in front of her. The trooper had been playing dead and, as Hower passed, had seen his chance. Like many Hudathan officers he carried a clan sword, which was raised over his head. As the blade began to fall, McKee raised the brain box and heard a loud clang as metal struck metal. The blow was so powerful that she felt the jolt all the way down through her arms and nearly lost the BSM.

  Her first thought was for Eason. But the box was made out of heavy-gauge steel and designed to take a beating. However, McKee knew that the enemy officer would beat her down if she stood her ground so she dropped the box and fell backwards.

  It seemed to take forever to grab the AXE and bring the weapon up into firing position. The Hudathan was towering over her by then, and the blade was coming down. She jerked the trigger and saw the first bullets hit the alien’s crotch. The assault rifle’s natural tendency to rise took over at that point, and a steady stream of 4.7mm rounds stitched a line of holes that ran from his pelvis to his breastbone. The sword fell from nerveless fingers, and McKee had to roll out of the way to escape the falling body.

  Then it was time to retrieve the brain box, clutch it to her chest, and run toward the point where Hower and Larkin were doing their bloody work. McKee heard a burst of static followed by the same voice that had spoken to her before. “. . . Six. Keep coming. Arty on the way. Over.”

  What ensued was both thrilling and frightening. It sounded like a dozen freight trains were rumbling overhead as a curtain of steel fell—and a long line of explosions cut across no-man’s-land. Hundreds of Hudathans, all intent on destroying the T-1s, were caught out in the open and cut to pieces. McKee and her legionnaires were safe.

  She stumbled through a hole in a long coil of barbed wire, crossed a trench via a wooden plank, and passed a machine-gun emplacement. Half a dozen legionnaires surged forward to greet her. “Eason,” she said woodenly. “Here . . . His BSM.”

  “Got it,” a sergeant said. “Dawkins! Get this brain box to medical on the double!”

  Then, turning back to McKee, he said, “Why? Why did you do it?”

  McKee removed her helmet, ran a hand through her hair, and took a long slow look around. She was alive, and that came as a surprise. “I came to see Colonel Rylund.”

  “You what?”

  “I came to see Colonel Rylund.”

  A lieutenant appeared at that moment. The young woman was about McKee’s age. She looked at McKee’s face, eyed the scar, and nodded. “You heard the corporal. She came to see the colonel. And, judging from what was required to get here, she has something important to say. Make it happen.”

  CHAPTER: 17

  * * *

  Arms is a profession that, if its principles are adhered to for success, requires an officer to do what he fears may be wrong, and yet, according to military experience, must be done, if success is to be attained.

  LT. GENERAL THOMAS J. (STONEWALL) JACKSON

  A letter to his wife

  Standard year 1862

  PLANET ORLO II

  The journey from no-man’s-land up through Riversplit’s twisted streets was like a trip through the seven chambers of hell. As McKee, Larkin, and Insa were led past shattered buildings and piles of rubble, they caught glimpses of hollow-eyed civilians crouched around fires, battle-weary legionnaires sleeping wherever they could, and starving dogs peering at them from the shadows. An air-raid siren wailed nearby, the ground shook as bombs landed on the north flank of the hill, and the steady thump, thump, thump of AA batteries could be heard all around. “The Hudathans are very methodical,” Sergeant Ito explained, as they passed a bombed-out hospital. “They attack twice each day and always at the same times. That might seem stupid, but people know what’s coming, and when to expect it. That saps morale.”

  What Ito said made sense. And McKee wondered if that was because the Hudathans understood human psychology—or because they preferred to run their wars on time. The question remained unanswered as Ito led the threesome to the half-burned wreckage of what had been Governor Jones’s mansion. McKee winced as she remembered the moment when Jones, Cia, and Marcy had been murdered.

  Jivv! The thought was enough to send what felt like ice water trickling into her veins. Was the synth here? In Riversplit? And what about Spurlock? Could he be waiting for her as well? McKee thought about the memory mod Avery had given her and wondered if his testimony would do any good. That didn’t seem likely if Spurlock had any say.

