Bones of Empire

by William C. Dietz

  Four bodyguards were present—two for each Usurlus. Livius and a young man named Tupus waited for the Legate to board car one before joining him in the passenger compartment. Then, once both vehicles were ready, they took off. Car one banked away for the short trip to the Senate, while the other turned east as if headed for the spaceport and was soon lost in traffic.

  The pilot in control of car one was an old hand at navigating the city’s crowded skies and gave the sixteen-hundred-foot-tall Imperial Tower a wide berth, knowing that anyone who violated the security zone around it was likely to be shot down. The cylindrical building was not only the government’s most important office complex but housed Emperor Emor’s living quarters as well.

  From there the pilot had to thread her way between a succession of high-rise towers and cope with the heavy air traffic that was typical of the city’s wheel-shaped corporate and governmental zones, before coming in for a landing on an artificial island at the very center of Lake Umanus.

  Having been cleared to land, the pilot put the air car down on a pad, waited for her passengers to disembark, and immediately took off again. Only the Emperor, and Senators themselves, were allowed to park vehicles there.

  A covered walkway led Usurlus and his bodyguards toward the building that loomed ahead. The dome-shaped roof was sheathed in real gold and supported by dozens of marble columns, one for each of the worlds that had banded together to form the Empire more than a thousand years before.

  Usurlus was well-known within the Senate, and the assassination attempt was only hours old, so the Legate had to stop and chat with more than a dozen officials, politicians, and staff members before entering the rotunda.

  The men had to pass through a security checkpoint, and the bodyguards were required to check their weapons. The next half hour was spent talking with various people in the high-ceilinged hallways, and while nothing specific was said, Usurlus got the feeling that his initial impression was correct: The overall situation had undergone a dramatic change of some sort. It seemed as though his contacts were nervous, unsure of themselves, and admittedly pensive though none could say why.

  In an effort to find out what might account for the uncertainty, Usurlus made his way down two levels to the senatorial baths, where the man nicknamed “the oracle” was generally in residence between 1:00 and 2:00 PM.

  Because Livius and Tupus weren’t allowed to enter the dressing rooms or the baths, they had no choice but to make themselves comfortable in the staff lounge while Usurlus entered and went straight to his locker.

  Ten minutes later, clad in nothing more than a white towel, Usurlus padded out onto the blue tiles that circled the pool. Both men and women were present, some of whom were nude, either because they wanted to be seen or didn’t care.

  Usurlus fell into the first category and, having let his towel drop, eased himself into the hot water. Then, once he was acclimated, Usurlus followed the pool’s curve back toward the grotto where Senator Paulis typically held court. Paulis was a big man, with a significant paunch and thighs like tree trunks. His entire body was covered with wiry black hair, and he sat with a towel across his lap.

  Besides his ability to predict the political future, Paulis was a moderate, and therefore a man who was well positioned to communicate with both of the major political parties. As Usurlus arrived, Paulis was surrounded by a group of younger politicians, all hoping to hear one of his famous stories.

  “Look what we have here!” Paulis proclaimed. “The man we welcomed home with bullets instead of bouquets. I noticed that you donated ten thousand Imperials to help the families of those killed or injured in the attack. Well done, my boy. . . . You have the makings of a Senator.”

  “Thank you,” Usurlus said as he found the bottom with his feet. “It’s good to be back. . . . Even if my reception was less than friendly.”

  Paulis turned his beady eyes toward his audience. “Perhaps you youngsters would be kind enough to give the Legate and me a moment alone. I sense he’s ready to share all of his secrets, which I will pass on to you the moment he leaves.”

  That got a laugh, followed by a certain amount of splashing, as the Senator’s admirers departed. A couple of them were rather comely—and Usurlus watched them swim away. “I see some things never change,” Paulis rumbled as he dabbed his forehead with a hand towel. “You still have an eye for beauty.”

