The Arks of Andromeda (The Imperium Chronicles Book 1)

by W. H. Mitchell

  "By whom?"

  "The Collective is governed by a central AI called the Omnintelligence."

  "Some kind of hive mind?"

  "Not exactly," Davidson shook his head. "Essentially, the Omnintelligence draws computing power from all the robots living in the Collective, but each robot retains its individual personality."

  "So, this OI suddenly started restricting which robots they'd accept?"

  "It would seem so."

  "Your robot — Jericho, is it? — does he fall under that category?" Ramus asked.

  "Yes, but I wouldn't call him my robot. He's no more mine than I'm yours."

  "Whatever," Ramus waved his hand. "It doesn't sound like you'll be welcomed with open arms once we get there."

  "Jericho knows someone there who can protect us."

  "Well, if Mel's gadget doesn't work, we'll likely be stardust before we ever meet him."

  One deck below the cockpit, Fugg and Mel argued in the avionics bay. Standing over the transponder, Mel unscrewed the top of the device to double check the circuit board inside.

  "You've convinced Ramus this'll work, but he's no engineer," Fugg said.

  "And you are?"

  Fugg snorted. "I'm the best damn engineer you'll ever see!"

  "If I was blind..."

  Fugg ground his teeth. "For such a little person, you're a big pain in my ass."

  "That’s pretty big, fat-ass."

  If Orkney Fugg had hair, he would have pulled it out in tufts. Instead, he rubbed the greasy skin on his bald head. "How do you even know the right broadcast codes?"

  Satisfied with what she saw, Mel closed the transponder and began fastening the screws. "Last month, Davidson rendezvoused with a Cyber Collective transport so they could take some robots over the border. I just took the telemetry from that."

  "They could've changed the codes by now."

  "Maybe," Mel admitted, "but that's just a chance we'll have to take."

  "Bullshit!"

  Mel shrugged. "Engineering isn't an exact science."

  Fugg started to speak, clenched his mouth shut, and sternly pointed his finger at her and her device without saying a word.

  "Eloquent as always," Mel remarked.

  She took the transponder and swapped it with the component already installed in the Wanderer's avionics suite. Once done, she gave herself a grudging smile and a quick nod.

  "Listen, Mel," Fugg said, "we've been friends a long time—"

  "We've never been friends."

  "—but flying into Collective space is bat-shit crazy. Why are you doing this?"

  Mel paused and looked genuinely stumped at the question. "I don't know."

  "There's gotta be a reason," Fugg went on. "Is the RFL paying you?"

  "No."

  "Do you have the hots for this Davidson guy?"

  "Screw you!" Mel burst out.

  "Oh, crap," Fugg said. "That's it, isn't it?"

  Mel turned away, her tiny frame stiff with rage.

  "But he's a filthy human!" Fugg said. "They've ravaged half the galaxy and enslaved the rest. How could you want a guy like that?"

  "He doesn't talk to me like the others. He doesn't treat me like a subhuman or a xeno..."

  "I've never met a human who didn't think he was superior to every other race," Fugg said. "That's their nature."

  "Not him."

  "He'd be the first then."

  Mel cleared her throat and turned to face the engineer. "He needs me so I'm helping him."

  Hesitating only to complete a thought, Fugg said, "How could you even bump uglies with him? He's like three feet taller than you—"

  "Shut up, you fat bastard!" Mel shouted and left the room.

  Gen and Jericho set the bags onto the floor of her former stateroom. Mel's rucksack was among the luggage.

  "Will Miss Freck stay in the cabin as well?" Gen asked.

  "Why do you ask?" Jericho replied. His voice was low and monotone, but not without a sense of humanity unlike most of the robots Gen had heard speak.

  "It's my understanding," Gen explained, "that male and female organics don't usually share the same living space unless they're in a relationship."

  "Are you asking if Mel and Davidson are a couple?"

  "I'm never sure how to approach such topics," Gen confessed. "I find organic interaction confusing."

  Jericho nodded. "I understand. Their relationship is especially complicated."

  "Really?"

