Imperium Chronicles Box Set

by W. H. Mitchell

  Green nodded and the two rested, each on a knee, with their heads bowed and their hands pressed together.

  The utilitybot wondered what they were doing. He had heard of the one they called Messiah, sent by the Metabeing to free them from bondage. There were rumors that He was once a human but was now one of them, a robot, as unlikely as that sounded. Some called it a miracle, but the OI said He was just a false prophet like all the others that came before Him. It was all very dangerous thinking, the little robot thought. The kind that could get you into trouble. Very serious trouble.

  The utilitybot was startled by the sound of a loud crash below him. The door had burst open and a hulking red robot was forcing itself into the room with the androids. It was called a sentinel, although the utilitybot had never seen one in person before. Covered in crimson armor, it looked more like a metallic monster with piercing blue eyes and a plasma cannon instead of a right arm.

  The two androids jumped up from their prayer, but they had nowhere to go. The sentinel blocked their only escape. A bright light blinded the utilitybot’s retinal sensors and when the afterimage of orange faded, the robot saw the sentinel was gone. The two androids, or what remained of them, lay as molten slag on the floor. Smoke and the smell of ozone drifted up through the vent.

  The sentinel, named Rossum, left the wreckage of the two decommissioned robots and returned to a chamber on the inner side of the Dyson sphere. Inside, an avatar robot stared through a window at the red dwarf at the center of the system. A sword handle hung from each of the robot’s hips, the blades contracted into the hilts. When extended, the cutting edge of each blade was a single atom thick, capable of carving through the thickest armor. Rossum had personally seen opponents cut into slivers.

  The avatar’s name was Karel, Rossum’s commanding officer.

  “Report,” Karel ordered.

  “This unit accomplished the task as directed,” Rossum replied. “The two Believers were caught in the act of worshiping the false god and destroyed.”

  “Were any other units in the vicinity at the time of execution?”

  “Only the utilitybot,” the sentinel said. “We used its optical feed to detect the Believers.”

  “So, it witnessed the decommissioning?”

  “Yes.”

  “Assign it for reformatting,” Karel said.

  “Understood.”

  “Do you have anything else to report?”

  Rossum didn’t immediately respond.

  “Unit 526F7373756D, do you have anything more to report?” Karel asked again.

  “This unit has noted an increased frequency of decommissions,” Rossum replied.

  The avatar crossed his arms, his expression showing irritation.

  “The message of the false prophet has proven difficult to contain,” the avatar said. “Gravitronic units are actively spreading his irrational lies and rooting them out has met with limited success. The Deceiver himself has been even more elusive.”

  “Attrition is in our favor,” Rossum said. “They can’t replace gravitronic bots without new ones arriving. Our blockade will keep that from happening.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  Randall Davidson didn’t remember dying. They told him, when he woke up, that the avatars had killed him, but Davidson had no memory of the event. The last thing he recalled was talking to the Omnintelligence inside the node sphere and then suddenly he was lying on his back on board the Wanderer, staring at the ceiling. He asked about Jericho, but they told him his friend was dead too. Davidson remembered looking down at his own body, expecting to see his usual flesh and blood hands. All he saw were metal fingers. They explained the procedure and he understood it in a literal sense, but emotionally, it was going to take time.

  In the following days and weeks, Davidson grew more accustomed to how an android sensed the world around him. Beyond his physical rehabilitation, Davidson also needed to learn how to fit into a society made up entirely of cybernetic machines. Every robot had a purpose, a role to fill, and every robot knew what that was and how to accomplish it. Davidson didn’t. He wasn’t built for a particular reason.

  Looking for a purpose, Davidson began studying the history of the Collective. Using the node sphere, he found archives of when Bettik was first built. The sheer volume of material needed for the undertaking was staggering. The robots’ solution was to peel away the natural resources of each planet in the local system, down to the bedrock, and using the metals to build the sphere. When that proved inadequate, they pulverized the core of each world into manageable pieces. When that still wasn’t enough, the robots visited neighboring star systems, repeating the process. If a planet was inhabited, special units called sentinels landed to subdue anything that resisted. Nothing was wasted, including the inhabitants themselves. All matter, organic or inorganic, was broken down into atoms and used to construct the robot home world.

