At that point the Procurator turned to look Verafti in the eye. There was no denying the intensity of her gaze or the anger that flared around her. “And that’s important,” Nalomy emphasized. “Because he may be wearing body armor. So be sure to shoot him in the head.
Twice
.”
“And then?” Verafti inquired dispassionately.
Nalomy looked away. “And then you will shift into whatever form you choose, blend in with the crowd, and make your escape.”
Was the Uman lying? Verafti thought so because of a sudden spike in her emotions, but he couldn’t be absolutely sure, since the additional stress could have been caused by other factors. Such as fear for herself should something go wrong. “And the explosive device?” Verafti wanted to know, as his fingers went to the bracelet that encircled his left wrist. “What about that?”
“Thirty minutes,” Nalomy answered reassuringly. “I will make sure that it is deactivated within thirty minutes. Then it will be safe to cut it off.”
Verafti’s eyes were inexorably drawn to the pendant that hung around Nalomy’s neck. She saw the look and smiled knowingly. “Six days. And then you will be free.”
Verafti brought his eyes up to meet hers. It was like looking into two bottomless wells. His voice was soft and sibilant. “Yes, Highness, in six days I will be free.”
Cato was at the bottom of a lake. That was the way it felt anyway, as he floated on his back, and stared up toward the surface. It was difficult to see through the blue-green water, but the distant glow hinted at sunlight, and a world beyond. Cato knew it was important to reach the surface, so he began to swim, and the light grew brighter as he rose. Then the water faded away and a face appeared to replace it. A
beautiful
face with big eyes, a straight nose, and full lips. Cato could
see
the concern in the girl’s eyes, but more than that he could “feel” it, and was unexpectedly grateful. Her lips formed his name. “Officer Cato? Are you all right? I brought some breakfast. But your arms were moving, and you were making noises.”
Cato’s mouth was desert dry. He worked his tongue from side to side in an attempt to summon some additional saliva. “I was swimming,” Cato croaked. “Up to you . . . What happened?”
The girl’s eyes widened slightly. “They fired a stun gun at you. It takes about eight hours to recover. That’s what they told me anyway.”
Cato made as if to sit up, felt how sore his muscles were, and wished he hadn’t. He groaned, and when the girl leaned in to help, he noticed that she smelled like soap. Only better somehow, even though there wasn’t a trace of perfume in the air, or anything else to explain the difference.
And there was something about the girl that “felt” good in a way he hadn’t experienced in a long time. Not since the horrible night when an armor-piercing bullet had torn through Officer Bree Mora’s body armor taking her life
and
his future. Cato felt his feet hit the cold marble, wondered where he was, and took a look around. The canopied bed was positioned on a raised platform with two steps leading down to a highly polished floor. Sunlight streamed in through a glass door off to the left, a combination dresser and makeup table took up most of the wall in front of him, with a door to the right of that. A cart sat between the bed and the door. The simple act of turning his head caused it to throb. “Where am I?”
“In the palace,” the girl answered simply. “In one of the guest rooms.”
Cato remembered landing on the roof, the subsequent confrontation, and the sudden burst of pain as all of his muscles locked up. “And my companions? Where are they?”
The girl looked away as if embarrassed. “They’re under house arrest. Until you’re up and around.”
Cato grimaced. “Good idea . . . They’ve been helpful. But only because it suits their purposes. And you are?”
“My name is Alamy,” the girl answered shyly, as her eyes came back to make contact with his. “I work in the kitchen.”
There was nothing seductive about the long tunic she wore or the way it hung on her, but Cato thought she was beautiful nevertheless. “In the kitchen? You’re a slave?”
Blood rushed to color Alamy’s cheeks. She felt ashamed. Especially in front of the man with three days’ worth of stubble on his face, the serious mouth, and the bright green eyes. “Yes, master. The cook ordered me to bring your breakfast. The food is probably cold by now. Should I take it back?”
Much to his surprise Cato discovered he was hungry. “No,” he answered. “Let me see what they sent.”
Alamy left Cato’s bedside to get the cart and bring it over. There were numerous hot dishes, all covered with metal lids, plus a large basket of freshly baked pastries. “Are you hungry?” Cato inquired. “If so, pull up a chair. . . . There’s enough food for three people here.”
