Andromeda's War (Legion of the Damned Book 3) (6 page)

As McKee looked up, dark bodies were silhouetted against the gray sky. She fired, and fired again. A body landed in the center of the road and popped when Vella stepped on it. McKee knew she should be monitoring what was taking place behind her—but was forced to fight for her life as they passed a hidden alcove, and bandits surged out to attack them. Even though they were on foot, the bandits managed to pull two warriors off their dooths. There were screams as knives flashed, and McKee fired at them. But it wasn’t enough.

A Naa had hold of Vella’s machine gun and was heavy enough to weigh it down. McKee could hear Jivani firing her pistol and sensed that Storytell was fighting back as well. She triggered a burst, heard her AXE click empty, and was reaching for a magazine when something unexpected occurred.

Andy surged into the mob, put a Naa down with a perfectly timed head butt, and snatched the bandit’s rifle. Then the robot began to kill with the ruthless efficiency of what it was . . . A machine. And not a moment too soon because the column had bunched up behind the first squad by that time and was taking casualties. “Keep moving!” McKee shouted. “Up the hill! Kill the bastards!”

Only three of the ten Naa who had been leading the way were still alive. But they and the legionnaires in the first squad continued to battle their way up the hill. At least two dozen bandits had been killed by then, and the incoming fire had begun to slacken. For one brief moment, McKee thought the worst of it was over. Then a heavy machine gun began to fire at them. The Naa were torn to shreds and a T-1 named Gan went down with his bio bod on board.

McKee swore and waited to die. Bigclub shouldn’t have a heavy machine gun.
Couldn’t
have one unless . . . Yes! As McKee looked upslope, she could see a turret poking up out of the soil and knew what was underneath. A combat car had been lost to the enemy during the battle for the mesa, and there it was, half-buried at the top of the pass. “Grenades!” McKee shouted, as she fumbled for one. “Destroy that gun!”

But the range was too great, and the grenades fell short. Geysers of dirt flew up where they landed and did no harm. Meanwhile, the big gun continued to chug as Vella fired, and a curtain of dirt rose around the armored turret.

Then a whoosh was heard, and the combat car took a direct hit from a rocket. The first explosion was followed by a second. It produced a flash of light and a resounding boom. The turret shot fifty feet straight up into the air and seemed to pause there for a moment before crashing down. A column of fire rose from what remained of the combat car, and McKee heard a series of loud bangs as stray rounds of .50 caliber ammo cooked off.

Her head swiveled left and right as Vella carried her upwards, and the company’s remaining drones appeared. Energy beams sizzled as the flying robots entered the fray. That was when McKee remembered that Sal Toto was carrying shoulder-mounted rocket launchers. Why? Because Larkin didn’t trust fur balls, that’s why. Thank God for that. Thank God for him.

As Vella passed the burning combat car, McKee saw the stone fortress off to the right. It was a one-story affair, with a flat roof and rifle slits all around. Puffs of smoke were visible as the surviving bandits fired from within. Was Bigclub in there? Bullets kicked up dirt all around, so McKee ordered Vella to back up a bit.

She hadn’t had time to tally the butcher’s bill but knew it was going to be extensive and didn’t want to lose more lives if that could be avoided. So she ordered the column to stop. And since the road led up through a ravine, the bandits inside the fort couldn’t see them. That left both the legionnaires and Naa free to help their wounded while McKee sent for Private Toto. The T-1 arrived a few minutes later. The so-called cans on the cyborg’s shoulders had been reloaded by then, so he was ready to fire twelve independently targeted rockets. “Take the fort out,” McKee ordered. “But don’t use any more ordnance than you have to.”

Toto nodded his huge head. “Yes, ma’am.”

Thanks to her HUD, McKee had a Toto-eye view as the T-1 topped the rise and went to work. He fired the rockets one at a time. Each was targeted on a rifle slit. And it wasn’t long before a large hole appeared in the fort’s east wall. Toto sent two missiles through the gap. One followed the other so closely, she heard what sounded like a single boom. The explosion was so powerful that a section of roof went airborne, and jets of fire shot out through the rifle slits. It appeared that the fort’s main magazine had gone up, and McKee ordered Toto to stop firing.

