Life is like a river that carries us where it will.
AUTHOR UNKNOWN
A Droi folk saying
Standard year unknown
PLANET ORLO II
Darkness had started to fall by the time the area was secured. So Fox ordered the platoon to set up a defensive barricade using materials salvaged from the Hudathan platform. The night passed uneventfully, and the next day dawned bright and clear.
Rather than force the marines to march the prisoner back through the Big Green, the brass dispatched one of the Legion’s fly-forms to pick them up. Such aircraft came in all sorts of shapes and sizes depending on the mission they were intended to carry out. But all had one thing in common, and that was the fact that they were piloted by cyborgs rather than bio bods.
Much had been written about the relative merits of all three forms of control. And all three had their advantages. But since cyborgs were literally wired into their aircraft and capable of thinking in ways that computers couldn’t, McKee thought they were superior.
In any case, she was glad to see the twin-engine Atlas thunder in over the clearing, circle the area, and prepare to land. Flying beat the hell out of walking, and McKee was looking forward to enjoying some downtime in the city of Riversplit. Would John be there? She hoped so, but knew she couldn’t count on it. Captain John Avery, now Major John Avery, had been appointed to Colonel Rylund’s staff. So if their relationship had been difficult before, it would be even more so now.
McKee’s thoughts were interrupted as the VTOL landed and blew dust in every direction. Then, once the ramp was down, a detachment of marines began the process of poking, prodding, and pushing the recalcitrant Hudathan up a ramp and into the fly-form’s cargo compartment. After the POW had been brought aboard and strapped down, Fox ordered the perimeter guards onto the aircraft, took one last look around, and gestured toward the ramp. “You first, Sergeant.”
McKee knew the marines had a saying, “Officers eat last,” which extended to lots of other things as well. Fox was determined to be the last person to board the VTOL. She gave him her best salute, waited for the acknowledgment, and made her way up into the cargo compartment. The loadmaster smiled. “Morning, Sarge . . . Welcome aboard.”
The cheerful greeting was a reminder of how far she had come in a short period of time. Less than a year had elapsed since Empress Ophelia had murdered her parents and sent synths to find Cat Carletto. But she had escaped and joined the Legion under the nom de guerre Andromeda McKee.
And thanks to the Legion’s history as a refuge for criminals and misfits, as well as its refusal to share personnel records with the Imperial government, the only person who knew her true identify was John Avery. Would he be waiting for her? She hoped so.
Having taken her place on a fold-down seat and strapped in, McKee closed her eyes and soon fell asleep. It was the thump of the landing gear touching down that woke her. Then it was time to leave the VTOL as a team of specially trained Hudathan wranglers came aboard. She didn’t envy them their task.
The city of Riversplit had been built on a hill. Not as a defensive measure, but to protect it from the seasonal floods that plagued the area back before the dam was built, and to afford residents a view of the lush countryside. The result was thousands of homes and businesses that sat on terraces carved out of the hillsides, lots of twisting streets, and citizens with strong thighs.
That was before the civil war that the Legion had been sent to put down. Now, after months of fighting, Riversplit was a maze of shot-up buildings, cratered streets, and fire-ravaged neighborhoods. Many of the street signs had been destroyed, but McKee was familiar with the city and knew where she was going. Her company, which was part of the second squadron of the famed 1st Regiment Etranger de Cavalerie, or 1st REC, was headquartered in what had been a church. It was located about halfway up the hill, so she was in for a slog.
It took fifteen minutes to reach the building, most of which had survived a direct hit from an artillery shell and the subsequent fire. McKee said hello to the lone sentry, made her way in through a pair of double doors, and came to a halt in front of an ornate desk. Had it been “borrowed” from the rectory? Probably. A burly sergeant major was ensconced behind it now—and McKee had never seen him before. That wasn’t too surprising since Echo Company had suffered heavy casualties, and replacements were coming in every day. According to the nameplate sitting in front of him, his name was Owens. He looked up, saw her tag, and stood to shake hands. “Good morning, Sergeant McKee . . . I’m the new company sergeant major. The name’s Owens. How was your stroll in the bush?”
