The other two men nodded and the search got under way. But the room was empty except for the bodies, so that when the threesome came together, none of them had anything to report. Jaith was about to turn his attention to the murder victims when one of his men said, “Hey! Section . . . Look at this!”

  Jaith went over to where the man was standing and saw that a severed hand was lying on the floor. And not just any hand, but what Jaith judged to be a left hand, which was covered with green scales! A tight-fitting bracelet was attached to the six-inch length of wrist from which two shattered bones were protruding. “Don’t touch it,” Jaith ordered. “Check the bodies. Maybe one of them is minus a hand.”

  But after circling the murder victims, it quickly became clear that all of the dead men had both hands. That was when one of the bodies groaned—and attempted to sit up! A bodyguard gave a reflexive jerk, fired a shot into the floor, and looked embarrassed. Jaith gave the miscreant a dirty look and went over to kneel next to the ragged slave. Having slipped an arm under the man’s shoulders, he held his head up off the floor. “Are you wounded?”

  “No,” Verafti lied. “He shot the others one by one—so I took a run at him with a hatchet. We fought; I took a whack at him, and slipped. I think my head hit the floor when I fell. Where is he?”

  “I don’t know,” Jaith replied. “We found a hand—but no body.”

  “The furnace!” Verafti said emphatically. “He was holding his wrist, and backing toward the furnace, so maybe he fell in.”

  Jaith made eye contact with the man who had fired his rifle into the floor. “Stand guard over the hand and bodies.” Then, to the second man, “Go find some ice. . . . Buy it from a street vendor. I want that hand preserved!”

  Verafti sampled the noncom’s emotions, was unable to find any signs of distrust, and felt a growing sense of confidence. The hardest part was over! Now all he had to do was play his part, wait for an opening, and slip away. “Please,” he said imploringly. “Help me to stand.”

  Jaith obliged, helping Verafti over to the door, where the air was at least twenty degrees cooler, and lowering him onto a wooden bench. With that accomplished, Jaith walked twenty feet away, selected the priority push on his com set, and was forced to wait as Livius delivered a string of orders to various subordinates. From the sound of it, Livius had taken command of the planetary militia, and mere noncoms were being put in charge of entire battalions, even as the citizens of Solace began to stream out onto the streets. There was a lot of work to do and very few people to do it.

  Finally, after waiting for a good five minutes for a chance to speak, Jaith was able to make his report. And, just as that task was completed, Cato arrived with bodyguard in tow. “I’m glad to see you!” Jaith said enthusiastically. “How’s the head?”

  “It hurts like hell,” Cato replied bitterly, as he reached up to touch a very tender bump. “But it beats being dead. . . . Thank you.”

  “My pleasure,” Jaith said sincerely. “And you’ll be happy to hear that the shape shifter is dead!”

  “He is?” Cato inquired skeptically. “That’s great news if it’s true.” In an effort to confirm the truth of the other man’s statement, Cato sought to find Verafti’s telltale emotional “signature” in the area and was unable to do so. That wasn’t conclusive, however, because Verafti could block his emotional emanations at anything other than close range.

  “It is true,” Jaith insisted, “or that’s the way it looks. Come on. . . . There’s someone I want you to meet. Then I’ll show you the hard evidence.”

  But when Jaith turned toward the building, the bench the foundry worker had been sitting on was empty! That caused a sudden spike of fear as Jaith rushed inside to make sure that the hand was still lying on the floor. It was, and that resulted in a heartfelt sigh of relief as Cato arrived at his side. “Look at that!” Jaith said triumphantly. “You’re the expert. Is that what a Sagathi hand looks like?”

  Cato felt a growing sense of hope as he knelt next to the hand. “Yes,” Cato admitted, “it is. Where’s the rest of the body?”

  “In there,” Jaith answered, as he jabbed a finger toward the furnace. “There was a man. . . . One of the workers. He attacked the shape shifter with a hatchet, missed his head, and lopped a hand off. He slipped at that point, but the lizard was backing toward the furnace, and probably fell in.”

