Andromeda's Fall (Legion of the Damned) (3 page)

Cat stood, took a quick look around, and spotted a holo deck. Having closed the door into the hallway, she went over to the player, slipped the chip into the slot, and touched a button. A cloud of confetti-like motes of light appeared, were attracted to each other, and combined to form a three-dimensional image.

The lighting was poor, as if her uncle had been forced to make the recording in a dark room, and there was a momentary buzzing sound as his face disintegrated and came back together again. “Cat . . . It’s me, Uncle Rex. I’m sorry, honey, but I have some very bad news for you. The emperor committed suicide. That’s what the vidnets say, but I don’t believe it. First, because Alfred was anything but suicidal, and second, because hundreds of his close friends and supporters have been killed during the last week.”

At that point Cat felt a sudden emptiness at the pit of her stomach. Because her parents fell into both categories. Friends
and
supporters.

“They were killed in air crashes, diving accidents, and house fires. And that’s what supposedly happened to your parents, Cat . . . Except I was there. And before the house caught fire, a military transport lowered at least two dozen synths into the estate. And they killed
everyone
. Servants and family alike.

“So it’s clear that Princess O was behind it. Except that she’s the empress now, and judging from the way Alfred’s associates continue to drop left and right, she’s determined to purge anyone who might stand in her way. And that includes relatives who might want revenge. You and I are bound to be on that list, pumpkin. So listen carefully. Drop out. Hide as best you can. And don’t use your credit cards or try to contact any of the people you know. Because if you do, they
will
find you.”

There was a noise in the background at that point and, as Rex turned to look over his shoulder, Cat saw the gun in his hand. When he looked back there was concern in his eyes. “I’m sorry, Cat. So very sorry. Find a hole to hide in, honey . . . And don’t ever come out.” The image broke into pieces at that point. They were sucked inwards and disappeared.

There was so much to absorb, so much to accept, that Cat was numb. Then, as the full weight of her uncle’s words began to sink in, she started to cry. Deep sobs racked her body, and her stomach hurt as she rocked back and forth. Her mother. Her father. Both dead. It seemed impossible. Yet there it was, and having seen the look on her uncle’s face, she knew it was true.

The crying lasted for a good five minutes; tears were still running down her cheeks when someone knocked on the door. It was Stevens. “Lady Catherine? Are you okay?”

Cat
wasn’t
okay. But she couldn’t say that. So she said, “Yes, I’ll be right there,” as she plucked tissues out of a box. Then, having wiped the tears away, she removed the chip from the player and stuck it into her bra.

The door whirred out of the way, and judging from the expression on the other woman’s face, she knew something was wrong. Together, they walked back through the kitchen and out into the ballroom. And that was when Cat saw the synths. There were at least six of the Carletto Industry ALF-46s (Artificial Life Form model 46s). They crisscrossed the floor, pausing occasionally to stare at particular individuals, while the pale-faced governor was forced to look on. The room, which had been so noisy before, was eerily silent.

Cat stopped, and was trying to decide what to do when a robot spotted her. The machine fired a pistol and a bullet ripped through Stevens’s throat. There was a look of surprise on her face as she crumpled to the floor. Life as Cat had known it was over.

CHAPTER: 2

There is, in the flow of events, a time to run.

AUTHOR UNKNOWN

A Dweller folk saying

Standard year circa 1950

IMPERIAL PLANET ESPARTO

As Stevens collapsed, Cat instinctively held up her hands as if to stop bullets with them and backed through swinging doors into the kitchen. The shock of what she had witnessed, plus the certain knowledge that the synths had orders to kill her, caused Cat’s heart to beat like a trip-hammer.

It was noisy in the kitchen, so the culinary staff hadn’t heard the gunshot. They looked up in surprise as a wild-eyed young woman in a red evening dress appeared and looked around. Having spotted the back door, she turned and ran. By that time, Cat was focused on only one thing, and that was the desperate need to escape the building. Her spirits rose as she entered the service corridor and saw the elevator. All she had to do was jump on board, get off on the first floor, and run like hell. Simple.

Except that it wasn’t. According to the indicator over the polished metal door, the elevator was on the sixteenth floor. And Cat knew the synths would catch up with her in a matter of seconds. So she glanced both ways, spotted a distant
EXIT
sign, and headed in that direction.

Cat hadn’t gone more than a few feet before she tripped, fell, and skinned a knee. The five-hundred-credit Horace Latimer high heels were the problem. So she stood, kicked them off, and continued on. Seconds later, she realized that leaving the shoes behind would show the synths which way she had gone. But there wasn’t enough time to go back and correct her mistake.

Cat heard a shout as she jerked the exit door open and began to race down the stairs. The duracrete was cold under her bare feet. Cat knew she wouldn’t be able to go all the way to the ground floor because the androids were in constant communication with each other.

Her worst fears were confirmed as she looked down through an opening at the center of the staircase and spotted a flash of movement. One or more of the ALF-46s were climbing upwards. So as Cat arrived on the third floor, she turned to the right and pulled the fire door open. That allowed her to enter a long, sterile-looking hallway. Doors opened onto a row of conference rooms.

