You will kill ten of our men, and we will kill one of yours, and in the end it will be you who tires of it.
HO CHI MINH
Standard year 1969
PLANET ALGERON
Having discovered that FOB Victor occupied sacred ground, Major Hasbro conferred with General Vale. A lengthy discussion ensued. It wasn’t easy to convince Vale that the existing base should be abandoned, but Hasbro succeeded. Once the conversation was over, Hasbro directed his battalion to begin work on a new Forward Operating Base to be located west of Victor, thereby restoring the sacred ground under FOB Victor to the Naa.
It was still going to be necessary to dispatch troops to Doothdown to recover stolen weapons and send the villagers a message. But, by freeing Springsong instead of destroying the community, Hasbro hoped to demonstrate that the Legion could be merciful. Would the strategy work? It was common knowledge that Colonel Bodry didn’t think so, but time would tell.
So as the crawlers cut a road into the flanks of hill two, and the construction droids prepared the top for the prepackaged fort that would be dropped onto the new FOB, Dero’s legionnaires were sent out to patrol the three-mile-deep defensive zone that surrounded the site. That meant long, frequently tedious patrols, and a cat-and-mouse game with the Naa scouts sent to watch them.
What remained of McKee’s squad had been folded into Grisso’s, resulting in a temporary demotion to assistant team leader. And that was fine with McKee, who had a lot of respect for the other noncom and welcomed what amounted to a vacation from her normal responsibilities.
In the meantime, the work on what had been designated as FOB Kilo continued. The spiral road up to the top of hill two was completed, soil was fused to create two landing pads, and “the package” containing all of the construction materials required for the structure was brought in by heavy lifter.
Then, once the necessary materials were on-site, the sappers and their robots went to work putting everything together. Their tools rattled, roared, and banged until McKee returned from patrol one day to discover that the low, mostly subsurface bunker was nearly complete.
To celebrate, Major Hasbro had eight cases of beer flown in along with a mostly hot meal from Fort Camerone’s mess hall. The latter was a real treat after days of field rations.
McKee slept well that night. She dreamed that she was with Avery, and that they were climbing a mist-shrouded mountain. They didn’t know how high it was—only that they needed to reach the top. And they were near the summit when her alarm sounded.
Dero delivered the news at morning muster. Because the FOB was nearly complete, and there were plenty of infantry on hand, the platoon had been recalled and was departing that morning. That was good news because spartan though Fort Camerone was, it beat living in the field.
Without crawlers, trucks, and foot soldiers to slow them down, the platoon was able to make excellent time and arrived in Naa Town only six hours after leaving FOB Kilo. Fifteen minutes later, they were inside the fort. It took more than an hour to perform routine maintenance on the borgs, clean their gear, and put it away. Then they were free to shower and head to chow. McKee spent a good fifteen minutes standing under the hot water—so Larkin was already in the mess hall when she arrived. “So,” he said, as she put her tray on the table. “Have you heard the scan?”
“Nope. Fill me in.”
“Well,” Larkin said through a mouthful of food, “something big is in the works. And the rumors must be true because all sorts of units are on active standby. That includes ours.”
“So what’s the brass up to?”
“Nobody knows for sure,” Larkin replied. “But I’ve heard all sorts of theories. The most popular one is that we’re going to launch a major offensive against the tribes. A take-and-hold operation.”
McKee shrugged. “We get paid the same no matter what we do.” That was true, but she’d been hoping for some downtime. There was the matter of Travers to deal with.
McKee went to bed early, slept fairly well, and was in a good mood when she and the rest of the company fell in for morning muster. A gathering that usually consisted of a roll call, announcements, and fifteen minutes’ worth of calisthenics. And as Lieutenant Dero and the other platoon leaders took their places, McKee assumed everything would follow the usual script. But then something awful happened. Their company commander, a woman named Sabatha, arrived with Lieutenant—no Captain Wesley Heacox in tow. The bastard had been promoted!
