Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead.
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN
Standard year circa 1750
ABOARD THE LINER IMPERIALUS
McKee stared at Royer from the other side of the table. He was extremely good-looking, which was the primary reason why they had dated in college. Pretty people go out with pretty people. But Royer had been way too controlling for the free-spirited Cat Carletto, and she had dumped him. A decision that left her girlfriends aghast. Now, having appeared out of nowhere, he was back. “You want me. What, exactly, does that mean?”
“Don’t be coy,” Royer said. “You know what it means.”
McKee shook her head. “That isn’t going to happen.”
There was anger in Royer’s eyes. “Be careful what you say, Cat. Your mother and father are dead, and you’re in hiding. That means you’ll do what I say.”
“Or?”
“Or I will hand you over to Tarch Hanno. He runs the Bureau of Missing Persons, and it’s my guess that he’s looking for you.”
McKee knew all about the Bureau, having captured one of its synth operatives and gone through the robot’s hard drive with a fine-toothed comb. In spite of the innocent-sounding title, the BMP was actually the arm of government charged with completing the purge. So Royer’s threat was quite real. That meant she could submit to his demands, commit suicide, or . . . McKee wasn’t ready to confront the “or” yet and sought to buy time. It was easy to look scared. She was. “This is all so sudden. I need time to think about it.”
There was nothing friendly about Royer’s smile. “Say please.”
McKee’s eyes dropped to the tabletop. “Please.”
“That’s better,” Royer said. “Yes, you can have some time to think about it. Meet me in the Galaxy restaurant at six. We’ll have dinner, and you can give me your response.”
McKee’s mind was racing as she tried to anticipate needs she wasn’t sure of yet. Her eyes came back up. The robot with the camera was nowhere to be seen. Had it captured video of Royer sitting at her table? Probably. Her tone was deferential. “Are you sure that’s wise? If I’m seen with you, and someone turns me in, Tarch Hanno might get the wrong impression.” McKee saw the look of uncertainty appear on Royer’s face and was careful to hide the sense of satisfaction she felt. She could tell that possibility hadn’t occurred to him.
“Yes,” Royer said, as he looked around. “Good point. I’m glad to see that you understand how dangerous your situation is.”
They weren’t talking about her situation—but McKee allowed him to save face. “I suggest we meet in your suite,” McKee said, as she forced her eyes into direct contact with his. “Then we’ll have the privacy we need.”
Royer’s perfectly shaped eyebrows rose slightly. “Good idea. That would be more discreet. Six o’clock. I’ll see you then.”
With that, Royer came to his feet and left. McKee felt sick to her stomach as he walked away. Slowly, with all the dignity she could muster, she left the table and made her way to the ladies’ room. Then she threw up.
• • •
Over the last few months, McKee had become something of an expert at dealing with fear and learned how to function in spite of it. And now, having returned to her cabin, she was determined to carry on in spite of what felt like an abyss at the pit of her stomach. She wasn’t going to submit, and she wasn’t going to commit suicide. No, she was going to solve the problem the way a good soldier would. She was going to kill it. The key was to create a really good plan. And to carry it out without any mistakes.
Royer had a number of advantages going for him, including the fact that he was bigger, stronger, and could rat her out. But, McKee told herself, I’m a combat veteran, I’m smarter than he thinks I am, and I know a lot about cybernetics. Which is closely related to the science of robotics. And that’s going to save my ass. I hope.
Having given herself a pep talk, McKee went to work. The first step was to empty the B-1 bag on the bed. The items she was looking for fell out last. That included the razor-sharp Droi hunting knife that a chieftain named Insa had given her. It had a curved, hand-forged blade and was protected by a wooden sheath.
Next was a pair of Class A cybergloves of the sort techs used to perform maintenance on the Legion’s cyborgs. McKee wasn’t a certified tech but knew more than they did, having earned a degree in cybernetics and grown up in a family famous for manufacturing cyber forms. And, having “borrowed” the gloves on Orlo II, she still had them.
Last, but not least, was a roll of the highly specialized tools that techs used to make repairs or install new components. Something else she had acquired without submitting a requisition.
Once the nonessential items had been returned to storage, McKee slid into the chair that was positioned in front of the cabin’s terminal. A few clicks were sufficient to summon a housekeeping robot. It arrived a few minutes later and announced itself by ringing the doorbell. McKee took a deep breath. The next few minutes would be critical. If she screwed up, the ship’s security people would be all over her, Royer would rat her out, and she’d be dead within days of landing on Earth.
