McKee slept poorly because variations of the same dream plagued her all night. She was back in the mine, and the Naa were pouring in through an air shaft that ran up to the top of the hill. She fired her AXE at them, but they were bulletproof, and kept on coming. And it happened over and over again.
So it was something of a relief to get up, have breakfast, and go to muster. The meeting lasted fifteen minutes and, as it came to a close, Dero caught her eye. “My office—0830.”
Dero met with individual squad leaders on a frequent basis, so such get-togethers weren’t unusual. Still, having just returned from a rather unusual mission, McKee felt a bit of apprehension as she approached the tiny office and rapped on the door. The lieutenant was at her desk and waved McKee in before she could announce herself. “I know who you are . . . Take a load off.”
McKee felt a little better as she sat down. It seemed as though Dero was in a good mood. “So,” the officer said, “you’ll be happy to hear that Chang is doing well—and Sykes will return to duty later today.”
McKee was about to reply when the comset buzzed. Dero squinted at the readout and made a face. “Sorry, it’s the captain.”
Then, as she brought the handset up to her ear, “Good morning, sir.”
There was a moment of silence as Dero listened to whatever was being said at the other end. That was followed by a crisp, “Yes, sir. I’ll be there shortly.”
“This shouldn’t take long,” Dero said, as she put the receiver down. “I’ll be right back.”
Once Dero was gone, there was nothing to do but sit and look around. But, with the exception of a neatly framed recruiting poster, the walls were bare. So McKee’s eyes were drawn to Dero’s terminal. She could see that it was on. It was wrong, she knew that, but curiosity got the best of her.
McKee stood, glanced at the door, and stepped behind the desk. That was when she found herself looking at a file with the heading CHANG, EMILY, PRIVATE. MEDICAL EVALUATION.
McKee felt her heart beat a little bit faster. If Dero was looking at Chang’s P-1, then she was logged onto the system! That meant that if McKee dared to do so, and carried out the task quickly enough, she could get a sneak peek at her own file. Something she had always been curious about. Was it clean? Or was she under suspicion in the wake of the Mason assassination?
McKee knew she was risking everything as she sat down in Dero’s chair and scooted forward. If the lieutenant or one of her subordinates entered the office while she was using the terminal, she’d be in big trouble. But the opportunity was too good to pass up.
Audio commands wouldn’t work if the terminal was locked to the sound of Dero’s voice. But a holoboard was available, and McKee’s fingers danced in the air as she typed her name into the search engine. The response was instantaneous. And as the first page came up, so did a list of the people who had accessed the P-1 during the last thirty days. McKee saw that Dero had opened the file eight times, Heacox had looked at it once, and so had a person named Lee Travers. McKee felt something akin to ice water trickle into her veins. Because here, right in front of her, was evidence that the agent was interested in her.
McKee heard voices, recognized one of them as belonging to the lieutenant, and barely had time to retrieve Chang’s medical evaluation before Dero and Heacox arrived. McKee stood and hoped the platoon leader wouldn’t notice the fact that her chair was in a slightly different position. But it was quickly apparent it wouldn’t be a problem as Heacox plopped down on it. There was a frown on his face, and McKee could tell that the officer was about to unload on her. He blinked three times.
“When Lieutenant Dero told me that you were in her office, I decided to come down and provide you with some feedback. Your performance on the rescue mission was absolutely appalling. The first thing you did was to disobey a direct order from Major Hasbro, thereby putting your squad at risk, which ultimately resulted in a number casualties. And don’t give me any nonsense about radio interference—that’s the oldest trick in the book.
“And, if that wasn’t bad enough, you then took it upon yourself to play God by switching one cyborg for another. The net effect was to reduce the amount of firepower available and endanger everyone concerned.”
Heacox paused at that point—as if to control his temper. “If it were up to me, you would be brought up on charges. But Major Hasbro insists on referring to your actions as ‘remarkable,’ ‘gallant,’ and ‘outstanding.’ Even going so far as to put his nonsense in writing. So it looks like your much-deserved comeuppance will have to wait. But that day will come, and when it does, I’ll see you in chains. Dismissed.”
