Bones of Empire E-Book

William C. Dietz

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

Seitenzahl: 490

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

From the national bestselling author of Battle Hymn comes the conclusion to the electrifying sci-fi thriller duology begun with At Empire's Edge… On the surface, the Uman Empire seems as glorious as ever, with its citizens reveling in their proud civilization, the Legions defending its borders, and the Emperor ruling benevolently over all. Yet it is a facade. In truth, the alien Vord are pushing deeper into Uman space even as the noble families maneuver for power within a waning Empire. But for Xeno Corps Centurion Jak Cato, all that matters is that he's still alive. After a disastrous mission that almost cost him everything, he's returning to the Imperial capital of Corin with his beloved Alamy for some well-deserved down time—which soon becomes no time. For as Cato watches a grand procession, he catches a glimpse of his mighty Emperor—and in one horrifying instant, Cato's enhanced senses recognize that while the Emperor looks the same, it is not him. It is Fiss Verafti, the murderous Sagathi shape-changer Cato had just hunted down. The creature he thought was dead! As the Empire strains under attacks from within and without, Cato doggedly investigates the mystery of how Verafti made his way from the grave to the throne and who is behind the astounding plot. And when he does discover the truth, it will change Cato—and the entire galaxy—forever… "When it comes to military science fiction, William Dietz can run with the best."—Steve Perry, author of the Matador series "Adrenaline-fueled, Clancy-esque adventure."—Publishers Weekly

Leseprobe

Bones of Empire

Copyright © 2010 by William C. Dietz.

Publication History:

Ace hardcover edition: October 2010

Ace mass-market paperback edition: September 2011

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 978-1-625672-72-8

Cover design by Tiger Bright Studios.

JABberwocky Literary Agency, Inc.

49 W. 45th Street, 12th Floor

New York, NY 10036

http://awfulagent.com

[email protected]

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

To my dearest Marjorie, with thanks for all of her help, advice, and forbearance

ONE

The city of Imperialus, on the planet Corin

THE CITY OF IMPERIALUS HAD BEEN CONSTRUCTED within the embrace of an ancient crater, where it was at least partially protected from the winds that scoured the area each fall. But the “blow,” as the locals referred to it, was still months away, and the temperature was beginning to climb as Trey Omo and his team of street toughs entered the section of the metropolis called Port City.

A thousand years earlier, back before Imperialus had become the capital of the sprawling Uman Empire, Port City had been the only settlement on Corin. And not much of one at that. But those days were gone, and the slum around the bustling spaceport was populated by people who were too poor to escape the endless noise associated with the facility. They lived in poorly maintained five-to-ten-story buildings, many of which were hundreds of years old and built on the rubble of structures that dated back to the first Imperial epoch. There had been repeated efforts to spruce the area up, but thanks to the forces of greed, corruption, and institutionalized incompetence, Port City always reverted to form within a matter of years.

That meant the citizens of District Five, as it was officially known, were tough, cynical, and eternally wary of strangers. So when Omo and his assassins entered the slum, word of their arrival spread like ripples on a pond, and it wasn’t long before the local power structure went on the defensive. Criminal gangs pulled their members in off the streets, merchants doubled their security, and it was as if the entire population was holding its breath, waiting to see what would happen next.

That was fine with Omo, who didn’t want to do battle with the locals but was perfectly willing to do so if that was necessary. His job was to set up an ambush, wait for Isulu Usurlus to land the following day, and kill him before the Legate and his official motorcade could clear Port City.

It was a routine operation insofar as Omo was concerned. A straightforward political assassination not unlike half a dozen others he had participated in over the years. His team consisted of thirty people, who had been divided into three ten-man squads, two of which were commanded by trusted noncoms, with the third being led by Omo himself.

The first task of the day was to finalize the way the ambush would be organized, and having scouted the area a few days earlier, Omo had a pretty good idea of where he wanted to place his men. But in order to fine-tune his plan, it was necessary to inspect each location to make sure his first impression was correct, then take control of it. That might require some muscle, however, which was why half of Omo’s squad accompanied him as the beat-up delivery van arrived in front of a ratty apartment building and pulled over to the curb. “Check your weapons,” Omo said gruffly. “But keep them out of sight. We don’t want trouble if we can avoid it.”

Once his men were ready, Omo opened the passenger-side door, got out, and led the toughs across the broken sidewalk and into what had once been known as the Grand Imperialus Hotel. However, as Omo and his team crossed the lobby, there was nothing “grand” about a space in which the poorest of the poor could rent a three-foot-by-seven-foot section of dirty floor for fifty centimes per night. A pathetic accommodation to be sure, but one that was superior to sleeping on the streets, where all manner of predators roamed the darkness.

It was never a good idea to stare, not in Port City, so the scraggly-looking specimens who were standing, sitting, or lying around the lobby were careful to look elsewhere as the toughs made their way back to a bank of elevators and took control of the only one that worked. It carried them to the second floor, where Omo led his men down a graffiti-decorated hall toward the east side of the building.

At the end of the passageway, the group was forced to turn left. The air around them was thick with the cloying odors of cooking, backed-up toilets, and the sickly sweet scent of incense. The mixture caught at the back of Omo’s throat and reminded him of the public “stack” in which he’d spent his early years.

And there was no escaping the incessant babble produced by dozens of competing vid sets, a child wailing somewhere nearby, and a shouting match between a man and woman. All punctuated by the occasional bleat of a distant siren, the gentle rumble generated by a shuttle as it passed over the building, and the constant slamming of doors.

Having arrived at what he judged to be the correct spot, Omo came to a stop. Then, after gesturing for his men to take up positions to either side of a door, he rapped on the much-abused wood and waited for a response.

There was a thirty-second pause during which scuffling sounds were heard—and Omo sensed that someone was peering at him via the door’s peephole. The assassin smiled stiffly, held a gold Imperial up so that the person within could see it, and waited to see which emotion would win: greed or fear.

