Andromeda’s Choice (10 page)

And she
was
good. In spite of the fact that Marcy looked like a wealthy society matron, she was a hot pilot. McKee felt her stomach flip-flop as the car leveled out fifty feet above the street—and began to weave in and out of the slow-moving grav barges. The huge vehicles were loaded with supplies for the city's restaurants, products for its stores, and tons of garbage. Most of which would wind up in the badlands of Utah.

“This is a good way to make sure we don't have a tail,” Marcy said. “If we did, it would stick out like a sore thumb.”

McKee was thinking about that when Marcy flipped the car onto its right side so as to slip between two hovering grav barges. Marcy eyed a screen. “It looks like we're clear . . . Hang on!”

McKee could do little else as the car dived into a tunnel marked
TRANSIT ONLY
. Illuminated markers blipped past as the passageway took a turn to the right. McKee saw red lights ahead, knew they were going to rear-end a bus, and tried to brace herself.

The collision never occurred as the car veered onto a downward-slanting ramp labeled
CLOSED. NO ADMITTANCE
. That was when McKee realized Marcy was taking her down into the Deeps, the very place she had cautioned Larkin not to visit.

McKee caught glimpses of graffiti, hovels tucked into unlikely places, and groups of people gathered around trash fires. A series of tight right-hand turns had taken them down through at least three levels of habitation before a scarecrowlike figure leaped out of the darkness to block the way. Marcy accelerated as if to run the man down. “If you stop, they swarm the car,” she said grimly. “But they're part of our defenses. It would take an army of synths to invade the Deeps.” At the very last second, the scarecrow jumped out of the way.

And what's to keep Ophelia from manufacturing an army of synths,
McKee wondered, as the car left the ramp and entered a straightaway. There was no need for streetlights thanks to a multiplicity of brightly flowing, blinking, and in some cases roving signs. Most were associated with bars, casinos, and strip clubs. But a few spoke to other needs, like the blue neon sign that read
GOSPEL MISSION
.

Marcy pulled in directly in front of the plain, two-story structure. “This is where we get out,” she announced. “Be sure to take your knapsack with you.”

Marcy left the engine running as she got out and circled around to the sidewalk. As McKee exited via the passenger-side door, what looked like an underfed sixteen-year-old boy slid behind the controls. McKee was barely clear when the gullwing-style door closed, and the car pulled away. “It's stolen,” Marcy explained. “Ricky's job is to wipe the car clean, unhook the black box, and dump it.”

McKee was still in the process of absorbing that as Marcy led her past two burly men into the dimly lit mission. There were bench-style seats on both sides of the main aisle. A woman was sleeping on one of them, a man sat hunched over with his forehead resting on the row in front of him, and the rest were empty. A figure-eight-shaped symbol was centered on the wall behind the speaker's platform. It glowed as if lit from within.

“Follow me,” Marcy said as she took a right in front of the stage. From there it was a short walk to a door marked
OFFICE
, where they paused. “Go on in,” Marcy said. “I'll wait here.”

McKee opened the door and stepped into a small, sparsely furnished room. Rex Carletto was talking on a comset. He said something to the person on the other end of the line, clicked the device closed, and stood. Even though less than twelve months had passed since the last time McKee had seen him, he looked years older. But his face was alight with pleasure, and his arms were opened wide. “Cat!” he said. “Thank God you're alive.”

As Rex wrapped McKee in a bear hug, it was like being a little girl again. She could smell the same cologne, feel the same strength, and sense the way he felt about her. Her uncle had always been there when she needed him—and the sobs came from somewhere deep inside.

Rex continued to hold her as he spoke into an ear. “I'm sorry, Cat . . . They were good people. Wonderful people. But they're gone now, and it's up to us to carry on. And you have. Sergeant Toshy was able to contact you?”

McKee wiped at her eyes with a sleeve. “I was at a party. He delivered the chip. and I played it. The synths attacked a few minutes later.”

“But you escaped,” Rex said, “and joined the Legion. That was smart. Damned smart. How did you wind up here? Did you desert?”

McKee smiled weakly. “No, I was sent here to receive a medal. From the governor.”

