Bones of Empire (9 page)

With bodyguards in tow, Usurlus entered a high-speed elevator already occupied by a government official with a head-shaped artificial intelligence tucked under one arm, a heavy-gravity variant carrying a Kelf functionary on his back, and a hovering security drone that buzzed ominously as the platform rose.

Secretary Arla Armo's office was located only four floors below the Imperial residence, a surefire indicator of how important she was. Usurlus could have contacted the official from the comfort of his home. But by visiting her in person, he hoped to take advantage of a half-hour opening if there was one and slip in to have a few words with the Emperor. Then, if everything went well, he would bring Cato to a subsequent get-together.

The elevator slowed and coasted to a stop. Two security men were waiting to greet the foursome as they exited. Livius and Maximus were required to surrender their weapons, pass through a detector, and enter a lounge where a dozen of their peers sat waiting for clients to complete their business and leave.

Meanwhile, Civius led Usurlus past an imposing reception desk, down a short hall, and into a tastefully decorated office. Air cars, robo transports, and maintenance sleds could be seen beyond the slightly curved windows, with the tops of other skyscrapers probing the sky all around.

Secretary Arla Armo was a middle-aged woman of average height, who rose as Usurlus entered the room and circled her massive desk to greet him. The forward part of her head was shaved in the style expected of women on Opara III, leaving what remained of her hair to fall straight in back. She had wide-set eyes, a small nose from which her gold wedding ring dangled, and high cheekbones. The smile appeared to be genuine—as was the brief embrace. “Legate Usurlus,” Armo said warmly, “this
is
a pleasure! Welcome home and please accept my condolences regarding those who lost their lives during the assassination attempt. The Emperor was very upset.”

Not so upset as to call me,
Usurlus thought to himself as he nodded soberly. “Thank you. . . . Those of us who survived feel fortunate to be alive. And the fact that someone wants to kill me adds to the urgency of my visit. I hope to see Emperor Emor as soon as possible.”

“Yes, of course,” Armo acknowledged as she returned to the other side of the desk. “Please . . . Sit down. I will give you the earliest appointment that I possibly can. Unfortunately, the Emperor has been very busy of late owing to the Vord landing on Therat, a nasty uprising on Partha, and the upcoming Emperor's Day celebration. Festivities begin tomorrow. Will you watch the processional?”

Usurlus knew that Armo was referring to the traditional parade in which a litter would carry the Emperor through the streets of Imperialus followed by angen-drawn wagons loaded with costumed revelers whose job it was to bombard the crowds with coins, trinkets, and toys for the children. The event was part politics and part hedonistic carnival. The latter was fine with Usurlus although he had no intention of celebrating the occasion with the plebes. “Yes, of course,” he lied as he sat down.

 

 

“Good,” Armo said as she touched a screen, and the Emperor's calendar appeared in front of her. It was almost entirely blank, and had been that way for the last month or so, but she couldn't share that with Usurlus, or anyone else for that matter. Even the slightest hint that the Empire was largely running itself would not only start a widespread panic, but almost certainly trigger a coup attempt and an all-out attack by the Vords. All of which were things that she and other high-ranking officials were hoping to avoid. Unfortunately, as each precious day passed, and the situation grew worse, it was hard to see how they were going to put things right without telling the truth. But for the moment, the charade would have to continue. “You're in luck,” Armo said brightly. “There's a one-hour opening on the tenth of Tremen.”

“But that's more than two months away!” Usurlus objected. “I'll be honest with you, Arla. . . . I came here hoping to see Emperor Emor
today
. Can't you slip me in somewhere? I would be happy to wait if that helps.”

“That's very considerate of you,” Armo allowed, as she pretended to inspect the calendar in front of her. “But there wouldn't be any point in waiting. The Emperor's schedule is not only full—he's double-booked in some cases. But here's what I'll do. . . . If someone cancels during the next week or so, I'll slip you in. It could be on rather short notice, however, so be ready to respond quickly.” That wasn't going to happen, of course—but it would keep Usurlus on the sidelines for a while.

Usurlus sighed. “Okay, Arla. . . . Thank you. I'll be ready if you call.”

After a couple of minutes of small talk, Usurlus left. Armo's chair sighed as she rose and turned to look out the window. Traffic continued to swirl, a long line of slivery security drones snaked by, and one wall of the high-rise across from her morphed into a new set of video mosaics. Each “tile” played a commercial intended for the high-net-worth eyeballs in the Imperial Tower. But the secretary saw none of it. The Empire was coasting, and eventually it would come to a stop. What then?

Alamy was still asleep when Cato tickled the bottom of her feet. She pulled her legs up into the fetal position and made a pitiful noise, in hopes that he would stop, but it didn't work. “Come on,” Cato said as he bent to kiss her cheek. “It's time to go out and meet people.”

Alamy groaned, yawned, and made use of a hand to shield her eyes. “Go out and meet
who
?” she wanted to know.

“Why the Emperor, of course,” Cato answered genially. “This is Emperor's Day—which means that he will be carried through the streets of Imperialus. So this is a chance to see all of the silliness, marvel at how crazy our fellow citizens are, and find a good meal somewhere. Imagine that! You won't have to cook.”

Alamy wasn't a citizen, not since she'd been sold into slavery, but it would have been mean to say that, so she didn't. Besides, the outing was clearly a response to her requests to see more of the city, which was very nice of him. “You're right,” Alamy said as she swung her feet over onto the floor. “The Emperor would be very upset if we weren't there to greet him.”

“That's the spirit!” Cato said as he brought her a piping-hot cup of tea. “Here . . . You can take this into the shower.”

