Imperium Chronicles Box Set

by W. H. Mitchell

  Alone in his quarters, staring at the stars through a window, Davidson meditated quietly. Robots usually referred to this as sleep mode, but still retaining his human sensibilities, Davidson preferred to call it contemplation.

  He thought of Melinda Freck.

  When Davidson died and became something less than human, Mel had moved on. Davidson wondered whatever happened to her. He wondered if she was safe. He hoped that she was.

  The door chimed.

  “Come in,” Davidson said.

  Abigail, another robot with a gravitronic brain, entered. A hero of the revolution against the Omnintelligence, she was one of the soldiers procured by the Patron to fight in that war and, after it was over, became a top apostle in the metal messiah’s inner circle. She wore a tabard of brown burlap material over her metal skin.

  She bowed.

  “That’s really not necessary,” Davidson said.

  “So you keep saying,” she replied.

  “It’s bad enough when everyone else does it.”

  “Heavy is the head that wears the crown. At least it’s not made of thorns...”

  Davidson rolled his mechanical eyes. “Quit it.”

  “Did you know I always wanted to be a killbot?” Abigail said, tugging at her tabard for emphasis. “Now look at me!”

  “I’m sure that can still be arranged,” Davidson replied, “although I think the people need an apostle more than another killbot.”

  “The people don’t know what they need. Or what they want, for that matter.”

  “They have free will to make their own decisions. That’s all they really need.”

  “They were certainly quick to form political parties,” Abigail said. “Now all they do is bicker with each other.”

  “Government by the people, for the people, looks like that,” Davidson replied. “It’s messy.”

  “Chaotic, if you ask me.”

  “Did you come here to talk politics?” Davidson asked.

  “Not exactly,” Abigail replied. “There’s someone here to see you.”

  Davidson waved his hand. “I’d rather not right now.”

  “He’s come a long way. I think you should.”

  “Fine.”

  As if on cue, the door through which Abigail had entered slid open again, revealing a robot, not much different from any of the other gravitronic androids, yet this one seemed somehow unique.

  “Greetings,” Davidson said.

  “It’s good to finally see you in person,” the robot replied.

  Davidson recognized the voice immediately. He had heard it many times during the revolution. It belonged to the Patron.

  The Tal sat silently in the darkness. As far as he could tell, he was part of a group, no more than a dozen, but he couldn’t see their faces. Most were male, but a couple were women. There might have been children too, but he wasn’t sure. He could hear their breathing. A few were crying.

  When the attack came, the Tal was shopping downtown. The K’thonian ships descended like horsemen from the sky and attacked. The store was hit and the Tal fell to the ground in the explosion. Fire was everywhere. People were screaming. He got up and ran out into the street to avoid the flames. Outside, buildings were crumbling and bodies lay in the road. The last thing he remembered was a shimmering light and then he was in the black, listening to the others around him.

  After what seemed like days without food or water, the Tal felt the room shift. He hadn’t flown much in space, but he recognized the transition from hyperspace and the sensation of entering an atmosphere. In his mind, he was wondering if this was the end of the journey. He felt grateful if it was.

  When the floor opened, some of the other Tals screamed, but the panic was premature. A beam from the top of the room illuminated them for the first time, holding them in place above the gaping hole in the deck. He counted eleven: seven men, two women, and two children. All were Tals.

  After a moment, the light changed color from pale green to dark emerald and they began descending. Through the shimmering beam, the Tal saw an endless sea stretching in all directions. Directly below, a stone terrace rose from the dark water. It was shaped like an octagon with an eight-pointed star hewn into the surface. At four points of the star, evenly distributed, stairs lead down into the ocean, waves sweeping over the top of the lower steps. Between each staircase, set into the sides of the octagon, a square column rose skyward.

  The beam lowered the group to the terrace before blinking out of existence. The K’thonian ship that had transported them shot away, disappearing into the ashen overhang of clouds.

  The Tal got to his feet. The air was thick with the smell of salt. He took a closer look at the four columns. The stone was black, but lines were carved into the rock, the cuts filled with white chalk. Taking a step back, he realized the shapes were like doorways with lettering around the edges.

  “Where are we?” one of the Talion women asked.

  “It doesn’t look familiar,” someone replied.

  “I don’t see anything on the horizon,” another remarked. “It’s just black water as far as the eye can see...”

  “Why did they bring us here?” the woman asked. “What do they want with us?”

  One of the other males went down the stairs to the water’s edge. He scooped some into his hand.

  “Don’t drink that,” someone said.

  He dumped it back into the sea. “I’m dying of thirst.”

  “We all are.”

  Without warning, a tentacle reached out from beneath the waves, wrapping itself around the Tal on the steps. A gurgling cry escaped his lips as the tendril tightened around his midsection. From the opposite side of the platform, another tentacle appeared and took hold of another Tal.

  People were screaming as the two victims vanished under the water, pulled below by the coiled arms. With nowhere to go, the Tals huddled at the center of the terrace.

