At Empire's Edge E-Book

William C. Dietz

• Herausgeber: JABberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Serie: Empire
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 487

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

The national bestselling author of Battle Hymn delivers a high-velocity sci-fi thriller in which a lone lawman must take down those who would topple an empire… For centuries, the Uman Empire has ruled the civilized universe. But not all of the alien races who were "invited" to join the Empire have done so willingly. To deal with these alien species, the Xeno Corps was formed—bio-engineered humans with extra-sensory enhancements who can hunt down, capture or eliminate all such threats to Pax Umana. Jak Cato is a one of them—but he's far from a perfect specimen. Saddled with a dislike for authority and a penchant for self-destructive behavior, only his devotion to duty and sense of honor have kept him afloat in the Corps. When he and his comrades are waylaid on a remote planet while transferring a lethal, shapeshifting Sagathi prisoner, Cato is sent into town for supplies, only to end up drunk, beaten and robbed. But worse news awaits him when he wakes. His entire detachment has been mercilessly slaughtered and the Sagathi is gone. Now Cato must use all his innate skills to hunt down the fugitive and pay back the bastards who murdered his team. But what he doesn't know is that his pursuit will lead him outside the law and into a shadowy world of Imperial intrigue—where those who seek justice rarely get it, and rarely survive… "A testosterone-soaked tale of violent retribution."—Publishers Weekly "Dietz writes fast-paced military SF."—Library Journal

Leseprobe

At Empire's Edge

Copyright © 2009 by William C. Dietz.

Publication History:

Ace hardcover edition: October 2009

Ace mass-market paperback edition: September 2010

JABberwocky eBook edition: September 2017

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

All rights reserved.

ISBN 978-1-625672-71-1

Cover design by Tiger Bright Studios.

JABberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.

49 W. 45th Street, 12th Floor

New York, NY 10036

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[email protected]

For Marjorie, with all my love

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

About the Author

Also by William C. Dietz

Bones of Empire

ONE

Aboard the Imperial prison ship Pax Umana, in hyperspace

IN ORDER FOR SECTION LEADER JAK CATO TO REACH the cabin assigned to Xeno Corps Centurion Ben Sivio, it was necessary to walk half the length of the prison ship’s quarter-mile-long hull. The air was cool, verging on cold, because that was the way the Pax Umana’s computer system liked it. The overhead lighting fixtures were exactly twelve feet apart, the decals that identified first-aid kits, weapons lockers, and fire extinguishers appeared with monotonous regularity, and Cato’s boots clanged as they hit the metal gratings that kept him up out of the sheet of half-inch-deep water that glistened below. For unlike most ships, which had solid decks, the Umana had metal gratings so the crew could hose down the cells when necessary. The wastewater was continually pumped out of the sluiceways, purified by onboard systems, and used for everything other than drinking.

That didn’t represent much of a problem at the moment, however, since the ship was carrying only one prisoner, and he had ways to get back at his jailers other than pissing on the deck. Cato was the person he hated the most, especially after an incident eight hours earlier, during which Cato’s shock baton sent a hundred thousand volts of electricity coursing through the Sagathan shape shifter’s body. So, as Cato approached his cell, Verafti put on a display for him.

The Sagathi were a race of sentient shape-shifting empaths who had the ability to assume the form of any living creature having roughly the same mass as they did. This not only explained why they were so dangerous, but why the Uman Empire had been forced to create the Xeno Corps, a police force made up of bioengineered variants bred to hunt, capture, and imprison aliens of every description, the Sagathies being the most dangerous of the bunch.

As Cato drew level with Verafti’s barred cell, he was treated to a first-class display of what the Sagathi could do as the naked alien morphed into a startling likeness of Officer Kath Larsy. She was arguably the most beautiful woman on the ship, and as the fake Larsy brought both hands up to cup a pair of large, pink-nippled breasts, she smiled suggestively. “Come on, Cato,” Larsy said huskily. “Feel them! You know you want to.”

And Cato did want to, but knew that all of the men who had succumbed to such invitations in the past were dead and buried in the Xeno Corps graveyard adjacent to the high-security prison compound on Sagatha. “Go fuck yourself,” Cato replied contemptuously, as he stalked by. “Which you are uniquely qualified to do!”

Verafti responded by morphing into a replica of Cato, which he immediately turned inside out, but Cato was gone by then. “You’re scared, Cato. I can feel it,” the shape shifter yelled through what looked like raw hamburger. “Sivio’s going to break you down to F-1. When we get to Sagatha, you’ll be shoveling shit out of my cell!”

Cato made no reply, but as he cleared the cellblock and entered officer country, he knew the claim was probably true. Cato had served under Sivio long enough to know that the Centurion wasn’t one to waste time on idle chatter. So having used what many would consider to be excessive force on Verafti, Cato was about to get his ass reamed, a process both he and it had been through many times before.

The Xeno Corps was not only organized along military lines, it was part of the Army, which generally wanted nothing to do with it. In fact, most Imperial legionnaires looked down on the variants, were afraid of the police officers, and jealous of their elite status all at the same time. Now, as Cato approached Sivio’s cabin, he paused to check his uniform. It consisted of a helmet, held in the crook of his left arm, sculpted body armor, a kilt with a subtle plaid intended to remind people that the Xeno Corps was technically part of the 3rd Legion, and a pair of black, high-gloss combat boots.

The real Kath Larsy walked past at that point, winked at Cato, and said, “Good luck!” The Xeno Corps was a small organization, the detachment on the Umana was even smaller, and everyone knew what everyone else was doing. And that included the fact that Sivio was about to take Cato’s head off.

Cato forced a smile, wasted a full second wondering if Larsy’s nipples really were pink, and rapped on the knock block mounted beside the durasteel hatch. Sivio had a parade-ground voice that could be heard through three inches of solid metal, and there was no mistaking the gruff, one-word invitation: “Come!”

Cato palmed the access plate, waited for the hatch to slide out of the way, and took the standard three steps forward. Then, with a degree of panache befitting a member of the Emperor’s Praetorian Guard, he crashed to attention. “Section Leader Jak Cato reporting as ordered, sir!”

