Bones of Empire (17 page)

You'll be sorry,
Heon predicted darkly, but Nusk chose to ignore the comment as the formal discussions got under way. It was something of a farce since the Vords were referring to Therat as “a protectorate,” as if to suggest that they were protecting the population in some way, while Rolari and his diplomats were calling the loss “a serious provocation.” Such language sought to position the “incident,” as they referred to it, as a minor annoyance rather than a violation of Imperial sovereignty.

Such positions were ridiculous, but they gave both parties some cover and served to make the talks possible. Verafti did the best he could to look interested but found it difficult to pay attention since the outcome made no difference to him. But finally, after what seemed like hours but was only forty-five minutes, the formal agenda came to an end as both sides agreed to schedule another meeting.

That was when nervous looks were exchanged, and everyone other than the two principals stood and trooped out of the room via the main entrance. Once the two of them were alone, Verafti was quick to seize the initiative. “So,” he began, “that was a waste of time, wasn't it?”

Be careful,
Heon cautioned.
He's trying to circumvent formal negotiations.

“I'm not sure I understand,” Nusk responded cautiously.

“I could be wrong,” Verafti replied, “but it's my guess that you plan to attack the Umans no matter what they do.”

Why is he talking as if he's a member of another race?
Heon wanted to know.

Nusk had no idea. “No,” he lied, “we are negotiating in good faith.”

Verafti laughed. “Okay, if you say so. Tell me, Ambassador Nusk. . . . What does a Vord taste like?”

There was a moment of silence as Verafti activated a remote—and Nusk wondered if the translator was working properly. He was still working on a response when the door to the Imperial residence opened and six identical Emperor Emors entered the room. Heon said,
Run!
But it was too late as the robots grabbed hold of Nusk's arms and half carried, half dragged him away. The diplomat screamed for help, but there was no response.

“They can't hear you,” Verafti explained matter-of-factly as he followed along behind. “The walls are very thick.”

Then Nusk was inside the Imperial apartments, where the robots began systematically to strip away his clothes. They were quite efficient, so it was only a matter of minutes before Nusk and Heon were nude, and completely vulnerable. “I'll tell you what,” Verafti said as he began to morph into his true form. “Why don't you hide—and let's see if I can find you.”

Look for a door!
Heon ordered.
Find a way out!

Nusk took off at a jog. He opened each door he saw only to discover a succession of bedrooms, bathrooms, and closets. The diplomat's heart was beating wildly, his breath came in short gasps, and he had soiled himself by the time Verafti cornered him in the vast kitchen. A rack of knives was handy, so the shape shifter took one and held it away from his body. The long, narrow blade was used for boning, and was razor-sharp.

“I'm disappointed,” Verafti said as he began to close in on the cowering Vord. “
Very
disappointed. It has been a long time since I enjoyed a good chase. I can sense your fear, you know, and I wish I had time to savor it, but the others are waiting.”

Nusk uttered one last scream as light flashed off polished metal and cold steel sliced through Heon's soft flesh and into his own. The last thing he saw was blood spraying the area around him as he fell. As his body hit the floor, he saw the lights roll out of focus and wondered how such a thing could happen to him. Then he was gone.

Verafti uttered a growl of satisfaction, pounced on the body, and tore big chunks of bloody flesh off it. He was hungry,
very
hungry, and pleased to learn that Vords tasted good.

Rolari was anxious and for good reason. Having been disengaged of late, Emperor Emor had chosen to participate in direct negotiations with the Vords. So, which man was meeting with Ambassador Nusk? The erratic Emor, who might be mentally unstable, or what Rolari thought of as the
real
Emor? A man with a reputation as a savvy negotiator. There was no way to be sure—and the fate of the Empire could be hanging in the balance.

So Rolari felt a keen sense of apprehension as the long wait ended, the double doors swung open, and the two principals emerged together. “It was a hard-fought battle,” Emor's body double said cheerfully, as both Umans and Vords stood. “But I believe significant progress was made. Would you agree, Ambassador Nusk?”

After a quick meal, and a hot shower, Verafti felt refreshed. Now, as he took a few steps forward, he faced a critical test. Nusk had been at least six and a half feet tall, and there was the parasite to re-create as well, so it had been difficult to muster enough mass to impersonate both at once.

But, regardless of species, it was Verafti's experience that sentients see what they
expect
to see. So if the new Nusk was a tiny bit shorter, and somewhat leaner than the original had been, the odds were good that no one would notice. And that appeared to be the case since neither one of the other Vords displayed any signs of alarm as he entered the lobby. That left the issue of language, which he planned to keep to a minimum as he worked to master the Vord tongue. “Yes, I agree,” Verafti replied succinctly.

The meeting came to a quick conclusion after that as the Vords were taken back to the spaceport, and consistent with orders received from the being it believed to be Emperor Emor, the body double returned to the blood-splattered residence. Having completed its mission, the robot went to the storage room where he and his peers were kept, took his place in line, and switched to standby. His duties were complete.

 

 

It was a warm, slightly humid evening, so the windows were open on the chance that a refreshing breeze might find its way up the hillside and into the apartment. It was never entirely dark in the bedroom thanks to all the light generated by the city below. So as Alamy lay on her back and stared upward, she could see shadows crawling across the ceiling. Cato, who was lying next to her, made a gentle rasping noise with every breath he took. It wasn't loud enough to qualify as a snore, and the sound was reassuring in a way since it meant he was only inches from her.