She opened the door to greet one of the ship’s nearly identical androids. It was wearing a pillbox hat, fancy waist-length jacket, and neatly creased trousers. “Good afternoon, Miss. My name is George. How can I help?”
The space was tight, but Cat managed to step out of the way. “I dropped my hairbrush on the floor, and I want you to pick it up.” A human might have balked at such a trivial request, but George entered the room without hesitation.
Even though humans had created robots and put them to work throughout the empire, they feared them as well. And that included domestic droids like George—never mind the high-order synths that Ophelia liked to use as assassins.
So various safeguards had been put in place. They ranged from a planetwide shutdown of all Artificial Life Forms, to the pistol-like stunners issued to police officers, and the last-chance kill switches located at the base of each robot’s neck. They were intentionally hard to access. But if McKee could turn George off, and do so quickly enough, the initial part of her plan would work. If she failed, George would call for help, and security would respond in a matter of minutes.
“There it is,” McKee said, as she pointed at the hairbrush. “If you would pick it up, I would be grateful.”
George was constitutionally unable to refuse any reasonable request from a passenger and bent to do her bidding. And that exposed the back of its neck.
McKee was ready to act and did so. Her fingers went to the correct spot, thumbed the protective cover out of the way, and flipped the switch. The result was instantaneous. The robot produced a violent jerk, went limp, and collapsed.
McKee felt a tremendous sense of satisfaction. The deactivation had been so swift, so sure, that George had no opportunity to radio for help. Then, as she looked down at the robot’s inert body, she realized what a fool she’d been. George was facedown. And that meant she couldn’t access the android’s control interface without rolling him over. No small task since the machine weighed at least fifty pounds more than she did—and was lying in the narrow space between her bed and the built-in wardrobe.
So as McKee wrestled with the robot’s body, precious seconds would be coming off the clock. How long until one of the ship’s computers pinged George, failed to get a response, and sent a repair tech to its last location? Twenty minutes? Ten? McKee swore and went to work.
After attempting to muscle George onto its back and failing, McKee began to grab whatever objects were handy and wedge them under the right side of the android’s body. That had the gradual effect of lifting George up off the deck, and holding it there, while she went to collect more materials. Pillows, towels, and uniforms were all put to use. And, bit by bit, McKee managed to roll the robot onto its side and from there to its back.
Finally, with the robot in the desired position, McKee glanced at her chrono. The better part of five minutes had passed. She could feel the sheen of perspiration that covered her brow and made use of a sleeve to wipe it away. Focus, she told herself, focus on the task at hand.
Having placed the nanomesh gloves and the roll of cyber tools on the bed next to her, McKee planted one foot on each side of George’s body and sat on its chest. Then she aimed a pen-sized laser at the robot’s visual receptors and triggered a series of blips. McKee heard a click as one side of George’s face opened to reveal a control interface so small she had to use probes to manipulate the color-coded dimple switches.
After she pressed the correct buttons in the correct sequence, a tiny screen came to life. That was McKee’s cue to take control of the android’s Distributed Processing Swarm (DPS) and make the necessary changes.
In order to do that, she needed to put the field-programmable cybergloves on. They were composed of nanomesh computing cores that could convert microgestures into instructions and transmit them to a DPS. Thanks to some recent practice on Orlo II, McKee’s movements were quite fluid as her fingers danced, and code scrolled down the tiny screen. The plan was to leave most of the robot’s programming intact so that George would continue to perform its duties until she called upon it to assist her. Then, once the deed was done, all the changes would disappear.
That was the way it was supposed to work anyway—but McKee was still at it when the doorbell rang. She swore, sent some final instructions into the hacked interface, and felt George stir beneath her. Its face was still in the process of closing as it spoke. “I am ready, Miss. What can I do for you?”
The bell rang again. “Go back to work,” McKee replied, “and return with a meal cart at 1545 hours. Be sure to bring a bucket of ice and two wineglasses. If you receive conflicting instructions, ignore them. And don’t mention me or this conversation to anyone else. Understood?”
“Yes, Miss.”
McKee stood and backed away. That allowed George to get up off the floor. “Straighten your uniform,” McKee ordered. “You look as if someone sat on you.”
“Yes, Miss.” The bell rang for the third time.
“If the person at the door asks what you were doing here, tell them you made the bed.”
“Yes, Miss.”
“You can leave.”