Omo wasn’t surprised when a series of clicks were heard, and the door opened just far enough for a man to peek out. He had thin wispy hair, deep-set eyes, and hollow cheeks. “Yeah?” he inquired cautiously. “What do you want?”

“I want your room,” Omo answered simply. “I’ll give you two Imperials for it. But you have to clear out now and never come back.”

Two Imperials was a lot of money in Port City, and Omo could see the eagerness in the other man’s eyes. “Three Imperials,” he responded cagily. “Give me three Imperials, and the room is yours. We need time to pack though.”

“Okay,” Omo replied reasonably. “Three Imperials it is. Plus ten minutes to pack. Then, if you aren’t out of there, my men and I will throw you out.”

The man was frightened but determined and ran his tongue over dry lips. “I want the money in advance.”

“Here’s a third of it,” Omo replied as he held his hand out. “You’ll get the rest in ten minutes. Start packing.”

The gold piece disappeared so fast Omo could barely detect the movement of the other man’s hand—and the door was about to close when he placed a boot in the gap. “Oh, no you don’t,” Omo cautioned. “Leave it open.”

The man withdrew, and the door swung open, giving Omo a clear view of what had originally been a hotel room with attached bath. Now it was home to a family of five, including the man, a rail-thin woman who was feverishly stuffing belongings into pieces of mismatched luggage, and three children who were busy getting in the way.

Makeshift bunk beds took up one wall, a mattress occupied part of the floor, and a vid set was perched on top of a cage containing three chickens. But beyond the squalor, three vertical windows could be seen—each of which was worth at least one Imperial to Omo.

A full fifteen minutes passed before the man, his emaciated wife, and their brood of grubby children collected the rest of their money and left the room, each carrying as much as he or she could. Once the family was gone, Omo went over to the filthy windows and looked out through the one that was open. It offered an unobstructed view of the narrow street that the Legate’s motorcade would be forced to negotiate on the way to the Government Zone. “It’s perfect,” Omo said, without turning his head. “Honis and Dybel will stay here to guard the room. I’ll send a rocket launcher and two men over within the hour. Are there any questions?”

“Yes,” one of the men said. “Can you send some beer, too?”

That got some chuckles from the others and a grin from Omo as he turned to face them. “No,” he said firmly. “But if the mission is a success, I will buy the beer tomorrow night. And there will be women, too…. But you must remain sober until then. Understood?”

Omo wore his hair military short, had a face that looked as if it had been carved from weathered stone, and a slash for a mouth. There were men strong enough to oppose him—but none was present in the room. The mercenaries nodded soberly. They liked Omo and respected him.

Then, as if in response to an earthquake, the entire building shook, and a near-deafening roar was heard as a spaceship took off less than a mile away and began to claw its way up through Corin’s gravity well. Those who lived in Port City barely noticed.

Aboard the passenger ship Far Star

The Far Star was half a mile long and could carry five hundred thousand tons of cargo plus two thousand passengers and crew, along with everything required to keep them happy during long, boring weeks spent in hyperspace. Time during which they were free to enjoy the amenities available in their beautifully appointed cabins, participate in activities organized by the vessel’s cruise director, or shop in the onboard arcade.

All of that was more than adequate for most people, the single exception being Xeno Corps Officer Jak Cato, who was playing cards in the locker room located adjacent to the engineering spaces on Deck 4. He hated the social posturing, petty backstabbing, and boring conversations that passed for fun on the upper decks and preferred to spend his time below.

Of course there was another reason to venture down into the bowels of the Far Star as well, and that was the opportunity to play cards with the vessel’s crew, all of whom had proven themselves to be delightfully ignorant regarding the police officer’s special talent. That wasn’t too surprising given Cato’s failure to mention that he was a member of the Xeno Corps, or “the freak show,” as its detractors referred to the organization.

Because had the other three people seated at the table known that Cato could effectively “read” their emotions, they would have not only been outraged, but demanded that he return the 546 Imperials he had won from them and their shipmates during the last four days. It was money Cato was going to need once the Far Star put down on Corin.

The game they were playing was called Roller, which involved rolling dice to determine how many cards were dealt from a deck of sixty-three, then using them to assemble a winning hand. It was a complicated process that demanded a good memory, keen judgment, and a certain amount of luck.

However, thanks to Cato’s ability to “sense” excitement, fear, anger, and a host of other emotions, he had been able to take more rounds than he lost while being careful to let the others win enough games to keep them coming back. Now, as the middle-aged engineering officer seated across from him assembled a new hand, he could “feel” her sense of jubilation. Should he fold? And avoid a loss? Or let her win?

Such were Cato’s thoughts when a hand came to rest on his shoulder. The voice was female and very familiar. “It’s five o’clock, Master—and time to get ready.”

Cato frowned. “Okay,” he said irritably. “Wait outside … I’ll be there in a moment.”

CeCe Alamy colored slightly, took a full step back, and quickly withdrew.

Meanwhile, the engineer projected a sense of concern but was careful to keep her face blank. Cato knew she was afraid he would leave before the next round of betting began, and the pot grew substantially larger. And he might have let her have the win had the voyage been one or two days longer. But, since the Far Star was going to put down the next day, there was no reason to suffer the loss.

Cato produced a smile, put his cards facedown on the table, and scraped a double handful of coins off the table. “Sorry about that—but duty calls. My boss is hosting a fancy dinner tonight and expects me to be there. Thank you for your hospitality and keeping this rust bucket running. I think I speak for all of the passengers when I say well done!”

That produced a round of chuckles as Cato took his winnings and withdrew. Alamy was waiting in the corridor beyond. Her hair was piled up on the back of her head the way the wealthy girls on the upper decks wore theirs and held in place by the silver pin Cato had given her back on Dantha. She had large luminous eyes, a straight nose, and full lips. The dress she wore was simple but elegant, having been sewn by Alamy herself. Cato was not only annoyed by the interruption but dreading the evening ahead as he paused to tuck his winnings away. “Who are you anyway?” he demanded irritably. “My mother? Or my slave?”

