“Not my problem,” Skarlander remarked. “I’m told you have my pharmaceuticals.”
Kid nodded. “Safe and sound, ready for pickup.”
Both men turned as something stirred. On top of the barrels, Mister Giggles got to his feet and raised an arm as far as his chubby limb would allow.
“Freedom!” he shouted and promptly erupted into fire and smoke, struck by Skarlander’s disrupter.
The Warlock agent turned again to Kid Vicious.
“Get your shit together,” Skarlander said.
Just outside the Regalis starport, Randall Davidson opened the door to Sparky Joe’s Saloon. The sun had just set and the lights of the city were coming to life.
The bar interior was crowded with people who worked in or around the starport. Mechanics and technicians in overalls soiled with grease and other fluids sat at the tables, their conversations veiled in tobacco smoke. Below a video screen that took up nearly an entire wall, a group of starship pilots, easy to spot in their flight suits, huddled around a pool table. On the screen, a celebrity reporter was talking about Prince Richard’s birthday as nobles and the well-to-do mingled in the background on their way into the Imperial Palace. The video then went to a commercial showing a political advertisement:
RE-ELECT SENATOR JOAN MARSHALL:
SHE KNOWS WHAT’S BEST FOR YOU!
Davidson was in his early thirties with short, curly black hair and dark brown skin. He waded through the sea of noise until he reached the counter where a bartenderbot was cleaning glasses. The robot had a torso and a head, both painted in a faded blue. Instead of legs, a stainless steel pole jutted into a track that ran behind the bar.
“What’ll you have, bub?” the robot asked. On its chest, the name tag read Joe.
Davidson gave a quick glance at the beers listed on the wall behind the bartenderbot. None of them really interested him.
With his thumb, he motioned to the man sitting to his right. “I’ll have whatever he’s having.”
The robot gave a shrug and rode the rail down to the other end of the bar.
“Do I know you, friend?” the stranger said. His hair was short with gray patches around his temples. His nose was crooked.
“Depends,” Davidson said. “Are you Cameron Hitch?”
“Who’s asking?” the smuggler replied.
“I’m told you might be for hire.”
“I might be a lot of things,” Hitch said, “if the money’s right.”
Davidson smiled. “I need a package delivered to Eudora Prime.”
Hitch cocked his head to one side. “That’s on the border. It’ll take a while to get there.”
“I understand, but the quicker the better. I hear you have a fast ship.”
“That I do,” Hitch nodded. “So, what’s the package?”
Davidson turned in his chair, followed in kind by Hitch. Both men stared at the doorway which stood open. Framed in the entrance, Jericho stood staring back at them.
“My name’s Randall Davidson,” Davidson told Hitch. “I work for the Robot Freedom League.”
Chapter Four
After much deliberation, Otis Radley decided that brown berry was his favorite Spastic Cola flavor. In the East wing of Senator Joan Marshall’s mansion, Radley closed the bathroom door, the fan still audible on the other side, and headed back to his post in the command center. Past midnight, he was the only one on security duty, so he was in no hurry. Radley took pleasure in the solitude of his nightly routine.
Radley twirled the ID badge around his neck by its lanyard as he walked. When he arrived at the command center, he found the door open but thought nothing of it, knowing he often left it open to avoid swiping his ID again. Inside, he sat at a desk chair before a bank of video screens covering the opposing wall. He tapped a few keys on a keyboard and squinted at the scenes each monitor revealed.
The Marshall mansion replicated the classical Colonial style of early America on Earth, or as close as architects could approximate it from the sleeper ship archives. A circular driveway, paved with crushed gravel, led to the front entrance.
Scanning the grounds via the monitors, Radley grabbed the neck of a microphone that extended from the top of his desk.
“Dewey?” he said. “Are you out there?”
A warble came from the speakers. On one of the screens, a conical robot without arms or legs rolled into view. Its shell was mostly smooth, white plastic except for a single ring of blue, blinking lights around the robot’s body. Also, in red, stenciled numbers, a 01 was printed just above the lights.
“Oh, I see you,” Radley replied, watching the securitybot, also known as Drone One, wobble over the gravel up the driveway.
Radley switched a few cameras until the back of the property was visible. A marble fountain spurted water into the air against a backdrop of hedges cast in shadows. As expected, Radley saw another bot, Drone Two, teeter along the path, following its normal route through the garden.
Radley cycled through another set of images and grumbled.
“Drone Three, report,” he said into the microphone.
He waited.
“Louie, where are you?” Radley asked again.
Another chirp from the speakers alerted Radley to the monitors. Enlarging the view until the screens combined into a single, massive image, Radley saw Dewey sitting patiently next to the missing robot which was missing the top of its dome, the shell blackened along the edges with loose wires throwing sparks.
“Louie!” Radley shouted, realizing someone had blown Drone Three’s little head off.
Radley flipped the plastic cover off an ominous, red button labeled ALARM, but before he could smash the button, he felt a sharp, hot sensation across his windpipe.