  Cato looked up. “He saw that?”

  “No,” Jaith admitted. “The worker hit his head, and that knocked him unconscious.”

  “Where is he?” Cato inquired, as he stood. “I’d like to talk to him.”

  Jaith was embarrassed as was clear from both his emotions and the look on his face. “He was here a moment ago, over by the door, but he can’t be very far away. We’ll find him.”

  “You do that,” Cato said, as a bodyguard with a box of ice arrived. “Good job.”

  And it was a good job, or so it seemed to Cato as Jaith hurried off, especially with a severed hand as proof of what had occurred. Yet Jaith’s story was almost too good to be true. But without any other way to explain the evidence, Cato was forced to accept the possibility that Verafti’s luck had finally run out. That felt good, really good, even if his head didn’t. Finally, the promise that had been made to Sivio and the rest of the team had been kept.

  Sun streamed in through the palace windows, the lake sparkled beyond, but Usurlus was unaware of the beauty that lay beyond the glass. He was focused on the transcript in front of him, one of many reports, requests, and other documents stacked beside his right elbow. Rather than moving into the Imperial suite, as was his right as both Procurator and Legate, Usurlus had chosen to remain in the guest suite both because it was easier to do so, and because he preferred to receive visitors in an unpretentious atmosphere. Especially in the wake of Nalomy’s many excesses.

  A row of worktables had been set up in front of the windows, where Usurlus and two recently hired administrative assistants could sit side by side at data screens and talk freely. Now that Nalomy was dead, and Dantha’s militia was under Imperial control, all sorts of evidence was flowing in. And that, combined with the truly startling report that Officer Cato had submitted, was going to be loaded onto an Imperial courier ship that very afternoon. Because it was crucial to get all of the relevant information to Emperor Emor quickly so that he could release it to the news combines his way rather than allow the Nalomy clan to put their self-serving spin on it.

  Usurlus’s thoughts were interrupted as an assistant appeared at his side. He was a plain young man. That was just as well, however, given all the work Usurlus needed to do. “Officer Cato is here to see you, sire,” the assistant said gravely.

  “Excellent,” Usurlus said, as he rose to greet his visitor. “Please send him in.”

  Cato had gone to considerable lengths in order to look the way an Imperial police officer should look—and was wearing his full uniform plus sidearm as he entered. A rare privilege indeed given all of the security precautions Livius had in place. Cato bowed.

  “Officer Cato!” Usurlus said enthusiastically as he came forward to embrace his visitor. “I owe you a huge debt of gratitude! Had it not been for your timely warning, Nalomy and her henchmen would be preparing to send me home in a box right now! Please, have a seat. . . . Can we offer you some refreshments?”

  What had once been the breakfast table was now used for informal meetings, and as Cato took a seat he shook his head. “No, sire, thank you.”

  “I was reading the Lood transcript when you arrived,” Usurlus said, reclaiming the seat on the other side of the circular table. “I knew Nalomy was a very skilled thief. That’s why I came here. . . . But even I was surprised to learn how ruthless she was! Please accept my condolences regarding the loss of Centurion Sivio and the rest of your team.”

  Cato could “feel” what Usurlus felt and knew the comment was genuine. “Thank you, sire. . . . They were fine people—and they deserved better.”

  “Yes,” Usurlus agreed soberly, “they did. I want you to know that a permanent memorial will be built next to Station 3—and that your comrades will be reburied with full military honors.”

  “Thank you, sire,” Cato said sincerely. “All the members of the Xeno Corps will appreciate that.”

  “Which reminds me,” Usurlus put in. “I have something for you. . . . Normally it would be presented with a speech, a brass band, and your fellow police officers in attendance. But the sad truth is that I don’t have time for a speech, Nalomy’s band can’t be trusted, and you’re the only Imperial police officer on the planet! So, please accept my apologies, along with the Imperial Legion of Valor and a promotion to Centurion. You deserve both.” And with that Usurlus gave Cato a box containing the Empire’s third-highest decoration for bravery and a nearly indestructible document naming him as a Centurion. Both honors left Cato shocked and at a momentary loss for words. But then, as Usurlus eyed him curiously, Cato attempted to return the document. “I can’t accept this, sire. . . . I was the least worthy member of my team—and by all rights should have been buried with them.”

