Bones of Empire

by William C. Dietz

  “I feel fine,” Tegat lied, as both doubt and fear leaked into the ethers around him.

  “Really?” Cato inquired cynically. “How about your Ya? How does he feel?”

  “Layo feels fine, too,” Tegat insisted. But as the Vord spoke, Cato “felt” something akin to emotional background noise. Was that the Ya? Expressing his own emotions? If so, the feeling of disgust that Layo felt regarding his life partner was both unexpected and unlike anything Cato had experienced during the previous interviews.

  So as Cato asked the pair about Heyavu, and whether he had a reason to murder Dancha, the empath did the best he could to “hear” whatever feelings Layo might have. And when Tegat said, “No,” an answer that he clearly believed to be true, Cato was surprised to discover that the Vord’s Ya was experiencing the kind of stress normally associated with a lie!

  Rather than confront the pair with his finding, and trigger some sort of cover-up, Cato let them go. Then, once they were out in the corridor, Cato turned to the others. “That was strange,” Cato said. “Tegat is ill—but denies it. In spite of that, he seems to be telling the truth when he denies knowing anything about the killing. Yet, if I’m reading the feedback correctly, his Ya might be involved. It doesn’t make sense.”

  There was a momentary silence, and much to Cato’s surprise, it was Alamy who spoke first. Her question was addressed to Umji. “I’ve been reading about your civilization. . . . And it’s my understanding that the pairing between a Vord and a Ya usually results in what we Umans would refer to as a love match—meaning the formation of a deep emotional bond between two individuals. Is that correct?”

  Umji’s expression was wooden, but Cato could “feel” agreement. “Yes,” the Vord replied cautiously, “I think that’s a fair description.”

  Alamy nodded. “And would you agree that while the typical relationship between a male and a female Vord may involve a significant friendship, it is primarily for the purpose of procreation?”

  Umji nodded.

  “In sharp contrast to that,” Alamy said, as she seemed to gain confidence, “the Ya are self-replicating. That means a new Ya is something of a known quantity at the time of his birth. A fact that helps the clan elders pair him with a Vord when both are only a few months old. So is it possible that Heyavu fell in love with Tegat’s Ya, and vice versa? Because if it is, that could explain both the killing and Tegat’s illness since it’s possible that Layo is trying to kill him.”

  “But how would Heyavu and Layo communicate?” Shani wanted to know.

  “Chemically,” Alamy answered. “Kind of like Uman males and females do when they meet for the first time.”

  It took a moment for the others to assimilate the theory Alamy had put forward. But once Umji processed it, he brought a bony fist down onto the tabletop. “Yes, damn it, yes! All of it is there. Quati and I should have seen it from the beginning. Late-life rejections are rare, quite rare, but not unknown. And in the close quarters of a ship, unfortunate things can happen. We will administer medical tests to Tegat in order to determine whether he’s being poisoned—and reinterview Layo with one of you present. Thank you, my friends—you have been extremely helpful.” And with that, Umji was gone.

  Cato looked from Alamy to Shani. “Did he say, ‘my friends’?”

  “Yes,” Shani replied gravely. “That’s what I heard.”

  Cato nodded and turned to look at Alamy. “And did Alamy make both of us look like rookies?”

  Alamy felt a sense of satisfaction as the other woman offered a reluctant smile. “Yes,” Shani admitted ruefully, “she sure as hell did.”

  ELEVEN

  The city of Kybor, on the planet Therat

  THE NARROW STREETS OF KYBOR WERE CROWDED with Umanity and badly in need of maintenance. Horns beeped as brightly painted scooters bumped through pot-holes, heavily laden angens brayed loudly, and discordant music emanated from dozens of competing players. Shops crowded the street from both sides, jostled each other for space, and often spilled out over the sidewalks. That was the no-man’s-land where raggedy children battled each other for customers. “Hey, mister,” a grubby little girl said, as she ran out to tug at Fiss Verafti’s waist-length jacket. “You wanna new pair of shoes? Come in! My uncle will make them for you.”

