The Dreams of Andromeda (The Imperium Chronicles Book 4)

by W. H. Mitchell

  "Apparently not," she replied.

  "Such a damn fool," Tagus remarked, "but it doesn't change anything. I fully expect to be the next emperor..."

  "Do you?"

  "Assuming you remember our arrangement," Tagus said. "Your vote and a vote from the Groens will assure my victory. Of course, if you vote against me, I cannot guarantee what would happen next."

  "That sounds suspiciously like a threat," Lady Veber said.

  "I don't care what it sounds like," Tagus replied. "I won't overlook another slight from your family."

  Turning on his heel, Tagus walked away without another word. His robot gave a short bow and then followed.

  Staring at the bottle on his desk, Thomas Martel was wondering how early was too early to start drinking when Dolores' Long Island accent broke the silence.

  "There's a young man out here to see ya!" she yelled through the wall separating Martel from the front of the office. "How old are ya, hon?"

  "Sixteen," Martel heard someone say.

  "Oh ma gawd, he's such a cutie!" Dolores remarked. "Your mutha must be so proud!"

  "I never knew my mother," the voice said.

  "Aw, ya poor de-ah!"

  Teenagers in Ashetown were usually trouble, either throwing bricks through windows or stealing gravcars. When Martel was still a police detective, he turned his back on a group of delinquents only to have them hotwire the gravcar he shared with Detective Crawley, his old partner. Crawley was so furious that by the time he rounded up all the underage boys in the neighborhood, the police department cells looked like the Lord of the Flies.

  Martel slipped the bottle into a desk drawer and went to the front. Just as Dolores had described him, the boy was young and handsome, much different than the kids around here.

  "What can I do for you?" Martel asked.

  "My name is Roland," he said. "I'm told you're looking for Radford Groen."

  "What's it to you?" the detective asked.

  "Sorry," the boy replied sheepishly. "I go by Roland, but my given name is Jack Groen. Radford is my uncle..."

  Martel's expression softened. "Is that so?"

  "I was adopted after my parents died," Roland went on, "but I've been trying to make contact with my birth family."

  "Who told you I was looking for your uncle?"

  "Lady Candice called me and said you were working on the case," Roland replied.

  "Lady Candice?"

  "Yes," Roland said. "Have you met her?"

  "Can't say I have," Martel said.

  "She's beautiful!" Dolores remarked, her voice coming from the box on the front desk. "She and Lord Maycare are in all the tabloids!"

  "Why are you looking at tabloids?" Martel asked her.

  "I got a lot of free time," she replied. "Ya know, while I'm waitin' for clients to come through the dawr."

  Martel's narrowed eyes left the box on the desk and focused on the boy.

  "Listen, kid," the detective said, "I just don't see how you can help me look for your uncle."

  A fly, which had wandered in through an open window, meandered close to Roland who, with a nearly imperceptible motion, snatched it out of the air, holding the tiny insect between his thumb and forefinger. Martel noticed the fly was alive, its wings still buzzing.

  "My adoptive mother trained me well," Roland said, releasing the fly unharmed.

  Martel took a moment but nodded.

  "Well, I just hired someone," he said, thinking of Munge, "but I guess you could tag along..."

  The box on the desk nearly beamed.

  "So proud of ya!" Dolores said.

  Mister Munge shared his attic apartment with a number of cats, although he didn’t entirely know how many. When he woke in the morning, he lay on his left side, relegated to the far edge of the bed. Cats took up the rest of the real estate, some huddled together on the bed in groups of two or three while others balanced precariously on Munge himself. Any thoughts of rolling over or shifting his weight were mere fantasies, the thing of dreams before he rose in the morning.

  Munge stirred and the cats sleeping on him bounded off, disturbing the other cats on the bed. A great howling ensued as everyone knew feeding time was nigh. His left arm still asleep, Munge shook it until the sensation of needles slowly subsided. Meanwhile, cats crowded around his feet now on the cold floor, rubbing against his ankles in feigned fidelity to their kibble god.

