THOMAS WOLFE
Standard year 1940
PLANET EARTH
The Imperialus had entered Earth orbit at some point during what McKee considered to be the night. So when she met Larkin for breakfast in the Starlight Room restaurant, the planet was looming over the ship. It looked like a blue marble wrapped in cotton. McKee felt a lump rise to partially block her throat as she looked up at it. The last time Cat Carletto had seen Earth from space, she barely noticed it, or thought about her family, other than to savor the sense of freedom associated with leaving them behind.
Now her parents were dead, McKee felt guilty about how selfish she’d been, and there was nothing she could do to make up for it. Her train of thought was interrupted by Larkin. “Hey, McKee . . . Pay attention. What do you want for breakfast?”
McKee turned to find that a robot was waiting to take her order. “I’ll have a cup of caf,” she said. “Plus a piece of toast and a bowl of fruit.”
“Jeez,” Larkin said. “You call that a breakfast? Why bother?”
“I don’t want to get fat,” McKee replied primly. “Like some people I could mention.”
Larkin, who was normally lean, looked puffy after weeks of eating the ship’s food. He grinned. “No problem. I’ll work it off in the nightclubs. So what’s next? When do we go dirtside?”
McKee sighed. The Legion told Larkin what to do, and he liked it that way. So rather than read the messages sent to his cabin, he was relying on a noncom to brief him. “They’re going to take the passengers on the upper decks off first,” McKee said. “So our shuttle doesn’t depart until 1600. It will take a couple of hours to put down, so it’ll be evening by the time we arrive. A butter bar is supposed to meet us.”
Larkin made a face. Like many enlisted people, he was generally suspicious of officers, but especially contemptuous of second lieutenants, often referred to as “butter bars” because of the gold insignia they wore. That was because most of them were young, inexperienced, and full of themselves. Except for the so-called jackers, that is—meaning soldiers promoted from the ranks. “Hey,” Larkin said, as the food arrived. “Did you know that three people were killed during the trip? They took the bodies off an hour ago. Everybody’s talking about it.”
“No,” McKee answered, as she took a sip of caf. “What happened?”
Larkin shrugged as he tucked into a plate heaping with sausages, eggs, and hash browns. “There was some sort of fight. That’s what I heard.”
McKee nodded and took another sip of caf. Her food remained untouched.
• • •
Although the shuttle wasn’t as fancy as the one used to ferry first-class passengers to the surface, it was luxurious by Legion standards. One important difference was the ARGRAV generator that protected everyone aboard from the often messy effects of a zero-gee ride. Military shuttles weren’t equipped with such frivolities. As the vessel departed the liner’s launch bay, Larkin had settled in and was halfway through his second drink.
McKee’s mood was quite different from her companion’s. She had gotten away with murder. Or so it seemed. But even if that was the case, some difficult days lay ahead. Avery believed that the short hair, scar, and uniform were disguise enough. But were they? Millions of people would watch the medal ceremony or news stories pertaining to it. What if some old friend or enemy recognized her? Royer had.
The thought opened a chasm in the pit of her stomach. Fear was a constant companion now, both on and off the battlefield. But she had to face it, had to deal with it, especially if she wanted to bring Ophelia down.
McKee’s fingers strayed to the tiny lump hidden beneath her uniform. The memory matrix looked like a silver cat but it was more than a bauble. Much more. Because stored inside the matrix were the names of all the people Ophelia wanted to kill, including one Cat Carletto, who was listed as number 2999. And the names of Ophelia’s secret agents were contained in the matrix as well. All downloaded from a synth on Orlo II. A synth that had tried to kill her.
It was valuable information. Or would be in the right hands. But was there a resistance movement of some sort? An organization that could use the lists to protect some individuals and target others? And if there was, how could she make contact with them? Or know whom to trust?
Those questions and more nagged at McKee as the shuttle bumped down through the atmosphere, circled the planet once, and came in for a landing. Los Angeles sprawled below. Over hundreds of years, the city had grown into an enormous metroplex that covered more than one thousand square miles. It wasn’t the planet’s official capital, but it was one of the most important cities on Earth and the one where Ophelia spent most of her time.
