The Imperium Chronicles Collection, 2nd Edition - Stories

by W. H. Mitchell

  “Then you should be fighting them too, not collaborating!” the Sarkan shouted.

  “That is not the Dahlvish way...” the old monk replied.

  “There is no need to fight among ourselves,” Ambassador Abaru said. “Nothing is gained by all this arguing. We can work together—”

  “No, I’m afraid not,” the Abbot said, motioning to the others in his group. “Thank you for your hospitality, but we must return to the Monastery.”

  Sweeping their orange robes behind them, the Dharmesh monks headed toward the library exit and the courtyard beyond. The remaining guests, speaking in loud tones among themselves, seemed eager to leave as well.

  “Please,” the ambassador said. “Perhaps we can still come to a consensus...”

  Cocking an eyebrow, Ramus raised his voice above the clamor of the others leaving so Demona to hear.

  “Well, that went badly,” he said, nearly shouting. “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

  “He knew it would fail,” she replied.

  “Who?”

  “The ambassador.”

  “Then why go to the trouble?” Ramus asked.

  Before Demona could answer, several of the Erudites appeared between them and the departing crowd, blocking Ramus and Demona from leaving.

  “Ambassador Abaru wishes an audience,” one of the Erudites said.

  “Sorry,” Demona replied, “we must be going...”

  Seeing that none of the staff were armed, Ramus was confident they couldn’t stop them.

  “Yeah, make a hole,” he told them, “or I’ll make one out of you.”

  The tattoos beneath Ramus’ sleeves began glowing, the sensation like hot oil across his skin. The material of his sleeves ripped, thick fur poking through the tears. Everyone, including Ramus, was silent as they watched the nails of his fingers turning into claws.

  “No, Ramus!” Demona said, but the Wanderer‘s captain returned her gaze with shock.

  “I’m not doing it!” Ramus shouted before his mouth filled with fangs.

  Ambassador Abaru parted the other Erudites, taking his place in front of them. “He’s under my control.”

  Ramus growled at Demona, flexing his claws threateningly.

  “Of course, I would have preferred to control both of you,” Abaru said to Demona, “but it appears you’ve had some mechanical augmentations that prevent me...”

  “Why are you doing this?” Demona asked.

  “I felt you probing my thoughts,” Abaru replied. “We Erudites have complete mastery of our bodies, including our minds. Your intrusion was as unmistakable as it was unwanted. In some ways, you’re nothing but a thief, breaking into my head and stealing what is rightfully mine.”

  Demona smirked. “Stealing secrets is what I do for a living.”

  The Ambassador shook his head. “But I’m afraid not for much longer...”

  Ramus watched the scene unfold like a bystander. The movement of his limbs, a thing he normally took for granted, was no longer under his control. He struggled against it, concentrating on each muscle in his arms and legs, but he had become nothing more than a marionette with someone else holding the strings.

  Ramus roared and lunged toward Demona who dove to the side, rolling out of the monster’s way.

  Turning around, Ramus made another charge.

  Her hands crackling with energy, Demona stood her ground and opened her mouth. From within, a horde of insects came pouring out like water from a fire hose. The rush of flying bugs struck Ramus in the chest, knocking him backwards and off his feet.

  Ramus felt the pain of hitting the floor, but a voice in his mind was screaming to get up. He strained to stay down, but he had no choice. His claws scraped against the white marble as he scrambled to his feet.

  The insects, which had been swarming moments before, faded away into nothing, evaporating into thin air. Demona changed the position of her arms. Wisps of shadowy darkness, sprouting from her palms, darted across the room like black ribbons of miasma. They curled around the Erudites, entwining their bodies.

  Screams erupted behind Ramus but he couldn’t turn his head to see. Without warning, he once again fell to the ground, but this time stayed down. Slowly, as if waking from a deep sleep, Ramus felt the paralysis of his own body finally melting.

  He rolled to his side. Opposite of Demona, where the Erudites had been standing, shapes were lying sprawled on the floor. Although their clothing was intact, their blue skin had turned a sickly gray with lesions covering most of it. Each body — dead, Ramus hoped — lay in a greenish-yellow puddle of fluid.