George opened the door, and there was Larkin. “Jeez, McKee,” the legionnaire said, as the robot departed. “What took you so long?”
The cabin had been trashed, so McKee positioned herself to block the view and keep the other legionnaire out. She figured the best way to handle his question was to ignore it. “What’s up? Are you in trouble again?”
“Hell, no,” Larkin replied with a grin. “I met someone. A cocktail waitress. And I want to buy her dinner. Who knows? Maybe I’ll get lucky! Can you loan me fifty credits?”
For a brief moment, McKee considered asking Larkin for help. He’d give it. She knew that. But then she’d have to tell him the truth about who she was, and she’d be forever indebted to him. That had very little appeal. Besides, if she was going to survive, she’d have to do it on her own. “Wait here,” McKee said, and closed the door. Moments later, she was back. “Here you go.”
“Thanks, McKee . . . Have a nice evening.” And with that, he was gone.
McKee thought about what lay ahead. It would involve all sorts of things. Nice wasn’t one of them.
• • •
McKee ran some errands but was ready a full hour before George was scheduled to arrive. That gave her lots of time in which to worry and feel sick to her stomach. She had killed before, many times, but never in cold blood. It would constitute self-defense since Royer planned to rape her—and would probably turn her in as well. A surefire death sentence. But it still felt wrong.
That was part of what was bothering her. The rest had to do with self-doubt. Could she pull it off? Would the plan work? Conflicting emotions caused her to sit on the edge of the bed hugging herself and rocking back and forth as the minutes ticked away.
Finally, right on time, the doorbell rang. McKee felt a sense of relief as she went to let the robot in. Now she could stop worrying. Now she could take action.
Having opened the door, McKee stood to one side. There was barely enough room to close the door behind the cart and the android. A bucket of ice was sitting on top of the cart, along with a couple of linen towels and two wineglasses. McKee put a bottle of wine into the bucket and added two more to the cart. All purchased with cash on deck three. The idea was to make the cart look natural without placing an order through room service. “All right,” she said. “I’m going to ride on the bottom shelf. Deliver me to Mr. Royer’s suite on deck one. When he comes to the door, tell him that the wine is a gift from me. Once inside Mr. Royer’s quarters you will await further instructions. Understood?”
“Yes, Miss.”
“Okay, stand by.”
Small though she was, McKee discovered that climbing onto the cart’s bottom shelf was more difficult than she had imagined. Eventually, after trying various positions, she lay on her back with her knees drawn up to her chest. “Drop the cover,” she ordered, and was pleased when white linen dropped all around. “Good . . . Let’s go.”
Seconds later, they were outside on their way to the service elevator that would take them to deck one. The plan was to enter Royer’s suite without being seen, kill him, and escape the same way. Maybe security would find out about the brief conversation in the restaurant. If questioned, McKee would claim that Royer had hit on her and been refused. And, with nothing else to go on, the investigators would have to accept her account.
McKee felt a gentle bump as George led the cart into the elevator and it began to rise. After a brief stop on an intermediate floor, the lift came to a stop and McKee heard the doors hiss open. Wheels rattled as the cart followed George out into slightly scented air. Then they were in the main corridor, where the robot had to stop to answer a passenger’s question. McKee could see the woman’s shoes but nothing more.
Having answered the question, George led the cart around a corner and down a secondary passageway. Then it came to a stop as the android rang a doorbell. McKee’s heart was beating like a trip-hammer as she waited for the door to open. When it did, she heard George say, “The wine is a gift from Miss McKee.”
Royer said something unintelligible; the robot preceded the cart into the living area, and the door closed with a loud click. That was McKee’s cue to roll out onto the floor. Adrenaline was pumping through her circulatory system as she hit the carpet and bounced to her feet.
But rather than confronting Royer, as McKee had imagined, she found herself facing three men. Royer smiled lazily. “Well, look what we have here . . . Cat Carletto. You’ve seen her on the news, boys . . . But never like this. Ready to do whatever it takes to stay hidden. So Troy, what do you think of the scar?”
The man named Troy had shoulder-length hair, a fake tan, and looked like a lounge lizard. One of the social wannabes who were attracted to Royer in much the same way that flies are attracted to shit. “I think it’s a turn-on,” Troy replied.
“This is Carl,” Royer said, indicating the second man. Carl was in need of a shave, had a paunch, and was holding a cocktail. “And he’s been looking forward to seeing your tits. Take your clothes off.”
