At Empire's Edge (7 page)

“It isn’t about the Xenos,” Nalomy responded noncommittally. “I want their prisoner. And I want him alive. That’s all you need to know.”

Iddyn already knew more than that because, under the cover of darkness, his number two son had landed on top of Station 3’s roof and peered down through a hole. This was when he saw the cage, the not-Uman inside of it, and what the creature could do. Clearly such a being could be useful if properly harnessed. Especially if the person who controlled the not-Uman wanted to kill someone. So whom did the Procurator want to eliminate? And why? There was no way to find out without revealing how much he already knew. Iddyn nodded. “You pay. We go.”

Pasayo produced three identical money belts, laid them out on a table, and ritualistically loaded each one of them with coins. Though considered archaic, not to mention annoying, on the core worlds, the metal disks remained popular on rim worlds like Dantha, where electronic commerce wasn’t fully implemented.

Then, once the Lir were ready, they left the same way they had come. Nalomy and Pasayo watched as they took off. “They won’t get far,” Nalomy predicted, as the steady beat of powerful wings was heard. “Not with all that extra weight strapped to them.”

“No,” Pasayo agreed. “I suspect they will land outside the city, bury half of it, and come back later.”

“So, can they do it?” Nalomy wanted to know. “
Can
they kill the variants and free the shape shifter?”

“It won’t be easy,” Pasayo replied gravely. “But I believe they can.”

 

 

Having arrived at the spaceport the day before, Cato was surprised to find that there wasn’t any regularly scheduled transportation into Solace. That meant he was forced to make the ten-mile trip riding in the back of a smelly farm wagon. The four-wheeled conveyance had no suspension to speak of, and the old tractor pulling it rattled noisily as it belched sooty smoke out of a four-foot-tall exhaust pipe. There wasn’t anything to sit on other than the cages occupied by raucous stee-stee birds, so Cato’s butt was sore, and he was glad to pay the boy, getting off the wagon as soon as the tractor arrived at the south end of Market Street.

It was evening by then, and all of the businesses that Cato was supposed to visit were closed, which meant the variant couldn’t accomplish much of anything until the next morning. So, being eager to find a place to stay and get something to eat, he set off to explore Solace. And with the surety of a man who had been forced to plumb the depths of many an exotic city, it wasn’t long before Cato entered The Warrens. This section of Solace was not only the oldest part of the settlement, but home to the public market, the slave pens, and the sorts of dives Cato had promised to steer clear of.

With Sivio’s admonitions still ringing in his ears, and a money belt buckled around his waist, Cato forced himself to ignore the bars that lined Market Street and zeroed in on the Spaceman’s Hotel. It was a respectable-looking establishment that was three stories tall, boasted a stone façade, and appeared to be supporting the less prosperous structures located to either side of it.

Being well aware of the hostility that was often shown to police officers, especially on rim worlds, Cato was dressed in the sort of plain everyday tunic and kilt that any male citizen might wear. Of course that meant he couldn’t
command
the hotel’s owner to provide him with a room, as was a policeman’s right, but would have to hope for a vacancy.

Cato followed a couple into what turned out to be a reasonably well furnished lobby and made his way to the front desk. The woman who stood behind the counter had short blond hair worn in a stiff flattop. Half her face was covered with tattoos so well executed that they had to be the work of a Noma II needle artisan. A spacer perhaps? Who had jumped ship in Dantha? And made a life for herself in Solace? Yes, quite possibly, not that it made any difference as the clerk produced a smile. “Good evening, Citizen. How can I help you?”

After paying for two nights in advance, Cato was shown to a room so small there was barely space for a bed. But it was clean, and located at the back of the building, where it was well insulated from the street noise out front. And that suited Cato just fine.

Having secured a place to stay, Cato went looking for something to eat. There were plenty of pubs along the city’s winding streets, and while most of them served food, Cato was careful to avoid such establishments knowing that once inside it would be tempting to have a drink. Or two . . . Or three.

That was why Cato chose to eat dinner in a small hole-in-the-wall restaurant called The Five Tables. Cato had one of the tables, and the other four were occupied by regulars, judging from their interactions with the eatery’s only waitress.

