Thick columns had been installed to support the weight of the city above, and judging from the cracks that were visible some were in need of maintenance. Still another problem that I’ll have to be deal with, Usurlus thought to himself, as he eyed the storefronts around the lake. Their empty windows stared toward the artificial island at the center of the water as if waiting for something to happen. Twin bridges linked the island with the walkways to either side. They were supported by a series of graceful arches and hung with fanciful sculptures.

  The group paused to look out over the lake. “That’s where we’re going,” Lucia said, as she pointed at the island and the domed pavilion that sat atop it. “As you can see, all of this was at ground level back when Dantha was first settled. But, due to the scarcity of land between the mountains and Lake Imperium, Procurator Decius built a lid over this lake about 150 years ago. It was maintained as an underground shopping area for a while but, without the necessary maintenance, eventually became a center for crime and was sealed off from the streets above. Come on. The resistance leaders are waiting.”

  It was a short walk to the point where they could cross what Usurlus judged to be the southern bridge. From there they followed Lucia out onto the island, where five men and a woman were waiting to greet him. They looked uncertain at first, but that changed when Usurlus revealed his true face, and stuck the wad of pseudoflesh into one of his pockets. None of the resistance leaders had ever met a Procurator, much less a Legate, and hurried to execute awkward bows and one of the worst curtsies Usurlus had ever witnessed. But he was careful to keep a straight face as he acknowledged the honors, memorized each person’s name, and turned on every bit of charm he had. Because if he was to carry out his mission successfully, and survive, it would take every bit of help they could give him.

  In the meantime, Livius posted guards halfway along both of the bridges, ordered two of his men to patrol the perimeter of the island, paying special attention to what was going on in the water, and fervently wished that Vedius Albus was present to advise him. Because at the moment his charge was trapped on an island, with 360 degrees of exposure to worry about, and two very fragile lines of retreat! It was hard to imagine a worse situation—and Livius had no desire to do so.

  The next hour was spent going over the many grievances the opposition leaders had, plans for a demonstration of how strong the resistance was, and the need to show a unified front on Founder’s Day. For even though the various groups represented at the meeting were united in their hatred of Nalomy, plenty of issues divided them, and Usurlus had to make a number of extravagant promises to secure their support. And that was what he was doing when the militia arrived, a shot rang out, and the high-velocity slug blew the top of a resistance fighter’s head off, thereby spraying Lucia with warm blood. The meeting was over.

  Luck always plays an important role in any military endeavor, and Pasayo had been lucky. Having lost contact with the tiny reflector attached to the tunic that Usurlus was wearing, the Centurion ordered the air car’s pilot to crisscross the city, in hopes of pinging the Legate again. The effort had been fruitless at first, but then, just as the officer was beginning to wonder if he should give up, the technician riding in the back of the air car issued a whoop of joy. “I have him, sir! He’s right below us. The signal is intermittent but static.”

  Was Usurlus on the street? Or deeper underground? Pasayo had a hunch that it was the latter, and having made use of a handheld comp to access files stored in the palace, he knew he was right. Because the buildings directly below him were resting on a duracrete lid, a barrier thick enough to interfere with electronic signals. And below the lid was the cavernous space that he and his men had to clean out every few months lest criminals filter in to occupy it. The perfect place for a clandestine meeting.

  The rest was a matter of good communications, speedy reaction times, and relentless efficiency—all things that Pasayo was good at. The result was that he and a team of specially trained commandos were able to find a convenient route down and into the underground world quite quickly. Lookouts and sentries were positioned to stop an incursion, but Pasayo and his team took them out with silent efficiency, and arrived on the west side of the lake only forty minutes after the operation had been launched.

  Then, having called upon his snipers to “Kill everyone except Legate Usurlus,” it was time to sit back and watch the show. The marksmen were in position and had permission to fire. There was a loud crack, followed by an echo, and the tinkle of an empty casing landing on duracrete. The first shot produced a clean kill. A good omen on any kind of hunt. It was exhilarating to be back in action.

  Having been shot at before, Usurlus hit the floor within seconds of the first shot, and was immediately pinned in place by Livius. “Sorry, sire,” the ex-legionnaire said apologetically, as he placed a bony knee on the Legate’s left shoulder. “But we can’t have you up and running around just yet!”

  Then, to everyone else, the Section Leader yelled, “Keep your heads down! Bridge guards pull back!” And, having turned toward Quatri: “Assemble the rifle. I want some outgoing fire on those bastards!”

  Usurlus had managed to roll out from under the knee by that time and held up a hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll stay down. Rifle? What rifle?”

  Meanwhile there was a steady crack, crack, crack as at least two high-powered rifles blew divots out of the dome, the arches that supported it, and the rails on both bridges. Livius grinned wolfishly. “We couldn’t carry a lot of heavy weapons without giving ourselves away—but we had one rifle in our pockets!”

  While Livius and his men were armed with pistols, two each in some cases, Usurlus knew their handguns had been hidden. But now, in response to the order from Livius, his subordinates were pulling out all manner of parts from their pockets and passing them to Quatri, who was in charge of putting them together. Usurlus noticed that the rifle’s long black barrel, possibly the most difficult component to conceal, had been hidden within a hollowed-out walking stick.

