Not that there was any reason to expect trouble—since the race-day party would be smothered in security. Of the sixty-two people who had ruled the Uman Empire over the last five-hundred-plus years, eighteen had been murdered while in power. Usually by rivals or psychopaths, though two of them had been murdered by lovers, and one had blown her brains out in the Senate rotunda.
But assassinations were a fact of life, which was why many officials wore pseudoflesh faces while in transit to public functions, or made use of custom-made robotic body doubles like the one Usurlus sometimes referred to as “my brother.” The android’s car departed first, banked to the east, and soon disappeared.
Usurlus was forced back into the plush upholstery as the air car took off, banked to the west, and turned toward the 1,600-foot-tall Imperial Tower, which rose above the city’s jagged skyline. The cylindrical building was thicker at the bottom than the top, was home to the government’s senior officials, and was said to be impregnable to anything less than a direct hit by a nuclear device. That scenario was theoretically impossible given the fleet of warships in orbit around Corin, the fighters that circled above the Imperial City, and other precautions, all of which were secret.
Below, and visible for as far as the eye could see in every direction, was a city that occupied roughly five hundred square miles of land, and boasted a population of more than fifteen million people. Most of them were forced to live in high-rise buildings. So, in spite of a well-run subway system, air travel was important to the Empire’s movers and shakers, who preferred to be flown from building to building rather than compete with plebs for the dubious privilege of traveling on extremely crowded surface streets or aboard underground trains.
Of course that meant airborne traffic jams were a fact of life, too, even though a host of computers were dedicated to trying to prevent such problems. There was very little air traffic over the city on that particular day, however, because of the race scheduled for early afternoon, so the pilot was able to deliver Usurlus to the twenty-second floor of the Imperial Tower with a minimum of delay. The entire floor was dedicated to the task of launching and retrieving official vehicles; but the facility was crowded in spite of all the space dedicated to it, so the atmosphere was one of eternally impending chaos as a steady stream of air cars arrived and departed.
Thanks to his passenger’s rank, the pilot was allowed to land in one of the VIP slots, where one of the Emperor’s army of administrative androids was waiting to receive Usurlus and escort the official and his bodyguards off the noisome flight deck and into a spacious elevator lobby. During the short journey the visitors were examined by a variety of hidden scanners, and had any unauthorized weapons been identified, sections of the seemingly solid black granite walls would have opened to allow remotely operated weapons to kill specific individuals or everyone present. Then, once the bodies had been removed and the floors hosed down, the entryway would be opened for business once again. Estimated turnaround time: thirteen minutes and twenty seconds. Because, as Emperor Emor liked to say, “A good government is an
efficient
government.”
As the foursome entered the lobby, the acrid odor of ozone, mixed with throat-clogging exhaust fumes, came in with them but was quickly removed by the building’s extremely efficient air-conditioning system. “Greetings on behalf of Emperor Emor,” the machine said smoothly, as he led the Umans toward a bank of gleaming elevators. “My name is Olious. Please let me know if there is anything I can do to make your visit to the Imperial Tower more pleasant. Assuming that you and your staff are ready to join the other guests, I will escort you up to the eighty-eighth floor, where the party is presently under way.”
“Thank you,” Usurlus replied politely. “Please lead the way.”
So, with bodyguards in tow, Usurlus was led onto a highspeed elevator already loaded with a richly robed Senator, and her all-female security detail. Her name was Claudia Sulla, and the Legate knew that he had met her before, and might want to meet her again. Especially given the size and shape of the breast she had chosen to expose, as well as the come-hither look in her eye, and the Sulla clan’s political connections.
A mild and rather brief flirtation ensued, as the platform lifted all of them up to the eighty-eighth floor in less than a minute. Then it was time to exchange unlisted numbers, before stepping out into what could only be described as a very dangerous party, since every single one of the three-hundred-plus invited guests harbored not just one private agenda but, in most cases, at least a dozen. Some of which they were willing to pursue regardless of cost.
