Andromeda’s Choice

by William C. Dietz

  While what Ono said was true, Hanno thought the odds that the Department of Agriculture would bring the perpetrators to justice were rather slim. No, most of the responsibility would rest with the much feared Department of Internal Security (DIS). An organization headed by one of his chief rivals—Lady Constance Forbes. A brilliant but paranoid woman who felt that, because the euphemistically named Bureau of Missing Persons was dedicated to finding and killing Ophelia’s enemies, it should report to her, something Hanno was determined to prevent.

  Forbes was seated on the other side of the large, oval-shaped table. She had bangs that hung down to her eyebrows, bottomless eyes, and the chiseled features of the model she had once been. Her face was expressionless and remained that way as their eyes met. But Hanno could feel the animus directed his way. She had a lot more resources than he did—plus files on everyone who mattered. So it was just a matter of time before she got her way. Unless Hanno could outsmart her somehow. Could find a way to . . . Suddenly, it came to him. The thing he could do to secure his independence. Hanno smiled, and Forbes looked away.

  • • •

  The Imperial City was just that, a sprawling maze of meticulously kept buildings, plazas, and walkways interspersed with gardens, pools, and what looked like minarets. Except that the slender towers were actually EDPs (elevated defense platforms.)

  The complex was located next to the Pacific Ocean and, according to some, extended under the sparkling water, to a beautiful subsea habitat constructed by Emperor Ordanus II. Altogether, the city covered five square miles and was surrounded by a heavily fortified free-fire zone designed to keep even the most determined army at bay.

  McKee had been there before. Or Cat Carletto had, back before Ophelia murdered her brother. There had been balls back then—and she had been invited to three of them. But now, as the fly-form crossed the desertlike strip of land, McKee saw the zone through the eyes of an experienced soldier. There were hundreds of gun emplacements, a dry moat that could be flooded if need be, and thousands of constantly shifting crab mines. They were shiny, and no effort had been made to camouflage them.

  That’s what Uncle Rex and the Freedom Front would face were they to attack the city. And all because of her misplaced sense of propriety. Since when did it matter who was present when a tyrant was assassinated? If only there had been more time to think about it.

  And now, as the fly-form settled onto one of many guest pads, McKee was about to face Ophelia again. The medal ceremony would be private this time, with only a few cameras present, so what had taken place two days earlier couldn’t happen again.

  The news of Mason’s death was still reverberating throughout the empire, and even though the nets were no longer allowed to air footage of the assassination, it could be viewed on the so-called free sites that the government constantly sought to shut down.

  And that, McKee knew, was where she came in. If she’d been a hero before, she was doubly so now. Ironically, Sergeant Andromeda McKee had become the centerpiece of the monarchy’s effort to counter the Freedom Front’s propaganda coup. And that made the second medal ceremony even more important. What would Uncle Rex think when he saw the story, McKee wondered, as the fly-form touched down. Nothing good, that was for sure. She was still trying to recover from the way Rex had rejected her.

  No one entered the Imperial City without a security screening, and the legionnaires were no exception. They were scanned, rescanned, and scanned again, using multiple technologies. So a full ten minutes passed before they were allowed to follow a household guide along a curving path toward the reception hall in the distance.

  Like so many of the royal structures, the hall’s domed roof, arch-shaped windows, and supporting columns were reminiscent of the ancient Byzantine architecture that the first Emperor Ordanus had been so fond of. Graceful palm trees lined the walkway, fountains marked the points where paths met, and well-kept beds of flowers added splashes of color. The whole thing was beautiful in a regulated sort of way—and very much in keeping with the first emperor’s desire for order verging on perfection. None of which made much of an impression on Larkin. “This place is kind of creepy,” he said, as they neared the hall. “I feel like people are watching me.”

  “That’s because they are,” McKee said, as they passed under one of the ubiquitous cameras. “So don’t pick your nose.”

  Larkin gave an appreciative snort as they followed Wilkins up a short flight of stairs to an arched doorway. There was a brief pause while their guide spoke with the dour-looking man who seemed to be in charge. As he left, the guide turned to the legionnaires. She had short blond hair, a permanent smile, and a little-girl voice. “The empress is running a few minutes late. We’re to wait in the anteroom.”

  The anteroom had a high ceiling and was home to some wall-sized murals, all by the same artist. Each was intended to capture the essence of a different planet, and McKee was inspecting the one dedicated to Orlo II when a disturbance was heard. She turned to find that Prince Nicolai had entered the room on a pair of grav skates. His minder arrived a few seconds later. The android made no attempt to interfere as the boy came to a stop. The guide curtsied, so the men bowed. Because McKee was in uniform, a curtsy didn’t seem right somehow—so she bowed with the others. And when she straightened, it was to find that Nicolai was staring at her. “You’re the one who saved my mother.”

  That wasn’t true—but McKee had to go along. “I tried.”

  “And you killed Hudathans. Hundreds of them.”

  “No,” McKee said gently. “Not hundreds.”

  The voice came from behind her. “My son thinks very highly of you, Sergeant. And so, for that matter, do I.”

