Some things can never be left behind.
AUTHOR UNKNOWN
A Naa folk saying
Standard year unknown
PLANET EARTH
McKee’s heart was racing. Suddenly, the trip to what had been her home was more than an emotional pilgrimage. A comset had been left for her. But by whom? The most likely possibility was her uncle Rex Carletto. He was someone McKee felt a strong affinity for despite his addiction to gambling, womanizing, and lack of interest in the family business. Because Uncle Rex had also been a soldier and the one person in the family who always had time for her. And, had it not been for a timely message from him, she would have been killed on Esparto. So if the comset had been left there by Uncle Rex, that was wonderful news.
But what if the device was some sort of government trap? No, McKee told herself. How would the government know about the loose stone? Only a member of the family would know about something like that. Such questions would have to wait, however. The first task was to escape the gated community and to do so soon. Her body was shaking, and the cold was beginning to affect her thinking processes.
So McKee tucked the plastic bag away, forced herself into motion, and slipped down into the water below. It splashed away from her feet as she made for the shallow end of the pool. It was a short sprint from there to the fence. And McKee had dealt with worse obstructions on Drang. That’s what she told herself as she struggled up and over.
Then she was off and running. The brook was one of the few ways to sneak into the community. But there were a variety of ways to get out. One of which had to do with a tree located in old lady Miller’s yard. It was at least a hundred years old and had a couple of limbs that extended out over the wall. So by hanging from a branch and working one’s way out, it was possible to drop to the ground. Was she strong enough? Cat Carletto hadn’t been. Only the boys could do it. Still, the tree was only half a block away, and McKee didn’t want to cross the golf course again.
Running through the community at night reminded her of playing hide-and-seek on summer evenings. Of course it wasn’t raining then—and nobody was trying to kill her. The Miller house was ablaze with lights, which made it easier to see as McKee padded up the driveway, opened a gate, and entered the side yard. Then it was a simple matter to make her way past the greenhouse to the point where the big oak was waiting. Except that it wasn’t waiting. All that remained of the enormous tree was a stump. Had a storm brought the oak down? It didn’t matter. What did matter was finding some other way to escape the community.
McKee stood there, teeth chattering, looking around. Her thoughts weren’t as clear as they should have been. She’d seen a ladder lying next to the greenhouse but couldn’t use it. Not without raising the sort of questions that would lead to an investigation.
McKee swore and chose to follow the wall to the right in hopes of finding another way to escape. There weren’t any fences to contend with. They weren’t allowed. But there were lots of hedges, and she had to find a break in one in order to enter the next yard. At first glance McKee thought she’d have to push on. Then she noticed the elaborate playhouse that was partially lit by the spill from a streetlight. It was two stories tall and topped with an open platform. Could she make the jump from that to the top of the wall? And do so without injuring herself? It was increasingly difficult to focus.
McKee hurried over to the playhouse, climbed a child-sized ladder, and stood on rain-slicked wood. If a drone arrived, there would be no place to hide. No, she told herself, think. You can do this. Run and jump. But not too fast, or you’ll fall off the top of the wall.
Cat Carletto had been a gymnast in high school, and she could do what was required. That was McKee’s hope anyway as she took three quick steps and made the leap. The sandals hit and held. But her forward momentum threatened to send her headfirst toward the ground below. Arms windmilled in an attempt to forestall disaster, and it worked.
So that’s where McKee was. Teetering on top of the security wall when the patrol car appeared. Did it belong to the police? Or to the rent-a-cops who were paid to provide the community with additional security? McKee wasn’t sure as a wave of dizziness swept over her. She swayed and nearly lost her balance.
Then her worst fears came true as the vehicle slowed and pulled over. But why had he chosen to park thirty feet beyond the point where she was? McKee tried to think as a man got out of the car and took a look around. Then he turned his back on the street. And because McKee was a legionnaire, and had been living with male soldiers for many months, she knew what that meant. The officer was about to take a pee.
A radio squawked as the man zipped his pants and entered the car. Then the light bar on the roof came to life, tires screeched, and the vehicle pulled away. McKee knelt, slipped over the side, and dropped to the ground. Something went wrong, and she fell.
And that’s where she was, lying on a planting strip and staring up into the night sky, when the air car passed over her. And not just any air car but a brightly lit taxi. That’s what I need, she thought dully. A taxi. Then she remembered the comset in her pocket. A part of her mind said she shouldn’t use the device. Not until she knew more about it. But another part was too exhausted to care. And it won out.
