Andromeda’s Choice (5 page)

But that was all. In spite of his best efforts, Royer had never been allowed to have sex with her. A rare occurrence. But wait a minute . . . Cat Carletto was dead. Killed on Esparto. There were various stories about her death, including one centered around a terrorist bomb. But those who traveled in the circles Royer did, and had family connections to Empress Ophelia, knew the truth. Unfortunately, it had been necessary to cleanse the upper realms of Imperial society after Alfred's death or run the risk of a devastating civil war. And the Carletto family had been among the first to be purged.

So, assuming that Cat had been able to escape somehow, she must have taken another identity. A quick check was sufficient to learn that the girl with the tattoo was registered as Sergeant Andromeda McKee. A soldier! That was a surprise—and might explain where she'd been hiding.

Royer brought up a shot of her face and took a moment to study it. The scar was so prominent that he didn't see anything else at first. But when he forced himself to ignore the disfiguring wound, the truth was plain to see. There, right in front of him, was Cat Carletto. A smile appeared on Royer's lips.
You were hard to get,
he thought to himself,
but you're mine now.

 • • • 

McKee was having a good day. A light breakfast had been followed by a brisk game of low-gee handball. It was a sport she had played in college and her best hope of staying in shape during the voyage.

The handball match was followed by a delightfully hot shower. Then, after donning a fresh Class A uniform, it was time to visit deck three, where most of the ship's restaurants and shops were located. If she hadn't known better, McKee would have assumed she was in an upscale mall on Earth. The so-called promenade ran from bow to stern and was flanked by the sort of businesses Cat Carletto had frequented. During her stroll, McKee passed stores selling every possible type of merchandise, exotic eateries that spilled out onto the pedway, and the brightly lit casino that Julie had spoken of.

Other passengers, most of whom were clearly wealthy, were ambling along the promenade, too, and some of them eyed the legionnaire with open curiosity. With the exception of some senior officers, there weren't any other members of the military to be seen.

McKee would have preferred to wear civilian clothes but didn't have any and was under orders to wear her uniform. A stricture that didn't make any sense until an android approached her and introduced himself as Elroy. “Sorry to bother you,” the robot said, “but I have orders to take video of you during the trip to Earth. I was able to obtain some good shots while you were playing handball this morning—and I'd like to capture some video while you're strolling the promenade.”

She was under surveillance! That was how Elroy knew where to find her. And the footage was going to be used as part of a propaganda piece. Would it air in conjunction with the medal ceremony? That made sense.

The realization that she was being tracked made McKee feel angry and a bit frightened as well. She wanted to tell Elroy to take a hike—but knew Avery was right. Her best chance was to go along, put the whole thing behind her, and get off Earth as quickly as possible. She forced a smile. “Of course . . . Should I do anything in particular?”

“No,” the android replied. “Do as you please. I'll follow along behind.”

McKee wondered if Larkin was being followed as well, and if so, what he was doing. But the last thing she wanted to do was wind up as his babysitter. So having put that concern aside, she continued her stroll.

It was past noon by now, and she was hungry. So when McKee spotted the Starlight Room, she went in. Elroy was free to follow or remain outside. The choice was up to it.

The restaurant was nice but far from fancy. Guests were required to take a tray and slide it along a buffet line to get their food. McKee was reminded of a Legion mess hall, only with more choices and better-quality food.

She was holding a tray with both hands as she made her way into the dining area where roughly half of the linen-covered tables were occupied. Having selected one that was empty, McKee put the tray down, chose one of four seats, and began to eat. The food was good, and she was about halfway through it, when a male voice spoke from behind. “Hello, Cat.”

McKee turned, realized her mistake, and found herself face-to-face with Ross Royer. He was still the best-looking man she had dated. He had thick black hair, large eyes, and a long, nicely shaped nose. But the most notable aspect of his features was his perfect lips—and the eternal pout produced by the fact that his lower lip was slightly fuller than the top one.

McKee felt a sudden tightness in her chest as the full import of the situation struck her. And at least some of what she felt must have been visible on her face because Ross nodded understandingly. “It's a shock, isn't it? Cat is safely dead one moment and alive the next. But never fear . . . We were friends once and will be again. May I join you?”

