"Will do, chief!"
The rumpled detective turned toward the back room.
"Goin' back to bed?" Dolores asked.
"No," Martel replied. "I've got to work for a living..."
Gregor Ivanovich had been a sickly child. His father called him a weakling, mocking the boy's pasty skin and dark, sunken eyes. As Gregor grew older, bullies in the neighborhood picked on him relentlessly and he often returned home bruised and angry. He fell in with other disenfranchised youths, each carrying their own grudges against the society that had rejected them. It was particularly galling that humans were the favored race of the Imperium, yet other humans looked at Gregor and his gang brothers with disdain and fear.
Sometime during his late teens, Gregor noticed an automated blimp passing over the slums he called home. An advertisement ran across the balloon:
THE WORLD IS YOURS
FOR 3 EASY PAYMENTS
OF 19.95!
Gregor didn't remember what the ad was for but it hardly mattered. He saw in those words a call to action.
I promise, he told himself, I will never be weak again!
However, even though Gregor founded his own gang, other gangs like the Griefers remained dominant in Ashetown, often at Gregor's expense. It was only after the robot revolution five years ago that things finally changed.
Alexei, Gregor's right-hand man, watched the signing of the Cyber Civil Liberties Bill on the news at the time.
"What's it all mean, boss?" he asked.
"I'm not sure," Gregor replied, "but I think we're about to become obsolete..."
In the Imperium, at least among humans, purity was everything. The very fabric of the nobility was based on their ability to trace a direct line to the crews of the ark ships that had brought humanity to Andromeda. Even the middle class spoke with pride of their ancestors, the colonists who had slept in suspended animation for the entire trip. Humans viewed their DNA as a sacred code, making genetic alterations an abomination. Even a prosthesis, beyond a simple artificial arm or leg, was taboo, leading to Imperial laws and decrees banning mechanical and cybernetic augmentation.
Gregor realized this was a limitation.
Robots were smarter and stronger than fleshlings, and Gregor was not about to be left behind. Within months, he began outfitting his gang, and himself, with augmentations. From brain enhancements to internal weapons systems, the newly renamed Cyberpunks suddenly became a force to be reckoned with.
The sun had just disappeared behind the skyscrapers of Middleton, the business district of Regalis, when Thomas Martel met his contact, Dr. Sprouse, at a small park surrounded by glass and concrete buildings. She sat on a bench alone, her bright red hair still vibrant, even in the fading light. Although she wore a light jacket, her lab coat with the logo of Warlock Industries was still visible underneath.
"You thought this was better than the Sous-Sol?" Martel asked, taking a seat beside her.
"A burning garbage fire would be better than the Sous-Sol," she replied curtly.
Martel crossed his arms. "Thanks for meeting me anyway."
From her coat, the doctor pulled out the plastic evidence bag filled with the petals that Martel had taken at the Cyberpunk chem lab. She slipped it into Martel's lap.
"It's Lotus," she said.
Taking the bag, Martel rolled his eyes. "I knew that already. What else can you tell me?"
"It's a synthetic narcotic," Sprouse said, "based on a toxic fungus spore."
"A fungus?"
"On the planet Eudora Prime," she went on, "there's a creature—a walking plant actually—that produces a cloud of poisonous spores to defend itself. It's called the Kamal Maut."
Martel gave her a blank look.
"It means Death Lotus," she said, shaking her head.
"Ah," Martel replied. "And somebody made it into a chem?"
"Apparently."
"I heard it makes people have crazy dreams," he said.
"Correct," Sprouse replied. "It affects the parts of the brain that influence sleep and the dream state. It's also highly addictive."
From down the sidewalk, a park patrolbot rolled laboriously toward them. About four feet tall and shaped like a cone on little wheels, it stopped in front of the bench. A small hatch opened along the robot's surface and a prong-like rod with two electrodes extended out, pointing at Martel. Small bolts of electricity jumped between the prongs.
"Is this vagrant bothering you, Ma'am?" the patrolbot asked.
