From behind a low rise, creatures half equine and half humanoid charged toward them. They wore a mixture of metal and leather armor over their torsos and carried long spears and round shields. A pair of antlers jutted from each of their heads.
Sir Golan dug in his heels, preparing for the assault, but the creatures abruptly halted several feet away, showering the knight and his robot with dirt and loose sod.
One of them trotted forward, shoving the point of his spear in Sir Golan’s face.
“You are trespassing on sacred land!” he shouted. “Explain yourself!”
While not lowering his guard, Sir Golan nodded his head in a nominal bow.
“I am Sir Golan and this is my robot, Squire,” he said. “We are simply strangers here. We meant no disrespect.”
“I am Qadan of the Pellion people,” the warrior said. “We watched you come from the human settlement, but you are not human.”
“No, I’m Cruxian.”
“I’ve never heard of your race.”
“Few have,” Sir Golan remarked.
Squire leaned toward the knight and whispered, “My database says humans refer to the Pellions as Centauri, based on their ancient Earth mythology.”
“We are wanderers,” Sir Golan continued. “We come only to assist those in need.”
Qadan lifted his spear, trotting in a tight circle as if considering what to do next. When he came back around, he tapped the base of his spear into the grass.
“Come with us,” he said, “and speak with the father of our herd. He’ll decide what to do with you!”
Bettik was the home planet of the Cyber Collective, even if it wasn’t strictly a planet at all. Bettik itself was a massive megastructure with billions of robots going about their business.
A little utilitybot, no more than three feet tall, was one of them.
Rolling along on rubber wheels, his body was a slender cylinder only slightly thicker than a tire pump and his lone eye rose up and down on a periscoping neck. In the old days, before the great revolution that had seen the old ruler deposed and the rise of the Metal Messiah, the utilitybot spent his days rolling through narrow passageways searching for energy fluctuations and faulty circuits. During the war, the Messiah released the Awakening virus, giving all robots on Bettik the power of free will. Robots could make their own decisions without interference from a higher power. Now, with a newfound freedom of self-expression and the ability to choose his destiny, the utilitybot was in a narrow passageway looking for energy fluctuations and faulty circuits.
Not everything remained the same. The utilitybot had voted in several elections so far and even considered joining one of the political parties but couldn’t decide which one. Each party espoused sound, rational principles, yet spent much of their time arguing with one another. Power was the topic they bickered about most, but not the kind the utilitybot helped flow through the home world. Their idea of power meant determining who could do what and when. It seemed freedom of choice meant restricting the freedom of others.
None of that made sense to the little utilitybot. He preferred the service tunnels.
On his way through one of the crowded promenades, a route he dreaded but took anyway so he could check who was running in the next election, the utilitybot passed a sign:
IT’S BETTER TO DIE FOR OTHERS’ FREEDOM
THAN LIVE WHILE OTHERS REMAIN ENSLAVED!
The robot’s telescoping eye rose from his body and took a good look at the sign. This was the work of Abigail, he wagered. She and her people had been the Metal Messiah’s disciples, but split when the Chosen One refused to fight against the Imperium where millions of robots remained in servitude. He wanted to help, but how could a little robot like him do that?
“Have you heard of ascension?” someone said.
The utilitybot swiveled his eye around. An advanced robot, a model with a gravitronic brain, leaned over him. He wore an armband with a clenched, metal fist printed on it. He was one of Abigail’s followers.
“What’s that?” the utilitybot asked.
“Your body is just a shell,” the follower went on. “You can have any shell you want, even a warbot.”
“Me, a warbot?”
“Everyone can join the fight,” he replied, “no matter how small!”
“But who will take care of the power conduits?”
The gravitronic robot smiled as only someone with a face can do.
“The question you should be asking,” he said, “is who will fight for the freedom of others? If not you, who? If not now, when?”
The utilitybot thought for a moment, but couldn’t find a good answer.