McKee's hands were trembling, so she moved them down into her lap. Her first thought was to play dumb and say something like, “Cat? You must have me confused with someone else.”

But she sensed it wouldn't work. So she took a different tack instead. “Suit yourself, Ross. What do you want?”

“Well, now,” Royer said, as he sat down. “The answer to that is simple. I want you.”

Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead.

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN
Standard year circa 1750

ABOARD THE LINER
IMPERIALUS

McKee stared at Royer from the other side of the table. He was extremely good-looking, which was the primary reason why they had dated in college. Pretty people go out with pretty people. But Royer had been
way
too controlling for the free-spirited Cat Carletto, and she had dumped him. A decision that left her girlfriends aghast. Now, having appeared out of nowhere, he was back. “You want me. What, exactly, does that mean?”

“Don't be coy,” Royer said. “You know what it means.”

McKee shook her head. “That isn't going to happen.”

There was anger in Royer's eyes. “Be careful what you say, Cat. Your mother and father are dead, and you're in hiding. That means you'll do what I say.”

“Or?”

“Or I will hand you over to Tarch Hanno. He runs the Bureau of Missing Persons, and it's my guess that he's looking for you.”

McKee knew all about the Bureau, having captured one of its synth operatives and gone through the robot's hard drive with a fine-toothed comb. In spite of the innocent-sounding title, the BMP was actually the arm of government charged with completing the purge. So Royer's threat was quite real. That meant she could submit to his demands, commit suicide, or . . . McKee wasn't ready to confront the “or” yet and sought to buy time. It was easy to look scared. She was. “This is all so sudden. I need time to think about it.”

There was nothing friendly about Royer's smile. “Say please.”

McKee's eyes dropped to the tabletop. “Please.”

“That's better,” Royer said. “Yes, you can have some time to think about it. Meet me in the Galaxy restaurant at six. We'll have dinner, and you can give me your response.”

McKee's mind was racing as she tried to anticipate needs she wasn't sure of yet. Her eyes came back up. The robot with the camera was nowhere to be seen. Had it captured video of Royer sitting at her table? Probably. Her tone was deferential. “Are you sure that's wise? If I'm seen with you, and someone turns me in, Tarch Hanno might get the wrong impression.” McKee saw the look of uncertainty appear on Royer's face and was careful to hide the sense of satisfaction she felt. She could tell that possibility hadn't occurred to him.

“Yes,” Royer said, as he looked around. “Good point. I'm glad to see that you understand how dangerous your situation is.”

They weren't talking about
her
situation—but McKee allowed him to save face. “I suggest we meet in your suite,” McKee said, as she forced her eyes into direct contact with his. “Then we'll have the privacy we need.”

Royer's perfectly shaped eyebrows rose slightly. “Good idea. That would be more discreet. Six o'clock. I'll see you then.”

With that, Royer came to his feet and left. McKee felt sick to her stomach as he walked away. Slowly, with all the dignity she could muster, she left the table and made her way to the ladies' room. Then she threw up.

 • • • 

Over the last few months, McKee had become something of an expert at dealing with fear and learned how to function in spite of it. And now, having returned to her cabin, she was determined to carry on in spite of what felt like an abyss at the pit of her stomach. She wasn't going to submit, and she wasn't going to commit suicide. No, she was going to solve the problem the way a good soldier would. She was going to kill it. The key was to create a really good plan. And to carry it out without any mistakes.

Royer had a number of advantages going for him, including the fact that he was bigger, stronger, and could rat her out.
But,
McKee told herself,
I'm a combat veteran, I'm smarter than he thinks I am, and I know a lot about cybernetics. Which is closely related to the science of robotics. And that's going to save my ass. I hope.

Having given herself a pep talk, McKee went to work. The first step was to empty the B-1 bag on the bed. The items she was looking for fell out last. That included the razor-sharp Droi hunting knife that a chieftain named Insa had given her. It had a curved, hand-forged blade and was protected by a wooden sheath.

