The Imperium Chronicles Collection, 2nd Edition - Stories

by W. H. Mitchell

  Through the windows, the nose of the HIMS Baron Lancaster appeared from behind the dead planet. Within seconds the warship began firing, strands of orange pierced the darkness, exploding along the surface of the space station.

  The room shook violently.

  “What have you done?” Druril shouted.

  “That’s the Imperial Navy,” Ramus replied. “At least they haven’t forgotten you.”

  The blood prince motioned toward the door.

  “Take the prisoner back to his cell,” Druril said, “He can die with the rest of them!”

  The impact from a plasma cannon rocked the cargo hold, sending the first mate to the deck.

  “Sounds like the Lancaster is here,” the Gordian said, still sitting. “Humans love being punctual if it means killing people...”

  Flat on his back, the first mate sat up on his elbows.

  “Won’t they help us escape?” he asked.

  “Only if it’s in a body bag!” Fugg replied, pressing a finger against his ear. “Can you hear me, robot?”

  “Loud and clear, Master Fugg, sir!” Gen’s voice came over his earpiece.

  “Amazing!” Fugg replied. “I can’t believe you didn’t screw it up!”

  “I interfaced with the Wanderer’s nav computer,” Gen said. “He wasn’t very helpful until I explained you were in danger. Also, he’d like to be known as Gary from now on...”

  “Nobody cares!”

  “Oh, sorry!” Gen replied. “I’ve docked at the starboard airlock, but you may want to hurry. The station’s breaking apart!”

  The hatch to the cargo hold rattled open, followed by a scream and a severed arm holding a blaster. Standing over the Dokk guard lying dead in the outer corridor, Ramus was engulfed in blue light as his body changed back from wolf to Dahl form.

  “It’s about goddamned time!” Fugg remarked.

  “Whatever,” Ramus shrugged. “Did you hear from Gen?”

  “She at the airlock,” Fugg replied.

  “Get everyone to the ship,” Ramus said, “I’m going after the leader.”

  “You haven’t killed him yet?”

  Ramus bent on one knee, prying the blaster out of the dead Dokk’s hand.

  “I’m working on it!” he yelled.

  Turning down a hallway, Ramus spied a sign pointing to the hangar. He took off running, wary of the floor buckling under the stress of the Lancaster’s bombardment. He fought to keep his balance, reaching the hatch he was looking for. As the door opened, he saw the Dokk ship on the far side of the hangar. Black and dark purple, the vessel perched on the deck like a bat with wings extended. Druril and the rest of his brood were climbing a loading ramp extended underneath.

  Ramus pointed his blaster, but hesitated.

  The Dokk, the lost tribe of the Dahl, boarded the ship as the ramp retracted.

  As an exile himself, Ramus understood the hardships and the hard choices one had to make. Survival sometimes meant doing terrible things, things that changed you forever. Was he all that much different from these people who traced their blood line back to a race that no longer even acknowledged their existence?

  Ramus watched the ship taking off.

  “Screw it,” he said and fired. A bolt of hot plasma struck the ship in the tail section. Bits of hull near the thruster exhaust smoldered orange for a moment, but quickly fizzled out. The craft hovered while its landing gear retracted and disappeared through the open hangar door into space.

  Silently, Ramus watched it go.

  Aboard the Lancaster, Redgrave balanced on the edge of his command chair, his hands balled together like a knot. Computer consoles, each manned by bridge officers, fanned out in a semi-circle, everyone watching a panoramic screen at the front of the bridge. On the screen, the space station was breaking into pieces as heavy plasma cannons pummeled it mercilessly.

  “Report,” Redgrave said.

  The chief tactical officer turned, her blond hair pinned tight against her head.

  “An unknown vessel is emerging from the station hangar, Lord Captain,” she replied.

  “On screen!”

  A ship like a winged demon appeared.

  “Lock onto target!” the captain shouted.

  Like an ephemeral spirit, the Dokk ship faded on the screen while the captain watched helplessly as it disappeared.

  “The vessel has cloaked,” the tactical officer said. “We’ve lost sensor contact.”

  “Goddamnit!” Redgrave shouted.

  “Wait,” she replied. “I’m detecting a particle trail. It must be damaged.”

