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TWO

The city of Imperialus, on the planet Corin


ONCE THE FAR STAR WAS ON THE GROUND, IT TOOK more than two hours for her passengers to disembark, and that included Legate Isulu Usurlus, who traveled with twenty-seven trunks, some of which had to be packed prior to being loaded on a truck for transshipment to his high-rise home. Fortunately, the motorcade’s schedule had been set to allow for a lengthy disembarkation process, so that wasn’t a problem.

The convoy was to include four policemen on gyro-stabilized unicycles, two armored stretch limos, plus a so-called war wagon that was supposed to bring up the rear. The vehicles and the personnel who were going to ride in them were assembled next to one of the spaceship’s enormous skids near the VIP ramp.

The group consisted of people from three different organizations, including the city’s police force, the Imperial Security Service (ISS), and the bodyguards who were part of the Legate’s household. So the first problem was that of command, which Livius solved by declaring himself to be in charge and staring down every man who looked as though he might object.

With that settled, and time ticking away, Livius laid out his plan. The unicycles would go first, sirens blaring, to disperse traffic. The limos would follow, roofs closed, with the war wagon bringing up the rear. Attackers, if any, would expect Usurlus to be in one of the limos, so Livius planned to put him in the last vehicle instead.

Not counting the policemen or Cato, the chief bodyguard had fourteen people to defend the motorcade. By putting five in each car and four in the war wagon, he intended to make sure that each element of the convoy could defend itself if it were cut off from the rest.

There was barely enough time to review radio procedures and check weapons before Usurlus plus Alamy and six personal attendants arrived on the tarmac. Ten minutes later, sirens wailing, the convoy of black vehicles left the relative security of the airport and entered the maze of streets that constituted Port City.

Alamy was in the first limo, all the way in the back, sitting next to a couple of the Legate’s servants. They were talking about how good it was to be home again as she peered out through bulletproof glass. Alamy had been reading about Imperialus in an effort to prepare herself for life in the city and to impress Cato. So as the motorcade pushed regular traffic out of the way, she knew that Imperialus occupied roughly five hundred square miles of land and boasted a population of more than fifteen million people, which meant that affordable living space was at a premium.

It was a problem Cato would have to confront very soon. She knew her master had been forced to borrow money in order to purchase her, and, having paid the debt prior to lifting from Dantha, was almost broke except for the money made playing cards with the Far Star‘s crew. The upshot was that things would be tight.

Was that why he hadn’t freed her? Alamy wondered. Because he wanted to save some money first? Maybe … But what if he was forced to sell her in order to pay his bills? That possibility filled Alamy with a sense of dread as Port City closed in around the car.

Having placed himself in the lead limo, which could be expected to come under attack first if there was an ambush, Livius had asked Cato to ride in the heavily armored war wagon with Usurlus. Then, if the motorcade was cut in two, each segment would have an experienced leader.

Now, as the convoy burrowed even deeper into the slum, groups of bystanders could be seen. They stood on street corners, where they cheered, waved enthusiastically, and held up freshly printed signs that had Emperor Emor’s smiling countenance on them. “All of them have been paid,” Usurlus said cynically as he stared out through a rectangular gun port. “That’s the only way someone of my rank can draw a crowd. Still, that’s good for the local economy,” he added dryly, “and it’s nice to see that the Office of Public Morale is doing its job.”

Cato wasn’t so sure. The whole charade seemed pointless to him, but he’d never been interested in politics even though he knew such things were important.

Meanwhile, a half dozen spherical media drones were cruising along fifteen feet above the motorcade, taking everything in. So they were in a good position to witness the full extent of the destruction as pre-positioned charges went off, and entire buildings tumbled into the street. Both were occupied, which meant that more than a hundred people were dead before the actual battle began.

The first rocket aimed at limo one hit, the resulting explosion rocking the vehicle from side to side, but heavy armor prevented the projectile from penetrating the interior. The doors on the right side of the vehicle were bent inward and jammed, but Livius discovered that those on the left were still operable and hurried to exit. “Come on!” he ordered. “Our job is to go back and defend the war wagon.”

Four security men followed Livius out into the roiling dust as incoming small-arms fire began to ping the limo and the doors slammed shut. Alamy had never been in such a situation before, but it was obvious that the attackers were going to inspect the vehicle as soon as they could and would probably kill everyone inside. “Quick!” Alamy said. “Lock the doors!”

The other women were frightened but used to following orders and quick to obey. Alamy heard a series of clicks as she crawled forward, slid in behind the wheel, and discovered that the engine was still running.

