The Robots of Andromeda (Imperium Chronicles Book 3)

by W. H. Mitchell

  “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, commanding 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.”

  “Yeah?”

  “There’s a story about a place, rubbish probably, but it might be true... anyway, there’s a legend about it. Now what was it exactly?”

  “I’ve no idea...”

  “Travelers say you can hear a woman singing, but nobody’s there — Yes, that’s it! — Mysterious singing, but nobody can figure out the source.”

  Maycare stared at him incredulously. “So?”

  “So?” Woodwick replied with equal incredulousness. “You should go investigate! That’s what you do, surely!”

  “You have some drunken memory and you want me to investigate?”

  “I’m not snockered, I assure you!” Woodwick protested. “Sod it, entertain yourself then!”

  Both men crossed their arms and stared ahead solemnly. On the court, Westford scored another goal and the crowd jumped to their feet in jubilation. Benson, Maycare’s robot who had been largely ignored up to that point, waved his pennant.

  Lords Maycare and Woodwick remained in their seats.

  Still riding a Centauri warrior, Sir Golan arrived at the Pellion camp along with the others.

  The Pellions were a nomadic race and the tents of their camp were a reflection of that. Built from canvas, the tents were longer than they were wide, with wooden poles propped in the middle to hold up the tarpaulin roofs. Cooking fires burned at the center of the camp with the tents stretching outward like the spokes of a wheel.

  The knight dismounted and helped pull Squire off the other warrior’s back. The robot lost his balance and landed on his metallic backside. Several young Centauri watching this spectacle laughed at Squire’s expense.

  “Most undignified,” the robot muttered, getting back up.

  Qadan pointed his spear at the long tent to the North. “The Herd Father will see you there.”

  The flaps of the Herd Father’s dwelling were lined with fur that Sir Golan pulled to one side as he entered. Behind him and Squire, Qadan and the other warriors followed, their spears remaining at the ready. Inside the tent, a heavy fog of smoke filled the space, much of the front area taken up by resting Pellions, most of them female. Toward the back, several male Pellions were lying down, drinking from wine bottles.

  At the head of this group, on a carpet of colorfully woven fibers, a large Pellion sat. Compared to the others, his antlers were significantly larger and had more points. He also had a long dark beard which he stroked while taking another pull from his bottle.

  Qadan came to the front.

  “Greetings, Batuhan,” he said. “We caught these strangers for your judgment. They had defiled the sacred place.”

  Batuhan raised his great antlers, surveying the knight and his robot. He frowned.

  “Why have you desecrated our holiest of sites?” the Herd Father asked loudly.

  Sir Golan bowed deeply before resting on one knee. He motioned at Squire to follow suit.

  “As I told your warrior,” the knight said. “We are strangers in this land. We meant no offense and ask humbly for your forgiveness.”

  Batuhan stood and approached the knight who remained on one knee. Along with his antlers, the Herd Father was well over six and a half feet tall, towering over Sir Golan. Hazarding to glance up, the knight saw Batuhan’s dark eyes staring down on him. They were bloodshot, and the pupils enlarged.

  The Herd Father blurted out a laugh, his expression changing from serious to amused.

  “Of course!” he bellowed. “Come have a drink as an honored guest!”

  While Sir Golan was deeply relieved, he heard Qadan grunting his disapproval.

  Being a butlerbot was not an easy job and Benson had rather large shoes to fill. L
ord Maycare’s previous robot, Bentley, had known Maycare since he was a boy. When the butlerbot was destroyed, it left a gaping hole in Maycare’s heart that Benson was keenly aware needed filling. This was a tall order for an older model robot. He wasn’t sure his programming would measure up.

  In the Maycare family mansion in the West End of Regalis, Benson entered the library to check on his master’s two assistants, Professor Jessica Doric and Henry Riff. He found Doric at a table stacked with books and a silver tray with two empty cups.

  “May I bring you more coffee, Professor Doric?” the butlerbot asked.

  The face of a woman in her early thirties peered out from behind an open book. Her straight, dish-water blond hair was poorly combed and her dull brown eyes had a sleepy glaze to them. “Huh?”

  “More coffee?”

  “Oh, god yes!” she replied, disappearing again behind the book cover.

  Not seeing the young man named Henry, Benson searched the library until he found him lying on a leather coach in front of one of two large fireplaces located at either end of the room. The flames in the fireplace were a simulation, a hologram with a thermal emitter behind it. Lengthwise on the sofa, Henry was also buried in a book, but it lay across his face.

  “Mister Riff?” the robot asked but heard only quiet snoring.

  He gently removed the book, revealing a man in his twenties with freckles and the pink imprint of the book crease on his forehead. Extending his metallic finger, the robot gave Henry a nudge in the ribs.

  “What?” Henry awoke with a start, nearly sliding off the couch. “What’s going on?”

  “Sorry to wake you, Mister Riff,” Benson said.

  “I wasn’t sleeping,” Henry replied, wiping his eyes.

  “Professor Doric has requested more coffee. Would you like me to bring you some as well?”

  “Extra cream and sugar?”

  The robot bowed. “Of course.”

  Benson turned to leave, but Henry stopped him.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Yes?” the robot replied.

  “How are things going?” Henry asked.

  “Going where?”

  “I mean, how are you fitting in and everything?”