Imperium Chronicles Box Set

by W. H. Mitchell

  “Maybe when I get back,” he said, not turning around.

  Flight Leader Chapman heard the mayday call over the emergency band and ordered his group of four Banshee interceptors to change course toward the Steppenwolf.

  In a finger-four formation, Chapman’s interceptor took the lead with his wingman to the left and the other two Banshees behind and to the right. Each fighter looked like a flying wing with engines in the back and ion cannons in the front. The cockpit protruded in a pod at the center of the wing’s leading edge.

  The voice of Lieutenant Erickson, his wingman, crackled in Chapman’s helmet. “What are pirates doing around here?”

  “No idea,” Chapman replied. “Go to full thrust.”

  Torches of blue flame ignited behind the four craft, propelling them at several hundred kilometers per second. With nothing for reference, Chapman had no sense of speed except for the readouts projected across his visor. He thought about radioing the Steppenwolf, but wanted to keep the element of surprise if possible, knowing any signal could give away their position.

  It didn’t take long before his sensors started picking up blooms of heat against the cold backdrop of space. Plasma explosions lit up the infrared spectrum, which Chapman recognized as blaster fire, probably from fighters.

  They were in visual range now, at least at the highest magnification. On his screen, Chapman could just make out four tiny ships buzzing around the Steppenwolf like hornets circling their nest. The freighter’s shields glowed with every hit.

  Two of the pirate fighters veered away and came toward Chapman’s flight.

  “They’ve seen us,” Chapman said over the comm. “Erickson and I will take the first two. Ramos and Kline, take the ones attacking the freighter.”

  “Roger that,” the others said in unison.

  Chapman started to regret not becoming a shuttle pilot like his mother wanted.

  In Chapman’s visor display, two square target designators appeared around the fighters heading his way. Gripping the control stick between his legs, Chapman pulled to the right slightly, moving a circular aiming reticle, at the center of his HUD, over one of the squares. Even through the gloves of his flight suit, he could feel the trigger against his finger.

  The circular and square symbols pulsated. The enemy was on target and in range. Chapman squeezed the trigger. Beams of orange light fired from both sides of the cockpit canopy, disappearing to a point in the distance. At the same time, streaks of light flashed past Chapman’s interceptor and Erickson’s Banshee disintegrated into a cloud of burning plasma.

  Stunned, Chapman managed to keep firing until one of the pirate fighters exploded. The surviving fighter rolled sideways as it made evasive maneuvers.

  “Stay on the Steppenwolf,” he told the other two pilots. “I’ve got this one.”

  Chapman pulled his Banshee up and over, trying to point his nose at the target. An arrow, part of the HUD, moved along his line of sight, showing him what direction to fly. When the designator square appeared again, the pirate fighter was much larger in the frame, only a few hundred meters away.

  Chapman fired and fired again, missing both times. He decreased the thrust in his starboard engine slightly, giving him a tighter turn and bringing his aiming reticle closer to the targeting square. For a split second, the two symbols overlapped and flashed. Chapman pulled the trigger, sending spears of light into the fighter. Its wing broke apart, followed by a blinding flash as the rest of the craft erupted.

  “Yeah!” Chapman shouted, unable to help himself.

  “We could use some help,” Ramos said over the comm.

  “On my way,” Chapman replied.

  By the time the flight leader closed the gap between himself and the Steppenwolf, Kline’s Banshee was already destroyed and Ramos was left to fend off the two remaining pirate fighters alone.

  Chapman quickly turned one of them into blistering slag with a pull of the trigger, but could only watch as Ramos died in a blaze of debris.

  Now Chapman was on his own, just him against the last pirate.

  Both craft began spiraling around each other like the threads of a rope. Chapman rolled his ship inverted and dove away, hoping to gain a better position. The pirate pilot continued spiraling for a moment longer, then rolled out and turned toward Chapman’s interceptor.

  The two fighters faced each other from less than a kilometer apart.

  Chapman fired.

  The pirate’s ship detonated like a bomb, pieces of it ballooning outward like an exploding sun.

