Andromeda’s Choice (6 page)

Having answered the question, George led the cart around a corner and down a secondary passageway. Then it came to a stop as the android rang a doorbell. McKee's heart was beating like a trip-hammer as she waited for the door to open. When it did, she heard George say, “The wine is a gift from Miss McKee.”

Royer said something unintelligible; the robot preceded the cart into the living area, and the door closed with a loud click. That was McKee's cue to roll out onto the floor. Adrenaline was pumping through her circulatory system as she hit the carpet and bounced to her feet.

But rather than confronting Royer, as McKee had imagined, she found herself facing
three
men. Royer smiled lazily. “Well, look what we have here . . . Cat Carletto. You've seen her on the news, boys . . . But never like this. Ready to do whatever it takes to stay hidden. So Troy, what do you think of the scar?”

The man named Troy had shoulder-length hair, a fake tan, and looked like a lounge lizard. One of the social wannabes who were attracted to Royer in much the same way that flies are attracted to shit. “I think it's a turn-on,” Troy replied.

“This is Carl,” Royer said, indicating the second man. Carl was in need of a shave, had a paunch, and was holding a cocktail. “And he's been looking forward to seeing your tits. Take your clothes off.”

The knife had been there all along—stuck down the back of McKee's pants. It came out of the sheath smoothly as she took a long step forward. Royer was just starting to frown when the blade sliced through his jugular and partially severed his windpipe. Blood flew sideways; Royer produced a horrible gurgling sound and tried to stop the flow with his hands. Then he swayed and fell over backwards.

“Grab Carl,” McKee ordered grimly. “And don't let go.”

It would have been nice to order George to kill Carl, but it wasn't programmed for that and wouldn't comply. So McKee figured that if the android could keep Carl busy, that would give her a better chance of successfully dealing with Troy.

And that, as it turned out, was going to be difficult. Because in spite of all appearances to the contrary, Troy was no pushover. In fact, it quickly became apparent that Troy knew how to fight. “I'm going to kill you,” he said matter-of-factly. “And they'll give me a medal for it.”

He took a stance and flicked a fist toward her face. McKee's eyes followed it, felt a foot hit her ribs, and went down hard. Now she knew. Troy was a kickboxer.

Troy was dancing by then. He gestured for her to get up. “Come on, killer . . . get up. You look like a man. Fight like one.”

Meanwhile, Carl was struggling with George. “Hey Troy! he said. “Get this thing off me!”

Troy's eyes never left McKee. “Man up, Carl . . . It's a robot, for God's sake. Kick its ass.”

McKee's side hurt, but she made it to her feet, and staggered forward. Troy smiled and launched a kick. McKee was waiting. The blow hit her in the same spot and nearly drove all the air out of her lungs. But as her opponent was pulling his foot back, McKee slashed his leg. The blade struck bone and slid off. Having hit the floor, Troy rolled to his feet. The cut wasn't that serious, but it hurt like hell and had an impact on his psychology. He'd been confident before—and now he was beginning to wonder. So he backed away, hoping to buy some time, and tripped over Royer's body.

As Troy went down, McKee pounced on his chest and delivered a flurry of overhand blows. She wasn't thinking anymore, just reacting to her fear. She stabbed him over and over. One of the wounds must have been fatal because when she stopped, there was blood all over Troy's chest, and he was dead.

That was when McKee heard movement behind her and remembered Carl. She rolled right. The wine bottle brushed the side of her head as it went by. Having landed on her back, she saw that Carl was shuffling straight at her. McKee scooted backwards, felt her back hit a wall, and was getting ready to die when George reentered the fight.

Having been forced to let go, the robot was determined to obey the orders it'd been given. So it threw itself at Carl from behind, got an arm around the human's throat, and hung on. Carl swore, dropped the wine bottle, and brought both hands up in an attempt to free himself. That opened his abdomen to attack. And McKee had no choice but to take advantage. Carl looked surprised as the blade went in.