But, having been reared within a patrician family, Usurlus was used to that and ready for verbal combat. It began almost immediately as Usurlus followed Olious out of the elevator lobby and into the swirling crowd. Dozens of competing essences vied with each other for dominance, togas of every possible hue swirled around him, and the rumble of conversation was so loud that when the businessman from Regus managed to take possession of the small space in front of Usurlus, he was forced to shout in order to make himself heard. “Legate Usurlus! I was hoping you would be here! My name is Burlus, Femo Burlus, and my family owns the Dark Sun Line.” Burlus was of average height, with eyes that were too green to be real, and a softly rounded face.
Usurlus accepted the quick man-hug appropriate to such encounters, checked an almost encyclopedic memory, and immediately knew what Burlus was after. The Dark Sun Line owned a fleet of small easy-to-land ships that were perfect for running freight out to the sector of the rim that he was responsible for. The problem was that an increasing number of Vord raiders were preying on little cargo vessels like the ones that Dark Sun owned.
So what Burlus and his family were after was a promise that Imperial warships would escort their freighters into the Nigor Sector and, thereby, protect them. However, if Emperor Emor acceded to that request, he would soon be swamped by a thousand others, and there weren’t enough warships to protect the core worlds effectively, never mind the sparsely settled planets out along the frontier.
But solving such conundrums was the sort of thing that Imperial Legates were paid one hundred Imperials a year to do, plus expenses of course, which typically ran into the millions. So Usurlus began by letting the businessman know that he was not only familiar with the family’s shipping line and its difficulties but stood ready to help. Not by providing each freighter with a military escort, but by asking the Imperial Commerce Department to organize regularly scheduled convoys, each of which would include a contingent of warships. That would still put added pressure on the Navy, but less than individual escorts would have, thereby serving the greater good.
The conversation took fifteen minutes, and by the time it was over, another constituent was waiting to speak with Usurlus. And so it went for the next hour until the Emperor’s Majordomo strolled through the crowd repeating the same announcement over and over again. “Citizens of the Empire! The Emperor is pleased to inform you that the 108th running of the Imperial Air Race will begin in thirty minutes. Please make your way to the outside walkway, where chairs have been set up for your convenience. Citizens of the . . .”
But Usurlus didn’t get to hear the spiel all over again, or go out onto the circular walkway to watch the race, because that was the moment when Olious reappeared. “Excuse me, Legate Usurlus,” the android said from inches away. “The Emperor will see you now. Your staff will have to remain here consistent with Imperial security procedures. Please follow me.”
Usurlus turned to inform Albus, who nodded his understanding. “Call us when you’re ready, sire. We’ll be ready.”
As Olious and Usurlus made their way toward the elevators, most of the other guests were headed in the opposite direction. So it was difficult to make headway at first, but three minutes later the Legate was aboard Emor’s private elevator and headed for the top floor. Once the short ride was over, Usurlus was ushered into a large reception area. Like the rest of the Imperial residence, the ceilings were sixteen feet high. The walls were covered with idealized murals depicting life on the Imperial core worlds, and the floors were paved with slabs of gleaming black marble. In marked contrast to all of the noise on the eighty-eighth floor, the only sound was the muted
clack
,
clack
,
clack
that the official’s sandals made as he followed Olious through a spectacular living area, and out to the circular veranda beyond.
As a sliding door opened to provide access to the deck, the eternal roar of the city could be heard once more, because no one could stop that, not even the Emperor. And the sound was about to grow even louder as the air races began and six jet-powered planes threaded their way through a course marked out by the city’s tallest buildings. For the purposes of the race, the Imperial Tower had been designated as Pylon Five.
The whole thing was a bit crazy, since the high-powered aircraft could crash into both buildings
and
each other, which they frequently did. The death toll from the previous year had been thirty-seven people, almost half of whom had been killed by falling debris after a plane slammed into the twentieth floor of the Osawa Building.
Yet people still loved the races and still crowded rooftops in order to see them, even though there was a chance they would be killed. This was why Emperor Emor continued to authorize the event. It would have been political suicide not to.
