Bones of Empire

by William C. Dietz

  But, regardless of species, it was Verafti’s experience that sentients see what they expect to see. So if the new Nusk was a tiny bit shorter, and somewhat leaner than the original had been, the odds were good that no one would notice. And that appeared to be the case since neither one of the other Vords displayed any signs of alarm as he entered the lobby. That left the issue of language, which he planned to keep to a minimum as he worked to master the Vord tongue. “Yes, I agree,” Verafti replied succinctly.

  The meeting came to a quick conclusion after that as the Vords were taken back to the spaceport, and consistent with orders received from the being it believed to be Emperor Emor, the body double returned to the blood-splattered residence. Having completed its mission, the robot went to the storage room where he and his peers were kept, took his place in line, and switched to standby. His duties were complete.

  It was a warm, slightly humid evening, so the windows were open on the chance that a refreshing breeze might find its way up the hillside and into the apartment. It was never entirely dark in the bedroom thanks to all the light generated by the city below. So as Alamy lay on her back and stared upward, she could see shadows crawling across the ceiling. Cato, who was lying next to her, made a gentle rasping noise with every breath he took. It wasn’t loud enough to qualify as a snore, and the sound was reassuring in a way since it meant he was only inches from her.

  Cato wasn’t angry with her—that’s what he maintained, anyway—but the two of them hadn’t spent much time together since Verafti’s attack. Cato avowed that was because he had to deal with the aftermath of the Galaxus Hotel battle and find the Kelf believed to be responsible for training the pickpocketing plants and collecting the loot hidden in their pots.

  But Alamy had her doubts. She couldn’t feel Cato’s emotions, not the way the empath could access hers, but she was a woman. And women know. That’s what Madam Faustus claimed anyway—and Alamy thought so, too.

  It would have been easy to blame the situation on Shani, especially given the way the other woman was coming on to Cato and the advantages she had. Because Shani was both an empath and a cop—qualities Alamy couldn’t hope to match.

  But she knew Shani wasn’t the problem. Not the real problem. That was located deep inside Cato. Part of the man was in love with her. Alamy was convinced of that. But another part was reluctant to make a commitment—and didn’t have to so long as she was his slave. And Shani didn’t require anything of Cato other than the absolute loyalty that cops expect of each other. Her life ran shift to shift, day by day, just like his did.

  Such were Alamy’s thoughts as one of the shadows that was creeping across the ceiling broke suction and fell. The slither flipped in midair and landed belly down across Alamy’s face. She screamed, or tried to, but couldn’t make a sound because of the way the rubbery flesh covered her nose and mouth. Alamy tried to rip the creature loose, but it was pancake-thin, and the suction was strong.

  Rollo squawked loudly as one of the foot-long creatures dropped on him. It wasn’t able to get a purchase, however, and fell free as the angen took to the air and sounded the alarm. “Bad things! Bad things!”

  Cato was up by then, clad in no more than a pair of shorts, having been awoken by the way Alamy was thrashing around. He ordered the lights on, and what he saw made his skin crawl. Dozens of leechlike things were inching their way across the ceiling! They emanated a raw pent-up hunger and were flat enough to slide under a door had that been necessary. But it looked as though the creatures had been able to enter through the open windows.

  But there was no time to take in more than that as Cato turned his attention to Alamy and the creature wrapped around her face. It was difficult to get his fingers in under the ridge of muscular flesh, but once he managed to break suction, the slither uttered a high-pitched squealing sound and wiggled in an attempt to free itself.

  Dozens of tiny puncture wounds could be seen where the leech’s hollow teeth had penetrated Alamy’s skin and begun to suck blood out of her body. Her chest heaved as she sucked air into her oxygen-starved lungs, and Cato threw the loathsome animal at the opposite wall. The slither rolled itself into a ball during the flight, bounced off the wall without having suffered obvious damage, and rolled under the bed.

  Meanwhile, slapping noises were heard as half a dozen of the leeches fell on Cato. Only four of them managed to connect, but that was enough as he struggled to peel the horrors off. “Fire!” he shouted, as hundreds of tiny teeth punctured his skin. “Try fire!”

