Andromeda’s Choice

by William C. Dietz

  Her fingers danced across the interface, and a text document appeared. It was titled: “MASON ASSASSINATION FORENSIC REPORT,” and Hanno was looking at page 36. He hadn’t seen it before. “Where did you get this?”

  “From the DIS,” Yang answered.

  Lady Forbes and her people were notoriously uncooperative when it came to sharing information with other departments, so Hanno was surprised. “You asked for it, and they gave it to you?”

  “No, I took it,” Yang replied. Meaning she had been able to hack into one of the DIS computers.

  Hanno smiled grimly. “Well done. So let’s cut to the chase. What’s so special about page 36?”

  “Thousands of pieces of biological and material evidence were recovered from the scene,” Yang said. “Many of which were microscopic in size. Most of it was what you would expect—but there were some interesting findings as well. Most of the projectile was destroyed when it exploded. But based on tiny fragments, the DIS people believe it was a small guided missile rather than a .50-caliber sniper round. Furthermore, they theorize that Mason was wearing an electronic tag that attracted the projectile.”

  There was a moment of silence while Hanno took that in. “So you’re saying that when McKee seemed to be pushing Mason out of the way, she was tagging him.”

  “Yes.”

  “But why? Let’s suppose you’re correct, and McKee is part of a conspiracy. Why target Mason and leave the empress untouched?”

  Yang shrugged. “I don’t know, Your Grace.”

  “Maybe someone placed the tag on Mason before he arrived at the coliseum,” Hanno theorized.

  “That’s what the DIS people believe,” Yang conceded. “They’re putting everyone who came anywhere near him through a hot wash.”

  “But you don’t think so.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Okay, what do we know about McKee? Maybe there’s something in her background that would make her hostile to the governor.”

  “We know next to nothing,” Yang replied. “The Legion is a refuge for misfits and criminals. That’s part of its appeal and the reason why they refuse to share personnel files with the government.”

  Hanno was well aware of the Legion’s motto: Legio Patria Nostra. The Legion Is Our Country. Meaning that it was loyal to itself first.

  By all rights, the organization should have been disbanded centuries earlier. But government after government had chosen to use and support it. Because thanks to its makeup, the Legion could be sent off to fight unpopular wars—and nobody cared how many casualties the organization suffered. It was a marriage of convenience and one Ophelia had taken full advantage of. So McKee’s records were not only sealed but likely to remain that way. He looked at Yang. “Did you try to hack their computers?”

  The analyst shook her head. “They keep all of their records on Algeron, and since they control the planet, there’s no way to access them.”

  “Okay,” Hanno said, as he got up to leave. “It’s something to consider. And, if true, the sort of thing that Forbes and her people are likely to overlook. I’ll give the matter some additional thought.” And with that, he left.

  Yang looked up at the screens, threw a gesture into the interface, and watched all of the McKees fade to black.

  • • •

  Sykes heard a commotion as the MPs entered the cellblock, but didn’t realize that they were coming for him until they arrived in front of his new cell. It was in Celllock 6, which the inmates referred to as “Hell’s Waiting Room.” A sergeant was in charge. “Assume the position, Sykes. We haven’t got all day.”

  Sykes had been playing solitaire. He put the cards on a fold-down table. “What’s up?”

  “Your old man is here to see you,” the noncom replied. “I’ll bet he’s real proud. Now, like I said, assume the position.”

  Sykes hadn’t seen his father in more than ten years. The worthless, no-good piece of shit. And he considered saying, “No.” He didn’t have to accept visitors if he didn’t want to. But the days spent in Hell’s Waiting Room were long and boring, and the chance to get out of his cell for a while was too good to pass up. So Sykes assumed the position, waited for the goons to put the chains in place, and remembered the first death sentence. His father hadn’t bothered to show up for that trial. Perhaps this was an effort to make up for it.