McKee waited to see what would happen next and felt relieved when there were no further signs of resistance. So she sent what remained of the first squad forward to clear the fort, ordered the column up onto the ridge, and began the process of assessing how badly the company had been mauled.

Thirteen Naa had been killed. Fourteen, counting Sureshot. And three legionnaires were dead, two of whom were T-1s. A serious blow indeed—and McKee blamed herself for it. Allowing Sureshot to handle the negotiations had been a serious error in judgment. And the realization made her sick to her stomach.

There were wounded, too . . . Seven in all. Two of whom were in critical condition, a Human and a Naa. So McKee sent for a com tech and told her to request a dustoff, plus replacements, and some more supplies.

Night was on the way. So McKee told Larkin to establish observation posts (OPs) on both slopes—and to set up a quick-reaction force comprised of both Humans and Naa. She had been afraid that the indigs would pack up and leave in the wake of Sureshot’s death. But Jivani had been talking to the Naa, who assured her that they planned to stay. “They know your reputation,” the civilian said simply. “And they want revenge.” That suited McKee just fine.

The fly-form arrived half an hour later. McKee half expected a senior officer to be aboard. Cavenaugh perhaps . . . Come to tell her how stupid she had been. However, when the cyborg landed, it was empty except for the flight crew and two medics. But, after giving the matter some additional thought, McKee realized that made sense. The situation would look innocent enough to a person who read her preliminary report but hadn’t been on the ground. Sureshot negotiated a deal, Bigclub went back on his word, and the company fought its way up onto the ridge. No big deal if you were sitting in a chair drinking coffee.

So there weren’t any senior officers, and no reinforcements, either. Fortunately, her request for supplies had been honored. Part of it anyway . . . And as a squad of legionnaires carried cases of ammo off the fly-form, another carried bodies onto it. Bodies plus two brain boxes. McKee wanted to cry but couldn’t allow herself to do so.

The casualties went aboard last. McKee said good-bye to them, thanked the crew, and left via the ramp. Grit flew in every direction as the fly-form lifted off. The people on board would arrive at Fort Camerone in less than an hour. Not just a place, but a whole different world, filled with luxuries like hot showers, palatable food, and real beds.

Finally, having met everyone else’s needs, McKee had a moment in which to reflect on everything that had occurred. The fort was little more than a pile of rubble, so she took an MRE and a mug of hot caf out to a point where she could lean on a rock and look out to the mountains beyond. The Towers of Algeron had a pink hue thanks to the quickly rising sun.

The beautiful sunrise and the hot meal combined to lift McKee’s spirits a bit. And as McKee spooned rice and beans into her mouth, she carried out a blow-by-blow review of the battle. Never mind the
why
of it . . . What had gone well? And what hadn’t? Larkin had stepped up—and so had the troops. And then there was Andy . . .

McKee’s spoon stopped halfway to her mouth. There hadn’t been time to think. But how had a combot been able to kick so much ass? As far as she knew, such machines weren’t programmed for combat—and if they weren’t programmed for something, they couldn’t do it. What did that suggest? What felt like an injection of ice water entered McKee’s veins. The answer was obvious. Andy wasn’t a combot—Andy was a synth. Sent to check on her. Sent to kill her if necessary.

McKee’s appetite had disappeared. She put the bowl down and stuck her spoon into the quickly congealing pile of rice and beans. It made sense. She’d been forced to kill
three
government operatives over the last few months. One had been assassinated, while the others had been neutralized in less obvious ways. So it seemed reasonable to believe that the people at the Bureau of Missing Persons didn’t
know
she was someone other than who she claimed to be . . . But they suspected as much. And, rather than send a synth that looked like what it was, they had chosen to send a synth disguised as a combot.

The substitution could have fooled her for a long time. But unlike combots, synths were programmed to defend themselves when attacked, so when the bandits charged out of their hiding place, Andy did what it was supposed to do. And that was a good thing. McKee knew the truth now. So, what to do? Find a way to terminate the robot? Or attempt to fool it?

