The weight of it drove her down until she lay curled up on the floor of the shower, as the water continued to pound her flesh. And what made it worse was the knowledge that she had survived while the rest of them hadn’t. Why? It was so wrong. Outside of college, most of her life had been spent finding new ways to have fun.
It was then, with her face just inches from the point where the water entered the drain, that Cat found a purpose. A reason to exist. And that was to bring Empress Ophelia to her knees. But how? She didn’t have the faintest idea. But the notion gave her life meaning—and the motivation to stand up.
Having wrapped herself in a scratchy towel, Cat left the bathroom and sat on the creaky bed. The perfect spot to examine her foot. The cut was clean now. But she dabbed disinfectant onto it anyway, winced, and applied a self-sealing bandage.
She was physically and emotionally drained by then. So she slipped into some new underwear, got into bed, and was about to fall asleep when she heard the mumble of voices from the next room. That was followed by distorted laughter and a thump as something hit the wall behind her head. Then came the rhythmic squeaking sound that the couple’s bed made as they had sex. A siren could be heard off in the distance, a door slammed somewhere, and it wasn’t long before Cat fell asleep.
* * *
Morning brought a gradual return to consciousness along with the vague memory of bad dreams and a sense of urgency. What was going on? What did the news nets have to say? Curiosity plus the fact that Cat was hungry drove her to get up, get dressed, and head out.
Cat dreaded running into Jat. But he was busy talking to a middle-aged woman. That was sufficient to lift her spirits as she exited through the front door. The sun was up. And as it warmed the streets, the combined odors of uncollected garbage, urine, and ozone grew stronger. But in spite of the smell and the run-down buildings all around, there was a sense of energy on the street. As if the locals were down but not out, and determined to accomplish something with their new day.
Rather than have breakfast in a sit-down restaurant, Cat chose to purchase a news tab from a street vendor, join the short line that led to one of the food wagons, and buy what was advertised as a “stir-up.” The disposable container contained a mix of chopped ham, eggs, and potatoes. All drenched with hot sauce. It was delicious.
Cat took the food plus a large cup of caf over to the ledge that ran around a dry fountain. Because it was filled with weeds and garbage, she turned her back to it. And it was there, while spooning the stir-up into her mouth, that Cat read about the horrible “accident” that had taken place the night before. The explosion had been caused by a gas leak according to one public-works official, and had been responsible for the tragic deaths of the governor, her husband, and nearly all of their guests. A police officer blamed the tragedy on a bomb planted by antigovernment terrorists. Both agreed that there had been an altercation in the street out front. An investigation was under way.
That was bad enough, but according to the tabloid’s editor, even worse news had arrived from Earth. It seemed that Emperor Alfred Ordanus had committed suicide two weeks earlier. Fortunately, Princess, now Empress, Ordanus had been able to step in to prevent the empire from spiraling into chaos.
According to Imperial spokesperson Tarch Othar, a firm hand would be required to root out the members of a conspiracy bent on seizing power in the wake of the emperor’s death. A plot which, based on preliminary findings, had been led by none other than Cyntarch Dor Carletto. He and his wife had been killed during a raid on his home.
And, the article continued, Lady Catherine Carletto was on Esparto, and had been present at the governor’s ball, but her body hadn’t been found. Was she connected with the explosion in some way?
The implied answer was “yes.” Cat thumbed her name, and the image that appeared was a picture of herself looking directly into the camera. The caption beneath the photo read, “Wanted dead or alive. A reward of fifty thousand credits will be paid to anyone who can apprehend Lady Catherine Carletto or prove that they killed her.”
Cat paused to take a furtive look around. Her hair was shorter now. And she wasn’t wearing makeup. But that wouldn’t prevent a cop or a bounty hunter from recognizing her face. Fortunately, none of the people seated around the dry fountain were paying attention to her.
