Bones of Empire

by William C. Dietz

  “It’s me,” Alamy said. “I’m on my way home from the market, and I think I have a tail. Two of them to be exact.”

  “Describe them.”

  Alamy studied the reflection in front of her. “One of them is a male in his early thirties. He’s about six feet tall with an average build. He’s wearing a red pillbox hat, a vest, and baggy pantaloons. The other person is female. She’s wearing a white scarf, a wrap-style green dress, and carrying a drawstring purse.”

  “Location?”

  “I’m on Imperial Way just north of the point where it intersects with Commerce.”

  “Okay,” Cato said. “Continue your stroll. . . . We’ll be there shortly.”

  Keen was out shopping for a van that wasn’t loaded with Vord tracking devices, but both Cato and Shani were home, sitting in front of newly acquired computer consoles. The idea was to search public databases looking for the sort of patterns that might reveal the presence of a Sagathi shape shifter. Much as Verafti had done while posing as the Emperor.

  So the need to venture out on what was probably a false alarm was something of an annoyance, and Shani said as much. But Cato, who was in the process of pulling a jacket on over his shoulder holster, was careful to counter the criticism. “We gave Alamy a hard time when she inadvertently told Verafti where to find us back on Corin. So give her some credit . . . She’s learning.”

  That was fine except that Shani didn’t want to give Alamy credit for anything more than the quality of her cooking. So she made a face but kept her mouth shut as Cato locked the door behind them and led the way down three flights of badly worn stairs to a grubby lobby and the busy street beyond. A wave of heat and a cacophony of noise reached out to greet the couple as they stepped onto the hot sidewalk.

  The streets were busy as people of every possible description made their way to work, returned home, or kept appointments. There weren’t any Vords in sight, but that wasn’t unusual because the aliens had only about three thousand troops on the ground. Not that many, really, given the number of Umans on Therat, but enough thanks to the warships in orbit.

  Ten minutes later, Cato and Shani were on heavily traveled Imperial Way and closing on what had been Alamy’s position. There were so many people on the street it was difficult to sort them out, but thanks to Alamy’s mention of a red hat, Cato was able to spot the couple. “Got ’em,” Cato said from the corner of his mouth. “They’re at two o’clock immediately behind the holy man with the frizzy hair. And I think I see Alamy about fifty feet in front of them.”

  Shani followed Cato’s directions, located the couple in question, and was forced to give Alamy some grudging credit. At least the tails were real. “Let’s close the gap,” Cato suggested. “It’s a long shot, but if that’s Verafti and his girl-friend, then this could get interesting.”

  It was a long shot, but Shani found herself reaching in under her jacket to touch her handgun, in much the same way that a Reconstructionist priest might take comfort from his ankh. But as the variants began to close with the suspects, it quickly became clear that they were exactly what they appeared to be, which was Uman.

  So why tail Alamy then? Were they thieves? Who were planning to rob her? If so, they were going to a lot of trouble for two bags of groceries. Cato made an effort to close the gap on the chance that he could pick up on some telltale emotions. But with so many people around, it was impossible to tell who was feeling what. So that left only one choice. “We’ll have to take them off the street,” Cato said. “Because if they’re anything other than thieves, I want to know about it.”

  “That’s just terrific,” Shani replied sarcastically, “except how the hell are we going to accomplish that?”

  “We’ll stun ’em,” Cato said pragmatically, “and hail a cab!”

  Shani was about to raise the first of at least three objections when Cato drew a stubby stunner from a belt holster and began to walk more quickly. Then, while Shani hurried to catch up, Cato shot both suspects in the back. They jerked spasmodically, lost all motor control, and collapsed onto the filthy sidewalk.

  “I’m a doctor!” Cato shouted loudly as he knelt next to the glassy-eyed victims. “Give them some air. . . . You!” Cato said authoritatively as he pointed at Shani. “Hail a cab! I’ll take them to the hospital.”

