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.

  Meanwhile, having jerked the belt free, Lorkin made it disappear as Cato went down under a flurry of additional punches. “Stop him!” Cato shouted, as Lorkin backed away. “He stole my money!”

  But it was too late by then, as the floor came up to strike the back of his head, and the lights went out. The battle was over.

  Another long, hard day had come to a close, and dinner was over, as Centurion Ben Sivio took a mug of hot caf and left Station 3’s warm, fuggy interior for the cold, crisp air outside. Even though the Plain of Pain was hot during the day, it was cold at night. And as Sivio paused to sip his drink and look up at the night sky, it occurred to him that the multitude of stars looked like crystals of ice.

  Still, cold as the night air was, it felt good to be by himself for a moment. Because the pressures associated with always being in charge, always being responsible, were starting to weigh on Sivio. Especially since there was no way to know how long the team would have to remain camped in the middle of the desert, and his second-in-command was still a question mark, even if he was showing signs of improvement.

  Of course, conditions would get better once Cato secured the supplies needed to make Station 3 more comfortable and brought them back from Solace. That was reassuring, but Sivio’s train of thought was interrupted by a shadow that slid across the stars, and disappeared half a second later.

  Sivio frowned and did a 360 while staring up into the sky. Were his eyes playing tricks on him? Had a cloud drifted past? No, clouds don’t have emotions, and Sivio had “felt” something. A presence of some sort. So what was it? A bird perhaps? Hunting for a meal?

  More curious than concerned, Sivio made his way across the courtyard to the spot where a flight of stone stairs led to the top of the defensive wall and Moshath was on sentry duty. Perhaps he had witnessed the same phenomenon and could explain it.

  But, as Sivio arrived on the walkway that ran along the top of the four-foot-thick wall, there was no sign of Moshath. And that made Sivio angry because if Moshath was sick, or needed to take a dump, then all he had to do was get on the com and let someone know.

  That was when Sivio heard a gentle whuffing, wondered what Moshath was up to, and put the mug down on top of the waist-high wall. Having retrieved his flashlight from his belt, the officer followed the blob of yellow light eastward. He hadn’t gone more than ten feet when he saw Moshath’s boots, his legs, and the black blood that was pooled beneath the officer’s torso. As for Moshath’s head, well that was missing, along with his assault rifle!

  Sivio felt ice water squirt into his veins, and was fumbling for the switch that would turn his com set on, when he ran out of time. The police officer “sensed” the assailant before he actually saw him, knew the feeling of hate was coming from a non-Uman, and was in the process of reaching for his sidearm when Hybor Iddyn landed in front of him.

  The Lir Chieftain’s chest was still wet with Moshath’s blood and he held an energy pistol in each clawlike hand. Sivio’s service pistol had cleared leather by then but wasn’t going to come up in time. Sivio remembered Cato’s warning, wished he had taken it seriously, and tried to shout.

  But Iddyn had anticipated such a possibility, and when the Lir fired, both of the bright blue energy bolts pulped the Uman’s vulnerable throat. There was no pain to speak of, just a momentary sense of warmth, as Sivio’s hands came up to touch the wound. At that point Sivio’s eyes rolled back in his head, the flashlight and the handgun clattered to the walkway, and he toppled over backward. There was a muted thump as Sivio’s body landed on the stone walkway.

  Iddyn couldn’t smile, not given the nature of his physiology, but the way the feathers around his neck rose and fell signaled his pleasure. Two Umans were dead, which meant that eleven of the Imperials were still alive, not counting the individual who had been flown out the day before yesterday. A significant number to be sure, but vulnerable nevertheless, thanks to the element of surprise.

  Iddyn made a high-pitched keening sound that Umans couldn’t hear, listened for the soft whuf, whuf, whuf of leathery wings, and was soon rewarded as more than a dozen heavily armed warriors swept in out of the surrounding darkness. A war was under way, the first battle had been won, and the enemy was blissfully unaware that the next one was about to begin.

  Though very primitive, the strange half-lit scene inside Station 3 had a homey quality because of the odor of warmed rations, the items of clothing that had been hung up to dry, and the gentle murmur of conversation. Some of the officers were trying to sleep, but Honis, Batia, and Tonver were playing cards. Not for money, which they didn’t have, but for the stim strips that were included in their rations. Three or four of the strips chewed all at once would produce a buzz equivalent to a shot of liquor. And that was worth something out in the middle of the Plain of Pain.

