The Robots of Andromeda (Imperium Chronicles Book 3)

by W. H. Mitchell

  “Come now,” Solan said. “You know our arrangement. You got to walk away from the Psi Lords with the gifts we’ve given you, but when your services are needed, back you come.”

  “Fine. How long is this going to take?” Ramus asked.

  “You’ll be done in a jiffy,” Solan replied.

  “Where is it?”

  “Come to Aldorus,” Solan said. “I’ll fill you in more after you arrive.”

  The ghost smiled and faded away. The tattoos on Ramus’ arms no longer glowed, returning to their original black ink.

  When Kanet Solan got to the bottom of the mountain over thirty years ago, having walked all the way down from the Dharmesh Monastery, he knew he could never be like the monks. As a human, Solan lacked the natural psionic abilities enjoyed by every Dahl. He hated them for that, but he wasn’t going to let genetics determine his destiny.

  When Solan came down the mountain, he had a plan.

  Over the next several years, Solan studied the art of mind magic, both academically and physically. In both cases, he used outcast Dahl to teach him bits and pieces of the various schools of psionics. As exiles, none of them knew what Solan needed in its entirety, but as his knowledge grew, he knitted the parts together into something approaching a whole.

  As he learned, he grew more powerful. However, he eventually reached an impasse. He could not stretch his human mind to the extremes necessary to achieve true mastery like the Dahl. Faced with the choice of accepting his limitations or taking drastic actions, he chose the latter.

  In the Imperium, humanity was king. Among humans, purity symbolized their superiority over all others. The idea of modifying themselves and thus making themselves less human was abhorrent. Self-mutilation through implants or genetic manipulation was outlawed by Imperial decree. Although lesser procedures were ostensibly legal, the kinds of changes Solan had in mind were not. If he went that far, he would need to be shielded from the law. In that case, he could either choose those above the law, like Warlock Industries, or those outside it. Again, he chose the latter.

  Stories of the Psi Lords were common among those needing information. They were a data cartel, selling secrets for the right price. They collected those secrets using a school of psionics called Dark Psi. Outlawed by the Dahl, Dark Psi gave powers that conventional psionics strictly forbade.

  After joining their ranks, Solan first became one of their agents, called collectors. Eventually he became a handler of other agents, a controller, and he facilitated their clandestine activities and kept an eye out for new talent. All the while, he remained patient while continuing to augment his abilities.

  Patience was one of his virtues.

  Thirteen years ago, a cold mist was falling as Ta Demona made her way through the crowded streets to the Temple, home of the Augmentor Sisterhood. Water beaded on her black robes before rolling off her shoulders. Seventeen years old, with emerald skin and piercing blue eyes, she walked past the other natives of the planet Technas Delphi while their thoughts whispered quietly in the back of her mind.

  Demona was not like the other sisters.

  Reaching the Temple, a priestess greeted her. She bore implants running along the side of her shaved head, denoting a higher rank. Demona could hear her thoughts.

  Such a strange little girl, the sister thought. She gives me the creeps!

  “Greetings, sister,” she said politely.

  “Greetings,” Demona replied.

  “There’s an off-worlder who’d like to speak with you.”

  “Yes?”

  “He’s in the surgical recovery unit.”

  “What’s his name?” Demona asked.

  “Kanet Solan.”

  Although the request was unusual, Demona often worked with foreigners looking to benefit from the Augmentors’ technology. She had assisted in several operations, mostly involving advanced prosthetics for lost or crippled limbs. A few clients, including Solan, requested more involved surgeries. However, she had no idea what he wanted with her. Her expertise was still in its infancy.

  She passed beneath the high ceiling of the Temple’s main hall. Supported by flying buttresses on the outside, visible through large windows, the hall was like the chest cavity of a beast enclosed by metal ribs. Unlike the stone cathedrals of ancient Earth, the Temple of the Augmentors was made from alloys and composite materials. Optic fibers, embedded into the walls, transmitted information throughout the Temple while also illuminating its space with shades of pink and blue light.