The words were intended as a joke, but as blood rushed to Alamy’s face, Cato regretted them and rushed to make amends. “I’m sorry, CeCe—that was a stupid thing to say.” But it was too late. Cato “felt” the full extent of Alamy’s shame as she looked down at her feet. “I’m your slave, Master—and I apologize for giving offense.”

“No,” Cato replied emphatically, “you aren’t my slave, not really. We’ll get that straightened out later on. And stop calling me ‘Master.’ ”

Except that Alamy was supposed to call him “Master,” having been purchased for twelve hundred Imperials on Dantha, in the wake of Governor Nalomy’s death. It was his intention to free her, however, just as soon as they found a place to live on Corin and he found time to deal with all of the paperwork. “I’m a total and unforgivable jerk,” Cato said sincerely as he reached out to take her hand. “Come on…. Let’s go up to our cabin, where I promise to dress up like a Hiberian Zerk monkey so Legate Usurlus can show me off.”

Though not enough to neutralize the way she felt, the mental image was enough to make Alamy smile, and Cato was quick to take advantage of the opening by walking side by side with her as if she were free, and insisting that she pass through doors first. The result was that by the time they entered the Class III cabin the government was paying for, they were on speaking terms again.

True to her very efficient ways, Alamy had already assembled the basic elements of Cato’s dress uniform and laid them out on the bed they shared. The arrangement wasn’t a necessary aspect of the master-slave relationship but wasn’t all that unusual either, especially where wealthy individuals were concerned.

The next forty-five minutes were spent showering, shaving, and dressing. Cato’s uniform consisted of a helmet, which he would be forced to hold in the crook of his left arm while standing, sculpted body armor, and a knee-length kilt. The subtle plaid was supposed to remind observers that the Xeno Corps was technically part of the 3rd Legion, although that organization wasn’t all that proud of the group and would have been happy to hand it off to some other outfit had there been any takers. A pair of high-gloss combat boots completed the outfit.

That was the basic kit. But Alamy, who had been born free but raised in a slum, was a stickler for all of the little things that had to do with rank and status. So she made sure that the flashes that denoted Cato’s rank as a Centurion were equally spaced on his shoulders, the brightly polished medals that had previously been stored at the very bottom of his footlocker were perfectly aligned on his chest, and the length of gold braid that looped under his left arm was properly secured.

The braid marked Cato’s status as an aide to a senior officer, in this case Legate Usurlus, who, though of sufficient rank to command a Legion, hadn’t done so for many years. As Usurlus liked to put it, “I fight battles in the Senate and its surrounds, which though quieter are just as dangerous.”

The comment referred to the fact that Usurlus was related to Emperor Emor and had long been one of his troubleshooters. The latest assignment had been on the planet Dantha, where it had been necessary to remove a corrupt Procurator from office and reestablish the rule of law. A task that brought the patrician and the policeman together and had everything to do with Cato’s presence on the ship.

“There,” Alamy said, as she took two steps back. “You look very handsome.” And it was true, in her opinion at least, because Cato had a nice, if somewhat battered, face. Plus, his body, with which she was intimately familiar, was tall and strong. So much so that he frequently drew admiring glances from other women, many of whom were free and therefore more eligible than she was. Still, Cato had been true to her so far as Alamy knew, and that would have to do.

“I wish you could come,” Cato said, as his eyes met hers. “Then you’d know how painful these dinners are.”

“I do know,” Alamy responded tartly. “I was one of Governor Nalomy’s servants, remember? Now mind your manners. No swearing, no belching, and don’t stab things with your knife. It isn’t polite.”

“Okay,” Cato agreed good-naturedly. “But only if you kiss me.”

Alamy raised a quizzical eyebrow. “You could order me to kiss you.”

“True,” Cato allowed, “but there would be a price to pay.”

“There certainly would be,” Alamy agreed as she stepped into the circle of his arms.

Cato “felt” the strength of her affection for him as her lips gave under his, knew he should free her, and wondered why he hadn’t. Corin, he thought to himself, I’ll do it on Corin. Then, helmet in the crook of his arm, it was time to leave.

The two-bedroom suite was the finest accommodation the Far Star had to offer. The servants had withdrawn by that time, leaving their master to inspect himself in the large bathroom mirror. Legate Isulu Usurlus was vain, he knew that, and felt no guilt regarding the matter. The man who looked back at him had carefully tousled blond hair, gray eyes, and an aquiline nose. Tiny lines had begun to marshal their forces around the corners of his eyes, however, and stood ready to bracket his mouth. He saw them as enemies that, having been allowed to establish a beachhead while he was on Dantha, would have to be defeated on Corin. A process he looked forward to after months of privation on a backwater planet.

Usurlus was dressed in a white toga, a pleated kilt, and a pair of gold-colored sandals. The only signs of his rank were the silver and gold bracelets on his left wrist, the family crest on the pin that held the toga in place, and the way he carried himself. Which was to say with the confidence of a man who was completely sure of his place in Imperial society.

Having satisfied himself that he was presentable, Usurlus left the suite and stepped out into the corridor, where his chief bodyguard was waiting for him. Dom Livius was a big man with a prominent brow, a fist-flattened nose, and a pugnacious jaw. Like his predecessor, who had been murdered on Dantha, he was an ex-legionnaire and a dangerous man. Usurlus smiled at him. “Livius! What are you doing here? We’re on a spaceship. Take the evening off.”

“Thank you, sire,” Livius responded doggedly, “but if it’s all the same to you, I’ll come along. It’s true that we’re on a ship, but so are two thousand other people, and I have no reason to trust them.”

“All right,” Usurlus conceded, as the two men made their way down the corridor. “Suit yourself…. But the main danger will come from Rufus Glabas, who claims to support Emperor Emor while secretly consorting with the Hacia combine. Then there’s Porica Lakaris, who hopes I will marry her brainless daughter, and Catullus Skallos. A man who, if my information is correct, has feelers out to the Vords in case the despicable creatures conquer the Empire. Fortunately, none of them are likely to attack me with anything more pointed than words.”

