Andromeda’s Choice (7 page)

That was easier to say than do as someone knocked on the door, and McKee said, “Enter.”

The door opened to admit a dark-haired man who introduced himself as Dr. Raj. He had serious eyes and a businesslike manner. “This won't take long,” he assured her. “Please remove your gown and stand on the floor.”

McKee didn't like appearing in front of a perfect stranger in bra and panties, but had grown accustomed to such indignities while serving in the Legion and knew how to handle it. All she had to do was stare at the wall and wait for it to be over.

Raj dictated notes into a wire-thin lip mike as he circled her. “The patient has a number of significant contusions on her arms and legs, including the right side of her rib cage.”

Then in an aside to McKee he said, “Lift your right arm please.”

Raj clucked softly as McKee complied. “That's quite a bruise. What happened?”

“I was playing handball,” McKee explained. “It's a rough sport.”

“No offense,” Raj replied, “but I haven't seen any other handball players with injuries as extensive as these.”

McKee shrugged. “I'm out of practice. We don't have much time for handball in the Legion.”

“No,” Raj said, “I suppose not.”

Raj took a dozen photos after that, gave McKee permission to get dressed, and left the room. McKee entered the waiting room five minutes later. Shelby was waiting for her. It became apparent that the security chief had seen the pictures of McKee's bruises as she gave the legionnaire a small vial of pills. “Here's a present from Dr. Raj. Something to help with the pain. And I think I speak for lots of people when I say thanks for what you did on Orlo II. I was a jarhead, so I can relate. You folks did a helluva job.”

McKee accepted the vial. “Thanks. I thought you were ex-military.”

Shelby grinned. “It never rubs off. Enjoy the rest of your trip.”

McKee raised an eyebrow. “That's it?”

“Most likely. You had no motive, you were in your cabin when the crime took place, and there's only one of you.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning that you may be a badass, but even a badass would have a hard time killing three men, all with a knife.”

McKee knew what she should say, and said it. “
Three
men?”

“Yeah. There were two guys with Royer when he was killed. It looks like one of them attacked the other two. But these are early days, so that could change. The folks on Earth will take over the investigation once we dock. Our job is to collect all the evidence we can. That's where you come in. You spoke with Royer, we checked it out, end of story.”

The women parted company after that. McKee was in the clear. Or that's the way it sounded, and her spirits soared as she returned to the cabin. Once inside, she saw the blinking message light on her com set and lifted the receiver. The voice belonged to Larkin. “McKee, bang on my door. I have something for you.”

McKee made it a point to keep some distance between Larkin and herself. But stupid though it was, she also felt responsible for him and, much to her surprise, missed him a little.
Not much,
she assured herself,
but a little.

So she went out into the corridor and knocked on Larkin's door. He opened it right away. “McKee! Where have you been?”

“Out seeing the sights,” McKee answered vaguely. “What's up?”

“Here,” Larkin said, and he placed a casino-style chip in her hand. “That's worth one hundred credits. Not bad for a fifty-credit investment.”

McKee frowned. “You said the money was for a date. With a waitress if I remember correctly.”

“I lied,” Larkin said cheerfully. “Would you loan me fifty to gamble with? Hell, no. But something romantic? Hell, yes.”

McKee was both amazed and chagrined. Larkin was pretty smart in his own demented way—and knew how to play her. She would be more careful in the future. “That's it? That's why you wanted to see me?”

“Partly,” Larkin admitted. “But we're buddies, right? So let's have a few drinks followed by a really good dinner. Whadya say?”

McKee considered the proposal for a moment and smiled. “You know what? That sounds good. Let's do it.” McKee passed a robot named George on the way to the elevator and neither party acknowledged the other.

You can'
t go home again.

THOMAS WOLFE
Standard year 1940

PLANET EARTH

The
Imperialus
had entered Earth orbit at some point during what McKee considered to be the night. So when she met Larkin for breakfast in the Starlight Room restaurant, the planet was looming over the ship. It looked like a blue marble wrapped in cotton. McKee felt a lump rise to partially block her throat as she looked up at it. The last time Cat Carletto had seen Earth from space, she barely noticed it, or thought about her family, other than to savor the sense of freedom associated with leaving them behind.

