Bones of Empire Read online

  Cato, who could “feel” Alamy’s emotions, even if he couldn’t access her thoughts, reached over to squeeze a hand. He knew she was worried, and understandably so, but he had concerns of his own. Potentially serious concerns regarding the trip from the spaceport to the government zone where Usurlus lived.

  Though not an expert where Imperialus was concerned, Cato had been stationed there twice and knew the city well enough. The streets could be dangerous, especially in slums like Port City, which was why wealthy citizens and important government officials flew from building to building in private air cars.

  But, according to Livius, a motorcade had been laid on to transport Usurlus and his party from the spaceport to his home. The idea was to give the vid nets a photo op and a reason to report on the Legate’s return, plus his success in battling corruption on Dantha, an accomplishment that Emor’s surrogates would hold up as an example of what a good job the Emperor was doing. Which was why Usurlus couldn’t refuse to ride in a motorcade even though it was going to follow a predetermined route through one of the Imperial city’s most dangerous slums.

  There would be bodyguards, of course, led by Livius, with Cato acting as second-in-command. Such was his duty. But the fact that Alamy would be traveling with the motorcade added to the sense of foreboding Cato felt and raised the stakes even higher, as the ship slowed and thunder rolled across Port City. Moments later, the ship was down, the dice had been thrown, and Cato knew that the rest would be a matter of luck.

  TWO

  The city of Imperialus, on the planet Corin

  ONCE THE FAR STAR WAS ON THE GROUND, IT TOOK more than two hours for her passengers to disembark, and that included Legate Isulu Usurlus, who traveled with twenty-seven trunks, some of which had to be packed prior to being loaded on a truck for transshipment to his high-rise home. Fortunately, the motorcade’s schedule had been set to allow for a lengthy disembarkation process, so that wasn’t a problem.

  The convoy was to include four policemen on gyro-stabilized unicycles, two armored stretch limos, plus a so-called war wagon that was supposed to bring up the rear. The vehicles and the personnel who were going to ride in them were assembled next to one of the spaceship’s enormous skids near the VIP ramp.

  The group consisted of people from three different organizations, including the city’s police force, the Imperial Security Service (ISS), and the bodyguards who were part of the Legate’s household. So the first problem was that of command, which Livius solved by declaring himself to be in charge and staring down every man who looked as though he might object.

  With that settled, and time ticking away, Livius laid out his plan. The unicycles would go first, sirens blaring, to disperse traffic. The limos would follow, roofs closed, with the war wagon bringing up the rear. Attackers, if any, would expect Usurlus to be in one of the limos, so Livius planned to put him in the last vehicle instead.

  Not counting the policemen or Cato, the chief bodyguard had fourteen people to defend the motorcade. By putting five in each car and four in the war wagon, he intended to make sure that each element of the convoy could defend itself if it were cut off from the rest.

  There was barely enough time to review radio procedures and check weapons before Usurlus plus Alamy and six personal attendants arrived on the tarmac. Ten minutes later, sirens wailing, the convoy of black vehicles left the relative security of the airport and entered the maze of streets that constituted Port City.

  Alamy was in the first limo, all the way in the back, sitting next to a couple of the Legate’s servants. They were talking about how good it was to be home again as she peered out through bulletproof glass. Alamy had been reading about Imperialus in an effort to prepare herself for life in the city and to impress Cato. So as the motorcade pushed regular traffic out of the way, she knew that Imperialus occupied roughly five hundred square miles of land and boasted a population of more than fifteen million people, which meant that affordable living space was at a premium.

  It was a problem Cato would have to confront very soon. She knew her master had been forced to borrow money in order to purchase her, and, having paid the debt prior to lifting from Dantha, was almost broke except for the money made playing cards with the Far Star’s crew. The upshot was that things would be tight.

  Was that why he hadn’t freed her? Alamy wondered. Because he wanted to save some money first? Maybe . . . But what if he was forced to sell her in order to pay his bills? That possibility filled Alamy with a sense of dread as Port City closed in around the car.

