Andromeda’s Choice (14 page)

Having made up her mind, McKee said good-bye to Okada and set out for Compartment 312, which, according to the ship's electronic roster, was where Gavin could be found. It took the better part of fifteen minutes to get there, and once she arrived, McKee was struck by the feel of the place. Loud music could be heard from within, a couple of sloppy-looking privates were leaning on the bulkhead outside, and the scent of something spicy floated in the air. A sure sign that an illegal hot plate was in use somewhere nearby.

As McKee started to enter, one of the privates stepped forward to block her way. He had beady eyes and a long, ratlike nose. That was when McKee realized the men were sentries. “Howdy, Sarge . . . What's up? Maybe I can help.”

“I'm looking for Sergeant Gavin.”

“Oh, yeah? What do you need?”

“I need to speak with Sergeant Gavin.”

“Okay, no need to get your panties in a knot. Just trying to help, that's all. The sarge is in his office. That's two hatches down on the port side.”

Gavin was a staff sergeant, which meant he was one level higher than McKee. But staff sergeants don't rate offices on troop carriers. Just one more indication that Gavin was a hustler. McKee said, “Thanks,” and left. Rat Face said something to his buddy, and both of them laughed.

McKee arrived in front of the hatch to find that it was closed. A wooden knock block was mounted next to it so she rapped three times. There was a pause followed by the sound of a man's voice. “Who is it?”

“Sergeant McKee.”

“Sergeant
who
?”

“Sergeant McKee. Private Fry reports to me.”

There was another pause, then the hatch opened. Gavin was dressed in a Legion-issue tank top, a pair of boxer shorts, and some flip-flops. An unlit cigar jutted from the corner of his mouth. It waggled when he spoke. “Sergeant McKee, huh? Sorry, it took a moment to pull you up. This is a bona fide fucking honor! I don't meet heroes every day.”

There was no mistaking the sarcasm in Gavin's voice, and McKee was tempted to answer in kind. But she wasn't there to antagonize the man. The purpose of her visit was to convince Gavin to leave Fry alone. So she struck what she hoped was a neutral tone. “I'd like to talk to you about Private Fry.”

Gavin shrugged. “Sure, no problem. Come in.”

McKee didn't want to go in. Nor did she want to talk to Gavin in the corridor. After a slight hesitation, she entered. But when he tried to close the hatch, she stuck a boot into the gap. “Let's keep it open. You could use some ventilation in here.”

Gavin grinned. “Welcome to my home away from home. Have a seat.”

The compartment, which was clearly intended for use by an officer, was about six-by-eight. Not much by normal standards but the equivalent of a suite on a troopship. It reeked of cigar smoke and was decorated with posters of naked women, dirty laundry, and plates of congealed food. “I love your decor,” McKee said, as she sat on the edge of the rumpled bed.

“Thanks,” Gavin said unapologetically. “Let's get to it. I take it you have some sort of beef . . . Spit it out.”

“I don't know why Fry agreed to participate in one of your bucket fights, but he did,” McKee replied. “I assume he knows better now. But, in order to aid his chances of a full recovery, I want you to leave him alone. No more visits.”

Gavin picked up a lighter that resembled a human skull and thumbed the igniter. A flame shot out of the top, and he lit the cigar off it. Then, when the stogie was drawing properly, he blew a plume of smoke in McKee's direction. “Here's the deal, hero . . . I don't take orders from buck sergeants. No matter how many ridgeheads they supposedly killed. If I want to chat with Fry-baby, I will. And you can go fuck yourself. Unless you'd like me to do it for you, that is.”

McKee stood. Some pushback was to be expected. But the anger verging on hatred surprised and frightened her. But that was one of the good things about the scar. It made her look tough even when she felt vulnerable. “Okay, copy that.”

Gavin was visibly surprised. “What? No insults? No threats?”

“Nope,” McKee said, as she opened the hatch. “That isn't my style.” And with that, she left.

McKee had no choice now. Having been unable to resolve the problem at her level, she had to go up the chain of command. And since Lieutenant Hannon hadn't bothered to check in with her since the day of departure—she couldn't expect much help from that quarter. So she headed off to find Lieutenant Wesley Heacox, who, according to the ship's electronic roster, had responsibility for Transit Company F and Compartment 312, Sergeant Gavin included.