  He didn’t see the ambassador, or whatever was left of him.

  “He ran off,” Demona said, reading his mind. “But I left him with something to remember me by...”

  When Demona and Ramus returned to Solan’s hideout, he listened intently to what they had discovered.

  “The Erudites are obsessed with perfection,” Solan said after they finished. “I’m sure whatever disfigurement you gave the ambassador will ruin his career.”

  “Nobody’s perfect,” Demona remarked wryly.

  “Well, not anymore anyway...” Solan replied.

  Ramus, restlessly shifting his weight from one foot to the other, crossed his arms. “Are we done here?”

  “Why don’t you stick around?” Solan said. “It’ll be like old times.”

  Demona gave the Wanderer‘s captain a sideways glance, waiting for his reply.

  “No,” Ramus said.

  “The old times weren’t all that bad, were they?” Demona asked.

  Ramus, who had already changed back into his regular clothes, pulled a set of earrings out of a pocket and began inserting them back into his ears.

  “Times change,” he said. “People do, too.”

  Demona’s eyes narrowed, her gaze shifting to the tapestries hanging in the room.

  “Alright, Rowan,” Solan said. “You’re free to go, but I’ll be sure to let you know when I need you again.”

  “Don’t make a habit of it,” Ramus replied. He walked away, disappearing down the hall toward the alley entrance.

  “You should probably go, too,” Solan told Demona. “The client is arriving soon and I’d rather meet him alone.”

  Still scowling, she nodded and left by a different way than Ramus. Alone, Solan smiled like a cat with a canary.

  A half hour later, the hidden doorway from the alley opened and someone came slowly down the corridor into the main room.

  Solan was waiting.

  “So nice to see you again,” he said.

  In his orange robes, the Abbot of the Dharmesh Monastery stood alone and with a frown.

  “You made it quite clear I had to appear in person,” the elderly monk replied.

  “Well, considering the delicacy of the information you had us acquire, I felt it only fitting.”

  “I’m told there was an altercation after I left?”

  “Yes, but nothing my people couldn’t handle,” Solan said.

  “I hope the incident won’t become a problem,” the Abbot replied grimly.

  “I doubt the Erudites will raise a fuss. Of course, you could have simply gathered the information yourself.”

  The Abbot lowered his eyes. “You know my people wouldn’t allow that. Reading someone’s mind is strictly prohibited.”

  “And yet,” Solan said, raising his eyebrows, “you’re perfectly willing to hire me to do it.”

  “We do what we must—”

  “Especially if it means avoiding getting your fingers dirty...”

  The Abbot’s expression grew even darker. “Do you have something for me or not?”

  “Indeed I do!” Solan said. “It appears Ambassador Abaru wasn’t being entirely truthful.”

  “I expected as much.”

  “In fact, his proposal of an alliance was a ruse to gain your trust,” Solan went on. “The Erudites have been perfecting their powers of mind control and they intended to use it against you and the oth
ers.”

  “To what end?”

  “For power, mostly,” Solan said, “but also to gain knowledge. My agent saw a strong desire in the ambassador’s thoughts concerning the Pool of Memory at the Dharmesh Monastery. He would have sucked it dry of whatever he could learn from it.”

  The monk’s face turned more thoughtful than angry. “That would have been a disaster.”

  “I can imagine,” Solan said. “I’m sure your liquid computer contains all sorts of secrets the Dahl would rather keep hidden. I wouldn’t mind getting a look at it myself, actually.”

  “But you never will, Solan,” the Abbot growled. “You’ll never set foot in my Monastery!”

  Solan’s grin became tighter.

  “No, I suppose not,” he said. “But having you come to me like this makes it all worthwhile.”

  The Abbot snorted and turned to leave.

  “Until next time,” Solan called after him, watching the monk’s robes flow away down the hall.

