Bones of Empire (26 page)

Despite the nearly nonstop coverage, Verafti had been unable to glean enough detailed information to rule Demeni in or out as the killer. The one-week interval between murders was about right for a feeding Sagathi, but what about the rest of it? The news stories were frustratingly vague. And that was why Verafti wanted to interview the coroner. He hoped to get more information and make a determination as to whether Demeni was involved or not.

“I see,” Namji said cautiously. “You realize there are details about the killings that can't be released so long as the investigation is ongoing. Things that only the killer or killers would know.”

“Yes, of course,” Verafti replied smoothly. “What I'm looking for is background stuff . . . the look and feel of the place where the autopsies are carried out. That sort of thing.”

Namji looked around. “Do you have a camera crew?”

“No, I have an implant,” Verafti said as he pointed to his right eye. “Smile! I'm recording everything you say.”

Namji produced something that looked more like a grimace than a smile. “Come with me,” she said, and turned away.

Verafti followed her across what seemed like half an acre of marble to a door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY, where Namji placed her palm on a reader. There was a soft hissing sound as the barrier slid out of the way, and she waved Verafti through. That was a relief. Because even though the shape shifter had a photographic memory and could produce a believable likeness of any being or part of a being he'd been exposed to, he couldn't replicate a palm print he'd never seen. So if the
real
newsman's prints were on file in the government's computers, as they almost certainly were, access would have been denied the moment he placed his hand on the scanner.

As Namji led Verafti down a tightly turning staircase, the air grew steadily cooler until it was verging on frigid by the time they arrived in the basement. A second door gave access to a long hallway. Namji ushered Verafti into the first office on the right. A man in a white lab coat was seated behind a desk. His back was to the door, and he was looking at a flat-panel screen. Verafti could see what he knew to be a Uman thighbone pictured next to some text. A report of some sort? Yes, he thought so. “Dr. Sintha?” Namji said. “Citizen Saro is here to see you.”

As the coroner turned around, Verafti saw that the Uman was wearing a comb-over to hide his incipient baldness, had slightly protuberant ears and bright, inquisitive eyes. His face was smoothly shaved, and thin in keeping with a slender frame. “Citizen Saro,” he said as he rose. “I watch your channel all the time. . . . At least I used to. However, it's mostly propaganda now. That isn't your fault, of course. These are difficult times for all of us. What can we do for you?”

Verafti shook the extended hand and accepted a seat. “I was hoping to learn more about the way the night stalker kills his victims,” the shape shifter said honestly. “That kind of detail has been sadly missing from our reports.”

Sintha nodded. “And for good reason. . . . We aren't allowed to disclose that kind of information lest it help the killer or hinder the police investigation.”

Verafti glanced over his shoulder and was glad to see that Namji had closed the door behind her when she left the room. “That makes sense,” he conceded, “but I'm hoping you'll tell me anyway.”

The coroner frowned. “I'm sorry, Citizen Saro—but that's impossible.”

“Okay,” Verafti replied calmly. “I guess we'll have to do this the hard way.”

Sintha's hand was halfway to the intercom when Verafti morphed into his true form and ripped the coroner's throat open. Then, as Sintha continued to bleed out, his killer went around to the other side of the messy desk. The blood-drenched chair was mounted on rollers, so Verafti towed the corpse out of the way and brought the guest chair around to sit on. Five experimental voice commands were required in order to bring the correct folder up on the screen. Once it was open, seven files could be seen. One for each of the night stalker's victims.

Verafti opened the files one after another, skimmed the notes associated with each autopsy, and felt an almost overwhelming sense of disappointment. There was a serial killer on the loose all right, but none of the prostitutes had been eaten. That meant his beloved Demeni was finding nourishment elsewhere. So the visit to the morgue had been for nothing, and the search would continue.

Verafti stood, morphed into Uman form, and went over to the door. He set the lock before pulling it closed. With that accomplished, it was a simple matter to return to the cavernous lobby and leave through the front door. By the time the sirens were heard, and guards rushed to seal the Municipal Building's doors, a man who looked completely different from Saro was examining a nice cut of meat in a shop two blocks away.

 

 

The governor's palace as well as the complex of buildings around it had been taken over by the Vords. And after landing at Kybor's dilapidated spaceport a day earlier, that was where Cato and his companions had been taken. The team was seated on a broad veranda that ran around all four sides of the colonial-style administration building. Overhead fans sent a cooling breeze down to caress them, verdant gardens served to screen off the not-altogether-pleasant sights that the city had to offer, and Uman refreshments were theirs for the asking.

But the living conditions did nothing to lessen Cato's anger. For the Umans were being held in what their hosts referred to as “protective custody.” Which meant they weren't allowed to carry their weapons, leave the mansion, or begin their investigation. A situation Cato had repeatedly objected to but to no avail.

So when Officer Umji and his Ya finally appeared on the veranda, Cato jumped to his feet. “What the hell is going on?” the police officer demanded angrily. “Why are we being held here?”

“Please,” Umji said reasonably, “calm yourself. We realize this is inconvenient, but imagine how my superiors feel. A shape shifter may be on the loose in Kybor. They can't trust anyone. So before you leave the mansion, and begin the investigation, they insist that you vet all of the Vord personnel in Kybor. Once they're cleared, you can proceed.”

“Did you say
all
of the personnel?” Cato inquired incredulously. “How many Vords are we talking about?”