And McKee knew it well. Because while Cat Carletto wasn’t from LA, she’d gone to college there and been a very visible part of the city’s nightlife. Something that had pained her parents—and worried them no end. She felt guilty about that and wished there was some way to go back and change things. Unfortunately, the past was immutable. But the future? That could be shaped.
LA had more than a dozen spaceports, and the shuttle landed at number seven. Larkin said that was his lucky number, and McKee wondered if she had one, as they followed a group of passengers through a tubeway and into a terminal building. Baggage claim was on the ground floor. The crowd swirled as families were reunited—and what seemed like an endless sequence of announcements came over the PA system. The legionnaires jockeyed for position around the baggage carousel as luggage began to appear. McKee could see her B-1 bag in the distance. It looked strange in among the flashy Asani, Borti, and Zagger suitcases around it, Asani being her personal favorite. Would she own one again? It didn’t seem likely. Not at five thousand credits for a basic three-piece set.
McKee’s thoughts were jerked back into the present by the sound of her name. “Sergeant McKee? Corporal Larkin? I’m Lieutenant Wilkins. Welcome to LA.”
McKee turned to find that a slightly chubby officer dressed in a Class B uniform had approached her from behind. So she came to attention and delivered a crisp salute. What she received in return resembled a friendly wave. Wilkins had a round face, serious eyes, and two chins. And when he said, “As you were,” it had an awkward sound. As if he rarely had occasion to use the phrase. That was when McKee remembered her bag—and turned to discover that Larkin had pulled both B-1s off the carousel. “Is that everything?” Wilkins inquired.
“Yes, sir,” McKee replied. “We’re ready to go.”
“Excellent. I’ll take you to the hotel. We have a busy schedule set up for tomorrow, so get some sleep.”
“May I ask what we’ll be doing?” McKee said, as they left the baggage area.
“Of course,” Wilkins replied. “I have you lined up for the Good Morning LA show at eight, I mean 0800, followed by the World Span feed at 1300. After that, you’ll be on The Marv Torley Show at 1600. He’s a hoot. You’ll like him.”
McKee had known it was coming—but the reality of it caused her stomach to churn. “Should we rehearse or something?”
“No need,” Wilkins replied airily. “Just be yourselves—which is to say a couple of war heroes. Watch the salty language, though . . . That could give the wrong impression.”
“Any chance of a pass?” Larkin interjected. “This is my first visit to Earth, and I’d like to see the sights.”
McKee knew what sort of sights Larkin wanted to see, but Wilkins didn’t, and fell for it. “Absolutely. We’re going to work you hard today and tomorrow. Then you’ll have Saturday, Sunday, and Monday off. Tuesday will be spent getting ready for the presentation on Wednesday. How does that sound?”
“It sounds good, sir,” McKee said, and meant it. Three days to herself. That would be heaven.
One of the Legion’s fly-forms was waiting for them on the tarmac outside. Wilkins flashed his ID at a lone sentry, who threw a salute. As they approached the scout car, McKee saw that the aircraft had a perfect paint job and was clearly dedicated to ferrying staff officers around. The inside was fitted out as nicely as the shuttle had been, and as McKee buckled herself into a leather-upholstered seat, she felt a surge of anger. There was a critical shortage of aircraft on Orlo II. Why couldn’t the REMFS (rear-echelon motherfuckers) ride the bus or something? But there was no point in saying that to a public-affairs officer like Wilkins. He was part of the problem.
Deep canyons separated the high-rises of LA, and that was good because there was lots of traffic, and it was stacked in layers. That meant as the aircraft lifted off, a centralized computer had to take over and do most of the flying. The alternative was thousands of accidents, most of which would be fatal.
Larkin stared out through a window as the fly-form shot straight up, turned on its axis, and took off. Buildings whipped past right and left, other aircraft crowded in all around, and the general impression was one of barely controlled chaos. Cat Carletto’s silver speedster had been left behind when she departed for the grand tour, and McKee wondered who had it.
The Hotel Lex was a midlevel hostelry at best. Something that quickly became apparent as the fly-form landed on the roof, and no one came out to meet them. “Meet me here at 0700,” Wilkins ordered. “That will give us plenty of travel time. Oh, and wear your Class A’s. Get them pressed if they need it. Remember, as far as the public is concerned, you are the Legion.”