She had never driven any sort of motorized vehicle before; but she’d seen others do so and understood the controls. So Alamy locked the driver’s side door, and was about to kill the engine, when the dust began to clear, and three men appeared in front of her. They were firing assault weapons, which sparkled as they raked the windshield. The bullets couldn’t penetrate the glass but left milky white divots where they hit. Alamy feared that one or more of them would eventually punch through.

The act of putting the limo in gear and stomping on the accelerator was more a matter of impulse than careful planning, but the results were the same. Tires screeched as the vehicle lurched forward; two of the assailants went down and were subsequently killed as the car rolled over them. Then it crashed into the pile of debris that had been dumped into the street and came to a violent stop.

Alamy’s heart was beating like a trip-hammer as the third assassin appeared to her left and began to fire at the driver’s side window. That was when she spotted a row of buttons labeled ANTIPERSONNEL SYSTEMS and touched each one of them.

Alamy felt a sense of satisfaction as grenades sailed up into the air and exploded. A piece of shrapnel cut the gunman down as inky black smoke poured out of two dispensers located under the chassis and electrical discharges crackled all around the limo. Then, with nothing else to do, Alamy felt scared.

Livius was vaguely aware of the explosions behind him as he and four of his men sprinted back toward limo two. He was sorry that it had been necessary to leave the women on their own, but protecting Usurlus was his first priority.

Livius had traveled only fifteen feet when he heard a loud whoosh, and a rocket hit the limo just as the second security team was getting out of it. The explosion killed three people and left another on the ground clutching his right thigh. A fifth officer was down on his knees, trying to help the casualty, when automatic-weapons fire swept the area. It was coming from both sides of the street, and even though his men were firing back, Livius knew all of them were going to die if they remained out in the open.

“Get in the limo!” he shouted, and there was no need to repeat the order as a bullet punctured a man’s throat, and blood sprayed the road behind him. He went down clutching the wound in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding. Having spotted the action, an ITV camera drone swept in to get a close-up, took a bullet through its casing, and exploded.

All of the survivors were inside the limo by that time, including the individual who had been wounded in the rocket attack and hit again as he was dragged to safety. The vehicle shook like a thing possessed as another rocket hit it—and bullets continued to rattle against the limo’s heavily armored skin. “Put some counterfire on those bastards!” Livius ordered. “Who’s the best shot? Give him the sniper’s rifle and open the moon roof.”

There was a supply of both weapons and ammo under the floor, and it wasn’t long before an ISS agent named Cantos was targeting assassins in the buildings to the right. He was a true marksman, and soon thereafter the rate of incoming fire began to slack off. Livius took the opportunity to contact the war wagon. A quick glance at his watch told him that about six minutes had passed since the attack had begun. “Livius to Cato,” he said into the lip mike. “What’s your status? Over.”

The moment the demolition charges went off, and entire buildings fell into the street, Cato realized that they were up against professionals rather than a few wild-eyed fanatics. Knowing that the assassins wanted everyone to bail out, he insisted that they remain inside the war wagon while preparing to exit should that be necessary. Which was why Usurlus was wearing body armor and, at the Legate’s insistence, was armed with a submachine gun (SMG).

Given his day-to-day demeanor, it was easy to forget that the Legate was a general, who, given the competent manner in which he handled the SMG, hadn’t forgotten his early training. That at least was a positive as a rocket slanted down from a neighboring building, hit the roof, and exploded. The round failed to penetrate the war wagon’s armor. But the angle, plus the point of impact, combined to tip the vehicle over.

As he was thrown down, Cato realized that the bottom of the vehicle was exposed and wondered if it was armored. Probably, given the possibility of remotely detonated bombs, but he had no way to know for sure. “Give me a status report,” Livius demanded. “Over.”

“They blocked the road behind us,” Cato answered laconically, “and a rocket dumped the war wagon onto its side. But everybody’s okay at this point. Over.”

Livius took note of the last part of the message and knew it was Cato’s way of saying that Usurlus was alive without revealing which vehicle the Legate had been riding in. Because even though their transmissions were scrambled, there was always the possibility that their attackers had the capacity to decrypt the radio traffic somehow. “Okay…. My team and I were forced to hole up in limo two. We’ll join you ASAP. The ISS is sending a quick response team, ETA five minutes. Hang in there. Over.”

If Livius was in limo two—then what about Alamy in limo one? To say nothing of those with her. Cato wanted to know but couldn’t ask. He was about to respond to Livius when one of the team members interrupted. “They’re right outside! Trying to cut their way in!”

