Andromeda’s Choice
Page 4
“Yes,” McKee said, as she recovered her weapons. “Although I predict that you’ll be a private again someday.”
“Thanks, McKee,” Larkin said, as if the whole thing had been her doing. “You’re the greatest.”
McKee sighed. Some things never changed.
• • •
It was raining as McKee and Larkin carried their B-1 bags out onto Pad 47. The navy shuttle seemed to crouch under the glare of some pole-mounted lights and glistened as water ran off its metal flanks. A slicker-clad chief petty officer was waiting to greet them. “McKee? Larkin? I’m Chief Weller. Haul your gear up the ramp and take a seat. You’re the only passengers we have this morning.”
The legionnaires did as they were told. Most of the cargo area was taken up by crates of military gear destined for Earth—and that included six carefully draped coffins. McKee had seen dozens of legionnaires, marines, and militia buried in jungle graves over the last couple of months and wondered what made the six of them so special. Family connections perhaps? Or were they going to be used in the same way she was going to be used? As props in a propaganda campaign.
Having surrendered the B-1 bags to a crewman, the legionnaires selected fold-down seats. Rather than listen to one of Larkin’s rants, McKee chose to insert her earbuds and listen to a book titled The History of Algeron. It had been written by one of the Legion’s officers with help from a Naa scholar named Thinkhard Longwrite. The idea was to kill time and learn about the world she was going to serve on after the visit to Earth. It was by all accounts a strange place, governed by extremely short days, divided by an equatorial mountain range, and inhabited by a race called the Naa.
No one was listening as the copilot read off the usual preflight spiel, and the shuttle began to vibrate and pushed itself into the air. McKee hit PAUSE and closed her eyes. She was leaving a great deal on Orlo II, including dead comrades, John Avery, and a part of herself.
Then the moment was over as the shuttle’s drives took hold, the ship began to climb, and a heavy weight settled onto her chest and shoulders. One phase of her life was complete, and another had begun.
It took the better part of four hours to enter orbit, match velocities with the Imperialus, and slip into one of the liner’s landing bays. An additional half hour was required to close the outer hatches and pressurize the space. Then and only then were McKee and Larkin allowed to tromp down the metal ramp to a blast-scarred deck.
A perky hostess was waiting to greet them. She was dressed in a blue blazer, scarf, and a conservatively cut skirt. “Sergeant McKee? Corporal Larkin? My name is Julie. Welcome aboard. Anton will take care of your bags.”
Anton was a uniformed android. McKee thought it was silly to put clothes on animals and robots, but plenty of people disagreed. Anton wore a red pillbox hat, a smart waist-length jacket, and matching trousers. Each B-1 bag weighed eighty or ninety pounds. But Anton had no difficulty plucking them off the deck and loading them onto an auto cart.
Then, with Julie leading the way, the group entered a lift. How many times had Cat Carletto been given such treatment? Hundreds, if not more. But Andromeda McKee wasn’t used to being coddled and felt self-conscious.
The elevator stopped on deck five. The lowest and therefore cheapest level the liner had to offer. A far cry from the top deck and the amenities that Cat had taken for granted.
Julie led the legionnaires through a maze of corridors to a couple of side-by-side inner cabins. She opened 507 and invited McKee to step inside. The compartment was so small there was barely enough room for a bed, wardrobe, and a tiny bathroom. That was all the Imperial government was willing to pay for.
But McKee was thrilled to have a cabin of her own and was looking forward to a chance to sleep in, take as many showers as she wanted to, and wear clean clothes every day. Larkin’s thoughts lay elsewhere. “So,” he said, “where can a guy get a drink?”
“The Imperialus has seven bars and five restaurants, all of which serve alcohol,” Julie replied. “The purser is located on deck three. He’ll be happy to accept a deposit or a credit chip.”
The mention of money he didn’t have sent Larkin off in a new direction. “What about gambling?”
“The casino is on three,” Julie told him. “As is the Starlight Room, which is open around the clock. The meals you eat there are included in the price of the cabin. And you can dine in the other restaurants for an additional charge. Do you have any other questions? No? Then I’ll bid you bon voyage. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to make the trip more pleasant.”
“Let’s explore,” Larkin suggested, as Julie and Anton departed. “I want to see the casino.”