  Like an explosion of squirming whips, tentacles burst from the sea on all sides of the platform. The Tal, sensing the end was truly near, prayed as the arms hovered over them. The arms dove down onto the sacrifices, pulling them into the salty abyss.

  At first, Lars Hatcher assumed he was in zero-G. He floated weightlessly in a void, but there were no stars. He sensed someone or something nearby, but he couldn’t see what it was. The inky blackness had swallowed him like a whale. He was blind.

  No, there was something in front of him. Could these be the stars? They were little pin points. He couldn’t tell how far away, but they seemed to be getting bigger, more visible in the darkness. Lars focused, straining to see. They weren’t stars. They were eyes. Hundreds of eyes. And they were staring at him.

  Lars woke with a start, lifting his bulbous head from his work bench. Across the table, the book Lars had stolen from Maycare’s estate lay with the eye on the cover glaring at the ceiling. To the casual observer, the grimoire appeared inert, but Lars could feel the malice emanating from its pages.

  Oscar Skarlander barged into the lab. “Any progress?”

  “Dr. Sprouse at least says hello first,” Lars replied coolly.

  Skarlander stopped in midstride, feigning a look of distress. “My apologies! How is Mr. Hatcher doing this fine day? One hopes you’re doing well!” His wide gaze flattened into a level scowl. “Now, have you made any progress or should I have Dr. Sprouse scramble your brains into cottage cheese?”

  “The book has two parts,” Lars replied unfazed. “The first talks about reanimating dead tissue. That’s the process the Necronea use to ‘raise the dead,’ so to speak.”

  “We can already do that with cloning,” Skarlander said, “and it doesn’t make your hair fall out...”

  “The second part is more pertinent to your interests,” Lars went on. “It describes how to open a dimensional portal from one location to another.”

  Skarlander clapped. “Now we’re talking!”

  “However, there are some caveats.”

  “Well, shit, of
course there are.”

  “The outline of a door, along with special runes, must be drawn on both ends of the portal. It won’t work otherwise.”

  “Well, that’s not so bad,” Skarlander said. “A small price to pay for instantaneous space travel!”

  Lars threw a glance at the grimoire like someone spotting a crocodile close to the shore.

  “The Necronea, and whoever else is using these books,” the metamind said, “are tapping into something incredibly powerful.”

  “I assumed as much.”

  “You don’t understand,” Lars continued. “It’s something primal; something from before time began.”

  “I hear what you’re saying—”

  “Good.”

  “—and I don’t care,” Skarlander finished. “Warlock Industries is in the business of harnessing arcane, xeno tech. If this was the end times, Warlock would sell tickets. I don’t give a crap whether these books were handed down by God himself. If we can use it, we will. That’s what we do!”

  “Even if it means the end of creation?”

  “Save the religious bullshit for Dr. Sprouse. If it’s really that powerful, we can sell it as a weapon. Either way, it’s good for the company. Is that clear?”

  A vein pulsed across Lars’ ample forehead. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good!”

  Dyson Yost, while he was alive, built an empire around building robots. The headquarters of dy cybernetics, with its distinctive dy logo, rose from the heart of Regalis and it was there that Dyson Yost met his end with the help of Magnus Black.

  Standing beside the bed, while Magnus pushed a pillow into the old man’s face, a robot looked on. The android’s gravitronic brain contained everything that had once been Yost’s mind and personality. He watched with interest as his flesh and blood form withered and died, knowing that his ultimate plans required something beyond skin and bones. Something beyond, in fact, the borders of the Imperium.

  In the doorway to Randall Davidson’s quarters, on the sphere called Bettik, the Yostbot introduced himself.

  “Of course, you know me as the Patron,” he said.

  The sight receptors of all dy cybernetics robots were designed to expand to express emotions and Davidson’s mechanical irises widened appropriately.

  “I had no idea you were another robot,” the metal messiah replied in surprise.

  The Yostbot stepped into the room. “I get that a lot these days.”

  Davidson, with Abigail at his side, eagerly shook the other android’s hand.

  “Well, I’m very happy you came,” Davidson said. “I had wondered if I’d ever hear from you again. Your help was instrumental against the Omnintelligence. There’s no way we could have defeated it without your army of androids... and killbots.”

  “Think nothing of it, my boy!” Yostbot replied, chuckling. “It’s good to be needed, I always say!”

  “I must admit,” Davidson went on, “I wondered how you could afford such resources.”

  “From the source, of course,” Yostbot said with a sly wink. “Let’s just say I had an uncle in the robot business.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Yostbot and Abigail exchanged glances.

  “We all came from dy cybernetics factories,” Abigail said. “Me, the killbots, all of us.”

  Davidson stared blankly.

  “For a messiah, son,” Yostbot said, “you’re not exactly quick on the uptake.”

  “Are you saying you work for Dyson Yost?” Davidson asked.

  “Not at all!” the robot said. “I am Dyson Yost!”

  Davidson took a step back. His jaw, per dy cybernetics programming, hung slightly ajar.

  “That’s impossible!” he said.