  Shani, who was still reeling from the speed and ruthlessness with which her superior officer had immobilized two private citizens, managed to get a cab by the simple expedient of stepping out in front of one. Tires screeched as the vehicle came to a halt. The driver was swearing a blue streak when Shani held up her hand and willed her badge to appear. “Shut the hell up and help my partner load those people in the back,” she ordered. “Or, if you prefer, I’ll call down to city hall and have them jerk your ticket. You choose.”

  “But I have passengers!” the cabbie objected.

  “No you don’t,” Shani said as she pulled the rear door open and stuck her head into the passenger compartment. Two brightly clad matrons were seated there, both wearing expressions of surprised disapproval. “This is a police emergency,” Shani said gruffly. “Get out and find another ride.”

  The women, radiating anger, hurried to obey as Cato arrived with the female suspect cradled in his arms. “Good work,” the Xeno cop said as he dumped his burden inside. “Search her. . . . And don’t forget that purse. It felt heavy.”

  Shani discovered that the female suspect was carrying both a two-shot pistol and a flick blade as well. Both served to reinforce the notion that the couple had been up to something as they followed Alamy.

  Cato and the taxi driver arrived moments later, with the male suspect slung between them. He went into the back with the two women. Then, as the driver slid behind the wheel, Cato got in beside him and began to rifle through the male suspect’s wallet. “Take us to 4311 Orby Road,” Cato instructed. “I want to make sure that these people arrive home safely.”

  “I thought we were going to the hospital,” the cabbie objected.

  “I changed my mind,” Cato said unapologetically. “Now get going.”

  The cabbie saw lots of strange things on a daily basis and decided that the best thing to do was to say, “Yes, sir,” and do as he was told.

  Alamy was still wandering down Imperial Way. It was hot, but the first few drops of what promised to be a heavy shower were falling, and she was increasingly worried because it had been nearly half an hour since she had spoken with Cato. Then her pocket com rang, and she flipped it open. “Hello?”

  “It’s me,” Cato said. “You were correct. Shani and I have the situation under control, and you can go home.”

  “Good,” Alamy said as she stopped to look around. “All of my produce is starting to wilt.”

  “Heaven forbid,” Cato said lightly. “And one more thing . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Good job. Don’t let up.” The words were followed by a click.

  The air was humid, and Alamy was getting wet, but she didn’t care. She was happy, and for the moment, that was enough.

  It was nearly noon, a warm rain had started to fall, and the streets were packed with umbrella-toting citizens. They jostled each other in an attempt to stay in under the slanting roofs that fronted many of the shops, and Verafti was there among them, the very picture of a store clerk on his way to work. His umbrella was black, the suit he wore was white, and his shoes were nicely polished.

  Even before the Vords had occupied it, the city of Kybor had been aswirl with rumors, dangerous politics, and class warfare. Now, with armed aliens on the streets and members of a growing resistance movement trying to stir things up, the situation was even more volatile as Verafti continued his search.

  Having concluded that Demeni wasn’t responsible for killing the city’s prostitutes, Verafti had turned his attention to other theories, the latest of which had to do with the Rahati religious cult. A group that worshipped a goddess who was said to have three faces.

  Of course, the Umans ha
d a seemingly endless capacity to invent religions. But if the rumors on the street were true, what made this cult different was the fact that the goddess Rahati was more than a graven image. She was a real flesh-and-blood being, one who could change shapes at will and had a taste for raw meat.

  That suggested a need to investigate. . . . But how? The first step, or so it seemed to Verafti, was to visit a Rahati temple and see what, if anything, could be learned there. That was going to be difficult, however, since most of the Rahaties had been driven underground by the Vords. From what Verafti had been able to discover from online news archives, most of the Rahati temples had been raided, and dozens of the cult’s adherents had been arrested. All in an attempt to shut down what the Vords called, “a vile and disgusting cult.”

  But the Rahaties were far from powerless. Or so it seemed. Because if Vord claims were true, more than twenty of their soldiers had been ambushed and murdered as part of what the occupiers called “unspeakable rites.” Would Verafti be able to speak with one of the Rahaties? There was only one way to find out. The shape shifter paused on a corner, eyed the structure on the other side of the street, and waited for a pedicab to roll past.

