At Empire's Edge (35 page)

Cato was wearing body armor that had been taken from a dead militiaman, and he was armed with a variety of weapons, but the whole idea was to get inside the coliseum, not start a war! So when the Section Leader arrived next to him, and slid the swagger stick in under his chin, Cato affected an empty-eyed stare. In addition to his smooth-shaven skull and the tattoolike serial number that had been inked onto his forehead, dirt had been rubbed into Cato’s face to make it that much harder to recognize.

Still, even with all of that, Cato held his breath as a blinding light stabbed his eyes and the SL consulted a photo of the man he was supposed to look for. If Cato “felt” a flash of recognition, he was ready to drop the unlocked manacles, and go for one of his weapons.

After what seemed like an eternity, Cato heard the Section Leader grunt, and was left with a constellation of floating afterimages when the light was removed. “Too ugly,” the SL commented as he passed Cato by, and turned his attention to the next slave.

Cato released his breath slowly after that and stood head down until the column was allowed to pass through the checkpoint. Thanks to the disk-shaped pass that had been given to him at the roadblock, the slave master was able to lead the column to the coliseum without further delay. Then, when they arrived on the north side of the huge structure, a noncom waved the work party through the arched gate that provided access to the arena beyond.

Work was under way, and had been for quite some time, so that as Cato took a look around, the first thing he saw was the six-foot-high wall that circled the arena. It was pierced at regular intervals by stairs that provided access to the tiers of seats above. The Imperial Box could be seen on the south side of the coliseum. Colorful awnings were positioned to protect the upper seats from both the sun and the possibility of rain. They flapped as a light breeze swept in from the west and circled the arena as if to examine it. It was an impressive sight, and would be even more so the following day, when thousands of people filled the now-empty seats.

When the slave master came to a halt, the column was forced to do likewise. A guard made his way down the line and chains rattled as each set of manacles was unlocked and fell free. If the guard thought it was strange that one man’s wrist bracelets were already unlocked he gave no sign of it as he passed Cato by. “All right!” the slave master said, as Cato took a moment to rub his sore wrists. “You can pile your stuff next to the gate. Our first task is to rake the arena so it will look pretty in the morning. So start in the middle and move outward. I don’t want to see any footprints when you’re done. Those who don’t have rakes will report to me for other tasks. Got it?”

Cato heard mumbling sounds that might have constituted assent although it didn’t really matter since the slaves were slaves. Once the other men and women had begun to amble toward the center of the arena, he walked away. And if the guards saw him depart, they gave no sign of it as they spread out in order to supervise the work.

Having successfully infiltrated the coliseum, Cato sought out a heavily shadowed spot where he could rid himself of both the backpack and the tattered robe. Then, having removed the components for his second disguise from the pack, Cato transformed himself from a slave into a Section Leader. And not just any Section Leader, but one who wore the insignia of a unit assigned to the frontier, which would help to explain why the local militiamen hadn’t encountered him before.

That was Lucia’s plan anyway. And only time would tell if it would work. One thing was for sure, however, and that was Cato’s need for a disguise that would allow him to move freely. Because even though he knew
what
was supposed to happen the following day, Cato didn’t know
how
, and that would be important if he was going to stop it.

Having removed the fake tattoo from his forehead, and completed the change from one identity to the other, Cato dumped both the robe and the empty pack into a garbage can, and began a tour of the coliseum. And that meant not just looking like a noncom but acting like one while strutting about and sticking his nose into everybody’s business. A role that
he
, as a Section Leader himself, knew how to play.

So Cato climbed all the way up to the top of the brightly lit coliseum, where he followed the gently curving wall from north to east. One of the first things Cato noticed was the platform on the south side of the arena, which was located immediately below the Imperial Box. Workers were busy putting the finishing touches on the elaborate framework that rested on the ledgelike platform. And it didn’t take a genius
or
an official program to know that was the spot where Usurlus would be standing when the assassination attempt took place.

