Alamy felt the bottom drop out of her stomach as Cato disappeared into the air car, and the hatch closed in front of her. She shouted, “No!” and beat on the door with her fists, but was forced to back away as the air limo’s retros fired, and a wall of heat threatened to blister her skin. Then the soldiers were there, grabbing her arms, and dragging her backward as the aircraft took off. Had Cato abandoned her? In order to save himself? Or been trapped in the cabin? There was no way to be sure, but as the air car banked away, it appeared that Cato was in control.

  Having been betrayed only months earlier, Alamy was already familiar with the horrible sick feeling that filled the pit of her stomach, and the overwhelming despair that followed her spirits down. So that by the time the soldiers brought Alamy in front of Pasayo, she no longer cared what happened to her. Because the worst was already over as far as she was concerned.

  Pasayo slapped Alamy twice across the face. Her head jerked from side to side and a trickle of blood ran down from a cut on the right side of her mouth. But rather than the terror Pasayo expected to see in Alamy’s eyes, there was nothing but dull acceptance. That infuriated him even more. “You know what I’m going to do to you?” Pasayo demanded loudly. “I’m going to give you to Hingo! And then, once he’s done with you, I’ll send whatever’s left to our green friend. You saw what he likes to eat! Now it’s your turn.” The soldiers took her away after that, to a place of darkness, where there was nothing for Alamy to do but cry.

  Out beyond the windows of the guest suite, sunlight lay like gold foil on the waters of Lake Imperium as Usurlus sat at a table that still bore the remains of his lunch. He was working on his speech, the one he was scheduled to deliver the following day. When, instead of the political pap that citizens expected to hear, he was going to drop a bombshell on them by detailing three examples of government corruption.

  Having laid the appropriate groundwork, Usurlus was going to announce that by order of Emperor Emor, Procurator Nalomy had been removed from power and would subsequently be sent to Corin, where she would face criminal charges! Usurlus knew that by doing so he was going to risk not only his own position, but to a lesser extent the Emperor’s as well, because if the corruption charges failed to stick, the Nalomy clan would be out for blood!

  But lacking the sort of hard evidence that he’d been hoping for, Usurlus was faced with a horrible choice. To either give up and allow Nalomy to rape Dantha unimpeded, or to press charges in hopes that once she was removed from power, heretofore terrified witnesses would come forward with additional evidence.

  It was a big gamble, especially since the strategy ran counter to the instructions cousin Emor had given Usurlus, which meant that the Emperor could hang him out to dry. Assuming he survived what could be a rather violent confrontation in the coliseum since Nalomy was unlikely to receive the news with good grace.

  Still, Usurlus took comfort from the knowledge that his entire force of bodyguards would be present, under the command of Vedius Albus. Not to mention the fact that Lucia Ovidius and her fellow opposition leaders had promised to pack the stands with anti-Nalomy citizens, who could be counted upon to rise up against the militia should that become necessary. The demonstration on Imperial Boulevard was a good indication of how dedicated they were.

  Usurlus looked up from the screen in front of him as the sound of muffled gunfire was heard. Not the distant stuff, which could sometimes be heard at night, but close by. As if within the palace itself!

  Usurlus stood, and was about to go in search of Albus, when the chief bodyguard appeared. He looked concerned. “I heard it, too, sire. We’re trying to reach Centurion Pasayo to find out what’s going on but no luck so far. In the meantime, I authorized heavy weapons, doubled your guards, and put the rest of the men on active standby.”

  “Thank you, Vedius,” Usurlus said gratefully, as he turned back toward the table. “Please let me know what’s going on when you hear back from Pasayo.”

  The real Vedius Albus was dead, and had been for more than an hour by that time, but Fiss Verafti was very much on duty. The shape shifter said, “Yes, sire,” delivered a bow, and withdrew. It felt good to be free. . . . Even if Nalomy’s electronic leash was very, very short.

  SIXTEEN

  The city of Solace, on the planet Dantha

  HAVING ESCAPED THE PALACE, BUT WITHOUT HAVING had an opportunity to warn Usurlus about the assassination plot, Cato ordered Nalomy’s pilot to land the air car in the open area that fronted the slave market. There wasn’t any auction scheduled for that day, but the sudden arrival of the air car sent street vendors, homeless people, and a flock of birds scattering in every direction. Cato forced the other man to surrender his shirt, pulled the garment over his head, and exited the car. Retros fired, and it took off moments later.

  The highly polished limo with the government seal on both front doors was starting to attract attention by then, and the pilot heard the occasional thud, clang, and ping, as rocks, bottles, and the other missiles hit the armored hull. Having rid himself of the madman with the gun, the pilot began to climb, banked toward the east, and circled back toward the safety of the palace.

  Cato thought about Alamy and felt a mixture of anger, fear, and self-recrimination sweep over him as the air car sped away. Because he knew that if Alamy was still alive, she was going through hell.

  But there was nothing he could do about that, not at the present time anyway, so Cato made his way through the now-familiar streets to the warehouse where Lood was being held. New guards were on duty by then and refused to let Cato enter the building until he demanded to see Belok. Then, having been cleared by the Kelf, Cato was allowed to enter a large, gloomy room.

