The Imperium Chronicles Collection, 2nd Edition - Stories

by W. H. Mitchell

  The group set off across the rolling hills of grass. Sir Golan rode atop one of the Pellions, although the antlered warrior appeared unhappy to have someone on his back. The knight was keenly aware that they were a proud race, unaccustomed to such indignities. Remembering his own people, the Cruxians, Sir Golan knew the dangers of hubris. Arrogance destroyed them, leaving them scattered across the galaxy. He hoped the same fate would not befall these creatures.

  The gas giant filling the sky began to set, though the sun providing light remained a little longer. Sir Golan allowed himself to doze, the steady gait of his mount providing a soothing rhythm. With a jolt, he woke again, the soft sound of music in his ears. Along with a quiet melody, a woman’s voice was singing in some unknown language.

  “Can you translate that?” Sir Golan asked Squire, still strapped across the back of the Pellion.

  “Translate what?” the robot asked.

  “The song, of course.”

  “What song?”

  “Are you deaf?” the knight asked.

  “Perhaps,” Squire replied. “I can run a self-diagnostic...”

  “Are you saying you can’t hear that singing?” Sir Golan asked again.

  The Centauri on which the knight was sitting turned his head. “Machines can’t hear it.”

  “But you can?” the knight said.

  “Of course,” the Pellion replied. “It’s the Song of the Sirens.”

  Relieved he was not going mad, Sir Golan was still curious. “What is it?”

  “No one knows,” the warrior said. “Whenever we travel through these parts, we can hear it, but nobody has ever found its source. Our Herd Father, Batuhan, went searching once, but confessed it eluded him. You can ask him yourself soon enough.”

  In the distance, far across the wide plain, the tops of several structures appeared along the crest of a low hill. Although they were still over a mile away, Sir Golan thought at first they were peaks of snow until he realized they were white tents.

  The Westford player received the ball from a teammate and fired the thrusters in his boots, sending him careening down the gravball court. One of the Avondale players, dressed in orange and black stripes, pushed off the glass wall, propelling himself to intercept. Before he could, however, a different Westford teammate put his body in the way, sending them both spiraling together in a tangle of arms and legs.

  The partisan crowd cheered when the ball went into Avondale’s goal.

  Sitting in the Maycare family box, Woodwick was surprised to see Devlin remain in his seat.

  “I say, Devlin,” Woodwick said disapprovingly. “What’s got you gutted, old man?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Maycare grumbled.

  From several aisles over, a vendorbot approached carrying a heavy metal box held to his chest by straps around his neck.

  “Gimlets!” the robot shouted. “Get your ice-cold gimlets here!”

  Woodwick waved, getting the vendorbot’s attention. When the robot arrived, he poured a bottle of gin into a metal container, followed by some lime juice. Covering the container, he gave it a strong shake before pouring the contents into a cocktail glass.

  “Here you go,” he said.

  Woodwick, after paying, took the glass and gave it a sip, but made a sour face.

  “Serves me right,” he admitted. “Stadium gimlets are always a bit dodgy.”

  The vendorbot walked on, calling out to the stands, while Woodwick gave Maycare the side eye.

  “Don’t look at me like that, Winnie,” Maycare said, noticing. “I’m fine!”

  “Girl troubles?” Woodwick said, wiggling his walrus mustache. “Can’t say I’ve ever had them myself.”

  “No!”

  “Well, what then?”

  Maycare took a deep breath, letting it out again with a sigh. “I’m bored!”

  “The idle rich, eh?” Woodwick replied with a chuckle. “What about your side job, that alien business?”

  “It’s called the Maycare Institute of Xeno Studies.”

  “Yes, that one.”

  “Jess has been in my library for weeks but hasn’t found any new leads,” Maycare said. “Meanwhile I’ve been twiddling my thumbs...”

  Woodwick nodded thoughtfully before absentmindedly taking another sip from his cocktail. The lime juice made his mouth pucker.

  “Dreadful,” he said, but his eyes suddenly widened. “I say, I think that’s dislodged something.”

  “Do you need a doctor?” Maycare asked.

  “No, I meant I remembered something.”

