Andromeda's Choice E-Book

William C. Dietz

• Herausgeber: JABberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Serie: Legion of the Damned: Before the Fall
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 565

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Andromeda McKee rebuilt her life in the violent embrace of the Legion of the Damned in the days when cyborgs were first being introduced. Now she must choose between her conscience and her desire for vengeance... In a different world, Lady Catherine "Cat" Carletto would never have left her pampered life behind. But when Princess Ophelia became Empress Ophelia in a coup that claimed the lives of the princess' brother and all who supported him, including the Carletto family, Cat had to hide—or die. She became Legionnaire Andromeda McKee, and now she's a battle-scarred veteran who knows how to kill. Summoned to Earth to receive the Imperial Order of Merit from the empress herself, Andromeda learns that she isn't the sole surviving Carletto—her uncle Rex is not only still alive but also the leader of a resistance group determined to overthrow Ophelia. Caught up in a web of intrigue, Andromeda realizes that the moment is coming when her revenge will be at hand. But will she be able to act, or will she be betrayed by those she has come to trust?

Leseprobe

Andromeda’s Choice

Copyright © 2013 by William C. DietzAll rights reserved.

Published as an ebook in 2024 by JABberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.Originally published in 2013 by Ace Books.

Cover art by Dany V.S.

ISBN 978-1-625676-64-1 (ebook)

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

JABberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.

49 W. 45th Street, Suite #5N

New York, NY 10036

awfulagent.com/ebooks

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Title Page

Copyright

Table of Contents

Acknowledgments

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Epilogue

About the Author

Also by William C. Dietz

Acknowledgments

From the very beginning, other people have helped to make the Legion of the Damned universe what it is. The first was a physicist named Dr. Sheridan Simon, who helped create the Naa, the Hudathans, and the planets that caused them to evolve the way they did.

Now Conlan and Gordon Rios have added their touches to the universe by creating the Legion of the Damned™ game for iPhone, iPod touch, and iPad. I would like to thank them for their creativity, hard work, and friendship.

Finally, I would like to thank Gordon Rios for his advice regarding the futuristic computer technology depicted in this novel.

For my dearest Marjorie.Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!

1

Whence it is to be noted that a prince occupying a new state should see to it that he commit all his acts of cruelty at once so as not to be obliged to return to them every day, and thus, by abstaining from repeating them, he will be able to make men feel secure …

NICCOLÒ MACHIAVELLIThe PrinceStandard year 1513

PLANET EARTH

The room was large enough to accommodate a hundred people if necessary. Harsh lights threw short shadows from above, the walls were bulletproof, and a large drain marked the exact center of the concrete floor.

The televised executions took place every Monday at exactly 3:00 p.m. And although Chico Martinez didn’t want to watch, he always had, even though the sight of fifty or sixty people being murdered made him ill. It wasn’t unusual to see women holding their babies, children playing on the floor, or old people strapped into their hover chairs. Some stone-faced, some crying, some praying. All guilty of what? Making a critical remark to a government informer? Spray-painting an anti-government slogan onto a wall? Or spitting on an image of the empress? Yes. All such offenses were punishable by death.

The images were intended to frighten the population into doing whatever Empress Ophelia wanted them to do—and, for the most part, the strategy had been successful. But there were those, Martinez among them, who were sickened by the executions and determined to stop them. So he joined the underground, took part in two flash-mob protests, and had been caught in spite of the hoodie he wore.

How? That was the sad part. His sister had sold him out. For money? For suck points? Martinez didn’t know. And with only seconds of life left it didn’t matter. He was the one standing in the execution chamber this time. And as the synths entered the room, there was nothing he could do other than control the way he died.

The thought caused Martinez to elbow his way up to the front rank. Millions were watching, he knew that, so he waited until the robots had raised their weapons before ripping his shirt open. Blood had been used to paint the words onto his chest. His blood. And during the last few seconds of his life, Martinez had the satisfaction of knowing that people all around the world would see them. The robots fired, and Martinez fell.

* * *

Bright sunlight slanted in through tall windows to splash the floor of the beautifully decorated room. Both Ophelia’s father and brother Alfred had been in love with the summer residence in the Rockies. But the so-called sky castle had very little appeal for Ophelia—who preferred to live in the ancient city of Los Angeles. And that’s where she was, sitting cross-legged on the floor, spending some quality time with her five-year-old son, Nicolai.

He was a bright boy, with tousled hair and inquisitive eyes. The wall screen was on, and as the synths prepared to execute fifty-seven of Ophelia’s citizens, one of them ripped his shirt open. Ragged-looking letters were visible on his bare chest. “FF,” Nicolai said. “What does that mean?”

Ophelia felt a surge of anger as the synths opened fire. Someone should have checked. Someone was going to pay. “It means he was a traitor,” she said. “A bad man who would kill us if he could.”

Nicolai stared at the screen as the last person fell. He wasn’t shocked. Why would he be? At his mother’s insistence, he’d been watching the Monday afternoon executions for months. Because, as she put it, “A future emperor must be strong.”

“Why?” Nicolai wanted to know. “Why do they want to kill us?”

“Because they want what we have,” Ophelia answered simply. “They want our money, our possessions, and our power.”

Ophelia watched as one of her functionaries appeared on the screen—and began to talk about the need to support the government, especially during a time of war. “The Hudathans attacked Orlo II,” he said sternly. “And they would have won had it not been for Empress Ophelia and her leadership.”

That wasn’t strictly true since Ophelia hadn’t been there, but it was fair. She had sent the Legion to Orlo II to put down a revolt—and they’d been able to stop the Hudathans. Nicolai turned to look at her. She could see something of his father in the boy’s eyes. Not her secretary, as many people assumed, but a man selected based on a lengthy list of qualifications. A man who had been killed three months into her pregnancy lest he try to influence the boy later on. “Mother?”

“Yes?”

“The copies make my head hurt.”

Ophelia felt a surge of guilt but pushed it away. Her brother had been weak. Too weak for an emperor. Nicolai would be strong and, thanks to the digitized personalities that had been downloaded into his brain, he would be wise beyond his years. Unfortunately, the eight minds with whom the boy was forced to coexist could be quite contentious at times. And their arguments gave him headaches. “I’m sorry,” Ophelia said sympathetically. “But your advisers were great men and women. Later, when you’re all grown up, you’ll be grateful for them. But right now you have something important to do.”