  On that particular day, Verafti was the spitting image of a reporter from Kybor’s highest-rated news net. He paused to look down at her. “I’ve got an idea . . . Why don’t you come home with me? Then I could eat you for dinner.”

  The little girl’s eyes grew huge. She turned and ran for the safety of the shop. Verafti laughed and continued on his way. The street led to a dilapidated park. And there, right in the square, was a bronze likeness of Demius the Kind. The Emperor who was generally credited with giving Therat’s population full citizenship. A bird was perched on his head.

  Beyond the park, on the other side of the street, a blocky four-story building stood. It was at least a hundred years old and harkened back to the once-popular colonial style of architecture. The sign out front read, MUNICIPAL BUILDING, and Verafti noticed that a squad of Vord troopers were loitering outside. To “protect” it no doubt.

  Verafti paused to examine his latest image in a convenient store window, was satisfied with what he saw, and made his way across the park. During the day, it was the province of shop workers, government bureaucrats, and nannies. But once darkness fell, a much rougher crowd would take over.

  Having rounded the fountain in which half a dozen mostly naked children were playing, Verafti left the park and crossed the street. The Vord soldiers watched him warily but made no attempt to intercept the shape shifter as he climbed a short flight of stairs and entered a spacious lobby. Fluted columns supported the roof, the marble floor was spotless, and glassed-in cubicles lined three of the four walls. A sign hung over each booth so citizens would know where to go. Verafti saw stations labeled WATER, POWER, SEWER, GARBAGE, LICENSES, and half a dozen more. Each with its own line, some of which were twenty or thirty people long.

  But the office Verafti wanted was labeled DEATHS, which logically enough was located right next to BIRTHS. And judging from the extremely short line that led up to the booth, death wasn’t all that popular. Verafti took his place behind an elderly woman, waited until she had successfully paid her husband’s death tax, and stepped up to the counter. The man beyond the glass had thinning black hair, large liquid eyes, and the look of a career bureaucrat. “Yes, sir . . .” he said politely. “How can I be of assistance?”

  “My name is Vejee Saro,” Verafti lied. “I’m a reporter with news eight. I have an appointment to see the coroner.”

  Verafti saw recognition in the bureaucrat’s eyes and “felt” him perk up. Here was something to make this particular day different from all the rest. “Of course! My wife and I watch your show every evening. . . . Just a moment while I call down and have the coroner send someone up to get you.”

  That left Verafti to stand around and watch people come and go for a good five minutes before a tiny woman in a pristine lab coat appeared. The name tag over her left breast pocket read L. NAMJI, and there wasn’t enough meat on her body to constitute anything more than a snack. “Hello,” the woman said pleasantly, “I’m Lin Namji, the coroner’s assistant.”

  As Verafti shook Namji’s hand, he could feel her bones and knew he could easily crush them. “And I’m Vejee Saro,” he replied. “Thank you for coming up to get me.”

  “It’s a pleasure,” Namji replied. What she actually felt was a mild sense of annoyance. Probably because she was busy, but there was no sign of her true emotions on her face. “How can I help you?”

  “We’re doing a story on the night stalker,” Verafti answered. “And I would like to visit the morgue.” The so-called night stalker was a serial killer who had been preying on young women. They were prostitutes for the most part, which meant they had to venture out at night. A situation which was bad for them but good for the news nets, who had been running the
story around the clock. It was one of the few subjects they could report on without being censored by the Vords.

  Despite the nearly nonstop coverage, Verafti had been unable to glean enough detailed information to rule Demeni in or out as the killer. The one-week interval between murders was about right for a feeding Sagathi, but what about the rest of it? The news stories were frustratingly vague. And that was why Verafti wanted to interview the coroner. He hoped to get more information and make a determination as to whether Demeni was involved or not.

  “I see,” Namji said cautiously. “You realize there are details about the killings that can’t be released so long as the investigation is ongoing. Things that only the killer or killers would know.”