The trip to Deck 2 took about ten minutes. But when she rapped on the knock block next to Heacox's door, there was no response. The obvious solution was to send him a message, tell him about her concerns, and request a face-to-face meeting. But if she did that, McKee figured the officer would immediately ask Gavin for
his
side of the story—thereby giving her opponent plenty of time to establish some sort of defense.

So McKee went to chow, followed by a two-hour lecture on “The Flora and Fauna of the Planet Algeron.” Most of the legionnaires were half-asleep by the time the portly major finished his presentation, but McKee was the exception. What could be more important than understanding the ecology of the world you were about to fight on?

Once class was dismissed, McKee returned to the cabin assigned to Heacox and knocked again. This time she got a response. The hatch opened and McKee found herself face-to-face with an officer who appeared to be in his midthirties. That was a surprise because most lieutenants were considerably younger. Had Heacox worked his way up through the ranks? Or was she looking at a second-rate officer who was still waiting for the jump to captain? Heacox blinked three times. “Yes?”

“Sorry to bother you, sir. My name is McKee. One of my men was badly injured in a fight sponsored by Sergeant Gavin. And I have reason to believe that Gavin has been threatening him.”

Having uttered the words, McKee wished she could take them back. Was she crazy? The obvious answer was yes. But it was too late to retreat. Heacox was going bald, and his skin had a pasty appearance, but his uniform was neatly pressed. He blinked three times. “Those are serious charges, Sergeant. Come in.”

McKee felt the first stirrings of hope. Heacox could have sent her packing and hadn't. Maybe looks were deceiving. Maybe he was the real deal.

McKee left the hatch open as she entered. Like the man, the cabin was neat as a pin. The bulkheads were bare, the fold-down bunk was in the up position, and with the exception of a Legion-issue comp, all of the officer's belongings were out of sight. “Take a load off,” Heacox said, as he pointed to a fold-down seat. “Now,” Heacox said as he blinked three times, “tell me what happened.”

McKee said, “Yes, sir,” and told the story just the way it had occurred, being careful not to add or delete anything. Once she was done, Heacox leaned back in his chair. “Tell me something, Sergeant . . . How long have you been in the Legion?”

Even though McKee wasn't sure where the conversation was headed, she had to answer the question. “Almost a year, sir.”

“And you won the Imperial Order of Merit,” Heacox said. “Yes, your reputation has preceded you. But there's more to a career in the Legion than winning medals. Leadership is a complicated thing. I don't know if the claims you made about the so-called bucket fights are true. But even if they were, I would not necessarily get involved. Like myself, Sergeant Gavin has served the Legion for more than fifteen years, and he knows what I know, which is that legionnaires need to blow off steam. Especially during a voyage such as this one. And how can they do that? By reading a book? I don't think so.”

Heacox paused and blinked three times before picking up where he'd left off. “It sounds like Fry got into some sort of disagreement and came out on the losing end of a fistfight. And Gavin, having heard about the incident, went to visit him in sick bay. Is that the essence of it?”

That wasn't the essence of it—but McKee knew better than to say so. “Sir, yes, sir.”

Heacox blinked. “Well, forgive me, Sergeant, but that isn't enough to act on. You said Fry is getting better. That's the important thing.”

“And the bucket fights, sir?”

“I'll mention the possibility to Gavin. I'm sure he'll look into it.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Heacox blinked three times. “Dismissed.” The meeting was over.

Plans A and B had gone down in flames, so that left McKee with C. An iffy course of action that could easily put her in the sick bay next to Fry. But there was no way in hell that she was going to let Heacox and Gavin stay in business. Because after the meeting with Heacox, she felt certain that he knew about the bucket fights and was profiting from them. And that was why Gavin could operate so freely.

McKee went straight to the sick bay. Okada was busy working with a patient when she arrived, so she went to see Fry, who looked a lot better. His face wasn't as swollen for one thing, and his black eyes were turning yellow. After some small talk, McKee took another shot at getting Fry to tell her the truth. “I know Gavin has been by, and I know you're scared of him, but I need to know
why
.”

