At Empire's Edge (12 page)

Nalomy felt her stomach lurch. Not because she was afraid of Verafti, but because of the ease with which the empath had been able to penetrate the very core of her being. Nalomy’s mouth was dry, her heart beating faster, and she was intensely aware of the fact that Hingo and the technician were present. “We aren’t here to discuss me,” the Procurator said coolly, “we’re here to discuss
you
. And the possibility of freedom.”

“Though not an empath, you have an excellent appreciation of what I want most,” Verafti admitted gravely. “What must I do to earn my freedom?”

There was a metallic
clang
as the last length of durasteel hit the concrete floor and began to cool. “You can leave,” Nalomy said, as the technician removed his goggles. “And that goes for you as well,” Nalomy said, as she turned to direct a glance at Hingo.

Hingo didn’t want to leave, not because of a concern for Nalomy’s personal safety, but because the conversation between the Procurator and the prisoner had been quite interesting up until that point. Especially the part about the young woman’s motivations. But an order was an order, which left Hingo with no choice except to bow and back toward the door.

 

 

Once the others had left, Nalomy turned back toward the cage. Hingo, who was standing in front of the control kiosk by that time, pulled a wireless headset on over his bare scalp. Not because it was his duty to do so but because knowledge equals power, and if there was one thing that the Majordomo and his mistress had in common, it was a desire to control those around him.

 

 

Having cleared the room, Nalomy eyed her prisoner. And, as if to demonstrate what he was capable of, Verafti morphed into an exact likeness of Centurion Sivio. Sans clothes, that is, which might have caused another woman to look away, but brought a wry smile to Nalomy’s lips. “That’s very impressive,” she said, leaving it unclear as to whether she was referring to the Uman’s physique, or Verafti’s ability to imitate it.

“Thank you,” the Sagathi replied politely. “Now, whom do you want me to kill?”

The tone was such that it felt as though Verafti was taking charge of the situation and Nalomy didn’t care for that. “Don’t be presumptuous,” she said sternly.

“I’m not,” Verafti countered loftily. “I’m being
logical
. Killing people is what I do best. . . . So it seems safe to assume that’s why you brought me here.”

“There is that I suppose,” Nalomy allowed reluctantly. “Here’s the situation. . . . Legate Isulu Usurlus will arrive on Dantha a few days from now, and I want him dead.”

“Done,” the Sagathi said agreeably. “Now, if you’d be so kind as to unlock my cage, I’d like to stretch my legs.”

“Aren’t you going to ask
why
I want him dead?” Nalomy inquired curiously.

“No,” Verafti responded. “I’m sure you have your reasons—and that’s good enough for me. So, let me out, and we can discuss the details of how the assassination will be carried out while we take a stroll.”

“I will,” Nalomy assured him, “after I fasten this metal band around your wrist.” So saying, the official went over to a waist-high pedestal, removed a mutable durasteel bracelet from its box, and turned to face Verafti.

“What is it?” Verafti demanded suspiciously.

“It’s a remotely controlled explosive device,” Nalomy answered sweetly. “Surely you didn’t expect me to release you without putting some safeguards in place? I will carry a remote control, as will my Majordomo, and a third individual who will remain anonymous. Should you violate our agreement, or kill someone other than Usurlus, any one of us will have the ability to blow your right hand off.”

“I don’t like it,” Verafti objected, as he morphed into his true form.

“Then remain in your cage,” Nalomy suggested. “And I’ll ship you to Sagatha, where the Xeno Corps will put you on trial.”

“I could tell them what you wanted me to do,” Verafti said ominously.

“It would be your word against mine,” Nalomy countered coolly. “And I think you know who they would believe! Or, you might be shot while trying to escape, which would be unfortunate to say the least. Those are your options. . . . So what’s it going to be?”

There was a long moment of silence, followed by a sudden transformation as the shape shifter morphed into a likeness of Nalomy who, like his impersonation of Sivio, was naked.

“My breasts are larger than that,” Nalomy observed clinically.

Verafti made the necessary adjustment and Nalomy smiled. “That’s better! Now, go over and stick your left arm through the hole.”

Verafti did as he was told, which allowed Nalomy to place the explosive bracelet on what looked like her own wrist, before backing away. He felt the metal band contract and heard a series of
click
s as the device locked itself in place, followed by a sustained
beep
when the built-in transmitter came online.

The pendant hanging around Nalomy’s neck beeped in sympathy, indicating that the remote was working. “Hingo, I know you’re watching,” Nalomy said tartly, as she looked up into a camera. “So come in and open the cage.”

Hingo swore softly, pressed the button that controlled the storeroom door, and went inside. Five minutes later, Nalomy, Hingo, and a man who looked exactly like Centurion Ben Sivio entered the elevator together. An assassin was on the loose.

It was early afternoon by the time Cato awoke, feeling hot, sore, and somewhat groggy. But the pump was still operational, as was the outdoor shower, so he was able to cool down and clean up at the same time.

Finally, after a shamefully long shower, Cato patted himself dry before getting dressed again. The plan was to pack his gear, return to the city of Solace, and look for a way off Dantha. Then, with two or three hundred legionnaires for backup, Cato planned to come back and scour the surface of the planet until he found Verafti. Because if anyone could tell him who was responsible for the massacre, it was Verafti. He represented a threat to everyone on Dantha and would have to be retaken regardless of cost.

That was the plan anyway, but when Cato went to the skimmer in order to place some of his belongings in the vehicle’s saddlebags, everything changed. The venerable EX-9 looked normal enough from a distance, but once Cato came close, the damage was obvious. Someone, the Lir spy being the most likely candidate, had fired an energy bolt into the engine compartment!
And
the com set.