  McKee turned to find that Ophelia had entered the room unannounced. The guide curtsied, the men bowed, and McKee joined them. “Come,” Ophelia said. “I’m going to take another shot at hanging that medal on you—and this time we’ll get the job done.”

  The empress was so personable, so matter-of-fact, that McKee found it difficult to hate her. And that was flat-out wrong. What she should do was jump the monarch and attempt to kill her before the synths could intervene. The killing machines were vaguely human in appearance. Their heads were broad in front and tapered to form a vertical ridge in back. They were heavily armed, and their uniforms were sprayed on.

  Could the machines stop her in time? Yes, McKee knew that they could. And, judging from past experience, they would kill Larkin and Wilkins as well on the theory that they had been “contaminated” by a deviant citizen.

  “So tell me something,” Ophelia said, as they left the anteroom and walked down a hallway. “How would you like to stay on Earth rather than report for duty on Algeron? We need recruits, and you would be an excellent recruiter.”

  McKee felt something akin to panic. If she stayed on Earth, it would be even more difficult to hide her identity. By some miracle, no one had recognized her yet in spite of all the publicity. But it was only a matter of time before another Royer came along—and odds were that the results would be fatal. “Permission to speak freely, Highness?”

  Ophelia smiled. “Of course.”

  “I would prefer to ship out for Algeron, Highness.”

  “To fight the Naa?”

  “If that’s what they want me to do, yes.”

  Ophelia nodded. “I thought you’d say that—or something like it. And you deserve to go where you want.”

  The two women walked into the reception hall side by side as the fly cams maneuvered to get their shots. Millions of people were going to see McKee receiving a medal from the person she hated the most. The irony of it galled her, and McKee barely heard the flowery words that went with the medal or the congratulations that followed.

  Ten minutes later, she was out in the sunshine. Larkin examined his medal while Wilkins spoke to someone on his comset. The ceremony had been a success, and he was eager to share the n
ews. Neither paid any attention to McKee, who slipped her medal into a pocket, watched a gull ride the wind, and wished that she could fly.

  • • •

  Sykes heard the MPs before he saw them. It began with the clang of a distant door followed by obscene catcalls from his fellow prisoners. That was a tradition, like reveille in the morning, and the goons expected it. They could have entered Cellblock 4 for any number of reasons, but Sykes’s court-martial was scheduled for 1000, and it was 0930, which meant they were coming for him. The bastards were prompt if nothing else.

  And ten seconds later, there they were, four marines, all armed with pistol-shaped zappers, any one of which could bring a quad to its knees, never mind a spider form, like the one Sykes was wearing. The construct had eight legs, was very maneuverable, and was designed to give the Legion’s cyborgs something to get around in while off duty. Even so, a skillful borg could kill a bio bod with a spider form, so the jarheads were understandably cautious. “You know what to do,” a corporal said. “Assume the position.”

  Sykes hated the position but had no choice. So he flipped himself over onto his back with all eight limbs pointed upwards. That rendered him helpless for the most part, but the MPs knew his rep and weren’t taking any chances. Two of them remained outside with zappers drawn while the others entered the cell. Their job was to place restraints on four of Sykes’s extremities, thereby limiting the amount of damage he could do. Once that process was complete, they flipped him right side up. Chains rattled as he stood.

  “Now be a good freak,” the corporal admonished him, “or pay the price.”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Sykes grated.

  “I’d love it,” the marine answered sweetly. “Let’s go. We wouldn’t want to keep those officers waiting. They’re scheduled to play a round of golf after they sentence you to death.”

  Sykes didn’t believe the golf part—but knew the rest was probably true. They would sentence him to death, which was funny in a weird way because he’d been executed for murder once before. Except this time, the Legion wouldn’t snatch him from the dark abyss. They would let his electromechanical ass fall in.

  But there was always the possibility of a miracle. So as they marched him down a canyon flanked by two tiers of cells, Sykes tried to stay positive and took comfort from the sentiments voiced all around. Comments like: “Good luck, partner,” “We’re pulling for you, buddy,” and “Where’s that ten you owe me, shithead?”

  Chains rattled as Sykes lifted a tool arm in acknowledgment. “Thanks, fellas . . . I love you, too.”

  That generated some chuckles as they arrived in front of the door that led to the silolike prison’s inner core, where the chow hall, med clinic, and admin facilities were housed. A spartan lift took them down to Sublevel 3 and a short walk to a door labeled MILITARY COURT. It slid open to reveal a small but nicely furnished room. Having passed between two blocks of empty seats, Sykes found himself facing a platform with a table on it. Three officers were seated behind it, and all were dressed in Legion uniforms. At least they weren’t marines. That was good. But judging from the scattering of coffee cups and other paraphernalia on the table, they had already sentenced some poor bastard to who knows what and were on a roll.

  A major sat at the center of the table and was flanked by a pair of captains. Sykes had never seen any of them before. The lieutenant who had been assigned to act as his counsel came over to stand by his side. He looked like he was eighteen and had graduated from law school a year earlier. Sykes ignored him.