  It was a good suggestion, but Alamy didn’t have a ready source of heat, so as Cato struggled to peel one of the monstrosities off his left shoulder, she ran to her dresser and opened the drawer where her sewing materials were kept. Then, scissors in hand, she ran back to the side of the bed and began to stab the loathsome creatures. The trick was to do damage without driving the point through the slither and into Cato.

  The leeches squealed in pain, curled up into what looked like black-rubber balls, and bounced as they hit the floor. That was when Cato finally had the opportunity to snatch his pistol off the nightstand and fire at the creatures. Alamy placed her hands over her ears as he shot both the slithers that were still inching their way across the ceiling and those rolling around the floor. Each hit produced a fountain of blood followed by flapping movements as the animal died.

  It wasn’t long before Cato ran out of ammo, making it necessary to insert another magazine into his handgun, but most of the invaders were dead by then. That included the slither Rollo had killed and was ripping apart with his razor-sharp beak.

  Cato was about to look under the bed when Alamy grabbed his arm. “Jak! What about Madam Faustus?”

  Cato swore, made for the stairs, and raced downward. Then he went out the front door, and down another set of stairs, before running over to his landlady’s door. There was no need to ring the bell or bang on the door. The gunfire had awoken Madam Faustus, and she was waiting for him. “Jak? What’s wrong? Are you and Alamy okay?”

  “Just barely,” Cato replied. “May I come in? Someone sent some leechlike creatures into our apartment—and they could have entered your quarters as well.”

  Faustus let him in, and Cato found two slithers in her living room, both of which had probably gone astray. He speared them with a cooking fork, took the squirming blood-suckers outside, and fired a single bullet through both.

  A police car was circling above them by then, its lights strobing the night, but Cato sought to ignore everything except the mix of emotions that were swirling around him. There was fear, curiosity, and a strong sense of resentment that seemed to be emanating from the house next door. All of which was understandable. But, underlying all of it was a profound sense of sorrow, and that intrigued him. Who was in mourning? And why?

  Weapon at the ready, Cato “followed” the emotion by the simple expedient of going to the point where it was strongest. The short journey took him through pools of light that fell from above, across the river of darkness that separated the two houses, and over to a large storage shed. The door was closed. Cato paused there, still “listening,” and was surprised to hear someone sobbing inside.

  Carefully, weapon at the ready, he took hold of the door and pulled. The barrier swung out of the way to reveal a hulking heavy-gravity-world variant. The breed had been created to perform physical labor on planets where most Umans could barely stand up straight. He was seated between what looked like two large suitcases, head in hands, shoulders shaking, as deep sobs racked his body.

  Two street cops had caught up with Cato by that time, and as one of them aimed a flashlight at the suspect, the heavy brought his tear-stained face up to where Cato could see it. “You killed them!” the variant said accusingly. “They were all I had—and you killed them! What am I supposed to do now?”

  “Who are you?” Cato demanded.

  “My name is Korm, and I’m a beast master,” the heavy replied proudly.

  “Well, beast master Korm,”
Cato said matter-of-factly, “you are under arrest. The charge is attempted murder.”

  “It isn’t right!” Korm objected. “All my children wanted was something to eat.”

  “The bastard is crazy,” one of the street cops observed.

  “Yes,” Cato agreed thoughtfully. “He sure as hell is. . . . But someone sent Korm and his so-called children here. The question is who?”

  Tank three, as it was generally referred to, consisted of a tiled room that was large enough to accommodate a six-man lineup, and was equipped with vid cams, bright lights, and a rather ominous floor drain that would make it easy to hose blood off the floor. At the moment, a huge Cloque named Emsay was seated on what appeared to be a dangerously small bench as a police interrogator continued to grind away at him.

  The observation room was separated from the tank by a pane of one-way glass so that people like Primus Pilus Inobo could watch whatever interrogation was taking place, and the policeman was pissed. And for what he considered to be good reason. Because ever since Jak Cato had fallen out of the sky and been assigned to his command, the errant Xeno cop had been an unending source of trouble.

