Senator Wulandari sat quietly at her party’s section toward the back of the Imperial Senate. Much to Wulandari’s surprise, the Senate President had brought the Cyber Civil Liberties bill to the floor for a full vote by the governing body, which explained why so many more senators were in attendance compared to when she first presented her legislation.
On the monitor in front of her, she could see the tallies slowly progressing, although the yeas and nays were also shown at the front on the main screen. The senators could vote from their desks without having to stand or otherwise reveal how they were casting their ballot. Some voted by proxy, unable to attend in person. Senator Wulandari, along with the rest of her party, voted in a single block, their tally added to the total in a lump sum.
This was, in fact, the first time any of her bills had seen the light of day. Normally they died in committee or were simply ignored. This time, perhaps due to the events of the civil war and the important role the peacebots had played, the Cyber Civil Liberties Bill made it farther than any other bill her party had ever presented. In some ways, this was the highlight of her career.
Wulandari kept still, but her heart was racing. Drops of sweat collected beneath the fabric of her Kebaya. She hoped no one would notice.
Beside her, lying on the desk, her private datapad began vibrating. The senator reached for it just as the final tallies of the vote were displayed:
CYBER CIVIL LIBERTIES BILL
YEAS: 103
NAYS: 647
BILL FAILS TO PASS
A few cheers rose from the crowded senate chamber.
Wulandari glanced down at the datapad in her lap. A message was being decrypted on the screen. After a few seconds, the senator saw the reply to the communication she had sent to her former lover, Randall Davidson. She had asked the Metal Messiah if he would join forces against the Imperium. His response was simple and to the point:
NO.
Above Bhasin, where the former Lieutenant Burke had faithfully served drinks to Lord Tagus, the moon Bhasin C orbited the planet of exiles. While Bhasin was lousy with outcasts, its moon was blessed with soil suitable for producing enough food for the unwanted below. That did not mean the former nobles were willing to till the land or get their hands dirty. Automated farm equipment did most of that work, although a few humans and non-humans served as technicians to make sure the agricultural robots continued to function.
Between stalks of matured corn, an agbot rolled laboriously on narrow tires designed to follow the rows winding their way across an open field. Raised up on four struts, the agbot was roughly the size of a gravcar, painted in dark green with orange stripes. Automated pickers, mechanical arms with clawed hands on the end, darted from the body of the robot, grasping and pulling at the corn ears before depositing the windfall into a hopper. The wheels turned at a slow speed, giving the pickers ample time to work in the mindless, repetitive task previously done by human hands for centuries.
The agbot went about its business without much thought. Its programming required only a basic understanding of its environment. The robot knew what a fully-grown ear of corn looked like and could recognize any that were infested with insects. Bugs were not tolerated on Bhasin C and usually lived a short and brutal life. The agbot dropped infested ears into a second hopper, one lined with sprayers, that doused the ruined corn with insecticide before discarding it along the ground behind the robot. A sad trail of poisoned ears lay in the agbot’s wheel tracks, already forgotten by the robot who had poisoned them.
The fields around the agbot were predominately corn and soy, with a few exotic plants native to Andromeda. The rows of crops stretched over a vast plain, ending at mountainous cliffs thrusting into the sky. The agbot did not bother looking up and, in fact, its sensors were squarely focused on the area immediately around it, so when the distant horizon darkened, the robot was barely aware of the change. The clouds that gathered were different from those that generally brought rain. People of ancient Earth and especially Africa would have recognized them. The clouds moved in rapidly shifting patterns, almost like a flock of birds, although no birds lived on Bhasin C. Also, the size of the objects that made up the cloud were much larger than locusts or birds for that matter, not that any of this registered in the robot’s brain.
A warning message, sent by one of the human technicians, arrived through the agbot’s communications array and commanded the robot to return to the shed where it spent each night. Since the green and orange harvester had only been at work for a few hours, the robot was confused by the request. However, it also lacked the mental wherewithal to question the order, so it slowly turned, careful to avoid damaging the plants.
