Andromeda's War (Legion of the Damned Book 3) (4 page)

The moment that Ono mentioned Colonel Red, Hanno knew what to expect. Forbes cleared her throat. She had perfectly cut bangs that fell to her eyebrows, high cheekbones, and cold eyes.
“Colonel Red?”
she inquired innocently. “Isn’t he on the list of people that the Bureau of Missing Persons is supposed to find and neutralize?”

All of the officials turned to look at Hanno. And there wasn’t much he could say since all of his efforts to find Colonel Red had been for naught. So all he could do was launch a counterattack. “Lady Forbes is correct . . . Colonel Red
is
on our list. And it’s true that we’ve been unable to capture or kill him. That’s because he, like thousands of other criminals, continues to live in the Deeps. The very place where Secretary Veneto was killed and the DNI was supposed to sterilize months ago.” Point and counterpoint. All eyes went to Forbes. But, before she could respond, Ono stepped in.

“Amusing though this game is—we don’t have time for it. Both of you are correct to some extent—and both of you share responsibility for this debacle. That brings us back to the question of how we want to position Veneto’s death with the public.”

“We could take it in the opposite direction,” the woman in charge of the Department of Public Information offered. “Veneto had a secret life and died as a result of a sim-induced heart attack. That would keep the Freedom Front from calling his death a victory.”

“True,” Forbes allowed. “But it would suggest that Veneto wasn’t properly vetted—and would reflect negatively on the empress. Why didn’t
she
know? Why didn’t
we
know? That’s what people would ask themselves.”

Hanno decided to seize on what looked like an opportunity. “I agree with Lady Forbes. The first option is best. Let’s call the assassination what it is—and use it to justify an all-out attack on the Deeps. Maybe we can bag Colonel Red and clear the cesspool out for good.”

Even Ono looked at Forbes. She nodded. “I agree. Our sewers are full of rats. Let’s exterminate them.”

—

The alarm began to beep, so Rex slapped it. Then he yawned and swung his bare feet over onto the cool floor. A short walk took him into the bathroom, where he stared at the bleary-eyed image in the mirror. There were gray streaks in his otherwise black hair, bags under his eyes, and a deathly pallor to his skin. Sun. He needed sun. But there was no day or night down in the Deeps. It never rained, it never snowed, and it was never too cold. Some people professed to like that, but Rex Carletto wasn’t one of them. He ached to go up top and feel whatever was waiting to be felt.

But visits to the surface were rare, and had to be, since he was a wanted man. Did the government know that Rex Carletto and Colonel Red were the same person? No, he didn’t think so. But Rex was number 2998 on the list of people the Bureau of Missing Persons was looking for, just ahead of his niece Cat, who was 2999. So he had to remain hidden. That didn’t mean he was helpless though . . . The Veneto assassination proved that.

The thought made him feel better. So Rex went to work scraping the stubble off his cheeks. He was almost finished when Hiram Hoke’s voice came over the intercom. “Hey, boss . . . Are you awake?”

“Yeah, what’s up?”

“Nothing good. A large force of heavily armed people is closing in on the club.”

“The club” was a night spot that the Freedom Front had taken over a couple of months earlier. A lot of renovations had been done, and some were still under way. Rex felt the first stirrings of concern as he ran a washcloth over his face. “Who are they?”

“That’s the strange thing,” Hoke replied. “Rather than a single gang, it looks like all of them are coming after us. The Sayers, the Combine, and hundreds of street people.”

Now Rex was worried. Gang raids were a common occurrence in the Deeps. Most were aimed at taking over some real estate or looting an especially prosperous business. But if the Sayers
and
the Combine had joined forces against him, there had to be a larger and more compelling reason behind it since they had countervailing interests. “Okay,” Rex said. “Pull the lookouts back, activate the perimeter defense system, and sound the general alarm. I’ll be there shortly.”

Rex chose to put on combat gear rather than street clothes. Doing so reminded him of all the years spent in the Legion—and all the battles he’d fought for the empire. Now, with Ophelia on the throne, it was time to fight against rather than for it. He chose an assault rifle from the wall rack in his bedroom and left for the front of the club.

