Bones of Empire

by William C. Dietz

  The next forty-five minutes were spent showering, shaving, and dressing. Cato’s uniform consisted of a helmet, which he would be forced to hold in the crook of his left arm while standing, sculpted body armor, and a knee-length kilt. The subtle plaid was supposed to remind observers that the Xeno Corps was technically part of the 3rd Legion, although that organization wasn’t all that proud of the group and would have been happy to hand it off to some other outfit had there been any takers. A pair of high-gloss combat boots completed the outfit.

  That was the basic kit. But Alamy, who had been born free but raised in a slum, was a stickler for all of the little things that had to do with rank and status. So she made sure that the flashes that denoted Cato’s rank as a Centurion were equally spaced on his shoulders, the brightly polished medals that had previously been stored at the very bottom of his footlocker were perfectly aligned on his chest, and the length of gold braid that looped under his left arm was properly secured.

  The braid marked Cato’s status as an aide to a senior officer, in this case Legate Usurlus, who, though of sufficient rank to command a Legion, hadn’t done so for many years. As Usurlus liked to put it, “I fight battles in the Senate and its surrounds, which though quieter are just as dangerous.”

  The comment referred to the fact that Usurlus was related to Emperor Emor and had long been one of his troubleshooters. The latest assignment had been on the planet Dantha, where it had been necessary to remove a corrupt Procurator from office and reestablish the rule of law. A task that brought the patrician and the policeman together and had everything to do with Cato’s presence on the ship.

  “There,” Alamy said, as she took two steps back. “You look very handsome.” And it was true, in her opinion at least, because Cato had a nice, if somewhat battered, face. Plus, his body, with which she was intimately familiar, was tall and strong. So much so that he frequently drew admiring glances from other women, many of whom were free and therefore more eligible than she was. Still, Cato had been true to her so far as Alamy knew, and that would have to do.

  “I wish you could come,” Cato said, as his eyes met hers. “Then you’d know how painful these dinners are.”

  “I do know,” Alamy responded tartly. “I was one of Governor Nalomy’s servants, remember? Now mind your manners. No swearing, no belching, and don’t stab things with your knife. It isn’t polite.”

  “Okay,” Cato agreed good-naturedly. “But only if you kiss me.”

  Alamy raised a quizzical eyebrow. “You could order me to kiss you.”

  “True,” Cato allowed, “but there would be a price to pay.”

  “There certainly would be,” Alamy agreed as she stepped into the circle of his arms.

  Cato “felt” the strength of her affection for him as her lips gave under his, knew he should free her, and wondered why he hadn’t. Corin, he thought to himself, I’ll do it on Corin. Then, helmet in the crook of his arm, it was time to leave.

  The two-bedroom suite was the finest accommodation the Far Star had to offer. The servants had withdrawn by that time, leaving their master to inspect himself in the large bathroom mirror. Legate Isulu Usurlus was vain, he knew that, and felt no guilt regarding the matter. The man who looked back at him had carefully tousled blond hair, gray eyes, and an aquiline nose. Tiny lines had begun to marshal their forces around the corners of his eyes, however, and stood ready to bracket his mouth. He saw them as enemies that, having been allowed to establish a beachhead while he was on Dantha, would have to be defeated on Corin. A process he looked forward to after months of privation on a backwater planet.

  Usurlus was dressed in a white toga, a pleated kilt, and a pair of gold-colored sandals. The only signs of his rank were the silver and gold bracelets on his left wrist, the family crest on the pin that held the toga in place, and the way he carried himself. Which was to say with the confidence of a man who was completely sure of his place in Imperial society.

  Having satisfied himself that he was presentable, Usurlus left the suite and stepped out into the corridor, where his chief bodyguard was waiting for him. Dom Livius was a big man with a prominent brow, a fist-flattened nose, and a pugnacious jaw. Like his predecessor, who had been murdered on Dantha, he was an ex-legionnaire and a dangerous man. Usurlus smiled at him. “Livius! What are you doing here? We’re on a spaceship. Take the evening off.”