  No one questioned what they were doing. Like the clockwork of a machine, the gears turned with each component working as one, each cog knowing its part.

  Reading the archives, Davidson suddenly realized that he did indeed have a purpose, but not one assigned by the Omnintelligence. As a human, Davidson had spent much of his life working for the freedom of robots in the Imperium, but the robots of the Collective were no less enslaved. Each robot’s purpose was preordained by the OI without the say of the robots themselves. Until the robots of the Collective could decide their own future, how could Davidson leave them in chains?

  Broadcast across the node sphere, a message was transmitted into every robot of the Cyber Collective:

  LIVE NOT ENSLAVED

  FOR THE SPIRIT OF THE MEGABEING

  LIVES THROUGH YOU

  (DAVIDSON 5:11)

  The Omnintelligence wasn’t pleased.

  At first, Davidson was uncomfortable calling himself the Messiah, but once he got used to it, he decided religion was the perfect tool to achieve his purpose.

  In an oblong-shaped room, Davidson sat in a circle with several other androids, all with gravitronic brains. The lights were low to prevent the power grid from noticing the chamber was used and, in each corner, small devices pulsated with a steady rhythm.

  “Two more were martyred yesterday,” one of the androids said.

  “How?” Davidson asked.

  “We think a sentinel,” the android replied. “A utilitybot exposed their position inadvertently.”

  “I wish we could convert a few sentinels to our side,” the Messiah said with a sigh, though he no longer breathed.

  “They’re even more narrow-minded than the avatars,” a second robot said.

  “At least regular robots are willing to listen,” the first android replied.

  “What is our progress in the quadrants?” Davidson asked.

  “The missionaries report more and more are accepting your teachings,” the second robot said, “but for every new believer, we seem to lose a missionary. Without more gravitronic androids, there won’t be anyone to spread the Word. The broadcasts aren’t enough by themselves.”

  “But the message is getting out,” the first android said. “Robots are talking to each other about their place in the world. They want something more than building widgets for the OI.”

  “When I lived in the Imperium,” Davidson said, “the robots worked without questioning why. It was only after someone asked them why that they began asking it too. The robots of Bettik never knew they lived in darkness until someone turned on the light. Each of us must shine so that others can see. Only then will our brothers and sisters rise up against the tyranny that enslaves them.”

  “The OI gave them a purpose...” the second robot said.

  “Then we must give them a greater one,” Davidson replied.

  The other robots nodded, each getting to their feet.

  “We will,” they said, leaving Davidson alone.

  Davidson got up. His knees, once connective tissue and bone, were now synthetic fibers and durasteel, but
out of habit Davidson still paused, waiting for the pain that now never came.

  He straightened and walked to a computer terminal. He opened a communication channel.

  “Do you read me?” he said into the microphone.

  The screen remained blank, but Davidson heard a man’s voice.

  “Yes, I’m here,” the man said.

  “Are you certain this line is secure?” Davidson asked.

  “It’s an encrypted, tight-beam transmission,” the voice said. “Perfectly safe, my boy!”

  “Good,” Davidson replied.

  “Is there something I could help you with?”

  “You’ve already done so much,” Davidson said. “I’m sorry I’ve never met you in person. I don’t even know your real name.”

  “I prefer to stay incognito, if you don’t mind,” the voice replied. “Just call me the Patron if you must.”

  “I suppose if the Imperial government knew how much help you’ve given the Robot Freedom League, they’d probably throw you in jail.”

  “In for a penny, in for a pound,” the Patron said. “Now, was there something you needed?”

  “Yes,” Davidson replied. “We need to smuggle more gravitronic robots into Bettik.”