  “Yeah?”

  “There’s a story about a place, rubbish probably, but it might be true... anyway, there’s a legend about it. Now what was it exactly?”

  “I’ve no idea...”

  “Travelers say you can hear a woman singing, but nobody’s there — Yes, that’s it! — Mysterious singing, but nobody can figure out the source.”

  Maycare stared at him incredulously. “So?”

  “So?” Woodwick replied with equal incredulousness. “You should go investigate! That’s what you do, surely!”

  “You have some drunken memory and you want me to investigate?”

  “I’m not snockered, I assure you!” Woodwick protested. “Sod it, entertain yourself then!”

  Both men crossed their arms and stared ahead solemnly. On the court, Westford scored another goal and the crowd jumped to their feet in jubilation. Benson, Maycare’s robot who had been largely ignored up to that point, waved his pennant.

  Lords Maycare and Woodwick remained in their seats.

  Still riding a Centauri warrior, Sir Golan arrived at the Pellion camp along with the others.

  The Pellions were a nomadic race and the tents of their camp were a reflection of that. Built from canvas, the tents were longer than they were wide, with wooden poles propped in the middle to hold up the tarpaulin roofs. Cooking fires burned at the center of the camp with the tents stretching outward like the spokes of a wheel.

  The knight dismounted and helped pull Squire off the other warrior’s back. The robot lost his balance and landed on his metallic backside. Several young Centauri watching this spectacle laughed at Squire’s expense.

  “Most undignified,” the robot muttered, getting back up.

  Qadan pointed his spear at the long tent to the North. “The Herd Father will see you there.”

  The flaps of the Herd Father’s dwelling were lined with fur that Sir Golan pulled to one side as he entered. Behind him and Squire, Qadan and the other warriors followed, their spears remaining at the ready. Inside the tent, a heavy fog of smoke filled the space, much of it taken up by carpets and resting Pellions, most of them female. Toward the other end, several Centauri were lying down, drinking from wine bottles.

  At the head of this group, on a carpet of colorfully woven fibers, a large Pellion sat. Compared to the others, his antlers were significantly larger and had more points. He also had a long dark beard which he stroked while taking another pull from his bottle.

  Qadan came to the front.

  “Greetings, Batuhan,” he said. “We caught these strangers for your judgment. They had defiled the sacred place.”

  Batuhan raised his great antlers, surveying the knight and his robot. He frowned.

  “Why have you desecrated our holiest of sites?” the Herd Father asked loudly.

  Sir Golan bowed deeply before resting on one knee. He motioned at Squire to follow suit.

  “As I told your warrior,” the knight said. “We are strangers in this land. We meant no offense and ask humbly for your forgiveness.”

  Batuhan stood and approached the knight who remained on one knee. Along with his antlers, the Herd Father was well over six and a half feet tall, towering over Sir Golan. Hazarding to glance up, the knight saw Batuhan’s dark eyes staring down on him. They were bloodshot, and the pupils enlarged.

  The Herd Father blurted out a laugh, his expression changing from serious to amused.
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  “Of course!” he bellowed. “Come have a drink as an honored guest!”

  Although Sir Golan was deeply relieved, he heard Qadan grunt his disapproval.

  Being a butlerbot was not an easy job and Benson, although he didn’t wear shoes, had rather large ones to fill. Lord Maycare’s previous robot, Bentley, knew Maycare since he was a boy. When the butlerbot was destroyed, it left a gaping hole in Maycare’s heart that Benson was keenly aware needed filling. This was a tall order for an older model robot. He wasn’t sure his programming would measure up.

  In the Maycare family mansion in the West End of Regalis, Benson went into the library to check on his master’s two assistants, Professor Jessica Doric and Henry Riff. He found Doric at a table stacked with books and a silver tray with two empty cups.

  “May I bring you more coffee, Professor Doric?” the butlerbot asked.

  The face of a woman in her early thirties peered out from behind an open book. Her straight, dish-water blond hair was poorly combed and her dull brown eyes had a sleepy glaze to them. “Huh?”

  “More coffee?”

  “Oh, god yes!” she replied, disappearing again behind the book cover.