  First there was the Emperor’s Day episode, followed by a wild-eyed assertion that Emor had been replaced by a shape shifter, who was currently running the government. Then came the hawala shoot-out in the X Quarter—closely followed by an effort to assassinate Cato on the job. And now, after a second attempt on his life, Inobo was starting to wonder if his subordinate was immortal.

  The good news, to the extent that there was some, was that beast master Korm had been willing to finger Emsay. Who, with assistance from a small army of police and a robotic cargo lifter, had been arrested and transported to tank three, where he was being interrogated. And now with Inobo, Usurlus, and Cato looking on, it appeared as though Emsay was about to spill his guts. No small task where the massively overweight Cloque was concerned.

  The thought brought a smile to Inobo’s face as the Xeno Corps interrogator took advantage of Emsay’s emotional output to help break him. She had gray hair, a motherly demeanor, and was dressed in nonthreatening civilian clothes. “So you feel that you were used,” she said sympathetically, as Emsay continued to bake under the hot lights.

  “And now, based on testimony provided by beast master Korm, you are going to spend at least ten years on an Imperial prison planet. There won’t be much to eat, I’m afraid. I understand meals consist of just enough calories to keep each prisoner alive. Meanwhile,” she continued conversationally, “the person who hired you to assassinate Officer Cato will continue to live a life of luxury. It doesn’t seem fair, does it?”

  Emsay’s saucerlike eyes blinked in an attempt to cope with the bright lights. He was hot, tired, and above all hungry. The mere thought of food caused his mouth tentacles to writhe uncontrollably. But it was important to remember who he was, what he was, and to hang tough. Because if he was going to sacrifice a client, especially one as powerful as Senator Nalomy, then there had to be some sort of quid pro quo. So he answered the question accordingly.

  “No, it certainly doesn’t,” he croaked. “Let’s say the accusations are true. . . . Let’s say there is a client. . . . And let’s say I was to provide you with a name. What would be in it for me?”

  The interrogator had “felt” it coming and was ready with an answer. “First, there would be the satisfaction of knowing that you had done the right thing, thereby taking the first step on the road to rehabilitation. Then, were you to provide us with your client’s name and testify against him or her as well, it’s quite possible that you could serve your time on the Cloque home world rather than a prison planet. And, based on what I’ve heard, friends and relatives would be allowed to bring you extra food.”

  Emsay felt saliva flood his mouth. “Could my legal representative get that in writing? Especially the last part?”

  “Of course,” the interrogator replied smoothly. “So are you ready to talk?”

  “Yes,” Emsay replied reluctantly. “But I’m going to need something to eat first.”

  EIGHT

  The city of Imperialus, on the planet Corin

  A GROUP OF FIFTEEN PEOPLE HAD ASSEMBLED OUTSIDE the Imperial residence, four of whom were members of the Praetorian Guard, all equipped with the tools required to break in. But they couldn’t do so without a final order from Chief of Staff Rolari, and he was waffling.

  More than a day had passed since the Emperor had met with the Vord diplomats, and all attempts to communicate with him had been met with silence. So Rolari was faced with a terrible conundrum. It was his job to respect the Emperor’s wishes, no matter how eccentric they might seem, and that included Emor’s recent insistence on personal privacy. Because even if he was crazy, he was the Emperor.

  If Rolari and the other top officials were wrong, and they forced their way into the residence only to discover that Emor was perfectly fine, then some very bad things were likely to happen. Especially to him. So Rolari felt a large empty place at the pit of his stomach as he made eye contact with the burly Centurion and gave the two-word order. “Break in.”

  The heavily embossed doors looked decorative but were made of solid durasteel and designed to hold off a concerted attack by a hypothetical force of armed insurgents long enough for the Emperor and his family to escape by air. So it was necessary for the soldiers to light cutting torches and go to work on the barrier’s locking mechanisms before they could access the area beyond.