  Usurlus smiled as he turned to look at Paulis. “And your advice is still sought by all. Tell me, Senator. . . . What the hell is going on? I haven’t been back for very long, but judging from what I’ve seen and heard, strange times are upon us.”

  Paulis looked around, as if to be sure that no one could hear, and nodded sagely. “All of us play our various roles, but the Empire rotates around the Emperor, just as planets must circle their suns. So if a sun becomes unstable, the entire system suffers.”

  “What are you saying?” Usurlus demanded. “What’s wrong?”

  Paulis shrugged. “Consider the last few months. . . . The Vords take possession of Therat, so what does Emor do? He agrees to negotiate. Meanwhile, a small group of separatists take over a small town on Regus IV, and he nukes them! For what? A century of legionnaires would have been sufficient to bring the rebels to their knees. And there’s more, much more, none of which makes any sense.”

  Both men were silent for a moment. “So,” Usurlus said thoughtfully, “what could explain such unpredictable behavior?”

  “I could be wrong,” Paulis allowed soberly, “and I hope I am. But it’s my guess that Emperor Emor is insane.”

  The words seemed to hang suspended in the air, and Usurlus felt a chill run down his spine. Suddenly, what had already been a bad situation seemed immeasurably worse.

  Like all of the neighborhoods around the circumference of the crater, Far Corner was divided into the lower slope, the middle slope, and the high slope. But unlike upper-class areas like North Hill and Crater View, residents of Far Corner couldn’t ride public transportation any higher than the middle slope.

  That created a situation in which what might have been premium real estate up along the rim of the crater was less valuable than property lower down, mainly because the people who lived there had to own private air cars or climb hundreds of steps to reach their homes. Not a pleasant process in the rain, which rattled on the umbrella Alamy held overhead and drained just beyond her shoulders. She lacked appropriate footwear, however, so her feet were soaked, and her shoes made occasional squeaking sounds as she battled ever upward.

  Looking for a place on the high slope was a desperate strategy. She knew that, but having explored the lower slope with Cato, and the middle slope by herself, Alamy had come to the conclusion that if an affordable apartment existed, it was somewhere above. So, with three listings in hand and a crusty meat pie for sustenance, she had set out to conquer the heights.

  The price was right on the first apartment, but it was too small, and dreary to boot. The second property was perfect in every way, but had already been taken, much to Alamy’s disappointment. So she wasn’t holding out much hope for the third rental, which was even higher than the others and slightly over budget.

  Alamy paused, eyed a street sign, and took another look at the address on her printout. She was close, very close, so as she paused to catch her breath, she turned to look down on the city. It was still raining, and mist obscured the downtown area, so there wasn’t much to see.

  In order to reach what the owner called Arbor House, it was necessary to turn left off the public stairs, open a rustic gate, and follow a narrow path between a raised knee-high flower bed on the right and a well-clipped hedge on the left. Then, as Alamy passed under a vine-covered trellis, she saw the house uphill on the right. The outside was covered with white stucco, the structure was three stories tall, and the roof was covered with red tiles. She liked it right away but could see why it would cost more and knew the owner would be able to get full price from someone else. But she had come a long way and wasn�
�t willing to give up without at least speaking to the landlord.

  Alamy was about to climb the final set of stairs to the main entrance when she heard something squeak to the left and turned to see a middle-aged woman emerge from a thicket of shrubbery. She was pushing a heavily laden wheel-barrow, which produced another squeak as she came to a stop. “Hello . . . Can I help you?”

  “I’m here to look at the apartment,” Alamy explained. “Are you the gardener? It’s beautiful!”

  “Yes, I am,” the woman replied. “I’m glad you like it.”

  “Is the owner home?” Alamy inquired. “I sure hope so after all of those stairs.”

  “You could have called ahead,” the woman suggested unsympathetically, “then you’d know.”

  “That’s true,” Alamy agreed, “but my master and I arrived from Dantha yesterday. He has a pocket com, but I don’t.”

  “So you’re a slave,” the woman commented evenly. “Your master must trust you a great deal. Choosing a place to live is no small thing.”