At that point, had the purpose of the meeting been something other than what it was, Sivio would have said, “At ease.” And depending on circumstances, as well as the Centurion’s mood that day, might have invited his second-in-command to sit down. But Sivio was angry, and forcing Cato to stand at attention was a good way to communicate that fact. If that bothered Cato, the hard, angular planes of his face gave no sign of it, although Sivio was an empath and could “feel” at least some of his subordinate’s emotions. And that was indicative of Cato’s major flaw, because in spite of the fact that he had been created to deal with Sagathi empaths, he couldn’t shield his emotions the way most of his peers could. A dead, with the emphasis on the word “dead,” giveaway for a creature like Verafti.

And Cato had other faults as well, including his rebelliousness, contempt for authority, and occasional drunkenness. Were such shortcomings the result of a DNA-related glitch that had left him unable to shield his emotions? Or would he have been a pain in the ass regardless of his disability? There was no way to know. One thing was certain, however, and that was the fact that Cato was a born leader and, as such, could have a detrimental effect on morale. Especially where the younger members of the team were concerned. Which was why Sivio planned to land on Cato with both feet. “At ease.”

Cato, his eyes on a spot exactly six inches over Sivio’s head, slid his right foot away from his left, and moved his right fist to the small of his back. Even though he wasn’t looking straight at the Centurion, he could still see the bastard, and he wasn’t encouraged by what he saw. Sivio had black hair, the same olive skin that all the members of the Xeno Corps had, and a pair of beady brown eyes. They glowed with latent hostility, and were set too close to the officer’s nose, which was undeniably crooked. A none-too-subtle reminder that Sivio had been a champion kickboxer in his younger days. His lips were so thin they looked more like a well-healed incision rather than a mouth—and his massive jaw had a pugnacious quality. “So,” Sivio began ominously. “Prisoner Verafti claims that you zapped him. And for no apparent reason. Is that true?”

“It’s partly true, sir,” Cato temporized, his eyes still focused on a spot over Sivio’s head. “I shocked him all right—but I was provoked.”

Sivio worked his jaw as if preparing it for action. “You were provoked. In what way?”

“The prisoner called the Emperor a bad name,” Cato answered self-righteously. “Which left me with no choice but to respond.”

Sivio shook his head sadly. “That has to be the most pathetic lie anyone has ever had the balls to tell me! The truth is that you were playing cards with Verafti through the bars, when for reasons unknown, you drew your shock baton and hit him with a hundred thousand volts of electricity! The security camera mounted in front of Verafti’s cell captured the whole thing. So don’t bother to deny it.”

“The bastard was cheating!” Cato responded defensively. “So what was I supposed to do? Let him get away with it?”

The conversation was interrupted by a tone—followed by the flat, emotion-free sound of the NAVCOMP’s synthesized voice. “Be advised that the ship will exit hyperspace in ninety seconds. Primary, secondary, and tertiary weapons systems have been activated, and all members of the Umana’s crew will remain at battle stations until ordered to stand down.”

It was a routine announcement, and since neither one of the variants qualified as a member of the ship’s crew, their conversation continued. “Shooting the shit with prisoners, playing games with prisoners, and all other interactions not specifically authorized by a superior officer are specifically prohibited,” Sivio said sternly. “And you know that. Even worse is the fact that having flouted regulations, you chose to administer corporal punishment to a prisoner, who is presumed to be innocent until proven otherwise.”

That was too much for Cato. For first time since the session had begun, he allowed his eyes to come down and make direct contact with Sivio’s. “Innocent? You must be joking, sir. When the Beta Team arrested Verafti, he was crouched next to his most recent victim, gnawing on the poor bastard’s arm!”

There was a stomach-flipping lurch as the Umana exited hyperspace 2,070 miles sunward from Nav Beacon INS4721-8402, and began to prepare for the next jump. “That makes no difference,” Sivio said pedantically. “As you are well aware! Which is why I’m going to …”

But Cato never learned what Sivio intended to do, because that was the moment when the ship lurched violently, and he was thrown into a bulkhead. A host of Klaxons, buzzers, and other alarms went off as the PA system came back on. “The ship is under attack,” the NAVCOMP announced calmly. “All weapons systems are under centralized control, nonessential personnel will report to their emergency duty stations, and Centurion Sivio will report to the bridge.”

“God damn it to hell!” Sivio said vehemently, as he rose from his chair. “Get down to the cellblock and make sure Verafti is secure. What we don’t need is to have that murderous bastard running around loose while we fight the Vords.”

Cato was tempted to remind Sivio that Verafti was innocent until proven guilty, but thought better of it, and said, “Yes, sir,” as he came to attention. He brought his right fist up over his heart, received a similar salute in return, and did a picture-perfect about-face. The meeting was over.

Most of the light in the Umana’s control room originated from the hundreds of multicolored LEDs that surrounded Captain Simy Hong and her bridge crew as they struggled to understand what was taking place and react to it. “It looks like there’s only one of them,” Flight Officer Peter Umbaya said, from his position to Hong’s right.

“Thank God for that,” Hong said evenly. She was thirty-six years old, wore her hair pageboy style, and was pretty in a no-nonsense sort of way. “What kind of ship are we up against?”

Umbaya eyed the data that was scrolling down the screens in front of him. The combined glow lit his dark features from below and gave the officer’s face a spectral appearance. “It looks like a Vord M-Class Destroyer, Captain.”

Like everyone else aboard the Umana, Hong knew that the tall, long-faced Vords, and the sluglike parasites they were hosts to, controlled an empire of their own. Some said it was equal in size to the 1,817 worlds that constituted the Uman Empire, but others claimed it was even bigger. Regardless of which group was correct, everyone knew that the aliens were nibbling at the edges of the Uman Empire. There hadn’t been any full-scale battles as yet, but hit-and-run raids on the Imperial rim worlds were becoming increasingly common, as were individual encounters with the M-Class Destroyers, which were widely believed to function as long-distance reconnaissance vessels. Was the ship that had launched a flight of missiles at them on such a mission? Yes, Hong thought it was, because Vord recon vessels had demonstrated a persistent interest in Nav Beacons like the one orbiting the local sun a couple of thousand miles off the port bow. Not that the reason made much difference as three torpedoes struck the Umana’s protective screens, blew up, and sent a shudder through the ship.