With that, a side door slid open, and the legionnaires jumped to the ground. Their bags landed next to them. The moment they were clear, repellers roared, grit flew every which way, and the shuttle went straight up. “What an asshole,” Larkin said, bending to retrieve his bag. “Come on . . . We’ll check in and grab a couple of drinks.”
“I’ll pass on the drinks,” McKee said, as they made their way over to a door marked SKY LOBBY. “I could use some shut-eye.”
Larkin rolled his eyes, opened the door for McKee, and followed her inside. Fifteen minutes later, McKee was in her slightly shabby room looking out through a dingy window. A man-made canyon and a steady stream of airborne traffic separated her from the brightly lit buildings on the other side of the boulevard below. Words slid across a huge reader board. They were intended for the tourists who were emerging from the train station nearby. “Welcome to LA.”
McKee ordered the window to darken and began to unpack. Her Class A was in need of pressing, and there was nothing else to do. It would have been easy to cry. She didn’t.
• • •
The next day dawned the way it was supposed to: clear and sunny. Neither legionnaire had slept much but for different reasons. Larkin had been barhopping—and McKee had been in bed staring at the ceiling. So it was hard to say which one of them was in worse shape when they met in the hotel’s Sky Lobby. Both looked sharp, however—and that was enough to elicit some praise from Wilkins as they entered the shuttle. “Ready for inspection! Well done. Strap in, and we’re off.”
The fly-form rose, nosed its way into southbound traffic, and set down ten minutes later. The top of the World News tower was thick with tiered landing pads and different types of antennas. As McKee stepped out of the shuttle, she was confronted by a vid cam, which hovered insectlike in front of her before flitting away.
“Now they have some footage for the ten thirty tease,” Wilkins said knowledgeably. “Come on . . . We’re going down to the thirty-second floor. That’s where the Good Morning LA studio is located.”
McKee felt a little light-headed as she followed the officer onto an elevator, which dropped so fast it felt as if her spit-shined shoes would come up off the floor. She could see herself in a mirror on the opposite wall. The immaculate white kepi sat squarely on her head. The uniform was brown, with red-fringed epaulettes, and the badge of the 1st REC on the left side of her chest. She wore a campaign ribbon as well—and the chevrons on her sleeves marked her as a sergeant. It was in some ways like looking at a stranger.
Then the ride was over, the doors whispered open, and they stepped out into a long hallway. The walls were painted a subtle shade of red and decorated with photos of famous guests. A perky intern was there to meet them. She had straight black hair, almond-shaped eyes, and full lips. The earplug and wire-thin boom mike she wore were barely noticeable. A wannabe reporter? Yes, that seemed like a good guess.
McKee saw the girl flinch as she noticed the scar. It was her experience that women reacted more strongly than men—probably because they were imagining how awful such a disfigurement would be. The intern recovered, produced a smile, and said “Hi! My name’s Cindy. Please follow me.”
Wilkins went first, followed by McKee and Larkin. A door led to a makeup room, where a man and a woman were waiting for them. McKee was ushered into the chair in front of the female. She had pink hair, lots of rings on her fingers, and introduced herself as Shelly. “Don’t worry,” Shelly said, kindly. “I can make that scar disappear.”
McKee felt something akin to panic. Ugly though it might be, the scar was her mask. The thing most people couldn’t see past. “I don’t need any makeup,” McKee growled. “I’m proud of my scar.”
Shelly was clearly taken aback, mumbled something about highlights, and dabbed at McKee’s forehead a couple of times before declaring her “Ready for prime time.”
Then it was Larkin’s turn. And while he flirted with Shelly, McKee took a seat in the adjacent green room, where she could watch the Good Morning regulars on a huge wall screen. The cast of characters included square-jawed news stalwart Max Holby, the blond, eternally well-coiffed Jessica Connelly, and the amusing weather droid Cirrus.
McKee knew all of them. Or felt as if she did because it had been Cat Carletto’s habit to watch the show while getting ready for school. That was fine. But had she met either one of the humans? Such a thing was possible because as a part-time member of the glitterati, Cat had been introduced to dozens of people every Saturday night. She didn’t think so, however, and hoped she was right.
Suddenly, Larkin, Wilkins, and Cindy were in the room with her. “You’re on in sixty seconds,” Cindy said. “Stand by.”
