Andromeda’s Choice Read Free Page A

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 shovelheads 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 froglike 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 ridgehead did a fade—quickly followed by the monster with the big gun. “We got him! We got him!” Fox shouted enthusiastically.
    â€œWhat 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