Sprouse pondered a moment. "A little."
The probe with the electrodes extended farther, drawing dangerously close to Martel's leg.
"Hey!" the detective shouted. "I'm not a vagrant! I have a job!"
The pale blue eye of the robot stared at Martel.
"If you say so," it replied.
"I'm fine," Sprouse said to the robot. "You can go."
The patrolbot made a chirping noise and retracted the probe. Turning, it went about its business down the sidewalk.
"Thanks," Martel said.
"It serves you right," Sprouse remarked. "You can't expect me to run lab tests whenever you like."
"You owed me a favor," Martel said.
"Then consider it paid," she replied. "Warlock Industries doesn't pay me to do your dirty work."
"No, they pay you to do their dirty work..."
"Damn right," the doctor said. "Are we done here?"
"I mean," Martel replied, not entirely finished, "how do you sleep at night, knowing all the terrible things Warlock does?"
Doctor Sprouse stood while giving the detective a smile.
"Very well," she said and walked away.
Gregor Ivanovich did not attack immediately. He carefully weighed Griefer targets before choosing one warehouse in particular, containing the gang's most valuable merchandise. While not a crippling blow to Kid Vicious, the counterattack would cost the Griefers millions in potential profits.
Just past sunset, the Cyberpunks overwhelmed the warehouse guards, killing them, and then turned their attention to the storage crates, setting them on fire.
"This is for Alexei!" Gregor shouted, holding the flaming plasma sword in his hand.
The Griefers staged their own counterattack before the warehouse was completely ablaze. Armed with blasters and guns, they streamed into the burning building, the sound of shots and crackling fire filling the air.
Kid Vicious himself, his pants ironically painted with flames, appeared amongst the choking smoke.
"You crazy son-of-a-bitch!" he shouted at Gregor from across the warehouse floor. "I'm going to wipe you out for this!"
With a blaster in each hand, he fired at the Cyberpunk leader. Gregor ducked behind a container, the blaster bolts turning the sides into melted plastic.
Gregor poked his head out.
"Give it up, Kid!" he yelled back. "You're no match against our augmentations. Your time has come and gone!"
Through his X-ray eye, Gregor noticed the shape of a Griefer approaching on the other side of the container. Wearing a red leather jacket and carrying a shotgun, the man appeared around the corner, leveling the barrel of the gun. Gregor sliced it in half with his plasma sword, taking the Griefer’s left arm along with it. The man screamed in pain but stopped abruptly as Gregor decapitated him with another swing of the sword.
Gregor smiled, but forgot about Kid who had used the opportunity to close the gap between the two gang leaders. When Gregor turned, Kid was waiting with his blasters.
"Augmentations are no substitute for experience," Kid said, pointing the blasters while flames blazed above him in the rafters.
"But before I kill you," he went on, "who's been bankrolling your expansion?"
Gregor dropped his sword to the ground. "I don't know what you mean..."
"You don't have the capital for all that Lotus," Kid replied. "Somebody with deep pockets has been supplying you with chems."
"Like I said," Gregor replied calmly, "you're outdated and people have notice
d."
"Which people?"
"People who see the future and recognize you're not in it!" Gregor replied.
Something exploded above them, followed by a burning wooden beam crashing down. Both Gregor and Kid scrambled out of the way, the rafter landing between them. Gregor rolled across the floor until he felt the cold metal of his sword's hilt in his hands. At the same time, blaster streaks cut through the smoke. With his enhanced vision, Gregor could clearly see Kid on the other side of the flames, firing blindly.
Once more, Gregor could not help but grin.
Idiot, he thought. Let him burn...
Crawling away, Gregor notified his men via their communication implants to leave as well. The warehouse was fully engulfed, but this was only the beginning.
The gang war had just begun.
Martel took a gravtaxi from Middleton back to Ashetown. After paying the robot driver and stepping onto the cracked cement of the sidewalk, Martel caught a whiff of smoke in the air. His eyes surveyed the run-down buildings around him which were in stark contrast to the business towers of Middleton. The low clouds had turned pink, reflecting a raging fire several blocks away. A thick column of smoke trailed into the sky like a portent of bad times ahead.