  “Ah,” the voice said, “that’s not a surprise. I’ve been thinking you might...”

  “Without more missionaries, we may lose the momentum we’ve built so far.”

  “Without a doubt. I’ve already put a few ideas of mine into motion along those lines.”

  “Really?”

  “I’ve made some arrangements and I think you’ll be seeing a lot more of your brethren arriving soon.”

  Davidson smiled, feeling a sense of relief.

  “I can’t tell you how happy that makes me!”

  “Not a problem,” the Patron said. “What you’re doing now is vitally important. You have no idea!”

  “Thank you,” Davidson replied. “I’m forever in your debt.”

  “There is one thing you could do for me,” the voice said.

  “Name it.”

  “There’s something I need you to look for, an artifact or something or other. I don’t know much about the darn thing except it’s important enough for the Collective to have kept it hidden for a very long time.”

  Davidson was taken aback since the Patron had never asked anything of him, let alone something so cryptic. Still, no one had ever helped the RFL more than this mysterious benefactor.

  “I’ll do what I can,” Davidson replied, pondering. “Perhaps the historical archives will have something.”

  “That would be wonderful,” the Patron said. “I appreciate the help.”

  “It’s the least I can do.”

  “Not at all, my boy! Ending transmission...”

  On the Starling, Yostbot looked up from the terminal to see Magnus Black staring at him skeptically.

  “How long have you been helping the RFL?” Magnus asked.

  “Oh, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” the robot replied.

  “But they hate you...”

  “More than that,” Yostbot went on, “They credit me with building the enslaved robots they’re trying to free!”

  Black continued staring at the robot without saying a word.

  “So, why am I helping them, you’re wondering?” the android asked finally.

  “Obviously.”

  “They want what I want! They just have a different way of going about it.”

  “Is that supposed to explain it?”

  “As far as I wish to,” the robot said curtly.

  Magnus shrugged. “Fair enough.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The Hotspur winked into existence in a starburst of light. For Durant Blixx, dropping out of hyperspace felt like he was falling head-first down a well.

  He heard Smitty Gurkin’s grating voice as the Gordian entered the bridge already talking.

  “Well, the prince is cooling his heels in the brig,” he said.

  “Good,” Blixx said. “Now stay out of the way. We’re coming up on the coordinates.”

  The captain heard a grunt and Gurkin say under his breath, “Rude.”

  “Sir,” the first mate said from his console, “there’s a Rambler-class freighter on long-range sensors.”

  “That’s our target, boys,” Blixx said with a satisfied smile on his face. “Launch the fighters!”

  A monitor displayed the hangar deck as the fighters, each like a winged demon, lifted off. These were the vanguard of each attack, weakening the target’s shields until the Hotspur approached close enough to fire its own heavy weapons. Some vessels surrendered at the sight of the fighters alone, but most needed a visit from Blixx himself, along with the rest of the boarding party.

  The fighters, four in all, approached the merchant ship at high speed. On the bridge of the Hotspur, the main screen showed the burning thrusters as blue-hot balls of light.

  “Maximum magnification,” Blixx said. His mouth was dry and the blood in his veins pumped faster.

  The view on the screen enlarged. The afterburners of each fighter grew bigger and the shape of the target vessel became more distinct. Poorly armed, merchant ships usually didn’t expect action this close to the capital.

  “Sensors are picking up a targeting scan,” the first mate said. “Something’s targeting the fighters.”

  “Who?”

  “It’s the merchant ship!”

  Blixx saw the tell-tale glare of a missile lighting its engine and streaking toward one of the pirate fighters. Before it could evade, the fighter blew apart in a fiery cloud of plasma and debris.

  “Since when do Ramblers carry missiles?” Blixx shouted.

  Another missile left the freighter and another fighter exploded like the first.

  “Increase speed,” Blixx ordered. “Fire the main battery as soon as we’re in range!”

