The Arks of Andromeda (The Imperium Chronicles Book 1)

by W. H. Mitchell

  Henry, shaking badly, smiled and discretely checked to see if he had soiled himself.

  Like a knife cutting through black canvas, a starship called the Starling emerged from hyperspace. Sitting in the cockpit, Magnus Black checked the readings to confirm he was at the right coordinates. Satisfied, he scanned the neighboring space and, as expected, found another ship less than a thousand miles away.

  The Starling looked like an arrowhead with short, thick wings on either side of the main fuselage. The cockpit was set close to the front, giving Magnus a good view of his surroundings. The twin thrusters in the back burned a translucent blue as the ship picked up speed.

  The transponder of the other craft identified it as the Sorcerer, but once Magnus magnified the visual display, he could also see the familiar pentagram of Warlock Industries painted along the hull.

  The Sorcerer, three times the size of Magnus' ship, was dull gray with the aft section ribbed like the flying buttresses of an old cathedral. The bow, meanwhile, was much wider like the nose of a hammerhead shark. Where the two sections met, a round turret swiveled, following the Starling as it approached.

  Magnus brought his ship to rest a few hundred feet off the other vessel's starboard side.

  "Well, you certainly know how to make an entrance," a voice said over the radio.

  Magnus flipped on the video display. A man with dark eyes and a short, brown goatee stared at him through the monitor.

  "Hello, Mister Skarlander," Magnus said. "I'm here as requested."

  "Thank you for coming," Oscar Skarlander replied. "Sure you don't want to come aboard so we can talk face-to-face?"

  The corner of Magnus' mouth curled. "No, I like this just fine."

  "Suit yourself."

  "I take it you have a job for me?" Magnus asked.

  "Indeed," Skarlander said.

  "What's the target?"

  "It's an android, actually, by the name of Jericho. I need you to find and kill him."

  "Wouldn't destroy be a more accurate word?" Magnus said.

  Skarlander rolled his eyes.

  "Kill, destroy, frankly the consciousness of a cybermachine is beyond this discussion," the Warlock agent said. "Let's just agree that I want you to end him with extreme prejudice."

  "I can do that."

  "Oh, one more thing," Skarlander went on. "Jericho has a gravitronic brain containing a lot of very important information. I want you to bring it to me."

  "On a stake?"

  Skarlander lowered his head, peering out from beneath a darkened brow.

  "In a box will suffice," he said.

  Chapter Six

  In Regalis, people on the high end of society avoided Ashetown due to its rough neighborhoods and the general hatred everyone there felt toward people on the high end of society. This was apparently not the case with the Fat Cat Casino, the largest and most successful gambling house in the city. The affluent, especially the nobility, didn't mind slumming it in Ashetown if it meant being seen with celebrities who also frequented the Fat Cat.

  The fat cat himself, Big G, watched through a two-way mirror overlooking the action taking place on the main casino floor. A Tikarin, Big G had orange and white fur and an enormous, sagging belly. His green, slanted eyes darted from table to table as his patrons slowly lost their money. Although his coffers grew with every card drawn, Big G knew it was just a front. In fact, the whole operation was a money laundering operation for Si-Sawat, Big G's Tikarin crime syndicate. He chuckled at his own brilliance.

  "Boss?" a Tikarin said from the doorway.

  "What's up, Max?" Big G asked.

  Like his employer, Max was sizable, but in his case muscle lay beneath his gray fur instead of fat. He also spoke with a surprisingly high-pitched voice.

  "We found Tommy's body down by the river," Max said in a near-perfect soprano.

  "Son-of-a-bitch!" Big G said, his paws clenched into fists.

  "Looks like they worked him over pretty good," Max went on. “No clue who did it though…”

  "It’s obvious!"

  “It is?”

  “Kid Vicious!”

  Max nodded, but Big G knew he only dimly understood. While good-natured, Max was dumber than a bag of rocks.

  Big G sighed.

  "Okay, this is what we're going to do," he said. "Round up a couple of the boys and head down to Griefer turf. Get the first one of theirs you can find and make him pay for what they did to Tommy."

  "Sure, boss," Max said, then remembered something. "Oh, and Radford Groen is back and he's losing again."

