At Empire's Edge (27 page)

All of them nodded. Livius told Usurlus to go first, and Usurlus
wanted
to go first but knew a political opportunity when he saw one. “Absolutely not,” the Legate replied sternly. “Citizen Ovidius, let’s start with you, followed by Citizen Rustus, and the rest of our brave resistance leaders. We must get them to safety for the sake of those who are oppressed.”

Livius thought that the last sentence was especially nauseating, but knew what Usurlus was trying to accomplish, and gave the official credit for having a large set of balls. “You heard Legate Usurlus,” Livius said urgently. “You first, Citizen Ovidius. . . . Let’s get going.”

There was a hole in the east side of the railing, where three balustrades had been kicked out by vandals many years before, and Lucia scuttled over to it. Her toga wasn’t appropriate for swimming, so the others caught a glimpse of smooth mocha-colored flesh as the blood-splattered cloth fell away, and Lucia slid feet first into the water below. She was a good swimmer, and the better part of two minutes elapsed before she was forced to come up for air, prior to diving under the surface again. But she was a good fifty feet away from the island by that time—and hidden by the darkness that the shafts of light couldn’t entirely dispel.

Meanwhile, the other female resistance leader had removed
her
toga, and was just about to follow Lucia into the lake, when she inadvertently raised her head too far. That was the sort of error that Pasayo had been hoping for. His right index finger tightened on the trigger, the rifle nudged his shoulder, and the bullet produced a loud cracking sound as it broke the sound barrier. It was a tiny bit high. Too high for a solid kill, but it did plow a furrow through the top of Citizen Hatha’s skull and the shock of it triggered a heart attack. She collapsed as if poleaxed from above.

 

 

But the rest of the resistance fighters made it, followed by Usurlus, and two bodyguards. Both of them had orders to stick with him, or face Livius in the kickboxing ring, a fate they wanted to avoid.

After the people he regarded as civilians had been given a head start, it was time for Livius and his remaining men to withdraw, a process that began with throwing the rifle into the lake. They went one by one, while Livius fired two handguns for effect, dashing from one side of the pavilion to the other in order to keep the attackers at bay.

 

 

Usurlus liked to immerse himself in water, but only when it was
hot
, which the snow-fed lake wasn’t, and
clear
, which wasn’t the case either. So he was far from pleased as a steady current bore him along toward the roaring falls while bullets threw up geysers of water all around. Making matters worse were the two bodyguards who kept yelling for him to “dive,” something Usurlus steadfastly declined to do, since his ability to swim was limited to a rough-and-ready crawl, sufficient for dips in a pool but not for feats of underwater athleticism. Especially in cold, filthy water.

Fortunately, all three men managed to reach the falls unscathed at a point where the greenish water rushed between large piles of debris built up over the years. The current carried the swimmers along, and Usurlus was airborne for one brief moment before splashing into the river below, where he sank until his feet touched bottom. He took the opportunity to push off, and shortly after his head broke the surface, was swimming again. “Keep your feet downstream, sire!” one of the bodyguards instructed from a few yards away. “In case you run into an obstruction!”

It was good advice, so Usurlus fought to bring his feet around, and eventually managed to do so. He was floating on his back by that time, staring upward while dimly lit drain holes flashed past, and an elevated walkway appeared off to his right. “That’s where we need to go, sire,” the second bodyguard shouted, battling to stay abreast of his charge. “Move right!”

It was easier said than done, but bit by bit Usurlus was able to steer himself toward the right side of the channel, even as the bottom came up to make the task a little bit easier. Then, as he neared the edge, a resistance leader was there to grab his right wrist, and haul him in. The bodyguards were carried downstream for ten more yards before they, too, were able to escape the underground river.

Less than two minutes later, Livius and the other members of the rear guard arrived and were quickly plucked from the water. Lucia, who stood half-naked with her arms wrapped around her chest, was happy to accept a tunic from one of the men. Then, still shivering from the cold, she hurried to wring the top out and pull it on.

