Bones of Empire

Table of Contents

 

GALACTIC BOUNTY
FREEHOLD
PRISON PLANET
IMPERIAL BOUNTY
ALIEN BOUNTY
McCADE'S BOUNTY
DRIFTER
DRIFTER'S RUN
DRIFTER'S WAR
LEGION OF THE DAMNED
BODYGUARD
THE FINAL BATTLE
WHERE THE SHIPS DIE
STEELHEART
BY BLOOD ALONE
BY FORCE OF ARMS
DEATHDAY
EARTHRISE
FOR MORE THAN GLORY
FOR THOSE WHO FELL
RUNNER
LOGOS RUN
WHEN ALL SEEMS LOST
WHEN DUTY CALLS
AT EMPIRE'S EDGE
BONES OF EMPIRE

Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen's Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)

Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)

Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India

Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)

Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

 

Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

 

This is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

 

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.

Copyright © 2010 by William C. Dietz.

 

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions. ACE and the “A” design are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

 

 

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

 

Dietz, William C.

p. cm.

eISBN : 978-1-101-44370-5

1. Human-alien encounters—Fiction. 2. Shapeshifting—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3554.I388B66 2010

813'.54—dc22 2010023027

 

 

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?”