Andromeda’s Choice (8 page)

McKee knew all of them. Or felt as if she did because it had been Cat Carletto's habit to watch the show while getting ready for school. That was fine. But had she met either one of the humans? Such a thing was possible because as a part-time member of the glitterati, Cat had been introduced to dozens of people every Saturday night. She didn't think so, however, and hoped she was right.

Suddenly, Larkin, Wilkins, and Cindy were in the room with her. “You're on in sixty seconds,” Cindy said. “Stand by.”

“Break a leg,” Wilkins said cheerfully. “And remember . . . Thanks to the empress, the Legion was able to free Orlo II from the Hudathans. Stick to that, and everything will be fine.”

That wasn't true, of course, but McKee understood it, and Larkin nodded dutifully. Then there was no time to think as they were ushered out onto the
Good Morning LA
stage. Both hosts rose to greet them. “This is a real honor,” Holby said, as he shook McKee's hand. And she could tell that he meant it.

And Connelly was no less enthusiastic. “Welcome home!” she gushed. “Please sit down.”

As the legionnaires took their seats, Connelly turned to the cameras. “It's our pleasure to welcome two war heroes to the set this morning. Next Wednesday, Governor Mason will award the Imperial Order of Merit to Sergeant Andromeda McKee, and the Military Commendation Medal to Corporal Desmond Larkin. Both of whom were among the valiant legionnaires who saved the citizens of Orlo II from certain death at the hands of the barbaric Hudathans.”

Connelly's comments were correct up to a point but failed to make mention of the fact that the Legion had been sent to Orlo II to quell what amounted to a revolt against Empress Ophelia's high-handed ways. That's why they had been present when the ridgeheads dropped hyper and put down. And that raised an interesting question. Was the World News Corporation under Ophelia's direct control? Or going along to get along? That wasn't clear as Connelly turned her laserlike blue eyes to McKee. There were no signs of recognition on her face, for which the legionnaire was profoundly grateful. “I understand that you battled your way through an entire battalion of Hudathans in order to deliver a message to your commanding officer. What was that like?”

McKee stirred uncomfortably. “I was scared.”

“But you did it anyway,” Connelly insisted. “That took courage. How many Hudathans did you kill?”

“I don't know,” McKee replied. “I didn't have time to count them.”

That got a chuckle from Holby. “What about that, Corporal Larkin? How many Hudathans did the sergeant kill?”

Larkin had no idea but was perfectly willing to make something up. “Twenty-six,” he replied. “She killed the last one face-to-face while carrying Eason's brain box to safety. Now that took balls. Oops . . . Sorry.”

Everyone except McKee laughed. She wanted to vanish into thin air somehow—but Connelly wasn't done. “How do you feel about receiving the Imperial Order of Merit?”

McKee looked away and back again. “I don't deserve it. There are plenty of people who did more but went unrecognized. That's how combat is. Medals get pinned on people who happen to be visible. Sorry, ma'am. But that's the truth of it.”

“There you have it,” Connelly said, as she turned to the nearest camera. “Selfless, brave,
and
modest. The empire's best. Stick with us, folks . . . Tarch Omada will join us after the break. We'll ask him about military preparedness right here on Earth. Should
we
be concerned about the possibility of a Hudathan attack? More in three minutes.”

After brief good-byes from Holby and Connelly, the legionnaires were escorted out into the hall, where Wilkins was waiting. “Nice job, you two! General Olmsby called me. He was very pleased. But no more of the off-color stuff, Corporal . . . Even if the general liked it.”

“Sorry, sir,” Larkin said contritely, followed by a one-fingered salute aimed at the officer's back. The Legion had landed, a beachhead had been established, and more battles lay ahead. The rest of the day passed smoothly, but the process was stressful, and McKee emerged from
The
Marv Torley Show
feeling exhausted. If left to her own devices, she would have relied on room service for something to eat.

But when Wilkins offered to take them to dinner, the legionnaires couldn't refuse. So they wound up going to a revolving restaurant located at the top of the Sen-Sing Tower. The Lotus Flower had been a very hip place to go a year earlier but had since been supplanted by other establishments, leaving it to B-list celebrities who were treated like stars. It soon became obvious that Wilkins knew many of them thanks to the Legion's involvement in various fund-raisers and was thrilled when a fading actress greeted him by his first name.

