Andromeda's Fall (Legion of the Damned) by William C. Dietz Page A

to let her head fall back against the pillow. Everything hurt. Her face, her torso, even her legs were sore. One eye was swollen shut, and she winced as she reached up to touch it. “Take it easy,” Hasker advised. “Nothing was broken, but somebody kicked your ass.”
    “I’ll get something for the pain,” the woman said, and disappeared.
    Hasker looked away and back. “So, McKee, who beat the crap out of you? Give me a name. I’ll have their ass for dinner.”
    McKee wanted to give him a name. Wanted to see Larkin and his toadies go down. But as she looked up into the noncom’s eyes, she saw sympathy combined with something else. Curiosity? Yes. Hasker was waiting to see what she would do. To rat or not to rat. During the last week, she and her fellow recruits had been required to learn all sorts of rules. Some directly and some indirectly. And even though no one had said as much, McKee knew that legionnaires didn’t rat on legionnaires. Problems, especially interpersonal problems, were handled without going up the chain of command. It was a far different world than the one she had grown up in. One in which she’d never been struck. Not once. When she spoke, her voice was little more than a croak. “I don’t know who attacked me, sir. They came from behind.”
    McKee saw disbelief in Hasker’s eyes. But respect, too. And the complete lack of follow-up questions served to reinforce her decision. “That’s too bad,” the noncom responded. “The doc tells me you’ll be up and around by tomorrow. I’ll put you on light duty for a cycle, and we’ll see how you feel after that.”
    “Sir. Yes, sir.”
    Hasker said, “Get some rest,” and disappeared.
    The doctor returned, gave McKee a couple of pills and a glass of water. “Take these. You’ll feel better. And you’ll look better in a couple of days. All except for the nose, that is. It might be a little flatter than before.”
    McKee managed to prop herself up, put the capsules in her mouth, and take a sip. Some of the liquid went down the wrong way and caused her to cough. That hurt, and it felt good to lie down again. The lights dimmed, the pain began to recede, and sleep pulled her down. She went looking for her father but couldn’t find him.
    * * *
    Two “days” had passed since the beating and, while still sore in places, McKee had returned to full duty. That included two sessions of PT per day, an hour of marching, and a couple of classes. Some had to do with the Legion, but most were focused on a swampy planet named Drang. It was inhabited by a race of primitive amphibians that lived in beehive-shaped mud huts and steadfastly refused to do any of the things that a succession of interplanetary governments demanded of them. Like paying taxes and obeying Imperial laws. The result was an often-violent stalemate.
    Such were the facts. But what McKee couldn’t understand was why . The orientation materials made no mention of exploitable natural resources, geopolitical strategy, or other factors that would explain why the Legion was required to occupy a worthless rock.
    So as a session on Drang’s often-dangerous wildlife came to a conclusion, and the usual Q & A period began, she raised a hand. Hasker, who was standing at the front of the auditorium, aimed a laser pointer at her. A red dot wobbled across her forehead. “McKee, go.”
    “Given that the locals hate us, and there has been no mention of a strategic objective where Drang is concerned, why station troops there?”
    Hasker smiled grimly. “Well I’ll be damned. One of you pukes has a brain! Well, I ain’t no general, but here’s my take. First, Drang is pretty close to a jump point our Hudathan friends would like to own.
    “Second, even though the people who run things like to use the Legion for a variety of purposes, they’re scared of it, too. Because any organization with a motto like ours could be dangerous. So they figure it makes sense to keep us busy on puss-ball planets