  Chapman pounded the inside of his canopy with excitement. After taking a much deserved breath, he exhaled and switched his comm to the same commercial channel used by the Steppenwolf.

  “You’re safe now, Steppenwolf!” Chapman said, still shaking from the adrenaline surging through his bloodstream.

  The captain of the freighter radioed back, his voice tinged with anger.

  “Don’t be stupid,” he said.

  Now in range, the Hotspur fired one of its heavy turrets, ripping Chapman’s Banshee in half. The interceptor exploded into tiny, glowing embers.

  Aboard the Steppenwolf, Captain Ramsey shook his head in disgust.

  “Dumbass,” he remarked. “Where did he think these fighters were coming from anyway?”

  First Mate Park spoke beside him. “That mother ship is closing fast.”

  Through the bridge windows, Ramsey saw his shields flicker as they absorbed the incoming fire.

  “Shields are failing,” Park said. “We can’t take—”

  Another blast. This time Ramsey felt a tremor go up his spine through his command chair. The lights on the controls dimmed momentarily. A faint whiff of acrid smoke filled the Captain’s nostrils.

  “Shields are down,” Park said.

  “No shit.”

  “I’m picking up a transmat signature,” the first mate went on. “I think we’re being boarded.”

  “It just keeps getting better and better,” Ramsey said ruefully.

  He started to switch his comm to the inner-ship channel so he could alert the crew when he heard the door to the bridge slide open behind him. Swiveling in his chair, the captain faced the open hatchway where a tall man covered in an armored bodysuit stood. The red beard covering the man’s face highlighted a set of piercing green eyes.

  “Who the hell are you?” Ramsey asked while noting the intruder was holding a blaster rifle.

  “Durant Blixx,” the man said. “Surrender your vessel.”

  Ramsey raised his hands.

  “I’m not surrendering until you guarantee the safety of my crew,” the captain said.

  Blixx pointed the blaster directly at Ramsey.

  “Surrender now or I’ll kill every living soul on this ship,” he said flatly.

  Ramsey’s mouth bent into a frown, but his eyes remained hopeful.

  “Okay, I surrender,” the captain said, “but I’m telling everybody I negotiated.”

  The pirate Durant Blixx stared at Ramsey for a minute, then rolled his eyes.

  “Fine.”

  Chapter Two

  On the planet Aldorus, Counselor Kalidas strolled down a long corridor in the Imperial Palace. The counselor was small, no more than five and a half feet tall, with burgundy-colored hair pulled back, exposing pointed ears. His race, the Dahl, looked elvish to the human eye, but the Dahl themselves found the resemblance a quaint coincidence.

  The Dahl had been loyal consultants to humanity since the early days of the Imperium. Arriving at the Dahlvish home world Gwlad Ard’un for the first time, humanity encountered none of the resistance they had found with other races. These Dahl, the humans discovered, had no interest in fighting them or anyone else. They seemed perfectly content studying, and even assisting, this alien race that had swept through large swaths of the galaxy.

  This started a partnership of sorts with humans in the lead and the Dahl at their elbow, whispering helpful advice from time to time. In return, the Dahl continued
what they had always done: accumulating knowledge for its own sake.

  Counselor Kalidas felt the slightest twinge of pride at the thought. Never mind the other races who saw the Dahl as little more than collaborators with an invading army.

  The Dahl came to a door and pushed on the handle. Inside, Emperor Hector Augustus was lying on a couch. Kalidas hesitated, not sure if he should wake his Excellency.

  “What is it?” Augustus asked, sitting up.

  Relieved, Kalidas stammered slightly. “My apologies, your Excellency.”

  The emperor was elderly, in his early sixties, with a silver beard. He wore a long, gray tunic with a wide, black stripe down the front and back. A tall collar enclosed the sagging skin around his neck.

  He seemed to be looking for something.

  “Where’s my crown?” he said, his eyes scanning the room.

  “I believe it’s on the back of your chair,” Kalidas said, pointing.