The knife had been there all along—stuck down the back of McKee’s pants. It came out of the sheath smoothly as she took a long step forward. Royer was just starting to frown when the blade sliced through his jugular and partially severed his windpipe. Blood flew sideways; Royer produced a horrible gurgling sound and tried to stop the flow with his hands. Then he swayed and fell over backwards.
“Grab Carl,” McKee ordered grimly. “And don’t let go.”
It would have been nice to order George to kill Carl, but it wasn’t programmed for that and wouldn’t comply. So McKee figured that if the android could keep Carl busy, that would give her a better chance of successfully dealing with Troy.
And that, as it turned out, was going to be difficult. Because in spite of all appearances to the contrary, Troy was no pushover. In fact, it quickly became apparent that Troy knew how to fight. “I’m going to kill you,” he said matter-of-factly. “And they’ll give me a medal for it.”
He took a stance and flicked a fist toward her face. McKee’s eyes followed it, felt a foot hit her ribs, and went down hard. Now she knew. Troy was a kickboxer.
Troy was dancing by then. He gestured for her to get up. “Come on, killer . . . get up. You look like a man. Fight like one.”
Meanwhile, Carl was struggling with George. “Hey Troy! he said. “Get this thing off me!”
Troy’s eyes never left McKee. “Man up, Carl . . . It’s a robot, for God’s sake. Kick its ass.”
McKee’s side hurt, but she made it to her feet, and staggered forward. Troy smiled and launched a kick. McKee was waiting. The blow hit her in the same spot and nearly drove all the air out of her lungs. But as her opponent was pulling his foot back, McKee slashed his leg. The blade struck bone and slid off. Having hit the floor, Troy rolled to his feet. The cut wasn’t that serious, but it hurt like hell and had an impact on his psychology. He’d been confident before—and now he was beginning to wonder. So he backed away, hoping to buy some time, and tripped over Royer’s body.
As Troy went down, McKee pounced on his chest and delivered a flurry of overhand blows. She wasn’t thinking anymore, just reacting to her fear. She stabbed him over and over. One of the wounds must have been fatal because when she stopped, there was blood all over Troy’s chest, and he was dead.
That was when McKee heard movement behind her and remembered Carl. She rolled right. The wine bottle brushed the side of her head as it went by. Having landed on her back, she saw that Carl was shuffling straight at her. McKee scooted backwards, felt her back hit a wall, and was getting ready to die when George reentered the fight.
Having been forced to let go, the robot was determined to obey the orders it’d been given. So it threw itself at Carl from behind, got an arm around the human’s throat, and hung on. Carl swore, dropped the wine bottle, and brought both hands up in an attempt to free himself. That opened his abdomen to attack. And McKee had no choice but to take advantage. Carl looked surprised as the blade went in.
McKee was horrified. Carl was still alive, still standing there, swaying from side to side. So she took hold of the knife and jerked it sideways. The blade must have cut through something important, because Carl’s eyes rolled out of focus, and he fell facedown onto the carpet. George went with him.
“You can let go of him,” McKee said. And George did.
McKee knelt next to Carl and felt for a pulse. There was none. She felt dazed as she got up and took a moment to look around. Bodies lay everywhere, and the suite looked like the inside of a slaughterhouse. George was starting to clean up when McKee ordered it to stop.
Think, McKee told herself, do something. McKee’s body was shaking as if palsied, and she felt dizzy. A story. The situation demanded a story or the beginnings of one. McKee was wearing gloves she had purchased earlier that day—and the knife had been wiped clean before entering Royer’s suite. So fingerprints wouldn’t be a problem. But what about DNA? A quick check revealed that she hadn’t suffered any cuts. And that was a miracle, all things considered.
“George,” McKee said, “come over here. Let me take a look at you.” McKee forced herself to inspect the robot but couldn’t find any traces of blood on it. She suspected that its feet were a different matter, but didn’t have anything to clean them with. If towels were missing, that would be a clear sign that a fourth person had been involved. But if things went the way they were supposed to, no one would examine George’s feet.
“Okay, get ready to take me back to my cabin. When we get there, open the door with your passkey and push the cart inside. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Miss,” the android replied stoically. “I understand.”
“Good,” McKee said, as she took her place on the bottom shelf of the cart. “Let’s go.”
The whole thing had taken longer than expected, so McKee figured that George had been classified as MIA by that time. Still, once the robot’s short-term memory was wiped, there wouldn’t be anything for a tech to recover. And the folks in charge could interpret that any way they chose.
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.