“No, thank you,” Alamy responded politely. “I ate earlier.”
Cato could “feel” her fear and knew that the girl was lying. She was at least slightly hungry. But if she ate, or lingered, Alamy would get into trouble. Cato
wanted
the slave to stay, but couldn’t ask her to do so, knowing what would happen if she did. “Well, thank you, Alamy. What should I do when I’m finished?”
“Press the kitchen button,” the slave answered simply, as she pointed to a control panel. “They will send someone for the cart.”
Cato smiled. “Will they send you?”
Alamy blushed. “No, master. . . . Probably not.”
“That will be my loss,” Cato replied soberly. “One last thing . . .”
Alamy curtsied. “Yes, master?”
“Don’t call me ‘master.’ ”
Alamy said, “Yes, master,” and fled the room.
Having returned from the arena and her meeting with Verafti, Nalomy was seated on the veranda that fronted the lake. It was a pleasant afternoon. The sun was shining, a light breeze ruffled the surface of the water, and half a dozen triangular sails were visible in the distance. Fisherfolk probably, harvesting some of the two-hundred-pound genetically engineered “Good Fish” that had been brought to Dantha shortly after the first landing. And not just the fish, but the entire ecosystem required to support them, which was ruthlessly superimposed over the so-called incumbent system. It was a piece of scientific handiwork that the Procurator heartily approved of since catching a two-hundred-pound Good Fish was clearly superior to harvesting one of the five-pound eels that had occupied the lake previously.
Such were Nalomy’s thoughts when Hingo escorted Xeno Corps Officer Jak Cato out onto the terrace. Cato had sandy-colored hair, light brown skin, bright green eyes, a firm chin, and judging from the way the militia-style kilt and armor fit him, a hard body. Thanks to a shave, and a hot bath, he was a very different man from the one Nalomy had first seen on the roof. Cato bowed formally, and the Procurator replied with a nod. She was stretched out on a chaise lounge with her long slim legs fully exposed. “This is Officer Cato,” Hingo said formally, as he eyed Nalomy’s body. “Will there be anything else?”
“No,”
Nalomy replied emphatically, knowing full well what was going through her subordinate’s mind. “You may withdraw.”
Hingo was in no way nonplussed and backed away. Because Cato could “read” some of the emotional content that surrounded him, he could not only sense the sexual tension between the two of them, but see why. Nalomy was very attractive, well aware of that fact, and willing to use sex as a way to advance her interests. Not that Cato cared what the woman did so long as she provided him with the support he needed.
Nalomy said, “Please, have a seat,” and pointed to a chair. It was only three feet away, and as Cato sat down, he battled the urge to stare at her legs. Nalomy could be charming when she chose to be, and such was the case at the moment. “Welcome to the palace,” she said melodiously. “Can I offer some refreshments? A drink perhaps?”
Cato wanted to say, “Yes,” but having already betrayed himself where alcohol was concerned, he was determined to refuse. Besides . . . Was Nalomy aware of his occasional weakness? And attempting to use it against him? There was no way to be sure, but he wasn’t going to give her the chance. “No,” Cato replied. “But thank you.”
“I’m sorry about what happened to you last night,” Nalomy said, “but security is important. As I’m sure you understand.”
If Nalomy felt sorry, Cato couldn’t detect any such emotion emanating from her, but nodded anyway. “Thank you, Excellency. . . . I
do
understand. But, by the same token, my job is to apprehend criminals. And, judging from what I sensed last night, a Sagathi shape shifter named Fiss Verafti was not only present in the palace but may have been on the roof.”
There was no doubt about the look of concern on Nalomy’s face, or the sudden spike of fear attendant on Cato’s statement, but the question was why? Was the Procurator worried about the possibility that a dangerous criminal was on the loose? Or already aware of that fact—and concerned regarding her own outcomes? Those were the sorts of fine discriminations that even an empath couldn’t make.
“A shape shifter?” Nalomy demanded incredulously. “I’ve heard of them—but they’re rare aren’t they?”