Now her parents were dead, McKee felt guilty about how selfish she'd been, and there was nothing she could do to make up for it. Her train of thought was interrupted by Larkin. “Hey, McKee . . . Pay attention. What do you want for breakfast?”

McKee turned to find that a robot was waiting to take her order. “I'll have a cup of caf,” she said. “Plus a piece of toast and a bowl of fruit.”

“Jeez,” Larkin said. “You call that a breakfast? Why bother?”

“I don't want to get fat,” McKee replied primly. “Like some people I could mention.”

Larkin, who was normally lean, looked puffy after weeks of eating the ship's food. He grinned. “No problem. I'll work it off in the nightclubs. So what's next? When do we go dirtside?”

McKee sighed. The Legion told Larkin what to do, and he liked it that way. So rather than read the messages sent to his cabin, he was relying on a noncom to brief him. “They're going to take the passengers on the upper decks off first,” McKee said. “So our shuttle doesn't depart until 1600. It will take a couple of hours to put down, so it'll be evening by the time we arrive. A butter bar is supposed to meet us.”

Larkin made a face. Like many enlisted people, he was generally suspicious of officers, but especially contemptuous of second lieutenants, often referred to as “butter bars” because of the gold insignia they wore. That was because most of them were young, inexperienced, and full of themselves. Except for the so-called jackers, that is—meaning soldiers promoted from the ranks. “Hey,” Larkin said, as the food arrived. “Did you know that three people were killed during the trip? They took the bodies off an hour ago. Everybody's talking about it.”

“No,” McKee answered, as she took a sip of caf. “What happened?”

Larkin shrugged as he tucked into a plate heaping with sausages, eggs, and hash browns. “There was some sort of fight. That's what I heard.”

McKee nodded and took another sip of caf. Her food remained untouched.

 • • • 

Although the shuttle wasn't as fancy as the one used to ferry first-class passengers to the surface, it was luxurious by Legion standards. One important difference was the ARGRAV generator that protected everyone aboard from the often messy effects of a zero-gee ride. Military shuttles weren't equipped with such frivolities. As the vessel departed the liner's launch bay, Larkin had settled in and was halfway through his second drink.

McKee's mood was quite different from her companion's. She had gotten away with murder. Or so it seemed. But even if that was the case, some difficult days lay ahead. Avery believed that the short hair, scar, and uniform were disguise enough. But were they? Millions of people would watch the medal ceremony or news stories pertaining to it. What if some old friend or enemy recognized her? Royer had.

The thought opened a chasm in the pit of her stomach. Fear was a constant companion now, both on and off the battlefield. But she had to face it, had to deal with it, especially if she wanted to bring Ophelia down.

McKee's fingers strayed to the tiny lump hidden beneath her uniform. The memory matrix looked like a silver cat but it was more than a bauble. Much more. Because stored inside the matrix were the names of all the people Ophelia wanted to kill, including one Cat Carletto, who was listed as number 2999. And the names of Ophelia's secret agents were contained in the matrix as well. All downloaded from a synth on Orlo II. A synth that had tried to kill her.

It was valuable information. Or would be in the right hands. But was there a resistance movement of some sort? An organization that could use the lists to protect some individuals and target others? And if there was, how could she make contact with them? Or know whom to trust?

Those questions and more nagged at McKee as the shuttle bumped down through the atmosphere, circled the planet once, and came in for a landing. Los Angeles sprawled below. Over hundreds of years, the city had grown into an enormous metroplex that covered more than one thousand square miles. It wasn't the planet's official capital, but it was one of the most important cities on Earth and the one where Ophelia spent most of her time.

And McKee knew it well. Because while Cat Carletto wasn't from LA, she'd gone to college there and been a very visible part of the city's nightlife. Something that had pained her parents—and worried them no end. She felt guilty about that and wished there was some way to go back and change things. Unfortunately, the past was immutable. But the future? That could be shaped.