  Alamy felt a combination of embarrassment and pride. “Yes, I guess he does. He’s a policeman and had to report for duty.”

  “Well, then,” the woman said, “you should take a look. Come . . . I’ll show you around.”

  Alamy followed as the older woman limped up the stairs, led her along the front of the house to the north side, and up even more steps to a landing. Then, having palmed the door lock, she led Alamy inside.

  The apartment consisted of a large living room that looked out over the city and a kitchen that took up most of the far wall. There wasn’t a lot of furniture, but what there was appeared to be in fair condition and would make for a good beginning. “There’s a half bath over there,” the woman said helpfully, and when Alamy went over to open the door, she was impressed by how clean the room was. “I like it,” Alamy said honestly. “But I wish there was a bedroom.”

  “There is,” the woman answered. “But to reach it you have to climb the stairs in back.” The woman pointed, and now that Alamy looked more closely, she saw a set of spiral stairs back in the corner. “Go ahead,” the woman said as she rubbed her right thigh. “I’ll wait here if you don’t mind.”

  Alamy made her way up the circular stairs and found herself on the third floor. It was a bedroom all right, with a full bath and a freestanding stove in one corner. All of which was quite charming. But the amenity that put everything else to shame was the sliding glass doors that opened onto a small terrace and a sweeping view of Imperialus.

  Then, as if determined to impress her, the clouds that obscured the city began to part, and the sun appeared. Alamy could see the lake, the rotunda’s gleaming dome, and the river that divided north from south. And there, grouped around the lake, were dozens of high-rise buildings, with the Imperial Tower standing head and shoulders over all the rest. The view was absolutely gorgeous, and would be equally beautiful at night, when the city’s lights were on. Conscious of the fact that the gardener was waiting for her, Alamy took one last look and returned to the floor below.

  “So,” the woman inquired, “what do you think?”

  “It’s lovely,” Alamy answered honestly. “But my master can’t really afford it. Not unless we could get the rent down a bit. Is the owner here? I might as well ask.”

  “Well, how much can he afford?” the other woman wanted to know.

  Alamy had been bargaining for things all her life and knew that to disclose how much money Cato had was to break the first rule of financial negotiations. But she also knew it was a fixed amount and saw no harm in being open about it. “My master can afford fifty Imperials a month,” she said. “Which is ten short.”

  “I’ll make you a deal,” the woman offered. “If you could give me some help with shopping, and clean the first floor once a week, I’ll rent the apartment to you and your master for forty-five Imperials a month. I live alone, you see, and I’m on a limited income, so servants are out of the question. What do you think?”

  That was when Alamy realized that the woman in the dirty clothes owned the house. “I think it’s wonderful,” she replied enthusiastically. “Thank you! There’s one thing though. . . . A favor I would ask.”

  “And what’s that?” Madam Olivia Faustus inquired indulgently.

  “Don’t tell my master about the chores,” Alamy replied.

  Faustus looked at Alamy. The older woman had gray hair, pulled back into a bun, and knowing brown eyes. “So it’s like that, is it? Are you sure he’ll free you? And do the right thing?”

  “No,” Alamy admitted, as her eyes went to the floor. “But he’s kind, and funny, and brave.”

  “Those are good qualities,” Faustus agreed. “And I hope he’s smart, too. . . . Smart enough to realize what a treasure he has. You have my word. And I’ll feel safer with a policeman about. Now, what’s your name, dear?”

  “CeCe Alamy.”

  “Well, CeCe,” Faustus said, with a wave of her hand. “Welcome home.”

  The Military Detention Facility (MDF) was located within the sprawling base commonly referred to as D-1. MDF’s administrative functions were located in an unimaginative three-story structure located at midslope and having unobstructed views of the lake. But the “tombs,” as the prisoners referred to them, were located underground in order to limit the prison’s footprint and enhance security at the same time.