The Umana was a prison ship, and as such she didn’t carry very many offensive weapons, but Hong felt the command chair lurch as the screens went down long enough for a pair of Mark IV missiles to race away, before coming back up again. It was a reasonably potent response to the unprovoked attack, the problem being that the ship carried only six of the ship-to-ship weapons, and would soon be entirely reliant on four batteries of medium-duty energy cannons for its defense. Only two of them could be brought to bear on a single target at any given time.

The most obvious strategy was to make an emergency hyperspace jump because almost anywhere would be a better place to be than their present location. But, since they had exited hyperspace only minutes earlier, it would be a quarter of an hour before the Umana’s accumulators could launch the ship into the never-never land of FTL travel once again. And that was an eternity in a space battle, especially when faced with a larger and better-armed foe.

“Captain? You sent for me?” The voice came from Hong’s right, and the naval officer turned to find that Centurion Sivio was standing on the other side of the railing that circled the command tub, holding on to the metal tubing as the ship took another hit.

“Yes,” Hong replied grimly. “A Vord raider has us outgunned. But, if we can get in close enough, they won’t be able to fire their missile batteries without being caught in the back blast.”

“So?” Sivio wanted to know. “What can I do to help?”

Hong took comfort from Sivio’s calm, unflinching manner. If her extremely unorthodox plan was to succeed, it would depend on Sivio and the men and women under his command. “Once we close with the Vords, the battle will turn into an exchange of broadsides, and given the fact that they mount more guns than we do, the outcome is nearly certain. Unless we can come alongside, blow their lock, and board! The only trouble is that we don’t carry any combat troops—and my crew will be very busy.”

The Umana shook violently, and Sivio was forced to hang on to the railing as something hit the screens, and they flared brightly. “Meaning that you want my team to fight its way onto the Vord ship?”

“That’s right,” Hong confirmed. “Will you do it?”

“We’ll try,” Sivio said grimly. “Assuming you’ve got someone who can blow that lock.”

“I do,” Hong replied. “Get your people into space armor and take them to the main lock. A weapons tech named Raybley will be there to meet you.”

Then, turning to Umbaya, the naval officer gave an order. “Turn the ship into the enemy, and accelerate. Even if we die, we’re going to take some of those ugly bastards with us!”

Having no reason to look like anyone other than himself, Verafti had reverted to what the Sagathi thought of as his true form. Like all his kind, the shape shifter had a vaguely triangular skull that narrowed to an abbreviated snout and a mouth filled with razor-sharp teeth. His green lizardlike body was humanoid, and covered with iridescent scales, which offered good camouflage within the thick foliage of Sagatha’s equatorial jungles, an extremely dangerous environment where his race’s ability to morph from form to form enabled them to survive and eventually rise to sentience.

Now, as Sivio, Cato, and two sections of heavily armed Xeno Corps variants marched past on their way to the main lock, Verafti rattled the bars on his cell in an effort to get their attention. Though he was not privy to Hong’s plan, the fact that his jailers were dressed in space armor told Verafti everything he needed to know. “Take me with you!” Verafti demanded loudly. “You know what I’m capable of. I’ll rip their guts out!” The words had a sibilant sound, reminiscent of the so-called hiss speech that the Sagathies spoke to each other.

Sivio knew that much was true, but he was also aware that once free, the carnivore would kill everyone if he could, which was why two of his most reliable officers had been detailed to guard the prisoner.

For his part, Cato was thinking about the job ahead. It was a task that none of them were trained for but which he likened to entering an urban structure occupied by well-armed criminals. They faced a very dangerous room-by-room clearing process in which the defenders would have a distinct advantage. This was an unsettling thought and one he was determined to ignore.

Technician Raybley was waiting for the police detachment when it arrived at the lock. His voice was clearly male, but his face was invisible behind a visor, and, like the rest of the Umans’, his body was sealed in a suit of space armor. The police officers could “sense” his personality, however, and all of them took comfort from Raybley’s calm persona. Cato felt a sudden jolt and struggled to keep his feet as the Umana’s NAVCOMP spoke. “Hull-to-hull contact has been made…. The boarding party has entered the lock…. All crew members will don their helmets and lock them down in case of a partial or full decompression.”

Cato felt a sudden emptiness at the pit of his stomach as he and his companions were sealed into what could turn into a communal coffin, and the air was systematically pumped out of the Umana’s lock. Then it was time to question everything that could be questioned, including Cato’s decision to remain in the Xeno Corps despite his so-called disability, his choice of two energy pistols rather than a more powerful rifle, and the time spent preparing his subordinates for battle rather than taking a much-needed pee.

The time for self doubts was over as the outer door cycled open to provide the would-be boarders a clear view of the enemy ship’s gray, nearly black, hull. It was pitted from the wear imposed on it by hundreds of planetary landings and had been scorched by at least one hit from the Umana’s energy cannons. The two locks were slightly mismatched, but not by much, which constituted a miracle given the hellish conditions under which the two ships had been brought together. Light flared from both sides as the ships fired into each other at point-blank range. A battle the Vord warship was bound to win unless Sivio and his subordinates could board quickly and seize control of the destroyer.

Raybley knew that too, and was quick to step forward and slap a self-adhesive preshaped charge against the other vessel’s lock, before backing out of the blast zone. The silent explosion came three seconds later, followed by a flash of light, and a miraculous transformation as what had been solid metal morphed into a large man-sized hole. The jagged edges were bent inwards as if pointing which way to go.

A squad of six suit-clad Vords had been waiting inside the lock, but the superhot jet of plasma created by Raybley’s demolitions charge had cut through the aliens like a hot knife through butter and scorched the hatch beyond.

Sivio started to advance, but Raybley motioned for the Centurion to stay back as he stepped over a half-cooked body to place a second charge against the inner hatch. Then, having backed away, the technician triggered another explosion almost identical to the first. That was when Sivio shouted, “Now!” and led his eight-person section into the swirling smoke.