Cat chose the one labeled
CONFERENCE ROOM C
, entered a dimly lit chamber, and set off for the door on the opposite side. But the dress slowed her down so she paused to rip the side slits open even more. Having granted herself more freedom of movement, Cat approached the door, which slid out of the way.

A sign that read
LOBBY
pointed to the right. She paused for a second, wondered how many synths were waiting in the lobby, and decided to chance it. As she sprinted down the hall toward a waist-high barrier, Cat heard a burst of gunfire and knew that at least one of the robots was behind her. What sounded like a swarm of angry bees buzzed past, and a glass chandelier exploded as she was forced to stop. The atrium was three stories high, and she could see a synth on the floor below looking up at her.

* * *

That was the moment when a camera operator spotted her. He was miles away, “flying” his vidcam from the comfort of a chair, when he spotted Lady Catherine Carletto on the top floor of the atrium and produced a whoop of joy. Then, using a small joystick, he sent his unit up to capture a close-up. Was
she
responsible for the exploding light fixture? Probably, not that it mattered, so long as he got the shot.

* * *

A synth was firing on Cat from behind and another was racing up an escalator to intercept her. What happened next was more the result of an impulse than careful planning. Cat was a gymnast. Or had been prior to college. And she was desperate. So she vaulted over the waist-high wall and fell into the void.

Her timing was good. She hit the rising vidcam hard, wrapped her arms around the shiny ball, and felt it sink toward the floor. The synth that had been chasing her arrived at the waist-high wall and sprayed the lobby with bullets. Lamps exploded, plants were shredded, and a guest took a round between the shoulder blades as he tried to escape the destruction.

Cat let go of the vidcam and dropped to the floor. She felt a stabbing pain as something penetrated her right foot. But there was no time to stop and examine the wound, so she hobbled forward. The ALF-46 on the third floor was changing magazines by then, but the synth on the escalator had opened fire, and a line of bullets chased Cat toward the formal entry. A blast of humid, ozone-tainted air hit her in the face as the door slid out of the way, and she ran into traffic. Horns blared, tires screeched, and there was a loud crash as a semitransparent taxicab hit the rear end of an automated delivery truck.

A synth stepped out onto the sidewalk and opened fire as Cat dodged around the front end of a passenger car. Bullets rattled as they hit both sheet metal and the driver, causing him to jerk spastically and slump over the wheel. Then the robot’s line of fire was blocked as a bus hit the pileup and propelled a limo into an intersection, where a powered unicycle slammed into it.

Cat had left the street by then and was about to limp into the half-lit passageway between two buildings, when there was a crack of artificial thunder. She turned in time to see multiple tongues of fire belch out of the tower’s fifth-floor windows. Then, as tons of debris rained down onto the street, she witnessed a series of lesser explosions. That was when Cat realized something important. Esparto’s governor had been appointed to her position by Emperor Alfred. Which meant that just about all of her guests could be counted among his supporters. So the synths had been ordered to kill
all
of them. Not just her. She was little more than a detail in a much larger plan.

The knowledge brought little comfort as sirens began to wail, and Cat turned away. Tears ran down her cheeks as she limped through a shadowy passageway to the street beyond. North–south traffic was still flowing there. So Cat stepped between a couple of cars and raised a hand. Two cabs passed her by, but the third stopped. The rear door hissed open, and Cat slid inside. The cab was semitransparent, but she knew her features would be little more than a shadow to people outside.

“Where to?” the driver inquired, as he eyed her in the rearview mirror. He was wearing dreadlocks, light-enhancing goggles, and had a stim stick dangling from one corner of his mouth. If he was aware of the explosion, there was no sign of it.

Outside of the rarefied world she lived in, Cat knew very little about Elysium. But she’d heard of an area called the darkside. A sprawling neighborhood, by all accounts, where many members of the working class lived. In other words, the last place a socialite was likely to go. “Drop me in the darkside.”

The driver frowned. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

A fire truck had been forced to stop behind the cab. The man at the wheel hit the siren, and the cabbie flipped him off before accelerating away.

Cat gave a sigh of relief and allowed herself to lean back against the seat. The next problem was how to pay the fare. And Uncle Rex was correct. The moment she used a credit card, the synths would know where she’d been. She checked and her clutch was still there—held in place by a gold cord that ran crosswise across her body. After poking around inside it she came up with a half dozen coins intended for use as tips. Would they be sufficient? Cat hoped so as the driver made a series of turns, and the skyscrapers gradually shrunk into five- and ten-story buildings. Garish signs battled each other for dominance as clothing stores, bars, restaurants, nightclubs, tattoo parlors, and bakeries fought for customers.

And there were lots of people on the streets. Most were human, although Cat spotted an exoskeleton-clad Dweller, some colorful Prithians exiting a bar, and a pair of Ramanthians. None were citizens of the human empire. But all three races had something in common, and that was the need for trade, and a common fear of the marauding Hudathans. “Okay,” the driver said. “Where should I drop you off?”

“The next corner is fine,” Cat said as she eyed the fare on the screen in front of her. The total fell just below the amount of money she had. And the rest would go to a small tip. A stupid indulgence given her circumstances. But that was how she’d been raised. “With wealth comes obligations,” her father used to say.