  Munge groaned when he stood up, partly due to the stiff muscles in his back and partially due to the Russian Blue hanging by her claws on Munge's shoulder. He crossed the short distance from the bed to the kitchen, the cat dangling the whole way, and opened one of the cupboards. The chorus of meows rose in both octaves and tempo while Munge removed several cans, laboriously opening each one.

  He set bowls of food on the floor only to see his forearms disappear in a sea of fur and swishing tails. Munge sometimes wondered if they would go after his hands instead, preferring his flesh from whatever meat they usually devoured. He had resigned himself to the thought that, upon his death, the cats would feast on his body until the authorities finally investigated the smell.

  Careful not to step on anyone, Munge walked gingerly across the floor again, headed this time for the litter boxes in the other corner of the attic. A loud banging came from below, sharp tapping as if from the end of a broom handle. An old woman's voice shouted up through the floorboards.

  "Quiet up there!" Munge's landlady yelled. "Stop clomping around like an elephant!"

  "Munge sorry!" he replied.

  "And don't forget the rent!"

  He cringed, knowing he could no longer count on the pittance that Kid Vicious had paid him. Even as Kid's enforcer, Munge's pay was barely enough to cover expenses, and now he depended on his job at the Sous-Sol and whatever Thomas Martel would shell out. Kitty litter alone was half his paycheck...

  A faint buzzing came from his datapad on the nightstand.

  Retrieving the device, Munge forgot about one of the ceiling beams, catching him in the forehead. Although in pain, he was more concerned about any cats possibly perched on his shoulders. Thankfully, all of the cats, however many there might have been, were still busy grooming themselves in an after-breakfast frenzy on the floor.

  On the datapad, Martel's face appeared.

  "Are you all right?" he asked, apparently seeing Munge massaging his temple.

  "Munge okay."

  "I've got some work for you," the detective went on. "Can you meet me in the West End?"

  "Yes," he replied. "Send Munge address."

  Martel's face vanished, replaced by a text message of the location. Munge read it with a sense of satisfaction, knowing he could now afford another shipment of kitty litter.

  The life of Lord Eugene "Ducky" Davenport was not an easy one. For example, after a night on the town, those early tee times were murder. Thankfully, he had a steady supply of Lotus petals to help him through. After getting home in the wee hours of the night, a petal dissolved on the tongue and a few hours of sleep gave Ducky all the rest he needed. Of course, that didn't mean he wouldn't ingest another petal after eighteen holes at the Greenwood Country Club. A mid-afternoon nap and a few dreams later, Ducky was his chipper self again. Sometimes, after an especially stressful dinner at the club, he might eat more petals as the evening progressed, but Ducky was of the opinion that you can never have too much of a good thing.

  Ducky had noticed, however, that his Lotus supply was no longer lasting a full week, so he decided to buy more the next time he saw his connection...

  In an exclusive salon in the West End, Ducky soaked his weary feet in a bath of warm water while a mani-pedibot worked on his fingernails. Delicate tools at the end of the robot's arms gently treated Ducky's cuticles while Ducky lay semi-reclined in a chair. His eyes were closed, but he cracked them just a sliver when the glass door at the front of the salon opened and two men walked in.

  Technically, one was a rumply-dressed man while the other was more of a teenager
.

  Opening his eyes wider, Ducky became concerned when the two newcomers came directly toward him.

  Am I being mugged? Ducky thought. His first instinct was to run, but his feet still needed a few minutes to soak.

  For her part, the mani-pedibot disappeared through a curtain into the back room.

  Ducky raised his hands. "I don't have any money."

  Both men stopped, their faces perplexed, before the older one stepped forward.

  "Actually," he said, "I'm here to thank you."

  "Really?" Ducky replied, lowering his hands. "What for?"

  "You recommended me to Lord Maycare," he said.

  "You're not my podiatrist," Ducky remarked.

  "No, I'm Thomas Martel, the private detective."

  "Oh, of course!" Ducky said. "Silly me..."

  Martel motioned toward the younger man. "This is Jack Groen, Lord Radford Groen's nephew..."

  "I see," Ducky replied. "Well, you seem better put together than your poor uncle, I must say."

