Bones of Empire (8 page)

Shani shook her head. “No, sir. The pile of shit had already been neutralized by then.”

“That's correct,” Cato replied sternly. “Plus it was stupid. As you learned when three of the civvie's friends beat the crap out of you. But I'm going to send an officer to that bar to find out if there were any law-abiding citizens who might have felt that your actions were appropriate. Then we're going to run a check on the other people in the fight. Chances are that at least a couple of them have criminal records. If so, we'll be able to argue that you kicked the pile of shit in the head because you ‘sensed' his buddies were about to attack you. I have a feeling that Inobo won't buy it, but if the other officers on the board do, you'll get off. Which, all things considered, is more than you deserve.”

Shani felt a profound sense of gratitude, which Cato was quick to pick up on. He smiled tightly. “You're welcome. Now let's get the hell out of here. We have work to do.”

The sprawling villa was perched on a hilltop, where it was not only subject to the cooling breezes during that latitude's long, hot summers, but had sweeping views of the family's compound, the whitewashed town in which staff and hundreds of slaves were quartered, and ultimately the vineyards for which the clan was justifiably famous.

But the wine produced by the Nalomy family was little more than a profitable hobby since their most important source of income was the money derived from the business of politics. A two-way affair in which more than a dozen members of the clan provided their skills as council members, mayors, senators, and even governors in return for not only the salaries and perks associated with those positions but the money that could be made through influence peddling, insider trading, and contract fixing. All were crimes that carried heavy penalties if caught, but the Nalomys had excellent attorneys, and only a few members of the family had been sent to the prison planet named Sand over the past fifty years.

There had been one significant loss, however, and that was the death of Governor Uma Nalomy, Senator Tegor Nalomy's only child. A beautiful if headstrong young woman who was not only the person the elder Nalomy loved most other than himself, but was being groomed to become Empress eventually, when she had been set upon by a mob of angry citizens who had literally torn her apart.

The thought of that, and the memory of the small casket that contained little more than his daughter's severed head, was enough to start the tears flowing down Senator Nalomy's carefully biosculpted cheeks as he stood on the porch that circled the main house and looked out over the well-cultivated land. Property that would now go to a less-than-promising nephew in the wake of his death.

The reality of that served to rekindle the anger Nalomy felt toward Legate Isulu Usurlus for bringing his daughter down. A man who, by all rights, should have been killed in the carefully choreographed Port City ambush but had miraculously survived thanks largely to the efforts of a Xeno cop named Cato. The fact that the two men were still alive was nothing less than maddening.

But not for long,
Nalomy promised himself, as a Tas bird rode a distant thermal higher into the sky. Because he was a patient man, and would
never
give up his quest for revenge, not so long as there was a breath in his body.

Nalomy's morose thoughts were interrupted as a tone sounded in his ear. He never took calls directly, preferring to have them screened first, so he knew the call was important. A single voice command was sufficient to open the circuit. “Yes? This is Senator Nalomy.”

“Of course it is,” the man on the other end of the call replied confidently. “This is Emor. . . . I'd like to get your opinion on something.”

Nalomy was not only startled, but amazed, since Emperor Emor and he had never been on especially good terms. A schism that had widened during the months since his daughter's death. Yet here, on a com call, was Emor, seeking some sort of guidance. Perhaps the senatorial wags were correct. . . . Maybe the old fart
was
losing his mind. If so, Nalomy hoped to profit.

“Emperor Emor!” Nalomy said enthusiastically. “This is both a pleasure and an honor. I would be happy to help in any way that I can. What's the subject?”

“The Vords,” Emor answered succinctly. “As you know, they took control of Therat, a planet that isn't especially important in and of itself but is part of the Empire. Simply put, the bastards are willing to discuss the matter, and as you may have heard, I'm willing to hear them out. The question is whether we should take a hard line, and threaten war, or sacrifice Therat to buy more time. As you are the leader of the Core World Combine, I would be interested in your opinion.”

The Core World Combine was a group of Senators who generally favored a strong central government, wanted special rights for the founding worlds, and generally opposed equal representation for the rim worlds since that would dilute the Senators' considerable power. So if Emor was checking to see how much support there would be for letting the aliens have Therat, it was a good indication of the Combine's steadily growing influence and a sign that the Emperor was crafty rather than crazy.

“It would be an honor to provide an opinion,” Nalomy said smoothly. “Generally speaking, my associates and I oppose spending the Empire's money to defend planets that continually whine about the tax burden imposed on them while demanding equal representation. So, much as I sympathize with the people of Therat, I believe that most members of the Combine would understand the need to sacrifice the planet as part of a strategic plan directed at strengthening the Empire's defenses. Because I assume that once our Navy is in position, it will send the Vords packing.”

“Yes, of course,” Emor replied vaguely, as if already bored with the subject. “You have been most helpful, Senator. . . . And I appreciate it. Tell me, how's your daughter? Well, I hope.”

Nalomy frowned. What was this? A cruel joke? Or evidence that the rumors regarding Emor were true? There was no way to know, and given how powerful the Emperor was, Nalomy knew it was important to watch his tongue. “My daughter is dead, Excellency. . . . Murdered by a mob on Dantha.”

“Oh, that's right,” Emor replied hurriedly. “How stupid! I hope you'll forgive me.”

“Yes, of course,” Nalomy lied.

“Well, then,” Emor replied awkwardly, “I'm sure we'll talk soon. Good-bye.”

That was followed by an audible
click
as the connection was broken. Nalomy's wife was dead, but his mistress was very much alive and clad in little more than a very revealing toga as she stepped out onto the porch. “Oh, there you are,” she said. “Lunch is ready. Who were you talking to?”

“A very strange man,” Nalomy grated as he turned to follow her inside. “And one we need to replace.”