McKee felt a sudden emptiness in the pit of her stomach as the officers stopped and turned to face the company. The company sergeant yelled, “Ten-hut!” And, with the exception of the quads, they all came to attention.
“At ease,” Sabatha said, as her eyes swept the first rank. She had a buzz cut, a chiseled countenance, and a lean body. “I have an announcement to make. Captain Heacox will take command of Bravo Company as of 0900 this morning. He’s an experienced officer, and we’re lucky to have him.”
Sabatha smiled. “And I have some bad news for those of you who are happy to see me go. I got a bump to major and will have the honor to serve as the battalion’s XO.”
That generated laughter and applause from everyone except McKee. She remembered Heacox’s parting words: “I won’t forget.” Now, and for the foreseeable future, he could work full-time on making her life miserable.
It was Heacox’s turn to speak. He blinked three times. “I would like to congratulate Major Sabatha on her promotion—and assure you that I will do my best to live up to the standard she has set. Platoon leaders will report to my office at 0930. Sergeant Major? You can exercise the troops.”
Rather than stay and perform calisthenics with the troops, Heacox followed Sabatha out of the area. McKee felt a sense of hopelessness as the jumping jacks began. Bad things were going to happen—and there wasn’t a damned thing she could do about it.
• • •
Private Roy Sykes felt a sense of hope as he spidered into the office. He had been schmoozing one of the clerks for weeks in hopes of getting assigned to the 1st Battalion, 2nd Foreign Engineer Regiment, so he could get close to Sergeant Andromeda McKee. And maybe, just maybe, the stylus pusher would have some good news for him. “Hey, Amboy . . . How’s it going?”
“There’s something big in the wind, Sykes. So we’re busy as hell.”
“Oh, yeah? What’s up?”
“Can’t say . . . The loot would have me for lunch if I did. So what can I do for you?”
“Same as always. Any openings in the 2nd?”
“And same answer, which is ‘no.’ Hold one.” Amboy touched an icon, waited for a page to load, and stared at it. “You’re close though . . . There’s only one person ahead of you in line.”
“Who’s the lucky borg?”
“His name is Tanaka. Do you know him?”
“Nope,” Sykes answered. “Thanks.”
“No prob,” Amboy replied. “I’ll see you around.”
Sykes spidered out into the hall. He’d been assigned to work in the motor pool while waiting for a permanent slot. And his boss, a corporal named Biggs, would get his shorts in a knot if Sykes showed up late. The work, which entailed washing muddy crawlers, was not only boring but beneath him. Hell, a class two bot could do that.
So Sykes went to work and did what Biggs told him to do. But he was thinking, problem solving might be a better way to describe it, and by the time the shift was over, he had both a plan and the tools required to execute it.
The first step was to locate Tanaka, and that was easy. A quick check of the base directory revealed that the lucky SOB had been assigned to assist the fort’s sky pilots. So chances were that Tanaka spent his days dusting altars or something. A cushy job if there ever was one.
The next step was to tap into the grapevine in order to get the scan on the T-man, as he was known to his buddies. It didn’t take long to discover that Tanaka liked to frequent the same bar where Sykes and Travers had met. Not to drink but to hook up to the joint’s Dream Master 2000, a machine that could stimulate his brain in a way that would provide him with virtual sex. The only kind a borg could have. And that, Sykes decided, would provide the chance he needed.
The opportunity to act on his plan came the following “day,” meaning the twenty-four-hour cycle the Legion used to mark time rather than the short rotations natural to Algeron. His shift was over and, since he’d been granted a pass, it was easy to follow Tanaka into Naa Town. The sun was up, and a steady stream of legionnaires were leaving the fort. So even if Tanaka looked back, there wouldn’t be any reason to take notice of another spider form.
The sky was gray, the air was cold, and the mud was frozen solid under Sykes’s “feet.” The fact that it was daytime meant it would probably be dark when Tanaka left the bar. But if not, Sykes would try again later.