“Break a leg,” Wilkins said cheerfully. “And remember . . . Thanks to the empress, the Legion was able to free Orlo II from the Hudathans. Stick to that, and everything will be fine.”
That wasn’t true, of course, but McKee understood it, and Larkin nodded dutifully. Then there was no time to think as they were ushered out onto the Good Morning LA stage. Both hosts rose to greet them. “This is a real honor,” Holby said, as he shook McKee’s hand. And she could tell that he meant it.
And Connelly was no less enthusiastic. “Welcome home!” she gushed. “Please sit down.”
As the legionnaires took their seats, Connelly turned to the cameras. “It’s our pleasure to welcome two war heroes to the set this morning. Next Wednesday, Governor Mason will award the Imperial Order of Merit to Sergeant Andromeda McKee, and the Military Commendation Medal to Corporal Desmond Larkin. Both of whom were among the valiant legionnaires who saved the citizens of Orlo II from certain death at the hands of the barbaric Hudathans.”
Connelly’s comments were correct up to a point but failed to make mention of the fact that the Legion had been sent to Orlo II to quell what amounted to a revolt against Empress Ophelia’s high-handed ways. That’s why they had been present when the ridgeheads dropped hyper and put down. And that raised an interesting question. Was the World News Corporation under Ophelia’s direct control? Or going along to get along? That wasn’t clear as Connelly turned her laserlike blue eyes to McKee. There were no signs of recognition on her face, for which the legionnaire was profoundly grateful. “I understand that you battled your way through an entire battalion of Hudathans in order to deliver a message to your commanding officer. What was that like?”
McKee stirred uncomfortably. “I was scared.”
“But you did it anyway,” Connelly insisted. “That took courage. How many Hudathans did you kill?”
“I don’t know,” McKee replied. “I didn’t have time to count them.”
That got a chuckle from Holby. “What about that, Corporal Larkin? How many Hudathans did the sergeant kill?”
Larkin had no idea but was perfectly willing to make something up. “Twenty-six,” he replied. “She killed the last one face-to-face while carrying Eason’s brain box to safety. Now that took balls. Oops . . . Sorry.”
Everyone except McKee laughed. She wanted to vanish into thin air somehow—but Connelly wasn’t done. “How do you feel about receiving the Imperial Order of Merit?”
McKee looked away and back again. “I don’t deserve it. There are plenty of people who did more but went unrecognized. That’s how combat is. Medals get pinned on people who happen to be visible. Sorry, ma’am. But that’s the truth of it.”
“There you have it,” Connelly said, as she turned to the nearest camera. “Selfless, brave, and modest. The empire’s best. Stick with us, folks . . . Tarch Omada will join us after the break. We’ll ask him about military preparedness right here on Earth. Should we be concerned about the possibility of a Hudathan attack? More in three minutes.”
After brief good-byes from Holby and Connelly, the legionnaires were escorted out into the hall, where Wilkins was waiting. “Nice job, you two! General Olmsby called me. He was very pleased. But no more of the off-color stuff, Corporal . . . Even if the general liked it.”
“Sorry, sir,” Larkin said contritely, followed by a one-fingered salute aimed at the officer’s back. The Legion had landed, a beachhead had been established, and more battles lay ahead. The rest of the day passed smoothly, but the process was stressful, and McKee emerged from The Marv Torley Show feeling exhausted. If left to her own devices, she would have relied on room service for something to eat.
But when Wilkins offered to take them to dinner, the legionnaires couldn’t refuse. So they wound up going to a revolving restaurant located at the top of the Sen-Sing Tower. The Lotus Flower had been a very hip place to go a year earlier but had since been supplanted by other establishments, leaving it to B-list celebrities who were treated like stars. It soon became obvious that Wilkins knew many of them thanks to the Legion’s involvement in various fund-raisers and was thrilled when a fading actress greeted him by his first name.
But even if the Lotus Flower had begun to wilt, it still had an unparalleled view of Los Angeles and the Pacific Ocean, which glittered like gold as the sun went down. And the seafood was excellent. So good, in fact, that McKee enjoyed the parmesan-crusted sole in spite of herself and was content to eat while the men discussed sports.