LA had more than a dozen spaceports, and the shuttle landed at number seven. Larkin said that was his lucky number, and McKee wondered if she had one, as they followed a group of passengers through a tubeway and into a terminal building. Baggage claim was on the ground floor. The crowd swirled as families were reunited—and what seemed like an endless sequence of announcements came over the PA system. The legionnaires jockeyed for position around the baggage carousel as luggage began to appear. McKee could see her B-1 bag in the distance. It looked strange in among the flashy Asani, Borti, and Zagger suitcases around it, Asani being her personal favorite. Would she own one again? It didn't seem likely. Not at five thousand credits for a basic three-piece set.

McKee's thoughts were jerked back into the present by the sound of her name. “Sergeant McKee? Corporal Larkin? I'm Lieutenant Wilkins. Welcome to LA.”

McKee turned to find that a slightly chubby officer dressed in a Class B uniform had approached her from behind. So she came to attention and delivered a crisp salute. What she received in return resembled a friendly wave. Wilkins had a round face, serious eyes, and two chins. And when he said, “As you were,” it had an awkward sound. As if he rarely had occasion to use the phrase. That was when McKee remembered her bag—and turned to discover that Larkin had pulled both B-1s off the carousel. “Is that everything?” Wilkins inquired.

“Yes, sir,” McKee replied. “We're ready to go.”

“Excellent. I'll take you to the hotel. We have a busy schedule set up for tomorrow, so get some sleep.”

“May I ask what we'll be doing?” McKee said, as they left the baggage area.

“Of course,” Wilkins replied. “I have you lined up for the
Good Morning LA
show at eight, I mean 0800, followed by the
World Span
feed at 1300. After that, you'll be on
The
Marv Torley Show
at 1600. He's a hoot. You'll like him.”

McKee had known it was coming—but the reality of it caused her stomach to churn. “Should we rehearse or something?”

“No need,” Wilkins replied airily. “Just be yourselves—which is to say a couple of war heroes. Watch the salty language, though . . . That could give the wrong impression.”

“Any chance of a pass?” Larkin interjected. “This is my first visit to Earth, and I'd like to see the sights.”

McKee knew what sort of sights Larkin wanted to see, but Wilkins didn't, and fell for it. “Absolutely. We're going to work you hard today and tomorrow. Then you'll have Saturday, Sunday, and Monday off. Tuesday will be spent getting ready for the presentation on Wednesday. How does that sound?”

“It sounds good, sir,” McKee said, and meant it. Three days to herself. That would be heaven.

One of the Legion's fly-forms was waiting for them on the tarmac outside. Wilkins flashed his ID at a lone sentry, who threw a salute. As they approached the scout car, McKee saw that the aircraft had a perfect paint job and was clearly dedicated to ferrying staff officers around. The inside was fitted out as nicely as the shuttle had been, and as McKee buckled herself into a leather-upholstered seat, she felt a surge of anger. There was a critical shortage of aircraft on Orlo II. Why couldn't the REMFS (rear-echelon motherfuckers) ride the bus or something? But there was no point in saying that to a public-affairs officer like Wilkins. He was part of the problem.

Deep canyons separated the high-rises of LA, and that was good because there was lots of traffic, and it was stacked in layers. That meant as the aircraft lifted off, a centralized computer had to take over and do most of the flying. The alternative was thousands of accidents, most of which would be fatal.

Larkin stared out through a window as the fly-form shot straight up, turned on its axis, and took off. Buildings whipped past right and left, other aircraft crowded in all around, and the general impression was one of barely controlled chaos. Cat Carletto's silver speedster had been left behind when she departed for the grand tour, and McKee wondered who had it.

The Hotel Lex was a midlevel hostelry at best. Something that quickly became apparent as the fly-form landed on the roof, and no one came out to meet them. “Meet me here at 0700,” Wilkins ordered. “That will give us plenty of travel time. Oh, and wear your Class A's. Get them pressed if they need it. Remember, as far as the public is concerned, you
are
the Legion.”