Nicolai looked hopeful. “Can I ride my pony?”

Ophelia stood and offered her hand. “Yes, you can.”

Nicolai took her hand, and, together, they walked through a pair of French doors and out into the bright sunshine.

* * *

Rex Carletto lived in the Deeps, the name given to the levels of habitat below the city of Los Angeles and the streets that were controlled by the government. There had been two attempts to “sanitize” the labyrinth of underground nightclubs, casinos, and brothels during the last few months, but neither one had been successful. The invaders had been no match for the denizens of the Deeps, who had consistently outmaneuvered them. The result was an uneasy standoff in which the authorities controlled what went on aboveground, and what the government called the “criminal element” continued to hold sway down below.

That made the Deeps the perfect place for rebels like Rex, a man who was number 2998 on the government’s death list and had been forced into hiding. The Deeps weren’t safe however. Far from it. The warren of dives, weapons dealers, and sweatshops was lousy with lice, meaning men and women willing to sell a reb for some suck points or a handful of credits.

So as Rex exited the flophouse where he had spent the previous night, he paused to look around. There were no municipal authorities or taxes in the Deeps, so there were very few services. Just those that the owners of various businesses saw fit to provide because doing so benefited them. So the streets were littered with trash, and rats were a common sight.

But Rex was worried about a different kind of vermin. That’s why his hand strayed to the cross-draw holster as he eyed the people in the immediate vicinity. Two drunks were staggering toward a bar, a prostitute in a Day-Glo dress was lighting a dope stick, and the beggar two doors down was looking his way.

Rex stuck a hand into his pocket, gathered all of the coins there, and dumped them into the beggar’s cup as he passed by. She was little more than a head, a torso, and one mechanical arm. An ex-soldier perhaps, or an accident victim, left to rot. All because she couldn’t afford one of the civforms that wealthy people wore like suits of clothes. Forms designed and manufactured by his brother before the purge.

Rex made his way down the street, crossed over to a pedestrian ramp, and joined the flow of foot traffic up to L-2. It was more commercial than L-3 and, therefore, better lit. Multicolored signs strobed, crawled, and oozed over every surface, including the pavement beneath his feet. Ironically enough, the power required to keep the underworld running was obtained by tapping into LA’s grid. And if Ophelia wanted to stop the practice, she’d have to send another army down into the Deeps.

There were a lot more people on the street compared to the level below. And that represented both a comfort and a threat as Rex passed a garish tattoo parlor and sidestepped a black-robed Sayer. The robot damned him to hell as he walked away. I’m already in hell, Rex thought as he entered what had once been the Hollywood and Vine subway station.

Rex’s bodyguards seemed to materialize out of thin air. An emaciated-looking young woman with big eyes, biosculpted ears, and a love of cold steel appeared first. She was known as Elf and claimed that she could communicate with the dead.

Hiram Hoke emerged from the crowd a few moments later. He was six-three, weighed 225, and was armed with a truncheon in addition to the pump-style shotgun slung across his back. Hoke’s skin was brown and covered with an intricate tracery of white tattoos. His eyes were filled with good humor, and his voice was a deep basso. “Morning, boss.”

“Hey, Hoke, where’s Percy?”

“I’m right here,” a voice said from above, and when Rex looked up, he saw that the spherical cyborg was hovering over his head. Like Rex, Percy had been a member of the Legion and left during Alfred’s rule. Now, with Ophelia on the throne, he had returned to duty. Even if the Legion hadn’t been informed of it.

Rex grinned. “Okay, I’m glad you got the argrav unit fixed. We were going to scrap you.”

Hoke guffawed and stopped as Percy’s laser beam touched his arm. “Ow! That hurt.”

“Grow up,” Elf put in crossly. “I thought we had a meeting to attend.”

“Yup,” Rex said, “we do. We’re scheduled for a sit-down with the Sayers and the Combine. There’s no way in hell that the Freedom Front will be able to bring Ophelia down all by itself.”

“But the Sayers are growing more powerful every day,” Percy observed, “and the Combine is making money hand over fist. Why would they cooperate?”

“Because the present standoff won’t last forever,” Rex said. “And they know that. It’s only a matter of time before Ophelia finds a way to root them out.”

“Enough already,” Elf said impatiently. “Let’s get on with it.”

Percy led the way as the group passed a fountain that was spewing motes of multicolored light into the air and turned onto the Street of Dreams, where the most popular nightspots were located. There was the Coliseum, which was well-known for the gladiatorial battles staged there every night, and the predictably high body count. Next came the Roxy. It featured the quiet elegance of a bygone era, and cuisine so good that members of the glitterati often came down to sample it in spite of the dangers involved.

And, finally, there was the Blue Moon. Its sign consisted of a beautiful woman clad only in glitter reclining on a sliver of blue moon. The image seemed to wave at Percy as the cyborg flew past her. The nightclub’s facade had an art deco feel that was reinforced by the retro suits the doormen wore. Both were large, heavily armed, and edgy. Hoke approached them palms out. “Colonel Red is here for a meeting.”

The man on the right had slicked-back hair parted in the middle and a pair of beady eyes separated from each other by a large nose. “We’re expecting you,” he said. “The weapons stay here.”

“No, they don’t,” Hoke said flatly. “Not unless all of the other participants will be unarmed. And we would have to verify that before surrendering our weapons to you.”

Beady Eyes didn’t like that. But, after whispering into his wrist mike and listening to the reply, he opened the door. “You can go in.”

Hoke smiled beatifically as he entered the nightclub, closely followed by Percy and Rex. Elf brought up the rear, her eyes darting this way and that.

A formally attired maître d’ was waiting to receive the visitors and led them up a spiral staircase to the second floor. It was circular, and a large hole in the floor allowed guests to look down onto the stage, where a scantily clad grav dancer was performing a series of weightless pirouettes. A dozen robo spheres, each programmed to move in concert with the music, orbited the girl like planets around a sun.