Cato swore, fumbled for the binos, and brought them up to his eyes. It took about thirty seconds to locate the slowly circling spy. In retrospect the decision to leave the skimmer out in the open where the Lir could fire at it was unforgivably stupid. Although fatigue had certainly been a factor, as had the fact that the Lir had kept their distance up until then.

But why not me?
Cato wondered.
Why disable the skimmer yet leave me alive?

Because the bastards want to see you suffer,
came the answer. If so, their plan stood a good chance of success; his com set had been transformed into a piece of junk, and the nearest settlement was a long ways off. So far away that he might not survive the trek. But
why
? Who would want him dead? The same people who killed Sivio, Larsy, and the rest of the team. That was who.

And difficult though it was obviously going to be, Cato was left with no choice but to cross the desert on foot. Because, while there was a pretty good chance that another party of prospectors would eventually stop at Station 3, it might be weeks or even months before they did so.

The logical thing to do was travel at night, when it was cooler, so Cato spent the balance of the day gathering items he would need and strapping them to an improvised pack frame. The main problem was water and the fact that each gallon of the precious liquid weighed more than eight pounds. This effectively limited what water he could reasonably carry to about four gallons, or thirty-two pounds, because it was going to be necessary to carry food as well. Not to mention weapons and ammo, both of which were heavy as sin.

But there was no getting around it, so once darkness fell, it was time to shoulder the pack and pay one last visit to his teammates, before beginning what promised to be a long, hard walk. Cato had a headlamp, but rather than use it and thereby reveal his position to the Lir spies, he chose to proceed with nothing more than starlight to illuminate the desert. That strategy worked fairly well since most of the terrain was flat.

There were dry riverbeds to cross, not to mention wind-cut rock formations that rose to block the way, and plenty of treacherous dunes. All of them caused accidents; some were quite painful, not to mention frightening. Because Cato knew that if he broke a leg, or suffered some other form of catastrophic injury, it would only be a matter of days before he died of exposure.

After every fall, Cato forced himself to get back up and march on until the gradually rising sun began to backlight the mountain peaks to the east, and he knew it was time to seek shelter. Only there wasn’t anywhere to hide at that particular moment, so he was forced to continue for another hour and a half, before finally arriving in front of an island of upthrust rock.

The sun had cleared the mountaintops by that time, and it was already quite warm, as Cato paused to take a swig of lukewarm water. Then, when his thirst had been quenched, he set off to circumnavigate the huge chunk of rock in hopes of finding a cave, or failing that, a shady recess that would offer at least some protection from the sun
and
the Lir spy who circled above.

There were two false alarms, each of which required Cato to expend precious ergs of energy, only to discover that neither crevice was big enough to accommodate both him and his gear. A
third
opening, however, led to a cavern large enough for three people. Cato subjected it to a bombardment of fist-sized rocks calculated to drive current residents out. But if the recess had been home to hostile life-forms there was no sign of them as he pushed his pack through a narrow opening and crawled inside.

It was definitely cooler inside the cave, but the air grew steadily warmer as the sun continued to rise, forcing Cato to consume more water. The heat made it difficult to sleep; but after eating some cold rations, Cato was eventually able to doze off. However, the knowledge that the Lir were watching him fostered bad dreams, and when the heat caused a rock to explode, Cato awoke with gun in hand, his heart racing out of control.

So Cato was tired by the time he set off that evening, and even though his pack was lighter because of the water he’d been forced to consume, it felt just as heavy. But there was nothing he could do except put one foot in front of the other, concentrate on his goal, and check his luminescent compass from time to time. It would have been easy to lose his way as a bank of clouds swept in to obscure the stars, and the night grew even darker.

It was cold.
Very
cold. Cato stopped for a quick brew-up at 0200. The hot caf felt good as it trickled into his stomach and that, plus a chewy ration bar, kept Cato going until the eastern sky began to brighten a bit. Then it was time to look for a hole to crawl into, except there weren’t any rock formations in the area, making it necessary to seek some other form of shelter. As Cato skidded down into a dry riverbed, he knew that seasonal floods could have carved one or more caves into the bank. Sleeping in such a recess was dangerous because a serious rainstorm in the mountains could send a wall of water rushing down the formerly bone-dry channel to sweep him away. That was a chance he’d have to take if he wanted shelter from the sun.

It took the better part of twenty minutes to find a spot where the river had undercut the bank—but not so severely as to suggest an imminent collapse. By stacking loose rocks to form a three-foot-high wall opposite the bank, Cato was able to create a well-shaded recess that would provide shelter from the sun until early afternoon. It wasn’t perfect, since he’d be driven out of his hidey-hole during the worst heat of the day, but a lot better than nothing.

So Cato ate cold rations, washed them down with a mug of precious water, and lay down to sleep. It was still cold, and the ground was hard, but sleep came quickly.

 

 

Having lost more than three hundred feet of altitude, Nor Issit had little choice but to flap his wings and begin another sweeping turn. There was no way to know exactly where the next thermal would be, so all the Lir could do was hope for the best, knowing that without the columns of rising air, he wouldn’t have the strength to remain aloft until a warrior was sent to relieve him. And being forced to the ground could be disastrous, because, although Issit was graceful in the air, the Uman could outmaneuver him on the planet’s surface.

So Issit continued to fight his way upward, giving thanks to the Air God when he felt warm air push up against his widespread wings, and he was suddenly borne upward, as if by an invisible hand. Then with wings spread wide, all Issit had to do was stay inside the column of rising air and eye the wasteland below.