“It’s time to get out of here,” one of the surviving resistance leaders said, once the last bodyguard was standing on the walkway. “But believe me, Excellency, we won’t forget the risk you took in coming here, or your bravery! What you plan to do won’t be easy. But you will have friends in the coliseum on Founder’s Day.”

There were murmurs of agreement all around. That was good, but as the two men embraced, Usurlus couldn’t help but wonder how
many
friends he would have on that fateful day. And whether they would be enough.

FOR REASONS THAT HADN’T BEEN SHARED WITH FILE
Leader Korem, a man in a Navy uniform had been confined in Storage Room 3B13 since the night before. If that was strange, so were the orders that governed the way Korem and his subordinates were supposed to interact with the prisoner at mealtimes. But, having served in the militia for more than ten years, Korem had an appreciation for written protocols; he knew it was almost impossible to go wrong so long as a person followed them.

The first step in the process required Korem to assemble a two-man team. Both individuals were to be unarmed, but equipped with com sets that would enable them to communicate with both Korem, and the heavily armed team stationed immediately outside the room. Once everything was ready, the soldiers were to enter the storage room, being careful to keep each other under observation at all times, and if they noticed anything unusual, to report it immediately. Then, having served Procurator Nalomy’s “guest,” they were to withdraw. Once they were outside, it would be Korem’s job to scan the troopers’ tamperproof ID bracelets to ensure that they were the same people who had gone in. An unnecessary step in the NCO’s judgment, but typical of the militia’s officers, who seemed to delight in creating unnecessary things for their subordinates to do.

But if the need for that particular step was hard to understand, the
last
directive, the one labeled FOR NCO EYES ONLY, was not only impossible to fathom but difficult to accept, given Korem’s affection for his men. And that was the order instructing him to kill everyone both outside and inside the storage room should he witness anything suspicious.

Fortunately, Centurion Pasayo had made it clear that such a situation was very unlikely. That made Korem feel better as he turned his attention to a monitor and watched the two-man team enter the storage room. Everything appeared normal at first, but the horror began five seconds later, when the prisoner morphed into a green-scaled reptile! The thing had extendable claws, and when it took a swipe at the first soldier’s vulnerable throat, a sheet of blood flew sideways to splash a wall. The metal tray made a clanging sound as it hit duracrete, followed by the crash of broken crockery, and the rattle of a water carafe as it hit the floor and flipped over.

Then, even as the first body continued to fall, the monster attacked the
second
militiaman with a degree of ferocity that Korem had never seen. And even though the noncom knew he should do something, he stood momentarily transfixed, as the poor soul backpedaled, and held the metal tray up in an attempt to shield himself from the coming attack. But there was no stopping the creature that leapt at him! It sank curved claws into the militiaman’s shoulders, wrapped heavily muscled thighs around the soldier’s waist, and took a bloody bite out of his unprotected throat.

Finally, like a man coming out of a trance, Korem began to move. But the truth was that no more than ten seconds had passed since the beginning of the first attack. “Kill it!” Korem screamed frantically, as he fumbled for the weapon slung across his back. “Kill it now!” But the lizard-thing was fast, very fast, and was already through the door and rushing at the guards. One of them opened fire, but his bullets went wide, and dug divots out of a duracrete wall as death hurtled his way.

 

 

Verafti’s heart was filled with joy as the kinesthetic feedback from his extremely athletic body combined with a tidal wave of fear generated by his victims to provide the shape shifter with something akin to a physical orgasm. Except that the pleasure was more intense and could be extended, so long as there were sentient beings available to kill!

And, as the Sagathi launched himself out into the room, he saw six more victims all waiting to be slaughtered. Ideally, had such a thing been possible, Verafti would have toyed with the soldiers to prolong his pleasure. But they were armed, and even though the Umans were slow by his standards, one of them had been able to fire.

Verafti slapped the rifle aside as he closed with the nearest soldier, sank his claws into the Uman’s shoulders, and swiveled the soldier’s body to the left. There was a loud ripping sound as a second militiaman opened fire. Verafti’s shield jerked spasmodically when half a dozen bullets slammed into his back.