Later, as the threesome parted company on the roof of the Hotel Lex, Wilkins issued some final instructions. “Enjoy the next three days, but remember . . . You’re here to represent the Legion. Don’t do anything that would generate negative news coverage.
“We’ll meet here at 0800 Tuesday. The entire day will be spent preparing for the medal ceremony. Any questions? No? All right. You have my com number. Don’t hesitate to use it.” And with that, they were free. Once the fly-form took off, they entered the Sky Lobby.
“Don’t tell me, let me guess,” Larkin said. “You’re going to visit your family.”
During the months they had known each other, McKee had been forced to invent an imaginary family. “Something like that,” McKee admitted. “Maybe you’d like to come along.”
Larkin was predictable if nothing else. “Thanks, but no thanks,” he replied. “I wouldn’t want to impose. Besides, I have some serious recreating to do. And, based on the stories I’ve heard, the Deeps are calling.”
The elevator arrived and took them in. “The Deeps are extremely dangerous,” McKee said. “There’s no law down there. I wish you wouldn’t go.”
Larkin looked surprised. “Well, I’ll be damned. I think you care.”
McKee made a face. “The Legion will blame me if you wind up dead. Plus, there will be a lot of forms to fill out.”
Larkin grinned. “Don’t worry, Mom. I grew up in the slums of Elysium, remember? I can take care of myself.”
There was truth in that, and the last thing McKee wanted was to babysit Larkin for three days. So she let it go. “Take care then—and get a haircut. You look like a civilian.”
Larkin laughed and got off on his floor. McKee watched as the doors closed behind him. It would be a miracle if the legionnaire emerged from LA’s underworld unscathed. Larkin was right about one thing, however . . . McKee was going to visit her family. Her real family.
• • •
McKee awoke the next morning feeling refreshed. After a long, hot shower, she went downstairs and had a light breakfast. With that out of the way, she entered the shop adjacent to the hotel’s restaurant. Most of the clothes had some iteration of “Los Angeles” printed on them but, after sorting through the shop’s offerings, McKee was able to assemble a limited wardrobe. It consisted of a gray hoodie, some white T-shirts, and a pair of blue shorts. A ball cap and a pair of sleek sunglasses completed the look. The store didn’t sell shoes, but it had sandals, and McKee chose a pair she knew Cat Carletto would like. They were gold and very glittery. Quite a contrast to what she usually wore. Her final purchase was a knapsack to carry the clothing in.
Having returned to her room, McKee changed into the civvies and examined herself in the bathroom mirror. It had been months since she’d seen herself in anything other than a uniform, and she was surprised by what she saw. Andromeda McKee was leaner than Cat Carletto had been, stood straighter, and looked tough. The buzz cut and the facial scar had a lot to do with that, of course—but McKee knew it was more than that. She’d been places and done things that most people couldn’t imagine. So, would she trade all that had been gained for a return to her previous existence? McKee smiled, and the woman in the mirror smiled back. Of course she would. Especially if it meant her parents would be alive.
After stuffing a change of clothes and some toiletries into the knapsack, McKee slid her arms through the straps, pulled the ball cap down over her sunglasses, and was ready to go. She could have been anyone. A waitress on her way home after the night shift, a tourist from back East, or a college girl on her way home. In this case to Seattle.
McKee had to change elevators to reach the subsurface pedway that led to the nearest train station. And even though McKee had been there before, the hot humid air and the incessant noise still came as a shock after days spent “uptown.” Meaning above street level.
Fortunately, McKee knew the rules, which were to keep moving, avoid eye contact, and mind your business. Rules that, if faithfully followed, would keep most people out of trouble most of the time. And that was important. Because the pedways just below the streets were the dividing line between Uptown and the Deeps. An area where the rule of law still held sway but just barely.
Even so, a person who looked like Cat Carletto would have been targeted had she been so foolish as to walk the pedways alone. Not McKee, though. She was on the receiving end of whistles and lewd comments—but was able to reach the train station without anyone’s laying a hand on her.
The bustling station occupied a cavernous space, which, in spite of the city’s efforts to keep it clean for tourists, was decorated with overlapping layers of graffiti. The words FREEDOM FRONT had been spray-painted on one wall, and McKee wondered what they meant. Was the Freedom Front a group? And if so, did that imply some sort of resistance movement? She hoped so.