Once on the second floor, the maître d’ led them between the tightly packed tables to a door marked PRIVATE. A small camera was located above it. Perhaps that was why the barrier slid to one side before the maître d’ could knock on it. Another nattily dressed guard was there to greet the party as they entered.

The room was circular, and the silvery walls were lit from above. The man Rex knew to be Vas and the nameless Sayer were seated at a round table with bodyguards arrayed behind them. Those who worked for Vas wore period attire—and the Sayers were dressed in their usual head-to-toe grim-reaper outfits.

Rex spent all of ten seconds wondering if the Freedom Front should have distinctive uniforms before dismissing the idea as ridiculous. The FF was all about everyday people and was going to remain that way. “Welcome,” Vas said. “Please have a seat.”

There was no telling what Vas had looked like originally—back before what might have been a million credits’ worth of biosculpting. Now he resembled something from a bad dream. His head was clean-shaven, his eyes were an impossible violet color, and his nose had been reduced to little more than a bump and two slits. That, combined with skin that appeared to be lit from within, made Vas look more alien than human.

Rex took the vacant chair, knowing that his bodyguards were stationed behind him. The meeting was important, and he felt nervous. It wouldn’t do to let that show, however, so he adopted the same blank-faced look he used when playing poker. “Thanks for hosting the meeting.”

As Vas spoke, Rex saw that his teeth were filed to points. His voice was soft and well modulated. “You’re welcome. As you know, we’re here to discuss the possibility of an alliance. I suggest that we begin with short statements about the organizations we represent. Reverend Sayer? Perhaps you would be willing to speak first.”

Due to the hood she wore, only the lower part of the Sayer’s face was visible. Rex was struck by how well formed her nose and mouth were. “I walk the true path,” she said, “and others choose to follow. We believe that what has been built must fall—and when it does, spiritual balance will be restored. It is our duty to hasten that time.”

Vas nodded. “Thank you. Colonel Red?”

Rex was a wanted man. So rather than use his own name he had chosen to operate under the nom de guerre Colonel Red. A name that married his Legion rank with his favorite color on the roulette wheel. He took a deep breath. “The Freedom Front is an opposition group dedicated to overthrowing the monarchy and replacing it with a representative democracy. We believe in freedom of speech, freedom of religion, and equal rights for all sentients.”

Vas offered a toothy smile. “Including computers?”

“If they are truly sentient, yes.”

Vas nodded. “I represent the Combine, which is a group of for-profit organizations.”

“Which is to say a group comprised of criminals,” the Sayer put in.

“That’s how Ophelia sees it,” Vas said evenly. “Although her main complaint seems to be our failure to pay Imperial taxes.”

Rex chuckled. That was true. As far as he could tell, Ophelia’s motives had very little to do with traditional morality. And, to the extent that the Combine was fleecing what she considered to be her sheep, the empress was unhappy. “So,” he said, “we have a lot in common.”

There was a loud crash as the Sayer opened her mouth to respond. Then a huge drill bit came down through the ceiling, quickly followed by a cascade of debris, dirt, and a steady stream of water. As it struck, the table shattered, causing all three participants to stand and back away. Rex had seen the technology used on enemy bunkers. But never from that perspective. “It’s a penetrator,” he announced. “Once they jerk it up and out, troops will drop through the shaft.”

There was a loud whining noise, and more dirt fell as the penetrator went into reverse and was withdrawn. Somehow, some way, Ophelia’s security people knew about the meeting and where it was being held. Then, having positioned the necessary equipment directly over the Blue Moon, they’d struck. “I think it’s time to leave,” Vas said, as he drew a pair of energy pistols. Rex had to agree. The meeting was over.

PLANET ORLO II

The rain hit the top layer of the forest, ran off a multitude of leaves, and fell again. McKee heard it rattle on her helmet before streaming down onto her already wet poncho. Most of it anyway, although a trickle of water found its way under her collar and into her clothes. It was tempting to change position, or to try to tighten the seal around her neck, but McKee had been fighting in the Big Green for months by that time and knew the effort would be pointless. The jungle always won. Besides, the newly arrived jarheads were looking to her for an example, and if she began to thrash around, they would, too. And that could be fatal. The plan was to remain perfectly still, let the Hudathans walk into the trap, and take at least one of them alive. A waste of time in McKee’s opinion because the Hudathans were tough as nails and not about to dishonor themselves by spilling their guts to what they thought were lesser beings.

Her train of thought was interrupted by a rustling sound and the crackle of broken twigs as Second Lieutenant Wilbur Fox plopped down beside her. “Sergeant.”

“Sir.”

“See anything?”

It was a stupid question even for Fox. Had McKee seen something, she would have told him via the platoon push, opened fire on it, or both. But he was the platoon leader, she was a noncom, and that meant their relationship was defined by a thousand years of military tradition. “No, sir. Not yet.”

“But you think they’ll come?”

Admiral Poe’s ships had been forced to flee when a much larger Hudathan fleet dropped out of hyperspace—and there had been a hellacious battle during their absence. Now the swabbies were back, along with a battalion of mostly green marines, Fox being an excellent example. That’s why some of the Legion’s officers and noncoms had been seconded to the Marine Corps to serve as advisers. So in spite of the fact that McKee had been in the Legion for less than a year, she found herself giving advice to an officer. “I think the odds are good, sir,” she said patiently. “Once the ridge heads realize that Harvey is overdue, they’ll send someone out to look for him.”

Harvey was the name the marines had given to the Hudathan who lay in the clearing directly in front of them. Harvey had been alive when the Droi found him in one of their pit traps, but not for long. The Droi hated the Hudathans and, judging from the number of bullet holes in his body, had used the off-worlder for target practice. “Excellent!” Fox said, as if hearing the news for the first time. “That’s when we’ll bag the bastards.”

Fox made the process sound like a turkey shoot—and maybe it was in his fantasies. But Fox hadn’t fought the aliens in front of Riversplit or up on top of the Howari Dam. If he had, McKee figured the marine wouldn’t be so lighthearted about the prospect of combat with soldiers who were six and a half feet tall and weighed more than three hundred pounds apiece. But there was no point in lecturing Fox, so she didn’t. Once the shovel heads appeared, he’d learn soon enough. “Yes, sir,” McKee said dryly. “That’s when we’ll bag the bastards.”