Then, as the body fell, Verafti morphed into a likeness of Centurion Pasayo. Not a
perfect
likeness, since the officer was dressed in little more than blood-splashed rags, but close enough. “Cease fire!” the officer shouted, and in keeping with all of their training the soldiers obeyed. That gave Verafti the split second in which to scoop up a weapon and turn it on the soldiers arrayed around him. They weren’t wearing body armor, so there was no need to aim. The submachine gun produced a sustained
buuurrurp
as empty casings arced away and bodies began to fall. Korem was the last person to be hit, and as the noncom went down, he spent the last half second of his life wondering what he was dying for.

Gun smoke drifted just below the ceiling, and an eerie silence settled over the room, as Verafti went to secure the outside door. The entire battle had consumed less than four minutes, and, based on Verafti’s painstaking observations over the last sixteen hours, at least half an hour would elapse before anyone came by. Could he close with Nalomy, secure her pendant, and hunt Hingo down all within that amount of time? And what about the mysterious
third
pendant? There was only one way to find out.

But before Verafti could leave, it was first necessary to choose which Uman to impersonate. That task was made easier by the fact that one of the men had been killed by a neat and tidy bullet to the head. Removing the soldier’s clothing was a difficult and time-consuming task, however—one which left Verafti feeling frustrated by the time he finally pulled the militiaman’s tight-fitting leather cuirass down over his head. Having emptied the submachine gun, and having been unable to locate a backup magazine for it, Verafti armed himself with one of the assault rifles that was lying on the floor.

It would have been nice to drag all of the bodies into the storeroom in hopes of hiding the slaughter for a longer period of time, but Verafti was in a hurry, and there was way too much blood to make that strategy practical. So all he could do was step out into the hall and lock the door behind him.

At that point Verafti’s knowledge of the palace came into play. And not just the physical layout of the building but the routines that staff followed each day and who was allowed to go where within the highly regulated environment.

And that was a problem with his current persona. Because common soldiers weren’t allowed on the fifth floor, where Nalomy lived. That floor was the province of the Procurator’s specially trained bodyguards, who would not only refuse to let him enter, but would report his presence to Pasayo, thereby triggering an investigation. So as Verafti arrived on the fourth floor, and exchanged greetings with a militiaman who was clearly friends with the man he was impersonating, the shape shifter knew it would be necessary to assume still another identity before invading Nalomy’s private quarters. The only question was whom to kill?

 

 

Persus was in the fourth-floor utility room, pouring a mixture of water and detergent into a robotic floor scrubber, when the door opened behind her. Her supervisor, an older woman named Mitha, had been very controlling ever since the Legate’s arrival. That was why Persus spoke without bothering to look over her shoulder. “I’m nearly done, Mitha. I’ll be out in a moment.”

 

 

Closing the door, Verafti stepped in behind the slave, and dropped a leather loop over the unsuspecting woman’s head. Persus saw the belt and began to respond, but it was too late. The shape shifter was pulling both ends of the makeshift garrote in opposite directions by then! Persus let go of the jug in order to reach up and grab the loop that was choking off her air supply. But it was too tight, and her desperate fingers were unable to get a sufficient purchase.

Verafti sampled her fear, found it to his liking, and took in the emotion. His victim made unpleasant gasping noises, followed by a lot of pointless thrashing, but the episode eventually came to an abrupt end as she went limp. That was when Verafti took a moment to listen, and not having heard an alarm, immediately went to work removing the Uman’s clothing. It was easier to take off than the soldier’s had been, and thanks to the manner of the woman’s death, was free of telltale stains.

After he had morphed into a likeness of Persus, it was a simple matter to change clothes and peek through the door. Then, assuring himself that the hallway was clear, Verafti slipped outside, carefully closing the door behind him. From there it was a short walk to the back stairs that would take him up to the fifth floor, where, if Nalomy was following her usual schedule, she would be about halfway through her daily beauty regimen, a process entirely lost on Verafti.