Andromeda's Fall (Legion of the Damned) (5 page)

Having made it past the synth, Cat returned the toddler to his mother, who insisted on giving Cat a clean diaper to press against the laceration. Which was a good thing because Cat could tell that the cut was deep enough to require stitches.

First, she needed to put some distance between herself and the hotel, which she hurried to accomplish by setting a brisk pace and taking random turns. And that was fine. But she couldn’t walk down the street holding a bloodied bandage to her face without attracting attention.

And now that the adrenaline had worn off, the wound hurt like hell. Cat was starting to feel light-headed when a kindly-looking woman took hold of her elbow. “Come with me, honey,” she insisted. “The free clinic is half a block away. They will take care of you.”

Cat needed help and knew it. So she allowed the woman to steer her into a mazelike shopping arcade, and from there into a storefront with a sign that read
FREE CLINIC
hanging in the window. The door was propped open, and they walked inside. “There,” the woman said as she helped Cat to a chair. “I’ll let them know you’re here.”

* * *

Half a dozen people were seated in the shabby waiting room. But Cat was the only one who was bleeding. So it was just a matter of thirty seconds or so before a nurse and orderly arrived to escort Cat through a pair of swinging doors into a plain but well-organized treatment room. The air smelled of disinfectant. A slender woman in OR scrubs appeared moments later. She had short, bowl-cut gray hair, bright green eyes, and high cheekbones. “Hello . . . I’m Dr. McKee. What happened?”

Cat couldn’t tell the truth, so she lied. “I tripped and fell down.”

McKee gave a snort of derision as she took the bloodstained bandage and dropped it into a roll-around bucket. “Too bad you fell on a knife. We see two or three of these every day. Looks like you have a bleeder there. We’ll cauterize it and stitch you up.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” the doctor replied, as the nurse helped Cat up onto a table. “But there’s something you need to know. There’s going to be a scar. And a prominent one at that. But you’re a pretty thing, so I’ll use lots of tiny stitches. Later on, you can have the scar removed. A good biosculptor should be able to minimize the damage to the point where light makeup will cover it over.”

Cat’s head was spinning as the nurse started to swab her face with some sort of cold disinfectant. Her wealth had been snatched away the day before. Then it was her hair. And now she was disfigured as well. Cat remembered the nasty things she’d said about less attractive girls and wondered if she was being punished.

There was a series of pinpricks as Dr. McKee injected small quantities of a local anesthetic into the area around the wound, followed by the occasional buzz of a cautery, and the distinctive odor of singed tissue. Then came a long series of push-pull-tugs as the stitches went in. Cat counted thirty-six altogether.

“You can expect some bruising and swelling,” McKee said, once all of the sutures were in place. “The stitches are self-absorbing and will disappear within the next week or so. But if you have any problems, come see me right away. And stay away from the person with the knife. Promise?”

Cat remembered the way Jat’s skull had collapsed and knew he was dead. “I promise.”

Once the dressing was in place, Cat was released into the waiting room, where she gave the clerk a fictional name, address, and com number plus a twenty-five-credit donation from her quickly dwindling store of cash. It wasn’t smart, but it felt like the right thing to do.

With a bottle of pain pills in her pocket, Cat stepped out of the clinic into the flow of foot traffic. She let it pull her toward a clothing store a few doors down, where she went inside to examine her face in one of the mirrors. The bruising and the full extent of the diagonal dressing came as a shock. Cat experienced a wave of profound self-pity followed by a sudden realization. The bandage made her look different.
Very
different. And given the nature of her circumstances, that was a plus.

It wasn’t much, but enough to lift Cat’s spirits as she left the store and reentered the mall. It seemed natural to take a right turn, which led her past the Andromeda Travel Agency. She stopped and stood for a moment, looking at the exotic destinations advertised in the window. One of the holos showed a woman lounging on a beach with two suns shining above. Did Cat have enough money to reach a different city, never mind another planet? She knew the answer was no.

She was walking along, slowly, trying to come up with a plan, when an animated arrow appeared on the sidewalk in front of her. It zigzagged through the crowd to the far side of the passageway, where the image of a female legionnaire appeared.

The soldier had Cat’s features, bandage and all, but was dressed in a white kepi and a spotless uniform. And, judging from the way the legionnaire was staring into space, she could see things that mere mortals couldn’t. It seemed the Legion was using hidden cameras hooked to a computer to pick up possible recruits from the passing foot traffic. And the image brought Cat to a full stop.

Uncle Rex had been in the Legion. And told her all about it. So Cat knew that the image projected on the window was false. Because, like the original French Foreign Legion, the modern-day version was full of eccentrics, people on the run, and convicted criminals.
And that,
Cat thought to herself,
makes the Legion a possibility.