IT HAD BEEN A LONG DAY, AND BY THE TIME CATO
got off the subway and let the rush-hour crowd carry him up to the surface, he was dog tired. But rather than head for the hotel and some well-deserved rest, he had a long climb in front of him. Because the apartment Alamy had found for them was upslope.
Way
upslope, judging from the directions she had given him via their prospective landlord's pocket com. A selection that wasn't going to work.

So as Cato boarded the crowded escalator that would carry him and hundreds of other citizens up through the midslope area, he was trying to figure out how to say no without making Alamy feel bad, and berating himself for assigning her such a difficult task to begin with. She was still very young, had been raised on a nowhere planet, and had no knowledge of Imperialus. Sending her out to find an apartment had been half lunacy and half desperation.

The climb from the escalator terminal to the upper reaches of the crater's rim did nothing to make Cato feel better, so by the time he spotted the plaque that read ARBOR HOUSE, he was both exhausted and grumpy. But Alamy was waiting to greet him, and the look of excitement on her face was such that any complaint regarding the climb would have seemed churlish, so he forced a smile instead. “Come on!” Alamy said excitedly. “I can't wait for you to see it.”

The sun had already started to set as Alamy escorted Cato in through the garden, and there was something wonderfully domestic about walking arm in arm with her as she described her day. “So,” Alamy concluded, “this was the last place on my list. What do you think so far?”

“I think it's a helluva climb—but it's a nice-looking house. Almost
too
nice. Are you sure we can afford it?”

 

 

Cato could have said “I,” and Alamy took note of the fact that he hadn't as she looked up at him. “It's only forty-five Imperials a month!” she announced cheerfully. “Madam Faustus likes the idea of having a policeman around the place—so she's willing to give us a break.”

That was true, of course, but Alamy had chosen to omit mention of the chores she had agreed to do to help offset some of the rent, fearing that Cato's pride might get in the way. Even though she was his slave, she was his lover, too, and might become something more one day. All of which made for a confusing mix of hopes, fears, and sometimes-conflicting motivations.

 

 

Cato took note of the flight of stairs that led up to the second floor but didn't say anything as Alamy opened the door and waited for him to precede her. He was both surprised and pleased by the size of the living room/kitchen combination, as well as the presence of some furniture, and the nicely appointed half bath. It was definitely better than anything they had seen on the lower slopes, and the price was right. There was a problem, however, and a rather obvious one at that. “Where would we sleep?” Cato wanted to know. “I don't see a bed.”

“Follow me,” Alamy replied, with a smile on her face. “The bedroom is upstairs.”

“Of course it is,” Cato replied good-naturedly, as she led the way up the spiral staircase and into the room above. The western horizon was awash in pink light as the sun sank below it, and the rest of the city's lights came on. The combination was so stunning it brought Cato to a complete stop as he looked out through the front window. “My God, Alamy,” he said. “It's absolutely beautiful!”

 

 

It was the reaction that Alamy had been hoping for. She felt a flush of pleasure as Cato pulled her close and turned to kiss her on the mouth. The moment lasted a good thirty seconds, and when it was over, he looked down on her admiringly. “You are absolutely amazing. . . . Both of us will have thighs like tree trunks before we move out, but it will be worth it, and I promise not to complain. Not much, anyway.”

Alamy laughed, another kiss followed, and one thing led to another. Finally, wonderfully spent and still wrapped in Alamy's arms, Cato kissed her cheek. “Thank you, Alamy. . . . This is the nicest home I've ever had.”

Alamy felt the same way, but for different reasons, which was a subtlety that not even a skilled empath could detect. The sun had set by then, stars twinkled in the sky, and two of the city's fifteen million citizens were happy.

 

 

Clouds screened the dimly seen sun as it cleared the crater's rim and continued to inch higher in the sky. As Usurlus left the air-conditioned comfort of his home and made his way across the veranda toward the waiting air cars, he could taste the bitter, ozone-laced air, hear the incessant roar of traffic, and feel the city's energy pulsating all around him. All of which was normal. Unfortunately, Usurlus couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong,
seriously
wrong even though he couldn't put a finger on what the problem was.

Livius was waiting next to the first of two cars, along with a robotic body double who, the Legate suddenly realized, looked at least a year younger than he did! The fact that his body was aging brought a frown to his face as he said, “Good morning,” and entered the vehicle that bore his family's crest.

Minutes later Usurlus, Livius, and a bodyguard named Maximus were airborne and on their way to the sixteen-hundred-foot-tall Imperial Tower. The cylindrical building was thicker at the bottom than the top, and in addition to serving as the Emperor's main residence, provided office space for the officials who actually ran the government's day-to-day functions.

Given its importance, the tower was always at the center of an airborne traffic jam, but rank hath its privileges, and the Legate's car was given a Class 2 priority, which meant his vehicle was allowed to swoop in onto the twenty-second floor after circling for a mere thirteen minutes. A very speedy landing indeed.

The entire floor was dedicated to the task of launching and retrieving official vehicles, but was always crowded nevertheless, and subject to what could only be described as organized chaos. Although the air car was allowed to put down in a VIP slot, the pilot was required to take off the moment that the official and his bodyguards were clear of the blast zone, so another vehicle could land in it. An administrative robot was waiting to lead Usurlus and his security detail into a brightly lit lobby.

The android was six feet tall, equipped with a face that was intended to be reassuringly Uman without being memorable, and spoke in a well-modulated voice. “Good morning, Legate Usurlus,” the machine said politely. “My name is Civius. Please let me know if there is anything I can do to make your visit to the Imperial Tower more pleasant. The Emperor's secretary knows that you are here—and is looking forward to meeting with you. Please follow me.”