The world began spinning. When it stopped, instead of looking at the monitors, Radley was looking up from the floor. Disoriented, he tried to focus, but his vision was growing dim. He saw a man with hair shaved to a fine stubble behind the desk chair. Dressed entirely in black, the stranger held a wire glowing white hot between his hands. Radley also saw someone dressed as a security guard still sitting in his chair. His mind swiftly clouding, Radley thought something wasn’t right about the person in the chair, as if something was missing. He tried concentrating on what it was, but the fogginess of his thoughts thickened until they faded into an inky blackness.
The sun blazed in the blue sky above Regalis as Magnus Black, dressed in a full-length, black leather coat, walked into a fashionable boutique called Sadira Flowers. Magnus, in his late thirties, was tall and slim, with a head shaved to a fine stubble.
A bell over the door jangled as Magnus entered. A young girl with blond hair tied into braids was busy organizing an arrangement of carnations and angel’s breath. At the sound of the bell, she stopped and looked up at Magnus with a warm smile.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“I want two dozen white lilies,” Magnus said.
“The occasion?”
“A death in the family.”
After a pause, the girl said “Would you like them gift wrapped?”
“Sure, why not?”
The girl’s smile faded as she motioned for Magnus to follow. She led him through a curtain at the back of the store and down a hallway lined with commercial refrigerators filled with flowers.
Magnus felt the chill as he passed by.
The corridor ended at the doors of an elevator. The girl directed Magnus inside, but didn’t join him. The doors closed and the lift headed downward. Instrumental music played as Magnus waited. He didn’t recognize the tune at first, but realized it was something by a robotic band called Toad the Wet Robot. He also remembered how much he hated robot music.
The doors opened to reveal a woman standing with her hands crossed. The wrinkles around her eyes and the strands of gray in her otherwise brown hair suggested she was in her forties. She wore a dark suit with red lace around the neck and cuffs. She was not smiling.
“Are you Mister B
lack?” she said in a low, even tone.
Magnus nodded.
“My name’s Calesta Koshkin,” she said, presenting her hand like a gift. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“I know who you are,” Magnus remarked, shaking her hand.
Now she smiled. “Perhaps my reputation precedes me?”
“Without question,” Magnus said.
“I appreciate your quick response to our inquiry. I know it was short notice.”
“When Red Lotus sends an invitation,” he said, “it’s best not to keep them waiting.”
“Even so...” Koshkin began, but then turned and walked silently toward a door opposite the elevator. Magnus, though not asked, knew instinctively to follow anyway. The door opened into a room, much longer than it was wide, decked out like a gymnasium. Down the left and right sides of the room, women, most of them young, were doing drills in groups of two to six at a time. In most cases, the women were paired up, sparring against one another. Some were unarmed, but most held weapons: swords, staffs, and even a few with long, metallic claws bound to their hands. They were all shouting in harsh, guttural screams.
Magnus felt the hairs on his neck stiffen.
Koshkin walked straight down the center of the women with Magnus, reluctantly, a few steps behind.
Sixteen-year old Duncan Marshall lay in bed, his blond, curly hair pressed tightly against the pillow.
It was 2 A.M.
“Master Duncan?” the mansion computer said through a speaker in the nightstand. “You appear to be awake.”
“So?” the boy replied.
“Are you aware of the current time?”
“Yes.”
“Then might I inquire as to why you are not currently sleeping?”
“Mind your own business,” Duncan said.
“Do you require a sedative?”
“No!”
“Sorry,” the computer cooed, “but your sleep patterns seem maladjusted of late.”
Duncan stared at the ceiling, dark except for the pale light coming through the colonial windows.
“I had a nightmare,” he said finally.
“Actually, I have an extensive subroutine dedicated to child psychology,” the computer said with thinly veiled pride. “Would you like to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
“Please?”
Another long pause ensured.
“I dreamed about when my dad and my sister died,” the boy said.
“That seems unlikely,” the computer replied. “Their accident occurred while you were in utero, so to speak.”
“I can still imagine it, can’t I?”
“Ah yes, the human imagination,” the computer said. “Personally I fail to see the intrinsic value of imagining something terrible. Why not think of something more pleasant like a fluffy bunny or a teddy bear?”
“I hate those things.”
The boy rolled onto his side for a few minutes and then rolled back again. He repeated this a few times before speaking again.
“Is my mother home yet?” Duncan asked.
“She arrived moments ago with Archsenator Tarkio,” the computer said.
Duncan sat up. “What’s he doing here?”
“Some sort of courtship ritual I assume.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well, Master Duncan, when a man and woman love each other very much—”
“Stop! Just stop!”
“You needn’t concern yourself,” the computer said. “Your mother is quite pragmatic from what I’ve seen. I’m sure the mate she chooses to replace your father will be a good match for everyone involved. Is that not ideal?”
“No!”
“Really?” the computer said, its voice rising a few octaves. “Well, politics makes strange bedfellows, as the saying goes.”
“Gross!”
Duncan heard an audible sigh from the speaker.
“It’s merely an expression,” the computer clarified. “I didn’t mean it literally, although it may come to that eventually—”
The boy threw his covers aside and put his bare feet into a pair of blue slippers, matching the blue silk pajamas he was wearing.
“I’m getting up,” he said.
“Now?” the computer asked.
