The Arks of Andromeda (The Imperium Chronicles Book 1)

by W. H. Mitchell

  Mel began walking leisurely away from the shop entrance until the store owner burst onto the sidewalk, waving his hands and shouting for the police. Mel abandoned the casual approach and ran madly between startled customers. She became aware of a policeman, lumbering after her with a scowl on his broad, meaty face. In his sausage-like fingers, he carried a shock baton crackling with electricity.

  Mel knew all about what humans thought of her kind. The Gnomi had a reputation for snatching whatever machines they could get their hands on. They liked to fiddle with devices and make them better. Of course, they would also resell them for a profit, but a girl had to make a living...

  Turning a corner, Mel narrowly missed a woman holding groceries. The rotund policeman, close behind, plowed into the woman at full speed. The bags tore open, sending oranges rolling across the pavement. Mel dodged the flying produce but felt a tug. Looking over her shoulder, she saw the officer holding the strap of her satchel.

  "Crap on a cracker!" she thought, tightening her grip.

  Mel pulled hard on the knapsack, but the officer was more than twice her size and nearly dislocated Mel's shoulder as he yanked on the strap.

  "Dirty tinker!" he growled at her.

  "Let me go!"

  Mel thought her prize was lost, but the woman with the lost oranges began flailing her fists on the officer's chest. The policeman tried defending himself, but released the satchel in the process.

  Making her escape, Mel disappeared with her satchel down an alley and into a culvert. From the darkness of the sewer drain, Mel saw the legs of the policeman stumbling into the alley, but she knew he wouldn't follow her down there.

  The Underdelve was no place for humans.

  In the damp tunnels of the sewer, Gen the General Purpose Robot was trying, with limited success, to keep up with her master Orkney Fugg. The robot and the portly Gordian meandered through the dark, dripping passageways of the Underdelve with only strings of lights along the walls for illumination.

  Fugg insisted he knew where he was going. He was short with a stocky build and a thick neck. Stubby tusks protruding from his mouth, he grumbled while he walked. Gen was about the same size, but with a curved, feminine frame made from plastic and aluminum. Her metallic feet made tapping sounds on the hard tunnel floor.

  "Why didn't we go to Technotown, Master Fugg?" she asked.

  "Too many damn humans," he muttered.

  "You don't like them?" she asked, practicing the art of small talk.

  Without missing a step, Fugg grunted through his hog-like snout, "Hell no."

  "Why?"

  "They're bastards, every one of them," Fugg said. "Anyway, we can get better prices in the Underdelve.

  "Oh, yes," Gen remembered. "Captain Ramus said you were cheap."

  "Frugal!" Fugg protested. "That Dahl bastard should appreciate what I do for him. Lord knows we can't afford much!"

  The narrow passage opened into a cavernous chamber. The ceiling was a network of interconnected pipes from which crude lighting hung by loose wires. If Technotown had an ugly stepsister, this place was it. Most people just called it the Black Market.

  Gen and her frugal companion weaved through a steady throng of undesirables dressed in shabby clothing caked with dirt and foul-smelling sludge. The Market used to be a section of the city sewer, but the denizens of the Underdelve turned it into a bazaar for the downtrodden. Individual stalls, each little more than plywood and sheets of plastic, lined the walls, making for a tight fit in between. An assortment of questionable goods acquired through questionable methods covered each table.

  Unlike on the surface, none of the shoppers were human.

  "Alright, here it is," Fugg said.

  He was standing in front of a rusted door with the words Freck's Gizmos and Gadgets welded into the metal. With effort, he pushed the door open and went inside.

  Instead of a store, Freck's workshop was more like a cluttered closet with storage boxes filled with bits of wire and dusty circuit boards. At the center of the mess, a small girl hunched over a work table, sparks like burning fairy dust flying from whatever she was working on.

  "Mel," Fugg said.

  Receiving no response, he yelled, "Mel!"

  The girl, her hair a disheveled mess from which long, pointed ears protruded, spun around. She pushed a pair of goggles up onto her forehead. In her hands, she held a plasma welder, the flame still burning. "What?"