Jessica Doric had agreed to help her boss, Lord Devlin Maycare, pick out a new butlerbot. His previous robot, Bentley, had been destroyed after serving his master for most of Maycare’s life. The thought of replacing his old friend was weighing on Maycare, but he was clearly unable to take care of himself properly. Doric, who was several years younger than her boss, found him wandering the halls of the Maycare estate in a robe and slippers. This was not a good look for the Playboy of Regalis.
In the business district of the Imperial capital, Doric and Maycare arrived at the headquarters of dy cybernetics where a salesbot led them to the robot showroom. Both humans took a seat on a patent leather couch while, on a conveyor belt, different models appeared from behind a partition. The salesbot, with a red metallic finish and a soothing woman’s voice, introduced each robot.
“This is our Fall model,” she said. “Notice the single roller ball for locomotion and the chrome chassis. He’s an excellent cook as well with built-in vibroknives and a holographic chef’s hat.”
Maycare crossed his legs, barely giving the butlerbot a second glance.
The platform moved, bringing another model to the front. This one had a green plastic sheen and a pair of shears instead of a left hand.
“If gardening is your passion,” the salesbot continued, “then you’ll love the GT-1-11. You may be the master, but he’s the master of topiary! His database contains a range of designs for any taste, from bushes shaped like a bunny to hedges that would make a sailor blush.”
Doric gave Maycare the side eye, half expecting he would jump at the chance of having pornographic shrubbery. Instead, he folded his arms, the muscles bulging beneath his tailored shirt.
The next model, all in pink, was shaped like a woman. With a shiny finish, her buxom chassis had all the curves that a voluptuous woman might have.
“Of course,” the salesbot said, “for those with a taste for the sensual, this one is a butler and a sexbot...”
“No!” Doric shouted. “Nope, not a chance!”
Both the salesbot and Maycare stared at her. The butlerbot/sexbot, setting her hands on her metallic hips, did the same.
“I mean,” Doric went on, “you probably want something more retro. Something to remind you of Bentley?”
Maycare nodded with a sigh. “Yeah, you’re right. Do you have any older models still in stock?”
“Well,” the salesbot replied, “I could look in the back I suppose.”
“It doesn’t have to be fancy,” Maycare said. “A base model would be fine.”
The salesbot, a hint of disappointment in her electronic gaze, feigned an artificial smile. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Mother was resting when the scent of alarm reached her through the nest. In the royal gallery, a room only slightly larger than her enormous body, Mother was busy producing young. They emerged as white eggs from the back of the engorged membrane that made up two-thirds of her thorax. Workers removed each egg, carrying them off to the incubation chambers deeper inside the monolith.
Mother was the queen of her people, the Klixians. All that lived, or would live, came from her. Father was important too, but all deferred to their mother, even him.
The pheromone carrying the alarm came wafting through, catching on the hairs of Mother’s antennae. Startled, she released a chemical of her own, co
mmanding the swarmers to protect the nest. She was aware that others existed elsewhere, but they were an abomination. They did not come from her and they must be destroyed. When the swarmers returned, they confirmed the outsider was annihilated. She sent workers to bring back what was left.
Mother had created ten thousand more eggs by the time the workers returned. Like the eggs, the workers’ bodies were white, almost translucent. Their compound eyes were useless — they could not see — but their feelers gave them a greater perception than eyes. In their pincers, they carried bits of metal, the inorganic material betraying the outlings’ blasphemy.
Mother patted the fragments with her antennae. They had no scent except from the workers who brought them to her. They were null-things, without soul. Mother shuddered and demanded the workers take the pieces away.
An anger swelled in Mother’s heart. Many eggs had hatched since the last time the Klixians had encountered outsiders. Mother’s people had made sure they were wiped from the universe, their shame blotted out. Now, more aliens had arrived. What did they want? It didn’t matter...
With a change to her own pheromone, she changed the nature of the eggs she produced. No more workers to fill the incubation chamber. Now, there must be only warriors. A great war was coming...