That thought was enough to draw her across the passageway and into the recruiting station on the other side. The sparsely furnished interior had a makeshift feel. As if the office might be closed on short notice. The walls were covered with posters of legionnaires on leave in exotic locales, on parade, or in the field. All of them looked like professional models. Two desks faced the door. One was occupied by a noncom with a lot of stripes on his arms, and the other was home to a younger man, who was talking to a pimply-faced youth of eighteen or so.

A possible recruit? Yes, Cat thought so, as the senior NCO stood. He had a high forehead, and his hair was so short that he appeared to be bald. Dark, heavily bracketed eyes peered out at Cat from fleshy caves, and a no-nonsense nose presided over what Uncle Rex might have referred to as “a shit-eating grin.”

“Good afternoon,” the legionnaire said as he shoved a giant paw in her direction. “I’m Staff Sergeant Boad. And you are?”

Cat
had
to give a false name, and based on what her uncle had told her, that wasn’t unusual. The use of a
nom de guerre
was an accepted practice in the Legion. And had been for hundreds of years. So Cat gave him the first name that came to mind. “Andromeda McKee.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Boad said as he crushed her hand. “Please have a seat.”

The plastic chair made a rattling noise as McKee pulled it closer to the desk and sat down. “So,” Boad said as he eyed her bandage, “what’s the other guy look like?”

“I left him facedown,” McKee answered truthfully.

Boad looked surprised. “You’re serious?”

“He attacked me.”

“Well, that’s what we’re looking for,” the NCO said. “People who aren’t afraid to fight. Plus we need specialists. Com techs, mechanics, you name it. What kind of training are you interested in?”

McKee thought about Empress Ophelia. “I want to learn how to kill people.”

Boad’s eyebrows rose, and he nodded slowly. “Well, young lady . . . If that’s what you want—we’ll sure as hell teach you. Welcome to the Legion.”

CHAPTER: 3

Hurry up and wait.

AUTHOR UNKNOWN

A military aphorism

Standard year circa 1940

IMPERIAL PLANET EARTH

Everyone agreed. In the wake of Emperor Alfred’s unfortunate death, the Imperial government had been transformed from a reactive bureaucracy to an engine of change. Initiatives that had been on hold were approved. A number of Alfred’s pet projects were canceled, including his plan to provide the citizenry with affordable cyberbodies. So as Tarch (Duke) Hanno emerged from his air car, and was escorted through security, he could feel the energy crackling all around him. And it was intoxicating.

But there was something else in the air as well. A sense of caution that hadn’t been there before. Which was to be expected. Because all of Alfred’s senior officials, key associates, and friends had disappeared. A lucky few had been allowed to slip into retirement, but most had been assassinated by Ophelia’s army of synths. That was a secret, but not much of one, because only a naïve fool would believe that thousands of prominent people would all suffer accidental deaths in such a short period of time.

So even though Ophelia’s supporters had survived the purge, and were enjoying their sudden rise to power, they knew what could happen to anyone who fell under suspicion. And because Hanno had been summoned to the castle, what felt like a lead weight was riding the pit of his stomach. He couldn’t let his fear show, however, since Empress O had eyes everywhere, and it would be a mistake to reveal any sign of weakness.

As a page led him through the busy hallways, Hanno responded to each greeting with a stiff smile as he compiled a mental list of the individuals he encountered. Because each person who greeted him could be an ally or an enemy during the days ahead. Assuming he survived that long.

Two minutes later, Hanno passed between a pair of watchful synth guards and was ushered into one of three ornate waiting rooms, each accessed via a different hallway. The idea was to keep visitors separated, so they weren’t aware of each other. A precaution as old as monarchies themselves.

There was nothing for Hanno to do in the waiting room except sit in a high-backed chair, drum his fingers on worn gilt, and examine the retro decorations that Ophelia’s grandfather favored. He was the man responsible for establishing the present empire. It was modeled on those of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries and had proven to be much more effective than the democracy that preceded it. Until Alfred took over, and the governmental machine slowed down.

Hanno’s thoughts were interrupted as a door opened, and Ophelia’s secretary appeared. His name was Veneto. And in spite of his humble origins, everyone knew he was a player. A person who had Ophelia’s ear every day
and
every night if the rumors were true.

So as Hanno stood, and the men exchanged courtesies, the nobleman was careful to match the depth of Veneto’s bow. There were many stories about the fates suffered by aristocrats foolish enough to slight Veneto, and Hanno had no desire to test the extent of the secretary’s influence.