  Not seeing the young man named Henry, Benson searched the library until he found him lying on a leather coach in front of one of large fireplaces located at either end of the room. The flames in the fireplace were a simulation, a hologram with a thermal emitter behind it. Lengthwise on the sofa, Henry was also buried in a book, but it lay across his face.

  “Mister Riff?” the robot asked but heard only quiet snoring.

  He gently removed the book, revealing a man in his twenties with freckles and the pink imprint of the book crease on his forehead. Extending his metallic finger, the robot gave Henry a nudge in the ribs.

  “What?” Henry awoke with a start, nearly sliding off the couch. “What’s going on?”

  “Sorry to wake you, Mister Riff,” Benson said.

  “I wasn’t sleeping,” Henry replied, wiping his eyes.

  “Professor Doric has requested more coffee. Would you like me to bring you some as well?”

  “Extra cream and sugar?”

  The robot bowed. “Of course.”

  Benson turned to leave, but Henry stopped him.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Yes?” the robot replied.

  “How are things going?” Henry asked.

  “Going where?”

  “I mean, how are you fitting in and everything?”

  Benson paused for a moment before answering. “It’s been an adjustment for... everyone.”

  Henry gave a long, toothy grin. “I bet!”

  “I’m told my predecessor was destroyed in this room...”

  “Yeah, it was pretty terrible.”

  “How would you describe the previous butlerbot?”

  “Oh, I don’t think Bentley liked me too much,” Henry replied, “but he was a good robot. He was more than just a butlerbot to Lord Maycare. He was like a friend.”

  “A robot as friend?” Benson asked doubtfully.

  “Sure, why not? I mean, Lord Maycare knew him his whole life. I don’t think anybody else was always there for him like Bentley.”

  “Biologicals don’t usually seek such things from cyberlings,” Benson said and then after another pause, “But I suppose it’s possible.”

  “Anything’s possible, right?” Henry laughed.

  Benson returned with a service tray and two steaming cups of coffee to find that Lord Maycare had joined the other two humans. All three were gathered at the main table where Doric had been sitting, their expressions of listlessness also shared.

  The robot placed the tray on the table, sliding a few books out of the way in the process. Without acknowledging Benson’s presence, Maycare took one of the cups without asking who it was for. The butlerbot raised a finger, knowing that cup was for Henry, but remained silent.

  “I can’t believe we haven’t found anything, Jess,” Maycare said, taking a sip. His eyes squinted. “Too much sugar...”

  Doric’s face turned crimson. “You know we’ve been scouring these books for weeks!”

  “Warlock Industries has an army of researchers searching data bases across the Imperium,” Maycare replied. “Who knows what they’ve turned up?”

  “Well, maybe you should hire more people for the Institute?” she countered. “You keep expecting Henry and me to do the work of a staff ten times as big!”

  Sitting between Maycare who was standing and Doric who remained in her chair, Henry was slowly shrinking in his own seat. His eyes were fixed at a random spot on the table where his happy place was apparently located. He had told Benson of this mythical locale, but the robot had never fully understood what he was talking about.

  “You’ve never complained about staff before!” Maycare scoffed, waving his cup around, oblivious of the coffee spilling on the fine rug at his feet. “What’s changed?”

  Doric crossed her arms. “I don’t know!”

  In the silence that followed, it occurred to Benson that these people should not be drinking more caffeine. Before he could consider removing the tray, Henry spoke up, “Maybe we’ve found everything already,” he suggested meekly.

  Both Maycare and Doric scoffed loudly in unison.

  “Unlikely,” Doric replied.

  “I hope not,” Maycare said.

  “Why?” Henry asked.

  “There must be countless undiscovered artifacts,” Doric said. “We just need to keep looking.”

  Maycare lowered his head, staring at the floor and the newly stained rug.

  “I’m sorry I lost my temper,” he said after a long pause.

  Doric shrugged. “Me too.”

  “I didn’t lose my temper–” Henry started.

  “It’s just I’ve been bored silly of late,” Maycare went on. “If we don’t get a lead on something soon I’m going to lose my mind...”