The taxi coasted to a stop. Cat gave over her money, the door hissed open, and she stepped into a puddle of filthy water. The experience was not only unpleasant but served to remind Cat of the cut on her foot, which hurt and was open to infection.

But there were other problems to cope with. The ripped evening gown and bare feet were already beginning to attract attention as Cat made her way down the street. So the first priority was to buy clothes that would allow her to fade into the background. But with what?

Cat conducted a mental inventory. She was wearing a diamond on a chain around her neck, a small ruby on her left ring finger, and her lipstick dispenser was made of gold. Taken together, they were worth at least ten thousand credits. The knowledge made her feel better, as did a large sign that read
PAWNSHOP
half a block farther on. But getting there seemed to take forever. There was a group of men standing outside a bar. One of them whistled, and another said, “Hey baby . . . How ’bout a ride?”

Then a street vendor carrying a tray of veg wraps approached her, quickly followed by a preteen beggar and a dull-eyed woman who wanted to save her from a life of sin.

So it was a relief to enter the brightly lit pawnshop. Racks of musical instruments hung from the walls. Used power tools were piled on a table just inside the door. And a manikin wearing a suit of space armor stood guard by the entrance.

To reach the cash register located at the back of the room, Cat had to pass between glass display cases filled with jewelry, alien artifacts, and various types of weapons. It was tempting to purchase a pistol. But Cat knew she’d have to submit ID in order to buy a weapon, and that would almost certainly bring the synths down on her.

The proprietor was a middle-aged man with a halo of gray hair, a chubby face, and the manner of a person who had seen everything. His eyes flicked down her frame and back up. In less than two seconds she had been weighed and evaluated. “Good evening, young lady. What can I do for you?”

“I have this,” Cat said, lifting the chain up over her head. “Plus
this
, and
this
.”

The man selected the diamond, eyed it through a loupe, and put it down. The ring and lipstick received a similar scrutiny. “So,” he said having completed his evaluation, “what do you have in mind? Do you want to sell this stuff? Or pawn it?”

The diamond had been a birthday present from her parents. But Cat was desperate for money. “I want to sell it.”

“Okay,” the man said evenly. “I’ll give you five hundred for the lot.”

“They’re worth thousands!” Cat objected. “The diamond alone is worth six or seven.”

“Not to me,” the pawnbroker replied. “I have to sell what I buy—and there isn’t much of a market for diamond pendants around here. Maybe you should take it uptown. A regular jewelry store would give you a better price.”

Cat knew that was true. But she couldn’t go back. Not with the synths looking for her. “Point taken. But five hundred credits is too low, and you know it. I want a thousand.”

“Six hundred.”

“Nine hundred.”

“Six-fifty, and that’s final.”

Cat looked around, saw a row of used suitcases sitting against a wall, and pointed to the nicest one. “Six-fifty plus that.”

The man grinned. He had a silver tooth. “You’re a lot tougher than you look. It’s a deal.”

Cat left a few minutes later with cash hidden in her bra and her new suitcase in tow. Rather than ask the pawnbroker about used-clothing stores, and provide him with information that could be shared with others, Cat was determined to find one on her own. A quick conversation with the owner of a fruit stand got the information she needed.

Walking briskly so as to discourage interference, Cat made her way to the end of the block and took a right. The store, which was called Rewear, was directly ahead. There was no front door. Just a mesh gate that could be pulled down to protect the shop.

Cat strolled in, cruised the aisles, looking for clothing in her size, and cautioned herself to forget about fashion. Twenty minutes later, she had three basic outfits including some new underwear, socks, and a knit cap. A pair of high-topped lace-up boots completed her wardrobe.

Cat was filthy but elected to change into a “new” outfit anyway because the ripped evening gown was attracting attention, and she wanted to protect her feet. So when Cat emerged from Rewear, she was clad in the cap, which effectively hid her blond hair, a waist-length leather jacket that had plenty of mileage on it, and a pair of military-style trousers. They were baggy and cinched at the ankles. Scuffed boots completed the outfit. The rest of her wardrobe was stashed in the black suitcase that rattled along behind her.

A short walk took Cat to a convenience store, where she purchased a first-aid kit, disinfectant, and some toiletries. By the time she left the store, Cat realized she was hungry.
Very
hungry. A stop at a food cart took care of that. The wrap was hot, greasy, and surprisingly good. She wolfed it down.

At that point the only thing Cat wanted was a place where she could enjoy a hot shower, take care of the cut, and get some sleep. There were hotels. Lots of them. And no way to know what they were like. So with no information to go on, Cat chose the Get Away Hotel. A name that was certainly consistent with her circumstances.

No bellbot came forward to help with her bag. The front door opened onto a seedy lobby that was furnished with a threadbare carpet, tired-looking furniture, and a pair of drooping plants. A fortresslike reception desk ran along the back wall. Only one of the two check-in windows was staffed. The desk clerk had thick black hair and a five o’clock shadow. He was perched on a stool, and there was something slimy about the way he eyed her. “Good evening, miss. What can I do for you?”