There was no such thing as high ground on Level 3 of the Deeps. And with three shared walls, plus a ceiling and a floor, there were five directions from which an enemy could attack. All they had to do was blow a hole through a partition and charge through. That’s why all the rooms could be sealed off, and a fast-response team was waiting to respond to any breach. Still, if an enemy created enough holes and was prepared to create more, they would be able to enter. And that was true of every business on every level.

As Rex entered the security center, he saw that Hoke was present along with Percy. Hoke stood six-three, weighed 225, and had a twelve-gauge shotgun slung across his back. Percy had a spherical body held aloft by an ARGRAV unit. After being “killed” in battle, the Legion brought him back to life as a cyborg. Percy had been retired when Ophelia murdered her brother, and like Rex, had called himself back to duty. Servos whined as he pointed a skeletal tool arm at a bank of security monitors. “Check it out, boss . . . All of ’em want a piece of us.”

Rex looked and saw that Percy was correct. A row of waist-high pipes fronted the club. Under normal circumstances, that’s all they were. But a blue force field jumped and crackled between them now—and threatened to kill anyone who tried to pass through it. That was keeping the mob at bay for the moment. Thanks to spotlights controlled by his forces, Rex could see robotic Sayers in their black robes, gray-clad members of the Combine crime syndicate, and street rabble all milling about. Were they going to attack the club? That’s the way it looked. But
why
?

The answer came in the form of a com call. “Hey, boss, Mr. Vas is on line two,” one of the com techs said. “He wants to speak with you.”

Rex made his way over to the console, where Vas could be seen with part of his office in the background. He was the elected head of the Combine and a strange-looking creature indeed. His head was clean-shaven, his eyes were violet, and his nose had been minimized to little more than a bump. Most striking of all, however, was skin that seemed to be lit from within. The crime boss nodded as Rex appeared. They had met on previous occasions—the most recent being to discuss the possibility of an alliance. Discussions that went nowhere. “Mr. Vas.”

“Colonel Red.”

“What can I do for you?”

“You may have noticed a crowd out front.”

“I assumed they were customers . . . Hoping to buy a drink.”

Vas laughed. The sound was dry and raspy. “Ah, if only that were the case. What the crowd actually wants is
you
.”

“
Me?
Whatever for?”

“They . . .
We
believe that the recent assassination of Secretary Veneto was a huge mistake. Killing Governor Mason was bad enough. But Veneto was
here
, in the Deeps, when you canceled his ticket. Ophelia won’t tolerate that. She’ll send an army. A
real
army this time. And her soldiers will kill anything that moves. Unless we give her a reason not to, that is.”

“Which would be me.”

“Precisely. So here’s your choice . . . Surrender to us, and we will leave your followers alone. But if you don’t, we’ll attack, take your head, and send it to Ophelia on a platter. That may or may not be sufficient to stave off an attack. But it’s certainly worth a try.”

“Not too surprisingly, I disagree,” Rex replied. “What we should do is band together and get ready to fight the bastards if they venture underground. But, since you chose to send a mob, I’ll deal with that instead. Good-bye, Mr. Vas.” And with that, he touched a button. The scene snapped to black.

Rex turned to Hoke. “Seal the building, drop the flood doors, and start pumping. Those people need a bath.”

Hoke nodded and turned to a control panel. The club had come under fire by then. A hail of bullets hit the duracrete façade as rockets destroyed three vertical pipes, and the defensive force field went down.

But as the crowd surged forward, watertight doors dropped all around, thereby fencing some of the attackers out—and sealing the club off from the rest of the neighborhood. That was when valves opened, and water began to pour in. Now the people directly in front of the club were trapped in a box that was quickly filling with water. Seeing that, they turned, looking for a way to escape. “Open one door,” Rex said. “Let them go.”

“They’ll be back,” Percy warned.

“Probably,” Rex conceded. “But if we murder them, we will become the thing we’re fighting.” People poured out of the trap along with a knee-high wave of water. But the momentary victory was just that: momentary. Was Vas right? Would Ophelia attack? Probably. And then every hand would be turned against the Freedom Front. It was time to run.