Fry's eyes went to the ceiling. “It's like I told you, Sarge . . . I fell in the shower.”

McKee sighed. “Okay, have it your way. Send for me if you change your mind.”

Okada was free by then, and McKee went over to speak with him. “I need a favor.”

The medic's eyebrows rose. “Such as?”

“I want to see Gavin's medical records.”

“That's against regs.”

“So is using Fry as a punching bag.”

Okada stared at her for a moment. “I should ask why—but I don't want to know. Wait here.”

The medic disappeared into a compartment labeled
OFFICE
, and emerged five minutes later. “Delete the file after you read it,” Okada said, as he gave her a memory stick. “Promise?”

“I promise,” McKee replied. “Thanks.”

McKee was going to need some help, and it felt good to know there was a person she could count on even if Desmond Larkin was the sort of person who made bucket fights possible. Still, allies are where you find them, which, in Larkin's case, was asleep in his bunk.

 • • • 

Dinner was over, most of the legionnaires had free time on their hands, and a bucket fight was scheduled to take place in spite of McKee's conversation with Lieutenant Heacox. So with no last-minute reprieve, McKee was going to implement Plan C even if it killed her. Which it might. That was why McKee felt sick to her stomach as she got off the elevator on Deck 3. Larkin was right beside her. “You're sure about this?”

“No, but I'm going to do it anyway.”

“You're crazy . . . You know that.”

“Yeah, I know. But if we stick to the plan, there's a good chance it will work.”

“And you believe that?”

“No.”

Larkin laughed. “Don't worry, McKee. I'll keep Gavin's toadies off your back. And some of the guys from our compartment will be there as well.”

McKee glanced at him. “They will?”

“Fry's one of ours, right? Even if we all go our separate ways when this bus ride is over.”

McKee was surprised to hear that some of her temporary subordinates were going to back her, and might have taken comfort from that knowledge if they hadn't run into trouble two seconds later. Two of Gavin's henchmen were stationed next to the bucket, and the man McKee thought of as Rat Face stepped forward to block the way. “Oh, no you don't. Turn around and go back to wherever you came from. You aren't welcome here.”

Rat Face was looking at McKee. That was a mistake. A single blow from Larkin put him on the floor. Then Larkin turned to the other man and cracked his knuckles. “Want some?”

The second toady shook his head.

Rat Face was trying to stand as McKee and Larkin entered the hold. A pathway opened in front of them, and McKee got the feeling that the word was out. Something unusual was about to take place—and the crowd knew it. The atmosphere was thick with tension, and people were staring at her.

Gavin and Mendez were on the platform looking down at her as McKee approached the ring. Gavin spoke into a microphone, and his voice boomed over the makeshift PA system. “Well, well, look what we have here. Sergeant McKee is a hero. Did you know that? And she thinks bucket fights are wrong. I'll tell you what . . . Let's settle this with a vote. All in favor of tonight's fight, say ‘yes.'”

There was a roar of approval.

Gavin nodded knowingly. “All opposed?”

Silence.

McKee was climbing up onto the platform by then. Gavin looked surprised but stood his ground as she snatched the mike out of his hand. McKee's eyes swept the crowd. “You want a fight, and I'm going to give you one. Sergeant Gavin is good at sponsoring fights, and profiting from them, but why doesn't
he
enter the ring? Is it because he's a coward? If not, he'll fight me here and now! Let's take another vote. Who would like to see me kick Gavin's ass?”

The second roar of approval was even louder than the first. McKee grinned. “I'll take that as a yes. How 'bout it, Gavin? Are you going to fight? Or start crying?”

McKee could see the look of glee on Gavin's face. He was taller, heavier, and stronger than she was. So the outcome was guaranteed. He took the mike out of her hand. “I'm going to put you on the floor and stomp your ugly face.”

McKee knew that if she hoped to win, speed and agility would be her primary advantage. That and the element of surprise. So she kicked him in the balls.

The bell hadn't sounded, so Gavin wasn't expecting the blow. The boot was right on target, and he uttered a squeal as he doubled over in pain. The crowd roared, Mendez tried to intervene, and Larkin put him down. That was when half a dozen of McKee's legionnaires surged to the front of the crowd and turned to face the rest. The message was clear: Stay back.