At Empire's Edge (39 page)

But before the pilot could obey, all four of the guns opened fire, and the ship’s computer spoke over the intercom. “The ship is taking ground fire, a surface-to-air missile has been launched, and electronic countermeasures have been activated.”

The pilot jinked right, left, and right again as half a dozen flares shot away from the assault boat. Cato felt his stomach muscles tighten then relax when the missile went for one of the flares and exploded. “Okay,” he said grimly, “Citizen Hingo wants to play. . . . Take out the machine guns and put a missile into the house.”

The pilot grinned wolfishly as he put the assault boat into a tight turn. “Roger that, sir. Your wish is my command.”

It took less than five minutes to destroy the machine guns with the assault boat’s twin energy cannons—and fire a high-explosive missile at the house. The result was a very satisfying explosion. The house was extremely well built, however—so most of it still stood. “I can take the whole place down if you want me to,” the pilot offered eagerly, as the boat circled the compound.

“That won’t be necessary,” Cato replied dryly. “Put this thing down. I want to have a chat with Citizen Hingo. Not just look at his body.”

The assault boat’s skids touched down two minutes later, the rear ramp made a loud clanging sound as it hit pavement, and Jaith led twelve militiamen out onto the hilltop with their weapons at the ready. Cato had been impressed by Jaith’s competency during the search for Verafti, and, after buying Livius six beers, finally convinced the reluctant chief bodyguard to release the Assistant Section Leader to the newly formed Civilian Constabulary. And now, having been promoted to Section Leader, Jaith was in charge of the assault team.

Mercenaries fired automatic weapons, and the militiamen fired back by sending smoke grenades and tear-gas canisters in through the narrow window slits. That brought most of the defenders out into the open. Some continued to fire and were immediately cut down while most hurried to surrender. Having put them under guard, Jaith ordered a demolitions expert to blow the front door. The charge generated a resonant
boom
, the barrier sagged on its hinges, and Cato followed Jaith inside.

Smoke swirled as they made their way through a large foyer and into a beautifully furnished living room, where Hingo sat waiting for him. A huge thronelike chair provided a frame for his body, his white tunic and trousers were immaculate, and his feet were bare. The impression was that of someone who was about to receive guests. “Cato. . . . I should have known,” Hingo said contemptuously. “Don’t tell me—let me guess. . . . You’re here to collect Alamy.”

“I’m here to collect Alamy
and
eleven other slaves that you stole as you left the palace,” Cato replied.

“They hadn’t been registered as belonging to Nalomy yet, so I didn’t steal them, not that it matters,” Hingo replied dismissively.

“You can discuss that with the Imperial Prosecutor,” Cato said unsympathetically. “Along with your decision to open fire on an Imperial police officer and the military team assigned to assist him. My job is to recover the slaves. . . . Where are they?”

“Don’t play high-and-mighty with me,” Hingo responded contemptuously. “I know what you
really
want—and I’ve already been there! And legally too, because Alamy is a slave, and it’s impossible to rape a slave.”

Cato battled to control his steadily growing rage. “Where are they?” he grated.

“I have no idea,” Hingo replied serenely. “Conditions being what they were, I was in something of a hurry, so I sold the entire group to Citizen Mortha in Solace, and I suspect he will resell them to the highest bidder. Think about it, Cato! One of Mortha’s slave handlers could be humping your precious Alamy right now!”

It was a stupid thing to say given the circumstances, but such was Hingo’s resentment regarding the possibility that he would lose everything he’d worked so hard to build, that he chose to lash out. Cato’s handgun was already out of its holster, and hanging at his side so all he had to do was bring up the weapon and fire. Three shots rang out, three bullets passed within a fraction of an inch of Hingo’s smoothly shaved skull, and three holes appeared in the wood next to his left ear.

It took Hingo a moment to figure out that he was still alive. Then the militiamen began to laugh, and as Hingo looked down, he saw the yellow stain on the front of his white trousers. “Put leg shackles on him,” Cato said grimly, as the weapon went into its holster. “And chain the bastard to the flight deck. He’s going on trial.”

Raindrops rattled on the sheet-metal roof, and water ran off the lower edges to splash into puddles all around. The hodgepodge of slave pens were exactly as Alamy remembered them, but she had changed. She was older for one thing.
Much
older in terms of her understanding of both the world and the cruelty of which people were capable. All she had left was an existence of sorts, which could get worse, but wasn’t likely to get better. Because as Citizen Mortha sold her for the second time, it could be to someone even more abusive than Hingo had been. That possibility lay like a lump of lead in the pit of her stomach.

Alamy’s thoughts were interrupted as metal rattled on metal and the door to her pen squeaked open. “All right, sweet buns,” the slave handler said wearily, “come on out. And don’t give me no trouble. I ain’t in the mood.”

Alamy recognized the guard as the man that she and Persus called Skanker, but if he recognized her, there was no sign of it on his face. Alamy stood. Bruises covered her body from the beating Hingo had administered, so everything hurt. The rape had been a perfunctory affair, as if Hingo had been going through the motions, rather than savoring it. She was strangely grateful for that.