As the agbot drove toward the shed, its sensors picked up sediment falling from above. Snow was impossible on Bhasin C, so the robot’s programming began conjecturing about ash. This was at first alarming, but a quick analysis showed the powder-like grains were organic-based, possibly a type of fungus. This satisfied the robot, but only momentarily. Alarms from sensors throughout the agbot’s body began triggering, mostly complaining about excessive heat and possible weapons’ fire. Various codes ran through the robot’s brain and none of them were good. Some of the tires had stopped rolling and at least one strut had come completely off. The corn inside the hopper was now burning and one of the tanks holding insecticide had exploded. Life was hard on the farm, even for a robot, but this was out of the ordinary.
The last thing the agbot saw was a creature hovering above the ground. Its wings were buzzing, each one a few feet long. The robot had never seen a bug this big before, and definitely had never seen one holding a rod-like weapon. The agbot wondered if he could fit the insect into the second hopper, but the thought was moot. A blast from the rifle ended the agbot’s life.
.
Chapter Seven
Orkney Fugg, chief engineer of the Wanderer, was usually irritable on the best of days, but without a steady supply of fungus beer, he was downright unruly. With his captain away, Fugg decided to find the nearest bar, and take Gen along for company.
“Where are we going?” Gen asked, trying to keep up with Fugg who was walking surprisingly fast, considering his short, stubby legs.
“I know a place,” Fugg grumbled without losing step or turning around.
“A nice place?”
“Not really.”
“Is it another gentleman’s club?”
Fugg halted, rubbing his sausage fingers against his knobby chin, lost in thought.
“No!” he said, making a decision. “I’ve got to keep my focus.”
Gen, with large eyes and an eager expression, leaned closer. “Focus on what?”
“Drinking!” he shouted and started off again.
Sparky Joe’s Saloon was conveniently located just outside the Regalis starport, within easy walking distance from both a brothel and a bail bondsman. When Fugg barged through the door, he knew he had the right place. Filled with smoke and loud arguing, the saloon was crowded with ship crews and technicians from the starport. With Gen stepping cautiously behind him, Fugg zig-zagged between the tables until he reached the bar.
“What’ll you have, bub?” the bartenderbot asked. The robot, whose torso and head were a faded blue, had no legs. Instead, a metal shaft was connected to a track behind the bar, allowing him to run up and down the rail. On his chest was a name tag that read Joe.
“Fungus beer,” Fugg said.
“Do you want the genuine draft or the new, cruelty-free formula?” the robot asked.
“What’s the second one?”
“It’s made from only non-sentient fungus. No sporemen were harmed in the brewing or bottling.”
“Why the hell would I want that?” Fugg asked.
The bartenderbot nodded and headed down the bar. “Genuine draft it is...”
When the robot returned with a mug, lightly frosted and brimming with a dark amber brew, Fugg relished it for a moment before downing the entire drink in a single, swilling gulp
. He followed this accomplishment with an enormous belch for which he felt even greater pride. Saluting with the empty mug in his hand, he asked for another.
“And keep ‘em coming!” he said.
As the number of vacant glasses grew, Fugg became dimly aware that Gen was standing beside him.
“Have you been here this whole time?” he asked.
Gen perked up. “Yes, Master Fugg!”
“Well, as a drinking companion you suck,” he replied.
“Oh dear, I’m so sorry!”
“You didn’t even offer to buy me a round!”
“But you and Master Ramus don’t pay me,” Gen said.
“You’re damn right!” Fugg shouted. “What would you spend it on anyway?”
“I might buy music,” she said. “Sometimes I like to sing...”
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“That’s crazy!” Fugg replied. “Did you hear that, Joe? My robot wants to be a singer!”
Joe looked unimpressed while polishing a glass. “So?”
“Don’t you... don’t you ever wish you could be, you know, something else instead of a bartenderbot?” Fugg asked, slurring his words.
