Imperium Chronicles Box Set

by W. H. Mitchell

  “Have you seen the captain?” she asked.

  “The old man had an appointment with Doc Baines,” Maycare said. “If you can call it that.”

  “Sir?”

  “You know the rumors about him and Samantha...”

  “I try not to engage in petty gossip.”

  Maycare chuckled. “Really? I thought Dahls loved collecting information.”

  “Only if it’s factual,” Kinnari said. “Unsubstantiated rumors are nothing but hearsay.”

  “True, but imagination is usually a lot more fun,” Maycare replied.

  “I’m sure neither the captain nor Doctor Baines would appreciate people talking behind their backs.”

  The commander sighed. “No, I suppose not.”

  “On the other hand,” she went on, “Samantha and I are good friends, so if there was a relationship between them I’d certainly know.”

  Maycare looked at the lieutenant sideways.

  “So, what are you saying?” he asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “You know something, don’t you?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Sure?”

  Kinnari, who actually had a lovely smile the commander just realized, grinned while looking away.

  “Well, he’s too old for her anyway,” Maycare said, provokingly.

  “Oh?” she replied. “It’s been my experience that human males often seek a younger mate.”

  Maycare folded his arms. “You’re quite the romantic...”

  “I mean clinically speaking.”

  “Very romantic!”

  Kinnari’s pale skin turned a shade of red.

  “I’m just saying...” she sputtered, “that age is often not an issue for humans, especially if the woman is of child-bearing age.”

  Maycare stared at the lieutenant blankly.

  “Perhaps this isn’t an appropriate topic...” Kinnari said, her face now a deep crimson.

  “Not with you, apparently.”

  A black band around the commander’s wrist vibrated. Maycare quickly tapped the band and it began speaking.

  “Lord Commander,” the voice of a young ensign from the bridge said, “we’ve just received a distress call, sir.”

  “Understood,” Maycare replied, standing. “Notify the captain!”

  When the Baron Lancaster arrived, the Jewel of Amann was floating listlessly on backup power with nothing but life support, gravity, and emergency lighting still functioning. Commander Maycare, along with a detachment of marines wearing combat armor, used the transmat to materialize directly onto the liner’s bridge.

  “How does it look?” Captain Redgrave said in Maycare’s earpiece.

  The commander glanced around at the destroyed consoles and bodies littering the floor.

  “A mess,” Maycare replied. “It looks like they killed everyone on the bridge and pulled out the electronics.”

  “Any hostiles?”

  “Not yet.”

  Unlike this uncle, Commander Maycare was more used to military ships than luxury starliners, although in its current condition, he wasn’t sure whether this ship had ever been truly luxurious.

  Passing cautiously down hallways of scorched wallpaper and broken sconces, the commander and his marine escorts checked each room, hoping to find survivors. Mostly, they found ransacked cabins empty of people and precious belongings. Maycare became increasingly convinced this was the work of pirates, although the lack of people, except for a few dead crew members, left him concerned.

  “Sir,” one of the marines said.

  “What is it?” Maycare replied.

  The marine pointed her blaster rifle toward the open door of a stateroom.

  “I heard something,” she said.

  His own blaster pistol at the ready, the commander nodded and stepped past her through the doorway. Inside, the cabin was surprisingly undisturbed. Luggage remained unopened and the drawers were still in the dresser. It was a small room, probably second-class by the look of it, Maycare thought. The only other door was a closet, but someone had wedged it closed with wood from the bed frame.

  A noise, like a soft thumping, came from inside.

  With the marine giving him cover, Maycare removed the wedge and tapped the controls. The door opened and a small green man, his hands and feet tied, fell out. His mouth was covered with a piece of cloth.

  The commander immediately recognized him as Celadon by the goblin’s big head and pointed ears. Lying on his side, the Celadon glared at Maycare with eyes full of hatred and a touch of fear.

  Maycare leaned down and removed the gag from his mouth.

  “You got something to say?” the commander asked.

  The Celadon spewed a series of screeches and low growls. Maycare noticed a few drops of spittle landing on his boots.

  “Any idea what he’s saying, sir?” the marine asked.

  Maycare rubbed his boot against the back of his pant leg.

  “No idea,” he replied, “but I have a feeling the Captain will...

  A babelbot was not actually a robot at all. It was a program run by the ship’s AI aboard the Baron Lancaster. By wearing an earpiece, a person could hear an automatic translation of whatever someone said. Captain Redgrave, sitting in a chair in an interrogation room, wore such an earpiece so he could understand the Celadon sitting across a metal table. To make sure the pirate kept wearing his own device, his hands were shackled to the table. After hours of questioning, Redgrave knew the creature’s name was Golub, but not much else.

  “I’m this close to flushing you out an airlock, Golub,” the captain said.

  “How human of you.”

  “Goblins aren’t known for intelligence, but you’ve really screwed the pooch on this one.”

  “Was your mother on board? I didn’t recognize her...”

  “Sylvia Flax was on the passenger list,” Redgrave said. “Was she the target of the attack?”

  “Who?”

  The captain showed Golub her picture on the screen of a datapad.

