Bones of Empire (6 page)

Below Inobo's smooth forehead, safe within bony caves, two coal black eyes could be seen, both of which were filled with undisguised malice. The officer's nose had been pounded flat, his lips were pursed in an expression of eternal disapproval, and even though he hadn't said anything yet, his jaw was already at work.

“Well,” Inobo said deliberately as he flicked an imaginary piece of lint off his immaculate uniform. “Jak Cato, a Centurion now, who would have believed it? But shit floats, everyone knows that, so I guess it was only a matter of time before you bobbed to the surface. Not via the regular promotion process, of course, because that would be impossible given your record, but via a
meritorious
field commission granted by a Legate who never goes to war.”

Inobo's chair produced an audible sigh as he leaned back in it. “But who knows?” he asked rhetorically. “Maybe the next group of assassins will get lucky and polish Usurlus off! Where will you be then, Cato? Did you ever think of that? Back to Section Leader, that's where. . . . If you're lucky enough to keep your stripes.

“Meanwhile, I'm supposed to put you to work,” Inobo added reflectively, “so you can wait in line to kiss the Emperor's ass. Fortunately, I have the perfect job. . . . We lost Centurion Sispus three weeks ago. The silly bastard followed half a dozen Ur suspects down into the sewers under Freak Town and never came out. You'll take his place. Any questions?”

Cato, his eyes still focused on the photo, had one. “Sir, yes, sir. What squad?”

Inobo had anticipated the question. He smiled evilly as he gave the one-word answer. “Bunko.”

Cato felt his already depressed spirits plummet even further. Members of the Xeno Corps' bunko squad were charged with pursuing alien con artists, who, owing to their unusual capabilities, were often hard if not impossible for the municipal police to track down. More than that, the bunko squad was often used as a bureaucratic dumping ground for police officers who were considered to be misfits, fuckups, or screw-balls. The assignment was clearly intended to punish Cato for past crimes, brand him a loser,
and
block the possibility of advancement.

Cato felt the anger start to build, and because Inobo could “feel” it as well, the Primus nodded agreeably. “That sucks, doesn't it, Cato? Maybe you'd like some of me. If so, come and get it.”

That was what Inobo wanted more than anything else, Cato realized. A reason to court-martial him. So even though he wanted to accept the invitation, the Centurion managed to restrain himself.

Inobo nodded knowingly. “Very good. . . . Maybe you
have
learned something over the years. That will be all, Centurion Cato. See Section Leader Shani. She'll fill you in regarding the squad's current caseload. Now, get the hell out of my office and stay out of trouble. I'll have your ass for breakfast if you don't.”

Cato said, “Yes, sir,” and did a neat about-face. Four paces later, he was outside the office, having closed the door behind him. The receptionist looked over and grinned. “Welcome back, sir.”

“Thanks, I think,” Cato replied. “I'm looking for Section Leader Shani. Where would I find her?”

“In jail,” the noncom replied casually. “Where else?”

AS WAS HIS HABIT, USURLUS AWOKE ABOUT 10:00 AM
He just lay there at first, luxuriating in the comfort of his own bed and the sound of Satha's steady breathing. It felt good to be back on Corin. And not just because of the physical pleasures that were available on the Empire's most important planet but also for the excitement of being at the center of things, where a nimble politician could make a difference.

The thought was sufficient to make him want to get up. He was careful to slide out of bed without waking his favorite slave. On his way out of the bedroom, Usurlus paused to peer out of a porthole-sized window and saw that it was raining. Then he made his way into the bathroom and a shower large enough to accommodate a party of six, something it was called upon to do every once in a while.

Then, after a hot shower and half an hour spent in front of a big mirror, it was time to don a robe and make his way into the dining room. The Legate's staff knew he was up and knew what he wanted—a cup of hot caf, a poached egg, and a slice of dry toast. They were waiting as he sat down. A voice command was sufficient to activate the wall screen.

