Bones of Empire (27 page)

The next morning, the Umans were transported to a sports arena, where they were invited to sit behind a table while thousands of hostile Vords paraded by. The sky was cloudy, the air was humid, and it felt as if it might rain as the processional began. Umji was present, as were a couple of his superiors, neither of whom was willing to communicate with the “animals” directly and they chose to pass their wishes through the Vord police officer instead. So it was he who explained the way the system was supposed to work. “Once you spot an imposter, press the button,” Umji said as he gave remotes to Cato, Shani, and Keen. “We'll take care of the rest.”

“Okay,” Cato agreed bleakly. “Let's get this over with.”

For obvious reasons, none of the Vords who were being vetted knew why. So that added to the level of hostility that emanated from them as they were forced to parade by the Umans. And the feeling of dislike was so intense that it gave Cato a headache.

Cato could have requested a break, and might have been granted one, but that would have prolonged the unpleasant process. So he sat there and did the best he could to concentrate. At his request, a fifteen-foot interval separated the Vords so that he and the other empaths could isolate each set of emotions from the rest. Even so, it wasn't long before the seemingly endless line became something of a blur, and Cato found it difficult to focus. Finally, an hour later, the exercise was over, and Cato was able to deliver his report to Umji. “All of your people are clear. . . . There weren't any shape shifters among them.”

Umji nodded gratefully. “That is very good to hear. I will pass it on.”

“Terrific. Please give us our gear, including weapons, and we'll get to work.”

Umji produced what might have been a grin, removed a key from his pocket, and handed it over. “See the vehicle parked over there? Your belongings are inside. You are free to go. I will contact you from time to time. If you need to call us, use this. Our number is programmed into it.”

Cato accepted the pocket com, knew
it
could be tracked, and made a mental note to park it somewhere. “Thanks . . . We'll be in touch.”

“Yes,” Umji agreed gravely. “You will.”

The van they had been given was a couple of years old, purported to belong to Havsu's Bakery, and was decorated with lots of graffiti. Something Cato actually approved of. The team's gear was already aboard and neatly stacked in the back. None of them said anything of consequence because they figured that the van was not only trackable but equipped with audio pickups as well. “Traffic's going to be a bitch,” Shani predicted. And it was.

 

 

The sprawling house had been constructed ten miles south of Kybor, where it was a little bit cooler, thanks to evening breezes off Lake Boro. But the owner had been killed in a car accident, and there had been a host of legal problems related to his estate. So for the better part of two years, the property had deteriorated as the planet's heat, rain, and insects all took their toll. Finally, once the protracted legal battle was resolved, the estate came on the market and was immediately snapped up by a man who claimed to represent a benevolent association. Demeni moved into the house three days later.

There was at least one hole in the roof, a number of broken windows, and the interior furnishings had started to rot. None of which bothered her in the least since she typically slept in a corner of the great room, or out in the overgrown garden, where she could feel the rhythms of the surrounding jungle.

Others, the average Uman, for example, would have seen a great many similarities between Therat's rain forests and those on Demeni's native planet. But the Sagathi was aware of hundreds of differences, starting with the fact that many of the local trees could kill parasites with discharges of solar-generated electricity and had leaves rather than the frothy structures she was accustomed to.

But alien or not, the house and the jungle that surrounded it was a much more friendly environment than the city of Kybor. So she spent as much time there as possible.

Of course, it was necessary to bring her work home from time to time. Like any other large organization, the cult required constant supervision. Especially now that the Vords had taken over and seemed determined to eradicate the group. The man who was suspended by his wrists in the middle of the garbage-strewn great room was an excellent example of their efforts to infiltrate the group. He was, or had been, a spy for the occupiers until a loyal Rahati had seen him enter a Vord vehicle and reported the incident. A priestess passed the information along to Demeni, who gave orders for the suspect to be brought in.

Two of Demeni's most fanatical adherents had been in charge of the interrogation. The red-hot irons hadn't been necessary, since Demeni could “feel” everything she needed to know, but her followers
wanted
to torture him, so why not? The result was a long sequence of screams, the pervasive odor of burning flesh, and a flood of words.

Yes, the man named Parakar admitted, he had been paid to spy on the Rahaties. But he didn't want to. The Vords
made
him do it, or so the informer claimed, which meant that the five cult members who had been arrested and executed weren't his fault.

Demeni could “feel” the surge of fear that she produced in him as she entered the great room. And for good reason. Having been witness to dozens of the blood-drenched ceremonies, Parakar knew what to expect. Or thought he did. Demeni's smile looked more like a snarl. “I'm going to release you,” she hissed.

Parakar's face was black-and-blue. One eye was swollen shut. Angry-looking burns were visible on his sweaty chest, and he stank of feces. His eyes blinked rapidly as he felt the first stirrings of hope and his tongue swept back and forth across dry lips. “Really?” he croaked. “That would be wonderful. Thank you.”

“Then,” Demeni continued, “I'm going to eat you. Unless you manage to get away, of course. In which case I will have to find someone else to feed on.”

A look of horror appeared on Parakar's unshaven face. “Please! Don't do that. . . . The Vords trust me. I could be a spy! I'll tell you what they're up to.”

“I already have spies,” Demeni said clinically. “Ones I can trust. So shall I let you go? Or simply eat you here? I'd take the first choice if I were you. Who knows? You might get lucky.”

A calculating look appeared on Parakar's badly abused face. “Okay . . . You want to have some fun. I can see that. So how 'bout a head start?”