An ice ball exploded as it hit Sykes’s torso, and a group of teenage cubs shouted insults while they waited to see what the off-worlder would do. But Sykes knew better than to chase them into the maze of Naa dwellings. Because once he was cut off from the other legionnaires, he could be subjected to a hail of ice balls, rocks, or worse. No, it made sense to ignore the provocation and stay on the main path.
True to form, Tanaka went straight to The Bunker and disappeared. Sykes followed the other cyborg inside and took a look around. Sure enough, there was Tanaka, over in the corner where cyborgs could hook up to the Dream Master 2000.
So Sykes chose a table where he could keep a vid pickup on the other legionnaire and ordered a beer. Or the essence of a beer, which came in a syringe and was injected into his life-support system via the same port medics could use to administer medications. The result was an instant buzz.
Another cyborg joined him, and the next hour passed pleasantly enough, as Sykes listened to war stories, and waited for the T-man to leave. Fortunately, the latest tale had just come to a conclusion when Tanaka unhooked himself from the machine and went over to pay the tab. That was Sykes’s signal to excuse himself and leave the bar.
It was dark and even colder than before as Sykes made his way up the path. There were no streetlights so Sykes activated his night vision as he paused to take a look around. The ghostly green glow made everything look different. He was pleased to see that the cold had driven everything indoors except for a couple of foraging pooks. The stage was set. Now all he had to do was kill Tanaka, return to the fort, and wait. By this time the next day, he would be a proud member of the 2nd. That would put him within reach of McKee and keep Travers off his back. Sykes slipped into an alley and began what should be a short wait.
Tanaka’s “feet” made scritching sounds as he approached. Sykes waited until his victim was in sight before stepping out of the alley. Tanaka said, “Wha?” and was starting to turn when Sykes triggered the shock mod and sent six thousand kilovolts into the other cyborg’s body. The goal was to fry Tanaka’s com gear, dump his processor, and stun his nervous system all at once. And it worked.
Having grabbed the helpless borg with two of his four tool arms, Sykes jerked Tanaka into the shadows. The high-speed drill had been “borrowed” from the motor pool and made a high-pitched whine as he squeezed the handle.
Tanaka began to struggle as his nervous system recovered, and his onboard computer came back online. Sykes swore as a tool hand went for his sensor package and applied the titanium-nitride-coated bit to the other borg’s alloy housing. It sped through alloy, then slowed as it hit steel.
Tanaka understood what was happening by then. So he fought desperately as the drill began to penetrate his armored brain box. But Sykes still had the advantage and was careful to maintain it as the titanium bit tunneled through steel, a bioliner, and sank into the soft tissue beyond. The T-man jerked convulsively as the tool pulped a section of his brain. Then the spider form went limp. The one-sided battle was over.
Sykes no longer had a need to breathe but felt as if he’d been holding his breath as he withdrew the drill and paused to listen. A door slammed somewhere, there was a burst of laughter as some drunk bio bods staggered past, and repellers roared as a fly-form passed directly overhead. But there were no cries of alarm.
Still, Sykes didn’t want to spend any more time at the crime scene than he had to, so he put the drill away and hurried to remove a power saw from the same storage compartment. It screamed briefly, and sparks flew, as the blade sliced through one of Tanaka’s tool arms. A total of eight quick cuts were required to reduce the cyborg to a pile of parts.
Would the scrappers discover the dismembered cyborg? And run off with his components? Hell yes, they would. And nobody would be allowed to visit Naa Town for the next week while the MPs scoured the place looking for the perpetrators. Maybe they would find some of Tanaka or maybe they wouldn’t. Sykes didn’t care as he spidered out onto the main path and followed it up to the fort. The sally port opened, and the Legion of the Damned took him in.