  “Ah, yes, thank you.”

  Augustus stood from the couch, took a few seconds to stretch, and went to the desk against the far wall where a simple, gold circlet hung on the chair. The emperor placed it atop his otherwise bare head.

  “I’m probably going to need that,” he remarked.

  “You remember it’s Prince Richard’s birthday?” Kalidas asked tentatively.

  “Already?”

  “Indeed, your guests are waiting in the Great Hall.”

  “Let them wait!” the emperor scoffed, but then thought better of it. “On the other hand, Richard would probably put them to sleep if I don’t hurry. We can’t have that...”

  “Yes, your Excellency.”

  “Who’s at this party anyway?” the emperor said.

  “The usual suspects,” Kalidas said. “Dignitaries, nobles, the political elite...”

  “What about Alexander?”

  The counselor shook his head. “I don’t think Prince Alexander is planning to attend, I’m afraid.”

  “No, I suppose not. Too much to hope for, eh?”

  “Indeed.”

  Carrying a tray burdened with bottles of champagne and several glasses, a butlerbot emerged from the kitchen adjacent to the Great Hall. The robot’s black plastic chest piece was polished to a mirror sheen along with its spindly arms and legs of shiny aluminum. Instead of a humanoid head, the butlerbot’s face looked like an upside-down teardrop with a reddish face plate. Around its neck, the robot also wore a white collar and black bow tie, but only for appearances’ sake.

  Pillars, wider than a dozen arm lengths, carried the weight of a high, vaulted ceiling above the important people, mostly human, who mingled in the Hall. Hanging from archways between the pillars, banners displayed the crests of the Five Families. On the left side of the room dangled the lion crest of the Tagus family and the botonée cross of the Groens. On the right hung the rose of the House Montros and the scallop shell of the Vebers. In the center, above the landing where the emperor was expected to enter, the two-headed eagle of House Augustus was draped. Each family was named after, and descended directly from, the original captains of the surviving five sleeper ships that brought colonists to Andromeda. Although the rest of the crew founded their own noble houses, they remained secondary to the primary five. As for the colonists preserved in cryogenic sleep, they awoke to become the common citizens of the Imperium.

  The butlerbot drifted from one group of people to another, offering beverages along the way. The robot was programmed to recognize the guests in case any had special requirements or an inclination toward angry outbursts when drunk.

  “Care for some champagne?” the butlerbot asked two men, Lord Winsor Woodwick and Lord Radford Groen.

  Woodwick, from one of the lesser families, ignored the robot and asked the other man, “Did you see Maycare win the tube race last night?”

  “I lost ten thousand on it,” Groen admitted.

  A chuckle cut through Woodwick’s thick, walrus mustache. “It’s your own fault, betting against Maycare. He’s unstoppable, I dare say!”

  “Indeed,” Groen simmered.

  Moving on, the robot came to a middle-aged man and woman identified as Archsenator Malcolm Tarkio and Senator Joan Marshall.

  In the early days of the Imperium, those outside the aristocracy, even those with wealth, had little say in the government. Eventually, the emperor at that time formed a legislature called the Imperial Senate, with politicians elected from all over the empire. The senate, however, didn’t talk directly with the emperor. Only a select few, collectively known as the Emperor’s Council, could do that. These individuals, drawn from the legislature, were called archsenators.

  The woman, dressed in a smartly-tailored gown, took a glass from the robot’s tray without gazing at either.

  “Did you hear the news about Samarta?” Senator Marshall asked.

  Archsenator Tarkio leaned in. “Another pirate attack?”

  “I’m afraid so!”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “Perhaps you could talk to his Excellency about it?”

  Tarkio bowed his head. “Well, I’ve only just joined the Council...”

  “Congratulations, by the way,” she said, taking a sip of champagne between her smiling teeth.

  “You’re too kind.”

  “Before he passed away, my husband always spoke highly of you.”

  “I’m pleased to hear it,” Tarkio said. “Our dealings were invariably profitable, a partnership I hope to continue with you as well.”

  “We’ll see,” she replied.