The tunic Alamy wore was damp, ripped in places, and smeared with dirt. It fell to midthigh and her feet were bare. She stepped out of the doorway, fell in behind five other women, and followed them through a maze of passageways to the switchbacking ramps that led up to the platform above. The slaves knew each other from the palace, but none were in the mood to talk, and kept whatever thoughts they had to themselves as they shuffled along.

The group paused in the holding area that was located immediately behind the mural, which served as a backdrop for the stage as well. Alamy could hear Mortha’s voice coming from the area beyond but couldn’t make out individual words as the slave master addressed the crowd. Her hair hung in strands around her face, her wet tunic clung to the lines of her body, and it was necessary to hug herself to keep from shivering. None of this was likely to help Mortha fetch the highest possible price, but the slave dealer was clearly intent on selling off Nalomy’s slaves, before Usurlus could learn about it.

The change in government reminded Alamy of Cato and the moment when they had been separated. Was he still alive? And, if so, did he ever think of her? There had been something special about the kiss, for her at least, but Alamy knew it would be silly to assume that Cato felt the same way. He was an Imperial police officer, and she was a slave, so a romantic relationship was impossible. Especially now, as the people in front of Alamy began to shuffle forward, and she followed them around the corner and out onto the rain-slicked platform.

“And here they are!” Mortha announced enthusiastically, from under the protection of a well-rigged plastic tarp. The crowd was about half the size of the one Alamy had been forced to confront a couple of months before, and the applause was tepid, as if the people who were standing in the plaza weren’t all that happy to be there.

“Look at them!” Mortha said admiringly, as he gestured to the slaves. “Fine young women who can cook your food, clean your home, and provide a host of other important services if you know what I mean.”

The crowd knew what Mortha meant—and applauded more loudly this time. As Alamy scanned their faces, she remembered what the eternally optimistic Persus had told her. “Send yourself somewhere else. Go to a pretty place. . . . And stay there until it’s over.”

It was good advice, but Alamy knew that wasn’t going to work for her, as Mortha ordered the group to remove their clothes, and a reedy cheer went up from some of the men in the crowd. Alamy was the first one up this time and could feel hungry eyes boring into her flesh. Though she was still embarrassed, she knew it was pointless to resist, and pulled the tunic up over her head and let it drop. Then, having removed her panties, she stared straight ahead. Not down at her feet, as she had before, but over the crowd instead.

There were at least a dozen bids to begin with, but it wasn’t long before the price began to rise, and potential buyers began to drop out. Eventually there were only
two
bidders. The first was a steely-eyed young woman who was accompanied by two robed bodyguards. One of whom held a black umbrella over his employer’s well-coiffed head while the other stood with arms crossed.

The other bidder was a potbellied man with a coarse-looking female on one side of him and an enormous Crusher on the other. Given the whip thrust through the Crusher’s belt, he was clearly the couple’s slave master. Neither party looked all that inviting, but Alamy felt a definite preference for the younger woman, mainly because the Crusher looked so scary.

Finally, after the dreary back-and-forth battle came to its conclusion, Alamy was relieved to see the steely-eyed woman emerge victorious and hoped that her new owner was nicer than she looked. The final price was twelve hundred Imperials, which was considerably less than Hingo had paid on Nalomy’s behalf, and probably had something to do with both Alamy’s disheveled appearance and the rainy weather.

The next half hour was one of the worst that Alamy had ever endured. She didn’t know what to feel. Relief? Because the process was over? Dread? Because there was no way to know what lay ahead? Happiness? Because almost anything would be better than the horrors of the palace? There was no way to know.

So when her name was called, and Alamy was escorted up to the plaza, all sorts of emotions came and went. Most of the crowd had disappeared by then, the rain continued to fall, and she could see her new owner standing under the protection of the black umbrella. But rather than coming forward the way Alamy had assumed that she would, the woman remained where she was, thereby allowing the second man to handle the chore for her. He was wearing a robe, so it wasn’t until Cato threw the hood back that she saw his face. Her heart seemed to jump out of her chest, and tears began to stream down her cheeks, as Alamy stared at him in disbelief. “Master? Is it truly
you
?”

“Yes,” Cato said kindly, as he swept Alamy into his arms. “It’s me. But how many times do I have to tell you? My name is Jak! I’m sorry CeCe,
very
sorry, but I came as quickly as I could.”

Alamy looked up into Cato’s face. Raindrops hit her eyes and she blinked them away. It was like a wonderful dream from which she never wanted to awake. “So I belong to you? You bought me?”

“Yes,” Cato said gently, just before his lips met hers. “You belong to me.”

Lucia Ovidius and Binn Jaith watched approvingly, and thunder rolled across the city as a ship fought its way up off the spaceport’s blast-scarred duracrete. Moments later, the freighter was lost in the clouds as it battled gravity and struggled to escape Dantha’s grip.

Safe within one of the freighter’s tiny cabins, a merchant named Oxo Trevio lay back on the acceleration couch in his stateroom and wondered when the stump would stop aching. It was healing well, as he had known that it would, but the constant pain was annoying. Not that the missing hand mattered so long as he chose to look like a human. But what would Affa Denemi think when he found her? Would she still find him attractive? There was only one way to find out.

The pressure eased as the ship battled its way free of Dantha’s gravitational pull, and, having eaten a
huge
meal just prior to liftoff, Fiss Verafti soon fell asleep.