McKee fumbled the comset out into the open, thumbed the power button, and gave thanks when the screen lit up. “I need a taxi,” she told it. “Send one to this location.”
A computer took note of the comset’s coordinates and handed the request off to a cab company, which sent an air car to pick her up. By the time it arrived, McKee was on her feet and standing next to the curb. The taxi’s AI didn’t care how its passengers looked so long as they were carrying valid debit cards.
McKee couldn’t really afford a ground cab, never mind an air taxi—but there wasn’t any choice given the way she felt. “Crank up the heat,” she said, as she entered the passenger compartment. “And take me to the nearest hotel that has a vacancy.”
Fortunately for McKee, the cab ride was short, and the nearest hotel was a midlevel establishment frequented by businesspeople, and tourists on a budget. The receptionist was clearly taken aback by the young woman’s disheveled appearance—but was willing to accept McKee’s account of a broken-down ground car, a walk in the rain, and an unfortunate fall.
Once in her room, McKee stripped, entered the bathroom, and took a hot shower. That went a long way toward restoring her physical well-being—and a meal from room service completed the process. It was about 0100 by that time, but McKee couldn’t resist examining the comset.
There was nothing special about the way it looked. Thousands, maybe millions of such devices were purchased every day, usually by low-income people who couldn’t afford a com contract. And when McKee selected CONTACTS, she was thrilled to discover a single listing. It consisted of the name Joe. His number was highlighted. All she had to do was touch it to place a call. But what about the possibility of a government trap? Ophelia’s people could have captured her uncle and forced him to divulge even the most trivial details of family life, including the existence of the wall niche.
You used the phone to call a taxi, McKee reminded herself. So if the government planted the phone, the synths would be breaking the door down right now.
The argument made sense. So McKee took a deep breath and placed her right index finger on the number. The results were anticlimactic to say the least. The device she was calling rang three times before voice mail cut in. “Joe isn’t available right now,” a female voice said pleasantly. “But he’ll return your call as soon as he can.” That was followed by a click.
McKee was disappointed, but she was also tired. So she got into bed, told the lights to turn themselves off, and was asleep minutes later. She was swimming in the family pool, splashing water on her mother, when the comset began to chirp. A quick glance at the clock next to the bed revealed that it was 0323. McKee thumbed the words ACCEPT CALL and held the device to her ear. “Yes?”
There was a moment of silence followed by the sound of a familiar voice. It was filled with emotion. “My God, is it really you?”
McKee began to cry. “Yes,” she said, “it’s me.”
The previously friendly voice was stern. “This is dangerous. Where are you? I need an address.”
It was printed on the message pad next to the hotel’s comset. McKee read the information off.
“Got it,” came the response. “Be on the hotel’s pad at exactly 7:00 A.M. A friend of mine will pick you up.”
“That’s 0700,” McKee said. “Roger that.”
“What do you mean, 0700?” the voice inquired. Then, “Oh, shit. That’s how you did it.” That was followed by a click and dial tone.
McKee used the top sheet to wipe her tears away. Uncle Rex was alive—and knew she was in the Legion. The same organization he had served for twenty years and told her about as a child.
McKee knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep. So she got up, did what she could to make her clothes presentable, and began to flip through the channels on her vid set. That was when she came across a replay of her appearance on the Good Morning LA show. It was a shock to see herself trying to answer nonsensical questions about the Hudathans. Why did they attack Orlo II? Because they wanted to take control of the planet. Why else?
McKee flinched as a close-up appeared, and she saw the ugly scar. Seeing it in the mirror was one thing—but looking at it on television was another. She changed channels, found a documentary about the Forerunner ruins on Jericho, and focused her attention on that.
Finally, after some more documentaries and a light breakfast, it was time to leave. The door clicked behind McKee, and a tube-shaped elevator whisked her up to the roof. Sliding glass doors gave access to a landing pad large enough to accommodate four vehicles. An air taxi departed as McKee stepped outside. As she waited for her ride, McKee felt a sense of anticipation mixed with fear. What if Uncle Rex was dead? What if she’d been talking to an artfully programmed AI?
