Cato’s face was grimy, his uniform was filthy, and he was bleeding from a superficial leg wound as he emerged from the building and entered the street. Nine-four was there to greet him. “Helluva job, sir. . . . Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Cato answered evenly. “Here, I believe this belongs to you.”
The Section Leader accepted the pistol and slipped the weapon into a shoulder holster as Shani placed the shotgun on the hood of a bullet-riddled patrol car.
That was when Inobo appeared. His uniform was spotless, and judging from the expression on his face, he was pissed. “You are in command of the bunko squad, Centurion Cato. . . . Please explain your presence in the middle of a street operation.”
Cato thumbed the release on his pistol, caught the nearly empty magazine as it fell free, and tucked it away. Then, having removed a fresh clip from a belt pouch, he pushed it up into the butt of his weapon. “Sorry, sir,” he said sarcastically, “I thought we were getting paid to stop crime.”
Anger flared as Inobo opened his mouth to speak, but Shani preempted him. “Actually, sir, if I’m not mistaken, we nailed the guy we were after. . . . On the way out of the building, I stopped to take a look at the dead Ur who was half-blocking the doorway. We’ll have to wait for a positive ID, but judging from the obvious physical similarity, I’d say the body is that of Hola Sesu. He’s the perp we were chasing when the battle began.”
Inobo’s jaw worked, but nothing came out. Finally, having failed to come up with something to say, he did an about-face and left. Shani grinned. “I don’t know about you, sir,” the officer said as she turned to Cato, “but I could use a caf break.”
Imperial Chief of Staff Rujan Rolari was a very busy man and for good reason. Because ever since Emperor Emor had begun to neglect his duties, Rolari had been forced to fill the vacuum. That meant he was very powerful, and had he been a more ambitious man, he might have used his position to further his own interests.
But Emor had chosen well, for his purposes anyway, since Rolari was loyal and more interested in process than power. Which was to say the sort of man who could be stationed in among the levers of power without fear that he would pull any of them.
So as another day began, and a constant stream of functionaries and androids came and went from Rolari’s cluttered office, he was trying to stall. And that was no small task since the military wanted orders concerning the Vord invaders, the Ministry of Health was pushing for permission to inoculate the entire population with a new strain of disease-fighting nano, and the Senate had yet to approve the tax increase the Emperor had submitted a month and a half earlier.
So busy as he was, Rolari would never have agreed to see Inobo had it not been for the record of a meeting between the police official and Legate Usurlus that the Primus Pilus had submitted days earlier. A truly amazing electronic document in which the Legate and a Xeno cop claimed that Emperor Emor had been replaced by a Sagathi shape shifter! That was a ridiculous allegation, of course, but Usurlus had a reputation as a mover and a shaker, especially in wake of events on Dantha. Not to mention his familial connection to Emor.
So what if Usurlus took his theory to the Senate, where those who opposed Emor would take advantage of the opportunity to cause trouble? Such were Rolari’s concerns as a robotic assistant announced Inobo’s arrival—and the police officer was shown into the room.
Inobo was frightened as he entered Rolari’s office, grateful that no other empath was present to witness his discomfort, and amazed by what he saw. Heavy curtains had been pulled as if to seal the room off from the rest of the world, and a holographic representation of a partially completed artificial planetoid floated off to the left. A daybed had been placed against the left wall, a heavily laden U-shaped desk blocked the path directly in front of him, and a floor-to-ceiling bookcase stood to the right. Its shelves were loaded with printouts, mineral samples, and electronic components. All of which were presumably related to some project or other.
The man himself was standing with his back to the door talking to a dimly seen full-sized telepresence as Inobo came to a stop. It was then that he noticed the absence of guest chairs. A clear signal that Rolari didn’t encourage visitors and, when forced to tolerate one, wanted to get rid of them as quickly as possible.