  “Can you get a lock?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Well, what are you waiting for, Lieutenant? Fire at will!”

  Along the hull of the Lancaster, a cannon turret swung around, a shaft of plasma erupting from its barrel. Like a lance of fire, the bolt hurled toward a patch of space, empty except for a nearly indiscernible trail of green vapor leading back to the station. The plasma struck the cloaked vessel, its structure outlined in an orange explosion. Now exposed, the Dokk ship became an easy target, suffering another hit before disintegrating into fragments.

  The tactical officer pumped her fist in the air.

  “Got it!” she said excitedly.

  “What about the Wanderer?” Maycare asked.

  “She’s also pulling away from the station,” she replied.

  Behind the captain’s chair, Commander Maycare leaned closer, glancing questioningly at the captain.

  “Let her go,” Redgrave said. “A deal is a deal...”

  “Sir?” Maycare asked.

  The captain trained his eyes on the XO.

  “I have a hunch we’ll be needing them someday,” Redgrave said quietly. “Besides, it never hurts to keep a card up your sleeve...”

  On the main screen, a tiny vessel of yellow and gray accelerated off into the distance before jumping into hyperspace with a flash. Left behind, the abandoned space station broke apart, its forgotten pieces falling across the surface of the dead planet below.

  A version of this story appeared in the novel, The Dragons of Andromeda (2018)

  Squire and the Green Knight

  Silandra Oakhollow gathered herbs in the forest near her village. Her brilliant green eyes were set above high, angular cheek bones and a light brown complexion like freshly cut timber. As she knelt among the wild bushes and tall grass, her hazel-colored hair hung from the hood of her cloak. Straightening, she pulled the hood back, revealing long, pointed ears.

  A Sylvan, Silandra was related to the Dahl but, while her distant cousins were interested in collecting all forms of knowledge, the Sylva focused their studies on nature and the wild things inhabiting it. Even their psionics centered on woodland animals, communicating with the creatures who knew the forest best.

  Silandra packed a handfull of herbs into a pouch hanging from her belt. The woods, dim even when the sun was high, were growing darker now that dusk had arrived. Silandra turned to head home when she heard the noise of fighting and a tumbling crash. Remaining unseen, she crept forward toward the sounds.

  In a clearing flanked by a rocky hillside, Katak warriors had cornered a man swinging a sword. The Katak were froglings, primitive by nature, with slimy blue skin and wielding wooden spears with flint tips. The man wore some sort of modern armor, heavily engraved, with a helmet covering his face. Silandra realized he was protecting something partially buried from a rock fall. As she drew closer, she saw it was a robot, lying facedown, with stones covering much of his body.

  The knight slashed and lunged at the Katak who were nearly a foot smaller, but outnumbered him five to one. They seemed content to surround him, waiting for an opportunity to strike.

  Concentrating, Silandra reached out with her mind into the thoughts of the froglings, casting images of giant snakes slithering out of the shadows. The Katak made loud, chirping noises, glancing at each other until one of them threw down his spear and ran deeper into the woods. The others quickly
followed, leaving the man alone with his charge. His sword hanging at his side.

  Silandra stepped out of hiding into the clearing.

  “Hello,” she said.

  Seeing her, the man in armor sheathed his weapon and removed his helmet. Expecting a human, Silandra was surprised that he was something else entirely. His skin was a dark, olive green with bony protrusions running along the line of his chin. She had no idea what he was, but he bowed lavishly in her direction.

  “Greetings,” he said. “May I assume you are somehow responsible for these creatures’ hasty retreat?”

  Silandra laughed at his formal speech.

  “Why, yes you may!” she said, grinning.

  “I am Sir Golan of the Cruxians,” he said. “Who might you be?”

  “Silandra Oakhollow of the... ah, town of Gowyn I guess...”

  “Well met! May I inquire if this town of Gowyn is nearby?”

  “It’s about a half hour walk.”

  “Good,” Sir Golan said. “I’m afraid my squire has been damaged.”

  He motioned toward the robot still buried beneath the loose rocks.

  “Never mind me,” the robot said, his voice muffled by the dirt.

