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?”
“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, sti
ll 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.
Andromeda’s Choice Page 5