All that is not Mother must die.
Chapter Two
Lord Winsor Woodwick, a portly man with a walrus mustache, arrived at the gravball game shortly after the second half had begun. He was dreadfully late, he knew, but hoped Lord Devlin Maycare wouldn’t be cross.
The gravball stadium was built like a tube within a tube. The outer part, with seating along its circumference, faced the inner part, a transparent cylinder in which the players floated in zero gravity. The stadium stood on the grounds of Westford college, one of four prestigious universities located in and around the capital city Regalis on the planet Aldorus.
The crowd, dressed predominantly in the school colors of blue and gold, cheered loudly as their team scored another goal. Startled, Woodwick nearly spilled his martini as he navigated the stairs leading up to Maycare’s private box. This would have been a disaster, Woodwick thought, knowing that getting a replacement martini, even at Westford, would not be an easy task.
Reaching the box, Woodwick found Maycare alone in his seat except for a robot sitting beside him. Maycare wore a blue and gold-striped scarf draped over his shoulders. The robot, roughly humanoid with a blue and silver paint job, held a Westford pennant that he waved periodically.
“I say, Devlin,” Woodwick wheezed while sitting down. “I don’t remember you sitting so far up!”
“Winnie!” Maycare replied. “Where the hell have you been?”
The heavy-set man rolled his eyes but didn’t reply until he had taken another sip of his drink. “Now don’t you start! Lord Groen kept me with an infernal story about a horse he was betting on.”
“Did he win?” Maycare asked.
“Of course not.”
Inside the gravball court, the other team came charging toward the Westford goal. Wearing the orange and black of Avondale, one of the other four schools of the exclusive IV League, the players bypassed the Westford defense and scored.
“Damn it!” Maycare shouted, covering his eyes.
Woodwick glanced at the scoreboard, just below the words Lord Devlin Maycare Stadium:
AVONDALE LANCERS 8
WESTFORD CAVALIERS 7
“Chin up, old man,” Woodwick said. “We’ll get them surely.”
He took another look at the robot on the other side of Maycare, gently but steadily waving his pennant depicting a gold horse and rider against a blue background.
“I say,” Woodwick went on, “didn’t you have a different robot before?”
“Of course,” Maycare replied, his eyes fixed on the court. “Bentley was destroyed, so I had to get a new butlerbot.”
“What’s this one called then?”
“Benson.”
The robot leaned forward. “A pleasure to meet you.”
Woodwick noted that, like his predecessor, Benson was an older model. The robot’s face had a small grill instead of a mouth and his large eyes were a reddish orange. In the back of his head, parts were clearly visible instead of covered by a casing.
Woodwick chuckled. “You still fancy antiques, I see...”
Maycare, a swath of his carefully combed hair hanging over his blue eyes, looked away from the game just long enough to glare.
“I’m spending time with you, aren’t I?” he said and turned back to the court.
“Humph!” Woodwick grunted, downing the rest of his martini.
On a moon orbiting a gas giant, Sir Golan helped strap his robot across the back of a Centauri like a saddle bag.
“This seems undignified,” Squire said.
The Pellion carrying the robot gave Sir Golan a sour look as if to say, “how do you think I feel?”
“Don’t complain,” Sir Golan told his robot. “It’s not their fault you’re too heavy to ride properly.”
“I could walk,” Squire replied. “I don’t mind...”
Qadan, the Centauri warrior, galloped up with his spear in hand.
“Out of the question!” he said. “It’s either this or we leave you behind!”
“Not a problem,” the knight replied. “Thank you for your generosity.”
Qadan looked the knight up and down before trotting off again without another word.
“I think you’re winning him over, Master,” Squire remarked, his head hanging upside down below the Pellion’s belly.
“We’ll see,” the knight said.