The next forty-five minutes passed with excruciating slowness. The rain continued to fall, scavengers continued to nibble on the corpse, and McKee felt an increasing need to pee. Should she call the ambush off? Fox would agree to nearly anything she proposed. But was it right to cancel an ambush so she could relieve herself?

McKee’s ruminations were interrupted by two clicks as a marine chinned his mike on and off. McKee blessed the leatherneck for holding his fire, placed a hand on Fox’s arm, and shook her head. That prevented the officer from issuing an unnecessary order as three Hudathans appeared on the opposite side of the clearing. They were heavily armed and paranoid as hell. Which made sense on an alien planet populated by beings who wanted to kill them.

For what felt like an hour, they just stood there, looking around. But the marines were well concealed—and the rain had the effect of blurring their heat signatures. McKee eased the rifle forward and found one of the Hudathans in her scope. He was HUGE. The vestige of a dorsal fin ran front to back along the top of his bare skull, a pronounced supraorbital ridge threw a shadow down onto his cheekbones, and the bony mouth was set in a straight line. He was within range, but closer would be better, since the knockout dart would have to penetrate both clothing and the Hudathan’s skin. Would he cooperate?

He did. Having satisfied himself that it was safe to do so, the alien began to approach Harvey. His eyes were on the ground, looking for trip wires, pressure plates, or signs of disturbed soil. McKee placed the crosshairs on his neck, took up the slack on the trigger, and was about to squeeze it when Private Blonski fired his shotgun. The results were entirely predictable.

One of the aliens aimed a huge machine gun at the opposite tree line. It began to chug rhythmically as McKee fired. Her target turned, the dart missed, and Fox ordered his marines to open up. They obeyed. And because most of them had their weapons aimed at the lead Hudathan, he jerked spastically, battled to keep his feet, and finally went down.

Having witnessed that, the second ridge head did a fade—quickly followed by the monster with the big gun. “We got him! We got him!” Fox shouted enthusiastically.

“What we have is a lot of trouble,” McKee said as she struggled to her feet. “The mission is to capture Hudathans—not kill them. Now we’ll have to track the bastards back to their hidey-hole. Put the idiot who fired that shotgun on point.”

There wasn’t a “sir” anywhere in McKee’s evaluation—nor were the orders framed as suggestions. But Fox didn’t notice or, if he did, chose to ignore the blatant breach of military protocol. The little sergeant with the diagonal scar across her face was right, and he knew it.

Orders were given, sixteen marines appeared out of the bush, and Blonski was put on point. It was a well-deserved punishment. But had Fox considered such subtleties, he would have noticed that McKee was right behind the private, telling him what to look for as they followed a trail of broken branches through the forest.

The Hudathans were moving quickly, which meant the humans had to do so as well or risk losing contact. But that was dangerous. Would the Hudathans stop at some point and lay an ambush of their own? McKee knew she would.

Then, as if that weren’t bad enough, there was the old saw “Be careful what you ask for.” Assuming they found the Hudathan hideout, how many aliens would they have to face? The Hudathan fleet had been forced to withdraw when Admiral Poe and his ships arrived, leaving pockets of troops here and there all across the surface of Orlo II. Most of the groups consisted of no more than a dozen soldiers, but McKee knew some of them were larger. And if the marines ran into a company-strength force of Hudathans, they would be SOL. And so would she.

McKee’s train of thought was interrupted as the trees began to thin, and a river appeared up ahead. Blonski was still moving forward when she grabbed the back of his harness and jerked the marine to a halt. “Get down … We’ll low crawl forward.”

McKee turned and motioned for the rest of the patrol to take cover before falling in next to Blonski. The marine had been taught how to low crawl in boot camp and put on an excellent demonstration of how to do it as he placed his weapon across the top of his forearms and elbowed his way forward. It wasn’t long before they had a good view of the river. It was sluggish, pea-soup green, and, judging from the boot prints on the opposite bank, not very deep.

All things considered, the ford was an excellent place for an ambush. Once the marines were exposed, and knee deep in water, they would make excellent targets. McKee heard what sounded like a wild boar charging through the forest and knew Fox was coming forward. He landed heavily. “Sergeant.”

“Sir.”

“What have we got?”

“This would be a good place for the Hudathans to set an ambush, sir. I suggest that you send a fire team upstream. Once they’re around the bend and out of sight, they can cross, work their way back down, and let us know what they see.”

“We’ll flank ’em!” Fox said happily. “That’ll teach the bastards.”

“And one more thing,” McKee added. “If the shit hits the fan, tell them to pop some smoke. It would be a shame to shoot them.”

Fox’s eyebrows rose. “Yes, good point; I’ll take care of it.”

The next half hour passed slowly as a team of four marines crossed the river and felt their way east. What if she was wrong? What if there was no ambush, and the Hudathans managed to escape due to excessive caution on her part? All manner of doubts chased each other through McKee’s mind until a male voice sounded in her helmet. “Charlie-Three to Charlie-Six … It looks like the ridge heads were waiting for us. But they’re gone now. Over.”

McKee felt a sense of satisfaction mixed with disappointment. She’d been correct—but the enemy had opened up a lead by now. There was one good thing, however, and that was the possibility that the Hudathans believed they were safe and would hightail it home without setting any more ambushes. Especially with night coming on.

It felt right to McKee, and she said as much to Fox, who had come to believe that the legionnaire was infallible. So the patrol crossed the river, located the game trail the Hudathans were using, and began to jog.

Blonski had been rotated to the rear by then, but McKee was still in the two slot, and grateful for the fact that she was in good shape. The rain had stopped, the air was humid, and she was carrying forty pounds of gear. That was a lot for a woman who weighed one-twenty-five, but months of combat had strengthened her, and McKee knew she could run the jarheads into the ground. Branches whipped past her helmet, patches of blue flashed by overhead, and the rasp of her own breathing filled her ears.

They ran for fifteen minutes before McKee held up a hand and cut the pace to a walk. They had made up some of the time lost earlier. That’s what McKee figured, and she didn’t want to run pell-mell into an enemy encampment.