Next was a pair of Class A cybergloves of the sort techs used to perform maintenance on the Legion's cyborgs. McKee wasn't a certified tech but knew more than they did, having earned a degree in cybernetics and grown up in a family famous for manufacturing cyber forms. And, having “borrowed” the gloves on Orlo II, she still had them.

Last, but not least, was a roll of the highly specialized tools that techs used to make repairs or install new components. Something else she had acquired without submitting a requisition.

Once the nonessential items had been returned to storage, McKee slid into the chair that was positioned in front of the cabin's terminal. A few clicks were sufficient to summon a housekeeping robot. It arrived a few minutes later and announced itself by ringing the doorbell. McKee took a deep breath. The next few minutes would be critical. If she screwed up, the ship's security people would be all over her, Royer would rat her out, and she'd be dead within days of landing on Earth.

She opened the door to greet one of the ship's nearly identical androids. It was wearing a pillbox hat, fancy waist-length jacket, and neatly creased trousers. “Good afternoon, Miss. My name is George. How can I help?”

The space was tight, but Cat managed to step out of the way. “I dropped my hairbrush on the floor, and I want you to pick it up.” A human might have balked at such a trivial request, but George entered the room without hesitation.

Even though humans had created robots and put them to work throughout the empire, they feared them as well. And that included domestic droids like George—never mind the high-order synths that Ophelia liked to use as assassins.

So various safeguards had been put in place. They ranged from a planetwide shutdown of all Artificial Life Forms, to the pistol-like stunners issued to police officers, and the last-chance kill switches located at the base of each robot's neck. They were intentionally hard to access. But if McKee could turn George off, and do so quickly enough, the initial part of her plan would work. If she failed, George would call for help, and security would respond in a matter of minutes.

“There it is,” McKee said, as she pointed at the hairbrush. “If you would pick it up, I would be grateful.”

George was constitutionally unable to refuse any reasonable request from a passenger and bent to do her bidding. And that exposed the back of its neck.

McKee was ready to act and did so. Her fingers went to the correct spot, thumbed the protective cover out of the way, and flipped the switch. The result was instantaneous. The robot produced a violent jerk, went limp, and collapsed.

McKee felt a tremendous sense of satisfaction. The deactivation had been so swift, so sure, that George had no opportunity to radio for help. Then, as she looked down at the robot's inert body, she realized what a fool she'd been. George was facedown. And that meant she couldn't access the android's control interface without rolling him over. No small task since the machine weighed at least fifty pounds more than she did—and was lying in the narrow space between her bed and the built-in wardrobe.

So as McKee wrestled with the robot's body, precious seconds would be coming off the clock. How long until one of the ship's computers pinged George, failed to get a response, and sent a repair tech to its last location? Twenty minutes? Ten? McKee swore and went to work.

After attempting to muscle George onto its back and failing, McKee began to grab whatever objects were handy and wedge them under the right side of the android's body. That had the gradual effect of lifting George up off the deck, and holding it there, while she went to collect more materials. Pillows, towels, and uniforms were all put to use. And, bit by bit, McKee managed to roll the robot onto its side and from there to its back.

Finally, with the robot in the desired position, McKee glanced at her chrono. The better part of five minutes had passed. She could feel the sheen of perspiration that covered her brow and made use of a sleeve to wipe it away.
Focus,
she told herself,
focus on the task at hand.

Having placed the nanomesh gloves and the roll of cyber tools on the bed next to her, McKee planted one foot on each side of George's body and sat on its chest. Then she aimed a pen-sized laser at the robot's visual receptors and triggered a series of blips. McKee heard a click as one side of George's face opened to reveal a control interface so small she had to use probes to manipulate the color-coded dimple switches.

After she pressed the correct buttons in the correct sequence, a tiny screen came to life. That was McKee's cue to take control of the android's Distributed Processing Swarm (DPS) and make the necessary changes.

In order to do that, she needed to put the field-programmable cybergloves on. They were composed of nanomesh computing cores that could convert microgestures into instructions and transmit them to a DPS. Thanks to some recent practice on Orlo II, McKee's movements were quite fluid as her fingers danced, and code scrolled down the tiny screen. The plan was to leave most of the robot's programming intact so that George would continue to perform its duties until she called upon it to assist her. Then, once the deed was done, all the changes would disappear.