“If you say so, sire,” Livius responded cynically. “But I’ll be there just in case.”

“As will Centurion Cato,” Usurlus observed. “Assuming Alamy has been able to round the rascal up and make him presentable. Between the two of you, I will feel quite safe.”

The Galaxy Room was a rectangular space, which—thanks to the sensaround built into the bulkheads—appeared to be floating in space. That was an illusion, of course, since it was impossible to see anything from the vantage point of a ship traveling through hyperspace, but it was effective nevertheless. So much so that Cato experienced a brief moment of vertigo as he entered the room and made his way back to the point where a bar had been set up with a spectacular nebula in the background. It looked like an exploding star shell—and glittered with reflected light.

Fifteen or twenty other people were present, all dressed in their evening finery, and of higher status than a mere Centurion. But, thanks to the respect routinely extended to soldiers, the other guests were polite, if somewhat distant. And that was fine with Cato, who planned to maintain a low profile throughout the meal and make a quick escape the moment it was over.

Fortunately, a retired Praefectus Castrorum and his wife were present, and like most staff officers, the Prefect was ready to hold forth at length regarding the sad state of the military in general and the 3rd Legion in particular, he having served in the 5th, which to hear him tell of it, was the finest group of men ever to take the field. It was boring stuff, but whenever the Prefect was talking, Cato wasn’t required to, and that suited him just fine.

The Prefect was droning on about the finer points of logistics, something he felt the 5th Legion was especially good at, when Usurlus entered the room, closely followed by Livius. Suddenly the center of social gravity shifted from lesser lights to the Legate, and Cato was free to drift away as an orgy of ass kissing began.

Finally, once the greeting process was over, and Usurlus took his seat at the head of the glittering table, Cato and the rest of the guests were free to do likewise. That was when Cato discovered that he was sandwiched between a paunchy merchant named Skallos on his left and a thirtysomething widow on his right, the latter being the more interesting of the two. She was attractive in a slightly worn sort of way—and very scantily dressed. That, at least, was a good thing, since she had a very nice figure.

The meal began, as such affairs always did, with obligatory toasts to the Empire, the Emperor, and various other notables, some of whom Cato had never heard of before. Eventually, as their glasses of wine were being refilled, the widow put her left hand on Cato’s right knee.

She smiled unapologetically when he looked at her. Cato would have said something at that point had Usurlus not preempted him. “Did all of you have an opportunity to meet Centurion Cato?” the Legate inquired smoothly.

Naturally, all eyes swung over to Cato as the widow found bare skin under the kilt and sent her hand up his thigh. “Good,” Usurlus continued, as if all of them had answered in the affirmative. “Now, those of you with a keen eye for military detail may have noticed the small X-shaped device located just above Centurion Cato’s medals. That signifies membership in the Legion’s Xeno Corps, an organization formed to cope with non-Uman criminals—some of whom have very unusual capabilities.

“Take the Sagathi shape shifters, for example,” Usurlus said, as his eyes roamed from face to face. “As you may have heard, they can impersonate any being having roughly the same mass they do. So how to catch them? Well, that’s where empaths like Centurion Cato come in. Because they can sense what we can’t.

“In fact, since Cato is with us tonight, perhaps he would be so kind as to give us a demonstration of his abilities. Tell me, Centurion Cato…. What is Citizen Belo feeling right now?”

The man in question was seated on the other side of the table. And what he was feeling was scared, although Cato had no way to know why and didn’t care. He was angry at Usurlus for using him as a source of cheap entertainment and uncomfortably aware of the widow’s hand, which had traveled halfway up his thigh and was about to enter dangerous territory.

So rather than remain where he was and be forced to deal with the pleasurable but possibly embarrassing results of his dinner companion’s advances, Cato slid his chair back and came to his feet. Then, happy to escape, he circled the table as if it were somehow necessary to close with Belo in order to “feel” his emotions.

Once in place, Cato placed his hands on the businessman’s shoulders, closed his eyes, and frowned. “Wait a moment…. Yes, yes, yes … There’s no doubt about it. Citizen Belo is hungry!”

That got a good laugh, and the sense of relief that emanated from Belo was almost palpable. But rather than release Cato from his social agony, Usurlus was determined to push on. “Very good, Centurion Cato,” he said dryly. “Although I think it’s safe to say that Citizen Mima’s lapdog could do as well!

“Perhaps a more difficult test of your capabilities is in order. I want you to move to your left. I will say a word as you pause behind each person—and you will communicate what they feel.”

Everyone in the room had influence of one kind or another, so the proposal was fraught with danger, and Cato’s forehead was populated by tiny beads of sweat. If thoughts could kill, Usurlus would have been dead many times over, regardless of the big bodyguard’s presence.

But thoughts couldn’t kill, which left Cato with no choice but to go along, albeit in his own way. Meaning that rather than give factual reports, the kind that could get him into trouble with the Legate’s guests, Cato chose to provide innocuous readouts and run the risk of triggering his host’s ire.

So when Cato took his place behind the Prefect’s wife, and Usurlus said the word “marriage,” the empath responded with the word “joy” rather than “boredom.”

A few minutes later, as he stood behind Rufus Glabus, Cato replied with “hope” when Usurlus offered the word “future,” even though the politician sitting in front of the Xeno cop was radiating a sense of doom. And, predictably enough, Glabus nodded in agreement.

And so the charade went until it was time for shipping magnate Catullus Skallos to respond. The trigger word was “Vord,” and rather than the dread most people in the room felt regarding the gaunt-looking aliens, Skallos projected something akin to eagerness. But, consistent with his previous readouts, Cato gave voice to the same emotion the rest of the guests had registered. And, as Cato made eye contact with Usurlus, he knew the Legate was onto him.

Mercifully, the process came to an end five minutes later, and when Cato returned to his seat, it was to discover that the widow was flirting with the middle-aged bureaucrat to her right. A development that left Cato free to eat as course after course of food began to arrive. There were some pro forma interactions with Skallos, but not many, for which Cato was grateful.