But even if the Lotus Flower had begun to wilt, it still had an unparalleled view of Los Angeles and the Pacific Ocean, which glittered like gold as the sun went down. And the seafood was excellent. So good, in fact, that McKee enjoyed the parmesan-crusted sole in spite of herself and was content to eat while the men discussed sports.

Later, as the threesome parted company on the roof of the Hotel Lex, Wilkins issued some final instructions. “Enjoy the next three days, but remember . . . You're here to represent the Legion. Don't do anything that would generate negative news coverage.

“We'll meet here at 0800 Tuesday. The entire day will be spent preparing for the medal ceremony. Any questions? No? All right. You have my com number. Don't hesitate to use it.” And with that, they were free. Once the fly-form took off, they entered the Sky Lobby.

“Don't tell me, let me guess,” Larkin said. “You're going to visit your family.”

During the months they had known each other, McKee had been forced to invent an imaginary family. “Something like that,” McKee admitted. “Maybe you'd like to come along.”

Larkin was predictable if nothing else. “Thanks, but no thanks,” he replied. “I wouldn't want to impose. Besides, I have some serious recreating to do. And, based on the stories I've heard, the Deeps are calling.”

The elevator arrived and took them in. “The Deeps are extremely dangerous,” McKee said. “There's no law down there. I wish you wouldn't go.”

Larkin looked surprised. “Well, I'll be damned. I think you care.”

McKee made a face. “The Legion will blame me if you wind up dead. Plus, there will be a lot of forms to fill out.”

Larkin grinned. “Don't worry, Mom. I grew up in the slums of Elysium, remember? I can take care of myself.”

There was truth in that, and the last thing McKee wanted was to babysit Larkin for three days. So she let it go. “Take care then—and get a haircut. You look like a civilian.”

Larkin laughed and got off on his floor. McKee watched as the doors closed behind him. It would be a miracle if the legionnaire emerged from LA's underworld unscathed. Larkin was right about one thing, however . . . McKee was going to visit her family. Her
real
family.

 • • • 

McKee awoke the next morning feeling refreshed. After a long, hot shower, she went downstairs and had a light breakfast. With that out of the way, she entered the shop adjacent to the hotel's restaurant. Most of the clothes had some iteration of “Los Angeles” printed on them but, after sorting through the shop's offerings, McKee was able to assemble a limited wardrobe. It consisted of a gray hoodie, some white T-shirts, and a pair of blue shorts. A ball cap and a pair of sleek sunglasses completed the look. The store didn't sell shoes, but it had sandals, and McKee chose a pair she knew Cat Carletto would like. They were gold and very glittery. Quite a contrast to what she usually wore. Her final purchase was a knapsack to carry the clothing in.

Having returned to her room, McKee changed into the civvies and examined herself in the bathroom mirror. It had been months since she'd seen herself in anything other than a uniform, and she was surprised by what she saw. Andromeda McKee was leaner than Cat Carletto had been, stood straighter, and looked tough. The buzz cut and the facial scar had a lot to do with that, of course—but McKee knew it was more than that. She'd been places and done things that most people couldn't imagine. So, would she trade all that had been gained for a return to her previous existence? McKee smiled, and the woman in the mirror smiled back. Of course she would. Especially if it meant her parents would be alive.

After stuffing a change of clothes and some toiletries into the knapsack, McKee slid her arms through the straps, pulled the ball cap down over her sunglasses, and was ready to go. She could have been anyone. A waitress on her way home after the night shift, a tourist from back East, or a college girl on her way home. In this case to Seattle.

McKee had to change elevators to reach the subsurface pedway that led to the nearest train station. And even though McKee had been there before, the hot humid air and the incessant noise still came as a shock after days spent “uptown.” Meaning above street level.

