With a loud snort, Fugg sat straight up, his eyes suddenly open.
“What? How dare you!” he shouted, pointing randomly around him.
“Sorry to wake you,” Gen said.
“Wake me? Hell no! I wasn’t sleeping...”
“You were snoring.”
“Just resting my eyes!” Fugg insisted.
Fugg lifted his shirt, exposing his pronounced belly just below the bar rail. He gave his dripping face a quick wipe with the shirt before letting it drop back again, almost covering his belly button.
Her eyes large and inquisitive, Gen hesitated before speaking. “Actually, I have a question.”
“Yeah?”
“I was wondering why Master Ramus is helping the Psi Lords.”
Fugg chuckled, but had to stop halfway through to clear his throat. He coughed and spat something green onto the floor.
“It’s complicated,” he said finally.
“But I thought Master Ramus didn’t like the Psi Lords,” she said.
“When the captain first ran into the Psi Lords,” Fugg explained, “he had lost everything. His family, his people, all the Dahl had turned their back on him. He was an exile with nothing but his name. The Psi Lords took him in, gave him a job, and gave him an identity. They were like a family to him I guess.”
“You said they gave him those tattoos...”
“Sure,” Fugg replied. “They gave him powers that his own people never would, but that’s not why he’s helping.”
“No?”
“I said it was complicated!”
“In what way?” Gen asked.
“He got mixed up with a woman,” Fugg went on. “Demona was her name.”
“Was she nice?”
Fugg stared at the robot. “No!”
Gen’s eyes widened as she nodded.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Fugg went on. “Neither of them were gentle souls. They were both nasty in their own way, but she was on a whole ‘nother level! She was into some stuff that would make your toes curl.”
Gen’s mouth rounded into a circle. “Really?”
“They had a thing together.”
“Love?”
“Maybe — I don’t know about that — but they definitely had something. Anyway, if he’s helping them, I’d bet my last beer it’s because of her.”
The robot stared at the floor, avoiding the glob Fugg had spat there earlier.
“Poor Master Ramus,” she said.
Fugg gave a disinterested shrug. “Yeah, poor dumb bastard...”
Chapter Eight
Pol and Cas were a brother and sister sharing the enormous body of a two-headed giant. Over ten feet tall, they wore animal pelts and the skins of Pellions they had killed, flayed, and tanned into fine leather. Sister Cas had a tangled mess of red hair but a lovely singing voice, while her brother Pol never sang and kept his hair neat and closely shorn.
When Pol and Cas were young, their mother, who had only one head, would sing to them before they went to sleep. With melodies that were simple and improvised lyrics, their mother weaved music for them throughout their early lives. Cas inherited her mother’s skill, but whenever Pol opened his toothy mouth, the notes that emerged made everyone laugh, including Pol himself. He eventually stopped trying, preferring to listen to his mother and sister instead.
When Pol and Cas were older, their mother died at the hands of the Pellions. On a hunt, they came across a lone, dark-bearded warrior out on the steppes. Normally, a single Pellion would have been no match for them, but this one was fierce and cunning. He used his speed to escape the ambush the giants had set, but instead of fleeing, he circled back and charged, injuring the mother giant in the leg. Hobbled, she was unable to defend herself against his subsequent attacks until the Centauri dealt the killing blow. Pol and Cas managed to injure the warrior, but they could not avenge their mother’s death and he escaped.
In the years that followed, the twins lived by themselves, hunting and scavenging as best they could. They spent each night in a cavern hidden behind a concealed entrance, watching the light of the fire dwindle as Cas sang the songs their mother had taught them. Without family and without friends, the two had no one but each other. Even so, the music bound them together and to their lost mother.
One night, Cas was singing as usual but Pol noticed a strangeness in his sister’s voice. The words she had sung so many times were slurred, and the notes were off-key.
“Are you alright?” Pol asked.
Cas turned her head around, her eyes dull.
“There’s too much smoke from the fire,” she said. “Everything’s cloudy...”
“What are you talking about?” her brother asked.
Cas tried speaking, but Pol couldn’t understand what she was saying. Then her eyes rolled back and her head slumped forward, the arm on her side of their body falling limp.
That was the last time Pol spoke with his sister.
Henry Riff was dismayed to learn that he might be trampled to death by Pellions if they left the relative safety of Mud City. He felt even less enthusiastic when Lord Maycare said they would depart immediately.
On board the Acaz, Maycare did his best to rally the troops.
“What’s a little danger?” he asked. “It’s exciting!”
Jessica Doric and Henry Riff exchanged glances.
“I think what Henry is saying,” Doric said, “is that dying on a strange moon in the middle of nowhere was not in the job description.”
Maycare scoffed. “Come on! We’ve almost died in much stranger places than this!”
“I don’t think dying anywhere is a particularly good idea,” Doric went on. “Perhaps this search isn’t worth our lives.”
“I’d like to die in my sleep actually,” Henry remarked.
Maycare crossed his arms.
“Not me!” he replied. “I want to see Death coming so I can give him a good punch in the nose!”
Doric rolled her eyes before glancing at Benson.
“You were there,” she said to the butlerbot. “How dangerous did that bartender make it sound?”
