ONE
The city of Imperialus, on the planet Corin
THE CITY OF IMPERIALUS HAD BEEN CONSTRUCTED within the embrace of an ancient crater, where it was at least partially protected from the winds that scoured the area each fall. But the “blow,” as the locals referred to it, was still months away, and the temperature was beginning to climb as Trey Omo and his team of street toughs entered the section of the metropolis called Port City.
A thousand years earlier, back before Imperialus had become the capital of the sprawling Uman Empire, Port City had been the only settlement on Corin. And not much of one at that. But those days were gone, and the slum around the bustling spaceport was populated by people who were too poor to escape the endless noise associated with the facility. They lived in poorly maintained five-to-ten-story buildings, many of which were hundreds of years old and built on the rubble of structures that dated back to the first Imperial epoch. There had been repeated efforts to spruce the area up, but thanks to the forces of greed, corruption, and institutionalized incompetence, Port City always reverted to form within a matter of years.
That meant the citizens of District Five, as it was officially known, were tough, cynical, and eternally wary of strangers. So when Omo and his assassins entered the slum, word of their arrival spread like ripples on a pond, and it wasn’t long before the local power structure went on the defensive. Criminal gangs pulled their members in off the streets, merchants doubled their security, and it was as if the entire population was holding its breath, waiting to see what would happen next.
That was fine with Omo, who didn’t want to do battle with the locals but was perfectly willing to do so if that was necessary. His job was to set up an ambush, wait for Isulu Usurlus to land the following day, and kill him before the Legate and his official motorcade could clear Port City.
It was a routine operation insofar as Omo was concerned. A straightforward political assassination not unlike half a dozen others he had participated in over the years. His team consisted of thirty people, who had been divided into three ten-man squads, two of which were commanded by trusted noncoms, with the third being led by Omo himself.
The first task of the day was to finalize the way the ambush would be organized, and having scouted the area a few days earlier, Omo had a pretty good idea of where he wanted to place his men. But in order to fine-tune his plan, it was necessary to inspect each location to make sure his first impression was correct, then take control of it. That might require some muscle, however, which was why half of Omo’s squad accompanied him as the beat-up delivery van arrived in front of a ratty apartment building and pulled over to the curb. “Check your weapons,” Omo said gruffly. “But keep them out of sight. We don’t want trouble if we can avoid it.”
Once his men were ready, Omo opened the passenger-side door, got out, and led the toughs across the broken sidewalk and into what had once been known as the Grand Imperialus Hotel. However, as Omo and his team crossed the lobby, there was nothing “grand” about a space in which the poorest of the poor could rent a three-foot-by-seven-foot section of dirty floor for fifty centimes per night. A pathetic accommodation to be sure, but one that was superior to sleeping on the streets, where all manner of predators roamed the darkness.
It was never a good idea to stare, not in Port City, so the scraggly-looking specimens who were standing, sitting, or lying around the lobby were careful to look elsewhere as the toughs made their way back to a bank of elevators and took control of the only one that worked. It carried them to the second floor, where Omo led his men down a graffiti-decorated hall toward the east side of the building.
At the end of the passageway, the group was forced to turn left. The air around them was thick with the cloying odors of cooking, backed-up toilets, and the sickly sweet scent of incense. The mixture caught at the back of Omo’s throat and reminded him of the public “stack” in which he’d spent his early years.
And there was no escaping the incessant babble produced by dozens of competing vid sets, a child wailing somewhere nearby, and a shouting match between a man and woman. All punctuated by the occasional bleat of a distant siren, the gentle rumble generated by a shuttle as it passed over the building, and the constant slamming of doors.
Having arrived at what he judged to be the correct spot, Omo came to a stop. Then, after gesturing for his men to take up positions to either side of a door, he rapped on the much-abused wood and waited for a response.
There was a thirty-second pause during which scuffling sounds were heard—and Omo sensed that someone was peering at him via the door’s peephole. The assassin smiled stiffly, held a gold Imperial up so that the person within could see it, and waited to see which emotion would win: greed or fear.
Omo wasn’t surprised when a series of clicks were heard, and the door opened just far enough for a man to peek out. He had thin wispy hair, deep-set eyes, and hollow cheeks. “Yeah?” he inquired cautiously. “What do you want?”