The immediate area would be heavily guarded, of course, but with any luck at all, Cato would be able to use his disguise to penetrate the outermost ring of security and warn one of the Legate’s bodyguards if not Usurlus himself.

Then Cato would implement the
second
part of his plan, which was to identify Fiss Verafti, and take him into custody. Or, failing that, to put a dozen bullets into the bastard! It would be a lot less expensive than another trial!

Such were Cato’s thoughts as the walkway carried him around the edge of the coliseum to the point where one of the facility’s blocky projection booths stood. Cato knew that at least four holoprojectors were required to show a 3-D movie, and some arenas were equipped with as many as eight of the devices, so as to provide high-quality images. Especially during the early-evening hours, when it was still light out.

But as Cato approached the booth, it appeared as though civilian workers were removing the projection equipment from the walled-in booth. The question was, why? The holo equipment couldn’t be used during the day; Cato knew that, so maybe the projector was going in for maintenance. Still, nosy Section Leaders should be nosy, so Cato paused next to the doorway. “What’s going on here?” he demanded officiously, as the civilians loaded the projector onto a dolly.

“That’s a very good question,” one of the two men said sarcastically, as he straightened up. He had a long lugubrious face, and a pair of droopy eyelids made him look sleepy. “We were told to take this unit out, even though it works fine, and install a table. But you should know, because the work order came from what’s his name, Centurion Piss-ayo.”

“That’s P
a
sayo,” the other technician corrected him, “and you talk too much. Come on, let’s get this thing out of here. We’ll come back for the mount.”

The civilians left at that point, and the door to the projection booth stood open, so Cato stepped inside. Though not necessarily important, the mere mention of Pasayo’s name had been sufficient to pique his interest. There wasn’t a whole lot to see other than the mount for the missing projector, which was still bolted to the floor, and a roughly one-foot-by-one-foot aperture through which a holobeam could be projected.

But as Cato bent over to look through the hole, he found himself staring directly across the arena to the platform on which Usurlus was going to speak. Was that a matter of coincidence? Or something more? Especially if there was nothing wrong with the holoprojector.

Then there was the matter of a table. . . . Why would Pasayo give orders for a table to be placed inside the booth? It didn’t make any sense unless . . . Suddenly Cato had it! Like all police officers, he was required to qualify with certain weapons each year. Typically that meant a nerve-wracking stroll through a virtual reality (VR) scenario in which good guys and bad guys appeared at regular intervals, requiring the person who was running the course to make a series of split-second decisions regarding whom to shoot. And more than that, once shots were fired, how effective they were.

But certain weapons, sniper rifles being a good example, were frequently fired on an actual range in addition to VR scenarios. Often from a bench, where the marksman was allowed to sit, while experimenting with various loads. Was that what Pasayo had in mind here? A table that he or another marksman could use to support a large-caliber sniper’s rifle? The aperture, the containment, and the angle would be perfect for that. The only problem was that it didn’t make sense. Not given the fact that Verafti would be able to kill Usurlus from close range.

Then Cato had it. Verafti! That was the answer. The sniper’s job was to kill Verafti once Usurlus had been murdered. Not only to silence a potential witness—but to get rid of a very dangerous serial killer. One who, if allowed to go free, could threaten Nalomy herself. And, should anything go wrong with the primary plan, the sniper would be in the perfect position to shoot Usurlus as well!

All of the pieces fit, and as Cato left the booth, he felt that he had a good understanding of the way the assassination plot was supposed to unfold. But could he put a stop to it? That remained to be seen.

There were still a good four hours to go before the sun rose. So with nothing better to do, and concerned lest someone challenge his right to be there, Cato chose to climb up to the highest seats. Once there, he found a spot where he could wrap himself up in the red militia cape around his body, sit down, and get some shut-eye. But it was difficult to put Alamy out of his mind, so it was quite a while before sleep finally came, and eventually carried him away.