No, McKee told herself. Why bother? The synths would have taken you into custody last night. And, as if to prove that she was right, an expensive air car swooped in from the south. It landed, a door opened, and a middle-aged woman got out. Rex liked blondes, especially wealthy ones, so McKee was pretty sure that her uncle’s “friend” had arrived.
That impression was confirmed as the woman approached. McKee saw her eyes narrow slightly when she saw the scar, but that was all. “I’m Marcy Evers. And you’re Cat. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
No one was within earshot, but the use of her real name made McKee feel uncomfortable. Not that using her nom de guerre would be any better. That could compromise her safety, too. “Thanks, Marcy. It’s a pleasure to meet you as well.”
“Come on,” Marcy said breezily, “we’re going to LA.”
That was good since time was passing, and McKee had to return there. But it raised a question as well. “So that’s where my uncle is?”
“At the moment,” Marcy said vaguely. “He travels a lot. We all do.”
They were inside the luxurious air car by that time and buckling their harnesses. “So Ophelia is after you as well?” McKee inquired.
“Yes,” Marcy answered simply. “I was there the night the synths attacked the Carletto family compound. The presence of my air car was enough to put me on Ophelia’s hit list.”
McKee looked at her. “You were there? What happened?”
There was a moment of silence as the local air-traffic-control computer took over—allowing Marcy to release the controls. The car was part of a steady stream of southbound traffic. Their eyes met. “Your uncle and I met at the Casino Pacifica on Orcas Island,” Marcy said. “I peppered him with questions about the family and you in particular because I’d heard so much gossip. It soon became clear that he’s very fond of you.”
“The feeling is mutual,” McKee said.
Marcy’s expression darkened. Her eyes flicked to the windscreen and back again. “Rex invited me to visit the family compound,” she said unapologetically. “His intentions were anything but honorable—or so I assumed. As I indicated earlier, we flew to Bellevue in my air car. The synths attacked a few minutes after we put down. There was lots of shooting and some explosions.
“Rex and I dived into the pool. He pulled me into the grotto behind the waterfall. We were forced to hide there for more than a day before we could get out. I’m sorry, Cat. I’m very sorry.”
McKee looked away and bit her lip. There was nothing worth saying, so she didn’t. They made small talk for a while, then McKee fell asleep, and when she awoke, they were entering LA. She looked at Marcy as the car turned and banked into an urban canyon. A string of computer-controlled air trucks blipped past. “I’m not very good company. Sorry.”
The other woman smiled. “Not to worry—you were tired. Now hang on to your panties. I’m going to cut us loose from air traffic control.”
“You can do that?”
“Yup. See the black box attached to the dashboard? That’s the key. We have to be ready to disconnect from the system if the government starts to close in.”
McKee took note of the word “we.” It seemed to imply an organization of some sort. She was about to follow up on that when Marcy took hold of the steering yoke and sent the car plunging toward the duracrete street hundreds of feet below. “Don’t worry,” Marcy said confidently. “I’m pretty good at this.”
And she was good. In spite of the fact that Marcy looked like a wealthy society matron, she was a hot pilot. McKee felt her stomach flip-flop as the car leveled out fifty feet above the street—and began to weave in and out of the slow-moving grav barges. The huge vehicles were loaded with supplies for the city’s restaurants, products for its stores, and tons of garbage. Most of which would wind up in the badlands of Utah.
“This is a good way to make sure we don’t have a tail,” Marcy said. “If we did, it would stick out like a sore thumb.”
McKee was thinking about that when Marcy flipped the car onto its right side so as to slip between two hovering grav barges. Marcy eyed a screen. “It looks like we’re clear . . . Hang on!”
McKee could do little else as the car dived into a tunnel marked TRANSIT ONLY. Illuminated markers blipped past as the passageway took a turn to the right. McKee saw red lights ahead, knew they were going to rear-end a bus, and tried to brace herself.
The collision never occurred as the car veered onto a downward-slanting ramp labeled CLOSED. NO ADMITTANCE. That was when McKee realized Marcy was taking her down into the Deeps, the very place she had cautioned Larkin not to visit.
McKee caught glimpses of graffiti, hovels tucked into unlikely places, and groups of people gathered around trash fires. A series of tight right-hand turns had taken them down through at least three levels of habitation before a scarecrowlike figure leaped out of the darkness to block the way. Marcy accelerated as if to run the man down. “If you stop, they swarm the car,” she said grimly. “But they’re part of our defenses. It would take an army of synths to invade the Deeps.” At the very last second, the scarecrow jumped out of the way.