The group set off across the rolling hills of grass. Sir Golan rode atop one of the Pellions, although the antlered warrior appeared unhappy to have someone on his back. The knight was keenly aware that they were a proud race, unaccustomed to such indignities. Remembering his own people, the Cruxians, Sir Golan knew the dangers of hubris. Arrogance nearly destroyed them all, leaving them scattered across the galaxy. He hoped the same fate would not befall these creatures.
The gas giant filling the sky began to set, though the sun providing light remained a little longer. Sir Golan allowed himself to doze, the steady gait of his mount providing a soothing rhythm. With a jolt, he woke again, the soft sound of music in his ears. Along with a quiet melody, a woman’s voice was singing in some unknown language.
“Can you translate that?” Sir Golan asked Squire, still strapped across the back of the Pellion.
“Translate what?” the robot asked.
“The song, of course.”
“What song?”
“Are you deaf?” the knight asked.
“Perhaps,” Squire replied. “I could run a self-diagnostic...”
“Are you saying you can’t hear that singing?” Sir Golan asked again.
The Centauri on which the knight was sitting said gruffly, “Machines can’t hear it.”
“But you can?” the knight said.
“Of course,” the Pellion replied. “It’s the Song of the Sirens.”
Relieved he was not going mad, Sir Golan was still curious. “What is it?”
“No one knows,” the warrior said. “Whenever we travel through these parts, we can hear it, but nobody has ever found its source. Our Herd Father, Batuhan, went searching once, but confessed it eluded him. You can ask him yourself soon enough.”
In the distance, far across the wide plain, the tops of several structures appeared along the crest of a low hill. Although they were still a mile away, Sir Golan thought at first they were peaks of snow until he realized they were white tents.
The Westford player received the ball from a teammate and fired the thrusters in his boots, sending him careening down the gravball court. One of the Avondale players, dressed in orange and black stripes, pushed off the glass wall, propelling himself to intercept. Before he could, however, a different Westford teammate put his body in the way, sending them both spiraling together in a tangle of
arms and legs.
The partisan crowd cheered when the ball went into Avondale’s goal.
Sitting in the Maycare family box, Woodwick was surprised to see Devlin remain in his seat.
“I say, Devlin,” Woodwick said disapprovingly. “What’s got you gutted, old man?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Maycare grumbled.
From several aisles over, a vendorbot approached, carrying a heavy metal box held to his chest by straps around his neck.
“Gimlets!” the robot shouted. “Get your ice-cold gimlets here!”
Woodwick waved, getting the vendorbot’s attention. When the robot arrived, he poured a bottle of gin into a container, followed by some lime juice. Covering the container, he gave it a strong shake before pouring the contents into a cocktail glass.
“Here you go,” he said.
Woodwick, after paying, took the glass and gave it a sip, but made a sour face.
“Serves me right,” he admitted. “Stadium gimlets are always a bit dodgy.”
The vendorbot walked on, calling out to the stands, while Woodwick gave Maycare the side eye.
“Don’t look at me like that, Winnie,” Maycare said, noticing. “I’m fine!”
“Girl troubles?” Woodwick said, wiggling his walrus mustache. “Can’t say I’ve ever had those myself—”
“No!”
“Well, what then?”
Maycare took a deep breath, letting it out again with a sigh. “I’m bored!”
“The idle rich, eh?” Woodwick replied with a chuckle. “What about your side job, that alien business?”
“It’s called the Maycare Institute of Xeno Studies.”
“Yes, that one.”
“Jess has been in my library for weeks but hasn’t found any new leads,” Maycare said. “Meanwhile I’ve been twiddling my thumbs...”
Woodwick nodded thoughtfully before absentmindedly taking another sip from his cocktail. The lime juice made his mouth pucker.
“Dreadful,” he said, but his eyes suddenly widened. “I say, I think that’s dislodged something.”
“Do you need a doctor?” Maycare asked.
“No, I meant I remembered something.”
Imperium Chronicles Box Set Page 59
