Andromeda’s Choice

by William C. Dietz

  “Don’t leave anything valuable behind.”

  Larkin made a face. “I don’t have anything valuable. Come on, let’s grab some breakfast. We’ll charge it to our rooms.”

  Breakfast was spent eating and listening to what McKee felt sure was a somewhat embellished version of Larkin’s adventures. To hear him tell it, he had won a lot of money in a casino, been mugged, and lost his winnings.

  But then, in his darkest hour, a gangster named Neon Jack recognized Larkin as one of the legionnaires who had been on the news and were about to receive medals. So because Neon Jack saw himself as something of a patriot, Larkin had been lavished with all manner of gifts, including Monica. “Too bad you weren’t there,” Larkin finished. “I’ll bet Jack has some boy toys he could loan out.”

  “Yeah, too bad,” McKee said, as she finished her caf. “Are you done? If so, we’d better head up to the roof. We wouldn’t want Wilkins to get his panties in a knot.”

  Larkin took another bit of food, washed it down with half a glass of orange juice, and belched loudly. “Roger that . . . Let’s go.”

  They arrived in the Sky Lobby with only seconds to spare and dashed out onto the roof as the fly-form put down. “Right on time,” Wilkins said, as he welcomed them aboard. “I like that. Strap in. We’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  There was a lot of traffic, but the cyborg knew his way around, and they arrived two minutes early. “Circle the coliseum,” Wilkins instructed. “I want McKee and Larkin to see what it looks like.”

  McKee knew what it looked like, she had attended any number of events there, but couldn’t say that and didn’t. Larkin was impressed, however, and peppered the officer with questions as the fly-form’s shadow flitted across the ground. The complex was oval in shape, with tiers of seats all around, and topped by graceful arcades, each flanked by fluted columns. There were a thousand in all, that being the number of years that Ophelia claimed her empire would last.

  The coliseum could seat one hundred thousand people, but according to Wilkins, the ceremony would be attended by about half that number. Most of whom would be government employees. “The medal ceremony is only a small element of what’s going to take place,” the officer explained. “There will be speeches as well, plus entertainment sponsored by the monarchist party, and a flyover by the navy.”

  The whole affair sounded very boring. But, thanks to the Freedom Front, McKee knew there would be some unexpected excitement. And she couldn’t help but smile as the fly-form put down on the field. Security was extremely tight, just as it would be the next day, but McKee knew it wouldn’t make any difference. Not given what Uncle Rex had planned.

  A lot of time was spent just standing around. And given all of the other hoopla, the moment when the legionnaires were shepherded up onto the stage at the center of the arena was somewhat anticlimatic. A minor official had been given the task of standing in for Governor Mason and pretended to place ribbons around their necks while someone else read the flowery citations Wilkins had prepared.

  As McKee looked up into the nearly empty seats, she saw that hundreds of security people were hard at work checking the coliseum for hidden bombs. It isn’t going to work, McKee thought to herself. You’re wasting your time.

  Then it was over, and they were free to leave. As the fly-form took off, and McKee looked down at the dwindling structure below, she couldn’t help but wonder. Was that the place where she would die?

  • • •

  Wednesday dawned bright and clear. McKee had slept very little but felt strangely energized, as if adrenaline was already entering her bloodstream. Her senses seemed especially acute, and everything she did was exactly right. She was in and out of the shower in a matter of minutes. The Class A uniform seemed to button itself. And, when McKee examined herself in the mirror, even she approved of the image there. The woman with the scar looked like a war hero.

  The final step was to tape the so-called tag to the palm of her left hand. It was a quarter of an inch across, a sixteenth of an inch thick, and packed with microcircuitry. Once activated, the disk would function as a “bullet magnet,” meaning an electronically active target that a tiny missile could home in on. McKee’s job was to activate the device just prior to the ceremony and place it on Governor Mason’s body. Uncle Rex and his resistance fighters would handle the rest.

  With the tag in place, she took one last look around, stepped out into the hall, and made her way toward the elevator. Her stomach felt queasy, just as she had known it would, and that’s why Larkin was breakfasting alone.