  “Yes, of course,” Verafti replied smoothly. “What I’m looking for is background stuff . . . the look and feel of the place where the autopsies are carried out. That sort of thing.”

  Namji looked around. “Do you have a camera crew?”

  “No, I have an implant,” Verafti said as he pointed to his right eye. “Smile! I’m recording everything you say.”

  Namji produced something that looked more like a grimace than a smile. “Come with me,” she said, and turned away.

  Verafti followed her across what seemed like half an acre of marble to a door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY, where Namji placed her palm on a reader. There was a soft hissing sound as the barrier slid out of the way, and she waved Verafti through. That was a relief. Because even though the shape shifter had a photographic memory and could produce a believable likeness of any being or part of a being he’d been exposed to, he couldn’t replicate a palm print he’d never seen. So if the real newsman’s prints were on file in the government’s computers, as they almost certainly were, access would have been denied the moment he placed his hand on the scanner.

  As Namji led Verafti down a tightly turning staircase, the air grew steadily cooler until it was verging on frigid by the time they arrived in the basement. A second door gave access to a long hallway. Namji ushered Verafti into the first office on the right. A man in a white lab coat was seated behind a desk. His back was to the door, and he was looking at a flat-panel screen. Verafti could see what he knew to be a Uman thighbone pictured next to some text. A report of some sort? Yes, he thought so. “Dr. Sintha?” Namji said. “Citizen Saro is here to see you.”

  As the coroner turned around, Verafti saw that the Uman was wearing a comb-over to hide his incipient baldness, had slightly protuberant ears and bright, inquisitive eyes. His face was smoothly shaved, and thin in keeping with a slender frame. “Citizen Saro,” he said as he rose. “I watch your channel all the time. . . . At least I used to. However, it’s mostly propaganda now. That isn’t your fault, of course. These are difficult times for all of us. What can we do for you?”

  Verafti shook the extended hand and accepted a seat. “I was hoping to learn more about the way the night stalker kills his victims,” the shape shifter said honestly. “That kind of detail has been sadly missing from our reports.”

  Sintha nodded. “And for good reason. . . . We aren’t allowed to disclose that kind of information lest it help the killer or hinder the police investigation.”

  Verafti glanced over his shoulder and was glad to see that Namji had closed the door behind her when she left the room. “That makes sense,” he conceded, “but I’m hoping you’ll tell me anyway.”

  The coroner frowned. “I’m sorry, Citizen Saro—but that’s impossible.”

  “Okay,” Verafti replied calmly. “I guess we’ll have to do this the hard way.”

  Sintha’s hand was halfway to the intercom when Verafti morphed into his true form and ripped the coroner’s throat open. Then, as Sintha continued to bleed out, his killer went around to the other side of the messy desk. The blood-drenched chair was mounted on rollers, so Verafti towed the corpse out of the way and brought the guest chair around to sit on. Five experimental voice commands were required in order to bring the correct folder up on the screen. Once it was open, seven files could be seen. One for each of the night stalker’s victims.

  Verafti opened the files one after another, skimmed the notes associated with each autopsy, and felt an almost overwhelming sense of disappointment. There was a serial killer on the loose all right, but none of the prostitutes had been eaten. That meant his beloved Demeni was finding nourishment elsewhere. So the visit to the morgue had been for nothing, and the search would continue.

  Verafti stood, morphed into Uman form, and went over to the door. He set the lock before pulling it closed. With that accomplished, it was a simple matter to return to the cavernous lobby and leave through the front door. By the time the sirens were heard, and guards rushed to seal the Municipal Building’s doors, a man who looked completely different from Saro was examining a nice cut of meat in a shop two blocks away.

  The governor’s palace as well as the complex of buildings around it had been taken over by the Vords. And after landing at Kybor’s dilapidated spaceport a day earlier, that was where Cato and his companions had been taken. The team was seated on a broad veranda that ran around all four sides of the colonial-style administration building. Overhead fans sent a cooling breeze down to caress them, verdant gardens served to screen off the not-altogether-pleasant sights that the city had to offer, and Uman refreshments were theirs for the asking.