As the conversation ended, and the telepresence exploded into motes of light, the Chief of Staff turned to face him. Inobo found himself looking into a pair of extremely serious brown eyes. Rolari’s bowl-shaped haircut, bladelike nose, and stern demeanor made him look more like a Reconstructionist cleric than a government bureaucrat. And the tight, high-collared gray tunic worn over black trousers did nothing to soften that impression. That was when Inobo realized that there wasn’t any chair behind the U-shaped workstation either. “So, Primus Pilus Inobo,” Rolari began without preamble, “it’s your contention that Emperor Emor is dead, having been replaced by a shape-shifting sentient named Verafti.”
“No, Excellency,” Inobo replied as he delivered a jerky bow. “I believe no such thing. . . . But once Legate Usurlus and Officer Cato made that allegation, and requested action, it became my duty to pass the matter up the chain of command and seek resolution.”
Rolari nodded. “Yes, quite so. The essence of the request being that a panel of three police empaths be permitted an audience with the Emperor for the purpose of verifying his identity?”
“Yes, Excellency, that is correct.”
“The Emperor is a busy man,” Rolari said judiciously. “Too busy for such patent nonsense. Still, we must do everything in our power to battle negative rumors, so I am going to pass the request along to His Excellency for a final decision. Assuming that he approves, a date will be set that is consistent with the Emperor’s busy schedule. Do you have any questions?”
Inobo shook his head. “No, Excellency.”
Rolari raised an eyebrow inquiringly. “Really? Then why are you still here?”
Fiss Verafti, who in his role as Emperor Emor was Lord of the Suns, Giver of Laws, and Defender of the Empire, was gnawing on a Uman arm bone. It had been lying on the black-marble floor for days, but he was hungry, and a piece of gristle was still attached to it. Like all Sagathies, he had a triangular skull that narrowed to an abbreviated snout that was filled with razor-sharp teeth. They made grating sounds as they scraped the last bit of leathery flesh from the Praetorian’s humerus.
Then, with the bone in hand, Verafti made his way over to a display case, where the priceless Hammer of Thesus was kept, and made use of the humerus to smash it open. The hammer, which was said to be the same one that Emperor Thesus had so famously carried into battle, was equipped with a three-foot-long wooden shaft. Having been forced to sacrifice one of his hands on Dantha, Verafti knew the hammer would be difficult to swing, so he morphed into a likeness of Emperor Emor, thereby giving himself two hands.
That accomplished, it was a simple matter to drop the bone onto the floor, raise the hammer, and bring it down. There was a satisfying crack as the humerus broke in two. That was the shape shifter’s cue to change back into his native form and suck the marrow out of both sections of the bone. That took a while, but tasted good, and left him feeling momentarily satisfied.
The last piece of bone made a clattering sound as it landed among the debris scattered across the once-pristine floor. The mess would have been offensive to the real Emor but didn’t even register on Verafti’s consciousness since he regarded tidiness as a waste of time.
No, his interests were centered around hunting, eating, and mating. The latter had everything to do with why he had traveled to the Imperial world of Corin. Because it was there, somewhere within the hundreds of thousands of documents that Emperor Emor had access to, that Verafti hoped to find information that would lead him to Affa Demeni.
Or, if she’d been killed, to visit the place of her death and send a hundred Umans into the afterlife for her to feed on. But, after more than forty nights, he had yet to find anything solid to go on.
He knew Demeni had been captured in the jungles of Sagatha, thrown into prison, and eventually escaped by taking the place of a Uman corpse that was being shipped to the xenobiologist’s home planet for burial.
Then, by following police accounts of murders carried out by what they assumed was a serial killer, he’d been able to track his lover to the planet Hava, and from there to Corin. That’s where the trail seemingly went dead; although after many long days spent at Emor’s computer console, Verafti had been able to identify a possible hiding place. And that was the planet Therat, where, according to local police reports, a space yacht had been found sitting near a remote farm.
