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.
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.
CHAPTER: 4
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.
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