  “Ah, that’s the one who punched me in the nose!” the Celadon said. “Such a mean lady!”

  “So, you knew she worked for VOX News?”

  “What? No! We don’t watch that human propaganda.”

  “You never saw her before?”

  “Not until she attacked me,” Golub said. “I hope they put her in the pit.”

  “Pit?” Redgrave asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “You’ve got nothing to lose but your life. What pit are you talking about?”

  “There’s a pit where the bigger Ougluks fight,” the Celadon said. “Sometimes they put a human down there just to make things interesting.”

  “Barbaric.”

  “It’s not so bad. The human doesn’t last long.”

  “Sylvia Flax is a well-known celebrity. If anything happens to her, you’ll regret it.”

  “I don’t care what happens to a human,” Golub said. “Your people destroy everything you touch.”

  “You’re a slave trader,” the captain replied. “You’re not exactly standing on high moral ground.”

  “Celadons are pirates, not slave traders! Sure, if a Celadon comes across a screaming human that doesn’t get killed, he might pass the human along to the Ougluks. Those are the slavers.”

  “So, you’re saying the Ougluks have Flax now?”

  “Probably.”

  “Where can I find them?”

  “Bend over and check your ass.”

  The captain took a long breath, exhaling slowly.

  “Computer,” he said. “Unlock the shackles.”

  The metal bracelets holding Golub’s wrists to the table snapped open, freeing him. Captain Redgrave, dropping the datapad to the floor, reached across the table and grabbed the goblin firmly by his long, crooked nose.

  “Ow!” he protested, but the captain was already pulling him across the table.

  When the door outside the interrogation room opened, the captai
n emerged, nose in hand, as he dragged his stumbling captive along the polished deck.

  “Let go!” Golub shouted, but the captain only clenched tighter, picking up his pace down the hallway.

  After passing a few bewildered crewmen, Redgrave reached an open hatch and tossed the pirate in. Landing with a thud, Golub got to his feet in time to see the hatch closing. Redgrave stared back at him through a small porthole in the door.

  “Look around,” the captain said.

  Delicately cradling his nose between his hands, the pirate’s eyes glanced around the tiny room. Turning, he saw behind him a near identical hatch, but through the porthole, there was only empty space.

  “You have until the airlock depressurizes to tell me what I want to know,” Redgrave said. “Then I push this red button and you become one with the universe.”

  “You call us barbarians?” Golub shouted through the door. “You’re the monsters!”

  On the wall beside the captain, the reading on a pressure gauge slowly dropped. Golub began holding his ears.

  “Can you feel them popping?” the captain asked.

  “I’m not telling you anything!” came the muffled response through the hatch.

  “How good are you at holding your breath?”

  On the other side of the porthole, the Celadon pressed a hand against his bulbous head.

  “Better hurry,” the captain said, watching the pressure gauge continue to drop steadily. “Not much longer.”

  Golub’s posture wavered, his legs buckling until he fell to one knee.

  “Wait...” he muttered.

  “What’s that?” Redgrave said, putting his hand to his ear.

  “Wait!”

  The captain slammed his fist against a button beside the hatch. The gauge level abruptly stopped.

  “The next button I push will either open this door or the hatch on the other side,” Redgrave said. “Which one is up to you...”

  “The Ougluks have a base on an asteroid,” Golub wheezed. “I know where it is.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The Sorcerer approached a space platform orbiting a gas giant swirling with clouds of orange and red. Owned by Warlock Industries, the station was a framework of metal to which a single habitation module was attached. Except for a few navigation lights, the platform was dark, perpetually orbiting in the shadow of the gas giant.

  The Sorcerer sidled up to the platform as a gantry extended to meet it. When the atmospheres equalized and the airlock opened, Oscar Skarlander emerged, stepping onto the station with Lars Hatcher just behind him. A young technician with a waxy complexion and a gray lab coat greeted the Warlock agent.

  “Welcome aboard,” the tech said.

  Skarlander waved the greeting aside. “Where is it?”

  “This way, sir,” the tech replied.

  The tech led the two new arrivals through a corridor smelling of ozone and perspiration and into a laboratory. A mass spectrometer and an assortment of other instruments cluttered work benches along the walls, and a table, basking in harsh light, took up the center of the room. An open book lay on the table.

  Skarlander bent over the book, appraising it like a collector.

  The pages, especially the edges, were burned and brittle. Even the gentle brushing of the air from Skarlander’s movement caused tiny fragments to tear off and drift away. Whatever pages were intact were covered with archaic lettering, an ancient script the agent didn’t recognize.

  “This is all that’s left?” he asked.

  “The special ops team said the Null Cult they got it from was immolated,” the tech replied.

  “Immolated? As in burned alive? By whom?”

  “I suspect the special ops team,” the tech said, “but they insisted the cultists were dead when they got there.”

  “Well, this relic is worthless,” Skarlander remarked.

  Lars, his bulbous head pulsing, spoke up. “Not exactly.”

  Skarlander raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

  “I’m sensing a strong energy coming from it,” the metamind replied.

  The agent stepped back. “Radiation?”

  “Psionics,” Lars said. “Something very old and very powerful.”