• • •
Two days had passed since Heacox had assumed command of Bravo Company, and none of McKee’s fears had come true. So she was beginning to hope that the officer hadn’t noticed her, or that if he had, was willing to let bygones be bygones. That fantasy came to an abrupt end the morning of the third day, when Dero sent for her.
The platoon leader’s office was about the size of a large closet. But it was equipped with a door, and it was open when McKee arrived. She knocked three times, waited for the lieutenant to say “Enter,” and took three paces forward. Then, with her eyes focused on a point directly above Dero’s head, she announced herself. “Sergeant Andromeda McKee reporting as ordered, ma’am.”
Dero was seated behind a beat-up desk. She said, “At ease,” and pointed to the door. “Close that. Choose any chair you want.” There was only one, and McKee grinned as she sat on it.
“Okay,” Dero said, “we’re fairly well acquainted at this point . . . And your style is similar to my own—which is to say direct. So I’ll get right to the point. What’s the nature of the beef between Captain Heacox and you?”
This was delicate territory. Making critical statements about a superior officer could be interpreted as insubordination. And McKee could be brought up on charges.
On the other hand, she sensed that Dero wanted to help her—and it would be stupid to clam up completely. “We came out on the same ship,” McKee said. “The lieutenant, I mean captain and I had a disagreement about some personnel matters, and words were exchanged.”
Dero’s eyes narrowed. “I heard a story a few weeks ago. Something about bucket fights—and you kicking some sergeant’s ass. He reported to Heacox if I’m not mistaken.”
Dero was very well informed. But that shouldn’t come as a surprise since the Legion was like a small town. There were damned few secrets. McKee kept her face blank. “You know how stories are, ma’am. They’re rarely reliable.”
Dero grinned. “Okay, enough said. Here’s the situation. Heacox had a little tête-à-tête with me late yesterday. To say that he doesn’t like you would be an understatement. More than that, he wants to break you down to private. So I have orders to give you every shit detail I can think of, work you till you drop, and document every mistake you make.”
There was nothing McKee could say but, “Ma’am, yes, ma’am.”
“I will take the matter up with Major Sabatha if Heacox exceeds his authority, or tells me to do something illegal,” Dero added. “But he hasn’t so far. Do you read me?”
“Ma’am, yes, ma’am.”
“Good. We understand each other then. Do the best you can.”
McKee knew the officer had gone way out on a limb to warn her and felt a sense of gratitude. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.”
Dero glanced at her terminal and back. “You and your squad will have two hours of guard duty every day until further notice.”
Two hours was the amount of free time that most legionnaires could expect while not in the field. “The squad, too?” McKee inquired. “Why?”
Dero shrugged and seemed to choose her words with care. “I don’t know. But, after a while, your subordinates may come to blame you for their predicament. That would be something to guard against.”
Guard against? How would she do that? But McKee knew Dero had gone as far as she could. “Ma’am, yes, ma’am. Will that be all?”
“Yes. Dismissed.”
McKee stood, opened the door, and left the tiny office.
The extra guard duty began that evening, as did the bitching. “Why us?” Larkin wanted to know. McKee could have explained, wanted to explain, but didn’t. Because to do so would be to criticize a superior officer. And that, she suspected, was what Heacox was hoping for. So all she could do was lead her squad out to Observation Post Charlie and put in the necessary time.
It was cold, and a steady sleet was blowing in from the south. Thanks to the heat that Ree-Ree put out, the front of McKee’s body was warm, but her butt was cold and going to remain that way until they were back inside the fort.
Jaggi had returned to duty by that time, and two replacements had joined the squad. A bio bod named Olsen and a T-1 named Sykes. Olsen didn’t have much to say, but the cyborg was an extrovert and clearly determined to fit in. The new people were a plus since they didn’t realize that the squad was being mistreated. But McKee knew the honeymoon would soon be over.
