The Dreams of Andromeda (The Imperium Chronicles Book 4)

by W. H. Mitchell

  "What's with boys and their toys?" Dolores said loudly through the wall. "Yawr going to go blind!"

  "Go away!" Martel shouted back.

  "I'm just a box on a desk, hon," she replied. "I ain't goin' nowhere!"

  Martel waited a few days before returning to the Sous-Sol, hoping Louis would forget about his bar tab. Coming through the entrance, the detective knew he hadn't waited long enough.

  "The boss wants to see you!" Red barked.

  Martel's shoulders slumped. Goddamnit, he thought.

  Once again, he passed behind the bar and reluctantly nudged open the door to Louis' office.

  "Bienvenue, Monsieur Martel!" Louis Rion said. "So nice to see you!"

  Louis was wearing a navy-blue police uniform with a narrow leather strap running diagonally from his right shoulder to his belt. A round cap with silver embroidery covered the crown of his head and a thin mustache was glued above his mouth.

  One corner of the mustache was already coming unstuck.

  "How's business, Louis?" Martel replied.

  The owner dipped his head sadly. "Pas si bon..."

  "I don't know what that means."

  "Not good, my friend," Louis said.

  "Why's that?"

  "Bills, so many bills!"

  "Maybe if you spent less on costumes?" Martel suggested.

  "Impossible!" Louis declared loudly but, calming himself, went on, "I met with a most disagreeable man recently by the name of Mister Munge."

  "I've heard of him," Martel said. "He's an enforcer for Kid Vicious."

  "Oui," Louis replied, "and he has threatened that if I do not pay L'Enfant his protection money, I will have my limbs twisted in unfortunate ways."

  "That sounds terrible," Martel said dryly. "I'm sorry to hear that."

  Louis pressed a finger against his mustache, trying to reattach the corner.

  "It occurs to me, Monsieur Martel," he said, "that you owe me a debt as well."

  Here it comes, Martel thought.

  "Perhaps we could come to an arrangement, so to speak?" Louis asked.

  "What do you have in mind?"

  "If I were to somehow transfer your debt to Monsieur Vicious, then perhaps we could all be even, yes?"

  Martel groaned. "You mean do you a favor by doing Kid a favor?"

  "Exactement!"

  "What makes you think Kid would agree?" Martel asked.

  The other side of Louis' mustache peeled away.

  "He is a reasonable man," Louis said. "It is a simple barter of services in lieu of cash. Better to get something instead of nothing, no?"

  "And your arms twisted off..."

  Louis' blue skin darkened into a deep indigo. Martel realized he was blushing.

  "Oui," the bar owner admitted. "Besides, you are charming in your own way. I'm sure you could talk him into it if you wished."

  "And if I don't wish?"

  "Then regrettably Red will no longer serve you at Le Sous-Sol."

  Knowing that most dive bars in Ashetown, those not run by gangs, wouldn't serve humans, Martel knew his choices in fine dining and libations were limited. He also hated drinking alone, and sharing a drink in a mostly empty bar was as close as he got to company.

  "Okay," he said. "I'll see what I can do."

  "C'est bon!" Louis said. "You know, Monsieur Martel, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship, no?"

  Coming completely unglued, Louis' mustache fluttered limply to the floor.

  "No," Martel replied.

  Chapter Two

  At the southern pole of Aldorus, a loud, persistent buzz pierced the arctic wind that blew across the barren landscape. In a trench dug between banks of snow, multiple craft the size of gravcars buzzed around a hypersled track called the Polar Run. Each hypersled had three skis, one in front for steering and two in the back to carry the weight of the sled. Behind an enclosed cockpit, a rocket engine burned with a mighty roar, drawing highly combustible fuel from twin storage tanks on either side. While critics called them fireballs on skis, Lord Devlin Maycare considered his sled a delightful way to enjoy the wintry afternoon.

  Tearing along the track, Maycare's hypersled was blue and silver with the number 9 painted on the side.

  "How am I doing?" he asked into his helmet mic.

  "You're in second," Benson, his butlerbot, replied calmly.

  "Second?" Maycare said. "Who's in front of me?"

