At Empire's Edge (6 page)

“Point taken,” Sivio said thoughtfully. “And I’m glad you spoke up. That’s the kind of thing I wish you did more often. But I think the solar panels are a priority. Especially if you’re correct! I’d sleep better at night if we could place a few spotlights around the perimeter. But the day after tomorrow, or maybe the day after that, we’ll get to work on that outer wall. How does that sound?”

Cato was disappointed, and Sivio could “feel” it, as his subordinate came to attention. “Sir, thank you, sir.”

Sivio nodded. “Anytime, Section Leader. Go get some lunch.”

Cato did a smart about-face, and marched away as Sivio dunked the piece of fruit into a mug filled with water, and distant eyes continued to watch the fortress.

 

 

The second day at Station 3 was as long and hard as the first—but once some technical glitches were solved, the solar panels came online. That was good, but not as good as it might have been, since it was going to take two additional batteries in order to take full advantage of the power the solar arrays were able to produce. And the law officers needed more construction materials, food, and personal items. That was why Sivio went looking for Cato.

What the Centurion found were
two
Catos, one of whom was standing inside of Fiss Verafti’s cage, while the other sat at a makeshift table fifteen feet away. The second Cato was seated in front of a disassembled service pistol, the pieces of which were laid out in orderly rows, waiting to be cleaned. The desert environment was hard on weapons because the sand seemed to find its way into every nook and cranny. Cato was scrubbing the trigger assembly with an oily toothbrush as Sivio entered, and Verafti shouted, “Atten-hut!” Only in Kelkaw’s voice.

The light produced by a newly installed glow rod threw harsh shadows down onto the stone floor as both Catos came to attention. Sivio said, “At ease,” as Verafti morphed into a likeness of him. “I’ve got a job for you,” the Centurion said, sitting down on the opposite side of the table from Cato. “One I think you’re going to like.”

Cato’s eyebrows rose incrementally. “You want someone to shoot the prisoner, sir? If so, then I’m your man.”

Sivio grinned sympathetically. “No, the assignment isn’t
that
pleasurable I’m afraid. We need supplies, a lot of them, and I’m sending you into Solace to buy them. A transport will arrive here in about forty-five minutes to pick you up.”

Cato was surprised, and Sivio could not only see it on his face but “feel” it as well. Sivio nodded understandingly. “Yeah, I chose
you
. Partly because of the way you handled yourself when we took the Vord ship, but also because of the way you’ve done your job since, which if not perfect is still a lot better than before. This isn’t to say that I don’t have some concerns,” he added ominously. “Especially when it comes to booze. But, if you can go into town, buy what we need, and return sober, I’ll leave your stripes where they are. But if you fail me,” Sivio said in a voice so low only Cato could hear, “I’ll bust you to patrolman and put you on the shit list until the day you retire. Do you read me?”

Cato felt a profound sense of gratitude, because even though he liked to pretend that his stripes were unimportant to him, the truth was they were all he had to show for his years in the Corps. But going to Solace would be tough. . . . There would be plenty of temptations, and Cato wasn’t sure he could ignore them. He wasn’t about to admit that, however, so he said, “Yes, sir. I read you loud and clear.”

Verafti, who had witnessed the entire interchange, laughed uproariously. “You’ll be sorry!” he predicted. “Cato is more like
me
than you!”

There was a series of lightning-fast
click
s as the pieces of the pistol flew together as if by magic, and the weapon swung around until the ruby red targeting laser was centered on Verafti’s narrow chest. The Sagathi flinched as the hammer fell on an empty chamber. Then it was Cato’s turn to laugh, and Sivio thought about what the shape shifter had said, wondering if the alien was correct.

The transport put down forty-five minutes later, and Cato, with a heavily laden money belt secured under his tunic, went out to meet it. There were all of the predictable insults, catcalls, and requests for things the other law officers weren’t going to get as the Section Leader paused to wave before proceeding up the ramp.

A cloud of sand and dust rose to obscure the transport as its repellers jabbed at the ground and pushed the aircraft up into the air. Then, once it had sufficient altitude, the transport pivoted toward the east and took off.

Sivio stood and watched until the aircraft was little more than a dot before he turned and walked away. It was hot, and what looked like a lake shimmered in the distance. But that, like so many things on Dantha, was a lie.