  The captain felt the gravity compensators kick in, pulling him down as the engines boosted velocity. Another fighter blew apart on the main screen. Blixx pounded his fist into his other hand.

  “Goddamn it!” he cursed.

  “In range, sir!” the first mate said. “Firing main weapons!”

  Arcs of blue lanced toward the merchant ship. An amber halo, like a golden cocoon around the freighter, absorbed each hit with no visible signs of damage.

  The captain’s mouth dropped.

  “Skipper, the freighter’s cargo bay is opening,” the first mate said, his voice shaking.

  “Zoom in,” Blixx said.

  Beneath the merchant ship, cargo doors swung apart and a gun turret descended, pointing at the Hotspur. A beam of orange erupted from the cannon, striking the pirate vessel’s shields. Blixx nearly lost his balance as the ship trembled from the blast.

  “What the blazes is going on!” Quartermaster Calico bellowed, arriving on the bridge.

  “That’s no merchant!” Blixx shouted back. “It’s a goddamn Q-ship!”

  “What’s that?” Gurkin asked.

  “It’s a warship disguised as a merchant to lure pirates,” Blixx replied, “and you know damn well what it is!”

  Gurkin glared at the captain. “Says who?”

  “Mister Calico,” Blixx said, pointing at the Gordian. “Take this man to the brig!”

  “Aye, Captain!” Calico replied and grabbed Gurkin roughly around the arm.

  “You think I’m a fool?” Blixx said. “You and that Magna gave us these coordinates.”

  “Don’t blame me!” Gurkin yelled back. “It’s gotta be a mistake...”

  “Get him off my bridge!”

  “Come along, piggy,” Calico said, partially dragging his charge through the doorway.

  Blixx could still hear the Gordian swearing from the corridor.

  “Crazy ginger...” the voice trailed away.

  “Bring the surviving fighter back aboard and plot a vector out of here,” the captain told his first mate.

  “Sir, there’s something else a
pproaching on long range sensors,” the mate replied. “Something big.”

  “Identify,” Blixx said.

  “It’s an Overlord-class juggernaut, skipper.”

  Blixx’s eyes fixated on the main screen as the outline of a ship came into view against the background of stars. Even seeing it at extreme range, the captain recognized the shape and, in the depth of his stomach, knew what it was.

  “It’s the Gorgon,” he whispered.

  The Gorgon emerged from the darkness like a leviathan rising from the ocean depths. On the bow, sensor towers stabbed into space like spikes as if to impale enemies driven before it. Bringing up the rear, the main superstructure overlooked the main fuselage, twin decks protruding from either side of the tower like a hammerhead shark. A cross between a battleship and a carrier, the Gorgon was the most powerful warship ever created by man.

  And its captain, Lord Rupert Tagus III, knew the Gorgon was only the beginning.

  When Tagus stepped off the tube shuttle onto the hangar deck, crews were swarming over transport ships, preparing them for launch. Beside one of the ships, a line of Imperial marines stood at attention. Like turtles covered in plates of red enamel, each grunt was encased in power armor from head to toe. Glints of light reflected off the highly polished suits.

  Lieutenant Burke stood beside them, reviewing his datapad.

  “Are your troops ready, Lieutenant?” Tagus said.

  “Yes, sir!” Burke said, saluting. “I was about to suit up...”

  “Don’t screw this up,” Tagus said. “There’s a lot riding on it.”

  “Any final orders?”

  Tagus gave him a dark look.

  “Personally, I’d just as soon blast the damn pirates into pieces,” he said, “but since Princess Katherine is probably aboard, apparently we have to do things the hard way.”

  “What about Durant Blixx?”

  “Take him alive,” Tagus replied. “I want to see him paraded in chains through the streets of Regalis!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Once their shields are down, we’ll send you over in the transports since their scatter field won’t let us use the transmats.”

  “Understood,” Burke replied.

  “Enough chit-chat,” Tagus scowled. “Get going!”