  Usurlus smiled grimly. “We all have regrets, Centurion Cato. . . . Things we wish we had done differently. But, like it or not, you will accept this promotion! Partly because you deserve it—and partly because I need a senior police officer on Dantha. Someone who can help me enforce the law and rebuild trust. That’s an order. One which I will copy and send to your superiors later today.”

  There was only one thing that Cato could say. “Yes, sire.”

  “And there’s something else,” Usurlus added thoughtfully. “Verafti is dead, but I think you’ll agree that it was a close call, and who knows what might have occurred had he been able to escape! When I return to Corin, I want you to accompany me. Assuming that Emperor Emor is willing to go along with it, we’ll take a request for additional Xeno Corps funding to the Senate, and see if we can expand the Xeno Corps. I’m just guessing, but I’ll bet the people you report to will favor that, and offer plenty of help!”

  Cato knew that was true and nodded obediently. “Yes, sire.”

  A new “feeling” was in the air, and Cato knew his time was up, but wasn’t willing to leave without asking for the one thing that he wanted more than a medal or a promotion. “Sire . . . Could I ask a favor?”

  Usurlus raised a skeptical eyebrow. “That depends. . . . What did you have in mind?”

  “Majordomo Hingo, sire. Shortly after Procurator Nalomy’s death Hingo returned to the palace, where he and four guards took twelve slaves and left. Neither he nor the slaves have been seen since. I want to find him.”

  Usurlus eyed the police officer skeptically. “Because he’s a criminal? Or for personal reasons?”

  “Both, sire. . . . One of the slaves who was removed, a young woman named Alamy, is a friend of mine.”

  Usurlus remembered Alamy, how attractive she was, and instinctively knew that Cato saw the young woman as something more than a “friend.” “There is a lot of work to do,” Usurlus responded carefully, “and I’m going to need your help. But I’ll give you three days. . . . Not a minute more.”

  Cato rose. “Thank you, sire.” His eyes were bright—and filled with intensity.

  “You’re welcome,” Usurlus replied. “And, Cato . . .”

  “Yes, sire?”

  “Remember. . . . You are the senior law enforcement officer on Dantha. So you will enforce the law—and never break it. Not for me, not for the people who report to me, and not for your own benefit. Am I clear?”

  Cato came to rigid attention. His fist hit the center of his sculpted body armor. “Yes, sire!”

  Usurlus nodded. “I hope you find her. Dismissed.”

  Narbu Province, on the planet Dantha

  The assault boat’s slightly distorted black shadow caressed the land, as the boxy ship carrying Cato and a section of handpicked militiamen droned toward Imood Hingo’s country retreat, a large land grant, that was located 125 miles southeast of Solace. The complex was intentionally remote, both for the sake of privacy, and to serve as a place to which Hingo could retreat should the need arise. Plus, Hingo had always been aware that Nalomy would leave Dantha one day, and unlike Centurion Pasayo, he had no desire to follow her. And why should he? Given all he had accumulated on Dantha.

  So when the unimaginable happened, and Nalomy was torn apart by the crowd in the coliseum, Hingo’s instinct was to run. And, as the pilot followed the gently flowing Na-Na River through a narrow pass and into the valley beyond, Cato could see why Hingo would want to live there. Hundreds of slaves could be seen working in the neatly-laid-out fields, angens grazed on rich green grass, and silos marked where grain was stored.

  “The retreat,” as Hingo referred to it, occupied the top of a low hill. It consisted of a main building that looked more like a fortress than a house, a swimming pool, and a landing pad, where two air cars were parked. There were weapons emplacements, too, one at each corner of the roughly rectangular house, all presumably for the purpose of keeping bandits at bay. “Get them on the com,” Cato ordered, as he looked over the pilot’s left shoulder. “Tell them we’re going to land.”