  There was a series of clicks as the pieces went together, followed by a distinctive clacking as Quatri pushed the first cartridge into the breech, at which point he was ready to fire. It took the better part of a minute to elbow his way forward, push the weapon’s barrel out between a couple of balustrades, and make some final adjustments. At that point Quatri peered into the telescopic sight, took a deep breath, and let it out. The trigger gave slightly, the firing pin snapped forward, and there was a loud bang as the rifle fired.

  The sniper to Pasayo’s left had just cranked another round into the chamber of his weapon, and was about to fire again, when his head jerked backward. A fraction of a second later a mixture of blood and brains sprayed the wall behind him. He slumped sideways as the rifle clattered to the pavement.

  Pasayo swore as the body half fell on him and he worked to push it away. The bastards weren’t supposed to have any long guns god damn it! So where had the weapon come from? One of the resistance leaders most likely. . . . Not that it mattered, as the teams who were supposed to force their way across the bridges yelled bravely and ran into a hail of bullets. Small stuff mostly, fired by the pistols that Usurlus’s bodyguards were carrying, but interspersed with the occasional rifle round, each of which flew true.

  But even as two of his men were plucked off their feet, Pasayo was confident that his forces would win in the long run, because the resistance leaders were trapped, and they were outnumbered. Would he be able to protect Usurlus the way Nalomy wanted him to? Maybe, but if Usurlus went down, Pasayo would blame the Legate’s death on the fog of war. And while disappointed, Nalomy would find a way to deal with it, because dead is dead. And ultimately that was the fate she had in mind for Usurlus. So Pasayo fumbled for the rifle that lay to his left, brought the weapon up, and began looking for someone to kill.

  While both sides continued to exchange fire, Livius was holding an impromptu strategy session on the floor of the domed pavilion. “It’s the only way,” Livius insisted, as he examined each face. “And we need to do it now, before those bastards can bring reinforcements to bear, and really pound the hell out of us.”

  “Okay,” Usurlus agreed reluctantly. “You’re the expert. I’m game. How ’bout everyone else?”

  Lucia and the other resistance leaders knew without being told that their lookouts and sentries were dead. That left them with no protection other than what Usurlus and his bodyguards could provide. So there was very little choice. One by one they nodded.

  “All right,” Livius said approvingly. “Slip into the lake one at a time. Stay underwater as long as you can and be sure to put the island between you and the people who are shooting at us. Then, once you go over the falls, let the current carry you out of sight. At that point it will be safe to climb out, make your way back to the surface, and regroup at a later date. Understood?”

  All of them nodded. Livius told Usurlus to go first, and Usurlus wanted to go first but knew a political opportunity when he saw one. “Absolutely not,” the Legate replied sternly. “Citizen Ovidius, let’s start with you, followed by Citizen Rustus, and the rest of our brave resistance leaders. We must get them to safety for the sake of those who are oppressed.”

  Livius thought that the last sentence was especially nauseating, but knew what Usurlus was trying to accomplish, and gave the official credit for having a large set of balls. “You heard Legate Usurlus,” Livius said urgently. “You first, Citizen Ovidius. . . . Let’s get going.”

  There was a hole in the east side of the railing, where three balustrades had been kicked out by vandals many years before, and Lucia scuttled over to it. Her toga wasn’t appropriate for swimming, so the others caught a glimpse of smooth mocha-colored flesh as the blood-splattered cloth fell away, and Lucia slid feet first into the water below. She was a good swimmer, and the better part of two minutes elapsed before she was forced to come up for air, prior to diving under the surface again. But she was a good fifty feet away from the island by that time—and hidden by the darkness that the shafts of light couldn’t entirely dispel.

  Meanwhile, the other female resistance leader had removed her toga, and was just about to follow Lucia into the lake, when she inadvertently raised her head too far. That was the sort of error that Pasayo had been hoping for. His right index finger tightened on the trigger, the rifle nudged his shoulder, and the bullet produced a loud cracking sound as it broke the sound barrier. It was a tiny bit high. Too high for a solid kill, but it did plow a furrow through the top of Citizen Hatha’s skull and the shock of it triggered a heart attack. She collapsed as if poleaxed from above.

  But the rest of the resistance fighters made it, followed by Usurlus, and two bodyguards. Both of them had orders to stick with him, or face Livius in the kickboxing ring, a fate they wanted to avoid.

  After the people he regarded as civilians had been given a head start, it was time for Livius and his remaining men to withdraw, a process that began with throwing the rifle into the lake. They went one by one, while Livius fired two handguns for effect, dashing from one side of the pavilion to the other in order to keep the attackers at bay.

  Usurlus liked to immerse himself in water, but only when it was hot, which the snow-fed lake wasn’t, and clear, which wasn’t the case either. So he was far from pleased as a steady current bore him along toward the roaring falls while bullets threw up geysers of water all around. Making matters worse were the two bodyguards who kept yelling for him to “dive,” something Usurlus steadfastly declined to do, since his ability to swim was limited to a rough-and-ready crawl, sufficient for dips in a pool but not for feats of underwater athleticism. Especially in cold, filthy water.