  Having placed himself in the lead limo, which could be expected to come under attack first if there was an ambush, Livius had asked Cato to ride in the heavily armored war wagon with Usurlus. Then, if the motorcade was cut in two, each segment would have an experienced leader.

  Now, as the convoy burrowed even deeper into the slum, groups of bystanders could be seen. They stood on street corners, where they cheered, waved enthusiastically, and held up freshly printed signs that had Emperor Emor’s smiling countenance on them. “All of them have been paid,” Usurlus said cynically as he stared out through a rectangular gun port. “That’s the only way someone of my rank can draw a crowd. Still, that’s good for the local economy,” he added dryly, “and it’s nice to see that the Office of Public Morale is doing its job.”

  Cato wasn’t so sure. The whole charade seemed pointless to him, but he’d never been interested in politics even though he knew such things were important.

  Meanwhile, a half dozen spherical media drones were cruising along fifteen feet above the motorcade, taking everything in. So they were in a good position to witness the full extent of the destruction as pre-positioned charges went off, and entire buildings tumbled into the street. Both were occupied, which meant that more than a hundred people were dead before the actual battle began.

  The first rocket aimed at limo one hit, the resulting explosion rocking the vehicle from side to side, but heavy armor prevented the projectile from penetrating the interior. The doors on the right side of the vehicle were bent inward and jammed, but Livius discovered that those on the left were still operable and hurried to exit. “Come on!” he ordered. “Our job is to go back and defend the war wagon.”

  Four security men followed Livius out into the roiling dust as incoming small-arms fire began to ping the limo and the doors slammed shut. Alamy had never been in such a situation before, but it was obvious that the attackers were going to inspect the vehicle as soon as they could and would probably kill everyone inside. “Quick!” Alamy said. “Lock the doors!”

  The other women were frightened but used to following orders and quick to obey. Alamy heard a series of clicks as she crawled forward, slid in behind the wheel, and discovered that the engine was still running.

  She had never driven any sort of motorized vehicle before; but she’d seen others do so and understood the controls. So Alamy locked the driver’s side door, and was about to kill the engine, when the dust began to clear, and three men appeared in front of her. They were firing assault weapons, which sparkled as they raked the windshield. The bullets couldn’t penetrate the glass but left milky white divots where they hit. Alamy feared that one or more of them would eventually punch through.

  The act of putting the limo in gear and stomping on the accelerator was more a matter of impulse than careful planning, but the results were the same. Tires screeched as the vehicle lurched forward; two of the assailants went down and were subsequently killed as the car rolled over them. Then it crashed into the pile of debris that had been dumped into the street and came to a violent stop.

  Alamy’s heart was beating like a trip-hammer as the third assassin appeared to her left and began to fire at the driver’s side window. That was when she spotted a row of buttons labeled ANTIPERSONNEL SYSTEMS and touched each one of them.

  Alamy felt a sense of satisfaction as grenades sailed up into the air and exploded. A piece of shrapnel cut the gunman down as inky black smoke poured out of two disp
ensers located under the chassis and electrical discharges crackled all around the limo. Then, with nothing else to do, Alamy felt scared.

  Livius was vaguely aware of the explosions behind him as he and four of his men sprinted back toward limo two. He was sorry that it had been necessary to leave the women on their own, but protecting Usurlus was his first priority.

  Livius had traveled only fifteen feet when he heard a loud whoosh, and a rocket hit the limo just as the second security team was getting out of it. The explosion killed three people and left another on the ground clutching his right thigh. A fifth officer was down on his knees, trying to help the casualty, when automatic-weapons fire swept the area. It was coming from both sides of the street, and even though his men were firing back, Livius knew all of them were going to die if they remained out in the open.

  “Get in the limo!” he shouted, and there was no need to repeat the order as a bullet punctured a man’s throat, and blood sprayed the road behind him. He went down clutching the wound in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding. Having spotted the action, an ITV camera drone swept in to get a close-up, took a bullet through its casing, and exploded.