Cato saw one of the dead bodies start to sit up, shot the Vord through his faceplate, and saw the surrounding vacuum pull a column of viscous goo out through the newly created hole. At that point Cato had to step over the bodies as he followed Sivio into the ship’s interior, where they came under fire. Such were the close conditions, however, that only a few of the defenders could fire at any given time. Of course the reverse was true as well, which was why Cato tossed an energy grenade down the corridor to his right, and waited for the telltale flash before advancing farther.

Two dead bodies lay where the grenade had gone off, but a third Vord had survived the explosion. A thin stream of vapor shot away from his left knee as the air inside his suit continued to escape through a pin-sized hole. Because each Vord had a sluglike Ya wrapped around his neck, their space suits incorporated large, collarlike extensions that stuck up behind their helmets, and were intended to protect the parasites. That made the aliens look clumsy, but such was not the case, as the defender lurched out of a side passageway and knocked one of Cato’s pistols away. Then, having created an opening, the Vord made a grab for Cato’s space armor.

Cato didn’t recognize the significance of the act at first, and was in the process of bringing the other handgun to bear, when he remembered that the release lever for his suit was located in a recess on the front surface of his armor! The Vord was trying to open his suit!

So Cato made use of his free hand to push the alien away, fired the pistol at point-blank range, and swore as the bright blue beam of energy was momentarily dissipated. Strong though it was, however, the Vord armor couldn’t take the punishment for long, and as the alien fumbled for the double-edged battle-axe slung across his back, the space suit gave way, allowing an energy bolt to punch its way through his heart. The Vord’s Ya was still alive, of course, but the parasite couldn’t exert enough control to keep its host upright, so both of them went down. The whole experience scared the hell out of Cato, so he shot the Vord again, just to make sure.

Then it was time to rally his section and lead them deeper into the belly of the alien ship. A quick glance at the data projected on the inside surface of Cato’s visor showed that while Ritori was down, Honis, Batia, Tonver, Moshath, and Kelkaw were still on their feet and immediately behind him. Sivio’s section was headed toward the ship’s bow. “All right,” Cato said into his lip mike, “let’s keep moving. Remember, stay close to your partner, and eyeball everything. These assholes play for keeps.”

There was a series of double clicks as the rest of the section acknowledged his instructions. Then it was time to split up into pairs, put their backs to both sides of the corridor, and edge along. There was no resistance at first, which caused Cato to wonder if the aliens had given up, but any hopes of a relatively easy victory were shattered when the passageway opened into an area dedicated to the ship’s life-support systems. From his position at the entry hatch Cato could see the tanks that were required to recycle water, the big rack-shaped air scrubbers, and a sealed climate-controlled hydroponics section in which fresh vegetables were grown. It all made for a maze of machinery and pipes.

Cato was forced to retreat into the corridor as four or five Vords opened fire and ruby red energy beams sleeted his way. Cato removed a “roller” from a pouch at his waist, pinched the device “on,” and tossed the little camera into the area beyond. Video appeared in front of him, turned topsy-turvy, and finally came to a rest. The panoramic shot was somewhat distorted, but crystal clear, and therefore useful, especially when the defenders were stupid enough to fire at the roller, thereby signaling their various positions.

“Okay,” Cato said evenly, as he turned to address his team. “I’ll toss a flash-bang in there. Once it goes off, we enter. Honis, Batia, you take the targets on the right. Tonver and Moshath will go after the slimeballs on the left. Kelkaw and I will go straight up the middle. Questions? No? Let’s do this thing.”

Like the other members of Cato’s section, Brice Kelkaw had a generally low opinion of the Section Leader (SL) because of his tendency to duck work, break rules, and drink too much. But there was one category of activity in which Cato excelled, and that was the area of tactical operations, where he was second to none. For some unfathomable reason, Cato’s freewheeling ways were frequently successful when the chips were down, a fact that accounted for both the stripes on his arms and the handful of badly tarnished medals buried at the bottom of his footlocker.

So Kelkaw was secretly glad of the fact that he had been assigned to Cato’s section rather than Sivio’s, as he followed the noncom out into a sleet of incoming fire. Some of which left scorch marks on Kelkaw’s light gray armor but failed to hole it. Projectile weapons would have been much more deadly, but could have caused serious damage to the ship, which neither side wanted to do. But even though the so-called blasters weren’t immediately lethal, they could drill holes in armor if given the three or four seconds required to do so. And that made it important to keep moving.

As Cato fired on a Vord who was hiding between a recycling tank and the air scrubbers, Kelkaw heard someone shout, “Above you!” and raised his energy weapon just in time to fire at the alien on the catwalk above.

The Vord got off a series of energy bolts as well, some of which came within inches of Cato’s helmet, but that took time. Enough time for Kelkaw’s energy rifle to stitch a line of black divots across the alien’s chest plate. The last bolt found the seam between shoulder and arm, burned its way through, and opened the suit to the vacuum. The results were not very pretty.

Having nailed his target, Cato took a quick look around. The incoming fire had stopped, Honis and Batia were busy securing a group of Vord prisoners, and the other two were going from body to body checking to make sure that the beings inside were truly dead. “Hey, Cato,” Tonver said, as he knelt next to a badly scorched Vord. “The big sonofabitch is history—but it looks like the slug might be alive. It’s sealed in a pressurized pouch.”

Cato went over to inspect the body and saw that Tonver was correct. Even though the Vord was dead, a pressurized sack had been deployed to protect the parasite wrapped around his neck. Tonver winced as Cato put an energy bolt through the taut semitransparent plastic film. Green goo erupted from the newly created hole as all of the pent-up air gushed out of the container. “That’s for Ritori,” Cato said grimly. “Rot in hell.”

Tonver wasn’t sure that aliens went to hell, but it was a moot point, so he let it go. The battle was over.

The better part of one standard day passed while both of the badly damaged ships floated side by side off Nav Beacon INS4721-8402. There was a lot to do, including treating the wounded, in-processing the Vord prisoners, and conducting a bow-to-stern survey of the Pax Umana to determine how spaceworthy the vessel was.