As McKee left the office and made her way down the hallway, she was still coming to terms with the fact that Travers had taken an interest in her. Comfort, if any, stemmed from the fact that the Imperial agent had accessed her P-1 file only once and quite recently, too. So maybe she could put a stop to whatever the bastard was up to.
But how? The obvious answer was to kill Travers before he could kill her. That was easier said than done, however. First, she would have to find out more about his habits and do so quickly. That was the survivor talking, the woman who had been hunted for months and wouldn’t go down without a fight.
But there was another voice inside her head as well. Cat’s voice. And she was incredulous. That’s it? she wanted to know. Someone takes a peek at your P-1, and you decide to kill them?
Travers is on the list, McKee replied firmly. And he took an unauthorized look at my P-1 file. What do you want me to do? Wait until he’s pointing a gun at me?
Cat had no response for that and remained silent as McKee began to stalk her prey. And it wasn’t easy because the announcement everyone was waiting for had finally been made. The 13th Demi-Brigade, under the command of Colonel Richard Bodry, was going to bore a tunnel through the Towers of Algeron. So McKee’s days were filled to overflowing as the squadron prepared to escort the engineers into what was likely to be a very hostile environment.
McKee couldn’t spy on Travers directly because there were hundreds of security cameras inside Fort Camerone. And once the civilian turned up dead, the MPs would be eyeballing video of everyone and everything that had been in contact with Travers during the days prior to the murder.
So McKee hacked into the system that controlled the fort’s utility bots. A virtual army of robots that cleaned the hallways, carried out routine maintenance activities, and were so ubiquitous that nobody noticed them. The first step was to identify the machines assigned to clean the areas adjacent to the contractor’s room and office. Then, by tapping into their vid feeds, McKee could see what they saw. And that was a boring routine that consisted of work, sleep, and meals that were taken in the officers’ mess.
McKee watched carefully to see if Travers sat with Heacox, or interacted with the officer, but never saw them together. That, at least, was good. So finally, after two days of surveillance she declared herself ready. Are you sure this is the right thing to do? Cat inquired.
Yes, McKee answered. I’m sure. And she was.
• • •
Travers was working late as usual and why not? There was nothing else to do in Fort Camerone other than to watch porn, play sports, or take up a hobby. And Travers had no desire to play an instrument, paint landscapes, or write haiku. No, the more he got done, the sooner he could go home. Simple as that.
So Travers was seated at his desk trying to diagnose systems glitches when he heard a knock. The door was open. And as Travers said, “Come in,” he turned to look. A legionnaire stepped into the room. He or she was dressed in a helmet, body armor, and boots. That wasn’t unusual—but the closed visor was. “I have a present for you,” the solider said, as he or she placed an object on his desk.
Travers realized what it was, and yelled, “No!” But the legionnaire had left by then. The civilian was reaching for the grenade when it exploded. Pieces of flying shrapne
l pulped his face, ripped his throat out, and splashed blood onto the wall behind him. The nearly headless body teetered and fell. The remains would be sent home.
CHAPTER: 12
. . . Then the gods will come, and with a single thrust of a spear they will open a hole between north and south, and blood will flow like water.
AUTHOR UNKNOWN
From the Naa book of prophecies
Standard year circa 1300
PLANET ALGERON
Spearthrow Lifetaker was carrying the eight-foot-long spear for which he was known as he made his way down the slope and into the knee-high dooth grass. There was a layer of clouds overhead but not a solid layer, so as he strolled into the ruins of what had been a village, Lifetaker found himself bathed in golden sunlight. Was that an omen? Yes, he thought it was.
The slick-skin plan had been approved, so the barbarians who lived south of the great towers were going to pay for the horrors they had visited upon the north over the years. Lifetaker knew that was what the slick skin would tell him. A secret that wasn’t a secret because everyone in Naa Town knew. But Lifetaker would act surprised because there was no reason to reveal how much he knew and every reason not to.
