Andromeda’s Choice (4 page)

The plan involved saving as much as they could, serving out their enlistments, and meeting on a rim world, where they would live happily ever after. McKee knew it wasn't likely to turn out that way. Too many things could go wrong. But the plan was something to cling to, something to dream about, and something was better than nothing.

McKee allowed herself to be drawn into Avery's arms, returned his kisses, and took pleasure in the lovemaking that followed. But deep inside, and in spite of her best efforts, she felt a sense of foreboding. Because her happiness was there in her arms—and a single bullet could take it away.

 • • • 

Clouds were hiding the sun, the temperature had dropped slightly, and McKee could feel occasional raindrops as she made her way uphill from the company's HQ to what had been Riversplit's jail before the war. Now it served as the city jail, a place to house POWs of various types,
and
the equivalent of a military stockade.

A barricade had been erected in front of the facility, and a squad of marines were on duty behind it. A sergeant checked McKee's ID and read the release that Avery had signed before waving her through the checkpoint.

Once inside, McKee had to surrender all of her weapons and pass through a scanner before being asked to show the paperwork all over again. Then and only then was she allowed to enter the reception area. The room was large, the walls were covered with government-issue green paint, and the furniture was bolted to the floor.

McKee presented the release form to a uniformed jailer, who read it, instructed her to take a seat, and left. With nothing else to do, McKee let her thoughts drift to Avery, the painful good-bye, and her uncertain future. Her reverie was interrupted by the clang of a door and the rattle of chains as Desmond Larkin shuffled into the reception area.

Larkin was a bully, a gambler, and a heavy drinker. But he was also fearless in battle and, in his own weird way, a loyal friend. McKee had saved his life on Drang. And according to Larkin's way of thinking, that created a bond that couldn't be broken. So he had taken it upon himself to watch her back, even though she hadn't asked him to do so, and frequently wished that he would stop.

Having spotted her, Larkin's face lit up. He had a crew cut, a prominent brow, and beady eyes. His chin was square and eternally thrust forward, as if daring people to hit it. “McKee! What took you so long? These bastards had me in lockdown. Can you believe that shit?”

McKee
could
believe that shit. And figured the jailers had been given plenty of provocation. “Shut the hell up,” she said, “before you get yourself into even more trouble.”

McKee was on her feet by then. “I need a thumbprint,” the guard said, as he gave her a data pad.

McKee placed her right thumb on the screen, saw a light flash green, and handed the device back. That was the guard's cue to press a remote. Larkin's chains made a rattling noise as they hit the floor. “That's better,” Larkin said as he rubbed his wrists. “What a shit hole. I should sue the bastards.”

“You do that,” McKee replied, as they walked toward the door. “In the meantime, we're going to pack our gear and get ready to lift at 0600 tomorrow.”

“Lift?” Larkin inquired as he paused to collect his personal belongings. “Where are we headed?”

“Earth.”

Larkin uttered a whoop of joy. “That's wonderful! I always wanted to go there. What outfit?”

“No outfit. The governor is going to give you a Military Commendation Medal for killing a whole lot of Hudathans. And you were promoted to corporal.
Before
you wound up in the slammer.”

“No shit? A corporal?”

“Yes,” McKee said, as she recovered her weapons. “Although I predict that you'll be a private again someday.”

“Thanks, McKee,” Larkin said, as if the whole thing had been her doing. “You're the greatest.”

McKee sighed. Some things never changed.

 • • • 

It was raining as McKee and Larkin carried their B-1 bags out onto Pad 47. The navy shuttle seemed to crouch under the glare of some pole-mounted lights and glistened as water ran off its metal flanks. A slicker-clad chief petty officer was waiting to greet them. “McKee? Larkin? I'm Chief Weller. Haul your gear up the ramp and take a seat. You're the only passengers we have this morning.”

The legionnaires did as they were told. Most of the cargo area was taken up by crates of military gear destined for Earth—and that included six carefully draped coffins. McKee had seen dozens of legionnaires, marines, and militia buried in jungle graves over the last couple of months and wondered what made the six of them so special. Family connections perhaps? Or were they going to be used in the same way she was going to be used? As props in a propaganda campaign.

