The Dreams of Andromeda (The Imperium Chronicles Book 4)

by W. H. Mitchell

  "This feels great!" Maycare shouted. "Really loosens the muscles!"

  After a final sound of his bones cracking, Henry felt a thunderous slap on his behind.

  "Alright, Henry," Maycare said, getting back to his feet. "Wash yourself off."

  Feeling like a cat at the dog park, Henry had never been more relieved to be leaving. Stumbling to one of the basins against the wall, he cupped his hands and dumped cold water over his face. He had to admit, the chilling liquid was refreshing. He followed Maycare into yet another room where robes and fresh slippers awaited them. Once again at least partially clothed, the two men entered a lounge area with wooden deck chairs and tables where servantbots brought tea for them to drink.

  Lying in the chair, Henry closed his eyes and took deep breaths, hoping the pain throughout his body would fade as quickly as the memories of a strange man pummeling him.

  "Devlin, ol' buddy!" a voice said loudly.

  Henry cracked an eye open and saw a man about the same age as Maycare approaching. He wore the same robe and slippers as everyone else, but also a panama hat.

  "Ducky!" Maycare shouted. "How the hell are you?"

  The two shook hands, while Maycare remained sitting. Henry shut his eyes again but listened attentively.

  "Good to see you walking around," Ducky said.

  "Well, of course," Maycare said. "You can't keep a good man down!"

  "I mean, I heard about your accident," Ducky clarified.

  "That was no accident," Maycare replied.

  "No?"

  "Somebody sabotaged my sled! If I ever get my hands on whoever's responsible..."

  "Any suspects?" Ducky asked.

  "I had assumed it was Grayson," Maycare replied, "but he swears up and down he's innocent."

  "And you believe him?"

  "He gave his word as a gentleman."

  "Well, that's ironclad then," Ducky replied.

  Henry couldn't tell if he was being ironic or not.

  "I'm thinking about hiring someone to look into it," Maycare said.

  "A detective?"

  "I suppose so," Maycare replied, "but it would have to be somebody trustworthy."

  "As it happens," Henry heard Ducky say, "I may know a guy who knows a guy..."

  "Well, that would be outstanding!" Maycare replied. "You were always a man with connections, Ducky."

  Henry opened his eyes. Ducky was smiling and using the panama hat to fan himself.

  "It pays to know people," Ducky said with a wink.

  Kanet Solan offered Roland a seat, namely a large cushion on the floor. Incense sticks, stuck in bowls of sand on a nearby table, sent coils of smoke undulating around the boy's head.

  Solan, taking a pillow beside Roland, casually tapped the table with an unusually long fingernail.

  "I wonder," the Psi Lord said, "what do you know about how you and Lucy first met?"

  The teenager adjusted himself on top of the pillow but found it uncomfortable. He would have preferred a chair.

  "Just what she told me," he replied. "A man named Pitt brought me to her when I was still a baby."

  "Pitt, you say?" Solan asked. "Not much to go on..."

  "My mom said he worked for military intelligence," Roland went on, "although I guess he was a pirate before that."

  Solan's eyes widened. "Lucy knew a pirate?"

  "My mom had a colorful background before she became a bodyguard for Prince Alexander."

  "Indeed!" Solan said. "And that's when she originally met this Pitt fellow?"

  "I guess," Roland replied, shrugging, "but he doesn't go by Pitt anymore."

  "Why is that?"

  "I guess whatever made him bring me to Lucy meant he had to leave the military," Roland said. "He laid low after that..."

  Solan started tapping the table again. "Interesting."

  "Can you help me?" Roland asked finally.

  The tapping stopped.

  "Oh, I imagine we can," Solan said, "but the real question is, can you help us?"

  "I promised I'll do whatever needs doing," Roland replied in earnest.

  Solan smiled, his grin making Roland even more uncomfortable than the pillows.

  "Pacta sunt servanda," Solan said.

  "What?" the boy asked.

  "Agreements must be kept," the Psi Lord replied. "It's the very basis of business and this is, after all, a business."

  Collecting his courage, Roland held out his hand. "So, do we have an agreement?"

  Solan's grin widened, raising the hair on Roland's neck. Once again, he felt the cold skin of the Psi Lord's palm touch his own.