McKee tried to remember anything she might have said or done that would give her identity away. She couldn’t. But there were other possibilities. After they murdered her parents, it was reasonable to suppose that government agents had orders to harvest DNA samples from their bodies. So what if Andy had taken samples of her DNA? It would be easy enough to do. All the machine had to do was swab her coffee mug or the equivalent thereof.

Where did that leave her? If Andy had a fatal accident, that would look suspicious. Especially in light of her recent history. And if she allowed the robot to deliver a DNA sample to the BMP she would wind up dead shortly thereafter. It was a lose-lose situation and one that would require additional thought.

After eight hours of rest and maintenance, the company was ready to head south. That meant McKee had to face a difficult decision. Should she leave enough troops to hold the pass? So as to secure her line of retreat? Or should she take everyone with her—and hope for a dustoff later? Both strategies had inherent advantages, but after giving the matter some thought, McKee decided to keep her force intact. She couldn’t afford to leave more than two squads behind and was painfully aware of the fact that such a small group wouldn’t be able to hold the pass against a force of fifty or sixty Naa. And because the company might have to fight its way south, McKee wanted to keep as much firepower as she could.

So the column formed up and followed the drones down the south side of the pass into a rock-strewn valley. Trees grew in small clumps, streams tumbled down steep hillsides, and the road was a series of switchbacks. Eventually, the valley widened out, and a multitude of streams joined forces to create a river. It flowed through a succession of boulder gardens and accompanied the road south. Two miles later, they came to a campsite reminiscent of the one on the north side of the pass. It, too, had its own graveyard.

There were no signs of life other than a pair of long wings riding the thermals high above. And that was fine with McKee. As the short day wore on, the previously barren valley began to green up, and signs of habitation appeared. The first was a solitary finger of smoke signaling the presence of a distant hut. And that got McKee’s attention. They were likely to encounter a village soon. And when they did, the drones would scare the crap out of the locals. So she had the robots pull back and sent an advance party forward to replace them. It consisted of Storytell, Jivani, and a Naa warrior. Her hope was that the trio could gather Intel and prevent misunderstandings.

Storytell’s role was to let the locals know what was coming. Jivani was there to keep him honest, and the warrior’s job was to provide the others with security. Would it work? McKee hoped so . . . But she was ready to send the first squad forward if things got dicey.

Night came and went. The test came shortly after a nondescript dawn. The morning light found its way down through a thick layer of clouds to fill the valley with an uncertain glow. Columns of gray smoke could be seen up ahead and signaled the presence of a village. “Alpha-One-Five to Alpha-One. Over.”

Jivani had been quick to pick up on the Legion’s military-radio procedures, and McKee was proud of her. “This is Alpha-One. Go. Over.”

“We’re just outside a small village. Storytell is schmoozing the local chief. Twelve of his warriors were killed during the attack on the mesa, and he hates slick skins. Over.”

“Uh, okay . . . That sounds bad, over.”

“It
is
bad. But Storytell is getting ready to dispense some of the loot we captured up in the pass. That could make a difference. I suggest that you hold off on entering the village. Let’s give negotiations some more time. Over.”

“That makes sense,” McKee agreed. “Keep me informed. Over.”

Jivani clicked her mike twice by way of a response.

McKee posted a drone to the east and west, put out pickets, and let the rest of the company take a bio break. The better part of thirty minutes passed before Jivani contacted her again. “Alpha-One-Five to Alpha-One. Over.”

“Go Five. Over.”

“We have a deal . . . Chief Digdeep accepted our gift and will no doubt send word of his negotiating prowess south. That means we’ll have to pay off every strongman between here and the south pole. Over.”

McKee smiled. “It beats fighting them . . . Tell Storytell to keep the gifts small, or we’ll run out of loot. Over.”

“Understood,” Jivani replied. “Over.”

The column got under way shortly thereafter and passed through the village of Fastwater ten minutes later. It was little more than a clutch of twenty huts surrounded by a rotting palisade. Two T-1s would have been sufficient to destroy it. But McKee was glad to avoid that. She felt badly about the locals who had been killed attacking the mesa. Their loss would be felt for many years to come.

The deeply rutted road was lined with ragged-looking villagers, all of whom stared at the column as it passed by. McKee saw one warrior finger the hilt of his knife, but other than that, there were no signs of overt hostility.