Finally, having completed their inspection, Captain Hong and her engineering officer concluded that while one of the ship’s in-system drives was still functional, her hyperdrive was going to require a complete overhaul before the Umana would be able to complete the journey to Sagatha.

That was the beginning of an effort to identify a planet with a Class III or better shipyard that was within the range of a vessel traveling at sublight speeds from Navpoint INS4721-8402. The answer, because there was only one possibility, was a former prison planet named Dantha. None of those on the Umana had ever been there; but, according to the NAVCOMP’s files, Dantha was a mostly preindustrial Corin-Class planet, having large deposits of iridium located due west of a Level Eight settlement named Solace. And Solace, in turn, based on a two-year-old database, was home to a Class III shipyard.

So with nowhere else to go, Hong had her crew place explosive charges aboard the Vord raider, cut the destroyer loose, then put a lot of distance between the two ships before sending the necessary signal. Most of the crew were watching the video feed when the explosion took place, but the momentary flash of light was strangely anticlimactic, and left most of them feeling sad rather than jubilant. All except for Cato, that is, who was taking a nap when the charges went off, and was snoring loudly.

It took almost two standard weeks to reach Dantha. Long, increasingly difficult days, during which one of the four air scrubbers went down, the water-purification system failed, and everyone went on short rations. Including the Vord prisoners, who suffered in silence, unlike Verafti, who complained nonstop.

The Xeno cops were used to that, however, and proceeded to ignore the shape shifter, who was forced to entertain himself by showing the neighboring Vords what they would look like if turned inside out! It was a pastime Cato rather enjoyed—and did nothing to discourage.

So it was with a communal sigh of relief that the Pax Umana entered Dantha’s atmosphere, bumped her way down through layers of air, and leveled out over a vast water-filled crater created some fifty million years earlier when a sizeable meteorite had roared out of the sky to slam into Dantha’s surface.

The lake glittered with reflected sunlight as the spaceship flew over both it and the vast plain beyond, on its way to the Imperial settlement of Solace. And it was then, as the ship circled the city prior to landing, that Captain Hong felt the first stirrings of concern. Because rather than the neat, carefully laid out city typical of Uman-controlled planets, Solace was a sprawling undisciplined maze of structures that been allowed to evolve according to the whims of those who lived there. People who, according to information supplied by the NAVCOMP, were the descendants of prisoners brought in 242 years earlier to work the now-abandoned iridium mines.

Still, the way the local population chose to live was unimportant so long as Hong could get repairs to her ship, and return it to service. That thought gave the naval officer a renewed sense of confidence as the third, and final, clearance was given by the spaceport’s Traffic Control computer, and the NAVCOMP brought the badly damaged Pax Umana in for a landing. Both Hong and her pilot were on standby in case the NAVCOMP failed, so there was very little opportunity to eyeball the spaceport as the ship’s powerful repellers sent clouds of reddish dust billowing up into the air.

Minutes later, once the ship’s massive skids were safely on the ground, the air began to clear. That was when the main cargo hatch whirred open, a ramp was deployed, and Hong made her way down onto Imperial soil. Sivio was by her side, and the ship’s hull made loud pinging noises as it began to cool.

Both Imperials expected a reception of some sort. No brass bands, or anything like that, but a Port Captain and some of his or her subordinates at a minimum. What they weren’t ready for was a portly civilian in stained overalls, a work-worn robot with mismatched arms, and a black-and-white mongrel, who immediately took a possessive pee on one of the Umana’s landing skids. “Hello!” the man in the ragged overalls said cheerfully. “Welcome to Dantha! My name is Kinkel. Homer Kinkel. I’m the Port Administrator, Port Captain, and Maintenance Chief.”

Nearly all of the dust had settled by then, and as Hong eyed the blast-scarred area around her, she saw three dilapidated in-system freighters, an old liner that had been cannibalized for parts, six Imperial fighters that constituted the planet’s entire air defense capability, a low-slung prefab building that was at least fifty years old, and a row of multicolored atmospheric craft of various designs that presumably belonged to wealthy citizens. Assuming there were any. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Hong lied as she offered Kinkel her hand. “No offense, but we need a Class III yard, and your spaceport looks like it might be a Class V at best.”

“Yup,” Kinkel responded unapologetically. “We were decertified about a year and a half ago. There isn’t enough money to keep things up. Or that’s what Procurator Nalomy tells me—and she oughtta know.” At that point his tiny eyes went up to the ship that loomed above them. There was plenty of visible damage, including blackened craters, metal-bright scars, and a collection of scorch marks. “What hit you anyway? A swarm of meteorites?”

Hong shook her head. “No, we were attacked by a Vord raider. The ship needs a whole lot of things—but a reconditioned hyperdrive tops the list. If we had that, we could make it to a Class III yard.”

Kinkel shook his head sympathetically. “I’m sorry to hear that…. The Vords are starting to get out of hand. The Emperor needs to teach the ugly bastards a lesson! As for the hyperdrive—well that’s gonna take some time. Say a month to get the request in, another month for the bureaucrats to approve it, and a third month to ship it here. Then it’ll be up to me to install it, and I’m shorthanded at the moment.”

A dust devil appeared out in the middle of Landing Zone Two, the dog gave chase, and the robot’s head began to twitch uncontrollably. The journey was over.

TWO

Imperial City, on the planet Corin

LEGATE ISULU USURLUS WAS SEATED AT HIS SCRUPUlously clean glass desk, reviewing the items he hoped to discuss with Emperor Emor, when he heard the familiar swish of expensive fabric as Satha entered the sun-splashed room. She was tall, willowy, and as beautiful as a slave costing ten thousand Imperials should be. Satha had luxuriant shoulder-length brown hair, a shapely body that was only partially concealed by a diaphanous gown, and perfectly formed bare feet. She brought her hands together in front of her chest and lowered her forehead until it came into contact with them. “The cars are here.”