  "Lord Grayson, sir."

  "My nemesis!" Maycare shouted.

  The Polar Run was a roughly circular track that ran down a mountain before entering a kreisel loop ending in a tunnel and a series of chicanes. Drivers then burned their engines at maximum velocity to climb back up the mountain to the start and finish line before starting another circuit.

  Maycare was just approaching the loop. He tensed his stomach muscles as the G-forces dragged his body deep into his seat. He grunted, well aware he was no longer as young as he used to be.

  "Are you alright, sir?" Benson asked in Maycare's earpiece.

  "Yes!"

  The Number 9 barreled through the tunnel, emerging from the temporary darkness into the glaring light of the day. The hypersled rose along the wall of the chicane, riding the curve to the right before dropping down and riding the next curve to the left. Just ahead, Maycare caught a glimpse of Lord Grayson coming out of the final curve leading to the straightaway up the mountain.

  Maycare opened his throttle to full, a tail of flames shooting from the back of the engine. Even going uphill, the Number 9 gained on the leading hypersled.

  "I've got you now!" Maycare shouted.

  Nearly at the top, the two sleds came abreast. Maycare took a quick peek to his left, the helmet of his sporting rival visible through the other canopy. Maycare considered shaking a fist, but thought better of it, knowing that any mistake at these speeds could mean a collision with the wall and an almost certain fiery death.

  The Number 9 crossed the start/finish line, passing the enclosed grandstands built into the mountain overlooking the track. Maycare knew that his assistant, Jessica Doric, and Benson were there watching, as well as his newest girlfriend, Lady Candice. Although Candice did not approve of such dangerous sports, Maycare appreciated that she came to watch. At his age, he was beginning to entertain the idea of marriage and Lady Candice was certainly a good match. Still, the thought of settling down was unsettling to say the least.

  Also, Benson kept saying something in his ear.

  "What?" Maycare asked, the sharp descent down the mountain looming ahead.

  "I said there's a warning indicator coming from your engine," Benson replied with concern.

  Maycare glanced at the controls and saw a red light blinking menacingly. Alarms began ringing, drowning out Benson's voice.

  "What the hell?" Maycare shouted just before his hypersled shook violently and veered to one side, grinding against the trench wall. Chunks of ice sprayed behind the sled.

  A mechanical voice, this time coming from the sled itself, said "Explosion imminent. Eject! Eject!"

  For a split second, Maycare wanted to argue, but discussing anything with a machine was pointless. Also, he didn't like the sound of “Explosion imminent”.

  Reaching between his legs, Maycare pulled a handle. The canopy above him blew away and Maycare felt his seat, with him attached, hurtle into the frigid air. Just below, he saw the billowing cloud of fire and smoke that had been Number 9 moments before.

  More alarming, he saw Grayson's hypersled pass through the debris unharmed.

  "Grayson!" Maycare shouted as his parachute unfurled and he floated slowly to the icy ground.

  People said the sun never set on the Imperial Palace. While technically the planet Aldorus had a normal day/night cycle, the glaring spotlight of public attention remained squarely fixed on the marble towers and gold embellishments of the palace. From his office window overlooking the West End, Prince Richard Augustus was keenly aware of the public eye. However, he had grown used
to it since his father gained the crown so many years before.

  Richard was now in his early forties and his brown hair had begun turning shades of gray. Even his lengthy mustache showed signs of white. He was also married with a baby on the way, adding yet more duties to his plate as the emperor's eldest son. In some ways, Richard envied his two younger siblings. Neither deigned it necessary to take the slightest interest in Imperial affairs, no matter how often Richard chided them to do so.

  This morning, after being reminded by his execubot, Richard took the long walk to the emperor's private quarters where they were scheduled to meet. Richard's red and gold tunic, bearing his family's colors, dragged against the floors as he went, but the prince was oblivious. Matters of state filled his mind, blotting out everything else. Only when he arrived did Richard awake from his trance. Not finding his father in the main living room, he entered the emperor's luxurious bathroom where he came upon Hector Augustus enjoying a leisurely bath in his solid gold tub.

  "Dear god, father!" Richard said, shying away from the sight. "Are you naked?"