  But the living conditions did nothing to lessen Cato’s anger. For the Umans were being held in what their hosts referred to as “protective custody.” Which meant they weren’t allowed to carry their weapons, leave the mansion, or begin their investigation. A situation Cato had repeatedly objected to but to no avail.

  So when Officer Umji and his Ya finally appeared on the veranda, Cato jumped to his feet. “What the hell is going on?” the police officer demanded angrily. “Why are we being held here?”

  “Please,” Umji said reasonably, “calm yourself. We realize this is inconvenient, but imagine how my superiors feel. A shape shifter may be on the loose in Kybor. They can’t trust anyone. So before you leave the mansion, and begin the investigation, they insist that you vet all of the Vord personnel in Kybor. Once they’re cleared, you can proceed.”

  “Did you say all of the personnel?” Cato inquired incredulously. “How many Vords are we talking about?”

  “Three thousand, two hundred, and forty-three,” Umji answered smoothly. “But never fear! Everything has been arranged. Tomorrow morning our personnel will parade past the table where you and your companions will be seated. Then, if you recognize the shape shifter, we’ll nab him. Case closed.”

  “Let’s not forget that there are two of them,” Cato grated, “and what’s to keep one of the Sagathi from impersonating a Vord after we inspect your personnel? Even if we inspected your people once a day for the next year, it wouldn’t make you safe.”

  “We made much the same point,” Umji replied stoically, “and we were overruled. The review will take place. At that point, you will be free to go.”

  There was a moment of silence as the cops confronted each other. That was when Cato realized that Umji and his Ya advisor had their own Inobo to deal with. Or Inobos plural, since each Vord had a parasite. A pair of superiors who weren’t all that bright, wouldn’t listen, or both. “You’ll give me your word? If we participate in this farce, we’ll be free to begin work?”

  “We can’t make a promise like that,” Umji answered honestly. “But we believe you’ll be free to go.”

  Umji and Quati were being honest. Or at least Umji was. Cato could “feel” it. So he nodded. “Okay, then. . . . Tomorrow morning it is.”

  Rather than let the team lounge around, Cato requested that three additional flat screens be brought up to the visitors’ suite. Then, with four news nets blaring, the team members were forced to watch and learn what was going on. It quickly became apparent that the Vords were not only censoring the local news but largely unaware of what was taking place on Corin. So as far as the team could tell, the lo
cal population was completely unaware of Emor’s death, the fact that his son had taken the throne, and the fact that an interstellar war was increasingly likely.

  Most of that day’s news was centered around the local coroner’s death at the hands of an anchorman named Saro Vejee. He denied the charge, of course, but cameras don’t lie, and pictures of his arrival and departure had been captured by security cams in both the Municipal Building’s lobby and the morgue below.

  For his part, Vejee claimed to have been home with his wife when the murder took place, but the local cops weren’t buying that, and for obvious reasons. “The bastard is guilty as hell,” Shani observed, and Cato saw no reason to disagree.

  But even if the Vejee case was open-and-shut, there were other news items of interest. One of them was the illegal demonstration that had taken place earlier in the day. And because the voice-over was delivered by a so-called pacification monitor, meaning a Uman collaborator, it seemed safe to assume that the clip had been shot by the Vords for propaganda purposes.

  The story opened with a wide shot of a plaza, where a large group of people were gathered. The lettering on the signs they were holding had been blurred out. “In spite of rules prohibiting such gatherings,” the collaborator said sternly, “criminal elements came together in an attempt to disseminate lies. Fortunately, members of Counterinsurgency Task Force Nine were present to disperse the troublemakers and make arrests.”

  At that point, Cato and the others saw half a dozen Vord military vehicles arrive and uniformed troops hit the ground. The pop, pop, pop of gunfire could be heard. A handful of demonstrators fell, and the rest ran. That was when more Vords arrived on the far side of the plaza, where they were in a perfect position to intercept the fugitives. Some were shot, others were beaten, and the rest were taken into custody.