That can't be good, he thought.
The detective bypassed the stairs down to the Sous-Sol, taking the flight up to his office instead.
"Yawr back!" Dolores said as Martel walked through the door. "How was yawr lady docta friend?"
"Just dandy," he replied, passing directly into the back and taking a seat at this desk. He pulled the plastic bag out of his jacket, holding it up to the light. The thin petals inside the bag were semi-translucent.
Opening a drawer, he shoved the pouch inside, happy he wasn't an addict like those poor bastards in the Lotus dens. From the same drawer, he removed a bottle and a shot glass.
He poured a drink and emptied it in a single gulp before pouring another.
"Ya gotta call comin' in, hon!" Dolores shouted from the other room.
Now? Martel thought.
He grabbed a datapad from the desk, pushing the bottle and glass just out of view.
"Okay!" he yelled.
Dolores transferred the call to the pad in Martel's hand. The face of a remarkably handsome man appeared on the screen.
"Hello!" the man said. "I'm Lord Devlin Maycare."
"I'm Detective Thomas Martel. What can I do for you?"
"Ducky Davenport said I should give you a call..." Maycare replied.
"I don't think I know anybody named Ducky," Martel admitted.
"Maybe so, but he knows you!" Maycare said. "I'm in need of a private eye and he told me you're the man I should call."
Martel finally recognized the face on the screen. "You're that famous sportsman, Lord Maycare."
Maycare grinned with the kind of feigned humility only a professional athlete could muster.
"Why, yes," he said. "You've seen me play?"
"I've caught a few of your races," Martel remarked.
"Well, that's why I'm calling," Maycare went on. "Of course, it's a matter of some delicacy. It requires absolute discretion."
"Discretion is my specialty," the detective replied.
"In fact, I'd prefer to give you the details in person."
"You could come to my office in Ashetown."
Maycare stifled a laugh at the thought. "Actually, I'd prefer you came to my estate in West End."
"Your estate?" Martel asked.
"Yes," Maycare said. "It's a big house. You can't miss it..."
"Right," the detective replied. "I'm sure I can find it."
"Capital!" Maycare shouted, obviously pleased. "Say, tomorrow afternoon around one?"
"I'll be there."
Maycare's smiling face winked into a blank screen. Martel, for his part, made a noise deep in his throat and reached for the bottle. He poured a drink into the shot glass and downed it, wondering if he still had a clean tie to wear.
As part of the expansion of the Fat Cat Casino, Big G had built an adjacent luxury hotel, although the term luxury was somewhat generous. Big G had grand designs for his hotel, including gold inlays and draperies of crimson velvet. Once he learned the cost of such amenities, however, he chose gilded bronze and red velour instead. Even so, his own personal penthouse at the top of the building did not lack luxury, and Big G could feel some satisfaction in that at least.
In the sunken living room of the suite, Big G lay on his back while a servantbot gently stroked the Tikarin's fur with a brush. The soft bristles passed through his mane, eliciting purrs from the criminal kingpin.
"Yeah, that's what I'm talking about," Big G murmured, his thick neck rippling.
The robot paused to remove some of the orange hair from the brush.
"Are you stressed?" he asked. "You're losing more hair than usual."
"That figures," Big G replied. "Heavy is the head that wears the crown..."
A metal door slid apart revealing an elevator and Max, Big G's right-hand man, within. The large feline lumbered into the penthouse with a glum expression.
"What's the matter, Max?" his boss asked. "Can't you ever bring me any good news?"
"Sorry," Max replied in his surprisingly high voice. "I would if I could."
The gangster stepped down into the living room as Big G motioned for the servantbot to continue brushing.
"I didn't tell you to stop," he told the robot. Turning to Max, he asked, "Did Radford Groen ask for another extension on what he owes me?"
"No, boss," Max replied. "I haven't seen him in a week."