  Hundreds of bales of dried lake weed were stacked to either side of the corridor that ran down the center of a room that was at least a hundred feet long. The spicy weed was the main ingredient for a seasoning that was popular throughout the Empire, making it one of Dantha’s most important exports.

  There wasn’t any place to shower in the warehouse, but there was a restroom, complete with a dirty sink that Cato used to take a sponge bath. He couldn’t shave, though, not without a razor, which left him with nothing to do until Lucia returned.

  So Cato made a place for himself on a couple of weed bales and was soon sound asleep although a series of bad dreams caused him to toss and turn. All of them had one thing in common, and that was Alamy, who kept asking him, “Why?”

  Cato was trying to answer that question, trying to explain his actions, when someone touched his arm. “Cato? It’s me. . . . Lucia.”

  Cato opened his eyes and saw that Lucia was looking down at him. He glanced at his watch, realized that more than four hours had passed, and knew it must be dark outside. Lucia looked concerned. “Belok told me what happened. . . . I guess we should have known that they would be waiting for you after we stole Lood right out from under their noses.”

  Cato rolled off the makeshift bed and stood. “I need to get into the coliseum. Can you help me?”

  “I don’t think that’s a very good idea,” Lucia cautioned. “Take a look at this.” The piece of paper that Lucia handed Cato was rolled up, so he had to smooth it out before being able to see the picture which occupied most of the poster. It was a photo of his face and identical to the one on the pass that Nalomy’s security people had issued to him earlier. The words printed below the photo read, “Wanted Dead or Alive! One thousand Imperials will be paid to any citizen or slave who provides information that leads to the arrest of renegade Xeno Corps Officer Jak Cato or to anyone who kills Cato and can produce at least some of his body for DNA analysis and confirmation.”

  Smaller print at the bottom of the poster included information on how to make contact with the correct person within Nalomy’s Department of Public Security. It was the same organization charged with keeping the population under control. “They’re fast,” Cato said darkly. “You have to grant them that.”

  “Yes, they are,” Lucia agreed. “So it would be foolish to go out.”

  “And Legate Usurlus is going to be assassinated if I stay here,” Cato countered. “I wasn’t able to reach him. . . . So tomorrow, when he enters the coliseum, he won’t know how vulnerable he is. That’s why I have to find a way into the coliseum tonight. Security will be twice as tight in the morning.”

  Lucia looked skeptical. “There’s no need for you to go. The resistance can take care of it for you.”

  “No,” Cato replied emphatically. “Verafti can look like Nalomy herself if he wants to. I’m the only one who can spot him regardless of what shape he takes.”

  There was a moment of silence while Lucia thought it over. “Okay,” she said reluctantly, “I guess you’re correct. But you’re going to need a disguise. And it needs to be a good one.”

  It was dark, and at a time when the streets of Solace would normally be empty of everything except thieves, militia patrols, and feral dogs, tens of thousands of noisy, often drunk celebrants were out strolling around. Some wore fanciful masks and in some cases complete costumes, as they formed long, sinuous lines and followed energetic drummers through the city’s streets. The spectators who lined roofs, balconies, and sidewalks shouted greetings, and pelted the dancers with pieces of candy as they passed by. It was a loud, raucous scene, and one of the few times each year when the city’s more prosperous citizens wanted to visit The Warrens.

  But if most of the people were enjoying the revelry, the same couldn’t be said of the grim-faced militia, who were visible on almost every street corner and ready to come down on anyone or anything that bore the least resemblance to a political gathering. Their brooding presence, plus the ominous thrumming sound produced by the military patrol cars as they passed overhead, combined to leach some of the joy from the celebration.

  Nor were all of the residents of Solace free to participate in the festivities, as was evident when a column of manacled slaves shuffled through The Warrens, chains rattling as they were led toward the coliseum. In spite of the cheerful crowds that surrounded them on all sides, they walked with heads down, eyes on the cobblestones in front of them, seemingly unaware of their surroundings. All of their heads had been shaved in order to prevent the spread of lice, all of them wore nearly identical gray cloaks over tunics and kilts, and all were shod with sturdy sandals. In fact the only thing that served to distinguish one slave from the next were the tools that some carried, the packs that others wore on their backs, and the lucky few who carried no burden at all.

  But as harmless as the column of slaves appeared, Nalomy’s militiamen were under strict orders not only to maintain order, but to find the renegade Xeno-freak named Jak Cato. So as the work party neared one of the many checkpoints established during the last twelve hours, they were ordered to stop, and a stern-faced Section Leader walked the line, checking to make sure that Cato wasn’t hidden among them.

  The slave master in charge of the work party objected, insisting that the slaves be allowed to continue on their way unimpeded, but to no avail. The SL was determined to examine the slaves individually, a process that involved lifting each chin up with his swagger stick, while shining a bright light into the subjects’ blank faces.

  Cato was about fifteen people back from the head of the column and felt his heart start to beat faster as the noncom drew closer. The concept of sending Cato into the coliseum along with a group of real slaves had been Lucia’s idea and a brilliant one. Or that’s how it seemed until she cut Cato’s hair off, provided filthy clothes for him to wear, and turned him over to the tender mercies of a very real slave master. A man who was part of the resistance and therefore willing to help.