Usurlus said, “Thank you,” rose, and took a thin leather briefcase with him as he crossed the study to the point where an oval mirror was set into the wall. Appearances were important within the upper reaches of Uman society, especially on the home world of Corin, so good looks were something of a necessity. Usurlus knew he was vain—and why not? The man who stared back at him had artfully tousled blond hair, gray eyes, and an aquiline nose. Women liked him, as did men, which made his sex life wonderfully complicated.

It was important to be careful, however. The key to success was to look good, but not too good, lest one unintentionally overshadow the Emperor. Because even though Emor was in good shape, he wasn’t especially beautiful to look upon, even after plastic surgery! So, by wearing a plain red-edged toga, a pleated kilt, and open-toed sandals, Usurlus hoped to fall well below the level of sartorial elegance Emor was known for. “You are very handsome,” Satha said, as their eyes met in the mirror.

Usurlus smiled. He was genuinely fond of Satha—and she knew it. “And you are very beautiful!” the Legate said sincerely. “Wish me luck.”

“I do,” Satha replied seriously. “Be careful…. You have enemies.”

“Most of whom are wildly incompetent,” Usurlus said dismissively. “I plan to be home for dinner. Will you join me?”

The question was a formality, of course, since a slave could hardly say no, but Satha was genuinely pleased. Her hands came together, and her forehead made contact with them. “Yes, master. It would be my pleasure to do so.”

Usurlus gave Satha a peck on the cheek, left the study, and entered the hallway that led out to the public areas beyond. The elegantly furnished great room was large enough to hold a hundred people, which it frequently did whenever Usurlus had to throw a party. A robot that looked exactly like Usurlus was waiting and fell into step next to him as sliding glass doors parted company to let the “twins” pass.

The doors closed with a discreet whisper as the two seemingly identical men stepped out onto the carefully landscaped veranda and made their way around the rooftop swimming pool to the landing pad, where two air cars sat waiting. One was for Usurlus, the other for his body double, making it that much more difficult for potential assassins to score a kill.

Four of the Legate’s bodyguards were present, including Vedius Albus, the ex-legionnaire who was in charge of overall security. He was a hard-eyed man in his midforties who, having served the 33rd Legion with distinction for twenty-five years, had left Imperial military service to spend the rest of his life with his family on Corin. A decision Usurlus was grateful for since Albus had saved his life on two occasions. “Good morning, sire,” the ex-legionnaire said soberly, as the contingent of bodyguards came to attention.

“Good morning, Vedius,” the real Usurlus replied cheerfully. “How’s Olivia? Well, I hope.”

Olivia was Albus’s wife, and even though the bodyguard knew that Usurlus was being polite, he also knew that most men of his employer’s rank wouldn’t know her name, much less inquire as to her health. “She’s doing well, sire,” Albus said, as the doors for both air cars swished open. “Thank you.”

Two bodyguards followed the body double into the first car, while Usurlus, Albus, and an ex-legionnaire named Livius took seats in the second vehicle and strapped themselves in. Both Albus and Livius wore plain togas, secured by metal pins in the shape of the Usurlus family crest, each of which included a secure two-way com device that could be used in an emergency. The men were equipped with ID implants, body armor, and one pistol each, the maximum amount of armament that the Emperor’s security detail would allow outsiders to bring into the Imperial Tower. More men were on call, of course, and could reach the Tower in a matter of minutes, should an emergency extraction become necessary.

Not that there was any reason to expect trouble—since the race-day party would be smothered in security. Of the sixty-two people who had ruled the Uman Empire over the last five-hundred-plus years, eighteen had been murdered while in power. Usually by rivals or psychopaths, though two of them had been murdered by lovers, and one had blown her brains out in the Senate rotunda.

But assassinations were a fact of life, which was why many officials wore pseudoflesh faces while in transit to public functions, or made use of custom-made robotic body doubles like the one Usurlus sometimes referred to as “my brother.” The android’s car departed first, banked to the east, and soon disappeared.

Usurlus was forced back into the plush upholstery as the air car took off, banked to the west, and turned toward the 1,600-foot-tall Imperial Tower, which rose above the city’s jagged skyline. The cylindrical building was thicker at the bottom than the top, was home to the government’s senior officials, and was said to be impregnable to anything less than a direct hit by a nuclear device. That scenario was theoretically impossible given the fleet of warships in orbit around Corin, the fighters that circled above the Imperial City, and other precautions, all of which were secret.

Below, and visible for as far as the eye could see in every direction, was a city that occupied roughly five hundred square miles of land, and boasted a population of more than fifteen million people. Most of them were forced to live in high-rise buildings. So, in spite of a well-run subway system, air travel was important to the Empire’s movers and shakers, who preferred to be flown from building to building rather than compete with plebs for the dubious privilege of traveling on extremely crowded surface streets or aboard underground trains.

Of course that meant airborne traffic jams were a fact of life, too, even though a host of computers were dedicated to trying to prevent such problems. There was very little air traffic over the city on that particular day, however, because of the race scheduled for early afternoon, so the pilot was able to deliver Usurlus to the twenty-second floor of the Imperial Tower with a minimum of delay. The entire floor was dedicated to the task of launching and retrieving official vehicles; but the facility was crowded in spite of all the space dedicated to it, so the atmosphere was one of eternally impending chaos as a steady stream of air cars arrived and departed.

Thanks to his passenger’s rank, the pilot was allowed to land in one of the VIP slots, where one of the Emperor’s army of administrative androids was waiting to receive Usurlus and escort the official and his bodyguards off the noisome flight deck and into a spacious elevator lobby. During the short journey the visitors were examined by a variety of hidden scanners, and had any unauthorized weapons been identified, sections of the seemingly solid black granite walls would have opened to allow remotely operated weapons to kill specific individuals or everyone present. Then, once the bodies had been removed and the floors hosed down, the entry-way would be opened for business once again. Estimated turnaround time: thirteen minutes and twenty seconds. Because, as Emperor Emor liked to say, “A good government is an efficient government.”