As Usurlus followed Olious around the curve of the building, he wondered which Emperor he was about to meet with. The brash, occasionally inebriated man who had been known to make whimsical policy decisions? Or the thoughtful, often creative individual, who seemed to genuinely care about the citizens who depended on him?
Though ready for anything, Usurlus was pleased to see that Emor appeared to be not only sober, but in business mode as he said good-bye to a woman in a bright yellow sari, and turned to greet his next visitor. “Isulu!” the Emperor said warmly, as the two came together for a brief embrace. “It’s good to see you.”
“And you, Highness,” Usurlus said, as he went to one knee.
“Stop it!” the Emperor demanded, as he offered a hand. “There’s no need to kneel—we’re family!”
That was true in a very remote sense since the two men were distant cousins. In fact, just about all of the people who held key government appointments were members of the extended clan that Emor represented, a hard-driving family that had finally succeeded in putting one of their own on the throne after working on the project for generations. Like many of his male relatives, the Emperor had thick black hair, a beard so heavy it was necessary to shave twice a day, and a short, stocky body. But he was strong,
very
strong, which was apparent from the grip that nearly crushed the Legate’s hand. “Come,” Emor said, as he pulled Usurlus up into a standing position. “We’ll sit over there,” the Emperor said, as he gestured toward a well-shaded table. “The race will start soon, but we can talk in the meantime.”
Usurlus felt a surge of resentment and sought to suppress it. How much time would he have? Ten minutes? Fifteen at most? Why couldn’t Emor meet subordinates in his office? Instead of between various events?
Because he has very little time,
Usurlus told himself,
and by packing people in between things, he forces them to be concise. So be concise.
Cold drinks appeared as if by magic as the two men took their seats and Usurlus began his report. “Vord raiders continue to be a problem in the Nigor Sector, Highness, especially where commerce is concerned. So I plan to petition the Commerce Department to create regular convoys which will have armed escorts. Doing so will put increased pressure on the Navy, but require fewer ships than individual escorts would, thereby conserving Imperial resources.”
Emor liked Usurlus for a number of reasons, not the least of which was the way his cousin always kept the big picture in mind even as he sought to obtain additional resources for his sector. An approach that was all too rare where other Legates were concerned. He took a sip of his drink and nodded. “That’s a good idea, Isulu. I’ll support it.”
It was a win! But Usurlus knew that the clock was ticking, and once the air race began, the session would end. “Thank you, Excellency. I will inform your constituents. There’s another problem, however—one we have spoken of in the past, and which continues to fester.”
Emor raised a knowing eyebrow. “Procurator Nalomy?”
“Yes, Excellency,” the Legate replied simply.
“You understand the politics involved?” the Emperor inquired. “I need the Nalomy family’s support for a number of my more controversial initiatives. Universal health care is an excellent example.”
“Yes,” Usurlus answered, “I
do
understand. But, with all due respect, Procurator Nalomy is governing Dantha for her own benefit. If the situation continues uncorrected, I fear there will be civil unrest, you will be forced to send an entire Legion to put the rebellion down, and Senators opposed to your policies will take advantage of the situation by claiming you are either ignorant of what’s taking place or simply don’t care.”
Emor sighed. What Usurlus said was true. But accusations were one thing. Facts were another. “You have proof to support your claims?”
“Yes, Excellency,” Usurlus answered, and removed the printout from his briefcase. “I have an agent on Dantha. He wrote this report, which arrived last week. An electronic copy of this document will be sent to your office later this afternoon.”
Emor accepted the packet and skimmed the front page. It was a long list of items received from the Imperial government, condemned before they could be used, and sold at discounted prices. Assuming it was accurate, the inventory included everything from medical supplies to a wide range of machinery, and most disturbingly a large quantity of weapons. “You’ll notice that
one
company purchased almost all of those goods,” Usurlus said meaningfully. “An importer-exporter called Star Crossed Enterprises, which is a wholly owned subsidiary of Imperial Industries, belonging to the Nalomy clan.”