Having surrendered the B-1 bags to a crewman, the legionnaires selected fold-down seats. Rather than listen to one of Larkin's rants, McKee chose to insert her earbuds and listen to a book titled
The History of Algeron
. It had been written by one of the Legion's officers with help from a Naa scholar named Thinkhard Longwrite. The idea was to kill time and learn about the world she was going to serve on after the visit to Earth. It was by all accounts a strange place, governed by extremely short days, divided by an equatorial mountain range, and inhabited by a race called the Naa.

No one was listening as the copilot read off the usual preflight spiel, and the shuttle began to vibrate and pushed itself into the air. McKee hit
PAUSE
and closed her eyes. She was leaving a great deal on Orlo II, including dead comrades, John Avery, and a part of herself.

Then the moment was over as the shuttle's drives took hold, the ship began to climb, and a heavy weight settled onto her chest and shoulders. One phase of her life was complete, and another had begun.

It took the better part of four hours to enter orbit, match velocities with the
Imperialus
, and slip into one of the liner's landing bays. An additional half hour was required to close the outer hatches and pressurize the space. Then and only then were McKee and Larkin allowed to tromp down the metal ramp to a blast-scarred deck.

A perky hostess was waiting to greet them. She was dressed in a blue blazer, scarf, and a conservatively cut skirt. “Sergeant McKee? Corporal Larkin? My name is Julie. Welcome aboard. Anton will take care of your bags.”

Anton was a uniformed android. McKee thought it was silly to put clothes on animals and robots, but plenty of people disagreed. Anton wore a red pillbox hat, a smart waist-length jacket, and matching trousers. Each B-1 bag weighed eighty or ninety pounds. But Anton had no difficulty plucking them off the deck and loading them onto an auto cart.

Then, with Julie leading the way, the group entered a lift. How many times had Cat Carletto been given such treatment? Hundreds, if not more. But Andromeda McKee wasn't used to being coddled and felt self-conscious.

The elevator stopped on deck five. The lowest and therefore cheapest level the liner had to offer. A far cry from the top deck and the amenities that Cat had taken for granted.

Julie led the legionnaires through a maze of corridors to a couple of side-by-side inner cabins. She opened 507 and invited McKee to step inside. The compartment was so small there was barely enough room for a bed, wardrobe, and a tiny bathroom. That was all the Imperial government was willing to pay for.

But McKee was thrilled to have a cabin of her own and was looking forward to a chance to sleep in, take as many showers as she wanted to, and wear clean clothes every day. Larkin's thoughts lay elsewhere. “So,” he said, “where can a guy get a drink?”

“The
Imperialus
has seven bars and five restaurants, all of which serve alcohol,” Julie replied. “The purser is located on deck three. He'll be happy to accept a deposit or a credit chip.”

The mention of money he didn't have sent Larkin off in a new direction. “What about gambling?”

“The casino is on three,” Julie told him. “As is the Starlight Room, which is open around the clock. The meals you eat there are included in the price of the cabin. And you can dine in the other restaurants for an additional charge. Do you have any other questions? No? Then I'll bid you bon voyage. Please let me know if there's anything I can do to make the trip more pleasant.”

“Let's explore,” Larkin suggested, as Julie and Anton departed. “I want to see the casino.”

“Go ahead,” McKee said. “I'd like to get settled first. And Larkin . . .”

“Yeah?”

“Stay out of trouble. This isn't a troopship. If you get thrown into the brig or whatever they call it, I won't be able to get you out.”

Larkin made a face. “Relax. We're heroes! Everybody loves a hero.” And with that, he was gone.

 • • • 

Ross Royer had been on the
Imperialus
for five days prior to the stop at Orlo II. And that meant he was getting bored. His usual antidote for boredom was to find an attractive woman, use her, and move on. Something he had successfully done dozens of times. So as he left his suite, and made his way down to deck three, he was on the lookout for what he thought of as targets. Not older women, or teenage girls, because both were far too easy.