There were no people aboard the vessel, none who were alive, anyway, although Uman remains were present. DNA testing had subsequently confirmed that the well-gnawed bits and pieces scattered around the inside of the yacht belonged to a wealthy couple who had departed Corin for Therat weeks earlier. And because the owners’ pilot was missing, police were of the opinion that he was responsible for the grisly murders, but Verafti had a different theory.
He was of the opinion that Demeni had taken the pilot’s place on Corin, killed the Umans during the lengthy voyage to Therat, and eaten them. Mainly because that was what he would have done. And that was why Verafti had agreed to negotiate with the Vords regarding Therat’s status. He might want to visit the planet in the very near future, and an all-out war would make that impossible.
Still, there was no way to be sure, so rather than run off to Therat, Verafti was determined to pore over all of the relevant files in case there was evidence that pointed in a different direction.
Meanwhile, as time passed, it was becoming more and more difficult to maintain the role he was playing. Weeks had passed since anyone other than maintenance androids had been allowed to enter the Imperial residence, governmental problems were piling up, and Verafti didn’t have the foggiest notion of how to cope with them.
A chime sounded, and Verafti turned in the direction of the sound, as Chief of Staff Rolari’s face appeared on vid screens throughout the residence. “Good afternoon, Excellency,” the image said unctuously. “I’m sorry to bother you, but there is what may be an urgent matter requiring your personal attention. Might I have permission to speak face-to-face with Your Imperial Majesty?”
All of the cameras in the residence had been turned off weeks earlier, leaving Verafti free to pick up a priceless Mirathian egg-jewel from the mess at his feet and hurl it at the nearest vid panel. The shape shifter’s aim was good, and the screen shattered, but Rolari’s doleful countenance continued to eye Verafti from other vantage points throughout the sprawling residence. The imposter had seen that look before and knew that if he wanted more time in which to find Demeni, he’d have to find a way to placate Rolari, a man who, though annoying, had been a useful tool in the wake of Emor’s death and would have to be tolerated for a while longer.
So he made his way over to a screen, where the camera would show nothing more than the blank wall behind him, selected one of three togas that were draped over a bust of the goddess Prilleus, and morphed into a naked Emor. Then, having wrapped the garment around his torso, he gave two voice commands. “Camera on. . . . Com circuit on.”
A chime sounded, Verafti saw Rolari react, and knew he was on-screen. “It’s no bother,” Verafti said engagingly. “I appreciate the energy with which you pursue your considerable responsibilities. Please join me in my office for caf tomorrow morning. We will discuss the matter then.”
Rolari bowed, the screen snapped to black, and Verafti returned to work. Demeni was out there somewhere, she had to be, and he would find her.
It was late afternoon, and Alamy was waiting next to the seldom-used landing pad located on the hillside behind Arbor House as an air car with police markings swept in from the west and circled the area as if to make sure it was in the right place. Then, with the skill of a person used to putting her aircraft down in cramped quarters, the pilot dropped the car onto the faded X that marked the center of the pad.
The call had come in to Madam Faustus and been relayed to Alamy, who was busy cleaning the other woman’s house at the time. There had been a gunfight. Cato had been hit and was being flown home.
The wound was superficial, or so Cato claimed, and the fact that he wasn’t in the hospital seemed to support that contention. But Alamy was anxious nevertheless, and grateful when the skids touched down and a door swung open. That was when a female police officer emerged and stood to one side as Cato got out, as if ready to help him if that was necessary. She had short black hair, an athletic body, and a proprietary manner.
Then, much to Alamy’s surprise, the air car’s engines began to spool up, and it took off with blue lights flashing as it flew into an angry-looking sunset. “Alamy!” Cato exclaimed cheerfully, as she came forward. “This is Officer Yar Shani. . . . She was with me during the dustup earlier today. She had my back, and I figured the least we could do was offer her some dinner. I hope that’s okay.”