Political junkie that he was, Usurlus spent most of his time watching the news channels. And he wasn't surprised to see that all of them were busy rehashing the attempt on his life the day before. That was satisfying in a way since it served to let everyone know he was back and still worth assassinating.

But some of the other news stories were somewhat disquieting. It seemed that the warlike Vords had taken control of a rim world called Therat, a planet which, though at the very edge of Imperial-controlled space, was populated by Umans. It was a test, a way to gauge the Empire's temperament, and, therefore, important. That was the way Usurlus and many others saw it. But rather than send a fleet to confront the aliens, and force them to back down, Emperor Emor had agreed to diplomatic talks!

It was a shocking development that Emor's traditional supporters disapproved of, and the so-called pragmatists like Senator Nalomy supported, thereby turning conventional alliances inside out. Still, Emor was a tricky bastard, so chances were that he had good reasons for talking to the Vords. Or so Usurlus hoped as he finished his breakfast, gave a voice command, and began to play the last twenty hours of com calls on the wall screen.

Given the assassination attempt, there were lots of them, including requests for interviews from all of the major news organizations and expressions of concern from family, friends, and associates. That was to be expected.

What wasn't expected was the absence of any message from the Emperor, who was a cousin, after all, and the person for whom Usurlus had traveled to Dantha. Although there
were
expressions of concern from people Usurlus normally thought of as the opposition, including members of the so-called Combine, a group of powerful business interests. All of which was very confusing.

Usurlus touched a button, and Livius appeared as if by magic. “Make all of the usual preparations. I'm going out.”

Livius nodded. “Yes, sire. And your destination?”

“The Senate.”

“Yes, sire. The cars will be ready in thirty minutes.”

 

 

The worst of the rain was over by the time Usurlus and his body double stepped out onto the carefully landscaped veranda forty minutes later. It was necessary to circle the roof-top swimming pool before the two of them could access the landing pad, where two identical air cars were waiting. One would carry the
real
Usurlus, and the other was for the android that looked like him, a strategy calculated to make the Legate that much harder to kill.

Four bodyguards were present—two for each Usurlus. Livius and a young man named Tupus waited for the Legate to board car one before joining him in the passenger compartment. Then, once both vehicles were ready, they took off. Car one banked away for the short trip to the Senate, while the other turned east as if headed for the spaceport and was soon lost in traffic.

The pilot in control of car one was an old hand at navigating the city's crowded skies and gave the sixteen-hundred-foot-tall Imperial Tower a wide berth, knowing that anyone who violated the security zone around it was likely to be shot down. The cylindrical building was not only the government's most important office complex but housed Emperor Emor's living quarters as well.

From there the pilot had to thread her way between a succession of high-rise towers and cope with the heavy air traffic that was typical of the city's wheel-shaped corporate and governmental zones, before coming in for a landing on an artificial island at the very center of Lake Umanus.

Having been cleared to land, the pilot put the air car down on a pad, waited for her passengers to disembark, and immediately took off again. Only the Emperor, and Senators themselves, were allowed to park vehicles there.

A covered walkway led Usurlus and his bodyguards toward the building that loomed ahead. The dome-shaped roof was sheathed in real gold and supported by dozens of marble columns, one for each of the worlds that had banded together to form the Empire more than a thousand years before.

Usurlus was well-known within the Senate, and the assassination attempt was only hours old, so the Legate had to stop and chat with more than a dozen officials, politicians, and staff members before entering the rotunda.

The men had to pass through a security checkpoint, and the bodyguards were required to check their weapons. The next half hour was spent talking with various people in the high-ceilinged hallways, and while nothing specific was said, Usurlus got the feeling that his initial impression was correct: The overall situation had undergone a dramatic change of some sort. It seemed as though his contacts were nervous, unsure of themselves, and admittedly pensive though none could say why.

In an effort to find out what might account for the uncertainty, Usurlus made his way down two levels to the senatorial baths, where the man nicknamed “the oracle” was generally in residence between 1:00 and 2:00 PM.