  "That's all he does," Big G remarked. "It's kind of sad actually..."

  Lord Radford Groen examined his cards lying on the blackjack table. Against the green felt, the queen of diamonds and six of spades glared at him accusingly, daring him to draw another card. Common sense told him to stay, but winning was all about taking chances. Nothing risked, nothing gained, his father used to say.

  "Hit me," Groen said.

  The dealerbot didn't have eyebrows, but Groen felt the robot raising them anyway.

  "Yes, sir," the dealerbot said, a card spurting out from a slot in its wrist onto the table. A seven of hearts.

  "Busted," it said.

  On Groen's right, Lord Winsor Woodwick twirled the end of his walrus mustache.

  "I say, Radford," he said, "You've the worst luck, old chap. Better luck next time, eh?"

  In the chair to Groen's left, a man raised his beer glass.

  "Sometimes you've got to make your own luck," he said.

  "Who are you again?" Groen asked, rubbing the wrinkles between his eyes.

  "Ramsey," he said. "Captain of the Steppenwolf."

  "That must be very exciting," Woodwick said.

  "Damn right," the pilot replied. "Like the time I tangled with Durant Blixx, the most wanted pirate in the Imperium."

  "Good lord!" Woodwick said.

  "He and his men were swarming over my ship but I stood against them all," Ramsey said.

  "What did you do?" Woodwick asked.

  "I made Blixx a deal," Ramsey said. "I told him he could have my cargo, but if he tried taking my ship, I'd cut off life support. He said I drove a hard bargain, but he took the deal."

  "I say, good show!"

  Groen heard the two men speaking, but tried hard not to listen. "I'm surrounded by idiots," he thought to himself.

  The dealerbot, meanwhile, had removed the old cards and was ready to deal new ones.

  "Another game?" it asked.

  Groen shuffled his chips between his fingers. The number of chips was fewer than he remembered.

  "Sure," he said. "Why not?"

  In a foul mood, Lord Rupert Tagus III walked through the front entrance of the Fat Cat Casino. His attaché, Lieutenant Burke, strolled in a few steps behind. Tagus glanced around, grimacing.

  "What a cesspool," he said. "I can't believe I'm standing in Ashetown."

  "Actually," Burke remarked, "many lordships and officers come here. It's very popular."

  Tagus stopped, turned, and looked at his attaché without speaking.

  "But still a cesspool," Burke said. "A very popular cesspool."

  Tagus groaned and pivoted again, now facing the casino floor as a concussion of lights and noises inundated his senses.

  "If my family were still in charge," he said, "I would clean up this mess by nuking it from orbit!"

  "Well, sir, I don't think the public would appreciate that very much."

  "Do you think I give a damn about what the public thinks, lieutenant?"

  "No, sir," Burke admitted, "but unfortunately your family couldn't remain in power. Traditionally the same house can't wear the crown consecutively."

  "Tradition!" Tagus scoffed.

  "Sir?"

  "I don't give a damn about traditions either. They're a damn—"

  "Disgrace, sir?"

  Lord Tagus, unsure whether the lieutenant was being insubordinate, quickly nodded and grumbled the word disgrac
e under his breath.

  "Where's that robot we're meeting anyway?" he said.

  "I don't see it, sir."

  "Alright then, let's muster at the bar. I need a drink."

  The two Imperial officers wandered through the crowd of people and gambling opportunities until they found the bar, flanked on either side by baccarat tables. Tagus glared at the female Tikarin, her short tan hair like a lioness, who was bartending.

  "What can I get you, hon?" she asked.

  "Give me a scotch, neat," Tagus said, "and don’t get any hair in it."

  "What about you, sugar?" she motioned to the lieutenant.

  "I'll have—"

  "He's not drinking," Tagus cut him off. "He's my ride."

  Burke sighed, but said nothing.

  The Tikarin pulled the most expensive bottle of single malt whiskey from the shelf behind her and poured it, without ice, into a short glass. Tagus watched her, wondering if her tail ever knocked things over when she wasn't paying attention. She handed him the glass and smiled, her sharp teeth peering through her lips.