Even as the man spoke, a spot on the back door began to glow orange, a fiery jet stabbed through, and the assassin began a cut that ran down toward the ground. It was scary, but the clock was ticking, and help was on the way. Cato turned toward the man behind the wheel. Though still in the driver’s seat, the man was slumped sideways because the truck was lying on its side; he was trying to release the harness that held him in place. “Fire some grenades,” Cato ordered. “That should discourage the bastards.”

The driver flipped a switch and stabbed a button. Nothing happened. He stabbed it again. “It looks like the system was damaged. Sorry, sir.”

Cato was just about to go back and fire through one of the gun ports when Usurlus triggered the emergency escape hatch mounted at the center of what was normally the floor. Then, having swung his feet through the opening, he was outside firing the SMG.

Cato swore, followed the Legate out, and immediately came under fire from two assassins who materialized out of the swirling dust. The policeman was armed with a shotgun. He fired—and fired again.

One assailant threw up his hands as a full load of double-ought buckshot snatched him off his feet. The other assassin seemed to twirl as a couple of slugs hit him in the shoulder and turned him around. A third shot finished him off.

Turning to his left, Cato spotted Usurlus. The Legate was standing next to the war wagon, firing short, controlled bursts at a target the policeman couldn’t see, as incoming bullets spanged all around him. “Grab that crazy bastard,” Cato ordered grimly, “and get him inside.”

All of the security men had exited the war wagon by then—and two of them took Usurlus from behind. Within a matter of seconds, he was stripped of his weapon, hustled to the open hatch, and stuffed back inside.

Cato was about to join the Legate inside the war wagon when a thrumming sound was heard, two heavily armed ISS air cars arrived overhead, and gunfire lashed down. There weren’t all that many assassins left to shoot at, but Cato heard a whining sound and turned to see a unicycle coming straight at him. The rider was wearing civilian clothes and was clearly not a policeman, so Cato began the process of bringing the shotgun around and hoped there would be enough time.

The man on the cycle was guiding the one-wheeled vehicle with his knees, which left both hands free to fire identical pistols. Cato heard a bullet whisper past his ear and felt another tug at his sleeve as he fired. The buckshot hit its target, blew the rider out of his seat, and dumped him onto the pavement. The unicycle flashed past, hit a pile of rubble, and did a full somersault in the air before crashing to the ground.

* * *

Trey Omo wasn’t dead. Not yet, anyway, although he could feel his life’s blood draining out onto the pavement around him. He wasn’t especially surprised. Not after a lifetime of combat. Dying was disappointing, though, especially just one year short of the retirement he had promised himself and the peace that might have followed.

Omo heard gravel crunch under someone’s boots, blinked to clear his eyes, and saw the man with the shotgun loom above him. So he ordered his right arm to move, was pleased when it obeyed, and the pistol came up off the ground. That was when the shotgun spoke, Cato “felt” Omo die, and the battle came to an end.

Heart in his throat, Cato turned and hurried past the point where Livius was talking to one of the newly arrived security men. Limo one was pockmarked where hundreds of bullets had hit and covered with a thick layer of dust. Cato’s knuckles made a rapping sound as he knocked on the driver’s side door—and he could hardly believe his eyes when the window slid down. Because there, seated behind the wheel, was CeCe Alamy. Tears were rolling down her cheeks. “You’re alive.”

“Yes,” Cato answered as he opened the door to take her into his arms. “And so are you.”

Usurlus appeared out of the still-swirling dust as a chorus of sirens was heard, and an ITV media drone hovered above. He was unarmed but accompanied by three bodyguards. His face was drawn and serious. He nodded to Cato and Alamy as if meeting them for the first time. “Hello,” Usurlus said vacantly as he surveyed the destruction all around him. “And welcome to my world.”

It was dark by the time all of the wounded had been removed to hospitals, the dead taken to the district morgue, and the initial phase of the investigation completed. Legate Usurlus and his party were gone by then, leaving Cato and Alamy to find a hotel and get some sleep.

Having rescued their trunks from limo one, Cato hired a local to transport them to an arterial about five blocks away, aboard what normally served as a vegetable cart. Then, having paid the man fifty centimes, Cato hailed a ground cab. The driver was somewhat less than pleased when he saw how much luggage he had to deal with, but he managed to cram most of it into the vehicle’s trunk while swearing under his breath. The final case went into the back with Alamy, which forced Cato to sit up front next to the driver. “Take us to the Fonta Hotel,” he instructed, hoping that the hostelry was still there.