  "Well, of course I'm naked!" the emperor replied. "What fool would take a bath fully clothed?"

  "But you knew I was coming for our meeting..."

  "Can't the emperor do two things at once?" Hector said, motioning to a rack beside him. "Now hand me a towel!"

  Without waiting, the emperor rose from the water, his elderly body wrinkled in places that made Richard wince. Averting his eyes as much as possible, the prince grabbed a fluffy towel and gave it to his father who wrapped it around his waist.

  Carefully, Hector stepped out of the tub, taking another towel from the rack and drying himself. In his late sixties, he was bald and had a silvery beard.

  "I have something important to talk to you about, Richard," the emperor said.

  "Obviously."

  "I mean it," Hector went on. "It's something I've been thinking about for a long time."

  Richard straightened. "I'm listening."

  "Since your mother died last year," Hector said, "I haven't been the same."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I've never felt older," he went on, "and the crown has never felt heavier."

  "You could remarry," Richard said.

  "No, no," Hector shook his head. "One arranged marriage is enough, and somehow it just wouldn't be the same anyway."

  "So, what are you suggesting?"

  "I'm going to abdicate."

  "What?" Richard replied in disbelief. "You can't do that!"

  "Of course I can!" Hector replied. "I'm the damn emperor! I can do whatever I want!"

  "I'm aware of that, father, but this isn't a good time."

  "Sure it is," Hector said. "Everything's quiet for once. No wars or revolutions. It's the perfect time."

  "You're forgetting you've pardoned Lord Tagus," Richard said. "Our family can't wear the crown twice in a row and if the conclave picks House Tagus, he'll be the new emperor. That would be a disaster for all of us!"

  "It doesn't have to come to that," the emperor replied. "We have the vote of the Montros family and our own. Tagus can only depend on House Groen."

  "Leaving the Vebers as the tie vote..."

  "In which case I suggest you convince Lady Veber that it's in her best interest to vote for someone other than Tagus."

  "As you may recall," Richard said, "you put her in a mental institution..."

  "Well, she's better now," Hector replied. "I doubt she'll hold a grudge."

  "Really?"

  "Even if she does," the emperor continued, "there are other options."

  Richard stared at his father in exasperation. "Such as?"

  A sly smile appeared on the emperor's face.

  "Let me tell you a little story about Tagus' father..."

  Roland didn't know his real name, or the name of his parents for that matter. His guardian, the only one he had ever known as mother, was the bodyguard to Prince Alexander Augustus, son of the Emperor. The prince called her Lefty Lucy, but Roland just called her Mom.

  Sixteen years old with aristocratic features and blond hair, Roland looked nothing like his adoptive mother. Lucy was in her thirties, from ancient Chinese stock, with hair pulled tight into knots across her head. She was wearing silver eyeshadow and lipstick, and a black cropped top with black, leather leggings. The one thing they had in common was martial arts, which Lucy had started teaching the boy when he was still a toddler.

  In Lucy's home outside the Regalis city limits, mother and son sparred in the main room, the floor covered with tatami mats. With quick, fluid motions, they lunged and parried with nothing but their bare hands. Roland, wearing a simple white robe and black belt, made a knife-like strike, his extended hand just missing Lucy's face. Countering, Lucy grabbed Roland's arm and, pulling him towards her, launched the teenager over her shoulder and onto the mat. He landed hard, pausing to recover.

  When he glanced up, Lucy was staring down at him with stony indifference.

  "Sorry," Roland said. "I was distracted."

  She said nothing.

  "It's just..." he went on, "I've been thinking about my parents."

  Lucy frowned before crossing the room to a low table where she knelt. She poured tea into a pair of porcelain cups. Roland joined her, taking his place on the other side.

  "You told me a man brought me to you when I was a baby," he said. "He must have said something about where I came from..."

  Lucy drank her tea silently.

  Roland's face turned earnest.

  "I mean no disrespect," he said, "you'll always be my mother, but I want to know about my real parents. I can't stop thinking about them."

  Over the rim of her cup, Lucy's eyes bore down on him.