“Well, Mister Salty seemed quite confident there was some risk involved,” Benson replied.
“Who cares?” Maycare asked. “He’s just a big scaredy-cat!”
“He appeared to be more dog-like—” Benson began.
Maycare sighed. “We didn’t come all this way to turn back now, did we?”
“No, I suppose not,” Doric agreed. She gave Henry a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “I’m sure everything will be fine.”
“Are you sure?” the young man asked.
“No,” she replied, “but certainties aren’t part of the job description either...”
Pol found himself alone, even though he was not alone, at least not entirely. In the years that followed, he could hear a low whistling from Cas’ nose, a faint snoring to tell Pol that his sister was still alive. He spoke to her from time to time, but she never replied and never opened her eyes.
“It’s cold this morning,” he said.
The sun had risen and the gas giant, Pol’s only real company, filled the sky. Outside the cavern entrance, frost clung to the tall grasses, giving the green a hint of white. When Pol emerged, his breath escaped in a great cloud that hung in the air before dissipating. In his right hand, he carried a heavy wooden club, while his left arm hung lifeless at his side, dead since Cas had left him. His stomach reminded him that breakfast would not go and catch itself.
When the sun reached the top of the sky, the dew had burned away but Pol still had not caught anything. In frustration, he headed toward an area of the steppes that he rarely visited, mostly because the terrain was rougher and the prospect of game was unlikely. Still, he was no less hungry and was willing to give it a try.
Descending into a valley where rainwater had dug a shallow canyon, Pol found the footing treacherous. His lumbering girth barely fit between the canyon walls, loose dirt and rocks rolling down as his s
houlders scraped by. A small mammal, similar to a rabbit, bounded out of its burrow and Pol gave chase as best he could. Such a small animal would be little more than a snack for him, but he wasn’t choosy at that point.
The mammal passed through another narrow section of the canyon, causing Pol to stop. Unwilling to concede defeat, the two-headed giant swung his massive club, smashing the walls of dirt until they crumbled, giving Pol just enough space. When he squeezed through the gap, Pol’s eyes widened at what he saw.
Half buried in the soil, the stone remains of a building stuck out of the ground.
Pol forgot about his hunger and explored the ruin. Dirt had covered much of the single chamber inside, but items were still visible. Clay pots of different sizes, some broken, were scattered about. Metal items, including plates and goblets, lay on the floor. One item, however, caught Pol’s attention. In a corner, next to a faded mural, a small object roughly the size and shape of a lamp sat on its side. It was glowing.
And then Pol heard singing and he immediately recognized his sister’s voice.
All around the Pellion camp, the Centauri were making preparations for war. Following their new Herd Father’s direction, they collected weapons and donned heavy armor. Although Qadan remained true to his word, allowing Sir Golan and Squire to stay, the green knight decided the time was right to leave. Squire whole-heartedly agreed, or at least as much as he could without having an actual heart.
Sir Golan and the robot began retracing their path back to Mud City. Qadan could not spare one of his warriors, so the two had to return on foot. After nearly a day they reached the antler mound. Both sides had removed their dead from the previous battle, and only the charred remains of the bonfires remained. The next morning, the green knight and his robot set out for another day of hiking across the empty grasslands. Along the horizon, gray clouds approached on the wind, a dark curtain descending to inundate the distant hills with rain. When the drops overtook them as well, Squire observed another group approaching from the other direction.
“Your eyes are better than mine,” Sir Golan remarked. “What do you see?”
“Four people,” the robot replied. “Correction, I think one is a robot.”
“Hostile?”
“One appears to be female, so take from that what you will...”
Growing closer, the largest male of the other party waved, his boisterous voice traveling easily over the flat terrain. “Hello there!”
Sir Golan waved in return, although he waited until they were at a more reasonable distance before replying.
“What brings you out this way?” the knight yelled.
“Sightseeing!” the man shouted with a wide grin.
Squire found him instantly irritating.
“Give them a chance,” Sir Golan said and greeted them warmly when they eventually met face-to-face.
“I’m Lord Devlin Maycare,” the man said, “and this is Professor Doric and Henry Riff. Oh, and this is my butlerbot, Benson.”
“I’m Sir Golan and this is my robot, Squire. Would you like to get out of the rain?”
Maycare glanced around. “If that’s possible...”
Squire activated a displacement field, a translucent dome of blue energy, over the two groups, shielding them from the downpour.
“Cool,” Henry said. “Can you do that, Benson?”
The butlerbot eyed the other android. “No.”
“We’re investigating some strange sounds reported in the area,” Doric said.
“The singing?” Sir Golan asked.
“You know of it?” Doric replied.
“Yes, of course,” the knight said. “I’ve heard it, although I’m afraid Squire thinks I’m going mad.”
“Well, that’s outstanding!” Maycare said. “I mean, not the crazy part obviously...”
“This might not be the best time, however,” Sir Golan said. “There’s a war brewing and this area is the center of it.”
Henry looked nervously around. “Really?”
“Squire and I were returning to Mud City,” the knight continued, “but perhaps we should accompany your party for a while?”
“That’s very generous of you,” Maycare said. “Are you sure it’s no trouble?”