It was an excellent if somewhat lonely meal, which Cato polished off rather quickly, being hungry and having no one to talk to. Having left a generous tip, he made his way out onto the street. There weren’t very many streetlights, the number of pedestrians had decreased by at least 50 percent over the previous hour, and pockets of deep shadow occupied both sides of the street. A made-to-order environment for muggers, thieves, and rapists.

So Cato placed one hand on the pistol hidden beneath his cloak and made his way up the very center of the street. There, assailants, if any, would be forced to charge out of the shadows, providing him with an opportunity to draw his weapon and fire.

That strategy entailed a degree of risk, however, because on two different occasions it was necessary to sprint for the side of the road or risk being hit. Once by a private limo so quiet he wouldn’t have known the vehicle was coming had it not been for the car’s bright headlights, and once by a team of clattering angens pulling a wagonload of garbage. They were large animals, bred for strength, and made snorting noises as they passed.

Ten minutes later, Cato was back at the hotel, in his room, preparing for bed. It was comfortable, especially when compared to a bivouac bag on Station 3’s cold floor, and sleep came quickly.

 

 

Cato awoke early, took a shower in the shared bathroom down the hall, and was soon out on the street. Breakfast consisted of a pastry stuffed with scrambled egg, cheese, and spicy meat. It was everyday food, for everyday people, and immensely satisfying. He drank two mugs of hot caf to wash it down.

Then, having solicited directions from the street vendor, Cato was ready to begin what promised to be a long, hard day traipsing from one merchant to the next in an attempt to buy the supplies without being cheated.

A rainstorm had passed through the area during the early hours of the morning, so the streets were still damp and the air relatively clean. But it wasn’t going to remain that way for long because, as Cato made his way deeper into The Warrens, the smoke produced by thousands of charcoal braziers was already trickling up into the atmosphere to form a gray haze.

Meanwhile, down on the ground, the open drainage channels that paralleled each street were filled to overflowing with polluted water, which would start to smell when the sun rose higher in the sky.

Most of the dwellings to either side of Market Street were only one or two stories high. The more prosperous homes were made of stone, quarried in the mountains to the west, and brought down by train. Citizens with more modest incomes lived in houses made of blown concrete, some of which had been treated with pigments to produce blocky structures of various colors. Tile roofs were popular, as were sheets of scrap metal and ratty tarps. Many homes had miniature temples in front of them, where daily offerings could be made to dozens of highly specialized gods.

But
most
of the structures that people lived in were little more than hovels made from shipping containers, junked vehicles, and scraps of this and that salvaged from who knew where. All of which were inhabited by an army of filthy children, many of whom ran up to Cato and demanded money, until he left their territory and entered the
next
block, where another mob of street urchins waited to attack him.

Meanwhile, as the sun inched higher in the eastern sky, and the city’s rancid smell reasserted itself, all manner of traffic began to appear. It wasn’t long before the confusing maze of mostly unmarked streets was packed. There were angen-drawn wagons, two-wheeled carts pulled by half-naked slaves, and unicycles that whined as gyros battled to keep them upright. Caravans of work-worn androids lumbered along, each burdened by an enormous backpack. Specially trained dogs, serving as mounts for diminutive Kelfs, competed for space with the occasional palanquin, each with a screened enclosure and a mystery therein.

And, as if to celebrate the chaos in the streets, it wasn’t long before the clotheslines that crisscrossed the open areas above were thick with laundry. The clothes flapped like multicolored flags each time a breeze found its way down out of the mountains to caress Solace and ruffle the surface of the lake beyond.

The whole thing made for a scene so filled with sensory input it was a relief to spot the provisioner Cato was looking for and open the hammered-metal door, entering the relative silence beyond. That was the first stop in a long and often frustrating day spent trudging from place to place, dodging aggressive street vendors, and haggling with avaricious merchants.