And what’s to keep Ophelia from manufacturing an army of synths, McKee wondered, as the car left the ramp and entered a straightaway. There was no need for streetlights thanks to a multiplicity of brightly flowing, blinking, and in some cases roving signs. Most were associated with bars, casinos, and strip clubs. But a few spoke to other needs, like the blue neon sign that read GOSPEL MISSION.
Marcy pulled in directly in front of the plain, two-story structure. “This is where we get out,” she announced. “Be sure to take your knapsack with you.”
Marcy left the engine running as she got out and circled around to the sidewalk. As McKee exited via the passenger-side door, what looked like an underfed sixteen-year-old boy slid behind the controls. McKee was barely clear when the gullwing-style door closed, and the car pulled away. “It’s stolen,” Marcy explained. “Ricky’s job is to wipe the car clean, unhook the black box, and dump it.”
McKee was still in the process of absorbing that as Marcy led her past two burly men into the dimly lit mission. There were bench-style seats on both sides of the main aisle. A woman was sleeping on one of them, a man sat hunched over with his forehead resting on the row in front of him, and the rest were empty. A figure-eight-shaped symbol was centered on the wall behind the speaker’s platform. It glowed as if lit from within.
“Follow me,” Marcy said as she took a right in front of the stage. From there it was a short walk to a door marked OFFICE, where they paused. “Go on in,” Marcy said. “I’ll wait here.”
McKee opened the door and stepped into a small, sparsely furnished room. Rex Carletto was talking on a comset. He said something to the person on the other end of the line, clicked the device closed, and stood. Even though less than twelve months had passed since the last time McKee had seen him, he looked years older. But his face was alight with pleasure, and his arms were opened wide. “Cat!” he said. “Thank God you’re alive.”
As Rex wrapped McKee in a bear hug, it was like being a little girl again. She could smell the same cologne, feel the same strength, and sense the way he felt about her. Her uncle had always been there when she needed him—and the sobs came from somewhere deep inside.
Rex continued to hold her as he spoke into an ear. “I’m sorry, Cat . . . They were good people. Wonderful people. But they’re gone now, and it’s up to us to carry on. And you have. Sergeant Toshy was able to contact you?”
McKee wiped at her eyes with a sleeve. “I was at a party. He delivered the chip. and I played it. The synths attacked a few minutes later.”
“But you escaped,” Rex said, “and joined the Legion. That was smart. Damned smart. How did you wind up here? Did you desert?”
McKee smiled weakly. “No, I was sent here to receive a medal. From the governor.”
Her uncle’s eyebrows shot upwards. “A medal? Sit down. I want to hear the entire story.”
So McKee sat on a wooden chair and began to talk. It took the better part of an hour to tell Rex about how she had acquired the scar, basic training on Drang, and the war on Orlo II. That part of the narrative was followed by a brief description of the fight on the Imperialus, her appearances on various vid shows, and the trip home. “So,” she concluded, “I removed the stone, and there it was. Leaving the comset in the grotto was a long shot, wasn’t it?”
Rex grinned. “Yes, and no. If you survived, I figured you’d visit Earth eventually. So I left comsets and messages all over the place. There’s one in the tree house behind the summer cabin.”
“Well, it worked,” McKee said. “Here I am.”
“Yes,” Rex said thoughtfully. “Here you are. So, tell me something, hon . . . What’s next? Have you given that any thought?”
“I have,” McKee answered. “I want to bring Ophelia down. More than that, I mean to kill her.”
A slow smile appeared on Rex’s face. “You sound like a noncom.”
“They call me the Steel Bitch.”
Rex laughed. “Well, I lead a group called the Freedom Front, and it’s dedicated to taking Ophelia out. So we have a common goal.”
McKee remembered the graffiti she’d seen. It seemed there was a resistance movement, and her uncle was part of it. “That’s wonderful,” she said cautiously. “But dangerous.”
Rex shrugged. “No more so than what you’ve been up to. I have an idea, Cat . . . A way to hit back. It came to me as you were describing the medal ceremony. Maybe I shouldn’t tell you about it. Because if I do, and you agree, I could be sending you to your death. But it’s a good idea, Cat . . . The kind of opportunity that could hit the bastards hard.”