  On the altar at the far end of the hall, the shape of a person stood with her arms spread like a cross. Demona paused to kneel, paying her respects to the High Priestess who had gone through complete conversion, from a living, organic being to a cybernetic machine. Enclosed in metal and plastic instead of skin, the High Priestess was immobile like a statue, with cables running from her casing to the building itself. The Temple was an extension of her body and consciousness, acting as her eyes and ears far beyond the altar on which she was anchored.

  Demona rose and followed one of the side corridors to the surgery unit which took up an entire wing of the Temple. Even at night, the department bustled with activity. Doctors and nurses, all priestesses in their own right, rushed from one procedure to another. Demona knew better than to interrupt and, after looking up the room where Solan was waiting, went to him directly.

  He smiled when she opened the door. In his forties with red hair fading into gray, Solan bowed, exposing an implant shaped like a half crown running along the back of his head. Demona recognized it as one of their psionic enhancers.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Solan?” she asked.

  “At the risk of sounding cliché,” Kanet Solan replied, “I’d like to think I can do something for you.”

  Her blue eyes widened as she felt his mind reach into hers.

  This place is wasted on you, he said telepathically. I want to offer you more.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Demona said aloud. “I’m happy here.”

  “Perhaps you are,” he replied. “And eventually you may work your way up through the order until you even reach full conversion. How old was the High Priestess when she ascended?”

  “She’s one of our elders — I don’t know — probably in her sixties.”

  “What if I said you didn’t have to wait that long?”

  “For conversion?” Demona asked.

  “For anything,” Solan replied.

  “You’re from the Psi Lords, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, and we have many resources at our disposal. You would have access to them if you joined us.”

  Her eyes narrowed and her mouth bent into a frown. “You’re asking me to join the Psi Lords?”

  “Why not?”

  “What would I do?”

  “You’d be a collector,” Solan explained. “You’d use your powers to gather information for us.” You can hear my thoughts, can’t you?

  Yes, she replied. I can hear everyone’s thoughts.

  Then you know what I already do, that your sisters don’t trust your powers. You’re an outsider and they’ll never allow you to reach total conversion.

  Tears collected in the corners of her eyes as she looked at the floor. Yes.

  “If you come with me,” Solan said, “you’ll leave them behind in more ways than one. Your future will be unlimited.”

  Demona looked up and gave him a hard, piercing stare. “I have some ideas.”

  He nodded. “I know you do.”

  In the present, Rowan Ramus climbed from a gravtaxi onto the crumbling sidewalk of Ashetown, the poorest district of the capital Regalis. To the North, the skyscrapers of Middleton glittered in the warm evening air while to the west, across the Regalis River, the West End and its mansions kept a respectable distance. In Ashetown, there were no estates or buildings above ten stories. This was the land of the Underclass where humanity kept mostly away, and the aliens walked the streets.

  Ramus felt a
t home.

  Passing the withered skeleton of a long-dead tree, he avoided a questionable puddle on his way through a neighborhood of closed businesses and vacant lots. When he got to an alley between two liquor stores, Ramus stopped. The smell of garbage wafted from the narrow backstreet, but the captain of the Wanderer ignored it, ducking into the shadows.

  Although the alley was a dead end, Ramus had been there before. The rats breeding between the trash cans and the words Free Marakata painted on the wall were all too familiar. It was like he had never left, and that feeling sat poorly with him. He had hoped he would never be in this alley again.

  Ramus recognized something else, a drawing on the wall of an ancient tribal mask with dark, angry lines of indigo ink. He laid his flat palm against it until the lines started to glow between his fingers. A section of the wall retracted and slid away, exposing a passageway. The faint odor of jasmine incense escaped from the tunnel, for the moment overpowering the aroma of garbage.

  Ramus preferred the smell of trash.

  The secret door closed once the captain was inside. He followed the corridor, the floor at a downward incline, until it opened into a large chamber filled with expensive rugs and tapestries.