  Cato was wearing body armor that had been taken from a dead militiaman, and he was armed with a variety of weapons, but the whole idea was to get inside the coliseum, not start a war! So when the Section Leader arrived next to him, and slid the swagger stick in under his chin, Cato affected an empty-eyed stare. In addition to his smooth-shaven skull and the tattoolike serial number that had been inked onto his forehead, dirt had been rubbed into Cato’s face to make it that much harder to recognize.

  Still, even with all of that, Cato held his breath as a blinding light stabbed his eyes and the SL consulted a photo of the man he was supposed to look for. If Cato “felt” a flash of recognition, he was ready to drop the unlocked manacles, and go for one of his weapons.

  After what seemed like an eternity, Cato heard the Section Leader grunt, and was left with a constellation of floating afterimages when the light was removed. “Too ugly,” the SL commented as he passed Cato by, and turned his attention to the next slave.

  Cato released his breath slowly after that and stood head down until the column was allowed to pass through the checkpoint. Thanks to the disk-shaped pass that had been given to him at the roadblock, the slave master was able to lead the column to the coliseum without further delay. Then, when they arrived on the north side of the huge structure, a noncom waved the work party through the arched gate that provided access to the arena beyond.

  Work was under way, and had been for quite some time, so that as Cato took a look around, the first thing he saw was the six-foot-high wall that circled the arena. It was pierced at regular intervals by stairs that provided access to the tiers of seats above. The Imperial Box could be seen on the south side of the coliseum. Colorful awnings were positioned to protect the upper seats from both the sun and the possibility of rain. They flapped as a light breeze swept in from the west and circled the arena as if to examine it. It was an impressive sight, and would be even more so the following day, when thousands of people filled the now-empty seats.

  When the slave master came to a halt, the column was forced to do likewise. A guard made his way down the line and chains rattled as each set of manacles was unlocked and fell free. If the guard thought it was strange that one man’s wrist bracelets were already unlocked he gave no sign of it as he passed Cato by. “All right!” the slave master said, as Cato took a moment to rub his sore wrists. “You can pile your stuff next to the gate. Our first task is to rake the arena so it will look pretty in the morning. So start in the middle and move outward. I don’t want to see any footprints when you’re done. Those who don’t have rakes will report to me for other tasks. Got it?”

  Cato heard mumbling sounds that might have constituted assent although it didn’t really matter since the slaves were slaves. Once the other men and women had begun to amble toward the center of the arena, he walked away. And if the guards saw him depart, they gave no sign of it as they spread out in order to supervise the work.

  Having successfully infiltrated the coliseum, Cato sought out a heavily shadowed spot where he could rid himself of both the backpack and the tattered robe. Then, having removed the components for his second disguise from the pack, Cato transformed himself from a slave into a Section Leader. And not just any Section Leader, but one who wore the insignia of a unit assigned to the frontier, which would help to explain why the local militiamen hadn’t encountered him before.

  That was Lucia’s plan anyway. And only time would tell if it would work. One thing was for sure, however, and that was Cato’s need for a disguise that would allow him to move freely. Because even though he knew what was supposed to happen the following day, Cato didn’t know how, and that would be important if he was going to stop it.

  Having removed the fake tattoo from his forehead, and completed the change from one identity to the other, Cato dumped both the robe and the empty pack into a garbage can, and began a tour of the coliseum. And that meant not just looking like a noncom but acting like one while strutting about and sticking his nose into everybody’s business. A role that he, as a Section Leader himself, knew how to play.

  So Cato climbed all the way up to the top of the brightly lit coliseum, where he followed the gently curving wall from north to east. One of the first things Cato noticed was the platform on the south side of the arena, which was located immediately below the Imperial Box. Workers were busy putting the finishing touches on the elaborate framework that rested on the ledgelike platform. And it didn’t take a genius or an official program to know that was the spot where Usurlus would be standing when the assassination attempt took place.

  The immediate area would be heavily guarded, of course, but with any luck at all, Cato would be able to use his disguise to penetrate the outermost ring of security and warn one of the Legate’s bodyguards if not Usurlus himself.

  Then Cato would implement the second part of his plan, which was to identify Fiss Verafti, and take him into custody. Or, failing that, to put a dozen bullets into the bastard! It would be a lot less expensive than another trial!

  Such were Cato’s thoughts as the walkway carried him around the edge of the coliseum to the point where one of the facility’s blocky projection booths stood. Cato knew that at least four holoprojectors were required to show a 3-D movie, and some arenas were equipped with as many as eight of the devices, so as to provide high-quality images. Especially during the early-evening hours, when it was still light out.

  But as Cato approached the booth, it appeared as though civilian workers were removing the projection equipment from the walled-in booth. The question was, why? The holo equipment couldn’t be used during the day; Cato knew that, so maybe the projector was going in for maintenance. Still, nosy Section Leaders should be nosy, so Cato paused next to the doorway. “What’s going on here?” he demanded officiously, as the civilians loaded the projector onto a dolly.