THE DAZZLINGLY WHITE PALACE HAD BEEN BUILT ON A
rise where those who occupied it could look out over the city of Solace and the azure waters of Lake Imperium to the east. The fifty-six-room structure truly was fit for a king or an emperor because it, like all of the Imperial residences scattered around the Empire, was based on a common template established 252 years earlier during the reign of Emperor Deronious. A systematic sort of man, he wanted to make sure that both he and his extensive entourage would be comfortable regardless of where duty took him. This was a plan that Uma Nalomy benefited from since she, like Procurators on all the Imperial planets, was entitled to live in the sprawling complex so long as Emperor Emor wasn’t there on a visit. That possibility was so remote as to be laughable.

At the moment, Nalomy was floating in the small swimming pool that was part of the Imperial suite. Bells tinkled merrily as Majordomo Imood Hingo entered the huge room. He was tall, well built, and dressed in the male version of the uniform that Nalomy required all members of her household staff to wear regardless of rank. The outfit consisted of a short, waist-length blue jacket left open in the front, a white sash through which the baton that symbolized his office was thrust, and a carefully pleated white kilt that fell to midthigh. A pair of open-toed, lace-up boots completed the outfit. Hingo’s shaved head gleamed with reflected light, his prominent cheekbones gave his face a skeletal appearance, and his lips made a hard, thin line. “Yes?” Nalomy demanded, as her servant came to a stop at the other end of the pool. “What do you want?”

Nalomy was twenty-six years old, pretty in a hard sort of way, and quite shapely, a fact that she liked to emphasize by wearing skimpy outfits, and when the mood struck her, nothing at all. As was the case in the pool. And rather than conceal her body, as some women would have, the Procurator chose to leave her charms on display, a strategy intended to torment Hingo, who could look but wasn’t allowed to touch.

For his part Hingo knew what his mistress was up to, but he was powerless to stop her, or keep his eyes off Nalomy’s partially submerged breasts. “The meeting will be held fifteen minutes from now, Your Highness. The guards have been warned, the East Room is ready, and the refreshments are on the way.” Hingo knew that a Procurator wasn’t entitled to be called “Highness,” but Nalomy insisted on the honorific, and, with no one of higher rank around to object, Nalomy’s staff was forced to obey.

Nalomy stood. Water cascaded off her slender body as she turned to climb a couple of steps before entering the warm embrace of the towel that one of her nearly identical maids was holding. That gave Hingo an opportunity to enjoy Nalomy’s narrow waist, flared hips, and nicely tapered legs. But the interlude was all too brief, as Nalomy’s pet Fulu dog yapped for attention, and she turned to confront him. “Thank you, Hingo. . . . That will be all.”

The Majordomo bowed, took three steps back, and turned to go. He couldn’t have Nalomy, but there were plenty of slave girls in the palace, and one of them was going to have a very active evening.

 

 

The East Room was a large space intended for private parties and receptions. Windows, plus big double doors, looked out onto a sprawling terrace, and the dark waters of the lake beyond. All of them had been left open to let the warm evening air in—and for the convenience of Nalomy’s guests.

It was nighttime, so the guards stationed on the terrace couldn’t see the Lir bandits as they came in for a landing, but they could hear the gentle
whuf
,
whuf
,
whuf
of leathery wings and a few words of a language that no Uman would ever be able to speak. Then the first birdlike sentient was down, his head jerking from side to side as he looked for potential threats. Centurion Rax Pasayo was there to greet the Lir by name and escort him in through the double doors. He was a small but fastidious man whose skin was tanned and wrinkled from years spent patrolling the desert wastes. “This is Hybor Iddyn, Highness,” Pasayo announced, as Nalomy waited to receive her visitor.

Iddyn was about five feet tall and extremely slender, a trait that was emphasized by the long, narrow wings folded along his back. Strong muscles were required to lift a seventy-pound body off the ground, and the source of that power was evident in a wedge-shaped torso and strong legs. A white crest began just above the Lir’s hooklike beak and ran back along the top surface of his rounded skull to the point where it merged with the feathery collar that surrounded his neck.