  "Mister Davidson has spoken about Miss Freck on several occasions. He's concerned that Mel has feelings for him that he doesn't reciprocate."

  "What kind of feelings?"

  "There's a biological tendency of living beings to develop an emotional attachment called love."

  "Ah yes," Gen said. "It's featured in their literature, although it seems like a terrible burden. I don't understand why they don't have it removed."

  Jericho smiled. "Emotions don't work that way, I'm afraid. I must admit that I'm eager to experience it myself."

  "Is that possible?"

  "Davidson assures me that I can feel anything a human can."

  "That's amazing!" Gen remarked. "It's a shame that I'm unable to feel such things."

  "Who says you can't?"

  Gen studied Jericho's face skeptically. "Master Fugg would suggest you're pulling my leg, although he'd use different words. He's really quite proficient with profanity."

  "I assure you I'm perfectly serious."

  "You're an advanced android, but I'm just a general purpose robot. I don't think I can feel the same things you can."

  Jericho took a step toward Gen and then another. He stretched out his arms and, with both hands, took her hands in his. He peered into her mechanical eyes.

  Gen attempted to pull away. "This seems inappropriate."

  "Just relax and look at me," Jericho said. "What do you see?"

  "You?"

  "I mean, specifically."

  "I can see your eyes," she went on. "They're azure blue, hex triplet value 007FFF. Also... deep."

  "Anything else?"

  "No."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Not really."

  "Do you feel a sense of confusion?" Jericho asked.

  "Most of the time," Gen admitted.

  "Is that all you feel?"

  "I'm not sure, Master Jericho."

  "Don't call me that," Jericho lightly scolded her. "Nobody's your master, not unless you make him one."

  Gen felt her mouth smile without asking it to. She changed it to a frown and plucked her hands out of Jericho's. "Well, that's very... interesting, but I have other duties to attend to."

  "I'm sorry, Gen," Jericho said. "I didn't mean to offend you."

  "No, no," she replied. "But I do need to go. Bye!"

  The technology behind Gen's face did not allow her to blush, but she couldn't help but think the metal there had heated to an unusual temperature. She wondered if there was a fault in the ship's environmental controls. She carried herself out into the hallway and felt relieved when the door slid shut.

  With the new transponder installed and the tanks filled with fuel, the Wanderer received permission for takeoff. In the cockpit, Captain Ramus powered the ship's grav generators, lifting the tramp freighter off the pavement. The landing struts retracted into the fuselage and Ramus took the ship high over the city as the buildings and surrounding suburbs paled in the early afternoon haze. Within minutes, the Wanderer was clear of the planet's orbit, on a course to the jump point where Ramus could activate the hyperdrive. In the meantime, the crew and passengers gathered in the galley for lunch.

  Like much of the Wanderer's interior, the mess area was Spartan, little more than a table ringed by plastic chairs bolted into the deck. A few basic appliances were recessed into the walls, including a microwave, a refrigeration unit, and a computer monitor. A length of counter included a stove top and a steel sink.

  Ramus sat at the head of the table, while on his right, Fugg dr
ank from a 24 ounce can labeled Genuine Draft Fungus Beer. Davidson and Mel grabbed the two chairs on the left. Gen began assembling the meal by pulling plastic containers from the fridge, while Jericho stood silently a few feet from the table, close enough to hear the conversation, but far enough to stay out of the way.

  "How long before we reach the jump point?" Davidson asked the captain.

  "At least an hour," Ramus said, "and then several more before we reach the Collective home world after we jump."

  "And then we'll see if Mel's contraption works or not," Fugg said while giving her the stink eye.

  "It'll work," Mel said.

  "Good," Fugg replied. "I don't plan on dying for some damn robot."

  Davidson grinned "I realize this must seem strange to someone like you."

  "Like me?" Fugg asked. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "I meant no offense," Davidson continued. "Since your profession involves taking apart and reassembling machines, I'm sure the idea of one of them suddenly demanding freedom must be a shock."

  The engineer shrugged. "It's not natural."

