Bones of Empire (31 page)

Having shot two of them himself, Cato was well aware of the incident. He thought about Governor Arrius, his daughter Olivia, and the group they led. The resistance fighters might be amateurs, but they were pretty well organized. Ten minutes after the gun battle, the entire group was aboard trucks and headed for another location.

Had the bullet that hit the roof been fired by one of their people? Or someone from another resistance group? There was no way to know.

The car slowed as it passed through a zigzag security checkpoint and entered the parking lot adjacent to what had been the Imperial palace and the surrounding administrative complex. Then, safe within the protective zone that surrounded the area, they got out and walked toward the building beyond. “Please surrender your weapon,” Umji said. “If you don't, the commissioners' bodyguards will take it.”

Cato was immediately suspicious. Was the meeting for real? Or part of a setup? But why bother? The Vords had clearly been aware of where the team was holed up and could have taken all of them into custody anytime they chose. Besides, Cato couldn't “feel” any of the agitation that Umji could be expected to project if a double cross was in the works. So he gave the pistol over. “It's loaded. Don't shoot yourself.”

Umji accepted the weapon, stuck it into his waistband, and gave Cato the Vord equivalent of a dirty look. “What is it that you say? Go have sex with yourself?”

Cato grinned. “That's close enough. You're getting the hang of it.”

Once inside the mansion, Cato was awash in a sea of emotions projected by the Vords who came and went through the halls. All of them were on errands of overwhelming importance judging from the way they felt.

The commissioners' office had probably been a conference room given the way it looked. Two stern-faced guards stood outside,
four
counting the Ya, and Cato had to submit to a pat-down before being allowed to enter.

Cato thought it was interesting that the commissioners felt a need for bodyguards inside a secured facility. Uman freedom fighters couldn't get at them, so
who
then? Vord rivals? Or, Sagathi shape shifters? Cato would have been willing to bet on the second possibility. The Vords weren't just worried about the Sagathies, they were
terrified
of them. Never mind the fact that either one of the guards could have been replaced by the very thing that the commissioners feared.

As Cato preceded Umji into the room, he saw a section of carpet, a table that had been pressed into service as a desk, and the single Vord/Ya entity behind it. They were backlit by an arched window, and Cato had to squint in order to see. “Commissioners Narth and Oomo,” Umji said gravely. “Please allow me to introduce Centurion Cato.”

By that time, Cato had learned that Vords were always introduced before their advisors. Most Vords were tall, but Narth was larger than most, and his Ya was exceptionally plump. It had olive drab skin, interrupted by orange spots, and Cato could see the parasite pulse rhythmically as it pumped chemicals into its host's bloodstream. “Explain
this
,” Narth demanded harshly.

Cato was about to say, “Explain what?” when video appeared on a wall screen to his right. Cato had no idea what he was looking at as a spotlight swung back and forth across what appeared to be a path and eventually steadied on a small building. Then, after three or four seconds, the camera wobbled as the operator made his or her way forward, climbed a couple of steps, and stopped.

That was when Cato saw the bloody carcass hanging head down from the rafters. A great deal of the skin and flesh had been ripped away, leaving sections of bone to gleam from within. As the camera tilted down, Cato saw that the Uman's head was missing—and assumed that it had fallen off during the feeding frenzy. “Freeze the video,” Cato ordered, and Narth did so.

“Tell me what you see,” the Vord demanded.

“Footprints,” Cato answered as he studied the bloody patterns that the camera had captured. “Sagathi footprints.”

“So this is your Fiss Verafti?”

“No,” Cato answered. “Judging from the size difference between many of them, I would say these footprints belong to Verafti
and
Demeni. It appears that his efforts to track her down were successful. They met wherever this footage was taken, had sex, and ate together. It's all part of the Sagathi mating ritual. This is what we were afraid might happen.”

“You were sent to prevent such an occurrence,” Narth said sternly. “You failed.”

“The Sagathies are smart,” Cato countered. “So the investigation is going to take time. And the fact that you told them about our presence was a big mistake.”

Cato “felt” a surge of anger from Narth, and fear around Umji, but kept going. “
If
you want to capture or kill the Sagathies, you will leave my team alone and provide whatever support we ask for.”

The commissioners were unmoved. “You would do well to show respect for your superiors,” Narth responded coldly. “Deliver results soon or suffer the consequences. Dismissed.”

A very frightened Umji led Cato out of the room and down the hall. “Well,” Cato said, “you heard the man. Or ‘men,' if that's the right term. It's time to quit goofing off and get to work! You're lucky to have such great leadership.”

 

 

Meanwhile, back in the office, Narth and his advisor were standing in front of the big window looking out on the parklike setting beyond.
So,
Narth said,
do you think the Umans will be able to locate the shape shifters?

I don't know,
the Ya replied.
What if one or both of the creatures were to escape into space? As happened on Corin? We cannot allow such a thing to happen.

We need a backup plan,
Oomo replied.

Narth was appalled.
Not our own people!

Of course our people,
Oomo replied.
It would be unfortunate, I acknowledge that, but casualties are a necessary part of war. Remember, even if the Umans were to vet our personnel every day, we still wouldn't be safe. One of the Sagathies could replace a soldier or administrator minutes after they were cleared.