Sir Golan rested his hand atop the hilt of his sword. “Not at all.”
Henry raised his head.
“What’s the matter?” Doric asked him.
“Did anyone else just hear thunder?” he replied.
Horngore’s glaring yellow eyes contrasted with his fur, slate black against a dull sky. In his hands, the handle of Thunderclap was still sticky with blood from the battle the night before. His ears drummed with the memory of hooves galloping to glory. Horngore never felt more alive than when he was killing his enemies. Their dying gasp was his music, and the shock mace in his hands was the instrument on which he played.
Still, there was a cost. Emberfist fell to a stranger. A green knight in armor, armed with a sword, had killed the Feran warrior. Horngore gritted his teeth, vowing to avenge the death of his friend. The Pellions were Horngore’s sworn enemy, but this outsider, by stepping into a fight that was not his own, had shown an insolence that the Ferans could not allow.
This stranger must pay.
One of the other warriors climbed the hill to where Horngore was standing.
“The scouts have returned,” he said, a burly young Feran missing one of his horns. “The Pellion camp is preparing a counterattack.”
“How long?” Horngore replied.
“A few hours at most.”
Horngore raised his head, his nostrils flaring. “There’s rain brewing.”
“Sir?”
“We’ll catch them on the open plain where the mud gets deepest,” Horngore said. “We’ll strike when their hooves are bogged down.”
When the warrior turned to trot back down to the Feran village, his leader stopped him.
“Tell the others,” Horngore said, “if they see the green stranger...”
“Yes?”
“Tell them he’s mine.”
The rain began as little more than mist. The fog drifted over the steppes like a body rolling down a hill. The warriors on both sides, the Pellions and Beastmen, could barely see each other even before the downpour started, the heavy raindrops getting in their eyes.
With every hoof that trudged through the grass, the wet soil churned, forming a thick, dirty mess. The quagmire of mud pulled at each step, slowing a gallop to a canter and then to a slow walk. In the gray fog of death, the charging forces became bogged down in a dreary, slow-motion battle.
And Sir Golan found himself in the middle of it.
In the chaos, the green knight had lost the others. He had sworn to protect them, but now they were nowhere to be seen. Even Squire was gone who-knows-where, leaving Sir Golan to fend for himself. In the rain and mist, he could only see a few feet in front of him, and that was mostly filled with angry Ferans.
His sword Ripanna slashed at the furry flesh. The blade danced between the rain drops, filling the air with streams of red. The blood splashed over Sir Golan’s armor, but quickly washed away in the deluge, collecting at his feet before mixing with the muck. Like everyone else, he found the footing treacherous. He felt his boots being tugged from below as if creatures in the grass were grasping with tiny claws. Each thrust and parry nearly toppled him over.
The pitter-patter of rain against Benson’s metal casing reminded him that Squire’s displacer field was no longer active. The robots were alone, their human and Cruxian masters gone, and the sounds of battle around them were nearly as suffocating as the dense fog. They had each other, but Benson wasn’t sure that filled either with much confidence.
“Dear me,” Squire said, “I wish Sir Golan was here.”
“You don’t have any weapons of your own?” Benson asked.
“I have a small energy shield built into my arm, but that’s all I’m afraid.”
“If you don’t mind me saying,
” the butlerbot remarked, “you have some remarkable accessories for an older model.”
“Well,” Squire replied with a shrug, “someone added a few upgrades recently.”
“Really?”
“Yes, her name was Mel. An interesting story—”
A scream in the gloom rattled the robot into silence. They waited a full minute, wondering if another cry would follow, but whoever was dying made a point of getting on with it quickly.
“Do you think that was Lord Maycare or Jess?” Benson asked. “Or even that other one... Henry?
“I’m not really sure,” Squire said, “but it sounded more like a Feran if I’m not mistaken.”
“Good.”
“Have you known your human companions long?”
“Only a month,” Benson replied.
“Are they nice at least?”
The butlerbot didn’t answer immediately. “They’re typical humans, I suppose.”
“I’m thankful for Sir Golan,” Squire said. “He’s exceptional. Better than most, I would say.”
Benson would have sighed if able. “Some robots have all the luck.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t get me wrong,” Benson replied, “I’m thankful for Lord Maycare, but I don’t know where I fit in with these humans. They don’t seem to need me around.”
“Well then, why do they keep you?” Squire asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Perhaps you fulfill some purpose that only fleshlings would understand. I often find their behavior questionable, even irrational at times, but that’s simply their nature it seems.”
“Henry does things in the bathroom that are truly disgusting.”
“Oh, I’m sure.”
“I mean, for someone who doesn’t need lubrication, he’s covered in a lot of greasy residue...”
A flash and the crack of thunder jolted the two robots.
“What now?” Benson asked.
Through a curtain of gray, the muscular form of a Feran appeared, his horns like sharpened daggers. He carried a weapon that crackled with electricity.
“You!” he shouted, pointing his mace at Squire. “You belong to the green knight!”
“It’s more of mentor-protégé relationship, actually,” the robot replied.
The Robots of Andromeda (Imperium Chronicles Book 3) Page 9