The concern was validated ten minutes later when the marine on point spotted a trip wire. McKee made a production out of stepping over it so that the men and women behind her would see and do likewise.

Moving with care, she led the patrol off the trail and into the bush. Once they were clear, McKee signaled for the platoon to turn south. It was a delicate business. One sensor missed, one careless move, and all hell would break loose. McKee thought about Blonski and hoped that his safety was on.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, a clearing appeared up ahead, and McKee motioned for the marines to get down. As Fox came forward, he made hardly any noise at all. His voice was little more than a whisper. “Sergeant.”

“Sir.”

“What have we got?”

“Looks like an improvised fort, sir. They put it on stilts, so the larger predators couldn’t reach them.”

Fox peered through a screen of vegetation. The platform was made out of logs, was well constructed, and a good twenty feet off the ground. It was impossible to see the Hudathans unless they approached the waist-high wall that surrounded the platform. “That thing is quite a ways off the ground,” Fox observed. “Do the local predators get that big?”

McKee remembered firing down into a triangular skull as a monster jumped up at her. “Yes, sir. They’re only about ten feet tall, but they can jump at least five feet into the air. And they absorb bullets like a sponge.”

“Sorry I asked,” Fox replied. “So, what do you recommend?”

McKee eyed the structure through her binoculars. “We’re in a tough position, sir. They have the high ground. If we fire on them from here, they could respond with heavy weapons. What if they have a mortar or a crew-served machine gun? And if we charge out into the open, they will cut us down in no time. An air strike might be in order. Of course, we aren’t likely to capture any prisoners that way.”

Fox was silent for a moment, then he spoke. “Those are good points, Sergeant. But what if we use rockets to blow two of those supports away? That would dump the platform and the Hudathans onto the ground.”

McKee was not only pleasantly surprised but a bit embarrassed. She should have thought of using rockets and hadn’t. “That’s a good idea, sir.”

Fox looked surprised. “It is? Yes, well, of course it is.”

It took the better part of fifteen minutes to prepare. Then, with everyone in position, Fox gave the order. “Fire!”

The team only had one launcher, but Corporal Yada had the moniker “Rocket Man” for a reason, and the first missile was dead-on. There was a flash of light followed by a resonant BOOM, and a series of sharp, cracking sounds. As the smoke cleared, McKee saw that the platform’s remaining legs were keeping it aloft. The Hudathans were firing by then, but wildly, since they weren’t sure which direction the rocket had come from.

But Yada wasn’t done. He loosed another missile, it struck its mark, and the explosion threw splinters of wood in every direction. One of them whirred past McKee’s head. Then came a series of creaking-cracking sounds as the west end of the platform collapsed, hit the ground hard, and sent all manner of things spilling out into the clearing. Some of them were Hudathans, and McKee knew that the time had come.

The rifle was ready, and as soon as McKee had one of the troopers in her crosshairs, she fired. The dart hit just below the Hudathan’s massive neck but missed bare flesh, and there was no way to know if the knockout juice was entering his circulatory system. So McKee fired again, saw the alien slap his neck, and knew the needle had gone deep.

But what if the Hudathan had been injected with two doses? Would it kill him? The question remained unanswered as the soldier staggered, took two uncertain steps, and collapsed.

Meanwhile, a very lively firefight was underway. So McKee pulled her Axer Arms L-40 assault rifle around, brought the weapon up, and added her fire to all the rest.

Explosions marched through the brush as one of the aliens opened fire with an automatic grenade launcher. Someone screamed, and someone else yelled, “Kill that bastard!” as dozens of rounds peppered the Hudathan’s body. He flinched but refused to fall.

That was when Yada settled the matter with a rocket. It hit the trooper dead center, blew him in half, and sent chunks of bloody meat flying through the air.

McKee heard Fox yell, “Charge!” realized that the crazy jarhead was on his feet, and had no choice but to join him. Together with half a dozen marines they marched into the smoke, firing as they went. A Hudathan appeared in front of McKee, took a burst of 4.7mm rounds in the face, and fell over backward. She had to step on the monster’s chest in order to advance.

Meanwhile, having been flanked by the rest of the patrol, the Hudathans were taking heavy casualties. They rallied, or tried to, but it wasn’t enough. Blonski killed the last Hudathan with three blasts from his shotgun.

As the last of the smoke drifted away, an eerie silence settled over the clearing. Fox scanned the area as if seeing it for the first time. His voice was little more than a croak. “Casualties?”

“Two dead, three wounded,” a sergeant answered.

“And the enemy?”

“Seven dead and one alive,” McKee replied, as she knelt next to the unconscious Hudathan. “Let’s get some restraints on him. He’ll be pissed when he wakes up.”

“You heard the sergeant,” Fox said. “And secure the perimeter. Who knows? Half of the bastards could be out on patrol. What if they return?”

McKee grinned. An officer had been born.

2

Life is like a river that carries us where it will.

AUTHOR UNKNOWNA Droi folk sayingStandard year unknown

PLANET ORLO II

Darkness had started to fall by the time the area was secured. So Fox ordered the platoon to set up a defensive barricade using materials salvaged from the Hudathan platform. The night passed uneventfully, and the next day dawned bright and clear.

Rather than force the marines to march the prisoner back through the Big Green, the brass dispatched one of the Legion’s fly-forms to pick them up. Such aircraft came in all sorts of shapes and sizes depending on the mission they were intended to carry out. But all had one thing in common, and that was the fact that they were piloted by cyborgs rather than bio bods.

Much had been written about the relative merits of all three forms of control. And all three had their advantages. But since cyborgs were literally wired into their aircraft and capable of thinking in ways that computers couldn’t, McKee thought they were superior.

In any case, she was glad to see the twin-engine Atlas thunder in over the clearing, circle the area, and prepare to land. Flying beat the hell out of walking, and McKee was looking forward to enjoying some downtime in the city of Riversplit. Would John be there? She hoped so, but knew she couldn’t count on it. Captain John Avery, now Major John Avery, had been appointed to Colonel Rylund’s staff. So if their relationship had been difficult before, it would be even more so now.

