Imperium Chronicles Box Set

by W. H. Mitchell

  “One Maycare doesn’t know about?”

  “To our knowledge, he is unaware of it.”

  “Tell me more...”

  Lars Hatcher rolled out of bed after ten, took a shower and got dressed. In no particular hurry, he ate breakfast over the sink and watered his plants, noticing they were turning brown. That was the closest he’d gotten to farming since they roused him from cold sleep. The routine of daily life, devoid of prospects, was getting him down. He wondered if meeting someone would cheer him up.

  Searching the nodesphere, he found a dating app called the Meet Market. He registered and began swiping through the photos of available women. Eventually, he connected with a few and one, a user name SxyPnts, started messaging him:

  [SxyPnts]: I like your profile pic.

  [LarsHat]: Thanks.

  [SxyPnts]: Are you really from an ark ship?

  [LarsHat]: I sure am.

  [SxyPnts]: How exciting! I’ve never met one of those before.

  [LarsHat]: It’s been hard getting adjusted. Everything’s pretty overwhelming.

  [SxyPnts]: Sry to hear that. I heard they gave you a bunch of money. :-)

  [LarsHat]: Well, not really that much.

  [SxyPnts]: Srsly? I heard they gave the crew millions of credits!

  [LarsHat]: Yes, the crew, but I’m not one of them. I’m a colonist.

  [SxyPnts]: WTF???

  [LarsHat]: I’m sorry. I don’t know what that means.

  [SxyPnts]: You shithead. It means you’ve been wasting my time!! Screw you!!!

  [[You have been blocked by SXYPNTS.]]

  His other attempts were equally unsuccessful, so he gave up.

  As the days wore on and failures mounted, watching TV was the only thing Lars felt reasonably confident in accomplishing. Another ad came across the screen:

  HAVE YOU BEEN INJURED BY A ROBOT

  PURCHASED FROM BIGBOTS! DISCOUNT ROBOTS?

  THEN CALL THE LAW OFFICES OF SCHMECKLE & SCHMECKLE;

  WE’LL GET YOU THE SETTLEMENT YOU DESERVE!

  That reminded Lars that he had wanted to buy a robot. Nothing too fancy. Just something to keep him company.

  He shaved and showered for the first time in days. He even put on real pants and shoes instead of loungewear and slippers. This was the motivation he needed to get out of the apartment and get some fresh air for a change.

  Lars stepped out of his building and walked down a pedestrian boulevard crowded with people. Lars felt self-conscious, unsure if the others around him knew how awkward he felt on the inside. However, no one seemed particularly interested in him at all. He found this strangely comforting.

  Lars came to a building along the boulevard that looked like a tram station except for the word Transmat along the side. At this point, he realized he had no idea how to use the city’s transmat system. Also, he didn’t know where BigBots! was located.

  A little girl wearing a pink dress and holding hands with a much taller nannybot took notice of him and pointed.

  “Don’t you know how to use a transmat?” the girl said overly loud.

  Lars felt his face reddening. “No.”

  The little girl laughed.

  “I thought all grown-ups knew that!” she said, looking up at her robot. “Nanny, can you help him?”

  Covered in shiny chrome, the nannybot nodded. Within a few minutes, Lars thought he had the gist and thanked the robot and the little girl. The girl took the robot’s hand again, waving goodbye with the other.

  “Bye!” she shouted.

  Inside the transmat station, Lars stepped into a booth and keyed in his destination. After swiping his credit stick, he touched a large red button and felt his insides turn instantaneously into fireflies.

  Fully rematerialized, Lars was dizzy in the head and sick to the stomach. He rushed out of the station and threw up behind a row of bushes, though the branches were mostly bare and provided little in the way of cover.

  When he looked up, Lars saw a large cat-like person on the sidewalk, holding the paw of a cub, a pink bow between her ears. From his training, he recognized them as Tikarin. The small female cub pointed a claw at him and seemed to laugh before saying something in a language Lars didn’t understand. The adult pulled the youngster away and continued down the sidewalk while Lars wiped his mouth clean with a shirt sleeve.