  Having arrived on the roof early, McKee had to wait for both Larkin and the fly-form. They arrived within seconds of each other. The flight to the coliseum had a surreal quality. Wilkins was talking on his comset, Larkin was picking his teeth, and she was feeling slightly disassociated from her body.

  The fly-form circled the coliseum prior to coming in for a landing, and McKee saw that thousands of people were already in their seats. Brightly colored flags flew from poles spaced all around the arena, sunlight glinted off the news drones sent to cover the ceremony, and the two-story stage that dominated the center of the field was complete. The sides were walled in with enormous vid screens which, in spite of the daylight, were bright enough to see.

  And somewhere, on a roof up to a mile away, a very specialized rifle was being prepared. The technology was so new that the governor’s security people couldn’t defend against it. Not so long as both the tag and missile worked the way they were supposed to. And if they didn’t? That didn’t bear thinking about.

  As the fly-form put down, and the legionnaires got out, a civilian took charge of them. Her name was Keera, and they had met her during the rehearsal. She had high cheekbones, intense eyes, and was wearing a sleek headset over prematurely white hair. “The program will start in thirteen minutes,” Keera informed them. “Break a leg.”

  The disk felt huge in the palm of her hand as they passed through a scanner. McKee waited for an alarm, for someone to stop her, but no one did. She felt light-headed, wished she could run, and knew she couldn’t.

  The long, seemingly endless minutes dragged by. Then, when it seemed as if the waiting would never end, Keera told them to go. As they walked across the field to the stage, the Master of Ceremonies introduced the legionnaires to the crowd. McKee heard a roar of approval as thousands came to their feet, news drones jockeyed for position, and bright sunlight stabbed her eyes.

  The applause continued to build as they climbed a flight of stairs concealed by one of the vid screens and arrived on top of the speaker’s platform. Governor Mason was already there and holding his arms high as if the crowd was cheering for him. And with a little bit of editing, that’s the way it would appear on the evening news. He was a big man with hair that was slicked back, a tiny, almost feminine nose, and a messianic beard. Here was the man who, according to Uncle Rex, was responsible for carrying out the massacre of thousands, including McKee’s parents.

  Soon, McKee told herself. You will be dead soon. And I’m going to make it happen.

  Suddenly, a sense of calm settled over McKee. Her life was of no import. Killing Mason was all that mattered.

  The applause died down, and the MC spoke once more. “As you know, Governor Mason is with us today—and was slated to present medals to both of these brave legionnaires. But it is my pleasure to announce that Governor Mason has agreed to relinquish that honor to a surprise guest! Ladies and gentlemen, it is my honor to introduce Her Imperial Majesty Empress Ophelia. Please rise.”

  McKee was stunned as lights began to flash, people were forced to move as doors opened at the center of the stage, and Empress Ophelia appeared. A little boy was holding her hand, and he was dressed in a uniform identical to McKee’s, except that his was that of an officer.

  What should she do? Tag Mason as planned? Or assassinate the empress? Ophelia raised a hand, and thousands o
f monarchists cheered. Someone was going to live—and someone was going to die. The choice was up to Andromeda McKee.

  CHAPTER: 6

  An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth.

  FROM THE CODE OF HAMMURABI

  King Hammurabi ruled Babylon

  standard years 1792–1750 B.C.

  PLANET EARTH

  The Freedom Front’s drone came out of the sun, firing as it came. But the government’s security team was prepared for that sort of attack and launched three surface-to-air missiles. The resulting explosion produced a loud boom and a flash of light that drew every eye in the coliseum. McKee was the exception. She was expecting the distraction and ready to take advantage of it.

  All she had to work with was two or three seconds. But they seemed to stretch as she gave Governor Mason a shove that sent him stumbling away. Then, after two quick steps, she was in the air, arms outstretched, as she threw herself at the empress. Ophelia uttered an involuntary grunt as McKee hit her, and both women fell to the floor.

