At Empire's Edge (3 page)

“Okay,” Cato said evenly, as he turned to address his team. “I’ll toss a flash-bang in there. Once it goes off, we enter. Honis, Batia, you take the targets on the right. Tonver and Moshath will go after the slimeballs on the left. Kelkaw and I will go straight up the middle. Questions? No? Let’s do this thing.”

 

 

Like the other members of Cato’s section, Brice Kelkaw had a generally low opinion of the Section Leader (SL) because of his tendency to duck work, break rules, and drink too much. But there was one category of activity in which Cato excelled, and that was the area of tactical operations, where he was second to none. For some unfathomable reason, Cato’s freewheeling ways were frequently successful when the chips were down, a fact that accounted for both the stripes on his arms and the handful of badly tarnished medals buried at the bottom of his footlocker.

So Kelkaw was secretly glad of the fact that he had been assigned to Cato’s section rather than Sivio’s, as he followed the noncom out into a sleet of incoming fire. Some of which left scorch marks on Kelkaw’s light gray armor but failed to hole it. Projectile weapons would have been much more deadly, but could have caused serious damage to the ship, which neither side wanted to do. But even though the so-called blasters weren’t immediately lethal, they could drill holes in armor if given the three or four seconds required to do so. And that made it important to keep moving.

As Cato fired on a Vord who was hiding between a recycling tank and the air scrubbers, Kelkaw heard someone shout, “Above you!” and raised his energy weapon just in time to fire at the alien on the catwalk above.

The Vord got off a series of energy bolts as well, some of which came within inches of Cato’s helmet, but that took time. Enough time for Kelkaw’s energy rifle to stitch a line of black divots across the alien’s chest plate. The last bolt found the seam between shoulder and arm, burned its way through, and opened the suit to the vacuum. The results were not very pretty.

 

 

Having nailed his target, Cato took a quick look around. The incoming fire had stopped, Honis and Batia were busy securing a group of Vord prisoners, and the other two were going from body to body checking to make sure that the beings inside were truly dead. “Hey, Cato,” Tonver said, as he knelt next to a badly scorched Vord. “The big sonofabitch is history—but it looks like the slug might be alive. It’s sealed in a pressurized pouch.”

Cato went over to inspect the body and saw that Tonver was correct. Even though the Vord was dead, a pressurized sack had been deployed to protect the parasite wrapped around his neck. Tonver winced as Cato put an energy bolt through the taut semitransparent plastic film. Green goo erupted from the newly created hole as all of the pent-up air gushed out of the container. “That’s for Ritori,” Cato said grimly. “Rot in hell.”

Tonver wasn’t sure that aliens went to hell, but it was a moot point, so he let it go. The battle was over.

 

 

The better part of one standard day passed while both of the badly damaged ships floated side by side off Nav Beacon INS4721-8402. There was a lot to do, including treating the wounded, in-processing the Vord prisoners, and conducting a bow-to-stern survey of the
Pax Umana
to determine how spaceworthy the vessel was.

Finally, having completed their inspection, Captain Hong and her engineering officer concluded that while one of the ship’s in-system drives was still functional, her hyperdrive was going to require a complete overhaul before the
Umana
would be able to complete the journey to Sagatha.

That was the beginning of an effort to identify a planet with a Class III or better shipyard that was within the range of a vessel traveling at sublight speeds from Navpoint INS4721-8402. The answer, because there was only
one
possibility, was a former prison planet named Dantha. None of those on the
Umana
had ever been there; but, according to the NAVCOMP’s files, Dantha was a mostly preindustrial Corin-Class planet, having large deposits of iridium located due west of a Level Eight settlement named Solace. And Solace, in turn, based on a two-year-old database, was home to a Class III shipyard.

So with nowhere else to go, Hong had her crew place explosive charges aboard the Vord raider, cut the destroyer loose, then put a lot of distance between the two ships before sending the necessary signal. Most of the crew were watching the video feed when the explosion took place, but the momentary flash of light was strangely anticlimactic, and left most of them feeling sad rather than jubilant. All except for Cato, that is, who was taking a nap when the charges went off, and was snoring loudly.