“Three thousand, two hundred, and forty-three,” Umji answered smoothly. “But never fear! Everything has been arranged. Tomorrow morning our personnel will parade past the table where you and your companions will be seated. Then, if you recognize the shape shifter, we'll nab him. Case closed.”

“Let's not forget that there are
two
of them,” Cato grated, “and what's to keep one of the Sagathi from impersonating a Vord
after
we inspect your personnel? Even if we inspected your people once a day for the next year, it wouldn't make you safe.”

“We made much the same point,” Umji replied stoically, “and we were overruled. The review
will
take place. At that point, you will be free to go.”

There was a moment of silence as the cops confronted each other. That was when Cato realized that Umji and his Ya advisor had their own Inobo to deal with. Or Inobos plural, since each Vord had a parasite. A pair of superiors who weren't all that bright, wouldn't listen, or both. “You'll give me your word? If we participate in this farce, we'll be free to begin work?”

“We can't make a promise like that,” Umji answered honestly. “But we believe you'll be free to go.”

Umji and Quati were being honest. Or at least Umji was. Cato could “feel” it. So he nodded. “Okay, then. . . . Tomorrow morning it is.”

 

 

Rather than let the team lounge around, Cato requested that three additional flat screens be brought up to the visitors' suite. Then, with four news nets blaring, the team members were forced to watch and learn what was going on. It quickly became apparent that the Vords were not only censoring the local news but largely unaware of what was taking place on Corin. So as far as the team could tell, the local population was completely unaware of Emor's death, the fact that his son had taken the throne, and the fact that an interstellar war was increasingly likely.

Most of that day's news was centered around the local coroner's death at the hands of an anchorman named Saro Vejee. He denied the charge, of course, but cameras don't lie, and pictures of his arrival and departure had been captured by security cams in both the Municipal Building's lobby and the morgue below.

For his part, Vejee claimed to have been home with his wife when the murder took place, but the local cops weren't buying that, and for obvious reasons. “The bastard is guilty as hell,” Shani observed, and Cato saw no reason to disagree.

But even if the Vejee case was open-and-shut, there were other news items of interest. One of them was the illegal demonstration that had taken place earlier in the day. And because the voice-over was delivered by a so-called pacification monitor, meaning a Uman collaborator, it seemed safe to assume that the clip had been shot by the Vords for propaganda purposes.

The story opened with a wide shot of a plaza, where a large group of people were gathered. The lettering on the signs they were holding had been blurred out. “In spite of rules prohibiting such gatherings,” the collaborator said sternly, “criminal elements came together in an attempt to disseminate lies. Fortunately, members of Counterinsurgency Task Force Nine were present to disperse the troublemakers and make arrests.”

At that point, Cato and the others saw half a dozen Vord military vehicles arrive and uniformed troops hit the ground. The
pop
,
pop
,
pop
of gunfire could be heard. A handful of demonstrators fell, and the rest ran. That was when more Vords arrived on the far side of the plaza, where they were in a perfect position to intercept the fugitives. Some were shot, others were beaten, and the rest were taken into custody.

“The entire population should give thanks,” the off-camera narrator said self-righteously, “knowing that they are safe from those who wish to seize control of the city.”

“It reminds me of Dantha,” Alamy observed, “when Governor Nalomy was in control.”

“Yeah,” Cato agreed soberly. “Those people have guts, that's for sure.”

“
Had
guts,” Keen commented, as an armored troop carrier ran two people over. “The poor bastards.”

But disturbing though that story was, the worst was yet to come. It was about twenty minutes later when Shani saw a familiar face appear, sat up straight, and pointed at the screen. “Look, Jak! It's you!”

As the rest of the team gathered around to look at the screen, they saw Cato, and themselves as well, all getting into a vehicle at the spaceport. A Uman pacification monitor provided the narration. “The interim government is pleased to announce that a law-enforcement team led by Centurion Jak Cato arrived today as part of a cooperative effort between the Uman Empire and the Vord Hegemony.” Then the story was over. No further explanation was given.

“Damn it!” Cato exclaimed angrily. “What the hell is going on?” And with that he put in a call to Umji. Cato insisted on seeing the other police officer face-to-face, so he could gauge the Vord's reactions before sharing what they'd seen. And, judging from what Umji felt, he was just as shocked as they were. “We didn't know,” Umji said, referring to both himself and his Ya. “I swear it.”

“Verafti knows me,” Cato grated. “He knows me very well indeed. So, if he sees that news story, he'll go into hiding, and it will be that much more difficult to find the bastard. Tell the idiots who authorized the story that if more people die, the blame will fall on them.”

Umji was visibly shaken, and judging from the emotions that swirled around them, both he and Quati were frightened of the person or persons they assumed to be responsible. “We will look into it,” Umji promised. “I can only suppose that the story was a misguided attempt to quell civil unrest by showing evidence of an amicable relationship between our governments.”

The answer came so quickly, so easily, that it was as if Umji already knew what his investigation would turn up and who was behind the news story. “Well, tell them to stop it,” Cato replied darkly. “Or Fiss Verafti might wind up sitting next to them at their next staff meeting.”

Umji opened his mouth as if to speak, closed it again, and left.

The day dragged on, and by the time dinner was over, the Umans knew which sports teams were winning, that more hot and humid weather was on the way, and that the Vords had broken ground on a new Pacification Center. Except that judging from a computer-generated picture of the facility, it looked a lot like a fort. It seemed that the aliens were planning to stay.