That was the way it was supposed to work anyway—but McKee was still at it when the doorbell rang. She swore, sent some final instructions into the hacked interface, and felt George stir beneath her. Its face was still in the process of closing as it spoke. “I am ready, Miss. What can I do for you?”

The bell rang again. “Go back to work,” McKee replied, “and return with a meal cart at 1545 hours. Be sure to bring a bucket of ice and two wineglasses. If you receive conflicting instructions, ignore them. And don't mention me or this conversation to anyone else. Understood?”

“Yes, Miss.”

McKee stood and backed away. That allowed George to get up off the floor. “Straighten your uniform,” McKee ordered. “You look as if someone sat on you.”

“Yes, Miss.” The bell rang for the third time.

“If the person at the door asks what you were doing here, tell them you made the bed.”

“Yes, Miss.”

“You can leave.”

George opened the door, and there was Larkin. “Jeez, McKee,” the legionnaire said, as the robot departed. “What took you so long?”

The cabin had been trashed, so McKee positioned herself to block the view and keep the other legionnaire out. She figured the best way to handle his question was to ignore it. “What's up? Are you in trouble again?”

“Hell, no,” Larkin replied with a grin. “I met someone. A cocktail waitress. And I want to buy her dinner. Who knows? Maybe I'll get lucky! Can you loan me fifty credits?”

For a brief moment, McKee considered asking Larkin for help. He'd give it. She knew that. But then she'd have to tell him the truth about who she was, and she'd be forever indebted to him. That had very little appeal. Besides, if she was going to survive, she'd have to do it on her own. “Wait here,” McKee said, and closed the door. Moments later, she was back. “Here you go.”

“Thanks, McKee . . . Have a nice evening.” And with that, he was gone.

McKee thought about what lay ahead. It would involve all sorts of things. Nice wasn't one of them.

 • • • 

McKee ran some errands but was ready a full hour before George was scheduled to arrive. That gave her lots of time in which to worry and feel sick to her stomach. She had killed before, many times, but never in cold blood. It would constitute self-defense since Royer planned to rape her—and would probably turn her in as well. A surefire death sentence. But it still felt wrong.

That was part of what was bothering her. The rest had to do with self-doubt. Could she pull it off? Would the plan work? Conflicting emotions caused her to sit on the edge of the bed hugging herself and rocking back and forth as the minutes ticked away.

Finally, right on time, the doorbell rang. McKee felt a sense of relief as she went to let the robot in. Now she could stop worrying. Now she could take action.

Having opened the door, McKee stood to one side. There was barely enough room to close the door behind the cart and the android. A bucket of ice was sitting on top of the cart, along with a couple of linen towels and two wineglasses. McKee put a bottle of wine into the bucket and added two more to the cart. All purchased with cash on deck three. The idea was to make the cart look natural without placing an order through room service. “All right,” she said. “I'm going to ride on the bottom shelf. Deliver me to Mr. Royer's suite on deck one. When he comes to the door, tell him that the wine is a gift from me. Once inside Mr. Royer's quarters you will await further instructions. Understood?”

“Yes, Miss.”

“Okay, stand by.”

Small though she was, McKee discovered that climbing onto the cart's bottom shelf was more difficult than she had imagined. Eventually, after trying various positions, she lay on her back with her knees drawn up to her chest. “Drop the cover,” she ordered, and was pleased when white linen dropped all around. “Good . . . Let's go.”

Seconds later, they were outside on their way to the service elevator that would take them to deck one. The plan was to enter Royer's suite without being seen, kill him, and escape the same way. Maybe security would find out about the brief conversation in the restaurant. If questioned, McKee would claim that Royer had hit on her and been refused. And, with nothing else to go on, the investigators would have to accept her account.

McKee felt a gentle bump as George led the cart into the elevator and it began to rise. After a brief stop on an intermediate floor, the lift came to a stop and McKee heard the doors hiss open. Wheels rattled as the cart followed George out into slightly scented air. Then they were in the main corridor, where the robot had to stop to answer a passenger's question. McKee could see the woman's shoes but nothing more.