Bones of Empire (7 page)

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 so 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.

But was she smart? Or just a troublemaker in uniform? Which was to say the kind of cop Inobo believed
him
to be? It was too early to tell. “Remove her cuffs,” Cato ordered. “Then you can go.” The jailer freed the restraints, slipped them into a belt pouch, and left the room.

“At ease.”

Shani moved her right foot sideways and clasped both hands behind her back. Her eyes were still focused on a point directly above the officer's head, and her face was empty of all expression. “My name is Cato,” the Centurion said. “Jak Cato, and I have been ordered to assume command of the bunko squad. It isn't the most glamorous group in the Corps, as you know, having been sent there after a series of screwups in Xenocide. But I take the assignment seriously—which means
you're
going to take the assignment seriously. Do you read me?”

Shani said the only thing she could say, which was, “Sir! Yes, sir.”

“By this time,” Cato continued, “you have concluded that I must be in a shitload of trouble, too. Because why else would I be in charge of bunko? And there's some truth to that. . . . The difference is that if they bust me, it will be to Section Leader, and if I bust you, it will be to an infantry slot on a planet you haven't heard of. And I'm guessing that you want to be a cop. Is that true?”

“Sir, yes, sir!”

“Okay, then,” Cato said mildly. “Let's make this a fresh start. Sit down and tell me what took place in the bar. You beat the crap out of a civilian before his buddies jumped you. Why?”

Shani sat down. Their eyes met. Something jumped the gap. Both of them knew it, and both of them were determined to ignore it. For the moment at least. “I'd had three drinks, sir. . . . That's when a civvie came over. He asked if I was a Xeno freak.”

“So you were wearing civilian attire?” Cato inquired.

“Yes, sir,” Shani confirmed. “I told the civvie no, that I was a member of the Xeno Corps, and flashed my badge to prove it. That was when he asked if I could ‘sense' what he was feeling, and I said no, because it's impossible to know how a pile of shit feels.”

Cato grinned sympathetically. “And then he took a swing at you?”

“Yes, sir,” Shani replied. “I came off the stool, blocked his arm, and kicked him in the balls. He grabbed what hurt, fell to his knees, and was crying when I kicked him in the head.”

Cato frowned. “Was that appropriate?”