  The mood in Cellblock 6 was more subdued than the old one’s had been. There was very little commentary as the MPs marched Sykes up to the steel door and from there to the elevator. The lift took him up three levels to the visitation center. It was divided in half, with prisoners on one side and their visitors on the other. Sykes was escorted into a three-sided booth and chained to eyebolts in the cement floor. A pane of scratched Plexiglas separated him from the man seated on the other side. Sykes took one look at him, and said, “You aren’t my father.”

  “Thank God for that,” the visitor replied. “My name is Maximillian Rork. You can call me Max.”

  “Okay, Max. Why are you here?”

  “To offer you what you want most . . . Your freedom and a chance to survive.”

  Sykes looked around. There were lots of surveillance cameras and no effort had been made to hide them. “I don’t know what you have in mind—but I assume you’re aware that everything we say is being recorded.”

  Max appeared to be in his fifties, had military short hair and a prominent brow. His eyes peered out from caves—and his mouth was little more than a horizontal slit. “Yes, I’m aware of that. And, once our conversation is over, the recordings will be erased.”

  “You can do that?”

  “The people I work for can do that.”

  “And they are?”

  “There’s no need for you to know that.”

  “Okay, you have my undivided attention. What’s your pitch?”

  “You’re aware of the Mason assassination?”

  “Sure. Everyone is.”

  “Then you may have heard of Legion Sergeant Andromeda McKee. She was supposed to receive a medal that day—and threw herself on the empress in an attempt to protect her.”

  “So?”

  “So the people I work for would like to know more about the sergeant. What’s her background? Is she what she seems to be? Or was she part of the assassination plot? If you accept my offer, it will be your task to find out.”

  “And if I fail?”

  “That could be fatal.”

  Sykes was silent for a moment. It wasn’t much of a deal—but it was all he had. “You claim you can free me. How?” he demanded.

  “Your case is under appeal. If you agree to serve the empire in the manner I described, JMS 5.7 will discover significant irregularities related to your trial and vacate the verdict. At that point, you will be remanded to the Legion.”

  Sykes felt the first stirrings of hope. Maybe, just maybe, he was going to survive. “You’ve got a deal, Max. Count me in.” Private Roy Sykes was reporting for duty.

  CHAPTER: 7

  The sergeant is the army.

  GENERAL DWIGHT D. EISENHOWER

  Standard year circa 1940

  THE TROOPSHIP VICTORIA

  The CS (Combat Supply) vessel Victoria was a mile and a half long, could carry 3 million tons of cargo, a crew of one thousand men, women, and robots, and up to fifteen hundred passengers, all of whom were crammed into tight, twelve-person bays. Andromeda McKee was one of them and glad to be aboard.

  The better part of two weeks had passed since the medal ceremony in the Imperial City. McKee and Larkin had spent most of that time working their way through the military transfer facility located about a hundred miles south of LA’s core. It was a hectic place through which thousands of navy, Marine Corps, and Legion personnel passed each day. There were inoculations to get, orientation classes to attend, and, depending on a person’s destination, planet-sp
ecific uniforms to draw and sign for. That meant winter uniforms and accessories for McKee and Larkin since they were headed for Algeron.

  Finally, after days of being ordered to hurry up so they could spend hours waiting in long lines, they had been sent up to the Victoria, bound for Algeron and Adobe. The navy, which was expected to provide the Legion with transportation, was stretched thin in the best of times. But now with all of its regular duties to attend to, as well as the need to try to prevent the Hudathans from entering human-controlled space, the swabbies were under even more pressure. So much so that old vessels like the Victoria were being taken out of mothballs, refitted, and pressed into service. The crew called her “the hulk” and, judging from the fact that they chose to wear their skintight counterpressure space suits even when off duty, had very little faith in the hundred-year-old ship.

  “The bastards couldn’t care less about us,” Larkin complained. “You watch . . . If something goes wrong, the mop swingers will jump in the lifeboats and leave us behind.” And McKee feared that he was right. But such things were beyond her control, so she did her best to ignore them by staying busy. And, as was generally the case, the Legion gave her plenty of things to do.