Eventually, after what felt like a century of boredom, the meal came to an end, and the Legate’s guests lined up to thank him as they left. Cato slipped three hand-dipped chocolates into the empty dispatch pouch on his belt, knowing how much Alamy would enjoy them, and was almost out the door when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. “Not so fast,” Livius said, as Cato came to a halt. “The Legate would like to speak with you in half an hour.”

Cato swore as only a veteran legionnaire can.

Livius grinned unsympathetically. “What did you expect? I’ve never heard such a load of bullshit! Tell me Centurion Cato—what am I feeling now?”

“You’re happy,” Cato answered resentfully, “because you’re a rotten sonofabitch.”

“You got that right,” Livius agreed cheerfully. “Be there, Cato…. Don’t make me come and find you.”

And with that, Cato was allowed to leave the sensaround for the corridor outside. Alamy was going to be pissed. He was in trouble again—but not for stabbing his food with a knife.

Having waited for thirty minutes, Cato made his way to the suite that Usurlus occupied, where he paused to straighten his uniform before pressing the button next to the door. He heard a distant bong, followed by a click, as Usurlus gave a verbal order.

Cato opened the door, took six paces into the cabin, and came to attention. His eyes were on a spot located six inches over the Legate’s head. “Centurion Cato, reporting as ordered, sir!”

Usurlus was seated in a well-upholstered chair with a drink in his hand. He was dressed in shimmery synsilk pajamas and apparently ready for bed. “Put that ridiculous helmet somewhere and have a seat,” Usurlus said. “Would you like a drink?”

Cato put the helmet on a table and took the chair across from Usurlus. He had already consumed two glasses of wine and was determined not to backslide where his drinking problem was concerned, so he answered accordingly. “No, sire, thank you.”

“So,” Usurlus said lazily, “did you enjoy dinner?”

“Yes, sire,” Cato replied. “I did.”

“You’re a terrible liar,” Usurlus observed as he took a sip of his drink. “And I’m an expert where lies are concerned. You hated it, didn’t you?”

There was a pause as Cato nodded reluctantly. “Sir, yes, sir.”

“And your responses to my little game? Were any of them truthful?”

“Yes, sire. When you said, ‘music,’ Citizen Tersus felt a sense of foreboding. His wife plays the harp.”

Usurlus chuckled. “In other words, he likes harp music as much as you like dinner parties.”

“Yes, sir.”

At that point there was movement beyond a half-opened door followed by the sound of a woman’s voice. “I’m going to take a bath,” she announced. “Are you coming?”

Cato thought the voice was familiar. Was it the widow? The one who had been sitting next to him during dinner? Yes, he thought it was.

“That sounds like fun,” Usurlus replied as he turned toward the bedroom. “Save some hot water for me!”

Then, having turned to Cato, Usurlus was serious. “And when I said, ‘Vord,’ how did Citizen Skallos respond?”

Suddenly Cato realized something that should have been apparent all along. Usurlus had been using him all right—but for a purpose other than entertainment. “Citizen Skallos felt a sense of eagerness, sire…. Verging on excitement.”

“And the others?”

“Dread, sire.”

“And for good reason,” Usurlus mused out loud. “You fought them—so you know. The Vords are warlike, their empire is still in the process of expanding, and we’re in their way. Emperor Emor is trying to negotiate with them, but they have taken control of two rim worlds and clearly have an appetite for more. I think Skallos is trying to cut a deal with them. An insurance policy if you will—just in case they win.”

“So what will you do?” Cato inquired.

“I will give his name to Imperial Intelligence,” Usurlus answered, “and request that they keep an eye on him. We live in a complicated world, Cato—and there are very few people we can trust.”

Cato sensed that the meeting was over. He stood, bent to retrieve his helmet, and was about to turn toward the door when Usurlus spoke again. “Give my regards to Alamy—and tell her that she’s doing a good job.”

Most people of the Legate’s rank wouldn’t have known Alamy’s name, much less sent a message to her; but Usurlus wasn’t most people. And, come to that, what did the message mean? What “job” was Usurlus referring to? There was no way to know as Cato said, “Good night,” and withdrew. Would Alamy be interested in a bath? Cato hoped so—and went to find out.

The city of Imperialus, on the planet Corin

The journey from Dantha to Corin was Alamy’s first trip on a spaceship, and as the Far Star was cleared to land in the city of Imperialus, she felt a tremendous sense of excitement. Because never, even in her wildest fantasies, had Alamy imagined that she would travel to another planet, much less the Uman Empire’s capital. Yet there she was, stretched out on an acceleration couch in the main lounge side by side with Cato, as the liner entered Corin’s gravity well and began to shake as she entered the upper atmosphere.

There were hundreds of people around them, all staring up at the overhead, where the ship’s progress could be monitored via a dozen large screens. The center picture showed clouds, the partially obscured brown landmasses beyond, and patches of blue that marked major bodies of water.

As she looked down on her new home, Alamy felt fear seep in to replace some of the excitement because so many things were unknown. Would Cato free her? Would he still want her? And what would she do if he didn’t? Alamy had been employed in a sandal factory before her father died, and her stepmother sold her into slavery, so she had no skills to speak of. It would be difficult to survive in a city like Imperialus were Cato to abandon her—so perhaps slavery would be better.

Cato, who could “feel” Alamy’s emotions, even if he couldn’t access her thoughts, reached over to squeeze a hand. He knew she was worried, and understandably so, but he had concerns of his own. Potentially serious concerns regarding the trip from the spaceport to the government zone where Usurlus lived.

Though not an expert where Imperialus was concerned, Cato had been stationed there twice and knew the city well enough. The streets could be dangerous, especially in slums like Port City, which was why wealthy citizens and important government officials flew from building to building in private air cars.

But, according to Livius, a motorcade had been laid on to transport Usurlus and his party from the spaceport to his home. The idea was to give the vid nets a photo op and a reason to report on the Legate’s return, plus his success in battling corruption on Dantha, an accomplishment that Emor’s surrogates would hold up as an example of what a good job the Emperor was doing. Which was why Usurlus couldn’t refuse to ride in a motorcade even though it was going to follow a predetermined route through one of the Imperial city’s most dangerous slums.