Her uncle's eyebrows shot upwards. “
A medal?
Sit down. I want to hear the entire story.”

So McKee sat on a wooden chair and began to talk. It took the better part of an hour to tell Rex about how she had acquired the scar, basic training on Drang, and the war on Orlo II. That part of the narrative was followed by a brief description of the fight on the
Imperialus
, her appearances on various vid shows, and the trip home. “So,” she concluded, “I removed the stone, and there it was. Leaving the comset in the grotto was a long shot, wasn't it?”

Rex grinned. “Yes, and no. If you survived, I figured you'd visit Earth eventually. So I left comsets and messages all over the place. There's one in the tree house behind the summer cabin.”

“Well, it worked,” McKee said. “Here I am.”

“Yes,” Rex said thoughtfully. “Here you are. So, tell me something, hon . . . What's next? Have you given that any thought?”

“I have,” McKee answered. “I want to bring Ophelia down. More than that, I mean to kill her.”

A slow smile appeared on Rex's face. “You sound like a noncom.”

“They call me the Steel Bitch.”

Rex laughed. “Well, I lead a group called the Freedom Front, and it's dedicated to taking Ophelia out. So we have a common goal.”

McKee remembered the graffiti she'd seen. It seemed there was a resistance movement, and her uncle was part of it. “That's wonderful,” she said cautiously. “But dangerous.”

Rex shrugged. “No more so than what you've been up to. I have an idea, Cat . . . A way to hit back. It came to me as you were describing the medal ceremony. Maybe I shouldn't tell you about it. Because if I do, and you agree, I could be sending you to your death. But it's a
good
idea, Cat . . . The kind of opportunity that could hit the bastards hard.”

McKee felt a chasm open up at the pit of her stomach. But she'd felt that before and forced herself to act in spite of it. “Okay,” she said evenly. “What do you have in mind?”

“The governor,” Rex said. “He's going to be there, right?”

“He's going to present our medals.”

“And that,” Rex said, “would be the perfect time to kill him.”

 • • • 

McKee was sitting on the bed painting her toenails when they came for her. It started with someone's pounding on the door. “Imperial agents! Open up!”

McKee felt her heart sink as she put the vial of polish aside and looked around. The door was blocked, and when she turned to the window, she saw that a security drone was hovering outside. A targeting laser hit her chest and wobbled there. Somehow, some way, the plot to assassinate Governor Mason had been compromised. Did they have Uncle Rex? And Marcy? Probably. And now it was her turn.

It looks bad,
McKee's inner voice admitted.
But you're a legionnaire. Tough it out.
So McKee yelled, “Hold on, let me get some clothes on.”

The laser continued to track her until McKee said, “Window closed,” and the pane turned opaque. She half expected the drone to fire, but it didn't.

Having belted one of the hotel's robes around her waist, McKee made her way over to the door. A quick look at the small monitor located next to the entryway revealed that Lieutenant Wilkins, a second human, and a smooth-faced android were waiting outside. She unlocked the door and allowed it to open. “Yes? What's going on?”

“Sorry, Sergeant,” Wilkins said. “But Agent Cerka insisted that we arrive unannounced.”

There was no mistaking the officer's disapproval. But if that was of concern to the man in question, there was no sign of it on his long, narrow face. Cerka had a shock of brown hair, a high forehead, and prissy lips. He was dressed in a black business suit that was identical to the one the android wore. “May we come in?”

There was nothing McKee could say other than, “Yes, sir.” It was a small room and seemed even more so once all three of her visitors were inside. Cerka had glacier blue eyes, and they remained focused on McKee as the robot began to explore the room. She knew it was recording everything it saw, and employing other senses as well, something that became obvious as the machine sniffed one of her T-shirts. “We're here to ask questions related to the death of Ross Royer,” Cerka said formally.

McKee felt a sense of relief mixed with concern. They didn't know about the plan to kill Mason. That was good. But the Royer thing could be just as dangerous. What, if anything, did they have? “I told the people on the
Imperialus
everything I knew,” McKee said. “And that wasn't much.”

Cerka's eyes narrowed. “I'll be the judge of that. Further examination of citizen Royer's personal computer revealed a diary. And in that diary he makes mention of a female.”