With that, a side door slid open, and the legionnaires jumped to the ground. Their bags landed next to them. The moment they were clear, repellers roared, grit flew every which way, and the shuttle went straight up. “What an asshole,” Larkin said, bending to retrieve his bag. “Come on . . . We'll check in and grab a couple of drinks.”

“I'll pass on the drinks,” McKee said, as they made their way over to a door marked
SKY LOBBY
. “I could use some shut-eye.”

Larkin rolled his eyes, opened the door for McKee, and followed her inside. Fifteen minutes later, McKee was in her slightly shabby room looking out through a dingy window. A man-made canyon and a steady stream of airborne traffic separated her from the brightly lit buildings on the other side of the boulevard below. Words slid across a huge reader board. They were intended for the tourists who were emerging from the train station nearby. “Welcome to LA.”

McKee ordered the window to darken and began to unpack. Her Class A was in need of pressing, and there was nothing else to do. It would have been easy to cry. She didn't.

 • • • 

The next day dawned the way it was supposed to: clear and sunny. Neither legionnaire had slept much but for different reasons. Larkin had been barhopping—and McKee had been in bed staring at the ceiling. So it was hard to say which one of them was in worse shape when they met in the hotel's Sky Lobby. Both
looked
sharp, however—and that was enough to elicit some praise from Wilkins as they entered the shuttle. “Ready for inspection! Well done. Strap in, and we're off.”

The fly-form rose, nosed its way into southbound traffic, and set down ten minutes later. The top of the World News tower was thick with tiered landing pads and different types of antennas. As McKee stepped out of the shuttle, she was confronted by a vid cam, which hovered insectlike in front of her before flitting away.

“Now they have some footage for the ten thirty tease,” Wilkins said knowledgeably. “Come on . . . We're going down to the thirty-second floor. That's where the
Good Morning LA
studio is located.”

McKee felt a little light-headed as she followed the officer onto an elevator, which dropped so fast it felt as if her spit-shined shoes would come up off the floor. She could see herself in a mirror on the opposite wall. The immaculate white kepi sat squarely on her head. The uniform was brown, with red-fringed epaulettes, and the badge of the 1
st
REC on the left side of her chest. She wore a campaign ribbon as well—and the chevrons on her sleeves marked her as a sergeant. It was in some ways like looking at a stranger.

Then the ride was over, the doors whispered open, and they stepped out into a long hallway. The walls were painted a subtle shade of red and decorated with photos of famous guests. A perky intern was there to meet them. She had straight black hair, almond-shaped eyes, and full lips. The earplug and wire-thin boom mike she wore were barely noticeable. A wannabe reporter? Yes, that seemed like a good guess.

McKee saw the girl flinch as she noticed the scar. It was her experience that women reacted more strongly than men—probably because they were imagining how awful such a disfigurement would be. The intern recovered, produced a smile, and said “Hi! My name's Cindy. Please follow me.”

Wilkins went first, followed by McKee and Larkin. A door led to a makeup room, where a man and a woman were waiting for them. McKee was ushered into the chair in front of the female. She had pink hair, lots of rings on her fingers, and introduced herself as Shelly. “Don't worry,” Shelly said, kindly. “I can make that scar disappear.”

McKee felt something akin to panic. Ugly though it might be, the scar was her mask. The thing most people couldn't see past. “I don't need any makeup,” McKee growled. “I'm proud of my scar.”

Shelly was clearly taken aback, mumbled something about highlights, and dabbed at McKee's forehead a couple of times before declaring her “Ready for prime time.”

Then it was Larkin's turn. And while he flirted with Shelly, McKee took a seat in the adjacent green room, where she could watch the
Good Morning
regulars on a huge wall screen. The cast of characters included square-jawed news stalwart Max Holby, the blond, eternally well-coiffed Jessica Connelly, and the amusing weather droid Cirrus.