  All of the survivors were inside the limo by that time, including the individual who had been wounded in the rocket attack and hit again as he was dragged to safety. The vehicle shook like a thing possessed as another rocket hit it—and bullets continued to rattle against the limo’s heavily armored skin. “Put some counterfire on those bastards!” Livius ordered. “Who’s the best shot? Give him the sniper’s rifle and open the moon roof.”

  There was a supply of both weapons and ammo under the floor, and it wasn’t long before an ISS agent named Cantos was targeting assassins in the buildings to the right. He was a true marksman, and soon thereafter the rate of incoming fire began to slack off. Livius took the opportunity to contact the war wagon. A quick glance at his watch told him that about six minutes had passed since the attack had begun. “Livius to Cato,” he said into the lip mike. “What’s your status? Over.”

  The moment the demolition charges went off, and entire buildings fell into the street, Cato realized that they were up against professionals rather than a few wild-eyed fanatics. Knowing that the assassins wanted everyone to bail out, he insisted that they remain inside the war wagon while preparing to exit should that be necessary. Which was why Usurlus was wearing body armor and, at the Legate’s insistence, was armed with a submachine gun (SMG).

  Given his day-to-day demeanor, it was easy to forget that the Legate was a general, who, given the competent manner in which he handled the SMG, hadn’t forgotten his early training. That at least was a positive as a rocket slanted down from a neighboring building, hit the roof, and exploded. The round failed to penetrate the war wagon’s armor. But the angle, plus the point of impact, combined to tip the vehicle over.

  As he was thrown down, Cato realized that the bottom of the vehicle was exposed and wondered if it was armored. Probably, given the possibility of remotely detonated bombs, but he had no way to know for sure. “Give me a status report,” Livius demanded. “Over.”

  “They blocked the road behind us,” Cato answered laconically, “and a rocket dumped the war wagon onto its side. But everybody’s okay at this point. Over.”

  Livius took note of the last part of the message and knew it was Cato’s way of saying that Usurlus was alive without revealing which vehicle the Legate had been riding in. Because even though their transmissions were scrambled, there was always the possibility that their attackers had the capacity to decrypt the radio traffic somehow. “Okay. . . . My team and I were forced to hole up in limo two. We’ll join you ASAP. The ISS is sending a quick response team, ETA five minutes. Hang in there. Over.”

  If Livius was in limo two—then what about Alamy in limo one? To say nothing of those with her. Cato wanted to know but couldn’t ask. He was about to respond to Livius when one of the team members interrupted. “They’re right outside! Trying to cut their way in!”

  Even as the man spoke, a spot on the back door began to glow orange, a fiery jet stabbed through, and the assassin began a cut that ran down toward the ground. It was scary, but the clock was ticking, and help was on the way. Cato turned toward the man behind the wheel. Though still in the driver’s seat, the man was slumped sideways because the truck was lying on its side; he was trying to release the harness that held him in place. “Fire some grenades,” Cato ordered. “That should discourage the bastards.”

  The driver flipped a switch and stabbed a button. Nothing happened. He stabbed it again. “It looks like the system was damaged. Sorry, sir.”

  Cato was just about to go back and fire through one of the gun ports when Usurlus triggered the emergency escape hatch mounted at the center of what was normally the floor. Then, having swung his feet through the opening, he was outside firing the SMG.

  Cato swore, followed the Legate out, and immediately came under fire from two assassins who materialized out of the swirling dust. The policeman was armed with a shotgun. He fired—and fired again.

  One assailant threw up his hands as a full load of double-ought buckshot snatched him off his feet. The other assassin seemed to twirl as a couple of slugs hit him in the shoulder and turned him around. A third shot finished him off.

  Turning to his left, Cato spotted Usurlus. The Legate was standing next to the war wagon, firing short, controlled bursts at a target the policeman couldn’t see, as incoming bullets spanged all around him. “Grab that crazy bastard,” Cato ordered grimly, “and get him inside.”