  The first few minutes were the worst. Because as the yellow-orange lines sliced through vertical-locking rods and began to isolate the locks that controlled the horizontal bolts, Rolari feared that he would hear Emor’s enraged voice over the intercom at any moment. But as the work continued without producing a response from within, the official became increasingly convinced that the Emperor was incapacitated in some way. Ill, perhaps? Or, God forbid, dead? There was always the possibility that he’d been struck down by an undiagnosed disease, or taken his own life, which would be consistent with the theory that Emor was mentally ill.

  So Rolari experienced all sorts of emotions as the first rod was severed and the previously tight doors gave slightly. There was a momentary hiss, as if pressures were being equalized, followed by the outgassing of a very foul odor. One of the officials said, “My God, what’s that?” and held his nose.

  Rolari thought he knew the answer. But as the Praetorians pushed the doors open, and the Chief of Staff peered inside, he saw the debris-strewn floor and realized that something very unusual had taken place. Something very, very dark.

  And that suspicion was soon confirmed as the group pushed its way farther into the residence—where a wealth of gruesome evidence was found. “There are bones scattered around the floor!” one of the soldiers announced.

  “There’s blood in the kitchen!” another voice said. “And what could be a body. . . . Oh, my God, I found a head! It’s Ambassador Nusk!”

  The claim was too outlandish to ignore, so Rolari went to see for himself, and was revolted to find that the official was correct. The head that had been left in one corner of the blood-smeared prep area was that of Ambassador Nusk! Who, judging from the expression frozen on his blackened face, had suffered a horrible death.

  Rolari felt his lunch rise in his throat, stumbled out into the informal eating area where Emor traditionally had breakfast, and threw up in a vase worth five thousand Imperials. Others had similar reactions, and the crime scene would have been horribly compromised, had it not been for the businesslike Centurion who shooed everyone out of the residence. Then, under strict instructions not to touch anything, two of his men were assigned to search for Emperor Emor.

  Fifteen minutes later, having completed their task, the battle-hardened Praetorians left through the front doors. Rolari and the others were outside waiting. “We looked everywhere, sir,” the lead soldier reported as he removed wads of cloth from his nostrils. “There are bones here and there, some of which appear to have been t
here for quite a while, but no sign of the Emperor or his body.”

  Rolari took the news hard. Nearly all color left his face, his hands shook as if palsied, and beads of perspiration dotted his forehead. “Are you sure? Completely sure?”

  The legionnaire nodded. “Yes, sir. Unless some of the loose body parts were those of the Emperor. I can’t rule that out. But, if that was the case, who spread them around?”

  Rolari’s head began to swim, he felt weak in the knees, and he was about to collapse when two officials rushed to hold him up. “Inobo was correct,” Rolari moaned pitifully. “I thought the story he told me was too fantastic to be true, but it was true, and I have only myself to blame!

  “Call Primus Pilus Inobo, tell him to get over here, and to bring his best investigators with him. . . . Call Legate Usurlus as well. He tried to warn me, and I wouldn’t listen.”

  “Yes, sire,” an unctuous assistant promised. “Will there be anything else?”

  “Yes,” Rolari answered hoarsely, as his eyes darted from face to face. “There must be total secrecy until the investigation has been completed, the Emperor’s son has been notified, and the succession is assured. Usurlus can help with that. Now, close the doors, post guards, and take me to my office. I need to lie down.”

  A swarm of silvery news cams swooped in to capture shots of Legate Usurlus as he stepped out onto the open veranda. And for good reason. It wasn’t every day that a Senator was arrested and charged with agreeing to kill legislation in return for the death of a police officer and possibly a Legate as well, the same man credited with removing Nalomy’s daughter from office on Dantha, thereby ending the corruption there.

  But while the situation was breaking Usurlus’s way, he was conscious of the fact that Senator Nalomy had lots of powerful friends and would soon be free on his personal recognizance. Not to mention the fact that the only evidence against him was the word of a Cloque crime lord. So even though Usurlus couldn’t help but feel somewhat jubilant, he kept the emotion hidden and chose his words with care. “I was shocked and saddened to hear of Senator Nalomy’s arrest,” he told the hovering cameras. “The charges that have been brought against him are quite serious and, if true, would warrant severe punishment.