After a quick stop at a ticket kiosk, McKee made her way over to a platform where people were boarding the sleek maglev that would take them north at a speed of 300 mph. Fast enough to put McKee in Seattle for dinner even with multiple stops along the way. A commercial flight would have been quicker, but McKee was on a budget and couldn’t afford such a luxury.
She joined a queue, fed her ticket into a scanner, and plucked it out of the slot on the other side of the turnstile. There weren’t any reserved seats. Not in second class. So McKee had to hurry in order to secure a place by one of the windows. Then came the suspense of waiting to see who would sit next to her. The last thing she wanted to do was spend hours being hit on, be forced to participate in a boring conversation, or listen to other people having one. Fortunately, none of the three people who sat down around her demonstrated the least bit of interest in being sociable.
Shortly after an incomprehensible announcement, the train jerked into motion, and the journey began. The scenery went by slowly at first as the Emerald Express negotiated the tunnels that led out onto the main line. Then the train began to pick up speed. And thanks to the fact that it was hovering over a guideway rather than riding old-fashioned tracks, the maglev was able to achieve cruising speed in a couple of minutes. Now the city was blipping by, so quickly that everything became a blur, and McKee closed her eyes.
The trip was silly in a way. She knew that. Her parents were dead, and going home wouldn’t change that. All it would do was amplify the pain she felt. So why go there? For a sense of closure. To grieve. To ask for their forgiveness. Because, by all rights, she should be dead, and they should be alive.
Stops came and went as McKee dozed or listened to music via a pair of earbuds. Eventually, McKee awoke from one of her naps to discover that the maglev had begun to slow. Like LA, Seattle had grown over the last few hundred years. Now it stretched from what had been the border with Canada all the way down to the suburb of Centralia.
One thing hadn’t changed, however, and that was the weather. It was raining, and as the train slowed to a mere 60 mph, streaks of water appeared on the window in front of her. That was when McKee realized that sandals and shorts had been a poor choice and smiled at her own stupidity.
The Emerald Express pulled into the station shortly thereafter, and McKee followed other passengers off. Now she was faced with a new challenge. Never, not once during her years in Seattle, had Cat Carletto been required to use the public-transit system. Yet that was what she needed to do in order to reach the upper-class enclave of Bellevue.
So McKee made her way over to an information kiosk, performed the necessary research, and set out on the next leg of her journey—a trip that involved a subway ride under the lake, a short bus ride, and a hike. It was dark by then and still raining. Her cotton clothes were damp, and her feet were wet, but the discomfort was nothing compared to what she had experienced on Orlo II. That’s what she told herself anyway as she slogged along rain-slicked streets. She paused every now and then to make sure that she was headed the right way and to check what she had come to think of as her six.
Five minutes later, she arrived at the street that turned into the gated community where she had been raised. It was surrounded by a high-tech perimeter. Even so, the local teens, Cat Carletto included, delighted in sneaking in and out of the community much to the consternation of their parents.
So McKee followed the community’s nine-foot-tall privacy wall east to the point where a brook flowed out of the eighteen-hole golf course around which many of the homes were sited. McKee threw her pack over the wall before stepping into the cold water and lying on her back. Then, by pushing with her feet, she was able to slide under the wall. It was necessary to hold her breath for about fifteen seconds, but she made it and surfaced moments later. The problem was that McKee’s teeth were chattering by the time she stood and climbed up onto a low bank.
Quick blips from a penlight were sufficient to locate the knapsack. Then, after a quick look around, it was time to strip and change into mostly dry clothing. The shorts were still wet, as were her feet, but her upper body was warm.
The safest and most direct route to the Carletto compound was to cut across the pitch-black golf course to the line of lights that glowed beyond. So that was the way she headed. But McKee was painfully aware of how exposed she would be—and the fact that a security drone could happen along at any moment. The key was to cross the open area quickly. Because once she arrived in front of the structures on the far side, the warmth emanating from them would hide her individual heat signature.
With that goal in mind, McKee began to run. That was dangerous since it would be easy to trip and fall. But the prospect of being intercepted by a drone was a much bigger threat. The robot could stun her and summon help. Once that occurred, it wouldn’t be long before her true identity was revealed. And McKee knew she would wind up dead shortly thereafter.