McKee shrugged. “Mission accomplished. We captured a ridgehead.”
Owens nodded. “Well done. You’ll be pleased to know that someone up the chain of command feels that you deserve a two-day pass. So get out of here while the getting’s good. When you return, we’ll talk about which platoon to put you in. The whole company is being reorganized, so everything is up for grabs.”
McKee nodded. “Thanks, Sergeant Major . . . I’ll track you down.”
McKee was looking forward to a shower and some additional sack time as she made her way down into the basement and surrendered the air rifle to the corporal in charge of the company’s weapons. Then, after returning upstairs, she noticed the bulletin board. It was covered with slips of paper. Most were addressed to individuals and arranged in alpha order. Two were addressed to her. The first was from a fellow legionnaire who was both a friend and a pain in the ass. It read, “Hey, McKee . . . Where the hell are you? I’m in the slammer. Come get me out. Larkin.”
The second said, “McKee, how ’bout a beer when you get back? Meet me at the usual place.” And it was signed, “J,” as in “John.”
McKee felt her heart start to beat a little faster. There was no “usual place.” Not really. But there was an apartment where their one and only night together had been spent.
McKee stuffed both notes into a pocket, walked out into harsh sunlight, and began the hike that would take her around to the north side of the hill and what she hoped would be a very special reunion.
Efforts to clear tons of debris out of the streets had begun, but it was going to take years to rebuild the city, and the citizens were understandably resentful. Most were rebels who had been locked in battle with the loyalist militia when the Legion arrived. Then the Hudathans landed.
It wasn’t clear how much the aliens knew about human politics, but Avery believed the ridgeheads had been intent on exploiting the situation on Orlo II, and McKee figured he was right. In any case, the locals had been invaded twice. Once by the Hudathans and once by the Legion. That meant they had suffered a great deal and felt a sense of resentment toward all off-worlders. So McKee understood the dirty looks, the muttered insults, and the obvious anger in the eyes of those she passed on the street. None of which boded well for the days, weeks, and months ahead. If fighting the rebs had been hard, then occupying the planet was likely to be even worse. So McKee felt a sense of relief as she stopped in front of a lightly damaged building, took a quick look around, and went inside. It felt good to get in off the street.
A narrow flight of stairs carried her up to the second floor, where a hallway led her to the extremely expensive apartment John had rented once before. There was a note on the door. “C. Please come in.”
Avery liked to call her by her real name when they were alone even though McKee felt mixed emotions when he did. Cat was a creature of the past, but to deny her was to deny her family and the way in which they had been murdered. So McKee put all of that aside as she knocked on the door, turned the knob, and pushed it open.
Soft music was playing, and like most homes on the hill, the apartment was equipped with blackout curtains. They were pulled so that the only light in the simply furnished main room came from more than a dozen candles. They flickered as the breeze from the hallway hit them. McKee paused to look around. “John?”
“I’m in the bathroom.”
McKee closed the door, put her assault weapon on a table, and made her way back to the bathroom. The door was open, and more candles were burning. And there, sitting in the tub, was Major John Avery. He smiled as he raised a glass of wine. “Hi, Cat. Come on in. The water’s fine.”
“You arranged for the pass.”
“Yes, I did.”
“What if I missed the note on the bulletin board?”
“Then you would have found the one in your hooch. Now stop talking and take your clothes off. That’s an order.”
McKee’s eyes locked with his, and a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “And if I refuse?”
“That would mean extra duty—in bed.”
McKee laughed. There was a chair. She sat down in order to remove her boots. They were followed by the pistol belt and her uniform. Then, clad only in Legion-issue bra and panties, she approached the tub. “Oh, no you don’t,” Avery said sternly. “You were ordered to remove everything.”