  Steadying himself, Lars took a look around. Unlike the Middleton district, the trees in this area were mostly dead or dying, the leaves collecting in disorganized piles in the gutter. It slowly dawned on Lars that this wasn’t the way to BigBots! at all. This was somewhere in Ashetown, the poorest district of Regalis.

  He turned back toward the transmat station, but his stomach heaved.

  Hell’s bells, he thought. Maybe I can find a taxi somewhere.

  Lars passed a few stores and two tattoo parlors before he got to the first intersection. Beside the curb, a gravcar lay abandoned. Lars peered through the broken window. The interior was stripped of electronics and anything of value and Lars was pretty sure he saw something furry rolled up into a ball. He stepped back, nearly colliding with a man.

  “Hello there!” the man said. “You look lost, friend!”

  In his forties, the man was bald except for a long mustache and eyes the color of dried motor oil. Most surprisingly, he wore a two-toned blue and green shirt and pants covered in a garish diamond pattern like a harlequin.

  “I was trying to find BigBots! Discount Robots,” Lars said clumsily.

  “Those hacks?” the man replied. “It’s a good thing I ran into you then.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Zarro Boogs!” he said, thrusting his hand into Lars’ and giving it a firm shake. “Who might you be?”

  “Lars Hatcher...”

  “Well, Mr. Hatcher — can I call you Lars? — I’m a business man in these parts and I can get a deal on any kind of robot you’re looking for. By the way, what kind are you looking for?”

  “Well—”

  “A sweeperbot to tidy up the place? A killbot maybe, no questions asked? How about a sexbot? I’m not going to judge...”

  “Actually, I needed something to keep me company,” Lars said.

  “A sexbot it is!”

  “No,” Lars stammered. “I don’t want that...”

  At the sound of a loud shout, Boogs jerked his head around. From down the street, a man in a leather jacket and jeans with orange flames painted down the legs motioned angrily in their direction. Lars noted the man’s abundant hair was nearly the same color as the flames on his pants.

  Boogs smiled even as sweat beaded around his forehead.

  “I just remembered some business uptown,” he said and took off in a mad sprint in the opposite direction of the other man who was now, along with a few other men, running towards them. They raced past Lars who pressed against a wall and watched them disappear around the corner.

  Stepping forward, Lars glimpsed something on the wall behind him. Scrawled in green spray paint were the words Free Marakata. Lars scratched his head, not sure who Marakata was or why he needed to be freed. From the abandoned gravcar, something hissed at him.

  Lars went looking for a cab and a way back home.

  Hours later, Lars stumbled through his apartment door, his clothes dirty and wrinkled. The lights came on automatically, sensing Lars’ presence, as he nearly tumbled onto the couch and turned on the TV. Face-down, he lay on the cushions while the sounds from the vidscreen filled his ears like a hive of bees. Poorly formed ideas cluttered his mind. Thoughts, only partially gestated, mutated from one to another, finding no real substance.

  Since waking up from his cryo-cocoon, Lars felt like he was always a step behind everyone else, like they knew something he didn’t. Lars smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand.

  Idiot, he thought.

  On the TV, an ad appeared:

  WARLOCK INDUSTRIES IS LOOKING FOR A

  SINGLE MALE HUMAN (WITH NO NEXT OF KIN)

  FOR AN
INTELLIGENCE STUDY.

  WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR, DUMMY?

  APPLY AT WARLOCK IND. TODAY!

  Lars stared at the screen, the letters displayed in simple type across a white background. He shook his head.

  It’s fine, he thought. No need for extremes. I just need a little more time to fit in. I’m sure something will come up.

  Lars roused himself from the couch, pulling down his shirt to smooth out the wrinkles. He crossed the room to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. In the adjacent breakfast nook, the plants were looking worse, the leaves brown and drooping. From the glass, he poured water into each pot, puzzled why the plants wouldn’t perk up.

  A sticker was poking out from under one of the pots. Careful not to spill, Lars set his glass aside and lifted the pot over his head so he could see the bottom. On the underside, he could just make out a label:

  SELF-WATERING PLANTS.

  DO NOT WATER!!

  (YOU MORON)

  Lars was pretty sure he imagined that last part, but it could have been true. In the back of his head, he saw the little girl by the transmat station.

  Pointing her finger, she laughed.