“I want your room,” Omo answered simply. “I’ll give you two Imperials for it. But you have to clear out now and never come back.”
Two Imperials was a lot of money in Port City, and Omo could see the eagerness in the other man’s eyes. “Three Imperials,” he responded cagily. “Give me three Imperials, and the room is yours. We need time to pack though.”
“Okay,” Omo replied reasonably. “Three Imperials it is. Plus ten minutes to pack. Then, if you aren’t out of there, my men and I will throw you out.”
The man was frightened but determined and ran his tongue over dry lips. “I want the money in advance.”
“Here’s a third of it,” Omo replied as he held his hand out. “You’ll get the rest in ten minutes. Start packing.”
The gold piece disappeared so fast Omo could barely detect the movement of the other man’s hand—and the door was about to close when he placed a boot in the gap. “Oh, no you don’t,” Omo cautioned. “Leave it open.”
The man withdrew, and the door swung open, giving Omo a clear view of what had originally been a hotel room with attached bath. Now it was home to a family of five, including the man, a rail-thin woman who was feverishly stuffing belongings into pieces of mismatched luggage, and three children who were busy getting in the way.
Makeshift bunk beds took up one wall, a mattress occupied part of the floor, and a vid set was perched on top of a cage containing three chickens. But beyond the squalor, three vertical windows could be seen—each of which was worth at least one Imperial to Omo.
A full fifteen minutes passed before the man, his emaciated wife, and their brood of grubby children collected the rest of their money and left the room, each carrying as much as he or she could. Once the family was gone, Omo went over to the filthy windows and looked out through the one that was open. It offered an unobstructed view of the narrow street that the Legate’s motorcade would be forced to negotiate on the way to the Government Zone. “It’s perfect,” Omo said, without turning his head. “Honis and Dybel will stay here to guard the room. I’ll send a rocket launcher and two men over within the hour. Are there any questions?”
“Yes,” one of the men said. “Can you send some beer, too?”
That got some chuckles from the others and a grin from Omo as he turned to face them. “No,” he said firmly. “But if the mission is a success, I will buy the beer tomorrow night. And there will be women, too…. But you must remain sober until then. Understood?”
Omo wore his hair military short, had a face that looked as if it had been carved from weathered stone, and a slash for a mouth. There were men strong enough to oppose him—but none was present in the room. The mercenaries nodded soberly. They liked Omo and respected him.
Then, as if in response to an earthquake, the entire building shook, and a near-deafening roar was heard as a spaceship took off less than a mile away and began to claw its way up through Corin’s gravity well. Those who lived in Port City barely noticed.
Aboard the passenger ship Far Star
The Far Star was half a mile long and could carry five hundred thousand tons of cargo plus two thousand passengers and crew, along with everything required to keep them happy during long, boring weeks spent in hyperspace. Time during which they were free to enjoy the amenities available in their beautifully appointed cabins, participate in activities organized by the vessel’s cruise director, or shop in the onboard arcade.
All of that was more than adequate for most people, the single exception being Xeno Corps Officer Jak Cato, who was playing cards in the locker room located adjacent to the engineering spaces on Deck 4. He hated the social posturing, petty backstabbing, and boring conversations that passed for fun on the upper decks and preferred to spend his time below.
Of course there was another reason to venture down into the bowels of the Far Star as well, and that was the opportunity to play cards with the vessel’s crew, all of whom had proven themselves to be delightfully ignorant regarding the police officer’s special talent. That wasn’t too surprising given Cato’s failure to mention that he was a member of the Xeno Corps, or “the freak show,” as its detractors referred to the organization.
Because had the other three people seated at the table known that Cato could effectively “read” their emotions, they would have not only been outraged, but demanded that he return the 546 Imperials he had won from them and their shipmates during the last four days. It was money Cato was going to need once the Far Star put down on Corin.
The game they were playing was called Roller, which involved rolling dice to determine how many cards were dealt from a deck of sixty-three, then using them to assemble a winning hand. It was a complicated process that demanded a good memory, keen judgment, and a certain amount of luck.
However, thanks to Cato’s ability to “sense” excitement, fear, anger, and a host of other emotions, he had been able to take more rounds than he lost while being careful to let the others win enough games to keep them coming back. Now, as the middle-aged engineering officer seated across from him assembled a new hand, he could “feel” her sense of jubilation. Should he fold? And avoid a loss? Or let her win?