Fortunately, McKee knew the rules, which were to keep moving, avoid eye contact, and mind your business. Rules that, if faithfully followed, would keep most people out of trouble most of the time. And that was important. Because the pedways just below the streets were the dividing line between Uptown and the Deeps. An area where the rule of law still held sway but just barely.

Even so, a person who looked like Cat Carletto would have been targeted had she been so foolish as to walk the pedways alone. Not McKee, though. She was on the receiving end of whistles and lewd comments—but was able to reach the train station without anyone's laying a hand on her.

The bustling station occupied a cavernous space, which, in spite of the city's efforts to keep it clean for tourists, was decorated with overlapping layers of graffiti. The words
FREEDOM FRONT
had been spray-painted on one wall, and McKee wondered what they meant. Was the Freedom Front a group? And if so, did that imply some sort of resistance movement? She hoped so.

After a quick stop at a ticket kiosk, McKee made her way over to a platform where people were boarding the sleek maglev that would take them north at a speed of 300 mph. Fast enough to put McKee in Seattle for dinner even with multiple stops along the way. A commercial flight would have been quicker, but McKee was on a budget and couldn't afford such a luxury.

She joined a queue, fed her ticket into a scanner, and plucked it out of the slot on the other side of the turnstile. There weren't any reserved seats. Not in second class. So McKee had to hurry in order to secure a place by one of the windows. Then came the suspense of waiting to see who would sit next to her. The last thing she wanted to do was spend hours being hit on, be forced to participate in a boring conversation, or listen to other people having one. Fortunately, none of the three people who sat down around her demonstrated the least bit of interest in being sociable.

Shortly after an incomprehensible announcement, the train jerked into motion, and the journey began. The scenery went by slowly at first as the Emerald Express negotiated the tunnels that led out onto the main line. Then the train began to pick up speed. And thanks to the fact that it was hovering over a guideway rather than riding old-fashioned tracks, the maglev was able to achieve cruising speed in a couple of minutes. Now the city was blipping by, so quickly that everything became a blur, and McKee closed her eyes.

The trip was silly in a way. She knew that. Her parents were dead, and going home wouldn't change that. All it would do was amplify the pain she felt. So why go there? For a sense of closure. To grieve. To ask for their forgiveness. Because, by all rights, she should be dead, and they should be alive.

Stops came and went as McKee dozed or listened to music via a pair of earbuds. Eventually, McKee awoke from one of her naps to discover that the maglev had begun to slow. Like LA, Seattle had grown over the last few hundred years. Now it stretched from what had been the border with Canada all the way down to the suburb of Centralia.

One thing hadn't changed, however, and that was the weather. It was raining, and as the train slowed to a mere 60 mph, streaks of water appeared on the window in front of her. That was when McKee realized that sandals and shorts had been a poor choice and smiled at her own stupidity.

The Emerald Express pulled into the station shortly thereafter, and McKee followed other passengers off. Now she was faced with a new challenge. Never, not once during her years in Seattle, had Cat Carletto been required to use the public-transit system. Yet that was what she needed to do in order to reach the upper-class enclave of Bellevue.

So McKee made her way over to an information kiosk, performed the necessary research, and set out on the next leg of her journey—a trip that involved a subway ride under the lake, a short bus ride, and a hike. It was dark by then and still raining. Her cotton clothes were damp, and her feet were wet, but the discomfort was nothing compared to what she had experienced on Orlo II. That's what she told herself anyway as she slogged along rain-slicked streets. She paused every now and then to make sure that she was headed the right way and to check what she had come to think of as her six.

Five minutes later, she arrived at the street that turned into the gated community where she had been raised. It was surrounded by a high-tech perimeter. Even so, the local teens, Cat Carletto included, delighted in sneaking in and out of the community much to the consternation of their parents.

So McKee followed the community's nine-foot-tall privacy wall east to the point where a brook flowed out of the eighteen-hole golf course around which many of the homes were sited. McKee threw her pack over the wall before stepping into the cold water and lying on her back. Then, by pushing with her feet, she was able to slide
under
the wall. It was necessary to hold her breath for about fifteen seconds, but she made it and surfaced moments later. The problem was that McKee's teeth were chattering by the time she stood and climbed up onto a low bank.