Veneto had thick, curly hair, a bladelike nose, and a sensuous mouth. His lips smiled, but the look in his gold-flecked eyes remained the same. “Tarch Hanno! Welcome to the palace. Please step this way. Her Highness is looking forward to meeting with you.”

Hanno had his doubts about that but took comfort from Veneto’s lighthearted tone and felt the lump in his stomach start to dissipate. As the two men entered the audience chamber, Ophelia was on her feet, speaking with an admiral. Having received his orders, the officer bowed and backed away. When Ophelia turned in his direction, Hanno was struck by both her beauty and the cold clarity in her eyes. She was a very different person from her brother—and a very dangerous one. He bowed.

“Good morning, Tarch Hanno,” Ophelia said. “And thank you for coming on such short notice. Please have a seat.”

Four chairs circled a table. Ophelia took the one that was lit in a way that would accentuate her beauty. Hanno chose the seat directly across from the empress and waited for her to sit down before doing the same. “So,” Ophelia said as she settled into her chair, “you’re wondering why you were summoned. And given how busy we are, I’ll cut to the chase. I need someone with your talents to run a new department. One that will help shape the empire during the coming years.”

Hanno felt his heart beat faster. Here was what he’d been hoping for. A position of real power. “I am honored, Highness. How can I be of service?”

“I would like you to become Director of the Bureau of Missing Persons,” Ophelia replied.

Hanno felt his spirits plummet. The empress laughed. “You should see the expression on your face!” she exclaimed. “Never fear, Tarch Hanno . . . I’m not asking you to track down runaway teenagers. Far from it. No, the Bureau of Missing Persons will be in charge of locating individuals who represent a threat to the empire, but for one reason or another, have not been found. Not so far, anyway. Although I’m sure that you and the forces I will place under your command will be able to find most, if not all of them, and do so expeditiously.”

Hanno’s mind was racing. If he understood Ophelia correctly, she was asking him to complete the purge. An unpleasant task, perhaps, but a necessary one, lest someone try to overthrow the new government. It was the sort of task that would enable him to strengthen the Hanno family’s ties to the empress and line their pockets at the same time. “I see,” he said gravely. “And how many missing persons are there?”

“Three thousand, two hundred, and thirty-six,” Ophelia replied. “Scattered across more than two dozen planets. That’s a large area I know . . . But I can provide you with twenty-five human case officers and five hundred synth trackers.”

“And when we find a missing person?”

“They’re missing,” the empress said with a smile. “Make sure they stay that way.”

IMPERIAL PLANET ESPARTO

The one-story building designated as Receiving Facility 7654 (RF-7654) was located adjacent to Elysium’s largest spaceport so that Cat—no, McKee; she had to start thinking of herself as McKee—and the 289 provisional recruits, or PRs, housed inside had to listen to the barely muted roar of engines at all hours of the day and night.

A third of what the PRs called the tank was devoted to rows of bunk beds, which were divided by gender and a yellow line painted onto polished duracrete. Tables and chairs, all of which were bolted to the floor, occupied the center of the space. An open assembly area was located adjacent to that.

When not engaged in some sort of official activity, there was no discipline to speak of, and that allowed the strong to prey on the weak. Something they did primarily for the fun of it since all of their personal belongings had been confiscated and nobody had anything to steal other than Legion-issue toiletries, a scratchy towel, and two sets of olive drab fatigues.

The lack of military discipline struck McKee as strange until she noticed all the cameras mounted around the enormous room. Was their purpose to monitor the mayhem and ensure that it didn’t get out of hand? Or were the PRs being tracked and evaluated via some sort of behavioral software?

She would have put money on the second possibility, but it raised more questions. If the PRs were being evaluated using a personality matrix, what sort of behaviors were considered
good
? Teamwork was an important part of any military enterprise—so maybe the Legion was looking for the kind of individuals who could get along with others.

On the other hand it would be logical to suppose that the Legion placed a high value on aggressiveness. And by watching people interact with each other in the tank, the staff might be able to identify the PRs most likely to lead a charge up a hill. Or follow someone else up a hill. Then there was the possibility that the command structure wanted to recruit and retain a blend of personality types.

There were so many variables that McKee knew she wouldn’t be able to game that part of the system and turned her attention to what she
could
influence, which were the tests that the PRs took each day. Some were physical in nature, and it didn’t require a genius to know that the Legion was looking for recruits who were in good condition.

So McKee strove to deliver every push-up, every sit-up, and every jumping jack required of her. She couldn’t, of course, since she hadn’t been working out much, and the targets were set high. But she
tried
. And if McKee was right about the cameras and their purpose, then someone knew that. And was aware of the extra push-ups she was doing as well.