  All of the security men had exited the war wagon by then—and two of them took Usurlus from behind. Within a matter of seconds, he was stripped of his weapon, hustled to the open hatch, and stuffed back inside.

  Cato was about to join the Legate inside the war wagon when a thrumming sound was heard, two heavily armed ISS air cars arrived overhead, and gunfire lashed down. There weren’t all that many assassins left to shoot at, but Cato heard a whining sound and turned to see a unicycle coming straight at him. The rider was wearing civilian clothes and was clearly not a policeman, so Cato began the process of bringing the shotgun around and hoped there would be enough time.

  The man on the cycle was guiding the one-wheeled vehicle with his knees, which left both hands free to fire identical pistols. Cato heard a bullet whisper past his ear and felt another tug at his sleeve as he fired. The buckshot hit its target, blew the rider out of his seat, and dumped him onto the pavement. The unicycle flashed past, hit a pile of rubble, and did a full somersault in the air before crashing to the ground.

  Trey Omo wasn’t dead. Not yet, anyway, although he could feel his life’s blood draining out onto the pavement around him. He wasn’t especially surprised. Not after a lifetime of combat. Dying was disappointing, though, especially just one year short of the retirement he had promised himself and the peace that might have followed.

  Omo heard gravel crunch under someone’s boots, blinked to clear his eyes, and saw the man with the shotgun loom above him. So he ordered his right arm to move, was pleased when it obeyed, and the pistol came up off the ground. That was when the shotgun spoke, Cato “felt” Omo die, and the battle came to an end.

  Heart in his throat, Cato turned and hurried past the point where Livius was talking to one of the newly arrived security men. Limo one was pockmarked where hundreds of bullets had hit and covered with a thick layer of dust. Cato’s knuckles made a rapping sound as he knocked on the driver’s side door—and he could hardly believe his eyes when the window slid down. Because there, seated behind the wheel, was CeCe Alamy. Tears were rolling down her cheeks. “You’re alive.”

  “Yes,” Cato answered as he opened the door to take her into his arms. “And so are you.”

  Usurlus appeared out of the still-swirling dust as a chorus of sirens was heard, and an ITV media drone hovered above. He was unarmed but accompanied by three bodyguards. His face was drawn and serious. He nodded to Cato and Alamy as if meeting them
for the first time. “Hello,” Usurlus said vacantly as he surveyed the destruction all around him. “And welcome to my world.”

  It was dark by the time all of the wounded had been removed to hospitals, the dead taken to the district morgue, and the initial phase of the investigation completed. Legate Usurlus and his party were gone by then, leaving Cato and Alamy to find a hotel and get some sleep.

  Having rescued their trunks from limo one, Cato hired a local to transport them to an arterial about five blocks away, aboard what normally served as a vegetable cart. Then, having paid the man fifty centimes, Cato hailed a ground cab. The driver was somewhat less than pleased when he saw how much luggage he had to deal with, but he managed to cram most of it into the vehicle’s trunk while swearing under his breath. The final case went into the back with Alamy, which forced Cato to sit up front next to the driver. “Take us to the Fonta Hotel,” he instructed, hoping that the hostelry was still there.

  “Got it,” the driver said as he pulled away from the curb. Traffic was heavy, so it took the better part of twenty minutes to crawl past the brightly lit spaceport and cross the river that separated the south side of the city from the more prosperous north. District Four was generally referred to as Far Corner because it was a long commute from the city center, which was where all of the governmental and corporate office buildings were located.

  Far Corner was a lower-middle-class neighborhood, but still respectable, and the area where Cato hoped to find an apartment. Not so much for himself, because he could survive just about anywhere, but for Alamy. And that was strange because of the nature of their relationship. The truth was that, in the normal order of things, most slave owners wouldn’t care whether their property was comfortable or not. But Cato did, and that meant finding somewhere decent to live.