There would be bodyguards, of course, led by Livius, with Cato acting as second-in-command. Such was his duty. But the fact that Alamy would be traveling with the motorcade added to the sense of foreboding Cato felt and raised the stakes even higher, as the ship slowed and thunder rolled across Port City. Moments later, the ship was down, the dice had been thrown, and Cato knew that the rest would be a matter of luck.

TWO

The city of Imperialus, on the planet Corin

ONCE THE FAR STAR WAS ON THE GROUND, IT TOOK more than two hours for her passengers to disembark, and that included Legate Isulu Usurlus, who traveled with twenty-seven trunks, some of which had to be packed prior to being loaded on a truck for transshipment to his high-rise home. Fortunately, the motorcade’s schedule had been set to allow for a lengthy disembarkation process, so that wasn’t a problem.

The convoy was to include four policemen on gyro-stabilized unicycles, two armored stretch limos, plus a so-called war wagon that was supposed to bring up the rear. The vehicles and the personnel who were going to ride in them were assembled next to one of the spaceship’s enormous skids near the VIP ramp.

The group consisted of people from three different organizations, including the city’s police force, the Imperial Security Service (ISS), and the bodyguards who were part of the Legate’s household. So the first problem was that of command, which Livius solved by declaring himself to be in charge and staring down every man who looked as though he might object.

With that settled, and time ticking away, Livius laid out his plan. The unicycles would go first, sirens blaring, to disperse traffic. The limos would follow, roofs closed, with the war wagon bringing up the rear. Attackers, if any, would expect Usurlus to be in one of the limos, so Livius planned to put him in the last vehicle instead.

Not counting the policemen or Cato, the chief bodyguard had fourteen people to defend the motorcade. By putting five in each car and four in the war wagon, he intended to make sure that each element of the convoy could defend itself if it were cut off from the rest.

There was barely enough time to review radio procedures and check weapons before Usurlus plus Alamy and six personal attendants arrived on the tarmac. Ten minutes later, sirens wailing, the convoy of black vehicles left the relative security of the airport and entered the maze of streets that constituted Port City.

Alamy was in the first limo, all the way in the back, sitting next to a couple of the Legate’s servants. They were talking about how good it was to be home again as she peered out through bulletproof glass. Alamy had been reading about Imperialus in an effort to prepare herself for life in the city and to impress Cato. So as the motorcade pushed regular traffic out of the way, she knew that Imperialus occupied roughly five hundred square miles of land and boasted a population of more than fifteen million people, which meant that affordable living space was at a premium.

It was a problem Cato would have to confront very soon. She knew her master had been forced to borrow money in order to purchase her, and, having paid the debt prior to lifting from Dantha, was almost broke except for the money made playing cards with the Far Star‘s crew. The upshot was that things would be tight.

Was that why he hadn’t freed her? Alamy wondered. Because he wanted to save some money first? Maybe … But what if he was forced to sell her in order to pay his bills? That possibility filled Alamy with a sense of dread as Port City closed in around the car.

Having placed himself in the lead limo, which could be expected to come under attack first if there was an ambush, Livius had asked Cato to ride in the heavily armored war wagon with Usurlus. Then, if the motorcade was cut in two, each segment would have an experienced leader.

Now, as the convoy burrowed even deeper into the slum, groups of bystanders could be seen. They stood on street corners, where they cheered, waved enthusiastically, and held up freshly printed signs that had Emperor Emor’s smiling countenance on them. “All of them have been paid,” Usurlus said cynically as he stared out through a rectangular gun port. “That’s the only way someone of my rank can draw a crowd. Still, that’s good for the local economy,” he added dryly, “and it’s nice to see that the Office of Public Morale is doing its job.”

Cato wasn’t so sure. The whole charade seemed pointless to him, but he’d never been interested in politics even though he knew such things were important.

Meanwhile, a half dozen spherical media drones were cruising along fifteen feet above the motorcade, taking everything in. So they were in a good position to witness the full extent of the destruction as pre-positioned charges went off, and entire buildings tumbled into the street. Both were occupied, which meant that more than a hundred people were dead before the actual battle began.

The first rocket aimed at limo one hit, the resulting explosion rocking the vehicle from side to side, but heavy armor prevented the projectile from penetrating the interior. The doors on the right side of the vehicle were bent inward and jammed, but Livius discovered that those on the left were still operable and hurried to exit. “Come on!” he ordered. “Our job is to go back and defend the war wagon.”

Four security men followed Livius out into the roiling dust as incoming small-arms fire began to ping the limo and the doors slammed shut. Alamy had never been in such a situation before, but it was obvious that the attackers were going to inspect the vehicle as soon as they could and would probably kill everyone inside. “Quick!” Alamy said. “Lock the doors!”

The other women were frightened but used to following orders and quick to obey. Alamy heard a series of clicks as she crawled forward, slid in behind the wheel, and discovered that the engine was still running.

She had never driven any sort of motorized vehicle before; but she’d seen others do so and understood the controls. So Alamy locked the driver’s side door, and was about to kill the engine, when the dust began to clear, and three men appeared in front of her. They were firing assault weapons, which sparkled as they raked the windshield. The bullets couldn’t penetrate the glass but left milky white divots where they hit. Alamy feared that one or more of them would eventually punch through.

The act of putting the limo in gear and stomping on the accelerator was more a matter of impulse than careful planning, but the results were the same. Tires screeched as the vehicle lurched forward; two of the assailants went down and were subsequently killed as the car rolled over them. Then it crashed into the pile of debris that had been dumped into the street and came to a violent stop.

Alamy’s heart was beating like a trip-hammer as the third assassin appeared to her left and began to fire at the driver’s side window. That was when she spotted a row of buttons labeled ANTIPERSONNEL SYSTEMS and touched each one of them.

