“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 1st 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.
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 the
re 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.
Andromeda’s Choice Page 7