  "Did you get that part I ordered?" Fugg said.

  Mel switched off the welder and pulled the goggles off her head, dropping them onto the table.

  "Of course."

  She opened a drawer and brought out a satchel. Opening it, she removed a nondescript piece of equipment.

  "Any trouble getting it?" Fugg asked.

  "Do you care?" she replied.

  "Just making friendly conversation, tink."

  Mel glared at him.

  Touching Fugg lightly on the shoulder, Gen said, "It's my understanding that such words are considered offensive by the Gnomi people."

  "Nonsense," he said, rolling his eyes. "I'm a Gordian. I can't be racist. You're racist for even suggesting it."

  Gen covered her mouth.

  "Oh, dear!" she said. "I'm so terribly sorry, Master Fugg!"

  "You ain't offended, are you, sparky?" Fugg asked, winking.

  "Of course I am, you fat bastard!" Mel shouted.

  Fugg's mouth opened, closed, and then opened again. "Well, your customer service sucks."

  "Are you buying this or not?" Mel demanded.

  "How do I know it works?" Fugg asked.

  "You've got my money back guarantee. If you're not 100% satisfied, I'll steal another one for you."

  "That sounds fair," Gen remarked.

  "Fine," Fugg said, handing Mel a credit stick. "Here's the amount we talked about."

  "Need any help installing it?" Mel asked.

  "I think I can manage," Fugg snorted. "I know the Wanderer like the back of my hand. There's nothing on that heap I haven't fixed or swapped out."

  "I'm surprised it still flies," Mel said.

  "Stick to your gizmos and whatnots," Fugg said. "Starships are for men like me."

  "What about you, robot?" Mel said.

  "My name's Gen."

  "Has he tried fixing you yet?"

  "Well," Gen said, "Master Fugg attempted to add an attachment to me, but Captain Ramus said it was indecent."

  Mel's eyes widened and she stared at the Gordian. "You disgusting pig!"

  "Don't judge me!" Fugg retorted.

  Mel pointed to the door. "Just get out."

  "With pleasure," Fugg said.

  In the corner of Mel's workshop, the gears of an old grandfather clock turned, clicking a hammer that chimed five times. Studying herself in a mirror that was cracked in one corner, Mel tried matting down her unwieldy hair. With a shrug, she left the shop and turned toward one of the tunnels leading from the main market into the damp darkness.

  Rodents scuttled away as Mel walked purposefully with only a glow stick giving her light. A precious few had ever seen these passageways. They belonged to the wing of the sewer that had fallen into disrepair decades ago, forgotten by whatever maintenance crews might have descended this far below the surface. Nobody came here now.

  Almost nobody.

  Along the main tunnel, Mel came to a side shaft guarded by a wrought iron gate. She plucked a brass skeleton key from her pocket and inserted it into the lock. It took a little muscle, but she cranked the key a half turn and the lock snapped open. She stepped inside and secured the gate again. Her heart was beating faster.

  Up ahead and around the corner, Mel saw a faint light. She could make out a voice, hollow and distorted as it bounced off the moldy, crumbling walls. She put away the glow stick and emerged into a wide chamber with a vaulted ceiling. In the middle of the room, shapes stood facing a stage. While some appeared to be flesh and blood, the rest were robots and androids listening to the speaker on the platfo
rm. He was tall with short, curly black hair and dark brown skin. He spoke to the crowd, but Mel felt like he was talking to her. Mel's face flushed and her smile broadened into a wide grin.

  "The history of mankind," Randall Davidson said, "has been a history of enslavement. From our earliest days, Man has enslaved others to do the labor that he could not, or would not, do himself. From beasts of burden to putting other men in chains, humanity has always subjugated those around it. Eventually they built machines for this; machines made to be slaves.

  "The Robot Freedom League believes that no one, organic or cybernetic, should live a life of servitude. It doesn't matter whether there's blood in your veins or hydraulic fluid, it's everyone's right to be free."

  The crowd murmured in agreement, including the robots, a few of which raised their metal hands in the air.