  The major introduced herself, read some mumbo jumbo about the Code of Military Justice, and asked Sykes if he understood it. There was no point in pretending not to, so he said, “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good,” the major replied. “You stand accused of murdering a fellow legionnaire named Harley Pool.”

  “It was self-defense,” Sykes said. “Pool was planning to kill me. Two different people told me so.”

  “A plan is not the same thing as a physical attack,” the major replied. “And you will remain silent unless asked to address the court.”

  “So,” the major continued, “having heard testimony from a number of witnesses, and having examined all of the physical evidence, this court hereby finds you guilty of the crime of murder—and sentences you to death by lethal injection. Our findings will be forwarded to the Judicial Mediation System known as JMS 5.7 for a routine review. Assuming that it concurs with our judgment, your sentence will be carried out two weeks from today at 1800 hours. Do you wish to make a statement?”

  “Yes,” Sykes grated. “Fuck you.”

  The major had heard similar sentiments before, many of which were more eloquent than Sykes’s. Not a flicker of emotion appeared on her face. “Take him away.”

  News traveled quickly in what the prisoners called “the can,” and the other inmates already knew about the sentence when Sykes entered the cellblock. “Sorry to hear it, Smitty,” someone said. “See you in hell, butthole,” another voice shouted. “Hang in there, bucket brain,” a third added.

  Sykes barely heard them as the MPs took him back to his cell. He was going to die—and the reality of that made him feel sick to his stomach. Or what felt like his stomach. A tremendous feeling of self-pity welled up inside Sykes as the door clanged closed. He knew what he wanted, no needed, to do, but cyborgs can’t cry.

  • • •

  Tarch Hanno was on a mission—and that was to identify, locate, and kill the people responsible for Governor Mason’s death before Lady Forbes and the DIS could. Because if he could accomplish that, not only would his governmental kingdom be secure, but even loftier positions might open up for him as well.

  Such were the nobleman’s thoughts as he rode an elevator down into the bombproof basement that his subordinates referred to as “the crypt.” It was an air-conditioned chamber that housed some very powerful computers and the Bureau’s tac center, where Earth-based sanctions could be monitored live.

  But Hanno wasn’t interested in that functionality at the moment, so he walked past the busy tac center to one of the case rooms beyond. Each suite was equipped with a set of nanomesh-activated controls that could access computers all over the planet. Some of them belonged to the government, and some of them didn’t.

  The room was small and lit by the glow that emanated from the flat-screen monitors that covered one wall. Hanno had worked with Samantha Yang before. She was young, bright, and ambitious. More than that, she had the ability to think outside the box, and that made her special. She rose as if to curtsy as Hanno entered, and he waved her back into the chair. “No need for that, Sam. What have you got for me?”

  Yang had black hair that was tied into a ponytail, almond-shaped eyes, and a face that was too broad to be pretty. But her eyes were like chips of shiny obsidian as they made contact with his. “I began by taking a close look at the attack,” Yang replied. “And I’d like to show you some interesting footage.”

  “Please do,” Hanno said as he sat next to her. Yang was wearing cybergloves. Half a dozen images were frozen in front of her waiting for the analyst to call on them. Yang’s fingers seemed to merge with a ghostly keyboard, and one of the still pictures began to move. Video appeared on the screen a split second later. It was a head-and-shoulders shot of McKee taken immediately after the assassination. Her delivery was matter-of-fact. “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.”

  “Now,” Yang said, as her fingers jabbed the air. “Here’s what actually occurred. Please note the point when the drone appears and the position of McKee’s head.”

  The low-angle shot showed Sergeant McKee on the stage and an expanse of blue sky behind her. Hanno paid close attention as the drone separated itself fro
m the sun and opened fire. But rather than look at the drone the way most people would, and the way McKee said she had, the legionnaire made a lunge for Mason. It was a small thing, trivial really, but Hanno knew how important small things could be. “Play it again.”

  So Yang played it again. And as Hanno watched, he was struck by how fast McKee’s reactions were. Still, she was a bona fide war hero, and one would expect such an individual to have quick reflexes. As for her failure to look toward the sound of gunfire, that could be explained the same way. McKee thought she looked, but the truth was that she recognized the sound the moment she heard it. And, unlike most of the people on the stage, she knew what to do. “What about the other legionnaire?” Hanno wanted to know. “What did he do?”

  The question took Yang by surprise, and the better part of ten seconds passed before she was able to produce the relevant footage. A still picture of the legionnaire named Larkin appeared and jerked into motion. When the drone fired, he looked up at it. Then, rather than try to protect either one of the dignitaries, he jerked a pistol out of a militia officer’s holster and fired at the machine. It had already exploded by the time he got the first round off, but it was an admirable effort. “He looked,” Yang said flatly.

  “Yes, he did,” Hanno agreed thoughtfully. “So you believe that McKee knew the attack would occur. But if so, why would a war hero participate in an assassination? And what role did she play?”

  Yang was ready with an answer. “I can’t answer the first question, Your Grace—but I might be able to shine some light on the second.”