McKee was horrified. Carl was still alive, still standing there, swaying from side to side. So she took hold of the knife and jerked it sideways. The blade must have cut through something important, because Carl's eyes rolled out of focus, and he fell facedown onto the carpet. George went with him.

“You can let go of him,” McKee said. And George did.

McKee knelt next to Carl and felt for a pulse. There was none. She felt dazed as she got up and took a moment to look around. Bodies lay everywhere, and the suite looked like the inside of a slaughterhouse. George was starting to clean up when McKee ordered it to stop.

Think,
McKee told herself,
do something.
McKee's body was shaking as if palsied, and she felt dizzy. A story. The situation demanded a story or the beginnings of one. McKee was wearing gloves she had purchased earlier that day—and the knife had been wiped clean before entering Royer's suite. So fingerprints wouldn't be a problem. But what about DNA? A quick check revealed that she hadn't suffered any cuts. And that was a miracle, all things considered.

“George,” McKee said, “come over here. Let me take a look at you.” McKee forced herself to inspect the robot but couldn't find any traces of blood on it. She suspected that its feet were a different matter, but didn't have anything to clean them with. If towels were missing, that would be a clear sign that a fourth person had been involved. But if things went the way they were supposed to, no one would examine George's feet.

“Okay, get ready to take me back to my cabin. When we get there, open the door with your passkey and push the cart inside. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Miss,” the android replied stoically. “I understand.”

“Good,” McKee said, as she took her place on the bottom shelf of the cart. “Let's go.”

The whole thing had taken longer than expected, so McKee figured that George had been classified as MIA by that time. Still, once the robot's short-term memory was wiped, there wouldn't be anything for a tech to recover. And the folks in charge could interpret that any way they chose.

The ride back to the her cabin seemed to take forever—and McKee felt an enormous sense of relief once she was inside. After rolling off the cart, she stood. Then, having examined herself in a mirror, she removed the bloody gloves. They would go into a public disposal later. “George, this is verbal command zero-zero-one.”

George blinked. “Command zero-zero-one has been received and processed.”

“Excellent. You may leave.”

George left, closely followed by the cart. McKee snatched the remaining wine bottles off the cart just before the door closed. Then she counted to thirty knowing that was when the android would start recording the sights and sounds around him again. She wanted to take a shower, collapse on the bed, and let the weariness pull her down into an all-forgiving blackness. But that would have to wait. The first thing she needed to do was to remove her clothing and dispose of it. She began by removing the plastic laundry bag from the closet and placing the blood-soaked gloves inside it. They were followed by her fatigues and shoes.

Then it was time to wash her hands. Most of the blood came off easily, ran down the drain, and from there into the ship's recycling system. But getting the blood out from under her fingernails proved to be more difficult. That required repeated efforts.

Next she donned a fresh uniform, placed the laundry bag in one of the fancy shopping bags acquired earlier in the day, and took a stroll. Security cameras could be seen throughout the ship, but not as many as one would expect to find in a shopping mall, so there were dead zones. Meaning places where McKee could drop the evidence into a disposal without being monitored.

So McKee was able to find a receptacle in a less-trafficked area and get rid of the laundry bag—knowing that it would be destroyed by the ship's mass converter shortly thereafter. Then, with the shopping bag still in hand, McKee continued on her way. Anyone who cared to check would see she still had the container she'd left the cabin with.

After that, it was a simple matter to buy some toiletries, place them in the bag, and return to her cabin. Nobody was waiting for her. So far so good.

Once inside, McKee stripped and was soon standing under a stiff spray of deliciously hot water. Her whole body was sore, but her ribs hurt the worst. So much so that she hesitated to touch them.

Earlier, immediately following the fight, she had wanted to cry. But now she felt numb. Did that make her a bad person? She'd killed three people after all.
All of whom were planning to rape you,
McKee reminded herself,
and possibly kill you as well. Why should you feel sorry for them?

McKee discovered that she didn't. No more than for the Hudathans she'd killed. At that point, the automatic shutoff brought the shower to an end, and she was forced to exit the stall.