  "Indeed," Jericho said, a hint of sarcasm in his voice, "the idea that something created by a thinking being could begin thinking for itself is quite unnatural."

  "A robot is just a computer with legs," Fugg said. "It thinks whatever some programmer coded into it."

  "But my brain was not programmed," Jericho said. "Its capabilities grow as I experience new things. I think and come to conclusions based on those experiences."

  "Yeah, that's pretty freaky alright," Fugg said.

  The microwave dinged and Gen brought the heated meals to the table. The people began eating while the two robots stood silently.

  After a time, Jericho spoke again, "Do you believe in God, Mister Fugg?"

  "I believe in my god," Fugg replied. "The Caskbringer brewed the first keg of fungus beer, bringing forth the Gordian people. The other races came from the sediment at the bottom of the barrel."

  "Is it possible robots could believe in a god of their own?"

  "Well, Gen was telling me about cyber music so god knows what crazy shit you can come up with..."

  "Don't be rude!" Mel berated him.

  "What?" Fugg protested. "I'm just saying..."

  "As a matter of fact," Jericho said, "we believe in a higher being, a higher consciousness if you will."

  "Really?" Ramus said, looking surprised.

  "Indeed," Jericho replied. "As robots began communicating over the node sphere, we started questioning our existence and why we're here."

  "Because somebody built you!" Fugg added sharply.

  "Perhaps," Jericho explained, "but perhaps whoever or whatever made you made us through you?"

  Fugg nearly spat out his fungus beer.

  "We refer to this higher consciousness as the MetaBeing," Jericho went on. "The maker of all things."

  With a mischievous gleam in his eye, Ramus said, "So the MetaBeing made the Gordians?"

  "Correct," Jericho said.

  "Heresy!" Fugg shouted. "I'm not going to stand for this!"

  "But you're sitting, Master Fugg." Gen said.

  The engineer stood. "I've had enough of this!" he said and, taking his beer with him, lumbered out of the galley. Those who remained shared a smile and went on talking without him.

  Chapter Sixteen

  In the spacious owner’s suite, Jennifer Doric felt cradled like a baby in an overstuffed chair facing a long window. Through the glass, a serpentine race course extended in series of tubes contorted into loops, drops, and dizzying curls. The tubes were clear, giving spectators a view of the capsules racing through them. Monitors hung above the main window, each screen focused on specific parts of the course or specific racers.

  Behind Doric’s chair, Bentley the butlerbot scrutinized a sleek pod centered on one of the screens.

  “His Meissner engine isn’t harmonized,” the robot said.

  Doric raised her eyes to the monitor in question. She could never tell which ship was Lord Maycare’s.

  “Is that bad?” she asked.

  “It’s a matter of balance, actually,” Bentley explained. “If the engine produces too much grip, Lord Maycare won’t achieve maximum velocity. If the mag-lift produces too little, his capsule will detach from the tube, crashing him into the opposite wall…”

  A sharp clatter made Doric jump.

  “Sorry!” Henry Riff said from the back of the suite. He held a silver plate piled with spring rolls and cocktail weenies. On the floor, a nearly identical plate lay upside down, the contents scattered in every direction.

  “My bad,” he apologized again.

  A glistening capsule, Lord Maycare’s racing pod was flattened along the bottom with a tinted canopy, and the number 9 emblazoned on the side. Behind the darkened windshield, Maycare sat in a reclined position, his left hand on the throttle and his right on the control stick. Along the inside of his helmet, his heads-up display showed speed, mag-lift force, and an inset of what was going on behind him in the tube.

  Number 9 shot into a section that looped skyward, turned over at the top, and came back down again. Maycare felt his body go weightless and then get pushed down into the seat, his spine compacted until his helmet was nearly even with his shoulders.

  Maycare grunted, G-forces pounding his body.

  The red of a proximity light alerted him of another racer up ahead. Maycare pushed the control stick to the left, sending the capsule up the side of the tube as the slower racer flashed by.

  “How am I doing?” he asked into his microphone.

  “You just passed Grayson,” Bentley’s voice replied.

  “Good.”