  Most of the troops were replacements and thus not part of a unit. So rather than leave them unsupervised, the colonel who was temporarily in charge of the mob created a battalion comprised of transit companies. Each company consisted of ten twelve-person compartments under the command of an officer. And, in order to maintain discipline, a noncom was assigned to each compartment. That included McKee, who wound up reporting to Lieutenant Marsha Hannon, a snooty sort who assigned her to Troop Bay 018.

  Besides enforcing all of the Legion’s multitudinous regulations, it was McKee’s responsibility to prepare the legionnaires for a perfunctory inspection at 0830, make sure that they attended mandatory orientation classes, and to deal with routine administrative issues. The first was a summons to the ship’s sick bay early on the “morning” of the third day out. It was from a medic named Okada informing her that Private Fry had been injured and wasn’t fit for duty.

  Once the morning inspection was over, McKee left for the sick bay. The main corridor was crowded with people. McKee saw all manner of officers, ratings representing dozens of specialties, a handful of civilian contractors, and a lot of legionnaires, most of whom were on their way to breakfast. The scenery consisted of signs that alerted her to fire extinguishers, restrooms, or “heads” as the sailors referred to them, and escape pods. Eventually, she saw one that said SICK BAY, and took a right-hand turn. The corridor led her past a line of hovering grav gurneys and to a pair of doors that hurried to get out of her way.

  An android was seated behind the desk that barred the way. When McKee asked for Private Fry, the robot sent her down a hall to Ward 2. That was where a navy medic intercepted her. “Good morning. Can I help you?”

  “Yeah, I’m looking for Private Fry.”

  “You must be Sergeant McKee. I’m Okada. I sent the note.”

  “Thanks, Doc, how’s he doing?”

  “Fairly well for someone who was severely beaten.”

  McKee frowned. “Beaten?”

  “Yes, that’s why I wanted to talk to you.”

  “Who did it?”

  “Fry won’t say. You know how it is . . . Enlisted people don’t rat on each other.”

  McKee knew that was true. Legionnaires took care of minor disagreements themselves. And if that involved a fistfight, then so be it. But the process left a lot to chance, and it was important for noncoms to know what was going on and intervene when appropriate. “Thanks for the scan, Doc. I’ll have a word with Fry and take it from there.”

  Okada was dressed in a white tunic and matching trousers. He had black hair, a round face, and serious eyes. “Follow me.”

  Fry was in bed seven and it didn’t take a degree in medicine to see that he’d been on the losing end of a fistfight. His face was swollen, there were blue-black circles under his eyes, and his right arm was in a cast. He was normally a cheerful kid, the kind who joined the Legion looking for adventure, and was generally liked. So who would want to beat the crap out of him? McKee was determined to find out. “Hey, Fry . . . How’s it going?”

  Fry tried to smile and winced instead. “Not too well, Sarge. But I’ll be better soon.”

  McKee figured Fry would be out of action for a week and on limited duty after that. “Glad to hear it. So what happened?”

  Fry’s face went blank. “I fell in the shower.”

  McKee frowned. “I fell in the shower” was enlisted code for “I was in a fight.” “Roger that, Private. And if all you had was a black eye, I’d leave it at that. But this is some serious shit. So I’m going to ask again . . . And I expect a straight answer. What happened?”

  Fry’s eyes were focused on the overhead. “I fell in the shower, Sarge. It’s as simple as that.”

  McKee looked at Okada, and he made a face. “Okay,” McKee said, as her eyes came back down. “Get better. And that’s an order.”

  Fry nodded. “I’m on it, Sarge.”

  Okada walked McKee to the door. “So, that’s it?” he demanded. “The investigation is over?”

  McKee came to a stop and turned to face him. “Hell no, it isn’t over. Do me a favor.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Keep a list of the people who come to see Fry.”

  Okada was clearly curious but nodded. “Got it.”

  After leaving the sick bay, McKee made her way back to Compartment 018. Perhaps some other noncom would already know about the fight. But, for better or worse, McKee wasn’t the kind of leader who spent a lot of time socializing with subordinates. Partly because she had a secret to hide but mostly because it was hard to go drinking with someone at night, and order them to clean a toilet the next morning. So she went looking for Larkin, who, predictably enough, was taking a nap. She slid the privacy curtain out of the way and shook his shoulder. “Larkin.”