Cato wasn't angry with her—that's what he maintained, anyway—but the two of them hadn't spent much time together since Verafti's attack. Cato avowed that was because he had to deal with the aftermath of the Galaxus Hotel battle and find the Kelf believed to be responsible for training the pickpocketing plants and collecting the loot hidden in their pots.

But Alamy had her doubts. She couldn't feel Cato's emotions, not the way the empath could access hers, but she was a woman. And women
know
. That's what Madam Faustus claimed anyway—and Alamy thought so, too.

It would have been easy to blame the situation on Shani, especially given the way the other woman was coming on to Cato and the advantages she had. Because Shani was both an empath and a cop—qualities Alamy couldn't hope to match.

But she knew Shani wasn't the problem. Not the
real
problem. That was located deep inside Cato. Part of the man was in love with her. Alamy was convinced of that. But another part was reluctant to make a commitment—and didn't have to so long as she was his slave. And Shani didn't require anything of Cato other than the absolute loyalty that cops expect of each other. Her life ran shift to shift, day by day, just like his did.

Such were Alamy's thoughts as one of the shadows that was creeping across the ceiling broke suction and fell. The slither flipped in midair and landed belly down across Alamy's face. She screamed, or tried to, but couldn't make a sound because of the way the rubbery flesh covered her nose and mouth. Alamy tried to rip the creature loose, but it was pancake-thin, and the suction was strong.

Rollo squawked loudly as one of the foot-long creatures dropped on him. It wasn't able to get a purchase, however, and fell free as the angen took to the air and sounded the alarm. “Bad things! Bad things!”

Cato was up by then, clad in no more than a pair of shorts, having been awoken by the way Alamy was thrashing around. He ordered the lights on, and what he saw made his skin crawl. Dozens of leechlike things were inching their way across the ceiling! They emanated a raw pent-up hunger and were flat enough to slide under a door had that been necessary. But it looked as though the creatures had been able to enter through the open windows.

But there was no time to take in more than that as Cato turned his attention to Alamy and the creature wrapped around her face. It was difficult to get his fingers in under the ridge of muscular flesh, but once he managed to break suction, the slither uttered a high-pitched squealing sound and wiggled in an attempt to free itself.

Dozens of tiny puncture wounds could be seen where the leech's hollow teeth had penetrated Alamy's skin and begun to suck blood out of her body. Her chest heaved as she sucked air into her oxygen-starved lungs, and Cato threw the loathsome animal at the opposite wall. The slither rolled itself into a ball during the flight, bounced off the wall without having suffered obvious damage, and rolled under the bed.

Meanwhile, slapping noises were heard as half a dozen of the leeches fell on Cato. Only four of them managed to connect, but that was enough as he struggled to peel the horrors off. “Fire!” he shouted, as hundreds of tiny teeth punctured his skin. “Try fire!”

It was a good suggestion, but Alamy didn't have a ready source of heat, so as Cato struggled to peel one of the monstrosities off his left shoulder, she ran to her dresser and opened the drawer where her sewing materials were kept. Then, scissors in hand, she ran back to the side of the bed and began to stab the loathsome creatures. The trick was to do damage without driving the point through the slither and into Cato.

The leeches squealed in pain, curled up into what looked like black-rubber balls, and bounced as they hit the floor. That was when Cato finally had the opportunity to snatch his pistol off the nightstand and fire at the creatures. Alamy placed her hands over her ears as he shot both the slithers that were still inching their way across the ceiling and those rolling around the floor. Each hit produced a fountain of blood followed by flapping movements as the animal died.

It wasn't long before Cato ran out of ammo, making it necessary to insert another magazine into his handgun, but most of the invaders were dead by then. That included the slither Rollo had killed and was ripping apart with his razor-sharp beak.

Cato was about to look under the bed when Alamy grabbed his arm. “Jak! What about Madam Faustus?”

Cato swore, made for the stairs, and raced downward. Then he went out the front door, and down another set of stairs, before running over to his landlady's door. There was no need to ring the bell or bang on the door. The gunfire had awoken Madam Faustus, and she was waiting for him. “Jak? What's wrong? Are you and Alamy okay?”

“Just barely,” Cato replied. “May I come in? Someone sent some leechlike creatures into our apartment—and they could have entered your quarters as well.”

Faustus let him in, and Cato found two slithers in her living room, both of which had probably gone astray. He speared them with a cooking fork, took the squirming blood-suckers outside, and fired a single bullet through both.

A police car was circling above them by then, its lights strobing the night, but Cato sought to ignore everything except the mix of emotions that were swirling around him. There was fear, curiosity, and a strong sense of resentment that seemed to be emanating from the house next door. All of which was understandable. But, underlying all of it was a profound sense of sorrow, and that intrigued him. Who was in mourning? And why?

Weapon at the ready, Cato “followed” the emotion by the simple expedient of going to the point where it was strongest. The short journey took him through pools of light that fell from above, across the river of darkness that separated the two houses, and over to a large storage shed. The door was closed. Cato paused there, still “listening,” and was surprised to hear someone sobbing inside.

Carefully, weapon at the ready, he took hold of the door and pulled. The barrier swung out of the way to reveal a hulking heavy-gravity-world variant. The breed had been created to perform physical labor on planets where most Umans could barely stand up straight. He was seated between what looked like two large suitcases, head in hands, shoulders shaking, as deep sobs racked his body.

Two street cops had caught up with Cato by that time, and as one of them aimed a flashlight at the suspect, the heavy brought his tear-stained face up to where Cato could see it. “You killed them!” the variant said accusingly. “They were all I had—and you killed them! What am I supposed to do now?”