Joe stared down at the metal pole securing him to the track.
“Not really,” he said.
Nine years ago, Ta Demona lay on a bed in a hotel room past midnight. The lamp next to the bed flickered, the light casting irregular shadows against the walls. Now in her early twenties, Demona still wore the same black priestess robes from her days with the Augmentors, even though it had been years since she left Technas Delphi. She liked feeling connected to her sisters back home, their treatment of her notwithstanding. She had the satisfaction, at least, of knowing her powers had grown far greater than if she had stayed.
The hotel was in Ashetown, the seedier part of Regalis. The room was musty, and the bedspread smelled like someone may or may not have died on it recently. Lying on her back with her blue eyes staring at the ceiling, Demona laced her fingers together as she relaxed the muscles of her body. An implant connected to her adrenal glands kept the adrenaline in check. Others might have used a sedative, but Demona preferred a more direct approach. Most of her augmentations were designed to enhance her innate psionic abilities, as well as the additional powers the Psi Lords had taught her. However, other enhancements also came in handy. She had even crafted some of them herself.
Kanet Solan had been generous with the resources put at Demona’s disposal.
Wires and electrical nodes covered her head resting on the pillow while green veins along her temples pulsed. If she strained her ears, she might have heard the two men talking in the neighboring room but there was no need. She could understand every word they were thinking before they said them. More importantly, she could read the things they weren’t saying. Their deep thoughts contained secrets, kept to themselves, but open to Demona’s probing forays into their minds. It was good that they didn’t know she was next door. They would have surely killed her if they knew.
That’s why the implant on her adrenal gland came in handy.
She smiled, her emerald lips curling at the corners. If they tried killing her, she knew how to handle herself. Dark Psi, also called Death Magic, didn’t get the name by chance, and Solan had made sure her mind could do more than just read thoughts.
Five years ago, the Fat Cat Casino was the most popular gambling house in Ashetown. Games of chance filled the luxurious halls, filling the coffers of the Si-Sawat crime syndicate that used the casino as an elaborate money laundering operation. Although gambling was legal, the origin of the money that was funneled through it was not. Credit transactions, often through bogus shell companies, were the primary source of these illicit funds. The companies, and the bank accounts they used, were secrets Si-Sawat wanted to keep that way.
Unfortunately, a rival crime syndicate had other ideas.
Wearing a red dress and a pearl necklace, Ta Demona strolled nonchalantly through the casino’s main floor with a Dahl on her arm. Demona was twenty-five years old. She wasn’t sure how old the Dahl was, but she thought his red hair and earrings paired well with her ensemble.
“Your tuxedo looks so dapper, Rowan,” she said with a broad smile.
Rowan Ramus tugged at his collar. “I feel like a monkey in a suit.”
“Don’t be so grumpy,” she replied. “Solan doesn’t normally let us dress up for an assignment.”
Ramus scoffed. “He’s not doing us any favors.”
The slot machines to their right were buzzing with lights and noise, still audible over the steady cacophony of people’s voices flooding the cavernous room. Beyond the one-armed bandits, two security guards stood on either side of a doorway. Both guards were Tikarins, the feline race who controlled the Si-Sawat syndicate.
“That’s our way in,” Demona said, motioning discreetly toward the door.
“You want me to take them out?” Ramus asked.
Demona snickered, patting her escort on the arm. “That’s cute, but I think I can handle this. Remember, you’re just here as eye candy.”
“You know I can do more.”
“I do,” she replied, “but tearing them limb from limb wouldn’t be very subtle now, would it?”
Demona, casting her blue eyes at the guards, focused while holding her hands in a fist. Within moments, the two Tikarins appeared agitated and the brown hair on the back of their necks stiffened like a brush. Their teeth bared in a snarl, they charged off, leaving the door unattended.
“See?” she said, smirking proudly as Ramus rolled his eyes.