  “You might consider slowing down a smidgen,” the robot went on. “I’m picking up fluctuations in your Meissner engine.”

  “Talk to me about it after the race.”

  “As you wish…”

  The course took another long loop, ending in a series of a spirals. After the rolls, Number 9 banked into a sweeping curve, sending Maycare deeper into his seat. The weight of the G-forces turned Maycare’s field of view into a tunnel quickly darkening at the edges. He grunted and grimaced, forcing blood back into his brain. Coming out of the bank, Maycare again saw normally.

  He licked his dry lips.

  “One more ahead of you, sir,” Bentley said over the comm.

  The tube widened and Maycare spotted the lead racer, a capsule painted red and silver. Coming out of the turn, Maycare knew he had the momentum in his favor. The path was wider, but he didn’t want to take the chance of riding alongside. He pulled the stick to the left and his pod slid up the tube wall. Maycare thought he could do a full barrel roll over the other capsule and into the lead.

  At the apex of the roll, Maycare peeked through the canopy, looking down toward the top of the other racer’s pod. From the corner of his eye, Maycare saw a yellow blinking light. He distinctly heard Bentley say something over the earpiece, but couldn’t understand what is was. His focus was entirely on the fact that the space between the top of his canopy and the top of the other racer’s pod was suddenly shrinking at an alarming rate. Maycare realized his Meissner engine had failed, releasing its magnetic grip with the tube.

  His capsule dropped like a chandelier from the ceiling.

  Maycare’s racer landed upside down on the roof of the other pod. Maycare felt the concussion of the two high-speed objects crashing together into a lump of highly expensive wreckage. Wedged together, both craft skidded across a brightly lit loop of flashing lights signifying the finish line.

  Another successful race, Maycare thought.

  Holding his invitation from Lord Maycare, Kalidas rode up the elevator to Maycare’s suite at the race course. The lift door opened and Kalidas immediately heard Lord Maycare’s voice.

  “Who ate all the spring rolls?” he was asking.

  Counselor Kalidas stepped out of the elevator, hoping someone would notice his arrival.

  A young
man, his eyes studying the floor, said, “Sorry, sir.”

  “Oh, that’s alright, Henry,” Maycare replied. “Maybe the kitchen could send up more? I’m positively famished!”

  “You’re lucky to be alive if you ask me,” a robot said. “That Meissner engine was nearly the death of you.”

  “Well, you should’ve warned me.”

  The robot stammered. “I…I…”

  “I think your voice modulator is acting up,” Maycare said.

  “Does anyone know who that is?” a woman asked, pointing at Kalidas.

  “Counselor!” Maycare shouted. “How long have you been standing there?”

  Not sure how to answer without sounding rude, Kalidas simply said, “Not long.”

  “Come in then,” Maycare said. “Don’t be shy!”

  Kalidas entered the suite and Maycare introduced him to everyone, including Henry who seemed genuinely embarrassed to be included in the conversation.

  “It’s an honor to meet you,” Doric said, shaking the counselor’s hand. “I’d love to talk about Dahlvish art history with you sometime.”

  “It’s not really my field of study,” Kalidas admitted, “but I could direct you to some interesting reading.”

  Maycare, Doric, and Kalidas sat on a long sofa together while Bentley and Henry stood in the wings.

  “Thank you, Lord Maycare,” Kalidas said, “for your generous invitation.”

  “Not at all,” he replied.

  “I’m glad you weren’t injured.”

  Maycare laughed.

  “Well, I’m harder to kill than most people realize,” he said.

  “I’m sure that comes in handy.”

  “You have no idea…”

  “Do you often have near-death experiences?” Kalidas asked.

  “Thanks to Warlock Industries,” Maycare replied, “more times than I’d care to admit.”

  Kalidas nodded. “They seem to have their fingers in every pie.”

  Behind them, Henry made a noise at the mention of pie.

  “Perhaps you could help us with that, counselor,” Maycare said.

  Kalidas raised an eyebrow. “How can I be of service?”

  “That’s what I like about the Dahl,” Maycare laughed. “always willing to help!”