  “Thank you, sire,” Livius responded doggedly, “but if it’s all the same to you, I’ll come along. It’s true that we’re on a ship, but so are two thousand other people, and I have no reason to trust them.”

  “All right,” Usurlus conceded, as the two men made their way down the corridor. “Suit yourself. . . . But the main danger will come from Rufus Glabas, who claims to support Emperor Emor while secretly consorting with the Hacia combine. Then there’s Porica Lakaris, who hopes I will marry her brainless daughter, and Catullus Skallos. A man who, if my information is correct, has feelers out to the Vords in case the despicable creatures conquer the Empire. Fortunately, none of them are likely to attack me with anything more pointed than words.”

  “If you say so, sire,” Livius responded cynically. “But I’ll be there just in case.”

  “As will Centurion Cato,” Usurlus observed. “Assuming Alamy has been able to round the rascal up and make him presentable. Between the two of you, I will feel quite safe.”

  The Galaxy Room was a rectangular space, which—thanks to the sensaround built into the bulkheads—appeared to be floating in space. That was an illusion, of course, since it was impossible to see anything from the vantage point of a ship traveling through hyperspace, but it was effective nevertheless. So much so that Cato experienced a brief moment of vertigo as he entered the room and made his way back to the point where a bar had been set up with a spectacular nebula in the background. It looked like an exploding star shell—and glittered with reflected light.

  Fifteen or twenty other people were present, all dressed in their evening finery, and of higher status than a mere Centurion. But, thanks to the respect routinely extended to soldiers, the other guests were polite, if somewhat distant. And that was fine with Cato, who planned to maintain a low profile throughout the meal and make a quick escape the moment it was over.

  Fortunately, a retired Praefectus Castrorum and his wife were present, and like most staff officers, the Prefect was ready to hold forth at length regarding the sad state of the military in general and the 3rd Legion in particular, he having served in the 5th, which to hear him tell of it, was the finest group of men ever to take the field. It was boring stuff, but whenever the Prefect was talking, Cato wasn’t required to, and that suited him just fine.

  The Prefect was droning on about the finer points of logistics, something he felt the 5th Legion was especially good at, when Usurlus entered the room, closely followed by Livius. Suddenly the center of social gravity shifted from lesser lights to the Legate, and Cato was free to drift away as an orgy of ass kissing began.

  Finally, once the greeting process was over, and Usurlus took his seat at the head of the glittering table, Cato and the rest of the guests were free to do likewise. That was when Cato discovered that he was sandwiched between a paunchy merchant named Skallos on his left and a thirtysomething widow on his right, the latter being the more interesting of the two. She was attractive in a slightly worn sort of way—and very scantily dressed. That, at least, was a good thing, since she had a very nice figure.

  The meal began, as such affairs always did, with obligatory toasts to the Empire, the Emperor, and various other notables, some of whom Cato had never heard of before. Eventually, as their glasses of wine were being refilled, the widow put her left hand on Cato’s right knee.

  She smiled unapologetically when he looked at her. Cato would have said something at that point had Usurlus not preempted him. “Did all of you have an opportunity to meet Centurion Cato?” the Legate inquired smoothly.

  Naturally, all eyes swung over to Cato as the widow found bare sk
in under the kilt and sent her hand up his thigh. “Good,” Usurlus continued, as if all of them had answered in the affirmative. “Now, those of you with a keen eye for military detail may have noticed the small X-shaped device located just above Centurion Cato’s medals. That signifies membership in the Legion’s Xeno Corps, an organization formed to cope with non-Uman criminals—some of whom have very unusual capabilities.

  “Take the Sagathi shape shifters, for example,” Usurlus said, as his eyes roamed from face to face. “As you may have heard, they can impersonate any being having roughly the same mass they do. So how to catch them? Well, that’s where empaths like Centurion Cato come in. Because they can sense what we can’t.

  “In fact, since Cato is with us tonight, perhaps he would be so kind as to give us a demonstration of his abilities. Tell me, Centurion Cato. . . . What is Citizen Belo feeling right now?”