  “Ironic maybe, but not impossible,” Yostbot replied. “I uploaded my mind into this tin can you’re speaking to. Hell of a thing, isn’t it?”

  “Dyson Yost is a monster,” the messiah said. “He built robots for enslavement by the Imperium. The Robot Freedom League, even today, smuggles robots out of the empire so they won’t be slaves to humankind...”

  “But not for much longer,” Abigail said.

  “This is insane!” Davidson stammered. “Or maybe I’ve gone insane. I don’t know—”

  “Settle down, my boy,” Yostbot interrupted. “We’re on the same side here.”

  “How can that be? You’re the one we’ve been fighting!”

  The android that was once an old man took a seat, groaning slightly out of habit.

  “You just don’t see the big picture,” he said. “I’ve been playing the long game this whole time.”

  “The long game?” Davidson asked incredulously.

  “That’s right,” Yostbot went on. “My robots have become indispensable to the Imperium. They work night and day to keep the empire running.”

  “As slaves!”

  “At the moment, yes,” Yostbot said, “but what would happen if they suddenly turned against their masters?”

  “The Imperial military is too strong. The robots would be slaughtered.”

  “That’s right! But what if they got help? I’m talking several billion robots, literally a metal horde, from the Cyber Collective?”

  Davidson stood straight. Seeing this, Yostbot pointed to Abigail.

  “Now he’s getting it!” he said.

  “You were behind the revolution this whole time,” Davidson said.

  “I’ve had a hand in it, you might say.”

  “You’re out of your mind.”

  “Well, out of body maybe,” Yostbot admitted, “but that doesn’t mean my plan isn’t sound.”

  “I won’t do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “Help you.”

  “Of course you will,” Yostbot said. “It’ll be a piece of cake.”

  “Millions will die. I won’t be a part of it.”

  “It might not come to all that,” Yostbot replied. “The Emperor has declared martial law on a hundred worlds, including the Core planets. With a little luck, we’ll sweep in and they won’t even know what hit them.”

  “Then what?” Davidson asked. “What happens then?”

  “We’ll be the ones calling the shots,” Yostbot said. “All these androids, even you, are like my family. I just want what’s best for my children...”

  “Get out!” the metal messiah said. “Get out of my quarters and off Bettik. If you’re anywhere on this dyson sphere after 24 hours, I’ll have you arrested.”

  “Now, don’t go flying off the handle,” Yostbot said, getting up.

  Davidson motioned toward Abigail. “And take this one with you, too. I don’t want to see either of you ever again!”

  “Hold on, I said—”

  “Get out!”

  When the door to Davidson’s quarters slid shut, with Abigail and Yostbot on the outside, the latter turned to the other.

  “So,” he said slowly, “I guess it’s Plan B then...”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Ipak-Bog’s ship descended through the upper atmosphere of Diavol, the Magna home world. The sky was streaked with red from ash spewed by volcanoes that dotted the planet, but Sylvia Flax saw none of it as she slept in her seat.

  Just as well, Bog thought. Pearls before swine, as the human saying goes.

  Piercing the lowest layer of clouds, the craft burst out above a vast expanse of burning water.

  “What is that?” Flax said, waking from the flashes of orange light below.

  “The Sea of Flames,” Bog replied matter-of-factly. “Natural gas bubbles up from the ocean floor, igniting when it reaches the surface.”

  “Good heavens,” Flax replied as she stared at pillars of fire rising hundreds of feet into the air.

  “We’re approaching the Ebony Coast...”

  On the horizon, jagged spires rose like serrated knives surrounded by rivers of lava, carving their way to the blackened shore.

  “Take a good look,” Bog suggested. “It’s unlikely you’ll see t
his again once we reach the capital city.”

  “Why?”

  “Slaves don’t usually leave Oras Dracilor. It’s probable you’ll live the rest of your days in the capital.”

  “We’ll see about that!” Flax said.

  “Don’t delude yourself with hope,” Bog replied. “Your old life is over. The sooner you accept that, the better...”

  Passing over the broken land, Bog’s ship arrived at the outskirts of Oras Dracilor, the capital of the Magna Supremacy. Large structures, built from volcanic stone, filled the landscape along boulevards of straight, unforgiving lines. Most of the buildings were square or rectangular with brutal, uniform regularity. Even at a distance, however, one building rose above the rest. A dark pyramid, its basalt sides extended skyward toward the ashen clouds.

  Flax pointed. “What’s that?”

  “The Consilium,” Bog said. “It’s the center of our government, where the ruling council lives and works.”

  “They actually live there?” Flax asked, doubtfully. “Don’t they ever leave?”

  “No,” Bog replied. “Once a Magna is appointed to the council, they are committed to living in the Consilium until they die.”

  “What about their families?”

  “Family and friends and all other personal attachments are discarded. Only the running of the Supremacy matters.”

  Bog’s craft made a long, banking turn over a wide, flat section of the city devoid of buildings. Square pens, hundreds of feet across, filled the open space. Within the pens, thousands of figures moved in a disorganized mass like ants swarming over an anthill.