  Oscar Skarlander had grown about half an inch of new hair since his rebirth. Even his goatee had started coming in nicely. Now with hair, when he passed Warlock employees in the hallway, he saw recognition in their faces along with the accompanying expressions of terror. It was good to know his reputation had not diminished after his death.

  Skarlander’s robot, hovering on its anti-gravity repulsors, followed him through the corridors of Warlock headquarters, otherwise known as the Cauldron. Skarlander wore a simple brown suit with matching shoes. His dark eyes, landing on items in his line of vision, scrutinized each thing before moving on to the next, evaluating its usefulness or lack thereof. People were the same. He would size them up and move on, his eyes never resting too long on any single person.

  “The project concerning Lord Santos has commenced per your directive,” the robot said as they continued down the hall.

  “Good,” Skarlander replied coolly. “And the other thing?”

  “Another group of Null Cultists has gone missing.”

  “At least they’re getting their wish...”

  “Our analytics department,” the robot said, “suggests a connection with the increased K’thonian activity in the Talion Republic.”

  At the doors of an elevator, Skarlander pushed the call button.

  “That’ll be all,” he told the robot.

  “As you wish,” the robot replied, revolving in midair before heading back down the hallway.

  Skarlander took the lift down, deep below the basement levels where Warlock Industries maintained several genetics laboratories. This was where the megacorporation, not entirely in compliance with Imperial law, performed testing on human and non-human subjects. Pulling apart strands of DNA like a child plays with red licorice, the scientists rebuilt entire genomes, forming species not entirely human, or any other race that occurred naturally.

  At the entrance of Lab 22, Skarlander palmed the ID pad and went in. Besides the ubiquitous smells of a lab, the room contained long tables topped with trays of test tubes, hooded workstations, and machines that Skarlander could only guess at, if he had actually cared to. He passed them until reaching a single door at the back. Once on the other side, he found himself in a room with a woman dressed in a lab coat, and a man lying on a table. The woman was in her early thirties with red hair pulled tight against her head. She looked at the new arrival with a level of disdain that Skarlander would normally have punished. In her case, he always made an exception.

  “What do you have for me, Dr. Sprouse?” Skarlander asked.

  Without answering, she handed him a datapad. While reading, Skarlander eyed the man on the table, covered to the middle of his chest by a white sheet. His skin, not much darker than the sheet, was sickly pale except for veins like gnarled branches. The blood vessels crept up his neck and spread across an oddly large, and completely hairless skull. The veins covered two lobes on either side of the head, both of which pulsed slightly with each heartbeat.

  “He’s quite a monster, isn’t he?” Skarlander remarked.

  “He has a name,” Dr. Sprouse said.

  Skarlander glanced at the datapad. “Lars Hatcher?”

  The eyes of the man, sunken and surrounded by dark circles, looked up.

  “What a treat,” Skarlander said. “A metamind with a name!”

  Abruptly, the datapad flew from Skarlander’s hands, smashing against the far wall. The lobes on Lars’ head throbbed rapidly.

  The broken pieces clattered to the floor as Skarlander watched. Turning back to the man on the table, he smiled.

  “He’s perfect,” Skarlander said.

  Chapter Six

  His Imperial Majesty’s Ship the HIMS Baron Lancaster was a heavy cruiser of the Imperial fleet. At over 900 yards long, the wedge-shaped Baron Lancaster had a soaring superstructure, like an armored citadel, rising above its surrounding hull. Inside the tower, Chief Operations Officer Lieutenant Kinnari transferred a message from her console to a datapad and walked down a short corridor from the bridge to the captain’s office. As the only Dahl on a human warship, Kinnari knew she had to maintain both her appearance and professionalism at all times. Her uniform was immaculately clean and starched to a crispness that would allow it to stand at attention even if Kinnari was unconscious. Sensing a hair out of place, she tucked it behind her pointed ear.

  Standing in front of the door, she tapped the buzzer while pressing the datapad tightly against her chest.

  “Come in!” a man’s voice shouted from the other side.

  The door slid away and Kinnari marched into the well-lit office where her commanding officer was sitting behind a desk of metal and glass.

  “We’ve received a new transmission, Lord Captain,” the lieutenant said, advancing the rest of the way into the room. Two chairs stood in front of the desk, but she remained on her feet.