McKee’s thoughts were interrupted as the VTOL landed and blew dust in every direction. Then, once the ramp was down, a detachment of marines began the process of poking, prodding, and pushing the recalcitrant Hudathan up a ramp and into the fly-form’s cargo compartment. After the POW had been brought aboard and strapped down, Fox ordered the perimeter guards onto the aircraft, took one last look around, and gestured toward the ramp. “You first, Sergeant.”

McKee knew the marines had a saying, “Officers eat last,” which extended to lots of other things as well. Fox was determined to be the last person to board the VTOL. She gave him her best salute, waited for the acknowledgment, and made her way up into the cargo compartment. The loadmaster smiled. “Morning, Sarge … Welcome aboard.”

The cheerful greeting was a reminder of how far she had come in a short period of time. Less than a year had elapsed since Empress Ophelia had murdered her parents and sent synths to find Cat Carletto. But she had escaped and joined the Legion under the nom de guerre Andromeda McKee.

And thanks to the Legion’s history as a refuge for criminals and misfits, as well as its refusal to share personnel records with the Imperial government, the only person who knew her true identify was John Avery. Would he be waiting for her? She hoped so.

Having taken her place on a fold-down seat and strapped in, McKee closed her eyes and soon fell asleep. It was the thump of the landing gear touching down that woke her. Then it was time to leave the VTOL as a team of specially trained Hudathan wranglers came aboard. She didn’t envy them their task.

The city of Riversplit had been built on a hill. Not as a defensive measure, but to protect it from the seasonal floods that plagued the area back before the dam was built, and to afford residents a view of the lush countryside. The result was thousands of homes and businesses that sat on terraces carved out of the hillsides, lots of twisting streets, and citizens with strong thighs.

That was before the civil war that the Legion had been sent to put down. Now, after months of fighting, Riversplit was a maze of shot-up buildings, cratered streets, and fire-ravaged neighborhoods. Many of the street signs had been destroyed, but McKee was familiar with the city and knew where she was going. Her company, which was part of the second squadron of the famed 1st Regiment Etranger de Cavalerie, or 1st REC, was headquartered in what had been a church. It was located about halfway up the hill, so she was in for a slog.

It took fifteen minutes to reach the building, most of which had survived a direct hit from an artillery shell and the subsequent fire. McKee said hello to the lone sentry, made her way in through a pair of double doors, and came to a halt in front of an ornate desk. Had it been “borrowed” from the rectory? Probably. A burly sergeant major was ensconced behind it now—and McKee had never seen him before. That wasn’t too surprising since Echo Company had suffered heavy casualties, and replacements were coming in every day. According to the nameplate sitting in front of him, his name was Owens. He looked up, saw her tag, and stood to shake hands. “Good morning, Sergeant McKee … I’m the new company sergeant major. The name’s Owens. How was your stroll in the bush?”

McKee shrugged. “Mission accomplished. We captured a ridge head.”

Owens nodded. “Well done. You’ll be pleased to know that someone up the chain of command feels that you deserve a two-day pass. So get out of here while the getting’s good. When you return, we’ll talk about which platoon to put you in. The whole company is being reorganized, so everything is up for grabs.”

McKee nodded. “Thanks, Sergeant Major … I’ll track you down.”

McKee was looking forward to a shower and some additional sack time as she made her way down into the basement and surrendered the air rifle to the corporal in charge of the company’s weapons. Then, after returning upstairs, she noticed the bulletin board. It was covered with slips of paper. Most were addressed to individuals and arranged in alpha order. Two were addressed to her. The first was from a fellow legionnaire who was both a friend and a pain in the ass. It read, “Hey, McKee … Where the hell are you? I’m in the slammer. Come get me out. Larkin.”

The second said, “McKee, how ’bout a beer when you get back? Meet me at the usual place.” And it was signed, “J,” as in “John.”

McKee felt her heart start to beat a little faster. There was no “usual place.” Not really. But there was an apartment where their one and only night together had been spent.

McKee stuffed both notes into a pocket, walked out into harsh sunlight, and began the hike that would take her around to the north side of the hill and what she hoped would be a very special reunion.

Efforts to clear tons of debris out of the streets had begun, but it was going to take years to rebuild the city, and the citizens were understandably resentful. Most were rebels who had been locked in battle with the loyalist militia when the Legion arrived. Then the Hudathans landed.

It wasn’t clear how much the aliens knew about human politics, but Avery believed the ridge heads had been intent on exploiting the situation on Orlo II, and McKee figured he was right. In any case, the locals had been invaded twice. Once by the Hudathans and once by the Legion. That meant they had suffered a great deal and felt a sense of resentment toward all off-worlders. So McKee understood the dirty looks, the muttered insults, and the obvious anger in the eyes of those she passed on the street. None of which boded well for the days, weeks, and months ahead. If fighting the rebs had been hard, then occupying the planet was likely to be even worse. So McKee felt a sense of relief as she stopped in front of a lightly damaged building, took a quick look around, and went inside. It felt good to get in off the street.

A narrow flight of stairs carried her up to the second floor, where a hallway led her to the extremely expensive apartment John had rented once before. There was a note on the door. “C. Please come in.”

Avery liked to call her by her real name when they were alone even though McKee felt mixed emotions when he did. Cat was a creature of the past, but to deny her was to deny her family and the way in which they had been murdered. So McKee put all of that aside as she knocked on the door, turned the knob, and pushed it open.

Soft music was playing, and like most homes on the hill, the apartment was equipped with blackout curtains. They were pulled so that the only light in the simply furnished main room came from more than a dozen candles. They flickered as the breeze from the hallway hit them. McKee paused to look around. “John?”

“I’m in the bathroom.”

McKee closed the door, put her assault weapon on a table, and made her way back to the bathroom. The door was open, and more candles were burning. And there, sitting in the tub, was Major John Avery. He smiled as he raised a glass of wine. “Hi, Cat. Come on in. The water’s fine.”

“You arranged for the pass.”

“Yes, I did.”

“What if I missed the note on the bulletin board?”

“Then you would have found the one in your hooch. Now stop talking and take your clothes off. That’s an order.”

McKee’s eyes locked with his, and a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “And if I refuse?”

“That would mean extra duty—in bed.”

