At Empire's Edge (5 page)

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.

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
Pax Umana
could be repaired and put back into service.

But there were regulations, a lot of them, which pertained to how shape shifters could and could not be held. One of them specified that “. . . Should it be necessary to hold a Sagathi in something less than a Class A prison, then such prisoners will be incarcerated in the most secure structure available, providing that it is at least twenty-five miles from any settlement, town, or city with a population of more than ten people, and providing that said structure would be vulnerable to an air strike should such an attack become necessary.”

This was a fancy way of saying that if a Sagathi were to take control of an interim holding facility, the Imperial government was prepared to bomb it regardless of the consequences for any Xeno Corps personnel who might be inside, rather than run the risk of having someone like Verafti running loose. A sobering thought indeed, but not one Sivio cared to dwell on, as the transport began to bank. “There it is,” the pilot said laconically, as he pointed toward the ground. “Station 3.”

Back when Dantha had been used as a prison planet, and the people who were sent there had been forced to work in the mines, a series of fortified way stations had been set up. And for good reason too, because as the convicts were forced to trudge across the aptly named Plain of Pain toward the iridium-rich crater beyond, they had been easy prey for a variety of carnivores, as well as escaped convicts, who would gladly kill a “newbie” for his or her rations.

Eventually, after other less expensive ways of obtaining iridium came online and Dantha was opened to settlement by people other than convicts, the way stations had fallen into disuse. Which meant that before the Xeno Corps personnel could make use of Station 3, it would be necessary to repair it.

And, from what Sivio could see as he looked down on it, there was plenty of work to do. One section of the protective wall that surrounded the fortlike building was down, there was a large hole in one side of the roof, and the western defenses were nearly submerged under windblown sand. “It looks lovely,” Sivio said dryly. “I can hardly wait to move in.”

The pilot laughed politely as he brought the boxy transport in for a landing. But the truth was that he was looking forward to off-loading Sivio, his bioengineered freaks,
and
the Sagathi shape shifter, who had assumed the pilot’s identity a few minutes earlier and was pretending to masturbate. It was a rather disturbing sight, which the pilot could watch via one of the cameras in the main hold but sought to ignore as a cloud of dust rose to envelop the ship.

Jak Cato was asleep as the transport’s landing skids made contact with the ground, but opened his eyes when Sivio’s knuckles made contact with the top of his helmet. “Hello,” Sivio said experimentally. “Is anyone home?”

The line produced a chorus of chuckles from the rest of the team, and a grunt of acknowledgment from the SL himself, as the peace officers hit their harness releases and went to work. A sweaty business, since it was hot outside, and the transport’s air-conditioning system was no match for the superheated air that invaded the hold.

The first task was to off-load Verafti, cage and all. Not only did the pilot want to leave as soon as possible; he claimed that conditions were right for a sandstorm. Sivio had no way to gauge whether that was true, or if the pilot was simply in a hurry to leave, but there was no reason to tarry. So Sivio ordered his officers to roll the cage down the metal ramp, onto the hardpan, and into the walled compound beyond.

Having grown tired of impersonating the pilot, Verafti had reverted to his true form by then, and was uncharacteristically silent as Cato and four members of his section pushed the rolling cage under a stone archway and into the courtyard. Except for some chunks of fallen rock, and a cluster of sand-drifted campfires, the area was empty. Beyond it stood a structure made of tightly fitted stone. The front steps were visible, as were an open door, and the relatively cool darkness beyond. “Welcome home,” Cato said, as the cage rattled across the courtyard. “It’s better than you deserve!”

But Verafti was busy taking it all in, memorizing every detail, as the variants were forced to stop in front of the stairs. “It looks like we’re going to have to build a ramp,” Cato announced sourly. “Kelkaw, take Tonver, and return to the transport. See what you can find. We’ll wait here.”