  Silandra and Golan spent a few minutes freeing the robot. While able to stand, the machine’s right arm was mangled and parts of his chest were dented in several places.

  “Thank you so much!” the robot said, trying to dust himself off with his good arm.

  “Do you have a name?” Silandra asked.

  “Squire,” he said. “My name and function, you might say...”

  She laughed again without meaning to.

  “Well, let’s get you to Gowyn,” she said. “As luck would have it, I believe there’s a tinker in town.”

  Gowyn was a town in the trees, fifty feet up in the forest canopy. Circular platforms were centered around the thick tree trunks with rope bridges spanning the gaps between them. On one of the platforms, hanging above the door of a rustic building, a wooden sign read Bragor’s Tavern. Inside, the lights flickered sporadically, the patrons shouting each time they did. Immediately following, a single but higher pitched voice, no less emphatic, demanded they all “shut up!” That voice belonged to a Gnomi named Mel Freck.

  In the backroom of Bragor’s Tavern, just past the kitchen, Mel was working on the power generator with gusto. Only three feet tall, with pointed ears and light pink hair, she could fix all things electronic or mechanical. Focusing her sonic spanner on the generator controls, she heard another chorus of shouts as the light bulb above her twinkled on and off again.

  “Stop your bitching!” Mel yelled over her shoulder, then, in a quieter voice directed at the control panel, “Crap on a cracker...”

  Bragor, a Sylvan with raven hair and sharp, pointed features, stuck his head into the room.

  “How’s it going in here, eh?” he said.

  “Fine,” Mel said flatly.

  “The folks at the bar are trying to watch the gravbike races but the power keeps turning off the TV...”

  “This generator’s a mess,” Mel went on. “You’re lucky to have any power at all!”

  “Well, can’t you wait until the races are over?”

  “I didn’t come all this way from Technotown to sit around.”

  “I’ll pay for your drinks,” Bragor offered.

  “Well, why didn’t you say so?” she replied, slamming her spanner on top of the control panel.

  The two returned to the main room where a teak bar was crowded with Sylans watching a video monitor hanging from the ceiling. Mel noted the brightly colored grav bikes streaking across the screen.

  She climbed aboard one of the stools and Bragor brought her a sudsy mug of beer as an advertisement filled the monitor:

  DRINK GENUINE GORDIAN FUNGUS BEER

  NOW WITH EVEN MORE SMOOTH FUNGUS FLAVOR!

  Sisa Oakhollow sat in her room carving a figure out of yew wood. She hadn’t decided what the figure would look like, but in her mind, it was a young Sylvan girl like herself. Like her mother, Sisa had bright, green eyes and high, sharp cheek bones, but both her hair and complexion were darker like dull copper.

  Sisa heard a noise from the front of the house. Setting her carving aside, she rose and ran to the door, expecting to see her mother coming home. Instead, she found Silandra in the front room with two strangers, one of them a robot.

  “Don’t just stand there, Sisa,” her mother said. “Help me with Mr. Squire.”

  “Oh, just Squire is sufficient,” the robot said.

  Sisa grabbed one of his arms, putting some of the weight onto her shoulders. The other stranger carried the other arm, burdened as he was with his helmet and armor. She noticed he also had a sword slung on his belt.

  The two of them lugged Squire to a chair made from gnarled beech and leather.

  “I’m most grateful to you,” the stranger said in a formal tone.

  Sisa snickered, not sure why he was talking that way.

  “No problem,” she said, smiling.

  “This is Sir Golan,” Silandra said. “He’s some kind of knight apparently.”

  “Really?” Sisa asked.

  “At your service,” Golan replied with a low bow.

  Sisa gave a sideways glance to her mother who simply shrugged.

  “Perhaps Sir Golan is thirsty,” Silandra suggested.

  Sisa nodded and ran to the kitchen to pour some water into a clay mug. When she returned, Golan had also taken a seat, his helmet and sword placed close by his side. Sisa noticed his armor was carved in the same intricate design as the robot’s chest and head.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “Katak,” Silandra said.

  “These frogmen,” Golan began, “do they cause trouble often?”

  “No!” Silandra said. “Not usually, but lately they’ve been acting strangely.”

  “How so?”