  Meanwhile, as the threesome sat in a circle, each guarding his or her cards, Verafti was quietly alert. There were strangers in the area. The shape shifter could “feel” their presence—and the rich amalgam of hatred and fear that surrounded them.

  Were the Xeno cops aware of the intruders? No, it was clear that they weren’t. And that presented a problem. Or was it an opportunity? Because if the beings that were closing in on Station 3 meant to kill the Umans, that would be good. And it would behoove him to remain silent. But if it was their intention to kill everyone inside the building, then that would be bad, and a warning was in order.

  Of course that was the problem with reading emotions rather than thoughts; it was virtually impossible to make such fine discriminations, and that could result in a fatal error. Still, given the prospect of remaining cooped up in his cage for many months to come, Verafti was willing to take a chance. So, rather than give the alarm, Verafti moved to the corner of his cage, sat down as a way to make himself less visible, and focused his eyes on the front door.

  While some of his peers slept, and others played cards, Officer Brice Kelkaw was sitting cross-legged on his sleeping bag deep in meditation, a process that was not only relaxing but served to hone his DNA-given talent as an empath. Most of his peers took the talent for granted. But it was Kelkaw’s belief that, like muscles, empathy grew stronger when exercised and, given how important it was to his job, was worth putting some effort into. And that was why Kelkaw was in a receptive state as the Lir bandits landed in the courtyard outside, checked their weapons, and approached the entrance to the building. Their combined emotions were like a powerful fist that buried itself in the officer’s gut and caused his eyes to fly open. “Outside!” Kelkaw shouted. “Grab your weapons!”

  Unfortunately, it was too late by then. The unlocked door slammed open as Iddyn entered and half a dozen armed warriors followed him inside. Kelkaw was diving for his assault rifle as the Lir bandits opened fire. Where was Sivio? he wondered. Dead most likely, somewhere outside the station, and Moshath as well.

  Then the policeman was there, scooping up the rifle, and releasing the safety, as he brought the weapon up. Half the team were already dead as the crisscrossing energy beams cut Tonver, Batia, and Honis down before they knew an attack was under way. Half a dozen more were killed while still struggling to exit their sleeping bags. So by the time Kelkaw pulled the trigger, the battle was already lost.

  But that didn’t stop Kelkaw from shooting both a Lir named Ibb Shyod, and the warrior standing behind him, as one bullet did the job of two.

  That gave the Xeno cop a half second of satisfaction before he, too, was cut down by a dozen bolts of blue energy. The Lir warriors were angry by that time and would have continued to fire, had it not been for Iddyn’s order to stop. There was a moment of silence as the acrid smell of ozone melded with the pungent odor of burned flesh to create a throat-clogging stench. And that was when Verafti spoke from his cell. “Watch out! Behind you!”

  Nearly all of the Lir turned to see a lone Uman standing framed in the doorway. When the battle began, Kath Larsy had been outside, in the temporary outhouse the team had established while they waited for Cato to bring plumbing supplies back from Solace.

  And, in keeping with regulations, Larsy was armed. The pistol was held in both hands, and had she been aiming at the Lir, at least three or four of them would have died. But Larsy’s attention was focused elsewhere, and Verafti knew it. He went facedown on the bottom of his cell as Larsy fired, and felt a bullet cut a painful furrow across his unprotected back.

  Unfortunately Larsy’s act of self-sacrifice was in vain as the Lir fired at her; the police officer staggered under the impact of a dozen energy bolts and backpedaled out the door, before falling to the ground. Wisps of smoke curled up out of the blackened craters that made a random pattern across the front of her body.

  “Good work!” Verafti said brightly, as he came to his feet. The shallow bullet wound was painful, but the shape shifter had survived worse. “Now, if you would be so kind as to open the cage, I could use some fresh air.”

  Iddyn and his warriors stared in amazement at the creature who looked like one of them. Pak Nassali to be exact—only without clothes or weapons. The real Nassali made a hissing noise, and was in the process of bringing his weapon up into firing position, when Iddyn reached over to push it back down. “So they right,” the bandit leader observed thoughtfully. “Creature can change shape.”

  “Yes,” a Uman voice said grimly, as Centurion Pasayo entered the great room. “He certainly can. And leave him right where he is for the moment. The next task is to move the cage outside. My transport is waiting.”