“Yes,” Cato agreed soberly. “Very rare. But, after Lir bandits attacked our compound at Station 3, Verafti was either transported to Solace for purposes unknown, or escaped from captivity and came here on his own. Where, given his capacity to change shapes, he could impersonate just about anyone.”
Nalomy had no reason to pursue the subject, and every reason to change it, so she smiled seductively. “How about me, Officer Cato? Could Fiss Verafti look like
me
?”
The correct answer was “Yes,” but Cato knew what she wanted him to say, so he shook his head. “No, Excellency. . . . That would be impossible. There is no way Verafti could look like you do.”
Nalomy laughed. “You’re a liar, Officer Cato. But a charming one! And for that I give you credit. What kind of assistance will you require?”
“Full access to the palace,” Cato replied. “In case Verafti is still here. And permission to question staff.
All
of them if necessary.”
Verafti was in Storage Room 3B13 at the moment, where Cato was unlikely to come across him, but there were no guarantees. So Nalomy knew it would be necessary to keep a close eye on the variant. A chore she would delegate to Hingo. All of which was better than forcing Cato out of the palace, where it would be more difficult to keep track of him. “Of course,” Nalomy said sweetly. “Although you will need to make some sort of arrangement with the Legate’s staff should you desire to interview
his
people. Please keep me advised.” The meeting was over.
Having been ordered to take a bowl of freshly picked fruit up to Nalomy’s quarters, Alamy chose to climb the back stairs rather than make use of the service elevator. For even though the stairs required more effort, she was less likely to encounter Hingo if she used them, and the Majordomo had been more aggressive of late. After following the slave into a storage room the day before, Hingo had successfully maneuvered her into a corner, and was busy pawing at her when the head chef barged in. And, having correctly assessed the situation, the chef gave Alamy an errand to run.
That was why Alamy opened the door a tiny bit and paused to peer through the crack before pushing the barrier open and stepping out into the hallway. Then, walking briskly, she made for Nalomy’s quarters. The young woman was only twenty feet from her destination when Hingo stepped out of an open linen closet to confront her. “Well,” Hingo said ominously, as he moved out to block the way. “Look what we have here. . . . There’s no point in playing hard to get, my dear! You have something I want. You can give it to me—or I’ll take it. Which will it be?”
Alamy was backing away, with the bowl of fruit still in her hands, when Hingo came for her. He was quick for a man of his size and soon had Alamy by the arm. She said, “No!” and was trying to break free, when Hingo heard a male voice.
“You heard the lady. She said ‘no.’ ”
Hingo turned his head to find that Officer Jak Cato had approached him from behind. It appeared that the meeting with Nalomy was over, and Cato had been on the way to his quarters, when he witnessed the confrontation and chose to intervene. “This is none of your business,” Hingo said loftily, as he maintained the grip on Alamy’s arm.
“
Everything
is my business if I choose to make it so,” Cato replied coolly. “Release the girl.”
“She’s a slave,” Hingo grated, as he stood his ground. “And as such is subject to my authority!”
There was a blur as Cato’s hand dipped and came back up. Suddenly Hingo found himself looking down the barrel of the police officer’s handgun. “She’s a
person
,” Cato replied gravely, “and you’re going to lose an ear if you don’t remove your hand from her arm. Unless I miss of course, in which case you could wind up dead, which would be unfortunate indeed.”
Slowly, reluctantly, Hingo let go of Alamy’s arm. Her skin was white where Hingo’s steely fingers had left impressions on her flesh. The gun made a whispering sound as it went back into the holster. “Good,” Cato said. “You made the right decision. Two ears
are
better than one. Now, make another good decision and leave.”
Seconds passed as the two men stared at each other, but finally, after what seemed like an eternity to Alamy, it was Hingo who bowed stiffly. But, as Hingo turned to go, anger was visible in his eyes. A great deal of anger. And Alamy knew that if Hingo caught up with her, as he surely would, the subsequent rape would be as painful as he could make it. But even that wasn’t enough to erase the gratitude Alamy felt as Cato came forward to take her free hand. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” Alamy answered shakily. “Thanks to you. But he’s angry now—and next time will be worse. My friend Persus says that I should accept my fate and give in. Perhaps she’s right.”