  One of the things that made Rahati temples different from the structures put up by other religions was the complete absence of external adornment. There were no spires, no statues, not even a window to break the building’s box-like simplicity. Just a rectangular doorway, symbolizing the beginning of a new life, and the belief that everything a person needed to know lay within.

  Having arrived in front of the temple, Verafti paused to shake the raindrops off his umbrella before lowering the canopy and tucking the damp implement under his arm. A gentle push was sufficient to open the door. After passing through a lobby with a colorful mural on the central wall, Verafti entered the large room beyond. If the outside of the building was austere, the interior was just the opposite. Ropes of multicolored lights crisscrossed the high ceiling, oil lamps flickered as an air current flowed around them, and the wall paint produced a luminescent glow. There were no benches on which to sit, just carpets of every possible color that overlapped each other.

  Because of the relatively early hour, and the Vords’ efforts to put the cult out of business, Verafti found himself alone with the goddess. Rahati, or an image of her, rested on a raised platform at the front of the room. And consistent with what he’d heard, the supernatural being had three faces. The one that faced the long, rectangular room was that of a beast with its fangs bared. Uman profiles could be seen to either side of it. The one on the left was unmistakably male—and the one on the right was female. All of which was emblematic of some nonsense or other. Verafti didn’t care.

  So, with no one to speak to, Verafti had little choice but to make his way up toward the front of the room and sit down. Then, with legs crossed, he settled in to wait. A person was present nearby. Verafti could “feel” the Uman’s emotions. They consisted of boredom tinged with curiosity. Regarding him? Yes, most certainly. Visitors were probably rare that time of day, especially people the observer didn’t already know, which would account for the way he or she felt.

  Then why not come out of hiding? Verafti wondered. Unless he was being subjected to a test. A period of waiting intended to separate serious seekers from the merely curious. So he sat, and sat some more, even though the emotional presence came and went occasionally.

  Finally, after the better part of two hours had passed, Verafti heard a momentary swish of fabric as a woman appeared. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, which served to emphasize a high forehead. She was dressed in a silky red fabric that was wrapped around her body in an artful manner with a small amount of excess cloth thrown back over her left shoulder. “Can I help you?” The words sounded like a challenge rather than an offer of assistance.

  “That depends,” Verafti answered evenly. “I have a message for Rahati. . . . Can you deliver it?”

  Lamplight danced in the woman’s almond-shaped eyes. “The goddess already knows that which lies within,” she replied gravely. “There is no need for a messenger.”

  “My message is for the person rather than the goddess,” Verafti countered. “If she is the person I think she is, we were friends once. Extremely good friends.”

  The woman was annoyed, and Verafti could “feel” it. “Rahati is there in front of you. Say what you will to her. Then I must ask you to leave.”

  When the shape shifter morphed into his true form, the woman screamed and attempted to run. But Verafti was fast, and she hadn’t traveled more than a few feet before he caught up with her. He had only one hand, but that was sufficient. His fingers were like steel. “Go to Rahati,” he commanded. “Communicate what you saw. And tell her that I would cross a thousand stars to be with her. She will know my name. Fail me, and I will kill you.”

  “I w-w-won’t fail you,” the woman said piteously. “Please don’t hurt me.”

  “Tell her to meet me in the botanical gardens,” Verafti said. “I will go there each night for the next two nights. Do you understand?”

  “The b-b-botanical gardens,” the woman said, “each night for the next two nights. I will tell her.” She was telling the truth, he could “feel” it, and a feeling of joy bubbled up from deep within. Demeni was there! Somewhere nearby . . . Soon to be by his side.

  “Good,” Verafti said as he released his grip. And then, as suddenly as the first change had taken place, he was Uman again. “So, tell me,” the shape shifter said pleasantly as he bent to retrieve his umbrella. “Is it still raining?”