Unlike the measures of physical fitness, the electronically administered personality and aptitude tests could be gamed. Or so she assumed. And having completed a degree in cybernetics before setting out on the grand tour, she was an expert at taking tests. The key to success lay in simple multiple-choice questions such as, “Would you prefer to: (a) carry a stretcher, (b) operate a com set, or (c) perform maintenance on a crew-served weapon.”

None of the those choices got at what McKee
really
wanted to do, which was learn to fight. But it was a pretty safe bet that those assigned to operate crew-served weapons had to maintain them as well, so by choosing
C
, McKee was indicating a preference for a combat specialty, and the training that went with it. Wherever she could, she skewed her answers accordingly.

Once the tests were over, the PRs were left with a significant amount of unstructured time. Roughly half of each day was spent napping, shooting the shit, or playing improvised games. One of which was called slave. It involved throwing a pair of dice that someone had smuggled in. Rather than wager money they didn’t have, the players could bet five-minute periods of time during which the loser, or “slave,” was required to do whatever the winner, or “master,” wanted.

Did the people in charge of the tank know about “slave”? They had all of the necessary camera shots at their disposal. But for reasons unknown, the activity was tolerated. And that wasn’t a problem for the most part because the demands put forward by most masters involved personal errands, silly antics, or slave contests. One of the favorites was who could eat the most rock-hard fruit bars in the shortest period of time.

But occasionally a master would insist on something darker. And such was the case one afternoon as she and the rest of the PRs finished their lunches. As usual, McKee was sitting by herself, worrying. There hadn’t been any sign of the synths so far. But the medics had taken blood more than a week earlier. That meant the Legion had her DNA. Would they share it with the new government? Or would the Legion’s stubborn insularity protect her from a cross match? The Legion was full of people who were on the lam, and if the organization ceased to be a place of refuge, the supply of volunteers would dry up.

Such were McKee’s thoughts as a PR named Larkin won a series of throws thereby enslaving a young woman named Melissa Reese. And rather than order Reese to duckwalk around the room, or something similar, Larkin told her to strip. And when Reese refused to comply, he ordered his toadies to grab her. They obeyed, and Larkin had just ripped Reese’s shirt open when McKee hit him in the back of the head with a metal lunch tray.

Larkin staggered, swore, and turned. He was angry.
Very
angry. Partly due to the pain. But mostly because of the way the incident might impact his social standing. Larkin’s power, such as it was, lay in his ability to control other people through the use of his fists. So an attack, especially by a female, couldn’t be tolerated.

For her part, McKee knew she was in real trouble. Not only did Larkin outweigh her by at least sixty pounds, he was in excellent shape, and proud of a criminal background that involved breaking bones for a loan shark. She wanted to run, but there was no place to run to, so she stood her ground.

Larkin took a roundhouse swing at McKee, and she ducked. And as his fist passed over her head, a whistle was heard. That was the signal for all of the PRs to line up in alpha order. And people who failed to obey such a summons had a tendency to disappear within a matter of hours.

So rather than continue the fight, Larkin grabbed a fistful of McKee’s shirt and jerked her in close. His face was only inches from hers. “This isn’t over, Scarface. I’ll be watching you, and when you least expect it,
pow
! It will be payback time.”

Larkin let go of her as the PRs hurried to line up. Once they were in formation, the NCOIC (noncommissioned officer in charge) made some routine announcements. There was no mention of Larkin’s assault on Reese or McKee’s attack on him. Had the assembly been called in order to prevent further violence? Or was it a coincidence? Either was possible. But one thing was for sure. McKee had an additional enemy now—and would have to be careful.

As the day wore on, McKee made an interesting discovery. She had never been popular thanks to her foreboding appearance and standoffish ways. But no one liked her now. Not even Melissa Reese. Partly because Larkin and his buddies were busy dissing her—but also because those who weren’t members of the bully’s group feared retribution.

In a strange sort of way, the social isolation was useful, however, because it gave McKee an opportunity to think about her previous life. A strange existence that had been lonely in spite of all the advantages. Or was it
because
of them? It had always been difficult to sort out those who wanted her body, wealth, or influence from those who actually cared about her. Assuming there had been any. So things were largely unchanged. She’d been alone before and still was.

Viewed from that perspective, she had lost less than she first thought. And when she went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror, she no longer felt the desire to flinch. True to the
real
McKee’s prediction, the sutures had disappeared, leaving a pink line that would probably turn white with time. And just as her beauty had been an advantage in her previous existence, the scar was an asset now. It was both a disguise and an emblem.