As the foursome entered the lobby, the acrid odor of ozone, mixed with throat-clogging exhaust fumes, came in with them but was quickly removed by the building’s extremely efficient air-conditioning system. “Greetings on behalf of Emperor Emor,” the machine said smoothly, as he led the Umans toward a bank of gleaming elevators. “My name is Olious. Please let me know if there is anything I can do to make your visit to the Imperial Tower more pleasant. Assuming that you and your staff are ready to join the other guests, I will escort you up to the eighty-eighth floor, where the party is presently under way.”

“Thank you,” Usurlus replied politely. “Please lead the way.”

So, with bodyguards in tow, Usurlus was led onto a high-speed elevator already loaded with a richly robed Senator, and her all-female security detail. Her name was Claudia Sulla, and the Legate knew that he had met her before, and might want to meet her again. Especially given the size and shape of the breast she had chosen to expose, as well as the come-hither look in her eye, and the Sulla clan’s political connections.

A mild and rather brief flirtation ensued, as the platform lifted all of them up to the eighty-eighth floor in less than a minute. Then it was time to exchange unlisted numbers, before stepping out into what could only be described as a very dangerous party, since every single one of the three-hundred-plus invited guests harbored not just one private agenda but, in most cases, at least a dozen. Some of which they were willing to pursue regardless of cost.

But, having been reared within a patrician family, Usurlus was used to that and ready for verbal combat. It began almost immediately as Usurlus followed Olious out of the elevator lobby and into the swirling crowd. Dozens of competing essences vied with each other for dominance, togas of every possible hue swirled around him, and the rumble of conversation was so loud that when the businessman from Regus managed to take possession of the small space in front of Usurlus, he was forced to shout in order to make himself heard. “Legate Usurlus! I was hoping you would be here! My name is Burlus, Femo Burlus, and my family owns the Dark Sun Line.” Burlus was of average height, with eyes that were too green to be real, and a softly rounded face.

Usurlus accepted the quick man-hug appropriate to such encounters, checked an almost encyclopedic memory, and immediately knew what Burlus was after. The Dark Sun Line owned a fleet of small easy-to-land ships that were perfect for running freight out to the sector of the rim that he was responsible for. The problem was that an increasing number of Vord raiders were preying on little cargo vessels like the ones that Dark Sun owned.

So what Burlus and his family were after was a promise that Imperial warships would escort their freighters into the Nigor Sector and, thereby, protect them. However, if Emperor Emor acceded to that request, he would soon be swamped by a thousand others, and there weren’t enough warships to protect the core worlds effectively, never mind the sparsely settled planets out along the frontier.

But solving such conundrums was the sort of thing that Imperial Legates were paid one hundred Imperials a year to do, plus expenses of course, which typically ran into the millions. So Usurlus began by letting the businessman know that he was not only familiar with the family’s shipping line and its difficulties but stood ready to help. Not by providing each freighter with a military escort, but by asking the Imperial Commerce Department to organize regularly scheduled convoys, each of which would include a contingent of warships. That would still put added pressure on the Navy, but less than individual escorts would have, thereby serving the greater good.

The conversation took fifteen minutes, and by the time it was over, another constituent was waiting to speak with Usurlus. And so it went for the next hour until the Emperor’s Majordomo strolled through the crowd repeating the same announcement over and over again. “Citizens of the Empire! The Emperor is pleased to inform you that the 108th running of the Imperial Air Race will begin in thirty minutes. Please make your way to the outside walkway, where chairs have been set up for your convenience. Citizens of the …”

But Usurlus didn’t get to hear the spiel all over again, or go out onto the circular walkway to watch the race, because that was the moment when Olious reappeared. “Excuse me, Legate Usurlus,” the android said from inches away. “The Emperor will see you now. Your staff will have to remain here consistent with Imperial security procedures. Please follow me.”

Usurlus turned to inform Albus, who nodded his understanding. “Call us when you’re ready, sire. We’ll be ready.”

As Olious and Usurlus made their way toward the elevators, most of the other guests were headed in the opposite direction. So it was difficult to make headway at first, but three minutes later the Legate was aboard Emor’s private elevator and headed for the top floor. Once the short ride was over, Usurlus was ushered into a large reception area. Like the rest of the Imperial residence, the ceilings were sixteen feet high. The walls were covered with idealized murals depicting life on the Imperial core worlds, and the floors were paved with slabs of gleaming black marble. In marked contrast to all of the noise on the eighty-eighth floor, the only sound was the muted clack, clack, clack that the official’s sandals made as he followed Olious through a spectacular living area, and out to the circular veranda beyond.

As a sliding door opened to provide access to the deck, the eternal roar of the city could be heard once more, because no one could stop that, not even the Emperor. And the sound was about to grow even louder as the air races began and six jet-powered planes threaded their way through a course marked out by the city’s tallest buildings. For the purposes of the race, the Imperial Tower had been designated as Pylon Five.

The whole thing was a bit crazy, since the high-powered aircraft could crash into both buildings and each other, which they frequently did. The death toll from the previous year had been thirty-seven people, almost half of whom had been killed by falling debris after a plane slammed into the twentieth floor of the Osawa Building.

Yet people still loved the races and still crowded rooftops in order to see them, even though there was a chance they would be killed. This was why Emperor Emor continued to authorize the event. It would have been political suicide not to.

As Usurlus followed Olious around the curve of the building, he wondered which Emperor he was about to meet with. The brash, occasionally inebriated man who had been known to make whimsical policy decisions? Or the thoughtful, often creative individual, who seemed to genuinely care about the citizens who depended on him?

Though ready for anything, Usurlus was pleased to see that Emor appeared to be not only sober, but in business mode as he said good-bye to a woman in a bright yellow sari, and turned to greet his next visitor. “Isulu!” the Emperor said warmly, as the two came together for a brief embrace. “It’s good to see you.”

“And you, Highness,” Usurlus said, as he went to one knee.

“Stop it!” the Emperor demanded, as he offered a hand. “There’s no need to kneel—we’re family!”