  The legionnaire stirred, said, “Wha?” and held up a hand to shield his eyes from the overhead light. Then, seeing who it was, he groaned. “Give me a break, McKee . . . Order someone else to mop the deck.”

  “Come on,” McKee said. “It’s lunchtime.”

  Larkin yawned. “I am a bit hungry . . . Okay, let me take a whiz, and I’ll be ready to go.”

  McKee wrinkled her nose. “Thanks for sharing.”

  Fifteen minutes later, they were on the mess deck, sitting at a metal table, eating lunch. “So,” Larkin said through a mouthful of food. “What’s up? You never eat lunch with me.”

  “That’s because you’re disgusting,” McKee said, as she poked her salad. “But you are useful from time to time, and this could be one of them.”

  Larkin chased the food with a gulp of milk and finished with a grin. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me in a long time. Wait a minute . . . That might be the only nice thing you’ve said to me. What do you want?”

  “Somebody beat the crap out of Private Fry. Who did it?”

  Larkin’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t know?”

  McKee sighed. “That’s why I’m asking you.”

  Larkin shrugged. “Sorry, I thought everyone knew about the bucket fights.”

  “The what?”

  “Bucket fights. They’re held in Hold 23. A sergeant named Gavin sponsors them—along with a chief petty officer named Mendez. They set up a fight between a legionnaire and a sailor and charge an admission fee that goes in a bucket. Once the fight gets under way, the betting begins. Typically, legionnaires bet on legionnaires and sailors bet on sailors. I lost ten credits on Fry. They put him up against a clerk who looked like a wimp but turned out to be a kickboxing champ. You can guess who Gavin and Mendez put their money on.”

  “So what’s in it for the combatants?”

  Larkin shrugged. “
Bragging rights for one thing. And they get a share of the gate.”

  “So that’s it? Fry fought a kickboxer to make a few credits?”

  “Maybe,” Larkin replied. “But Gavin has a reputation as a bully. There’s no telling what he said to Fry. And the kid is green as grass.”

  “I see,” McKee said. “When’s the next fight?”

  “Tonight.”

  “Take me with you.”

  Larkin looked surprised. “I thought you didn’t like that kind of stuff.”

  The expression on McKee’s face was cold. “I don’t.”

  • • •

  Outside of the morning inspection, and two or three hours of classes per day, the legionnaires were free to do as they pleased. And that included the “evening” hours. So as McKee and Larkin left the compartment, there were plenty of people out and about. Many were headed for the ship’s auditorium and whatever movie was playing. Others were planning to exercise, play card games on the mess deck, or simply walk the corridors.

  But a steady trickle of people, McKee and Larkin included, boarded lifts that took them down to Deck 3. From there it was a short walk to Hold 23, where they had to drop five credits into a bucket before being allowed to enter. That particular hold was loaded with “empty” war forms, meaning T-1s and quads that would be issued to cyborgs on Algeron but were currently inert.

  The ring was positioned between two of the looming quads and lit with what were supposed to be emergency lights. It consisted of a fifteen-foot-by-twenty-five-foot raised platform surrounded by posts and ropes. There was a sense of excitement in the air because two heavyweights were slated to go head-to-head that night. A corporal named Colby—and a petty officer named Zazzo. Or the “Zaz,” as his buddies called him. Both men were ringside and warming up.

  McKee scanned the faces around her. “Where’s Gavin?”

  “That’s him over there,” Larkin said as he pointed with his chin. “Mendez is right next to him.”

  McKee eyed Gavin from afar. He had a bullet-shaped head, a pug nose, and a heavy jaw. Though not much taller than she, Gavin had broad shoulders, a barrel-shaped chest, and arms so thick the fabric of his short-sleeved shirt was stretched tight around them. Mendez was small and sleek. He had white sidewalls, with hair that was slicked back on top and a pencil-thin mustache.