—

Preparations for the attack began at 1:00
A
.
M
.
The first step was to announce a “National Defense Exercise,” impose a no-fly zone over the city of Los Angeles, and use a squadron of aerospace fighters to enforce it. That would prevent Colonel Red and his fellow criminals from getting away. Then Tarch Ono sent sanitation crews in to seal storm drains and spot-weld the city’s manholes in place.

Once those preparations were complete, the Minister of Defense stationed contingents of soldiers at every known entrance to the Deeps and issued orders to kill anyone who tried to escape. That included any nobles or other prominent citizens who had the misfortune to be in the Deeps on that particular night. Because, according to the way Ophelia looked at it, to consort with criminals was to be one.

To counter the risk that, once cornered, the rats would use the World Wide Web to distribute antigovernment propaganda, Ono cut all the com links in and out of LA. Not forever, he promised, just for six hours, as part of the National Defense Exercise.

At that point, government officials felt confident that half the battle was won. It wouldn’t be long before the rats realized they were in a trap and couldn’t escape. Then the bleating would begin as some of them tried to negotiate, surrender, or plead for mercy. But it wouldn’t work. All of them were going to die, with the possible exception of Colonel Red who could surrender if he wanted to and would be executed on a live broadcast.

Then Ono had eighteen so-called “penetrators” airlifted in and placed at key locations. Parking lots mostly—and a couple of parks. It took more than three hours to prepare the drill rigs and position troops next to each. Once the holes were drilled, Imperial troops would drop through. That would force the rats to divide their forces. Assuming they were unified to begin with—which Ono’s spies said they weren’t.

Engines roared, drill bits turned, and as the sun rose in the east, the penetrators broke through. Tarch Hanno was standing twenty yards away from Penetrator 12. As soon as the still-rotating shaft was withdrawn from the ground, he faced the scary prospect of dropping through the hole. Because even though he had ordered hundreds of deaths, he’d never fired a gun at somebody who could shoot back.

No one expected him to enter the Deeps with the troops. But if he did so, Hanno knew that word of his bravery would reach Ophelia, and she would be suitably impressed. Could he snatch the DNI away from Forbes? That was too much to hope for. But in the wake of a successful raid, Hanno felt certain that his present position would be secure.
If
he survived the fighting.

To that end, Hanno was wearing full-body armor, had armed himself with a pistol, and was accompanied by a couple of synth bodyguards. The Bureau employed thousands of the machines and relied on them to find and kill people like Colonel Red. But, since they didn’t know the criminal’s true identity, it was impossible to track him down through friends and relatives.

The robots were Human in appearance but only vaguely so, and that was no accident. Each head was made of metal. They were broad in front and tapered to a ridge in back. Red eyes were set into deep sockets, and each droid had a bulge where a Human nose would have been. Their bodies had a sleek, stripped-down look. And rather than clothes, they wore urban camo paint jobs.

Frightened though he was, Hanno took comfort from the fact that the synthetics were present and knew that if they failed him, cowardice would play no part in it. As for himself, well, the challenge was to look brave.

Twelve soldiers, all bulky in their combat gear, dropped through the hole on ropes. Hanno heard the sound of gunfire followed by two muffled explosions. A noncom waved him forward and clipped a rope to the harness he wore. Then it was time to back into the abyss. Hanno fell, and the darkness took him in.

—

Rex was in his office, checking to make sure that all of the organization’s records had been destroyed, when Elf appeared. She had big eyes, biosculpted elf ears, and could communicate with the dead. Or so she claimed. Elf was carrying
two
Samurai swords. One more than usual. A hilt could be seen over each shoulder. “So what’s the situation?”

“It ain’t good,” Elf replied. “This one is for real. They even went so far as to seal the storm drains and manhole covers.”

“How about penetrators?”

“There are at least a dozen. It’s hard to tell from the radio chatter. Rumors are flying every which way. But from what I can make out, the bastards own Level 1 and most of 2. The Combine put up a fight, but they’re losing . . . And when people try to surrender, the Imperials cut them down.”

Rex winced. There had been attempts to invade the Deeps before, but nothing like this. Vas was right . . . Ophelia was out to get him. “Okay, we’ll follow the old subway line north. Once we leave the city, we’ll find a way up and out.”