  Those thoughts and more ran through her mind as Ito led the group back along the side of the building to the point where two sentries were on duty. After talking to the guards, the noncom led the party down a flight of stairs to a pair of blastproof doors. They opened into a small vestibule that served as a light lock. Once the outer doors were closed, the inner ones could be opened.

  Ito removed his helmet, and McKee did likewise as they followed a hall to what a hand-printed sign proclaimed to be the COMMAND CENTER. The dimly lit room was quite large. A flat-screen mosaic covered one of the walls. Some views featured live footage that was streaming in from helmet cams and surveillance drones while others remained dark.

  But if that was ominous, the quiet professionalism with which the people in the room went about their jobs gave McKee reason to hope. Most of the activity was centered around a three-dimensional holo tank. And there, within the semitransparent representation of Riversplit, dozens of miniature battles were being waged. Judging from the snatches of conversation she overheard, it appeared that there was some localized radio communication. But old-fashioned runners were being used as well—and that meant a constant flow of foot traffic.

  McKee’s observations were interrupted as a captain came forward to greet the newcomers. He had dark skin, tired eyes, and a ready smile. Somehow, in spite of the conditions in Riversplit, he had contrived to shave, press his uniform, and polish his brass. Was that the mark of a professional? Or a butt-kissing REMF? McKee waited to find out as the officer introduced himself. “I’m Captain Kinzo. I know Ito here . . . And you must be Corporal McKee. You and your cyborgs lit up our screens! We knew something was happening when the fireworks started. Once we figured out what was going on, everyone cheered! The last bit scared the crap out of us, though. Still, as I understand it, your entire party made it through, so all’s well that ends well. Perhaps you’d be so kind as to introduce your companions.”

  “This is Private Larkin,” McKee said, “and this is Insa. He wants to confer with Colonel Rylund regarding the alliance that Captain Avery negotiated with the Droi people.”

  Kinzo’s eyebrows rose. “Avery is still alive? I’m pleased to hear it.”

  Then, having turned to Insa, he said, “It’s an honor to meet you. It took extraordinary courage to come here, and we appreciate it. Colonel Rylund is tied up right now—but wants to meet with you the moment his conference is over.”

  “That good,” Insa said stolidly. “I wait.”

  “Excellent,” Kinza said smoothly. “There are refreshments on the table over there. Please help yourselves.” And with that, the officer walked away.

  Conscious of the fact that Spurlock and/or Jivv could appear at any moment, McKee scanned th
e room. Thankfully, neither one of her enemies was present. That left her free to visit the buffet. It was intended to serve those who worked in the command center.

  Larkin was visibly disappointed. “There’s nothing left,” he complained, and he was correct. Most of the trays were empty or very nearly so. The exception was a platter loaded with two dozen sweet rolls that arrived while they were standing there.

  Larkin grabbed three while McKee and Insa helped themselves to one each. She took her pastry plus a mug of lukewarm coffee over to a table and sat down. Insa took a sip of the caf, made a face, and spit the liquid back into the cup. “Sorry,” he said. “Need tea.”

  But there wasn’t any tea, so Insa settled for water instead. Having finished the roll, McKee allowed her head to rest on the wall behind her. What felt like two seconds passed before Larkin woke her up. “Rise ’n’ shine, Corporal . . . The colonel wants to see us.”

  McKee yawned, glanced at her chrono, and saw that twenty minutes had elapsed since the beginning of her impromptu nap. Captain Kinzo was waiting. “Sorry, sir,” McKee said as she came to her feet.

  “No problem,” Kinzo replied. “That’s how it is around here. We sleep when we can. Come on . . . The colonel is available.”

  McKee, Larkin, and Insa followed the officer across the room to an open door. Kinzo knocked before looking in. “Corporal McKee, sir. Along with Representative Insa and Private Larkin.”

  McKee took note of the title that Kinzo had bestowed on Insa and the way he provided Rylund with all of their names. It was, she realized, the sort of thing her father’s secretary always did for him. Was Mr. Wong still alive? Or had he been murdered, too? She hoped not.