  So that was where Xeno Corps Officer Yar Shani was locked up, on Level 3 of the female “stack,” where about 150 other minimum-security prisoners were housed. It was torture of a sort, because like all Xeno Corps officers, Shani could “feel” the emotions seething around her, and given the nature of where she was, that meant the policewoman was subjected to a nonstop bombardment of hate, anger, and fear. She could shut quite a bit of it out, of course, but that required continual effort, which was exhausting. Especially given her hangover, the pain generated by cuts and bruises suffered during the brawl, and the residual nerve spasms left over from the stunner bolt that had been used to subdue her.

  So Shani was sitting on a fold-down metal bunk, knees drawn up to chest, battling both the emotional environment and the negative feedback from her own body as a uniformed jailer appeared outside her cell door. The ten-year veteran had a leathery face and a brusk “don’t screw with me” demeanor. “Front and center, Shani,” the woman ordered. “Let’s have a look at you.”

  Shani could sense the jailer’s bored disinterest as she swung her boots over onto the duracrete floor and made her way forward. That was when the older woman compared her face to the one on a small pocket comp, confirmed a match, and returned the device to its holster. “All right,” the jailer said. “Turn around and back up so I can put the cuffs on.”

  Being a cop herself, Shani knew the drill. She did an about-face, brought her wrists together, and stuck both hands out through a rectangular opening. “So what’s up? Am I out of here?”

  “Looks like it,” the woman said noncommittally, as the flex cuffs wrapped themselves around the inmate’s wrists. “A Xeno officer is here to collect you.”

  “Which one?” Shani wanted to know as she turned toward the door. Because if it was Inobo, then he would rip her head off before the inevitable disciplinary hearing, when he and a couple of other officers would remove it again.

  “Beats the shit out of me,” the jailer responded, as she waved an electronic wand at the door, and it slid open. “You can come out.”

  How many times had Shani said something equally unfeeling to people she had arrested? A thousand? Probably. It went with the job. Because to feel was to care, and to care was to compromise one’s objectivity, and to compromise one’s objectivity was to court a violent death.

  Shani’s boots made a rhythmic thumping sound as she followed the gleaming corridor past prisoners who knew she was a cop and hurled insults at her. “Screw you, bitch!” “Come back soon, cop!” “What’s your hurry, freak?”

  An elevator was waiting at the end of the hallway. It was s
o small that no mob of rioting prisoners would be able to reach the surface unless they were willing to travel two at a time. The women stood shoulder to shoulder as the door closed, a loud whine was heard, and the platform began to rise. Less than a minute later, it jerked to a halt. Having been ordered to exit, Shani marched down another narrow corridor to Interview Room 3.

  As Shani entered the room, she was relieved to see that someone other than Inobo was seated on the other side of the metal table. She had never seen the man before but noticed he was old for a Centurion, a fact that suggested he had come up through the ranks. That impression was reinforced by the row of medals stamped into the upper-left-hand quadrant of the officer’s clamshell-style body armor. Whoever the officer was, he’d been places and done things.

  What Shani could “feel” told her even more. Strangely, given the fact that he was a Xeno cop, the Centurion couldn’t shield his emotions. Because if he’d been able to do so, he certainly would have. Especially the momentary surge of sexual interest he projected as she entered the room. However, that was replaced by a very businesslike feeling of determination as Shani crashed to something akin to attention. She couldn’t place her hands down along her thighs since they were cuffed behind her, but he knew that. “Section Leader Yar Shani reporting as ordered, sir!”

  Cato eyed the woman in front of him like what she was: a professional soldier as well as a police officer. She had short black hair that fell straight around her ears as well as bangs that hung all the way to a pair of big brown eyes. They were focused on a point somewhere behind him. There was a yellow-blue bruise on her left cheek, her upper lip was swollen, and her right earlobe was missing. A wound suffered years earlier while battling a serial rapist. A scumbag who, according to Shani’s P-1 file, had subsequently been gelded with his own force blade. A considerable testimonial to the officer’s strength, agility, and skill.