  Tagus drank slowly, savoring it. When it was time to order his second Scotch, Tagus felt something brush against his pant leg. Looking down, he saw a robot staring up at him.

  "It's about time, Skeeter!" Tagus said.

  "My apologies, sir."

  Skeeter, a little more than two feet tall, had a head like a searchlight with a single lens for an eye. His body had no arms and, instead of legs, sat on a lone wheel.

  "Where's Gurkin?" Tagus asked.

  "Please come this way, sir," Skeeter said, rolling away.

  Tagus grumbled, abandoning his drink on the bar, and followed the robot while Burke tried to keep up.

  Skeeter led Lord Tagus and Lieutenant Burke through a back door and down a flight of stairs clouded with cigar and cigarette smoke. They emerged through a red curtain into the basement.

  The basement below the Fat Cat was nearly a carbon copy of the casino above except, instead of being filled with wealthy and influential humans, there was a cross section of non-human races, native to Andromeda long before the Imperium existed. While the blackjack tables and everything else were ostensibly the same as upstairs, the furniture was worn out and ragged, the felt on the tables torn in places.

  The noise was nearly as loud as upstairs, except Tagus couldn't understand any of the languages spoken. He had an urge to lob a plasma grenade into the room and head back up the stairs, but out of the babble, Tagus managed to make out one voice he recognized.

  "You're a goddamned racist!" Smitty Gurkin shouted at a Tikarin pit boss.

  Gurkin was a Gordian, a stocky and surly race, with a rounded snout and tusks protruding from his lower jaw.

  "Ah, come on, Smitty," the Tikarin pleaded. "You were using loaded dice."

  "My mother gave me these dice! Are you bad-mouthing my mother?"

  The pit boss shook his head in defeat. "Just get out of here, Smitty. Big G’s getting sick of your antics."

  Gurkin turned and saw Lord Tagus. The Gordian spread his arms like he was happy to see them and walked over, patting Skeeter on the head.

  "Aw, so the robot found you?" Gurkin said.

  "Obviously," Tagus said.

  "Is this place safe?" Lieutenant Burke asked.

  "Not in the least," Gurkin admitted. "A worse den of cutthroats you'll never see."

  "Then why the hell are we here?" Tagus said, raising his voice.

  Gurkin shrugged. "The drinks are free and I like the company."

  Tagus grabbed the Gordian by the collar. "I'm quickly losing patience, so I suggest you get to business sooner rather than later."

  Gurkin raised his hands. "Alright already! Let's get a booth and talk."

  Tagus released his grip. The Gordian laughed, but sweat was appearing in the creases of his forehead. He led the two humans, with the undersized robot wheeling just behind, to a discrete corner where they took seats in a booth. Touching a button on the table, Gurkin activated an energy curtain that closed around them like a shimmering cocoon, preventing sound and light from passing through. While Tagus appreciated the privacy, the smell of the Gordian was pungent enough to make him choke.

  "Do you have the targets?" Gurkin asked.

  "Yes," Tagus said, pushing a data chip across the table.

  Lefty Lucy watched on a jumbo display as a man caught a silver ball and another man, apparently from the other team, slammed him against the wall as they floated in zero gravity. Lucy may not have fully understood the rules of grav-ball, but she enjoyed the violence.

  She was sitting in the race and sports room of the Fat Cat Casino, an area dedicated to gambling on athletic events simultaneously taking place all over the planet. Beside her, Prince Alexander Augustus stuffed popcorn from a large bag into his mouth, spilling much of it into Lucy's lap.

  Lucy was in her late twenties, from ancient Chinese stock, with hair pulled tight into several knots across her head. She wore silver eyeshadow and lipstick, and a black cropped top with black, leather leggings.

  On another monitor, one of the many ringing the circumference of the room, needle-shaped cars sped along the inside of a tube, sometimes passing each other along the ceiling. Lucy believed this was called tube racing.

  Alexander leaned into Lucy's ear.

  "You've got popcorn in your lap," he said. "Why are you so messy?"

  Lucy didn't turn her head or, in any way, acknowledge the prince, knowing to do so would only encourage him.

  "What do you think those grav-ball players make?" he asked. "The guys on the West End Monarchs must make a mint!"

