Bones of Empire Read Online Free

well!
    â€œPerhaps a more difficult test of your capabilities is in order. I want you to move to your left. I will say a word as you pause behind each person—and you will communicate what they feel.”
    Everyone in the room had influence of one kind or another, so the proposal was fraught with danger, and Cato’s forehead was populated by tiny beads of sweat. If thoughts could kill, Usurlus would have been dead many times over, regardless of the big bodyguard’s presence.
    But thoughts couldn’t kill, which left Cato with no choice but to go along, albeit in his own way. Meaning that rather than give factual reports, the kind that could get him into trouble with the Legate’s guests, Cato chose to provide innocuous readouts and run the risk of triggering his host’s ire.
    So when Cato took his place behind the Prefect’s wife, and Usurlus said the word “marriage,” the empath responded with the word “joy” rather than “boredom.”
    A few minutes later, as he stood behind Rufus Glabus, Cato replied with “hope” when Usurlus offered the word “future,” even though the politician sitting in front of the Xeno cop was radiating a sense of doom. And, predictably enough, Glabus nodded in agreement.
    And so the charade went until it was time for shipping magnate Catullus Skallos to respond. The trigger word was “Vord,” and rather than the dread most people in the room felt regarding the gaunt-looking aliens, Skallos projected something akin to eagerness. But, consistent with his previous readouts, Cato gave voice to the same emotion the rest of the guests had registered. And, as Cato made eye contact with Usurlus, he knew the Legate was onto him.
    Mercifully, the process came to an end five minutes later, and when Cato returned to his seat, it was to discover that the widow was flirting with the middle-aged bureaucrat to her right. A development that left Cato free to eat as course after course of food began to arrive. There were some pro forma interactions with Skallos, but not many, for which Cato was grateful.
    Eventually, after what felt like a century of boredom, the meal came to an end, and the Legate’s guests lined up to thank him as they left. Cato slipped three hand-dipped chocolates into the empty dispatch pouch on his belt, knowing how much Alamy would enjoy them, and was almost out the door when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. “Not so fast,” Livius said, as Cato came to a halt. “The Legate would like to speak with you in half an hour.”
    Cato swore as only a veteran legionnaire can.
    Livius grinned unsympathetically. “What did you expect? I’ve never heard such a load of bullshit! Tell me Centurion Cato—what am I feeling now?”
    â€œYou’re happy,” Cato answered resentfully, “because you’re a rotten sonofabitch.”
    â€œYou got that right,” Livius agreed cheerfully. “Be there, Cato. . . . Don’t make me come and find you.”
    And with that, Cato was allowed to leave the sensaround for the corridor outside. Alamy was going to be pissed. He was in trouble again—but not for stabbing his food with a knife.
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    Having waited for thirty minutes, Cato made his way to the suite that Usurlus occupied, where he paused to straighten his uniform before pressing the button next to the door. He heard a distant bong , followed by a click , as Usurlus gave a verbal order.
    Cato opened the door, took six paces into the cabin, and came to attention. His eyes were on a spot located six inches over the Legate’s head. “Centurion Cato, reporting as ordered, sir!”
    Usurlus was seated in a well-upholstered chair with a drink in his hand. He was dressed in shimmery synsilk pajamas and apparently ready for bed. “Put that ridiculous helmet somewhere and have a seat,” Usurlus said. “Would you like a drink?”
    Cato put the helmet