  “Can we use it?” Skarlander asked.

  Lars shook his head.

  “What a waste of my time,” Skarlander sighed.

  “I think there’s more like this one,” Lars replied, staring at the book. “This one seems connected to others.”

  “Can you find them?”

  “Maybe,” Lars said. “Are you sure you want to?”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Finding them and controlling them are two different things. Just ask those Null Cultists...”

  Skarlander glared at the metamind.

  “Just find them,” the agent said. “Leave the rest to me.”

  Like most days on Lokeren, the weather was warm but not oppressive, and the humidity was low. From her balcony, Lady Rebecca Veber watched her two guests materialize on the transmat pad before her staff led them inside the estate. Each arrived separately and alone. This was meant to be a place of safety, neutral ground on which disputes could be reconciled in a civilized fashion. Bodyguards were not needed.

  Of all the rooms of the Veber estate, the former dining hall was the one most used. Where a long, rectangular table once stood, now a round one sat in the center surrounded by seven tall-backed chairs like something from Arthurian legend Lady Veber read about when she was still a child. Now, as an adult, she understood the significance. No one at the circular table was above anyone else, although the Veber matriarch could argue some sat taller than others.

  Lady Sheba Nasri entered the hall first. Her gown was crimson with stripes of white, trailing behind her across the tiled floor.

  “Thank you for coming,” Veber said, offering her hand. “Your dress is divine.”

  Nasri smiled and gripped Veber’s hand a little too tight.

  “You’re too kind,” she said. “I’ve chosen these colors for my royal house. Do you like them?”

  “Of course! They certainly make a statement...”

  “Well, it’s important to make a good first impression,” Nasri replied. “Am I really the first to arrive?”

  “Fashionably early, let’s say.”

  “Good.”

  A robot directed Lady Nasri to her seat. As she sat down, a figure appeared in the doorway. Dressed in a tunic of dark red with black pants, Lord Andre Santos paused before crossing the threshold.

  Veber laughed, spreading her arms apart. “Come in! Come in! There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  The ship captain approached and kissed the back of Veber’s hand.

  “That remains to be seen,” he replied with a narrow smirk.

  “This room is perfectly safe,” she assured him. “The Five Families have had many a summit here and managed not to kill each other.”

  “Did you add the extra two chairs for our arrival?” Santos asked, motioning toward the table.

  “Every chair represents a house,” Veber replied, “but the table still has enough room.”

  Lady Veber and her guest walked to the table. A robot had already brought Lady Nasri a wine glass. Santos nodded to her.

  “Captain,” he said.

  “I prefer Lady Nasri, if you don’t mind,” she replied.

  “It looks like you’ve traded a flight suit for dresses now,” Santos remarked.

  “And you’ve finally picked your family colors I see,” Nasri said.

  “Black and red seemed fitting somehow,” Santos replied.

  She scoffed. “Only for a revolutionary...”

  Lady Veber cleared her throat.

  “We’ll have time to discuss the finer details of symbolism,” she said, “but first let’s sit down and eat dinner. I’m starving and nothing good ever comes from an empty stomach.”

  The others agreed and everyone took a seat while a small cadre of robots brought in trays of food and
drink, all of it looking delicious and expensive.

  When Annis the handmaiden entered Philip Veber’s private quarters, she found the main room dark and musty and the window shutters closed. An older woman with a round face, Annis put down the tray containing Philip’s dinner and grasped the octagram amulet around her neck.

  From the bedroom, shimmers of light shone through a crack in the doorway. The handmaiden passed through the main room and slowly pushed the door open. Inside, Philip’s bedroom, which had been quite open and large, was now crowded with cages containing a menagerie of different animals. Instead of making noise, they each seemed eerily quiet.

  On the far side of the room, where the bed formerly sat, Philip Veber stooped over a wooden table, his back to the handmaiden.

  “Lord Philip?” Annis asked.

  Philip straightened and turned. On the table, a small mammal the size of a cat lay immobile. Annis noted that the animal was completely shaved and archaic lettering was tattooed across its body. Also, the same octagram design as the handmaiden’s amulet was carved crudely into the table top.

  “What is it, Annis?” Philip replied, somewhat irritated.

  “I brought your meal,” she said.

  “Thank you.”

  Curiosity overtaking her, the handmaiden stared at the creature on the table. “What are you doing?”

  Philip’s eyes brightened, as if happy to share his work.

  “Come,” he said. “I’ll show you.”

  Annis approached the table. For the first time, she noticed a soldering iron beside the animal. She also smelled the faint odor of burnt flesh.

  “I should really thank you,” Philip went on, putting his hand on the handmaiden’s shoulder. “All of this is because of you.”

  “Really, sir?”

  “Oh, yes. If it wasn’t for you, my mother would have never known of the Necronea and the gifts they offer us.”

  “They give hope,” Annis said.

  “More than that!” Philip said excitedly. “Death is no longer to be feared! We can now harness death and make it do our bidding...”

  The handmaiden’s eyes settled again on the motionless animal on the table. “Is that what this is?”

  “Absolutely! Since re-awakening, fresh knowledge has been flooding into my mind as if the Grand Master was talking to me...”