  "Indeed, we do," Solan replied, shaking the boy's hand.

  Like his father the Emperor, Prince Richard Augustus lived in the Imperial Palace. While not as luxurious as the Emperor's quarters, Richard's apartment occupied an entire wing and, compared to the tenements of Ashetown, was not too shabby.

  Richard arrived home after the long day, greeted by his wife at the door.

  Lady Lilith Augustus gave her husband a quick peck on the cheek. Maneuvering around his wife's sizable baby bump, Richard returned the favor.

  Although she was eight months pregnant, Lilith still appeared thin and frail. Her smile, like the rest of her face, was restrained and her brown hair, hanging just past her shoulders, was slightly curled on the ends. She wore diamond earrings, not large but just large enough that a crowd could see them from a distance. As a rule, people did not call her Lilly or Lil. They all referred to her as Lady Lilith, except perhaps her husband, and then only just.

  They moved to the parlor where a butlerbot had left a tray with tiny sandwiches and a large glass of bourbon. Richard ignored the former and took a long drink from the latter.

  "Hard day?" Lilith asked, reclining on a teal, Louis XV sofa.

  In his own chair, Richard placed the nearly empty glass back on the table. "And then some."

  "What happened?" she asked.

  "My father wants to abdicate," Richard replied grimly.

  "What?" Lilith said. "So soon?"

  "Not soon enough, according to my father."

  Lilith's narrow mouth tightened further. "I know he's not getting any younger, but he's hardly decrepit..."

  "True," Richard agreed. "He still has his wits about him, but he thinks the time is right."

  "Our baby will be born in a month," Lilith scoffed. "The Emperor really wants our child born into the turmoil of an Imperial Conclave?"

  Richard eyed the bourbon remaining in the glass but left it alone.

  "The conclave will decide the new emperor, whether our baby is born or not," he said. "My father thinks the rest of the Imperium is peaceful enough that it's now or never. Personally, I would have preferred he considered his own family at least as much as the rest of the Empire."

  "Perhaps you could speak to him?"

  "What do you think I've been doing?" Richard snapped at his wife.

  "I don't like your tone, Richard!" she replied fiercely.

  He sighed. "Sorry, my dear."

  "At any rate," she went on, "who do you think will be selected as the new emperor?"

  "It all depends on whom each of the Five Families favors most," Richard replied. "My fear is that it could be Rupert Tagus, but it can't be someone from my family. That much is certain."

  Although not from the Five Families, Lilith came from one of the many secondary houses of the aristocracy. Nevertheless, she retained all the pride and cunning of the primary five. Richard could see the wheels working in her head.

  "What if it wasn't?" she asked finally.

  "Wasn't what?" he replied.

  "What if you could be declared emperor?"

  "You know that's not possible," Richard said. "None of the Five Families can rule consecutively as Emperor."

  "Where is that written?" she asked. "What law says that's the case?"

  "Well," Richard said, "it's always been the tradition. The families simply adhere to it by mutual agreement..."

 
; "What if the agreement was no longer mutual?" Lilith said.

  Seeing that his wife was deadly serious, Richard took the glass from the table and downed the remaining bourbon. He knew that look and knew what it could mean.

  Summers in Regalis could be hot, and this one was no different. However, stretched out in a deckchair on a pleasure yacht, Lord Radford Groen felt a cooling breeze coming off the Regalis River. The boat, christened the Rey Sol, was not his. That honor belonged to Lord Devlin Maycare who graciously had invited Groen for a day of lounging while the yacht remained anchored along the riverbank.

  With West End off the port bow and Middleton off the starboard, Ashetown was somewhere to the stern, out of sight and out of mind. Groen rested in his chair, staring at the sky and a hovering advertisement that read:

  DO YOU LOVE THE TASTE OF PORK

  BUT HATE ALL THE CHEWING?

  SAY HELLO TO HALLO, HAM-FLAVORED JELLO!

  ANOTHER QUALITY PRODUCT FROM MOFOCO!

  Come to think of it, Groen thought, I do enjoy the taste of pork...

  "What are you thinking about?" Maycare asked from the chair beside him. Dressed in swim trunks and wearing dark shades, Maycare lay with his bare chest soaking up the sun.