Such were Cato’s thoughts when a hand came to rest on his shoulder. The voice was female and very familiar. “It’s five o’clock, Master—and time to get ready.”
Cato frowned. “Okay,” he said irritably. “Wait outside … I’ll be there in a moment.”
CeCe Alamy colored slightly, took a full step back, and quickly withdrew.
Meanwhile, the engineer projected a sense of concern but was careful to keep her face blank. Cato knew she was afraid he would leave before the next round of betting began, and the pot grew substantially larger. And he might have let her have the win had the voyage been one or two days longer. But, since the Far Star was going to put down the next day, there was no reason to suffer the loss.
Cato produced a smile, put his cards facedown on the table, and scraped a double handful of coins off the table. “Sorry about that—but duty calls. My boss is hosting a fancy dinner tonight and expects me to be there. Thank you for your hospitality and keeping this rust bucket running. I think I speak for all of the passengers when I say well done!”
That produced a round of chuckles as Cato took his winnings and withdrew. Alamy was waiting in the corridor beyond. Her hair was piled up on the back of her head the way the wealthy girls on the upper decks wore theirs and held in place by the silver pin Cato had given her back on Dantha. She had large luminous eyes, a straight nose, and full lips. The dress she wore was simple but elegant, having been sewn by Alamy herself. Cato was not only annoyed by the interruption but dreading the evening ahead as he paused to tuck his winnings away. “Who are you anyway?” he demanded irritably. “My mother? Or my slave?”
The words were intended as a joke, but as blood rushed to Alamy’s face, Cato regretted them and rushed to make amends. “I’m sorry, CeCe—that was a stupid thing to say.” But it was too late. Cato “felt” the full extent of Alamy’s shame as she looked down at her feet. “I’m your slave, Master—and I apologize for giving offense.”
“No,” Cato replied emphatically, “you aren’t my slave, not really. We’ll get that straightened out later on. And stop calling me ‘Master.’ ”
Except that Alamy was supposed to call him “Master,” having been purchased for twelve hundred Imperials on Dantha, in the wake of Governor Nalomy’s death. It was his intention to free her, however, just as soon as they found a place to live on Corin and he found time to deal with all of the paperwork. “I’m a total and unforgivable jerk,” Cato said sincerely as he reached out to take her hand. “Come on…. Let’s go up to our cabin, where I promise to dress up like a Hiberian Zerk monkey so Legate Usurlus can show me off.”
Though not enough to neutralize the way she felt, the mental image was enough to make Alamy smile, and Cato was quick to take advantage of the opening by walking side by side with her as if she were free, and insisting that she pass through doors first. The result was that by the time they entered the Class III cabin the government was paying for, they were on speaking terms again.
True to her very efficient ways, Alamy had already assembled the basic elements of Cato’s dress uniform and laid them out on the bed they shared. The arrangement wasn’t a necessary aspect of the master-slave relationship but wasn’t all that unusual either, especially where wealthy individuals were concerned.
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 skin 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 businessman’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.
Cato, who could “feel” Alamy’s emotions, even if he couldn’t access her thoughts, reached over to squeeze a hand. He knew she was worried, and understandably so, but he had concerns of his own. Potentially serious concerns regarding the trip from the spaceport to the government zone where Usurlus lived.
Though not an expert where Imperialus was concerned, Cato had been stationed there twice and knew the city well enough. The streets could be dangerous, especially in slums like Port City, which was why wealthy citizens and important government officials flew from building to building in private air cars.
But, according to Livius, a motorcade had been laid on to transport Usurlus and his party from the spaceport to his home. The idea was to give the vid nets a photo op and a reason to report on the Legate’s return, plus his success in battling corruption on Dantha, an accomplishment that Emor’s surrogates would hold up as an example of what a good job the Emperor was doing. Which was why Usurlus couldn’t refuse to ride in a motorcade even though it was going to follow a predetermined route through one of the Imperial city’s most dangerous slums.
There would be bodyguards, of course, led by Livius, with Cato acting as second-in-command. Such was his duty. But the fact that Alamy would be traveling with the motorcade added to the sense of foreboding Cato felt and raised the stakes even higher, as the ship slowed and thunder rolled across Port City. Moments later, the ship was down, the dice had been thrown, and Cato knew that the rest would be a matter of luck.