  The man in question was seated on the other side of the table. And what he was feeling was scared, although Cato had no way to know why and didn’t care. He was angry at Usurlus for using him as a source of cheap entertainment and uncomfortably aware of the widow’s hand, which had traveled halfway up his thigh and was about to enter dangerous territory.

  So rather than remain where he was and be forced to deal with the pleasurable but possibly embarrassing results of his dinner companion’s advances, Cato slid his chair back and came to his feet. Then, happy to escape, he circled the table as if it were somehow necessary to close with Belo in order to “feel” his emotions.

  Once in place, Cato placed his hands on the business-man’s shoulders, closed his eyes, and frowned. “Wait a moment. . . . Yes, yes, yes . . . There’s no doubt about it. Citizen Belo is hungry!”

  That got a good laugh, and the sense of relief that emanated from Belo was almost palpable. But rather than release Cato from his social agony, Usurlus was determined to push on. “Very good, Centurion Cato,” he said dryly. “Although I think it’s safe to say that Citizen Mima’s lapdog could do as well!

  “Perhaps a more difficult test of your capabilities is in order. I want you to move to your left. I will say a word as you pause behind each person—and you will communicate what they feel.”

  Everyone in the room had influence of one kind or another, so the proposal was fraught with danger, and Cato’s forehead was populated by tiny beads of sweat. If thoughts could kill, Usurlus would have been dead many times over, regardless of the big bodyguard’s presence.

  But thoughts couldn’t kill, which left Cato with no choice but to go along, albeit in his own way. Meaning that rather than give factual reports, the kind that could get him into trouble with the Legate’s guests, Cato chose to provide innocuous readouts and run the risk of triggering his host’s ire.

  So when Cato took his place behind the Prefect’s wife, and Usurlus said the word “marriage,” the empath responded with the word “joy” rather than “boredom.”

  A few minutes later, as he stood behind Rufus Glabus, Cato replied with “hope” when Usurlus offered the word “future,” even though the politician sitting in front of the Xeno cop was radiating a sense of doom. And, predictably enough, Glabus nodded in agreement.

  And so the charade went until it was time for shipping magnate Catullus Skallos to respond. The trigger word was “Vord,” and rather than the dread most people in the room felt regarding the gaunt-looking aliens, Skallos projected something akin to eagerness. But, consistent with his previous readouts, Cato gave voice to the same emotion the rest of the guests had registered. And, as Cato made eye contact with Usurlus, he knew the Legate was onto him.

  Mercifully, the process came to an end five minutes later, and when Cato returned to his seat, it was to discover that the widow was flirting with the middle-aged bureaucrat to her right. A development that left Cato free to eat as course after course of food began to arrive. There were some pro forma interactions with Skallos, but not many, for which Cato was grateful.

  Eventually, after what felt like a century of boredom, the meal came to an end, and the Legate’s guests lined up to thank him as they left. Cato slipped three hand-dipped chocolates into the empty dispatch pouch on his belt, knowing how much Alamy would enjoy them, and was almost out the door when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. “Not so fast,” Livius said, as Cato came to a halt. “The Legate would like to speak with you in half an hour.”

  Cato swore as only a veteran legionnaire can.

  Livius grinned unsympathetically. “What did you expect? I’ve never heard such a load of bullshit! Tell me Centurion Cato—what am I feeling now?”

  “You’re happy,” Cato answered resentfully, “because you’re a rotten sonofabitch.”

  “You got that right,” Livius agreed cheerfully. “Be there, Cato. . . . Don’t make me come and find you.”

  And with that, Cato was allowed to leave the sensaround for the corridor outside. Alamy was going to be pissed. He was in trouble again—but not for stabbing his food with a knife.

  Having waited for thirty minutes, Cato made his way to the suite that Usurlus occupied, where he paused to straighten his uniform before pressing the button next to the door. He heard a distant bong, followed by a click, as Usurlus gave a verbal order.

  Cato opened the door, took six paces into the cabin, and came to attention. His eyes were on a spot located six inches over the Legate’s head. “Centurion Cato, reporting as ordered, sir!”