Alamy felt a sense of satisfaction as grenades sailed up into the air and exploded. A piece of shrapnel cut the gunman down as inky black smoke poured out of two dispensers located under the chassis and electrical discharges crackled all around the limo. Then, with nothing else to do, Alamy felt scared.

Livius was vaguely aware of the explosions behind him as he and four of his men sprinted back toward limo two. He was sorry that it had been necessary to leave the women on their own, but protecting Usurlus was his first priority.

Livius had traveled only fifteen feet when he heard a loud whoosh, and a rocket hit the limo just as the second security team was getting out of it. The explosion killed three people and left another on the ground clutching his right thigh. A fifth officer was down on his knees, trying to help the casualty, when automatic-weapons fire swept the area. It was coming from both sides of the street, and even though his men were firing back, Livius knew all of them were going to die if they remained out in the open.

“Get in the limo!” he shouted, and there was no need to repeat the order as a bullet punctured a man’s throat, and blood sprayed the road behind him. He went down clutching the wound in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding. Having spotted the action, an ITV camera drone swept in to get a close-up, took a bullet through its casing, and exploded.

All of the survivors were inside the limo by that time, including the individual who had been wounded in the rocket attack and hit again as he was dragged to safety. The vehicle shook like a thing possessed as another rocket hit it—and bullets continued to rattle against the limo’s heavily armored skin. “Put some counterfire on those bastards!” Livius ordered. “Who’s the best shot? Give him the sniper’s rifle and open the moon roof.”

There was a supply of both weapons and ammo under the floor, and it wasn’t long before an ISS agent named Cantos was targeting assassins in the buildings to the right. He was a true marksman, and soon thereafter the rate of incoming fire began to slack off. Livius took the opportunity to contact the war wagon. A quick glance at his watch told him that about six minutes had passed since the attack had begun. “Livius to Cato,” he said into the lip mike. “What’s your status? Over.”

The moment the demolition charges went off, and entire buildings fell into the street, Cato realized that they were up against professionals rather than a few wild-eyed fanatics. Knowing that the assassins wanted everyone to bail out, he insisted that they remain inside the war wagon while preparing to exit should that be necessary. Which was why Usurlus was wearing body armor and, at the Legate’s insistence, was armed with a submachine gun (SMG).

Given his day-to-day demeanor, it was easy to forget that the Legate was a general, who, given the competent manner in which he handled the SMG, hadn’t forgotten his early training. That at least was a positive as a rocket slanted down from a neighboring building, hit the roof, and exploded. The round failed to penetrate the war wagon’s armor. But the angle, plus the point of impact, combined to tip the vehicle over.

As he was thrown down, Cato realized that the bottom of the vehicle was exposed and wondered if it was armored. Probably, given the possibility of remotely detonated bombs, but he had no way to know for sure. “Give me a status report,” Livius demanded. “Over.”

“They blocked the road behind us,” Cato answered laconically, “and a rocket dumped the war wagon onto its side. But everybody’s okay at this point. Over.”

Livius took note of the last part of the message and knew it was Cato’s way of saying that Usurlus was alive without revealing which vehicle the Legate had been riding in. Because even though their transmissions were scrambled, there was always the possibility that their attackers had the capacity to decrypt the radio traffic somehow. “Okay…. My team and I were forced to hole up in limo two. We’ll join you ASAP. The ISS is sending a quick response team, ETA five minutes. Hang in there. Over.”

If Livius was in limo two—then what about Alamy in limo one? To say nothing of those with her. Cato wanted to know but couldn’t ask. He was about to respond to Livius when one of the team members interrupted. “They’re right outside! Trying to cut their way in!”

Even as the man spoke, a spot on the back door began to glow orange, a fiery jet stabbed through, and the assassin began a cut that ran down toward the ground. It was scary, but the clock was ticking, and help was on the way. Cato turned toward the man behind the wheel. Though still in the driver’s seat, the man was slumped sideways because the truck was lying on its side; he was trying to release the harness that held him in place. “Fire some grenades,” Cato ordered. “That should discourage the bastards.”

The driver flipped a switch and stabbed a button. Nothing happened. He stabbed it again. “It looks like the system was damaged. Sorry, sir.”

Cato was just about to go back and fire through one of the gun ports when Usurlus triggered the emergency escape hatch mounted at the center of what was normally the floor. Then, having swung his feet through the opening, he was outside firing the SMG.

Cato swore, followed the Legate out, and immediately came under fire from two assassins who materialized out of the swirling dust. The policeman was armed with a shotgun. He fired—and fired again.

One assailant threw up his hands as a full load of double-ought buckshot snatched him off his feet. The other assassin seemed to twirl as a couple of slugs hit him in the shoulder and turned him around. A third shot finished him off.

Turning to his left, Cato spotted Usurlus. The Legate was standing next to the war wagon, firing short, controlled bursts at a target the policeman couldn’t see, as incoming bullets spanged all around him. “Grab that crazy bastard,” Cato ordered grimly, “and get him inside.”

All of the security men had exited the war wagon by then—and two of them took Usurlus from behind. Within a matter of seconds, he was stripped of his weapon, hustled to the open hatch, and stuffed back inside.

Cato was about to join the Legate inside the war wagon when a thrumming sound was heard, two heavily armed ISS air cars arrived overhead, and gunfire lashed down. There weren’t all that many assassins left to shoot at, but Cato heard a whining sound and turned to see a unicycle coming straight at him. The rider was wearing civilian clothes and was clearly not a policeman, so Cato began the process of bringing the shotgun around and hoped there would be enough time.

The man on the cycle was guiding the one-wheeled vehicle with his knees, which left both hands free to fire identical pistols. Cato heard a bullet whisper past his ear and felt another tug at his sleeve as he fired. The buckshot hit its target, blew the rider out of his seat, and dumped him onto the pavement. The unicycle flashed past, hit a pile of rubble, and did a full somersault in the air before crashing to the ground.

* * *

Trey Omo wasn’t dead. Not yet, anyway, although he could feel his life’s blood draining out onto the pavement around him. He wasn’t especially surprised. Not after a lifetime of combat. Dying was disappointing, though, especially just one year short of the retirement he had promised himself and the peace that might have followed.