“Go ahead,” McKee said. “I’d like to get settled first. And Larkin . . .”
“Yeah?”
“Stay out of trouble. This isn’t a troopship. If you get thrown into the brig or whatever they call it, I won’t be able to get you out.”
Larkin made a face. “Relax. We’re heroes! Everybody loves a hero.” And with that, he was gone.
• • •
Ross Royer had been on the Imperialus for five days prior to the stop at Orlo II. And that meant he was getting bored. His usual antidote for boredom was to find an attractive woman, use her, and move on. Something he had successfully done dozens of times. So as he left his suite, and made his way down to deck three, he was on the lookout for what he thought of as targets. Not older women, or teenage girls, because both were far too easy.
No, Royer was looking for something more challenging. A famous actress, perhaps, or an important business executive. A person who considered herself to be attractive, successful, and smart. Nothing felt better than to take control of such a woman and break her heart. There were dangers, of course, including angry husbands, fathers, and friends. Or in some cases the women themselves. But that added spice.
Royer was dressed in a white sports shirt and shorts. Thanks to his good looks and athletic body, people turned to look at him. But he was used to that and barely noticed the attention. The Imperialus was equipped with a variety of gyms, pools, and other recreational facilities. But the only one that held any interest for Royer was the low-gee handball court. The sport he had been known for in college.
Unfortunately, other passengers enjoyed the sport as well, and since there was only one court, it was often necessary to wait for an opening. Royer had attempted to bribe the Director of Recreation but failed. She would pay once he arrived on Earth. The cruise lines’ CEO was a friend of the family. But for the moment, all he could do was fume and wait in line like everyone else.
The fully enclosed handball court measured forty feet by twenty feet and was equipped with field-limited ARGRAV generators that reduced each player’s weight by a third. The general effect was to make a fast game even faster. And more athletic. Royer was known for his flips, somersaults, and flying returns. All of which had to be used on a frequent basis lest the skills begin to fade.
The back wall of the court was twelve feet high, with a gallery located above. That was where people who wanted to play were forced to wait. And as Royer entered and sat down, he took the opportunity to eye those around him, looking for doubles partners and women who met his criteria. Sadly, there wasn’t much to choose from in either category. Most of the would-be players were clearly out of shape or too old to be competitive. As for the women, none of them seemed to meet the mark—although he took notice of a willowy blonde and made a mental note to find out more about her.
Royer turned his attention to the court and saw that a rather spirited singles match was under way. One of the players was a young man who, though too slow for a world-class rating, was a respectable player nevertheless. His opponent was a young woman with scruffy hair and a terrible scar that cut diagonally across her face. She was a good player but a bit awkward, as if out of practice. All of which was interesting but not important.
The match ended a short time thereafter, and the young woman left the court. That should have been the end of it, would have been the end of it, except that Royer couldn’t shake the feeling that he knew the girl. So later, after a truly boring match with an overweight business tycoon, Royer made some inquiries. Were the matches recorded? Yes, they were, so that players could review their performances. Could he replay matches he hadn’t participated in? The answer was “Yes,” and, to Royer’s delight, he could watch in the comfort of his own suite.
After returning to his quarters and taking a shower, Royer plopped down in front of a large wall screen. Video blossomed as an alluring female voice welcomed him to the ship’s entertainment and communications network. It took less than a minute to find the correct video files and choose the one he wanted.
But having done so, Royer discovered that he could not only watch the match featuring the woman he thought of as Scarface, he could zoom in on sections of the screen, and freeze the video. Royer sipped a glass of perfectly chilled wine as he went in on the subject’s face, scrutinized her body, and found himself wondering what she would look like without any clothes on. Was this the one he’d been looking for? The distraction he needed? Perhaps so. Because even though she didn’t match the sort of target he had in mind, there was something intriguing about the girl.
With that in mind, Royer began a painstaking examination of the woman on the video. And he hit pay dirt thirty-seconds later. Because there, frozen on the screen, was a tattoo. It was a full-color image of a cartoon cat with a canary in its mouth. And that was when Royer remembered. Cat! Cat Carletto. He not only knew her, he had gone to school with her and kissed the cartoon cat. And various other parts of her anatomy as well.
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.”
CHAPTER: 3
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 dec
ision 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.”