That was true in a very remote sense since the two men were distant cousins. In fact, just about all of the people who held key government appointments were members of the extended clan that Emor represented, a hard-driving family that had finally succeeded in putting one of their own on the throne after working on the project for generations. Like many of his male relatives, the Emperor had thick black hair, a beard so heavy it was necessary to shave twice a day, and a short, stocky body. But he was strong, very strong, which was apparent from the grip that nearly crushed the Legate’s hand. “Come,” Emor said, as he pulled Usurlus up into a standing position. “We’ll sit over there,” the Emperor said, as he gestured toward a well-shaded table. “The race will start soon, but we can talk in the meantime.”

Usurlus felt a surge of resentment and sought to suppress it. How much time would he have? Ten minutes? Fifteen at most? Why couldn’t Emor meet subordinates in his office? Instead of between various events? Because he has very little time, Usurlus told himself, and by packing people in between things, he forces them to be concise. So be concise.

Cold drinks appeared as if by magic as the two men took their seats and Usurlus began his report. “Vord raiders continue to be a problem in the Nigor Sector, Highness, especially where commerce is concerned. So I plan to petition the Commerce Department to create regular convoys which will have armed escorts. Doing so will put increased pressure on the Navy, but require fewer ships than individual escorts would, thereby conserving Imperial resources.”

Emor liked Usurlus for a number of reasons, not the least of which was the way his cousin always kept the big picture in mind even as he sought to obtain additional resources for his sector. An approach that was all too rare where other Legates were concerned. He took a sip of his drink and nodded. “That’s a good idea, Isulu. I’ll support it.”

It was a win! But Usurlus knew that the clock was ticking, and once the air race began, the session would end. “Thank you, Excellency. I will inform your constituents. There’s another problem, however—one we have spoken of in the past, and which continues to fester.”

Emor raised a knowing eyebrow. “Procurator Nalomy?”

“Yes, Excellency,” the Legate replied simply.

“You understand the politics involved?” the Emperor inquired. “I need the Nalomy family’s support for a number of my more controversial initiatives. Universal health care is an excellent example.”

“Yes,” Usurlus answered, “I do understand. But, with all due respect, Procurator Nalomy is governing Dantha for her own benefit. If the situation continues uncorrected, I fear there will be civil unrest, you will be forced to send an entire Legion to put the rebellion down, and Senators opposed to your policies will take advantage of the situation by claiming you are either ignorant of what’s taking place or simply don’t care.”

Emor sighed. What Usurlus said was true. But accusations were one thing. Facts were another. “You have proof to support your claims?”

“Yes, Excellency,” Usurlus answered, and removed the printout from his briefcase. “I have an agent on Dantha. He wrote this report, which arrived last week. An electronic copy of this document will be sent to your office later this afternoon.”

Emor accepted the packet and skimmed the front page. It was a long list of items received from the Imperial government, condemned before they could be used, and sold at discounted prices. Assuming it was accurate, the inventory included everything from medical supplies to a wide range of machinery, and most disturbingly a large quantity of weapons. “You’ll notice that one company purchased almost all of those goods,” Usurlus said meaningfully. “An importer-exporter called Star Crossed Enterprises, which is a wholly owned subsidiary of Imperial Industries, belonging to the Nalomy clan.”

The Emperor swore and brought a hard fist down onto the surface of the table. The glasses jumped, and his bodyguards took notice. “The bastards! Senator Nalomy hopes to succeed me…. You’d think that he and his clan could wait until then to rape the Empire! But mark my words, Isulu…. Good as it is, the evidence you have isn’t good enough. The Nalomys will claim that the Procurator’s subordinates were to blame, or that we’re out to get her for political reasons, or who knows what else. So you’re going to need a lot more than what you have to nail Senator Nalomy’s only daughter. But I agree that something has to be done. So go to Dantha, see what you can dig up, and take the bitch into custody if you come up with solid evidence that ties her to a crime. And I mean solid evidence. Of the sort that will hold up no matter what.”

“Yes, Highness,” Usurlus agreed soberly. “How large a force are you willing to authorize?”

Emor looked away then back again. “I’m sorry, Isulu…. I know it isn’t fair…. But I can’t spare any troops right now. Not with the Vord situation the way it is. So watch your step…. I’d hate to lose such a valuable cousin!”

The last part was meant to be a joke, but it wasn’t very funny, not to Usurlus. Since the only force at his disposal was a personal bodyguard consisting of about sixty ex-legionnaires, while Nalomy had a regiment of militia, all of whom were bound to be loyal to her. But there was only one response Usurlus could give and he gave it. “Yes, Highness, it shall be as you say.”

The race began five minutes later, and Usurlus was standing next to the Emperor as a sleek bullet-shaped racer flashed past only a hundred feet below the railing, entered a tight turn two miles north of the Imperial Tower, and crashed into the twenty-third floor of the Hamadi Bank Building. It was very early in the race, so the plane still had a lot of fuel on board, which meant the explosion was very loud. It echoed through the canyons of the Imperial City like thunder. Those rooting for other planes cheered—and those who had money on the dead pilot groaned. The cost of living was high—but life was cheap.

Near the city of Solace, on the planet Dantha

The city of Solace was situated between the towering Sawtooth Mountains to the west, and Lake Imperium to the east, on a relatively narrow strip of land. So after the heavily burdened transport took off from the spaceport, it was necessary for the aircraft to wind its way through an S-shaped mountain pass before passing out over rolling foothills, to skim the desert beyond.

From his position behind the pilots, Centurion Sivio could see what early settlers had named the Plain of Pain, which stretched toward the Great Crater more than fifty miles straight ahead. A long, hard march, that thousands of convict-settlers had been forced to endure on their way to the iridium mines.

It had taken the better part of three nerve-wracking days for Sivio to overcome the local bureaucracy, obtain all of the permissions that were required, and load his extremely dangerous prisoner onto the militia transport. The transport, in striking contrast to so much of the public infrastructure in and around the city of Solace, was in tiptop shape. For while Procurator Nalomy had been unable to find the funds to maintain what had once been a Class III shipyard, her militia was very well equipped. So well equipped that it put every other militia regiment Sivio had seen to shame. And that was saying something because the law officer had been to dozens of Imperial planets.

Still, curious as the situation might be, it really didn’t matter to Sivio so long as he was given the resources necessary to carry out his mission, which was to hold Verafti until such time as the