“Got it,” the driver said as he pulled away from the curb. Traffic was heavy, so it took the better part of twenty minutes to crawl past the brightly lit spaceport and cross the river that separated the south side of the city from the more prosperous north. District Four was generally referred to as Far Corner because it was a long commute from the city center, which was where all of the governmental and corporate office buildings were located.

Far Corner was a lower-middle-class neighborhood, but still respectable, and the area where Cato hoped to find an apartment. Not so much for himself, because he could survive just about anywhere, but for Alamy. And that was strange because of the nature of their relationship. The truth was that, in the normal order of things, most slave owners wouldn’t care whether their property was comfortable or not. But Cato did, and that meant finding somewhere decent to live.

The Fonta Hotel had seen better days, but that was just as well given the need to keep expenses down. A creaky android came out to greet the couple and help with their luggage. The red uniform the machine wore was a bit threadbare but otherwise presentable.

Cato paid the cabbie, took Alamy’s hand, and led her into a dark, shabbily furnished lobby. The woman behind the reception counter had multiple bod mods, including a forked tongue, which had been very much in style six years earlier. Alamy watched in fascination as it flicked in and out. “Good evening,” the clerk said pleasantly. “What can I do for you?”

“We need a room,” Cato replied. “For one—maybe two nights.”

“Excellent,” the woman responded. “And how would you like to pay? With a chip? Or cash in advance?”

Cato had a credit chip embedded under the skin of his right wrist, but there was nothing in the account to draw upon. “That’ll be cash,” he said. “How large a deposit do you need?”

“Ten Imperials should cover it,” the woman said as she eyed an ancient monitor. “Room 204 is available and looks out onto the street. I’ll print a keycard.”

The couple were up in their room fifteen minutes later. It was worn, but reasonably clean, and was a welcome sanctuary after the assassination attempt. Cato took Alamy into his arms and kissed her. “The women in limo one told me what you did. That was very brave.”

Alamy looked up at him. Her eyes were huge in the dim light. “I was scared.”

“So was I,” Cato replied. “And we had every right to be.”

“Who were they?” Alamy wanted to know. “And why did they want to kill Usurlus?”

“The investigation will take time,” Cato predicted. “Five of the would-be assassins had nearly identical tattoos. All of them featured two snakes wrapped around a ring and facing each other at the top. Sound familiar?”

The design was familiar and for good reason. As one of Procurator Nalomy’s kitchen slaves, Alamy had been required to serve the governor and her guests. In that role she had seen the family crest displayed on silverware, fancy china, and napkins. “The Nalomy family was behind it!” Alamy exclaimed.

“Exactly,” Cato agreed. “Or so it appears, although I suspect that Senator Tego Nalomy and his staff will not only deny the connection but produce a fancy story to explain the tattoos. It makes sense, however—and Usurlus will have to be very careful indeed.”

“What about you?” Alamy wanted to know. “You had a role in bringing Procurator Nalomy down as well.”

“I’m small fry,” Cato replied dismissively. “I doubt the Senator even knows my name. No, you and I have a bigger problem to confront, and soon, too.”

Alamy smiled. “What’s that?”

“We need an apartment,” Cato replied, “and it’s going to be hard to find.”

“That’s true,” Alamy allowed gently. “But that’s tomorrow—and this is tonight.”

Cato kissed her, and a siren wailed outside somewhere, but neither one of them heard it.

Slaves weren’t allowed in the dilapidated restaurant without their owners, so Alamy was waiting outside the door when Cato arrived. It was humiliating, but Cato seemed to be completely unaware of the problem as they entered the room together. Could he switch his talent off? Or was it on, and he just didn’t care? There was no way to know.

After they had been seated, and ordered breakfast, Alamy placed two sheets of paper in front of Cato. Having requested a list of rentals in the Far Corner area from the desk clerk, and assured him that she was acting on Cato’s behalf, Alamy had gone through hundreds of listings looking for what she judged to be the sort of place he might like. And, having a pretty good idea of how much money her owner had to spend, which apartments were worth taking a look at.

“You never cease to amaze me,” Cato said enthusiastically. “Once breakfast is out of the way, we’ll go in search of our new home. Something with running water, I hope!”