  I’ve gotta admit, Ramus thought, Solan has impeccable taste.

  Through a beaded curtain, Kanet Solan made his entrance. He looked like his psionic projection, a thick robe covering his body and circuits covering his hairless scalp. At least he was solid this time. Ramus wondered if that meant he could be killed.

  “I wouldn’t try it,” Solan remarked, having apparently read his mind. “But you’re welcome to try.”

  “No thanks,” Ramus replied wryly. “I don’t want to stain the rug.”

  Solan motioned towards a low table surrounded by pillows. Taking a seat, they eyed each other from across the table.

  “I see you still love jasmine,” Ramus said finally. “You should try sandalwood. I hear it’s very popular among evil geniuses.”

  “Is that how you see me?” Solan replied.

  “Well, the evil part anyway.”

  “Good and evil are just words, Rowan, you know that. If the universe doesn’t care what we do, why should we?”

  Ramus didn’t reply. He had heard the argument before and didn’t feel like retreading yet more familiar ground.

  “You wanted me here, so I’m here,” he replied. “What’s the assignment?”

  Solan smiled. “Yes, of course. No sense wasting time, I suppose.”

  Between two pillars draped in silks, a video screen came to life. The image of a humanoid with a nearly featureless head appeared. The face had a pair of eyes and a mouth, but no ears or nose except for small indentations, and the skin was a light shade of blue. He wore a tunic woven from rough, white fibers with a tall collar. His three-fingered hand was raised as if speaking to an audience.

  “What do you know about the Erudites?” Solan asked.

  Ramus shrugged. “They’re a race obsessed with racial purity. They adhere to strict breeding protocols, trying to keep as close to a perfect specimen as possible.”

  “Indeed,” Solan replied.

  “My engineer Fugg would say nobody can tell them apart, but in this case I have to agree. They all look alike.”

  Solan nodded. “In fact, they use telepathy to tell each other apart. It must be highly confusing.”

  “So, what about them?” Ramus asked.

  “The Erudites are holding a formal dinner tomorrow night at their consulate. Our client has hired us to attend and gather information.”

  “You realize I don’t read minds...”

  “That won’t be a problem,” a woman’s voice said.

  Behind Ramus, a woman in black priestess robes stepped into the light. A respirator covered her nose and mouth while circuits were sown across her emerald scalp. Only her blue eyes remained untouched, their gaze fixed on the Wanderer’s captain.

  “Demona,” Ramus said.

  Chapter Five

  On cloven hooves, Horngore trotted to the top of a hill overlooking the steppes. From a race called the Ferans, he had the arms and torso of a humanoid but the lower body and legs of a goat. He had a ram’s head with curling horns, and he was covered with hair the color of charcoal.

  Behind Horngore, the earthen lodges of his tribe were scattered across a low depression, protected from the wind. The dome-shaped homes were partially submerged in the soft soil, with wooden frames for walls filled with mud and sod.

  Horngore stared out on the open landscape, his back to his village. This was not his home and this moon was not his planet. If he had a choice, he would burn it all.

  Needing the Ferans’ home planet for their own ends, the Imperium had resettled them against their will on Pellium D decades earlier. The Imperial government reasoned this was a fair trade, considering the open expanses of Pellium D and the chance of making a fresh start. The humans failed to consider that the native population might take offense at the Ferans’ presence, leading to years of hostility punctuated with occasional warfare. Horngore didn’t mind the fighting. He loved it in fact, but the fact that he was fighting over land that he didn’t love left him with a strange dissatisfaction that only fueled his anger. He hated these wide-open spaces, but he hated those who wanted to take them away from him even more.

  He pulled on the hairs hanging from his chin and ground his teeth.

  Returning down the hill, Horngore soaked in the daily background noises of his village. A blacksmith hammered a glowing piece of iron into shape before sending it back into the forge. Younger Ferans, their horns mere nubs, chased each other until an older female shouted at them to get back into their lodges.

  Horngore found the simple village life monotonous and mundane. He was a warrior with a warrior’s spirit. His greatest wish was to fight, a wish easily granted.