There was hope, however. Everybody knew that shuttles had been bringing hundreds of mysterious crates down from orbit, all of the 2nd’s various battalions were prepping for something, and whatever that was might keep Heacox off her back. McKee hoped so as she stared out into the night, watching for any signs of movement. Because, despite Heacox’s motives, the task was real enough. It was important to keep the “wild Naa” away from the fort lest they learn too much about its defenses or launch a hit-and-run mortar attack.
But two hours of guard duty produced nothing more than a false alarm when something triggered a motion detector five hundred yards in front of them, and McKee sent half her squad out to take a look. They found animal tracks in the slush, then made their way back to the OP, and spent the next twenty minutes bitching about how cold it was.
The sun had just begun to rise when a squad from the first platoon came out to relieve them. The next couple of hours were spent on maintenance, gearing up for the training exercise scheduled for the next morning, and grabbing a bite to eat. Then it was time to hit the sack.
“Morning” came all too quickly. As was her practice, McKee rose before her squad, worked her way through some routine reports, and managed to snatch a quick bite to eat before muster. The training exercise had been dubbed “Operation Push” by some staff officer and involved escorting a group of engineers to a river, where they were supposed to build an imaginary bridge, while the Naa tried to attack them. Except that the Naa were being played by members of the 2nd REI.
And, in keeping with Heacox’s effort to pressure McKee in every possible way, she and her squad started the day on point and remained there hour after grueling hour. A practice that put both the company and the engineers they were supposed to protect at risk because there were real Naa to worry about, and if McKee and her people failed to do their job effectively, lives could be lost.
Not Heacox’s, however, since he had elected to travel aboard a fly-form, so as “to scout ahead.” The problem being that after a single pass, the aircraft hadn’t been seen again. It was impossible to know what the company’s XO thought about that, but McKee gave him credit for coming forward and taking up a station only a few feet to her right. A position that would put him in harm’s way if the shit hit the fan. His name was Ashari, and he appeared to be reasonably competent. Something that soon became apparent when the road topped a rise and disappeared into a boulder-framed canyon. The perfect spot for an ambush.
Heacox and his fly-form could have been useful at that point but hadn’t been heard from for more than an hour. So rather than enter the canyon blind, Ashari ordered the third squad of the third platoon to fire the shoulder-mounted missile launchers that they were carrying in place of bio bods. Not real missiles but the flash-bangs used for training purposes.
There was a momentary roar of sound as the weapons took off, arched upwards, and fell into the canyon. McKee knew the technique was called a reconnaissance by fire, the idea being to provoke a response, thereby revealing where the enemy was. And it did. Not from the Naa, but from members of the 2nd REI, who had been lying in wait along the west side of the narrow passageway. They came out firing, and it was up to those on point to hold them off while Ashari ordered the company to take cover and return fire.
McKee knew the clash was being monitored by a satellite and refereed by a computer back at the fort. But it felt real enough as the “enemy” fired their weapons at her squad, and Chang was “killed.” Her T-1 could fight on, however, and did until the AI at Fort Camerone listed him as KIA.
McKee saw what she judged to be an opportunity as the enemy sought cover around the mouth of the canyon. If she and what remained of her squad could circle around the enemy’s right flank, they could not only divide their fire but get a shot at the mortars that were responsible for “killing” Chang and her T-1. “Bravo-Eight to Bravo-Two. Request permission to attack the enemy’s right flank.”
The response was immediate. “This is Two. Go for it.”
So McKee gave the necessary orders over the squad freq and was impressed by the way that Privates Olsen and Sykes immediately charged into action. Unfortunately, they were spotted right away, as was the rest of the squad, which was obliterated by an artillery barrage fired from down canyon somewhere.
The company still managed to give a good account of itself, however, when two quads arrived on the scene. They fired a barrage of missiles at the entrance to the canyon that triggered a rockslide, blocked the enemy’s line of retreat, and forced them to surrender. A win that would be credited to Heacox even though it was his XO who deserved the attaboy. McKee wondered how Ashari felt about that—but knew she would never find out.