  "Thank you?" the boy said.

  "I mean, let's be honest," Ducky went on, "he's a bit of a mess..."

  "About Lord Groen," Martel said. "We'd like to ask you a few questions if you don't mind."

  "Why is that?" Ducky asked.

  "He's gone missing," the detective replied.

  "Well, I certainly don't know where he is."

  "It's our understanding that you've been supplying him with Lotus," Martel said, leaning a bit closer than Ducky would have liked.

  "I don't know what you mean..."

  "Lord Woodwick witnessed you giving him petals at the horse track."

  "Winnie is a professional lush," Ducky said. "I wouldn't believe a word he says."

  Martel leaned even closer, his breath smelling of alcohol.

  "Listen," he said grimly. "We know you've been supplying Lotus to bigwigs all over town, which means you've been getting it from somewhere. Now, we just need you to tell us where, and maybe we can find Uncle Groen in the process."

  Ducky did his level best to sit straight in his reclining chair. "And if I refuse?"

  Martel tilted his head toward the salon entrance.

  "Then the man outside will come inside," he said. "And you won't like that very much."

  Ducky glanced at the glass front of the salon. On the sidewalk, a large shape loomed against the window, its eyes blazing like hellfire. Ducky was not entirely sure whether he was human or not, but his face was horribly burned, probably from something hell-related.

  Ducky swallowed hard.

  "What do you want to know?" he asked.

  The Psi Lords were a data cartel, gathering and selling information around the Imperium. No one in the organization knew the innate value of information more than Kanet Solan, and once he heard what Ta Demona had found, he knew just what to do with it.

  He even had special incense for the occasion.

  "Cinnamon?" Demona asked.

  Solan pushed the incense stick into a container of sand and lit the tip. Wafts of smoke carrying the scent of aromatic spices drifted through the chamber.

  "Cinnamon attracts wealth and power," he said. "Or so I'm told..."

  "And you believe that?"

  "It also smells like apple pie," Solan replied.

  Demona crossed her arms. The filter mask covering most of her face made a mechanical noise as she breathed in the air, but Solan doubted she could appreciate the aroma.

  "True or not," he went on, "I'm confident our guest will find it pleasing."

  Demona stayed silent, but Solan could easily read what she was thinking.

  You don't approve? he thought.

  No, she replied telepathically.

  "Why is that?" Solan asked aloud.

  "We had a deal with the boy," she replied.

  "And we kept it," Solan said, taking a seat on one of the oversized pillows in the room. "We found his parents and told young Roland what had happened to them."

  "But we now know that information wasn't accurate," Demona said, her eyes blazing against her green skin.

  Solan waved his hand dismissively.

  "Roland could only pay us with the promise of a future favor," Solan said. "We will gain more financially by selling this new information than what we could have expected to earn from the boy. Consider this his favor being paid... albeit indirectly."

  "By withholding it from him?" Demona asked.

  "I dare say he'll learn soon enough," Solan said with a laugh.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Well," he explained, "if we know our guest like I think we do, Roland may find himself in danger."

  Her anger flashed across Solan's mind.

  "Don't tell me you're developing scruples?" he asked. "We sell information, not morality, Ta."

  "Maybe so," she replied, "but withholding information from one client to sell to another damages our credibility."

  "Let me worry about our credibility," Solan said, growing stern. "Your role is to find the information, not determine what to do with it."

  He sensed her thoughts recoil.

  "Now, now," he said, softening his tone. "You have nothing to worry about... provided you know your place."

  Someone else was coming. Solan felt her fear as well, although those thoughts were clouded more with confusion like someone lost.

  "Our guest has arrived," Solan said, motioning for Demona to leave.

  Demona bowed and disappeared behind a curtain concealing a hidden door. On the opposite side of the room, from a tunnel leading to the surface, the form of a woman emerged, dressed in a hooded robe. Lowering the hood, she revealed a regal face with tightly braided hair.

  "Lady Veber," Solan said, getting to his feet. "So happy to finally meet you."