Finally, as the sun fell behind the mountains, Cato came to agreement with a furniture maker named Hason Ovidius. A burly character with black, slicked-back hair, intelligent eyes, and a ready smile. “So, my friend,” Ovidius said genially. “Twelve Imperials per bed. . . . Including haulage. Are we agreed?”

The original price had been fifteen Imperials,
plus
transportation, and having spoken with the owners of two other shops earlier in the afternoon Cato knew the quote was fair. Especially given that the bed frames would be custom-made according to military specs. “Yes,” the police officer replied. “It’s a deal.”

“Good!” Ovidius said enthusiastically. “Come . . . The day is nearly over. Let’s have a drink.”

Cato’s mouth felt dry. He knew he shouldn’t have a drink, but genuinely liked Ovidius, and didn’t want to offend him.
Besides,
Cato reasoned,
one drink will be okay. It’s when I have more than one that I get into trouble.

So, having signed the necessary papers, the two men left the furniture shop, and walked two blocks to a pub called The Black Stocking. The sign that hung over the front door consisted of a piece of wood that had been carved into the shape of a nicely proportioned female leg complete with a painted stocking. It hung low enough to touch, which nearly everyone did, as they pushed the door open.

Ovidius was a regular, and was greeted with considerable warmth, as the two men were shown to a large table not far from the open fire. An amenity that wasn’t necessary yet, but soon would be, as the outside air began to cool. Appetizers in the form of hearty pot stickers arrived moments later along with the large leg-shaped steins of beer for which the establishment was famous. “A pox upon the Procurator!” Ovidius said cheerfully, thereby echoing a toast offered hundreds, if not thousands of times per day.

Though not the sort of sentiment that an Imperial law officer should endorse, Cato was in plain clothes, and saw no reason to make an issue of the matter. So their beer steins came into contact, and foam slopped onto the tabletop, as Cato let the delightfully cold liquid slide down his throat. It felt good to know that his duty was done, the worst of the mission was behind him, and he could finally relax.

And relax he did, as an hour slipped by, Ovidius went home to his wife, and the beer continued to flow. Of course Cato had
new
friends by then, all of whom seemed to be as personable as the furniture maker had been, until a man with coarse bristly hair, gimlet eyes, and a pug nose took a seat on the other side of the table. His name was Lorkin. Unlike most of those around him, Lorkin wasn’t drunk, even though the stranger had purchased four rounds by then, thereby establishing a new record for The Black Stocking. And as the regulars celebrated their good fortune, Lorkin was evaluating what might be an opportunity to enrich himself. How deep were the stranger’s pockets anyway? Was he nearly tapped out? Or did the man have a fat money belt hidden under his tunic? If so, that would account for his ability to buy four rounds of beer for two dozen people.

It was Lorkin’s desire to find out, and never having been one to carry out his own dirty work if that could be avoided, the con man, gambler, and part-time thief waited for an opening and dropped a word bomb into the midst of the often chaotic conversation. “So,” the con man said calmly. “Why would a stranger buy drinks for everyone—unless he’s one of the Procurator’s spies? Trolling for names he can sell to the militia?”

There were such people; all of the tavern’s customers knew that, so a sudden silence fell on the formerly happy crowd as Cato’s alcohol-befuddled brain struggled to come up with an appropriate response. “I’m not a spy,” Cato said stupidly. “I’m here to buy supplies. For the Xeno Corps.”

There was a unanimous growl of anger as the people seated around the table heard what they interpreted as an admission of guilt to an offense that was even
more
egregious than spying for Nalomy. Because if the Procurator was bad, the government responsible for putting the rotten bitch in office was even worse, and that included members of the Xeno Corps.

Lorkin waited for someone else to land the first blow and, as Cato rose to defend himself, plunged into the fray. That meant taking a blow to the face, but the con man had his arms around Cato by then, and could feel the money belt as bony fists struck from every direction. The spring-loaded hook blade produced a gentle
click
as it shot forward into the palm of Lorkin’s hand. With the weapon in position it was a simple matter to slice through clothing and leather alike. One of Cato’s pouches was cut in two, which sent four Imperials clattering to the floor. That triggered a mad scramble as practically everyone fought to recover them.