So Lifetaker was at peace as he came to a stop, placed the butt of the spear on the ground, and stood with the shaft angled away from his body. He closed his eyes so as to better feel the warmth of the sun on his face, the breeze that caressed his fur, and the cool soil beneath his bare feet. The moment was immensely satisfying, and he felt a sense of disappointment as a buzz turned into a roar, and a fly-form entered the valley.
Lifetaker opened his eyes and waited patiently as the alien thing circled overhead. A mind in a machine! The slick skins were clever. But were such things meant to be? Death was the province of the god Ofar, and to supersede his power was to invite his wrath.
But as the fly-form touched down, and some slick skins jumped to the ground, Lifetaker was forced to abandon philosophy for politics. There was a pause as the legionnaires made a show out of searching the immediate area for hidden warriors and explosives. Then, once they were satisfied, Colonel Bodry stepped down. He waved to Lifetaker before coming over to greet him. The forearm-to-forearm grip signified a meeting of equals even if neither party believed that. “It’s good to see you,” the human said, and seemed to mean it. “Shouldn’t you have a bodyguard? The southerners would like nothing better than to kill the chief-of-chiefs.”
Lifetaker smiled. “Never fear . . . I have one.”
Bodry looked around. “Where?”
“That one,” Lifetaker said, as he pointed at Sergeant Kumar. “Tell her to hold her hat up in the air.”
Bodry turned to Kumar. “You heard the Chief . . . Do it.”
Kumar made a face but obeyed. Lifetaker pointed to the beret, and a distant shot was heard. “He missed,” Bodry observed. “Like I said . . . You need a bodyguard.”
“Look at the hat,” Lifetaker replied evenly.
Kumar dropped her arm, examined the beret, and poked her finger through a hole. Bodry smiled. “I stand corrected. One of your warriors?”
“My oldest son.”
“You are blessed,” Bodry said. “But enough of that. I have good news for you.”
Lifetaker did his best to look eager. “Yes? Good news is always welcome.”
“My plan, that is to say our plan, was approved. And the equipment I requested has arrived.”
“That is excellent news!” Lifetaker said enthusiastically. “When will we march south?”
“The first elements will depart eighteen hours from now. Here,” the slick skin said, as he removed a small box from his pocket. “I have a present for you.”
Lifetaker accepted the gift and opened the box. A bracelet similar to the one on the human’s wrist was nestled within. “It’s a watch,” Bodry said. “It will be important for us to coordinate our activities. I’m going to give you a radio as well. But use it sparingly.”
Lifetaker slipped a hand through the bracelet and felt it hug his wrist. Then, having lifted a leather thong over his head, he gave it to Bodry. The uncut gemstone was held in place by a matrix of crisscrossed trade wire. It glowed red as the sun struck it. “This will bring you luck,” Lifetaker said simply. “And luck is part of war.”
“Thank you,” Bodry said as he slipped the thong over his head. “I will treasure it.
“Now,” the human continued, “it’s time to address something less pleasant. One of our fly-forms had engine trouble and crashed. Then, before we could rescue the crew, your people attacked them. Why?”
Lifetaker had been expecting the question and was ready with an answer. “Your fly-form had the misfortune to crash near a war party from the south,” he said smoothly. “So I sent warriors to rescue your people, but they arrived too late. Your machines got there first. They killed everyone.”
That was a lie. The truth was that while Lifetaker claimed the title “Chief-of-Chiefs,” there were some tribes who refused to join the alliance and did as they pleased. One such group had been responsible for the repeated attacks on the slick skins. But to say that would be to admit weakness. And Lifetaker wasn’t about to do that.