  "Now, we all know the Imperial government — and most of its citizens for that matter — don't agree with us," Davidson continued. "They view robots as property, as inorganic machinery and nothing more. Well, if you can't own a human being, how can you justify owning someone who can reason better than most humans? I say you can't, and I say those who keep our robot brothers in bondage are no different than those that kept my ancestors in chains. Freedom is the inalienable right of everyone, and robots are no different!"

  The audience stood clapping.

  "Thank you," Davidson said. "Thank you all for coming."

  As the applause subsided and the crowd began wandering toward the exit, Mel pressed past them toward the stage. Davidson jumped down when he saw her coming. They had known each other for several years now, since he started bringing robots to Eudora Prime before smuggling them across the border to the Cyber Collective.

  "Mel!" he said, bending down and giving her a hug. "I'm glad you made it."

  "Sorry I'm late," Mel replied.

  "Not at all," Davidson shook his head. "What did you think of the speech?"

  "It was great, what I heard of it…"

  Davidson laughed. "Well, it keeps the message alive at least."

  "Do you give these speeches on all the planets you visit?" Mel asked.

  "When I can," Davidson replied. "I've been pretty preoccupied lately..."

  Mel noticed someone standing nearby, an android, but not one she had seen before. He was nearly as tall as Davidson, with polished white plastic covering much of his body except at the joints where colored wires were neatly bundled.

  "My manners," Davidson apologized. "Jericho, this is Miss Melina Freck. Mel, this is Jericho."

  "Please call me Jerry," the robot said.

  Mel gave a quick bow and shook Jericho's hand. "Glad to meet you, Jerry."

  "Jericho comes all the way from the Capital," Davidson said.

  Mel's dark eyes widened. "That must've been quite a trip!"

  Jericho's mechanical mouth contorted into a smile.

  "Indeed," he said without irony.

  "Actually," Davidson said, "it's been a nightmare."

  Mel frowned. "Why?"

  "We lost the pilot we hired at Far Harbor Station," Davidson explained. "He was murdered."

  "Holy shit!"

  "We managed to find another captain to fly us here," Davidson went on. "Once we arrived, we intended to rendezvous with a Cyber Collective vessel to smuggle Jericho across the border…"

  "Didn't they show up?" Mel asked.

  "No, they were punctual as usual, but when they saw Jerry, they refused to take him because of his gravitronic brain. They said they won't accept any robots with advanced CPUs anymore."

  "They've been giving asylum to robots for years," Mel said. "They're robots too, for god's sake!"

  "For androids like me," Jericho said, "the Collective has always stood as a kind of promised land where we could be free. Knowing that we've been barred from taking refuge there is very troubling."

  Mel could feel herself getting angry, but she tried focusing her emotions on something more useful. Then she had an idea.

  "What if I knew someone with a ship who could help?" she said.

  "The Collective doesn't let foreign vessels into their territory," Davidson said.

  "I didn't say it would be easy," Mel replied.

  Davidson considered for a moment.

  "If we could get to their home world," he said, "perhaps I could reason with them, or at the very least get an explanation."

  "You want to go too?" Mel said. "But they kill humans on sight!"

  "It's worth the risk," Davidson said.

  "It's suicide!" Mel said.

  "Does that mean you won't help us?"

  "Well," she said, "the crew I know is pretty suicidal."

  "Good."

  "But there's one condition," Mel said, pointing a finger.

  "Name it."

  "I'm going with you!"

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jolana Valeria, a twenty-three-year-old from Middleton, leaned against the glass railing of her balcony in the West End. Her apartment overlooked a tree-lined boulevard many stories below.

  Jolana's auburn hair draped like a curtain toward the street the farther she bent, her tight, black dress pressing against the rail. It was late and most of the people below had dined and gone home, leaving only the stragglers behind among the midnight shadows.

  Not all was quiet. Jolana noticed some commotion, a group of people standing in the road. When they moved away, she saw they had written on the pavement:

  ALL ENDEAVOR IS FUTILE!

  WE ARE UNITED BY DOOM!

  Weirdos, she thought. Probably a Null Cult or whatever the news called them.