Narth was “silent” for a moment.
Yes, I see what you mean. Perhaps we should have a conversation with Admiral Trema. First, to ensure that none of the personnel on the ground are allowed to leave, and to prevent any more from being brought to the surface. After all, why increase the number of casualties that we might have to suffer? Secondly, should it be necessary to glass Therat, the Navy should be ready to act quickly.

That's an excellent idea,
Oomo agreed.
And while we're at it, let's make sure that you and I have the means to escape. After all, we know we aren't infected, and our guidance will be required.

True,
Narth agreed.
Very true. It feels good to have a plan.

There had been a time hundreds of years before when the Mocius Mining Company had operations on nine planets, Therat being one of the most important. But the company had changed many times since then, and what had once been state-of-the-art facilities weren't anymore, so processing plants like the one outside the town of Favela had been left to rust.

That was when the surrounding jungle launched a slow-motion effort to reclaim the land on which Plant 19 stood. First came an airborne assault by seeds and spores that birds, animals, and insects carried over or under the security fence. Then, once a crop of hardy sun-tolerant weeds had taken root, the
real
attack got under way.

It was innocuous at first, since the green feelers that the jungle sent out to embrace Plant 19 grew just two or three feet per year. But it was only a matter of twenty years or so before the green tendrils penetrated the fence, burrowed
under
the duracrete hardscape that surrounded the facility, and began to break it into sections.

Then, having established a good roothold, trees sought the sky, parasites took hold on them, and vines went to work tying the biomass together. So that fifty years after the last load of ore was removed from Plant 19, the structure was so much a part of the jungle, it was difficult to say where one started and the other left off.

Demeni, Verafti, and a group of bodyguards had just arrived on the crest of a heavily forested hill. “See?” she said proudly, as she pointed a very human finger at the valley below. “My temple is down there. . . . It's in an old ore-processing plant.”

Verafti, who looked exactly like the man paid to polish his shoes the day before, nodded. Most of the building was obscured by thick foliage, but one corner of the metal-sheathed structure was visible from that vantage point, and an ancient com mast could be seen pointing impotently at the sky.

Two days had passed since the thrilling night inside the botanical gardens, and Verafti didn't know what to make of his mate's considerable accomplishments. Not only was Demeni the head of a Uman religious cult, she owned a private estate and was trying to push the Vords off Therat.

“It isn't that I
seek
such responsibilities,” Demeni had explained the day before, “but I . . . That is to say,
we
need them in order to survive.”

Verafti wasn't so sure. He believed that power, property, and wealth were Uman vices that were more likely to attract trouble than prevent it. But he couldn't say that. Not yet anyway. “The temple looks marvelous,” he lied. “And the Umans built it for you. How clever you are!”

Both Sagathies were empaths, and both could block their emotions as well, so Demeni had no choice but to take Verafti's comments at face value. “Come on!” she said enthusiastically. “It's beautiful inside.”

The steep trail switchbacked down along the verdant hillside, and a good forty-five minutes passed before Demeni, Verafti, and a group of twelve heavily armed bodyguards arrived on the flat ground below. More brightly clad Rahaties were waiting there. They lined both sides of the path and, having seen Demeni in human form before, showered the living goddess with flower petals as she walked past.

That struck Verafti as more than a little ironic since he knew that his mate would have eaten one of them for lunch had it suited her purposes to do so. In fact, it was only the presence of so many Vord oppressors that kept her from preying on her own followers.

The trail led through a tunnel of greenery and from there into the processing plant itself. It was at least ten degrees cooler inside, the air was sweet with incense, and there was no vegetation to be seen. Many hours of backbreaking labor had been required to cut the machinery that once occupied the space into smaller pieces and haul it away. But the effort had been worth it because the result was an open space equivalent to the largest Uman church that Verafti had ever been in.

Shafts of sunlight streamed down through skylights located three stories above and threw carpets of gold across the rugs that covered the floor. And there, chanting “
Ke-Ya
” (we believe), were at least a hundred of Demeni's followers.

The next hour or so passed slowly as Demeni met with administrators, received detailed reports from her spymasters, and resolved priestly disputes. So, finally, with nothing else to do, Verafti left the temple and faded into the sun-dappled jungle. The place where he
always
felt at home.

After casting about for a few minutes, Verafti came across an intriguing scent, wondered what sort of beast might be in the offing, and removed his clothes prior to morphing into his true form. Then, with blood pounding in his ears, he took off. Not because he was hungry but because the shape shifter wanted to do what he did best, which was to hunt.

It was dark by the time Verafti returned, took a quick bath in the nearby river, and morphed into Uman form. Then, having donned the clothing worn earlier, he reentered the temple. The ritual of life, which was actually all about death, was well under way by then. So Verafti had an excellent opportunity to watch the goddess Rahati disembowel a screaming Vord. Later, once the ritual was over, he knew Demeni would come to him, and the certainty of that felt good.

Hours had passed, night had fallen, and Verafti was sitting on the processing plant's flat roof, looking up at the stars, when he “felt” Demeni's presence. And she was angry.
Very
angry. The emotion fell on him like a blow from a hammer as he stood and turned to greet her. “Did I do something wrong?”