Having toweled herself dry, McKee put on a T-shirt and a pair of panties before slipping between clean sheets and killing the lights. Sleep pulled her down shortly thereafter. But the blissful nothingness was short-lived. The com set next to her bed chimed seconds later. That's the way it seemed, but a glance at her chrono revealed that more than four hours had passed. She made a grab for the receiver. “Hello?”

“I'm sorry to bother you,” a female voice said. “My name is Cory Shelby, and I'm in charge of the ship's security team.”

McKee felt the bottom drop out of her stomach. “Yes? What can I do for you?”

“I'd like to meet with you,” the other woman replied.

McKee's thoughts were racing.
Act natural,
she told herself.
How would you respond if you hadn't murdered anyone?
“Does this have anything to do with Corporal Larkin?”

“No,” Shelby answered. “I'll give you the details once you arrive in my office.”

“So you want to see me right now?”

“Yes, if you don't mind.”

McKee
did
mind but couldn't say so. “Okay, I was asleep. So it will take me a few minutes to get ready. Where are you located?”

Shelby gave a room number. It was on deck six. The level that was devoted to crew quarters, a cafeteria, and offices.

McKee felt slightly nauseous as she put a Class A uniform on. Shelby had something. Otherwise, why would the security chief call? So the charade was over.

No,
McKee told herself.
Keep your head. They didn't send people to bring you in. So whatever she has is no big deal. You are on your way to receive the Imperial Order of Merit. Look the part.

The pep talk made McKee feel a little better, but her palms were sweaty as she made her way down to deck six, where it was necessary to show ID before she could proceed. Shelby's office was larger than her cabin but not by much. As McKee entered, Shelby stood to shake hands. The security chief had short black hair and bangs that fell halfway down her forehead. Shelby's eyes were so brown they looked black, her nose looked as if it had been broken a couple of times, and, based on the other woman's manner, McKee was willing to bet that she'd spent time in the military. “Please,” Shelby said, “have a seat.”

McKee sat down, wondered where the cameras were, and figured that other people were watching. Or would later on. Just like a military hot wash.
Body language,
she told herself.
Watch your body language.
“So,” she said noncommittally, “what can I do for you?”

Shelby came right to the point—but did so without revealing much information. “Are you acquainted with a man named Ross Royer?”

McKee was ready. “No, ma'am.”

“Really?”
Shelby inquired cynically. “We have video of you sitting with him in the Starlight Room restaurant.”

“There was a man,” McKee admitted. “He sat down, said he'd seen me playing handball, and introduced himself. The name could have been Royer. I wasn't interested.”

“So he hit on you?”

“He tried.”

“But you weren't interested?”

McKee was careful to use the present tense. “He isn't my type.”

Shelby smiled grimly, and McKee got the impression that Royer wasn't her type either. “And you haven't seen him since?”

“No. What happened?”

Shelby stared at McKee as if waiting to gauge her reaction. “Mr. Royer was murdered.”

McKee did her best to look surprised. “
Murdered?
That's terrible.”

“Yes,” Shelby agreed. “It is. Did you and Mr. Royer discuss anything other than handball?”

“He asked me to dinner, and I said no,” McKee responded. “That was it.”

“Okay,” Shelby said. “One last thing . . . Would you object to a physical examination by one of the ship's physicians?”

McKee felt a stab of fear, knew Shelby was watching her, and frowned. “I can't say that the idea pleases me, but if that will help establish the fact that I had nothing to do with Mr. Royer's murder, then I'm willing.”

“Excellent,” Shelby said as she stood. “Please follow me. The clinic is just down the corridor.”

McKee felt as if she were on a well-oiled conveyer belt as the security chief escorted her into a brightly lit waiting room. It seemed she was expected, because less than a minute passed before she was shown into an examining room and asked to remove most of her clothing.

The nurse left. As McKee got undressed, she was shocked to see how many bruises she had and knew that was what the security people were looking for, signs of a struggle.
Don't panic,
she told herself.
Stay calm.