Iddyn’s yellow eyes were huge, being at least twice the size of a Uman’s, and were packed with three times as many cones. That meant his vision was greatly superior to Nalomy’s as their eyes made contact. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Nalomy said sincerely, as she stepped forward to greet her visitor. The young woman was dressed by that time, and rather conservatively, too, both because the Lir were prudes and Nalomy knew her body held no interest for Iddyn. No, Iddyn was after better weapons, or the money required to buy them. Never mind the fact that he would happily use the guns on Nalomy’s citizens if given the chance. That was the price the people of Dantha would have to pay.

“Good meet you,” Iddyn said solemnly, as he unfurled both wings and brought them forward to touch the floor.

The gesture was the equivalent of an extravagant bow, which pleased Nalomy, who smiled engagingly. “Welcome to my home.”

Two additional Lir had entered the East Room by that time—and Pasayo hurried to introduce both. “This is Pak Nassali, Highness, and Etir Lood. Both of them are accomplished warriors.”

Nalomy could well believe that, given the way they looked. Both Lir wore leather harnesses, to which a variety of weapons were attached. Energy pistols for the most part, because of how light they were, and razor-sharp ceramic knives. But could they take on and defeat a detachment of Xeno Corps variants? That remained to be seen. “Welcome,” Nalomy said politely, as more yellow eyes darted around the room. “I know you flew a long way to get here. You must be hungry. Please help yourselves to some refreshments.”

A buffet table had been set up along one wall, and it was loaded with delicacies, including big half-pound rock bugs, which continued to squirm in spite of the skewers that held their segmented bodies in place, mounds of lightly toasted Nenor seeds, and a Vevor carcass that had been left to bake in the sun for three days before being stuffed with sweet Susu berries and served at room temperature.

The banquet was disgusting by most people’s standards, but Nalomy wasn’t most people, and she watched in fascination as the ravenous Lir ripped chunks of half-rotted meat off the dead Vevor, swallowing the gobbets whole. And, much to Centurion Pasayo’s amazement, the Procurator even went so far as to sample the Susu-berry stuffing, which she pronounced to be quite delicious.

Eventually, having eaten their fill, the bandits were invited to sit on tall stools that allowed their wings to extend down behind them. Rather than use a Uman chair, Nalomy chose to perch on a Lir-style stool, thereby further ingratiating herself with Iddyn who, having a generally low opinion of Umans, found this one to his liking. “Thank you,” he said sincerely. “Food good.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” the Procurator said graciously, as she popped a final Susu berry into her mouth. “Now, if you have no objections, let’s get down to business. An Imperial prison ship was forced to land on Dantha earlier this week, and because repairs are going to take a while, I gave permission for the Xeno Corps officers to move their prisoner to Station 3 in the Plain of Pain. Where, if what Centurion Pasayo tells me is correct, you have them under observation.”

“That right,” Iddyn said feelingly. “Hate Xeno freaks.”

That was true, and Nalomy knew why. Unlike the specimens seated in front of her, most Lir were not only loyal Citizens of the Empire, but highly respected residents of a variety of planets. But Iddyn and his “flock” were descendants of Nest Cult fanatics, who had been tried by Imperial courts more than two hundred years previously and sent to Dantha as punishment for a long list of violent crimes. That bit of history explained both their hatred of the Empire,
and
of the Xeno Corps, which they saw as the modern-day equivalent of the sadistic prison guards who had been in charge of their ancestors. The Procurator planned to use that fact to her advantage. “Of course you do,” Nalomy said sympathetically. “So, how would you like to attack them without fear of a reprisal from Centurion Pasayo’s troops? And get paid five thousand Imperials for doing so?”

“
Ten
thousand,” Iddyn said thickly. “We kill them good!”

Nalomy would have been willing to pay twice that amount but did her best to hide that fact. “Okay,” she said reluctantly, “ten thousand it is, but only if you do exactly what you’re told. . . . Centurion Pasayo will give you half the money up front—and half when the mission is completed.”

That was a problem for Iddyn, since he wasn’t sure he could fly five thousand Imperials back to High Hold Meor, even if they were divided three ways. He wasn’t about to say that, however, so it was a good time to change the subject. “Why?” Iddyn demanded. “Why you want Xenos dead?”