Cat’s appetite had disappeared. She rose, threw the remains of the breakfast into a trash can, and carried both the caf and the tabloid back to her room. How many people had seen images of her face? Millions? Yes, since it seemed reasonable to suppose that the vidnets had been flooded with her pictures, too.
But once in her room, Cat was faced with the hopelessness of the situation she found herself in. Even though she hadn’t been spotted yet, it was only a matter of time before she was. What she needed was a long-term plan. A way to hide, and remain hidden, until she could figure out a way to take Ophelia down. Eventually, having considered and rejected at least a dozen strategies, Cat fell asleep. And that’s where she was, stretched out on her bed, when something woke her. A noise? She thought so but wasn’t certain.
As Cat rolled off the bed she peeked out the window. What she saw came as a shock. A couple of synths were standing in the alley below! And Mr. Jat was there, pointing up at her room. It seemed that he had recognized her and was trying to collect the reward.
Then came the telltale thrumming sound as a transport took off from the hotel’s roof and Cat knew what had awakened her. She said, “Shit, shit, shit,” as she grabbed her hat and pulled it down over her hair. Then she put the leather jacket on and took a quick look around. Should she pack? No, there wasn’t time. Plus the suitcase would be an encumbrance.
So Cat crammed her money, ID, and credit cards into her pockets and made use of a complimentary stim-stick lighter to start a fire in her trash can. Having blocked the door open with a bath towel, Cat ran down the corridor. It was a simple matter to pull the first fire alarm she came to. A bleating sound could be heard as the fire door opened, and a synth appeared.
Cat skidded to a halt and considered going back but knew it wouldn’t work. So with no other options she did the last thing the android would expect and ran toward it. The machine raised its pistol, but it was too late. Her shoulder struck the robot, and the unexpected impact was enough to tip it over.
Cat landed on top of the synth, and the battle should have ended there, since the machine was at least twenty times stronger than she was. But being her father’s daughter, Cat knew something most people didn’t. Even though humans had created androids and programmed them to kill under certain circumstances, they were afraid of the machines as well. So various safeguards had been put in place to protect so-called soft bodies. They ranged from a planetwide shutdown of all ALFs, to the pistol-shaped synth 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 gave humans some sort of chance should they be forced to grapple with a malfunctioning ALF. So Cat wrapped her arms around the machine’s neck, felt for the kill switch, and succeeded in thumbing the protective cover out of the way.
But that was all Cat accomplished before the synth let go of the machine pistol in order to throw her off. The fire alarm continued to bleat, and the hallway was filling with smoke, as other guests sought to escape the building. And, not wanting to get involved in the fight, a couple began to edge past as Cat made it to her feet. That was their mistake.
Cat was able to grab the woman and jerk her off her feet. That led to a momentary tangle as the man, woman, and synth worked to sort themselves out. Cat took advantage of the confusion to reach in and flip the kill switch. The result was both dramatic and instantaneous. The ALF-46 gave a violent jerk, went limp, and collapsed.
Cat, who knew better than to take the machine pistol, saw that the android was carrying a nightstick and confiscated it instead. And
no sooner had she freed the weapon than Cat had a reason to use it as the man took a wild swing at her. There was a cracking sound as the baton hit his wrist, and he screamed.
That was her cue to open the exit door and dash downstairs. Other guests were doing likewise and, as Cat fell in line, it seemed as though she would be able to follow them outside. But as she looked down through the center of the stairwell, she could see a synth waiting on the fourth-floor landing.
So Cat was forced to open the door on the fifth floor and enter the hallway. Maybe she could make her way to the south end of the building and use that set of stairs instead. There wasn’t much smoke, but Jat was blocking the way. And he was armed with a wicked-looking knife. “Hold it right there,” Jat said, ominously. “Or I’ll deliver you in slices.” And, judging from his expression, he was looking forward to the process.
The knife blade glittered as Jat carved giant X’s into the air—and Cat held the baton with both hands. The path to freedom was through Jat, and she was determined to get there.