  Usurlus was seated in a well-upholstered chair with a drink in his hand. He was dressed in shimmery synsilk pajamas and apparently ready for bed. “Put that ridiculous helmet somewhere and have a seat,” Usurlus said. “Would you like a drink?”

  Cato put the helmet on a table and took the chair across from Usurlus. He had already consumed two glasses of wine and was determined not to backslide where his drinking problem was concerned, so he answered accordingly. “No, sire, thank you.”

  “So,” Usurlus said lazily, “did you enjoy dinner?”

  “Yes, sire,” Cato replied. “I did.”

  “You’re a terrible liar,” Usurlus observed as he took a sip of his drink. “And I’m an expert where lies are concerned. You hated it, didn’t you?”

  There was a pause as Cato nodded reluctantly. “Sir, yes, sir.”

  “And your responses to my little game? Were any of them truthful?”

  “Yes, sire. When you said, ‘music,’ Citizen Tersus felt a sense of foreboding. His wife plays the harp.”

  Usurlus chuckled. “In other words, he likes harp music as much as you like dinner parties.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  At that point there was movement beyond a half-opened door followed by the sound of a woman’s voice. “I’m going to take a bath,” she announced. “Are you coming?”

  Cato thought the voice was familiar. Was it the widow? The one who had been sitting next to him during dinner? Yes, he thought it was.

  “That sounds like fun,” Usurlus replied as he turned toward the bedroom. “Save some hot water for me!”

  Then, having turned to Cato, Usurlus was serious. “And when I said, ‘Vord,’ how did Citizen Skallos respond?”

  Suddenly Cato realized something that should have been apparent all along. Usurlus had been using him all right—but for a purpose other than entertainment. “Citizen Skallos felt a sense of eagerness, sire. . . . Verging on excitement.”

  “And the others?”

  “Dread, sire.”

  “And for good reason,” Usurlus mused out loud. “You fought them—so you know. The Vords are warlike, their empire is still in the process of expanding, and we’re in their way. Emperor Emor is trying to negotiate with them, but they have taken control of two rim worlds and clearly have an appetite for more. I think Skallos is trying to cut a deal with them. An insurance policy if you will—just in case they win.”

  “So what will you do?” Cato inquired.

  “I will give his name to Imperial Intelligence,” Usurlus answered, “and request that they keep an eye
on him. We live in a complicated world, Cato—and there are very few people we can trust.”

  Cato sensed that the meeting was over. He stood, bent to retrieve his helmet, and was about to turn toward the door when Usurlus spoke again. “Give my regards to Alamy—and tell her that she’s doing a good job.”

  Most people of the Legate’s rank wouldn’t have known Alamy’s name, much less sent a message to her; but Usurlus wasn’t most people. And, come to that, what did the message mean? What “job” was Usurlus referring to? There was no way to know as Cato said, “Good night,” and withdrew. Would Alamy be interested in a bath? Cato hoped so—and went to find out.

  The city of Imperialus, on the planet Corin

  The journey from Dantha to Corin was Alamy’s first trip on a spaceship, and as the Far Star was cleared to land in the city of Imperialus, she felt a tremendous sense of excitement. Because never, even in her wildest fantasies, had Alamy imagined that she would travel to another planet, much less the Uman Empire’s capital. Yet there she was, stretched out on an acceleration couch in the main lounge side by side with Cato, as the liner entered Corin’s gravity well and began to shake as she entered the upper atmosphere.

  There were hundreds of people around them, all staring up at the overhead, where the ship’s progress could be monitored via a dozen large screens. The center picture showed clouds, the partially obscured brown landmasses beyond, and patches of blue that marked major bodies of water.

  As she looked down on her new home, Alamy felt fear seep in to replace some of the excitement because so many things were unknown. Would Cato free her? Would he still want her? And what would she do if he didn’t? Alamy had been employed in a sandal factory before her father died, and her stepmother sold her into slavery, so she had no skills to speak of. It would be difficult to survive in a city like Imperialus were Cato to abandon her—so perhaps slavery would be better.