The list was a good start, but six hours later they had inspected more than a dozen properties, and Cato was depressed. They were standing on a side street, next to the overcrowded apartment building they had just left, with nothing to show for a day’s worth of searching. So when a street tough spotted two people who clearly didn’t belong in the area and came sauntering over, Cato was in no mood for a clumsy shakedown. Though of medium height, the man was muscular and armed with a length of pipe decorated with fake gemstones. They glittered in the late-afternoon sun and would clearly inflict some very nasty wounds were the makeshift club to make contact with bare flesh. “Hey, citizens,” the thug said ominously, “you need a guide? You give me five Imperials, and I’ll show you how to get out of here alive.”

“Tell you what,” Cato countered as he raised his left hand palm out. “You give me five Imperials, and I won’t send you to jail.”

The badge that had been “printed” onto the surface of Cato’s skin glowed blue and was an unmistakable sign of authority. The street tough looked surprised, immediately began to back away, and turned to run.

Cato glanced at Alamy and shook his head. “This isn’t Dantha,” he cautioned. “You’ll have to be careful here.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she replied dryly. “There’s one more place on our list. Shall we take a look?”

They took a look, but the basement apartment was no better than all the rest, and Cato’s pocket com began to beep insistently as they returned to the street. Alamy watched him answer and saw a frown appear on his face as the person on the other end of the call did most of the talking. Finally, having uttered a series of “Yes, sirs,” and “No, sirs,” Cato ended the conversation with a terse acknowledgment. “Tomorrow morning, 0800 hours, yes, sir.”

Then, having clicked the com closed, he said, “Damn it! Of all the rotten luck … There are thousands of officers in the Legions, and I get Tuso Inobo.”

“Who is Tuso Inobo?” Alamy inquired cautiously. “And why don’t you like him?”

“He’s a Primus Pilus, or senior Centurion,” Cato answered grimly. “And I don’t like him because he’s stupid, unimaginative, and ambitious. And that’s a bad mix of qualities for any senior officer to have.”

Alamy was still in the process of learning all of the nittygritty details about the way in which the Legions and the subordinate Xeno Corps functioned, so she didn’t understand. “So you are going to report to this Inobo person? I thought you were part of the Legate’s staff.”

“No,” Cato answered bitterly. “Usurlus has a hold on me but only until we get a chance to meet with the Emperor. That’s when the Legate plans to use me as part of an effort to tell Emor how dangerous the Sagathi shape shifters are—and request more funding for the Xeno Corps. Something my organization would be glad of. In the meantime, I’ll be on detached duty, reporting to the senior Xeno Corps officer in the city of Imperialus, and that’s Inobo.”

Alamy was in love with Cato but understood his faults and sensed there was something about his relationship with Inobo that he hadn’t shared. “I understand why you don’t like Inobo,” she put in, “but how come he doesn’t like you?” Cato’s eyes flicked, then came back. “I shot him in the ass.”

Alamy’s eyes opened wide. “You what?”

“It was more than ten years ago. We were on a stakeout,” Cato explained. “Members of a rival gang arrived, broke into the warehouse we had under surveillance, and a gunfight erupted. We went in, and I was about to shoot one of the bad guys, when Inobo stepped in front of me. That’s when I shot him in the ass. He never forgave me.”

Alamy felt a desire to laugh but managed to hold back. But Cato “sensed” her true emotion and produced a boyish grin. “You don’t feel sorry for me, do you?”

“No,” Alamy admitted, as a smile claimed her face. “I don’t.”

“Okay,” Cato allowed, “maybe the bastard does have a reason to dislike me…. Although it’s pretty stupid to step out in front of someone who’s about to fire a gun. In any case, I have to report for duty in the morning, and we need a place to live.”

“I’ll keep looking,” Alamy promised, as the two of them started downhill. “If that’s okay with you.”

“I’d be grateful,” Cato replied, and Alamy hoped it was true.

It was early morning, and a storm front was crossing over Imperialus. As Cato followed a steady stream of people up out of the subway station, he discovered that it was raining even more heavily than it had been twenty minutes earlier. Fortunately, the military base that took up all of District One, and was generally referred to as “Imperial Prime,” was mostly underground, where the Command Center was safe from anything short of a direct hit from a nuclear bomb.

It had been a few years since his last visit, but there hadn’t been too many changes, so once Cato cleared security, he was able to make his way to the part of the complex that was home to the 3rd Legion’s staff officers, having made only a couple of wrong turns. From there it was a relatively simple matter to ferret out the office labeled XENO CORPS, CORIN, which, like the organization it served, was a relatively small affair.