 

 

It took almost two standard weeks to reach Dantha. Long, increasingly difficult days, during which one of the four air scrubbers went down, the water-purification system failed, and everyone went on short rations. Including the Vord prisoners, who suffered in silence, unlike Verafti, who complained nonstop.

The Xeno cops were used to that, however, and proceeded to ignore the shape shifter, who was forced to entertain himself by showing the neighboring Vords what they would look like if turned inside out! It was a pastime Cato rather enjoyed—and did nothing to discourage.

So it was with a communal sigh of relief that the
Pax Umana
entered Dantha’s atmosphere, bumped her way down through layers of air, and leveled out over a vast water-filled crater created some fifty million years earlier when a sizeable meteorite had roared out of the sky to slam into Dantha’s surface.

The lake glittered with reflected sunlight as the space-ship flew over both it and the vast plain beyond, on its way to the Imperial settlement of Solace. And it was then, as the ship circled the city prior to landing, that Captain Hong felt the first stirrings of concern. Because rather than the neat, carefully laid out city typical of Uman-controlled planets, Solace was a sprawling undisciplined maze of structures that been allowed to evolve according to the whims of those who lived there. People who, according to information supplied by the NAVCOMP, were the descendants of prisoners brought in 242 years earlier to work the now-abandoned iridium mines.

Still, the way the local population chose to live was unimportant so long as Hong could get repairs to her ship, and return it to service. That thought gave the naval officer a renewed sense of confidence as the third, and final, clearance was given by the spaceport’s Traffic Control computer, and the NAVCOMP brought the badly damaged
Pax Umana
in for a landing. Both Hong and her pilot were on standby in case the NAVCOMP failed, so there was very little opportunity to eyeball the spaceport as the ship’s powerful repellers sent clouds of reddish dust billowing up into the air.

Minutes later, once the ship’s massive skids were safely on the ground, the air began to clear. That was when the main cargo hatch whirred open, a ramp was deployed, and Hong made her way down onto Imperial soil. Sivio was by her side, and the ship’s hull made loud pinging noises as it began to cool.

Both Imperials expected a reception of some sort. No brass bands, or anything like that, but a Port Captain and some of his or her subordinates at a minimum. What they
weren’t
ready for was a portly civilian in stained overalls, a work-worn robot with mismatched arms, and a black-and-white mongrel, who immediately took a possessive pee on one of the
Umana
’s landing skids. “Hello!” the man in the ragged overalls said cheerfully. “Welcome to Dantha! My name is Kinkel. Homer Kinkel. I’m the Port Administrator, Port Captain, and Maintenance Chief.”

Nearly all of the dust had settled by then, and as Hong eyed the blast-scarred area around her, she saw three dilapidated in-system freighters, an old liner that had been cannibalized for parts, six Imperial fighters that constituted the planet’s entire air defense capability, a low-slung prefab building that was at least fifty years old, and a row of multicolored atmospheric craft of various designs that presumably belonged to wealthy citizens. Assuming there were any. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Hong lied as she offered Kinkel her hand. “No offense, but we need a Class III yard, and your spaceport looks like it might be a Class V at best.”

“Yup,” Kinkel responded unapologetically. “We were decertified about a year and a half ago. There isn’t enough money to keep things up. Or that’s what Procurator Nalomy tells me—and she oughtta know.” At that point his tiny eyes went up to the ship that loomed above them. There was plenty of visible damage, including blackened craters, metal-bright scars, and a collection of scorch marks. “What hit you anyway? A swarm of meteorites?”

Hong shook her head. “No, we were attacked by a Vord raider. The ship needs a whole lot of things—but a reconditioned hyperdrive tops the list. If we had that, we could make it to a Class III yard.”

Kinkel shook his head sympathetically. “I’m sorry to hear that. . . . The Vords are starting to get out of hand. The Emperor needs to teach the ugly bastards a lesson! As for the hyperdrive—well that’s gonna take some time. Say a month to get the request in, another month for the bureaucrats to approve it, and a third month to ship it here. Then it’ll be up to me to install it, and I’m shorthanded at the moment.”