No, Royer was looking for something more challenging. A famous actress, perhaps, or an important business executive. A person who considered herself to be attractive, successful, and smart. Nothing felt better than to take control of such a woman and break her heart. There were dangers, of course, including angry husbands, fathers, and friends. Or in some cases the women themselves. But that added spice.

Royer was dressed in a white sports shirt and shorts. Thanks to his good looks and athletic body, people turned to look at him. But he was used to that and barely noticed the attention. The
Imperialus
was equipped with a variety of gyms, pools, and other recreational facilities. But the only one that held any interest for Royer was the low-gee handball court. The sport he had been known for in college.

Unfortunately, other passengers enjoyed the sport as well, and since there was only one court, it was often necessary to wait for an opening. Royer had attempted to bribe the Director of Recreation but failed. She would pay once he arrived on Earth. The cruise lines' CEO was a friend of the family. But for the moment, all he could do was fume and wait in line like everyone else.

The fully enclosed handball court measured forty feet by twenty feet and was equipped with field-limited ARGRAV generators that reduced each player's weight by a third. The general effect was to make a fast game even faster.
And
more athletic. Royer was known for his flips, somersaults, and flying returns. All of which had to be used on a frequent basis lest the skills begin to fade.

The back wall of the court was twelve feet high, with a gallery located above. That was where people who wanted to play were forced to wait. And as Royer entered and sat down, he took the opportunity to eye those around him, looking for doubles partners and women who met his criteria. Sadly, there wasn't much to choose from in either category. Most of the would-be players were clearly out of shape or too old to be competitive. As for the women, none of them seemed to meet the mark—although he took notice of a willowy blonde and made a mental note to find out more about her.

Royer turned his attention to the court and saw that a rather spirited singles match was under way. One of the players was a young man who, though too slow for a world-class rating, was a respectable player nevertheless. His opponent was a young woman with scruffy hair and a terrible scar that cut diagonally across her face. She was a good player but a bit awkward, as if out of practice. All of which was interesting but not important.

No, what
really
caught Royer's attention was the fact that there was something familiar about the woman's style. That was impossible, of course, or should be, but the feeling persisted as she leaped into the air and slammed the ball into the front wall. It hit the floor, took a good bounce, and the receiver made a valiant effort to return it. But the sphere flashed by his outstretched fingertips, and some of the spectators cheered as a point went up on the electronic scoreboard.

The match ended a short time thereafter, and the young woman left the court. That should have been the end of it, would have been the end of it, except that Royer couldn't shake the feeling that he knew the girl. So later, after a truly boring match with an overweight business tycoon, Royer made some inquiries. Were the matches recorded? Yes, they were, so that players could review their performances. Could he replay matches he hadn't participated in? The answer was “Yes,” and, to Royer's delight, he could watch in the comfort of his own suite.

After returning to his quarters and taking a shower, Royer plopped down in front of a large wall screen. Video blossomed as an alluring female voice welcomed him to the ship's entertainment and communications network. It took less than a minute to find the correct video files and choose the one he wanted.

But having done so, Royer discovered that he could not only watch the match featuring the woman he thought of as Scarface, he could zoom in on sections of the screen, and freeze the video. Royer sipped a glass of perfectly chilled wine as he went in on the subject's face, scrutinized her body, and found himself wondering what she would look like without any clothes on. Was this the one he'd been looking for? The distraction he needed? Perhaps so. Because even though she didn't match the sort of target he had in mind, there was something intriguing about the girl.

With that in mind, Royer began a painstaking examination of the woman on the video. And he hit pay dirt thirty-seconds later. Because there, frozen on the screen, was a tattoo. It was a full-color image of a cartoon cat with a canary in its mouth. And that was when Royer remembered. Cat! Cat Carletto. He not only knew her, he had gone to school with her and kissed the cartoon cat. And various other parts of her anatomy as well.