McKee felt a chasm open up at the pit of her stomach. But she’d felt that before and forced herself to act in spite of it. “Okay,” she said evenly. “What do you have in mind?”
“The governor,” Rex said. “He’s going to be there, right?”
“He’s going to present our medals.”
“And that,” Rex said, “would be the perfect time to kill him.”
• • •
McKee was sitting on the bed painting her toenails when they came for her. It started with someone’s pounding on the door. “Imperial agents! Open up!”
McKee felt her heart sink as she put the vial of polish aside and looked around. The door was blocked, and when she turned to the window, she saw that a security drone was hovering outside. A targeting laser hit her chest and wobbled there. Somehow, some way, the plot to assassinate Governor Mason had been compromised. Did they have Uncle Rex? And Marcy? Probably. And now it was her turn.
It looks bad, McKee’s inner voice admitted. But you’re a legionnaire. Tough it out. So McKee yelled, “Hold on, let me get some clothes on.”
The laser continued to track her until McKee said, “Window closed,” and the pane turned opaque. She half expected the drone to fire, but it didn’t.
Having belted one of the hotel’s robes around her waist, McKee made her way over to the door. A quick look at the small monitor located next to the entryway revealed that Lieutenant Wilkins, a second human, and a smooth-faced android were waiting outside. She unlocked the door and allowed it to open. “Yes? What’s going on?”
“Sorry, Sergeant,” Wilkins said. “But Agent Cerka insisted that we arrive unannounced.”
There was no mistaking the officer’s disapproval. But if that was of concern to the man in question, there was no sign of it on his long, narrow face. Cerka had a shock of brown hair, a high forehead, and prissy lips. He was dressed in a black business suit that was identical to the one the android wore. “May we come in?”
There was nothing McKee could say other than, “Yes, sir.” It was a small room and seemed even more so once all three of her visitors were inside. Cerka had glacier blue eyes, and they remained focused on McKee as the robot began to explore the room. She knew it was recording everything it saw, and employing other senses as well, something that became obvious as the machine sniffed one of her T-shirts. “We’re here to ask questions related to the death of Ross Royer,” Cerka said formally.
McKee felt a sense of relief mixed with concern. They didn’t know about the plan to kill Mason. That was good. But the Royer thing could be just as dangerous. What, if anything, did they have? “I told the people on the Imperialus everything I knew,” McKee said. “And that wasn’t much.”
Cerka’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll be the judge of that. Further examination of citizen Royer’s personal computer revealed a diary. And in that diary he makes mention of a female.”
At that point, Cerka turned to his assistant. “Play it.”
The nearly faceless android pointed his right index finger at the center of the room. Motes of light appeared, swirled like snow, and coalesced into a close-up of Royer. “I saw the bitch this morning,” he said. “She looks different now—but there was no mistaking that cute ass. She used to tease me with it every day. But not anymore. She’s mine now . . . And I plan to ride her hard.”
The holo exploded, and the motes of light faded into nothingness. McKee felt a sense of relief. There had been no mention of her real name or the scar. “So,” Cerka said, “who was citizen Royer referring to? You?”
“No, sir,” McKee said, as she slipped into her military persona. “Mr. Royer approached me in a restaurant called the Starlight Room and asked me for a date. I said ‘no.’ That was the full extent of our relationship.”
There was a pause, and Wilkins took the opportunity to assert himself. “At this point, I would like to remind you that Sergeant McKee is a war hero—presently slated to receive the Imperial Order of Merit from Governor Mason on Wednesday.”
Maybe it was the mention of McKee’s war record, the way she looked, or the connection with one of the empire’s most powerful politicians. But whatever it was worked. Cerka offered an abbreviated bow. “Thank you, Sergeant. My apologies for the intrusion—and thank you for your service to the empire.”
“Don’t forget the rehearsal,” Wilkins said, as the android followed Cerka out of the room. And then he was gone as well.
McKee waited for the telltale click as the door closed before allowing herself to exhale. Royer had taken a shot at her from the grave and missed. It felt good to be alive.
McKee spent the rest of the day shopping for the kinds of things she had been unable to purchase while serving on Orlo II and was likely to want on Algeron. High-quality skin creams topped the list, the kind Cat Carletto preferred, along with some top-of-the-line sports bras. She did some online shopping as well, knowing that once she arrived on Algeron, it would be impossible to buy music and books for her hand comp. And given all the expenses incurred while traveling to Seattle, that left her broke.