A dust devil appeared out in the middle of Landing Zone Two, the dog gave chase, and the robot’s head began to twitch uncontrollably. The journey was over.

LEGATE ISULU USURLUS WAS SEATED AT HIS SCRUPULOUSLY
clean glass desk, reviewing the items he hoped to discuss with Emperor Emor, when he heard the familiar swish of expensive fabric as Satha entered the sun-splashed room. She was tall, willowy, and as beautiful as a slave costing ten thousand Imperials should be. Satha had luxuriant shoulder-length brown hair, a shapely body that was only partially concealed by a diaphanous gown, and perfectly formed bare feet. She brought her hands together in front of her chest and lowered her forehead until it came into contact with them. “The cars are here.”

Usurlus said, “Thank you,” rose, and took a thin leather briefcase with him as he crossed the study to the point where an oval mirror was set into the wall. Appearances were important within the upper reaches of Uman society, especially on the home world of Corin, so good looks were something of a necessity. Usurlus knew he was vain—and why not? The man who stared back at him had artfully tousled blond hair, gray eyes, and an aquiline nose. Women liked him, as did men, which made his sex life wonderfully complicated.

It was important to be careful, however. The key to success was to look good, but not
too
good, lest one unintentionally overshadow the Emperor. Because even though Emor was in good shape, he wasn’t especially beautiful to look upon, even after plastic surgery! So, by wearing a plain red-edged toga, a pleated kilt, and open-toed sandals, Usurlus hoped to fall well below the level of sartorial elegance Emor was known for. “You are very handsome,” Satha said, as their eyes met in the mirror.

Usurlus smiled. He was genuinely fond of Satha—and she knew it. “And you are very beautiful!” the Legate said sincerely. “Wish me luck.”

“I do,” Satha replied seriously. “Be careful. . . . You have enemies.”

“Most of whom are wildly incompetent,” Usurlus said dismissively. “I plan to be home for dinner. Will you join me?”

The question was a formality, of course, since a slave could hardly say no, but Satha was genuinely pleased. Her hands came together, and her forehead made contact with them. “Yes, master. It would be my pleasure to do so.”

Usurlus gave Satha a peck on the cheek, left the study, and entered the hallway that led out to the public areas beyond. The elegantly furnished great room was large enough to hold a hundred people, which it frequently did whenever Usurlus had to throw a party. A robot that looked exactly like Usurlus was waiting and fell into step next to him as sliding glass doors parted company to let the “twins” pass.

The doors closed with a discreet whisper as the two seemingly identical men stepped out onto the carefully landscaped veranda and made their way around the rooftop swimming pool to the landing pad, where two air cars sat waiting. One was for Usurlus, the other for his body double, making it that much more difficult for potential assassins to score a kill.

Four of the Legate’s bodyguards were present, including Vedius Albus, the ex-legionnaire who was in charge of overall security. He was a hard-eyed man in his midforties who, having served the 33rd Legion with distinction for twenty-five years, had left Imperial military service to spend the rest of his life with his family on Corin. A decision Usurlus was grateful for since Albus had saved his life on two occasions. “Good morning, sire,” the ex-legionnaire said soberly, as the contingent of bodyguards came to attention.

“Good morning, Vedius,” the real Usurlus replied cheerfully. “How’s Olivia? Well, I hope.”

Olivia was Albus’s wife, and even though the bodyguard knew that Usurlus was being polite, he also knew that most men of his employer’s rank wouldn’t know her name, much less inquire as to her health. “She’s doing well, sire,” Albus said, as the doors for both air cars swished open. “Thank you.”

Two bodyguards followed the body double into the first car, while Usurlus, Albus, and an ex-legionnaire named Livius took seats in the second vehicle and strapped themselves in. Both Albus and Livius wore plain togas, secured by metal pins in the shape of the Usurlus family crest, each of which included a secure two-way com device that could be used in an emergency. The men were equipped with ID implants, body armor, and one pistol each, the maximum amount of armament that the Emperor’s security detail would allow outsiders to bring into the Imperial Tower. More men were on call, of course, and could reach the Tower in a matter of minutes, should an emergency extraction become necessary.