Because Livius and Tupus weren't allowed to enter the dressing rooms or the baths, they had no choice but to make themselves comfortable in the staff lounge while Usurlus entered and went straight to his locker.

Ten minutes later, clad in nothing more than a white towel, Usurlus padded out onto the blue tiles that circled the pool. Both men and women were present, some of whom were nude, either because they
wanted
to be seen or didn't care.

Usurlus fell into the first category and, having let his towel drop, eased himself into the hot water. Then, once he was acclimated, Usurlus followed the pool's curve back toward the grotto where Senator Paulis typically held court. Paulis was a big man, with a significant paunch and thighs like tree trunks. His entire body was covered with wiry black hair, and he sat with a towel across his lap.

Besides his ability to predict the political future, Paulis was a moderate, and therefore a man who was well positioned to communicate with both of the major political parties. As Usurlus arrived, Paulis was surrounded by a group of younger politicians, all hoping to hear one of his famous stories.

“Look what we have here!” Paulis proclaimed. “The man we welcomed home with bullets instead of bouquets. I noticed that you donated ten thousand Imperials to help the families of those killed or injured in the attack. Well done, my boy. . . . You have the makings of a Senator.”

“Thank you,” Usurlus said as he found the bottom with his feet. “It's good to be back. . . . Even if my reception was less than friendly.”

Paulis turned his beady eyes toward his audience. “Perhaps you youngsters would be kind enough to give the Legate and me a moment alone. I sense he's ready to share all of his secrets, which I will pass on to you the moment he leaves.”

That got a laugh, followed by a certain amount of splashing, as the Senator's admirers departed. A couple of them were rather comely—and Usurlus watched them swim away. “I see some things never change,” Paulis rumbled as he dabbed his forehead with a hand towel. “You still have an eye for beauty.”

Usurlus smiled as he turned to look at Paulis. “And your advice is still sought by all. Tell me, Senator. . . . What the hell is going on? I haven't been back for very long, but judging from what I've seen and heard, strange times are upon us.”

Paulis looked around, as if to be sure that no one could hear, and nodded sagely. “All of us play our various roles, but the Empire rotates around the Emperor, just as planets must circle their suns. So if a sun becomes unstable, the entire system suffers.”

“What are you saying?” Usurlus demanded. “What's wrong?”

Paulis shrugged. “Consider the last few months. . . . The Vords take possession of Therat, so what does Emor do? He agrees to negotiate. Meanwhile, a small group of separatists take over a small town on Regus IV, and he nukes them! For what? A century of legionnaires would have been sufficient to bring the rebels to their knees. And there's more, much more, none of which makes any sense.”

Both men were silent for a moment. “So,” Usurlus said thoughtfully, “what could explain such unpredictable behavior?”

“I could be wrong,” Paulis allowed soberly, “and I hope I am. But it's my guess that Emperor Emor is insane.”

The words seemed to hang suspended in the air, and Usurlus felt a chill run down his spine. Suddenly, what had already been a bad situation seemed immeasurably worse.

 

 

Like all of the neighborhoods around the circumference of the crater, Far Corner was divided into the lower slope, the middle slope, and the high slope. But unlike upper-class areas like North Hill and Crater View, residents of Far Corner couldn't ride public transportation any higher than the middle slope.

That created a situation in which what might have been premium real estate up along the rim of the crater was less valuable than property lower down, mainly because the people who lived there had to own private air cars or climb hundreds of steps to reach their homes. Not a pleasant process in the rain, which rattled on the umbrella Alamy held overhead and drained just beyond her shoulders. She lacked appropriate footwear, however, so her feet were soaked, and her shoes made occasional squeaking sounds as she battled ever upward.

Looking for a place on the high slope was a desperate strategy. She knew that, but having explored the lower slope with Cato, and the middle slope by herself, Alamy had come to the conclusion that if an affordable apartment existed, it was somewhere above. So, with three listings in hand and a crusty meat pie for sustenance, she had set out to conquer the heights.