Once the variants had left, Cato posted guards, and set off to reconnoiter. After activating his helmet light the noncom entered the dark, gloomy building. The white blob led him past an office, and what might have been a guardroom, into a large space that was partially illuminated by the sunlight that streamed down through the hole in the roof. Cato paused there to look around. And that was when he saw the rows of ring bolts that were anchored to the stone floor and the sand-drifted channels that ran between them. Open sewers most likely, which the prisoners had been forced to use, so the guards wouldn’t have to unchain them.

The place was a mess, a
big
mess, but Cato knew Sivio well enough to know that the prospect of some hard work wouldn’t be enough to deter him. And it wasn’t long before the prediction was proven true as a ramp was constructed, Verafti was wheeled inside, and a variety of construction materials were removed from the transport. The aircraft departed shortly after the last crate came off, leaving the police officers to clean out decades’ worth of accumulated filth and establish rudimentary living quarters within the fortresslike station.

But before the variants could make much progress, the formerly blue skies took on a grayish hue—and a vast cloud of billowing dust bore down on them from the southwest. Sivio ordered the team to bring the remaining supplies inside the compound as quickly as possible. It wasn’t long before Cato felt a stinging sensation as the wind fired tiny grains of silica into his exposed skin. Ten minutes later a blinding sandstorm drove the entire team inside and attacked everything they had left behind. There was nothing the police officers could do at that point except try to make themselves comfortable and wait for conditions to improve.

Finally, having cleaned out the largest room, those not assigned to guard duty attempted to get some sleep. It was quiet except for the persistent roar of the wind, until Verafti’s slightly sibilant voice was heard. “You know,” the shape shifter observed philosophically, “it’s hard to say who is going to suffer more out here . . . me or
you
.”

Cato told Verafti to “Shut the hell up,” but Sivio was pretty sure that he knew the answer, and didn’t like the idea one bit.

 

 

It was a long night, and when morning came, the skies were clear once more. So after a cold breakfast, Cato and his section were put to work digging supplies out from under the drifts of sand that had covered them and hauling the crates inside where they were unloaded. Once that chore was accomplished, it was time to begin work on some much-needed repairs.

The hole in the roof came first. By using materials salvaged from an outbuilding, the police officers were able to recover enough wood to sister the existing rafters. With the support structure secure, large pieces of resin-infused fabric were nailed in place. Then, once the catalyst contained in the regularly spaced blister packs was released, the formerly pliable covering hardened into something comparable to sheets of plastic.

Meanwhile, as Cato and his people completed repairs to the roof, Sivio put the other section to work revitalizing the well by repairing the old pump and bringing a steady flow of water up to the surface. It was lunchtime by then, so those variants who weren’t on guard duty sought shady spots in which to eat, complain about the heat, and trade well-polished lies.

Everyone except Cato, that is, who went looking for Sivio and found him sitting on an empty crate. Cato started to come to attention, but Sivio shook his head. “Save it for when I’m mad at you,” he said. “Which, knowing you, will be later in the day. Nice job on the roof by the way—the patch looks like it will hold for quite a while.”

“Thank you, sir,” Cato replied. “I’ll pass that along to my team.”

“Please do,” Sivio said as he squinted up at the noncom. “So, what’s on your mind?”

“I heard that you plan to put up solar panels this afternoon,” Cato said. “Is that true?”

Sivio removed an unlikely-looking piece of dried fruit from the dessert pack, took an experimental bite, and came to the conclusion that it would be necessary to soak the morsel before chewing it. “Yeah,” Sivio replied casually, “that’s correct. It would be nice to have some power in this dump. Especially at night. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Sir, yes, sir,” Cato answered respectfully. “But what about the external defenses? Maybe we should tackle those first.”

Sivio looked surprised. “ ‘External defenses’? What for? We’re on an Imperial planet, out in the middle of a frigging desert. Who would attack us here?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Cato replied lamely. “It’s a feeling, that’s all. Kelkaw saw a glint of reflected light off to the east, as if someone was watching us, and Honis happened across some weird com traffic. It was in another language, sir, and that got me to thinking. We’d make a pretty good target out here. Our weapons alone are worth a lot of money.”