At that point, Cerka turned to his assistant. “Play it.”

The nearly faceless android pointed his right index finger at the center of the room. Motes of light appeared, swirled like snow, and coalesced into a close-up of Royer. “I saw the bitch this morning,” he said. “She looks different now—but there was no mistaking that cute ass. She used to tease me with it every day. But not anymore. She's mine now . . . And I plan to ride her hard.”

The holo exploded, and the motes of light faded into nothingness. McKee felt a sense of relief. There had been no mention of her real name or the scar. “So,” Cerka said, “who was citizen Royer referring to?
You?
”

“No, sir,” McKee said, as she slipped into her military persona. “Mr. Royer approached me in a restaurant called the Starlight Room and asked me for a date. I said ‘no.' That was the full extent of our relationship.”

There was a pause, and Wilkins took the opportunity to assert himself. “At this point, I would like to remind you that Sergeant McKee is a war hero—presently slated to receive the Imperial Order of Merit from Governor Mason on Wednesday.”

Maybe it was the mention of McKee's war record, the way she looked, or the connection with one of the empire's most powerful politicians. But whatever it was worked. Cerka offered an abbreviated bow. “Thank you, Sergeant. My apologies for the intrusion—and thank you for your service to the empire.”

“Don't forget the rehearsal,” Wilkins said, as the android followed Cerka out of the room. And then he was gone as well.

McKee waited for the telltale click as the door closed before allowing herself to exhale. Royer had taken a shot at her from the grave and missed. It felt good to be alive.

McKee spent the rest of the day shopping for the kinds of things she had been unable to purchase while serving on Orlo II and was likely to want on Algeron. High-quality skin creams topped the list, the kind Cat Carletto preferred, along with some top-of-the-line sports bras. She did some online shopping as well, knowing that once she arrived on Algeron, it would be impossible to buy music and books for her hand comp. And given all the expenses incurred while traveling to Seattle, that left her broke.

Of course, shopping for the posting on Algeron amounted to an act of faith. Who was to say whether she would get the chance to use any of her purchases? It seemed unlikely, given her decision to help assassinate a planetary governor. But the opportunity to exact some sort of revenge for the murder of her parents was too good to pass up.

Dinner was a lonely affair that took place in her room, so she could charge it to the Legion and avoid sitting in the hotel restaurant all by herself. That was followed by a succession of mindless vid shows and a night spent tossing and turning. So when the alarm went off, it came as a relief.

McKee rolled out of bed, showered, and put on a smartly pressed Class B uniform. Then, curious to see if Larkin had survived, she went to his room. The first knock went unanswered, so she tried again. Then the door opened to reveal a young woman with frowsy green hair, too much makeup, and an attitude. “What the hell do
you
want?” she demanded.

McKee could hear techno music in the background. “Tell Corporal Larkin that Sergeant McKee is here.”

The girl looked McKee up and down as if evaluating a rival. “And if I don't?”

McKee's right hand shot out and grabbed a handful of robe. Then she jerked the girl in so close that their noses were nearly touching. “If you don't, I will rip your arm off and beat you to death with it.”

The girl staggered as McKee pushed her away. Once she caught her balance, she turned and disappeared. Larkin appeared moments later, and much to McKee's surprise, he looked sharp. “Hey, McKee . . . You scared the hell out of Monica. Good work! I told her to be out of the room by the time we get back.”

“Don't leave anything valuable behind.”

Larkin made a face. “I don't have anything valuable. Come on, let's grab some breakfast. We'll charge it to our rooms.”

Breakfast was spent eating and listening to what McKee felt sure was a somewhat embellished version of Larkin's adventures. To hear him tell it, he had won a lot of money in a casino, been mugged, and lost his winnings.

But then, in his darkest hour, a gangster named Neon Jack recognized Larkin as one of the legionnaires who had been on the news and were about to receive medals. So because Neon Jack saw himself as something of a patriot, Larkin had been lavished with all manner of gifts, including Monica. “Too bad you weren't there,” Larkin finished. “I'll bet Jack has some boy toys he could loan out.”