  A version of this story will appear in the upcoming novel, The Robots of Andromeda (2020)

  Song of the Sirens

  Part 1

  Sir Golan crested a low hill, followed close behind by his robot named Squire. Below, a shallow stream curled its way along a wide plain of short grasses. Above the steppe, hued by the blue of the moon's atmosphere, the swirling clouds of a gas giant filled most of the sky.

  Sir Golan's armor made little noise while he walked. The breast plate, greaves, and shoulders were carved in an intricate scrollwork, which matched the designs of the robot's casing who lumbered at the knight's heels. Sir Golan's head was an olive green with bony projections around the jaw line. His hand rested on the hilt of a sword, secured in its scabbard on his belt.

  "Squire," he said, "what was the name of this moon again? I've forgotten..."

  "Pellium D," Squire replied, his voice slightly modulated by the age of his model. "My database states that it is the only inhabited, natural satellite around Pellium, planet you see above us."

  "It's beautiful."

  "It has a certain majestic charm, yes, Sir Golan. It is, however, somewhat lacking in public transportation..."

  "Are you complaining?" the green knight asked.

  "I wouldn't dream of it, Sire."

  Sir Golan chuckled, glancing at his robot. "We live to serve. That is our quest."

  "Indeed," Squire replied. "I'm sure the settlers we helped back there were grateful for your assistance."

  "It was nothing, once we found the ratlings' nest..."

  "Rippana," the robot said, referring to the knight's sword, "sang beautifully as always."

  Sir Golan drew Rippana in a fast, fluid motion. The daylight glinted off the blade and the lettering inscribed along its length. Admiring the weapon for a few moments, he smiled and returned the sword to its scabbard just as quickly.

  "We should proceed," Sir Golan said. "It's a long walk to the next village."

  The light of the afternoon had begun to fade into dusk when Squire glimpsed a shape across a wide expanse of green. Surrounded by grass, the irregular mound, white as chalk, rose from the flatness around it like a jagged puzzle dumped in the middle of nowhere. Curious, Sir Golan and the robot approached cautiously.

  Getting closer, Sir Golan recognized a rough symmetry like a dome of interlocking parts. He felt foolish when he realized what he was actually looking at.

  "They're antlers," he said. "It's an enormous pile of antlers."

  Reaching the outer edges, the knight estimated there must be hundreds, if not thousands of horns laid out in an organized arrangement, reaching upwards at least twenty feet high.

  "It's impressive," Squire remarked. "Though an odd monument in such a remote place."

  Sir Golan walked around the perimeter with Squire following dutifully.

  "The grass here is trampled," the knight said. "Something with hooves..."

  A dull rumble rose in the air. Sir Golan turned his head in each direction while Squire simply rotated his own in a complete circle. The ground trembled like a heavy vehicle was thundering down a street. Sir Golan drew his sword, his legs slightly apart in a defensive posture. Pushing a button embedded into his left arm, Squire activating an energy shield, three feet tall and two feet wide. He peered through the translucent protection.

  From behind a low rise, creatures half equine and half humanoid charged toward them. They wore a mixture of metal and leather armor over their torsos and carried a long spear and round shield. A pair of antlers jutted from each of their heads.

  Sir Golan dug in his heels, preparing for the assault, but the equine creatures abruptly halted several feet away, showering the knight and his robot in a shower of dirt and loose sod.

  One of them trotted forward, shoving the point of his spear in Sir Golan's direction.

  "You're trespassing on sacred land!" he shouted. "Explain yourself!"

  While not lowering his guard, Sir Golan nodded his head slightly in a nominal bow.

  "I am Sir Golan and this is my robot, Squire," he said. "We are simply strangers here. We meant no disrespect."

  "I am Qadan of the Pellion people," the warrior said. "We watched you come from the human settlement, but you are not human."

  "No, I'm a Cruxian."

  "I've never heard of your race."

  "Few have," Sir Golan remarked.

  Squire leaned toward the knight and whispered, "My database says humans refer to the Pellions as Centauri, based on their ancient Earth mythology."

  "We are wanderers," Sir Golan continued. "We come only to assist those in need."