  But before the pilot could obey, all four of the guns opened fire, and the ship’s computer spoke over the intercom. “The ship is taking ground fire, a surface-to-air missile has been launched, and electronic countermeasures have been activated.”

  The pilot jinked right, left, and right again as half a dozen flares shot away from the assault boat. Cato felt his stomach muscles tighten then relax when the missile went for one of the flares and exploded. “Okay,” he said grimly, “Citizen Hingo wants to play. . . . Take out the machine guns and put a missile into the house.”

  The pilot grinned wolfishly as he put the assault boat into a tight turn. “Roger that, sir. Your wish is my command.”

  It took less than five minutes to destroy the machine guns with the assault boat’s twin energy cannons—and fire a high-explosive missile at the house. The result was a very satisfying explosion. The house was extremely well built, however—so most of it still stood. “I can take the whole place down if you want me to,” the pilot offered eagerly, as the boat circled the compound.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Cato replied dryly. “Put this thing down. I want to have a chat with Citizen Hingo. Not just look at his body.”

  The assault boat’s skids touched down two minutes later, the rear ramp made a loud clanging sound as it hit pavement, and Jaith led twelve militiamen out onto the hilltop with their weapons at the ready. Cato had been impressed by Jaith’s competency during the search for Verafti, and, after buying Livius six beers, finally convinced the reluctant chief bodyguard to release the Assistant Section Leader to the newly formed Civilian Constabulary. And now, having been promoted to Section Leader, Jaith was in charge of the assault team.

  Mercenaries fired automatic weapons, and the militiamen fired back by sending smoke grenades and tear-gas canisters in through the narrow window slits. That brought most of the defenders out into the open. Some continued to fire and were immediately cut down while most hurried to surrender. Having put them under guard, Jaith ordered a demolitions expert to blow the front door. The charge generated a resonant boom, the barrier sagged on its hinges, and Cato followed Jaith inside.

  Smoke swirled as they made their way through a large foyer and into a beautifully furnished living room, where Hingo sat waiting for him. A huge thronelike chair provided a frame for his body, his white tunic and trousers were immaculate, and his feet were bare. The impression was that of someone who was about to receive guests. “Cato. . . . I should have known,” Hingo said contemptuously. “Don’t tell me—let me guess. . . . You’re here to collect Alamy.”

  “I’m here to collect Alamy and eleven other slaves that you stole as you left the palace,” Cato replied.

  “They hadn’t been registered as belonging to Nalomy yet, so I didn’t steal them, not that it matters,” Hingo replied dismissively.

  “You can discuss that with the Imperial Prosecutor,” Cato said unsympathetically. “Along with your decision to open fire on an Imperial police officer and the military team assigned to assist him. My job is to recover the slaves. . . . Where are they?”

  “Don’t play high-and-mighty with me,” Hingo responded contemptuously. “I know what you really want—and I’ve already been there! And legally too, because Alamy is a slave, and it’s impossible to rape a slave.”

  Cato battled to control his steadily growing rage. “Where are they?” he grated.

  “I have no idea,” Hingo replied serenely. “Conditions being what they were, I was in something of a hurry, so I sold the entire group to Citizen Mortha in Solace, and I suspect he will resell them to the highest bidder. Think about it, Cato! One of Mortha’s slave handlers could be humping your precious Alamy right now!”

  It was a stupid thing to say given the circumstances, but such was Hingo’s resentment regarding the possibility that he would lose everything he’d worked so hard to build, that he chose to lash out. Cato’s handgun was already out of its holster, and hanging at his side so all he had to do was bring up the weapon and fire. Three shots rang out, three bullets passed within a fraction of an inch of Hingo’s smoothly shaved skull, and three holes appeared in the wood next to his left ear.

  It took Hingo a moment to figure out that he was still alive. Then the militiamen began to laugh, and as Hingo looked down, he saw the yellow stain on the front of his white trousers. “Put leg shackles on him,” Cato said grimly, as the weapon went into its holster. “And chain the bastard to the flight deck. He’s going on trial.”

  The city of Solace, on the planet Dantha