  “Something has them riled up,” Sisa’s mother replied. “I’ve no idea why.”

  Squire raised the finger of his good hand.

  “Might I inquire about my repairs?” he asked.

  “Of course!” Silanda said, slapping her forehead. “Sisa, go to your father’s and see if that Gnomi tinker is still there.”

  “It’s getting late...” Sisa replied doubtfully.

  “Just go!”

  The young Sylvan rolled her eyes and, grabbing a wool cloak, hurried out the door.

  Mel was downing her third beer when a young Sylvan came charging through the door into Bragor’s Tavern. While smaller than the adults, she was still a few inches taller than Mel herself. This might have bothered her after the first beer, but now Mel’s view of the universe had grown more agreeable. She was even enjoying the gravbike races, although only for the crashes.

  The girl ran to Bragor behind the bar and pointed in Mel’s direction. After a short conversation, the two of them approached the tinker.

  “Excuse me,” Bragor said, “my daughter Sisa was wondering if you could fix a robot at her mother’s house.”

  “But I haven’t finished fixing your generator...” Mel started.

  “It can wait until morning,” he replied.

  “What kind of robot?” she asked. “It’s not gravitronic, is it?”

  “I don’t know what that is,” Sisa said.

  “Nothing but trouble...” Mel replied.

  Sisa took Mel’s arm and helped her off the stool. Unsteady at first, the Gnomi found her legs and even took a step without the girl.

  “Maybe this isn’t a good idea,” Bragor said.

  “I’m fine!” Mel said and fell face first on the floor.

  When Mel regained her senses, she was laying on a couch made from beech wood and straps of leather. His back to her, a robot sat in a nearby chair while a woman appeared from the kitchen carrying a tray full of coffee mugs.

  “Where’s the little girl?” Mel asked.

  “I sent her to bed,” the woman replied. “I’m Silandra
, by the way.”

  “Your Bragor’s wife?”

  “Oh, we’re not married.”

  Feeling suddenly awkward, Mel pointed a thumb at the robot.

  “Is this the patient?” she asked.

  The robot rotated his head completely around until it faced her.

  “A pleasure to meet you,” he said.

  “Please don’t do that!” Mel shouted.

  “Fair enough!” the robot said cheerfully, turning his head back to the front.

  “His name is Squire,” Silandra said. “He’s pretty beaten up.”

  “I can see that. Did Sisa bring my tools?”

  “Yes, by the door.”

  Mel hopped off the couch and, a little wobbly, retrieved the satchel beside the front door. She dropped it again at the robot’s chair and pulled her sonic spanner from the bag.

  “This is going to hurt,” she said.

  “Really?” Squire asked.

  “No, you’re a robot.”

  “Oh, yes. Quite right.”

  “Definitely not gravitronic,” Mel muttered quietly under her breath.

  Into the night, Mel tinkered with Squire’s frame, repairing the damage and tuning his systems. She quickly realized that, although the robot’s exterior was ornate, the interior hardware was woefully outdated.

  After a few hours, she straightened her aching back and took a long stretch, her arms reaching for the ceiling. While a software update was downloading from the local nodesphere into Squire’s brain, Mel decided to stretch her legs too by taking a quick tour of the house.

  Before going to bed, Silandra had dimmed the lights in most of the rooms, but Mel was able to find her way. The Gnomi had excellent night vision, their ancestors having lived mostly underground.

  Down the hall from the living room and kitchen, Mel softly cracked open the door to Silandra’s bedroom. She was sleeping soundly in a single bed.

  Apparently Bragor spent his nights somewhere else, Mel thought.

  Sisa’s room, next door to her mother’s, was smaller but decorated more extravagantly with paintings and carvings throughout. Mel wondered if the girl had made them all herself.

  When Mel reached the final door in the hallway, she noticed a light coming from underneath. Hearing nothing, she tried the doorknob and walked in on a strange man with dark green skin. Bare from the waist up, he sat with his legs crossed and holding a sword in his outstretched hands. Before him, a pair of burning incense sticks were displayed on a small, wooden altar. Mel was about to apologize when she realized the man was ignoring her, perhaps unaware she was even there. She closed the door again and returned to the living room.