Bones of Empire (3 page)

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 business-man'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 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.

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.