So McKee ran. The knapsack slapped against her back, and the sandals weren’t meant for that sort of travel, but she was making good time until a blob of light appeared off to the right. A drone! As she watched, a spotlight came on and probed the ground in front of it. Looking for her? Or as part of its regular routine?
McKee placed her hopes on the second possibility as she sprinted toward the kidney-shaped lake located in the middle of the golf course. Black water splashed away from McKee’s feet as she waded in and performed a belly flop. Then, having grabbed onto some reeds, she pulled herself down. The strategy would have worked if it hadn’t been for the air trapped in her knapsack. But it was too late to do anything about the problem as the spotlight hit the surface of the shallow lake and slid across the bottom.
Fortunately, the shaft of light missed McKee—and the cold water was sufficient to conceal her heat signature. The drone was gone moments later. That allowed her to surface and gulp air. No dry clothes left, McKee thought to herself. Gotta move to stay warm.
Mud sucked one of McKee’s sandals off as she stepped up onto the bank. She was tempted to leave it behind but knew that when it came to her feet, something was better than nothing. So she paused, felt for the missing slip-on, and pulled it up out of the muck. Then, with sandals on both feet, McKee resumed her journey. As luck would have it, she left the golf course right next to the Ridley Mansion. And it was only a block from the Carletto compound.
The streets were lit, but McKee knew how to use cover and slipped from shadow to shadow. Her teeth were chattering again, but there was nothing she could do about it. A dog sensed her presence—but it was locked inside a garage. So all it could do was bark impotently as she cut across the yard outside. A ground car passed at one point, but she heard it coming and had time to duck behind a hedge.
Then McKee was home—or where her home had once been. Now there was nothing to mark the Carletto residence but a chain-link fence that stretched off into the darkness. Signs were posted every twelve feet or so—and McKee paused to read one of them. The light was iffy, but the words were clear. GOVERNMENT PROPERTY. KEEP OUT.
Government property? So Ophelia had not only taken her parents’ lives but their property as well. And not just figuratively, but literally, because as McKee stared through the fence, she could see that every stick and stone of what had been her family residence had been trucked way, leaving nothing more than bare foundations. She’d been happy as a child, but too stupid to know it, and now she felt a great emptiness inside. A hole nothing could fill.
Metal rattled as she climbed up and over. The sandals made the process more difficult than it should have been. But Andromeda McKee had developed a lot of upper-body strength during her time in the Legion, and that made the difference.
Once McKee was on the other side of the fence, she was free to walk what had been the grounds. It was impossible to tell what had occurred there—but it was safe to assume that the neighbors knew. If she could ask, would they tell? No, of course not. Not unless they wanted the same thing to happen to them.
McKee followed what had been a path to the only thing that the government couldn’t haul away, and that was the family’s swimming pool. At that point she saw a firefly-like glow coming her way, knew it was a drone, and ran down a short flight of stairs into the rectangular basin. Half a foot of rainwater had accumulated in the bottom of the pool, and McKee planned to go facedown in it.
But as she waded toward the deep end, she had an even better idea. There had been an artificial waterfall at one end of the pool, with a cave directly behind it. A bit of whimsy on her grandfather’s part—and a treasured hideout for generations of children. McKee had to jump up and push with her feet to enter. The chamber was dark, protected from above, and completely secure so long as the drone didn’t peer inside. A shaft of light stabbed the pool, slid to the other side, and disappeared.
McKee allowed herself to breathe again. She hugged her knees to her chest in an attempt to retain as much body heat as possible. She knew that escaping from the gated community would be as difficult as entering it had been. So she was preparing herself to make the effort when she remembered the loose stone. It wasn’t supposed to be loose, but it was, which made for a nook where children could hide trinkets or leave messages for each other.
McKee felt for the penlight and was delighted to discover that it still worked. Then she directed the blob of white light to the smooth river rocks that lined the grotto’s curved walls. She recognized the stone she wanted right away and scooted over to pull it loose. Was the little treasure box still there? No, it wasn’t. Something else had been left in its place. A plastic bag with a disposable comset inside. And a piece of paper with a single word printed on it: CAT.