The next couple of days were long and grueling. But they were also uneventful, and that was fine with McKee. Her plan was to run out the clock while waiting for something to rescue her. And, since Naa Town had been placed off-limits in the wake of a murder, the squad was stuck in the fort. So while the legionnaires still felt resentful where the extra guard duty was concerned, they knew they weren’t missing anything. Unfortunately, the busy schedule meant that McKee hadn’t had time to deal with Travers. But that couldn’t be helped, and as far as she could tell, the civilian wasn’t aware of her.
Heacox was, however, as became apparent when Dero came to roust her out of bed. McKee had a cubicle at one end of her squad bay, but it was open to the central corridor. She was halfway through six hours of much-needed sleep when the hand shook her shoulder. “Rise and shine, Sergeant . . . The captain wants to see you.”
McKee sat up, swung her bare feet over onto the cold floor, and yawned. “The captain? Why?”
“Remember Major Hasbro?”
“Yes, of course.”
“He was on some sort of surveying mission. His fly-form went down south of here, and Heacox wants you to find him.”
McKee was getting dressed by then. “Okay, but why not send a fly-form to pick him up?”
“Can’t,” Dero said. “The whole area is socked in. Besides, Heacox wants you to do it.”
Something about the officer’s tone caused McKee to turn and look at her. “So it’s like that.”
“Yeah . . . It’s like that. Or so it seems to me. But you know what? If the decision were up to me, I would choose you, too. But for different reasons.”
That was quite a compliment. Especially coming from Dero. Was it bullshit? No. Some other officer maybe, but not Dero. McKee nodded. “Thank you, ma’am. Once I lace up my boots, I’ll be ready to go.”
It was a five-minute walk to Heacox’s office, and when Dero knocked, he said, “Enter.” Heacox was seated behind his desk. Both visitors were in the process of coming to attention when he said, “At ease.”
He didn’t invite them to sit, however—and McKee wondered if that was because of her. As for the man himself, his eyes were still dead, his uniform was impeccable, and the items on his desk were arranged in a row. He blinked three times. “I have a job for you,” Heacox said without preamble. “Take a look at this.”
Heacox pointed a remote at a wall-mounted flat screen, and a contour map appeared. McKee could see the fort, the road that went south, and rank after rank of hills. “Major Hasbro’s fly-form went down here,” Heacox said, as a red dot appeared on the screen. “Take your squad, go there, and secure the crash site. We’ll send a fly-form as soon as the weather clears.”
There was nothing McKee could say except, “Yes, sir.”
Dero cleared her throat. “Be advised that there is enemy activity in the area.”
Heacox looked annoyed. “Just before the cloud cover moved in, one of our satellites spotted a group of Naa moving north toward the crash site. But that shouldn’t concern a noncom who won the Imperial Order of Merit, should it?” The comment was accompanied by a smirk.
McKee wanted to jump the desk and bounce his head off the wall. But an attack on an officer would put McKee in prison for twenty years. So she battled to keep her temper in check. “How many of them are there?”
Heacox smiled slowly. “Only a hundred or so . . . Child’s play for someone like you. Lieutenant Dero will provide the details. Dismissed.”
So that was it. Heacox had called her in for the sole purpose of letting McKee know that he was sending her on what could be a suicide mission. All without any concern for the legionnaires in her squad or Major Hasbro. And it was foolproof. If the mission failed, and all of them were killed, Heacox would point out that he had sent the very best. A sergeant with an IOM no less. And if his superiors questioned the decision to send a single squad, Heacox could argue that a larger force was likely to get in its own way—and wouldn’t be able to travel as quickly.
McKee came to attention, did a neat about-face, and marched out of the office. Dero was right behind her. Neither of them spoke until they were twenty feet down the hall. “Alert your team, gear up, and get out of here,” Dero instructed.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And one more thing. Find Grisso and tell him that I’m sending Sam Voby with you. A couple of rocket launchers could come in handy.”