Of course, shopping for the posting on Algeron amounted to an act of faith. Who was to say whether she would get the chance to use any of her purchases? It seemed unlikely, given her decision to help assassinate a planetary governor. But the opportunity to exact some sort of revenge for the murder of her parents was too good to pass up.
Dinner was a lonely affair that took place in her room, so she could charge it to the Legion and avoid sitting in the hotel restaurant all by herself. That was followed by a succession of mindless vid shows and a night spent tossing and turning. So when the alarm went off, it came as a relief.
McKee rolled out of bed, showered, and put on a smartly pressed Class B uniform. Then, curious to see if Larkin had survived, she went to his room. The first knock went unanswered, so she tried again. Then the door opened to reveal a young woman with frowsy green hair, too much makeup, and an attitude. “What the hell do you want?” she demanded.
McKee could hear techno music in the background. “Tell Corporal Larkin that Sergeant McKee is here.”
The girl looked McKee up and down as if evaluating a rival. “And if I don’t?”
McKee’s right hand shot out and grabbed a handful of robe. Then she jerked the girl in so close that their noses were nearly touching. “If you don’t, I will rip your arm off and beat you to death with it.”
The girl staggered as McKee pushed her away. Once she caught her balance, she turned and disappeared. Larkin appeared moments later, and much to McKee’s surprise, he looked sharp. “Hey, McKee . . . You scared the hell out of Monica. Good work! I told her to be out of the room by the time we get back.”
“Don’t leave anything valuable behind.”
Larkin made a face. “I don’t have anything valuable. Come on, let’s grab some breakfast. We’ll charge it to our rooms.”
Breakfast was spent eating and listening to what McKee felt sure was a somewhat embellished version of Larkin’s adventures. To hear him tell it, he had won a lot of money in a casino, been mugged, and lost his winnings.
But then, in his darkest hour, a gangster named Neon Jack recognized Larkin as one of the legionnaires who had been on the news and were about to receive medals. So because Neon Jack saw himself as something of a patriot, Larkin had been lavished with all manner of gifts, including Monica. “Too bad you weren’t there,” Larkin finished. “I’ll bet Jack has some boy toys he could loan out.”
“Yeah, too bad,” McKee said, as she finished her caf. “Are you done? If so, we’d better head up to the roof. We wouldn’t want Wilkins to get his panties in a knot.”
Larkin took another bit of food, washed it down with half a glass of orange juice, and belched loudly. “Roger that . . . Let’s go.”
They arrived in the Sky Lobby with only seconds to spare and dashed out onto the roof as the fly-form put down. “Right on time,” Wilkins said, as he welcomed them aboard. “I like that. Strap in. We’ll be there in ten minutes.”
There was a lot of traffic, but the cyborg knew his way around, and they arrived two minutes early. “Circle the coliseum,” Wilkins instructed. “I want McKee and Larkin to see what it looks like.”
McKee knew what it looked like, she had attended any number of events there, but couldn’t say that and didn’t. Larkin was impressed, however, and peppered the officer with questions as the fly-form’s shadow flitted across the ground. The complex was oval in shape, with tiers of seats all around, and topped by graceful arcades, each flanked by fluted columns. There were a thousand in all, that being the number of years that Ophelia claimed her empire would last.
The coliseum could seat one hundred thousand people, but according to Wilkins, the ceremony would be attended by about half that number. Most of whom would be government employees. “The medal ceremony is only a small element of what’s going to take place,” the officer explained. “There will be speeches as well, plus entertainment sponsored by the monarchist party, and a flyover by the navy.”
The whole affair sounded very boring. But, thanks to the Freedom Front, McKee knew there would be some unexpected excitement. And she couldn’t help but smile as the fly-form put down on the field. Security was extremely tight, just as it would be the next day, but McKee knew it wouldn’t make any difference. Not given what Uncle Rex had planned.
A lot of time was spent just standing around. And given all of the other hoopla, the moment when the legionnaires were shepherded up onto the stage at the center of the arena was somewhat anticlimatic. A minor official had been given the task of standing in for Governor Mason and pretended to place ribbons around their necks while someone else read the flowery citations Wilkins had prepared.