  Meanwhile, the bullet-sized guided missile struck its target. Mason was wearing body armor, but it wasn’t enough. The tag was stuck to his left shoulder, and when the high-tech projectile exploded, it blew a large section of his torso away. There was an audible thump as his dead body hit the floor.

  Pandemonium ensued. Spectators screamed and ran in every direction. Security troops opened fire on anything they deemed to be threatening. And that included a handful of people who ran out onto the field. Meanwhile, Nicolai was crying, his mother was swearing a blue streak, and McKee was struggling to stand. All of which was captured by a dozen fly cams and broadcast live all over the world. A Freedom Front press release appeared on the com net a few seconds later. Suddenly, the monarchists had something to fear—and the rest of the population had a reason to hope.

  But none of that was clear to McKee as she stood and offered a hand to the empress. Ophelia accepted, came to her feet, and turned to her son. Then, having picked him up, she looked around. Her expression was grim. “Some of our enemies are here on Earth, Sergeant. Thank you for what you did. I won’t forget.”

  McKee never had an opportunity to reply. Half a dozen heavily armed synths swarmed onto the stage to escort the royals out onto the field. Repellers roared as a gunboat escort lowered its bulk into the coliseum. Moments later, a hatch opened, and a platoon of marines spilled out. They took up defensive positions as Ophelia and her son were hustled aboard, and the ship took off.

  That was when a second wave of people and machines arrived on the stage. A fugitive tracking device, or FTD, was among them. McKee had been forced to deal with one of the machines on Orlo II and knew the robots could perform all sorts of forensic tests under field conditions. The globe-shaped machine went straight to Mason’s body and hovered above it.

  Humans were involved in the investigation, too—and they took McKee off to be interviewed separately from Larkin. By that time, McKee considered herself to be something of an expert where such interrogations were concerned and knew it was important to keep her narrative simple. So as she stepped onto the same elevator Ophelia had used and was taken down into the subterranean maze below the field, McKee was rehearsing her story. An electric cart took her down a series of harshly lit hallways to the coliseum’s security department.

  But, rather than subjecting her to the sort of harsh questioning McKee expected to receive, the officer who took her statement was quite deferential. And that made sense given the fact that McKee was not only a war hero—but had thrown herself on the empress in order to protect her. The officer had short black hair, dark skin, and a serious demeanor. “My name is John Molo. I’m sorry to put you through this—but it’s important to gather all the information we can. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Yes,” McKee answered. “I do.”

  “All right then . . . Please tell me what happened.”

  McKee knew she was being taped and chose her words with care. “I heard the sound of gunfire, looked up, and saw the drone. So I turned, gave the governor a shove, and threw myself on top of the empress. I heard a bang. And when I got up, the governor was lying on the floor. I feel badly about that.”

  “Nonsense!” Molo said emphatically. “You did everything you could. Is that it? Did you notice anything out of the ordinary before the drone appeared?”

  McKee shook her head. “No, sir.”

  There were some additional questions, but the interview was essentially over. Twenty minutes later, McKee was aboard the fly-form along with Larkin, who saw the assassination as a personal affront. “Who sent the drone?” he demanded. “We were just about to get our medals.”

  Wilkins was equally pragmatic. His job was to promote the Legion rather than the monarchy. “That was unfortunate,” the officer agreed. “I’ll get to work on rescheduling the ceremony. That’s likely to take a few days, however, so don’t pack yet. I’ll let you know the moment we have a date—and don’t talk to the media without going through me.”

  The legionnaires said, “Yes, sir,” in unison.

  “And McKee . . .”

  “Sir?”

  “Well done.”

  After they returned to the hotel, it soon became clear that Larkin was having second thoughts about sending Monica back to her employer. So he rushed off to see if she was still in his room, which left McKee free to do as she pleased. And that involved changing into civvies and going for a walk.