 

 

As Pasayo left his quarters, gun case in hand, he felt better than he had in weeks. Because here, after months of stultifying staff work, was the sort of day any hunter would welcome! The sky was clear, the air was cool, and the newly risen sun had just begun to push long thin shadows west toward the Sawtooth Mountains, all made memorable by the nature of the challenge before him—to lie in wait for one of the most dangerous killers in the Empire, drop Verafti with one shot, and hang his head on the wall with all the rest! In the process, he would secure a trophy that no other hunter could equal!

The possibility of that put a spring in Pasayo’s step as two bodyguards fell in behind him and the three men made their way along a series of well-manicured pathways to the looming coliseum beyond. Sentries crashed to attention as Pasayo arrived, but he was only marginally aware of the soldiers as he marched past, his mind focused on what lay ahead.

It took the better part of ten minutes for Pasayo to climb all the steps and follow the outer wall to the west until he arrived at the projection booth that would serve as his hide. Originally, back when Nalomy first identified the need to eliminate Verafti, their discussions centered around something close-up, an approach that would make Verafti’s death look like a natural reaction to the assassination. But, given the empath’s ability to sense what people were going to do, that approach was abandoned in favor of the long-distance solution that Pasayo assigned to himself.

The door to the projection booth was unlocked. A light came on as Pasayo entered and paused to look around. A table had been placed in front of the aperture. A tripod-style bench rest was bolted to the flat surface, and an unpadded chair was positioned in front of it. A thermos of hot caf sat at one end of the table, an empty bucket had been placed in one of the corners, and a com set was sitting on a shelf. All the preparations were consistent with the orders Pasayo had given.

Satisfied that his requirements had been met, Pasayo lowered the gun case onto the table before turning to the door and ordering both bodyguards to leave. Even though it didn’t matter at the moment, guards could draw attention to the booth, and that was the sort of thing that someone like Verafti might very well notice. Nor did Pasayo want two people looking over his shoulder as he made the most important shot of his life.

Once the soldiers were gone, Pasayo closed the door, went over to the table, and opened the case. All of the components for the FARO 3025 sniper’s rifle lay nestled within. Once it was fully assembled, the forty-two-pound weapon would be nearly six feet long. And with a muzzle velocity of 4,750 fps, the tungsten darts were capable of penetrating two-inch-thick armor from a distance of three thousand feet.

That made the FARO an excellent weapon for attacking light-armored vehicles, airborne troop transports, and homicidal lizards! Even ones who were wearing body armor. The only problem was that, once the fléchette hit Verafti, the resulting devastation would be so complete that there wouldn’t be much of him left to scrape up. But, by aiming for Verafti’s chest rather than his head, Pasayo hoped to preserve a trophy.

Pasayo smiled grimly as he pulled on a pair of white gloves, removed the black matte receiver from the case, and went to work. Not only did Nalomy want Verafti dead, the slimeball was responsible for killing nearly a dozen members of Pasayo’s militia, and now he was going to pay.

 

 

In spite of the early-morning sun that poured in through the windows, and the soothing music that was playing from the overhead speakers, Usurlus was nervous. And for good reason since he was about to walk into the coliseum and bring charges of corruption against a woman who had thousands of troops under her command. So, being out of sorts, little things took on exaggerated importance. Like the fact that a slave named Ooly had been sent to serve his breakfast instead of Alamy, who not only knew all of his preferences, but was more enjoyable to look at.

Adding to the dissatisfaction that Usurlus felt was the fact that Vedius Albus, the man he sometimes referred to as “my rock,” had been making a lot of mistakes lately. Nothing major, just little things like his failure to lay out Usurlus’s body armor without first being prompted to do so, and the way he kept calling Usurlus “Excellency,” rather than “sire.” They were small things, and of no great consequence, but annoying on a day when so much was at stake.

But, even though Usurlus
wanted
to lash out at Albus, he managed not to do so and was eventually able to calm himself by retreating to the bathroom, where he spent a full hour examining his face inch by inch while delivering the carefully memorized speech for the umpteenth time.