As the distance between them closed, Cat took a swing. The club missed hitting Jat’s knife arm by a fraction of an inch. And she felt a searing pain as the razor-sharp blade cut a diagonal line down from a point just above her right eye onto her left cheek. She was half-blinded by a curtain of blood. Cat gave a cry of pain and backed away.
Jat grinned sadistically as he continued to advance. “You aren’t so pretty now, rich bitch . . . And that’s just the beginning.”
Cat knew time was passing. And if she didn’t deal with Jat quickly, the synths would arrive to help him. That left her with no choice but to take another run at the desk clerk. But this time she managed to block the falling knife with the baton and execute the only defensive move she knew.
Jat produced a grunt of pain as Cat’s knee came up to make contact with his testicles. The knife fell to the floor as he sought to grab what hurt—and Cat took advantage of the moment to bring the club down on his head. Then she hit him again, felt his skull cave in, and ran. That was when the sprinkler system came on.
The sudden deluge of cold water served to wash some of the blood off Cat’s face, and she made use of her free hand to tug the cap down over the top end of the laceration. Once in the stairwell, she took the stairs two at a time until forced to pause by a mother and her two children. One was a baby and the other was a toddler.
So Cat dropped the baton and scooped the older child into her arms. The foursome arrived on the ground floor less than a minute later. A fireman stood outside the door shouting, “Out! Out! Out!” An ALF-46 was standing right next to him.
By holding the child up in front of her face, Cat was able to keep the synth from getting a close look. And because the machine was on the lookout for a single human rather than a group of four, the strategy worked.
Having made it past the synth, Cat returned the toddler to his mother, who insisted on giving Cat a clean diaper to press against the laceration. Which was a good thing because Cat could tell that the cut was deep enough to require stitches.
First, she needed to put some distance between herself and the hotel, which she hurried to accomplish by setting a brisk pace and taking random turns. And that was fine. But she couldn’t walk down the street holding a bloodied bandage to her face without attracting attention.
And now that the adrenaline had worn off, the wound hurt like hell. Cat was starting to feel light-headed when a kindly-looking woman took hold of her elbow. “Come with me, honey,” she insisted. “The free clinic is half a block away. They will take care of you.”
Cat needed help and knew it. So she allowed the woman to steer her into a mazelike shopping arcade, and from there into a storefront with a sign that read FREE CLINIC hanging in the window. The door was propped open, and they walked inside. “There,” the woman said as she helped Cat to a chair. “I’ll let them know you’re here.”
* * *
Half a dozen people were seated in the shabby waiting room. But Cat was the only one who was bleeding. So it was just a matter of thirty seconds or so before a nurse and orderly arrived to escort Cat through a pair of swinging doors into a plain but well-organized treatment room. The air smelled of disinfectant. A slender woman in OR scrubs appeared moments later. She had short, bowl-cut gray hair, bright green eyes, and high cheekbones. “Hello . . . I’m Dr. McKee. What happened?”
Cat couldn’t tell the truth, so she lied. “I tripped and fell down.”
McKee gave a snort of derision as she took the bloodstained bandage and dropped it into a roll-around bucket. “Too bad you fell on a knife. We see two or three of these every day. Looks like you have a bleeder there. We’ll cauterize it and stitch you up.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” the doctor replied, as the nurse helped Cat up onto a table. “But there’s something you need to know. There’s going to be a scar. And a prominent one at that. But you’re a pretty thing, so I’ll use lots of tiny stitches. Later on, you can have the scar removed. A good biosculptor should be able to minimize the damage to the point where light makeup will cover it over.”
Cat’s head was spinning as the nurse started to swab her face with some sort of cold disinfectant. Her wealth had been snatched away the day before. Then it was her hair. And now she was disfigured as well. Cat remembered the nasty things she’d said about less attractive girls and wondered if she was being punished.
There was a series of pinpricks as Dr. McKee injected small quantities of a local anesthetic into the area around the wound, followed by the occasional buzz of a cautery, and the distinctive odor of singed tissue. Then came a long series of push-pull-tugs as the stitches went in. Cat counted thirty-six altogether.