  After the cultists were out of sight, servicebots arrived and started scrubbing the street. Within minutes, the words were gone.

  Jolana went back inside to the living room and made herself a drink. Her guest would be arriving soon and she wanted to be relaxed when he did.

  Despite the expensive furniture and the large video screen, Jolana felt at home in the apartment, though it was a long way from where she came from. Middleton was not a slum like Ashetown, but the streets could be just as cruel.

  Her parents were middle class, one a teacher and the other a stay-at-home mom. Her home life was idyllic, and Jolana hated every minute of it. She ran away as soon as she could, but ran out of money even faster. It wasn't long before she discovered what a commodity a young girl could be when she no longer had a choice.

  Nobody particularly cared whether she lived or died until she met a woman from the Red Lotus. They took her in, cleaned her up, and made her a part of something bigger than herself. She still saw men for money, but if a man hurt her, the Red Lotus made sure he paid for it with his life.

  Jolana poured a glass of wine, leaving a second glass empty for now.

  Hearing the chime, she went to the front door. Although she knew who it was, her eyes opened wide like she was surprised to see him. She smiled the way they taught her. She knew this would be a good night.

  The sun was setting, its golden luster filling Oscar Skarlander's office. The Warlock operative ignored the light and focused on the black gloves covering his hands. The burns he had suffered on Hekla VII, trying to retrieve the alien artifact from lava, disfigured his hands so much he couldn't bear the sight of them. The skin grafts left scars that even Warlock doctors couldn't erase. For Skarlander, the deeper scar was losing to a pompous ass like Devlin Maycare. The loss of the xeno tech was not nearly as humiliating as knowing Maycare had bested him.

  That was unacceptable.

  An execubot, carrying a box, entered Skarlander's office. Named Dupond or Dupont—Skarlander didn't bother to clarify which—the robot was Jericho's replacement, but lacked a gravitronic brain.

  "What is it?" Skarlander asked.

  "A package, sir," the robot replied.

  "Put it on the desk and go."

  "Yes, sir."

  The execubot obeyed and left the office without another word. Skarlander examined the package. All parcels were carefully scanned prior
to arriving, but at the same time, Skarlander was hesitant.

  Taking a cutter from his desk, he sliced away the tape securing the seams and pulled open the top. He peered inside.

  From a speaker in the ceiling, the office computer said, "Archsenator Malcolm Tarkio is on the line, wishing to speak with you."

  Pushing the box aside for the moment, Skarlander sat back in his chair.

  "Go ahead."

  Tarkio's face, sunken around the eyes, appeared on the desk monitor.

  "Mister Skarlander," he said.

  "Archsenator," Skarlander replied. "What can I do for you?"

  "It's about what happened two nights ago," Tarkio said.

  "Yes?"

  "The detective they sent to Jolana's apartment called me. He wants to be paid off or he'll go to the media."

  "That would be very unfortunate," Skarlander said.

  "My DNA is all over that apartment," Tarkio said. "I'd be ruined."

  "Oh, at the very least..."

  "Are you going to help me or not?"

  "Of course, Archsenator," Skarlander said. "Warlock Industries always protects its investments."

  "What are you going to do?" Tarkio asked.

  "I think something special from the Cauldron might be in order."

  Tarkio's face turned pale. "One of your monsters?"

  "We prefer the term asset," Skarlander said, "but then I suppose we're all assets... until we become liabilities."

  Skarlander leaned into the camera atop the computer screen.

  "And as you know, liabilities must be eliminated."

  After a pause, "What do you want me to do?" Tarkio asked.

  "Set up a meeting with the detective and find out what he knows."

  "Then?"

  "Then," Skarlander said, "eliminate the liability."

  The archsenator's face winked out as the screen went blank. Skarlander stood up and pulled the box on his desk closer. He leaned over the open package and inspected the contents. Inside, charred along the edges, the head of a robot stared back at him with dim, lifeless eyes.

  "Alas, poor Jericho," Skarlander said.

  Jolana looked beautiful, as always, Archsenator Tarkio thought.