  Kybor’s once-thriving warehouse district was located just south of the spaceport. But now, having been cut off from the Uman Empire for months, the only outbound cargoes were shipments of germanium bound for factories deep inside the Vord Hegemony.

  The area had been hard hit during the Vord landings, and huge craters marked the spots where bombs had gone off or incoming missiles had struck. Many structures had been destroyed or were so damaged as to be useless.

  There were survivors, however. Most of them were one-story metal-sheathed buildings that were locked up to keep vagrants out. Some were guarded by club-toting Urs—others had airborne drones for protection.

  So the cabbie was understandably nervous as he turned onto Orby Road and began to watch for number 4311. “Are you sure this is where you want to go?” the driver inquired doubtfully. “I thought you were taking them home.”

  The male suspect groaned at that point and was in the process of trying to sit up when Shani stunned him again. “Nope,” Cato answered. “This is the place all right. Rents are cheaper down here. There it is. . . . Number 4311.”

  The taxi slowed, passed through an already opened security gate, and came to a halt. There were no signs of life. Just a stripped truck, a lot of litter, and the head-high graffiti that decorated the front of the shabby warehouse. But appearances can be deceiving. Security cameras were mounted here and there all around the building, and as Cato got out of the car, he saw one of them move. The device might be synched up to a motion detector, but Cato thought he could “feel” emotional activity nearby and was pretty sure he was under surveillance.

  “Okay,” Cato said, as Shani got out to join him. “Let’s pull them out of the cab. Assuming there are people inside, that should bring them out to speak with us.”

  Shani eyed the cameras, “felt” a rising sense of consternation, and nodded. Five minutes later, both of the suspects were laid out on the duracrete. Cato dropped three Imperials into the driver’s hand and looked him in the eye. “I took your license number off the card in the back. That means I can find you. This trip never took place.”

  “What trip?” the cabbie responded as he made the Imperials disappear. Seconds later, he was behind the wheel, guiding the car out onto Orby Road. At that point, he gunned the engine and sped away.

  “I don’t mean to be critical,” Shani put in as she eyed the warehouse. “But how will we make it home?”

&n
bsp; “I’m not entirely sure,” Cato answered, as a large sliding door rumbled open to reveal a pile of cargo modules. “But if things go well, the people in the warehouse will give us a lift.”

  “And if things don’t go well?” Shani inquired, removing her weapon from its holster.

  “Then we’ll be in deep shit,” Cato replied evenly, as a pair of heavily armed men walked out onto the loading platform and stood in front of the cargo modules.

  “Who the hell are you?” the larger man demanded belligerently. He had a bulging forehead, piggy eyes, and an underthrust jaw.

  “We’re the people these idiots were sent to find,” Cato answered as he placed a foot on the male suspect’s posterior.

  Piggy Eyes was silent for a moment. “Are they dead?”

  “No, just stunned. I suggest that you send someone to carry them inside.”

  The man turned his head back toward the building’s interior, spoke to a person Cato couldn’t see, and turned back again. Then, as six men and women filed out onto the platform, Piggy Eyes jerked the submachine gun to the left. “Take your foot off my nephew’s ass.”

  Cato grinned and took a step backward. “Sorry . . . So are you going to invite us in for a chat? Or should I call the Vords and ask them to join us?”

  Piggy Eyes opened his mouth to respond but was overridden as a young woman appeared in the doorway. “Thank you, Bif. . . . I’ll take it from here. Officer Cato? Officer Shani? Please come in. We have some pretty thick cloud cover at the moment, but the Vords keep a close eye on the city from orbit.”

  Cato returned his weapon to its holster, and Shani did the same as the semiconscious male suspect was carried into the building. The same young woman was waiting for them inside. Her blond hair was worn in a buzz cut, and outside of a pair of dangly earrings, she had a hard, almost masculine appearance. She was dressed in an olive drab shirt over baggy militia trousers and a pair of scuffed combat boots. A large pistol was strapped to her right thigh, and something about her stance suggested that she knew how to use it. “My name is Olivia Arrius,” she said. “Welcome to Therat.”