Omo heard gravel crunch under someone’s boots, blinked to clear his eyes, and saw the man with the shotgun loom above him. So he ordered his right arm to move, was pleased when it obeyed, and the pistol came up off the ground. That was when the shotgun spoke, Cato “felt” Omo die, and the battle came to an end.

Heart in his throat, Cato turned and hurried past the point where Livius was talking to one of the newly arrived security men. Limo one was pockmarked where hundreds of bullets had hit and covered with a thick layer of dust. Cato’s knuckles made a rapping sound as he knocked on the driver’s side door—and he could hardly believe his eyes when the window slid down. Because there, seated behind the wheel, was CeCe Alamy. Tears were rolling down her cheeks. “You’re alive.”

“Yes,” Cato answered as he opened the door to take her into his arms. “And so are you.”

Usurlus appeared out of the still-swirling dust as a chorus of sirens was heard, and an ITV media drone hovered above. He was unarmed but accompanied by three bodyguards. His face was drawn and serious. He nodded to Cato and Alamy as if meeting them for the first time. “Hello,” Usurlus said vacantly as he surveyed the destruction all around him. “And welcome to my world.”

It was dark by the time all of the wounded had been removed to hospitals, the dead taken to the district morgue, and the initial phase of the investigation completed. Legate Usurlus and his party were gone by then, leaving Cato and Alamy to find a hotel and get some sleep.

Having rescued their trunks from limo one, Cato hired a local to transport them to an arterial about five blocks away, aboard what normally served as a vegetable cart. Then, having paid the man fifty centimes, Cato hailed a ground cab. The driver was somewhat less than pleased when he saw how much luggage he had to deal with, but he managed to cram most of it into the vehicle’s trunk while swearing under his breath. The final case went into the back with Alamy, which forced Cato to sit up front next to the driver. “Take us to the Fonta Hotel,” he instructed, hoping that the hostelry was still there.

“Got it,” the driver said as he pulled away from the curb. Traffic was heavy, so it took the better part of twenty minutes to crawl past the brightly lit spaceport and cross the river that separated the south side of the city from the more prosperous north. District Four was generally referred to as Far Corner because it was a long commute from the city center, which was where all of the governmental and corporate office buildings were located.

Far Corner was a lower-middle-class neighborhood, but still respectable, and the area where Cato hoped to find an apartment. Not so much for himself, because he could survive just about anywhere, but for Alamy. And that was strange because of the nature of their relationship. The truth was that, in the normal order of things, most slave owners wouldn’t care whether their property was comfortable or not. But Cato did, and that meant finding somewhere decent to live.

The Fonta Hotel had seen better days, but that was just as well given the need to keep expenses down. A creaky android came out to greet the couple and help with their luggage. The red uniform the machine wore was a bit threadbare but otherwise presentable.

Cato paid the cabbie, took Alamy’s hand, and led her into a dark, shabbily furnished lobby. The woman behind the reception counter had multiple bod mods, including a forked tongue, which had been very much in style six years earlier. Alamy watched in fascination as it flicked in and out. “Good evening,” the clerk said pleasantly. “What can I do for you?”

“We need a room,” Cato replied. “For one—maybe two nights.”

“Excellent,” the woman responded. “And how would you like to pay? With a chip? Or cash in advance?”

Cato had a credit chip embedded under the skin of his right wrist, but there was nothing in the account to draw upon. “That’ll be cash,” he said. “How large a deposit do you need?”

“Ten Imperials should cover it,” the woman said as she eyed an ancient monitor. “Room 204 is available and looks out onto the street. I’ll print a keycard.”

The couple were up in their room fifteen minutes later. It was worn, but reasonably clean, and was a welcome sanctuary after the assassination attempt. Cato took Alamy into his arms and kissed her. “The women in limo one told me what you did. That was very brave.”

Alamy looked up at him. Her eyes were huge in the dim light. “I was scared.”

“So was I,” Cato replied. “And we had every right to be.”

“Who were they?” Alamy wanted to know. “And why did they want to kill Usurlus?”

“The investigation will take time,” Cato predicted. “Five of the would-be assassins had nearly identical tattoos. All of them featured two snakes wrapped around a ring and facing each other at the top. Sound familiar?”

The design was familiar and for good reason. As one of Procurator Nalomy’s kitchen slaves, Alamy had been required to serve the governor and her guests. In that role she had seen the family crest displayed on silverware, fancy china, and napkins. “The Nalomy family was behind it!” Alamy exclaimed.

“Exactly,” Cato agreed. “Or so it appears, although I suspect that Senator Tego Nalomy and his staff will not only deny the connection but produce a fancy story to explain the tattoos. It makes sense, however—and Usurlus will have to be very careful indeed.”

“What about you?” Alamy wanted to know. “You had a role in bringing Procurator Nalomy down as well.”

“I’m small fry,” Cato replied dismissively. “I doubt the Senator even knows my name. No, you and I have a bigger problem to confront, and soon, too.”

Alamy smiled. “What’s that?”

“We need an apartment,” Cato replied, “and it’s going to be hard to find.”

“That’s true,” Alamy allowed gently. “But that’s tomorrow—and this is tonight.”

Cato kissed her, and a siren wailed outside somewhere, but neither one of them heard it.

Slaves weren’t allowed in the dilapidated restaurant without their owners, so Alamy was waiting outside the door when Cato arrived. It was humiliating, but Cato seemed to be completely unaware of the problem as they entered the room together. Could he switch his talent off? Or was it on, and he just didn’t care? There was no way to know.

After they had been seated, and ordered breakfast, Alamy placed two sheets of paper in front of Cato. Having requested a list of rentals in the Far Corner area from the desk clerk, and assured him that she was acting on Cato’s behalf, Alamy had gone through hundreds of listings looking for what she judged to be the sort of place he might like. And, having a pretty good idea of how much money her owner had to spend, which apartments were worth taking a look at.