  "Huh? Oh, nothing," Groen replied, also in trunks. He felt a buzzing under his leg and pulled a datapad out from beneath him.

  "What is it?" Maycare asked.

  Groen surveyed the screen and laughed.

  "I won another race!" he said.

  Maycare pulled off his sunglasses and gave an approving glance. "Well done, Radford!"

  "I'm on the best winning streak of my life!" he replied.

  "If you don't mind me saying," Maycare went on, "you were right to get Winnie Woodwick out of your life. He was nothing but bad luck!"

  Groen tucked the datapad back under his leg.

  "I think you're right," he said. "All this time I thought it was me, but really, Winnie was the problem."

  "Agreed," Maycare replied.

  From below deck, Lady Candice Woodwick appeared in a bright pink bikini and pink sunglasses. Her flowing blond hair caught the river breeze, twirling around her bare shoulders.

  "Ahoy, boys!" she shouted.

  Both men smiled.

  "About time, Candy," Maycare remarked. "You'll never get a tan down in the cabin..."

  Candy approached the deck chairs, stopping beside Groen's.

  "Never you mind that," she said, bending to kiss Groen on the lips.

  Maycare's eyes widened and he jumped to his feet. "What the hell, Candy?"

  "Don't make a scene, Devlin sweetheart," she replied, "but I’ve decided to leave you for Radford."

  "What? Is this true?" Maycare asked Groen.

  "The heart wants what the heart wants," Groen replied graciously. "I hope you'll understand."

  Maycare threw his sunglasses aside. "No, I certainly do not!"

  Groen got to his feet as well, gently pushing Candy out of harm’s way. Maycare lunged, taking a wide swing at Groen's chin. Missing, he stumbled forward while Groen landed a punch of his own into Maycare's ribs.

  Maycare let out a loud grunt. Collecting himself, he took another swing which again missed the mark. Groen countered with an uppercut which landed on Maycare's sizable jaw. Stunned, Maycare was unprepared for Groen's next attack, a spinning kick that landed in the yacht owner's stomach.

  Maycare fell backwards and tumbled over the railing. Candy screamed.

  "I'm sorry you had to see that," Groen said, attempting to calm her. "I promise I'll make it up to you."

  "How?" she asked.

  "Why don't we go back to the cabin and I'll show you?" he replied.

  Before Candy could respond, Groen felt a tug at his swim trunks and realized Maycare was hanging on the outside of the railing with one hand and dragging him closer with the other. With a strong pull, Groen toppled over the side of the boat, falling into the river. With a splash, Groen's body sank like a stone, the water swirling around him. Fighting to breathe, he thrashed with his arms and legs, but the current surrounded him like ropes, binding him and pulling him deeper. Groen gasped and realized he was wrapped in silk sheets.

  He woke in his bed, Lord Woodwick standing beside him in their shared apartment.

  "I say, Radford!" Woodwick said with alarm, "it's about time you got up!"

  In a fog, Groen tried somewhat unsuccessfully to untangle himself. "What's going on?"

  "You've been in bed all day," Woodwick replied. "You've completely slept through teatime!"

  "Where's Devlin?" Groen asked. "And Candy?"

  "My niece?" Woodwick said. "I suppose they're off gallivanting somewhere... Why in heaven’s name would you want to know that?"

  Groen stopped struggling and laid back in bed.

  "No reason," he said.

  “Are you still eating those petals Ducky gave you?” Woodwick asked.

  Groen closed his eyes.

  “No,” he lied, wishing he was still asleep.

  Chapter Five

  Gregor Ivanovich and his gang, the Cyberpunks, were setting fire to a warehouse owned by the Griefers. In one corner, Gregor found something odd. Nailed by its fluffy ear to a wooden post, the decapitated head of a stuffed toy hung about three feet off the ground. Just above the teddy bear's head, crudely carved by a knife, were the words:

  THE GREAT

  TUBBY WUBBY

  MASSACRE

  With his newly installed eye, Gregor scanned the head and found it was filled with electronics and, most surprisingly, a synthetic brain. Superimposed in his line of sight, Gregor saw the word "Abnormal" flashing next to the outline of the brain.