  Hundreds of bridges tied the skyscrapers together, forming a network of stores, restaurants, and other businesses generally referred to as “Uptown.” McKee didn’t have enough money to buy anything more than a cup of caf, but she could look, and did so. Even though her thoughts were mostly elsewhere. She had killed a man that morning. The person directly responsible for murdering her family. So she should feel good. But she didn’t, and that struck her as strange.

  Eventually, McKee’s wanderings brought her to a huge atrium, where shafts of sunlight came down through glass to splash the plants, pools, and seating areas all around. Her feet were tired by then, so she chose a bench and sat down. It was a pleasant place to rest, and she was enjoying the sun when an elderly man plopped down on the other end of the bench. As McKee eyed him from the corner of her eye, she saw that he had a shock of white hair and was dressed in clothing that covered a noticeable paunch. His cane was made out of metal, and both hands were resting on it. They looked younger than the rest of him did.

  “Don’t look my way, Cat . . . There are security cameras all over the place.”

  The face was different, but the voice belonged to Uncle Rex. McKee felt her heart jump. “How did you find me?”

  “Marcy put tracking tags on your pack and various pieces of clothing during the flight from Seattle. That includes your shoes.”

  McKee looked down at her shoes and back up. Something felt wrong. “So you didn’t trust me?”

  “Of course not,” Rex replied. “At that point, I had no way to be sure who you were.”

  “But now you’re sure.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  McKee could hear the disappointment in her uncle’s voice. “And?”

  “And I thought we were kindred spirits . . . People dedicated to the same goal.”

  “Which is?”

  “Bringing the empire down by killing Ophelia. You could have accomplished that, Cat . . . It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Yet you chose Mason instead. Why?”

  McKee was silent for a moment. She had asked herself the same question. Not once but dozens of times during the last few hours. She looked up at the sun. “Her son was there.”

  Rex was incredulous. “You must be joking. The woman ordered the deaths of your parents, and you wanted to spare her son the trauma of witnessing her death. That’s stupid.”

  McKee sighed. Her uncle was right, and she knew it. But perhaps she could make him understand. “
I wasn’t expecting her to appear—and once she did, there was less than a second in which to decide.”

  “That’s an excuse,” Rex said harshly. “And excuses don’t cut it. Remember this, Cat . . . Ophelia kills people every day, and from this moment forward, their blood is on your hands. Don’t try to contact me. Our relationship is over.”

  And with that, the old man rose and walked away. McKee’s fingers went up to the small cat that hung at her throat. The storage matrix contained the names of all the people Ophelia was trying to find—plus the names of her agents throughout the empire. It had been her intention to give it to Rex. A cloud drifted in front of the sun, and McKee felt cold.

  • • •

  Tarch Hanno hated meetings. But as the Director of the Bureau of Missing Persons he had to attend at least one a day and often more. The ones he hated most were budget meetings, personnel meetings, and meetings about meetings.

  So he was less than pleased when ordered to attend what was billed as a “departmental coordination meeting,” a description that summoned up a vision of endless hours spent listening to some fool drone on about the need to eliminate functional duplication so as to save money and streamline governmental processes. A task they couldn’t possibly carry out without putting hundreds of political appointees on the street. Would they authorize such a thing? Of course not.

  But when Hanno landed at the government campus outside LA, it was to learn that Governor Mason had been assassinated minutes earlier. No great loss in his estimation, but he couldn’t say that, and was careful to mouth all the right sentiments to those around him as they streamed into a large conference room.

  The meeting began with an official announcement regarding the assassination and video of Mason being hit. It was gruesome stuff and sure to lift the Freedom Front up from relative obscurity to a place of importance in the worldwide psyche. Not good. Not good at all.

  But Empress Ophelia had survived unhurt—and that was the most important thing. So the meeting continued as scheduled but with one important difference. Now it was focused on how all arms of government could work together to find the people responsible for Mason’s death and kill them. And, according to Tarch Ono, that was something every department could work on. Ono’s head was shaved and his shoulders seemed to be testing the strength of his suit as his eyes roamed the faces around him. “The traitors have to use comsets, get medical care, and eat. So the Departments of Communication, Health, and Agriculture can help.”