McKee made a face as she reached back to undo the bra. The panties were next. Avery nodded approvingly. “That’s better. Much better. Come here.”
McKee put a foot in the water, found it to be to her liking, and stepped into the tub. Avery’s arms were waiting for her. Slippery skin met slippery skin as they came together, lips met, and water sloshed onto the floor.
One thing led to another, and, before long, McKee found herself making love with an altogether enjoyable urgency. The climax came quickly and left both of them momentarily sated. “That was good,” Avery said, as they lay side by side. “Very good. Have I mentioned that I love you?”
“Once or twice.”
“Only once or twice? I’ll try to do better.”
“See that you do.”
His voice was muffled. “I like your breasts.”
“So it would seem. Be careful . . . You might drown.”
Avery laughed as he came up for air. “Yes, but what a wonderful way to die.”
That led to another kiss, and, a minute or two later, McKee found herself sitting astride Avery. His hands roamed her back as their foreheads touched. McKee shuddered. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t touch them.”
Avery had been there on the morning when McKee had been tied to an X-shaped rack and publicly whipped. The result of that whipping was the raised scars that crisscrossed her back. So Avery removed his hands from her back and cupped her breasts instead. “You’re beautiful Cat . . . And that includes your back.”
McKee didn’t want to cry, but the tears came anyway. She had once been known for her beauty. Now her face was marred by a terrible scar—and she would never be able to wear a backless dress again. It shouldn’t matter, that’s what she told herself, but it did. So McKee cried, and Avery held her. Eventually, as the water began to cool, the sobs died away. She wiped the last of the tears away. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. I understand. What you need is some lunch.”
Avery got up, helped McKee out of the tub, and gave her a scratchy towel. Once she was dry, McKee slipped into a robe that was at least two sizes too big for her. Then she made her way out into the living room, where a glass of wine was waiting. “Have a seat,” Avery said, “and I’ll bring you something to eat.”
Lunch consisted of fresh food that had been flown in from the countryside now that the Hudathan siege had been lifted. It wasn’t fancy. Just some bread, cheese, and fruit. But it tasted wonderful to McKee, who was used to a diet of MREs.
So they ate and did the best they could to avoid the subject on both of their minds, which was the future. But by that time, McKee had learned to read most, if not all of Avery’s moods, and knew he was holding something back. “Okay, John . . . It’s time to get whatever it is off your chest.”
Avery produced a crooked smile. “It shows?”
“Yes, it shows.”
Avery sighed. “I have some news for you. It’s good news. Most people would think so anyway.”
“But I won’t?”
“No, you won’t.”
“Okay, give it to me straight.”
Avery took a sip of caf. “Rylund put you in for the Imperial Order of Merit, and it was approved.”
McKee made a face. “You’re right. I don’t like it. I don’t deserve it for one thing. But, even if I did, the last thing I want is a medal from the people who murdered my family.”
Avery nodded. “I knew you’d say that. Or something similar to it. But it gets worse.”
“Worse? How could it?”
“They plan to give you the IOM on Earth. As part of a televised ceremony.”
McKee’s unhappiness morphed into fear. “That would be terrible! Think about it . . . Someone might recognize me.”
“I have thought about it,” Avery assured her. “But there’s no way out. Earth’s governor is slated to present the award, and that’s that. This is an opportunity for Ophelia’s government to take credit for the victory over the Hudathans, and they aren’t about to pass it up.”
“So, what can I do?”
“Follow orders,” Avery replied. “I know there’s a risk, but you look very different now. Even Ophelia’s synths don’t recognize you.”
That was true. Thanks to the scar, the Legion-style buzz cut, and a leaner look, Andromeda McKee bore only a slight resemblance to Cat Carletto. “So I accept the medal . . . Then what?”
“Then you’re headed for Algeron,” Avery said heavily.
“And you?”
“I’m staying here—with Colonel Rylund.”