“I want to talk to Mom.”
In her drawing room, Senator Marshall, still wearing the gown from the birthday party earlier, rested her hand against the mantelpiece as holographic flames, producing no actual heat, blazed in the fireplace. Behind her, Archsenator Tarkio took a sip from his nightcap while relaxing on the sofa. The lights were dim.
Marshall touched a framed photograph of her late husband on the mantel.
“When Jim and I first got married,” she said, “I hated politics.”
Tarkio smiled. “Oh, really?”
“After he got elected to the Imperial Senate we moved to Aldorus, but I was shocked by how the nobles ruled over everything. Jim’s passion was always about giving regular people a voice in government. I watched him work so hard against so much opposition. Eventually, his passion became mine.”
“Well, we all know the deck is stacked against us,” Tarkio said. “Unless you’ve got blue blood flowing through your veins, that is.”
“When Jim died, I picked up the torch. I couldn’t bear the thought of all his work going to waste.
“And you haven’t!” Tarkio gushed. “If anything, you’ve surpassed what he accomplished. You always know when to make sacrifices for the common good.”
“When it’s necessary,” she replied.
A butlerbot entered the room with a bottle and refreshed Tarkio’s drink. The robot exited the way he came, vanishing into the murky shadows. Marshall left the mantel, taking a seat beside Tarkio on the couch.
“If you don’t mind me asking,” Marshall said tentatively, “do you regret not getting married?”
He laughed. “Speaking of sacrifices...”
“Too busy campaigning, I suppose?”
“Well, yes,” Tarkio said. “Once an election ends, another begins. It’s a constant wheel turning and all the while you have to raise money to pay for it all. Luckily, there’s no shortage of donors. Once you’re on the right committees, that is, they beat a path to your door.”
“For years, I’ve tried to be assigned to the Defense Appropriations Committee,” Marshall admitted.
“Oh, I can help you with that!” Tarkio grinned, bowing his head. “Once I’m established on the Emperor’s Council, I’ll have more say about who gets assigned to what.”
“I’d like that very much.”
“I can’t tell you how many donors have suddenly found an interest in me,” Tarkio said. “The Council could print its own money.”
“Of course.”
“Sorry, I’m talking too much,” he apologized. “Too much to drink...”
“Don’t worry,” Marshall said, her eyes catching his. “I’m very discreet.”
They laughed together.
“But to the point you were making,” Tarkio went on, “it’s all just a means to an end. I mean, if you had to sleep with the Devil to create heaven, it would be selfish not to. Think of all the people you could help? We can’t do anything if we don’t get re-elected after all!”
Marshall got up from the sofa and went back to the fireplace.
“Malcolm,” she said softly, “I’m afraid I can’t ask you to stay tonight.”
“Oh?” he replied, his eyebrows raised.
“Not yet,” she said. “My son wouldn’t understand and I don’t want to upset him.”
“I see.”
“He’ll come around eventually,” she said, “but for now, it might be best if we just say goodnight.”
“Of course, of course,” Tarkio stood up as well, placing his glass on a side table.
They walked to the door, which she opened for him.
“I’m so happy you understand,” she said, giving him a kiss and closing the door.
The din of women sparring abruptly ceased once Magnus Black closed the door behind him. Koshkin had brought him to a small room full of old furniture draped with blankets. To one side, a young woman was settled in the center of a sofa. She said nothing as Magnus and Koshkin entered.
“So, what’s this really about?” Magnus asked. “The Red Lotus has enough assassins of their own. I doubt my services would be much use to you.”
“Actually,” Koshkin said, “Red Lotus is not the one hiring you.”
“Who then?” he asked.
She nodded toward the girl on the couch.
“This is Emily,” Koshkin said. “She’s the one needing your... services.”
Magnus scrutinized the young woman. She had long, stringy black hair and high cheekbones. Her skin was almost translucently pale.
“You’re a lot younger than most of my clients,” he told the girl. “My skills aren’t cheap.”
“I’ve been saving my whole life for this!” Emily said, shooting Magnus an intense glance that surprised him.
“Working for the Red Lotus?” Magnus asked.
“Emily is a hostess at one of our gambling establishments,” Koshkin replied. “She’s been with us for quite some time.”
“And you want me to kill someone for you?” Magnus said. “Why?”
“Allow me to explain,” Koshkin said. “About fifteen years ago, a woman came to us with a proposal. Her husband had been a senator, but he died unexpectedly. She wanted to pick up where he had left off, but her lack of experience was posing a problem. The other candidate was probably going to win unless something was done.”
“And she wanted you for that something?”
“Besides illegal gambling, the Red Lotus is predominantly known for two other things: prostitution and extortion. As it happens, the woman’s idea involved both of those. Essentially, she wanted to entrap the other candidate in a compromising position, forcing him to drop out of the race.”
“Which you were able to accomplish I assume?” Magnus said.
“Oh yes,” Koshkin laughed. “We used multiple holofeeds to record him with one of our more talented girls. He was married, so once we presented him with the evidence, he would’ve done just about anything. Ultimately, our client won the election and she’s been a senator ever since.”
Imperium Chronicles Box Set Page 4