  The apartment that Lord Radford Groen shared with Lord Winsor Woodwick included a balcony with a view of the West End. Resting in a chair, Groen watched the birds fluttering through the morning sky, their graceful motions a relaxing respite from the drug-fueled nightmares he had endured while still under the influence of Lotus.

  It's good to be free from the petals, he thought, taking a sip of Mimosa from a tall, fluted glass.

  Woodwick came out on the balcony with a tray, setting it down on a table beside his roommate. Groen returned the Mimosa to the tray, surveying what Winnie had brought him.

  "I hope your stomach can tolerate some eggs," Woodwick said.

  "We'll soon find out..." Groen replied, taking the plate and utensils.

  "I say, Radford, it's so good to have you back!" Woodwick gushed, despite himself. "I was so worried!"

  Groen shrugged between mouthfuls. "I'm not a man that stays down for long."

  "Do you want your datapad?" Woodwick asked. "The horses at Mudderfield are running today."

  "Right," Groen replied. "I should put my bets in before the races start..."

  Woodwick vanished back into the apartment but continued talking.

  "Candy will be delighted you're doing better," Woodwick's muffled voice was saying. "Perhaps you could take that boy with you as well."

  "Who?" Groen shouted back.

  "Your nephew," Woodwick replied. "Jack Groen."

  The plate slipped out of Groen's hands, catching the edge of the deck chair and scattering eggs across the balcony. He swallowed what was left in his mouth as he stood and went inside.

  Woodwick was still retrieving the datapad from the living room when Groen passed through the apartment toward his bedroom.

  "Where are you going?" Woodwick asked.

  Without answering, Groen opened his bedroom door. Stepping inside, he found a woman in a nightgown lying on his bed. Even partially covered by a sheet, she was clearly many months pregnant.

  Woodwick peered into the room, the datapad in his hands. "Who the devil is she?"

  "Josephine," Groen whispered.

  "Well, this isn't cricket!" Woodwick complained. "I had no idea you were having a guest!"

  Groen shut the bedroom door in h
is roommate's face. From the other side, Woodwick muttered "Humph!"

  Groen went to the bed.

  "What are you doing here?" he asked.

  "There's something I need to tell you," she replied earnestly, taking his hand. "Something terrible has happened."

  "What is it?"

  "The baby isn’t Robert’s," she said.

  "Don't be absurd!" Groen replied.

  Tears swelled in Josephine's eyes. "It's true."

  "How... why?"

  "I feel so guilty," she said, "but he didn't give me a choice."

  From the adjoining bathroom, a man appeared in the doorway. Older than Groen or Josephine, he wore a black and gold tunic. His name was Lord Rupert Tagus II, patriarch of the Tagus family and father to Tagus III.

  "Droit du seigneur," he said. "The lord's right."

  "What the hell are you talking about?" Groen asked angrily.

  "Your miserable family owes everything to mine," Tagus replied with disdain. "Without the house of Tagus, the Groens would be nothing!"

  "He said he would destroy Robert if I didn't sleep with him," Josephine said.

  "Of course,” Tagus remarked, “I didn't expect her to get pregnant..."

  "You're a monster," Groen said.

  "Perhaps," Tagus said, "but at least I had fun in the process."

  Groen lunged at the old man, putting his hands around Tagus' thin neck and squeezing at hard as he could. Behind him, Groen heard Josephine scream and then felt her shaking him.

  "Uncle Radford!" she shouted. "Uncle Radford!"

  Groen opened his eyes and found a young man standing over him, jostling him roughly as he lay in a cot.

  "Wake up, Uncle Radford," the boy said. "We're going to take you home."

  The haze of dreams still spinning in his head, Groen did his best to sit up. In the background, he could swear he saw a large man with a burned face throwing a gangster against a wall. Another man, this one with dark skin, appeared at the boy's side.

  "Come on, Roland," the man said. "We need to go."

  The two of them pulled Groen from the cot, each one taking an arm. Groen turned his head weakly toward the younger man.

  "Who are you?" he asked.

  The boy smiled.

  "I'm your nephew," he said. "You can call me Jack."

  Chapter Eleven