“You can expect some bruising and swelling,” McKee said, once all of the sutures were in place. “The stitches are self-absorbing and will disappear within the next week or so. But if you have any problems, come see me right away. And stay away from the person with the knife. Promise?”
Cat remembered the way Jat’s skull had collapsed and knew he was dead. “I promise.”
Once the dressing was in place, Cat was released into the waiting room, where she gave the clerk a fictional name, address, and com number plus a twenty-five-credit donation from her quickly dwindling store of cash. It wasn’t smart, but it felt like the right thing to do.
With a bottle of pain pills in her pocket, Cat stepped out of the clinic into the flow of foot traffic. She let it pull her toward a clothing store a few doors down, where she went inside to examine her face in one of the mirrors. The bruising and the full extent of the diagonal dressing came as a shock. Cat experienced a wave of profound self-pity followed by a sudden realization. The bandage made her look different. Very different. And given the nature of her circumstances, that was a plus.
It wasn’t much, but enough to lift Cat’s spirits as she left the store and reentered the mall. It seemed natural to take a right turn, which led her past the Andromeda Travel Agency. She stopped and stood for a moment, looking at the exotic destinations advertised in the window. One of the holos showed a woman lounging on a beach with two suns shining above. Did Cat have enough money to reach a different city, never mind another planet? She knew the answer was no.
She was walking along, slowly, trying to come up with a plan, when an animated arrow appeared on the sidewalk in front of her. It zigzagged through the crowd to the far side of the passageway, where the image of a female legionnaire appeared.
The soldier had Cat’s features, bandage and all, but was dressed in a white kepi and a spotless uniform. And, judging from the way the legionnaire was staring into space, she could see things that mere mortals couldn’t. It seemed the Legion was using hidden cameras hooked to a computer to pick up possible recruits from the passing foot traffic. And the image brought Cat to a full stop.
Uncle Rex had been in the Legion
. And told her all about it. So Cat knew that the image projected on the window was false. Because, like the original French Foreign Legion, the modern-day version was full of eccentrics, people on the run, and convicted criminals. And that, Cat thought to herself, makes the Legion a possibility.
That thought was enough to draw her across the passageway and into the recruiting station on the other side. The sparsely furnished interior had a makeshift feel. As if the office might be closed on short notice. The walls were covered with posters of legionnaires on leave in exotic locales, on parade, or in the field. All of them looked like professional models. Two desks faced the door. One was occupied by a noncom with a lot of stripes on his arms, and the other was home to a younger man, who was talking to a pimply-faced youth of eighteen or so.
A possible recruit? Yes, Cat thought so, as the senior NCO stood. He had a high forehead, and his hair was so short that he appeared to be bald. Dark, heavily bracketed eyes peered out at Cat from fleshy caves, and a no-nonsense nose presided over what Uncle Rex might have referred to as “a shit-eating grin.”
“Good afternoon,” the legionnaire said as he shoved a giant paw in her direction. “I’m Staff Sergeant Boad. And you are?”
Cat had to give a false name, and based on what her uncle had told her, that wasn’t unusual. The use of a nom de guerre was an accepted practice in the Legion. And had been for hundreds of years. So Cat gave him the first name that came to mind. “Andromeda McKee.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Boad said as he crushed her hand. “Please have a seat.”
The plastic chair made a rattling noise as McKee pulled it closer to the desk and sat down. “So,” Boad said as he eyed her bandage, “what’s the other guy look like?”
“I left him facedown,” McKee answered truthfully.
Boad looked surprised. “You’re serious?”
“He attacked me.”
“Well, that’s what we’re looking for,” the NCO said. “People who aren’t afraid to fight. Plus we need specialists. Com techs, mechanics, you name it. What kind of training are you interested in?”
Andromeda's Fall (Legion of the Damned) Page 4