  At the far end of the Great Hall, below the Augustus banner, Counselor Kalidas entered onto the landing from which twin staircases descended to the main floor. Everyone in the room stopped and stared expectantly at the small-framed Dahl standing above them.

  Kalidas raised his arms above his head and, with greater volume than the crowd was expecting, shouted “All hail Emperor Augustus!”

  Waving his hands, the emperor made his entrance behind Kalidas, stopping at the marble balustrade. The guests all cheered, raising their glasses enthusiastically. Looking down at them, the emperor saw their happy expressions like alligators grinning at a chicken tied to a stick.

  The emperor’s son, Prince Richard Augustus, came up the stairs with a more sincere, albeit restrained, smile.

  “Happy birthday, my boy!” Augustus said.

  “Thank you,” Richard replied.

  The oldest of the emperor’s three children, the prince was in his late thirties. Both his eyes and carefully cropped hair were brown, as well as his lengthy mustache. His tunic was red and gold, displaying their family colors. A handsome lad, the emperor had to admit, but with all the personality of an accountant during tax season.

  The emperor faced the crowd and did his best to appear regal.

  “In celebration of my son Prince Richard’s birthday,” he shouted, “I thank you all for coming!”

  More cheering, this time with a few revelers even shouting “Long live Richard” and “Long live the emperor!” It was all expected but without the expectation of sincerity. These were the roles people played at such things. Augustus knew better than anyone.

  “I thought mother was joining us,” Richard said.

  “Yes, about that,” Augustus replied, giving Kalidas a quick glance. “I’m afraid Isabella left for Revenna last night.”

  “Really?” Richard asked.

  “You know how she is. These sorts of public affairs don’t appeal to her much.” The emperor laughed and then added, “She likes her affairs private!”

  Richard stared at him blankly.

  “I’m kidding, of course,” Augustus clarified.

  The emperor looked at Kalidas again, but if he was expecting any relief from the counselor, he wasn’t getting any.

  The emperor slapped Richard’s shoulder. “Good talk!” he said and left the prince standing alone on the landing.

  The crowd parted as Emperor Augustus reached the bottom of the stairs. Kalidas stepped ahead
, making sure everyone kept a respectful distance unless called upon to do otherwise. Tighter security was unnecessary inside the palace. Everyone in attendance was carefully vetted and, even if someone did choose to harm the leader of the Imperium, that person would quickly die along with his family, his distant relatives, and any casual acquaintances those relatives might have met that day. The Imperium dealt harshly with those who opposed it, and everyone still breathing knew that.

  In the corner of the room, away from the rest of the partygoers, a looming shape stood apart. The emperor knew the shape well, having tried to kill it several times.

  Emperor Augustus strode directly toward the guest as Kalidas tried to keep up.

  “Your Excellency,” Kalidas said, his chest heaving, “of course you know the Magna Ambassador Bar-Batos”

  “Of course,” the emperor said, making no attempt to shake the diplomat’s hand.

  “Indeed,” the ambassador replied. “My shoulder still hurts where you shot me.”

  Nearly a foot taller than the emperor, or anyone else in the room, Bar-Batos was physically menacing with large, muscular features, a wide jaw, and a set of horns curling from his head. His skin was dark green, his red eyes like bloody dagger points.

  “If my aim had been better, we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” Augustus quipped with a hint of irony.

  “But then that was a long time ago,” Bar-Batos said.

  During an earlier era of expansion, the Imperium encountered many native civilizations. Those who resisted met with a harsh, even brutal oppression until they ultimately capitulated. Eventually, however, the Imperium crossed paths with the Magna Supremacy, an empire equally as ruthless. Green skinned and demonic looking, the Magna believed all other life was inferior and subservient to them. They considered it their manifest destiny to rule over all known space, and the Imperium seemed an inconvenient impediment to that goal. The Supremacy declared war immediately and the two sides waged a bloody conflict that lasted over nine years. Since then, the Imperium and the Magna had fought two more wars, the most recent ending nearly twenty years ago.