Past the now unguarded doorway, Demona and Ramus found themselves in a corridor. With the Augmentor priestess leading the way, they followed a series of turns until discovering another door. Safely through, Demona switched on the light to find a room filled with craps tables stored on their sides. Open boxes contained chips of various colors.
“I should grab some of these for later,” Ramus remarked.
“Stay focused” Demona said. “We’re directly below the data center.”
Centering her mind, she reached out and heard the voices of two Tikarins discussing the night’s receipts. Over the next several minutes, while Ramus entered the information into a datapad, Demona read out the account numbers she heard them say in her mind. When she was done, Demona gave Ramus a satisfied smile.
“And that’s how it’s done,” she said.
Ramus tucked the datapad into his tuxedo jacket and went to the door. In Demona’s mind, she heard another voice speaking.
“Wait!” she said, but it was too late. Ramus had palmed the controls on the wall, opening the door. When it slid open, a Tikarin guard was standing on the other side.
“What the hell are you doing in here?” the guard demanded.
“We’re lost,” Ramus replied.
The gangster pulled a pistol from his shoulder holster.
“I don’t think so,” he said, but hesitated, a pale blue glow reflecting across his gray fur.
Demona knew that light well. Even standing behind Ramus, she knew his eyes were blazing with a magical fire. His jacket tore along the seams, revealing bright tattoos of an ancient language on his arms before a thick mat of hair sprouted over them. With a roar, Ramus had transformed into a wolf-like animal, the nails at his fingertips extended into claws.
Before the guard could process what he was witnessing, Ramus had already sunk his ferocious teeth into the Tikarin’s neck. Like an exploding fire hydrant, blood splattered across the hallway, the red droplets painting the wall on the other side. All Demona could hear were the gurgling screams uttered from the guard before he fell lifeless in the corridor. Ramus turned to Demona, blood dripping from his mouth.
She frowned.
“Subtle,” she said.
He growled before morphing back into his normal shape.
“Now that you’re covered in blood, we can’t go back through the main room,” she continued. “Let’s try the lo
ading dock in back.”
With Demona again in the front, the two made their way down a set of stairwells and into a long corridor. Draped in torn clothing and smeared with blood, Ramus received several alarmed looks from the casino staff along the way. By the time they reached the loading dock, a phalanx of Tikarin security was waiting.
“This isn’t good,” Ramus remarked. “I doubt I can slash through all that.”
Seeing the dozen or more gangsters, each holding guns, Demona was composed, even tranquil.
“Just follow my lead,” she said.
Demona raised her hands and spread her fingers apart. Like a falling shadow, a thick, inky wall descended across the center of the loading dock, concealing the guards in complete darkness.
“In a couple of seconds, they’re going to come running out of there,” Ramus said.
“You think so?” Demona replied.
This time pointing toward the pitch blackness, Demona focused her mind, sending a vision of terror into the thoughts of the Tikarins. Panicked shrieks rose from inside the shadows.
She took Ramus by the hand while the implants in her eyes switched to the infrared spectrum.
“Come with me,” she said and led him through the darkness to the other side and out into the night.
Ramus followed Demona to her apartment, a loft at the top of an otherwise abandoned warehouse in Ashetown. He had never been there before, but it was exactly what he expected and yet nothing like he expected.
With windows looking out over the lights of Regalis, the main room was sparsely but efficiently decorated. The dining table was glass and metal, but the couch was brown leather and covered in fur, cold and warm at the same time. Personal touches were minimal, as if the apartment had been decorated by a robot. Ramus didn’t see any photos or holograms anywhere, not that Demona had any family he knew about.
While Demona was busy uploading the account numbers from the datapad, Ramus wandered off to the bathroom, a bare-bones affair with stainless steel and glass everywhere and counters of white marble. Still wearing the tattered tuxedo, he removed it and tossed the remains on the tiled floor. He got into the shower and, running the water hot, started scrubbing the dried blood from his body.
Imperium Chronicles Box Set Page 65