  It took the better part of a half hour to move the cage into the transport and strap it down. Once that task was accomplished, it was time for Pasayo to pay Iddyn and give the bandit chieftain some advice. They were standing under one of the transport’s stubby wings where they were lit from above. “Go ahead and take whatever you want, but leave the bodies where they are, so that the scene will look like what it was: a bandit attack. Understood?”

  “Yes,” the Lir replied expressionlessly. “Understood.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” the Imperial replied. “And remember this: If you use the money to buy weapons, and use the weapons to fire on my troops, I will pay a visit to High Hold Meor and reduce it to a pile of slag.”

  It was a potent threat, and one that Iddyn took seriously, which was why he made a mental note to have Pasayo killed as soon as possible. “You no worry,” Iddyn said reassuringly. “We friends.”

  Pasayo wasn’t so sure about that, but ordered a soldier to hand over the money belts containing the second half of Iddyn’s fee and made his way up the cargo ramp and onto the ship.

  There was a loud roar as repellers flared, and the ship rose out of a cloud of dust before swiveling toward the east. Iddyn saw a momentary glow as the pilot fired both engines, and the ship was gone, leaving the stars to glitter above. They had been witness to horrific crimes before—and they were as silent as the grains of sand under the Lir’s three-toed feet. There were secrets in the desert, lots of them, and they were buried deep.

  FOUR

  The city of Solace, on the planet Dantha

  IT WAS EARLY MORNING WHEN THE MILITIAMEN CAME, their boots pounding out a rhythm as old as the history of warfare as they marched down the center of the nearly empty street, weapons at port arms. It was raining, and had been for hours, which was why the troops wore water-slicked ponchos that hung down skirtlike around their knobby knees.

  There wasn’t much foot traffic at that time of day, and what little bit there was seemed to fade away as the Procurator’s soldiers entered The Warrens and went straight to the pub called The Black Stocking. It wasn’t open yet. But when a burly Section Leader hammered on the door and ordered those within to, “Open up, or be shut down,” the saloon’s proprietor hurried to comply. He had shaggy gray hair, a bulbous nose, and a potbelly that strained the fabric of his long nightshirt. “Yes?” he said suspiciously, as he eyed the militiamen arrayed in front of him. “What can I do for you?”

  “You can get the hell out of the way,” Centurion Pasayo answered arrogantly, as he pushed past and entered the great room beyond. It was about 6:00 AM, which meant the pub had been closed for three hours, and wasn’t scheduled to reopen until midafternoon. So, The Black Stocking’s interior was exactly as customers had left it, which was to say filthy. An army of empty beer steins occupied the tables, plates of half-eaten food sat here and there, and the combined odors of beer and vomit filled Pasayo’s nostrils as he made his way toward the back.

  “What are you looking for?” the saloon’s owner inquired as he hurried to catch up. “Perhaps I can help.”

  “Not ‘what,’ ” Pasayo replied, as he paused to look around.

  “But who. We have information that a man named Cato was drinking here last night.”

  “Yes!” the saloon keeper responded eagerly. “There was such a man! He started a fight, got the beating he deserved, and passed out.”

  “That’s interesting,” Pasayo replied ominously. “Very interesting. Were you aware that the man in question is a police officer?”

  “No!” the proprietor replied emphatically, his mind reeling. Nobody liked the Xeno Corps, and that included Nalomy’s militia, so why would they come to the variant’s aid? And how much trouble was he in? “I had no idea that he was a police officer,” the businessman maintained. “He was seated over there, next to the fire, where all of the broken furniture is.”

  Shards of glass crunched under Pasayo’s boots as he made his way over to the area in question. The fire had burned down by then, leaving little more than a pile of glowing embers, and a few tendrils of smoke. As Pasayo eyed the wreckage, he spotted what might be an outflung foot, and immediately went to work removing pieces of debris. The Section Leader was there to help—and it wasn’t long before a body was unearthed.

  The saloon owner looked on in horror. What if the policeman was dead? And the militia blamed him? Procurator Nalomy would pronounce him guilty, sentence him to be hanged, and order his family to hoist his still-kicking body up into the air. Then, as spectators watched his corpse twist slowly in the wind, they would eat the deep-fried meat pies that the city’s food vendors always hawked at such events, and bet on when the first stink bird would arrive to peck at his eyes.