McKee laughed. There was a chair. She sat down in order to remove her boots. They were followed by the pistol belt and her uniform. Then, clad only in Legion-issue bra and panties, she approached the tub. “Oh, no you don’t,” Avery said sternly. “You were ordered to remove everything.”

McKee made a face as she reached back to undo the bra. The panties were next. Avery nodded approvingly. “That’s better. Much better. Come here.”

McKee put a foot in the water, found it to be to her liking, and stepped into the tub. Avery’s arms were waiting for her. Slippery skin met slippery skin as they came together, lips met, and water sloshed onto the floor.

One thing led to another, and, before long, McKee found herself making love with an altogether enjoyable urgency. The climax came quickly and left both of them momentarily sated. “That was good,” Avery said, as they lay side by side. “Very good. Have I mentioned that I love you?”

“Once or twice.”

“Only once or twice? I’ll try to do better.”

“See that you do.”

His voice was muffled. “I like your breasts.”

“So it would seem. Be careful … You might drown.”

Avery laughed as he came up for air. “Yes, but what a wonderful way to die.”

That led to another kiss, and, a minute or two later, McKee found herself sitting astride Avery. His hands roamed her back as their foreheads touched. McKee shuddered. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t touch them.”

Avery had been there on the morning when McKee had been tied to an X-shaped rack and publicly whipped. The result of that whipping was the raised scars that crisscrossed her back. So Avery removed his hands from her back and cupped her breasts instead. “You’re beautiful Cat … And that includes your back.”

McKee didn’t want to cry, but the tears came anyway. She had once been known for her beauty. Now her face was marred by a terrible scar—and she would never be able to wear a backless dress again. It shouldn’t matter, that’s what she told herself, but it did. So McKee cried, and Avery held her. Eventually, as the water began to cool, the sobs died away. She wiped the last of the tears away. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I understand. What you need is some lunch.”

Avery got up, helped McKee out of the tub, and gave her a scratchy towel. Once she was dry, McKee slipped into a robe that was at least two sizes too big for her. Then she made her way out into the living room, where a glass of wine was waiting. “Have a seat,” Avery said, “and I’ll bring you something to eat.”

Lunch consisted of fresh food that had been flown in from the countryside now that the Hudathan siege had been lifted. It wasn’t fancy. Just some bread, cheese, and fruit. But it tasted wonderful to McKee, who was used to a diet of MREs.

So they ate and did the best they could to avoid the subject on both of their minds, which was the future. But by that time, McKee had learned to read most, if not all, of Avery’s moods, and knew he was holding something back. “Okay, John … It’s time to get whatever it is off your chest.”

Avery produced a crooked smile. “It shows?”

“Yes, it shows.”

Avery sighed. “I have some news for you. It’s good news. Most people would think so anyway.”

“But I won’t?”

“No, you won’t.”

“Okay, give it to me straight.”

Avery took a sip of caf. “Rylund put you in for the Imperial Order of Merit, and it was approved.”

McKee made a face. “You’re right. I don’t like it. I don’t deserve it for one thing. But, even if I did, the last thing I want is a medal from the people who murdered my family.”

Avery nodded. “I knew you’d say that. Or something similar to it. But it gets worse.”

“Worse? How could it?”

“They plan to give you the IOM on Earth. As part of a televised ceremony.”

McKee’s unhappiness morphed into fear. “That would be terrible! Think about it … Someone might recognize me.”

“I have thought about it,” Avery assured her. “But there’s no way out. Earth’s governor is slated to present the award, and that’s that. This is an opportunity for Ophelia’s government to take credit for the victory over the Hudathans, and they aren’t about to pass it up.”

“So, what can I do?”

“Follow orders,” Avery replied. “I know there’s a risk, but you look very different now. Even Ophelia’s synths don’t recognize you.”

That was true. Thanks to the scar, the Legion-style buzz cut, and a leaner look, Andromeda McKee bore only a slight resemblance to Cat Carletto. “So I accept the medal … Then what?”

“Then you’re headed for Algeron,” Avery said heavily.

“And you?”

“I’m staying here—with Colonel Rylund.”

A long silence followed. Both of them had known that some sort of separation was coming. That was inevitable, and good in a strange sort of way because officers weren’t supposed to fraternize with enlisted people. Much less have sex with them. And if they continued to see each other, it would only be a matter of time before someone noticed and ratted them out. Avery spoke first. “It’s going to difficult,” he said. “But all we need to do is stick to our plan. Assuming you want to, that is.”

The plan involved saving as much as they could, serving out their enlistments, and meeting on a rim world, where they would live happily ever after. McKee knew it wasn’t likely to turn out that way. Too many things could go wrong. But the plan was something to cling to, something to dream about, and something was better than nothing.

McKee allowed herself to be drawn into Avery’s arms, returned his kisses, and took pleasure in the lovemaking that followed. But deep inside, and in spite of her best efforts, she felt a sense of foreboding. Because her happiness was there in her arms—and a single bullet could take it away.

* * *

Clouds were hiding the sun, the temperature had dropped slightly, and McKee could feel occasional raindrops as she made her way uphill from the company’s HQ to what had been Riversplit’s jail before the war. Now it served as the city jail, a place to house POWs of various types, and the equivalent of a military stockade.

A barricade had been erected in front of the facility, and a squad of marines were on duty behind it. A sergeant checked McKee’s ID and read the release that Avery had signed before waving her through the checkpoint.

Once inside, McKee had to surrender all of her weapons and pass through a scanner before being asked to show the paperwork all over again. Then and only then was she allowed to enter the reception area. The room was large, the walls were covered with government-issue green paint, and the furniture was bolted to the floor.

McKee presented the release form to a uniformed jailer, who read it, instructed her to take a seat, and left. With nothing else to do, McKee let her thoughts drift to Avery, the painful goodbye, and her uncertain future. Her reverie was interrupted by the clang of a door and the rattle of chains as Desmond Larkin shuffled into the reception area.

Larkin was a bully, a gambler, and a heavy drinker. But he was also fearless in battle and, in his own weird way, a loyal friend. McKee had saved his life on Drang. And according to Larkin’s way of thinking, that created a bond that couldn’t be broken. So he had taken it upon himself to watch her back, even though she hadn’t asked him to do so, and frequently wished that he would stop.