  Fortunately, all three men managed to reach the falls unscathed at a point where the greenish water rushed between large piles of debris built up over the years. The current carried the swimmers along, and Usurlus was airborne for one brief moment before splashing into the river below, where he sank until his feet touched bottom. He took the opportunity to push off, and shortly after his head broke the surface, was swimming again. “Keep your feet downstream, sire!” one of the bodyguards instructed from a few yards away. “In case you run into an obstruction!”

  It was good advice, so Usurlus fought to bring his feet around, and eventually managed to do so. He was floating on his back by that time, staring upward while dimly lit drain holes flashed past, and an elevated walkway appeared off to his right. “That’s where we need to go, sire,” the second bodyguard shouted, battling to stay abreast of his charge. “Move right!”

  It was easier said than done, but bit by bit Usurlus was able to steer himself toward the right side of the channel, even as the bottom came up to make the task a little bit easier. Then, as he neared the edge, a resistance leader was there to grab his right wrist, and haul him in. The bodyguards were carried downstream for ten more yards before they, too, were able to escape the underground river.

  Less than two minutes later, Livius and the other members of the rear guard arrived and were quickly plucked from the water. Lucia, who stood half-naked with her arms wrapped around her chest, was happy to accept a tunic from one of the men. Then, still shivering from the cold, she hurried to wring the top out and pull it on.

  “It’s time to get out of here,” one of the surviving resistance leaders said, once the last bodyguard was standing on the walkway. “But believe me, Excellency, we won’t forget the risk you took in coming here, or your bravery! What you plan to do won’t be easy. But you will have friends in the coliseum on Founder’s Day.”

  There were murmurs of agreement all around. That was good, but as the two men embraced, Usurlus couldn’t help but wonder how many friends he would have on that fateful day. And whether they would be enough.

  TWELVE

  The city of Solace, on the planet Dantha

  FOR REASONS THAT HADN’T BEEN SHARED WITH FILE Leader Korem, a man in a Navy uniform had been confined in Storage Room 3B13 since the night before. If that was strange, so were the orders that governed the way Korem and his subordinates were supposed to interact with the prisoner at mealtimes. But, having served in the militia for more than ten years, Korem had an appreciation for written protocols; he knew it was almost impossible to go wrong so long as a person followed them.

  The first step in the process required Korem to assemble a two-man team. Both individuals were to be unarmed, but equipped with com sets that would enable them to communicate with both Korem, and the heavily armed team stationed immediately outside the room. Once everything was ready, the soldiers were to enter the storage room, being careful to keep each other under observation at all times, and if they noticed anything unusual, to report it immediately. Then, having served Procurator Nalomy’s “guest,” they were to withdraw. Once they were outside, it would be Korem’s job to scan the troopers’ tamperproof ID bracelets to ensure that they were the same people who had gone in. An unnecessary step in the NCO’s judgment, but typical of the militia’s officers, who seemed to delight in creating unnecessary things for their subordinates to do.

  But if the need for that particular step was hard to understand, the last directive, the one labeled FOR NCO EYES ONLY, was not only impossible to fathom but difficult to accept, given Korem’s affection for his men. And that was the order instructing him to kill everyone both outside and inside the storage room should he witness anything suspicious.

  Fortunately, Centurion Pasayo had made it clear that such a situation was very unlikely. That made Korem feel better as he turned his attention to a monitor and watched the two-man team enter the storage room. Everything appeared normal at first, but the horror began five seconds later, when the prisoner morphed into a green-scaled reptile! The thing had extendable claws, and when it took a swipe at the first soldier’s vulnerable throat, a sheet of blood flew sideways to splash a wall. The metal tray made a clanging sound as it hit duracrete, followed by the crash of broken crockery, and the rattle of a water carafe as it hit the floor and flipped over.

  Then, even as the first body continued to fall, the monster attacked the second militiaman with a degree of ferocity that Korem had never seen. And even though the noncom knew he should do something, he stood momentarily transfixed, as the poor soul backpedaled, and held the metal tray up in an attempt to shield himself from the coming attack. But there was no stopping the creature that leapt at him! It sank curved claws into the militiaman’s shoulders, wrapped heavily muscled thighs around the soldier’s waist, and took a bloody bite out of his unprotected throat.

  Finally, like a man coming out of a trance, Korem began to move. But the truth was that no more than ten seconds had passed since the beginning of the first attack. “Kill it!” Korem screamed frantically, as he fumbled for the weapon slung across his back. “Kill it now!” But the lizard-thing was fast, very fast, and was already through the door and rushing at the guards. One of them opened fire, but his bullets went wide, and dug divots out of a duracrete wall as death hurtled his way.

  Verafti’s heart was filled with joy as the kinesthetic feedback from his extremely athletic body combined with a tidal wave of fear generated by his victims to provide the shape shifter with something akin to a physical orgasm. Except that the pleasure was more intense and could be extended, so long as there were sentient beings available to kill!