A long silence followed. Both of them had known that some sort of separation was coming. That was inevitable, and good in a strange sort of way because officers weren’t supposed to fraternize with enlisted people. Much less have sex with them. And if they continued to see each other, it would only be a matter of time before someone noticed and ratted them out. Avery spoke first. “It’s going to difficult,” he said. “But all we need to do is stick to our plan. Assuming you want to, that is.”
The plan involved saving as much as they could, serving out their enlistments, and meeting on a rim world, where they would live happily ever after. McKee knew it wasn’t likely to turn out that way. Too many things could go wrong. But the plan was something to cling to, something to dream about, and something was better than nothing.
McKee allowed herself to be drawn into Avery’s arms, returned his kisses, and took pleasure in the lovemaking that followed. But deep inside, and in spite of her best efforts, she felt a sense of foreboding. Because her happiness was there in her arms—and a single bullet could take it away.
• • •
Clouds were hiding the sun, the temperature had dropped slightly, and McKee could feel occasional raindrops as she made her way uphill from the company’s HQ to what had been Riversplit’s jail before the war. Now it served as the city jail, a place to house POWs of various types, and the equivalent of a military stockade.
A barricade had been erected in front of the facility, and a squad of marines were on duty behind it. A sergeant checked McKee’s ID and read the release that Avery had signed before waving her through the checkpoint.
Once inside, McKee had to surrender all of her weapons and pass through a scanner before being asked to show the paperwork all over again. Then and only then was she allowed to enter the reception area. The room was large, the walls were covered with government-issue green paint, and the furniture was bolted to the floor.
McKee presented the release form to a uniformed jailer, who read it, instructed her to take a seat, and left. With nothing else to do, McKee let her thoughts drift to Avery, the painful good-bye, and her uncertain future. Her reverie was interrupted by the clang of a door and the rattle of chains as Desmond Larkin shuffled into the reception area.
Larkin was a bully, a gambler, and a heavy drinker. But he was also fearless in battle and, in his own weird way, a loyal friend. McKee had saved his life on Drang. And according to Larkin’s way of thinking, that created a bond that couldn’t be broken. So he had taken it upon himself to watch her back, even though she hadn’t asked him to do so, and frequently wished that he would stop.
Having spotted her, Larkin’s face lit up. He had a crew cut, a prominent brow, and beady eyes. His chin was square and eternally thrust forward, as if daring people to hit it. “McKee! What took you so long? These bastards had me in lockdown. Can you believe that shit?”
McKee could believe that shit. And figured the jailers had been given plenty of provocation. “Shut the hell up,” she said, “before you get yourself into even more trouble.”
McKee was on her feet by then. “I need a thumbprint,” the guard said, as he gave her a data pad.
McKee placed her right thumb on the screen, saw a light flash green, and handed the device back. That was the guard’s cue to press a remote. Larkin’s chains made a rattling noise as they hit the floor. “That’s better,” Larkin said as he rubbed his wrists. “What a shit hole. I should sue the bastards.”
“You do that,” McKee replied, as they walked toward the door. “In the meantime, we’re going to pack our gear and get ready to lift at 0600 tomorrow.”
“Lift?” Larkin inquired as he paused to collect his personal belongings. “Where are we headed?”
“Earth.”
Larkin uttered a whoop of joy. “That’s wonderful! I always wanted to go there. What outfit?”
“No outfit. The governor is going to give you a Military Commendation Medal for killing a whole lot of Hudathans. And you were promoted to corporal. Before you wound up in the slammer.”
“No shit? A corporal?”
“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.
No, what really caught Royer’s attention was the fact that there was something familiar about the woman’s style. That was impossible, of course, or should be, but the feeling persisted as she leaped into the air and slammed the ball into the front wall. It hit the floor, took a good bounce, and the receiver made a valiant effort to return it. But the sphere flashed by his outstretched fingertips, and some of the spectators cheered as a point went up on the electronic scoreboard.
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.”