It wasn’t okay, even if it should be, and for all sorts of reasons. Cato normally kissed her when he came home and clearly wasn’t going to do so in front of Officer Shani, who was not only pretty but staring at Alamy with open curiosity. “Centurion Cato tells me you’re from Dantha,” Shani said evenly. “I can see why he bought you.”
Alamy blushed, felt flustered, and managed a curtsy. “Yes, ma’am. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll see about some dinner.” And with that, she turned to hurry away.
Cato knew Alamy was upset but wasn’t sure what he’d done wrong, as Shani took his arm. “This is a beautiful location,” she said soothingly. “How did you manage to find it?”
Dinner would have been an unmitigated disaster if it hadn’t been for Madam Faustus, who not only produced two steaks from her freezer but helped Alamy prepare two delicious side dishes while Cato and Shani sat on the roof and looked out over the city. “Don’t worry, dear,” the older woman advised kindly. “He’s a smart man, and he’ll make the right decision in the end.”
Alamy hoped it was true, but had her doubts, as she carried a large tray up to the roof. Because as she served the food, it was easy to see that Shani was everything she wasn’t. The other woman was worldly the way Cato was worldly, tough in the same way that he was tough, and as much a part of his work as the gun he wore. All of which were qualities that Alamy could never hope to compete with as a free woman, never mind a slave.
“This looks wonderful,” Cato said sincerely, as the steaks were served. “I don’t know how you managed to cook such a wonderful meal on short notice, but we’re grateful. Where’s your plate? Can I bring it up?”
“Madam Faustus helped me cook the meal, and I’m having dinner with her,” Alamy temporized. “I’ll be back to collect the plates later on.”
Cato looked doubtful. “Okay, if you say so. . . . But I was planning to tell Officer Shani some stories about our experiences on Dantha—and it’s your job to keep gross exaggerations to a minimum.”
“Fortunately, I’m an empath,” Shani put in meaningfully, as her eyes locked with Alamy’s. “So if Centurion Cato attempts to lie, I’ll know. Enjoy your dinner.”
Alamy nearly burst into tears and fled below.
Shani cut into her steak, took a bite, and nodded approvingly. “It was a difficult day—but this is a great way to end it.”
“Yes,” Cato agreed contentedly as he propped his leg up on a chair. “There are times when it simply feels good to be alive.”
After weeks of reclusiveness, the Emperor was coming to work! Word of that miraculous event spread like wildfire, so that as Verafti stepped off the elevator and made his way toward the suite of offices located one floor below the Imperial residence, there were more people around than usual. All were hoping to catch a glimpse of Emor, so they could tell their friends and associates.
Verafti didn’t know most of them, of course, but had learned that all he had to do was say something nice to keep most Umans happy, espec
ially given who they believed him to be. So as he made his way across the elevator lobby and through the double doors into the reception area beyond, Verafti kept a smile on Emor’s face and scattered greetings far and wide.
It was a very successful strategy, and one that allowed Verafti to breeze through the outer area and into his office without being sucked into the type of conversation that might give him away. He was intentionally ten minutes late, which meant that Rolari was there waiting for him, making it impossible for other officials to try to slip in. The office was at least three times larger than it needed to be, filled with all manner of expensive mementos, and organized around a massive desk that the real Emor actually used. Rolari was already on his feet and bowed deeply as the Emperor entered. “Good morning, Excellency, I hope you slept well.”
Though predictable, Rolari was no fool, and Verafti could feel the Uman’s agile mind churning through theories that would explain Emor’s extended absences. Was the question related to sleep a tangential way of addressing the Emperor’s health? And the possibility that he wasn’t feeling well? Yes, Verafti thought that it was.
There was something more as well because Rolari was clearly staring at him, as if searching for flaws. Did the Uman suspect? If so, the shifter was about to take part in a very dangerous conversation—and might be forced to fight his way out. Verafti managed to produce a smile as he circled the enormous desk to the thronelike chair stationed behind it. “I slept well, thank you, and that’s why I’m late. Please accept my apologies.”
Bones of Empire Page 9