Being a good ten minutes early, Cato took advantage of the opportunity to visit the men’s room, where he ran a final check on his Class II uniform. Then, as he was unable to put the moment off any longer, it was time to confront Inobo in his bureaucratic lair. Hoping to get the unpleasantness over as quickly as possible, Cato crossed the hall and entered the office. A reception desk blocked the way. The noncom seated behind it looked up, and said, “Good morning, sir…. What can I do for you?”

“I’m scheduled to see the Primus Pilus at 0800 hours,” Cato replied.

The other legionnaire’s eyebrows rose incrementally—and a look of what might have been pity appeared in her green eyes. “Ah, yes,” she said as she glanced at the screen in front of her. “Centurion Cato. He’s expecting you. It’s the door on the right.”

Cato thanked her, made his way around the fortresslike desk, and paused outside the door labeled PRIMUS PILUS INOBO. Then, having rapped on the frame three times, he waited for permission to enter. It came the way he expected it to, as a one-word command. “Enter!”

Cato opened the door, took three paces forward, and crashed to attention. “Centurion Cato, reporting as ordered, sir!”

Even though Cato’s eyes were on the picture of Inobo shaking hands with some dignitary or other that was hanging over the other officer’s head, he could see his old enemy well enough. Inobo’s relatively small head rested on a large muscular body. His skin was the same shade of brown as Cato’s, and his head had been shaved to show off a dozen lines of scar tissue that originated just above his forehead and ran back along the top of his skull. Cato knew that each “kill row” had begun as a carefully administered cut, which, having been infected with kaza dung, had been allowed to fester for weeks so as to produce the hard ridges that the variants born on Kenor were so proud of.

Below Inobo’s smooth forehead, safe within bony caves, two coal black eyes could be seen, both of which were filled with undisguised malice. The officer’s nose had been pounded flat, his lips were pursed in an expression of eternal disapproval, and even though he hadn’t said anything yet, his jaw was already at work.

“Well,” Inobo said deliberately as he flicked an imaginary piece of lint off his immaculate uniform. “Jak Cato, a Centurion now, who would have believed it? But shit floats, everyone knows that, so I guess it was only a matter of time before you bobbed to the surface. Not via the regular promotion process, of course, because that would be impossible given your record, but via a meritorious field commission granted by a Legate who never goes to war.”

Inobo’s chair produced an audible sigh as he leaned back in it. “But who knows?” he asked rhetorically. “Maybe the next group of assassins will get lucky and polish Usurlus off! Where will you be then, Cato? Did you ever think of that? Back to Section Leader, that’s where…. If you’re lucky enough to keep your stripes.

“Meanwhile, I’m supposed to put you to work,” Inobo added reflectively, “so you can wait in line to kiss the Emperor’s ass. Fortunately, I have the perfect job…. We lost Centurion Sispus three weeks ago. The silly bastard followed half a dozen Ur suspects down into the sewers under Freak Town and never came out. You’ll take his place. Any questions?”

Cato, his eyes still focused on the photo, had one. “Sir, yes, sir. What squad?”

Inobo had anticipated the question. He smiled evilly as he gave the one-word answer. “Bunko.”

Cato felt his already depressed spirits plummet even further. Members of the Xeno Corps’ bunko squad were charged with pursuing alien con artists, who, owing to their unusual capabilities, were often hard if not impossible for the municipal police to track down. More than that, the bunko squad was often used as a bureaucratic dumping ground for police officers who were considered to be misfits, fuckups, or screwballs. The assignment was clearly intended to punish Cato for past crimes, brand him a loser, and block the possibility of advancement.

Cato felt the anger start to build, and because Inobo could “feel” it as well, the Primus nodded agreeably. “That sucks, doesn’t it, Cato? Maybe you’d like some of me. If so, come and get it.”

That was what Inobo wanted more than anything else, Cato realized. A reason to court-martial him. So even though he wanted to accept the invitation, the Centurion managed to restrain himself.

Inobo nodded knowingly. “Very good…. Maybe you have learned something over the years. That will be all, Centurion Cato. See Section Leader Shani. She’ll fill you in regarding the squad’s current caseload. Now, get the hell out of my office and stay out of trouble. I’ll have your ass for breakfast if you don’t.”

Cato said, “Yes, sir,” and did a neat about-face. Four paces later, he was outside the office, having closed the door behind him. The receptionist looked over and grinned. “Welcome back, sir.”

“Thanks, I think,” Cato replied. “I’m looking for Section Leader Shani. Where would I find her?”

“In jail,” the noncom replied casually. “Where else?”


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