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

hours. Do what he says—and don’t screw up. Do you read me?”
    The response was automatic by then. “Sir! Yes, sir.”
    It was, McKee decided, a pain in the ass. But one that had to be dealt with. So the best thing to do was work hard and get the chore over with.
    Chan was right on time, and instead of being the hard-ass that McKee had imagined, the petty officer was an affable man with broad cheekbones, a ready smile, and a slight paunch. In marked contrast to the Legion’s noncoms, the navy PO had little interest in turning the boots into effective soldiers and delivered his orders in a calm, laid-back manner.
    Rather than be assigned to clean the galley, as she thought she would, McKee found herself working in a storage compartment adjacent to the kitchen. The task was to open the cases of food that had been brought up from one of the ship’s holds and load them onto what Chan referred to as “the ready racks.” That way, they would be secure if the argrav generators failed yet readily available to the cooks.
    The job involved some lifting, but it was simple enough, and McKee enjoyed working alone. So she had been on the task for about thirty minutes, and was more than halfway through it, when she heard the hatch open and close behind her. Chan probably—come to check on her.
    But when McKee turned, she realized that the visitor wasn’t Chan. It was Desmond Larkin. And two of his toadies. All three of whom had finished their work in the galley. “Well, well,” Larkin said. “Look what we have here. Scarface is all alone, with no big bad NCOs to protect her.”
    McKee looked left and right, hoping for some sort of weapon or escape route. But there wasn’t any. Larkin chuckled. “That’s right, bitch. You’re mine. I told you it was coming—and here it is. You’re real brave when a person’s back is turned. Let’s see how you do face-to-face.”
    McKee knew she couldn’t win but was determined to go down fighting. So she threw a box of baking soda at Larkin’s face. And when the bully raised his hands to deflect the object she launched a kick. Unfortunately, he was able to deflect it with the turn of a hip.
    Then they swarmed her. Fists struck from every direction. McKee fell, curled up into a ball, and had the breath knocked out of her as a boot slammed into her ribs. Then came a blow to the head, the sound of distant laughter, and a long fall into darkness.

CHAPTER: 4
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    Kill a man and you are an assassin. Kill millions of men and you are a conqueror. Kill everyone and you are a god.
    CLERGYMAN BEILBY PORTEUS
    Standard year circa 1761

    IMPERIAL PLANET ESPARTO
    Hans Simek hated robots. Especially robots made to look and act like humans because most thought themselves superior to the beings who created them. But due to the influence of a well-placed relative on Earth, as well as a horrible twist of fate, Simek had been named Case Officer Nine in the newly created Bureau of Missing Persons (BMP) and placed in charge of creatures that were theoretically incorruptible, willing to work around the clock, and could be destroyed if necessary.
    Now, sitting in his newly refurbished office on the seventy-third floor of the Imperial Tower, Simek had no choice but to put his bias aside and interact with a thing named Fyth. The killing machine’s head had a sleek, streamlined look; it was wearing the colors of the Imperial Security Service and standing at parade rest. Although all of the experts swore that robots didn’t have individual identities, most were willing to concede that because androids had to operate in a semiautonomous manner, they inevitably acquired experiences unique to them. That led to preferences and generalized behaviors that could be perceived as individual personalities but weren’t. Not technically.
    All of which was a load of crap from Simek’s perspective, because he knew that Fyth had a personality, and an obnoxious one at that. But unless he wanted to go out and kill people