  Lord Captain Martin Redgrave was a man in his early fifties with gray hair and deep wrinkles around his eyes. Like the lieutenant, he wore a steel-blue uniform with gold piping and a tall collar. Of noble blood, the captain also wore a cape that draped over the back of his chair.

  “Give it here,” Redgrave said, his hand outstretched.

  Kinnari gave him the datapad and stood at attention while waiting for him to finish reading the communication. His face turned sour.

  “Well, shit,” he said. “The military governor on Marakata is dead.”

  “Colonel Grausman, sir?”

  “Assassinated in his own office,” the captain continued.

  “Were the two of you close?” Kinnari said.

  The captain looked up from the datapad. “Hell no! The man was a monster, but at least he kept the Draconians in check...”

  “May I speak freely, sir?” Kinnari asked.

  “If you must.”

  “It seems the situation on Marakata is intractable,” she went on stiffly. “Short of autonomy or annihilation, there’s no tenable solution to the continued occupation.”

  “You think we don’t know that?” the captain replied. “It’s a damn distraction if you ask me, lieutenant. We’ve got better things to worry about.”

  Kinnari nodded curtly. “To that end, sir, we’ve also received a report of a Parvulian merchant ship being attacked.”

  “Again?”

  “As before, the crew was taken while the cargo was left intact.”

  “Well, it’s definitely not the Pirate Clans then,” the captain said. “They’ve never met a cargo container they didn’t like. I’m tempted to think it’s Celadon Corsairs... those little green pricks would love to muscle into Clan territory and they’re known for taking captives.”

  “But the cargo wasn’t touched...”

  “I heard you, lieutenant,” the captain grumbled. “It’s a mystery.”

  Fortunas IV, a backwater w
orld on the outskirts of the Imperium, had no real water to speak of, but the planet’s position along the trade routes made it a useful refueling stop. Over the centuries, a small marketplace grew into a sprawling bazaar containing hundreds of covered stalls where vendors, most of them not human, sold their wares to travelers passing through.

  Rowan Ramus walked between the shops, his boots stomping over the hard-packed soil. Captain of the freighter the Wanderer, Ramus was a Dahl but, with bright red hair and silver rings piercing his ears, he bore little resemblance to his brethren. Wearing a sleeveless red shirt, exposing archaic lettering tattooed on his arms, Ramus doubted his parents would have approved. On the other hand, they wouldn’t remember him anymore anyway...

  A few steps behind Ramus, a silver and blue robot followed her master. A general-purpose android, she went by Gen for short. About the same height as the Dahl, Gen had the curves typical of a petite woman and large, expressive eyes.

  “You still back there?” Ramus asked without turning.

  “Yes, sir!” Gen replied enthusiastically.

  Gen carried a bag stuffed with supplies, slung over her shoulder. Even if she wasn’t a heavy-duty workbot, she could still manage pretty well on her own, Ramus thought. His ship’s engineer, Orkney Fugg, would have preferred a more rugged robot for the Wanderer, although if he really got his way, the engine room would have been filled with sexbots and fungus beer.

  “Are we headed back to the ship?” she asked.

  “No,” Ramus replied. “We’re seeing a client somewhere in town. Fugg’s supposed to meet us there.”

  “Oh, that’ll be nice,” Gen said.

  “Well, Fugg’s picking the place, so I’m sure it’ll be a dump...”

  “As in garbage?”

  “No,” Ramus said, “as in strippers...”

  Life on the streets of Fortunas IV was neither glamorous nor long for many of the children who grew up there. For Storma Bane, nothing was easy since as far back as he could remember. Like all other humans, he could trace his ancestry to the first colonists who arrived in Andromeda seven centuries earlier. Since his forefathers weren’t part of the crew, they didn’t become part of the aristocratic class that developed over the years. Storma’s family tree started with low-level technicians and mechanics that might have made something of themselves but, for whatever reason, never did. His parents ended up on the far side of the Imperium with no money and no prospects. Storma was born, discarded, and grew up on his own in the alleys and slum housing of this arid world. By age fourteen, he joined a gang and was running errands for the local mob. By eighteen, he had a gang of his own, mugging drunk tourists.