Lifetaker could see the disbelief in Bodry’s eyes. The soldier was human, but that didn’t mean he was stupid. He knew a cover story when he heard one. But Bodry had no way to refute the lie—and couldn’t march south without Lifetaker’s support. That left him with no choice but to accept the fiction. “I see,” Bodry said. “Please let me know if more southerners invade your territory. We will help fight them.
“Now,” Bodry continued, “regarding the scout you promised me. Is he available?”
Lifetaker raised a hand and drew a circle in the air. Then he pointed east. “There.”
A stick figure appeared and morphed into a warrior as he came closer. He was dressed in well-worn leather clothing and wore two crisscrossed ammo belts, both loaded with gleaming cartridges. His rifle had been stolen from the Legion or taken off a dead legionnaire. And the fact that he carried the weapon so openly was an indication of how confident the Naa were. “This is Longway Quickstep,” Lifetaker said. “He knows the best route south—and can serve as a translator if required.”
If the display of Legion weaponry bothered the slick skin, there was no sign of it on his face. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said. “My name is Bodry. Colonel Bodry. You’ll be part of my staff.”
And he’ll tell me everything you do, Lifetaker thought to himself, because I don’t trust you.
“You can depend on me,” Quickstep said, and the deal was done. The southerners didn’t know it yet, but thousands of them were going to die.
• • •
McKee was frightened. And for good reason. The investigation into Travers’s death had been under way for two standard days. Everyone was talking about it, and there were plenty of theories. A jilted lover. Big gambling debts. A psychopath on the loose. The latter was the most popular since there were lots of convicted killers in the Legion’s ranks.
The problem was that while theories were easy to come by, hard evidence wasn’t. The MPs had interviewed the civilian’s known associates, combed through his computer files, and searched his quarters. All without success.
So they turned to science. A fugitive tracking device or FTD was brought in. McKee was familiar with the robots, and knew they could see microscopic evidence, detect faint odors, and perform a variety of forensic tests under field conditions. Subsequent to that, fragments of the grenade were identified as belonging to a batch of nearly identical weapons issued to hundreds of legionnaires. But, other than that, the FTD came up empty, or so the rumors claimed.
At that point, the MPs sat down to review all of the footage captured by hall cams located in the vicinity of the murder scene. And bingo! A hit. Sure enough, there was the perp entering Travers’s office and exiting just s
econds prior to the deadly explosion. However, what initially seemed like a big deal only led to more frustration when computer enhancements revealed that the killer’s visor was down, and all of his or her rank and unit designators had been covered with black tape. Efforts to spot the killer on cameras covering the approaches to the murder scene came up empty, indicating that the killer had done a good job of identifying and exploiting the surveillance system’s dead spots.
But there was still a chance to narrow the number of suspects down from thousands to what the investigators hoped would be hundreds. So, after careful analysis of the security footage and the background behind the murderer, the MPs were able to determine that he or she was somewhere between five feet three inches and five feet six inches tall.
That was when McKee and a couple of hundred other legionnaires, largely women, were ordered to take part in an enormous lineup. Because at five feet five inches, McKee fell inside the bracket. Then, while the “suspects” were systematically screened, teams of MPs searched their quarters looking for anything that would tie them to the murder.
The waiting was scary. Had she forgotten something? What if the investigators came across the fact that Travers had taken a look at her P-1 file? Would they force her to take a lie-detector test?
But none of McKee’s fears were realized. It seemed she hadn’t forgotten anything. If the MPs noticed the fact that Travers had entered her P-1 file, they probably wrote it off as having occurred in the context of his work or assumed that he had done so by mistake. And since most legionnaires were guilty of something, mass lie-detector tests would be of limited value.
So the murder remained unsolved, and with a regiment preparing to depart the fort, the investigation was soon relegated to a back burner. Not for McKee, however, who constantly vacillated between fear and self-loathing because of what she’d done.
It was justified, or so she told herself, but deep down she knew that an act of cold-blooded murder put her on a par with Empress Ophelia. And the knowledge followed McKee into her dreams. Horrible dreams that left her feeling exhausted when she got out of bed.
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