  "I know, I know," Roland said. "It's possible I won't like what I find, but I can't live the rest of my life not knowing. Will you help me?"

  Lucy set the cup on the table and reached for a small, lacquer box with the golden image of a crane on the lid. Opening the box, she sifted through items inside until producing a piece of paper. Without a word, she handed it to Roland across the table.

  The boy examined what appeared to be a business card, but without writing. Only a single image appeared on the paper: a drawing of an angry tribal mask in indigo ink.

  From the tower of the Tagus family's Victorian-style mansion, Lord Rupert Tagus III could just barely see the top of the Imperial Palace over the trees in the West End. The Tagus mansion had been in the family's possession for centuries, but the only residence this Tagus cared about was where the Emperor lived.

  Pushing forty, Tagus had sharp cheekbones and a narrow, jutting chin. He wore his hair high and tight, like military men. Unfortunately for him, he had lost his rank and military privileges over five years ago when he plotted against the Emperor who promptly exiled him. However, Hector Augustus pardoned Tagus after he warned of an alien invasion, allowing him to return to his family home once again as its patriarch.

  Tagus was less than grateful.

  Doddering, old fool, he thought, referring to the Emperor. Someday your throne will be mine!

  "Burke!" he shouted.

  From the stairwell, an execubot appeared, crossing the tower room to the window where Tagus was standing. Largely humanoid, the robot was predominately chrome and plastic, with a long, silvery faceplate without eyes or any other way to denote an expression.

  "Yes?" he asked.

  "Do you know why I call you Burke?" Tagus asked.

  "Because your former attaché, Harold Burke, bravely gave his life so you could live?"

  "No, of course not!" Tagus scoffed. "I call you that because every great man must have a follower and you're mine!"

  "Technically, sir," Burkebot replied, "you pay me a salary."

  Tagus scoffed again.

  "Don't remind me!" he said. "And don't think I won't repeal that ridiculous law once I'm emperor! Paying robots... how absurd!"

  "Indeed, sir."

  "It should be yo
ur honor to serve one of the Five Families," Tagus went on. "We built the Imperium with our blood, sweat, and tears."

  "I believe a few of the lesser noble families, not to mention commoners, xenos, and robots played a part as well?"

  Tagus glared at the execubot. "Are you familiar with the pyramids of ancient Earth?"

  "Yes, sir," Burkebot replied.

  "Do you know the name of a single slave who built them?"

  "No, sir."

  Tagus nodded with a grin. "Exactly."

  Burkebot lacked a mouth to sigh, or scream for that matter, but his vocal modulator managed the former.

  "Was there something you actually needed from me, sir?" he asked.

  "I was wondering why you haven't brought me my coffee," Tagus replied.

  "We were out, sir," the robot said, "but a braZbot just arrived with a package of Max Jō I ordered."

  "Doesn't that coffee cause heart attacks?"

  "I'm sure that won't be a problem for you, sir," Burkebot replied.

  The track at Mudderfield Downs took great pains to honor the traditions of horse racing. A one-and-a-half-mile oval, bounded by white railings, wrapped around an infield where a man in a red jacket and top hat would announce each race with a trumpet blast. A traditionalist himself, Lord Winsor Woodwick sat in a private box, sipping his Mint Julep. Although he drank carefully, he still managed to soak his walrus mustache.

  He adjusted his hefty body, and the parasol protecting his balding head from the harsh sun, before addressing his companion, Lord Radford Groen.

  "I say, Radford," Woodwick said, "what horse did you bet on?"

  Groen, holding a crumpled betting sheet in one hand and a ticket in the other, glanced at the latter to remind himself. "Gimpy Goose to win."

  "Gimpy Goose?" Woodwick replied incredulously.

  Groen frowned. "Well, he looked fast."

  A herd of horses came rumbling by in a cloud of dust, passing across the finish line. Woodwick strained to find Groen's gelding among the pack.

  "I don't see him, Radford," he said.

  "He's coming," Groen replied.

  With an uneven gait, a lone horse shuffled past the grandstand, crossing the line well after everyone else. Groen tore up his ticket, letting it fall among the litter of torn tickets from previous races. He stared at the pile of paper.