  Another warrior named Emberfist, a few years younger than Horngore, galloped through the crowd of other villagers. His hair a copper brown, Emberfist carried a sword but sheathed it as he approached. He stopped short in front of the older fighter, his chest heaving.

  “What is it?” Horngore demanded.

  Gasping for breath, Emberfist coughed a reply, “The Centauri! They’re returning.”

  “Already?” Horngore said, smiling to himself. “They’re early this year.”

  “They pitched their camp farther off, but several were seen around the antler hoard.”

  Punching his fist into his hand, Horngore ground his knuckles into his palm.

  “I thought we taught them a lesson last season,” he said, “but apparently they’re back for more.”

  “What do we do?” Emberfist asked.

  “Get the warriors together,” Horngore replied. “I’ll meet you shortly.”

  The younger Feran ran off while Horngore sauntered confidently toward his lodge. Inside, the smoke from the central fire carried an acrid scent throughout the home. Opposite the entrance, beside a bed layered with furs and animal skins, Horngore stopped before a long wooden case. He slowly raised the lid and pulled out a bundle of red velvet. Even through the thick material, Horngore could feel the tingling in his fingers and smell the slight odor of ozone in the air. He unwrapped the velvet to reveal a weapon, a long metal handle with a cone-shaped head on one end. Small, rounded knobs went around the circumference of the head and tiny arcs of electricity jumped from one to the other. The entire mace hummed like a dynamo.

  The dark, slanted irises in Horngore’s eyes widened to match the grin on his face.

  “Thunderclap,” he said.

  The next morning, or rather the late morning because everyone was hungover, the Pellions and Sir Golan headed back to the sacred antler shrine. As before, Squire found himself strapped across a Centauri’s back with nothing but the passing grass for scenery.

  Squire admitted to himself that he had never seen his master inebriated before, but that was the only explanation for Sir Golan’s behavior. Fermented fluids were often the weak
ness of organics, the robot realized, but the green knight was usually above such appetites. Knowing how the Cruxians had fallen from grace, Squire worried that Sir Golan might be heading down the wrong path. He hoped this was only a temporary lapse.

  Of course, it didn’t help that his master was once again talking about imaginary music in the air.

  “It’s quite beautiful,” Sir Golan remarked, riding on the back of his own Pellion.

  “I’m sure it is,” Squire replied while doing a quick check of his database for delusions.

  Toward the latter part of the day, the group arrived at the shrine. Batuhan, the Herd Father, led the procession with Qadan close behind. As far as Squire could tell from his ungainly vantage point, the group included all the mature males of the herd, each with intact antlers on their heads. Sir Golan and the robot dismounted while the others went about creating piles of wood for bonfires around the giant mound.

  “What time does the ceremony start?” the knight asked the Herd Father.

  “Just after dark,” Batuhan replied. “In the meantime, you should probably stay out of the way if you can. Qadan isn’t happy with your presence here, regardless of what I say, so I would give him a wide berth if I were you.”

  Taking the advice to heart, Sir Golan and Squire stood a good way off, watching the preparations take shape. Qadan, his spear on display, rode around the heap of antlers, shouting orders at the younger warriors. Batuhan looked on while drinking from a bottle he kept in his saddle bag.

  “They have a curious relationship,” Squire said, turning to his master.

  “Who?” Sir Golan asked.

  “Qadan seems to be in charge, but he takes orders from the Herd Father.”

  The knight murmured in agreement.

  “Some lead by example,” he said, “while others lead by letting others lead by example.”

  When the sun had crossed the farthest hilltop and the sky turned a deep indigo, the Pellions lit the bonfires around the antler mound. By the time the stars began appearing, all of the Centauri except the Herd Father had formed a wide circle around the mound, facing outward. Batuhan, carrying a golden carafe, trotted around the circumference of the circle, calling out to the others who shouted in reply. Each time the male Pellions shouted back, they also clapped their hands in unison.