  “May I make a suggestion?” Benson said.

  The others suddenly stared at him as if he had magically materialized into the room.

  “Well,” the robot continued, “what about that phenomenon Lord Woodwick mentioned?”

  “What phenomenon?” Maycare asked, the cup in his hand hovering somewhere near his mouth.

  “He referred to a mysterious singing, I believe. He seemed to think you should investigate it.”

  “Bentley — I mean Benson — that’s just one of Winnie’s idle conversation pieces,” Maycare replied. “He probably made it up.”

  “Oh,” the robot said. “Pardon my interruption.”

  “Actually,” Henry remarked, “I remember hearing something about that.”

  Maycare glanced at him, his eyebrow cocked. “Really?”

  “Don’t get excited,” Doric said. “I read about it too, but I’m sure it’s just a legend.”

  “Excited?” Maycare asked. “I haven’t even begun to get excited!” He pointed at Benson while tossing his empty coffee cup on the table. “Get my ship ready!”

  Sir Golan, with Squire standing nearby, knelt beside the Herd Father while he drank periodically from his wine bottle. A female Pellion brought the knight a roasted leg of a bird from which he took a tentative bite before tearing into it with gusto. Batuhan, seeing the stranger enjoying the meal, laughed.

  “Try some of this too,” the Herd Father suggested, offering his bottle.

  Sir Golan, hesitant to set down the bird leg, kept it in one hand while grasping the offered bottle with the other. After he took a deep gulp, euphoria overtook him immediately.

  “What is this?” the knight asked.

  Batuhan rubbed the thick hair on his bare chest and smiled.

  “It’s a special wine we make from a berry that grows on the steppes here,” he said. “Do you like it?”

  Sir Golan coughed before answering. “Yes.”

  “Are you feeling alright, Sir?” Squire asked. “You seem distressed.”

  “On the contrary,” the
knight replied. “I feel great.”

  “I’m glad to hear it!” Batuhan said, slapping Sir Golan on the back. “You’ve come at a good time...”

  “Really?”

  “This is our Winter Feast,” the Herd Father went on. “We celebrate before traveling to the sacred place where Qadan found you and your robot.”

  “My name is Squire, by the way–“

  “Why is it sacred?” Sir Golan asked.

  “Each year around this time, our antlers come loose so we travel to the sacred place where we have a ceremony and place our antlers on the pile. It’s our way of honoring the passing of another season and all the Pellions who fell during the previous year.”

  “That’s beautiful,” Sir Golan said, tears welling up in his eyes as he tore another piece of meat off the bone.

  Batuhan, barely able to coordinate his limbs, lightly slapped Sir Golan on the shoulder. “You should come!”

  “What?” the knight replied.

  “You should come along and see for yourself.”

  The warrior Qadan, who had refrained from taking part in either the roasted bird or the wine, was nonetheless within earshot.

  “Out of the question!” he shouted. “You can’t bring an outsider to our sacred gathering!”

  “I’m the Herd Father!” Batuhan roared back. “I can do whatever the hell I want!”

  Sir Golan, whose hands were still full, tried waving one and then the other but ended up merely holding both up at once.

  “I don’t mean to cause any bother,” he said helplessly.

  “Think nothing of it,” Batuhan replied, eying Qadan with dark, bloodshot eyes. “My warrior oversteps himself. Apparently, he’s forgotten who leads this herd!”

  Qadan grimaced and lowered his head. “My apologies.”

  The Herd Father gave Sir Golan another playful shove and the knight slowly toppled over.

  “You’re my welcome guest,” Batuhan said, pointing at the prostrate knight. “Tomorrow we’ll head to our hallowed spot and celebrate together!”

  In Sir Golan’s ears the Herd Father’s bellowing voice drifted off and grew quieter as if moving away across the steppes. The voice faded entirely as the knight fell asleep.

  Part 2

  On cloven hooves, Horngore trotted to the top of a hill overlooking the steppes. From a race called the Ferans, he had the arms and torso of a humanoid but the lower body and legs of a goat. He had a ram’s head with curling horns, and he was covered with hair the color of charcoal.