Bones of Empire (2 page)

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.

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.