  The gangster held a sword in his hand. Instead of metal, the blade was a shaft of plasma, flames flickering along its length. Gregor pressed the tip of the plasma sword against the stuffed head and watched it catch fire. The bear's eyes opened and it said, "I'll cut you," before the flames consumed it entirely.

  Two days before he and the rest of his gang were setting fire to the Griefer warehouse, Gregor was touring one of his own properties. As the leader of the Cyberpunks, Gregor kept tabs on the various businesses serving as fronts for the gang's otherwise illicit activities.

  On that day he was visiting a laundromat . Mostly automated, the shop took in clothing at the front, but through a door in the back, Gregor entered a much larger establishment. He nodded at a pair of his men guarding the door and passed into a long hallway with doors on either side. He pushed a door open and peered into a darkened room full of mattresses lying on the floor. On these makeshift beds, men and women were sprawled out in various positions, some flat on their backs while others were curled into balls. To the casual observer, they appeared dead, but from the sounds of snoring, Gregor knew his customers were very much alive.

  At the end of the hall, he stepped into yet another room. This one contained tables instead of bedding, and members of his gang preparing trays of Lotus petals to be distributed to the sleepers when they eventually awoke. The Lotus den didn't provide food or drink, and the customers never asked for any. Occasionally, as a public service, one of the gangsters would force an addict to go eat something, but before long, the Lotus Eater was back for another round of slumber. The dreams were too enticing to ignore.

  Gregor liked what he saw, but as he turned back down the hall leading to the laundromat at the front, one of his gang approached. He wore heavy boots and a long waistcoat, a long sleeveless jacket that hung past his waist. He had marks on the side of his face, as if he had been peppered with fragments, the blood now dried into streaks of brown.

  "What happened?" Gregor asked.

  "They hit the chem lab!" the gangster replied.

  "Where's Alexei?"

  "They killed him."

  "Who did?" Gregor asked, already knowing answer.

  "Griefers," the man replied. "Mr. Munge and some guy with a big gun!"

  Gregor's fingers tightened into a fist.

  The leather couch in
Martel's office was already old when he bought it used. The brown hide had faded in places and was scarred from dropped cigarettes. On the other hand, it was surprisingly comfortable to sleep on and, seeing how he lacked any other residence, Martel used the couch as a bed most nights. On this particular morning, he woke with the sun blinding his eyes.

  "Ugh," he groaned, shading his face with the back of his hand. Martel pulled himself into a seated position, his bare feet on the wooden floor. He had a particular taste in his mouth, somewhere between acrid smoke and rye whiskey. He crossed the room to a sink in the corner and wondered if he had paid the water bill that month. To Martel's surprise, the tap still worked so he splashed his face, drying it with a questionable hand towel.

  Martel dressed in a pair of pants and an undershirt before stepping into the front of the office where Dolores immediately assaulted him with her Long Island accent.

  "Did ja hear the news, hon?" she began, her voice coming from the box on the desk.

  "You know I just got up, right?" Martel replied sourly.

  "Get some cawffee then, suga, and listen to this!" she said.

  From the same box came a different voice, which Martel recognized as Sylvia Flax, the anchor for VOX News.

  "In a stunning announcement," Flax said, "Emperor Augustus has declared he will abdicate the throne! It's unclear when his Imperial Majesty will be stepping down, but all will depend on when an Imperial Conclave can convene and pick his successor."

  "Isn't that exciting?" Dolores' voice returned.

  "Sure," Martel replied dryly.

  "I don't know about you, but I think it's important!"

  The detective remained skeptical.

  "The goings on in West End don't matter much here in Ashetown," he said. "Emperors come and go, but the poor stay poor..."

  "Well, ain't you a Grumpy Gus!" Dolores remarked. "Anyhow, yawr lady friend called."

  "Lady friend?" Martel asked.

  "Sure, the one from Wawlock Industries..."

  "You mean Dr. Sprouse?"

  "Yeah," Dolores said. "Anyways, yawr doctor lady friend said she's analyzed the petals you sent her."

  "Already?" Martel replied. "Have her meet me at the Sous-Sol..."

  "She already said she wouldn't be cawt dead in a dump like that."

  "Fine," Martel muttered with a sigh. "Tell her to pick a place then."