As McKee looked up into the nearly empty seats, she saw that hundreds of security people were hard at work checking the coliseum for hidden bombs. It isn’t going to work, McKee thought to herself. You’re wasting your time.
Then it was over, and they were free to leave. As the fly-form took off, and McKee looked down at the dwindling structure below, she couldn’t help but wonder. Was that the place where she would die?
• • •
Wednesday dawned bright and clear. McKee had slept very little but felt strangely energized, as if adrenaline was already entering her bloodstream. Her senses seemed especially acute, and everything she did was exactly right. She was in and out of the shower in a matter of minutes. The Class A uniform seemed to button itself. And, when McKee examined herself in the mirror, even she approved of the image there. The woman with the scar looked like a war hero.
The final step was to tape the so-called tag to the palm of her left hand. It was a quarter of an inch across, a sixteenth of an inch thick, and packed with microcircuitry. Once activated, the disk would function as a “bullet magnet,” meaning an electronically active target that a tiny missile could home in on. McKee’s job was to activate the device just prior to the ceremony and place it on Governor Mason’s body. Uncle Rex and his resistance fighters would handle the rest.
With the tag in place, she took one last look around, stepped out into the hall, and made her way toward the elevator. Her stomach felt queasy, just as she had known it would, and that’s why Larkin was breakfasting alone.
Having arrived on the roof early, McKee had to wait for both Larkin and the fly-form. They arrived within seconds of each other. The flight to the coliseum had a surreal quality. Wilkins was talking on his comset, Larkin was picking his teeth, and she was feeling slightly disassociated from her body.
The fly-form circled the coliseum prior to coming in for a landing, and McKee saw that thousands of people were already in their seats. Brightly colored flags flew from poles spaced all around the arena, sunlight glinted off the news drones sent to cover the ceremony, and the two-story stage that dominated the center of the field was complete. The sides were walled in with enormous vid screens which, in spite of the daylight, were bright enough to see.
And somewhere, on a roof up to a mile away, a very specialized rifle was being prepared. The technology was so new that the governor’s security people couldn’t defend against it. Not so long as both the tag and missile worked the way they were supposed to. And if they didn’t? That didn’t bear thinking about.
As the fly-form put down, and the legionnaires got out, a civilian took charge of them. Her name was Keera, and they had met her during the rehearsal. She had high cheekbones, intense eyes, and was wearing a sleek headset over prematurely white hair. “The program will start in thirteen minutes,” Keera informed them. “Break a leg.”
The disk felt huge in the palm of her hand as they passed through a scanner. McKee waited for an alarm, for someone to stop her, but no one did. She felt light-headed, wished she could run, and knew she couldn’t.
The long, seemingly endless minutes dragged by. Then, when it seemed as if the waiting would never end, Keera told them to go. As they walked across the field to the stage, the Master of Ceremonies introduced the legionnaires to the crowd. McKee heard a roar of approval as thousands came to their feet, news drones jockeyed for position, and bright sunlight stabbed her eyes.
The applause continued to build as they climbed a flight of stairs concealed by one of the vid screens and arrived on top of the speaker’s platform. Governor Mason was already there and holding his arms high as if the crowd was cheering for him. And with a little bit of editing, that’s the way it would appear on the evening news. He was a big man with hair that was slicked back, a tiny, almost feminine nose, and a messianic beard. Here was the man who, according to Uncle Rex, was responsible for carrying out the massacre of thousands, including McKee’s parents.
Soon, McKee told herself. You will be dead soon. And I’m going to make it happen.
Suddenly, a sense of calm settled over McKee. Her life was of no import. Killing Mason was all that mattered.
The applause died down, and the MC spoke once more. “As you know, Governor Mason is with us today—and was slated to present medals to both of these brave legionnaires. But it is my pleasure to announce that Governor Mason has agreed to relinquish that honor to a surprise guest! Ladies and gentlemen, it is my honor to introduce Her Imperial Majesty Empress Ophelia. Please rise.”
McKee was stunned as lights began to flash, people were forced to move as doors opened at the center of the stage, and Empress Ophelia appeared. A little boy was holding her hand, and he was dressed in a uniform identical to McKee’s, except that his was that of an officer.
What should she do? Tag Mason as planned? Or assassinate the empress? Ophelia raised a hand, and thousands of monarchists cheered. Someone was going to live—and someone was going to die. The choice was up to Andromeda McKee.