  Lucy grew up on the streets of Ashetown until joining the Red Lotus in her early teens. She could have ended up in one of their brothels, but she showed a propensity for fighting, especially when they suggested she become a prostitute. They taught her martial arts, turning her hands into lethal weapons. Sometimes she wondered if Prince Alexander realized that.

  "They say Maycare's the best player," the prince went on, "but I think he's getting too old."

  He continued at length while Lucy’s face remained emotionless. This game she knew very well.

  "I could've played," Alexander said, "but I couldn't take the risk of damaging my face. The money-maker I call it..." then, after a pause, "...because I'm so handsome!"

  Lucy, ever so slowly, turned her head until she knew he could see her eyes.

  Alexander's shoulders sank as he looked away from her steady, unrelenting gaze.

  "Okay," he said. "I'll be good."

  "I say, Radford," Woodwick nudged Lord Groen as they reclined in the chairs of the race and sports room. "Isn't that the emperor's son, Prince Alexander, over there?"

  Groen was staring into his vodka tonic, wondering if that Tikarin had used the top shelf brand.

  "What?" he said.

  "I'm sure it is," Woodwick said. "He's with that woman, what's-her-name."

  "So?"

  "Do you think the two of them are... snogging, so to speak?" Woodwick asked.

  "Obviously not."

  "I don't mean now," Woodwick protested. "I mean do you think they're acquainted, you know, carnally."

  "It wouldn't surprise me," Groen replied. "He's constantly getting into trouble with women."

  Woodwick murmured and twisted his mustache excitedly.

  Groen sipped his drink. "I swear she watered this down."

  Off to the side of the room, through a curtain of red velvet, Lord Tagus and his attaché, Lieutenant Burke, appeared.

  "Hello there, Rupert," Woodwick said, motioning for the two men to join them. "Have a drink, eh?"

  Tagus turned only long enough to scowl in their direction as the two officers continued crossing the room to the other side.

  Woodwick shrugged. "Apparently not."

  "The fool should look where he's going," Groen said. "He's about to run into Prince Alexander."

  The prince, getting up from his chair, collided with Tagus, spilling popcorn and butt
er topping over his military uniform.

  "Oh, dear," Woodwick said.

  Lord Tagus, his mouth hanging open, looked first at the prince and then down at his own clothing, now covered in melted butter. Lefty Lucy rose from her seat while Lieutenant Burke watched like a witness to an impending disaster.

  "You idiot!" Tagus shouted.

  "Come on," Alexander said, "It was an accident."

  "This is outrageous behavior, even for you!"

  "Me?"

  "You're a disgrace to the crown and your family!" Tagus yelled, his face turning a bright crimson.

  “Maybe," the prince admitted. "There are some in my family who'd probably agree."

  At the bar, Woodwick leaned over to Groen. "I say, do you think they'll come to blows?"

  "I hope so," Groen replied.

  "Care to wager on the winner?"

  "Tagus is a decorated officer," Groen said. "He can't lose."

  "A thousand then?"

  "Sure, why not?"

  Tagus, nearly frothing at the mouth, waved his finger under Alexander's nose.

  "Careful," the prince said, nodding toward Lucy. "My bodyguard's got a temper."

  "Her?" Tagus scoffed. "Oh, I know all about her and the brothels she crawled out of—"

  Although Lieutenant Burke partially obscured the view, Groen saw a flash of anger in Alexander's eyes, even as the prince swung and struck Lord Tagus squarely on the jaw. Groen heard the sound of fist against bone and the audible gasp that rose from the others in the room.

  Also, Lord Woodwick may have screamed a little.

  Momentarily stunned, Tagus regained his footing and followed the blow with two of his own, the first to Alexander's stomach and the second to his face, the so-called money-maker.

  At the same time, Lucy did an acrobatic cartwheel past the two nobles, landing both feet into Lieutenant Burke's chest, knocking him to the ground. He lay on his side wheezing, trying to breathe in the air that had just been ejected from his lungs. Lucy crawled on top of him, pulling his arm back.

  "She's quite a handful," Groen said.

  "Indeed," Woodwick conceded.

  A hint of blood smeared across his mouth, Tagus raised his fists. "You've made a dangerous enemy."