McKee knew that the T-1 was part of the first squad and currently equipped with a pair of launchers. That would give her squad the capability to strike targets up to a mile away. It was a nice gift and one Heacox would heartily disapprove of. McKee said, “Yes, ma’am. And thank you.”
“I wish I could do more,” Dero replied. “I’ll be monitoring your frequency. And McKee . . .”
“Ma’am?”
“Watch your six.”
• • •
It took two long, agonizing hours to roust the squad, get them ready for what could be a five-or-six-day mission, and exit the fort. Rather than think about Heacox and his motives, McKee chose to focus on Hasbro. She liked the major and wanted to help him. Her plan was to reach him quickly, before the indigs did if that was possible, and fort up. That seemed to suggest a straight run down the road. But was such a course wise?
There were spies in Naa Town. Everyone knew that. And the Naa had stolen radios as well. So there was a very good chance that the squad’s departure would be monitored and reported to the hostiles who were closing in on the major’s position. So what to do?
The answer, or what McKee hoped would be the answer, was a trail called 76.00.41 on her map. A twisting, turning, snakelike affair that mostly ran across the top of ridges rather than through the interconnecting valleys below them. But in order to pursue that strategy, a price would have to be paid in the form of the very thing she needed most, and that was time.
It was a gamble but one McKee felt she had to take. So she led the squad down the road and, once Naa Town was out of sight, turned off onto a lightly used footpath. That led her to trail 76.00.41, which climbed steeply upwards. “This is it,” she said over the squad frequency. “Remember to maintain the proper intervals, keep your sensors on max, and be ready for anything. Over.”
McKee heard a series of double clicks by way of a reply. The mission was under way.
• • •
It was cold, foggy, and miserable. So, what else was new? That’s what Sykes was thinking as he climbed upwards. McKee had assigned him to the five slot, which was also the drag position. Because Olsen and he were the newbies? And she figured that was the safest place to stash them . . . Or, because she saw it as an important responsibility, and his efforts to impress her had been successful? There was no way to know.
One thing was for sure, however. He had succeeded in getting close to the Steel Bitch. But now he was sorry that he had. Because not only was the company commander out to get McKee, but she was a crap magnet as well. Take the present picnic, for example. He was humping a bio bod uphill, jogging through a forest of stunted trees, and jumping over streams all so he could get his head blown off by the furries. Which was worse? Sykes wondered. To be crosswise with the man named Max—or take part in a suicide mission with Sergeant Andromeda McKee? It was the classic no-win situation.
Sykes had to duck under a branch, heard Olsen swear, and smiled. Or would have smiled had his face been capable of doing so. The Hag was okay, but Corporal Larkin was the best bio bod in the squad, “best” being the most manageable. Larkin and McKee had been together in boot camp—something the former was clearly proud of. They weren’t bunk buddies, everyone agreed on that, but the relationship was a way in. So Sykes had been plying Larkin with beer, peppering him with questions, and listening to the answers. The result was a steadily growing body of knowledge, much of which stood in stark contrast to the heroic image McKee projected on Earth.
Once the trail reached the end of the ridge, it switchbacked down past a crude altar to a saddle of land that led upwards again. The mist was so thick that the T-I in front of him looked like a ghost. Stones rattled as they rolled out from under his foot pods, and Sykes struggled to keep his balance. Then he was off again and climbing a thirty-degree slope.
Yeah, according to Larkin, McKee had deserted at one point, been brought up on charges, and punished. But who hadn’t? She was in the fraxing Legion, for God’s sake.
There was more, though. Larkin wasn’t positive but believed that McKee might have something going with an officer on Orlo II. That would be a big deal by normal standards, but was it relevant? Max was after general information, yes, but had expressed a specific interest in the Mason assassination. And if McKee had been involved in that, Larkin was unaware of it.
So, like it or not, he would have to remain on the job and try to keep his butt intact. Something which, ironically enough, might very well depend on the abilities of the woman he’d been sent to spy on.