"What?" Big G sat up, genuinely surprised. "He better not be spending his money someplace else!"
Max shook his head. "It ain't about him, boss. There's trouble with the street gangs."
"Which ones?"
"The Griefers and the Cyberpunks."
"I knew it!" Big G shouted, causing the robot to let go of the brush which hung loosely in Big G's back fur.
"Those two idiots!" Big G went on, barely aware of what was going on behind him. "Ivanovich and the Kid don't have two brain cells to rub between them..."
"Yeah, boss," Max replied, not a rocket scientist himself.
"What did they do this time?" Big G asked.
"The Cyberpunks attacked a Griefer warehouse and set it on fire."
"Which one?"
"The big one on Dashiell Street," Max replied.
"Kid Vicious must be losing his mind," Big G remarked.
"He was there. Both him and Gregor had it out, I heard."
"Well, I hope at least one of them got killed."
"Neither, boss," Max said. "They're both alive."
Big G waved off the servant bot who had only just retrieved the brush.
"You realize what this means?" Big G asked his enforcer.
"You're done gettin' brushed?" Max replied.
"No, you big dummy," his boss said. "It means a gang war in Ashetown!"
"That don't sound good."
Big G stared at Max like a parent explaining something to a child.
"No," the boss said. "It doesn't sound good at all!"
Chapter Six
On video monitors across the city of Regalis, the smiling face of Sylvia Flax appeared from the studios of VOX News. Her long, azure hair hanging past her shoulders, Flax was the face billions in the Imperium depended on to deliver the news, good or bad.
"Thank you for joining us," she began in a firm, resolved voice. "Yesterday, the Imperial Palace announced Emperor Augustus would be stepping down. Today, the emperor himself will address the people of the Imperium, brought to you by Max Jō Coffee."
Words were superimposed across the anchor's face:
MAX Jō
EXTREME COFFEE:
SLEEP WHEN YOU'RE DEAD!
Just below the main text of the advertisement, in print so small it was barely visible, were the words "Warning: May cause premature death."
"Nobody knows what Emperor Augus
tus will say in his speech," Flax continued as the ad slowly faded, "but many must wonder what this will mean for the Imperium. Who will be the next Emperor or Empress, and how long before we find out?"
Like the advertisement, Flax's own face disappeared, replaced with that of the emperor as he sat behind an impressive desk trimmed with gold. On his bald head, he wore the formal Imperial crown, a jeweled splendor of diamonds, rubies, and various other precious gems. Behind him hung the flags of the Imperium and the Augustus family, flanking a window overlooking the palace gardens.
Augustus stared into the camera for a moment, holding the collective attention of millions, and billions once the speech was eventually transmitted across the empire. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse, perhaps showing his age.
"People of the Imperium," he said, "I have had the great pleasure of being your Emperor for many years. During that period, I have guided you through times of war and times of peace, times of recession and times of prosperity. In all my years as emperor, however, I have always kept the good of the Imperium above all else. It is with that in mind that I announce my abdication."
Pausing for effect, the emperor continued.
"I have called on the Five Families to assemble a conclave to decide who will next wear the crown. Until a decision has been made, I will remain your emperor and your humble servant. Long live the Imperium!"
The video feed returned to Sylvia Flax who, instinctively, took a breath.
"Well, there you have it," she said, exhaling, "a momentous announcement by Emperor Augustus that will undoubtedly shape the Imperium for years to come, again, brought to you by Max Jō."
While the ad for extreme coffee replayed, a recording of the event was already transmitting at the speed of light to a data satellite elsewhere in the Aldorus star system. From there, courier drones carried the emperor's address across the empire, distributing its message from system to system, from planet to planet, until everyone eventually knew that the man who had been their emperor for most of their lives would soon be replaced by someone new. While many, especially at the fringes of the Imperium, would shrug and go about their daily lives, a select few in the capital were thrown into action. For them, this was an opportunity of a lifetime and they would not let it go to waste.
The Dreams of Andromeda (The Imperium Chronicles Book 4) Page 6