The tea, as well as the act of serving it to her, constituted still another gesture. Alamy rewarded Cato with a kiss before making her way into the bathroom. It was, she decided, going to be a very nice day.

 

 

Cato watched her go, marveled at how beautiful Alamy's naked body was, and remembered making love to her the night before. It had been a wonderfully urgent session, satisfying to both of them insofar as he knew, and a reminder of the important task he had been putting off. He knew he should free Alamy—and felt guilty about his failure to do so. And guilt was new to him.

Back before Dantha, and before Alamy, Cato never felt guilty. And why should he? If he spent all of his money in a succession of bars, got drunk, and woke up next to a woman he didn't know, there was no punishment other than a terrible headache, a bad taste in his mouth, and a period of enforced poverty.

But ever since Alamy had become part of his life, there was someone else to not only take care of but answer to. Even if she was a slave—and theoretically subject to his slightest whim. Was that why he'd been slow to free her? Because to do so would force him to confront yet another level of commitment? Yes, possibly, although Cato wasn't sure of anything anymore.

Cato smiled in reaction to his own confusion, heard the water in the bathroom stop, and went downstairs to pour himself a cup of caf. The questions could wait. A new day lay before him, and he was determined to enjoy it.

 

 

Much to Cato's surprise, it took the better part of two hours for the two of them to board a crowded subway train, ride it into the center of the city, and force their way through a mob of people to the point where they could claim a three-foot-long section of curbing. The mood, which Cato could “feel” in a way that Alamy couldn't, was ebullient bordering on giddy. People were laughing, dancing to the tunes played by street musicians, and sipping alcoholic drinks they carried with them.

Having positioned themselves to see the Emperor, it was necessary for Cato and Alamy to wait as hucksters, con artists, and pickpockets worked the crowd. Cato was off duty, and wanted to remain that way, so rather than scan the area for criminals, he chose to focus on Alamy instead. Even so, the police officer had to flash his badge at the more-intrusive hucksters in order to drive them away.

Finally, after waiting for more than twenty minutes, a peal of trumpets was heard as the first elements of the annual processional appeared. They were members of the elite Praetorian Guard, a military unit created to protect the Emperor, and whose members were drawn from the many legions.

The guards wore gold helmets with red crests, glossy black clamshell-style body armor, plaid kilts, and calf-high boots. They carried energy rifles crosswise over gleaming saddles so as to have them available at a moment's notice. The genetically engineered animals (angens) they rode were
huge
, uniformly black, and draped with bulletproof fabric. Their hoofs made a distinctive
clop
,
clop
,
clop
sound as the detachment passed, and children fortunate enough to stand in the front row stared at the enormous beasts in slack-jawed amazement.

The Praetorians were followed by a succession of angen-drawn wagons. They were loaded with costumed individuals, who were busy throwing coins and trinkets to the crowd. Cato caught a flying decim and gave it to Alamy just as a cheap necklace hit him in the shoulder and fell to the ground.

Alamy bent to retrieve the item, but wasn't fast enough, as greedy hands snatched it away. She laughed as a roar of approval went up from the surrounding crowd. “Here he comes,” Cato predicted. “Emperor Emor.”

Alamy stood on tiptoes, trying to see over the heads to her right, as a phalanx of armed security drones swept in over the crowd. Cato knew their sensors were set on maximum sensitivity and that the machines would kill without hesitation, even if that meant slaughtering innocent citizens who had the misfortune to be standing next to a would-be assassin. The machines made an ominous humming sound as their shadows rippled over the spectators below—few of whom had any idea of how much danger they were in.

But there weren't any assassins waiting to kill Emor. So no mistakes were made as the drones continued on their way. Meanwhile, as the Emperor's richly decorated palanquin hove into sight, it was subjected to a barrage of Imperial red flowers purchased for that purpose. Other flowers had already been thrown, of course, thousands of them, some of which were piled on top of the litter's flat roof. It was supported by four beautifully carved posts, each resting on the flat bed below, where the most powerful man in the Empire was partially visible behind gauzy curtains.

Four heavy-duty androids held the horizontal poles that kept the conveyance aloft, and when they took a deliberate step forward, it was always in perfect unison. The whole thing was meant to be impressive, and was, as the palanquin arrived directly in front of Cato and Alamy.

Then something unexpected took place as a cool breeze found its way between the surrounding skyscrapers and slid past the Imperial litter on its way to Lake Umanus. That was when the curtains flew, Cato caught a momentary glimpse of the Emperor, and was shocked by what he saw. “Alamy,” he shouted. “Look! It's Fiss Verafti!”

 

 

As the curtain fell back into place, Alamy looked and caught a glimpse of a rather ordinary-looking man, whose features were known throughout the Empire. But she knew that a Sagathi shape shifter could morph into a likeness of any living thing having roughly the same mass that he or she did, and that like all of his kind, Cato could “sense” such creatures regardless of physical form. So if he said the being on the palanquin was Verafti, then she believed it, even if the Sagathi was supposed to be dead.

Alamy heard Cato swear, turned to see him lunge out onto the street, and was barely able to grab his belt as a drone swooped in to confront the potential assassin. A cluster of gun barrels could be seen protruding from the machine's bulbous nose, and Alamy feared that one or more of them were about to fire, as she was forced to yell in order to be heard over the crowd noise. “Show your badge! Let the drone see it!”

 

 

Cato had already thought better of his plan to rush the Imperial palanquin and arrest Fiss Verafti. And as the drone appeared in front of him, he knew he was in trouble. So he raised his left hand, “willed” the badge to appear, and was grateful when it did.