  Qadan lifted his spear, trotting in a tight circle as if considering what to do next. When he came back around, he tapped the base of his spear into the grass.

  "Come with us," he said, "and speak with the father of our herd. He'll decide what to do with you!"

  Lord Winsor Woodwick, a portly man with a walrus mustache, arrived at the gravball game shortly after the second half had begun. He was dreadfully late, he knew, but hoped Lord Devlin Maycare wouldn’t be cross.

  The gravball stadium was built like a tube within a tube. The outer part, with seating along its circumference, faced the inner part, a transparent cylinder in which the players floated in zero gravity. The stadium stood on the grounds of Westford college, one of four prestigious universities located in and around the capital Regalis.

  The crowd, dressed predominantly in the school colors, blue and gold, cheered loudly as their team scored another goal. Startled, Woodwick nearly spilled his martini as he navigated the stairs leading up to Maycare’s private box. This would have been a disaster, Woodwick thought, knowing that getting a replacement martini, even at Westford, would not be an easy task.

  Reaching the box, Woodwick found Maycare alone in his seat except for a robot sitting beside him. Maycare wore a blue and gold-stripped scarf draped over his shoulders. The robot, roughly humanoid with a blue and silver paint job, held a Westford pennant that he waved periodically.

  “I say, Devlin,” Woodwick wheezed while sitting down. “I don’t remember you sitting so far up!”

  “Winnie!” Maycare replied. “Where the hell have you been?”

  The heavy-set man rolled his eyes but didn’t reply until he had taken another sip of his drink. “Now don’t you start. Lord Groen kept me with some infernal story about a horse he was betting on.”

  “Did he win?” Maycare asked.

  “Of course not.”

  Inside the gravball court, the other team came charging toward the Westford goal. Wearing the orange and black of Avondale, one of the other four schools in the exclusive IV League, the players bypassed the Westford defense and scored.

  “Damn it!” Maycare shouted, covering his eyes.

  Woodwick glanced at the scoreboard, just below the words Lord Devlin Maycare Stadium:

  AVONDALE LANCERS 8

  WESTFORD CAVALIERS 7

  “Chin up, old man,” Woodwick said. “We’ll get them surely.�
��

  He took another look at the robot on the other side of Maycare, gently but steadily waving his pennant depicting a gold horse and rider against a blue background.

  “I say,” he went on, “didn’t you have a different robot before?”

  “Of course,” Maycare replied, his eyes fixed on the court. “Bentley was destroyed, so I had to get a new butlerbot.”

  “What’s this one called then?”

  “Benson.”

  The robot turned his head while leaning forward. “A pleasure to meet you.”

  Woodwick noted that, like his predecessor, Benson was an older model. The robot’s face had a small grill instead of a mouth and his large eyes were a reddish-orange. In the back of his head, parts were clearly visible instead of covered by a casing.

  Woodwick chuckled. “You still fancy antiques I see...”

  Maycare, a swath of his carefully combed hair hanging over his blue eyes, turned from the game just long enough to glare.

  “I’m spending time with you, aren’t I?” he said and turned back to the court.

  “Humph!” Woodwick grunted, downing the rest of his martini.

  On a moon orbiting a gas giant, Sir Golan helped strap his robot across the back of a Centauri like a saddle bag.

  “This seems undignified,” Squire confessed.

  The Pellion carrying the robot gave Sir Golan a sour look as if to say, “how do you think I feel?”

  “Don’t complain,” Sir Golan told his robot. “It’s not our fault you’re too heavy to ride properly.”

  “I could walk,” Squire replied. “I don’t mind...”

  Qadan, the Centauri warrior, galloped up with his spear in hand.

  “Out of the question!” he said. “It’s either this or we leave you behind!”

  “Not a problem,” the knight replied. “Thank you for your generosity.”

  Qadan looked the knight up and down before trotting off again without another word.

  “I think you’re winning him over, Master,” Squire remarked, his head hanging upside down below the Pellion’s belly.

  “We’ll see,” the knight said.