Having spotted her, Larkin’s face lit up. He had a crew cut, a prominent brow, and beady eyes. His chin was square and eternally thrust forward, as if daring people to hit it. “McKee! What took you so long? These bastards had me in lockdown. Can you believe that shit?”

McKee could believe that shit. And figured the jailers had been given plenty of provocation. “Shut the hell up,” she said, “before you get yourself into even more trouble.”

McKee was on her feet by then. “I need a thumbprint,” the guard said, as he gave her a data pad.

McKee placed her right thumb on the screen, saw a light flash green, and handed the device back. That was the guard’s cue to press a remote. Larkin’s chains made a rattling noise as they hit the floor. “That’s better,” Larkin said as he rubbed his wrists. “What a shithole. I should sue the bastards.”

“You do that,” McKee replied, as they walked toward the door. “In the meantime, we’re going to pack our gear and get ready to lift at 0600 tomorrow.”

“Lift?” Larkin inquired as he paused to collect his personal belongings. “Where are we headed?”

“Earth.”

Larkin uttered a whoop of joy. “That’s wonderful! I always wanted to go there. What outfit?”

“No outfit. The governor is going to give you a Military Commendation Medal for killing a whole lot of Hudathans. And you were promoted to corporal. Before you wound up in the slammer.”

“No shit? A corporal?”

“Yes,” McKee said, as she recovered her weapons. “Although I predict that you’ll be a private again someday.”

“Thanks, McKee,” Larkin said, as if the whole thing had been her doing. “You’re the greatest.”

McKee sighed. Some things never changed.

* * *

It was raining as McKee and Larkin carried their B-1 bags out onto Pad 47. The navy shuttle seemed to crouch under the glare of some pole-mounted lights and glistened as water ran off its metal flanks. A slicker-clad chief petty officer was waiting to greet them. “McKee? Larkin? I’m Chief Weller. Haul your gear up the ramp and take a seat. You’re the only passengers we have this morning.”

The legionnaires did as they were told. Most of the cargo area was taken up by crates of military gear destined for Earth—and that included six carefully draped coffins. McKee had seen dozens of legionnaires, marines, and militia buried in jungle graves over the last couple of months and wondered what made the six of them so special. Family connections perhaps? Or were they going to be used in the same way she was going to be used? As props in a propaganda campaign.

Having surrendered the B-1 bags to a crewman, the legionnaires selected fold-down seats. Rather than listen to one of Larkin’s rants, McKee chose to insert her earbuds and listen to a book titled The History of Algeron. It had been written by one of the Legion’s officers with help from a Naa scholar named Thinkhard Longwrite. The idea was to kill time and learn about the world she was going to serve on after the visit to Earth. It was by all accounts a strange place, governed by extremely short days, divided by an equatorial mountain range, and inhabited by a race called the Naa.

No one was listening as the copilot read off the usual preflight spiel, and the shuttle began to vibrate and pushed itself into the air. McKee hit PAUSE and closed her eyes. She was leaving a great deal on Orlo II, including dead comrades, John Avery, and a part of herself.

Then the moment was over as the shuttle’s drives took hold, the ship began to climb, and a heavy weight settled onto her chest and shoulders. One phase of her life was complete, and another had begun.

It took the better part of four hours to enter orbit, match velocities with the Imperialus, and slip into one of the liner’s landing bays. An additional half hour was required to close the outer hatches and pressurize the space. Then and only then were McKee and Larkin allowed to tromp down the metal ramp to a blast-scarred deck.

A perky hostess was waiting to greet them. She was dressed in a blue blazer, scarf, and a conservatively cut skirt. “Sergeant McKee? Corporal Larkin? My name is Julie. Welcome aboard. Anton will take care of your bags.”

Anton was a uniformed android. McKee thought it was silly to put clothes on animals and robots, but plenty of people disagreed. Anton wore a red pillbox hat, a smart waist-length jacket, and matching trousers. Each B-1 bag weighed eighty or ninety pounds. But Anton had no difficulty plucking them off the deck and loading them onto an auto cart.

Then, with Julie leading the way, the group entered a lift. How many times had Cat Carletto been given such treatment? Hundreds, if not more. But Andromeda McKee wasn’t used to being coddled and felt self-conscious.

The elevator stopped on deck five. The lowest and therefore cheapest level the liner had to offer. A far cry from the top deck and the amenities that Cat had taken for granted.

Julie led the legionnaires through a maze of corridors to a couple of side-by-side inner cabins. She opened 507 and invited McKee to step inside. The compartment was so small there was barely enough room for a bed, wardrobe, and a tiny bathroom. That was all the Imperial government was willing to pay for.

But McKee was thrilled to have a cabin of her own and was looking forward to a chance to sleep in, take as many showers as she wanted to, and wear clean clothes every day. Larkin’s thoughts lay elsewhere. “So,” he said, “where can a guy get a drink?”

“The Imperialus has seven bars and five restaurants, all of which serve alcohol,” Julie replied. “The purser is located on deck three. He’ll be happy to accept a deposit or a credit chip.”

The mention of money he didn’t have sent Larkin off in a new direction. “What about gambling?”

“The casino is on three,” Julie told him. “As is the Starlight Room, which is open around the clock. The meals you eat there are included in the price of the cabin. And you can dine in the other restaurants for an additional charge. Do you have any other questions? No? Then I’ll bid you bon voyage. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to make the trip more pleasant.”

“Let’s explore,” Larkin suggested, as Julie and Anton departed. “I want to see the casino.”

“Go ahead,” McKee said. “I’d like to get settled first. And Larkin … ”

“Yeah?”

“Stay out of trouble. This isn’t a troopship. If you get thrown into the brig or whatever they call it, I won’t be able to get you out.”

Larkin made a face. “Relax. We’re heroes! Everybody loves a hero.” And with that, he was gone.

* * *

Ross Royer had been on the Imperialus for five days prior to the stop at Orlo II. And that meant he was getting bored. His usual antidote for boredom was to find an attractive woman, use her, and move on. Something he had successfully done dozens of times. So as he left his suite, and made his way down to deck three, he was on the lookout for what he thought of as targets. Not older women, or teenage girls, because both were far too easy.