Demeni's respect for the man went up a notch. He hadn't given up. He was still thinking, still plotting, still trying to stay alive. And that, insofar as she was concerned, was the essence of life. Even for lesser beings. So she nodded. “Five minutes. . . . I'll give you a five-minute head start.”

“Ten,” Parakar said hopefully. “I need ten.”

“Five,” Demeni replied sternly, as razor-sharp claws shot out of her fingers. There was no more than a whisper of sound as she cut him loose.

Parakar's feet hit the floor with a soft
thump
. In spite of the fact that he was a young man, and in good shape, he staggered and very nearly fell. Was that the result of the harsh treatment he had suffered? Or a trick intended to make her believe that he was weaker than he actually was? A routine execution was shaping up to be a memorable meal. “Shouldn't you run?” Demeni inquired mildly. “The five minutes starts
now
.”

Parakar needed no additional urging. He bolted out through the open door, dashed through the garden, and made straight for the lake. Demeni, who had no intention of honoring her promise, was not only right behind him but impressed by Parakar's strategy. Because rather than head into the jungle, which he
knew
to be her element, he was gambling on reaching the water before she could. And the reason for that was obvious. Parakar believed that while Demeni might be able to swim, he could swim
better
than she could, which would give him an edge.

Had the Uman gone so far as to analyze her physiology? Demeni wondered. And taken note of the fact that she didn't have webbed feet or other aquatic adaptations? Or was he working off a hunch? Not that it made much difference, Demeni concluded, as her lithe body slipped through the vegetation, and all of her senses came wonderfully alive. That was the purpose of the exercise. To experience the thrill of the hunt
and
enjoy the rewards thereof.

There was a loud splash as Parakar broke through the foliage and threw himself into the water. Then, with a powerful overhead crawl, he made for the opposite side of the lake.

Demeni paused just short of the water to observe Parakar through a screen of vegetation. The Uman looked back from time to time, but it seemed unlikely that he could see her, not that it mattered. Parakar's gamble had paid off. Because while Demeni
could
swim if necessity demanded it, she preferred not to. So who would reach the other side of Lake Boro first? The Uman, who had the shortest distance to travel, or her? The foliage shivered, and Demeni disappeared.

Parakar felt as good as a hunted man could. The water was relatively warm, there were no signs of pursuit yet, and a steady trickle of adrenaline was providing him with some extra strength. Maybe, just maybe, the lizard bitch had chosen to let him go rather than enter the water. Some reptiles were born to swim. He knew that. But judging from the way her
real
body looked, the shape shifter wasn't one of them. So if he could reach the other side quickly enough, there was a pretty good chance that he'd be able to push through a half mile of jungle and reach the road beyond. Once there, he would hitch a ride, move to a small town somewhere, and change his name.

In the meantime, Parakar's light lace-up shoes were slowing him down. But he knew he was going to need them on the other side. So the only way to increase speed was to work even harder. He gave no consideration to style, only to power, being careful to rely on his legs as much as possible.

Fifteen long minutes passed before he began to close with the shore, and he caught momentary glimpses of it as his already strained heart began to pump even faster. Was the goddess Rahati waiting there, concealed in the lush undergrowth? Ready to rip his throat out? Parakar had seen her do it to Vords, heard their piteous screams, and knew he wouldn't stand a chance without some sort of weapon. But there weren't any weapons to be had as his feet made contact with the muddy bottom and his eyes probed the foliage for any sign of movement.

There weren't any. None he could detect anyway. So, conscious of the fact that his adversary might well be in the process of racing around the lake, the half-naked Uman battled his way up onto a steeply sloping beach. That was where he found a likely-looking rock. It was stupid. Parakar knew that, since the lizard was lightning fast and equipped with razor-sharp claws. But the stone's heft offered some comfort as he left the lakeshore and entered the sun-dappled jungle beyond.

Parakar's movements were tentative at first—knowing that the shape shifter could be lying in wait for him. But the farther he went, the less likely that seemed, since even if the lizard enjoyed toying with her prey, there was very little reason to delay her pleasure much longer. So Parakar let the rock fall and continued to push his way forward. He paused occasionally to listen, heard nothing other than his own heavy breathing, and moved on.

The sun was Parakar's guide. It was difficult to see, but thanks to gaps in the jungle canopy, he caught enough glimpses of the yellow-orange orb to stay on course. Once, as he crossed a clearing, he thought he heard the throaty growl of a truck engine. The sound gave him new reason to hope and brought new energy to his legs.

Five minutes later, he stumbled out of the jungle and onto a two-lane dirt road. The sight of it made his heart jump with joy. Parakar knew it might be difficult to flag down a vehicle because of his disheveled appearance, so he took a turn to the right and began to jog. Now he was thankful for the shoes because given the rough surface beneath his feet, it would have been impossible to run without them. Later, as soon as he could, he would steal some clothes.

Ten minutes later, Parakar heard the sound of a motor, looked back over his shoulder, and saw a car coming up on him from behind. So he paused, plastered a smile on his face, and waved. The car passed him by, then braked and came to a stop.

Parakar made his way forward, heard the passenger-side window whir down, and looked inside. A man with neatly combed hair and a pencil-thin mustache looked back at him. “Are you all right?” the man wanted to know. “Was there an accident or something?”

“Yes,” Parakar agreed, “there was. Could you give me a lift to the next town? I need to file a report and send a wrecker back for my car.”