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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